The Clone Wars Au - Blog Posts

Touching Revelations || Captain Rex x OFC Mae (NSFW)

Author's note: Howdie there folks. Continuing on with the snapshots of our favorite Captain, and (hopefully) your favorite doctor on Pabu! As a reminder this is part of a collaboration with @leenathegreengirl as part of her AU series. You can find the full image on both her page HERE or all the way at the bottom. Anyways, thanks for stopping by and if you are new, feel free to check out her page, where you can see more of the AU. - M

Summary: Captain Rex seeks some solitude while he's traveling alone after a long day, as his routines seemingly continue to be undone by feelings growing a bit more undeniable.

Warnings: Male Masturbation, sexual fantasies, kind of pervy (but more in a horrified light than anything), slight illusions to breeding kink, mentions of penetration/strip tease

Minors go away.

Pairings: Captain Rex x OC Mae Killough (her info found HERE)

Word Count: 5,500+

Masterlist || Previous Section || Next Section (Coming Soon)

All clones did it, whether they admitted it or not. Anyone who claimed otherwise was a liar. During the war, privacy was a luxury few could afford, and quick moments of solitude in the fresher became a necessity. Fortunately, Rex had the rare privilege of private officer's quarters, granting him more seclusion than most. Yet, there was something irreplaceable about the feeling of warm water cascading over his shoulders, a rare moment to let go and feel truly at ease with himself.

It wasn’t that he never indulged in the occasional moments of respite during shore leave—he certainly did. Unlike many of his brothers-in-arms, he didn’t actively seek out such opportunities, preferring to let them come to him. Yet, from time to time, he found himself in the company of a charming woman who offered him her appreciation for his service in ways that were impossible to ignore. He wasn’t one to turn down their gracious offers, knowing better than to let a fleeting chance slip through his fingers.

Still, those moments were rare, and truth be told, he had grown accustomed to relying on his own hand for satisfaction. It was simpler, predictable, and free of the entanglements that often accompanied more intimate encounters.

Over time, he’d come to accept solitude as part of his life. The fleeting affections he experienced on shore leave were just that—temporary, like waves crashing on the sand before retreating into the vast, indifferent sea. There was no permanence to them, no promise of anything more than a brief break from the grinding monotony of his duties.

Perhaps that’s why he didn’t seek it out the way others did. Many of his brothers treated shore leave like a hunt, prowling for companionship to fill the void left by endless days on the front lines. But for him, the chase felt hollow. The warmth of another’s touch, though intoxicating in the moment, was quickly replaced by an ache that seemed deeper somehow, more profound.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want more—he did. But the idea of tethering himself to someone felt as unrealistic as anchoring a ship in a storm. His life was unpredictable, driven by duty, and there was little room for the kind of stability that a real connection required.

He became quite familiar with the solitude of his right hand, the fantasies within his own mind, and the fleeting privacy offered by the confines of a fresher.

•☽────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────☾•

The day had dragged on, an unrelenting slog of challenges that felt insurmountable. Frustration weighed heavily on Rex’s shoulders—nothing he’d done had gone according to plan. The intel he’d been counting on had evaporated into thin air, and his contact had been compromised before he could secure anything useful. He’d barely managed to get out unscathed, though the near-miss left him tense and exhausted. 

As he leaned over the controls, ensuring the autopilot was engaged, Rex finally allowed himself to step away from the cockpit. The silence of the ship seemed louder than usual, amplifying the gnawing weight of failure pressing on his chest. Yet, it wasn’t just the mission that troubled him. It was the absence of Echo—a presence Rex had grown to rely on more than he cared to admit.

Not that he could blame him. Echo deserved to be with his wife-to-be, building a future Rex couldn’t fathom for himself. And what was Rex left with? The hollow title of a soldier with no army, fueled only by a stubborn resolve to cling to a life that no longer existed? A clone too set in his ways to imagine anything beyond the battlefield? Or maybe just a man too tightly wound to think clearly, running on fumes and purpose that felt increasingly fragile.

Yeah, probably that last one.

One perk of his most recent stay on Pabu was the repair of the hot water generator by Tech, which meant he could finally enjoy an endless stream of warm water after the grueling hours of the day. It was a small luxury that made a big difference, and as Rex reached for the controls of the fresher, his dirty hand fiddled with the temperature setting out of habit.

He stripped off the grimy clothes without a second thought, tossing them into the corner to deal with later. There'd be time for a proper wash when he made it back to base. These days, there wasn't much about the GAR he found himself longing for, but the ease of having droids on hand to handle the laundry was definitely a perk. Not having to worry about washing his fatigues had been a convenience. But as simple as it was, there was something oddly freeing about these everyday tasks—the small acts of self-sufficiency that reminded him he had more control over his life than he once did. Scrubbing clothes, though seemingly trivial, became a symbol of that freedom, a reminder that, for all the structure and orders that once defined his existence, he was now in a place where he could make his own decisions, even about something as mundane as laundry.

The warm cascade of water pouring over him felt like an indulgence, a rare moment of pure relief. It was as if every muscle, every thought, was being soothed by the gentle pressure, leaving behind only calm. Not that Rex was a religious man—he had long since abandoned any belief in an afterlife—but if there were such a thing, he imagined it might feel like this: like a long-awaited exhale, like a weight lifting from his chest, leaving only peace behind.

He wasn’t sure how exactly he ended up like this, his weathered palms instinctively curling around himself. It was almost automatic, like an ingrained reflex that had taken root during the years of war. Back then, he would have easily blamed it on the constant pressure of water rations—the brief, rushed showers squeezed in between missions or moments of solitude snatched in the most unlikely places. He’d learned to survive on the bare minimum, to find peace in the fleeting privacy that he could steal away, even if it was just for a few precious minutes of quiet in the shower.

Now, there were no rations, no hurried schedules. He didn’t have to share the water with anyone, didn’t have to rush or sneak away. Yet still, the habit remained. His hands moved almost as if by instinct, finding their way to his body, wrapping around himself without thought. In truth, there was nothing left to blame except the way his mind and body were constantly on edge, the tension that clung to him after years of battle and loss. Even here, in this moment of solitude, he couldn’t shake the remnants of that adrenaline, the tightness in his chest that made him long for something to hold on to, even if it was just the simple act of gripping his own skin.

It wasn’t about necessity anymore. It was something deeper, something his body had learned to do long ago—an anchor in a world that had constantly been out of his control. Even now, it was the only way he knew how to steady himself when the weight of everything, past and present, threatened to pull him under.

By touching himself. 

Rex wasn’t one to seek out encrypted holochannels. He had experienced enough moments in real life to know that sometimes, the old-fashioned way was better. For him, that meant retreating into his own mind, crafting his own fantasies. He’d had his share of encounters during times when he was granted some freedom, fleeting moments with women that blurred together into a single, faceless figure he could call on whenever he needed. It was simple, uncomplicated, and—most importantly—free of guilt. He could indulge without consequence, without the weight of expectations or the complexities of real connections.

The soldier didn’t necessarily need a clear starting point—his mind wandered wherever it chose, moving in its own rhythm. As his hand moved steadily along the length of himself, he found his thoughts drifting, no particular direction guiding him except the ebb and flow of his own desires. In the quiet, he imagined a pair of legs—strong, yet graceful, the kind that held an effortless power.

His mind traced the shape of them, starting with slender calves that led up to firm, muscular thighs, each curve and line reminding him of strength and subtle beauty. There was something magnetic about the way they moved in his imagination—something simple, yet deeply captivating. The way the muscles flexed, the smoothness of the skin, the promise of both strength and softness in one form. It was the sort of thing that, at its core, could be easily overlooked, but in his mind, it became something almost hypnotic.

And as if he was visualizing a real woman standing in front of him, he moved his attention to just slightly above. Eye’s closed as the steam only built around him, Rex couldn’t help but picture one of the most beautiful curves of a woman’s body. The kind of thing he and his brothers argued over the merits of in the solitude of their barracks. 

He wasn’t sure why exactly he’d always preferred a woman’s behind and the lovely visual it provided. Perhaps it was rooted in the simple aesthetics. A wish to latch his large hand on and just feel it under his grasp. Or the fact that he could get away with copping a glance more often in that arena than a woman’s chest. Regardless of the reason, he always appreciated a full, round, ass.

Deep within, the man had always been drawn to the idea of painting fair skin with the impression of his own hand, a touch that would linger long after he had gone. There was something profoundly primal about it—the raw, intimate connection of watching himself mark that vulnerable place. In those moments, it was as though the boundary between reality and something greater blurred, bringing heaven into the tangible world, if only for a fleeting instant. A handprint, a silent but powerful reminder, left its trace for later, a testament to his presence, his claim.

It stirred something wild in him, something fierce that he often tried to suppress. Though he was a clone, that didn’t diminish his natural biological instincts. The urge to reproduce—an inherent part of him—hadn’t been erased with his creation. In fact, after the removal of his inhibitor chip, that primal drive, once muffled and distant, had grown louder, more insistent. Now, during moments like these, it wasn’t a faint whisper in the recesses of his mind—it was a guttural, urgent call that resonated in the deepest corners of his consciousness, pulling at him like an unyielding tide.

That’s a nice train of thought…

His hand quickened, grip tightening as he leaned back against the wall, seeking the stability it offered. The steady rhythm didn’t do much for Rex; he craved the shift in pressure and speed to bring him closer to release. This time was no different. He flexed his hand, adjusting his motion to pull himself closer to the edge, all the while letting his mind drift away from the present moment.

At times, his mind seemed to latch onto the more uncommon, often unnoticed details—those subtle aspects that others would likely overlook. With his eyes closed, an image began to form in his mind, and he was taken aback when it settled into a pair of eyes. Innocent. Wide. Trusting, yet strangely familiar, as though they held a story of their own. It wasn’t that he didn’t understand the appeal of such a gaze. There was something profoundly captivating about the submission they conveyed, the way they looked up at him with quiet vulnerability, as if they understood their place in the moment, beneath him. 

But beyond the submissive nature in their stare, there was an undeniable beauty to those eyes. Not that he considered himself a romantic by any means—he wasn’t one to indulge in such sentiments—but the vibrant blue tugged at something deep inside him. It was a hue he knew all too well, one that had marked his existence, one that had come to define him throughout much of his life. Cobalt blue was his color—his identity in a world of little variation among him and his men. Seeing 501 blue staring back at him was a strange comfort. 

A stray curl of hair that fell between them was another detail that caught his attention. It drifted between them like a soft, teasing gesture, framing the stunning eyes in a way that felt almost intimate. He’d always admired long, curly hair on the nat-borns when they were planet-side. There was something almost intoxicating about it—the bounce, the way it seemed to possess its own rhythm, its own life. It wasn’t just the texture that fascinated him; it was the femininity it exuded, the divine softness that contrasted so sharply with the harshness of the world around them. It was delicate, almost ethereal, a thing of beauty that was both natural and profound.

Not only that, but the curl was a dynamic shade of red—a color that always managed to captivate him, no matter the context. It wasn’t the garish, artificial red that so many of the women at the bar seemed to wear. The kind of hue that screamed of chemical concoctions, a clash of tones that burned his eyes and assaulted his senses with the lingering scent of synthetic dye. No, this was different. This was the kind of red that reminded him of something more natural, something raw. A vibrant, fiery hue that seemed to pulse with life—one that Rex had often associated with the women in the contraband magazines he’d come across in his years of service. Magazines hidden under the thin, uncomfortable mattresses in the barracks, carefully tucked away between flimsy sheets of paper, waiting to be discovered during routine inspections.

It was a shade of red that spoke of effortless beauty. It was neither too bold nor too soft, but instead, it held a unique vibrance that couldn’t be ignored. That deep, almost untamed red—a color that appeared in flashes of flame, in the quiet of sunsets, and in the rich, soft strands of hair that had always seemed so impossibly alluring to him. The kind of red that belonged to women in those glossy, forbidden pages—women who exuded a kind of captivating charm with every glance, a beauty that felt untouched by the world around them.

It was a color that told a story without words, one of fiery independence, untamed grace, and an almost dangerous allure. Rex had always found himself drawn to it, unable to resist its pull, as if it carried an unspoken promise of something more—something beyond what the sterile, clinical walls of his life had ever offered. The same shade as…

Then, as though his mind were playing a cruel trick on him, a fantasized voice echoed in his skull, sharp and clear, revealing the one he had been imagining all along. The full image solidified in his mind, and with it, the truth of who he had been fantasizing about all this time became undeniable.

Curvy, long legs, muscles shifting with each movement, water clinging to her pale skin like a second layer. He had seen those limbs before—balanced gracefully atop a surfboard on Pabu. Leading to that perfectly shaped ass, heighted by the delicate curve of a feminine lower back, all clad in a blue bikini upon the sand. Blue eyes had once stared up at him from the hull of his own ship, wide with amazement and wonder, a gaze that seemed to see straight through him as he tried to twirl the petite woman in his arms.

And those bouncy red curls, brushing against his cheeks from the gentle ocean breeze, their vibrant color catching the fading sunlight, glowing with a golden hue that made them look almost alive. The light made them burn brighter, a fiery halo that intensified the pull she had on him.

Then came the voice—the voice he knew all too well, still echoing in his mind, soft and filled with ecstasy. “Rex… yes.” It moaned, and he refused to open his eyes, unwilling to let the fantasy slip away. Teeth pulling plush pink lips behind a flash of white as he let the truth settle in.

Mae. He was fantasizing about Mae.

This wasn’t the usual fleeting fantasy that so often danced through his mind—the fragmented, nameless woman whose face was nothing more than a blur, a fleeting memory of someone he may have seen once in passing. No, this was something different. It was a vivid, intricate mental image of someone he knew well, someone whose presence had become a part of him. This was her. The image wasn’t hazy or incomplete; it was full, detailed, as though his mind had painted her with a clarity that made her feel more real than anything else in his world.

Had he been able to summon the same self-control he had relied on so many times in his life as a soldier—self-control that had kept him alive through countless missions and dangerous encounters—he would have stopped. He would have forced his hand to still, his eyes to open, and he would have put an end to the perverse act before it even began. But something inside him, some deep, unexplained force, kept him anchored in the fantasy. The mental image of her—the woman with whom he had shared such a rich companionship, a bond that ran deeper than anything he’d ever expected—overrode the disciplined restraint he had long prided himself on.

It was as though the very thought of her, the connection they shared, made the rules of gentlemanly behavior feel irrelevant. The boundaries he had once lived by, the ones that kept his emotions and desires in check, dissolved under the weight of this overpowering need. For some reason, Mae made him forget the lines that had always kept him grounded.

It wasn’t that he had ever intended to cross that line, not with her. She wasn’t some fleeting distraction, some unattainable fantasy to be locked away in his mind. She was real—her laughter, her presence, her touch—things he had grown accustomed to in ways that made the idea of imagining her like this feel both intoxicating and dangerous. There was a depth to their companionship that went beyond the physical, a connection built on respect and understanding. He had never allowed himself to imagine her in this way before, not like this.

But now, as the image of her lingered in his thoughts, he couldn't help but indulge in it. She had always been there for him in ways that went far beyond what anyone else could offer. In a world where he had learned to shut down his emotions, to push past the desires that could cloud his judgment, she had quietly unraveled the walls he had so carefully constructed. It wasn’t the passion that drew him now, but the intimacy they shared—the trust, the warmth, the way they could be open with each other in a world that didn’t often allow for it.

Her face, her body, the way she moved—his mind replayed every moment, every shared glance between them. Each small detail now seemed amplified in the haze of his thoughts, as if his own body was betraying him, wanting more, needing more. He could almost feel her—her scent, her warmth, the softness of her skin beneath his fingertips.

But even in the haze of his desire, there was a part of him that still fought against it. He couldn't lose control, not over something like this. He had always been in charge, always kept his emotions at bay. Yet now, it seemed as if his own mind and body were taking him to a place he hadn’t planned to go. The more he fought it, the stronger the pull became, as if the very thought of her held him captive.

It was a twisted sense of vulnerability, a rawness he hadn’t expected to feel. She had never been a fantasy before; she had been his equal, his friend in every sense. Yet now, in this moment, she was something more—something his mind wanted her to be, something he wasn’t sure he could control anymore.

“Rex…” The artificial voice, an uncanny mimicry of hers, called to him, sending a ripple of heat through his veins. He watched as a playful smirk curved on those full lips, a look that seemed both teasing and knowing. At first, the images had been drawn from tangible memories—moments he had lived, moments that felt real. But now, as the vision took on a life of its own, he realized he wasn’t simply recalling what had already passed. No, now he was conjuring things that hadn’t happened. Fantasies, unspoken desires that had long been buried in a part of him he rarely acknowledged.

Delicate hands twisted into a soft blue shirt, dragging it up as more and more pale skin was revealed. A small thatch of neatly manicured curls briefly drew his attention before the swell of round breasts came bouncing before his view. Perky rose colored peaks just begging for a taste. The sight was glorious to behold. Not that he’d neglected to notice the way that her smaller frame amplified the shape or the side of such breasts, but the idea that he’d assumed them to look that way uncovered was something he’d unpack later. Right now he was so close to release simply at the thought of burying his length between those breasts even just for a moment. 

Hand clenched so intensely around himself as the steam nearly shook him from the fantasy, Rex clung on the best he could. Moving faster as he felt that telltale sign he was nearly there came in the form of beads of precum leaking over his hand. Body shaking from the exertion of it all, he finally came to one last thought. 

His body laying down. Rex could see the contrast of tanned skin on porcelain as his hands tightly gripped the curve of her waist. Mae perched herself above him, strong thighs straddling him. Smirk decorating her lips while she ran her nails up and down the expanse of his chest. The bounce of both breasts and curls as she leaned back, surrendering to the feeling of himself inside her body. “Rex… please.. fill me up-” came the song most delightful to his ears as he did just that. 

Well, not in her body, but his cock throbbed desperately as he spilled white ribbons of cum all over his fingers. Eyes finally opening, Rex saw just how sizable the mess was through the steam of the fresher. He couldn’t recall a time there ever had been that much mess. 

Reality shattered around him in an instant, crashing through the fragile bubble of his thoughts with brutal force. His mind had unraveled, driven by the image of the only woman he had ever allowed to mean something more than just a passing interest, the one he had held in such a profoundly deep regard. It had been a moment of weakness, one that exposed the rawness inside him he had long worked to suppress. The weight of that realization settled like a stone in his chest, suffocating him. The fantasy, the desire—everything he had indulged in—felt alien now, a betrayal of the very principles he had spent his life upholding.

Disgust curled in his gut, bitter and sharp. How had he let it go this far? How had he let himself become so tangled in a web of longing and fantasies that didn’t belong in the reality he had crafted for himself? The very thought of it sickened him, and he recoiled from the vulnerability he had unwittingly exposed.

Snatching the bar of soap from the small cutout in the wall, he scrubbed his skin with a desperate urgency, as if washing away the grime of the day could somehow erase what he had done. He lathered until his skin burned, raw and red, before finally pausing. Tilting his head back into the steady stream of water, he let it rinse the dirt from his short hair, hoping clarity might come with it. But all he could find was one question echoing through his mind.  

Why her?  

He had long since convinced himself that she was just a friend—nothing more. He might have believed it, too, if she hadn’t always been there, trailing behind him with that sweet, effortless smile. If she hadn’t given him that ridiculous little offering—a necklace, of all things. His eyes dropped to it now, glinting against his chest, almost mocking him. She had been the first woman to treat him with genuine kindness, not out of flirtation or manipulation, but out of a simple, quiet respect for the man he was.  

And yet, he wasn’t blind.  

He had done his best to ignore it, to shove down the thoughts that threatened to surface. She was beautiful—undeniably so. That’s why Jesse had teased him that day on the beach, throwing out some crude joke about how the pretty doctor should give him an STD exam.  

Wait.  

His movements stilled, the water forgotten as his mind latched onto the thought. Shutting off the shower, he hurriedly dried himself, his pulse quickening as a realization settled in. Maybe that was it. Maybe Jesse’s little joke had planted the seed, giving life to a fantasy he hadn’t even realized was forming. Maybe that’s why, when he was alone, it was her hands—small, delicate, yet certain—wrapped around his cock in the dark corners of his mind.  

The thought offered him a strange sense of relief. It was just that—just a fantasy. Nothing more. Pulling on a pair of briefs, he moved through the rest of his routine with practiced ease, shutting down any lingering doubts before they had the chance to take hold.It was easier to blame Jesse then confront the idea he might be falling for her. 

At best, he could admit that he might have let himself get too consumed by his physical desire for her. Even that acknowledgment felt wrong—uncomfortable and out of place—but after what had happened, he couldn’t deny it. He had lusted after a friend. That was a line he shouldn’t have crossed, one he would need to be mindful of the next time he saw her. For Echo’s wedding no less. A day in which would be filled with romance and- 

Rex stopped himself with a disgruntled shake of his head, as if someone were around to hear his loud thoughts. He would be rigid at his brother’s wedding. He could be polite, but he would not engage with her more than he needed to even if it pained him so. Those walls needed to stay high enough that pretty doctors couldn’t climb them.

Stretching out on his bunk, he checked the systems, ensuring no alarms had gone off. The ship hummed softly around him, the vast emptiness of deep space his only company for the next few hours. The solitude would do him some good—a chance to clear his head. Because even with a logical explanation for his feelings, the guilt and confusion still weighed heavily on him.

Just as his body began to relax, his datapad chirped. He sighed, annoyed at the interruption but knowing better than to ignore it. If there was any kind of avoidable danger, he couldn’t afford to let it go unchecked.

Flicking on the screen, he expected the usual—a fuel-level warning, an ETA adjustment, or maybe a quick message from Echo. But when he opened the waiting notification, his breath caught, and the pad nearly slipped from his hands.

It was a photo.

Glasses slid halfway down a delicate nose, tired eyes fighting to hold a smile. Messy hair framed flushed cheeks, evidence of exhaustion from what had clearly been a long day. Beneath it, a message appeared: Late nights are the worst. Hope yours is much better than mine :)

The image hit him like a punch to the gut and a flutter in his chest all at once. She looked utterly worn out, yet still so achingly beautiful. He hadn’t realized how much he had been bracing himself for her to reach out, but now that she had, his emotions tangled even further. She messaged him every night, a habit they’d formed long ago. And when he wasn’t dodging enemy fire or barely able to stand, he always responded.

Here, tucked away in his private bunk with no one else to overhear, he usually ended his days with these lighthearted exchanges. But tonight, with her image staring back at him, the comfort he usually found in her messages had turned into something far more complicated.

For a long moment, Rex simply stared at the screen, unsure what to do. The familiar pang of guilt twisted in his chest, tangling with the warmth her message brought. She had no idea what she was doing to him—how her sweet words and tired smile were unraveling the restraint he had worked so hard to keep in place.  

Keep it together, he told himself. Don’t make this more than it is.  

Swallowing the lump in his throat, he tapped out a reply, keeping his tone light and casual.  

Long flights are never fun, but I think you win the “rough night” competition. Try to get some rest when you can—don’t overdo it. Captain's Orders.

He hesitated, rereading the message, debating if it sounded too cold. But before he could second-guess himself further, he sent it. Leaning back on the bunk, he stared at the ceiling, willing his mind to quiet.  

Her reply came almost instantly.  

Rest? What’s that? Pretty sure I’ll be on my feet until the sun comes up. At least I’ve got something to distract me now ;)

The winking face made him clench his jaw, a sudden heat building in his chest. She wasn’t flirting—not intentionally, anyway—but it was the way her words always felt so personal, as though she genuinely wanted his attention. And damn it, she had it. She always did.  

He started typing, then stopped. His thumb hovered over the screen, unable to decide if he should keep responding or put the datapad down and end the conversation there. But then another message popped up before he could reply.  

How’s the flight so far? I bet it’s quiet. I’d trade my chaos for your peace right now.

Quiet? Peaceful? That was what she thought this was. And in a way, she was right—out here in the stillness of space, there was nothing but the hum of the ship and his own thoughts. But right now, those thoughts were anything but peaceful.  

His fingers moved before he could stop them.  

I’m not sure you’d like it. Too much time alone out here makes a guy think too much.

The moment he sent it, he regretted the vulnerability. It wasn’t like him to open up like that, not even to her. But she responded almost immediately, her words striking a chord he hadn’t expected.  

Thinking isn’t always so bad. Just don’t let it get the better of you. You’ve got people who care about you, Rex.

He exhaled sharply, his chest tightening at her words. You’ve got people who care about you. Did she mean herself? Was that what she was trying to say? Or was he reading too much into it, letting his mind twist her kindness into something it wasn’t?  

He had to stop this.  

Rolling over, he typed out a quick reply.  

Thanks. I’ll try not to overthink it. Get some sleep, Doc. You need it.

The dots indicating she was typing appeared immediately, letting him know she hadn't deviated from his message, reading it instantly and forming a response without delay. Soon another message came across his screen.

That's a polite way to say I look terrible. Not that I blame you, these eye bags could carry a venator...

Grumpily sitting up, as if sitting up would somehow aid him in typing his message, he quickly replied without a thought before he could worry over the interpretation. Perhaps it was because he was angry with himself for the action he'd only very recently just undertaken, but something about the way she degraded herself didn't sit right with him.

Not at all what I meant, and you know that. Your eyes might show you're tired, but that doesn’t mean they're anything less than beautiful. Just… making sure someone forces you to get rest since we both know you have a habit of neglecting that. Whatever you are doing can likely wait till the morning. So just do me the solid and head home and get the rest? People care about you too.

This time, he didn’t wait for her response. He placed the datapad face-down on the small table beside his bunk and turned away, closing his eyes and willing himself to sleep.  

But her image lingered in his mind—the tired eyes, the soft smile, the way she had reached out to him like she always did. It was comforting, and it was torture. And no matter how tightly he tried to close his eyes, he couldn’t push her away. 

His datapad chirped one last time, and despite his better judgment, he reached for it. He told himself he was just checking—just making sure it wasn’t something urgent. But deep down, he knew the truth. He wanted to hear from her again.

Her message was simple.

I suppose you are right. Goodnight, Rex. Sweet dreams.

That was it. No teasing remark, no playful jab—just a quiet goodnight.

He exhaled, sinking back into his pillow, the tension in his body finally easing. Maybe it was the exhaustion setting in, or maybe it was the warmth her words left behind, but for the first time that night, he let himself stop fighting it.

And whether he wanted to or not, she was the last thing he thought of before the stars faded into darkness.

Full illustration by @leenathegreengirl !

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

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

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

Pairing: eventual Commander Wolffe x OFC! Perdita Halle

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

Word Count: 5k

Masterlist || Next Part (coming soon)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe that was what he deserved.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just like opening the cell door.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His eyes widened. “What—?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why not,” she demanded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Alright. After you, Commander—"

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

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

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

To be continued...

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

This is just awesome!

Words fail him, then. He doesn’t know how to continue expressing himself. He grits his teeth, staring into the bright lights above him, and waits. He’s breathing hard. Senator Amidala doesn’t chime in immediately like he’d expected her to—instead, there is a long silence. All Hevy hears is the hum of machinery as hovercams float lazily by.

Without warning, someone starts to clap.

Dominoes by @meridiansdominoes is possibly one of the best Star Wars fics I’ve ever read. If any of you guys haven’t read it, it is amazing and I love it in ways I cannot even begin to describe!! 

I wanted my cousin to watch clone wars, so I tried hyping him up but ended up hyping myself instead and now there I am rewatching this damn show for the 5th time. Oh Well !

Anyway, as always as I am nearing the end of my viewing, I am staved for more Content. And I stumbled onto this fic, "Dominoes" by @meridiansdominoes . And HOLLY SHIT it's so good !!!

It's definitely the best fic I've red in a while. It's a canon-divergent AU but everything that happens still makes so much sense ? Everyone is so in character and every one of their action is just perfectly fitting ? And even characters that had so little screen time in the show are developed in a way that just somehow feel in character ?? Anyway this fic is all I've been reading in the past few weeks and now that I finished it I already feel NEEDY for more so I figured i'd drew fanart of it ! Thank you again Medirian for this good ass clone content I craved