I know you've done something similar with Wolffe already but could you do that trope where people catch him with hickeys🙏🙏 And like he doesn't realise how obvious one is and his men are just gawking at him in the middle of a briefing untill he gets fed up and asks them why they're staring at him and they tell him about it.
I love love love you're writing soooooooo much. The banter? *chefs kiss* The drama? BOMB. The writer? Amazing :)
“Wolfpack Gossip”
Commander Wolffe x Reader
The debriefing room was unusually rowdy.
Not loud—Wolffe would have shut that down with one glare—but… twitchy. Restless. Shifty eyes and barely-concealed smirks. It was enough to make any seasoned commander suspicious, and Wolffe, who had survived more battlefield chaos than most, immediately zeroed in on the odd tension infecting his unit.
“Something funny, Boost?” he growled, side-eyeing the trooper who had been attempting—and failing—to suppress a laugh for the last three minutes.
Boost immediately stiffened in his seat. “No, sir.”
Wolffe narrowed his eye at him, then slowly swept his gaze around the room. Every clone was seated, helmets off, datapads ready. And yet none of them could meet his eye. Sinker had his head bowed, but his shoulders were shaking. Comet was chewing the inside of his cheek like his life depended on it. Warthog was avoiding looking at anything above the table entirely.
“Alright,” Wolffe said, letting the silence stretch for just a second too long. “What’s the problem?”
Silence. Comet made a strange squeaking sound and coughed to cover it.
“I said—what’s the problem?”
This time, all eyes turned to Sinker, the unofficial sacrificial lamb of the squad. He cleared his throat, clearly chosen—or bullied—into speaking.
“It’s just, uh… Sir,” Sinker began, his tone very careful, “are you aware there’s something on your neck?”
Wolffe’s eye narrowed to a blade-thin slit. “Like what?”
Sinker hesitated. Boost snorted into his fist.
“Spit it out, trooper.”
Comet gave in, finally laughing. “It’s a hickey, sir!”
The room exploded into chaos.
A chorus of gasps, stifled laughter, and dramatized “ooooohs” echoed against the durasteel walls. Warthog clutched his chest like he’d been mortally wounded. Boost leaned back with a wheeze and said, “Who knew the commander was such a romantic?”
Wolffe just stood there. Blinking. Processing.
And then he reached up—absently, instinctively—and brushed his fingers along the right side of his neck.
Right where you’d left your mark.
A very enthusiastic mark. Last night. After that mission. After hours of tension, sniping, arguing, and finally being shoved into a dimly-lit supply closet with you during base lockdown, where things got… heated. The kind of heated that left bruises and regrets—not for the act, but for how it was definitely going to be discovered.
He hadn’t even thought to check.
“Are you—” Warthog was grinning, “—seeing someone, Commander?”
“Since when?” Comet added. “Do we know her? Do we like her?”
“I definitely like her,” Boost said solemnly. “Anyone who manages to sneak up on Wolffe and leave a mark like that deserves respect.”
“Who says she snuck up on me?” Wolffe muttered under his breath.
It only made the room go louder.
“Oh no, he’s proud!”
“He likes it!”
Wolffe pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly resisting the urge to either murder everyone in the room or walk out and face-plant into traffic.
“Sir,” Sinker said, still grinning, “permission to requisition more rations. We’ll need extra caf and snacks if we’re gonna be sitting through a romantic subplot on top of all the war stuff.”
“You’ll be sitting through a disciplinary report if you don’t shut it, trooper.”
“Yes, sir.”
Wolffe sighed, rubbed at the back of his neck again, and finally just grunted. “Get it out of your systems now.”
“What, the teasing?”
“No. The death wishes. Because if anyone brings this up again in an actual field op or in front of a general, I swear on every one of your shiny skulls I will make you do hand-to-hand drills until you vomit.”
A pause.
Then Boost, ever brave, raised a hand.
“…What if she gives you another one, and we just notice it again?”
Wolffe leaned forward just enough to make the lights glint menacingly off his cybernetic eye.
“I will make you scrub every inch of this base’s refresher block with a toothbrush.”
Comet choked on his laughter. “Totally worth it.”
The room was once again filled with snickering, and somewhere in the back, Warthog whispered, “Commander’s got a girlfriend,” like a schoolboy daring the teacher to call on him.
Wolffe didn’t respond. He just activated the holoprojector for the actual briefing and started talking over them.
But you better believe he was glaring holes through the floor the entire time.
And later, when he walked back into your quarters, he cornered you with a dark look and a husky whisper: “Next time, warn me when you leave battle scars where my entire unit can see them.”
Hey Yall! Wanted to share this super cute commission I got to make for the wonderful @the-bad-batch-baroness for their story about Wolffe and his daughter! You can find it here if you are interested.
I decided to extend my commission openings till the end of August! So if anyone is still interested, please DM me.
Chapter Summary: Flashback to a week before, Mal is faced with a big decision that could alter her life drastically. But is she ready to leave the safety of the Wolfpack and face the hard questions that she’s been hiding from?
Chapter Warnings: Some swearing and mentions of Umbara/past trauma
Chapter Word Count: 5.4k
Recommended Listening: The Wolves by Ben Howard
A/N: No Fives this time, but lots of our other favorites, I promise :) Thank you so much for all of the support on Chapter One! I never could have imagined how loving and positive the response would be. Excited to share more of this story with you all! As always, comments, likes, feedback, and reblogs are always so appreciated!
Ao3
Taglist
The transfer talk had started a week earlier. Four Venator-class Star Destroyers lingered as a fleet in the Expanse Region, the armies recollecting while their generals strategized and regrouped. Mal kept busy organizing the medbay. She and the 104th’s clone medic, Crux, worked in silence as they tried hard not to think about why they were all gathered in the depths of space and not on their scheduled leave.
The first sign that something was wrong had been Plo Koon. The General, normally extremely patient and even-tempered, even by Jedi standards, stormed onto the bridge with a thunderous call to attention. He pulled Wolffe away for a meeting that lasted hours. The first anyone heard from them was a crackling summons for Sinker and Comet. The venom in Wolffe’s voice, clear even over the comm, sent a chill down Mal’s spine. She’d never heard him like that, not even after Abregado. The officers disappeared, and the meeting dragged on for even longer. Mal waited with Crux, Wildfire, and Boost. They crouched around a communicator listening to the rumors that began to trickle in from other ships over private lines; stories of brothers killing brothers under orders, horrors that the clones couldn’t imagine.
Mal, on the other hand, felt her heart begin to race as they listened. She knew horrors like these. They were the ones that haunted her nightmares and sometimes her waking moments, like ghosts that hung over her shoulders, their weight ladened with guilt. She never imagined terrors like this could reach her - or her friends - here, in the Republic army, far from the Separatists and surrounded by an army of brothers. She gripped the edge of the seat to stop her hands from shaking. When the comms finally went silent, no one spoke.
Before anyone could find the words, the meeting adjourned, and the officers were back on the deck. It seemed whatever fury had been burning before had subsided. They all looked heavy now, older. It was the oddest on Wolffe. Though he usually chose his words carefully, the stoic quietness that had overtaken the usually grumbling Commander was new and darker. Sinker barked the orders instead. The Jedi cruiser immediately made its jump to the Expanse region to gather with other Republic ships.
Three days passed before Mal saw Wolffe again. He locked himself in his office and didn’t respond to comms. Mal checked on him through Sinker, who made sure that he was eating for her. Satisfied that Sinker was doing his best to pester the Commander into taking care of himself, Mal found boredom creeping up on her without anyone to patch up. She and Crux did their best to stay distracted. The medbay had never looked cleaner. When Mal wasn’t restocking med packs or refilling bacta containers, she was organizing games of sabacc. Sabacc had always been a source of comfort for Mal, and it had been a downtime staple of the 104th since she joined. With the minimal stipends the clones got, Mal never let them play for real credits. Usually, they used ration bars or scraps of flimsi. It made it more fun anyway. There was more laughter and teasing, with nothing really on the line. Nothing on the line was a nice change of pace.
This afternoon’s game came about during a lull in after-lunch chores. Mal, Comet, Wildfire, Sinker, Crux, and Boost were huddled in a circle in the men’s barracks. Mal was in the middle of a roll when Wolffe called. The dice tumbled from her hand just as the comm on her wrist beeped, its final notes drowned out by a collective groan at the numbers she rolled. When Mal answered, Wolffe’s voice met her ears and brought a smile to her face. It was back to being its recognizable gruff timbre.
“Mal, get in here.” He snapped before he cut the call.
The message was short and to the point, as his comms always were. Mal knew she’d find him in his office, and before she could wonder why she was being summoned, the other clones began to make low whistles.
“Someone’s in trouble!” Comet chuckled.
“What the fuck did you do this time?” Boost shook his head at her with a paternal smile.
“Don’t worry, ad’ika. We’ll have Crux ready the medbay for after your chewing out.” Sinker elbowed the medic next to him, who quickly shuffled his cards away from the trooper and glared.
“The Jedi are probably finally giving me a medal for putting up with you all.” Mal sighed as she threw down her own cards.
Sinker leaned over the table, abandoning any pretense of subtlety, to stare at her hand before his gaze snapped back up to Mal. His jaw hung open, and betrayal was written all over his face.
“You’re a liar!” Sinker called out.
“It’s called bluffing. I know you’re not familiar with it.” She winked at him before she turned, leaving the rest of the soldiers to tease their brother about his bad sabacc face.
Mal wound the dark halls of the Venator until she reached Wolffe’s office. As the blast door slid open, she knew she’d find the Commander bent over a desk covered in flimsi, holos, and datapads. Mal had offered to clean it for him time and time again. Still, Wolffe always rolled his eyes at her and said it was organized to him, usually throwing in some colorful adjectives along the way. Mal wasn’t expecting an unfamiliar clone to be waiting with him.
The new clone, a captain according to the rank on his chest, sat in one of the two chairs across from Wolffe, his left hand resting on the chair arm and the right laid on the helmet that was perched atop his knee. Mal quickly saluted the familiar yet unfamiliar man. She wasn’t officially military, not like the clones. Civilian medics were a subset of the GAR, but she held no rank, and the field training had been practically shameful. The role was created so there would be extra hands to help the clone medics and the medical droids in the medbay and the medbay only.
Though she might not be officially GAR, Mal didn’t mind the military aspects of the job. The structure and the order of everything had seeped into her blood quickly. A part of Mal loved it. Craved it even. It felt safe. She just couldn’t stand being told what to do, not since Takodana. Luckily, Wolffe never minded if Mal took a little creative license with her scope. From the beginning, he had encouraged Crux to take her with him into the field. He respected her experience, and she also suspected that Wolffe knew she liked the intensity and distraction of it all, even if they never talked about it. It was one of the ways they were similar.
The captain smiled as Mal paused in the doorway. He had close-cropped blonde hair and brown eyes that twinkled even in the cabin’s dim light. She found that she liked the man right away. He radiated kindness, not a meek, differential kindness, but the warm kindness that comes from a confident, caring heart.
“Yes, sir?” Mal lingered at the entrance in case she had misunderstood the summons.
“You’re suddenly all polite in front of company?” Wolffe winked his cybernetic eye at her, his brown one bright with glee. Mal instantly relaxed. “Have a seat. Captain Rex and I were talking about you.”
“You must be the Captain Rex talking about me.” She flashed a smile at the man as she settled into the third chair. “Nice to meet you.”
“My vod always had a talent for introductions.” He grinned at his brother, bringing a familiar scowl to Wolffe’s face. “I promise it was only good things.”
Mal glanced back and forth between the officers. When neither of them spoke again, her curiosity got the better of her.
“So, what’s going on?”
Rex’s eyes flicked to Wolffe. When the Commander didn’t speak, his brow seemed to set in determination. He turned back to Mal, facing her fully.
“I was asking the Commander if you might be open to a transfer.”
A black hole could have opened up and swallowed her at that moment, and she wouldn’t have been more surprised. Mal’s eyes flitted to Wolffe, hoping to see some sort of anger or shock that another battalion was trying to steal her away, but she saw nothing. That stung. She always knew Wolffe was less openly emotional about his attachment to her than the rest of the 104th, but Mal still thought their relationship meant something to him. She certainly never thought he’d push her out.
“I’m sorry to ask.” Rex quickly added, reading the shock on her face. “I wouldn’t like the idea of leaving my men either. Truth is, my troop is short on medics. I promoted my man Coric to CMO, leaving my Torrent Company with only one primary medic. And uh, frankly, we’re a little too reckless for that.”
Mal pulled her attention from the cool commander and back to the captain with the soft eyes. She could deal with Wolffe later.
“Wolffe brags about you all the time to the other COs. Figured if I was gonna go searching for a civilian medic, I might as well try to get the best.” Rex drummed his fingers on his helmet as he spoke.
Mal blushed at the statement before she quickly searched the Captain’s face. She was looking for flattery, but his smile was unwaveringly genuine.
“I promise you I’ll think about it,” she assured Rex. It was a lie, and Mal felt a pang of guilt after seeing how earnest he was.
“All I can ask.” Rex stood, tucking his helmet into his hip. “I need to get back to my ship. Can’t leave those di’kute unsupervised for too long.”
He let out a half-exasperated chuckle to himself before he nodded to her and then saluted the Commander. Rex turned on his heel without another word and marched from the room. Mal waited until the door was sealed shut behind him.
“What the hell, Wolffe?” She snapped as she spun back to him. “You’re trying to get rid of me?”
Wolffe leaned back in his chair as he raised an amused eyebrow at her, the corners of his lips turning up into a smirk. It was the look he always gave Mal when she got feisty with him. He enjoyed her hot-headed nature and entertained it the same way a loth wolf would tolerate the play-fighting of a pup. His lackadaisical response to her fury often made her laugh and soothed her, but sometimes, it irritated Mal, especially when she was really pissed off. This was one of those times.
“After everything, you’re just gonna ship me out?” Mal felt her voice start to rise as fear bubbled in her chest. She shifted to the edge of her seat, the world suddenly a little unsteady. “You’ve got to be kidding. This is bantha shit.”
“Settle down, ad’ika. I’m not kicking you out.” Wolffe crossed his arms, his voice even. “I’ve already found that you’re impossible to get rid of.”
“Fuck you.” Mal fired right back at him before she paused. His little quip helped temper the panic, but frustration still seethed from her. “Then what the hell?”
“Look,” He leaned forward, his voice dropping a half an octave. “Rex is with the 501st.”
Mal gasped, despite herself. Everyone in the GAR had heard of the 501st, the famously brave and infamously bold legion that fought under the command of General Anakin Skywalker. Stories of their more creative battle plans were told over shots of spotchka. In the last week, however, their name had been uttered in hushed tones and horrified whispers as the stories of what had happened on Umbara last week spread throughout the GAR.
“He was so…” She thought about Captain Rex’s smile. “... kind.”
“Always has been. Rex is the best of us.” He spoke without affection as though it were a fact. “The bravest, the most creative, the boldest. Even while he’s hurting right now, he’s only thinking of his men. For better or for worse. I think you can relate to him. In more ways than one.”
Wolffe settled back into his chair as he let the inference in his words sink in. The already small durasteel office seemed to shrink, closing in on Mal as she shifted in her seat.
“From the stories, they were tricked on Umbara.” Her heart began to pound at the implication. “Not controlled.”
“Didn’t say it was the same, ad’ika. Just said you might be able to relate.”
Mal’s frown deepened. Finally, when she didn’t speak, Wolffe rolled his eyes and sighed. She knew it was at her refusal to admit he might be on to something, but when he started again, his voice was softer than she had heard in a long time.
“Look, I know I don’t say it a lot, but I don’t know what we would have done without after….” Wolffe trailed off. Mal knew what he meant. He coughed. “You rescued Sinker, Boost, and me way back then.”
A silence filled the room for a moment as memories overwhelmed them both. The war had felt like years, but the weight of those early days never felt less heavy, especially if they looked directly at them.
“You rescued me first,” she quickly replied, giving him a small smile.
“Us finding you was luck, Mal.” He said firmly. “You came back, and you brought mirjahaal with you.”
Mal knew what he was implying. She had worked hard in the days and months after Grevious’ attack to make sure that the remnants of the 104th healed or at least knew that they would eventually heal, inside and out. It was the least that she could do. They had done the same for her not long before. And it seemed like Wolffe thought she could do the same for the 501st.
“I don’t know them.” She frowned.
“But I know you, and I think you can help them.”
“How can you ask me to leave you? To leave Sinker and Boost? After everything?” Her voice was starting to rise again.
“Because I owe Rex that. We all do.”
Mal didn’t say anything. What Wolffe was asking her - to leave the only family she had left- was impossible, and he should know it.
“It’s not just about the 501st, though. There’s another reason I think you should at least consider it.” Wolffe’s eyes narrowed, the white and amber iris each focused on her. Suddenly, the air was tense, and Mal felt bare before her old friend. “I didn’t say anything to Rex, but this is also your chance for answers… if you still want them.”
Answers. She hadn’t thought about answers in a long time. Defense bubbled up in her chest. Of course, she still wanted them. Wolffe had to know that. She looked at him, half-pleading. His scar. Before Khorm. That was the last time they had talked about this. Before Khorm. Mal’s heart began to sink as she realized that it had been almost a year since she had looked into any of her leads. She didn’t realize it had been so long. What had happened to her family was easier to push down and push aside while she busied herself with making war. She pretended that fighting the Separatists was enough. She had ignored her oath to find out why everyone was dead, and she was ignoring the debt she owed them. She’d gotten comfortable. The oxygen was suddenly scarce as Mal tried to inhale. Cadex and Tynan’s faces flashed before her, their green eyes staring blankly into hers.
Wolffe cleared his throat again, pulling her back to the present. Breath flooded her lungs as Wolffe waited. She mustered up the courage to respond.
“I do.” Mal finally answered.
“Then take the transfer,” Wolffe repeated. “I will follow General Plo until I die, but his methods are slower… more precise. Skywalker will get you where you want to be.”
She didn’t say anything, the flame of defensiveness wetted by her guilt. It had been over two years, and she hadn’t gotten any closer to finding out what had happened or why. Mal had brought her story to General Plo Koon after she had first been rescued. The Kel Dor listened with interest and promised he would help. She knew he meant it, but the war raged on, and nothing had come of it. Wolffe was right. It was time for answers, and she needed to find a Jedi ready to help. She needed a Jedi who would be a little reckless.
“The decision is up to you.” Wolffe shook his head, finally breaking eye contact for a moment, just enough to let her breathe again. He brought his hands down to the desk, a tell-tale sign that he was closing the subject. “But you should know I wouldn’t give up my favorite medic unless I had a reason.”
“I’ll think about it,” Mal said as she stood.
This time, she meant it.
Mal tried to think about it as she made her way to the mess hall, but the annoyance that had dissipated under Wolffe’s gaze was beginning to bubble up again. How dare he try to talk her into leaving? This was her family, the only one she had anymore, and she belonged here. A feeling of betrayal settled like a rock into the pit of her stomach as she collected whatever slop the GAR was serving. She sought out her friends quickly.
Mal spotted Crux first. The clone medic stood out with his shaved head, the practical choice he once told her, and the GAR medical sigil tattooed on the back of his neck. Sitting with him were two other unmistakable heads, one of silver and the other decorated with two long, maroon strips.
“Why the long face?” Boost asked as Mal set her tray on the table and plopped down on the bench across from him.
She told them about the transfer. She gave them Rex’s offer and Wolffe’s logic, and then she told them all the reasons she was furious. This was her home. Her family. She waited for them to be mad for her. She waited for the cries of outrage. They never came.
“‘S not a bad idea.” Boost rubbed the back of his neck as he glanced over at Sinker.
Mal followed his gaze to see Sinker nodding. She snapped her head to her fellow medic, looking for support, but next to her, Crux shrugged in agreement.
“What is this?” She threw her arms up in the air. “Is everyone trying to get rid of me?”
“No one’s trying to get rid of you, ad’ika.” Boost quickly tried to assure her.
“Yeah, that’s impossible. We already tried.” Sinker snickered.
“That’s what Wolffe said, too,” Mal grumbled, shooting a glare at Sinker as she crossed her arms in front of her chest. “Neither of you are funny.”
“Look, be mad all you want.” Boost answered as he dove back into his meal, the shock of the news immediately wearing off in the face of a rapidly cooling dinner. “But Wolffe is right. If you want to be in the middle of the action, if you want answers, and you want ‘em quickly, the 501st is the place to be. And a spot with them isn’t going to open up every week.”
“You never know with their casualty numbers.”
Sinker chuckled again as Boost shot him the glare this time. Boost shook his head at his brother before he turned his attention back to his meal. He sliced a piece of his protein cube off and found it with his fork before he turned back to Mal, waving his skewered food like a lightsaber.
“It’s your call to make, but the fact that Captain Rex asked for you is a compliment. You’re a damn good medic, and you’ve worked hard to get here. Done a lot for us clones in the 104th along the way. Now it’s time to get what you want. Don’t you think you deserve that?”
You deserve to be happy.
“Tye would have told you to do it,” Sinker added, his joking tone suddenly gone.
Mal didn’t respond to that. She didn’t even look at Sinker. Instead, she turned to Crux, trying to ignore how her skin was starting to crawl.
“What do you think?”
The 104th’s medic was quiet, momentarily assessing as he always did.
“It makes sense.” Crux finally spoke. “Will we be short a medic for the time being? Yes, but the 501st has far higher mortality numbers than we do. Strategically, they need you more.”
“Aw shucks, just saw you’ll miss me.” Mal elbowed the stiff medic.
He grinned back.
“Well, that goes without saying.”
The conversation quickly turned to other subjects, but food quickly disappeared, and the meal wound down. As they gathered their trays and empty cups, She and Crux said their goodbyes to the other two before they started to wander back to the medbay. Mal waited until they were in the empty halls to broach the subject again
She and Crux hadn’t always seen eye to eye. Their first few months together had been particularly rough. He didn’t trust her as a civilian, and she resented him for… well, for not being Tye. But it had been a long time since then. His even temper and logic in the face of blaster fire and carnage were a perfect balance to her emotionally charged reactions. He was the only one besides Wolffe who would know what the right answer was.
“Really, what do you think?” She slid her hands into the pockets of the grey jumpsuit as she prodded the stoic medic again.
“You really want to know?”
“I asked.” She shrugged, her long gently red braid bouncing on her shoulder.
“Yeah, well, I’ve fallen into that trap before, Mal.” Crux chuckled, and Mal knew that one of any number of memories of heated arguments was on his mind. “You don’t usually like being told what to do.”
“I just want your advice,” She said, “as a friend, not as my medic CO.”
“Alright.” Crux sighed before he spoke. “I think that, despite what it feels like right now, this war isn’t going to go on forever. You have to take the opportunities you’re given. Take it from a clone.”
Mal stopped in her tracks. Crux continued a few steps, not realizing he was leaving his companion before he looked to his side and found the space empty. He paused and turned back to where his words had stopped her in her tracks. Shame burned her cheeks. Here she was, oscillating over choices that gave her a power in her future that the clones rarely saw.
“I’m sorry, Crux, I-”
“You’ve got nothing to apologize for, Mal.” He shook his head as he quickly cut her off. “I know you didn’t mean anything by it. I’m just offering a different perspective. I don’t want to see you miss your chance to change your path.”
Mal bit her lip as she nodded, digging her hands further into her pockets. Crux gave her a small smile.
“Go get some rest, Mal. I’ll finish up in the medbay.”
Mal didn’t realize how exhausted she felt until she stripped off the jumpsuit, let her hair loose, and pulled on sweatpants and a sweater. It had sunk into her bones and laid heavy there. Still, neither rest nor clarity found Mal when she crawled into bed. As the lights flickered off on the living quarters of the Star Destroyer, Mal lay in a lonely lower bunk in the small and otherwise empty civilian barracks. The idea of a transfer had taken root in her head, and it was sprouting. She wished she was back on Coruscant, something that she rarely felt. Still, Mal missed the dingy local pool that she and Tye had found on the 576th level the week after she had moved into her off-base apartment. She wanted to swim. The future was always clearer in the water.
Instead, Mal stared up at the dim metal of the top bunk. The thought of leaving the 104th still made her pulse quicken and her breath rise. Leaving this battalion would be more than a transfer. It would be losing her family again. She owed her life to Sinker, Boost, and Wolffe. She had been with them when they had to rebuild. The idea of not having their back or them not having hers was devastating. Who would patch them up? Who would make sure that Wolffe ate something or that Comet slept?
Mal turned on her side, eyes looking out into the impenetrable dark. It was overwhelming. She was usually grateful that she didn’t have to share the bunk with anyone. She didn’t have to worry about upsetting them when the nightmares came, and she had always appreciated solitude. Tonight, Mal would have liked someone to talk to, though. She thought about comm-ing Wolffe or Crux, but a growing part of her realized that the one person she really wanted to talk to was Tye.
Tye. In the span of a lifetime, she’d only known him for a fraction of it, but he had a clarity and purpose that she’d never seen in anyone. She could use that clarity right now. The last time she remembered having it was when she made the decision to join the GAR as a medic so she could help the 104th. She had needed to give something back to all of the Wolfpack, but her debt to Tye weighed heaviest on her, and it was one she couldn’t repay. Not anymore. He was a corpse floating somewhere out in the Abregado system. All she could do was look after his brothers and hope it was enough. Now Wolffe was telling her his brothers needed help. Maybe this was what she needed to do to keep repaying that debt.
And then there was the promise of answers. Wolffe was right. Mal had pushed that quest aside for a long time, focusing on the day-to-day battle instead of the questions always in the back of her mind. If this was the chance to finally find out what happened to her family, she had to take it. She owed it to herself and them, another debt to the dead. A hand wandered up to her temple and traced a familiar path into her hairline until it found the raised skin that lay beneath her auburn roots. Mal ran her fingertips over the small incision, long since healed and hidden. It had been hidden long enough. It was time for answers.
Sleep crept up on Mal like a nexu, springing out at her from the darkness and wrestling her mind into the abyss. She didn’t have any nightmares that night.
Mal woke up the next morning feeling rested in a way she couldn't remember being since before the war when rainy nights on Takodana would turn into bright mornings where the sun-kissed dew would fall from the overgrown canopy. Those mornings when she would take her boat to the lake and patrol the waterways were the last time she remembered having this kind of purpose. Despite the uncertainty ahead, it was fortifying.
Mal took a quick sonic shower in her private fresher before she braided her hair and pulled on her gray jumpsuit. She glanced in the long mirror as she ran her fingers over the 104th's emblem on her chest. She traced the aurebesh numbers and the small wolf emblem. With deft fingers, Mal took the pin from the fabric and pocketed it.
She stepped out of the fresher, and immediately went to see Wolffe. The hallways were filled with familiar faces and greetings, and she savored every one of them. Wildfire met her with her morning caf. They took it the same - one sugar, one cream - and after continuously switching cups in briefings, he finally just started to bring Mal her own, with an M on the lid. She surprised him with a hug as she took it and promised she would meet him at breakfast in a little bit. There was something she had to do.
The caf tasted even sweeter today, and Mal smiled as she sipped on on the warm drink. She clasped her hands around the cup as she found herself stopping before Wolffe's office again. The blast door loomed before her for a moment. She knew that there were things on the other side that she might not like. There were no answers that would save her from her sins. One hand left its grip on the cup so she could run her fingers over the cool durasteel, tracing the fine lines until she found the control panel. Mal typed in the code she knew by heart, and the door slid open. An affectionate smile crossed her lips when she spotted Wolffe. He was sitting behind his desk as he always did, behind a mound of flimsi and nose buried in a datapad. She realized she would miss his messy desk.
“I’ll do it,” Mal quickly spoke, not giving herself even a second to change her mind.
Wolffe kept typing.
“Our leave next week overlaps with the 501st. We’ll make the transition then.”
“You already talked to Rex.” She huffed. It wasn’t a question.
He finally looked up from the datapad with a sly grin.
“I knew you’d say yes.”
Mal shook her head at the Commander as she rolled her eyes and sighed at his arrogance. The annoyance didn’t reach her eyes, though. With nothing else to discuss, Mal turned to go. Before she could make it to the door, Wolffe spoke again.
“You made the hard choice, Mal,” Wolffe called. “He’d be proud.”
Mal stopped in her tracks. She could ignore Sinker when he brought up Tye, but she couldn’t ignore Wolffe. Mal turned to him with an attempt at a smile, even though she knew it likely looked like a grimace.
“I know.”
“They all would be. Your father, Cadex, and Tynan too.”
Mal’s eyes widened as the names left her friend’s mouth. Wolffe never mentioned her family directly. Even though he knew more about her than anyone else alive, he’d always respected her privacy. Bile began to rise in Mal’s throat. Could she still make them proud? She tried to nod to Wolffe. She stiffly lowered her chin just a little before she spun on her heel and double-timed her way back to her barrack. All along the way, a voice chased her.
You deserve to be happy.
It wasn't until she reached the mess hall that her ears stopped ringing, the noise of the hungry clones a reprieve from the thunderous voices in her head. Wildfire waved her over to a table, and Mal pushed aside Wolffe's final words. No one knew what she deserved, but she was ready to find out.
When Mal finally stepped onto the hangar of the 501st battalion, the morning’s distress had evaporated along with any remnants of a hangover. She had closed the book on her mistake. The clone, Fives, was a mirage now. He was nothing more than a memory at this point, a reaffirmation of her rules, and eventually, once the shame wore off, an embarrassing story for her to tell Sinker and Boost the next time she saw them. Mal had real things to worry about now.
Though the hangover may have been gone, the headache seemed to come right back as she stepped into the sea of blue and white troopers. Her new blue jumpsuit, swapped for her old grey one, matched the armor of the men who marched by her, but there were no signs of recognition. They swarmed around her, looking at their datapads, at each other, looking anywhere but at the nat-born who had just entered their realm. There were no greetings or hugs. There was no Boost to slap her on the back, no Sinker launching an airborne assault of loving insults in salute, no Wildfire with her morning caf. She shifted, all alone amid the Grand Army of the Republic. For the first time in a long time, the machine of the GAR ground on around Mal.
“Mal!” A friendly voice called out from behind her.
She spun immediately, thirsting for anything familiar. A vague feeling of disappointment settled in her gut as she realized the voice was attached to a pair of rapidly approaching jaig eyes.
Stop it. She chastised herself. You agreed to this. Time to make the most of it.
So Mal tucked away the ache and waved at the approaching man. He pulled his helmet from his head, revealing a sideways smile. Captain Rex held his hand out to her before he chirped over the din of the GAR’s machinations.
Hiya babes! Hope you’re doing well! Just outta say I absolutely adore your writing and always brings a smile to my face when you post!!
I was hoping you could do an angst fic where it’s the boys reactions to you jumping in front of them taking a hit/bolt. You can choose the clone group! Xxx
Thank you so much — seriously, your kind words mean the world to me!! I’m so glad my writing can bring a little light to your day 💛
I hope you don’t mind that I decided to go with the Wolf pack for this one. I hope you enjoy 🫶
⸻
“For the Pack”
Reader x 104th Battalion (Wolffe, Sinker, Boost)
⸻
You don’t think. You just move. That’s what instinct does when family is in danger.
The air was thick with heat and cordite, the jungle humid enough to choke on. Blasterfire lit the treeline in wild flashes—red bolts cutting through the green like angry stars. You pressed forward with your saber raised, breath tight in your chest, the Force buzzing like a live wire beneath your skin.
This wasn’t supposed to be a heavy engagement. Just a scouting mission. Routine.
But nothing about war ever stays routine for long.
“Wolffe, move it! You’re exposed!” you shouted, watching him duck behind cover just as two more shots chewed bark over his head.
“Copy that,” Wolffe growled, popping off a few retaliatory blasts. “Boost! Sinker! Sweep the right flank and flush that nest!”
“Already on it!” Boost called from somewhere in the brush.
“We’re getting pinned down out here!” Sinker added, tone sharp but controlled.
You moved closer to Wolffe, saber up, covering his retreat as he repositioned behind the half-blown trunk of a felled tree. The rest of the battalion had spread out, covering the ridgeline, trying to locate the sniper.
That’s when it hit you—the feeling.
The Force spiked.
Time slowed.
A heartbeat ahead of the moment, you felt it: danger, aimed at someone you couldn’t let go.
Wolffe was turning. He wasn’t going to make it in time.
You didn’t think. You just moved.
A leap. A cry. A single instant of instinct and fear and absolute certainty.
And then the bolt hit you square in the back.
Wolffe didn’t register what happened right away. One moment he was turning to call out an order, the next there was a flash of blue, the hum of a saber, and a sickening crack of a body hitting the dirt.
“—[Y/N]?!”
You were lying on your side, smoke rising from your robes, your saber a few meters away, deactivated.
You weren’t moving.
Sinker screamed something wordless over comms. Boost shouted your name.
“MEDIC!” Wolffe was already moving. “Get me a medic now!”
He slid to his knees beside you, hands already tearing open the fabric around the wound, even though he didn’t know what the hell he was doing—just doing. There was too much blood. Too much heat coming off your skin. You were smaller than him, younger, not armored like they were. You were a Jedi, yeah, but also just a kid compared to the rest of them.
His kid. Their kid.
And you’d taken a shot meant for him.
⸻
Hours Later you were in bacta now. Still alive. Barely.
The medics said it was touch and go. The bolt had burned through muscle and clipped something vital. You’d coded once during evac, but they brought you back. Your saber had been returned to Plo Koon, its emitter dented from where it had slammed into the ground.
Wolffe sat in the corner of the medbay, helmet off, armor streaked with dried blood—your blood. He hadn’t moved in two hours.
“Why the hell would she do that?” Sinker muttered, pacing with his helmet tucked under one arm. He was flushed, angry. “We wear armor for a reason. We train for this. She’s a Jedi, not a clone. She’s not supposed to—”
“Be willing to die for us?” Boost cut in, voice tired. “Guess she missed that memo.”
Sinker let out a long, low sigh and scrubbed a hand over his face. “We’re the ones who throw ourselves in front of people. That’s the job. That’s our job.”
Plo Koon stood at your bedside, one hand lightly resting on the glass of the tank. He’d been silent for most of it, his calm presence a strange contrast to the chaos.
“She has always seen you as more than soldiers,” he said gently. “You are her brothers. Her family.”
Wolffe finally spoke, his voice low and rough. “She’s part of the pack. And the pack protects its own.”
“But she nearly died protecting you, Commander,” Boost said. “What does that make us?”
“Alive,” Wolffe answered. “That’s what it makes us. And when she wakes up, she’s going to be reminded that we never leave one of our own behind.”
Sinker stopped pacing, jaw clenched.
“She’s not gonna get off easy for this.”
“Oh, hell no,” Boost muttered. “Soon as she’s conscious, I’m yelling at her.”
“Not before me,” Wolffe said, standing finally. “I’ve got seniority.”
They tried to joke—tried to banter—but it didn’t land. Not yet.
⸻
Your vision was blurry. Everything felt heavy. And sore. So sore.
“Hey—hey! She’s waking up!”
Voices. Familiar. Warm.
You blinked hard. One blurry helmet. Then two. Then a third face appeared—scarred, grim, but so full of relief it almost didn’t look like Wolffe.
“About damn time,” he muttered. “Thought we were gonna have to start arguing over who got to carry your sorry ass out of here.”
You tried to speak, but all that came out was a croaky whisper: “Pack…”
Boost leaned in closer. “Yeah. We’re here.”
Sinker had a hand pressed to your arm, trying not to squeeze too hard. “Don’t you ever do that again.”
You smiled weakly. “Didn’t think about it.”
“No kidding,” Wolffe said, arms crossed now. “You jump in front of another bolt like that and we’re stapling your robes to the floor.”
Plo Koon stepped forward, voice kind and firm. “Rest now, little one. You have done more than enough. The pack is safe. Because of you.”
You let your eyes fall shut again, not from pain this time—but because you knew they were watching over you.
Hello! I gotta say I love how you write the banter between the clones and it honestly is so funny and cute. Could I get a Fox or Wolfe x reader where maybe he goes to wear something that he doesn’t know reveals a few marks from you the previous night and his brother notices and tease him? That’s the main request but I’d love if you’d add anything else plot wise to make it more full and complete Xx
“Battle Scars”
Wolffe x Reader
Wolffe didn’t go out often. Boost and Sinker practically had to drag him to 79’s that night, not because he hated it, but because he hated the noise, the chaos, the unwanted attention.
But mostly?
He just preferred being alone with you.
Unfortunately for him—and fortunately for everyone else—Sinker had shouted something about “you owe us after ditching two poker nights in a row,” and now he was stomping toward the bar in a casual black shirt (one you may or may not have helped him out of the night before), grumbling like a man headed to execution.
He hadn’t noticed that the neckline sat just a little wide across the collarbone. Or that a certain faint purple mark was blooming just below the edge of the collar on the left side. Or that there were more—not too obvious, but definitely visible if you were looking.
And Boost and Sinker? They were looking.
“Kriff, Wolffe,” Sinker said, the moment they’d taken a booth and ordered drinks. “You finally let off some steam, huh?”
Wolffe blinked, raising a brow. “What?”
Boost leaned in with a sh*t-eating grin. “Don’t act like you don’t know. I can see the bruise on your neck from here.”
Wolffe stiffened. “It’s not—”
“Don’t lie to me,” Sinker cut in. “That’s either a love bite or you got in a fight with a Nexu.”
Boost sipped his drink, eyes glinting. “And judging by the one just peeking above your collar? Our dear commander got wrecked.”
Wolffe growled, yanking his collar up slightly. “Shut it.”
“Who’s the lucky one?” Sinker asked, already leaning across the table like he was digging for state secrets.
“None of your damn business,” Wolffe muttered.
“That means it’s definitely someone we know,” Boost said with delight.
“Is it one of the medics?” Sinker mused.
“Maybe that intel officer with the legs?”
“I bet it’s—wait.” Boost froze, grinned wider. “It’s that civvie he always walks to the transport bay, isn’t it? The one with the nice voice—what was her name again?”
Wolffe looked like he was calculating murder odds.
“[Y/N]!” Sinker snapped his fingers. “She’s always smiling at you. Maker, I knew it.”
Wolffe stayed dead silent, drinking his beer with the expression of a man who would rather fight General Grievous shirtless than have this conversation.
“Wolffe,” Boost said slowly, “you sly di’kut. You’ve been holding out.”
“You’re smiling,” Sinker said, pointing. “Look at him, he’s smiling. That’s a post-blissful-night smile.”
“I am not smiling.”
“You are,” Boost confirmed, nodding sagely. “You look like a man who got thoroughly appreciated. Several times.”
“You know what,” Sinker said, raising his glass, “I’m just proud. Our boy’s finally unclenched.”
Wolffe muttered, “I will kill both of you.”
⸻
It was well past midnight when you heard a familiar knock—two short, one long—on your door.
You opened it to find Wolffe standing there, looking deliciously rumpled. His black shirt was half-untucked, collar slightly askew, his hair a little mussed, and that glare in his eye… the one that always meant either someone pissed him off, or he was thinking about you.
He stepped in without a word, the door hissing shut behind him. You crossed your arms, leaning back against the wall, hiding your grin.
“Well, hello to you too, Commander.”
Wolffe stopped in front of you, eyes narrowing.
“You,” he said lowly, voice rough with exhaustion and a hint of that familiar gravel. “Left marks.”
You blinked innocently. “Did I?”
He arched a brow. “Sinker counted three. Boost said one looked like it bit back.”
You tried—really tried—not to laugh. “I told you not to wear that shirt.”
“It was the only clean one,” he growled.
You shrugged with mock innocence. “Not my fault your brothers have eyes.”
Wolffe stepped in closer. His voice dropped, heated now. “They wouldn’t shut up.”
“Poor you,” you cooed, lifting your hand to his collar and gently tugging it further aside to admire your handiwork. “But if it’s any consolation…”
You leaned in, lips brushing just under his ear.
“I’d be very happy to leave more.”
Wolffe stilled for a moment. Then you felt the sharp exhale of his breath, the way his hands suddenly found your hips, firm and possessive.
“You’re going to be the death of me.”
You smirked. “Not tonight.”
His mouth was on yours before you could get another word out, rough and hungry and just the right kind of desperate. You didn’t mind. You’d apologize for the marks never.
And judging by the way he walked you backward toward the bedroom?
So we all know the Wolfe pack are an amazing little family but I think they need a child 😁 you could either go with the tried and true chaos maker or they could be a sweet sensitive child (and can Wolfe braid her hair please🥹)
“Hair Ribbons and Blast Marks”
Wolfpack x child!Reader
⸻
You didn’t remember much from the first few days.
Just smoke. Fire. The blaster shots echoing so loud in your skull it made you want to curl into the smallest thing possible.
Your village had been nothing more than a dot on a backwater moon—a place the war had always passed over. Until it didn’t.
You remembered clutching your stuffed loth-cat so tightly your fingers ached. Remembered the way your guardian pushed you under the collapsed roof beams, told you to stay quiet. To breathe slowly. To wait.
They never came back.
You did as you were told. You waited. Hours passed. The sky turned black. And then—
Boots.
Voices.
Not droids. Not the hard, scratchy crackle of modulated comms. But deeper. Familiar. Human.
And then—
“Sir. I got something.”
Someone dragged debris away, piece by piece, until the light hurt your eyes. You blinked up at a silhouette wearing battered white armor and a cracked helmet painted with gray markings. There was blood on his chestplate. He had a mechanical eye that glowed faintly red.
He crouched.
“…You’re a little too small to be a threat.”
You flinched.
He tilted his head.
“Hey. It’s alright. No one’s gonna hurt you.”
A pause. “…You can let go of the loth-cat, though.”
You didn’t.
That was the first time you met Commander Wolffe.
⸻
They didn’t mean to keep you. Not really. You were supposed to be handed off to Republic evac, or a Jedi transport. But there was no transport. No Jedi.
So, you stayed. First for a day. Then a week. Then longer.
They tried not to let you see too much.
Wolffe barked orders for you to stay on the ship when they dropped into combat zones. Boost and Sinker took turns walking you around the base perimeter and drawing silly faces on their helmets to make you laugh. Comet built a whole story about the scars on his arm being from a giant tooka-monster.
You didn’t talk much at first. But you followed Wolffe like a shadow.
Even when he grunted. Even when he said “Don’t you have anything better to do, kid?” and “I’m not a babysitter.”
You stayed close.
You weren’t sure why.
Only that—when he was around—you didn’t feel afraid.
⸻
Braid Duty
You hadn’t even meant to ask him.
You’d just been sitting near the crates in the hangar, legs swinging, hair in tangled knots because you hadn’t let anyone near you with a brush in days. You were tired of the weight of it. But when Boost offered to braid it—cheerfully saying he’d give you the “best battle braid in the galaxy”—you said no. Too loud. Too sharp.
And then Wolffe passed by.
You looked up.
Your hand went to your hair.
The words slipped out before you could stop them:
“Commander Wolffe. Will you braid it?”
Boost blinked. Comet snorted. Sinker raised an eyebrow like you’d just asked Wolffe to wear a tutu.
But the Commander paused.
He looked at you. Really looked.
Then gave a low sigh.
“Fine. But if you squirm, I’m giving you to the 212th.”
You smiled.
You didn’t squirm.
He sat behind you on a supply crate, armor stripped to his blacks, hands surprisingly gentle as he brushed through the knots. It wasn’t perfect—he tugged once or twice, and muttered under his breath—but you stayed still. Safe. Warm.
“You could’ve asked one of the others,” he said quietly.
“I wanted you.”
“Why?”
You looked down at your loth-cat plush. Picked at the ear that was starting to unravel.
“Because you don’t laugh when I cry.”
There was a long silence. His hands paused, then slowly began braiding again.
“…Yeah,” he muttered. “Well. You don’t laugh when I yell. So we’re even.”
You giggled.
⸻
Wolffe didn’t notice it at first.
You’d been doodling. Stickers were your new favorite thing. Plo Koon had brought a datapad full of them for you—little sparkly tookas, clone helmet faces, stars and moons and rainbow squiggles.
You pressed one gently to Wolffe’s pauldron while he was leaning over a holomap. A shiny tooka with glittery eyes.
so I was wondering if you could write a sequel to that teen journalist reader? Maybe something like she gets mean comments/no attention on her articles and goes on rants about it, then starts feeling like she’s too opinionated and they comfort her 👀 ty for considering!! Big fan of your work
“Headlines No One Reads”
Wolf Pack x Reader
Your newest article had gone live thirty-six hours ago.
And it had exactly two comments.
One was from your mother. The other was some rando saying “LMAO shut up kid.”
That was it.
You groaned and thunked your head down onto the datapad. The mess hall table rattled, drawing a look from Boost, who was quietly dismantling his blaster next to you.
“You okay, Eyeball?” he asked.
“No,” you mumbled into the plastoid surface. “I just poured my soul into a five-thousand-word exposé about the human cost of war and the intersection of clone identity and individuality, and literally no one cares.”
Boost cocked his head. “That sentence was way too long.”
You threw your arms up. “Exactly! Nobody cares! Nobody even reads it! I might as well scream into hyperspace. At least the stars would echo back.”
Comet sat down across from you, tray clattering. “So what? You want fame?”
“I want people to listen!” you snapped, then immediately wilted. “Sorry. That was… loud.”
The clones exchanged looks over your head.
⸻
Later, in the barracks, you tried to vent into your recorder.
“Maybe I’m just… too opinionated. Too much. Who wants to hear some teenager go on about war crimes and propaganda? Nobody! Not even the clones I’m trying to help.”
You didn’t realize Wolffe had walked in until he said, flat and unimpressed:
“You done yet?”
You jumped so hard you nearly dropped the recorder. “Commander! I—uh—I was just…”
“Complaining into a microphone?” His eyebrow arched. “Very professional.”
You flushed hot. “You don’t get it. My work doesn’t matter. I’m not a Jedi, I’m not a soldier, I’m just—” Your throat tightened. “Just a loudmouth kid with a datapad.”
There was silence. Then heavy footsteps as Wolffe came closer.
He crouched so you had no choice but to meet his eyes.
“Listen to me,” he said. “We’ve had spies. Auditors. Inspectors. All of them treated us like numbers. You don’t. You write what you see. That matters. Even if some civvie on Coruscant doesn’t think so.”
Your eyes burned. “But what if it’s not enough?”
“Kid,” Wolffe said bluntly, “you could write the truth of the galaxy itself and some di’kut would still tell you to shut up.”
You blinked. Then—despite yourself—snorted.
Sinker, from his bunk, called: “Yeah, welcome to our lives. We save people and half the Senate still hates us.”
“Exactly,” Boost added. “If you’ve got critics, it means you’re doing something right.”
Comet tossed a ration bar at you. “Eat something. Ranting burns calories.”
You stared at them, all casual and gruff and weirdly sincere.
And for the first time since you started your little war-journalist career, you didn’t feel small. Or loud. Or pointless.
You felt like maybe your words—your voice—mattered.
Not because of the comments. Not because of the views.
But because the Wolfpack listened.
⸻
Later that night, you found your recorder where Wolffe had set it on the table. A new file blinked at the top of the list.
You hit play.
“This is Commander Wolffe of the 104th. For the record: the kid’s annoying, opinionated, and doesn’t know when to shut up. But their words keep us human. That’s worth more than any headline. End log.”
