#clone trooper oc x command batch

[hellfiresky]

Private Parts (Uncensored)

Contribution to @clonexocweek | Theme: What if?

What if the 79's hosts a comedy night?

Summary: When 79’s hosts a drag-themed comedy night, a surprise guest throws the whole night into dangerous territory. With a fucking non-clone brass lurking in the audience, Parts and his MCs (Fives and Hardcase) must walk the thin line between comedy and insubordination.

Pairing: Parts (Clone OC) x Several Clone Troopers (Hardcase & Fives & Bacara & Wolffe & Howzer & Rex - platonic, sibling dynamics, no clonecest/ship) Word count: 10,7k Warnings: Way too many real life swear words, Republic being shitty towards clones, clone rights, very sarcastic and critical towards the Republic, self-deprecating jokes.

Taglist: @orangez3st @msmeredithrose

79’s had always been a conventional bar, albeit clone-friendly. Well, very clone-friendly. Clone troopers practically got to drink their cheapest beer for free (pale ale, some troopers swore it was just repackaged pisswater). But when you’re officially considered property of the Republic, given the bare minimum BAS, and expected to die young and obedient, you take whatever you can get.

The bar, like any other on Coruscant, ran special nights to keep things interesting. Mostly ARC Night, officially named “Shock & Shots” - a testosterone-fueled event where Advanced Recon Commandos got up to some of the wildest shit known to the Republic. That included drinking contests that had led to at least one ARC getting medevaced out after chugging Mandalorian Tihaar straight from the bottle. Another one was Brass & Glass, where captains and commanders got their overpriced whiskey and Corellian brandy at half price, turning 79’s into an impromptu officer’s lounge whilst the shinies watched in awe (or boredom, if Cody was getting preachy). It was fun. Always had been. But for Parts? Still boring as hell.

Parts was a marine. A hard-charging, fungal-cloud-in-your-goddamn-armour-and-freeze-your-tits-off-on-Rhen-Var-surviving marine of the 21st Nova Corps. He didn’t get the cushy life of a Coruscant Guard trooper - those fuckers spent their days chasing pickpockets and breaking up the occasional bounty hunter attempt on some senator’s overly botoxed face. Big whoop. Out in the field, entertainment was a joke. Sure, some of the boys smuggled old HoloNet games. Some ran illegal sabacc rings. Parts once saw a trooper get genuinely emotional over a five-year-old issue of Swoophead Monthly because it had a full spread of a custom-modified swoop bike. If you were lucky, you got the GAR Broadcast - a looping HoloNet program hosted by Bettie-Bot VJ, a BD-3000 luxury droid with proportions that made even the straightest, most regulation-abiding shinies start questioning shit. Not Parts, though. He didn’t give a fuck about Bettie-Bot. Why didn’t they make luxury droids look like Pebrito Paksal? That Corellian actor? Now that was a man worth watching.

Stand-up nights. That was what saved Parts from dying of sheer fucking boredom. It had started small - Commander Bacara, surprisingly, had a dry and dark sense of humour, and he actually encouraged the boys to blow off steam by roasting the absolute shit out of each other. Rhen Var. Middle of a fucking snowstorm, nothing to do but huddle in a tent with some questionable “hot caf” (which was just ground up date seeds, filtered, and mixed with water). Someone set up a crate, a couple of glow rods for dramatic effect, and boom, stand-up night was born.

Parts killed. He had the best material. He was observational. He was sharp. He had a big fucking mouth, and people loved it. It spread. The Nova Corps started broadcasting it on the GAR intranet. Soon, other legions caught on. 501st had Fives and Hardcase, a duo so chaotic they needed a stage. 212th had Boil and Waxer, whose material somehow always involved the obvious tension between their marshal commander and general. Coruscant Guard had Hound, whose entire routine was just roasting Commander Fox, and the troopers fucking loved it. Ryloth’s sweetheart, Howzer? Shockingly hilarious. Who knew good hair came with good comedic timing?

For months, they plotted in a group chat that never fucking shut up. A nightmare of meme spam, drunken voice messages, and Fives insisting they needed a fucking theme song. Then it happened. They hacked into 79’s schedule. It was time. Not just for the officers, not just for the ARCs. This was for everyone.

Grand Clowns of the Republic Parts: So it’s settled???? Hound: Yup, all hail Hound and my boy Grizzer. Thorn: Bro brought the massif to the establishment, they had no choice but to say yes. Fives: Everyone align your calendars and schedule. I'll be back from Ossus in three days. Waxer: That means we only have 72 hours to make this shit legendary. Dogma: Can someone explain to me why we are doing this? Echo: Because the Republic pays us like shit, and morale is important Fives: AND because representation matters, you repressed bastard Cody: No Cody: No, I am not doing this. Wolffe: Neither am I Fives: Lies. Both of you are performing Fox: Wolffe, you owe me for that time I covered your ass back on Kamino Wolffe: … I fucking hate you. Hardcase: I ALREADY PICKED OUT YOUR NAME WOLFFE. Wolffe: I am going to start a war crime Howzer: Wait, why do we need a name again? Hardcase: PRETTY BOY WASN’T BRIEFED? Parts: BECAUSE WE WILL PERFORM IN DRAG

It started, like all great disasters, as a joke. One drunken night in the group chat, Parts and Fives got philosophical. “We have karaoke nights. We have stand-up nights. But you know what’s missing?” Parts had said, probably slurring from whatever substance the medic gave him after he got shot - straight to his chest, barely holding his comm up. “A government that respects us as individuals?” Fives bit back. 

“Well, yeah, but also drag.”

Fives went silent for a second. “Holy fuck.”

"Holy fuck, indeed."

"You know what this means?"

"We are going to corrupt the entire GAR?"

"We are going to corrupt the entire GAR."

And that’s how it began. The next morning, Parts woke up to 200 unread messages in the group chat, half of them Fives screaming in all caps, and the other half Hardcase trying to convince everyone that there should be pyrotechnics involved. At first, it was just them. Just Fives, Hardcase, and Parts talking shit, bouncing ideas back and forth, coming up with the campiest, most chaotic possible versions of this. Then the boys from the 212th found out. Then Hound got involved, which meant Thorn got involved, which meant everything got ten times more unhinged. And then, in a twist of fate, Bacara saw the chat and, instead of shutting it down, just sighed and muttered to Parts in person, “This got out of control.”

That was basically approval.

Shore leave couldn’t come fast enough. And when it finally came, Parts was fucking happy to see his brothers. Not all of them made it back, of course, that was just the price of war. A price he had slowly, begrudgingly, learned to accept, because what the fuck else could he do? Was it sad? Obviously. It was devastating every damn time. But when half your employers saw you as expendable meat in armour and the other half didn’t even think you were worth paying properly, well. Shit. Parts could either cry about it or laugh, and laughing hurt less. It was like that for all of them, a whole army of men cracking jokes and being absolute fucking menaces just to cope. Life was short. Fuck, their lives were shorter - might as well fucking laugh in the process.

This was one of those rare occasions where a lot of the legions ended up on shore leave at the same time. 212th. 501st. 21st Nova Corps. Even some of the shinies (freshly arrived from Kamino and spent their time doing caf runs for the Corries) had managed to sneak their way into Coruscant’s lower levels instead of wasting time at the military barracks. It was electric when this happened, all these troopers - brothers, bastards, absolute dumbasses - spilling out into the city looking for entertainment, alcohol, and questionable choices. The Corries always loved it when the off-world units came in, because Coruscant duty was half shit, half fun. The entertainment scene was unmatched - clubs, bars, swoop races, gambling dens - but at the same time, they were fucking glorified cops with no Jedi oversight and no real combat. Worse, most of the good clubs were too damn expensive unless you went underground.

But the underworld. Now that was a different story. Parts had seen a lot in the underworld - had seen things that made battlefields look boring, had done things that weren’t in any Republic training manual - but what changed his fucking life? Drag night.

And it wasn’t even his idea to go. He never would’ve gone on his own. He was too busy running around hidden gems in the surface levels with his very secret, very confidential boyfriend, a boyish, disgustingly handsome Chiss named Arok. Arok worked as an info broker for the Pykes, which made him fun as hell and also a walking liability, so obviously, Parts was stupidly into him. There were rules about this sort of thing. Republic loyalty, military integrity, blah blah blah - but if Captain Rex from the 501st could date a fucking Mandalorian bounty hunter, why did he have to care about rules he never agreed to in the first place? And Arok was beautiful and dangerous, with cheekbones sharp enough to gut someone and a mouth that could talk his way out of anything except the times Parts shut him up with a kiss. One night, during their usual night out, Arok had literally fucking dragged him into an underground club deep in the Core’s underbelly.

And that was the night that changed everything. Because drag night was a fucking revelation. Parts hadn’t participated - he didn’t even know what the fuck was happening at first, thrown into the middle of it with no context, surrounded by a storm of glitter, synth music, and people dressed better than anyone in the Senate. There was something otherworldly about it. Regal, like a battlefield but with more glitter and less death. The sheer confidence, the power of the performers - they commanded the room like generals, but instead of armour, they wore velvet and silk and sequins, and instead of war, they demanded joy. It wasn’t just a performance. It was a declaration of presence. I exist, I am here, I am magnificent, and you are going to watch.

And Parts watched. And something in him clicked. It wasn’t even about gender, or identity, or whatever deep philosophical shit some Republic senator would’ve made it about. It was about owning the space you took up, and making damn sure no one could take it from you. It was about looking society in the face, spitting on its rules, and then making yourself so loud and beautiful they had no choice but to respect you. After that, it was only a matter of time before the idea for Drag Night at 79’s was born.

He already had the perfect fucking name for it. 

As a marine, Parts was cold as hell. First in, last out. He had earned his name in his first mission, a legend in the 21st Nova Corps for surviving a horrifically bad landing during a high-altitude insertion. His gunship had malfunctioned mid-drop, smashing into the ground so hard it nearly cracked his fucking spine, but instead of dying, he had crawled out of the wreckage, dazed as shit, and still shot three droids in the face before passing out. From that moment on, he was Parts. Private Parts if he wanted to pull ranks (or the lack of it). Because half his fucking armour had shattered into spare parts, and because clones were assholes who thought names like that were hilarious.

The joke wrote itself. Private Parts had a new meaning. Impeccable drag name. Impeccable Army of the Republic. It was destiny. And it was going to be the greatest fucking thing 79’s had ever seen.

“Ya got everything checked, Case?” Fives elbowed the tattooed trooper next to him, the two of them crammed into the back room of 79’s that they’d definitely not been given official permission to use as a dressing room. The place reeked of cheap cologne, sweat, and whatever the fuck Hardcase had used to style his synthetic wig (it was probably some kind of engine lubricant, knowing him). In front of them, hunched over a cracked mirror, Parts was butchering his own damn face. He had no makeup skills. None. But that had never stopped him before, and it sure as shit wasn’t going to stop him now. He dragged a streak of eyeblack. Yes, actual eyeblack, the one used to reduce glare in battle, across his eyelid - smudging it like some tragic battlefield makeup tutorial gone wrong.

"Yep," Hardcase said, distracted, flipping a glow-in-the-dark wig over in his hands like it was a grenade he was about to throw. “But since we have no money, we gotta make do. None of us are gonna be as pretty as the queens in Uscru.”

“Uscru?” Parts scoffed, still wrestling with his war crime of an eyeliner attempt. “Please, those queens have budgets. We’re over here making ball gowns out of blankets and tarps.”

Hardcase shrugged. "Might as well just throw the wigs on and call it a day. As long as we’re funny, right?"

"And as long as we have fun." Parts threw his eyeblack across the table, missing Fives by half a centimetre. “Besides, drag ain’t mandatory. We just need these dumbasses to show up and perform.” He grinned. “Especially the commanders.”

“Oh, speaking of.” Fives cackled so hard he nearly dropped his drink. “You know we forced Rex to perform?” Parts paused mid-swipe, turning to squint at him. “Your captain?”

Hardcase barked out a laugh. “There’s only one Rex.”

“Nah, nah, you don’t get it—” Fives wheezed, bracing a hand on the cluttered table. “We tricked him into it. We said it was just a public speaking exercise.’”

Parts let out a horrified gasp. “You fucking maniacs. Rex is gonna murder all of you.”

Hardcase wiped a tear from his eye. “Worth it.”

Parts, feeling emboldened by their collective commitment to clownery, yanked a brunette wig onto his head, fluffing it with the kind of grace one might use when shooting a droid. “Well?” he tossed the wig’s synthetic curls over his shoulder. “Do I look like Senator Amidala yet?”

Fives lost it. Hardcase was doubled over, choking. “Amidala - Amidala in armour. Armourdala!”

“Yeah, battlefield chic.” Parts smirked, adjusting the wig. 

“You’re a fucking menace.” Fives absolutely lost it.

"Correction," Parts grinned, tilting his head just enough for the neon bar lights to catch the absurd shimmer of his highlighter. “I’m Private Parts. And tonight, boys—” He turned to the mirror, inspecting the look he had assembled. “Tonight, I’m gonna be a fucking queen.”

Parts did not expect the turnout to be that… good. Like, what the actual fuck. He peeked from behind the curtain, half-expecting the audience to be just his usual batch of idiots and some drunk shinies, but no - this was a full-blown GAR gathering. Commanders, captains, even the stiffest, most regulation-abiding bastards in the whole damn army had shown up. He swore under his breath, gripping the fabric like it was the only thing keeping him from fucking ascending.

Bacara was there, of course, his own goddamn CO, sitting with Commander Blackout, looking every bit like the two most dangerous fuckers in the galaxy had somehow ended up at the worst possible talent show. Fox and Cody shared a table, both looking like they were already regretting being there. Rex sat with his men, and - was that Jesse? With a girl? What the fuck? Parts squinted. He wasn’t sure if she was real or if Jesse had just coerced some poor soul into this. 

The private took a breath, turned away from the audience, and looked back into the absolute war zone that was the dressing room. The performers were hyping each other up in various states of questionable preparedness. None of them was in drag. Well, Howzer had glitters in his fades. Wolffe was wearing some kind of silky material shirt. Fives had replaced his kama with silk scarves, and Hardcase had thrown on glow-in-the-dark wigs. So, technically they were also in “drag” if you looked at it sideways and with the lights off.

And then there was Parts himself. The only one actually in full drag.

He adjusted his dress, ignored the existential crisis forming at the base of his spine, and - oh. His eyes caught on someone in the crowd. Front row. Arok. The stupidly good-looking Chiss info broker who had dragged him into this world in the first place, sitting there smug as hell, sipping something that looked way too expensive for this establishment. Parts swallowed. He looked cute as fuck. Shit.

Parts shook it off, straightened his back, and turned to the poor souls he was about to wrangle into MC duty.

“Ayo, vod, who’s gonna MC?” he raised a brow at Wolffe, who was standing there with the expression of a man enduring divine punishment. Wolffe did not move. Did not blink. Did not fucking breathe. Parts could practically hear the calculations running through his brain, weighing the cost of his dignity against whatever debts he owed Fox for covering his ass back on Kamino.

Then, Parts turned to Howzer. “Or maybe you, sir?” Howzer, who had up until this point been unbothered, leaning against the makeshift vanity with the stance of a man who had never known a bad hair day, suddenly looked very, very interested in the exit.

“I’LL DO IT!” Two voices, in perfect fucking unison.

Parts barely had time to turn his head before Fives and Hardcase shoved past him, their glow-in-the-dark wigs bouncing, looking like two men who had been waiting for this exact moment their entire goddamn lives. Okay. Not bad. Not bad at all. If there were two people in the GAR who could command a room, it was these chaotic dumbasses. Fives and Hardcase weren’t just entertainers - they were fucking legends.

The entire Torrent Company was like that. Popular as shit. Serving under Anakin Skywalker did that to you - he was the Republic’s golden boy, the Hero with No Fear, and probably the reason none of his men had a proper grasp of military professionalism. Fives and Hardcase had spent years absorbing Skywalker’s unhinged energy, plus whatever teenager slang their thirteen-year-old general Ahsoka had drilled into them.

"This drip deserves a stage!" Fives shouted, doing an absolutely unnecessary spin in his silk kama.

"Let’s fucking go!" Hardcase smacked Parts in the back. And Parts could only grin back. If anyone could hype up a bunch of battle-hardened, traumatised, and heavily drunk clone troopers, it was these two. He stepped back, letting them take center stage, and turned to look at the audience again. The room was packed. Commanders, captains, even a few officers who were absolutely going to pretend they were never here. Parts exhaled slowly, adjusted his wig, and braced himself. This was it. The greatest fucking disaster the GAR had ever seen was about to begin.

The second the lights hit the stage - which was just tables pushed together - Fives and Hardcase exploded onto it like they were born for this shit. “LADIES! GENTLEMEN! AND NON-CONFORMING BADASSES OF THE GRAND ARMY!” Fives’ silk kama was lopsided, but he didn’t give a shit. “AND THOSE OF YOU WHO ARE HERE BECAUSE YOU WERE BLACKMAILED, COERCED, OR OTHERWISE FUCKING FORCED INTO ATTENDING!” Hardcase added, his glow-in-the-dark wig was pushed a bit too much to the back of his head. 

The crowd erupted. Parts, watching from the sidelines, was biting back a laugh. These two were good. Fives adjusted his mic. “Welcome to the first - AND ABSOLUTELY NOT LAST - GAR DRAG NIGHT!” Hardcase leaned in, his grin was so wide it could have split his face in half. “That’s right, ladies, we are gathered here today to celebrate, to entertain, and most importantly - to watch a bunch of grown-ass clone troopers have a complete and total breakdown in real-time.”

Raucous cheering from the back tables. Parts peeked out again - yep, Rex had his head in his hands. Cody looked like he was considering making a run for it. Fox was sitting so stiffly he looked like he was about to implode into a dust. Fives clocked it immediately.

“Oh, what’s the matter, boys?” He grinned directly at their table. “You look tense! You’re telling me the finest, most elite, most battle-hardened leaders of the Republic can survive an entire war but can’t handle a little heels and hairspray?”

Hardcase gasped, “Unbelievable. These are our commanders? These are our protectors? These are the men leading us into battle?” He violently shook his head. “Honestly, boys, I think we deserve a raise.”

Someone in the back yelled, “FUCKING SAY IT AGAIN.”

The bar fucking erupted. Troopers pounded their fists on the tables, boots slamming against the floor. Parts could barely hear himself think over the absolute roar of it.

Fives raised both hands, commanding silence. “A raise?” he said innocently. “Oh, boys, don’t be ridiculous. The Republic already gives us so much.” Hardcase gasped again, putting his hand over his chest. “You’re right, vod. We already get so many benefits.”

“Oh yeah. Like the privilege of being government property.” Fives nodded solemnly. Hardcase pretended to wipe away a tear. “I mean, you’re telling me we get to risk our lives for a system that doesn’t even think we deserve citizenship? What a fucking honour.”

The cheering turned wilder. Shouts and yells clouded the room. “Oh, and don’t forget the wages, vod,” Fives continued, pacing the stage now, fully in his element. “I mean, what else could we possibly need? We get… what? Three credits a week? A meal plan?” He paused. “That sometimes we have to pay for if you want extra protein cubes?”

Hardcase nodded sagely. “And the best part? The longer you live, the more of a financial burden you become!” Fives turned to the crowd. “Because let’s be real, boys. What happens if you get too injured to fight?” The laughter turned bitter almost immediately. Silence. Until someone yelled from the back, slurred and angry, “They fucking kill you.” Fives simply spread his arms wide. “Exactly! And you wanna know the best part? The Senate call us heroes.” He put a hand over his heart. “They say they care. But last I checked, none of them are fighting to get us paid.”

The bar fucking howled. And Fives, a fucking menace, just kept going. “I mean, honestly! We could have been anything! We could’ve been doctors, we could’ve been musicians, we could’ve been…”

“STRIPPERS!” someone from the 104th shouted, and the room nearly fucking collapsed.

Fives grinned. He had been waiting for that exact moment. “Well, good news, vod! Tonight, we finally get to choose what we wanna be! We got a spectacular lineup for you tonight. Some of the GAR’s most talented, most charismatic, and most absolutely-fucking-blackmailed troopers are gonna be taking this stage”

“AND SPEAKING OF CHOOSING YOUR DESTINY!” Hardcase cut in. “Our next performer. Nay, our first fucking performer of the night - is living proof that YOU CAN HAVE IT ALL!”

“That’s right, folks! He’s got talent! He’s got beauty! He’s got a complete and utter refusal to get fucking promoted!”

The crowd lost its shit. Parts grinned from backstage, fixing his wig in the mirror, already bracing himself for whatever the fuck these two were about to say. Fives continued, barely holding back laughter. “Ladies, gentlemen, and all distinguished guests - allow me to introduce the only marine in the entire GAR who has served under Commander Bacara, survived some of the worst shitholes in the galaxy, dropped from high-atmosphere insertions straight into hell, and still said, ‘No thanks, I’d like to stay a Private because it makes my drag name fucking perfect.’”

Hardcase threw a fist in the air. “Because why the fuck would you ever mess with perfection?!”

“Because what is a marine without his rank?!” Fives turned to the crowd.

“WHAT IS A NAME WITHOUT MEANING?!” Hardcase screamed.

A pause. And then, in perfect fucking unison:

“INTRODUCING… PRIVATE PARTS!”

The audience went feral. And Parts strutted onto the stage like a goddamn queen. The cheap, makeshift dress swishing around his thighs, showing off calves sculpted from months of dropping straight into warzones with nothing but a rifle and armour. His makeup was done with a powder borrowed from a bartender, a red lipstick, and the earlier eyeblack. His wig was styled just enough that it had the illusion of looking like Amidala’s hair. And when he stepped out, tossing his wig over one shoulder, placing a perfectly manicured (okay, definitely armour-paint-stained) hand on his hip, he oozed confidence. “Well,” he purred. “If there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s serve.”

Parts barely had time to brace himself before the cheers hit him like a seismic charge. Even his own CO, Bacara, was clapping. Commander Blackout raised his glass in his direction. This was why he did it. 

The clones had always accepted each other. They had to be. They were all they had. That was just how it worked. Your sibling was your sibling, no matter what. He remembered a few months back, when one of the troopers had come out as a woman - Sister. And it was her own brothers from the 7th Sky Corps who gave her that name, who made sure the whole GAR knew exactly who she was. Because in a system that didn’t let them choose anything, they chose each other.

“Thank you, thank you! It’s your favourite trooper with the best ass-ets - Private Parts, reporting for duty!” He let the mic linger at his lips, waiting for the next wave of applause. “And by ‘duty,’ I mean the duty of keeping my fine ass alive long enough to collect all three credits they owe me for a full week’s work.”

Another burst of laughter from the crowd.

“I serve under Commander Bacara, and let me tell you… that man is cold. I once told him I was sick, and he just said, ‘Don’t.’” From the side of the stage, Fives and Hardcase were full-on wheezing. Both of them trying their best not to knock over the sound system beside them.

“You ever met someone who was SO committed to violence that even the Jedi looked at them and went, ‘Damn, maybe chill a little?’ BRO, THAT’S BACARA.”

That cracked up the room, troopers pointing at Bacara who was sitting at the front row like they had witnessed his war crimes firsthand. “You know it!” someone, definitely a fellow marine from the 21st, shouted. From the stage, Parts noticed that the bar was getting even more packed. Civilians and clones alike, elbow to elbow, drawn in by the sheer force of the show. Parts smirked before he continued his read. “Maybe if you just got railed properly, you wouldn’t be out here trying to fight the entire climate system of Hoth.”

Troopers were pounding their fists on the tables. None of them dared to read the marshal commander like that. And Bacara. To his credit, the man didn’t even try to defend himself. He simply sipped his brown drink, completely unbothered by the fact that he had just been publicly diagnosed with untreated rage issues and a chronic need to get dicked down, or just generally get laid, whatever his preference was.

“Bacara is by the book. Perfect soldier. Follows orders to the T.” Parts adjusted his wig, tilted his head just enough for the lights to catch the shimmer of his plastic earrings. “I’m just saying, vod. You tell Bacara ‘jump,’ he jumps. You tell him ‘execute,’ he executes. You tell him ‘Order 69,’… and that kama and codpiece are gone.”

That was it. Bacara, Marshal Commander Bacara, the man who had personally led the marines through some of the most inhospitable hellholes in the galaxy, who had fought through avalanches, blizzards, and enemy fire without flinching, choked on his drink. This personification of war machine was fucking wheezing, coughing into his fist, eyes watering as he shook with laughter. Soon after, the entire table of commanders fucking lost it. Cody, who had been sitting there stiff as a goddamn cadet on inspection, slammed his fist on the table, laughing so hard he had to physically turn away. Rex had his face buried in his hand, shoulders shaking. Fox, the most stressed man in the Republic, was openly cackling - violently smacking Cody’s shoulders.

It felt like winning the war. Parts basked in it, hands on his hips, watching men who had spent their entire lives fighting, bleeding, dying - finally just fucking laugh. This was why it mattered. Because it wasn’t just about war. It wasn’t just about the next deployment, the next battle, the next fucking mission. There was more than the war. And for the first time in a long time, Parts felt like he’d found something real.

“But enough about Bacara - tonight, we’re on Coruscant!” Parts paced the stage. “The city of lights! The shining heart of the Republic! Where everything is so clean, so polished, so perfect. Why? It’s almost like there’s an entire force dedicated to keeping it that way!” He paused. “Oh, look! The Coruscant Guard is here! Give it up for the guards, everyone!” From their respective seats, Fox, Thorn, Stone, Hound, and a handful of other Coruscant Guard troopers stood up immediately, all at once. “No, no. Not just clapping!” He shook his head, eyes wide with mock disappointment. “Tip them. Come on, be generous! They need the extra credits for the emotional damage of serving under the Chancellor alone!”

Was there a tiny, nagging anxiety in the back of all their heads that somehow 79’s was bugged and the Chancellor himself was about to hear a bunch of clone troopers shit-talking his crusty, ancient ass? Absolutely. Did they care? At this point, even Fox was probably ready to roast the old raisin himself. Stone, unexpectedly the most unhinged one out of all the Coruscant Guard commanders, which was saying something considering the company he kept, actually walked into the crowd, bucket in hand. “Help a trooper in need!” he called out. “Every credit goes directly to my therapy fund!”

Parts leaned into the mic, voice solemn. “Just one credit a day can provide a Coruscant Guard trooper with the emotional stability he so desperately lacks.” Before he began again, Parts whispered into the mic in a conspiratorial tone. “I actually met a Coruscant Guard trooper earlier,” The crowd quieted just enough to listen. “Told him I was on my way here to perform, and you know what he did?” Parts placed a hand on his hip, smirking. “The bastard tried to fine me.”

There were some cackles in the crowd. All of them knew - it was probably done as a joke, or some stiff shiny did that without knowing. Parts raised a finger, pointing skyward. “You wanna know what my offence was?”

“My bedazzled codpiece.”

Parts saw how that single line that he made last minute - that he thought was not funny - was enough to set the bar on fire. It was either because he was actually funny, or they were all under-entertained (and was a bit tipsy). “Sir, my name is Private Parts. That’s a birthright, not a felony!” He wasn’t done. “If anything, the only crime here is Fox’s caffeine addiction.”

The marshal commander barked out a laugh.

“Someone check on that man! Fox is the most overworked clone in the Republic!” The private turned towards him. “Commander, be honest. When was the last time you got a full eight hours of sleep?”

Fox shouted from his seat, “Kamino.” Beside him, Cody’s face turned red from laughter. He reached over and tousled his younger brother’s hair. And that was a sight - the commanders acting like shinies, like they weren’t the hardened warriors of the Republic, like they weren’t the men carrying an entire galaxy’s weight on their backs.

“And you know what’s wild?” Parts pointed back at Fox. “Fox hasn’t slept in years, but he still looks better than half of y’all civilians.”

One civilian audience actually clutched his chest like he’d been personally victimised. “Tragic!” Parts declared. He took a slow step back, gesturing towards the wings. “We also have other performers lining up here tonight! But seriously, some of these performers are like our Phase 1 armour, completely fucking basic.”

A unified, horrified gasp from the audience.

“Donate more?”

Surprisingly, some troopers were throwing small changes onto the stage. Someone tossed a ration bar, which was caught mid-air by Hardcase. He looked at it, ripped it, and ate it. “Now, before you all start throwing your entire fucking paychecks at these boys, let’s keep the show moving!” Parts flipped his wig over his shoulder. “Because trust me, the next performer is just as fucking broke as the rest of us! Everyone, give it up to the one and only. Here because he owed Fox something. Commander Wolffe!” 

Wolffe was one of those commanders. Famous. Not the fun kind of famous. Not Jesse accidentally got himself latrine duty for a month because someone caught him running an illegal moonshine distillery in the barracks. Not Fives and Hardcase are banned from three cantinas famous. Not Parts resisting to get promoted to retain his name famous. No, Wolffe was famous for being terrifying. If Bacara was the most feared, Wolffe was the most intimidating. Strict. No-nonsense. The man could silence a room just by existing in it. Most troopers had only ever seen him on the battlefield. 

Seeing Wolffe reluctantly drag himself onto the stage, looking like a man who had just been drafted into public execution, was a sight to behold. No one knew how he was around his fellow commanders. How he acted when he wasn’t surrounded by his men and battle tactics and casualties. And right now, Fox and Cody were yelling at him like he was their annoying little brother who had just embarrassed himself in front of their entire extended family. It was strange. Refreshing. A rare fucking moment of life in the middle of a war that didn’t let them have any. And then Wolffe grabbed the mic. And just stood there. With his arms crossed and blank expression. Staring out at the wild, drunk, screaming audience. Slowly averting his gaze to his men, the vicious Wolfpack, who were literally howling like maniacs just because they could. 

“I don’t know why I’m here either.” Wolffe hummed to the microphone.

“Apparently, when you work in the Grand Army of the Republic, you don’t just fight a never-ending war - you are also forced into public humiliation.” That successfully broke the audience again. Most of the shinies who were usually standing at attention whenever they breathe the same air as the commander laughed their ass off - losing all sense of decorum.

"Don’t look at me. This is Plo Koon’s fault. He said I needed to 'loosen up.' Said I needed to 'connect with my brothers.' Like I don’t already spend every fucking waking moment surrounded by them. Like I don’t already have to share rations, bunks, battlefield trenches, and the occasional near-death experience. ‘Connect with my brothers,’ he says, as if I haven’t spent years side-eyeing every dumbass decision made by the fine, upstanding members of the 104th." Wolffe let out a long pause before deadpanning, "Commander, please. I barely tolerate them on the battlefield."

The audience went wild at that. From his corner of the stage, Parts exhaled. Okay, everything worked out so far. 

"So, of course, the moment I walk in, the entire bar already knows I’m only here because I owe Fox a favour. Yeah. I don’t wanna be here. I don’t wanna be in this situation. I don’t wanna be in this itchy outfit—" Wolffe pulled on the silky grey shirt that Hardcase procured from maker-knows-where. "And the worst part? The reason I even owe Fox is because he covered my shebs back when we were shinies on Kamino. And that was… I shit you not… because I lost a bet and had to steal one of the instructors’ binocs. You know, those training binocs they used to train you at recon classes? Thought I was being real clever, sneaking up like some commando. Got it off the guy, felt like an ARC - until I immediately tripped over my own boots and knocked myself out. Fox had to haul my unconscious ass back to the bunks before anyone noticed, because if the instructors found out I was out there committing petty theft, I’d still be doing push-ups in Tipoca City to this day."

The crowd chuckled - more out of shared nostalgia than anything else. The type of reaction that says, Yeah, I did some dumb shit too. Because, let’s be real, every single one of them had been in his shoes - stuck on that grey, eternally damp, depressing excuse for a planet, where the only form of entertainment was either starting fights, breaking rules, or seeing how much you could get away with before an instructor made you regret existing. They all knew exactly what he meant. The endless drills, the constant discipline, the same fucking corridors over and over again. You had to make your own fun or you’d lose your mind.

"And for that one singular act of brotherly kindness - Fox has been holding this over my head like some debt collector. Years later, I’m out here, fully grown, with an eye scar and an existential crisis, and that smug bastard just goes, ‘Wolffe, remember Kamino?’ And next thing I know, I’m standing in a fucking drag show in the middle of 79’s, questioning every decision that’s led me here." The reaction was… lukewarm. A few chuckles, but no real pop. They basically said - Alright, that was kinda funny, what else you got?

Wolffe exhaled, scratching the back of his head. "Oookay. That didn’t work. Tough crowd. Fine, here’s a little extra for you—" he lowered his voice. "The instructor was Alpha-17, if any of you actually care." Now that got a reaction. A ripple of groans and winces swept through the audience before they turned into laughter.

"Yeah," Wolffe nodded, satisfied. "Now you get it."

"You think war’s bad? Try dealing with a squad who believes in team-building activities."

Wolffe let the words hang in the air before turning his head slowly towards the Wolfpack’s table. "Boost. Sinker. Comet." He let their names drop. A ripple of laughter finally moved again through the crowd. "You don’t understand," Wolffe continued, still staring at them. "These idiots tried to make trust falls a thing. Trust falls. In the middle of a warzone. I’ve got battle droids shooting at me, artillery fire raining down, and Boost is behind me going, ‘C’mon, Commander! Fall back, I’ll catch you!’ Like I’m about to let my entire life depend on a man who once walked straight into a parked LAAT/i because he was too busy arguing about limmie scores."

That got a louder laugh. Wolffe sighed and massaged his temple. "And don’t even get me started on the time they tried to implement ‘mandatory morning affirmations.’ Nothing wakes you up for war like hearing, ‘You are strong. You are capable. You are valued,’ while you’re trying to eat your ration and contemplate the meaninglessness of existence."

The laughter swelled, and the commander himself laughed. It was good seeing him in that light. It was good seeing everyone in that light. "You know," Wolffe switched gears, "I actually had a few jokes prepared about the Galactic Senate." He let that sit for a moment, then added dryly, "But I’m trying to keep my job."

In the front row, Cody - smacked the table, he was wheezing so hard like he wasn’t about to be deployed in the next 48 hours. "But before I leave," Wolffe continued, sweeping his eyes across the room, "I wanna give a shoutout to the real survivors of this war." That got their attention, and a hush fell over the room.

"Anyone who’s ever worked under Commander Fox."

Silence before the room erupted. It was almost tradition at this point, if you were in someone’s house, you roasted them. And they were on Coruscant, in Fox’s jurisdiction. It was only right. Besides, Wolffe had earned this moment. He was up there because Fox had threatened him into it. The room knew it. Fox knew it. And, judging by the smirk on his face, Fox expected it. What Parts didn’t know was how the hell this entire lineup got cobbled together. He had been given a list of the night’s lineup, assuming it was the usual crowd. Then, out of nowhere, the Grand Clowns of the Republic group chat got hijacked by a bunch of commanding officers, and to this day, no one knew who had invited them.

Was it a prank? A glitch? A sign from the galaxy? Didn’t matter. What did matter was that suddenly, high-ranking officers - people who regularly made life-or-death decisions - were now here, on the same list as his usual batch of amateur stand-ups, about to tell jokes. Wolffe, meanwhile, had had enough as he stepped off the stage, looking equal parts relieved and done with the entire ordeal.

Parts barely had time to acknowledge him before checking the next name on the list. Howzer. Huh. Okay. That wasn’t bad. Howzer was surprisingly charming. Funny, even. At least during their online sessions. He had that effortless charisma that made people like him, made them listen when he talked. Parts could work with that. Was he still hoping for Gregor? Absolutely. But too bad, Gregor had an immediate distress call on the frontlines, and there was nothing funnier than war completely ruining your plans at the last second.

"Alright, alright," he raised his hands for silence. "Try to get yourselves together, yeah? We got a long night ahead of us. Next up…" He gave the audience a moment. "Captain Howzer. Get your charming ass up here."

Howzer had the kind of charm that made every other officer - clones and organically ejected people alike - furious. Like, how can someone be this naturally charismatic? How dare he walk into a room and make people like him without trying? And now he was walking up to the stage like he was about to give an inspiring CORTalk speech instead of telling jokes in the middle of a packed bar full of drunk, emotionally stunted soldiers who’d probably just spent the last sixty minutes trying to decide whether it was worth using their one (1) approved monthly therapy session or just set up the simulation room to let off steam. 

"Good to see you all," Howzer started, smiling so wide it crinkled the sides of his eyes - making the heartthrob of the GAR looking even more charming. "I gotta say, I love this whole thing we got going on - clones getting together, sharing laughs, not getting shot at for once. It’s nice. It’s…" he considered his words carefully. "a refreshing change of pace. But let’s be honest, we’re all still on edge. I swear, every time someone opens a door too fast in here, at least one of you reaches for a blaster you don’t carry." A solid wave of laughter swept across the room. One of the shinies at the front let out a full-bellied laugh, and Howzer pointed at him. "See? That guy knows what I’m talking about. That’s years of trauma, my man."

He let the crowd settle before starting again. "You know, I was gonna do a whole thing about how we never get to relax, because let’s be real, no one here knows how to do that properly. What do we do with our ‘leave’? Do we rest? Do we recover? No. We find increasingly reckless ways to almost die for fun. We got guys joining swoop races in the Underworld, guys drinking homemade jet juice that tastes like ass, we got Hardcase.” The audience howled at the mere mention of the famously hyperactive trooper. “But the worst? The absolute worst?"

The captain in turquoise-marked armour looked at the crowd. "The guys who go straight back into combat simulations." Immediate cackles came from the audience. Someone from the 212th shouted, "It’s for training!" to which Howzer, without missing a beat, responded, "Brother, you already do that every day. What are you training for? A second death?" And another successful jab that earned a solid laugh. 

"Speaking of self-destructive tendencies, let’s talk about the Coruscant Guard for a second." Of course, The Guard let out a collective groan. Parts, who definitely did not approve of playing favourites but was also not about to shut down the funniest thing happening tonight, just chugged his watered-down ale from the side of the stage. "I gotta give it up for them," Howzer cocked his chin towards the cluster of red-armoured troopers in the back. "You lot live a thankless existence. You wake up every day and immediately have to deal with the absolute worst non-clones the galaxy has to offer. Senators.”

The bar immediately rumbled with laughter. There it was again, another punch at the people who were supposed to protect them, supposed to represent them, supposed to treat them like actual sentient beings - but let’s be real, that wasn’t the case. Oh, sure, there were some that cared. Some that fought for them. Some that looked at them and saw people. And then there was Orn Free Taa. At this point, Parts was making a mental note to treat Hound to a full week of proper lunches, just so he and Grizzer could do a full sweep of the bar for bugs. Because if a single word of this got out, the Senate would be filing complaints before sunrise.

"The Senate gets real passionate when the Holonet cameras are rolling. ‘Clones deserve fair treatment! Clones should be valued! Clones are the backbone of the Republic!’ But the moment you ask about pay, benefits, literally any legal protections whatsoever, suddenly it’s all—” Howzer adopted a high-pitched, overly concerned voice, tilting his head like a confused bureaucrat, “Ah, well, the logistics of that are quite complicated…”

The audience barked out another bitter laugh. Because, yeah, you had to laugh. You had to. The alternative was sitting with the realisation that your entire existence was a fucking clerical error away from being erased. “And I know some of you are thinking, ‘Well, Howzer, it’s not that bad.’” He held up a hand, nodding. “Bro. If we die and don’t get recovered from the battlefield, the Republic charges our battalion for lost equipment.”

There was a moment of stunned silence. Because some of them knew it was true, had heard the whispers, had seen the reports, and then the audience exploded. Howzer just stood there with his arms crossed, nodding along, waiting for the noise to settle. “Now,” he dryly said, “I really hope that’s just a rumour.” Howzer paused for a second. “Because that would be insane. That would be criminal. That would mean the Republic literally sees us as, oh wait, what’s that word again?” He tapped his chin thoughtfully, eyes sweeping the room before snapping his fingers. “Oh, right. PROPERTY.’”

Another howl of laughter, this time it was tinged with that comforting self-deprecation, because fuck, he was right. Howzer let the sound roll over him before delivering another blow. “You ever try to return a piece of Republic property? The paperwork works just fine. If I steal a speeder, that shit is tracked, located, repossessed within hours. But you ask where the fuck our healthcare went? ‘Oh noooo, the budget disappeared, guess we’ll never find it, too bad, so sad. Wha whaaa.’”

Directly in front of the stage, Fox slammed his head against the table, laughing his ass off. “Funny how that works,” Howzer muttered, taking a sip of a drink that was handed to him by cackling Hardcase. "Anyway, thanks for coming to comedy night, drag night, or whatever you want to call this insanity. Tip your bartenders, hydrate, and, uh… someone make sure Fox doesn’t quit his job before the night’s over. Goodnight!" And with that, he strolled off the stage, leaving behind absolute wreckage.

From across the room, Boil and Waxer, dedicated clowns in Parts’ comedy club but, more importantly, the unofficial bouncers for the night - caught Parts’ eyes and did the cutthroat hand across their necks. That was all it took. The three MCs up front - Parts, Fives, and Hardcase - immediately straightened. Because whilst this was supposed to be their space, their night, Coruscant was still Coruscant. There was always a line you didn’t cross. And if someone important was in the room now, well, best to tread carefully. 

Parts let out an exasperated sigh. It wasn’t unusual for 79’s to pull a crowd. What was unusual was the silent warning from Boil and Waxer, two men who had spent the better part of the war making jokes, shutting them down. He and the others had learned a long time ago that there was a fine line between blowing off steam and saying too much. This was not the place to have an actual heart-to-heart about clone rights, about war, about what it really felt like to be treated as property. But comedy was a loophole. You could say anything, so long as it came with a punchline, so long as the laughter kept coming. But that only worked if no one in power really started paying attention.

"Who came?" Parts whispered to Hardcase. The blue-tattooed man was on his comlink with Boil, pressing a finger on his left ear to get better clarity amidst the rowdy bar. "High-ranking," Hardcase answered loud enough only for Parts and Fives to hear. "Brass."

“How high?” Fives, scarves wrapped around his hips in lieu of his usual kama, broke character in an instant. His ARC training kicked in like a second skin, scanning the room with new eyes, every exit, every blind spot suddenly tactical considerations rather than just part of the bar’s familiar layout.

Hardcase pressed his comlink closer to his ear to hear Boil’s voice amidst the noise before he let out a nervous chuckle. Then, through gritted teeth, he dropped the name. "Tarkin."

This was bad. Really bad. They still had plausible deniability, no one had said anything explicitly treasonous yet. But that didn’t matter. The wrong person in the audience changed everything. It turned harmless jokes into lawsuits. And Tarkin wasn’t just any brass. Tarkin remembered things, and filed shit under “to be handled later.” You didn’t just brush past someone like that. You didn’t get two chances with Tarkin. Parts clenched his fists, itching to rip off the makeshift dress and wig, fun as the bit was. He could be kitted up in under a minute, armed and ready, if it meant keeping his siblings safe.

"What’s the strategy?" Parts kept his hushed voice. Fives scratched his goatee. "I mean, we could move to safer ground? Shut it down early, act like the whole thing was a joke that got out of hand…"

"Not an option," Hardcase firmly cut in. "Shutting it down fast looks suspicious. We bail now, and whoever’s watching us starts asking why."

He wasn’t wrong. The second they looked too careful, that’s when the real problems would start. Tarkin wasn’t here for fun - he was watching. And if they gave him anything that smelled like an organised effort, the next thing they knew, there’d be investigations, reassignments, a sudden crackdown on anything resembling clone autonomy. Fives nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, okay. So, plan B, we lean in."

"Lean in how?" Parts narrowed his eyes. Before he could get an answer, Fives stole the microphone in his hands and strode back onto the stage, grin locked in place, the perfect picture of a man with absolutely no fear.

"Captain Tarkin is here, everyone!" Fives announced, voice bright, loud, completely unfazed. "Make some noise for him!"

The crowd’s reaction was instant. It wasn’t outright panic - these were clones, trained for war, not easily rattled - but there was a noticeable shift, just like how they would in the battlefields when an unexpected threat had just walked into the perimeter. And at the front table, the commanders - Bacara, Fox, Cody, Wolffe - all straightened immediately. Parts hated this. Hated that their one rare moment of peace, their one night to actually be something outside of soldiers, was now under scrutiny. Hated that even here, even in this space, they had to be careful. Had to adjust. Had to dance around the fact that they weren’t citizens, weren’t people, at least not in the eyes of men like Tarkin.

And yet, as much as he hated it, Parts knew exactly what Fives was doing. The ARC trooper knew how to control a room.

"Speaking of captains," Fives continued smoothly as if he wasn’t actively trying to keep an entire room from panicking, "there’s another captain in this room, a very special captain, who had no idea he was about to be dragged into a drag show!"

A more relaxed laughter started rippling through the bar. "And why is that, you ask?" Fives placed a hand to his chest. "Because, my dear brothers and sisters and siblings alike, this man - our fearless leader, our role model, never reads the group chat!"

Parts couldn’t even pretend to be mad at the execution, Fives was doing exactly what was needed. He was shifting attention. He was forcing Tarkin’s presence into the background by bringing in a new target, someone everyone in the room could focus on. "And wouldn’t it be a blast," Fives fed off the energy, "if we dragged him onto this stage right now?"

The crowd was frothing. Everyone knew exactly where this was going, and they were all in. "Everyone, please welcome…" Fives milked the pause for maximum theatrics. "Captain Rex!!"

The roar from the 501st troopers was instantaneous. Some were already getting up like they were about to physically haul him up there. Rex groaned and slouched himself in the booth he was sitting at. "No."

A firm, clear rejection from the captain, but it didn’t matter. His own traitorous men were hyping him up, and to make it worse, he felt the familiar weight of judgmental stares from his fellow commanders at the front. None of them was going to help him. They were enjoying this. Rex scowled, flipping his men the bird. Then, for good measure, he flipped his ori’vod the bird, which should have been the end of it - except Wolffe immediately smacked him upside the head, followed by Cody backhanding his shoulders.

Rex sighed, long-suffering, before dragging his feet towards the stage. As soon as he grabbed the mic, he muttered through gritted teeth.

"Are you fucking me?"

"Nah, sir, you’re our saviour. Now joke about something, I don’t know. Whatever brainrot jokes you picked up from Anakin and Ahsoka." Fives grinned.

Rex looked out at the expectant, gleeful faces of his men. Looked past them to where Tarkin sat, impassive, watching, assessing. Yeah. He had to sell this. Fine. He tapped the mic twice, and sighed.

"Alright," Rex deadpanned. "I’m Captain Rex of the 501st Legion. I work with Anakin Skywalker… uh… yeah. Pray for me."

That was all it took. The room erupted again, because everyone knew. Anakin Skywalker was a lot. "You think I’m joking," Rex paced the makeshift stage with his dry tone. "I don’t even try to give him a battle plan anymore. I start to explain strategy, and then he gives Ahsoka the look, and poof, suddenly I’m flying."

Laughter filled the room. No one had suffered under the absolute chaos that was General Anakin Skywalker more than Rex. "I’ve given up trying to understand the general. Don’t get me wrong, he’s amazing, I’d go to hell and back for him. But if you ever see me standing there, completely still, staring off into the void? That’s me buffering. That’s me trying to process why I’m alive after another one of his manoeuvres."

Another wave of laughter cracked through the room. Rex let the noise die down before inhaling deeply, then exhaling, rubbing a hand over his face before he started again. "...Also," he dropped his tone dangerously close to sincerity, "I’d like to formally apologise to my boys for all the stress, trauma, and irresponsible shit we’ve been through." The blond paused to let the entire audience coos at the unexpected softness. "It will happen again."

Tup - sweet, unfortunate Private Tup from Torrent Company was gasping for air. His face was red, shoulders shaking, and every time he tried to inhale, another wheeze slipped out, sending the 501st into another round of hysterics. The entire 501st troopers present at 79’s had been losing their minds the whole time Rex was on stage, making the most noise out of anyone in the bar, like a bunch of rowdy cadets who had just watched their instructor trip and eat shit during drills. It wasn’t every day their beloved hardass of a Captain got publicly dragged into something ridiculous, and they were relishing it. 

And sure, Rex was one of the better ones. He wasn’t as rigid as some of the other commanders. At least he didn’t have Bacara’s terrifying tendency to drill his men like how Alpha-17 made him do it before he was made marshal commander - but on the field? He was still fucking strict. 

"There is no escape. I have tried." Rex clicked his tongue. Rex turned his feet towards the MCs, then back at the crowd. "Before we end this wonderful night of completely regulated, very Republic-approved bonding…" He pointed his palm at Parts. "Private Parts, you look fantastic."

Scattered hoots, cheers, and whistles came from the marines. Parts twirled in his dress dramatically. Rex just held up a hand. "...And Fives and Hardcase?"

"Yeah, Cap?"

"Enjoy it while you can. Because tomorrow, you’re on freshers duty." That successfully drew another round of claps from the crowd. Another day another save by none other than–

"CAPTAIN REX, EVERYONE!" Private Parts threw his arms up, soaking in the applause. "Thank you for coming. Listen to Howzer and tip your bartenders, don’t start a fight you can’t finish, and for non-clones, if you wake up hungover next to a commander, congratulations, you’re officially a Jedi general!”

The crowd was still electric, the final cheers for Rex rolling through the air like the last embers of a fire, but the energy was slowly changing. The second Private Parts dropped the mic back onto the stand, the DJ took the cue, lights dimmed, the atmosphere returned back to normal. The music came back just loud enough to remind everyone that this was still just a bar, that this was still 79’s, still their home, and that whatever had just happened? Whatever almost happened? It was over. Done. It had to be. It better be.

Parts let out a long relieved sigh, feeling the weight of it settle in his bones. The close call. The way they had to dance that line so fucking carefully and now they had to act like none of it ever happened. He elbowed Boil as the man returned from his unofficial duty, almost knocking back Boil’s drink like he’d been physically holding back the urge to swing on someone all night. "Is he gone?"

Boil wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. "Yeah, left twenty minutes ago. Probably on his way to some emergency meeting, clutching his pearls about how Captain Rex was making fun of his Jedi at 79’s."

"Joke’s on him," Hardcase smirked, "Anakin is in our group chat."

"Yeah, we invited him, but, you know… husband duty." Fives cackled, violently clapping Parts on the shoulder. "Congrats on the drag night, vod! Even though, technically, you’re the only one in drag." Parts rolled his eyes, still shaking out the last of the tension from earlier, but before he could respond, Fives threw an arm around his shoulders, turning back towards the bar and raising his voice. "Officially the most badass private in the fucking GAR! WHOOP WHOOP!!"

The entire bar erupted in agreement. "PRIVATE PARTS, GALACTIC ICON!" A fellow marine yelled from the bar. Hardcase cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, "GET THIS MAN A MEDAL! OR AT LEAST A BETTER WIG!" That earned a wide grin from Parts. He was fucking stressed out and exhausted but grinning, riding the lingering adrenaline as the cheers swelled around him. And then… Bacara. 

Parts saw him before he got close, because Bacara wasn’t exactly subtle.

"Private."

Bacara’s tone was neutral. No amusement, no judgment, no edge. "Commander." Parts snapped into attention immediately - because even though Bacara had been crying laughing an hour ago, even though he had clutched his ribs when Howzer delivered the Senate joke, this was still Marshal Commander fucking Bacara. The same man who could juggernaut through a battlefield in a fucking second and maybe faster. The same man who could, and would, command him to do one hundred burpees for less than five minutes.

For a moment, Bacara just studied him, his muddy brown eyes, mirroring his own - only older, and more exhausted. Then he finally opened his mouth. "You handled that well."

That was not what Parts had expected to hear. Sure, Bacara had a sense of humour. After all, he let Parts run these stand-up nights, let his men have their moments of relief, but this was still Bacara. Marshal Commander Bacara. The guy who took everything seriously.

"At ease."

Parts hesitated before forcing himself to relax, at least, as much as someone could relax while standing in front of a literal war machine in human form. He rubbed a hand over his face, exhaling sharply. "Yeah, well," he muttered, "not exactly what we had in mind for the night."

"You kept it under control." Bacara patted his shoulder. "That’s not easy to do."

And for a second, Parts didn’t know what to do with that. Because his commander got it. He knew what it took to keep that balance - to take something dangerous and make it palatable. To hold a room full of soldiers in the palm of your hand, to guide them somewhere just edgy enough without letting them fall off the ledge. To let them think without making it look like thinking. That wasn’t easy. And Bacara, of all fucking people, had noticed.

“…Thanks,” Parts finally answered, still a little thrown off by the sincerity but absolutely not about to turn down a rare, fucking impossible compliment from a Commander. Bacara gave one last appreciative nod before stepping back into the crowd, rejoining the other commanders. Private Parts rolled his shoulders, letting the last of the tension finally bleed out of him.

"You’re fucking insane, you know that?"

The voice came from behind him, a familiar posh accent. Warm as it was amused. Before he could even turn, arms wrapped around his waist, tight, solid, pulling him in like the last anchor in a chaotic night. And Parts melted. Because fuck yes, finally.

Arok smelled like smoke, spice, and a data terminal running too hot. "You love it," Parts murmured, leaning back into the embrace, letting the towering Chiss tuck his chin over his shoulder. The Chiss huffed, pressing a quick kiss against the side of his head, and Parts closed his eyes, letting himself breathe. Because yeah they had barely pulled that off. This whole night could have ended in disaster. But it hadn’t. So Parts let himself relax into Arok’s warmth, to feel his hands splay over his ribs, to feel the bass vibrating through the floor, to listen to his brothers drinking, talking, laughing. The night wasn’t over. And for this moment, they were okay.

[cloned-eyes]

Family on the run

Odessa is @therisingdarkness bebe

Lore dump

Shortly after o66 Ghoul decides to go AWOL with his family. Being very suspicious of the empires treatment of clones and fearing negative repercussions for his loved ones he packs them up and tries to find a save place to build a home for them

[leenathegreengirl]

Could this perhaps be a Wolffe Wednesday..? 😀💚💕

💚Tag List💚

@legacygirlingreen @thora-sniper @thecoffeelorian @neyswxrld @somewhere-on-kamino @clonethirstingisreal @royallykt @morerandombullshit @burningfieldof-clover @tbnrpotato @keantha @returnofthepineapple @antisocial-mariposa @techs-stitches @resistantecho @kimiheartblade @dezgate @sunshinesdaydream @rex-targaryen @freesia-writes @heidnspeak @justanotherdikutsimp

[captn-trex]

— captn-trex masterlist

all works are x fem!reader unless specified!

if you like a fic I would really appreciate a reblog <3 tumblr thrives on sharing and so do I ! if you want, you can be added to/removed from my taglist here :)

— series

technical devotion: echo x fem! original character — complete, 72k words, 24 parts

shadows of kamino: [rex, fives, hunter, tech & crosshair] x fem! original characters — ongoing

threads of the unseen: ahsoka x f!reader

part one: tread carefully | 5.4k part two: forging connection | 4.2k [coming soon]

— events

200 follower celebration event: clone x reader song inspired fics

— oneshots

501st legion

captain rex let me take care of you [16+] | 5.7k make it feel better [18+] | 4.3k playing pretend | 4.2k where trust falls apart | 4.7k fall of an empire | no pairing | 1.4k

arc trooper fives gone, but not forgotten | 4.4k ↳ how to feel again | 3.1k my kingdom for a kiss [18+] | 8.7k

clone medic kix a tricky situation | 2.8k

clone trooper hardcase oldest trick in the book | 3.4k

the bad batch

sergeant hunter a little while longer | 4.1k a half-hearted escape | 3.4k

clone trooper tech we never quite made it | 10k

clone trooper crosshair brightest in the dark | 9.2k

misc. clones 

commander wolffe words in my mouth | 3.7k consequences be damned | 3.3k

commander fox read between the lines | 8.1k

captain howzer angel of small death [18+] part 1, part 2, part 3 | 24k

other fandoms

the rings of power after the dust settles | elrond x fem!reader | 6k

[brrmian]

it’s snowing. maybe they’ll brush hands to “share warmth.” or maybe they’ll just keep pining forever. [ft. different color palettes under the cut]

[legacygirlingreen]

"Now we are even" || The Introduction || Commander Wolffe x OFC! Perdita

Author's Note: I am so excited to drop the first installment of a story involving Commander Wolffe. This is my first time writing for him, and I won't lie, I cannot express how much I've enjoyed getting in his head. I want to thank my lovely and dear friend @leenathegreengirl for helping breathe life into not just Perdita through her art, but also this story at large. This was truly a whim in every fashion of the word, but as Bob Ross once said, there are no such things as mistakes, only happy little accidents. I am really proud of what bit's I've come up with this pair so far. I apologize for future works involving them, because while this is an introduction set after TBB, I plan to go back in time a bit (wouldn't be part of the Filoniverse if there wasn't chaos with the timing I suppose). Also I'm still racking my brain over a shipname so I'd love the suggestions... Any who, enjoy loves - M

Summary: A story as old as time itself. A Clone Commander. A Jedi. Two people bound by honor and duty. Lives defined by unwavering codes. But now, everything is shattered as the Empire orders the galactic execution of the once-peaceful warriors known as the Jedi. When Wolffe unexpectedly crosses paths with a fleeting figure from his past, he faces an agonizing choice. Will he obey the Empire’s command, or will he risk everything—his identity, his loyalty, and his future—in the desperate hope of rediscovering the man he once was?

Pairing: eventual Commander Wolffe x OFC! Perdita Halle

Warnings: Mentions of Order 66, Brief mentions of assisted suicide, angst with a hopeful ending

Word Count: 5k

Masterlist || Next Part

Wolffe often found the hum of space to be unnerving. Not that space itself had a hum—space was cold, dark, and empty. The hum came from the ship, a constant, low vibration that resonated through its walls, a reminder of its fragile protection against the infinite void outside. He hated this liminal space, this time spent outside planetary orbits, where nothing anchored him.

The vacuum had nearly claimed his life once. He could still feel it if he thought about it too long—the suffocating press of nothingness, the frozen tendrils of death creeping up his spine as his oxygen dwindled. The darkness had wrapped around him like a shroud, a cruel mockery of safety. Skywalker, his padawan and the Sentinel had pulled him back at the last moment, but something about him had stayed behind, left adrift in that endless void. He’d survived, but a part of him hadn’t.

He wondered, often, if death would feel the same. Cold. Empty. A silence so profound it swallowed everything. Or would it be something entirely different? Something warmer, like the faint memory of a sunrise on Kamino’s horizon or the strength of a brother’s arm slung across his shoulders after a battle well-fought?

Plo Koon had once told him that death was not the end but a transition—a merging with the living Force. The words had stayed with Wolffe, though he wasn’t sure if they brought comfort or dread. The concept was simple enough, but it opened too many questions. Would he still be himself in the Force? Would his memories, his regrets, his flaws follow him into that eternity?

And what of those he had lost? Would he see them again? He wasn’t sure if he wanted to. The idea of facing the Jedi again, seeing their calm, unwavering gazes, filled him with an ache that felt too large to contain. He respected them deeply, but respect came with weight, and he often felt crushed beneath the burden of their trust. Undeserved, he thought. Always undeserved.

He stared out the viewport, watching stars streak by as the ship hurtled through hyperspace. The endless cascade of light reminded him of something—he wasn’t sure what. A memory tugged at the edges of his mind: Plo Koon standing beside him, hand on his shoulder, as they stared up at the night sky from a dusty outpost.

“There’s always light in the dark, Wolffe,” the Kel Dor had said, his voice steady, unshakable. “Even in the emptiest parts of space, the Force is alive.”

Wolffe had nodded then, silent as always. Even now, the words felt too far away. The darkness pressed in closer these days, even when he was surrounded by his squad, even when the hum of the ship reminded him he was still alive.

Maybe death was different for men like him—men who had taken orders, done what they had to, and carried the weight of it in silence. Maybe for him, death wouldn’t be a warm reunion with the Force but a cold, endless void, like the vacuum that had almost claimed him.

Maybe that was what he deserved.

He tightened his grip on the edge of the console, the familiar vibrations grounding him, even as the void outside seemed to call his name. The stars streaked on, indifferent to his musings, and he stayed where he was, caught between the hum of life and the silence of the dark.

Sure, right now he might be aboard an Imperial transport ship, tasked with carrying a highly dangerous prisoner marked for execution. But in his mind, he was still in the Abragado system, sitting in a pod, waiting. Waiting for the moment his life would be snuffed out in a war he neither fully understood nor had ever truly wanted to be part of.

He hadn’t believed Master Plo when the Jedi had reassured him, promising that someone would come looking for them. Wolffe had learned early on that he was expendable, a belief etched into him by the longnecks on Kamino. He was just another number, another body in an endless sea of soldiers bred for war.

Then came the Jedi. Their compassion, their respect, their quiet insistence on treating clones as individuals—it had shaken the very foundation of everything Wolffe thought he knew. In a world where duty and obedience were everything, where each clone was molded to fulfill a singular purpose, the Jedi had introduced something foreign—something that made him question the very core of his existence. 

Master Plo Koon, in particular, had made an inerasable impact. There was a quiet strength in the way he carried himself, an unspoken understanding that resonated with Wolffe on a level he hadn’t known was possible. Master Plo didn’t just command him; he listened—and more importantly, he understood. The way he treated Wolffe wasn’t like a subordinate or a mere tool of war, but as someone with thoughts, desires, and a sense of self. He spoke to him not as a soldier on the battlefield, but as a fellow being who had hopes, fears, and a need for connection.

When the order came, he didn't want to believe it. He hated how easily his finger had complied, how instinct had overridden thought. The words echoed in his mind, even now when he laid down for sleep: Good soldiers follow orders.

But in that moment, as Master Plo Koon’s starfighter plummeted from the sky, spiraling toward the ground in a fiery descent, Wolffe felt an emptiness unlike any he had ever known. It wasn’t just the shock of watching his commander, his ally, fall—it was the crushing realization that he was complicit in the destruction. The weight of betrayal was a heavy cloak around his shoulders, pressing down on him with unbearable force.

He had followed orders, as he always had, but this time, there was no duty, no justification that could soothe the gnawing ache in his chest. For so long, he had prided himself on his loyalty, on his ability to uphold the ideals of the Republic and the men he fought beside. But as the remnants of Plo Koon’s ship burned in the distance, Wolffe couldn’t help but feel that he had lost something far more vital than the life of a Jedi. He had lost the sense of himself as a man who stood for something honorable.

The world around him seemed to blur, the familiar sound of blaster fire and the chaos of war drowning out in the silence of his thoughts. For the first time, he saw the full, horrifying scope of what he had become—a tool of an Empire that had twisted everything he had once believed in. His identity, his purpose, had been shattered in that instant. As much as he wanted to believe he was still the same soldier, the same Commander, a part of him knew that he had crossed an irreparable line.

Wolffe had never felt further from the idea of being “good.” Not just because of the life he had taken, but because of the loss of the man he had been—the soldier who had once believed in the nobility of his cause.

The last time Wolffe truly felt in his heart that he had done the right thing was the night he learned Rex was still alive. He could still see Rex’s face—pleading, desperate, filled with a conviction that cut through Wolffe’s carefully constructed walls. Rex had begged him to see the truth, to understand that the Empire’s orders were wrong. That hunting a child wasn’t justice.

Wolffe had spent years trying—vainly, tirelessly—not to question his orders. He was a soldier. And good soldiers followed orders. 

But good soldiers didn’t hunt children or order their friends to be killed.

Good soldiers brought in criminal lowlifes, the kind of scum he now had locked in the brig, to justice. At least, that’s what Wolffe had assumed when the prisoner had been described to him as “highly dangerous.” But maybe it was his more recent desire to question his orders, or the way something about this mission didn’t sit right, that sparked the flicker of curiosity. Maybe it was the sentimentality he’d been battling since Rex’s reappearance, or the uneasy edge that always came with being in space.

Whatever the reason, he made a choice. He sent his men off for an early retreat, claiming he’d stand guard himself. He told himself it was for tactical reasons, but it wasn’t. It was personal.

Just like opening the cell door.

The door slid open with a low hiss, revealing a dimly lit chamber. Wolffe expected to see a hardened criminal, someone rough around the edges, beaten down by years of wrongdoing. Instead, his breath caught in his throat.

Seated on the floor, her back pressed against the cold wall, was a woman—young, though her posture bore the weight of someone who had seen more than her years should allow. She didn’t flinch or rise as the door opened, her bright green eyes snapping to him with an intensity that felt like a challenge. Even in the faint light, they glowed, piercing through him like a blade.

“Commander Wolffe,” she said, her voice quiet but steady, the hint of an edge betraying both recognition and caution.

He froze. His hand hovered near his blaster, not out of fear but reflex. “How do you know my name?” he asked, his tone sharp, though his heart hammered in his chest.

A faint, bitter smile tugged at the corners of her lips. “You don’t remember me, do you?” She shifted slightly, the movement revealing the scar that ran across her pale face, a jagged line that seemed out of place on her otherwise delicate features. “Not surprising. It was a lifetime ago.”

Wolffe’s eyes narrowed, his mind racing. Her appearance tugged at a distant memory—a mission gone wrong, the deafening silence of space, and a bright flash of light. Falling out of the escape pod into waiting arms. Bright Green eyes. The scar.  His breath hitched as it clicked into place.

“The rescue,” he murmured. “Abregado.”

She inclined her head, her expression softened ever so slightly. “I was,” she said simply. “And now, here we are. Funny how the force works, isn’t it?”

His grip on the blaster faltered. This wasn’t a hardened criminal. This was a Jedi—a Sentinel, at that. She had pulled him from the pod, her face masked with the exception of her eyes. But he didn’t forget the voice, nor could he forget her scar.

He also didn’t forget the way she’d accompanied him to Aleen, attempting to calm his frustrations at the locals after the earthquake. He was built for combat, not a mercy mission. But she’d been there, calming that raging storm in him with her soft spoken words and delicate place of a hand on his skin. General Halle. Perdita. 

As he studied her features for the first time, he realized the shroud she had always worn concealed far more than he had anticipated. She had once explained to him that part of her trials as a padawan had been overcoming her vanity. After that moment, she had either been encouraged—or perhaps felt the need—to keep herself covered. The distinction between the two was significant, though he now found himself unable to recall which version of the truth it had been. The Jedi’s appearance had never been something he had been allowed to fully see, and so witnessing her efforts to hold her shoulders and chin high under his gaze felt wrong. Not that he hadn't been curious—he had. But seeing more than just those bright eyes and that scar across her face felt intrusive, as though he were crossing an unseen boundary.

Seeing her now, with her ghostly pale skin, so light that it was as if it had never touched sunlight. Her hair, equally fair, was a tangled mess of long braids and matted strands, though the right side was sheared close to her scalp, hinting at the harshness of the life she had experienced. Bruises etched into her neck, a testament to her resilience, showing that she hadn’t been easily subdued.

She was far more delicate than he’d imagined for someone of her position. She didn’t match the mental image he had formed of the woman who had once saved his life with her luminous eyes and sharp voice. Yet, in her very features, there was a contradiction that unsettled him. Her soft, pale skin was marred by a jagged scar that seemed to tell a story of its own. Her long hair clashed with the shock of short strands that spoke of some past confrontation. Her gentle eyes, framed by dark kohl. Her delicate lips—so soft and inviting—contradicted the clipped, controlled tone of her voice.

There was a complexity to her, an unsettling blend of contradictions, and it was that stark difference between appearance and reality that made her all the more enigmatic.

Not to mention, she truly was much more beautiful than he could’ve imagined. Even after their brief conversation together. He’d wondered, but to see it in front of him now, he found words difficult on his tongue. 

She wasn’t like most Jedi. Distant. Quiet. She wasn’t one to preach or stand at the frontlines of politics. Instead, she focused on the people of the Republic, working directly with them in ways that often went unnoticed, or at the Council’s rare request. But she was no stranger to rebellion either. He remembered how she’d stormed away when General Skywalker's padawan had been placed on trial—angry, in a way that Wolffe found unexpected. He had always been told Jedi were supposed to rise above emotions, especially anger. Yet here she was, as human as anyone else.

“Why are you here?” he asked, his voice quieter now, the weight of his own disillusionment pressing down on him. “Why would the Empire want you dead?”

Her smile disappeared, replaced by a shadowed expression. “Because I am breathing,” she said, her tone defensive. “And because that’s enough to be a threat to the Empire,”

Wolffe’s stomach churned. He wanted to call her a liar, to draw his blaster and end the conversation, but something about her words rooted him in place. She didn’t move, didn’t press further, as if sensing the storm inside him.

However, her eyes flashed with realization, and Wolffe felt the rare tug in his mind. He wasn’t immune to it. The Jedi, though usually respectful of a clone’s privacy, occasionally breached that unspoken boundary—usually in moments of intense concern. His thoughts became muddled, a fog settling over his mind, and in that instant, he knew. She had used the Force to reach into his mind.

“They sent you to hunt a child,” she said, her voice softening, almost mournful. “And now they’ve sent you to deliver me for my execution. How much longer are you going to follow orders, Commander?”

The words struck him harder than he expected, the weight of her gaze pinning him where he stood. For a moment, he didn’t feel like the soldier standing guard. He felt like the man adrift in the pod, lost in the silence of space, waiting for someone to find him.

He exhaled sharply, the silence broken by the harshness of his words. “What do you expect me to do? Not following orders makes you a traitor,” he spat.

She stared at him for a moment, uncertainty flickering in her gaze. “You’ve already disobeyed more than one order, haven’t you?” Her tone shifted, probing deeper. “Tell me, Wolffe—or do you prefer your number now? Should I respect the identity the Empire has forced upon you? After all, you seem so eager to follow their commands, to remain obedient, even if it means abandoning everything else.”

Wolffe’s jaw clenched as her words hit home, each syllable sharp, cutting through the layers of his resolve. He shifted uncomfortably, his fingers twitching at his side, but he refused to let her see the crack in his metaphorical armor.

"I follow orders," he said, his voice tight. "It's what I was made for. It's what we all were made for. You think I like this? You think I want to be this?" He gestured vaguely toward his armor, the cold, sterile shell that defined him as much as his number did. "The Empire... they gave us purpose. A place in this galaxy. A role. And what do you want me to do, General Halle? Turn my back on that? After everything?"

She took a slow step forward, her eyes unwavering, assessing him like she always had. He could feel the pull of the Force, a subtle pressure against his mind. She wasn’t pushing, but her presence lingered, and it was almost like she could see through him.

“I’m not asking you to abandon your past, Wolffe,” she said, her voice softer now, though the challenge remained. “I’m asking you to remember it. To remember who you were before the Empire twisted everything. You have never been just a number.”

Her words settled into the space between them, heavy with meaning, and Wolffe felt something shift deep inside him—a faint stirring he didn’t want to acknowledge. He had spent so long burying that part of himself, the part that still remembered loyalty to something more than orders. But now, in her presence, in the weight of her gaze, it felt like the walls he had built up around himself were starting to crack.

"You think I can just walk away?" he muttered, almost to himself. "That it’s that simple? The wars, the lies..." He paused, the words thick in his throat. "I don’t even know who I am anymore."

Perdita’s expression softened, a flicker of understanding passing through her eyes. She took another step toward him, this time with less certainty. She didn’t reach out, but the gesture was enough.

“You can always start again, find a new purpose, and maybe along the way find who you once were. I know you Wolffe. You are a good man. You always have been,” she commented quietly.

Wolffe didn’t answer right away. The silence stretched between them, filled only by the hum of the transport ship’s engines. The weight of his own thoughts pressed on him like an anchor, dragging him deeper into the abyss of uncertainty. He didn’t know what the right choice was. But standing here, facing the Jedi, he felt something stir in him that hadn’t been there for a long time.

The man he had been—the man before the Empire—was still there. Somewhere.

But could he still find his way back? Or was he already too far gone?

The question lingered, unanswered, and it gnawed at him from the inside out. The conflict within him was too great, an overwhelming surge of doubt and guilt. He was lost between what he felt and what he knew. He knew the Jedi were kind, compassionate—humane in a way the Empire could never be. But there was another part of him, the part shaped by years of conditioning, of following orders without question. The part that told him Jedi were the enemy, that they had betrayed him, betrayed all of them.

Even if she was correct, he didn’t feel he deserved a second chance.

"Stop," he snapped, his voice low and harsh, barely containing the fury building within him. "You're twisting my mind. That's why all you Jedi were executed." He spat the words, stepping back as if to escape the heavy weight of his own thoughts.

But Perdita’s gaze didn’t falter. Her eyes flashed with frustration—and something else. It was the same intensity that had pulled him from the wreckage of the Abregado system all those years ago. The depth her eyes had shown when he’d looked into them deeply under the glow of the setting sun on Aleen. The same ferocity that made her a Jedi in a way he could never fully understand.

“Did you pull the trigger yourself, Wolffe?” she demanded, her voice sharp and cutting through the haze in his mind.

His eyes widened. “What—?”

“Master Plo.” She took a step closer, her bound hands held out in front of her, as if she were trying to approach him without triggering some kind of defense mechanism. “Did you take the shot yourself?”

The words hit him like a punch to the gut. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe. His mind flashed back to that day, to the moment when it all went wrong. The blast rang out, and Plo Koon had fallen, silent and still.

“I didn’t—” Wolffe started, his voice shaking. “I didn’t want to…”

But she was relentless, her voice a hiss, her anger barely contained. “Did you pull the trigger yourself, or did you let one of your men do it for you? Did you stand by while they carried out the order?”

Wolffe’s heart pounded in his chest. She was right. He hadn’t pulled the trigger, not directly. He hadn’t been the one to execute the order. But he had been there. He had stood by calling the order while his brothers did the work. His hands had been tied by duty, by obedience and the relentless weight of his training. 

Her words cut deeper than he expected, and for the first time in years, he felt a crack in the armor he had spent so long building. The Jedi saw through him in a way no one else had in a long time.

“No,” Wolffe said, his voice heavy with bitterness. “Boost did it. Shot down the starfighter,” he explained with a dramatic sigh, as though the memory still weighed on him like a stone in his chest.

Perdita’s gaze never left him, unyielding. “Why?” she pressed, her voice soft but insistent, searching for the truth behind his words.

Wolffe hesitated, his eyes darkening with the weight of the past. “Because I couldn’t. Because I was weak…” His voice trailed off, thick with shame. He had always prided himself on being strong, unwavering. But in that moment, when the world seemed to fall apart around him, he had faltered.

“To lay down arms is not weakness,” she replied, her tone calm but firm, as though she had spoken those words to herself a thousand times.

He scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping him. “Says the woman marked for execution,” he muttered, a sharp edge in his voice. His gaze flickered toward her, searching for the woman who had once saved him, who had risked everything to pull him from the wreckage when all seemed lost. The memory stung.

“You saved my life once,” he reminded her, his voice quieter now, tinged with a mix of gratitude and regret.

“I did,” Perdita agreed, her eyes softening, but her expression remained steady. “And now, may I ask one favor of you? A simple one, so that we can finally be even?”

Wolffe raised an eyebrow, the weight of her words sinking in slowly. There was something in the way she said it, something that made him pause. 

“Kill me,” she whispered solemnly, her words cutting through the silence like a blade.

Wolffe froze, his breath hitching in his chest. For a heartbeat, he couldn’t even process what she had just said. Kill me? The weight of those words landed on him with a staggering force, and for the first time since they’d started this uneasy exchange, his mind went utterly blank.

“W-What?” he stammered, confusion and disbelief mixing with a knot of panic that twisted deep inside him.

Perdita’s gaze never wavered, though there was a deep sadness in her eyes, a quiet resignation that tugged at something buried within him. She didn’t look like someone who feared death. In fact, she looked like someone who had made peace with it long ago.

“Kill me, Wolffe,” she repeated, her voice soft, but heavy with the weight of a thousand unspoken things. “Where you are taking me is a fate worse than death,”

The words hit Wolffe like a punch to the gut. His heart thudded painfully in his chest as he absorbed the depth of what she was saying. She was asking him to end her life, to release her from the nightmare that had followed her since the purge, since the fall of the Jedi. He could hear the quiet despair in her voice, the resignation that she had already accepted that no other option was left.

"Stop," he snapped, stepping forward with a sharpness he hadn't meant. His hand clenched into a fist at his side. "Don't say that."

Perdita’s eyes flickered to his, a fleeting glimpse of vulnerability breaking through her hard exterior. "It's the truth," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I’ve lived through so much betrayal, Wolffe. I’ve seen what the Empire does to those it deems 'enemy’, it’s not a pretty sight I assure you"

Wolffe’s breath caught in his throat as he processed her words. He had heard whispers of the horrors of the Empire, the ruthless efficiency of its cruelty, but hearing it from her—someone who had once been who had fought beside the clones and now found herself hunted—made the reality of it all feel sharper.

“It’s not fair for you to ask that of me,” he demanded, his voice tightening with frustration. The very thought of it made him nauseous. To kill an unarmed woman—especially a prisoner—was not only unjust, it would be a betrayal of everything he had ever stood for. It could lead him to a court-martial, or worse.

“Why not,” she demanded.

Her words struck him harder than he expected. The Empire had already claimed so much from him—his autonomy, his sense of purpose, his very soul at times. But now, the reality of what she was saying pressed against him like a vise. Was he just another pawn? Would he become expendable too, the moment they had no more use for him?

“I’m not one of them,” he said, his voice a mixture of defiance and doubt. He wasn’t, was he?

But Perdita only stared at him, her expression unreadable. “You’re more like them than you think,” she whispered. “You’ve followed their orders. You’ve done their bidding. And now… now you want to pretend you don’t have a choice in what happens to me. Pretend I got free, tried to kill your men. I’m a threat am I not? Is that not what they told you? Please Wolffe. I do not wish to suffer needlessly. However if your resignation truly is with the Empire then I suppose you truly do not have a choice.”

Wolffe took a step back, his breath quickening. She was right in one sense—he had followed orders, too many times without question. But was that enough to define him? Was that all he was now? A soldier for an Empire that cared nothing for his humanity? Or worse, the humanity of others.

“No,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I still have a choice.”

She looked up at him, her eyes wavering just slightly. “Then make it.”

He stared at her for a long moment, a thousand thoughts racing through his mind. Should he kill her? Should he let her go? Should he risk everything? How much more guilt would he carry in delivering her to whatever fate she had foreseen? She was asking him to do something impossible, something that could destroy him just as easily as it would destroy her.

But the longer he looked at her, the clearer it became. This wasn’t just about survival anymore. It wasn’t just about doing what was expected or what was easy. This was about redemption—for her, for him, for them both.

“I won’t kill you,” he said, the words steady but heavy. His eyes darted around. The cybernetic one struggling to see in the dimly lit cell as he searched for the control panel on the wall. 

Perdita didn’t respond, assuming he was ready to leave and her last attempt at peace, foiled by a clone who truly owed her little loyalty. As she prepared for his departure she felt the chains around her hands unlock, before falling away. Flexing her fingers she looked up to see him much closer now as he tugged her forearm.

“But I won’t let them take you, either.” His voice was low, almost aggressive in nature, as if he was revolting against the very action he was taking.

Perdita didn’t smile. She didn’t thank him. She just nodded, the flicker of something like hope passing through her eyes. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to give him the courage to take the next step—whatever that might be.

“Why?” she asked, her voice calm, though it carried the weight of disbelief. She paused for a moment, taking a breath to collect herself in the wake of his unexpected actions.

Wolffe met her gaze briefly, then dropped his eyes to the floor, his attention lingering on the mud caked on the tops of his boots. After a moment, he lifted his gaze to hers again, his eyes scanning hers as if unsure whether to reveal the truth. Yet, in this moment—after throwing caution to the wind—it seemed honesty was the only option.

The problem? He wasn’t entirely certain himself. Of course, he had theories. Wolffe had been searching for a way out of the Empire ever since that night he crossed paths with Rex. Having a Jedi by his side would significantly increase his chances of desertion. So, part of his reasoning, at least, was rooted in a tactical advantage.

But then, as his gaze fell on her face, resting on the scar that marked her eye, something else surfaced. He remembered how much he owed her—how she had been the one to help locate their damaged pod. Without her, he would have been lost to the cold expanse of space. A debt like that, a life saved, demanded more than mere gratitude—it demanded something deeper.

“You saved my life once, General,” he said, though internally he wanted to slam his head into the durasteel wall. He knew that she had done so more than once—countless times, in fact, for him and his brothers. “Consider us even,” he added, his words laced with a mixture of gratitude and frustration.

After a brief pause, he heard the soft sound of her approach. Her arm brushed against his unintentionally as she spoke, her voice steady but curious. “What’s your plan?”

Wolffe felt the faintest stir at the brush of her arm, but he quickly focused on her words. He turned slightly, his gaze meeting hers, but there was a momentary hesitation in his expression. The question hung in the air, heavy with more than just the immediate answer.

He knew she wasn’t just asking about the details or the strategy—she was asking what came next, what he planned to do with everything that had led them to this moment. He could feel the weight of her question, the uncertainty that hung heavily in the air between them.

For a moment, he stayed silent, his mind racing through countless possibilities, each one more uncertain than the last. Finally, he spoke, his voice steady but tinged with the weight of the decision. "It’s a long shot, but I think it might work. You’ll have to trust me on this." He met her gaze, a quiet resolve in his eyes. "As for everything else, we’ll improvise—if we make it out of here."

"Alright. After you, Commander—"

"Wolffe," he interjected, his voice flat, almost terse. The weight of the moment pressed down on him—the knowledge that he was about to turn his back on everything he had ever known, to abandon the man he had been for so long. It felt like an impossible choice, and yet it was the only one left. In the face of such a drastic break, being addressed by his rank felt distant, cold, and impersonal. It was as though the uniform, the title, had become a mask for something that no longer fit him.

She paused for a moment, as if sensing the shift in the air between them. Her gaze met his, a flicker of understanding in her eyes before she nodded slightly, her voice equally dry, yet carrying a certain weight of its own. "Lead the way, Wolffe."

Her words, though simple, held a quiet acknowledgment—an acceptance of the change that had already begun. Neither of them needed to say more. The decision had been made, and whatever path lay ahead, it would be walked side by side.

To be continued...

(Also if you made it this far thank you so much! Below is the unedited image of Perdita courtesy of my lovely friend… you can find her bio HERE, on her page! Additionally, I may start a tag list soon so if anyone's interested just drop a comment or shoot me a DM <3!)

[justaparsec94]

Clone Fic Masterlist

Echo

The Night We Met Echo x OFC (multi chapter)

Life Day Echo x fem!Reader

Fox

Exile Fox x Riyo Chuchi (multi chapter)

Wolffe

Five Times Wolffe x OFC (multi chapter)

Strings Wolffe x fem!Reader *NSFW

Noctis One Shot - No Pairings

In the End One Shot - No Pairings

Exchange Wolffe x fem!Reader

Crosshair

Flower Crosshair x Reader

Sniper Crosshair x fem!Reader

Reunion Crosshair x fem!Reader *NSFW

Firsts Crosshair x fem!Reader

Sleep Crosshair x fem!Reader

Hunter

Feeling Hunter xJedi!Reader

Wounded Hunter x fem!Reader

Tech

Company Tech x Reader

Fives

The Bet Fives x Reader

Tickle Fives x fem!Reader

Surprise Fives x Reader

Rex

Revelations Rex x fem!Reader

Under A Blanket of Stars One Shot - No Pairings

Noctis One Shot - No Pairings

Howzer

Arrival Howzer x Reader

[nopynopa]

Mace Windu : Jedi code !!!!!!😡😡😡😡😡😡

[ariadnes-red-thread]

The Last Word: Chapter Four

CHAPTER FOUR: SAY NOTHING

Previous Chapter || Next Chapter [coming soon]

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Fives/OFC

Chapter Summary: Brought face-to-face with Fives after their one-night stand, Mal faces hard choices and harder truths. Meanwhile, Fives knows at least one thing that this new battalion medic is hiding and he's beginning to suspect that there might be more.

Chapter Warnings: Some swearing (mostly in mand'o), Mentions of Umbara/past trauma and past sexual situations, canon-typical violence, character death mention/flashback

Chapter Word Count: 5.8k

Recommended Listening: Say Nothing by Flume feat. MAY-A

A/N: Another new chapter? Within a month? WHO IS SHE?

Ao3

Taglist

She was staring, a sardonic voice pointed out from somewhere deep within her. Mal snapped her mouth shut and clenched her jaw to keep it from falling open again. Fives was here.

For a moment, she glowed. Mal felt herself light up as the night before enveloped her. She thought about the boundless joy of his laugh, the soft friction of his facial hair, the heat of his broad body, the gentle and hungry press of his lips. Then, she caught the dull reflection of her green eyes in the durasteel wall behind him. 

Panic rippled through Mal’s body, casting any lightness into deep, dark shadow. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“This is Tup.” Mal’s heart was racing as Kix went down the line, oblivious to the inner turmoil that she’d been thrown into. “And this is Fives, our resident ARC.”

“And resident pain in the ass,” Jesse added.

Fives pressed his lips together in a smirk. There was no doubt he recognized her. The ripples of panic swelled into waves that threatened to pull her under any moment. She did the only thing she could think of.

“Nice to meet you.” Mal quickly spoke, a bit louder than she meant. 

Tup gave a cheerful reply that she only faintly heard. Instead, Mal stared at his brother. Fives’ eyebrows shot up. His eyes flashed over her and he frowned before he finally nodded. Mal let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding.

“Likewise.” Fives’ reply was pointed, but only to her.

“Come on,” Kix said as he took a step forward, oblivious to the thousand little unspoken words that had just passed between his new civilian medic and his brother. “I’m starving.”

The small group moved together to the mess hall. Around her, Jesse, Kix, and Tup joked and laughed. Only she and Fives walked in silence, sweating under the unforgiving lights. 

The waves of panic had passed, turning into a heavy rock that sat in the pit of her stomach. While Mal waited for his move, she ruminated on her bad luck. The chance of Fives being in her battalion had to have been a million to one. But here he was and now she was about to eat dinner with him. She half-listened to Jesse as he made a joke about GAR food and let out an obligatory laugh when she was supposed to, but inside, Mal was reeling.</p>

No Jedi, no medics, and especially no clones. She had that rule for cycles, and now one slip-up, fueled by alcohol and momentary passion, could undo everything. To begin with, it was unethical and unprofessional. She was already an outsider in an army of brothers. While the 104th was her family, the 501st wasn’t. They didn’t know her and she didn’t want them to make assumptions before they did. Then there was the moral failing of sleeping with her patient. She would have to care for him and now she risked her position being compromised. Any care she gave him or any of his brothers would be scrutinized to make sure she wasn’t showing favoritism, misusing resources, or wasting GAR time. The upper management of the civilian volunteer force would descend on her like a pack of danchafs. And that was if they didn’t just discharge her.

And that, she thought, as her. stomach began to turn, would be unthinkable. This was supposed to be her chance to make things right. The 501st was where she was going to find answers. But now a single mistake threatened it all. 

For one weak moment, Mal wondered if there was still time to transfer back. She missed the 104th more than ever. Sinker would think this was hilarious and do that thing where he laughed so hard he snorted. Boost would roll his eyes. Mal let out a small sigh to herself. She needed that right now. She could even go for one of Crux’s lectures.

The mess hall was loud and crowded. It pulled her back to her surroundings and away from the spiral of her inner monologue. Kix checked in to make sure she was familiar. After she reassured him, he and Jesse took off for the dessert station.

She gathered her tray and got in line. Involuntarily, her eyes drifted over the soldiers, trying to find Wolffe’s scowl, even though she knew it was light years away. Instead, she found only unfamiliar, familiar faces. Protein cubes turned her stomach in a good day and today she almost retched as it was plopped onto her plate.

“Not a fan?” Tup asked, making her start. She hadn’t realized he’d followed her in line. “Can’t say they’re my favorite either.”

“I uh…” Mal grimaced as she tried to fix her face. “Yeah.”

“Look at it.” Tup poked at the jiggling block before he shot her a commiserating look. “We got real meals on Kamino. 'Bout the only thing I miss about that soggy planet. But you get used to ‘em.”

You get used to ‘em. Mal nodded. She thought about telling Tup that no matter how many GAR meals she ate, the protein cubes would always taste of metal ore to her. But she didn’t say it. She opened her mouth just to make sure she could.

Mal followed Tup over to the table where the four other clones were waiting for them. Kix and Jesse were arguing over something that sounded like a battle strategy but also could have been a drinking game. Tup sat next to Jesse, and as Mal slid onto the bench beside him, She found herself face-to-face with Fives again. He was still watching her carefully.  

 Her hope for answers, everything she was here to do could shatter right before her eyes. She shifted her jaw as her mind raced. She could do something. Mal had to do something. 

“I’ll grab water for the table.” She put her tray down. “It’s Fives, right? Want to give me a hand?”

Fives raised an eyebrow at Mal as he hesitated, but curiosity seemed to get the better of him.

“Roger, roger.” He said as he stood, his umber eyes never leaving hers. 

For a moment, she hesitated, wilting in his dark look. Something in her wanted to make him laugh just so she could hear it again. Seconds passed and Mal felt the other three watching her curiously. She spun on her heels, and the table soon turned its attention and debate quickly pick back up. Fives was hot behind her, catching up to her pace in just a few strides. A moment of silence passed as Mal waited until she was out of earshot from the table.

“I’m sorry about the greeting.” Mal’s words were hushed, falling stuttered from her lips as she made her way across the mess with the ARC trooper. “I was caught off guard.”

“That makes two of us.”

His low voice was right in her ear. Her breath hitched just a little as she realized how close he was.

She finally reached the water fountain. Mal took five cups from the stack piled on the counter and handed two of them to Fives. This gave her a moment to look at the man. He stood less than a foot away, one armored hip leaning up against the counter as he waited on her next move. Mal swallowed. He was so very close. The last time he had been this close, his lips had been pressed against her cheek. She blinked, pushing the memory away. 

“I just think it’s best if we keep things professional.”

“You made that very clear.”  

Fives’ voice was still low and it was becoming increasingly unfriendly. A part of her stung as she realized she never would have thought it came from the same relaxed, warm man who was in her apartment just hours ago. Focus, Mal thought to herself, You have to do this.

“I’m sorry, I don’t…” Mal started before Fives cut her off.

“Don’t worry, cyar’ika.” Fives’ tone returned to casual as he began to fill the glasses in his hands with water. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

Despite his reassuring words, she couldn’t help feeling like she’d fucked up again. His attention never left the glasses and, after he finished, he took a wide step away, giving her plenty of space to fill her three cups. Mal walked silently back to their meals, several steps behind the clone. The men at the table had seemingly settled their debate, and decided to turn their attention to her.

“So you’re from the 104th, huh? What’s Wolffe actually like?” Jesse asked as she sat back in her seat. “I bet he’s a big softie.”

“You thought Fox would be a softie and how did that turn out?” Fives scoffed at his brother as he slid him a cup of water.

“I’ll win him over yet.” Jesse grinned.

“Not with that lifetime ban from the Senate you won’t.” Kix prodded Jesse with an elbow to the side.

Jesse waved off his brothers as he turned back to her. Mal quickly began to stuff the protein cube into her mouth to avoid his questions, only retching a little at the taste.

“Were you on Khorm when he lost his eye?”

Mal coughed, choking on the gelatinous mouthful. 

“Jesse, shut the fuck up,” Kix ordered. 

Mal shot Kix a grateful smile as she carefully swallowed. She hadn’t spent long with Kix, but she had a feeling he didn’t take that tone with Jessie often. Jessie, for his part, suddenly found himself preoccupied with his protein cube, a slightly sheepish look on his face.

“So what planet are you from?” Tup asked, trying to find a more friendly topic.

Her stomach clenched. Another subject she wanted to avoid. Mal hadn’t considered that this new squad wouldn’t know her from Chancellor Palpatine. There was a privilege in not having to explain herself and it was gone now.

She weighed the answer for a moment.

“Takodana.” Mal finally answered truthfully.

Fives snorted. Mal’s eyes shot to him as she waited. He just shook his head. Then he paused for a moment before he lifted his eyes to hers.

“Takodana? Why do I know that name?” Fives looked at her for the first time since they had both sat down.

She held her breath for a moment. She watched as he frowned, deep in thought. While Fives was distracted, Jesse spotted an opportunity. He snatched the cake from Fives’ tray while the clone was frowning at Mal.

“Hey!” Fives swiped at air as he realized the theft.

“That’s for the caf this morning.” Jesse grinned at the ARC trooper. 

Mal sighed in relief as Fives also excused himself quickly after. She watched out of the corner of her as he walked away. He didn’t look back. The conversation devolved into brotherly harassment as the boys lost all interest in grilling the new girl.

Mal stayed through the meal and long enough for Kix to give her a digital tour of the Venator med bay, but soon he released her with praise for her first day that mostly involved how well she put up with Jesse, and instructions for reporting bright and early tomorrow. The 501st was shipping out again. 

It wasn’t until her apartment door slid shut behind her, Mal realized she had made it back to her apartment. It felt like a lifetime ago that she had left it. The shadows seem longer, jutting out at strange angles, like the place wasn’t quite hers anymore. She didn’t bother to turn on the light as she dragged her body across the small studio, the city offering enough of its own through the windows. Mal stripped the jumpsuit from her body and threw herself into bed, exhausted emotionally and physically. Despite the tiredness that clung to her bones, she immediately sat back up. A spicy, sweet scent of whiskey, smoke, and heady sweat invaded her nostrils. It was Fives. He was still lingering on the sheets. 

She tossed for a few moments and tried to ignore it but, no matter what position she lay in, he followed her, his memory wrapped around her just as he had earlier that same day. She couldn’t escape it, no more than she could when she fumbled her greeting to him. She’d slept with one of the men she was supposed to protect, to help. Fraternization was specifically against the rules for civilians and GAR soldiers. She’d be discharged without a second thought. 

On the bedside table, the small Wolfpack pin glinted in the moonlight. She would fail Wolffe, Crux, and even Tye. And, worse, she would fail the twins. She turned again, but a new wave of Fives and a memory of his arms wrapping around her suddenly was suddenly all around her.

Mal huffed and threw the blankets back. She swung her legs off the side of the bed, sitting up. Mal hung her head, letting it fall to her palms for a moment. Too tired to change the sheets, she pulled her duvet behind her as she dragged herself to the chair. 

The nightmares came again that night.

Mal’s words were a bucket of ice down his spine. Cold and formal. He scanned her face but there was no hint of recognition. Fives reeled. For a moment, he teetered on the edge of calling her out. Nice to meet you? Did my dick give you amnesia? But then he thought about his vode. He didn’t need them to see this rejection. No, for all they knew he had a one-night stand who he left breathless and reeling and totally in love with him. He was going to keep it that way. For now.

“Likewise.” He finally settled on the curt reply.

“Come on,” Kix pushed forward, his mind on food as usual. “I’m starving.”

He watched her from the corner of his eye. She was laughing at something Jessie had said, but he could see that she was watching him too. Probably scared he was going to air her dirty little secret. Tup noticed something was wrong right away. He shot Fives a look as they were swept up in the mess hall crowd. A wordless conversation passed between them. A look of concern. A shrug of unconcern. An eyebrow of skepticism. A smile of reassurance. 

Relax, Fives reminded himself. Time to watch and see how this plays out. Think like an ARC. 

He piled his tray with fortified protein and settled into the table with his friends but no sooner than he had sat down, his eyes found her again. 

Mal trailed behind Tup. She shifted as she walked. A wiggle of her fingers, a soft clench and unclench of her jaw, a slight roll of her neck. It was like she was taking roll call of her body. A red curl escaped her hair tie and hung down over her eyes. She glanced at it and huffed, blowing it to the side. She glared at the errant lock as it fell back into her face, the dusting of freckles on her nose wrinkling. Tup led her to their table, sliding in next to Jesse, leaving enough room for Mal next to him, and right across from Fives.

She didn’t seem to realize where she was sitting until she was almost at his eye level. Finally, her jeweled orbs met his. Mal blinked as she stared at him for a moment. He tried to hold her emerald stare. Why, he wasn’t sure.

“I’m going to go grab water for the table.” She quickly announced to the table before she turned back to him. “It’s Fives, right? Want to give me a hand?”

The hesitancy was a nice touch. Smart. Fives raised an eyebrow as he considered her invitation. Half of him wanted to reject her immediately, but he wanted to see where this was going.

“Roger, roger.” He rose, stepping over the bench to follow her. 

Fives trailed behind her, watching as other clones turned, sometimes slowly and others obviously, and elbowed each other when they took notice of her. He couldn’t blame them, but a frown still snuck across his face. The gray jumpsuit with its long blue stripes along the seams swallowed up most civilian medics, but hers gently hugged her curves, showing the lines of her body that he had traced just hours ago. Luckily, before his mind could wander too far, Mal tilted her face up towards him. She had waited until they were out of earshot of the table.

“I’m sorry about the greeting.” Her voice was quiet. Something about that irritated him even more. There wasn’t even anyone else around and she was still scared of being noticed with him. “I was caught off guard.”

“That makes two of us.” Fives thought it was a measured response.

“I just think it’s best if we keep things professional.”

She wasn’t wrong. Fraternizing with civilian members of the GAR was strictly forbidden. He didn’t think Rex would care, and Skywalker… well that was a more unpredictable reaction, but he suspected the General would look the other way. Clones trapped under lesser Jedi would be at risk of reassignment or worse. Still, that didn’t excuse her and Fives pulled no punches with his tone.

“You made that very clear.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t…” She started.

Mal shifted under his blazing look. Fives decided that, whatever was coming next, he wasn’t going to hear it. She didn’t get to apologize to him. He didn't want it and he didn't need it. 

“Don’t worry, cyar’ika.” Fives kept his voice as even as he could as he turned to start filling up water glasses. “Your secret is safe with me.”

He turned back to the table, spilling water over his hands in the rush. He told himself to slow down. Breathe. He wasn’t going to let her ruin his mood. Ruin this day. Fuck that and fuck her.

He could sense Mal as she scurried behind him, trying to keep up with his long steps. They rejoined the table. Fives debated moving down next to Tup. He looked up at her again and she wilted under his stare. No, he decided. He was going to have to get used to this. His vode started in on her as soon as they got back to the table. Fives felt a flare of annoyance. 

“So you’re from the 104th? What’s Wolffe actually like?” Jesse jumped at the new girl. “I bet he’s actually a big softie.”

Fives snorted at Jesse, half-tempted to throw his water to him instead of pass it.

“You thought Fox would be a softie and how did that turn out?” Fives rolled his eyes. 

It was only last month that Fives had to go get Jesse from the base prison. Fox had glared out at him under hooded eyes, and stood still with crossed arms as Fives tried to bargain for Jesse’s release.  He knew that Fox knew that Fives had been involved with the plot to steal the Corrie Guard’s mastiff for the night, but that, unlike Jesse, they hadn’t been able to catch him. Eventually, Fox wordlessly punched a fist into a button, releasing Jesse from his cell, and then, with a single pointed finger, directed them both out of the brig. Fives wasn’t looking forward to the next time their paths crossed.

“I’ll win him over yet.” Jesse grinned, undeterred by the same memory.

“Not with that lifetime ban from all Senate buildings you won’t.” Kix prodded him with an elbow to the side.

Fives shook his head. He thought they had gotten away with their failed prank as they crawled back into their bunks, trying to get an hour of sleep before roll call. His eyes had just started to drift closed when Rex burst into the barracks, erupting and swinging his datapad at them. Somewhere in the scramble away from his momentarily deranged captain, he learned that Rex had woken up to several colorful messages informing him that Fox had banned Fives and Jesse from all Coruscant Guard-held spaces for life. It had taken twenty minutes and the promise of latrine duty for two weeks to soothe the Captain.

“Were you on Khorm when he lost his eye?”

“Jesse, shut the fuck up.” Kix snapped in a warning tone he rarely took with Jesse. Fives’ eyes flashed to Kix. Interesting. He was protective of his new medic already.

“What planet are you from?” Tup said mildly, carefully changing the subject.

“Takodana.” 

Fives snorted. A hick from a rural backwater planet. Then he heard it. Takodana. Fives’ spine stiffened at a memory he couldn’t quite grasp. That sounded familiar. He knew a lot of planets at this point. Ones he’d been to and ones he hadn’t. But there was something about that name that tugged on some recollection or information buried somewhere deep in his databanks of training. 

“Takodana? Why do I know that name?” Fives finally let his eyes meet hers again.

Her beryl eyes widened and he watched as a flash of fear rippled across her face. It was gone in the next second. He might have even imagined it. He wanted to dwell on it, to hold the moment and tear it open until he understood, but a motion from the corner of his eye caught his attention.

“Hey!” He said, as Jesse snatched his cake from his tray.

Fives tried to swipe out to grab it but it was too late. His vod planted his fork into the stolen dessert.

“That’s for the caf this morning.” Jesse stuck his tongue out at Fives with a victorious wink.

Fives shook his head at Jesse and waved his hand in surrender. 

“Savor it, vod.” He forced a laugh as he stood. “See you all later.”

Leaving the suffocating din of the mess hall behind, Fives followed a familiar path to Rex’s office. The durasteel hallways were empty while everyone was at dinner, and the only sound was the rhythmic echo of his boots against the floor. Usually, Fives appreciated these quiet moments alone. He loved his brothers, and he knew he could be as loud as any of them, but moments where he could hear himself think were precious and far apart when in an army of millions.  There was nothing solitary about this moment, though. His thoughts marched beside him, louder than the clang of his footsteps, with memories as all-consuming as the vacuum of space. It wasn’t until Fives reached Rex’s door that he snapped out of the deep trance. There were voices on the other side.

The blast door slid open just as Fives raised his hand to knock. He stepped back to let General Skywalker and General Kenobi walk out.

“Hello there, Fives,” Kenobi greeted him as Anakin nodded.

“Evening, Generals.” He saluted the Jedi. “Commander Tano.”

The Togruta followed behind the Masters, buzzing with an excitement that Fives knew could only mean a new mission.

“Be nice to Rex,” Ahsoka winked at Fives and he felt his icy mood melt just a little. Ahsoka’s good moods were infectious around the 501st. When she was happy, they all tended to be. “He just spent two hours trying to rein in Skyguy's battle plans.”

Her master shot a look of annoyance at the padawan and the clone before he chuckled and shrugged.

“She’s not wrong.” Anakin flashed a brazen grin at the ARC trooper.

“I’m shocked, General.” Fives smiled back before he turned to Ahsoka with a wink of his own. “And when have I ever been mean to Rex?”

All three Jedi laughed at that.

“Have a good evening, Fives.” Anakin bowed his head before the three Jedi turned back to their journey, likely back to the Temple.

“You too, Sirs.”

Fives stepped into the dark office space. Rex sat at his desk, massaging his temples, as he frowned at a holomap glowing in the dim light.

“Tano and Kenobi act like Skywalker’s the crazy one, but they’re all just as bad.” Rex groaned, not looking up at Fives. 

“We’ll make the most of their plans and take whatever the Seppies throw at us.” Fives settled into one of the chairs across from Rex. “You know that, Captain.”

“Of course,” Rex pressed his thumb to a button on his desk, and the holomap disappeared. The lights returned to the room, and he leaned back into his chair, taking on the quiet calm that came from being alone with an old friend. 

“How’d the debrief with the council go yesterday?” Fives asked. He didn’t want Rex to think he rushed in here to ask about Mal. 

“As well as expected,” Rex grumbled. “Most were supportive. A couple of them tried to press me. Didn’t got over well with me or General Skywalker though.”

“We saved the galaxy from one of Dooku’s pawns, and there's Jedi out there pushing back against us?”

“Just a one or two. General Billaba had some hard questions.”

“Billaba's been out of the fight too long. I know she went through it after Haruun Kal, but to be questioning us? That's kark, sir.” Fives crossed his arms. "She just got that seat back anyways."

“They’re allowed to ask questions. It was certainly a… unique situation.”

“Well, if you need someone to take out another Jedi…”

“That’s not funny, Fives. You’re just dying to get that court martial.” 

“I was going to suggest Tup.” Fives wiggled his brows.

“Di’kut.” Rex muttered under his breath as his eyes shot upward.

Fives chuckled, enjoying the little victory of pulling an eye roll from Rex.

“The briefing’s not why you’re here, though.” Rex’s serious look melted into a wry smile. “What’s on your mind, Fives?”

Fives sighed. He never could keep anything from Rex. Maybe it was because they were brothers, or maybe it was because Rex had known him since he was a shiny on his first mission. Sometimes, he suspected it was because he was similar to Rex in ways the older clone would never admit. Whatever it was, Rex could tell he wasn’t just in his office for a nightcap.

“The new medic… what’s her deal?” Fives asked, hoping his voice was more neutral than he felt.

“Amal Darroch?” Rex raised an eyebrow at him. “Comes highly decorated and recommended from the 104th. Took everything I had to pry her from Wolffe.”

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah, he hung up on me the first three times I asked.” Rex chuckled to himself. Fives sometimes forgot that Rex was a younger brother too.

“We need medics that bad?” Fives frowned.

“Not just medics. We need the best medics.” Then Rex eyed the arc trooper. “Come on, you know that better than anyone. Kix is ready to ban you from the medbay.”

Fives tried to smile at the joke but found it refused to come. Instead, he kept thinking about Mal.

“And she’s the best?” 

“What’s on your mind, Fives?” Rex repeated. “You’re usually not this shy about sharing.”

“Dunno…” She’s hiding something. Maybe multiple things. He wanted to shout it, grab Rex by the shoulders and shake him until he could see what Fives saw, but instead, he hesitated. They did need medics, and they needed good ones. If she was that good, his brothers would be better off with her around. “Just have some questions about her, is all.”

“Well, I’m here if you need anything.” Rex reached for his datapad, sensing the conversation was over. “Just try not to kill her or kriff her.”

Fives finally forced a laugh as he stood with a small salute.

“Roger, roger.”

Fives shut the door behind him, leaving Rex to his plans. The silent hallways that lined his path back to the barracks were even louder on his return route. Mal’s face swam before him. A flash of her laugh and the parting of her full lips melted into the image of her stoic greeting. And if she was hiding this, what else was she hiding? Why did a civilian join the war when most of them prefered to stay safe on their cities and planets far from the battle lines? What game was she playing here? This wasn’t a game to him. This was his life and his brothers’ lives. He thought of how she shifted in her seat at the mention of Takodana. There was no doubt about it. Mal was hiding more than just their night together, and Fives would have to keep an eye on her until he found out what it was.

…

Her paddle sliced through the inky glass of the water with the precision of a beskar blade. She quickly lifted the wooden tool, letting the canoe propel forward with the smallest wake. Despite the exactness of her strokes, Mal never looked down. Instead, she frowned at the horizon. It was dark and the air still held the wet chill of the night before it turns to dew, but the midnight blue at the very edges of the sky had started to pale, a sure sign that she had stayed too long. She wasn’t late. Not yet. But she paddled with a speed that she hadn’t practiced in a long time. Her shoulders ached, muscles that had long been forgotten in the mines, called out in protest of her neglect but she never winced or paused. 

She stepped out into the shallows without a splash and pulled the boat into the overgrown shore where she covered it in the browning large leaves and the ivy, damp from yesterday’s rain. Mal wiped the soil on her palms along the edges of her poncho before she reached a hand into the bag at her side. She felt the delicate petals of the nysillin and finally let her shoulders fall from her ears.

The path was overgrown, disused in the last year since the Mining Guild came, but she knew it by heart. Her feet led on as she scanned the dark underbrush, one hand on her blaster and the other one on her bag. 

She’d only made a few steps into the dark woods when a sound made her stop. Someone or something had coughed. In a flash, she pulled her blaster from her hip, gripping it at the ready as she scanned the trees. 

“How did I know I’d find you still here?”

Her eyes finally landed on the source of the sound. Leaning against a large oak a few yards up the path was a tall man, his muscled arms crossed in front of his broad chest, cutting a stern profile in the shadow of the woods. Her eyes focused on the shape and, in the last throes of starlight, she began to make out a familiar profile.

“Couldn’t help me with the boat, huh?” Mal raised an eyebrow as she lowered her blaster.

“As I recall, last time I tried to help you with the boat, you hit me with an oar.” The sandy-haired man gave a small sideways smile and for a brief moment, she recognized the boy she grew up with.

She snorted, “I forgot about that.” She watched the smile evaporate from his face and the boy she knew was gone and replaced with a soldier. Before she could wonder if he something similar had passed through his mind, she let her eyes fall to her side as she lowered her weapon. “I could have shot you.”

“You probably should’ve.” Niall’s tone was suddenly stern. “But you’re still too slow on the trigger.”

“I’m cautious,” she bit back. Mal walked past the shadow.

“Not cautious enough. What are you still doing out here?”

Mal sighed, stopping to let him catch up to her. They walked side-by-side but they both carefully watched the woods around them as they went, blasters still drawn.

“Which one?” Even though she knew the answer.

“Taron, of course.” Niall tutted, knowing she knew.

“He shouldn’t have worried you.”

“What if Aavia was out here? You know she senses these things. She wouldn’t think twice before killing you and your brothers just for fun.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Mal snapped. “She’s not even planet side. I checked.”

“Still a risk.”

“I needed nysillin.” She stopped short as a tree swayed, but it was only the wind. “Maz hasn’t been able to get anything through the blockade in weeks.”

“Well that’s up to me to worry about.” Niall turned to her and reached out. He gripped her shoulders a little too hard. “Mal, your Da told me to keep you out of this fight.”

“That’s not his decision anymore, is it?” She took a step back as she shrugged.

The step back became a step forward and then another until she fell through the familiar wood doorway.

A pair of green eyes met her. Taron was sitting at the table with his blaster trained at the door. She didn’t have time to wonder where Cadex was. The door shut behind her and she knew if she turned, the other twin would be behind with his own blaster.

“You’re late.” Taron snapped with all the angst of a teenager as Cadex threw the bolt with a click. 

Mal tossed the nysillin on the table before she sprang forward to take advantage of her sitting brother. She ran a hand through his hair, something that always drove him crazy, but was much harder now that he was taller than her.

Taron scoffed and quickly flattened his red locks back down.

“Stop, you’re so annoying.” Taron huffed.

“That was stupid.” Cadex frowned, circling around the table to lecture her. “You cut it too close.”

Mal knew it wouldn’t help his mood, but she smiled as Cadex crossed his arms. He was doing his best impression of Jonan Darroch, even if he didn’t realize it.

“Okay, Da.” she giggled.

Mal blinked and then started, laughter dying in her lips.

Where Cadex had been standing, Jonan Darroch now stood. Where their house had been, the town center had filled in the gaps, leaking through the floorboards like quicksand, pulling their house down to reveal only gray stone and boarded-up shops. Mal knew what came next. A red lightsaber already glowed in her Da's belly.

“You were supposed to protect them.” Da’s voice filled the square and echoed off the cobblestone as it filled her ears, his face contorting as his last breath twisted his words into a piercing shriek.

Jonan Darroch, a tall blue woman stepped out, letting the man collapse to the ground as she drew back her blade. Mal watched as her Da crumbled, lifeless. She tried to run to him, to scream for help, but she found herself frozen. Again.

Aavia smirked, her red eyes sparkling with a cruel mirth. Behind her, the twins stood still, arms behind their backs. She forgot how much taller Taron was now. When she looked up at him, she could see the emerald lodes running out from his dark pupils. 

Not irises. Veins. She could see the veins of the leaves, even on the gray day. Rivers of water ran along its creased center and fell off in heavy droplets onto her face. Aavia’s gleeful voice cut the patter of the rain.

“And you called me a murderer.”

[fvck-the-patriarchy]

The Bad Batch on Incorrect Quotes ft. my OC! (because i can)

Aria, laying in bed: Get out of my room.

Wolffe, just outside the door frame: I'm not in your room.

-

Tech: Are you a warrior?

Aria: Yes I worry about everything.

-

Aria: Wrecker, why did you draw a pentagram on the floor?

Wrecker: Your text told me to satanize the house before you return.

Aria:

Aria: I wrote sanitize.

-

Crosshair: Before you were what?

Aria: Before I was-

Crosshair: What?

Aria: Before I was inter-

Crosshair: Before you were interrupted?

Aria: Cut me off one more time and I swear I'll-

Crosshair: What?

Aria: *makes frustrated sound*

Hunter, nervously: Stop that. Before she hurts you.

-

Tech: Where did Wrecker go?

Aria: He got arrested.

Tech: What? Why?

Wrecker: *bursts in through a window* The cops are after me. I thought it would be funny to steal crackers and throw them at people.

-

Echo: Ow.

Aria: What is it?

Echo: I have this weird pain right above my eyebrow.

Aria: It's a stress headache. I got my first one when I was four.

-

Hunter: What are you talking about Aria? You love it here!

Aria: I'm not sure I do, I think I've just developed Stockholm syndrome.

-

Echo: Hey, what have you two been doing?

Tech: We were helping Hunter with his wedding vows and we were kicked out of his house for making it inappropriate.

Wrecker: How is "nice ass, Aria" inappropriate?

-

Omega: How's it like being tall? Is it nice? Can you reach comfortably for the cupboards?

Wrecker: We live in constant fear of the short ones who, in my experience, will climb 4 chairs, 2 boxes, a small coffee table and 6 oddly placed stools to get what they want.

Aria: It was one time!

-

Echo: Why are Aria and Hunter sitting with their backs to each other?

Tech: They had a fight.

Echo: Then why are they still holding hands?

Tech: They get sad when they fight.

aria's fanfic is available on my wattpad and ao3 accounts and links are in the blog intro in case you're wondering

[fandom-friday]

Hello friend Karrde!

I hope that all here have been well and prosperous, or at least not buried in snow like me. I have more offerings again for the rec list! I apologize because this is gonna be a whopper of a list too, totally understand if it doesn't make it in this week.

On the Art side of things:

@pinkiemme has been rocking our world with both Commanders Wolffe and Mayday... such scrumptiousness. But then I saw this panel of Captain Rex and... (crying).

@rexxdjarin again with the thick and healthy series latest Echo and Gregor... the study of muscular anatomy is so on point!

@sunshinesdaydream has given us the adorable duo of Hardcase and Sparks

@spicyclones79s has gifted us Omega & Hunter, Commander Wolffe, and a very sweet Foxio

@ladykagewaki always has my heart with the Bebe batch snuggles But also Ms. Fangirl has shared how to summon Echo (May contain spoilers!)

@cloned-eyes made me smile with Wrecker and his little friends but then sob when I saw Jenot.

Comic Recs!:

@paperback-rascal is back with mercy and co with an interesting neurologic finding on Major 40

Fic Recs!:

@pickleprickle 's Newest fic features an injured Mace Windu in the wake of the Empire's rise in Shattered Sunrise. When I say I binged the first two chapters... go read!

if anyone is in need of a Howzer Fic after @the-rain-on-kamino has just reposted their Exigency series. I didn't get a chance to read it the first time and am making my way through it now and let me tell ya... the love, the longing, the CAPTAIN! oh and the build up to the SMUT!

Hopefully I'll have the other comic pieces gathered together for next week and a few more recs. Till then happy reading!

This is one HECK of a list that's got a little something for every TCW/TBB fan out there! I love all of the artwork, and the fics are phenomenal!!!

(Quick correction: the art of Hardcase and Sparks was a commission done by @cloned-eyes)

As always, THANK YOU for taking the time to pull all these together!!

Participate in Fandom Friday to show your favorite creators from this week some love! :)

[leenathegreengirl]

Meet Perdita! 🥰💚💕

(She is @legacygirlingreen ‘s new OC! Enjoy the excerpt from her upcoming story with Commander Wolffe below!)

“I won’t kill you,” he said, the words steady but heavy. His eyes darted around. The cybernetic one struggling to see in the dimly lit cell as he searched for the control panel on the wall.

Perdita didn’t respond, assuming he was ready to leave and her last attempt at peace foiled by a clone who truly owed her little loyalty. As she prepared for his departure she felt the chains around her hands unlock, before falling away. Flexing her fingers she looked up to see him much closer now as he tugged her forearm.

“But I won’t let them take you, either.” His voice was low, almost aggressive in nature, as if he was revolting against the very action he was taking.

Perdita didn’t smile. She didn’t thank him. She just nodded, the flicker of something like hope passing through her eyes. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to give him the courage to take the next step—whatever that might be.

💚Tag List💚

@legacygirlingreen @thora-sniper @thecoffeelorian @neyswxrld @somewhere-on-kamino @clonethirstingisreal @royallykt @morerandombullshit @burningfieldof-clover @tbnrpotato @keantha @returnofthepineapple @antisocial-mariposa @techs-stitches @resistantecho @kimiheartblade @dezgate @sunshinesdaydream @rex-targaryen @freesia-writes @heidnspeak @justanotherdikutsimp

(All writing and layout design created by @legacygirlingreen )

[katekryze]

A little oc love

[sinfulsalutations]

𝕤𝕥𝕣𝕦𝕟𝕘 𝕨𝕚𝕣𝕖𝕤 𝕡𝕥.𝕚𝕚 ⋆*･ﾟ𝕔𝕝𝕠𝕟𝕖 𝕥𝕣𝕠𝕠𝕡𝕖𝕣 𝕔𝕣𝕠𝕤𝕤𝕙𝕒𝕚𝕣

ᴘᴛ.ɪ - ᴘᴛ.ɪɪɪ

➼ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ☆ ꜱᴇxᴜᴀʟ ᴛᴇɴꜱɪᴏɴ ᴀɴᴅ ʀᴇʟɪᴇꜰ, ᴄʀᴏꜱꜱʜᴀɪʀ'ꜱ ᴀ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ꜱʜɪᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀʟꜱᴏ ʀᴇᴀʟʟʏ ʙᴀᴅ ᴀᴛ ꜰᴇᴇʟɪɴɢꜱ, ᴏɴᴇ ᴜꜱᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ɴɪᴄᴋɴᴀᴍᴇ 'ᴘʀɪɴᴄᴇꜱꜱ,' ʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴋɪꜱꜱɪɴɢ, ᴠᴀɢɪɴᴀʟ ꜰɪɴɢᴇʀɪɴɢ, ʜᴀɴᴅᴊᴏʙ, ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ'ꜱ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ ɪɴ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴛʜᴀɴ ɪ ᴘʟᴀɴɴᴇᴅ ᴏᴏᴘꜱ ʜᴇʜᴇ

⋆ ★ ᴏᴋ ɪ ᴅɪᴅɴᴛ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ɪ ᴡᴀꜱ ɢᴏɴɴᴀ ᴡʀɪᴛᴇ ᴀ ꜱᴇQᴜᴇʟ ʙᴜᴛ ᴜʜ ᴏᴏᴘꜱ ᴍʏ ʜᴀɴᴅ ꜱʟɪᴘᴘᴇᴅ- ɴᴏᴛ ᴘʀᴏᴏꜰʀᴇᴀᴅ. ᴀʟꜱᴏ ᴀ ʀᴇᴘᴏꜱᴛ ᴄᴜᴢ ɪ ꜰᴏʀɢᴏᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴀᴅᴅ ᴛᴀɢꜱ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰɪʀꜱᴛ ᴏɴᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴀᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴀᴅᴅ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ʟᴀᴛᴇʀ ꜱᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴀʟɢᴏʀɪᴛʜᴍ ʀʟʟʏ ꜱᴄʀᴇᴡᴇᴅ ᴍᴇ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ʟᴏʟ

➼ ᴛʜɪꜱ ꜰɪᴄ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴀɪɴꜱ ɴꜱꜰᴡ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ. ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ɴᴏᴛ 18+ ᴅɴɪ

⋆ ★ ʀᴇᴀᴅ ᴏɴ ᴀᴏ3 ⋆*･ﾟ ᴛᴀɢʟɪꜱᴛ ꜰᴏʀᴍ

It's only been a few days since you and Crosshair's last encounter on the side of the Marauder, but it's felt like an eternity. You just can't seem to get it out of your head, how his long crooked fingers felt inside of you, eagerly working you like something he devoutly milked. Like you were something to him. Someone.

And despite his snarkiness, the scowls he always manages to shoot your way and snarky comments with sly smirks, you want it again. You want it so, so bad.

Your eyes keep drifting to him, like two opposite magnets across a room who can't bear being away for more than a few moments. And he keeps pulling away. Trying to deny the attraction. You also know of his tendency to drift to you, not that he'd ever admit it. Or even let on the prospect for more than a millisecond.

It's not until you get a moment alone that you're allowed to confront him.

The two of you are beside each other, perched behind a rock. The batch had been deployed to ensure the safety of a prisoner of war, a very dangerous Separatist General. It's only been a few minutes of silent scouting; you want to crawl out of your skin, just feeling his body heat radiating your way.

"You can't just avoid me," You remark from the corner of your mouth, as deceptive and casual as you can, as if you hadn't workshopped what you were going to say for countless hours late at night in your cot.

Crosshair's head snaps in your direction, away from the visor of his rifle, and stares you down. You can feel it through the helmet. You turn completely as well, giving him a stern look back.

"I'm not avoiding you," the words come out even harsher, if it was possible, through the vocoder. A shiver runs down your spine, one of delightful fear and tension, but you try to ignore it as you scoff.

"Sure as hell feels like it," You retort.

"You-" He begins, before grunting softly to himself and looking back to his visor, down to the mission at hand. You turn as well, hands on your blaster trembling ever so slightly, more and more the longer he stays silent.

"I'm not avoiding you," he finally says, only repeating what he said before.

You snap, the finger hovering over the trigger shaking harder as you turn your whole body to him.

"What's that supposed to mean?" you whisper-shout, spatting where his mouth would be. He doesn't budge. It only fuels the flame. "What are you avoiding then, huh?"

He responds quicker than you expect.

"I'm-" he chokes on his spit, the chin of his bucket dipping down as he composes himself. His voice is hoarse as he continues. "I'm avoiding what you make me feel."

You feel your entire body un-tense; a strung wire in your chest has been cut and tugged free.

"Crosshair."

The words come out softer than you expect them to. You wanted to be harsh, demanding, needy. It seems like the only way to get anything out of him. But you can't help the strange softness that washes over you. He sounds so confused, almost dumbfounded by his own admission.

"Crosshair," you repeat. It's weak, delicate, almost gentle. Like you're taming a wild animal.

He doesn't respond, still slightly dipped down and facing perpendicular to your stare. you decide to take a leap of courage and grip the bottom of his helmet, snapping it in your direction and giving him a special probe of a gaze.

"Crosshair," This time, your words have a sharper edge to them. "What do I make you feel?"

Suddenly, you hear his comm chime with an incoming transmission. Crosshair takes ample opportunity to look away from you, holding the comm in his hand with a tight grip.

"The seppie's on the move," Hunter's voice comes out of the speaker. "We've gotta get higher up to get a clearer view."

Crosshair clicks on the comm and leans in his head.

"On it," He responds, as casual and composed as a sun-soaked loth cat, as though he wasn't so stiff under your hold just a moment ago.

He pushes himself up, looking down at you with a barely-there acknowledgment of your mere existence. You want to feel insulted, degraded even, but now, you're just brutally perplexed. Crosshair starts to walk off as he talks down to you.

"Come on princess, we've got a job to do."

***

You're starting to get sick of this.

The sudden way he decides to approach you and claim you his without another word. And how you so eagerly let it happen.

The accident report you had been filing for Wrecker's injury (he got pinned down by a stray rock who decided he was his sworn enemy) is long forgotten on the dashboard of the cockpit. Crosshair caging you in, a hand on your shoulder and the other down your pants, your hands gripping the soft seat of the pilot's chair is much more important.

He's panting softly in your ear, eyes blown wide as he stares into your eyes. You want to tear them away so badly, close them and pretend that this wasn't something so toxic and unhealthy, but you can't. You almost want to soak in it.

"You wanna know what you make me feel?" He asks darkly, his thumb brushing over your clit. You gasp softly, biting your lip to contain it further, looking at him with so much disdain you wish that he knows damn well how much he frustrates you.

As he begins to trail his fingers down further, focusing on gathering all the wetness he can to slip through your folds, you see an opportunity to take him down a few pegs. Bring him down to your level of desperation. Your hand reaches for his crotch, palming his bulge through his boxers. A sinful groan escapes him, one from something he doesn't expect, and you smile to yourself.

He pushes two fingers into you roughly without warning, and you yelp. Oh, this bastard. Really wants to make sure you're the one begging for him.

You're not going to let that slide.

Fingers deftly slip past the hem of his pants and boxers, and you reach for his cock. You're surprised to find it already hot and half hard in his blacks. Tentatively, but harshly and almost critically, you wrap your hand around his base, feeling it throb against you. He curls his fingers against you harsher.

"C'mon, princess."

You hit back, pumping his length and clicking your tongue.

"What do I make you feel?" You ask.

His eyes are strikingly dark. His fingers rock into you again, cooking against your g-spot in a hook motion, and you gasp again. His open mouth slots against yours, stifling you as he continues. But you don't stop either. You rock your hand again, twisting your wrist for more friction, gathering precum from his tip to help your movements.

It's a cruel, pleasurable, wicked competition. Neither of you is going to win, little do you realize.

As he finishes with a groan, coming all over the bottom of his blacks, he manages to get you finishing as well, squeaking delightfully. You bite the shell of his ear, harshly tugging it as you try and control your twitching underneath him. All the way he doesn't move.

Once he's come down from his high, he's pulling away from you. He grabs a tissue from the side and cleans himself off, white stains still littering over his blacks that you know is gonna take some hefty hand-washing to get off, tugging himself back in his pants.

You just sit there, almost astonished at his stiffness.

"You didn't tell me."

Without a response, he turns away and goes to leave. You push yourself up, pants still loose around your hips as you follow him with angry steps. You reach out for his forearm and try to move him to face you.

"Crosshair, you have to tell me-"

Like a sudden burst of lightning, he grips your forearm and pushes you into the nearest wall; the doorway leading out of the cockpit. His lips collide with yours hard and rough, something cruel and almost dry with how he teases you. His tongue only grazes the bare entrance of your mouth. You whine, beg for more, immediately drunk and forgetting everything else surrounding you, but then he pulls away.

Your eyes remain slightly closed, lips parted as he heavily pants into you. He presses his forehead on yours and growls, almost entirely feral.

"Let me fuck you first," Crosshair whispers hotly into your mouth. Your eyes widen, fully opening instead of how it is half-lidded against him. "Let me feel that pretty pussy squeeze my cock."

The smallest, cockiest smirk stains his kiss-ridden lips before he continues, almost like a fortune-teller about to bestow on his customer their disastrous future.

"Then we can talk."

And with that, he pushes you away from him firm but gently and walks back to his cot, leaving you grasping your collar and breathless.

tags: @pb-jellybeans @corrieguards @badbatchbabe @temple-elder @starrylothcat @coraex

[jillianfahey]

Bad Batch Crosshair - Modern AU (Family is Annoying in any Universe)

A short look into the reception for Crosshair and Lyni's marriage.

***********************************************************************

Crosshair felt joy in his chest waking up next to Lyni. So much so that he dreaded his next deployment because it meant he had to take a break from being next to her. But Riyo promised that by his next leave the adoption papers for the twins Brutal and Shadow would be though then he could take all three to get military IDs.

And after the adoption goes through we'll take a vacation just the four of us, he promised himself. It was a promise that was keeping him from murdering many of his family members at this reception. They were testing his patience with the entirety of the Fett clan turning out to meet who one of their party boys was settling down with.

Looking around he could see his brothers talking to their cousins Cody and Rex, with a few of their brothers standing close by. Wolffe with his eye patch was giving stern stares at anyone who was headed his way so most steered clear of him. Shadow and Brutal were playing with some of the younger members of the clan, and Lyni was keeping a watchful eye on them.

Soon Jango started walking over, and Crosshair could feel the anger build up in him at the sight of the man. Most of his brothers had a strained relationship with their father, who was rightly called a dead beat. Jango had done little to raise them, preferring to leave them with the women that he slept with only to turn up later with gifts to try and mend the rift. One of the reasons Crosshair had slept around so much was because he was tired of fighting the expectation with Jango Fett as his father.

Lyni's slender hand slipped into his and Cross felt his anger melt away with her touch. Turning he smiled at his Riddur, his wife, and tried to ignore the man coming towards them. Jango had not gotten the hint, "Crosshair, why didn't you tell me you had such a lovely Cyre?"

Because my sweetheart is none of your business he wanted to say but didn't. Instead stating, "You have never been interested before."

Lyni squeezed his hand with her left as she extended her right, "It is nice to meet you Mr Fett, I'm Lyni."

Smiling the flirtatious smile he turned on all of his children's partners Jango answered taking her hand to shake, "What a lovely name for a lovely lady."

Raising an eyebrow, "A compliment that will never be returned to you sir." Crosshair snorted at the look on his fathers face but Lyni gave her practiced smile, "Now if you excuse us I have other members of the family to meet." Giving him a short nod she and Crosshair walked away and continued meeting members of the family.

There was Alpha and his generation, Colt and the rest of the uncles, Cody and the rest of the older cousins and then Tup and the rest of the younger cousins. Not to mention the spouses and partners of many of the older ones. Colt wife Shaak Ti stepped forward and took Lynis hands into hers, "Do not worry young one." With one of the tougura woman's gentle smiles, "Everyone will fall in place given time." Lyni just nodded and followed Cross some more.

Finally they had mad the rounds and settled at a picnic table for some lunch. Lyni relaxed a bit when Shadow and Brutal joined them with Wrecker following. He had also been playing with the kids but stopped when the twins wanted to rest. At this table for a moment they were just the Bad Batch and the Dathmarian trio. Lyni leaned her head on Crosshair's shoulder and sighed, "Is it always like this?" Her hand motioned to the chaos of the family unfolding around them.

Crosshair wrapped an arm around her shoulders while Hunter patted her shoulder comfortingly, "Only on a full get together. Otherwise there are less people." Lyni nodded once but sat up with with her practiced smile on her face when others joined the table.

**********************************************************************

I'm sorry if it did not have as much interactions with the clones as wanted and/or expected. I am just trying to stay writing on a regular basis and this is what came out.

[wild-karrde]

Hey lovely! I am here with a big Fandom Friday drop for you!!

Helena x Commander Fox

By @mythical-illustrator

Mythical-illustrator’s OC, Helena, and Commander Fox! Such a cute piece and I just love it so much!

Rebel Yell

By @moonlightwarriorqueen

I’m obsessed. The way Fives is written is absolutely phenomenal! So sweet and fluffy and absolutely left me wanting more!

Who’s The Alpha Now?

By @dystopicjumpsuit

A fic inspired by yours truly *Maui voice* you’re welcome! - NSFW and delicious

Absence//Fonder pt2

Chapter 2 of another Sev masterpiece, Absence//Fonder! I love this series SO MUCH and I am positively feral for chapter 3 to drop! It’s 3132 words of amazing!

Crosshair and Tech

I love all of Zaana’s work but this piece of Tech and Crosshair just makes me so happy 😍

Of Healing and Breaking Again Ch 1

And finally a shameless self promo of chapter 1 of my Tech x FemJedi!OC long fic!

Avery is a Jedi healer in hiding after Order 66. She meets the Bad Batch and is forced to confront her own trauma while also working with the Batch to stop an unthinkable evil from being unleashed on the galaxy by the Empire!

HOLY HECK THIS IS QUITE A LIST! And the best part? Most of these are fics or art I haven't read or seen yet! For me, finding new stuff is my FAVORITE part of Fandom Friday, and this is just perfect for that! Thanks so much for putting all of these together and sending them my way!

Participate in Fandom Friday to show your favorite creators from this week some love! :)