Dogma - Blog Posts

Dogma Headcanon

When he was a cadet on Kamino, he was not the same reg-loving guy. He broke the rules, snuck food, classic cadet behavior.

*Obviously, Tup was his batchmate. They were the closest in their group.

ANYways, in a training sim gone wrong due to their team going off protocol, his entire batch besides he and Tup got killed. Tup suffered a head wound, which while didn’t cause significant damage then, is what got the ball rolling in his chip decaying. Dogma, on the other hand, only had minor damage.

After this, Dogma followed the regs more closely, but it still wasn’t to the full extent as we saw during the show. He stopped sneaking food, and he broke the rules less, but he was still a fun guy.

One day, Dogma accidentally overheard the Kaminoans talking about the chips. He ran away back to his bunk room, but not before being noticed by the Kaminoans.

Dogma was escorted to the lab, where the Kaminoans demanded to know what he had heard. Dogma, knowing better than to lie to a Kaminoan, told them. After gaining this information, they *reconditioned Dogma, but only of the information that they didn’t want him to know. Once the process was over, they threatened harm to his person if he ever told anyone what had just happened.

After this incident, Dogma became more reserved, and only talked to Tup. This is also when he became a target of bullying, which also contributed to his love for regs as they were the only thing (besides Tup) that never hurt him.

A few days before being shipped out to their battalions, the Kaminoans pulled Dogma to the side. As a final effort to scare Dogma into behaving, they threatened to harm Tup and himself if he ever disobeyed commands. After hours of threats and a deep cut curved around his eye (which Dogma eventually got his memorable tattoo to cover) Dogma promised to never speak of what had just happened.

His first battalion was serving with the 501st, and not even a year into his deployment the Umbara arc happened.

*Reconditioning. In this little au, I imagine reconditioning to be somewhat different than what is normally seen in Star Wars fics. The Kaminoans can select what clones can and cannot remember, and to what extent. Reconditioning is very painful and traumatic, and only works when the clone is awake. The more specific an event removal is, the more pain it causes. In Dogma’s case, they knew that removing his entire encounter with overhearing the Kaminoans would be useless, and cause eventual suspicion, so they just took out the part where Dogma heard what they were discussing.

+Something to note: the more a clone is reconditioned, the less stable their chip becomes. That’s why more clones are decommissioned than reconditioned, as the Kaminoans didn’t want their plans to be revealed. In Dogma’s case, after he was reconditioned, his chip stability decreased. During Umbara, Krell noticed something weird with Dogma, and when he did some force shit and found a link to manipulate Dogma using his chip (not that Krell new that’s what it was) he used this newfound knowledge for his own gain. He now had a clone that would listen to his command, and he could destruct the clones’ trust in one another. Throughout this all, Dogma was unaware of his or Krell’s actions, and only came to when Rex was hesitating to shoot Krell. After he shot Krell, his memories came rolling in, about what he did and what Krell did to him and everything else he witnessed during the Umbara arc.

If anyone wants to write something about this go ahead! Just put the fic and where I can find it in the comments so I can read it :)

My favorite Star Wars characters in no particular order, categorized clone to non-clone; lemme know yours!

Kix

Hound

Fox

Dogma

Echo

Tech

Crosshair

Rex

Howzer

Gregor

Hardcase

Grey

99

Waxer

Boil

Odd Ball

Gearshift

The clone with Gearshift

Numa

Din Djarin/The Mandalorian

Finn/FN-2187

Kanan/Caleb

Ezra

Cal

Plo Koon

Quinlan Vos

Kallus

I hope my humor is as good as I thought it was when I made this

I created a color palette, it's called "I am the metatron" and is inspired in Metatron from Dogma

Feel free to use this palette and give me the credits, please. Thank you! ^^

×××××××××××××××××××××××××××××

If you like my content and wanna support it, follow me, press the heart/reblog button and leave a comment below here 👇

H-hi. I don’t know if you’ll ever see this or even answer to it but I wanna let your know that your drawings make me really happy. Just seeing all the clones alive and well without order 66 and getting along brings a smile to my face lol. And Dogma? There is not enough of this precious bean on this site and you have blessed us with more content so thank you so much ♥️ Tbh I just wanna see him smile, that’s it. I don t think we have ever seen him doing that in the hole TCW

Oh welp, I admit, Dogma needs a spa day because he’s this close to losing it all the time

It’s surprising to see that so many people enjoy him because personally he’s the leas liked clone on my list ahah :’)) But it’s okay I’m getting attached to a fanon version of him now ahah

sorry to bug you but um. that dogma sketch?? i'm in love he is one of my absolute favorites and there isn't a whole lotta of art of him that isn't sad or angsty, and while i love that too, it makes me really happy to see him drawn more relaxed and - well, happy (: (also you made his tattoo look very real and i'm impressed) anyways! i just love how you drew him is all :D

Eheh there you go, tired boys after a battle

Bro, the way you drew dogma in the 501st vacation gif was just so cute!😍

Hi, hi! :D  Currently I’m still struggling with settling with how I draw each clone but here is a recent sketch of Dogma I did :))

I have a headcannon that after the umbara arch Dogma went into his I-just-realised-everything-I-have been taught-is-a-lie-phase and then began making videos on the holonet about why the Republic is corrupt and after its fall he went straight to dissing the empire.

"I know what effect such horrors have on the delicate psyche of an angelic being!"

Archangel of Death Azrael by @umulata

So he was teased a little in chapter 3. To my surprise, a couple days after I posted it, Umu messaged me with the final product! I'm telling you, they did wonders on this thing. Off of barely anything too.

SO! Azrael! For those who haven't seen Dogma, Azrael is a demon who's kinda working behind the scenes to erase all of existence. There's more to it, of course, but you know. I've played around some with his character in Good Dogma. For one, he's an Archangel here. The name Azrael wasn't his original name, but it's more of a title at this point. As is the status of Archangel, but you'll see.

He has a role he needs to play. Luckily, he knows how to play the system.

Here's a little spoiler I kinda wanna give... Many years from now, he's gonna start calling Crowley 'Beloved'. "Because you are oh so loved."

Tup and Dogma's first kiss ! 🙂 not Tup's first kiss, though, he's slightly more adventurous... 😊

Sorry I haven't posted anything in so long ! For some reason I can't kriffing draw lately... Also I should probably warn you that I have almost no idea what this picture looks like, because as the genius I am, I managed to break my phone's screen day two of the quarantine.... So I hope it's not too blurry, or too dark !

Umbara arc study <3

Fives and Dogma are so happy to be there trust me

ДОГМА BUłBAПАНКА

По пустоши полной борщевика, что одним касанием к коже оголяет её до кости, мчится самосвал размером с пятиэтажный дом. В его кузове небольшое поселение, что зарабатывает на капсулы йода тем, что перевозит говняк из Светлогорска. Город, что стал гедонистическим раем, после инцидента поставляет в зону отчуждения тонны наркотиков всех цветов и расцветов, но конечно же основным является - говняк. Из-за простоты производства и улётного эффекта спрос на него есть у многих банд мародёров, что были изгнаны из городов и местечек и теперь влекут бессмысленное существование среди болот, лесов, пустошей и чащ борщивика. Камаз доехал до Мозыря, единственного в южной Беларуси места для дозаправки. Вся центральная гомельская область контролируется этим маленьким городком в союзе с Речицей, а всё благодаря ценнейшему ресурсу - нефти. Десятки нефтекачек выросли как грибы после дождя между этими городами побратимами, после закрытия Беларуси от мира. Любой "горад на колах" обязан своим движением местному заводу по очистке чёрного золота в дизель и бензин. После дозаправки путь камаза продолжился в сторону соляных копий. Местные шахтёры кладут жизнь, на то чтобы добыть новую тонну калийных или натриевых "выкапняў". Обменять здесь говняк на пару тонн соли и двигаться дальше, в земли Радзивилаў. Плодородная долина защищённая Миром и Несвижем с севера и юга, кормит весь запад зоны, что раскинулся за дугой Срувэ. Но не смотря на кормильцев плодородной равнины, вокруг каждого поселения на километры раскинулся фальварак кормящий город или местечко бульбай. Если бульба зелянніца - не паспела, а ужно гарыць зялёным - переспела, гласит народная мудрость. Но даже переспевшая картошка, нашла своё применение в землях где всё проходит вторичную, а бывает и третичную переработку. Картофельные батарейки куда сильнее если это помимо прочего небольшой ядерный реактор, но вся энергия органически чистая. На пути камаза встал Слуцк. Местные мастера по ткани скупают долгунец со всей зоны, чтобы сшить потрясающий трикотаж. Но сейчас не час теребления, а потому камаз проезжает мимо города прямо к замку Нясвижа, где за соль будут получен столь необходимые в столице груз провианта. Теперь - прямая дорога на Менеск, центр всей торговой паутины, где обмен идёт между всеми регионами зоны. Торговцы из понямоння, узвышша, поозёрья, полесья, поднепровья - все заканчивают своё движение в городе, что не даром зовётся от слова "менять". Местные же жители, что делят город по районам, отнюдь не приветливы, но всегда рады новым вещицам из дальних областей. Есть ли жизнь за мкадом? Частый вопрос, которым столичные жыхары дразнят торговцев приехавших из дальних странствий. На площади, под взором вождя мировой революции, проходят очередные дажынкі, обмен всех со всеми. Камаз остановился на подступах к площади и начал выгружать всевозможные яства. Основным товаром сегодня - стали молочные продукты различных степеней кислости и жирности от сметаны с сыром, до кефира с молочной брагой. Всё это будет продано в считанные часы - на дажынках товар не долго задерживается на прилавке. На вырученные капсулы йода, жители горада на колах смогут прервать свой привычный маршрут на пару недель и съездить на север отдохнуть. Озёра, что после купания в них не наделяют пловца третьей рукой, так и манят уставших камазят, что уже не первый месяц рутинно ездили по торговым артериям зоны. Жизнь продолжается, даже после чёрной были.

Взываю к вам творцы всех пород, что прямо аль косвенно связаны со страной Беларусью!

Да коле у нас не будет собственной современной мифологемы? Наш фольклор так и будет закончен на лагодным цмоке и купальской ночи? Я предлагаю калейдоскоп, что своим инструментом деконструкции, гиперболы и метафор позволит переосмыслить всё то бытие вокруг, что определяет наше сознание. И вот вам догма из десяти пунктов, что ставит скелет космогонии бульбапанка на который вы - подобно скульпторам, сможете насаживать плоть своих творений.

1. Костяк вольной фантазии и одновременно её ограничение альтернативная история. Из-за чернобыльской катастрофы была задействована спецтехника дабы минимизировать ущерб. Весь цезий, цирконий и йод осели не по всему земному шару, а лишь на малой советской республике - Беларуси. В результате чего, зона отчуждения разрослась на территорию целой страны. Те же, кто отказался эвакуироваться, оказались в новом мире локальной ядерной зимы, ведь недаром одно из романтичных названий нашей родины "краіна пад шэрым небам".

2. Бульба всему голова. Самый главный стереотип о нашей стране - картопля, так от чего бы нам не возвести это в Абсолют? Только представьте картошка, что растёт на радиационных пустошах наделяется всевозможными уникальными свойствами. Будь то зелёное свечение, а может даже реальные "глазочки", что смотрят и моргают пока их не вырезать перед употреблением в пищу. Сколько всевозможных новых сортов, можно выдумать во вселенной бульбапанка, к слову о второй части этого слова...

3. Лупице па трасянке! У нас есть мова, у которой аж целых два варианта. А ведь ещё сколько алфавитов... Одни китабы чего стоят? Только вообразите минский метрополитен исписанный арабским письмом, за которым кроется, что-то родное в духе "а хто там ідзе?", а снизу, уже лацинкой, кто-то иной подпишет "belarusy". Но что может быть более панковое, чем смешение жанров и шаблонов? Повторюсь: лупице па трасянке! Ведь этот новый мир явно не был ни руси-, ни беларуси- фицирован. Он варился сам в себе и выдал на свет - трасянку!

4. На месте карты Европы появилось белорусское море. Всё, что происходит в границах Беларуси, остаётся в границах Беларуси. Быть может, европейский союз и крайне обеспокоен, что в зоне отчуждения остаются тутэйшыя, однако кроме обеспокоенности, ничего не происходит. Мы свободны ото всех оков! И если раньше Мы были буфером памиж востоком и западом, теперь мы - море. Неспокойное море, что кишит рознымі пачварамі. Поезда с востока на запад - корабли, что отправляются в шторм, где их может спустить с рельс партизанами. А может поезд был остановлен в Барановичах анархоконтролем с требованием заплатить пошлину, за провоз в зону отчуждения не радиоактивных вещиц. Одним словом - творите, что хотите. Влияние из вне - минимально, но если оно нужно вам для раскрытия идеи - дерзайте, в море тоже ходят корабли.

5. Берём реалии и добавляем щепотку местного колоритного постапокалипсиса. Как бы выглядел интернет, если бы Беларусь была закрыта от всего мира? Что-то подсказывает мне, что по телеграфным столбам была организованна единая информационная сеть - тутбай. Закрытая, на подобии северокорейской, но всё же самобытная. А сколько ещё вещей, что пришли к нам с эпохой глобализации можно сделать колоритными и уникальными? Ваша фантазия - единственный ограничитель.

6. Теребите долгунец. Устраивайте славянский базар. Организуйте дажынкі. Просто пролистав новостную ленту Беларуси, можно ощутить необычайную непаўторнасць местного духа. Подумайте сами, где ещё "Столичный клуб православных милиционеров устраивает чаепитие". Звучит как шабаш? Где в гигантском котле старшина майор варит гарбату, а потом черпаком разливает по чашкам своим подчинённым живительный отвар, что придаст им сил в борьбе с преступностью. Одним словом - оглядитесь вокург, разве вы нехотите это деконструировать в нечто ещё более родное, чем оно уже есть?

7. Христос приземлился в Гродно, а Дикая охота идёт по болотам Полесья. Сколько уже готовых сюжетов подарили нам писатели прошлого. Только представьте историю литовского хуторка в выжженной радиацией пустоши. Это уже не безумный Макс - это уже, бязумны Янка ды Колас. Такой пласт литературы, следует по лучшим законам постмодерна переработать во что-то новое. Вторичное использование и никаких отходов - только бульбапанк.

8. Чем минчанин отличен от полешука? Есть Ли разница между бобручанином и ошмянцем? Возведите свою малую родину в Абсолют! Ведь вы такие уникальные. Каждый городок и деревенька имеет что-то неповторимое. От материальной культуры, до неосязаемого наследия, что проявляется в нравах и словах. Подумайте сами, разве скажет оршанец "сказал, что в бочку пукнул", а вот для смаргонца это уже родное словосочетание, что было впитано с молоком матери. А поймёте ли вы вообще мотыльское "а то мо по эмо?", что значит может покушаем? Наша страна хоть и небольшая, но каждый её кусочек полон индивидуальности. Так давайте же забульбапанчим нашу родину!

9. Будзьце ўзаемна ветлівыя. Я искренне верю, что несмотря на наши различия мы всё же в первую очередь беларусы, а уже потом всё остальное, от пола и гендера, до класса и политических взглядов. Беларусь убер аллес, так давайте же мирно и дружно развивать бульбапанк без агрессии и творческих противоречий. Всякое недоразумение можно решить, главное выдохнуть - досчитать до десяти и устроить диалог. Ребята, давайте жить дружно.

10. Чем больше локального тем больше глобального. Рисуйте, пишите, творите! Скидывайте это или сюда, или просто используйте хештег бульбапанк и созидайте в своё удовольствие у себя в профилях. Давайте сплотимся вокруг этой концепции, мне кажется у неё есть потенциал. А чем локальне и колоритнее будет сеттинг, тем неповторимее он будет в современном мире глобализации культуры, где все бледнолицые на одно лицо и культура их напрямую порождена голливудом.

Я надеюсь на вас, мои братья, сёстры и небинарные кенты. Мы породим локальную вселенную, что впитает все особенности нашей страны. Кто знает, во что это разовьётся, но я поделился с вами лишь маленькой толикой того, как вижу этот сеттинг я.

Жду вас в мире госанархии.

Hello!!! Hopefully I won’t bother you but i loved the 501 x reader where they all are crushing on her!!! Do you think there’s the possibility that we could get a part two? I just want them all to be happy together -but a little angsty moments are great too! Thank you and i love your writing! Best clone scenario page on tumblrrr 🥰🥰🥰

Of course! A part 2 for this fic has been requested nearly 10 times.

I may need to turn this into a series. There will definitely be a part 3 at least 🫶

⸻

“Hearts of the 501st” pt.2

501st x Reader

You were still reeling from the contact.

Rex’s hand, steady at your waist, had felt like it burned through your tunic. Not with heat, but with something more dangerous—something forbidden. And it had lingered just a second too long. Enough for you to realize he wanted to hold you there. Enough for him to realize that he couldn’t.

Now he wouldn’t meet your eyes. Not during the rest of the rotation. Not at the debrief. Not even in the mess later that night.

Hardcase had gone back to his usual boisterous self, none the wiser, but Kix glanced between you and Rex with the subtle awareness of someone too observant for his own good. You tried to brush it off. Smile. Pretend. But it was like breathing around broken glass.

Later that night, you found yourself staring up at the ceiling of your quarters, eyes wide open, body still.

And then the door chimed.

You sat up fast, heart racing. “Come in,” you called, voice steady despite the storm inside.

It was Rex.

He stepped in and the door hissed shut behind him. No armor—just blacks. He looked exhausted. And maybe something else. Haunted, almost.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you said quietly, more to yourself than to him.

“I know.”

Silence stretched between you. And then he finally looked at you.

“I didn’t mean to cross a line,” he said, voice low, gravelly. “Back in the training room.”

“You didn’t,” you lied.

Because the truth was worse. He didn’t cross it—you wanted him to. You still did.

He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “It’s not supposed to happen like this. You’re a Jedi. I’m… I’m a soldier.”

“You’re Rex.”

That made him pause.

You stood up, crossing the small space between you, pulse thundering.

He didn’t touch you. He didn’t move. But the way he looked at you—like you were the last light in the galaxy—that was enough to break you.

“We’re not allowed this,” he said, finally.

“I know.”

But you also both knew something else, something unspoken: if the war didn’t kill you, this would.

⸻

You thought things might settle after that night with Rex. But they didn’t. If anything, the tension only thickened. Because it wasn’t just Rex watching you a little too long anymore.

It was Kix, catching your arm after a mission with fingers that lingered too long on your wrist as he checked for injuries.

“You push yourself too hard,” he murmured, voice low as his eyes searched yours. “Someday, you won’t come back. And I…” He trailed off before finishing, but the weight of what he didn’t say clung to the air between you.

It was Fives, who cracked jokes louder than usual when Rex entered the room, his laugh a little too sharp. When he caught you alone, he dropped the act.

“You know he’s not the only one who cares, right?” he said, eyes dark with something more serious than you were used to seeing in him. “He’s not the only one who notices.”

It was Jesse, who always sat beside you at the mess, quietly pushing your favorite ration pack your way without saying anything. You caught him watching you once, and when you met his gaze, he didn’t look away.

“You deserve better than this,” he said, voice tight. “Better than silence. Better than having to hide.”

Hardcase didn’t hide a damn thing. He wore his affection on his sleeve—laughing too loud, standing too close, finding excuses to spar. “You know I’d follow you anywhere, right?” he asked one evening, sweaty and bruised, grinning. “No questions asked.”

Tup was quieter, but it was there. In the way he always made sure you were covered. In the way he sat across from you during ship travel, stealing glances when he thought you weren’t looking. You caught him once, and he blushed so hard he looked like he might combust.

Then there was Dogma, who clung to rules like they were life rafts—but his devotion to you bent those rules every damn day. He flinched when others got too close. Spoke up when he thought someone pushed you too hard. And when you called him out on it, he just said, “You matter. More than they think.”

They were a unit. Brothers. But when it came to you, that unity was starting to fray.

You could feel it in the silences.

In the way they hesitated to speak freely when Rex was in the room. In the way Jesse squared off subtly when Fives stood too close. In the tension crackling in every quiet corridor.

You were the Jedi they shouldn’t have fallen for. The light they wanted to protect. But you were also one person—and they all knew that.

And maybe the worst part?

You didn’t know who you were falling for.

⸻

The op on Vanqor should’ve been simple: recon the outpost, confirm Separatist movement, exfil. No drama. No losses.

But nothing was simple anymore.

You split the squad in two. Rex led one team, you led the other. Standard formation. Except the tension was anything but standard.

From the start, Fives was running his mouth.

“Oh, so Rex gets to babysit the high ground,” he said as he checked his rifle. “How convenient.”

“Because I’m the Captain,” Rex snapped without looking up. “And because someone needs to stay focused on the mission.”

“Focused?” Jesse muttered under his breath. “That’s rich coming from you.”

You glanced at them all sharply. “Cut the chatter.”

They did—sort of. Kix shot Jesse a look. Jesse shot Fives one back. Even Tup, usually calm, was twitchier than usual. And Dogma was walking like he was seconds away from snapping someone’s neck.

Still, the op moved forward.

You took Hardcase, Tup, and Jesse with you. Rex had the others. Two klicks into the canyon, comms lit up.

Rex: “General, got movement near the ridge. Confirmed clankers. Looks like a patrol.”

You: “Copy. Proceeding to secondary overlook.”

Then static. Followed by—

Fives: “We’ve got this, General. Don’t worry, I’ll keep him from throwing himself in front of a blaster for you.”

There was a sharp click before Rex cut him off: “Fives, stay off the channel unless it’s tactical.”

Back with your team, things weren’t much better.

Hardcase was bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Can’t believe I missed the team with the romantic tension. You should’ve seen Rex’s face, Tup—guy’s wound tighter than a wire.”

Jesse barked a laugh. “At least he’s not pretending he’s subtle. Unlike some.”

Tup sighed. “Please don’t start again.”

You stopped in your tracks, glaring at them. “You think this is a game? You want to bicker while droids are swarming a ridge less than a klick away?”

They fell silent, shame flickering in their eyes.

Then came the ambush.

Blasterfire erupted from the cliffs. Shouts, heat, chaos.

Rex’s voice came through the comm again—sharp, controlled. “Engaging hostiles. Kix is hit but stable.”

You snapped orders, leading your squad into flanking position, instincts taking over. You caught sight of Rex across the ridge, laying down cover, Fives behind him—but they were arguing even mid-fire.

“Cover me!” Rex shouted, moving up.

“Could’ve said please,” Fives muttered, though he did as told.

Jesse nearly got clipped trying to keep you shielded. “I said I’ve got you!” he snapped when you tried to redirect him.

After the skirmish, when the smoke cleared and the ridge was secure, the tension boiled over.

“Is this how it’s going to be now?” Rex growled, throwing his helmet down. “We can’t run a clean op because every one of you is too busy acting like kriffing teenagers.”

“Don’t pin this on us,” Jesse snapped. “You’re the one sneaking around with her after lights out.”

“Nothing happened,” Rex shot back.

Kix scoffed. “No, but something wants to.”

Tup looked between them, torn. “This isn’t what we’re supposed to be.”

And Dogma, silent until now, spoke with cold finality: “Feelings don’t belong on the battlefield. You’re all risking her life.”

The silence that followed was heavier than the blasterfire.

You stood there, heart pounding, breath caught somewhere between fury and grief.

This war was pulling you apart from the inside. Not from wounds or droids—but from love, jealousy, and every unspoken word between them.

The silence stretched long after Dogma’s words hit the ground like a blaster bolt.

You could see it—every line in their faces taut, wounded. The guilt. The fear. The ache.

And still, you stood tall.

Composed. Cold, maybe. But you had to be.

“I need every one of you to listen to me,” you said, voice even, sharp like a vibroblade. “And I need you to understand this the first time, because I will not say it again.”

No one spoke. Even Fives went still.

“I am a Jedi,” you continued. “And whether or not that means something to you anymore—it still means something to me. The Code forbids attachment. That isn’t a guideline. It isn’t a suggestion. It is a foundational truth of who I am and what I chose to be.”

Rex looked away. His jaw tightened.

“This war has blurred the lines between soldier and brother, between ally and… more. But that does not change the Code. It does not change the expectations I hold for myself.”

You took a breath, feeling the heat rise behind your ribs—but not letting it show.

“I am not your hope. I am not your escape. I am not something you can cling to in the middle of this chaos. I am your general. I will fight beside you. I will protect you. I care about you. But I will not—I cannot return these… feelings.”

Hardcase looked like you’d slapped him. Kix’s mouth parted, then closed again. Fives had nothing to say.

And then you said the thing none of them wanted to hear:

“If any of you truly respect me—if you truly believe in the Jedi you claim to admire—then let me go. Detach. Redirect whatever it is you feel into something that will not get one of us killed.”

Tup stepped forward, hesitant. “But you do care. We know you do.”

You didn’t deny it. You couldn’t. But you answered with the quiet, unmoving weight of Jedi truth.

“Yes,” you said. “But caring is not the same as holding on.”

Another pause.

“I’m not your way out,” you finished. “I’m the one leading you into the fire. Don’t follow me with your heart. Follow me with your discipline. Or don’t follow me at all.”

And with that, you turned—cloak sweeping, boots hitting durasteel with finality.

You didn’t look back.

Because if you did… you weren’t sure the Jedi in you would win.

⸻

The moment she disappeared into the shadows of the canyon pass, the squad felt gutted. Not wounded—hollowed out.

The silence wasn’t peace. It was pressure. It built between them like a thermal detonator waiting for a trigger.

“She didn’t have to say it like that,” Hardcase muttered first, breaking the quiet. “She made it sound like we’re a liability.”

“She’s not wrong,” Dogma snapped, arms crossed tight over his chest. “We lost focus. We compromised the mission.”

Fives scoffed. “Oh, come off it, Dogma. You’re not exactly guilt-free just because you pout from a distance instead of making a move.”

“Don’t start,” Jesse growled. “We wouldn’t even be in this mess if you hadn’t made a scene during the damn firefight.”

“I wasn’t the one staring at her like a lovesick cadet while blaster bolts were flying!”

“You want to go?” Jesse stepped forward.

Kix shoved himself between them. “Enough. You’re all making this worse.”

“No,” Rex said sharply, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. “I’ll take it from here.”

Everyone turned. Rex’s helmet was still tucked under his arm, his face unreadable—controlled, cold, and deadly calm.

“She’s right,” he said, no hesitation. “Every word. We let our feelings get in the way. We made it personal. That’s not what we were bred for. That’s not what she needs.”

Fives shifted, jaw clenched. “So what—just pretend it doesn’t exist?”

Rex stepped closer, tone steely. “We have to. Because if we don’t, she dies. Or we do. Maybe all of us.”

Tup looked away. Jesse stared at the ground. Even Hardcase, for once, didn’t have a joke.

“You think I don’t feel it?” Rex said, quieter now. “You think I haven’t thought about what it would be like to give in? To tell her how I feel?”

He shook his head. “That’s not what love looks like. Love is discipline. Restraint. We follow her lead. We put her safety above what we want. That’s our job. That’s who we are.”

Nobody argued.

Because they all knew he was right.

⸻

They all handled it differently.

Dogma pulled back first.

He barely spoke during prep. Stood at parade rest with surgical stillness. Didn’t sit with the squad, didn’t meet your eyes. He obeyed, to the letter—but colder now, like retreating behind a regulation shield.

Fives, on the other hand, spiraled.

He picked fights. With Kix, with Jesse, even with Rex. His banter turned sour, jokes laced with venom.

“She doesn’t mean it,” he muttered to Jesse in the hangar. “You don’t just fight beside someone for years and feel nothing. She’s trying to protect us. But that doesn’t mean we stop caring.”

Jesse didn’t answer.

Because Jesse was the one pushing harder.

He wasn’t loud about it—but you noticed. He stayed closer during patrols. Walked you to your quarters even when you didn’t ask. Spoke softer. Asked if you’d eaten. You knew the intent behind it. And it terrified you.

You needed clarity. Solitude.

But the moment you stepped outside the command tent to breathe—Tup was already waiting.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just offered you a ration bar with a small, tentative smile. Like he didn’t expect you to take it, but needed you to know he’d tried.

You sat beside him anyway.

“It’s a lot,” he said after a beat, voice low. “Too much, sometimes.”

You didn’t speak.

He didn’t push.

“I’m not gonna say they’re wrong to feel it,” he added, eyes on the dirt. “But I get why you had to say what you did. It hurts. But I get it.”

You turned your head slowly. “Do you?”

He met your eyes. Soft. Steady. “Yeah. Because when you love someone… really love them… you don’t ask them to break themselves just to make you feel better.”

That quiet truth stuck in your chest like a blade.

Tup didn’t reach for your hand. He didn’t move closer. He just stayed there, beside you, letting you breathe.

And for the first time in days… you felt like maybe someone saw you—not as something to win. But as someone to understand.

You didn’t want to fall apart.

But with Tup sitting next to you, not expecting anything—not even an answer—it was hard to keep everything held together.

The ration bar stayed in your hand, unopened. You stared at it like it held answers you didn’t have the strength to look for.

“You know,” Tup said gently, “you don’t have to be the strong one all the time.”

You gave him a dry look. “That’s rich, coming from a soldier bred to never break.”

He smiled faintly. “Yeah, well. We all crack different. Some of us just do it quieter.”

You laughed—soft and broken. “Is this you trying to cheer me up, Tup?”

“Maybe,” he said with a small shrug. “Maybe I just wanted to sit beside someone who makes the war feel a little less like war.”

You looked away. His words landed somewhere deep, somewhere dangerously tender.

There was a moment—just a moment—when you let your shoulders drop. When you leaned just barely toward him, not enough to cross a line, but enough to feel how close the edge really was.

And Tup’s voice, softer still: “You don’t have to be alone.”

Your breath caught. Eyes burning. Just a blink from letting it slip—just a few more seconds and you might have said something you couldn’t unsay.

But then—

“General?”

You turned sharply, straightening.

Kix.

He looked between the two of you. His gaze landed on Tup’s proximity, on your expression—cracked, vulnerable.

Too late.

“I—” He cleared his throat, eyes guarded now. “I was coming to check on you. Thought maybe you’d want to talk.”

Tup shifted, quietly rising to his feet. “She’s alright. Just needed some quiet.”

You could feel the tension coil between them—one of them arriving first, the other arriving just late enough to lose something that hadn’t even happened.

You stood too. “Thank you, Kix. I’m okay. Just tired.”

He gave a short nod, but the disappointment was unmistakable. He wasn’t angry. But he felt it.

And you knew that by tomorrow, the silence between some of them would stretch even deeper.

Because kindness had turned competitive. And comfort was starting to feel like a battlefield too.

⸻

Previous part

“Armor for the Skin”

501st x Reader

The overhead lumens slam on like artillery. Groans ripple through the barracks, but you roll out of your bunk already gathering your contraband caddy—a slim duraplast kit labeled “Mk‑III MedPatch”

Fives, half‑dressed and wholly curious, nods at the kit. “Alright, mystery box—you packing bacta or blasters in there?”

You flick the latch. Bottles, tubes, and sachets unfold like a miniature armory—just shinier and pastel‑colored.

“Moisturizer,” you say, dotting cream onto your cheeks. “SPF 50. Sun in space still finds a way.”

Fives blinks. “You’re lotion‑plating your face before breakfast?”

You smile. “Armor for the skin.”

As you pat the sunscreen in, Fives watches, fascinated. “How long does all that take? We get, like, sixty seconds to hit the refresher.”

“Practice,” you reply, capping the tube. “And a bit of multitasking.”

Across the aisle, Jesse mutters, “She’s waxing her cheeks?”—which earns him a smack from Kix.

The medic tilts his head, curious. “Actually, hydrating the epidermis reduces micro‑tears that form when helmets chafe. Fewer micro‑tears, fewer infections.”

Fives groans. “Kix, not you too!”

Tup perks up. “Will it stop my forehead from peeling on desert drops?”

“Only if you commit,” you reply, tossing him a travel‑size tube.

Tup bobbles it. “Commit to… face goop?”

“Commit to self‑care, shiny,” Jesse teases, but he secretly dabs a fingertip of cream on the scar running over his temple when he thinks no one’s watching.

Hardcase flips down from the top bunk, dangling upside‑down. “What about night routine? Can we weaponize it?”

You laugh. “Weaponize hydration?”

You begin to rattle off the list for your routines while shoving items back into the caddy.

Jesse whistles. “That’s more steps than disassembling a DC‑17.”

“It’s upkeep,” you say, snapping the kit shut. “Blasters, armor, skin. Treat them right and they won’t fail mid‑mission.”

Kix, ever the medic, hums thoughtfully. “Prevention over cure—sound protocol.”

Rex marches past the doorway, barking for PT. He notices the cluster around your bunk, eyes the lotions, then decides he’s not paid enough to investigate at 0500. “Five minutes to muster. Whatever you’re doing—do it faster.”

The squad scrambles. You close your caddy with a click, satisfied. Step one: curiosity planted.

As you pass Fives he murmurs, “Armor for the skin, huh?”

“Exactly, vod,” you grin, tapping his chest plate. “And just like yours—it’s personal issue.”

He barks a laugh, then jogs after the others—already plotting how to requisition micellar water under “optical clarity supplies.”

Curiosity piqued, routine revealed. Now the real fun begins.

⸻

An hour later, after PT and standard mess rations, the 501st files toward the strategy room. You’re meant to present local intel, but you duck into the refresher first to rinse sweat and slap on a leave‑in hair mask.

Inside, Tup stares at his reflection, damp curls drooping. “How tight is the towel supposed to be?”

“Snug, not suffocating.” You demonstrate the twist‑and‑tuck, shaping his towel into a tidy turban. He looks like a spa holo‑ad—if spa ads featured wide‑eyed clone troopers in duty blacks.

Rex storms in mid‑lesson. The captain’s expression cycles through confusion, exasperation, acceptance in under a second. “Explain.”

“Deep‑conditioning,” you answer. “Helmet hair’s a war crime.”

Dogma, arms folded behind Rex, scowls. “Regulation headgear only.”

You pat the towel. “Technically, still a head covering.”

Hardcase bursts from a stall, face covered in neon‑green clay. “I CAN’T MOVE MY MOUTH! THIS STUFF SETS LIKE DURASTEEL!”

Kix swoops in with a damp cloth. “That’s the detox mask, vod. Rinse at four minutes, not forty.”

Fives leans in the doorway, filming everything. “Historical documentation, Rex. Posterity.”

Rex pinches the bridge of his nose. “You have two minutes to look like soldiers before General Skywalker arrives.”

Tup whispers, “Uh… do I rinse or…?”

You yank the towel free with a flourish; his curls bounce, glossy. “Ready for battle,” you declare.

Rex sighs. “One minute forty‑five.”

⸻

The 501st rolls in after an endless maintenance drill, expecting lights‑out. Instead, you’ve transformed the common room into a makeshift spa: footlockers draped in clean towels, maintenance lamps angled like vanity lights, and rows of mysterious packets labeled hydrating, brightening, volcanic detox…

Rex stops dead in the doorway, helmet under his arm.

“Vod, why does it smell like a med‑bay and a flower‑shop had a firefight?”

You beam. “Team‑building. Captain’s orders.”

Rex narrows his eyes—he definitely did not give those orders—but one look at the exhausted squad convinces him to play along. You pass out microfiber headbands—Tup’s bun peeks through adorably—then cue soft lo‑fi on a datapad.

⸻

The 501st rolls in after an endless maintenance drill, expecting lights‑out. Instead, you’ve transformed the common room into a makeshift spa: footlockers draped in clean towels, maintenance lamps angled like vanity lights, and rows of mysterious packets labeled hydrating, brightening, volcanic detox…

Rex stops dead in the doorway, helmet under his arm.

“Vod, why does it smell like a med‑bay and a flower‑shop had a firefight?”

You beam. “Team‑building. Captain’s orders.”

Rex narrows his eyes—he definitely did not give those orders—but one look at the exhausted squad convinces him to play along.

You pass out microfiber headbands—Tup’s bun peeks through adorably—then cue soft lo‑fi on a datapad.

Fives foams cleanser like he’s icing a ration cake, flicks bubbles at Jesse.

Hardcase grabs an industrial solvent bottle. You snatch it away. “Wrong kind of chemical peel, blaster‑brain.”

Kix demonstrates gentle circular motions; the squad copies, mumbling mock mantras.

Faces disappear beneath colors and cartoons.

Fives foams cleanser like he’s icing a ration cake, flicks bubbles at Jesse.

Hardcase grabs an industrial solvent bottle. You snatch it away. “Wrong kind of chemical peel, blaster‑brain.”

Kix demonstrates gentle circular motions; the squad copies, mumbling mock mantras.

Faces disappear beneath colors and cartoons.

Jesse paints Dogma’s clay mask into perfect camo stripes; Dogma tries to protest, fails, secretly loves it.

Rex sighs as you smooth the sheet onto his face. “If this vid leaks, I’m demoting everyone.”

Tup giggles when the nerf‑printed mask squeaks. Fives records the sound bite for future memes.

Everyone reclines on mesh webbing strung between crates.

The timer pings. Masks come off—revealing eight glowing, ridiculously refreshed faces.

Hardcase flexes. “Feel like I could head‑butt a super tactical droid and leave an imprint.”

Fives snaps a holo of Rex’s newfound radiance. “Captain, you’re shining.”

Rex grumbles, but his skin does glow under the fluorescents. “Get some rack time, troopers. 0600 briefing. And… keep the extra packets. Field supply, understood?”

A chorus of cheerful “Yes, sir!”

You watch them file out, each tucking a sheet‑mask packet into utility belts like contraband. Mission accomplished: the 501st is combat‑ready—and complexion‑ready—for whatever tomorrow throws at them.

⸻

Obi‑Wan strolls through the hangar, robe billowing. He pauses mid‑conversation with Cody, eyes widening at the radiant 501st lined up for deployment.

“My word, gentlemen, you’re positively effulgent.”

Jesse grins—dazzling. “Training and discipline, General.”

Cody side‑eyes Rex. “Whatever you’re doing, send the regimen to the 212th.”

Anakin trots up, spying a stash of leftover masks tucked behind Rex’s pauldron. He plucks one. “Charcoal detox? Padmé swears by these.” He pockets it with a conspiratorial wink.

Rex mutters, “Necessary field supplies, General.”

You walk by, sling a go‑cup of caf into Rex’s free hand. “Don’t forget SPF,” you remind, tapping his helmet.

Rex looked over to Cody, Deadpan “Non‑negotiable, apparently.”

⸻

Blaster fire and powdered sand fill the air. Jesse dives behind a ridge. “Double‑cleanse tonight—this dust is murder on my pores!”

Fives snorts through the comms. “Copy, gorgeous. Bring the aloe.”

Hardcase detonates a bunker, cheers, then yelps, “Mask first, explosions later—got it!”

Rex stands, sand sifting off armor, skin protected under a sheer layer of sunscreen that miraculously survived the firefight. He shakes his head but can’t hide the small smile.

“Alright, 501st,” he calls. “Let’s finish this op—tonight we rehydrate, tomorrow we conquer.”

You chuckle, loading a fresh power‑cell. The war may rage on, but for this legion, victory now comes with a healthy glow.

⸻

A/N

This was a request, however I accidentally deleted the request in my inbox.

This Is War

inspired by this