Jango Fett - Blog Posts

Been thinking about a modern au where Hunter loses custody of Omega. Jango takes care of her until the Bad Batch is mentally capable of providing for her. She cries a lot the first night, so Boba decides to show her his favorite book. It is a book about military artillery, because this child was *not* peaceful. But it helps, and she eventually falls asleep leaning on his shoulder…

Pokéfied Fetts

Hello Star Wars tag!

(TW: A little blood on Jango's helmet)

Boba Fett…

Is it just you, alone, in the wreckage of your world?…

That must be so confusing for a little boy…

Loosely based on this video I posted to my channel the day I drew this lol-

This is so beautiful 🤩

Ever wondered how Crosshair got his name?

This is the cutest thing

A lil baby Jango Concord Dawn harvest festival costume concept (Jango gifted Jaster with a good luck blessing handprint, so Jaster took some of Jango’s paint and returned the sentiment)

20. Ewan McGregor Movie Review: Star Wars: Episode II - Attack of the Clones

Genre: Family/Action

Rating: PG

Director: George Lucas

Starring: Ewan McGregor, Natalie Portman, and Hayden Christensen

Synopsis: Ten years after The Phantom Menace, Obi-Wan Kenobi and Anakin Skywalker reunite with Padmé Amidala, now a Senator of the Republic. Their mission is to uncover who is behind the assassination attempts on her life. Anakin is sent to Naboo to act as Padmé's bodyguard and wrestles with his growing feelings for her as well as increasing visions of his mother. While Obi-Wan searches for her killer, he uncovers a secret plan to plunge the galaxy into war.

Ewan Review: Ewan McGregor returns to his role as Obi-Wan Kenobi, now graduated from a Padawan to a distinguished Jedi Knight and Master to Anakin Skywalker. Obi-Wan has grown into his role as a teacher to Anakin though the two often don't see eye to eye. He must learn to trust in Anakin and give him the freedom to prove himself. Ewan speaks in an English accent and has longer hair than in The Phantom Menace. He also sports a beard. He gets in a few fights and injured in one of them. He also gets soaking wet and tied by the hands twice. His screentime doubles from The Phantom Menace so you get to see more of Obi-Wan's personality which is appreciated. He's very sarcastic and quippy in this movie. His acting performance is very well done.

Screentime Percentage: Ewan is on screen for a grand total of 33/142 minutes making his SP 23%.

To Ewan or not to Ewan: Is the movie worth watching for Ewan alone? Yes. Is the movie worth watching in general? Yes.

Where to Watch: "Attack of the Clones" is available to watch on Disney+ and fuboTV with a subscription, Hulu, Sling TV, and YouTube TV with a premium subscription, and for rent on Google Play Movies and TV, Fandango at Home, and Amazon Prime Video. You can watch it for free on soap2day.

Okay so we’re going back a generation to daddy #1. Jango Fett. And I bet this man has a breeding kink baby!! Imagine that you’re like a nanny to little Boba on Kamino while Jango is off hunting, and he sees how much you take care of Boba.

Maybe little Boba calls you mom here and there. The first time it happens Jango is so caught off guard. Just starting back and forth between you and Boba. You just shrug because you’ve tried to tell him you’re not his mom but you love his as your own either way, but boba just isn’t having it. He sees you as mom and that’s that. Jango starts to become use to it. He starts to fantasizes the three of you as a family.

One day he’s talking to Boba and refers to you as “your mother”. He stops dead in his tracks, slowly looks up at you only to find you smirking back at him from across the room. From then on his sweet romantic fantasies turn erotic. He thinks about making babies this you. How he want to breed you. Keep you full all the time. How you’d look pregnant with his kid. As soon as he got the okay that you could have sex again you better believe he’s putting another baby in you. So yea. That’s been on my mind lol. Would love to hear your thots on this. Love you!! 😘😘😘

Paid nanny promoted to baby mama ;)

Okay but seriously I LOVE this 😭😭 daddy Jango would just. NEED to keep you full and pregnant all the time 🥺 nothing gets him harder than seeing your womb swelled with his child and you can bet your ass he’s going to be praising you and showering you in all the love and affection and orgasms that you could possibly want.

Can we also take a good second to talk about baby making sex with Jango???? He’s gonna be hitting it so deep and primal and I’m willing to bet that he’s gonna run his mouth off to you. Telling you all the dirty things running through his mind (I don’t see jango being as degrading as boba though, I can see him praising you, telling you how sexy you look, how incredible you make him feel). How all he can think about is knocking you up, and keeping you that way until he’s satisfied that you have enough children 😭

Imagine him filling you up multiple times per session, fingers slick with the mixture of both of your cum, clumsily between your legs as you orgasm for.. you’d lost track of how many times. But Jango is desperate for you to cum as many times as he can will you to, drunk on the feeling of your cunt around his cock and maybe the orgasms will get you knocked up faster? Picture all the sloppy kisses down your neck and him sucking those thicc lips along the junction of your shoulder while he loses his fucking mind 😩

I would go on but fuckkk 😩😩😩 in short, baby daddy jango got me fucked. UP.

Proposal: The Kaminoans found Jango Fett to be a prime subject for cloning not only for his mental and physical prowess and training, but also because he was asexual and they wanted their army to not form relationships with civilians. They did not count on the fact that sexuality, much like M-count, cannot be replicated.

Thus leading to the abundance of hidden relationships formed throughout the clone ranks with Jedi, senators, and civies.

Command Batch and other clones/characters Material List 🏆

|❤️ = Romantic | 🌶️= smut or smut implied |🏡= platonic |

Gregor

X Reader “The Brightest Flame”❤️

- x Reader “Synaptic Sparks”❤️

Commander Doom

- x Jedi Reader❤️

Jango Fett

- x reader “cats in the cradle”❤️

Commander Bacara

- x Reader “Cold Front”❤️

- x Reader “War on Two Fronts” multiple parts

Commander Bly

- x Jedi reader “it’s on again”❤️

- x Twi’lek Reader “Painted in Gold”❤️

Commander Neyo

- x Senator Reader “Rules of Engagement”❤️

- x Reader “Solitude and Street Lights”❤️

Command Batch (Clone Commanders)

- x Reader “My Boys, My Warriors” multiple parts 🏡

- x Reader “Steele & Stardust” ❤️

- x “Brothers in the Making” multiple chapters 🏡

- Helmet Chaos ❤️🏡

Overall Material List

“My Boys, My Warriors”

Clone Commanders x Reader (Platonic/Motherly) pt.1

Song: “Altamaha-Ha” – Olivier Devriviere & Stacey Subero

Setting: Kamino, pre-Clone Wars, training the clone commanders

A/N - I thought I would give the clones some motherly love because they absolutely deserve it.

⸻

Arrival

Kamino was a graveyard floating on water. Not one built from bones or tombstones, but of silence and steel, of sterile white walls and cloned futures.

You arrived at dawn—or what passed for dawn here, beneath an endless, thunderstruck sky. The rain hit your Beskar like a thousand tiny fists, relentless and cold. There was no welcome party. No ceremony. Just a hangar platform soaked in wind and spray, and one familiar silhouette waiting for you like a ghost from your past.

“Didn’t think you’d come,” Jango Fett said, arms crossed, armor dulled by salt and time.

“You asked,” you answered, stepping off the transport. “And Mandalorians don’t abandon their own.”

He gave a small, tired nod. “This place… it’s not what I wanted it to be.”

You followed him through the elevated corridors, your bootfalls echoing alongside his. You passed clone infants in incubation pods—unmoving, unaware—lined up like products, not people. Your throat tightened.

“Kaminoans see them as assets,” he muttered. “Nothing more.”

You scowled. “And you?”

Jango didn’t answer.

You didn’t need him to. That was why you were here.

⸻

Training the Future Commanders

They were just boys.

Tiny, sharp-eyed, disciplined—but boys nonetheless. They saluted when they saw you, confused by your armor, your presence, your refusal to speak in the Kaminoan-approved tone.

“Are you another handler?” one asked—Cody, maybe, even then with that skeptical glare.

“No,” you replied, removing your helmet, letting your war-worn face meet theirs. “I’m a warrior. And I’m here to make you warriors. The kind Kamino can’t mold. The kind no one can break.”

At first, they didn’t trust you. Fox flinched when you corrected his form. Bly mimicked your movements but refused eye contact. Rex tried to impress you too much, like a pup desperate to please.

But over time, that changed.

You didn’t teach them like the Kaminoans did. You taught them like they mattered. Every mistake was a lesson. Every success, a celebration. You learned their quirks—how Wolffe grumbled when he was nervous, how Cody chewed the inside of his cheek when strategizing, how Bly stared too long at the sky, longing for something even he couldn’t name.

They grew under your care. They grew into theirs.

And somewhere along the line, the title changed.

“Buir,” Rex said one day, barely a whisper.

You froze.

“Sorry,” he added quickly, flustered. “I didn’t mean—”

But you crouched and ruffled his hair, voice thick. “No. I like it.”

After that, the name stuck.

⸻

The Way You Loved Them

You taught them how to fight, yes. But also how to think, how to feel. You made them memorize the stars, not just coordinates. You forced them to sit in circles and talk when they lost a training sim—why they failed, what it meant.

“You are not cannon fodder,” you said once, your voice carrying through the sparring hall. “You are sons of Mandalore. You are mine. You will not die for a Republic that won’t mourn you. You will survive. Together.”

They believed you. And because they believed, they began to believe in themselves.

⸻

Singing in the Dark

Late at night, when the Kaminoans powered down the lights and the labs buzzed quiet, you slipped into the barracks. They were small again in those moments—curled under grey blankets, limbs tangled, some still holding training rifles in their sleep.

You never planned to sing. It started one night when Bly woke from a nightmare, gasping for air, tears clinging to his lashes. You held him, like a child—because he was one—and without thinking, you sang.

“Slumber, child, slumber, and dream, dream, dream

Let the river carry you back to me

Dream, my baby, 'cause

Mama will be there in the mornin'”

The melody, foreign and low, drifted over the bunks like a lullaby born from the sea itself. It wasn’t Mandalorian. It was older. From your mother, perhaps, or her mother before her. It didn’t matter.

Soon, the others began to stir at the sound—some sitting up, listening. Some quietly pretending to still be asleep.

You sang to them until the rain outside became less frightening. Until their eyes closed again.

And after that, you kept doing it.

⸻

The Warning

“Don’t get in their way,” Jango warned one night as you stood by the viewing glass, watching your boys spar in the simulator below. “The Kaminoans. They won’t like it.”

“They already don’t,” you muttered. “I’ve seen the way they talk about them. Subjects. Tests. Like they’re things.”

“They are things to them,” he said. “And if you make too much noise, you’ll be the next thing they discard.”

You turned to face him, cold fury in your chest. “Then let them try.”

He didn’t push further. Maybe because he knew—deep down—he couldn’t stop you either.

⸻

Kamino was all rain and repetition. It pounded the platform windows like war drums, never letting up, a constant rhythm that seeped into the bones. But inside the training complex, your boys—your commanders—were becoming weapons. And they were doing it with teeth bared.

You ran them hard. Harder than the Kaminoans would’ve allowed. You forced them to fight one-on-one until they bled, then patch each other up. You made them run drills in full gear until even Fox, the most stubborn of them, nearly passed out. But you also cooked for them when they succeeded. You gave them downtime when they earned it. You let them joke, laugh, fight like brothers.

And they were brothers. Every one of them.

“You hit like a Jawa,” Neyo grunted, dodging a blow from Bacara.

“At least I don’t look like one,” Bacara shot back, swinging his training staff with a grunt.

The others laughed from the sidelines. Cody leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, smirking. Rex and Fox were trading bets in whispers.

“Credits on Neyo,” Bly muttered, grinning. “He’s wiry.”

“You’re all idiots,” Wolffe growled. “Bacara’s been waiting to punch him since last week.”

You let them have their moment. You sat on the edge of the platform, helmet off, watching them like a mother bird daring anyone to touch her nest.

The sparring match turned fast. Bacara landed a hit to Neyo’s ribs—but Neyo pivoted and brought his staff down hard across Bacara’s knee. There was a loud crack. Bacara cried out and dropped.

The laughter died.

You were at his side in an instant, shouting for a med droid even as you crouched beside him, checking his leg. His face was twisted in pain, jaw clenched to keep from crying out again.

“It’s just a fracture,” the Kaminoan tech said from above, indifferent. “He’ll heal.”

You glared up at them. “He’s not just a number. He’s a kid.”

“They are not—”

“He is mine,” you snapped, standing between Bacara and the tech. “And if I hear one more word from your sterile little mouth, I will see how fast you bleed.”

The Kaminoan backed away.

You turned back to Bacara, softer now. Your hand brushed the sweat from his brow.

“Deep breaths, cyar’ika. You’re alright.”

He tried to speak, teeth gritted. “I’m—fine.”

“No, you’re not,” you said gently, voice warm but firm. “And you don’t have to pretend for me.”

The other boys were quiet. They had seen broken bones, sure. But not softness like this. Not someone kneeling beside one of them with care in her eyes.

You stayed by Bacara’s side while the medics patched him up. You held his hand when they set the bone, and he let you.

Later, when he was tucked into his bunk with his leg in a brace, you sat beside him and hummed. Just softly. The rain tapping the window, your voice somewhere between a lullaby and a promise.

He didn’t cry. But he did sleep.

⸻

You didn’t just teach them how to fight. You taught them how to live—how to survive.

You made them argue tactical problems around a dinner table. You made them learn each other’s tells—so they could watch each other’s backs on the battlefield. You made them memorize where the Kaminoans kept the override chips, in case something ever went wrong.

You never said why, but they trusted you.

And sometimes, they’d tease one another just to make you laugh.

“You’re so slow, Wolffe,” Bly groaned, flopping onto the floor after a run. “It’s like watching a Star Destroyer try to jog.”

“You want to say that to my face?” Wolffe growled, looming.

“No thanks,” Bly wheezed. “My ribs still remember last week.”

Fox tossed him a ration bar. “Eat up, drama queen.”

Rex smirked. “You’re all mouth, Fox.”

“I will end you, rookie.”

“Boys,” you interrupted, raising a brow. “If you have enough energy to whine, I clearly didn’t run you hard enough.”

Groans. Laughter. Playful swearing.

“Ten more laps,” you added, smiling.

Cries of “Nooo, buir!” echoed down the corridor.

⸻

When You Sang

Sometimes they asked for it. Sometimes they didn’t need to.

The song came when things were too quiet—after a nightmare, after a long day, after they’d lost a spar or a brother.

You’d walk between their bunks, singing low as the rain hit the glass.

“Last night under bright strange stars

We left behind the men that caged you and me

Runnin' toward a promise land

Mama will be there in the mornin'”

They’d pretend not to be listening. But you’d see it—the way Rex’s fists unclenched, how Neyo’s brow relaxed, how Wolffe finally let himself close his eyes.

You knew, deep down, you were raising boys for slaughter.

But you’d be damned if they didn’t feel loved before they went.

⸻

The sterile corridors of Tipoca City echoed beneath your boots. Even when the halls were silent, you could feel the Kaminoans’ eyes—watchful, cold, and calculating. They didn’t like you here. Not anymore.

When you’d first arrived, brought in under Jango’s word and credentials, they’d accepted your presence as a utility—an expert warrior to train the Alpha batch. But lately? You were a complication. You cared too much.

And they didn’t like complications.

⸻

The Meeting

You stood at attention in front of Lama Su and Taun We. The pale lights above made your armor gleam. You didn’t bow. You didn’t smile.

“You were observed interfering with medical protocol,” Lama Su said, his voice devoid of emotion. “This is not within your designated parameters.”

“One of my boys was hurt,” you said flatly.

“He is a clone. Replaceable. As they all are.”

Your fists curled at your sides.

“Do not forget your role,” Lama Su continued. “Your methods are not standard. Excessive independence. Emotional entanglement. Your presence disrupts efficiency.”

You stepped forward, slowly, deliberately. “You want soldiers who’ll die for you. I’m giving you soldiers who’ll choose to fight. There’s a difference. One that matters.”

There was a pause, then:

“You were not created for this program,” Lama Su said with quiet disapproval. “Do not overestimate your position.”

You didn’t respond.

You simply turned and walked out.

⸻

He was waiting for you in the observation room overlooking Training Sector 3. The boys were down there—Cody and Fox were running scenario drills, Rex was lining up shots on a target range, Bly was tossing insults at Neyo while dodging training droids.

They didn’t see you. But watching them moved something fierce and dangerous in your chest.

Jango spoke without looking at you. “They’re getting strong.”

“They’re getting better,” you corrected.

He turned to face you, arms folded, helm clipped to his belt. “You’re making them soft.”

You scoffed. “You don’t believe that.”

A beat. “No,” he admitted. “But the Kaminoans do.”

You shrugged. “Let them.”

“You’re pissing them off.”

You turned your head, met his gaze with something sharp and sad in your eyes. “They treat these kids like hardware. Tools. Like you’re the only one who matters.”

“I am the template,” he said, with a ghost of a smile.

“They’re more than your copies,” you said. “They’re people.”

Jango studied you for a long moment. Then his voice dropped. “They’re going to start pushing back, ner vod. On you. Hard.”

You looked back down at the boys. Bacara was limping slightly—still healing—but still trying to prove himself.

You exhaled slowly, then said, “I’m not leaving.”

“They’ll make you.”

“Not until they’re ready.”

Jango shook his head. “That might never happen.”

You glanced at him. “Then I guess I’m staying forever.”

⸻

That night, you sang again.

You walked through the bunks, slow and steady. The boys were half-asleep—worn out from drills, bandaged, bruised, but safe. Their expressions softened when you passed by. Neyo, usually tense, had his arms thrown over his head in peaceful surrender. Bly was snoring into his pillow. Bacara’s fingers were still wrapped around the edge of his blanket, leg elevated, but his face was calm.

You stood at the center of the dorm, lowered your voice, and sang like the sea itself had whispered the melody to you.

“Trust nothin' and no one in this strange, strange land

Be a mouse and do not use your voice

River tore us apart, but I'm not too far 'cause

Mama will be there in thе mornin'”

Somewhere behind you, a voice murmured, “We’re glad you didn’t leave, buir.”

You didn’t turn to see who said it.

You just kept singing.

⸻

They didn’t even look you in the eye when they handed you the dismissal.

Lama Su’s voice was as flat and clinical as ever. “Your assignment to the training program is concluded, effective immediately. A transport will arrive within the hour.”

No discussion. No room for argument. Just sterile words and sterile reasoning.

“Why?” you asked, though you already knew.

Taun We’s expression didn’t change. “Your attachment to the clones is counterproductive. It encourages instability. Disobedience.”

You laughed bitterly. “Disobedience? They’d die for you, and you don’t even know their names.”

“You’ve served your purpose.”

You stepped forward. “No. I haven’t. They’re not ready.”

“They are sufficient for combat deployment.”

You stared at them, ice in your veins. “Sufficient,” you repeated. “You mean disposable.”

“You are dismissed.”

⸻

You packed slowly.

Your hands were steady, but your heart roared like it used to back on Mandalore, in the heart of battle. That same ache. That same helplessness, standing in front of something too big to fight, and realizing you still had to try.

You left behind your bunk, your wall of messy holos and scraps of training reports scrawled in shorthand. You left behind a half-written lullaby tucked under your cot. But you took your armor.

You always took your armor.

You were nearly done when a voice cut through the door.

“Can I come in?”

It was Cody.

You didn’t turn around. “Door’s open.”

He stepped in quietly, glancing around the room like it was sacred ground. You saw his hands twitch slightly—he never fidgeted. But tonight, he was restless.

“They told us you were leaving,” he said, almost like it wasn’t real until he said it out loud. “Why?”

“Because I care too much,” you said simply.

Cody sat down on your footlocker, elbows on his knees. His eyes were dark, searching.

“What happens to us now?”

You finally looked at him. Really looked. He was trying to hold it together. He always had to—he was the eldest in a way, the natural leader. But underneath it, you saw the boy. The child.

“Are we ready?” he asked.

You walked over and sat beside him, your shoulder brushing his.

“No,” you said. “You’re not.”

That hit him harder than comfort might have.

“But,” you added, “you’re as ready as you can be. You’ve got the training. The instincts. You’ve got each other.”

Cody was quiet for a long time. Then, softly: “I’m scared.”

You nodded. “Good. So was I. Every time I stepped onto a battlefield, I was scared.”

His eyes flicked to you in surprise.

You gave a soft huff of breath. “You think Mandalorians don’t feel fear? We feel it more. We just learn to carry it.”

He looked down. “What was your war like?”

You leaned back slightly, staring at the ceiling.

“I fought on the burning sands of Sundari’s borders, in the mines, the wastelands. I’ve lost friends to blade and blaster, to poison and betrayal. I’ve heard the war drums shake the skies and still gone forward, knowing I’d never see the next sunrise. And when it was over…” You paused, bitter. “The warriors were banished.”

Cody frowned. “Banished?”

You nodded. “The new regime—pacifists. Duchess Satine. She took the throne, and we were cast off. Sent to the moon. All the heroes of Mandalore… left behind like rusted armor.”

“That’s not fair.”

“No,” you agreed. “But that’s war. You don’t always get a homecoming.”

He was silent, digesting it.

Then you said, more gently, “But you do get to decide who you are in it. And after it. If there’s an after.”

Cody’s voice cracked just a little. “You were our home.”

You turned to him, and for the first time, let him see the tears brimming in your eyes. “You still are.”

You pulled him into a hug—tight, armor creaking, like the world might tear you both apart if you let go.

⸻

You walked through the training hall one last time. Your boys were all there, lined up, watching you.

Silent.

Even the Kaminoans didn’t stop you from speaking.

You met each pair of eyes—Wolffe, Fox, Rex, Bacara, Neyo, Bly, Cody.

“My warriors,” you said softly, “you were never mine to keep. But you were mine to love. And you still are.”

You stepped forward, placed your hand on Cody’s shoulder, then moved down the line, touching each one like a prayer.

“Be strong. Be smart. Be good to each other. And remember: no matter what anyone says… you are not property. You are brothers.”

You left without turning back.

Because if you did—you wouldn’t have left at all.

Part 2

Jango Fett x Reader

Summary: Pre-Attack of the Clones leading up to the first battle of Geonosis. inspired by “Cat’s in the Cradle” by Harry Chapin as I feel this song is very Jango and Boba coded.

______

Rain never stopped on Kamino.

It drummed a rhythm on the windows of the training facility—sharp, persistent, lonely. You stood by the glass, arms crossed, eyes scanning the endless gray. Somewhere outside. Another bounty. Another absence. Another silent goodbye.

“Back soon,” he always said, planting a kiss against your temple with a touch too light to anchor anything real. You used to argue—beg him to stay, to train, to raise the boy he brought into the world. But you learned quick: Jango Fett was a man of war, not of roots.

He was strapping on his vambraces when he noticed you watching him.

“Don’t start,” he muttered, not looking up. His voice was gruff, frayed from too many missions and too little sleep.

You didn’t move. “He asked if you were coming to training tomorrow. I didn’t know what to tell him.”

Jango paused, only for a second, before clicking the final strap into place. “Tell him the truth. I’m working.”

You stepped forward. “You could take one day off. Just one. He looks up to you—he waits for you. When you’re not here, he starts acting like you. Staring out windows, keeping things inside. Like father, like son.”

His jaw twitched. “I didn’t bring him here for you to turn into his mother.”

The words hit like a slug round.

You swallowed, trying to keep your voice steady. “I’m not trying to replace anyone, Jango. But you leave him here alone. What do you expect me to do? Pretend I don’t care?”

He finally looked at you. Those eyes, dark and calculating, softened only for seconds at a time. This wasn’t one of them.

“I expect you to train the clones. That’s the job. Not to start playing house.”

“I didn’t fall in love with you for the job,” you said, quieter now. “And I didn’t stay on Kamino because I like watching kids grow up as soldiers. I stayed for you. For him.”

Jango adjusted the strap on his blaster. “He’s not yours.”

“I know.”

You did know. You weren’t trying to be his mother. Not really. You just wanted him to have one—someone who remembered to ask if he’d eaten, who noticed when he had nightmares, who held him when he tried not to cry. Someone who didn’t just see a legacy in him.

Jango stepped close, pressed a kiss to your forehead, too soft for someone always on edge. It almost made you forget everything else.

“I’ll be back soon,” he said.

“You always say that,” you whispered.

But he was already turning away.

Slave I rose through the Kamino rain and vanished into cloud cover.

You didn’t cry. You just went back inside and checked Boba’s room. He was asleep, curled up with one of his father’s old gloves tucked under his pillow like a security blanket.

You didn’t belong in their family. You knew that. But in Jango’s absence, you became something Boba needed. A voice when silence was heavy. A shield when pain crept too close. Not a mother—but a presence.

Even if Jango never wanted you to be.

So you stayed behind. For Boba.

He was quiet, sharp, and already wearing boots two sizes too big—trying to fill his father’s shoes before he even hit puberty. You weren’t his mother, not by blood, not by name, but someone had to care enough to keep him human. To make sure he didn’t disappear behind armor and legacy.

You cooked for him. Taught him hand-to-hand when Jango was gone. Helped him with clone drills, even when he rolled his eyes and said, “I’m not like them.” You tried to make him laugh. He rarely did.

One night, while putting away gear, he asked, “You gonna leave too?”

You paused. “No, Boba. Not unless I have to.”

“Dad says people always leave. That it’s part of the job.”

You crouched beside him, met his eyes. “He’s wrong. Or maybe he’s just scared to stay.”

⸻

Geonosis burned red.

Jango’s signal cut out too fast. Too sudden. You heard Mace Windu’s name in the comms, and something inside you fractured. Still, you led your squad—your clones—into the fight. They needed you. They trusted you. Jango didn’t.

When the battle ended, smoke still rising from the arena, you ran to the landing zone—knew exactly where the Slave I would be.

And there he was.

Boba, small and shaking, helmet too big in his arms. He looked up, eyes glassy but sharp.

“You’re with them,” he hissed, his voice more venom than grief. “You helped them.”

You stepped forward. “I didn’t know he’d—Boba, please. This isn’t what I wanted.”

“You’re a traitor.”

He turned, walking toward the ship, the ramp already lowering.

“You can’t do this alone,” you warned. “The galaxy isn’t kind. It’ll eat you alive.”

“I’ve got his armor. His ship. That’s all I need. I don’t need you anymore”

You reached for him—but he was already walking up the ramp, shoulders square like his father’s, jaw clenched with fury too big for his body.

You didn’t follow.

⸻

Years passed.

The Empire rose. You faded into shadows. The clones you once trained died in unfamiliar systems, stripped of names and purpose. You lived quiet, took jobs on the fringe—nothing that put you on anyone’s radar.

Until you crossed paths again.

Carbon scoring lit the walls of an abandoned outpost. A bounty had gone sour. You moved through smoke with the ease of memory—blaster in hand, breath steady. And then he stepped into view.

The armor was repainted, darker, scarred, refined. The stance, identical. The voice, modulated but unmistakable.

“You always did show up where you weren’t wanted,” Boba said.

You stared. He was taller now, broader. His face—Jango’s face, down to the line of his brow.

“I didn’t know it was you,” you murmured.

“Wouldn’t have mattered if you did.”

You lowered your weapon first. “You’re good.”

He gave a single nod. “Learned from the best.”

A beat.

“You look just like him,” you said quietly.

“Yeah. No surprise there”

There was no warmth in his words. Just steel. Just the ghost of a boy you tried to protect.

“Was that what you wanted? To become him?”

Boba stared at you for a long time. Then: “I didn’t have a choice. He left me everything… and nothing.”

You stepped closer, heart tight. “I tried, Boba. I tried to give you more than that.”

“I know,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

He walked past you. Didn’t look back.

As he disappeared into the dusk, all you could think of is how he turned out just like him. His boy was just like him.

yes there's a lot of things to criticize about Star Wars but one thing i will always love it for is being so unabashedly tragic

i'm sure it's been said before, but one of the main things i think powers the SW fandom (fics in particular) is the (in)evitability of it all

time travel fix-its are one of the most popular sub-categories of fics that i've seen (for the prequels at least) but i see it much more rarely in other fandoms. i know each fandom has their own niches that they dig into but star wars fic writers took one look at this decades long story of people who were doomed from the start and said 'not in my house bitch'

and i'm never tired of it, because there's so many places where just one different action could have changed the story entirely, but didn't

was it over the moment Palpatine succeeded in feeding Anakin's fears and his distrust toward the Jedi? the moment the Sith gained control of the senate? what about when the war started, when the Jedi were made generals of men designed to be their executioners? what about when Dooku left the order? when Qui-Gon Jinn died, leaving barely-knighted Obi Wan Kenobi to raise a child he had no idea how to care for? when the Jedi massacred the Mandalorians at Galidraan, leaving Jango Fett primed (hah) for revenge? when Palpatine, and thus the Sith, first gained influence? when the Jedi were tied to the Republic, all the way back at the Ruusan Reformation?

there are so many little moments that turn into this huge web of cause and effect when you take a step back. and in canon, these characters are dooming themselves while we watch, but what reason do they have to do anything different? they don't know they're in a tragedy - its dramatic irony at its goddamn finest

but there's this thing about decisions: for it to be a choice, there has to be another option. and our heroes make their mistakes because that's what they do, while we aren't privy to that other option, leaving that little what-if. it's a favorite human pastime, to think about what might have been.

we start at episode 4, though, fourty or so years after what you could arguably call the start, and find ourselves watching the dominoes fall in place throughout 1, 2, and 3.

and we can hate the choices, hate the tragedy, hate what happened to our beloved characters, but we knew. we had the luxury of knowing.

it's a love story, it's political intrique, it's sci-fi at its finest, and they were dead from the start.