Heyo! I personally feel like 99 needs more love. How about a fluffy x reader where they’re friends and she fake marries him to get him away from the Kaminoans (but they’re actually super duper mutually pining the whole time.)
The Kaminoan facility wasn’t designed for sentiment.
Its corridors were sterile in every sense—white light, white walls, white floors. Even the voices were low and clinical, always discussing test results, genetic stability, weapon output. Not names. Never hearts.
That’s why you noticed 99.
He stood out—not just because he limped slightly or because his spine curved wrong or because his uniform never quite fit right. It was the way he looked at people. As if there was something worth seeing. As if this place hadn’t broken him.
He always smiled when you brought him rations during late-night inventory. Always called you “miss” and insisted on carrying heavy crates even when his body protested. Somewhere along the line, those brief exchanges became full conversations—about the brothers he looked after, about Domino Squad and courage and worth. Then came shared caf, off-record strolls along the cloning bays, and quiet silences that said more than words.
You were friends. But you also weren’t just that.
You hadn’t realized how deeply that ran until you overheard the conversation between two Kaminoan officials in the archive corridor.
“CT-99’s degradation has accelerated. He is no longer functionally valuable, even in maintenance.”
“Authorization for retirement?”
“They’re going to kill you.”
You didn’t even greet him that night. You found 99 in the supply corridor, bent over a defective droid leg, and launched the words like a warning shot. He blinked up at you, squinting in the low light.
“They’re calling it a ‘retirement.’” Your voice cracked. “But you know what that means here.”
He sat slowly, his knees popping. “They’ve… spoken of that before. I knew it might come eventually.”
“Eventually?” You dropped beside him. “99, that’s not okay. You matter. You’re one of the best people I’ve ever met and—!”
“I’m just a maintenance clone.” He smiled gently. “Don’t cry for me, miss. I’ve lived more than I expected to.”
You swore then. Actually swore, which made his eyebrows jump.
“No,” you snapped, “you’re not dying here. I won’t let them erase you like you’re a defective datapad.”
You stared at him. Your mind ran through every legal form, every loophole, every bureaucratic cheat you’d learned in your years under Republic assignment. Then it hit you like a shockwave.
“A non-military transfer of ownership,” you whispered.
“If you were married to a Republic citizen, you could be reassigned under spousal exemption. You’d be protected from termination. Legally. The Kaminoans would have to comply.”
“You’re suggesting I marry… someone.”
You swallowed. “I’m suggesting you marry me.”
The documents were easy enough. Kamino’s system was used to shuffling clones around like inventory, so when a civilian contract with proper Senate authorization came through, no one questioned it too deeply. The clerk asked if you wanted to add a photo to the certificate. You declined.
The moment he signed it, 99 looked up at you with something unreadable in his eyes.
“You don’t have to mean it,” you said softly. “This is just so they can’t touch you.”
But neither of you could quite meet the other’s eyes.
Clones didn’t get farewells. Especially not defective ones. You packed what few personal items 99 had—mostly handmade trinkets from cadets long graduated, a cup from Hevy, a scarf someone once gave him on a cold shipment night.
The shuttle took off in silence. He sat beside you, rigid and awkward, like he wasn’t sure where to put his hands. His armor—what little he wore—was neatly folded beside him. For the first time, 99 was leaving Kamino.
He didn’t speak until the clouds cleared the viewport.
“You really didn’t have to do this,” he said, voice low.
“I did,” you replied. “I wasn’t going to let them erase you.”
He looked at you, really looked, and then turned away, jaw tight.
“I don’t understand why you care so much.”
You turned toward him. “Because I see you, 99. You’re not a failure. You’re not defective. You’re kind and strong and brave and I—I didn’t want to lose you.”
The silence that followed was deafening.
But he didn’t look away this time.
You settled on a small Republic-affiliated outpost world—not a war zone, not a center of politics. Just quiet enough to go unnoticed. You got assigned to logistical oversight; 99 began working with medical triage teams, carrying supplies and offering patient support. The local medics loved him.
To anyone else, you were just another newly married couple relocating for duty. To you both… it was complicated.
You shared quarters, but different beds. Ate together, but never touched. Talked, laughed, even bickered over ration rotation—but always with that something hanging in the air.
You never brought up the marriage. Neither did he.
You were folding laundry when he entered your room, hesitating at the threshold.
“I spoke to a clone today,” he said. “A trooper with the 212th. He said he envied me.”
He gave a small, tired smile. “Because I have someone. Because I’m not just another number anymore. He said I looked… happy.”
You didn’t trust your voice, so you just nodded.
He stepped closer. “Do I?”
You looked up. “Do you what?”
You swallowed. “You… do.”
Your heart thudded. “Are you?”
He stared at you. “I never knew I could be. Until you.”
You dropped the shirt in your hands. “99…”
“I know it wasn’t real,” he said quickly, eyes cast down. “The marriage, I mean. I know you did it to protect me. I’ve always known that. But somewhere along the way, I started wishing it was real.”
You moved without thinking. Crossed the room. Stood toe-to-toe with him.
“I never lied to you,” you said. “It might have started as a loophole, but everything I’ve done since has been real. I care about you. I—stars, 99, I love you.”
He flinched like he’d been hit.
“I know I’m not like the others,” he whispered. “I’m not whole. I’m not—”
It was soft. Gentle. Like finally coming home after years in a storm. He froze for a breath, then leaned into it, arms curling around your waist like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed.
When you pulled back, his cheeks were wet.
“I don’t deserve this,” he said.
“You deserve everything,” you whispered. “Especially this.”
Life didn’t change overnight, not in the loud ways. You still worked. Still filed reports. Still shared cramped meals in the commissary.
But at night, he started holding your hand. He began calling you by your name instead of “miss.” And one morning, without a word, you found his things moved fully into your side of the quarters. No more distance.
He looked at you and said softly, “I want to be your husband. Not just your paperwork.”
You kissed him again, then. And again. And again.
And you never let him go.
When the war ended, many files were lost. Many names were erased. But not 99’s. Not anymore.
Because somewhere on a quiet moon, far from Kamino’s cold halls, a man who was once discarded found a life. A name. A person who loved him.
And when people asked how two such different souls had met, you always smiled and said, “He saved me first.”
