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orangez3st · 2 months ago

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I Know Who I Married

Commander Wolffe × F!Reader

✧ Summary: Wolffe, a commander of his men and your husband, finds himself trapped between two conflicts. And yet, the ending involves you being your forgiving self, followed by good news.

✧ Tags & Warnings: pregnant reader, songfic, forbidden marriage, a little angsty, domestic fluff, words of affirmation, one (1) mention of sex, maybe inaccurate pregnancy things, oops look at that word count my hand slipped, PLO'BUIR, Wolffe needs a hug

✧ Word Count: 6.8k

✧ A/N: Please accept this angsty-wholesome (and finally non-Delta!) fic bcs it'd be the last one for now! Delta Squad Week is drawing closer and I wanna focus on that, and then I'll get through the piling fic requests. Enjoy this one! (Also did I accidentally lorebuild the 104th and make a new clone OC out of this? Yes.)

Masterlist | Read on AO3

𝑳𝒐𝒐𝒌 𝒂𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅 𝒂𝒕 𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝒍𝒖𝒄𝒌𝒚 𝒘𝒆 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒏𝒐𝒘

— That Would Be Enough - Philippa Soo, Lin-Manuel Miranda [X]

Wolffe swallows heavily as his footsteps, heavy, carry him to the war room. The grey of the venator’s hallways are neverending and ever gloomy as the distance between him and his destination draws closer. The overbearing burden as a leader has never felt so great after the recent campaign. He's lost so many men over false intel that neither he or his captains bothered to reassess.

His fault. He called the shots, even reassured his general that the campaign would run smoothly as planned. As usual. Then he became reckless. He wants to scream until his throat is scratchy and punch the wall until he crushes his knuckles. The warmth of the blood and the pain that'd occur and scratch along his skin would be worth it. Or maybe not even close—to the lives lost.

So many of his men. Wolffe is still able to recall their screams and desperate call for help over the comms as they were ambushed from all sides—and every time, he blinked and breathed through it as he covered the others in his radius to retreat. To fight for another day.

Until then, he must face whatever awaits him, his boots steadily and almost rhythmically resound across durasteel flooring of the ship, as if nothing's different. As if it's just the usual. Oh how he wishes it's the usual.

Two of his men adorned in 104th grey who guard the entrance to the war room spares him a glance, and a nod of respect about a second too late. Hesitance. Hesitance over his authority. Over his competence to lead. Fighting not to tilt his helmet away, Wolffe manages to tilt his focus away instead. He's lost so many men, but never because of his recklessness.

“Commander,” one of them greets, either with the usual respect or to defuse the disregarded tension. Wolffe bets on the latter as he strides past them, taking off his helmet in the process, and into the center of the room.

The holotable glows with field schematics of their next campaign. Wolffe has expected the Admiral, but now the man is nowhere around. Plo Koon always carries a strong presence in the room with his wisdom and perseverance, standing on one side of the table. The High Jedi General is trading a quiet discussion with someone—Wolffe notices the unmistakable ARC get-up and extra belt pouches, said attributes in 104th grey, with a marshal commander rank plaque on his left chest.

Wolffe snaps into attention, his helmet tucked under his arm. “General Plo Koon. Marshal Commander Brontes.” He's managed to quench his shock about three seconds before he spoke. What Brontes is doing here doubles and triples his anxiousness. Steeling himself still even after the Generals waves at ease, he swallows again, tipping his chin a little higher. “You summoned me, General?”

“Yes, Commander,” addresses Plo Koon, turning away from the holotable to face Wolffe. Blue light reflects on his features and his mask. “I wish not to waste your time. We'll be discussing the aftermath of our latest campaign.”

Shit. Direct reprimand. His worst nightmare. In front of Brontes, technically and structurally highest in command, only second after Plo Koon in the 14th Storm Corps? Even worse—much worse. He'd rather have a broken arm. At least he can still put up a fight equally well with the other one. But this? This is a fight he's never going to win in any time, in any scenario.

The General is waiting for him to speak.

“I…” Wolffe can't quite find his own words. Chaos that ensued in the comms a little over one rotation ago still haunts his mind, leaving it blank.

“Sir.” Brontes steps in. “Permission for a private talk with Commander Wolffe for a minute.”

Plo Koon trades a long look with the clone marshal commander that grows softer over time. Wolffe swears he can spot a slightest slump of the Kel Dor’s shoulders, and maybe a sigh that's rattling quietly out of his mask. “Granted.”

And with that, the Jedi marches away to the furthest viewport in the room, hands behind his back, watching the blur of hyperspace in uncharacteristically stiff posture that just settles more self-hatred inside Wolffe.

“Vod.” Brontes' voice next to him pulls him out of his stupor. Wolffe turns to the marshal commander with a look of dread that he doesn't realize himself wearing, until Brontes’ countenance visibly softens. “Wolffe, talk to me. As brothers. I know you're upset.”

“Seems like word travels fast, doesn't it?”

“Wolffe.” A look of warning. “Don’t deflect. You know better than that.”

“Everything that happened is purely my fault, Brontes. M’not even gonna defend myself. I'm ready to take the beating out of this.”

“Are you, really?” Brontes' scarred eyebrow lifts skeptically as he crosses his arms. “Because you look like you're about to burst off at the seams, vod.”

“Oh I didn't know that,” Wolffe grits his teeth.

Brontes sighs. “Save your shebs from blurting emotional and uncontrollable nonsense to the General by talking to me first.” He steps closer, voice lowered and mismatched brown and blue eyes sharp. “What the hell happened? You've never done reckless shit like this. You're always careful. I know you, ner vod. We ran into each other Kamino so many times that I actually lost count.”

Wolffe has come prepared for the speech. “I wasn't careful,” he relents with a sigh, “The war. It never ends. I just…”

Your luminous smile slips to the forefront of his mind. Then your sweet giggle, at something he said. An image where you are truly happy. The sun behind your head makes you glow and grants you a divine halo—an image committed to his memory while you glide through a warm and colorful meadow of beautiful Nabooian flowers. And yet, next to this graceful dance you commence for him, is your steadfast presence in his life. Your beautiful friendship with him, your kindness, and last but never the least, your loyalty.

Once upon a time it led to a secret ceremony of the bonding of two living souls. Marriage. It was done by Mandalorian customs. After uttering the riduurok and trading a kiss as husband and wife, you took him on this quirky yet meaningful idea to get inked around the base of both of your left ring fingers to mimic a wedding ring. Wolffe has your name on his, and you have his. It was perfect. A newfound bliss with a newfound meaning—this world now belongs to you both, and you will do anything to find yourself back in each other's arms despite the circumstances.

After all, you're a civilian. Wolffe is a soldier. His true duty is someplace else and anywhere else at the same time—anywhere in the galaxy where conflict breaks and harms like glass.

“...I just wish this'll be over soon,” Wolffe says somberly, longing for you terribly all of a sudden following those thoughts, that he has to keep the dam from overflowing.

But Brontes stares at him, all deadpan and unamused. “So you thought maybe you'd just chuck a live det in the dark and charge head on even though you know you're probably blasting at an absolute unit of a mutated rancor, which puts all your trigger-happy efforts as useless.”

Wolffe slowly closes his eyes. He takes a deep breath. “It was false intel.”

“That you failed to reassess!” Brontes hisses, “Our comms and intelligence are perfectly capable—they literally kill time by reassessing intel over and over again because that's what they do, but you didn't give the word! It was fatal, Wolffe!”

“We all know we shouldn't trust intel!”

“Doesn't mean to go completely ignored!” Brontes scrubs both hands down his face. “Prime help me. You sure we decanted in the same batch? And neighbors?”

“Wish we weren't, Three-Five.”

“The hell you meant by that, Three-Six?”

Wolffe looks down. “You're a lot more capable in various different fields including emotional control than I am, Marshal.”

The man snorts. “That your best attempt at I don't deserve it this week? Bantha shit. And you take that back.” Brontes points at him. Wolffe says nothing, his gaze secured on his boots still. Brontes sighs, firmly grabbing the other's shoulders. “Wolffe, vod, you're a good man. If you want this war to end as quickly as you prefer it to be, then do things the right way—the way you've always done it. Careful, methodical. Branch out your thoughts, make backups for backup, and most importantly; think about your men. They're your brothers. Cuun vode. They want this war to be over soon, like you do, too.”

He knows how to do it, goddamn it. He was only distracted by the thought of you. Actually no; the thought of sweeping the field as swiftly as possible in that fateful campaign—which was somewhat of a nuisance at the time than you are, occupying his mind—resulted in his apparent recklessness.

“And what are you doing here?” Wolffe asks.

Brontes shrugs. Wolffe quietly, defeatedly, observes the look of guilt in the other's eyes that slips through. “The General requested for me himself. So I took a fighter with me, left my battalion somewhere in Derilyn, and hit hyperspace the next hour.”

“Commander Wolffe,” Plo Koon’s voice booms in the midst of their sudden silence, “May I have a word with you, please.”

Both clones trade a look. Wordlessly, Brontes pats Wolffe in the back, even offering a barely-there smile, before marching to the door. When Wolffe makes his way up to the platform to meet his General, Brontes is already gone, leaving his mind once again preoccupied with haunting errors, along with the cries of his men that had echoed in the comms.

Wolffe lets out a breath. “General Koon,” he begins, “I am fully aware of my tactical incompetence in our last campaign. I'll be very careful that there will be no repetition. The party to blame is no one else but me, and I’m ready to receive punishment.”

The Kel Dor turns to face him. Nearly every time, his expression is completely unreadable. Though over time since Abregado, Wolffe finds comfort in both that—helps with his brutal objectiveness—and the constant presence of his reassurance.

“I’ve been aware of the uneasiness that’s been inside you for so long, Wolffe. Even now.” The sudden sidestep off the topic baffles the commander. Not even a direct nudge about the campaign. This is personal. “You're thinking about the future. About what, or who, awaits back home—awaits you.”

Your smile flits past his mind again.

“Yes, General,” Wolffe confesses, “But my sole focus is on this war.”

Your smile again. This time it's bittersweet, a little somber, but with immeasurable patience full to the brim in your eyes, your lips uttering how much you believe in him that he'll come home. Bidding your goodbyes as early as 0200 before he left for deployment in two hours. Your husband can only imagine you solemnly trying to catch your sleep again without worrying too much about him. He's a commander after all—surely he knows how to avoid death and ensure the best strategy applied in his battles.

“I don't doubt you, son—I never do.” Plo Koon places a gentle hand on Wolffe's shoulder, the weight only reminds him of the unnecessary death of his men. “And yet you let your inner turmoil overtook your judgement, and your actions afterward.”

Following such words, a hushed whisper ghosts his ear in your voice, “And look at the cost.”

Nearly flinching, Wolffe shakes it away. “Yes, sir,” he says firmly, his eyes holding so much shame, “I won't deny it.”

The General quietly watches him. “How long has it been since you last saw your dear wife?”

“It was during our last shore leave, sir.” Wolffe steels himself, trying not to crumble in the face of reality that feels heavier than mere moments ago. “Three months.”

The other man hums. “Then three months is enough.”

Wolffe's mismatched eyes snap up. “Sir?”

“I’m certain she longs for you very much. You need to be there for your wife.” Plo Koon turns around, facing the viewport once more, as if unable to bear the weight of the incoming decision. The azure lights of hyperspace make his earthy complexion shine in contrast. “You are granted one month of shore leave and will board a shuttle back to Coruscant.”

“What?” Wolffe can feel his heart drop to his stomach. Panic. Fright. There's nothing more that scares him than being sidebenched officially under order. “One month—?!”

“Take your mind off the battlefield, son. Recuperate, and reevaluate. You will be reinstated back on duty in exactly one month.”

Wolffe lets the silence slowly kill him. When no other words come from the Jedi, he takes a deep breath and gambles his chances. “General, with all due respect, my duty as commanding officer of the 104th—”

“Will be temporarily taken over by Marshal Commander Brontes per my request. That is why he's here.”

“But sir, please, my duty—”

He closes his mouth when the General raises a hand.

“Your duty now,” Plo Koon says, with a gentleness of a parent, “is to be with your family. You have a home that's waiting for you. A wife who's waiting for you to return home. The decision is final, Commander Wolffe, and the approval is already given directly from me. I issued the order myself. As soon as we leave hyperspace, you will be boarding the shuttle.”

It feels numb afterwards.

It feels like being stripped of everything he's known. His ranks, his purpose, his life. The thought of desertion has never even once crossed his mind. Battlefield is his home.

But… you are his home, too.

“Cease fighting today. Your wife needs you alive, son. She needs your care. She needs your presence.”

Marching out of the room with a new direction that is his quarters, he refrains saying a thing to Brontes. His helmet hides his expression as he merely nods in respectful greeting, but seemingly isn't enough—Brontes gives him a look that he despises so much. Pity. He doesn't need it. He doesn't need anybody else reminding him of his faults. It's embarrassing enough.

What would he tell you?

That he'd had his own men killed? His own brothers? Because he was distracted… by you?

No. He can't say that.

That he'd failed? Faulted, condemned, punished… blamed? His own men looked at him as if he's someone else. The respect remains—visible to the naked eye, stripped to merely ranks—and yet the reverence…

You'd see him as a failure too. The fear has a good, relentless grip on his heart. It aches. It aches to tell you. It aches to be confused.

“I find no comfort if one day I have to be the one knocking on her door to deliver the news that her beloved husband had perished on the battlefield.”

The ride to Coruscant is as quiet as it can be, save for the hum of hyperdrive. A squad of his men escorts him. Wolffe deems the space beyond the confines of his helmet lethal, as if the recycled air of the transport shuttle would destroy his airway and leave his lungs rotten by the time they arrive planetside. His own breath is hot with shame, his fists clenched, failure failure failure repeatedly ringing in his own ears, loud.

Everything makes him feel like a prisoner. A criminal on parole. The feeling worsens when the shuttle breaches atmo.

One month away from the war. A small part of him rejoices to see your smile again, to feel the reunion that would leave his body buzzing from pure happiness to day's end.

The circumstances, however…

“It’ll destroy her,” he’d said, unable to bear the thought of you mourning him. The thought of him leaving you, all alone.

Then the cab ride is just as quiet. The droid driver doesn't bother him—good. The state of the city around him beyond the filmed glass windows is the exact opposite. It's loud. Wolffe sits back, his helmet still on, his fear and utter shame still have a hold on him that if he takes it off it would become real. Too real for him to accept.

He brings nothing with him but armor on his back. He didn't even get to change, but at least he'd spent hours himself mourning in his flagship quarters while mindlessly rubbing over the same spot on his shin plate over and over again.

Just like how they cried over and over again in the comms.

“Love is a powerful motivation to one's spirit—to move them in a certain direction. If one takes it away, that person will never be the same again.”

Before your marriage, Wolffe spares his downtime growing stress lines on his face. He knew he had to provide for you but alas; he is what he is. His weekly stipend barely covers your daily meal, and that's just the sad truth. And yet the other side of such truth is a bright world filled with hope and everlasting joy where you truly want him—to be with him.

So you put your foot down; “This is my own dwelling, I have a steady job where people are constantly dependent on my industry, I love you and I want to be with you, so let's get married.”

It wasn't impatience. It was the fruit of his labor and yours working the relationship through regardless of any differences, the big one is of him being a clone—oftentimes looked down upon, deemed as nothing but patriotic wet droids that die for the people of a republic of nations they never personally know. But not you. Never you.

“Let's get married,” you'd said again—a soft smile, almost pleading and demanding for him to say yes, on your face. “With your customs, if you don't mind. I think I'd love that.”

Wolffe was dumbstruck by your flash decisions. “Are you sure?”

Your smile brightened. “Yes I'm sure.”

Something comes over him as the door of your—and his—dwelling comes into view.

A little different from the typical housing in Coruscant topside, the apartment is tucked away behind a series of office buildings and skyscraper shopping centers. It's a suitable place—perfect, even—for a couple married in secret, and that's all Wolffe would say if someone asks him. Not that he'd rat his own marriage out.

But.

Home.

“And I'm sure you love her very much—and she, you. Dedicate your time for your family, son. Just as much as you do, for the war.”

This place is where you and him make your pleasant memories. Some of them are first-times, some involving hot screaming matches. But you and Wolffe always make it through. Your patience and his resilience. It leads you, him, to all this.

He knows the key code. But he hasn't been home for a very long time, and all your work is done from home.

And now it just strikes him how much pain you're in, living in the void around you. The other side of your bed empty, the other dining chair empty, and even the little space in the shower stall where you take morning showers—empty.

“Because you have one to go home to.”

He rings the bell.

He waits, hands behind his back in a parade rest to formally accept your lash-outs. Your piling frustrations in the form of solid angry hits to his chest, and your tears. Three months is a long time, after all.

No answer. You usually don't take a long time to answer the door. You always refuse to wear earplugs when you're working, so that's not the case. His hand instinctively flies to his pistol.

He rings again.

“One moment!” Your voice. Oh, your voice. You're safe. You're inside.

The door finally slides open.

“Hi, sorry to keep you waiting—” You look up to be met with his gaze—or at least, his visor. But he's certain you’re piercing right through, and gone are his anxieties as if someone is pulling up the blinds. You always do, even since you first met each other.

You stand there just behind the doorway. Wolffe has already expected a slap to the face or hot tears streaming down your cheeks.

But you're… you're radiant. Always are. Your lips widen and stretch into the most beautiful smile he's ever seen—one of the reasons he let himself fall in love with you, willing to sacrifice his all and split his focus on you and the war efforts.

“Wolffe,” you breathe a laugh, stepping over the threshold to relieve him of the soldier's stance. “You’re home.”

It's when you grunt as you stretch your back before placing your hand over your belly briefly that he notices.

Your… inflated… huge belly.

Before he can get any word out, you embrace him, wrapping your arms around his neck and breathing his scent.

Your husband reeks of sweat, fuel, and exhaustion, but the smell is intoxicating and tickling some parts of your brain. It's giving happy sensations for you, but the pregnancy hormones make the sight of him finally home and in your arms irks you greatly.

“Get this blasted helmet off your head, Wolffe,” you seethe, slapping his chest in the process. The mood shifts so quickly it makes him flinch. He quickly obliges, his head nods almost frantic, his defensive walls crumble and sink to the bottom of his stomach.

And now the reality is out to get him. It's all becoming real.

His misery and grief don't even get the chance to surface again the moment you rip his bucket out of his grasp. He catches a glimpse of you biting your lip as you chuck the blasted plastoid piece somewhere behind you before suddenly a sharp, burning pain erupts on the side of his face. His cheek. You just slapped him.

“You were taking too long,” you grit out. Wolffe can feel his heart shattering even more as he listens to your broken voice lashing out at him. “Forgot you're married and have a wife at home?!”

“I'm sorry,” he immediately says, looking away in shame. The shame, the guilt, the pain—it’s all gaining on him again.

“Doesn't cut it,” you hiss, tears brimming in your eyes. “Three months. Every time I called you, you always had the perfect reason to end it early—”

“I’ve always been occupied aboard the fleet—”

“It was just a single holocall!”

“Intragalactic transmission during a period of war campaigns for private fulfillment is supposedly forbidden—”

“YOUR GENERAL ALLOWED IT!” you shout at him, letting a single sob come out but as a strong woman that you are in his eyes, you hold on, taking deep breaths and wiping your fallen tears away. “He covered for you and you know it.”

You're right. He does know.

More added to the blame, and he only gets to hang on this far. He wonders when the dam would break, but… you can't see it. You're in too much pain already because of him. In this state, with such many burdens, he'd prefer grief in quiet.

“Cyare.” He tries—he wants to try. He has to win you back, even though you're still angry at him. “I know it doesn't cut it, but I really am sorry.”

You sniffle, wiping away a stray tear again with the back of your hand before taking his hand in yours. His knees almost buckle at your soft touch, even so since he's still wearing his gloves. “Come inside. You can explain yourself then.”

The warmth of your home engulfs him like a snug blanket and makes him want to sink right there on the couch in the living area. He could ask you to join him there, or in the shower. Domesticity and love call for him as if this place, with you in it, is the only place he should've belonged, not the battlefield.

Alas.

“I… was too ambitious.” He doesn't wait until you've sat down. Wolffe ignores your invitation—a single, loud, demanding pat of the hand on the other side of the couch—and lets his fumes run dry as he desperately tries to still the anxious soldier inside him. This is worse than being confronted by his general.

“There’s always an end to a war and we’re only doing everything we can to erase the distance between us and that ending. I put my dedication and time in that war room with my superiors to ensure our future.”

“Apparently too much time.” You scoff. “Don't be a soldier, Wolffe,” you say almost boredly, glancing away from his rapid-fire reasoning. “You’re home. Be a husband.”

Wolffe shakes his head. “I stand by what I said. It's the truth. I know it's been three months and sometimes… sometimes I ignored that. I've been ignoring you.” His voice cracks. Your heart breaks a little more at that, your fists scrunching the fabric of your loose sweater. “But I'm here now, cyare,” Wolffe says again, “They sent me home because I made a fatal decision.”

You sigh shakily, pushing your forehead to the heel of your hand. “Good.”

Wolffe freezes. “Good?”

“When all means of good communication with you became outrageously impossible, I turned to your general instead,” you glower at him. Wolffe’s eyes shut, his chest heavy—blame blame blame. “I messaged him, begging him to send you home because I needed you here, Wolffe. Seems like he's found a way how to, and I'm thankful for that.”

Wolffe looks at you in disbelief, another fault added to his plate. Plo Koon might care greatly about his commander's secret relationship, but the fact you directly contacted his general without telling him first… you've crossed a line. There's a chain of command one is supposed to go through first, and you’re in violation of that.

“You did what?!”

“I'M NOT SORRY, WOLFFE!”

He watches you, eyes widened. Your hand falls to your belly again, taking deep breaths to steady yourself.

“I needed you, but you were so far away,” you mourn, tears brimming in your eyes again, “I needed you and you weren't responding to my needs, and so I had to do something. I'm your wife.” Wolffe flinches at the way you say the word as your voice cracks with emotion. You take a faltering breath—your gaze, sharp and deadly, and yet hopeful for him to understand under such scrutiny. “And you're a commander in the army. You're driven, you're ambitious—as you said—and that's good. Really,” you continue, cadence growing mournful and sarcastic and disappointed the longer you go. “But you'll always fight until the war is done.”

Wolffe sighs. “The war’s not done—”

“And yet, here you are,” you cut him off, swallowing your mood swing again.

He closes his eyes. His throat bobs as he swallows. “It's a punishment.”

There's silence at first before your surprised tone, almost guilty, cuts through the tension. “What?”

“Plo Koon sent me away from the war.” He doesn't want to open his eyes. It'd be real—too real for him to relive it all over again. The burden is his and his alone, no one else's and especially not yours. Even though you had been the one constantly on his mind. “I was distracted in the last campaign and it was my reckless decisions and executions that… that killed so many of my men on the field.”

“Oh, love…”

“We lost. The cost was too great, it was entirely my fault. He sent me home and my marshal commander took my place. For a month.”

He looks at you. He's not even angry anymore. Resigned. “Did you have a say in that?”

“I did,” you murmur, “But I had no idea…”

The moment your frown fades out from between your brows and your expression softens, Wolffe releases a long breath, sounding almost like relief, as he carefully approaches you and kneels by your feet. “Don’t apologize. You have the right.”

Then, he looks into your eyes. Really looks. Your swollen lids for shedding tears at his unavailability, his failure as a husband. You're in so much pain—that, he is now aware of. The sight simply despairs him, breaking him over and over again, as if taking preparations to haunt him in his sleep.

Slowly, hesitantly and almost shakily as if he doesn't deserve it, he takes your hand and lifts it to his lips. Your knuckles are smooth along his chapped lips, the sensation of finally touching you—his beloved wife—is enlightening.

“Forgive me, ner cyare riduur,” Wolffe murmurs, softly pressing his lips onto your skin in-between phrases. “I've been horrible to you these past few months. You're always on my mind. I love you—always, you must know—and I hope… I hope you can forgive me.” His warm amber brown eyes that you love are glistening with unshed tears. Remorse. “I don't know what I'd do if you can't.”

His heart flutters as he witnesses a smile slowly pulling at your lips. “We’re married, Wolffe.” You squeeze his hand. “And even if we aren't, I can't, for the life of me, not forgive you.”

He kisses your knuckles again. “There's always a line.”

“Then let's hope we won't cross it.”

It brings a soft chuckle out of him—content, confident, safe. Your husband is famously known for his ultra rare smile, and seeing them so often in every moment you spend time together feels like an absolute honor.

You touch his hair at first, longing the feel of it in the tender palm of your hand. But he doesn't want to let you steal his opportunity—because he could enjoy your soft touches further and fall asleep right there and then—so he rises to meet you, still on his knees, leaning into you and props his forearm next to your head on the back of the couch.

Wolffe breathes in the sight of you. You, smiling up at him, your eyes still shining with remaining tears—happy tears. He caresses your cheek softly with his gloved knuckles before nearing your lips, testing the waters. Your smile broadens, accepting his kiss—a long-awaited one, one that both of you deserve all after those painful months of separation.

“Missed you,” Wolffe whispers against your lips, gently taking it again between his before leaning his forehead against yours. “So, so much. I'm so sorry.”

Your eyelashes flutter against his cheek. “I'm sorry, too. For your loss. Your brothers. But you're here now, Wolffe. That's what matters right now. I’m so happy you're here, really am,” you say to him. Wolffe leans against your touch, your thumb brushing along his cheekbone. “And I'm sorry I slapped you,” you pout, “My hormones are all messed up.”

He shakes his head in dismissal. “I deserved it.”

“Want me to kiss it better, love?”

“If I ever refuse, I want you to beat me to death.”

A small giggle erupts from your lips before you pepper his cheek with apologetic kisses, leaving no inch of skin untouched with your love. It's glaring red from when you slapped him, blame the estrogen and cortisol ganging up on your sanity.

Wolffe shifts his attention from you to your pregnant belly. It's been… lovely. All the pain and illness you've gone through seem worth it knowing that it's his children you're carrying. You hadn't found out until 8 weeks. You'd wished he was there at your first ultrasound when your doctor announced you're pregnant with twins.

“Are you feeling okay?” He places his hands gently on your belly. “This looks… painful.”

You stare at him in disbelief. Does he really not know? “This looks—” you parrot him but get cut off.

“Are you, cyare?” Wolffe asks again, firmer this time, and even more serious. “In pain?”

You stifle your smile. Gods, this man.

“Not really. For now.” And thus you roll out a new impish scenario, wondering how it'd go, and how long it'd go. “Well, okay; sometimes.”

“The diagnosis?”

“It’s fine, my love. Nothing's wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong?!”

You bite the inside of your lip, preventing a laugh coming out.

He goes on, eyes sweeping over your body. Your cheeks seem fuller, you gained weight. Other than that, you're healthy. You're glowing. But he can't seem to find out why. “Did you go to your usual doctor?”

“Yes,” you nod, “And um, another kind of doctor.”

Your husband frowns, hard, at your grin. “Another… kind?”

“Wolffe, for the love of gods.” He blinks cluelessly as you pry his gloves off him before dragging his now bare hands beneath your sweater and placing them firmly against your belly. “Here. Feel.”

He sighs at the warmth of your skin, his thumb having the mind of its own caressing them.

You scrutinize him. “Do you have any idea of what might be happening?”

“You don't look sick,” Wolffe analyzes, mismatched eyes meeting your gaze. “You look healthy, in fact.”

“Wolffe,” you giggle, clutching onto his hand, “I’m pregnant.”

In an instant, his eyes flash with clarity and total adoration. His lips part to gasp, the entire focus in his body now directed at your pregnant belly. In the joyful realization and perhaps feeling a little stupid for not clocking it earlier, Wolffe pours all his love into his touches, lifting your sweater to finally look at you. At first you hear what may be a sob, but his sniffle confirms it anyway. The joy of a father.

“So,” Wolffe sniffs again, “So this was when you complained about your late period before I got shipped off…”

“Yeah,” you chuckle, moving your hands into his hair and slowly scratching his scalp. “Y'know what, I think they might be afternoon delight kitchen counter babies. I couldn't forget that one.”

There's so much of that to digest, especially a comeback with that last one—which may be true because he couldn't either. He can't even let out a laugh, his ears already stopped listening at the plural word that you just said.

“Babies?” Wolffe marvels, “Twins?”

You smile, nodding. “Twins.”

And only then he finally laughs. It's not his usual boisterous one when you crack your lamest stupidest dad joke—it sounds wet, relieved, happy, and full of hope. You've talked about this—both of you have been wanting this for quite a long time. Wolffe’s thumb repeatedly brushes over your belly, as if caressing his babies’ heads through the flesh, and his face is leaning closer.

And now your wish is finally granted with not only one but two sweetlings. You've spent day and night thinking what traits they would take once you give birth to them, and once they grow up. Strong and resilient just like their father, you hope.

“Su'cuy, ad’ike. Ner kih’verde,” he murmurs against your skin, “I'm your buir. I’m sorry we're only meeting just now.” Wolffe presses a long kiss to your belly, and another. There are two of them, after all. You feel wetness—your husband's first tears upon knowing that he'll be a father to his own children growing in your womb.

You slip your fingers in between his face and your skin to wipe the trail of tears away from his cheek. “I think they'd understand that their father is fighting to secure their future.”

Wolffe nods weakly, contently. “That's right,” he says, resting his chin on you while meeting your gaze again, his expression curious and helpful. “So is it—are they… Boys? Girls? Both? Have you found out yet?”

You chuckle at his enthusiasm. “Maybe we can find out together this week or next, if you want?”

So you've been waiting for him. His heart aches again—imagine if he refused to come home, ever. “Of course. I'll be there with you,” Wolffe says, a breathy chuckle falling off his lips. “How far along are you?”

“16 weeks.”

“Sixteen. 4 months.”

“Mhm.”

“A month before my deployment,” he repeats, and you nod, humming your affirmation again.

A small part of him that hasn't found resolve cringes—horrified. His previous thoughts are coming back to haunt him—the what-ifs.

“Hey,” calls your voice, cutting through the haze. Wolffe relishes the gentle smile that graces your lips, relishing how fortunate he is to have you. “I know what's going through your head right now.”

The weight in his chest has been crying out to be released. And you're his wife. His worries, his fears and anxieties, become yours, too.

“If only I threw a fit,” he slowly confesses, “I refused to come home, cyare. I would've fought the decision and convinced my general. But then, I wouldn't have known.” He could've flown too close to the sun. He could've died in future campaigns, leaving you alone with… with his babies. His children. They'd be fatherless, and you'd be exhausted to death caring for them alone without him. And they wouldn't know who their father was.

And he wouldn't know he'd be charging head on in the front lines for his children. He wouldn't know.

But then there's your presence again, so bright in his life. You lift his chin with a touch of your fingers so you can pull him out of the abyss of his past thoughts that are looming over him, and so there will only be you—his present and future—to gaze upon, to look at. Not the abyss.

“You're my husband,” you say softly, your thumb caressing his cheek again. “Val buir—their father, Wolffe. And I know that… every regulation out there isn't in our favor, especially now that we're having children—”

He looks guilty. “I’m sorry if this isn't what you imagined.”

Sighing, you pinch his cheek. “I'm not done yet, love. Stop apologizing about stuff that I already know, and I knew I'd go through this before I decided to be married to you. I love you for who you are.”

Wolffe blinks quickly—the corners of his eyes sting. You just… always know what to say. You're always confident, and he loves that.

“And that means I know who you are,” you continue, “I know where your heart and your spirit is. I'm not afraid, Wolffe.”

He sighs heavily. “I don't know—you don't know—if that's the right thing you should've said,” he says, “Don't want you to say empty promises, cyare. You know they do nothing to me.”

“These are all facts, Wolffe. They all came from here.” You grab his hand and place it over your heart. “You are a soldier, love, I can't take the battlefield away from you. But as long as you come home when I need you—for me, that would be enough.”

It's like fire. It's like love renewed, and it's burning bright, the light cleanses the dark in his heart—every strand that pulses insecurities and anxieties that shouldn't even be there.

“I promise,” your husband then vows, “I won't miss something like this ever again. You have my word.”

You grin teasingly. “Again? I haven't even given birth yet. Just how many do you want, Commander?”

Wolffe rolls his eyes. The gesture always makes you laugh, and he knows it. “Cyare, you know what I'm talking about.”

“I know,” you giggle, “Icebreaker.”

Wolffe’s smile is stretched so wide on his lips that he can feel it ache—his cheeks ache. He rarely smiles like this even in the presence of his brothers, but he doesn't hold back with you. He rises slightly to meet your lips, silently wishing to listen and relish your laugh. “I love you,” he mutters, pecking your lips in between phrases, “I love you. So much. So much, cyare, you have no idea.”

You laugh softly. “I know, my love.”

“I'll be here for you,” Wolffe says enthusiastically, and your smile grows even wider as you listen along. “Until you give birth. Maybe I can talk to my general to temporarily put Brontes on my post while I'm away—”

“Wolffe, udesii. It's okay,” you interrupt with a laugh, “I’ll need you more after I give birth. When I get into labor, too.”

He nods, your plea sounding like a superior’s command to him—heck, he almost said yes sir. “I’ll be there. No matter what. We'll do this together, I promise.”

Wolffe lets out a breath. His mind is already forming to-do lists that involve research and possible timestamps and predictions and scenarios to lie his way through military assignments just so he could be there for you, or in case anything happens to you. Maybe he could gamble his lucky attempts with his general.

He leans in to kiss your lips again. “In the meantime, you're gonna tell me everything you've been doing for the past three months?”

You smile. “The good and the bad.”

“Every bit of it?”

“Yes.”

Wolffe then kisses your knuckles, a hint of a smile gracing his lips. “Promise?”

Your giggle is a ripe melody in his ears. His source of joy. You lay your hand on top of his, still resting on your belly—both of your beloved children inside. “Yes I promise.”

Some backstory I didn't get to include: Sha Koon, Plo’s niece, regularly checks in on you so she could relay the information to her uncle because both Kel Dor care so much about your and Wolffe's wellbeing 🩷

Taglist: @yoursrosie @hellfiresky @filamentlights @heidnspeak @lucyysthings @emmaw18 @leiopython-rat

A/N: You can request for x reader in my askbox! If you're interested in my clone x reader oneshots you can sign up as well to be tagged of future works. (Link provided ⬆️)

#songfic #wolffe x reader #commander wolffe #commander wolffe x reader #star wars #the clone wars #tcw #clone x reader #x reader #tcw x reader #star wars fanfiction #star wars one shot #z3st reader fics

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tanobatcher · 4 months ago

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first kiss: part ii

part i is linked here!

wolffe x jedi fem reader summary: you and wolffe confront the awkward shift in your relationship after that night at 79's. warnings: explicit content (slight choking, vaginal sex, loss of virginity) toward the end but y'all have to communicate first 😾 tbh this is far from a definitive resolution tho mwahaha! pushing the hardcore wolffe & emotional constipation agenda but he still cares! a/n: omg ok so i wasn't gonna continue this one shot but i got some comments and i love any opportunity to write about the loml so yes!! ty to everyone who enjoyed part 1 <3 reminder that my requests are open >_<

Wolffe hasn’t spoken to you since he kissed you in the dark corner of 79’s that still lingers in your memories whenever you close your eyes to sleep or open them back up to think. If anything, he’s gone lengths to avoid your existence completely. These measures include asking his battalion members to relay any important messages to you since he can’t seem to do it himself. The silence is deafening, leaving more questions than answers. And although he believes he’s doing this out of professionalism, you know it’s only a matter of time before the Council notices this disconnect. Maybe they already have, and they’re simply preserving the last of your dignity. For now.

At the moment, you’re staring right at him from across the holotable that stretches an infinite distance between the two of you. He’s well aware of your gaze, but he’s still acting like you’re invisible as he carries on with his extremely detailed yet boring briefing. You simply focus on the sound of his voice, deep and calm like the ocean after a typical storm on Kamino. If he knows you’re tuning the important parts of this conversation out, then he doesn’t call you out on it. He continues to ignore you, succeeding impressively so far.

“Any questions?”

He poses this confidently, like he always is. You sense something else, though. It’s his desperate hope that you won’t say something. Anyone else in this room can ask a question that he’ll answer begrudgingly, as per his usual nature, but not you. Anyone but you.

“I have a question,” you interject as all heads turn toward you.

Your company seems to wait for Wolffe to respond, awkwardly glancing between the two of you as he shoots daggers into your amused smile. A nervous and somewhat frustrated coil tightens in your stomach despite your unbothered demeanor, mainly because he knows what you’re playing at. No amount of radio silence can change the fact that he knows you better than anyone else in this grand army.

“Yes…?” He huffs while folding his arms over his chest.

You raise your eyebrows, slightly surprised that he decided to engage. “You said this plan is dependent on whether or not we’ll receive reinforcements.”

“I did.”

“So, when can we expect them?”

He clenches his jaw, clearly displeased by this question. “I asked you to confirm that.”

Pin drop silence. It’s bad enough that his mood has cast a dark cloud over this base for the past week. Now, it’s only inevitable that the storm brews wilder with his growing disappointment in you.

“You asked me,” is all you can respond.

Of all the messages that passed through at least a dozen ears before reaching you, this must have been one of them. It couldn’t have slipped your mind, so it was probably lost in translation. And maybe that wouldn’t have happened if he had just spoken to you directly instead of pretending he had more important obligations. A regretful lump forms in your throat as you realize the root of this is still your fault simply because you were too desperate on a vulnerable night. But now, instead of remaining a petty squabble between two friends, it’s become a danger to the mission you promised the Council you would deliver without fail.

A flare of that frustration from earlier returns stronger and hotter as you continue, “I actually don’t remember having a conversation with you for the past…week? Give or take. So, I’m not sure if you really did ask me to confirm our reinforcements. Unless you believe otherwise.”

“I was busy. You should be aware of your expectations.”

“You should be aware of your pride, Commander. Instead of treating your men like messenger boys.”

All the wide eyes that were on you immediately look to Wolffe. Caught off guard, he purses his lips into a lethal scowl. He’s burning with aggravation, and you’ve only tipped him over the edge.

“Everyone out.”

Blinking in surprise, you look around and watch bodies pass you in a blur as they leave the briefing like their commander told them to. You stand, about to follow, when he says, “Not you.”

Just like that, you’re alone with him. The room is suddenly so much emptier and larger, trapping you in the looming despair both of you share at the moment. He’s on edge, and he has been ever since you all left Coruscant for your next assignment. You’re in the dark, not knowing where you two stand anymore. It’s hard to imagine that he doesn’t even care, for his devotion belongs to his duty, but it’s not hard to believe. It just hurts.

You break the silence first, meeting his eyes from across the table. “What are you doing?”

“What are you doing?” He tosses back with an impatient bite in his tone.

His retaliation doesn’t surprise you, but it’s intense enough to make you pause as you straighten your posture and inhale quietly. “I didn’t know you wanted me to speak to the Council about our reinforcements. If I did—“

“It doesn’t matter. I made a mistake.”

You can tell he’s not just referring to the current context of this mission. Memories from the night that changed everything and nothing at the same time begin flooding back like the butterflies in your stomach, mingling with your scrambled emotions. You’ve always been taught to control yourself whether in your actions or feelings—neither should fall into extremities that are hard to return from. But that kiss—kissing him—unlocks a part of you that shouldn’t even exist if you learned anything from the Order. He’s undone all that you know.

Noticing that you’ve fallen silent, he frowns. “You wanted to have a conversation. Now you have nothing to say?”

“I…” you bite your tongue before blurting out, “Are you angry with me?”

He recoils slightly, parting his lips in surprise. The distant hum of machinery fills the returned silence as he just watches you closely. It doesn’t seem like he’s going to answer, though, so you nod and glance down at your hands braced on the ends of the table.

“You haven’t talked to me since…” you wince at the memory, “…since it happened. You can barely look at me, too.”

“I am now,” he replies as if that makes everything better.

“Yeah,” you scoff, “After we just embarrassed each other in front of everyone else.”

He rolls his eyes before fixating his gaze on your hands. “I’m not embarrassed. I don’t care what they think.”

“Of course you don’t.”

“I know you do. Which is why you should’ve thought twice before—”

“Before what?” You interrupt, crossing your arms over your chest like him, “Before letting you kiss me?”

His expression hardens, nearly frightening you for a moment. But that aggression flickers away, and it’s gone in replacement of incredulity.

“I kissed you?”

“So, you’re denying it. I thought you said you weren’t embarrassed.”

“I’m not,” he takes a few slow steps toward you, “But you came onto me. Not the other way around.”

He’s suddenly standing right in front of you, looking down with a shadowed glare that forces you to swallow the lump in your throat and stare back at him. Being this close after hardly seeing him feels like whiplash, both emotionally and physically. Your pulse grows erratic as his eyes drive a hole into your heart, unraveling your thoughts one by one. There’s no hiding with him.

“I’m sorry,” you tell him softly.

Everything else you might have hoped to say to him has disappeared, silenced from the guilt that’s already been eating you alive. You never meant to ruin things between you and him. You never wanted to damage his reputation. You couldn’t bear the thought of making him uncomfortable with your desperation. But maybe you did all of that and more, just from one night you can‘t take back now.

“I’m not asking for an apology,” he says equally as quiet.

“Then what is it?” You turn your face away in shame, “Should we just act like it never happened?”

He startles you when he moves even closer, prompting you to look back at him again. Judging from the intensifying pressure of his scowl, he doesn’t seem to approve of your suggestion. But he’s also not disagreeing or arguing otherwise. You feel the conflict brewing underneath his skin, surrounding his bones and flowing in his veins the same way your body is reacting as well. His hands reach for you, carefully enveloping your face to hold you still. Your heart races at how gentle he is, reminding you of that kiss you’ll always remember despite your words. He’s your walking contradiction—the last man to ever treat you with such fragility. And yet, he’s also the first.

“You think I could forget it even if I tried?” He murmurs, stroking his thumb across your cheek.

Your breath hitches, but you raise your chin with an unbothered expression. “It seemed like you already did.”

“Thought you knew me better than that.”

“I don’t know. Sometimes it’s hard to tell what you’re thinking.”

“What about now?” he asks hoarsely.

His eyes are rounder and darker than usual, pleading rather than commanding for once. The sight is so unfamiliar that you feel inclined to forget that he’s the one who put this unnecessary distance between the two of you. But you replay the look on his face when he tore his body away from you and stared at you like the biggest mistake of his life that night. All before walking away and leaving you in the darkness. Despite sensing the vulnerability in his emotions as they squeeze through the cracks of his guarded heart, you can’t swallow the pit in your stomach that fears his rejection again. You’re aware of your pride.

Sighing, you tug his hands away from your face and lightly grip his forearms. “I’m not here to read your mind, Wolffe. I just want you to stop ignoring me over this.”

You’re about to pull away from him when he takes your shoulders, squeezing just enough to make you pause. As your eyes lock again, this time with a sharper collision, and he answers your question from before.

“I’m not angry at you.”

You suck in a breath as your hands find the belt around his waist, skimming tentatively before latching onto it. You don’t bring him closer, but he moves nonetheless, almost pushing his way into your hold. This proximity feels nostalgic, and you remember what happened the last time you were this close to him. The last time you were in his arms exactly like this, so helpless and naive.

“You left me there,” you recall bitterly, “And you didn’t even want to try to talk to me about it. If you’re not angry, then what are you?”

He clenches his jaw and avoids your gaze. “I didn’t think you’d want to talk about it.”

“Why not?” Your eyes widen as you lean closer, trying to get him to look at you again, “You’re my friend.”

The exhale that leaves his lips sounds so tired that you frown and slide your hand up his chest plate to cup the side of his face. His skin is strangely warm against your fingertips, like the bashful hesitance you observe in his eyes. Suddenly, he doesn’t look or feel like the all-encompassing commander you’re used to. He just looks like Wolffe.

“And you’re a Jedi.”

The statement is obvious, but you don’t need further explanation to understand what hides behind those four words. Still, you smile and gently tease, “I’m aware.”

His lips seem to follow your expression even though he’s not at a smile quite yet. “Are you taking this seriously?”

“As much as you are.”

“This is serious…to me. But not to you.”

You frown, remembering your words from that night. We don’t have to make it a big deal. It doesn’t need to mean anything. Easier said than done, now that you’re in the aftermath of the line you barely crossed. It’s so serious that you can’t pretend otherwise, despite knowing that’s the best option for both of you. Every layer that grows the distance between the two of you—the Order, the war, the friendship—seems to peel itself back the longer you stay searching his gaze for an answer you already feel deep inside your own heart. And you start to realize that he’s also looking for an answer, too, just as lost as you are.

“It is,” you admit, “Even if I don’t want it to be.”

His eyebrows draw together momentarily like a subtle flinch. “I understand.”

Still, you catch the subtle disappointment that drips from this simple sentence. Your hand returns to his face, caressing along his jaw before you clarify, “You’re a good soldier, Wolffe. I would never want to endanger that.”

“I wouldn’t either.”

“So…you agree. That we should just…”

“I can’t,” his eyes sharpen as they glare into yours, “Can you?”

Your heart skips a beat and your breath stalls, unsure how to react at first. You can only give him honesty after receiving his, though. Dropping your gaze to the faint scratches on his chest plate, you tell him, “No. I can’t.”

He’s silent, unresponsive other than his hands that slide down from your shoulders to your arms before pausing at your hips. Despite concealing your figure with your robes, you’re inevitably exposed as he reminds himself of what you feel like in his hold. Nervous, you blurt out, “Maybe we should just get each other out of our systems.”

“Yeah?” He murmurs, “And if that doesn’t work?”

“It has to,” you whisper back, “Or else…I don’t know.”

He thinks about your proposition, releasing an exasperated sigh when he can’t seem to come to a decision. It’s so unlike him—not knowing what to do—and he feels that new hurdle like hell. His touch is searing and hot through the fabric that encases his fingers, just one more barrier you have to tear through. And with what you’re suggesting you do in order to make this entire situation a memory instead of a regret, you just might.

You inhale a breath before leaning closer, letting your eyes flutter shut when he follows your lead. But just as your lips graze over his, he cringes and says, “Not here.”

Reality suddenly strikes you like a tumultuous wave. You take a step back, ignoring the furious blush across your face. “Right. Of course.”

His hand reaches for you before curling into a fist and dropping by his side again. A beat of silence passes as you just look at each other, but it quickly becomes too much to bear. Remembering the mission at stake, you mutter something about the Council and turn on your heel to return to your quarters all the way on the other side of these barracks. The briefing room doors slide open upon detecting your nearing proximity, revealing a much too large group of troopers standing outside as if they were…eavesdropping. Their faces turn red but also stern when they see you exit, standing at attention despite the amusement exuding from their spirits. You feel it all, and you might’ve laughed at the absurdity of everything if not for the fact that you’re at the center of it.

Because you started this, so it’s your job to end it.

A few hours later, you’re lying in bed and staring up at the ceiling in dim lighting that makes you a bit sleepy. By morning, you’ll be back on the frontlines and hopefully not thinking about the man currently occupying the entirety of your attention. It’s like his hands are still all over you, touching you exactly where you remember. It’s like he’s still kissing you, groaning through every breath he steals from your reciprocating sighs. This is the exact torture he’s inflicted on you since that night. But again, it’s also the consequences you brought upon yourself.

You squeeze your eyes shut when you sense his presence draw nearer, which is why you’re not even surprised when you hear a knock on your door. The urge to pretend you’re sleeping like the rest of these barracks keeps you still until it’s overpowered by the desire to see him again.

“Fuck,” you curse under your breath as you slide out of bed and approach the door. Because that’s how you feel at the moment. Completely and utterly fucked.

Somehow, he looks even more tired than before even though not much time has passed since the briefing. He’s also not wearing his armor.

“I…” you swallow and step back when he steps closer, “I spoke with the Council.”

The door closes, and he’s inside your room now. “That’s nice.”

“Yeah,” you clear your throat, “And…they like the plan. Your plan, really…It’s good.”

“I’m glad.”

“Yeah,” you breathe, barely aware of the way his arms come around your waist at the same time yours wind around his neck, “Me too.”

“Mhm,” is all you hear before he kisses you, not bothering to waste another second of this fleeting moment.

Your mouth fits against his just as perfectly as the first time, open and soft to let him do whatever he wants tonight. You barely react to your back hitting the wall, only tightening your arms around him and lifting your legs when he prompts you to do so. He hasn’t even said anything, but you feel the bossy command in his hands as they squeeze the back of your thighs and push upward. Wrapped around him, you gasp at this shift in position that has his hips aligned with yours. The sudden pressure between your legs, at the center of your desires, grows more difficult to control once you feel just how much he wants you. He must feel it too, then. You.

“You know I’ve never done this before…right?” You remind him, catching your breath with soft pants between your words.

There’s a territorial look in his eyes when he answers, “I know.”

“I just…” you frown, “…don’t want to disappoint you.”

“You couldn’t,” he says quietly. It looks like he wants to say something else, too, but nothing follows. Not until a thought seems to cross his mind and he winces before asking, “You’re sure about this, then?”

You nod. “Yes.”

And just like that, he’s kissing you again before you can ask him the same question. Are you? You wonder to yourself as his tongue slips through and caresses yours with a desperate hunger. Your focus on anything but this tangled mess shatters, even distracting you from the moment he brings you away from the wall and toward your bed. Your legs hit the end of the mattress as his lips find your neck, sucking at the skin confidently since he’s already aware of your sweet spot. He plants his hands around either side of your hips, caging you in his large figure that you pull closer with your legs around his waist. Your shirt is gone just a breath after he fists the back of it. And then your pants, leaving you in nothing but your underwear.

He looks a little stricken when he pulls back, watching you closely despite this dark room. You’re suddenly grateful for the shitty lighting that’s more a result of the sparse energy source powering these barracks rather than an intimate gesture. Any brighter, and he might laugh at how red and hot your face has grown in the past few minutes.

“Fuck’s sake,” he groans and sinks to his knees between your legs.

His lips meet your hip, and you shiver despite the warmth of his kiss and the heat in his hands that run up the back of your thighs before grabbing your ass. Pulling you closer, he kisses a line up your inner thigh and sucks to leave a mark. He keeps doing that, you realize. Placing reminders on your skin so that when this is all over, you’ll fail to run away from the truth that it happened. Your hands find his shoulders as he kisses your clit behind the thin fabric of your underwear, trying to maintain the calm composure ingrained in your rushing blood. But when he flicks the same spot with his tongue, his eyes looking up at you teasingly, you gasp and feel yourself crumbling from the inside.

He smiles—actually smiles—and this would have surprised you if not for the following distraction. Pushing your underwear aside, he licks your center in a slow and long stroke that leaves you trembling with ecstasy already.

“This isn’t what I imagined,” you breathe, tipping your head back.

“You thought I’d fuck you before getting a chance to play?” He mutters against you, sucking your clit inside his mouth this time.

You can only moan in response, biting down on your lip to keep the noise from spreading. The last thing you need is for someone else to know exactly what you’re doing in here. A flustered cry escapes beyond your control when he finally yanks your underwear away before kissing his way up your naked body. He hasn’t even shed a single piece of his clothing, but feeling every hard and broad ridge that spans his figure is enough to make your knees go weak. His hand gently pushes you back into the bed, and you’re looking up at him against the mattress without even putting up a fight.

“This might be the worst place we could do this,” he murmurs into the crook of your neck.

You splay your hands across his back, pushing him down closer. “What about the Temple?”

He chuckles, and the sound vibrates through your body from your proximity. “Actually, you’re right.”

Still sensing his hesitance, you pull back and cup his face. Your thumb strays near the scar through his eye, stroking absentmindedly as you tell him, “Don’t leave.”

“Don’t regret this.”

“You think I will?”

His expression darkens, bringing forth a serious look in his eyes that reads like a different type of hunger—one that you’ve never seen before. You’re not afraid of him, though, and you never have been. Leaning closer, you let your noses touch and your lips share the same breath and wait for his response.

“I think you already do, cyar,” is all he says before kissing you again.

You lose yourself to this—to him as you submit to his full control. Breath ragged and hands groping, he kisses you rougher and needier like he can’t think of anything else. His knee slips between your legs, applying more pressure when a whimper falls from your lips. You’re not completely sure why this feels so good, but your hips push down on his thigh for more. Because that’s all you want from him, really, despite his lack of faith in your desires. More.

“That’s it,” he whispers into your mouth when he feels you grinding. His hands come up to your breasts, pinching your nipples and touching you so shamelessly that your back arches off the bed.

“More,” you beg, giving in.

“More?” he kisses a trail down your chest.

You nod, throbbing and waiting for him at this point. The air feels a bit colder when he untangles himself from your embrace, getting up and standing over you. He holds your eyes as he undresses himself, somehow still dripping with confidence. There’s something else behind his gaze, though. It’s waiting, but for what? You inhale a breath when he comes toward you again, taking your jaw to kiss you, but you stop him from climbing on top with a hand to his chest. Hesitating a bit, you run your hand up his torso and feel his skin tightening underneath.

You don’t say anything. He doesn’t say anything. The heavy silence engulfs your synced heartbeats as your breathing echoes through this tiny room. You want to speak, but no words come, or the ones that do get choked up in your own doubts. None of this makes sense to you except for him. Above everything else that’s changed with your curiosities, he’s still here. You can count on that.

Wolffe wraps his hand around your neck gently, guiding you back to lie on the bed again. The slight pressure at the sides of your throat feels euphoric at his touch, only worsening the throb between your legs as it waits for him. You blink up at him, realizing this is really happening. And still, you’re not backing out no matter how irreversible this will become. It already is.

“Is this what you imagined?” He taunts quietly, spreading your legs wider with a rough hand.

Your arms slide under his so you can grab at his back, smiling when a flicker of surprise crosses his expression. “With you, yes.”

He leans closer, speaking into your ear so closely that you can’t see his face anymore. “And what would everyone think now? If they saw you like this. With me.”

His body follows suit as the words leave his mouth, and you feel the head of his cock graze over your clit. Gasping at the sensation, you almost forget his question and simply lock your arms around him tighter.

“You know they wouldn’t approve,” you moan, also dangerously close to his ear.

“No,” he slowly pushes into you, “They wouldn’t.”

You squeeze your fingertips, vaguely hearing him grunt at the pressure as he slides inside of you deeper but not all the way. He pulls out just to go back in, pausing when you cry out at this unfamiliar feeling you’ve also been waiting for. A rough hand clamps over your mouth as he lifts his head and glares at you, clearly displeased like always.

“Quiet,” his tone is lethally soft, “Or I stop.”

You nod, responding with a muffled, “Please.”

He raises his eyebrows as if challenging you to keep your word. Still, he doesn’t move his hand just yet, and pushes into you again. This time, he gives you more, hitting you so much deeper that you feel him in your lower stomach. You didn’t even know that was possible.

“Ah,” your back arches, and your eyes flutter shut, tuning out the smug look on his face as he begins thrusting in a slow rhythm. His lips take one of your nipples, teeth biting down and tugging. The pain clouds your thoughts, momentarily distracting you when he picks up the pace. He makes the mistake of pulling his hand away from your mouth to press down on your stomach, provoking a startled whimper that leaves you clawing for even more.

“Shhh,” he kisses you, “Don’t even think about letting anyone else hear this.”

You moan into his mouth, clutching at his biceps as he catches your desperate noises with every kiss. His hands are rough in grabbing you and pinning you down, and he fucks you like he’s pissed at something. It’s electrifying, capturing your pounding heart in a warm energy that tells you this is just as wrong as it is right. It’s everything. It means everything, too.

“Fuck,” he grunts, and you consider telling him not to make a sound as well. But his voice is so low and vulnerable that you only want to hear more of it—even louder and angrier. He keeps hitting that one spot that makes your eyes roll to the back of your head, angling his hips almost perfectly. How did he learn this? How can he do this? You ask yourself this as one of his hands slips between your legs, toying with your clit for more stimulation. It pushes you closer to the edge, overwhelming you toward the brink of collapse. You’re trembling. He’s shaking—his whole body. His groans grow louder as your moans escalate, muffling between more kisses that leave your mouth sore and swollen.

“Please,” you cry, not even knowing what you’re begging for at this point. He’s giving you everything you want and more, and you’re still begging. It’s dirty, and it hurts, but it feels too good to apologize later.

“That’s it…fuck, that’s it,” he urges, dropping his face into your neck.

“I’m going to—”

“No,” he orders, “Not yet.”

“I can’t,” you gasp. The harder he pushes into you, the harder it is for you to fight off your orgasm. But he ignores you, his thrusts growing sloppy with every ragged breath he takes and every groan he lets out. He has to be close, like you. He has to come, too.

Sucking on the skin of your neck, he gasps in your ear, “Come. You better fucking come for me.”

And that’s how easy it is for your legs to shake and your back to arch off the bed as your bodies collide and your climax rushes forward with the last of your cries. An exhilarating rush of euphoria washes over you like sun-kissed water, the same feelings you sensed all across 79’s the night you searched for this exact moment. You expect this to be the end, but Wolffe keeps going. With your lax body, he moves faster and kisses you when a whimper escapes your lips from your sensitivity. Soon, you hear a definitive groan before he comes and buries his face into your neck again, body slumped on yours.

Neither of you moves to get up and out of each other’s arms as you steady your breathing. Once the world slows to its usual pace again, you tighten your embrace around his shoulders and close your eyes when he does the same to your waist. His skin is still warm against yours. It’s quiet both around you and in your head, even though all of that is subject to change in just a few hours when the war decides to catch up. But for now, all that remains is the two of you in this quiet, dark, and empty room.

#star wars #the clone wars #clone x reader #star wars clones #clone troopers #tcw #clone wars #tcw commander wolffe #commander wolffe x reader #wolffe x reader #tcw wolffe #tbb wolffe #commander wolffe #the clones #star wars tcw #star wars the clone wars

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wickerwax · 6 months ago

Text

limited intel (Codywan First Kiss Bingo 1)

The rain is pounding on the thick plasti-canvas roof of the tent when he wakes, but it isn’t what wakes him.

Their make-shift war-room and bunk combo is quiet under the drumming water but the single cot next to his is empty, and one of the little motion activated lights by the entry flap is dimming. When he reaches a hand out, the misery-thin synthwool is still warm.

Condensation is sleeting the inside of the near wall of the tent.

Cody is considering his options when the cover flaps back and General Kenobi re-enters. He doesn’t seem to notice that Cody is awake and watching him, just walks to the table and sits heavily on one of the stools. Being that simply not moving has never once been a winning strategy against his General, Cody feels his curiosity and faint concern curdle into alarm.

His General’s broad shoulders slump, very slightly. His back rounds. His robe is damp. Cody watches a drop of water escape the thick wave of his hair to plink against the holotable.

“Sir,” he says, quiet, and watches Kenobi’s spine turn to beskar.

“Commander,” he responds, equally quiet. “All is well, the watch is undisturbed. You may continue to rest.”

Cody sits up. General Kenobi sighs. “Truly, Cody, nothing is wrong.”

“Respectfully, sir, but if that were true we would both be sleeping.” Cody is nettled enough to already be moving to his own stool at the table. He takes a close look at his General in the faint light of the renewed motion sensor but -

If it weren’t the middle of the night cycle, if he hadn’t woken suddenly and seen the faintest chinks in this man’s composure already, he would never have thought something was amiss. Kenobi is bright-eyed and steady, even the dampness curling his hair only making him look warmer and more real, the drip having ceased to be within moments.

He smiles at Cody. “Not so, Commander, for here we are. No alarms, no issues, just a spot of unexpected wakefulness.”

And it – it almost fits. Having woken for no real reason, his General would have checked with the watch that all was well. Might choose to sit and poke at the battle plans or flimsiwork for a bit if he had felt too awake to sleep.

His posture falling defeated though, just- doesn’t fit right. They’ve been in this together for over a year and he’s seen Kenobi in all manner of states but the man doesn’t lose his composure easily, doesn’t falter – has seen him beaten and bruised and all-but-unconscious from exhaustion and he simply moves with it all. The slump – the bend-

It doesn’t fit right at all.

He raises an eyebrow and Kenobi’s smile fades. He studies Cody across the table and he has never feared that bright, clear gaze but in this moment he does wonder what he sees. What he’s looking for.

He can only be what he is. Cody gazes back.

His General breathes out slowly. “Ah, Cody. This will sound foolish to you, no doubt, but it’s the rain.”

Another long look. Cody doesn’t react beyond a short nod. He waits.

Kenobi rests his chin on one hand and waits back. He finds himself studying the fan of his eyelashes when he looks down, the silver feathering in at his temples, the lines curling from his eyes to meet it. The sensor light blinks out, leaving them in the dark.

His patience is vast but it is not a Jedi’s. He breaks first. “It doesn’t sound foolish to me, sir.” Kenobi sighs. “Kamino was not a joyful place to grow up – you would not be the first in my experience to associate the rain with unpleasant things.” And it has to be that and not the noise level because he’s seen his General sleep through a Skywalker explanation – to Cody and Rex, since General Kenobi had been with Skywalker for the experience. He’s seen his General sleep through a Ghost Squad squatting competition then, and they only knew the meaning of quiet when it was mission-critical.

“Obi-Wan, if you would, Cody. Or Kenobi. We’re neither of us on duty, as far as that goes.” He makes a motion with his hand and something moves near the door. The sensor light blooms again. A piece of flimsi returns to the table.

He looks faintly pained and Cody can bend this much. “Kenobi, then,” he says, “but I still don’t think you foolish.”

He looks far too grateful for such a small thing, fingers smoothing his moustache as some tension Cody couldn’t have picked out before, but notes for its absence, leeches away.

“No,” he says, thoughtful. “No, you wouldn’t at that. Did Kamino ever have troubles with...flooding?”

“Flooding?” Cody repeats, because drowning, being washed away, the whip and crack of the storms being the last you see of anything – that’s familiar. The idea that the Kaminoans would allow the chaos of the storms to breech what they had deemed sterile? That- “Not as such. Not by rainfall.”

But he can’t imagine the Temple had a flooding issue either. Outside, the rain continues to beat down.

He frowns at his General, who has turned his face to the entrance flaps and is watching the small puddle forming there from his breaking the seal to check with the boys on watch. The furrow in his brows is too deep for what could be swept away, soaked up, by a wayward sock. ”Have you had experience with floods, si- uh, Kenobi?”

His General does not look back at him. “I have.” he says, barely audible above the thrumming background noise. “It is...an unkind way to wake. To lose shelter. Not the weather, you understand, but the-” he stops, sudden. His hand on the table clenches.

He does not pick up the sentence. Lets it hang, the drawn-breath tension of it rising as surely as water does.

Cody does not know what to do with this thread left unwoven and unclipped. General Kenobi’s face in the pale glow is still serene but his knuckles on one hand are white.

The light shuts off.

This time, Kenobi does not move to reset it.

In the dark, even his enhanced vision only barely makes out the shape of his General. He gets an impression of faint motion, makes out barelythe gentle rasp of hair on skin and suspects Kenobi is rubbing at his face on his off-side. “It’s late, Cody. We should get some more rest.”

Among his brothers, there is so much they don’t say. What is the point in saying most of it? They were bred and built for war and dying in it is expected. Personhood is – complicated. Talking is difficult.

But they lean, and hug, and wrestle. He has seen his General with other Jedi and certainly there is contact there too, if more reserved with an audience – but his General is not a public man, for all he is a public figure.

He reaches out and catches the hand still resting, tense, on the tabletop. General Kenobi catches his breath and Cody squeezes those chilled fingers. “We can rest now, and in the morning check our set-up for anything that might be vulnerable to the rain. We might need to, uh – dig-”

“Drainage.” Kenobi murmurs, and the table isn’t so big but he’s definitely imagining the warm breath on their joined hands – he knows that from the unmoving shadow. He imagines it anyway. He imagines it’s his own breath.

“Drainage.” Cody agrees. They don’t have a lot of building material spare but they’ll have something they can use to reinforce the bottom edges of things. They tend to set up their sites as carefully as possible given time and intel constraints – including elevation concerns – but sometimes being too high and visible is worse than the extra cover some measures lower down. They hadn’t been told to expect heavy rain but this planet isn’t a particular flood risk that he read. It’s worth checking anyway – for peace of mind.

At least it wasn’t pure dirt underfoot, they have growing ground-cover to help out with the ever-unpleasant mud possibility.

Kenobi’s hand turns in his and squeezes back. “Thank you, Commander.” he says and it’s – candle flickering in a window warm. It’s not having to requisition more armour – more men - because they didn’t lose anyone. It’s finding that Waxer saved him a serve of the good caf on a particularly crap morning.

Cody does not squeak. He might shift on his stool and the poor mass-produced thing complains at the motion.

“It’s...nothing, General. Kenobi.”

He gets another comforting squeeze, and then his General is loosening his grip, rising to stand and Cody follows him up, stepping around the table automatically – grabs at the relaxing hold without thinking about it and they’re not in the sensor field so-

He finds himself, abruptly, standing in the dark close enough to his General to feel the warmth of his body – no shielding armour in the middle of the night, no – still holding his hand.

“Cody,” Kenobi says, and he sounds amused, and this time the flutter of warm breath against his skin is not his imagination. If he could see-

If he could see he would have to turn himself in for reconditioning, probably. He can pretend, right now, that this is just a peculiarly vivid dream.

It’s not. It’s not a dream. Kenobi tilts his head and Cody knows because he knows him but also because the angle of the warmth against his face changes and he tightens his grip – little gods help him, he doesn’t mean to but he tightens his grip and-

Kenobi makes no move to pull away from him, allows him the trespass he is committing on his fingers -

A hand cups his cheek as his General sighs faintly. He strokes his thumb over Cody’s cheekbone and it burns, it sends a shudder working down his spine – he makes some kind of tiny, choking noise under the never-ending drum of rain. Kenobi seems to hear it anyway. He drops his hand from Cody’s face despite the gut that drops with it and says, “You don’t need to worry about me, my dear Commander. It is an old worry, and far less rational than I appreciate. All is well.”

All is not well. Cody now knows the touch of ‘sabre calluses on his cheek.

“Ken- Obi-Wan,” he says, hoarse. They are off-duty. He would forgive this intimacy. He is forgiving how Cody is clinging to their one real point of contact – he reached out as a comfort, and now cannot make himself give it up so soon. “Obi-Wan, I-”

He doesn’t know what he wants to say, and Obi-Wan’s hand twitches in his anyway.

“I want to help,” he finishes, helplessly. “I want to be – a comfort. To you.”

Impulsive, as this entire experience has been impulsive, he draws their hands up. He cannot see the hand his is wrapped around but he feels well enough to curl the fingers of his free hand around Obi-Wan’s wrist. The pulse there is drumming as fast as the rain overhead. Cody’s Jedi is not afraid, but he doesn’t dare think what he might otherwise be.

He lowers his face and presses his lips to the back of his own hand. Blind, he cannot see the expression on Obi-Wan’s face – knows it is one he has not seen before. Knows the not-seeing is a mercy. Knows he would not be able to forget it, when his hand jerks in Cody’s grip and his pulse spikes against Cody’s thumb. And Cody is so aware of how little he would have to move his lips to brush over his thumb – taste his skin, the faint salt he imagines there, the hard edge of his nail against his bottom lip. He breathes out, instead.

“I want to help,” he repeats against his own skin.

“You do, Cody.” It should not be a shock to hear his voice so close and so low. The rain and the dark have closed them in together, like passing secrets. “Every day, I swear it. You do.”

Neither of them can see but he feels those blue eyes on his skin all the same. Holds on to it even as he disentangles himself, lets Obi-Wan – lets his General go. As they move the few steps to the cots, as the rustling of sub-par blankets settles.

He strains his ears over the rain to hear his General breathing. Knows he isn’t asleep, not like that, not so fast. He sounds it though – deep and measured and even. Only – he’s shifting slightly in place, the blankets too scratchy to not betray it. Restless.

Cody finds himself curled with his hands tucked near his face. He listens, and listens, and listens, and if he kisses the back of his hand one more time – there’s no one there to see.

@codywanfirstkissbingo First up: sensory kiss

#my writing #star wars #obi wan kenobi #commander cody #codywan #cwfkb2025 #click the title to go to the ao3 version! <3 #one of five let's gooooooooooooooooooo #pining so much pining

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mae-lou-ron · 8 months ago

Text

For Granted

Summary: Your beloved Gregor returns from a weeks-long mission for the clone underground, and after a long night filled with debriefings, he can’t wait to show you just how much he missed you while he was gone.

Pairing: Captain Gregor x f!reader

Warnings: 🚨 NSFW - SMUT AHEAD 🚨, 18+ MDNI, explicit sexual content and language, established relationship, mutual pining, cockwarming, unprotected PiV, edging, delayed orgasm, praise, soft!Dom Gregor, pleasure!dom Gregor?, oodles of fluff, Gregor can't keep his eyes (or hands) off you, color system safe words (only green used), aftercare, this is what I call a plot/smut/plot sandwich.

Word Count: 4,700

A/N: GOBBLE GOBBLE GREGOR GIRLIES. Happy to report I am posting this way earlier than I thought would be possible. (I finally did it @jetii, @captn-trex @lonewolflupe— again thank you for your constant inspiration and encouragement) This is the first smut I’ve ever posted and I guess decided to just go for it. I don’t know what to tell you, I just feel like Gregor would be such a soft and needy little pleasure dom. Okay, bone apple tea my fellow feral goblins. DO NOT PERCEIVE ME.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was late—very late.

The away team shuttle had touched down hours ago, but before you could greet Gregor properly, Rex had swooped in and intercepted him before he even made it down the gangplank. Their mission to the ruins of Tipoca City had proven successful, and Rex wanted to know everything.

For nearly two weeks, they dove beneath the old cloning facility's wreckage, searching the depths for anything that survived the orbital bombardment—especially for anything that could help them better understand the inhibitor chips. As you observed him from across the holotable, you noted the exhaustion that marked your beloved's features. His bloodshot eyes had dark circles beneath them, and though he tried his best to stay alert and focused, the weariness was clearly setting in. Yet, despite his current state, Gregor's gaze kept finding its way back to you, his lips curving into a small smile whenever your eyes met.

You listened and updated the data banks while Rex thoroughly questioned Gregor and his team about their operation. When Rex was finally satisfied with what was recovered, the meeting adjourned. As you gathered your things, you couldn’t help but steal glances at Gregor, hoping this was finally the moment for your long-awaited reunion—but he remained deep in conversation with Rex, their heads bent together. You sighed inwardly but couldn't help glowing with admiration for him.

He was probably the most lighthearted of his brothers, but Gregor showed unwavering dedication to his work—particularly when it involved Rex. After all, Rex had orchestrated Gregor's rescue from the Empire by sending the Bad Batch to extract him, saving Gregor from the Empire's grim plans for clone troopers like himself.

Rex's relentless pursuit to understand and neutralize the inhibitor chips strengthened Gregor's dedication to the mission. For Gregor, helping Rex wasn't just about loyalty—it was about preventing other clones from enduring the same fate. This devotion extended to everyone Gregor held dear, including you. He had become not only your lover but your best friend and closest ally in the growing clone rebellion. You had become one of the few anchors in each other’s lives that had been plagued with uncertainty.

From your first meeting, you were irresistibly drawn to him—and he made no effort to hide his magnetic attraction to you. Even now, his keen eyes would seek you out first whenever he entered a room. True to form, Gregor's gaze shifted to you over Rex's shoulder again, silently expressing his longing to be near you after so many days apart. You caught his eye and flashed a playful smirk, pressing a fingertip to your lips before extending it toward him. He would always wink in return. Though your relationship was no longer a secret, you both treasured this little ritual—a wordless exchange of adoration between the two of you.

Back in your quarters, you changed into your sleep clothes and settled into bed. Propped against pillows with your data pad in hand, you intended to review the new data decryptions while waiting for Gregor's return, hoping he might have more enticing ways to keep you awake. But the warmth of your bed and the quiet hum of recycled air lulled you to sleep with surprising swiftness. Your eyes grew heavy, thoughts of him blurred behind your lids until you drifted off.

A short while later, you stirred from a light sleep when you felt the bed dip. With gentle hands, Gregor retrieved your fallen data pad and slid under the covers behind you. His strong arms enveloped you, drawing you against his chest.

"Stars, I've missed you, my darling," Gregor sighed into the space between you. Your eyes fluttered open as his lips pressed into the back of your shoulder, sending a thrill down your spine.

The familiar spicy scent of him filled your nose—he must have hit the fresher before coming to bed. You hummed contentedly and turned within his arms to face him, your lips curling into a sleepy smile. "Missed you too," you murmured.

Gregor's tired eyes were filled with warmth and adoration in the dim light. His hand gently cupped your cheek, thumb brushing over your skin. "Sorry I'm late..."

"S'okay," you leaned into his touch. "You're here now, and at least I know you're not just another dream," you said into his chest as you yawned.

Gregor's heart thrummed at your words. The thought of you dreaming about him stoked the ever-present desire he seemed to hold for you. "How's the burn?" he asked instead, softly moving his hand down, fingertips skimming over the fresh scars on your hip.

"All healed now. Rex was right, of course," you grumbled. The former captain had benched you from field work due to the blaster fire that grazed you on your last mission. Though you'd insisted it was healed enough, Rex wouldn't budge. You knew he was right, but being sidelined grated your nerves— especially since it was your intel they were operating on.

"You really scared me for a minute there, you know," Gregor whispered, his voice lilted with emotion as his fingers traced the newly healed scar.

You kissed the tip of his nose and gave him a knowing smile. "You should know better than anyone, love. It takes more than that to keep someone down," you murmured, covering his hand with your fingertips. A pitchy chuckle escaped him as he pressed his forehead to yours, recognizing the echo of his own resilient spirit in your words. But his face fell incrementally as he found his next words.

"I still wish you could have been there, on Kamino," he confessed, his voice solemn. He didn’t have to say anything, but you knew how strange returning to Kamino was going to be for him. He had his brothers with him, but you’d hoped to be there for him too.

"You just wanted a chance to see me in my swimming gear," you quipped instead.

Gregor's eyes sparkled as he leaned in closer, his lips brushing the corner of your mouth with a quiet rumble. "Can you blame me? Thinking of you in any state of undress was all I had to keep me sane out there," his words and lips danced against your cheek.

You squirmed in his embrace as his hand trailed up and down your body, fingertips once again sweeping over the swell of your hip. "But I always love seeing my cyare like this…" he added, his warm hand giving you a playful squeeze, referring to the teeny tiny shorts you often wore around your shared quarters, just for him.

“Oh? And why is that?” You said with a raised eyebrow, feigning ignorance at how his eyes would habitually follow you around whenever you wore them. Not to mention the mischief he would promise when he saw you wearing any of his clothing, and tonight you had grabbed one of his shirts to sleep in.

“Because it’s what you’re comfortable in,” he sighed contentedly as his fingers slipped under the hem, grazing the soft skin at the small of your back.

Being under his focus with such reverence made your heart pound in your ears, his magnetic touch constantly drawing you in. Your fingers traced the line of his jaw. "Will you just kiss me, already?" you whispered, forgetting your teasing.

Gregor hummed as his lips met yours, sweet and gentle, his hands rediscovering every curve and contour. You melted into his radiating warmth, the steady rhythm of his heart. When you nibbled his bottom lip, it earned you a deep moan and a roll of his body against yours. Your fingers wove through his damp hair, pulling him closer as the kiss deepened, his tongue moving softly against yours.

Your lips danced together in a sensual rhythm, exploring and tasting with unhurried devotion as his fingers threaded through your hair, cradling the back of your head. Each sweep of his tongue against yours sent shivers down your spine, the kiss deepening with an intensity that made your toes curl and your heart race. Through every tender touch, he conveyed how deeply he'd missed you, and a familiar heat had bloomed between you fueled by days of delayed desire. The warmth of it coursed through your veins, spurring you on.

Eager to feel his skin against yours, you tugged off your shirt and pushed at his. Gregor chuckled softly and obliged, pulling off his shirt with deliberate slowness before tossing it aside. Under your fingertips, his body felt electric as you traced the familiar scars adorning his soft, golden skin. A shiver ran through him at your touch, and he groaned when your lips found his shoulder.

"Darling, I need you…" he purred, his thumbs hooking into the waistband of your shorts. His voice dropped lower, thick with desire. He paused, eyes intense and yearning as they locked with yours. "I've thought of you every night. Your kiss, your smile, the sounds you make for me." His fingers gripped your hips possessively, sure to leave marks. "Tell me, meshla," he breathed. "Did you think of me too?"

You let out a soft whine, your head falling against his chest as a breathy "Yes," escaped your swollen lips.

"Tell me..." he implored, his body rolling into yours once more. "Did I hear you say you dreamt of me?"

"Of course I did," you confessed softly, leaning close. Your lips brushed against the shell of his ear as intimate desires and details of your self-indulgent dreams tumbled from your lips. Gregor shivered, your warm breath tickling his skin. His fingers flexed as he strained to catch every hushed syllable. These whispered words were for him alone.

His chest rumbled with a deep, guttural sound. "Cyare," he whispered, the word dripping with honey.

You lifted your hips as he slid your shorts down your legs. Once free, he swooped in to kiss you again, this time with more fervor as his hands roamed your newly exposed skin. He swallowed the soft gasp that escaped your lips when his fingers dipped between your legs, growling appreciatively at how ready you were for him.

You whined at his touch, your fingertips curling around the base of his neck. Gregor sighed, his breath hot against your shoulder as he trailed kisses down to your collarbone. You heard him chuckling quietly as his fingers teased your sensitive flesh. "…and I’ve barely touched you yet,” he teased.

You huffed in response and started pushing his shorts over his hips, firmly grasping a handful of his taught backside in the process causing him to hoot and giggle softly. "I told you what I’ve been thinking about… come here…" you begged, your voice barely above a whisper. Once free of his own clothing, you hooked your leg around his waist, drawing him to you. Gregor hissed at the contact, his hips instinctively rocking against yours. You felt the head of his length glide along your entrance and up to your clit, sending a jolt of pleasure straight to your core.

Gregor let out a deep hum, gathering his self control. "I can't say no to you," he grunted, slowly sliding his length back up and down a few times before notching at your entrance. His lips met your forehead as he eased into you. You bit your lip as your body welcomed him, eyebrows furrowing at the sudden fullness. Despite the delicious sting of him at first, you craved him—eager for more, for all of him. But Gregor picked up on your body’s signal and paused. His head came back to regard you, eyes filled with concern and love.

"Cyar'ika," he whispered tenderly. His thumb traced your cheek and trailed down to your lips. You smirked, drawing the digit into your mouth with a soft moan, swirling your tongue around it. Gregor's eyes locked onto yours, awestruck at the sensation. "That's it…good girl," he purred, the wolfish smile that followed his praise sent a shiver down your spine. He withdrew his thumb from your mouth with a quiet pop, and brought it between your bodies, using the wetness to circle your clit.

Your body quivered, soft moans and whimpers escaping your lips as he continued his feather light touches, sending more of that delicious heat coursing through you. Your walls fluttered with pleasure, silently urging him to fully sheath himself within you. As his hips finally met yours, you both exhaled deeply, savoring the intense connection of being completely joined together.

"Let’s stay like this for a little while, hm?," he murmured against your hairline between soft kisses. "I just want you close," he breathed, his hand trailing tenderly along your spine.

You hummed in confirmation, melting into his affection. "I love you," you sighed, fingers combing through his hair. Your bodies fit together perfectly, hearts beating as one, breaths mingling in gentle pants. Being with Gregor, it never felt like enough—you both craved an impossible closeness. These tender moments were precious, when he held you like this, driven by his pure need to feel you around him, to eliminate any space between you.

"And I love you." Gregor's kiss was so tender it made your head swim. His lips traced reverently across your skin, each caress a silent vow, his heart full at how perfectly you melded together. When the kisses and touches naturally grew more heated, you felt him stir within you as your bodies instinctively began to move. With gentle purpose, Gregor rolled you, pressing your back into the mattress and caging you in with his large frame. His lips found that spot on your neck as he began a slow, intense rhythm that drew a litany of soft moans and whimpers from you. Your nails trailed down Gregor's back as he pressed against that sweet spot deep inside you. He dragged his length almost completely out before thrusting back in, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

"Stars… cyar’ika, you…" he panted, his movements becoming more deliberate. You wrapped your legs around him fully, urging him deeper, whimpering in is ear to do it again. The tension between you reached its peak all too quickly, weeks of anticipation setting your every nerve ending on fire. Gregor murmured sweet praises against your skin, intent on bringing you there together. You teetered on the edge, your body trembling with each slow thrust. "Gregor," you breathed in a desperate plea. "I'm..."

“I know,” he grunted. “I’ve got you…” He gentled his movements to a pace he knew would send you over. He felt your entire body tense, arching into him as your climax struck you with a sudden intensity. A shuddering moan escaped you as your hand in his hair tightened, tugging at the strands. He couldn't hold back any longer—the way your walls fluttered around him, squeezing him so tightly, your grip in his hair, the sounds you were making—it was all too much, and he gladly fell over the edge with you.

His hips jerked as he moaned your name, pressing flush against yours as he found his release inside you. You held him close while you both trembled and panted through waves of pleasure. His hips rolled gently against yours through the aftershocks. As the hazy bliss settled over you both, Gregor began dotting your face and neck with tender kisses.

“Gregor…” you protested lazily, lips curling in a fond smile. He always melted into his softest self in the afterglow.

He chuckled quietly, nuzzling your neck. "What? You know I can’t ever get enough of you…" His lips brushed against your skin, making you tremble slightly. You were grinning ear to ear now, despite your half-hearted protest.

“That makes two of us,” you said huskily, floating down from your high.

You lay tangled together in peaceful silence, your breathing and heartbeats gradually returning to normal. The gentle rise and fall of his chest against yours created a soothing rhythm that made you feel completely at ease. A while later, when your combined arousal began to slip down your thigh, Gregor shifted, preparing to retrieve something to clean you both up.

“Don't you dare," you warned teasingly, tightening your entire body around him, making his breath hitch.

“Cyar’ika…” he said in a low, playful voice, twitching inside you. “Careful now…”

You smirked, loving the way his voice dropped an octave. "Or what?" you challenged, your eyes gleaming with mischief.

Gregor chuckled, a predatory grin spreading across his face. "Oh, my darling," he chuckled lightly, his hand sliding down your body and gripping your ass, making you burst into giggles, "You love playing with fire, don’t you,"

"Mmm, I do when it encourages you to ravish me all night, love," you said with a dramatic flair, unable to hide the mirth from your voice, reminding you of the intimacy you’ve built with Gregor. It was fiery and magnetic, but always fun. You loved to push each other’s buttons to see how far you could go. After all, you cherished these quiet moments together when there was no need to rush.

Gregor groaned at your words, his grip on you intensifying. "Oh, you're in for it now," he rasped as he swiftly rolled onto his back, pulling you over with him to straddle his hips. He sat upright and curled his hand around the base of your neck, pulling you into a searing kiss. The sound that escaped you at this new angle was absolutely sinful, making him twitch inside you once again. He immediately began a gentle pace, guiding your hips into his shallow thrusts. You gripped his shoulders tightly, seeking an anchor amid the electricity firing deep within you. Your oversensitive bundle of nerves dragged against the base of his length, making you grind down on him more desperately.

Sensing your growing urgency, Gregor gently slowed your movements. His hands caressed your sides soothingly as he looked up at you with adoration. "Shhh cyar'ika, look at me…" he murmured, his voice low and tender. Your eyes fluttered open to gaze into his, dark and warm and focused on you. "I know, it feels so good." His voice strained, thumbs traced circles on your hips as he guided you back into that slower, more deliberate rhythm Gregor loved to torture you with. You whimpered at the change of pace, but soon found yourself melting into the languid, sensual motion. Gregor's eyes never left your face, enjoying watching you give in. "That's it, just feel," he whispered. "There’s no rush. I’ve got you…"

Gregor's movements periodically slowed to a halt, prolonging the intense pleasure building between you. Each time, he held you close, guiding you both toward that long-awaited peak. His arm snaked beneath you, holding you to him with effortless strength, preventing you from taking him completely. He knew exactly how much to give, bringing you to the edge over and over. He savored the sounds you made during the slow, frustrating dance, careful not to overstimulate as he kept you balanced on the edge of a knife.

Your body trembled, every nerve ending alive and hypersensitive, your breaths came in short, desperate moans. You clung to him, nails digging into his back and his scalp as you fought against the overwhelming urge to let go, somewhere between savoring every exquisite moment of him inside you and every cell in your body screaming for release. Gregor felt your body go rigid and quiver, he glanced down noticing how tightly your toes were curled, then up to your eyes squeezed shut in concentration.

"Cyar'ika, what's your color?" he managed to say through the haze. He himself was hanging by a thread.

"Green," you groaned gently. "Please, I need..."

Gregor's eyes snapped open at your words, his grip on you stuttering. "Tell me what you need," he nearly growled. "I need to hear you say it, cyar'ika."

“Please...” you breathed. “I need to come."

With a low groan of approval, Gregor knew he’d pushed you to a new limit, and captured your lips in a soft kiss, slowly lowering you down fully onto his length once more. "Then come for me, my love, let go…" he murmured against your lips as he loosened his hold on you incrementally, encouraging you to writhe against him at your own pace. He swallowed the moans that escaped your throat as you did so, your fingers tangling in his hair again as you finally let yourself go.

He held you to him as your body shook, waves of ecstasy sweeping through you, your inner walls pulsing wildly around Gregor's length. He buried his face in your shoulder, his own climax following yours as he thrust himself deep inside with a low, guttural sound. You clung to each other, riding out the lingering tremors, your core gradually relaxing its grip on him. Hearts raced and chests heaved as you both savored the moment. With one more gentle rock of his hips, he pulled you down, creating a delicious pressure that sent one final, intense ripple of pleasure coursing through you, reducing whatever composure you had left and turning you into a whimpering mess.

“Thats it,” he soothed as you collapsed against him, head lolling forward as he secured you against his broad chest. You hummed contentedly, nuzzling into the crook of his neck as your breathing slowly steadied. Gregor's fingers continued their gentle caress along your skin, calming your tense muscles and fluttering heart.

“You did so well,” he praised. “We haven’t gone that long before,” he grinned at you, giggling softly, a sheen of sweat on his skin.

You chuckled softly, feeling an ache in your hips and knees. "Mmm, I think we both needed that," you murmured, wincing slightly as you shifted your legs around his frame.

“Here, I’ve got you,” he pressed a chaste kiss to your lips as he helped you shift positions, knowing your joints sometimes didn’t love it as much as you did.

His strong arms cradled you as he maneuvered you off him, finally slipping out and eliciting a soft sigh from you. He bit his lip, barely suppressing a groan as he glanced at the evidence of your passion. Once you were settled, he quickly jumped out of bed and disappeared into the fresher, returning moments later with a warm cloth.

His fingertips trailed up the outside of your knee, reminding you he was still there. You smiled and opened up for him to gently clean you up. His touch was tender as he took care of both of you. Once finished, he tossed the towel aside and crawled back onto the bed and got to work on massaging the soreness from your legs.

You sighed contentedly as Gregor's skilled hands worked out the tension in your joints. "You're too good to me," you murmured sleepily. He responded with a soft chuckle, his touch gentle yet firm as he eased away any lingering discomfort. “Love, I know you’re exhausted, come here…”

He chuckled and planted tender kisses on each knee before settling beside you, drawing you close against his chest. You nestled into his warmth, savoring the lazy patterns he traced on your back with his fingertips.

You tilted your head up to press a gentle kiss beneath his chin, savoring the closeness. “I’m so happy you’re home…”

Gregor sighed contentedly. “Me too.”

You hesitated for a moment, unsure if you should bring up his time on Kamino. The topic always felt delicate, and you didn't want to stir up difficult memories. But his peaceful expression gave you courage.

“How was it being back there?" you asked softly.

“Well, the first few days were…strange, but not in the way I thought they would be,” he confessed quietly.

“How so?” You pressed a chaste kiss to the side of his neck, absentmindedly inhaling his scent.

“Some clones considered Kamino their home, but I’ve never really felt more at home than I do here. With the underground. With you.” His voice stuttered on the last few words.

You felt your heart swell, and you pulled him closer, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. “Good, because I feel the same way…”

Gregor's arm tightened around you, and you felt him release another contented sigh against your hair. In this moment, everything felt exactly as it should be - no missions, no war, just the two of you finding solace in each other's arms. You held one another close, happy to be back in one another’s orbit.

"Darling..." Gregor's voice took on a somber tone as he tightened his arms around you. "I received new orders from Rex tonight." He paused as you tilted your head back to look at him, his expression serious. You felt your body tense, preparing for the worst. "And, well, it’s not just that," he continued, his lips curving into a frown.

“What is it?” your hand brushed his disheveled hair out of his eyes, your heart clenching at the thought of him being gone again so soon, without you. Rex had yet to clear you for your injury, and you felt your stomach drop at the thought of being left behind on base again for another mission.

Gregor took a deep breath, as if to steady himself. "I know it's short notice, but... I told Rex you’d have no problem shipping out by midday tomorrow..." He gazed at you intently, his trademark mischievous smirk betraying his attempt at a somber expression. He was a terrible liar.

Your eyebrows shot up at the realization.

Now his face was in a full grin. "Mhm...you’re coming with." He quipped. “Though I’m sure Rex wouldn’t mind if you wanted to stay behi—”

“No!” you trilled, propping yourself up onto your elbow. “I’m ready,” you insisted.

“You don’t even know what the mission is yet, love,” he chuckled, it was hard to resist mirroring your excitement.

“I don’t care,” you sighed. “I’ve been cooped up…it’s boring when everyone is gone,” you groaned.

“Don’t you mean it’s boring when I’m gone?” Gregor teased.

You rolled your eyes, but couldn't hide your smile. "Maybe," you admitted, snuggling back into him. "But don't let it go to your head." Your fingers traced lazy patterns on his chest as you soaked up the warmth of his presence, grateful to soon be back to doing what you do best.

Gregor laughed softly, his chest rumbling beneath your fingertips. "Have we met?," he murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of your head. As you lay there, wrapped in each other's embrace, a sleepy silence settled over you both. The anticipation of being briefed for tomorrow's mission hummed just beneath the surface, but for now, you were content to simply exist in this moment.

“You’re a terrible liar, by the way…” you said as you curled into him. He just chuckled softly as you let your eyes close, feeling the tendrils of sleep start to curl around you.

Soon, the familiar weight of Gregor's body and gentle rhythm of his breathing lulled you into a peaceful state. His fingers continued their soothing caress along your back, growing slower and more languid as sleep began to claim him too. The last thing you remembered before surrendering was the gentle press of Gregor's lips against your forehead and his whispered "Ner cyare..." You mumbled a sleepy response, already half-lost to dreams of tomorrow's adventures.

#captain gregor #captain gregor fan fiction #captain gregor x f!reader #captain gregor x fem!reader #captain gregor smut #captain gregor spice #tcw fan fiction #the clone wars fan fiction #star wars fan fiction #mae lou ron writes

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ct7567329 · 19 days ago

Text

Hold Your Fire

Touch Me Like It's Treason ~ Chapter 2

➜ Captain Rex x F! Jedi Reader

➜ Chapter Summary: Your first briefing is underway, forcing you to face the reality of leading the 501st in Anakin and Ahsoka’s absence.

➜ Word Count: 6.1k

➜ Chapter Warnings: Canon-typical Violence

➜ A/N: Posted at bottom!

Touch Me Like It's Treason Taglist

Touch Me Like It's Treason Masterpost

Chapter Two on Ao3

The door hissed open with a hydraulic sigh.

You stepped into the briefing room, with your shoulders square, chin up and a flat expression. The space was colder than expected - white walls instead of grey, sterile light, and no decoration beyond the standard Republic cog on the far panel. It was the kind of room where decisions were made cleanly and without sentiment. A single holotable sat at the center, flickering with the blue glow of the mission schematic. Around it stood half a dozen clone officers.

While restless the previous night, you took time to look over the roster for Torrent Company, memorizing any details that made each of the men stand out from one another. You figured coming in confident and equipped with their names before asking could work in your favor.

The Captain, Rex, didn’t look up right away, but the others - Echo, Fives, Jesse and Kix - did. Their eyes landed on you like controlled blaster fire.

You forced a smile, stepping forward calmly with your hands clasped in front of you. The briefing hadn’t started yet. That was obvious. There was no sign of Anakin and no sign of Ahsoka either. Your steps were so light, they made no sound as you approached the table.

“General,” Rex acknowledged at last. He stood opposite you, datapad in hand. His armor was heavily scuffed but neatly kept. Your eyes rested on the paler blue paint across his armor. His expression gave nothing away. It wasn't cold, but it wasn't warm either. Just unreadable.

You nodded in return, “Captain.”

No one else spoke. There was an empty seat beside Rex, but you chose not to take it. Instead, you remained standing, resting one hand lightly on the edge of the holotable. You could feel them watching. It felt more like they were assessing and comparing, trying to determine what kind of Jedi you were. Even though they knew damn well you’d be another placeholder, just another fill-in forced upon them by a Council that kept yanking their own leaders away.

The whole company knew Anakin and Ahsoka were offworld, reassigned to diplomatic escort duty for the Chancellor. No one had told you for how long. Just that the 501st would be operating under temporary Jedi support until further notice. Until you were dismissed.

You kept your gaze on the map as the silence continued to linger. Rex tapped the edge of his datapad and brought the holo into clearer focus. The image sharpened: a mountainous region, partially forested, littered with wreckage and crumbled outposts.

“The last comms station on the eastern ridge went dark three days ago,” he began, “Intel from local scouts says they saw Separatist movement near the ruins, but nothing confirmed. High command thinks it might just be scavengers.”

“Or an ambush waiting to happen,” Jesse added under his breath.

Rex didn’t acknowledge the comment, “We’ll be splitting into three units. Echo will lead the north trail with recon sweep. Fives and Jesse will hold the perimeter until the signal is clear. I’ll head south to secure the fallback point.”

You waited for Rex to take a breath before speaking, “I’d like to accompany the main recon sweep. North trail.”

Rex looked up. Not in protest but not quite in surprise, although you could sense sudden unrest beginning to tumble within him, “General Skywalker would probably assist to secure the fallback point,” he said evenly, yet respectfully.

“And I'm not General Skywalker. If we're spreading out our higher commands, I don't see why first and second command should be in the same unit,” you glanced over to Echo, “I have no doubt Echo and his unit could complete the recon without assistance, but for such a crucial element of the mission, I think it could be beneficial to have a Jedi at his side.”

There was no resistance to your comment, only silence. The men looked to you, then Rex, then back to you for something, anything. Almost like they were expecting you to follow along how Anakin would have, not resist and stand your ground.

Rex finally pressed his lips together and gave a small nod, “Understood.”

You lifted your hands from the holotable and began pacing, making your way towards Echo, "Besides,” you paused, putting palm on Echo's pauldron, his neck twitching up to face you under your touch, “I like working with men who aren't afraid to approach intimidating women.”

Echo's cheeks flushed crimson as Jesse raised his eyebrows quickly, staring down at the ground. Fives blew a steady stream of air from his lips, relaxing in his chair a bit. Kix reached for his caf in a desperate attempt to conceal his bulging eyes. And Rex. Rex reached his arm behind his head and scratched the back of his neck.

Echo was still staring at you as the room, again, fell silent. You offered him a small smile and a quick wink before shifting your attention to the mission chart.

The terrain was rough with many elevation shifts, blind spots, and burned-out structures with plenty of natural choke points. This was absolutely the kind of place a droid commander could turn into a graveyard.

“The southern fallback point,” you coughed into the silence, tapping Echo's pauldron twice before returning to holotable, “That ravine opens into a box canyon. If the enemy’s hiding there, we’ll be funneled into the open.”

Rex studied the area, then gave a shrug, “We’ll adjust the sweep radius. Clear it from higher ground first.”

It wasn’t praise, or acknowledgement, but it wasn’t dismissal either.

Kix lazily turned his head towards Fives, checking to see if it was just him who could feel it. There was some sort of deeply buried power struggle between you and Rex and it was uncertain if the tension was wariness or some weird sigh of respect.

You let your hand fall away from the map and took a step back, keeping your posture controlled.

The rest of the briefing moved quickly. You said as little as possible, offering input only when the conversation lagged or logic demanded it. You were careful not to contradict Rex. Careful not to overreach. It wasn’t your unit. You were only here to keep the Republic and the Council satisfied.

Still, you felt the shift. Fives stopped sneaking glances, Jesse finally looked you in the eye and Rex’s stance loosened just the slightest. You hadn’t won trust, but maybe you’d begun to earn notice.

When the briefing concluded, the men dispersed with a sense of urgency, each to their own prep routine. Their datapads were exchanged, their side conversations began, and their gear checks were already in motion.

You remained still, your eyes returning once more to the empty chair. The Force told you it Anakin’s seat - his Force signature heavy over the area.

Although you spent years with him at the Temple, you didn’t know what he would have said in that room. If he commanded like you knew him, you figured he would be loud, casual, and certainly reckless. But the men would’ve leaned in anyway. It was obvious they knew his tone and trusted it with more than just their life. You didn’t have that. Not yet at least.

Rex was the last to leave the room. He paused only briefly, his datapad still tucked under his arm.

“Gunships depart in thirty,” he informed you before stepping out.

You didn't turn to face him, still observing the holotable, “I’ll be there.” You stayed for another few seconds, letting the silence settle like dust. You’d been a shadow at a dozen different briefing tables in the last year, but this one felt the worst.

You lingered in the briefing room, your eyes fixed on the now deactivated holotable. The light had gone out, but the memory of its glow still clung to you. The faint hum of the projectors had faded, and with it, the strange illusion of belonging you’d tried to convince yourself of for the past hour.

You weren’t unwanted, but you weren’t theirs. Being tolerated and not trusted was worse in some ways.

Gradually, you leaned your weight into your hands and let your breath slow. There was no time for meditation, not before deployment, but you let your senses settle all the same. You were searching, quietly, for some trace of the Force. Some reassurance that you hadn’t already made a mistake, but you were getting nothing.

Your head leaned sideways again to the empty chair beside Rex’s. It sat there like a monument, but screaming with all the presence it lacked. Anakin didn’t need to be in the room to cast a shadow over it. His mark was all over this battalion, written in the way the men carried themselves, the way they looked to each other instead of higher command for reassurance. That kind of bond was rare. Rare, and not easily rebuilt.

You didn’t envy him, but you did resent how easy he made it look. You fought beside Jedi who never learned their men’s names. Your Master even has a reputation for disregarding Clones. And then there was Anakin. Loud, disobedient, and impulsive Anakin. These men would follow him into hell like he’d promised to carry them out again.

You sighed, rubbing the back of your neck as you finally stepped away from the table. Your reflection caught faintly in the blank display glass. You weren’t him. You weren’t trying to be, but part of you wished you’d come in at full speed instead of trying to measure every step. Maybe trust wasn’t something to earn so delicately. Maybe it had to be claimed.

Maybe you were envious.

Until the gunships hit the ground, you’d have to let them wonder what kind of General you are. Let them see that you weren’t here to echo the Council’s commands, or to act like a ghost of their beloved General. With one final deep breath, you exited the room and headed towards the prep bay.

The movement through the prep bay didn’t shift when you entered, but you felt it. It was kike a it charged static in the air, that made your skin prickle in the same way it does when you know someone’s watching you. You realized that every movement you made became observed data. Everything from the pace of your steps to the way you held your head, to how closely you walked to the edge of the group.

This was a test, and they weren’t even trying to hide it.

Regardless, the prep bay was loud, hot, and alive with energy. There were crates stacked against the walls, racks of weapons half-dismantled mid-inspection, and enough spare armor plates lying about to assemble a whole new kit. Calls for calibrations, the usual complaints, and small jokes overlapped in constant flow.

You kept to the perimeter. Not out of fear, but out of courtesy. These men had rhythm, and you’d learned the hard way not to step into a song unless you knew the key. A pilot passed you, offering a short nod. Another trooper brushed past you with a bundled net of thermal charges slung over his back, but neither looked twice. The members of Torrent Company were clustered near their assigned racks, tightening buckles, running last minute calibrations, and double-checking their datapads.

“Just another fill-in Jedi,” someone muttered, low enough to make it plausible deniability.

You shut your eyes at the remark, but didn’t address it. You just scanned the room looking for weakness in the routine. A missed buckle. A loose strap. Anything to suggest overconfidence or sloppiness. Just like your Master would do for you.

The men were meticulous with their checks, but seemed ready. It was the kind of readiness that only came from too many deployments and too many rotations without proper downtime. That wasn’t unique to the 501st. But the way they carried it was different.

Rex stood at the far end of the bay with his helmet tucked beneath his arm. He moved with deliberate precision, reviewing not just inventory, but the integrity of the men themselves. You watched him more carefully than you meant to.

There was something special in the way he looked at his men. It was almost as if he saw them as his own personal responsibility. You’ve seen Jedi Masters with less care in their gaze.

Rex made his way towards the center of the bay, pausing in front of a cluster of laughing men, “Jesse, check your left gauntlet. I saw you skip the charge pack.”

Jesse blinked, then quickly corrected the lock with a muttered curse.

“Fives,” he called out sharply, “don’t load two of the thermal detonators in the same side pouch. You’ll throw off your center if you have to run.”

Fives, halfway through strapping one in, scoffed, “I’ve done that for six rotations now.”

“You’ve survived six rotations. Let’s not test a seventh.”

After giving a theatrical sigh, Fives shifted the charge, “Yes, sir.”

You didn’t interrupt, but the urge to support Rex’s call and subtly back him up rose, then faded. Echo had been attaching his chestplates into place, but he paused. His eyes met yours in some sort of a curious acknowledgment. As if he’d expected you to speak, and your choice not to had said more than words could. You tilted your head slightly in recognition. He looked away a second later, but didn’t seem to avoid you after that.

“Maybe this one’s different,” Jesse murmured, just loud enough for Fives to hear.

“Could be a trick,” Fives replied, grinning as he slipped his DC-17s into his kamas, “remember the last one? General Vos?”

“Yeah,” Jesse scoffed, “Spent half the mission showing off and the other half screaming.”

“Nearly got himself killed,” Kix added in a flat tone, “back-flipped right into the line of fire.”

You stepped forward slightly, scanning the rows of crates until you found the armory locker assigned to your use. You opened it, ran your hand over the hilt of your saber, then over the spare power cells tucked into the side compartment. No one said a word as you clipped the extra charge to your belt.

You weren’t armored like the Clones, Jedi rarely were, but you understood the weight of amor in other ways. You adjusted the strap across your waist and from the corner of your eye, you caught Kix watching you.

Rex finished his inspection, calling out to the men, “Lock it up! Five minutes to departure.”

The bay filled with sudden movement. Weapons were slung and checked one last time before they fell into departure formation. Rex took his place in front of the group. As if his positioning was some sort of queue, you made your way towards Rex, falling in place beside him. He bit the inside of his cheek. It wasn’t your place here, and he knew that, but whether the Torrent Company wanted it or not, you were going with them.

The gunship felt entirely too cramped for comfort. Whoever was piloting left the door slats open to the sky on either side, allowing wind to slice through the cabin while entering the lower atmosphere. Thick clouds made the world below too far to see.

You were standing near the edge of the interior, your hand loosely curled around a support bar overhead. Your lightsaber was clipped tight at your belt, swaying gently in the whipping crosswind. The men were lined along both walls with their helmets on, the blue of their armor popping in the low light. They looked forward in whatever direction they were facing - toward nothing and everything at once.

Not for the first time, you realized how different it was to be a Jedi among Clones when no other Jedi was around. It wasn’t some sort of pity feeling but you felt distant. No matter how hard you tried, you’d never know what it would be like to be alive, here, for the sole purpose of war. You knew all the men around you wouldn’t make it back to the Resolute. That though alone clouded you with unrest.

As the gunship neared the surface, the pilot closed the door slats. Agamar’s atmosphere was thick and unpredictable, the last thing the Republic needed was their already exhausted troops covered in rainwater. When you first learned this mission was to Agamar, you read as much as you could about the Sepertaist occupied planet. Most notably, the harsh surface conditions of jagged terrain, storm-fed ravines, and old battlegrounds left half-swallowed by time. It was a war-torn world, forgotten by most of the galaxy, remembered only when it became tactically useful again.

Your stomach turned slightly, not from nerves, but from memory. You dropped into places like this before. A strong gust rocked the gunship. The pilot’s voice crackled briefly over comms, issuing a standard turbulence warning, but everyone kept still.

Across from you, Echo stood with his shoulders facing you, his helmet tucked under his arm. His eyes weren’t on you at first. He was scanning something just beyond your shoulder - either out the small viewport or into some unseen void.

You studied his posture. He was tense, but not rigid. He looked like someone who knew what waited below.

Without shifting his stance, his eyes met yours and he spoke. “You ever fought on Agamar before?”

The question wasn’t hostile or skeptical. It was just a calm curiosity. Something to break the silence of engine noise and wind.

You turned your head slightly, “Not since the first year of the war.”

Echo gave a small nod, almost to himself, “I heard about that one. The Republic lost a whole fleet, right?”

“We did,” you frowned, voice quiet enough not to carry,. “I was stationed planetside at the time, but the outpost fell before the fleet ever got a signal through.”

Echo looked more intently at you now, his brow slightly furrowed,. “How’d you get out?”

You exhaled slowly, “I didn’t. Not right away at least. It took three days to reach evac.”

The way Echo looked at you changed into something more level. He nodded again, slower this time, “You and Kix might have a few stories to swap.”

“Maybe,” you shrugged, quickly glancing over at Kix, “I don’t want to step where I’m not wanted. If he wants to share stories, I’ll share them.”

That got the faintest twitch of a smirk out of Echo. He looked down at his helmet, adjusting one of the switches on the side, “Give it time.”

You studied him for another moment, then let your gaze drift back to the sealed doors.

Give it time.

The words sat in your chest heavier than they should have. They felt earned in some sort of way. Almost like they were the first small piece of something real starting to wedge itself between the silence.

Outside, the gunship tilted as the pilot adjusted his descent trajectory. The soft turbulence returned, this time smoother and much more controlled. The sound of Rex over comms took over the cockpit, relaying coordinates and confirming landing protocol. Echo dropped his smirk and slid his helmet over his head.

Suddenly, it hit you. You hadn’t noticed it at first, but now, with the wind slipping through the gunship doors and the surface drawing closer below, you realized.

Not one of them had asked. No one in that room. Not Rex, not Echo, not Jesse or Fives or Kix. None of them had asked when Anakin or Ahsoka would be returning.

The realization washed over you harder than any blast you’ve ever experienced. You braced for that question when you walked into the hangar. You even went as far as rehearsing your answer in some diplomatic deflection. You were ready to assure them that the reassignment was temporary, that the Council was just shuffling chess pieces and that their General and Commander would be back soon. But the question never came.

You widened your stance as the gunship dropped sharply to the surface, catching your balance with one hand on the support bar. The men were still lined along the walls with chins up and bodies steady. Nothing about them said they were waiting for you to get out of their hair. There was no flicker of hopeful expectation in their posture. No curiosity about why Anakin wasn’t standing where you stood. No impatience waiting for his return.

You weren’t here to replace him - that had been clear to you from the start - but you didn’t expect to be filling a space that already felt closed like a wound that had learned how to stop bleeding even with the blade still inside.

The air around you thinned as the gunship slats re-opened. You closed your eyes for a moment and breathed against the pressure in your chest. What had they been told? Did they even know where Anakin and Ahsoka had gone? Did they care?

You slightly shook your head as if that could remove those thoughts. That wasn’t fair to think, of course they cared. But they also lived far too long in a war that didn’t pause when people left. They didn’t have the luxury of missing someone out loud. So they moved forward step by step, order by order, because if they didn’t, the whole battalion would fall behind. And falling behind meant death.

Maybe that’s why no one had asked. Not because they didn’t notice, but because noticing hurt more than silence.

You opened your eyes again, blinking once as Echo did a final gear check beside you. The doors finally opened as the gunship reached the surface. When the pilot finally cut the engines, the only sound left was the breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

No one had asked when Anakin or Ahsoka would be back and maybe that told you more than any question ever could.

You stepped off last, landing in the cracked dirt with a muffled crunch. The distinct scent of burned stone and scorched soil hit first, followed by the chill of wind that carried the memory of ash. Agamar was quieter than expected.

There was no immediate artillery fire or sniper shots, just the wind scraping through ruined metal and the muffled hum of distant wildlife trying to reclaim a battlefield. The terrain sloped sharply downhill from the landing site. Scattered around was twisted rebar, broken duracrete, and the skeletal remains of old Separatist machinery. Thick fog hung in the distant lower ridges.

“Perimeter sweep,” Rex called behind his helmet, voice crackling through the squad’s comms, “Keep your spacing. We move in five.”

Troopers peeled off into formation without rush. You pulled your folded robe off your arm and draped it over your shoulders, falling into step beside Echo without being asked. If he noticed, he didn’t say anything.

Just like the terrain, the carved path down from the drop site was scattered with the detritus of old war. An overturned walker rusted into the ground, its cockpit long scavenged. You passed a field of collapsed comms towers, their antennae reaching skyward like broken fingers. Every structure had once carried a purpose. Now they were nothing but hollow monuments.

Kix stepped through a gap in the rubble just ahead and motioned for the group to pause. You slowed out of caution. The ground here shifted underfoot. Melted metal and soil fused together creating some sort of slag. It was slick in places and dangerously brittle in others. One misstep and a whole ledge could collapse into the canyon below.

“You see it?” Jesse muttered, voice low over the squad channel.

“See what?” Fives asked, huffing.

Kix pointed across the ravine, “Those tracks in the slag. Looks like droids. Recent droids.”

You followed his gesture, narrowing your eyes. He was right. Along the path were barely-there outlines stamped into the dust just beyond the perimeter wall. The depth of the tracks were too deep to be weathered.

Rex took a step forward and knelt beside them, dragging two fingers through the dirt. “These are treads, not feet,” he remarked, standing up again, “Looks like a small patrol. No more than three units.”

Fives let out a low whistle. You turned slightly, glancing behind. The fog had started to creep higher up the ridge, now curling around the landing zone and softening the horizon into shadows.

“This place feels like a graveyard,” Jesse groaned, dragging his foot in the wet ground in front of him.

“Probably because it is one,” Kix replied, his tone laced with an unseen eyeroll.

Your shoes brushed against something hard. You looked down to check the source. Buried just beneath the topsoil was the corner of an old clone helmet, greyed with age and its visor cracked. You crouched, brushing dirt from its surface. There was no blood, just the emptiness of something lost and never returned for. You didn’t say anything, nor did you need to.

When you stood again, Rex had already turned away and started down the incline. Echo glanced sideways at you, then offered a nod - not of sympathy, but of shared understanding. You gave him a shallow nod back and moved forward.

The recon route followed an old service road, long since swallowed by weather and disuse. You moved in a loose diamond pattern, Echo taking point, Fives and Jesse covering rear angles. You stayed near the center, close enough to assist if needed, but not intrusive.

No one told you where to walk or corrected your steps. It was the closest thing to trust you’d felt since arrival. Your mind stayed alert, sensing through the Force, feeling for anything unusual. The landscape itself was restless. The ground remembered war, even if the battle was long over.

After a while, Rex broke formation and dropped beside you. You tensed, but only for a moment. He didn’t speak immediately. Just walked in tandem, helmet turning slightly to watch the terrain.

“You handled the briefing well,” he said finally, turning his head to face you.

You glanced up at him, uncertain whether it was a test or a compliment, “I didn’t do anything special.”

“That’s why it worked.”

You didn’t reply, but something in your chest tightened. Something you weren’t quite sure what to call.

“You’re not like other Jedi,” Rex added after a moment.

Your eyes rolled into a different galaxy, “I’ve heard that before. Usually right before I’m reassigned.”

Rex didn’t laugh, but you heard the edge of one in his voice, “We’ll see how long the Council decides to keep you here.”

You looked ahead, unsure of how to respond. Somehow, it felt like a compliment. The fog started to break slightly, revealing the outlines of a ruined outpost coming into view on the far ridge. Still not sure how to reply, you shifted focus, “Echo’s good.”

Rex paused to take a quick glance towards Echo, “He’s one of the best I’ve met.”

“You trust him,” you noted, daring a soft, friendly smile at Rex.

“I wouldn’t have suggested ARC training if I didn’t,” he mirrored your smile.

You took a breath, choosing your next words carefully, “That trust. It’s not just professional.”

Rex’s silence was a wall. You expected him to shut the conversation down. Instead, he stopped in his tracks and looked up at the sky above, “We’ve lost too many to leave room for anything else.”

Your head dropped, shifting your attention to the ground. You didn’t mean to strike that level of depth with him and even though his helmet was on, you could still sense the overwhelming sensation of loss washing over him. The conversation died naturally, but it didn’t feel finished. You kept to the middle of the formation, between Rex and Echo. It wasn’t a strategic decision to stand there, but more so instinct.

As the canyon narrowed, the rest of the men fanned ahead or fell behind, adjusting for perimeter spacing. Without meaning to, you and Echo fell into step side by side.

After a few long moments, his voice broke the silence, “You always this quiet?”

Your eyes darted over at him, your brow slightly raised, “I didn’t realize I was being observed.”

“It’s not hard,” he replied, adjusting his grip on his pistol, “You move like someone waiting for the floor to give out.”

You gave a short exhale, “Agamar’s not exactly known for stable footing.”

Echo glanced ahead at the winding, broken path, “Fair point.” The silence returned for a few strides, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. The kind of quiet that let thoughts breathe. “I just figured,” he started again, slower this time, “Most Jedi we’ve had couldn’t stop talking about orders, strategy, and philosophy. Or they just show off at every chance they get.”

You shrugged slightly, “Maybe I’m still getting a read on everyone.”

He hummed, the sound barely audible over the wind, “That includes Rex?”

Your answer came without hesitation, “Especially the Captain.”

Echo chuckled under his breath, “Good luck.”

You allowed yourself the smallest smile, “Why’s that?”

“He doesn’t trust easily. Thinks too many Jedi expect loyalty without earning it.”

You nodded in understanding, quietly appreciative of the honesty, “I don’t expect loyalty. I just want a fighting chance to help.”

He seemed to mull that over for a moment, “We’ll see.”

The words weren’t dismissive. If anything, they felt like the beginning of something. A gust of wind stirred loose dirt into the air. Just as you lifted your arm slightly to block it, Echo instinctively moved half a step between you and the worst of the breeze, paused, then caught himself.

You gave him a look, “Was that you being polite, or just protective?”

“Both,” he said simply, keeping his head faced forward on the trail in front of you.

You blinked a few times, caught off guard by the plainness of the reply. It wasn’t playful or flirtatious. Just sincere. Before you could think of how to answer, Echo continued, “You noticed no one asked when Anakin or Ahsoka are coming back.”

You tilted your head slightly, “Yeah. I thought that would be the first question.”

“They already know the answer,” he confirmed dryly.

“That we don’t know?”

“That they’re not coming back for this mission,” Echo clarified, pointing out a small divot in the ground, “They were the ones who made this battalion feel like something more. But the men know not every battle gets that kind of leadership.”

It wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t even sad, just practical. You looked down at the ground for a beat, then forward again, “They’re not getting that kind of Jedi this time.”

Echo finally glanced sideways at you, “Maybe not.” Another few steps passed in silence and he dropped his voice, “But maybe they’re getting something else.”

Eventually, you reached a vantage point high above the canyon floor. The ruined outpost lay ahead, half-collapsed and overtaken by debris. The walls were scorched black with an old Republic banner flapping weakly in the wind, the red faded almost to white.

Rex lifted a fist, and the squad dropped into cover. The men formed up along the ridge, rifles raised but silent. You crouched beside a half-fallen support column, letting your senses stretch outward. There was movement. It was faint but felt mechanical. You weren’t picking up any heat signatures or power surges.

Jesse leaned slighted towards Rex, dropping his voice to almost a whisper, “Think it’s abandoned?”

“Only one way to find out,” Rex said frankly, moving his hand to his pistol.

But he didn’t give the signal to move in. Instead, he waited, taking a moment to analyze the surroundings and think this through. It wasn’t a trap, but something was wrong here. Something was too quiet and wrong in the way forgotten places get when they remember they’re supposed to be haunted.

Eventually, Rex gave a slow nod, the kind that didn’t invite discussion but didn’t charge forward either. Echo moved first, slipping down the ridge with practiced ease. You followed behind Jesse and Kix, keeping your senses open but not fully pushing into the Force, just listening, letting it gather around you like fog. The dust kicked up was heavy with ash and memory. Even with no signs of life, the place didn’t feel empty. It felt like something had held its breath the moment you arrived.

“Clear,” Echo called softly from the entrance. The others moved in formation, blasters raised. Rex didn’t look back, but you could feel the awareness in him, calculating the angles, the corners, the exits.

The interior of the outpost was stripped bare. Sand and dried mud caked the floor, evidence of more than one storm clawing its way inside. Old crates had long since been broken down or repurposed. The main terminal was half-destroyed, its display shattered and bleeding static. A few disconnected wires hung from a ceiling panel.

You circled the room slowly. The others spread out, checking every corner of the abandoned outpost. Kix moved to what remained of the medical station as Jesse let out a whistle, stepping over a collapsed beam.

You reached the edge of the command platform and let your hand rest lightly against the rusted frame. The Force trembled in residue, not threat. What had happened here was long over, but that didn’t make it irrelevant.

“This isn’t fresh,” you said aloud, “But something scared them off.”

“Or killed them,” Jesse offered, pushing debris aside with his foot.

“Then where are the bodies?” Echo countered, examining scorch marks on the walls. The room fell quiet again.

You inhaled through your nose and exhaled slowly, turning back to the men, “Set your gear down,” you ordered loud enough for them all to hear. “Ten minutes. We don’t move out yet.”

Rex’s eyes narrowed just slightly. You met them, continuing your command, “This outpost was meant to be a stronghold. Let’s see what it still has to offer before we push forward.”

The men didn’t argue and moved instinctively, unclipping but not removing their helmets. You watched as Kix dropped into a crouch near the old supply crates and began inspecting anything salvageable. Jesse and Fives leaned over the shattered console, trading half-words you didn’t quite catch.

You remained standing, hand brushing your saber hilt, but not drawing it. You paced to the far side of the chamber, where the outer wall had cracked wide enough to reveal a sliver of the ridge beyond. You could see the gunships dropped in the distance, resting silent on the plateau.

The sound of Jesse’s voice reached your ears, “Another fill-in Jedi,” he muttered, almost too low to hear.

You didn’t react, but let your fingers tighten just once around your belt. Fives didn’t reply to him, but a few seconds later, you caught the edge of a glance in your direction. You didn’t give him the satisfaction of looking back.

Instead, you moved closer to Echo, who was kneeling at a half-dismantled holotable near the central floor panel, “You’re not expecting this thing to still work, are you?” you asked, crouching down next to him.

Echo didn’t look up, “No, sir. But sometimes the local data cores hold residual signals. If anything pinged recently, even scavenger traffic, I’ll find the trace.”

You watched him continue to work on the holotable for a couple seconds, “Let me know what you find. Don’t send anything to the main relay. Not yet.”

He gave a sharp nod, appreciative of the discretion.

You heard a voice behind you, “I don’t think she’ll be like Vos.” It was Jesse again, but the way his voice carried told you his words were meant to be heard.

You didn’t turn around though. Allowing Echo to work in silence, you stood, stretching your spine, and crossed the floor again. When you reached the center of the room, you paused and raised your voice, “Form up in five. Recon assignments hold. Echo, I’ll be with your team. Check comms frequencies before we deploy.”

Fives bit his tongue, then took a gulp of air, “You sure? No backup from the fallback squad?”

“If this place isn’t a trap,” you reiterated, “then the worst thing we can do is treat it like one.”

“And if it is?” Jesse asked, arms crossed against his chest.

You let a slow smirk tug at your mouth, “Then it’s our trap now.”

➜ Next Chapter

➜ A/N: Thank you ALL for all the positive feedback on Chapter 1! I hope you all enjoy Chapter 2 just as much! Also, Echo 👀

➜ Tags: @bigbadbatch @bunny7567 @fireballoveraltanta @tardisgirl420 @olasz-2003 @taina-eny

#clone x reader #tcw #clone wars #captain rex #captain rex x reader #clone wars fanfic #rex x reader #clone captain rex x reader #captain rex smut

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jetii · 6 months ago

Text

Event Horizon

Chapter Twenty-Three: Determination

Chapter WC: 13,883

Chapter Warnings: drama!!! some wound stuff, obligatory emotional turmoil tag even though we all knew that was coming

A/N: I am back! I was able to build up my draft chapter backlog again, starting with this one. It's a lot, but we can all rest easy knowing this will be the last one like this for a while.

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???, 21 BBY

The moment the two of you step into the hallway, it becomes clear that this isn't a minor glitch or an unexpected turn of events.

The alarms are still blaring, and the ship's computer is still repeating the same message over and over again, and the emergency lighting has turned the hallways into a sea of red and black, making it difficult to see where you're going. Rex and you hurry towards the bridge, following the trail of panicked troopers and harried officers as they rush around, trying to get the situation under control.

Halfway there, a group of troopers rush past you, and one breaks away, waving the others on as he jogs towards you and Rex. You spot the Republic cog on his faceplate and feel a flood of relief.

"General, Captain," Jesse salutes, sounding a bit breathless. His helmet is slightly askew, and his armor is covered in dust, his boots scuffed and dirty. You watch as he glances down and freezes, and it’s only then that you realize Rex is still holding your hand.

"Jesse," Rex greets, not letting go, and you do your best to keep a straight face as Jesse clears his throat. "What's going on?"

"There’s been an explosion in the engine bay," he answers quickly. Rex's grip on your hand tightens, and Jesse gestures down the corridor, his voice rising over the alarms blaring. "One of the hyperdrives blew out and triggered the failsafe on the others.”

"How did this happen?" you ask sharply. You have no idea what the technicalities are behind hyperdrives and how they work, but it doesn’t take a genius to understand the implications of Jesse's words. A single failure means that the ship is now stranded in the middle of nowhere. A series of failures means something else entirely. "Are we—"

"It's going to take some time to figure out the cause, General," Jesse interrupts, his voice tight. He glances around nervously and drops his voice to a low whisper, his words almost lost beneath the roar of the alarms and the chaos surrounding you. "But I think someone set off an explosive charge on purpose."

“Sabotage?” Rex repeats incredulously. He looks at Jesse in shock and lets go of your hand, stepping closer, his voice rising above the noise. "Are you sure?"

"It's the only thing that makes sense," Jesse replies grimly. "We're lucky the blast didn't kill anyone."

"We need to get to the bridge," you say quickly, and Jesse nods, motioning for you to follow him.

You and Rex fall into step beside him, the three of you weaving through the chaos, dodging around the crew and the troopers who are rushing in the opposite direction. You reach the doors to the bridge and wait impatiently as they open, the three of you stepping through, and the alarms cut off abruptly. The room is eerily quiet after the loud commotion of the corridor, and it takes a moment for your ears to adjust.

The bridge is a hive of activity, with everyone doing their best to deal with the emergency, but as soon as you enter, all eyes are on the three of you, the expressions ranging from fear and worry to anger and confusion. Anakin and Ahsoka are standing around a holotable with Admiral Yularen and a handful of technicians, their voices raised in anger, and their attention shifts to you as you approach.

“It’s about time you showed up," Anakin snaps, his jaw clenched, and you frown at his tone. His eyes move between you and Rex, his lips curling into a sneer. "We're in the middle of a crisis here. What took you so long?"

The immediate urge to defend yourself rises up inside you, and your hands clench at your sides, a surge of indignation rushing through you. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Rex tense and shift on his feet.

He glances at you, and the two of you share a look, a silent conversation passing between the two of you, a reminder to stay calm. You take a deep breath and force your expression into a mask of calm.

"What's the situation?" you ask, ignoring Anakin's question, and Rex moves closer, standing beside you. His presence is reassuring, and you can't help but think of what happened just minutes ago. What might've happened if the two of you hadn't been interrupted.

A flush creeps up your neck, and you push those thoughts aside, focusing on the task at hand. There'll be plenty of time to think about that later.

"We're in trouble,” Anakin growls.

"I'd gathered that," you reply dryly. Ahsoka and Jesse glance at each other, the former rolling her eyes, the latter shaking his head. Rex shoots you a warning look, and you resist the urge to roll your eyes as well, turning back to Anakin. "Do we have a damage report yet?"

"Most of the main systems are offline," Yularen replies, his voice calm and collected, a stark contrast to the anger and frustration emanating from the two of you. "And we've lost contact with the rest of the fleet."

"What does that mean exactly?" you ask. Yularen takes a deep breath and glances at Anakin, who waves his hand impatiently, his mouth pressed into a thin line. He turns back to you and gives you a grim look.

"We're trapped in the middle of nowhere," he answers flatly. "At the current speed, it'll take us over two months to reach Kamino, and that is if we make it through the Rishi Maze.”

"Is the hyperdrive salvageable?" Rex asks, his eyes moving between the admiral and the techs, who are all shaking their heads. He sighs and rubs the back of his neck, his brow furrowing. "So what's the plan?"

"We're going to have to repair the ship and wait for help," Ahsoka says, her hands on her hips, and you can hear the frustration in her voice. You look at her, and she meets your gaze, her expression hardening. "I'm working with the maintenance crews to fix the engines. It shouldn't take more than a few hours."

"We need to figure out why this happened," you add, turning to Jesse, and he nods, his expression solemn. "Did you find the source of the explosion yet?"

"Not yet, sir," he replies.

"I'll help with the investigation," you offer. Jesse and Rex exchange a look, and you can sense their unease. Jesse frowns, his eyes narrowing slightly, and his gaze moves between the two of you. "What?"

"With all due respect, General," Jesse says carefully. He looks at Anakin, and when the other man doesn't speak, he continues. "This may have been an attempt to assassinate a high-ranking officer. If it was, the investigation will need to be handled with discretion. Someone on board this ship might be the culprit."

"And by handling the investigation discreetly, you mean not including the person being targeted in the investigation," you retort, crossing your arms over your chest, and Jesse winces. Rex sighs and steps forward, his hand reaching out to grasp your shoulder, giving it a small squeeze. You shrug him off and glare at Jesse. "That's not happening."

"If it was an attempt to kill you, General, it's possible that the attacker will try again," he explains, his tone apologetic. He hesitates, and when you don't respond, he squares his shoulders. “It would be safer if you were to stay on the bridge."

"He's right," Ahsoka adds. She meets your gaze, her eyes full of concern, and her voice is gentle. "You'll be safer up here."

"I can handle myself," you snap, and Ahsoka shakes her head.

"We know that," she replies. She motions to the holotable, and her mouth curves into a small smile. "But let us handle this. Okay? We'll figure out what happened. I promise."

"Fine," you mutter, and Rex gives you a sympathetic look, his hand returning to your shoulder. He squeezes it once more and turns to Jesse, his expression shifting from sympathetic to stern.

"Let me know if you need anything," Rex tells him.

"Will do, sir," Jesse nods. He looks at Ahsoka and tilts his head towards the door, and she falls into step beside him, the two of them heading towards the exit, their voices low and urgent. You watch as they leave, and a pang of regret shoots through you.

"This is bad," Anakin mutters. You glance at him, and his eyes meet yours, the irritation and anger gone, replaced by weariness and worry. He sighs and runs a hand over his face. "Sorry. I shouldn't have snapped at you."

"It's okay," you sigh, and he snorts, giving you a wry smile. You shrug and look away, a grimace twisting your face. "Well, it's not. But I get it."

"Thanks," Anakin mutters. He shakes his head and rubs the back of his neck, his gaze moving between you and Rex. "Can you two make sure everything is under control? I need to go speak with the Chancellor."

"Of course," Rex answers. Anakin gives him a curt nod and turns away, marching towards the door with Yularen at his heels.

You watch them go, the unease in the pit of your stomach growing. The thought of having to stay on the bridge while everyone else does their best to fix the situation makes you want to scream. The desire to run off and search for the culprit is overwhelming, but you know better than to do that.

And even if you didn't, Rex wouldn't let you.

"You're not happy about this," Rex murmurs, his voice low enough that only you can hear.

"No, I'm not," you admit. You turn to him, and he raises an eyebrow, his lips curving into a faint smile. You narrow your eyes and poke his chest. "This is not funny."

"I didn't say anything," Rex chuckles. You glare at him and cross your arms over your chest, and he gives you a sympathetic look. He lifts his hands and rubs them over his face, letting out a tired sigh. "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"For earlier," he says quietly, and a rush of heat floods your body. "I shouldn't have said what I said."

"Rex..."

"It was inappropriate," he says, cutting you off, and the guilt in his voice makes your heart ache. His head drops and he rubs the back of his neck, a small frown tugging at his lips. "I...I don't know what I was thinking."

"Hey," you say, and his eyes snap up to yours. "It's okay. It's...we're both stressed and worried. We're dealing with a lot right now."

"That's no excuse," he mutters. His brow furrows and his gaze drops, and the shame and guilt that emanate from him are so strong that it takes everything in you not to reach out and pull him into your arms. But you can't do that. Not here. Not now. And not until the two of you have talked about what happened.

"Look, we'll talk about it later," you tell him gently. He glances at you and nods. "Okay?"

"Yeah," he sighs, and you can feel his mood shift, the tension and stress melting away, replaced by a quiet resignation. His shoulders slump, and a resigned smile spreads across his face. "You're right."

"I usually am," you joke. Rex rolls his eyes, and you give him a quick grin before looking around the bridge. "Alright, we should—"

"General," a technician interrupts. He gestures towards the holotable, and you walk over, Rex following close behind. The image of a star chart is projected above the table, and the technician taps on the display, zooming in on the image. “We’re receiving a distress signal from a nearby planet. It's coming from the surface."

"That's odd," Rex mutters, his brow furrowing. He leans closer and studies the image, his head tilting to the side. "There aren't any habitable planets in this system."

"Maybe it's automated," you suggest.

"Possibly," the technician agrees.

He taps a few more buttons, and the image changes, showing the planet from above. The landscape is covered in a dense, gray fog, obscuring most of the details. You can just make out the outline of a single structure, surrounded by a ring of large, craggy rocks. The technician points to a small, blinking dot on the display.

"The signal is coming from a small outpost on the planet. The inhabitants appear to be human colonists, but it's unclear who they are."

"It could be Separatists," Rex murmurs. He looks at you, and you can see the concern in his eyes. "They could've staged this attack and then fled to the planet. They could be waiting for us."

"Maybe," you reply. Your eyes return to the display, and you frown, a familiar feeling tugging at the edge of your senses. There's something about the planet that's nagging at you, and you can't quite put your finger on it. "There's only one way to find out."

"Are you suggesting we send a squad down there?" Rex asks, shaking his head. "We can't risk a confrontation. We don't have the manpower or the resources to handle another fight."

You look back at the image and nod slowly. The more you think about it, the more certain you are that the feeling is the Force telling you that there's something important on the planet. You take a deep breath and meet his gaze.

“No, I’m suggesting that I go down there," you tell him, and Rex's expression turns incredulous, his eyes widening.

"You're kidding," he says, a note of disbelief in his voice. He straightens his back and shakes his head. "No. No way. You're not going down there alone."

"Yes, I am," you argue, and Rex glares at you, his hands moving to his hips. At your side, the technician shifts uncomfortably, his eyes flicking between the two of you. "There's a chance that whoever's down there might need our help. If they do, I have a duty to assist them."

"Your duty is to stay here," Rex counters. "On the ship. Safe and sound. Away from any potential danger."

"Don't be dramatic," you scoff. "I'll take a ship, go down there, check it out, and then come right back. Simple."

"Simple," he repeats. He lets out a frustrated sigh and looks up at the ceiling, shaking his head. "Nothing is ever simple with you. You know that, right?"

"I'm aware," you reply dryly. Rex huffs and rubs the back of his neck, his gaze dropping to the floor. His expression is strained, and he's doing his best not to look at you. He knows that if he does, you'll be able to convince him, and he doesn't want that.

You wait, watching as he tries to come up with an argument, but it's obvious that he's struggling. He knows that the odds are against him, and the longer he stays silent, the more difficult it is for him to find a valid reason. Neither of you are willing to concede.

"Please," you finally say, and his eyes flick up to yours, his brow furrowing. You meet his gaze and offer him a small smile. "I have a feeling that I should go down there."

"A feeling," he repeats. He lets out a deep, weary sigh, and his shoulders slump. "Fine. But I'm going with you."

"No," you protest, but Rex shakes his head.

"Either I go with you or you don't go," he says firmly. He folds his arms across his chest, his expression hardening. "Pick."

"You're not serious," you retort, but Rex doesn't budge, and a heavy silence fills the air. The technician shifts awkwardly and clears his throat, looking back and forth between the two of you.

"I can arrange for a shuttle," he offers, and Rex gives him a curt nod.

"Thank you," he says. The technician hurries away, leaving the two of you alone. Rex looks at you, and his expression softens, his lips twitching upwards. "Don't argue."

"I'm not arguing," you retort, and he snorts, shaking his head.

"You always argue," he points out. He glances around the bridge, and his eyes settle on a group of troopers gathered near the far wall. "I'm going to see if anyone's willing to volunteer for the mission."

"We're not telling them about the distress signal," you tell him quickly.

"Why not?"

"Because I don't want anyone else to go down there," you explain, and his eyebrows rise.

"You want to keep this a secret?" he asks, his tone disbelieving.

"I'm not trying to keep it a secret," you reply, and his eyebrows rise higher. You let out an exasperated sigh and shake your head. "I'm trying to protect them. If the Separatists are down there, they're going to be heavily armed and dangerous. I'm not sending anyone else down there."

"And if they are, and it's a trap?" Rex counters.

"Then, I'll have you," you retort. You tilt your head to the side and smile. "You'll keep me safe, right?"

"Always," he says quietly, his expression growing serious. The two of you hold each other's gaze, and you can sense the conflict and worry radiating off him. After a moment, his eyes move to the side, and he rubs the back of his neck, his expression shifting into a frown. "We should get ready."

"Agreed."

The two of you turn and head for the exit, falling into step beside each other. As you step into the corridor, the alarms blare once again, and you wince, the sudden loud noise catching you off guard. The red lighting flashes and casts a crimson glow over the hall, and the computerized voice calls out over the alarms.

"Attention. Attention. This is an emergency..."

Rex shakes his head and grumbles under his breath. You give him a sympathetic look and reach out, squeezing his arm.

"Come on," you murmur. He nods and follows after you as you make your way through the ship toward the hangar where the shuttle is waiting. It's not a long trip, and you don't say anything along the way, the two of you lost in your own thoughts. The unease that has been building inside you grows with every passing second, and by the time you reach the hangar, you're certain that this is a bad idea.

"Rex," you start, but he cuts you off, grabbing your arm, pulling you to the side. A group of troopers rush past, their armor reflecting the red glow from the lights, and the two of you stand there, watching them run by. When they're gone, he lets go and sighs.

"Whatever happens down there, we stick together," he tells you. You nod, and his hand reaches out, gripping your shoulder, squeezing it gently. "Got it?"

"Got it," you reply, and he smiles and lets go, taking a step back. He turns and walks away, heading for the shuttle, and you follow after him, doing your best to keep the doubt from showing on your face.

The Twilight is already prepped and ready to go, the ramp lowered, the engines sputtering. The idea of taking Anakin's prized freighter without him knowing isn't exactly appealing, but it's not like the two of you have a choice. And besides, it's not like you'll be gone for long. You'll just take a quick look, check out the situation, and then get the hell out. Simple.

"Sir!" A voice calls out as you and Rex scale the ramp. Jesse jogs over, his helmet tucked under his arm. "What's going on? Why are you leaving?"

Rex looks over at you and tilts his head towards the entrance of the hangar, gesturing for you to go ahead. You nod and step inside, moving towards the cockpit, leaving the two of them alone. As soon as you're out of earshot, you slow down, stopping just outside the door, listening to their conversation.

"We're going on a mission," Rex answers. You hear the clink of his boots against the durasteel decking and a small thump, probably him setting down his helmet.

"What mission?" Jesse asks. You lean against the wall, watching as he frowns and looks at Rex, his expression skeptical. "General Skywalker said we should stay here and fix the ship."

"Something's come up," Rex replies, and Jesse's frown deepens. He glances towards the cockpit, and you move further away, pretending to inspect the wiring. You watch as his eyes narrow, his lips pressing into a thin line.

"Does it have anything to do with why you were late to the bridge earlier?" he asks. Rex hesitates, and Jesse's gaze moves back to him, his expression turning suspicious. "Sir, did something happen between you and the General?"

"It's none of your business, Jesse," Rex tells him sharply. You wince, and Rex glances towards the cockpit, his eyes locking onto yours, his cheeks flushing slightly. He gives you a tight smile and looks away, clearing his throat. "Look, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have snapped at you. There's...there's a lot going on."

"Is she in trouble?" Jesse presses, and Rex sighs, shaking his head.

"Not yet," he answers. "But there's a chance she might be, so we're going to check it out."

"We?"

"Yeah," Rex replies. He takes a deep breath and runs a hand over his head, his voice dropping to a low murmur. "I'm going with her."

"Of course you are," Jesse snorts, and Rex looks at him, raising an eyebrow.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Sir, with all due respect, this is not the time for the two of you to be sneaking off together," Jesse says, his voice rising slightly, his tone growing agitated. Rex winces, and his eyes move to you again, and you can feel the guilt radiating off him.

"We're not sneaking off together," he tells Jesse, his tone firm. "And even if we were, that's not any of your business. Understood?"

"Yes, sir," Jesse replies. He pauses, and you watch as his eyes move back and forth, his mind working furiously. "Well, if you're going, I'm going too."

"That's not—"

"I know, I know," Jesse interrupts, holding up his hands, and he gives Rex a small grin. "The General doesn't want anyone else involved. But if she's in danger, it's my duty to protect her. If you're going, I'm going."

"It's dangerous," Rex warns.

"We're soldiers. That's our job.," Jesse replies. He shrugs and gestures towards the shuttle. "And besides, I can't leave you two alone. You might do something stupid."

"Like what?" Rex scoffs, and Jesse smirks.

"Oh, I don't know," he says, his tone casual, but there's a hint of a teasing edge to his voice. "Do I really need to spell it out?"

Rex scowls and looks away, his cheeks reddening, and Jesse lets out a small laugh, shaking his head.

"Don't worry, sir," he assures him. "Your secret is safe with me."

"There's no secret," Rex grumbles. Jesse rolls his eyes and claps him on the shoulder, giving him a sympathetic look.

"Whatever you say, sir."

The two of them start up the ramp into the shuttle, forcing you to dart into the pilot's seat. You pretend to fiddle with the controls, and a few seconds later, they enter the cockpit, both men looking at you expectantly.

"All set?" Rex asks, and you nod.

"I think so," you reply. You glance between the two of them, a frown forming on your face. "Jesse, why are you here?"

"He's coming with us," Rex says, and you can feel your frown deepen.

"I said that no one else was coming with us," you argue. Jesse shrugs and sets his helmet on the console.

"With all due respect, General, I'm coming anyway," he tells you. His tone is polite, but the stubborn set of his jaw and the determined look in his eye make it clear that he won't be easily swayed. "You might need backup."

"We'll be fine," you snap, and Rex sighs.

"Let him come," he says quietly. His eyes lock onto yours, and when you see the pleading look in them, you give him a frustrated huff.

"Fine," you mutter.

"Good," Jesse grins, and you roll your eyes.

"Whatever," you grumble, and you start flipping switches, the engines roaring to life, the controls lighting up. The three of you strap yourselves in, and you grab the controls, guiding the ship out of the hangar and into space. As soon as you're clear, you tap the coordinates for the planet, and the autopilot takes over, guiding the ship towards its destination.

You turn to Jesse, who's busy checking his equipment, and point at the viewport. "This is a reconnaissance mission. We're going to take a look, check out the situation, and then get the hell out. Got it?"

"Got it," Jesse agrees. You glance at Rex, who gives you a small nod, and the three of you settle in, watching the stars streak past the viewport. After a few minutes, the planet comes into view, the gray mass looming in front of you. You frown and peer out at it, watching the fog clouds roil and swirl. Something about the planet gives you a strange, uneasy feeling, and you can't shake the feeling that this is a bad idea.

"General," Rex says softly. You look over at him, and he raises an eyebrow. "Everything okay?"

"I'm fine," you reply, and his eyes narrow. He doesn't believe you, but you don't want to worry him. Or Jesse. Or yourself, for that matter. You push the feeling aside and gesture towards the planet. "Let's do this."

The shuttle descends, the planet growing larger as it approaches. You lean forward and watch as the fog begins to part, revealing the surface. As you get closer, the details become clearer, and the gray landscape stretches as far as the eye can see. There's nothing green or brown or blue, just the same endless gray expanse. The only landmark is a small cluster of structures near the edge of the horizon.

You frown and press the controls, the shuttle changing course, angling towards the buildings. You scan the area and let out a soft sigh. There's no sign of life anywhere.

As the shuttle continues its descent, the fog closes in, and the ground becomes obscured. The buildings loom ahead, and you adjust the course, flying over the structures, circling around. The shuttle's scanners sweep the area, searching for any signs of life, but there's nothing. No movement. No heat signatures. No signs of any living creature.

"It's deserted," Rex says quietly. He glances at you, and his expression hardens. "Are we sure this is the right place?"

"Yeah," you reply. You look out the viewport, watching as the structures pass by beneath the shuttle, and the uneasiness inside you grows. The Force is telling you that there's something important on the surface, and the feeling is growing stronger with every second. "We should land and check it out."

"That's not a good idea," Jesse protests. He leans forward and points towards the edge of the fog. "We can see the outpost from here. We can scan it and get a better look without putting ourselves at risk."

"There's something here," you tell him, and Rex gives you a sharp look. You shake your head, ignoring his concern, and focus on Jesse, doing your best to keep the doubt from showing on your face. "We need to find out what it is."

"General—"

"Jesse," Rex interrupts, and the other man sighs. He rubs the back of his neck, a frustrated look on his face, and he glances between the two of you.

"Alright, alright," he finally relents. He unbuckles his harness and stands, grabbing his helmet, pulling it over his head. "I'll do a quick sweep, and then we can head back. Sound good?"

"Perfect," you smile, and Jesse grunts, walking past the two of you, heading towards the ramp. You wait until he's out of earshot before looking over at Rex, and the moment your eyes meet, the concern radiating from him is overwhelming.

"Please, tell me that you're not feeling the same thing I'm feeling," he says quietly, and the desperation in his voice sends a pang through your heart. You hesitate, and he sighs, running a hand over his face. "Great."

"Rex..."

"What's the point of the Force if it can't warn you about these things?" he mutters, shaking his head. He closes his eyes, his jaw clenching, and his hands grip the harness tightly.

"It is warning me," you tell him, and his eyes fly open, meeting yours, his expression full of disbelief. "I can feel it. The Force is trying to tell me something. I just...I don't know what it is. I just know that I need to go down there."

You unbuckle your harness and stand, and Rex follows suit, his movements stiff and robotic. He pulls on his helmet and checks his blasters while you pull the rebreather over your nose and mouth. You give him a reassuring smile and rest your hand on his arm, giving it a light squeeze.

"I'm going to be fine," you assure him, and he shakes his head.

"No, you're not," he retorts. He looks at you, and you can sense his fear and frustration and anger. "Nothing ever goes right when we're together. Every time. Every damn time."

"Hey," you say sharply, and he huffs. "That's not true."

"It is," he mutters. His head drops, and his shoulders slump, the tension and anger leaving him. He lets out a tired sigh and turns towards the open hatch. "I don't want anything to happen to you."

"It won't," you promise, and he scoffs, his brow furrowing. He opens his mouth, but before he can say anything, Jesse returns, and the two of you turn towards him. He gives the two of you a quick look and holds up a finger.

"Okay, I did a quick sweep, and it looks like the place is empty," he reports. He taps the side of his helmet and shrugs. "Nothing on the thermal either. If anyone's down there, they're well hidden."

"We're still going," you say, and Jesse lets out an exasperated groan.

"I knew you were going to say that," he complains. He looks at Rex, and you can tell that the captain is rolling his eyes behind his visor. "Is she always like this?"

"Yes," Rex replies dryly.

He tilts his head towards the hatch, and Jesse lets out a resigned sigh, leading the way down the ramp and onto the ground. You follow after him, stepping onto the gray surface, your boots sinking into the wet dirt. Rex is right behind you, and the three of you begin making your way towards the outpost.

The fog is thick, and it's difficult to see more than a few feet in any direction. You pull the hood of your robe up, the fabric covering your head and the top half of your face. The ground is uneven and soft, and the air dank and cold.

A few steps into the fog, the visibility drops to almost nothing, and you find yourself relying on the Force to guide you. It's disorienting, and after a while, you're not entirely sure where you're going. Jesse's at the front of the group, and Rex is at your side, his blasters at the ready. Every few steps, the three of you stop and listen, scanning the area for any signs of life.

There's nothing.

The only sound is the muffled crunch of the ground beneath your boots and the soft rustling of the fog. It's unsettling, and you find yourself moving closer to Rex, his presence calming your nerves.

You can see his helmet tilt toward you, and you can sense his unease. He doesn't want you out here. He wants to turn around and go back to the ship. And if it were up to him, that's exactly what he would do.

But it's not.

You're the one in charge.

So, the three of you continue walking, the outpost growing closer and closer, the structure looming ahead of you. The gray stone walls are covered in moss and vines, and the wooden gate is open, hanging from its hinges. The interior of the compound is obscured by the fog, and you pause, your senses on high alert.

There's no sound. No movement. No signs of life.

"Jesse," you murmur, and he glances back at you. "You and Rex search the perimeter. I'll check inside."

"I don't think—"

"Just do it," you order, cutting him off, and he huffs, shaking his head.

"You heard the General," Rex says, and Jesse gives him a curt nod. "Let's go."

The two of them turn away and move along the edge of the wall, disappearing into the fog. You watch as they fade into the grayness, and then you take a deep breath, drawing your lightsaber and activating it. The blade ignites with a hum, the yellow glow illuminating the fog, and you step towards the open gate.

As you pass through the entrance, a chill runs down your spine. There's a feeling in the air, a dark energy surrounding the area. It's familiar, but you can't quite place it. It's a feeling that you've experienced before, but not here. Not in this place.

You pause, listening, searching for any signs of life, and when the silence continues, you step forward, heading towards the center of the compound. There are a handful of structures, most of which are dilapidated and falling apart. A few of them are nothing more than piles of rubble, the walls crumbling, the roof caving in.

You've only taken a few steps when something out of the corner of your eye shifts. A dark shape moving in the distance. Your eyes dart towards the source, and you watch as a shadowy figure emerges from the fog, its movements slow and deliberate.

"Jesse? Rex?" you call out, and the figure stops. You take a cautious step towards it, and it vanishes.

"General!"

You turn towards the sound of Rex's voice, and the figure appears again. It's standing behind you, and when you look back, it's gone.

"Rex!" you shout, and you hear him calling out for you, his voice getting closer. The figure appears again, further away. It's tall and humanoid, its limbs long and spindly. It's facing away from you, and when you try to follow, it vanishes once more.

You hear a faint noise coming from the direction the figure disappeared. A soft tapping sound. It's faint and distant, but it's there. You turn towards the source, and the figure appears again. You make out the shape of a cape, a hood, and your hand tightens on your lightsaber.

"Hey!" you call out, and the figure spins around, the fog swirling, obscuring its features. The tapping sound continues, and the figure takes a step towards you. "Who are you? What do you want?"

You take a cautious step forward, and the figure vanishes, the tapping fading away. You wait for a moment, listening, and then the tapping returns, the sound growing louder. It's coming from somewhere close by, and when you try to follow the noise, the figure reappears. You spin towards it, and as soon as you do, the noise stops.

"This is ridiculous," you growl, and you take a step towards the figure, but before you can reach it, it disappears. The tapping returns, the noise even louder, the sound echoing off the walls of the buildings. It's close.

You move quickly, sprinting after it, your heart pounding. You can hear Rex and Jesse calling out for you, but you ignore them. The fog swirls and twists, and you follow the sound, the tapping growing louder and louder. It's coming from inside one of the buildings. You skid to a stop and look up. The building is smaller than the others, and the doorway is barely big enough for you to squeeze through.

"Come on," you murmur, and you push the door open, slipping inside. The tapping stops, and the room is completely silent. You look around, searching for any sign of the figure, and when you don't see anything, you let out a frustrated huff. "I know you're here. You wanted help. Well, I'm here. So, let's talk."

The silence stretches on, and then the sound returns, the tapping louder and faster than before. It's coming from below. From beneath the floor. You look down and realize that the floor isn't made of stone or wood. It's metal. It's a hatch.

You kneel and press your ear to the surface, the tapping getting louder, the noise echoing off the metal. There's a muffled thumping mixed in with the tapping. It's a steady rhythm. Like a heartbeat.

You grab the handle and yank, the hatch sliding open, revealing a ladder leading down into a dark pit.

"Oh, for Force's sake," you mutter.

"General! Where are you?"

"Rex!" you call out, and the noise stops, the silence deafening. "I'm over here."

You look down the ladder, and a few seconds later, Rex and Jesse emerge from the fog. They jog towards you, their blasters drawn, and when they get close enough, they slow down.

"What are you doing?" Rex asks. He looks down at the hatch and back to you, holstering his blasters and placing his hands on his hips. "You weren't thinking of going down there alone, were you?"

"...Maybe," you admit, and Rex's helmet tilts skyward.

"Of course, you were," he grumbles. He glances at Jesse, and the other man shrugs.

"She's got a death wish, sir," Jesse tells him. Rex lets out a resigned sigh, and Jesse leans closer, giving you a disapproving look. "Don't do anything stupid."

"When have I ever done anything stupid?" you ask. Rex and Jesse both snort, and you frown, crossing your arms over your chest. "I don't think I like your attitude."

"We don't like your attitude," Rex retorts. He crouches and peers down the hole, and when he looks up, the annoyance in his voice is clear. "Well, we're not doing this without a plan. Or at least without some kind of idea about what's down there."

"It's some kind of tapping," you reply, and he gestures for you to elaborate. You huff and shrug. "There's a rhythm to it. And I keep seeing a figure in the fog. It's humanoid."

"A figure?" Jesse repeats, and he and Rex exchange a look. You raise an eyebrow and tilt your head to the side, waiting for one of them to speak. "Are you sure you didn't hit your head earlier?"

You scowl, your hands curling into fists, and you're about to tell him exactly what you think of his comment when Rex steps between the two of you. He holds up his hands and shakes his head.

"That's not helping," he says firmly. Jesse grumbles under his breath, and Rex glances over his shoulder at you. "What do you want to do?"

"I'm going down there," you tell him. You step towards the ladder and start climbing, and when Rex starts to protest, you hold up a finger, silencing him. "You can either come with me or not. Either way, I'm doing this."

Rex hesitates, and when he looks at Jesse, the other man just shrugs. He lets out an exasperated sigh and nods.

"Fine," he mutters. He points at Jesse. "Stay up here. If we're not back in thirty minutes, call for backup."

"Copy that," Jesse replies, and Rex climbs onto the ladder, following after you.

You descend into the darkness, the sound of the tapping getting louder and louder. When you reach the bottom, you step off the ladder, and Rex lands beside you. His helmet scans the room, and he reaches out, his fingers closing around your wrist. He pulls you behind him, his body shielding yours.

"Be careful," he whispers.

"Always am," you murmur, and his helmet swivels to look at you. You can feel his skepticism and amusement radiating from him, and he shakes his head, turning back to the darkness.

"Sure, you are," he chuckles. "I've seen the scars."

"That was one time," you protest, and he snorts, taking a step forward.

"No, it wasn't," he retorts.

"I thought you liked how reckless I am," you tease, and his helmet tilts, a low, rumbling growl escaping from the speakers. You bite your lip to keep from laughing, and when he turns his head, you give him a sweet smile. "You said it. Not me."

"That's not what I said," he mutters.

"Yes, it is," you laugh, and his hand tightens on your wrist, pulling you close. You stumble forward, bumping into him, and he wraps an arm around your waist, holding you against him.

"Be. Careful," he growls, his voice low and dangerous, and the sudden change in his tone sends a shiver down your spine. You look up at him and lick your lips, your mouth suddenly dry. "Promise me."

"I will," you whisper. The intensity of his stare is overwhelming, and you find yourself frozen, your breath catching in your throat. "I promise."

"Good," he murmurs, his voice softening. He releases his grip on your waist, his hand sliding up your back and resting between your shoulders, gently nudging you forward. "Come on."

The two of you walk side by side through the darkness, the sound of the tapping growing louder with every step. As the two of you move further into the tunnel, the darkness begins to give way, the walls illuminated by dim red lights. You glance at Rex, and he gives you a quick nod, gesturing for you to keep moving.

"It's an escape tunnel," he mutters. He moves closer to the wall and examines the lights, his helmet tilting towards the ground. "Probably goes all the way to the outpost."

"Why would they need an escape tunnel?"

"Maybe they were hiding from something," Rex replies. He stands and glances around the room. "Or someone."

The two of you continue walking, the tapping growing louder, the tunnel narrowing. You reach a junction, and the sound is coming from the left, the path sloping downward. Rex hesitates, and you nudge his arm, pushing him forward. He lets out a resigned sigh and follows after you.

As the two of you walk down the slope, the tapping becomes deafening, the sound bouncing off the walls. It's coming from a closed door up ahead. Rex draws his blaster, and you ignite your lightsaber, the yellow blade illuminating the area. The two of you reach the door and pause, listening. There's no movement, no sounds other than the tapping.

"You ready?" Rex asks, and you nod. He raises his blaster and places his hand on the door handle. "On three."

He counts down, and then the door swings open, revealing a small, dimly lit room. It's empty, and the only furniture is a table and chair. There's a tarp draped over the wall behind it, and the tapping is coming from beneath.

You glance at Rex, and he takes a cautious step inside. When nothing happens, he holsters his blaster and moves towards the tarp.

"What are you doing?" you ask, and he waves a dismissive hand.

"Just stay there," he orders.

You frown, your eyes narrowing. "Don't tell me what to do."

Rex sighs and shakes his head, grabbing the tarp and pulling it off the wall, revealing a series of monitors and control panels. There's a microphone on the table, and the source of the tapping is revealed. It's a small, cylindrical device attached to the microphone, and when Rex picks it up, the tapping stops.

He sets the device on the table and looks at the monitors, his helmet tilting to the side. You move towards him, and he points to the screens, showing you the messages and audio files.

"Someone was trying to lure people here," he murmurs. He flips through a few more files and lets out a disgusted huff. "Whoever it was must have figured that a fake distress call would bring us running."

"So, this is a trap?"

"Looks like it," Rex replies. He looks down at the device and tilts his head to the side. "And, judging by the fact that there's no sign of whoever put this here, I'm guessing that they got away. Guess we scared them off."

"Yeah," you mutter, and he turns to face you, his helmet lifting, his visor scanning your face.

"I know that tone," he says softly. You raise an eyebrow, and he folds his arms over his chest. "What is it?"

"I just..." you begin, and you trail off, letting out a frustrated sigh. You shake your head and lean against the table, rubbing your forehead. "This whole thing feels...off."

"Off?"

"It doesn't make sense," you tell him. "Why would anyone set up a fake distress signal and then leave? It's not like they could've known that we would come. Or even if we would. For all they knew, no one would hear their signal. Why waste the time and energy putting this all together?"

"Maybe they panicked," Rex suggests. "Maybe they didn't think things through."

"Maybe," you reply. You push away from the table and pace around the room, frowning. "But something about this feels...familiar. Like I've seen it before."

"Like what?"

"I don't know," you mutter. You stop and look at him, shaking your head. "It's just a feeling. A hunch. And I can't explain it."

"Okay," Rex says slowly, his voice hesitant. He pauses, and then he walks over to the tarp and grabs it, throwing it back over the wall, covering the monitors. "We'll talk to General Skywalker. See what he thinks. Maybe he can make sense of all this."

"Yeah," you agree. You walk past him, and he follows, the two of you heading back towards the ladder. The tapping starts up again, the sound echoing off the walls. Rex's hand reaches out, resting on the small of your back, his fingers pressing against the fabric of your robe. You look over at him, and his helmet tips toward the source, his voice low and soothing.

"Ignore it," he murmurs, and the two of you start walking, the sound fading away. "It's just a recording."

"I know," you whisper. You take a deep breath and let it out slowly, and as the two of you walk, his hand moves lower, his fingers brushing over your hip. The gesture is subtle, but it's enough to make your pulse race, a shiver running down your spine.

Your eyes flick to him, and Rex pulls away, clearing his throat.

"Sorry," he mutters. His voice is rough and strained, and he glances away, his hand running over the back of his neck. "Didn't mean to, uh...yeah."

You watch as he hurries towards the ladder, and you follow after him, biting back a grin. His flustered state is adorable, and the sight of him embarrassed and fidgety makes your heart melt. For a man who was inches away from kissing you only a few hours ago he's certainly acting shy.

"Don't worry about it," you call out, and Rex lets out a soft snort. He glances over his shoulder, his helmet tilting to the side, and you shrug. "I don't mind."

He looks at you for a long moment, and then he climbs onto the ladder and begins to ascend. You watch him go, a small smile on your face, before you shake your head.

"Get it together," you whisper to yourself. There are more important things to focus on than Rex and his adorable antics. Like finding out who was behind the distress signal.

With a determined huff, your hand grabs for the first rung of the ladder, but something stops you. You pause and listen, your senses heightening. There's something wrong. The tapping has stopped.

And then you see it.

The shadow.

It appears at the edge of your vision, the dark shape moving along the wall. You spin around, and it vanishes, the shadows stretching, enveloping the space. The red lights flicker, and when they do, you can see it.

It's humanoid. Tall. Spindly. Dressed in black. A hood covers its face, and a cape billows out behind it. The same figure that's been following you. The same one that attacked you ten years ago, the same one that you saw on the footage the night Yaddle died.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," you growl.

A low, raspy laugh fills the air, and the figure turns and walks away, disappearing into the darkness. You run after it, sprinting down the tunnel, watching as Dooku's retreating form vanishes into the blackness.

You reach the junction, this time taking the path to the right. You follow after him, the tunnel sloping upward until you reach another door. You draw your lightsaber and open it, the bright glow of the yellow blade illuminating the room.

Dooku is standing in the center of the space, his back to you, his hands clasped behind his back. He's wearing a long black cloak and a hood, and the light from your saber casts his shadow across the walls, the edges of his image elongated and distorted.

"You're pretty spry for an old man," you tell him, and his shoulders twitch, a low chuckle escaping his lips. He turns to face you, and when his hood falls, his features are illuminated.

"Still the same reckless girl," Dooku says, and he tilts his head to the side, his voice filled with amusement. "Always so eager to prove yourself."

"I don't have anything to prove to you," you retort, and his eyes narrow. His lips curl into a sneer, and his head lifts, his expression becoming haughty and condescending.

"Don't you?"

"No," you snap. You take a step towards him, and his smirk fades, his eyes narrowing. "But I'm curious. What are you doing here? Don't you have an entire army to run?"

"I could ask you the same question," Dooku replies. He looks at you and chuckles, shaking his head. "But I think we both know the answer. You came here because you felt something. A connection to me. To the Force."

"That's not true," you protest, but he ignores you.

"You wanted answers," he continues, his voice soft, his tone almost gentle. "Answers that no one else can provide. Answers that you desperately need."

"I don't want anything from you," you growl, pulling your shoto from your belt and igniting it. The twin blades flare to life, their glow reflecting off his skin. "Just stay still, and maybe this will hurt less."

Dooku takes a step towards you, and your stance shifts, your body moving into a defensive position. He chuckles and holds up his hands, stopping a few feet from you.

"Really, dear girl, you should learn some respect for your betters," he tells you, and you let out a frustrated sigh.

"I'm done playing games," you snap, and before he can react, you attack.

You lunge towards him, swinging your lightsabers, and his blade ignites, blocking the blows. You press the attack, pushing him back, and he counters, the two of you trading strikes and parries. He's skilled, his movements graceful and elegant, and the longer the fight continues, the more he seems to be enjoying himself. It's as if your actions are fueling his pleasure.

"You've gotten better," Dooku tells you. "I'll give you that."

"Yeah, well, last time, you didn't fight fair," you retort, and he smirks.

"Neither did you," he counters. His lightsaber flicks, the blade moving in a blur, and you barely block the strike, the tip of his weapon grazing your shoulder. The fabric of your robe tears, and you hiss, the burning sensation making your blood boil.

"Bastard," you snarl, and the two of you lock blades, the light from the glowing swords reflecting off the walls, casting shadows across the room.

"Temper, temper," he tuts. He presses his weight into the hilt of his lightsaber, and the heat from the blades grows hotter, the tips of the hilts burning against your palms. "It's unbecoming."

"I'm not interested in a lesson in decorum from a murderer."

You shove him back and swing, forcing him to jump away, and you chase after him, unleashing a series of strikes and thrusts. The two of you dance around the room, the light from the sabers reflecting off the walls, and the battle quickly devolves into a duel, both of you matching the other's attacks, neither of you gaining an advantage.

As the minutes pass, your frustration grows, and the anger and hatred inside you builds. You lash out, and Dooku dodges, the tip of your blade cutting through his cloak, the fabric fluttering to the ground. It's a small victory, but it's enough to spur you on.

"That was expensive, you know," he drawls.

"Good," you snarl.

The two of you continue your dance, and as the fight progresses, his attacks become more vicious. He pushes you harder, his strikes growing quicker and more precise, and your defenses crumble, leaving you open.

The tip of his blade slices through the sleeve of your robe, and the skin beneath burns, forcing you into dropping your shoto. You grit your teeth and parry, deflecting the next strike, and when the opportunity presents itself, you kick him in the stomach, sending him stumbling backwards.

"Is that all you've got?" he taunts.

"Stop talking and fight," you snap. You launch yourself at him, slamming into him and sending the two of you tumbling to the floor. You land on top of him, and you grab his collar, dragging him to his feet, slamming him into the wall. "Tell me why you're here."

"I have my reasons," he replies. His voice is calm and composed, his expression blank, unfeeling. You grip his collar tighter, and he lets out a soft chuckle. "You want to kill me, don't you? Go ahead. Try."

Your hand tightens, and you pull him away from the wall and throw him back, sending him flying into the opposite wall. He crumples to the ground, and you march towards him, your lightsaber raised.

"Stop. Talking," you growl. You level the blade at his throat, and when your eyes meet, his expression changes. A cold, cruel smile spreads across his face, and his gaze becomes sharp, calculating.

"I knew it," he murmurs, and your grip on the hilt of your lightsaber wavers, a wave of unease washing over you.

"What are you talking about?"

"You've changed," he tells you. His eyes narrow, and he leans closer, his breath tickling your cheek. "You are not the same Padawan I knew."

"I've learned a few things since then," you mutter.

"Oh, yes," Dooku chuckles. He tilts his head to the side, and his eyes move over your face, his voice dropping to a murmur. "I can see that."

The hairs on the back of your neck stand up, and a shiver runs down your spine. He's staring at you like he's seeing you for the first time. His gaze is piercing, his expression calculating, and you can't help but wonder what he's looking for. Whatever it is, he seems pleased.

"Why did you kill her?" you demand. Better to keep him talking. The longer he's distracted, the more likely it is that the others will arrive and help you deal with him. "What did she ever do to you?"

"It's not about what she did," Dooku replies. His voice is soft, and his eyes flick to your lightsaber. "It's about what she could have done. The potential that she represented."

"What are you talking about?"

"There's no need to be coy," he tells you. His eyes return to your face, and his gaze is almost hungry, his lips curling into a smirk. "I know you've figured it out."

"She was in your way," you say. His expression changes, his smirk fading, and his gaze hardens. "She knew too much. She knew you were planning on betraying the Republic."

"Close," he murmurs. His head tips to the side, and his gaze sweeps over you, a look of admiration in his eyes. "But not quite. You've come so far, but there's still so much you don't understand."

"Then enlighten me," you snap, and his brow furrows, a confused frown forming on his face. "Tell me why. Why did you kill her?"

Dooku’s eyes narrow, and his gaze becomes distant, as if he's seeing something far beyond the room. He doesn't seem to be aware of the fact that he's about to die. As if he's reliving some memory, some experience that is only known to him. For a split-second, he looks almost vulnerable. And, in that instant, you feel something.

He's afraid.

And whatever he's afraid of, it has nothing to do with you.

"It's not just about her," Dooku says, his voice a low murmur. You frown and lean closer, your lightsaber still pointed at his throat, and when his eyes refocus, they lock onto yours. "Do you know why I left the Order, young one?"

"Because you're a power-hungry monster?" you suggest, and he shakes his head.

"I left because they refused to see the truth," he replies. The intensity in his gaze is unnerving, and you swallow, doing your best to keep the tremble from your hand. “I left because the Jedi are flawed."

You stare at him, unsure how to respond. Your anger and hatred are still there, but there's something else, too. He’s not saying anything you don’t already know. The Jedi are flawed. They are imperfect. And yet, somehow, you know that what he's saying isn't coming from a place of malice or spite. He's speaking the truth. Or, at least, what he believes to be the truth. And, for some reason, that scares you.

"You're lying," you tell him, and he chuckles, shaking his head.

"The Council is weak. The Order is blind. They've lost sight of what it means to be a Jedi," he continues. He shifts, the tip of your blade brushing against his skin, but he doesn't react. "They've become nothing more than a band of soldiers, fighting for a Republic that's dying."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that the Order is corrupt. That the Republic is broken.” Dooku leans forward, and you can't help but notice how close his throat is to your lightsaber. All it would take is a twitch, and his head would roll. You could end it. Right now. The thought is tempting, but something holds you back. You want answers. "The war is pointless. And, no matter what happens, we will lose. We are fighting a losing battle. The Republic is finished.

"Your master knew this. Yaddle was one of the few who believed in the true purpose of the Jedi Order. One of the few who understood the truth."

"That's not—"

"She was a good person," he interrupts. The warmth in his expression takes you by surprise, and a pang of guilt hits you, making your chest ache. He looks at you, his brow furrowing. "Don't blame yourself. What happened was necessary."

"Necessary?"

"She was wise and strong, and she saw things that others could not," he explains. His tone is soft and reverent, his gaze distant, almost wistful. "And she cared for you very much."

Your heart skips a beat, and a lump forms in your throat, a rush of emotions flooding your system. You bite the inside of your cheek and clench your jaw, trying to ignore the pain and the fear and the sadness, but it's too much. The pressure in your chest is overwhelming, and you can feel the tears stinging your eyes.

"What does that have to do with anything?" you ask, your voice breaking. You can't bring yourself to look at him, and your vision blurs, tears filling your eyes.

"She would want you to survive," Dooku says, his voice gentle, his gaze locked onto yours. "No matter what."

The pressure in your chest grows, and a tear escapes, rolling down your cheek. You try to wipe it away, but it's too late. He sees it. And, somehow, his expression softens even further, a look of understanding in his eyes.

"You and I have more in common than you think," he murmurs. You blink, your eyes widening, and he gives you a knowing smile. "We both understand the truth. We both know what it means to sacrifice. We've both witnessed the corruption and hypocrisy of those we once trusted. And we've both experienced the pain of betrayal."

"The Council didn't betray me," you say, and his brow furrows, his head tipping to the side.

"Did they not?"

"No," you reply, the conviction in your voice wavering. "They didn't."

"I think we both know that's not true," he counters. "They abandoned you. They let you suffer and struggle alone, and when you needed their help, they turned their backs on you. Just as they did with Yaddle."

"The Council had their reasons," you insist. "They did what they thought was best."

"For themselves," Dooku retorts. His eyes narrow, and a look of disdain crosses his face, his jaw clenching. "Not for you."

"You're wrong," you tell him, but even as the words leave your lips, a part of you knows that he's right. The Council didn't believe you. They didn't believe in you. They let you flounder, and they never did a thing to help. Even Obi-Wan had abandoned you, and while he'd tried to apologize, it hadn't changed anything.

"You know it's true," he says, his voice barely a whisper. He stares at you, and you stare back, your mind racing. "You feel it. Deep down, you know I'm right."

"I'm a Jedi. I can't turn my back on them," you say. "Not when there are innocent people suffering."

"And yet, you're here, chasing after a ghost, searching for a reason to hate the ones who hurt you," Dooku replies. You open your mouth to protest, but he raises a hand, silencing you. "I am not judging you. I understand. You have been betrayed, and you are in pain. I can sense it. It radiates from you, filling the air."

"You have no idea what I'm going through," you mutter.

"I can assure you, dear girl, I do," he tells you, and his eyes move over your face, studying you, his gaze curious and contemplative. "You remind me of myself. We are alike, you and I. We both seek justice and answers. We both question the world around us, and we both understand the sacrifices that must be made in order to achieve peace."

"I'm not like you," you say. You shake your head, and a bitter laugh escapes your lips, your heart pounding in your chest. "I'm nothing like you."

"Aren't you?"

"I'm not a murderer."

"You've killed before," Dooku counters. He stares at you, his expression unreadable. "And, if given the chance, you would do it again."

Your grip on your lightsaber falters, and the blade lowers, the tip scraping against the stone floor. Your eyes meet his, and the weight of his words settles over you, a feeling of unease and dread filling the pit of your stomach.

"I don't know what you're talking about," you tell him, but the lie is obvious. You can hear it in your voice, feel it in the way your heart races, and Dooku smiles, a hint of satisfaction creeping into his expression.

"You may not have the blood on your hands, but it's there," he murmurs. He stands and steps towards you, his hand resting on your shoulder, his touch gentle, almost comforting. "There are no more lies between us. We know the truth. We see what the Order has become, what the Republic has become. We see their flaws and their faults, and we know what must be done. The question is, are you willing to do what needs to be done?"

"No," you reply, shaking your head, but he squeezes your shoulder, his grip tightening.

"You can't hide from the truth," he says. His voice is soft, his tone soothing. "You can't ignore it. The Force brought you here, to me, because we are kindred spirits. We are alike. We understand each other."

"Stop saying that," you snap, and his fingers dig into your shoulder, his eyes boring into yours.

"You have been betrayed," he says, his voice cold and clinical, his eyes filled with an intensity that makes your heart skip a beat. "You are alone. And you are angry. The Order has taken everything from you, and now, they are taking your life. They have failed you, and they will continue to fail you. They will not stop until you are dead."

"I'm not going to let you manipulate me," you tell him. You push his hand away and step back, your lightsaber raised, and he lets out a resigned sigh, his gaze never leaving yours. "You murdered Yaddle, and you tried to kill me. That's all there is to it. I'm going to kill you."

Dooku doesn't react. He just stares at you, his gaze intense and steady. A part of you expects him to try and reason with you, but he doesn't. He doesn't argue or try to change your mind. He just looks at you, his eyes moving over your face, studying you.

"Maybe," he allows. He straightens his back and squares his shoulders. "But not today."

With a flourish of his cape, he steps towards you, his lightsaber igniting with a hiss. The crimson blade hums as it slices through the air, and you react, your own blade coming up to block his attack.

The two of you dance around each other, trading strikes and parries. The battle is brutal and fierce, both of you giving it your all.

It's only after a few minutes that you realize that Dooku isn't even trying. He's playing with you, using his skill and experience to taunt and provoke you. And, while his attacks are strong, they are easily blocked or deflected.

He's not taking this seriously.

He's toying with you.

He wants to see what you're capable of.

As if he's testing you.

"You're holding back," you accuse. He slashes at your chest, and you step to the side, avoiding the blow. You lunge, your blade arcing towards his head, and he blocks, the humming blades locking together, the light from their tips illuminating his face. "I can feel it."

"Of course, I am," Dooku replies. He spins, and the two of you lock blades, his eyes locking onto yours. "I have no wish to hurt you."

"You're a fucking liar," you snarl, and he pushes you away, sending you stumbling backwards.

"On the contrary, I am the most honest man you will ever meet," he says, and the arrogance in his tone makes you bristle.

You swing at him, and he steps back, dodging the blow. His footwork is perfect, his movements fluid and graceful, and the longer the fight goes on, the more confident and relaxed he becomes.

It's like he's in a different world.

He's not fighting you.

He's playing a game.

"I should've known that this would end in tears," he sighs. He lunges, his lightsaber sweeping towards your head, and you duck, the tip of his blade slicing through the air above you. "You aren't ready."

"Shut up," you snap. You step forward and swing, but he's faster than you, his body twisting out of the way, his cape billowing behind him. The fabric brushes against your cheek, and he kicks, his boot connecting with your hip.

The force of the blow sends you stumbling, and you nearly fall, your balance shifting. You grit your teeth and brace yourself, your lightsaber moving into a defensive position.

"You're still angry," he tells you, and he shakes his head, his eyes narrowing. "I can sense it."

"Of course, I'm angry," you retort. You slash at him, and he blocks, his blade coming up to deflect your strike. "You tried to kill me. You murdered Yaddle."

"That's not what I meant," he replies, and before you can react, he lunges, his blade coming down. You scramble, barely managing to hold onto your saber and bring it up in time to block his next strike.

"What are you talking about?"

"You're not angry at me," he says, and you freeze, his words sinking in. Your eyes widen as he tilts his head to the side, his gaze moving over your face. "You're angry at yourself."

"Shut up," you growl, but the anger in your voice is fading, a sense of dread filling the pit of your stomach.

"You're still angry that she died," he continues, and you can't bring yourself to speak, a lump forming in your throat. "You're angry that she left you. You're angry that she never came back."

"Stop," you whisper, but he ignores you, his gaze boring into yours.

"You're angry that the Order betrayed you. That they left you alone," he says, his tone sympathetic, almost apologetic. "You're angry that the Jedi refused to believe you. That they turned their backs on you. And now, they expect you to fight for them."

"They didn't abandon me," you insist, but even as the words leave your lips, the image of Obi-Wan's retreating form flashes in your mind, his last words echoing in your ears.

"Didn't they?"

"They just...didn't listen," you say. You blink, a tear escaping, rolling down your cheek. "They didn't...understand."

"Because you wouldn't tell them the truth," he replies.

His voice is soft, gentle. It's soothing, and for a split-second, it feels like he cares. It feels like he understands. And a part of you wants to believe him. A part of you wants to trust him. But another part of you knows that he's manipulating you, trying to trick you.

And it's working.

Dooku takes another step forward, his shadow stretching across the floor, the light from your blades flickering in the dark.

"You were afraid. Of the power you wielded. Of the truth. Of yourself."

He's closer now, and you can't bring yourself to move. To resist. To do anything but stand there, staring at him.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, his voice barely audible. "For what I did to her. For what I did to you."

You open your mouth, but no sound comes out. You can't breathe. Your chest is tight, and your lungs are burning, and you can't bring yourself to move.

"You can't run from this," he says. His eyes meet yours, and he shakes his head, a sad smile forming on his lips. "No matter how hard you try. No matter where you go. But if you let me, I can help you."

"Help me?"

"You're not a Jedi. Not anymore," he tells you. He moves closer, and you take a step back, your body acting on instinct, trying to get away from him. But he follows, his steps measured and slow. "Not after what happened."

"You did this," you whisper, and he lets out a soft chuckle, his expression changing, a look of admiration and pride on his face. His eyes flicker to the scars stretching across your hands, and a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

"No," he says. "I didn't. You did."

He's only a few feet away now, and the shadows stretch, wrapping around him, engulfing him. The air grows cold, and the light from the blades begins to fade, and the darkness grows, consuming everything.

"We can't control our power. Our emotions. They control us," he tells you. "You know that better than anyone."

You close your eyes, and for a split-second, it feels like the darkness is wrapping around you, cocooning you. It's warm and safe and familiar. You want to stay here, to let go and just drift away, but a small part of you is screaming. A small part of you knows that something isn't right.

Something pulls at your senses, tugging at the edges of your awareness. It's like a whisper, a soft murmur in the back of your mind. A feeling. An emotion. Fear. Worry.

And it's growing.

"They took everything from you," Dooku says, and your eyes snap open, your vision focusing on his face. He looks different now, older, his skin withered and wrinkled, his hair thin and gray. The warmth in his eyes is fading, replaced by a look of disdain and disgust. "But you can take it back."

He's holding out his hand, his fingers splayed, his palm facing you. It's an invitation. A temptation. And you know what it means. If you accept his offer, everything will change.

You look at his hand, and your gaze flickers to his face, to his eyes. They're darker now, colder. They're not the same. And you know that whatever he's offering isn't real. You're not sure if it ever was.

You stare at his hand, and your mind races, a million thoughts flashing through your mind. But, as the seconds pass, one thought becomes clear, one word echoing in your mind.

"No."

"Very well," he sighs. He steps towards you, his voice calm and level. "If that is your decision, then I have no choice but to—"

You reach out, calling your shoto, and it flies into your open palm, igniting with a loud snap-hiss. Dooku's eyes widen, and his lightsaber springs to life, the red blade humming, the light from the weapon casting shadows across his face.

"Don't," he warns, but it's too late.

You launch yourself at him, and his lightsaber comes up, blocking your blow. The two of you trade strikes and parries, the sounds of the clashing blades echoing off the walls. You spring up, swinging your blade, and he blocks the attack, the red and yellow blades hissing and crackling as they grind against each other.

"You're making a mistake," he tells you.

"I'm done listening to you," you retort.

You push him back, and he stumbles, catching himself, his gaze narrowing. The two of you square off, and the anger inside you burns hotter, brighter. Your fear and frustration fuel your rage, and you attack, unleashing a series of wild, erratic strikes, each blow more vicious and brutal than the last.

Dooku counters, his expression becoming serious, his movements growing quicker, more precise. He's no longer playing games, and as the fight continues, you can't help but notice the look of concern in his eyes. He's worried. He's afraid.

He's afraid of you.

He should be.

Because in that instant, all of your fear and pain and rage converge, coalescing into a single, blinding thought.

He needs to die.

You rush towards him, and he meets you, the two of you locked in a deadly dance, your lightsabers flashing and hissing. You press the attack, driving him back, and he blocks your strikes, his blade moving with a grace and precision that leaves you breathless.

Your vision blurs, and the sounds around you grow distant, muffled. It's like the whole world is fading, dissolving, and all that's left is him. His eyes. His blade. And the opportunity that's presenting itself.

A chance to end this.

To kill him.

The two of you are locked together, neither of you able to break free. You push harder, your muscles straining, your bones creaking. Your body is on fire, burning from the inside out, and you can feel the sweat rolling down your back, your breath coming in ragged gasps.

The pressure is unbearable. You can feel his blade digging into your own, cutting into the hilt, and you know that if you don't act soon, you'll lose. You grit your teeth, and his lips twitch into a smirk.

"You can't beat me, girl," he sneers, his voice low, taunting.

You open your mouth to retort when the sound of blasterfire erupts in the hallway outside. You glance towards the door, and when you do, Dooku shoves you, sending you stumbling backwards. He lunges towards you, and your instincts kick in, your blade coming up to block his strike.

The hot sting of pain erupts in your hand as his blade slices through the hilt of your shoto, severing the weapon in two. You watch in horror as the halves fall to the ground, the plasma blade sputtering out. Dooku kicks them away, and you back up, your remaining lightsaber raised, the bright glow casting shadows across the walls.

"I offered you a way out," he tells you. “I will not suffer even a Jedi like yourself to live in ignorance."

He steps towards you, and as he does, a series of blaster bolts slam into the door. The hulking form of a B2 teeters and falls backwards, taking the door with it.

The room fills with smoke and dust, and you cough, waving your hand in front of your face, trying to clear the air. You can barely make out the shadowy shapes of Rex and Jesse as they enter, their blasters raised.

The two men take aim, and Dooku reacts, the crimson blade of his lightsaber blocking the incoming barrage. He turns, his cape billowing out behind him, and the red beam of his weapon flashes, deflecting the shots, the bolts ricocheting off the walls.

Jesse ducks and rolls, and as he does, Rex runs towards you, his arm wrapping around your waist. He pulls you away, dragging you behind him, his body shielding yours. As the two of you move, Jesse unloads, the volley of shots forcing Dooku back, the barrage keeping him on the defensive.

Rex grabs your wrist and tugs, pulling you towards the exit. As the two of you rush out into the hallway, a series of explosions ripple through the room, the stone walls trembling. You look over your shoulder, and Dooku emerges from the cloud of dust and smoke, his blade flashing. Jesse fires again, but the Count deflects the shots, the bolts slamming into the walls.

"Move," Rex barks, and the three of you take off running, racing down the corridor. Dooku gives chase, and the crimson beam of his lightsaber streaks through the air, the heat from the weapon scorching the stone.

You run as fast as you can, your chest heaving, the rage inside you burning hotter with every step. He killed Yaddle. He murdered her. And he was the one who attacked you. He was the one who tried to kill you. Now, he's trying to kill you again.

"I'm going to kill him," you growl, and Rex's grip tightens, his voice low and harsh.

"Don't," he snaps. "Focus on getting out of here."

"He has to die," you snarl. You pull against him, but his hold on you is iron-clad. "Let me go. I'm going to kill him."

"No," Rex growls, and you glare at him, a fire raging inside you.

"I have to do this," you tell him, your voice cracking, your hands balling into fists. "I'm going to make him pay."

"You can't," he snaps. He tightens his grip on you, his fingers digging into your skin, and he pushes you ahead of him, guiding you forward. "Not like this."

The three of you round a corner, and a series of blaster bolts slam into the wall to the side, sending fragments of stone and debris flying. Jesse spins and returns fire, and as the two men exchange shots, Rex takes advantage of the distraction, grabbing your arm and yanking you towards him, the two of you stumbling into the next room.

"I can," you insist, and Rex grabs your shoulders, shaking you.

"No, you can't," he snaps. "Look at me. You can't do this."

His tone makes you stop, and you look up at him, a flicker of doubt creeping in. His helmet tilts towards you, his visor scanning your face, and his hands move up, cradling your cheeks.

"I need you to listen to me," he says, his voice urgent and pleading. "I know how much Yaddle meant to you. I know what she was to you. But if you go after him, you'll die. You can't beat him. Not alone. Not like this. Please."

"Rex—"

"Listen to me," he interrupts. He moves closer, and you can hear his ragged breathing through his helmet. "I'm begging you. I need you to be here with me. I need you to come home."

His words strike a chord, and the anger inside you begins to ebb, slowly giving way to something else. Something deeper. You stare at him, and his head tips forward, his visor resting against your forehead.

"Come home," he repeats, his voice barely audible, and your chest aches, a lump forming in your throat.

"I..."

You can't finish the thought. You can feel the fear in his voice, the pain, the desperation. He's scared. Terrified. And it's because of you. Because he cares about you. He needs you.

You swallow hard and nod, and Rex presses his forehead against yours, his body relaxing with a shaky sigh.

"Thank you," he breathes. He strokes his thumb along the line of your jaw, and when he pulls away, his gaze holds yours, his voice laced with regret. "We'll get him, I promise. But not like this."

"Okay," you whisper, and Rex nods, his helmet tilting towards the ground. You place a hand on his chest, waiting for him to meet your gaze again before you speak. "I trust you."

He looks at you for a long moment, searching your eyes. Then, he nods, his shoulders straightening.

"I'll make sure we get him," he tells you. "I promise."

You give him a weak smile, and he pulls you into a hug, his arms wrapping around you, his body enveloping yours. He squeezes you, his grip almost crushing, before he pulls away, his helmet nodding to the doorway.

"Let's get out of here," he says, and you follow him, the two of you sprinting out of the room, leaving Dooku and his men behind. Jesse catches up to you, his blaster still raised, and the three of you continue running, heading back towards the main corridor.

As you race down the hall, Rex's words linger in your mind. He was right. Dooku was too powerful. If you went after him now, there was no way you would survive. And even if you did, what would you be fighting for?

Vengeance.

It wasn't enough. It never would be. Not for Yaddle.

But she wasn't all you had left. There was another reason.

You didn't want to die.

You didn't want Rex to lose you.

You didn't want to hurt him.

So, you ran. You ran as fast as you could. And as you did, a single word echoed in your mind, repeating itself over and over again.

Home.

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#the clone wars #captain rex #clone captain rex #captain rex x reader #rex x reader #roy writes #event horizon #please forgive me for the chapter length #he would just not stop monologuing #once again i am asking for someone to come to my house and spray me with a water bottle when i reach 10k

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