Clone Commander - Blog Posts

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.

My darling I've said this before but you deserve so many more likes, every time i read one of your fics im genuinely expecting it to have thousands of likes on it and it usually has like 20? If i could like every single one of your works 100 times i would :)

Okay but imagine Rex's reactions to the reader wearing his helmet. Like, he walks in and the readers like 🧍‍♀️ and he's like 🧍‍♀️. And then everyone around them is confused bc why is this even happening in the first place (maybe its a prank? Idk 👉👈)

Also i know i said Rex but if you want to include any others please do lol i would love to see your interpretation of this with others

<3

Ahhh you’re the absolute sweetest—thank you so much for the kind words, seriously!! I couldn’t resist this prompt , so I went ahead and did the whole command batch’s reactions too.

⸻

CAPTAIN REX

He’d just finished a debrief. He was tired, armor scuffed, and brain fogged from a long string of missions. All he wanted was to collect his helmet and find a quiet place to decompress.

Instead, he opened the door to the barracks and found you standing in the middle of the room.

Wearing his helmet.

You weren’t doing anything. Just standing there, arms at your sides, posture too stiff, visor pointed directly at the door like you’d been caught red-handed.

Rex froze mid-step. His eyes flicked to your body, then to the helmet, then back again. The room was dead silent.

You didn’t speak. Neither did he.

It felt like some kind of unspoken standoff.

When he finally found his voice, it came out neutral but clipped. “Is there a reason you’re wearing my helmet?”

You reached up and lifted it just slightly off your head, enough to reveal your eyes. “I was trying to understand what it’s like… carrying all this responsibility. All the weight. I figured the helmet was part of it.”

Rex blinked.

He should have been annoyed. His helmet was an extension of his identity, not something he usually let anyone touch, let alone wear. But something in your voice—sincere, tinged with dry humor—softened the moment.

He exhaled through his nose. “It’s heavier than it looks.”

You slid the helmet off entirely and held it to your chest. “Yeah. I didn’t expect that.”

Rex crossed the room and took it from your hands, eyes lingering on your face a moment longer than necessary. “You can ask next time. I might still say no, but… you can ask.”

You gave him a faint smile. “Noted, Captain.”

Later, Rex would sit on the edge of his bunk, polishing the helmet with extra care, thinking about the way you’d stood there. How serious you’d looked. And how much more complicated everything felt now.

⸻

COMMANDER CODY

Cody wasn’t used to surprises. He didn’t like them.

So when he walked into the clone officer quarters and found you perched on his bunk—wearing his helmet and staring at the floor like some kind of haunted statue—his brain stalled for a moment.

You didn’t look up.

You didn’t say a word.

Cody stood in the doorway, arms folded, expression unreadable. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking—likely the same thing you were: how did this situation even come to exist?

Eventually, he cleared his throat. “Am I interrupting something?”

You slowly lifted your head. “No. I just… wanted to know what it was like. To be you.”

He arched an eyebrow. “By wearing my helmet?”

You lifted it off, your hair a little mussed from the fit. “It felt… commanding. Intimidating. Also slightly claustrophobic.”

Cody crossed the room, took the helmet from your hands, and inspected it like you might’ve done something to compromise its integrity. “That’s about accurate.”

You stood. “Did I at least look cool?”

Cody gave a short, quiet laugh, the kind that rarely made it past his lips. “You looked like you were trying very hard to be me. But points for effort.”

He turned to go, helmet under one arm. As he walked out, he muttered, “Don’t tell Kenobi.”

You smirked. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

⸻

COMMANDER FOX

Fox was already in a foul mood. The Senate hearings had run late. A group of Senators had argued about appropriations for nearly three hours. The bureaucrats hadn’t approved the funding he needed, and to make things worse, someone had tried to hand him a fruit basket on the way out.

He just wanted to grab his datapad and leave.

Instead, he stepped into his office and stopped cold.

You were behind his desk, arms folded. His helmet was on your head, slightly crooked from the weight.

Fox did not say anything.

You didn’t, either.

You watched each other like two predators in a silent, high-stakes standoff.

Finally, he broke the silence. “Is this a joke?”

“No.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Then explain.”

You pulled the helmet off and set it gently on the desk. “I wanted to see if it felt as heavy as it looks. Thought maybe I’d understand what it’s like… to be you.”

Fox blinked. His voice dropped lower. “That helmet’s been in more battles than most Senators have meetings.”

You met his gaze, dead serious. “Exactly. That’s why I put it on.”

He walked over and took the helmet in both hands. For a moment, he didn’t speak. Just stood there, the edge of the desk between you, his gloved fingers tracing a scratch across the paint.

“You look good in red,” he said at last, so quietly you barely caught it.

Then he was gone.

You stood alone, trying not to think too hard about the heat blooming in your chest.

⸻

COMMANDER WOLFFE

You’d made the mistake of trying it out in the open—when Wolffe was still around.

You thought he was in a meeting. He wasn’t.

The moment he stepped into the hallway and saw you marching in a slow circle, wearing his helmet and muttering, “I don’t trust anyone. Not even my own shadow. Jedi are the worst,” it was already too late to escape.

You froze mid-step when you noticed him watching you.

Wolffe didn’t say a word.

You pivoted awkwardly. “I was… doing a character study.”

“You were mocking me.”

“Not entirely.”

He crossed his arms, expression hard, but his voice was lighter than you expected. “You’re lucky I like you.”

You pulled the helmet off. “It’s a compliment. You’ve got presence.”

Wolffe walked forward, took the helmet, and gave you a look somewhere between amused and exasperated. “You forgot the part where I sigh and glare at everything in sight.”

You nodded, solemn. “Next time, I’ll prepare better.”

He rolled his eyes, turned to leave, and muttered over his shoulder, “Next time, do it where I can’t see you.”

But he was smiling.

⸻

COMMANDER BLY

You were crouched on the floor of the gunship hangar when Bly found you.

You hadn’t meant for him to catch you. It was supposed to be a private moment—a little playful impersonation you were going to spring on him later.

But there you were, wearing his helmet, whispering dramatically into the echoing space of the hangar, “General Secura, I would die for you. I would let the whole world burn if you asked.”

You turned and saw him standing behind you.

There was no saving this.

“Hi,” you said, voice muffled behind the helmet.

Bly stared. “What… exactly are you doing?”

You straightened, taking off the helmet. “I was… immersing myself in your worldview. For empathy purposes.”

He squinted. “You were crawling around whispering to yourself in my voice.”

You nodded. “It’s called method acting.”

Bly took the helmet from you like it was fragile. “Next time, try asking.”

“Would you have let me?”

He paused. “…Probably not.”

“Then I regret nothing.”

Bly looked at the helmet, then at you. His expression was unreadable—but his voice was warmer when he said, “Try not to let General Secura catch you doing that. Or she will ask questions.”

⸻

COMMANDER THORN

You were caught mid-spin, dramatically turning to aim Thorn’s DC-17 blaster at an imaginary threat.

His helmet covered your face, tilted slightly sideways from the weight. You didn’t realize he’d walked into the room until you heard the low, unimpressed voice behind you.

“Unless you’re planning to fight off an uprising by yourself, I’d recommend not touching my gear.”

You froze.

Lowered the blaster.

Removed the helmet slowly.

“…Hi.”

Thorn’s arms were crossed, and though his tone was flat, his eyes glittered with amusement. “You could’ve just asked.”

“I figured you’d say no.”

“I would’ve. But at least I wouldn’t have walked in on… whatever that was.”

You held up the helmet like an offering. “Do I at least get points for form?”

Thorn stepped forward, plucked the helmet from your hands, and gave you a once-over that lingered slightly too long. “You’re lucky I like chaos.”

And then he walked off, still shaking his head, muttering, “Force help me, they’re getting bolder.”

⸻

COMMANDER NEYO

You weren’t even doing anything dramatic this time. Just sitting on a crate in the hangar bay, wearing Commander Neyo’s helmet with a calmness that probably made it weirder.

He entered mid-conversation with a deck officer and paused mid-sentence when he saw you.

Neyo’s reputation was infamous—no-nonsense, silent, rarely seen without his helmet. So when you tried it on just to see what the fuss was about, you didn’t expect him to walk in.

Now he was staring at you.

Expressionless.

Silent.

Unmoving.

You slowly lifted the helmet off. “Commander.”

“Where did you find it?”

“…In your locker.”

He blinked once. “You broke into my locker?”

“…Hypothetically.”

The deck officer excused himself quickly.

Neyo walked over, took the helmet without saying a word, and stared down at you for a long moment. Then, just as you were starting to sweat—

“I hope you didn’t try the voice modulator. It’s calibrated to my pitch.”

You blinked. “…So you’re not mad?”

“I didn’t say that.”

Then he walked away.

You didn’t know if you were about to get reported or flirted with. And somehow, that was very Neyo.

⸻

COMMANDER GREE

You’d barely slipped the helmet on when Gree stepped into the staging area, datapad in hand, ready to give a mission briefing.

He stopped. His gaze snapped up.

You, standing in the center of the room in his jungle-green helmet, stared back at him like a guilty cadet.

There was a long pause.

“Is that… my helmet?” he asked, like he needed verbal confirmation of what his eyes were clearly seeing.

You nodded slowly. “It’s surprisingly comfortable.”

He tilted his head. “You know it’s loaded with recon tech calibrated to my ocular patterns?”

“…No.”

“Technically, that means it could backfire and scramble your brain if you activated it.”

“…I didn’t touch any buttons.”

Gree blinked, then grinned. “Good. I’d hate to scrape you off the floor. Again.”

You took the helmet off and passed it back. “That’s… oddly sweet.”

Gree shrugged. “Only because it’s you.”

The next day, he left a field helmet—not his own—on your bunk with a sticky note: “Test this one. Lower risk of neural frying.”

⸻

COMMANDER BACARA

You’d always known Bacara was a little intense.

So maybe wearing his helmet was a bad idea.

You didn’t expect him to walk into the armory while you were trying it on. You especially didn’t expect him to freeze mid-stride and go completely still—like a wolf spotting prey.

“Take it off,” he said, voice sharp.

You complied immediately.

“I wasn’t trying to be disrespectful,” you added quickly, holding it out with both hands. “Just curious.”

He took it from you in silence. His expression didn’t change. But his hands moved carefully, almost reverently.

“That helmet’s been through Geonosis,” he said quietly. “Through mud and fire. My brothers died wearing helmets just like it.”

You swallowed. “I’m sorry.”

He looked up. “I know. Just… don’t try it again. Not without asking.”

You gave a small nod. “I won’t.”

As he turned to leave, he paused. “You did look decent in it, though.”

He left before you could respond.

⸻

COMMANDER DOOM

You’d slipped Doom’s helmet on while helping reorganize the command tent. He wasn’t around—or so you thought.

You were mid-sentence in a very bad impression of his voice when you heard someone behind you.

“Is that how I sound to you?”

You turned, startled, and found Doom leaning against the tent flap with one brow raised.

You straightened awkwardly. “I was, uh, trying to get into your mindset.”

He snorted. “My mindset?”

“You know. Calm. Steady. Smiling in the face of doom—ironically.”

He walked over, arms folded, and tilted his head as you pulled the helmet off. “Did it work?”

“I think I’ve achieved inner peace.”

He chuckled. “Keep the helmet. It suits you.”

You stared.

“I’m joking,” he added, already walking away.

You weren’t so sure.

⸻

Command Batch and other clones/characters Material List 🏆

|❤️ = Romantic | 🌶️= smut or smut implied |🏡= platonic |

Gregor

X Reader “The Brightest Flame”❤️

- x Reader “Synaptic Sparks”❤️

Commander Doom

- x Jedi Reader❤️

Jango Fett

- x reader “cats in the cradle”❤️

Commander Bacara

- x Reader “Cold Front”❤️

- x Reader “War on Two Fronts” multiple parts

Commander Bly

- x Jedi reader “it’s on again”❤️

- x Twi’lek Reader “Painted in Gold”❤️

Commander Neyo

- x Senator Reader “Rules of Engagement”❤️

- x Reader “Solitude and Street Lights”❤️

Command Batch (Clone Commanders)

- x Reader “My Boys, My Warriors” multiple parts 🏡

- x Reader “Steele & Stardust” ❤️

- x “Brothers in the Making” multiple chapters 🏡

- Helmet Chaos ❤️🏡

Overall Material List

“Collateral Morals” pt.2

Commander Thorn x Senator Reader

It was late—later than it should’ve been for a senator still in heels and warpaint, sprawled across the plush bench of her apartment’s balcony with a drink in hand.

You heard the door behind you hiss open and didn’t need to look.

“Come to stand in the shadows again, Commander?” you asked, not unkindly.

Thorn didn’t answer right away. His boots were heavy against the stone. Methodical. Closer.

“I never left,” he said.

You turned your head, gaze trailing up from the rim of your glass to where he stood in that same godsdamn perfect stance. Helmet in hand. Armor lit by the city’s glow.

“You know, I’ve had men try to seduce me with less intensity than you just standing there.”

Thorn’s jaw tightened. “That’s not what I’m here for.”

“No,” you said, rising to your feet, slow and measured. “You’re here because someone tried to kill me and the Chancellor likes keeping his headaches alive.”

You stepped toward him. Close. Too close.

“When I had lunch with Sheev today,” you murmured, voice quiet and dangerous. “He said nothing. Smiled too wide. Dodged every answer like a trained politician, which—fine, he is. But he’s also worried. About me. About you.”

Thorn said nothing.

Your fingers brushed the edge of his pauldron, then up to the rigid line of his neck. He didn’t move.

“Fox had a talk with you, didn’t he?” you whispered, tipping your head to the side. “Warned you off. Told you I was dangerous.”

His breath hitched, barely audible. “You are.”

You laughed softly. “And yet here you are.”

You reached up—slow, deliberate—and your fingers touched his face. A gloved hand caught your wrist, but not before your thumb brushed his cheekbone. Warm. Real.

He held your wrist, not tightly, but firmly. And still, he didn’t pull away.

His eyes searched yours like they were looking for the part of you that might break him.

“I can’t,” he said hoarsely.

“I know,” you said, and your voice was softer now. “But you want to.”

His eyes closed briefly. The silence that followed was full of all the things he would never say. Couldn’t say.

You leaned forward—just a breath, your lips a whisper from his—but you stopped yourself. A sharp inhale. A blink of clarity.

You pulled back slowly, letting your hand fall.

And this time, he let you.

“I should go inside,” you said quietly, and without looking back, you walked toward the open doors.

Thorn stayed behind, jaw clenched, hands shaking ever so slightly at his sides.

He’d stood on a hundred battlefields without faltering.

And tonight, he’d barely survived a senator’s touch.

⸻

The next morning, he was already stationed by your office door when you arrived. Helmet on. Posture locked. Every line of his body radiating do not engage.

You slowed as you approached, coffee in hand, sunglasses still perched over bloodshot eyes from last night’s excess. You looked like a warning label wrapped in silk.

But when your eyes flicked over Thorn, something in your expression shifted. Slowed.

“Morning, Commander,” you said casually.

“Senator,” he returned. Clipped. Cool.

You quirked an eyebrow. “Oh. So it’s that kind of day.”

He didn’t reply.

You brushed past him, close enough that your perfume clung to his senses long after you’d disappeared into your office. He didn’t turn. Didn’t let it show. But his hands curled into fists at his sides.

Meetings. Briefings. More political backpedaling. You were fire at the podium and glass behind closed doors, cracking in places no one else could see.

Except him.

He stayed silent, always a step behind, always watching. Always wanting.

And never letting it show.

Until you cornered him in a quiet corridor outside the lower senate chambers, away from aides and datapads and Fox’s watching eyes.

“Alright,” you said, arms folded. “Let’s talk about this act you’ve got going.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Commander, you looked like I stabbed you when I pulled away last night, and now you won’t even look at me.”

“I’m doing my job,” he bit out, low and tight.

You took a step forward. He didn’t move. Not away.

“I didn’t imagine it,” you said, voice gentler now. “You wanted it too.”

“Of course I did.” His voice cracked, just a fraction. “But what I want doesn’t matter.”

You blinked, caught off-guard by the raw honesty.

He finally looked at you. And Maker, it hurt—because it wasn’t coldness in his eyes. It was restraint. Desire, wound so tightly around duty it was bleeding.

“I won’t compromise your safety,” he said. “Or your career. Or mine.”

“I never asked you to.”

“No,” he said softly. “But if you touched me like that again, I wouldn’t stop you.”

Silence fell.

And then you stepped back, giving him what he needed—space, control.

But not before saying, “You’re allowed to want something for yourself, Thorn.”

You left him standing there, strung taut, jaw clenched so hard it ached—haunted by the echo of your voice and the ghost of your fingertips on his skin.

⸻

The Coruscant sky was painted in golds and coppers by the time you slid into the dimly lit booth across from Padmé Amidala at one of the few upscale lounges senators could disappear into without the weight of a thousand datapads.

“I needed this,” you sighed, tugging off your blazer and waving down a server. “Vodka. Double. And whatever she’s having.”

Padmé smirked behind the rim of her glass. “Rough week?”

You snorted. “The republic is falling apart, I’m the new poster child for controversial ethics, and my head of security is the embodiment of celibacy and self-restraint.”

Padmé choked. “Thorn?”

“Mmhmm,” you hummed, swirling your drink as it arrived. “The man is built like a war god and treats me like I’m a senator made of glass and moral decay. Which, fair, but still.”

She laughed gently. “He’s just doing his job.”

You rolled your eyes, leaning in, voice lowering to a conspiratorial hush. “I nearly kissed him two nights ago.”

Padmé’s eyebrows lifted in delight. “And?”

“And I stopped myself. But he didn’t stop me.”

You tipped your drink back, and Padmé’s smile softened into something knowing.

“He wants you,” she said.

“I know. And I can’t stop wanting him either. And it’s making me insane.” You exhaled, flopping back in your seat. “It’s all sharp edges and stolen glances and him standing too close every time I breathe. He says he won’t compromise me, but every time he brushes past, it feels like he’s about to snap.”

Padmé was quiet for a moment, sipping her wine. “You’re falling.”

You snorted, tossing your head back with a dramatic groan. “I’m not falling. I fell. And now I’m stuck circling the drain with a blaster-proof blockade standing guard outside my bed.”

She burst out laughing. “Well… at least you’re not in love with a Jedi.”

You blinked. “Wait—”

Padmé smiled sweetly. “We all have secrets, darling.”

Neither of you noticed the clone commander positioned a discreet ten meters away—far enough to respect your privacy.

Close enough to hear every kriffing word.

Thorn stood in the shadows of the wall column, jaw clenched so tight it hurt. Every muscle locked. Every sense burning.

She’d nearly kissed him. She wanted to.

She’d fallen.

And Maker help him… so had he.

His comm buzzed in his ear.

Fox: You good?

Thorn: Fine.

Fox: You don’t sound fine.

Thorn: Drop it, Fox.

But even Fox would’ve known—standing there, listening to her spill her soul to someone else, Thorn was no longer in control.

He was already hers.

⸻

The walk back to your apartment was a symphony of drunken laughter, slurred gossip, and Padmé’s increasingly animated storytelling as she dramatically recounted a botched undercover op involving Anakin, Obi-Wan, and a fruit cart on Saleucami.

“…and then Ahsoka—gods—she’s stuck under the vendor stall, Anakin’s dressed like a spice runner and flirting to distract the guards, and Obi-Wan’s standing there insisting that he does not negotiate with food smugglers!”

You were cackling, one heel dangling from your fingers, the other foot still strapped in. “How did no one get arrested?!”

“They did!” Padmé said brightly. “Three hours in local custody until Bail Organa bailed them out. Still won’t talk about it.”

You wheezed, tears threatening to smudge your eyeliner. Thorn walked a respectful distance behind as you stumbled into your apartment with Padmé on your arm. He was stone-silent, unreadable. Watching. Waiting.

Padmé leaned in close, kissed your cheek, and whispered, “Try not to give him a stroke tonight.” Then she drifted toward the guest room with a final tipsy wave. “Night, Thorn.”

“Ma’am,” he said with a curt nod.

You locked the door behind her, turned, and leaned your back to it. Barefoot. Half-laced dress clinging to your form. Hair a little messy. Eyes gleaming with drink and danger.

“You didn’t laugh at the story,” you said, smiling.

“I’m not paid to laugh.”

“You’re not paid to stare at me like that either, but here we are.”

His jaw clenched.

You took a few slow, swaying steps toward him, gaze locked on his. “You heard what I said to Padmé, didn’t you?”

Silence.

“You stood there all night listening. That wasn’t professionalism, Thorn. That was want.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. But you could feel the energy bleeding from him—taut, trembling restraint.

“So here’s the question,” you whispered, standing toe to toe now. “If I reached up and touched you again… would you stop me this time?”

He breathed, sharp and low. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t push me.”

“I’ve been pushing you since the day we met.” You smiled, close enough now your breath mingled with his. “And you haven’t moved.”

His hand shot up, slamming palm-flat against the wall beside your head—not touching you, but caging you in.

His voice was gravel and fire.

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

“I think I do.”

“You think this is about self-control,” he growled. “It’s not. It’s about what happens after I lose it.”

You stilled.

He was trembling, just slightly. His hand hovered for a moment longer… then he stepped back.

“You’re drunk. Go to bed.”

And with that, Thorn turned and walked toward the front door—but not before you saw it.

His hands were shaking.

The morning sun filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of your Coruscant apartment like a rude guest who hadn’t been invited.

Your head throbbed.

Your mouth tasted like fruit cocktails and regret.

You groaned and turned over, expecting Thorn’s ever-silent figure to be near the front door, arms crossed, stoic and unshakable as always.

But he wasn’t there.

Instead, a different clone stood guard—rookie by the look of him. Eyes flicked to you, then away fast. Too fast.

Thorn had rotated off.

Or maybe… he’d walked out.

You weren’t sure which hurt more.

You flopped back against the bed with a dramatic sigh, pressing your hand to your forehead like a dying duchess. A moment later, the bedroom door creaked open.

“Is it safe to enter the lair of the hungover she-beast?” Padmé’s voice called softly.

“Barely.”

She tiptoed in, curls wild and eyeliner smudged, and flopped down onto your bed like she owned it.

You cracked one eye open. “I thought Naboo nobles were trained to rise at dawn with no signs of vice.”

Padmé gave you a dry look. “I was trained to fake it with dignity. There’s a difference.”

You both groaned in tandem, limbs tangled under silk sheets and discarded shawls.

A beat of silence.

Then you muttered, “He wasn’t there this morning.”

“Thorn?”

You nodded.

Padmé looked at you, then looked at the ceiling. “Anakin stopped answering my comms last night. didn’t say a word to me after we got back here. Just disappeared like a ghost.”

You turned your head. “He’s angry?”

“He’s scared.”

“…Same.”

Another pause.

Padmé sighed. “You know what the worst part is?”

“What?”

“I don’t want to stop. Not with him. Not even when I know how it ends.”

Your throat tightened.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “Me too.”

You both lay there, two senators, two hearts bruised in different ways. Hiding in a bed that smelled like perfume, politics, and unanswered questions.

“I think,” Padmé said softly, “we forget we’re allowed to want something for ourselves.”

You blinked up at the ceiling.

“Maybe I just want someone to choose me,” you admitted, the words foreign and terrifying on your tongue. “Not the senate. Not the speech. Me.”

Padmé reached over and gently took your hand.

“You deserve that,” she said.

And for one small moment, you believed her.

⸻

It was early.

Coruscant’s sky was painted in slow-shifting purples and pale gold, the air crisp for once as the morning traffic lulled just above the skyline.

You walked with Sheev Palpatine through one of the Chancellor’s private botanical gardens—a curated oasis of rare flora nestled between towering Senate spires. Your shoes crunched over smooth stones, the air filled with the faint hum of security droids and rustling leaves.

A few steps behind, your clone escort—a quiet rookie with a barely scuffed pauldron—trailed dutifully. Ahead, Marshal Commander Fox and two of his Coruscant Guard flanked the Chancellor like the shadows of death.

“You look tired, my dear,” Sheev said smoothly, hands folded behind his back. “Rough night?”

“You know exactly how rough,” you replied, a dry smirk tugging at your lips. “I assume you read every surveillance report that crosses your desk.”

“I skim.”

You arched a brow.

He chuckled. “Fine. I skim the interesting ones.”

The rookie behind you choked softly on his breath. You didn’t look back, but your lip twitched in amusement.

“You really shouldn’t waste government resources on my personal misadventures,” you said.

“On the contrary,” Palpatine replied, voice shifting cooler, “your… associations are becoming part of the problem.”

Your smile faltered.

“I hear you’re planning a speech this week,” he continued, not looking at you now. “Regarding clone rights. Voluntary service. Benefits. Citizenship.”

“I’m not planning it. I’m delivering it.”

He gave you a long look. “You’ve made enemies before. But this will paint a much larger target.”

“Then maybe they’ll finally stop aiming for my head and start aiming for something I can survive.”

He did not laugh. Instead, he stepped a little closer.

“I’ve heard more whispers, you know. Another attempt. And this time…” His voice lowered. “I fear it won’t be smoke and shadows.”

You were about to respond when a shriek of blaster fire tore the morning open.

Shots rained down from above the garden terrace. Red bolts split the air as bark and leaves exploded around you. You felt the burn before you heard yourself scream—your upper arm searing with heat as a bolt caught flesh.

“GET DOWN!”

Fox’s voice thundered across the garden.

The rookie guard shoved you behind a large stone fountain, blaster drawn. Fox had already reached the Chancellor’s side, shielding him with practiced efficiency.

But Palpatine didn’t retreat.

Instead, he snapped, “Protect her. Now.”

Fox hesitated—one second, maybe two.

Then he turned on his heel, growled a command to his men, and raced for you.

You slumped behind the fountain, clutching your arm, heart hammering in your chest.

Fox skidded into cover beside you. “You hit?”

“Yeah,” you gasped, pressing your jacket against the burn. “Not bad. Not good either.”

He scanned the rooftops. “We need evac—NOW!”

The rookie stayed glued to your side, face pale but steady.

And Palpatine?

Still standing.

Watching from the distance like the eye of a storm.

He didn’t flinch once.

⸻

The antiseptic sting of the medcenter did little to distract from the throbbing in your arm or the adrenaline still lacing your blood.

You sat upright on the edge of the durasteel cot, jacket discarded, bandages wrapped snugly around your bicep. A healing patch hummed faintly under the gauze, but your mind was elsewhere.

Specifically, down the hall.

You’d heard the boots before you saw the storm that followed them.

Commander Thorn.

Now on his rotation.

He moved through the corridor like a thundercloud given armor and a mission. Dried rain still clung to his kama, helmet clipped under one arm. His expression was stone—tight-jawed, unreadable, but his eyes flicked over every corner like he was calculating the fastest way to kill every man in the building.

He didn’t ask questions.

He issued orders.

You watched from the cracked door as he spoke with the medical officer, then turned on his heel toward the security wing—until another familiar voice cut through the silence.

“Thorn.”

Marshal Commander Fox.

Thorn didn’t flinch. He stopped mid-stride, then turned with slow precision, as if he already knew what Fox was about to say.

You should’ve left it alone.

You should’ve shut the door and gone back to pretending none of this mattered.

But instead, you stepped off the cot, crept quietly to the side of the doorway, and listened.

“You were off shift this morning,” Fox said evenly. “And yet you’re here before the updated security logs.”

“I don’t trust anyone else with her,” Thorn replied, voice low and unshakable.

A pause. Footsteps.

“You’re losing control.”

Thorn didn’t respond.

“You know what she is to the Chancellor. You know what she is to the Senate.”

Thorn’s voice was gravel. “She was almost killed today.”

Fox’s tone sharpened. “And if she had been, what would you have done? Gone rogue? Abandoned post? Killed for her?”

Silence.

A silence so loud, you nearly stepped away—until you heard Thorn’s reply:

“I already would’ve.”

The world stopped.

You pressed your back to the wall, heart skidding.

Fox exhaled harshly. “She’s not yours to protect like that.”

“She’s not a piece of property,” Thorn said, the edge in his voice darker than you’d ever heard it. “Not yours. Not his. And if anyone thinks they can use her without consequence, they’ll answer to me.”

“Careful, Thorn.” Fox’s voice dropped. “You’re starting to sound like you care.”

A beat passed. Then Thorn spoke again, quieter this time:

“I care enough to know I’ll never have her. And too much to stop myself if she’s ever in the crosshairs again.”

That was it.

You stepped back silently, breath caught in your throat.

You didn’t know whether to cry or find him and kiss him like your life depended on it.

⸻

Previous Part | Next Part

“Cold Front”

Commander Bacara x Reader

The bass of the music thumped like a heartbeat. Smoke curled lazily through violet lights, and every set of eyes in the room was fixed on the dancer in the center of it all—you.

You moved like you didn’t care who watched, like the galaxy’s chaos didn’t touch you. It was part of the act. No one noticed the way you studied people back. No one but him.

He didn’t belong here.

Commander Bacara stood against the far wall, still in his armor, helmet clipped to his side, expression unreadable but stern. Even from the stage, you could tell—he hated this place. Too loud. Too soft. Too alive.

You liked that about him.

After your set, you made your way through the crowd, glittering drink in hand, heels clicking with purpose. You stopped in front of him, smiling with a tilt of your head.

“Enjoy the show, Commander?”

“No,” he answered flatly.

You laughed, sipping your drink. “Honesty. Refreshing.”

“This establishment is inefficient. Security is lax. Your exit routes are exposed. You shouldn’t be working here.”

“And you shouldn’t be in a nightclub, but here we are.”

He didn’t smile. He didn’t look away either.

“I was told you have information,” he said. “About a Separatist envoy using this venue for meetings.”

You shrugged. “Maybe I do.”

His brow furrowed. “This is a war zone, not a performance.”

“It’s both,” you said, leaning in. “You wear that armor like it’s your skin. I wear this smile like it’s mine. We both hide behind something, Bacara.”

He froze. Most didn’t call him that. Certainly not dancers with glitter on their collarbones.

“I’m not here to play games.”

“I’m not here to fight a war,” you countered. “Yet somehow, we’re both losing.”

A silence settled between you.

You studied his face—cut from stone, eyes like a blizzard on Mygeeto. A soldier made for killing. Raised in cold, trained to crush. He probably thought you were soft. Flimsy. Useless.

But he didn’t walk away.

“Tell me what you know,” he said, lower this time. “I’ll make sure you’re protected.”

You leaned in closer, close enough to smell the cold steel scent of him. “What makes you think I want protection?”

He didn’t answer.

You touched the edge of his chestplate with a single finger. “You’re all edge, Bacara. No softness.”

“I don’t need softness.”

“Maybe not,” you said, stepping back. “But I think you want it. Even if you hate yourself for it.”

He stared, jaw clenched, like he was bracing for something. You smiled again and turned.

“I’ll send the intel,” you called over your shoulder. “But next time, you come here as a guest. Not a soldier.”

You didn’t see him leave.

But hours later, when you returned to your dressing room, there was a small datapad on your table. Coordinates. A thank you. And nothing else.

Cold. Precise. Just like him.

And somehow… you couldn’t wait to see him again.

⸻

You didn’t expect him to return.

Men like Bacara didn’t double back for anything—especially not for someone like you. You were used to one-way glances, hot stares, empty promises dressed up as danger.

But two nights later, he was there again. Right on time. Leaning against the rusting frame of a service door

, arms crossed, helmet clipped to his belt, white armor streaked with grime from travel.

Silent.

You lit a cigarra with one hand and tossed him the datachip with the other. He caught it easily.

“Happy?” you asked, blowing a stream of smoke toward the gutter light. “Encrypted. Real-time surveillance, time stamps, backdoor schematics. Everything the Separatist envoy’s been up to in my club.”

He turned the chip over in his palm, then slipped it into a compartment at his belt.

“You held onto this longer than necessary,” he said.

You arched a brow. “You didn’t ask nicely.”

“I don’t ask.”

“Right,” you muttered, flicking ash. “Clone Commanders don’t ‘ask.’ They demand, they invade, they execute. Such charm.”

He didn’t rise to the bait. “And you’re not just a dancer.”

You turned to him then, leaning back against the wall. “No, I’m not. But I’m also not your informant. Or your ally. I gave you what you wanted because I wanted to.”

He studied you. Cool, detached, calculated.

You hated that he could look right through you. Hated it more that you let him.

“You’re efficient,” he said finally. “Unsentimental.”

“You say that like it’s a compliment.”

“It is.”

The rain started again—soft, cold, hissing down the walls. You shivered despite yourself, arms crossing over your chest. He noticed. Of course he did.

Still, he didn’t offer anything.

Just stepped forward, close enough that his presence alone made the alley feel smaller.

“This intel—” he began.

“I know what it means,” you cut in. “The envoy’s selling clone positions to mercenary networks. My club was the drop zone. I didn’t know until I did. I fixed it.”

“You interfered.”

You gave a slow smile. “What’re you gonna do, arrest me?”

His gaze didn’t shift. “If you were a threat, you’d be dead.”

A beat passed.

“Flattering,” you said. “Your version of flirting, I guess.”

“I don’t flirt.”

“No,” you murmured, looking up at him, “you don’t.”

The silence between you stretched long. Not soft. Never soft. Just charged.

He didn’t step closer. You didn’t touch him.

But something was laid bare in that narrow space between your bodies. A wordless understanding. You gave him your intel. He gave you his time.

“You’re leaving tonight,” you guessed.

“Yes.”

“You’ll be back?”

“Not if I can help it.”

You nodded, forcing a grin. “Careful, Bacara. You keep talking like that, I might start thinking you’re consistent.”

He turned, no further words, already walking into the rain.

You didn’t watch him go. Not this time.

You just stayed in the alley, smoke burning low, wondering why you felt like you’d just given away something more dangerous than a datachip.

⸻

The club was closing, lights dimmed, staff gone. You were alone backstage, slipping off your heels, when you heard the door open.

You didn’t flinch. You knew who it was before he said a word.

“You said you were leaving,” you said, not looking at him.

“I am.”

“You lost, Commander?”

His footsteps echoed—measured, armored, unhurried. When you turned, Bacara was there in the doorway, helmet in hand, gaze locked on you like a tactical target.

“I don’t like loose ends,” he said.

“Is that what I am to you?” you asked, voice light but brittle. “A mission to complete?”

“You gave me intel I didn’t earn. That’s motive.”

“So this is you—closing the loop?”

His jaw clenched slightly, eyes narrowing.

“I don’t leave variables behind,” he said.

You snorted, stepping toward him slowly, deliberately. “That’s funny. Because I think you came back for the one thing you can’t control.”

The space between you evaporated. You barely registered him moving—just felt your back hit the wall behind you, hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs.

Bacara loomed in front of you, one hand braced beside your head, the other gripping your chin, not cruel, but firm.

“Careful,” he said, voice low and lethal. “You think you’re dangerous because you wear a new name every night. But I see the cracks.”

Your breath caught. You didn’t want to flinch. But you did. Slight. Barely there.

He saw it.

And leaned in closer.

“I don’t care about the act,” he growled. “I care about the one underneath it. The one who lies, cheats, and keeps a weapon under the floorboards.”

You stared up at him, lips parted, heart pounding against your ribs like it wanted out.

“And what do you want with her?” you whispered.

“I want her to stop pretending she’s untouchable.”

His hand slid from your jaw to your throat—never tight, never cruel—but there. Asserting. Commanding.

You didn’t push him away.

You tilted your head back, letting out a slow breath. “You going to order me around now, Commander?”

“I don’t give orders to civilians,” he said.

His hand flexed. “But I do take control.”

Then his mouth was on yours—hard, claiming, no warning. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet. It was war. His hand fisted in your hair as he pressed you to the wall, your body fitting to his armor, your fingers gripping the cold edge of his chestplate like it anchored you to reality.

You kissed back like you’d been starving. Because you were. For something that wasn’t fake. For someone who didn’t need you to perform.

His grip never wavered. He knew exactly what he was doing. Every move was intentional—controlled, dominant, unyielding.

When he finally pulled away, you were breathless. Dizzy. Your hands shaking slightly where they rested on his armor.

He didn’t look smug. He looked the same. Just focused.

“This changes nothing,” he said, voice even.

You licked your lips, voice rasped. “Good. I hate messy.”

He stepped back. Just a fraction.

“War calls,” he said simply. “Don’t follow.”

“I won’t,” you lied.

His eyes lingered one last time.

And then he was gone.