Commander Wolffe X Jedi Reader (order 66)

“Red Lines” pt.7

Ryio Chuchi x Commander Fox x Reader x Sergeant Hound

The lower levels of Coruscant were a different kind of loud—sirens and shouts, hover engines and flickering holoboards bleeding through the smog. It was chaos, yes, but in this chaos, Sergeant Hound felt clarity.

Grizzer padded silently at his side, the massiff’s broad frame alert, nostrils twitching as they passed another vendor selling deep-fried something on a stick. Hound barely registered the scent. His thoughts were louder.

You hadn’t contacted him since the night Fox kissed you.

And Hound hadn’t pressed. Not because he didn’t care. Because he’d needed time—to think, to process, to stop pretending that what he felt for you was just proximity or comfort or familiarity.

It wasn’t.

You had bewitched him from the moment you’d leaned a little too close with that sly smirk, asking if he always kept a massiff at his hip or if he was compensating for something. He’d been intrigued, annoyed, flustered—and slowly, hopelessly drawn in.

He’d watched you orbit Fox like gravity had already chosen. And he’d told himself that if Fox was what you wanted, he wouldn’t stand in the way.

But not anymore.

Fox had kissed you. And then let you go.

Hound would never.

He paused on the overlook just above the market plaza. Grizzer snorted and settled beside him, tail thumping once.

“She deserves better than this,” Hound muttered. “Better than confusion. Better than being second choice.”

Grizzer gave a small bark of agreement.

Hound scratched behind his companion’s ear. His thoughts drifted to the way you’d laughed that night walking home, teasing him about patrol patterns and rogue droids. The way your voice had softened, just a little, when you asked him to walk you back.

You didn’t see it yet—but he did.

You were starting to look at him differently.

He tapped his comm. “I’m going off-duty for the next few hours,” he told Dispatch. “Personal matter.”

No one questioned him.

By the time he arrived at the Senate tower, he was still in uniform—dust and grime on his boots, helmet tucked under his arm, eyes like flint. He approached your apartment with purpose, not hesitation. If you weren’t there, he’d wait. If your droid answered the door with another snippy remark, he’d endure it.

Because this time, he wasn’t going to step aside.

VX-7 opened the door with his usual pomp. “Ah, the canine and his keeper. Should I fetch my Mistress, or are you here to howl at the moon?”

“I’m here to speak with her,” Hound said calmly. “And I’m not leaving until I do.”

VX-7 tilted his head. “Hm. Bold. She may like that.”

“I’m counting on it.”

Ila peeked around the corner from the sitting room, wide-eyed. “She’s still in the steam chamber,” she whispered. “But—she’ll want to see you. I think.”

Hound stepped inside. Grizzer waited obediently at the door.

A few minutes later, you entered the room, wrapped in a plush robe, hair damp, eyes guarded.

“Hound,” you said carefully. “Is everything alright?”

“No,” he said. “Not really.”

You blinked.

He stood a few steps away, helmet still under his arm, the overhead light catching the edge of a fresh bruise on his cheekbone.

“I’ve been patient,” he began. “I stood back while you looked at Fox like he was the only star in your sky. I let it go when he strung you along, when you thought he might choose you. I watched it hurt you, and I said nothing because I thought maybe that was what you needed.”

You stiffened—but you didn’t interrupt.

“But I won’t do it anymore,” Hound said quietly. “Because I see you, and I want you. And if there’s even a part of you that’s starting to see me too—then I’m not backing down.”

Silence stretched.

You didn’t speak. But your expression… shifted. A flicker. Not anger. Not rejection. Something else.

Something softer.

Hound took a step closer. “I’m not here to compete with him,” he added. “I’m here to fight for you.”

And with that, he turned and walked to the door.

Not storming out. Not waiting for an answer.

Just putting it all on the line, finally.

At the threshold, he looked back. “I’ll be at the memorial wall tomorrow. In case you want to talk.”

The door closed behind him.

Grizzer gave a soft whine.

Inside, your handmaiden Maera—quiet as ever—approached and offered you a datapad. “Tomorrow’s agenda,” she said softly. “Unless you’d like to cancel it. Or… change it.”

You didn’t answer.

You just stood in your quiet apartment—heart suddenly too full and too tangled for words—and stared at the door where Hound had just been.

Something had shifted.

And you knew the days ahead would not allow for indecision anymore.

⸻

Commander Fox stared down at the report in his hands, reading the same line for the fourth time without absorbing a word of it.

…Civilian unrest on Level 3124-B has been neutralized with minimal casualties. Local authorities commend the Guard for…

He let out a slow breath, lowering the datapad onto his desk. It clacked quietly against the durasteel surface, the only sound in his private office. The dim lights cast hard shadows across the red plating of his armor. Even here, in the supposed quiet, his thoughts were too loud.

Hound had gone to her.

And she’d seen him.

Fox didn’t need confirmation—he could read the tension in Hound’s body when he returned to the barracks, the uncharacteristic weight in his silence. And worse… the lack of guilt.

Because Hound had nothing to feel guilty for.

You were not his.

Not anymore.

If you ever truly were.

Fox stood abruptly, the motion sharp. His armor creaked at the joints. He crossed the room and keyed his comm. “Patch me through to Senator Chuchi,” he said. “Tell her… I could use a few moments. Off record.”

A pause. Then: “Yes, Commander. She’s in her office.”

He arrived at her quarters just past dusk.

She opened the door herself—no staff, no aides, just Chuchi in a soft navy tunic and loose curls, her usual regal poise set aside for something more honest.

“Fox,” she greeted with a faint smile. “I wasn’t sure if you would come.”

“I wasn’t either,” he admitted.

She stepped back, letting him in.

Her apartment was warmer than his—lamplight instead of fluorescents, cushions instead of steel, a kettle steaming faintly on a side table.

“You look tired,” she said gently.

“I am.” He hesitated. “I’ve been… thinking. About everything.”

She moved toward the kitchenette and poured a cup of tea. “And?”

Fox accepted the cup but didn’t drink. His eyes lingered on the steam curling from the surface.

“Do you think,” he asked, “that I’m blind?”

Chuchi quirked an eyebrow. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

“Hound told me today that I’m so focused on doing the right thing, I can’t see what’s right in front of me. That I’ve made myself blind. That…” He trailed off.

Chuchi sat down across from him, her expression softening.

“He’s right,” she said. “In some ways.”

Fox didn’t argue.

“I know you care for her,” Chuchi continued, voice calm and without malice. “I always knew. And I told myself I didn’t mind being second. That eventually you’d see me.”

Her confession was so unflinchingly honest that Fox looked up in surprise.

“But now?” she added. “I don’t want to be chosen because she walked away. I want to be wanted because I am wanted. Not because I’m convenient. Not because I’m safe.”

“I never meant to make you feel like that,” he said, quietly.

“I know,” she replied. “You’re not cruel, Fox. You’re careful. Too careful. So careful that you might lose everyone while trying to protect them.”

He finally sipped the tea. It was bitter, earthy. Grounding.

“I don’t know what I want,” he confessed.

Chuchi leaned forward. “Then let me help you figure it out.”

He looked up. Her eyes were patient. Warm.

He could fall into that warmth.

He might already be falling.

They stayed like that for a while—talking softly, slowly. Not of war. Not of Senate politics or assignments. Just… of quiet things. Of home worlds and half-remembered childhoods, of what it meant to serve and survive in a galaxy that demanded so much of them both.

At one point, Chuchi placed a gentle hand over his.

He didn’t move away.

Fox didn’t know what the future held.

But tonight—he let himself rest.

Not as a commander. Not as a soldier.

But as a man slowly trying to understand his own heart.

⸻

The Grand Convocation Chamber was abuzz with tension. Holocams glinted in the air, senators murmuring in rising tones as the next point of order was introduced. Mas Amedda’s voice carried over the room like cold oil, slick and condescending.

“We must return to a more structured approach to military resource allocation. The proposed oversight committee is not only unnecessary, but also a potential breach of central authority—”

“With all due respect, Vice Chair,” your voice cut through the air like a vibroblade, sharp and unforgiving, “—that’s the second time this week you’ve attempted to dissolve accountability through procedural smoke screens.”

A hush fell. Some senators leaned forward. Others tried not to visibly smile.

Mas Amedda’s eyes narrowed. “Senator, I remind you—”

“I will not be silenced for speaking the truth,” you said, rising from your place. “This chamber deserves better than manipulation cloaked in regulation. How many more credits will vanish into ‘classified security enhancements’ that never see oversight? How many more clone rotations will be extended because of your so-called ‘budgetary shortfalls’? Enough. We’re hemorrhaging lives and credits—and for what? For your empty assurances?”

Bail Organa stood. “The senator from [your planet] raises a valid concern. We’ve seen an alarming rise in unchecked defense spending with no direct line of transparency. I support her call for oversight.”

More murmurs rippled across the room. Several senators nodded. A few scowled. Mas Amedda looked caught off guard—too public a setting to retaliate, too sharp a blow to ignore.

You didn’t sit.

You owned the floor.

“And if this body continues to protect corruption under the guise of unity,” you said coolly, “then it deserves neither peace nor legitimacy. Some of us may come from worlds ravaged by warlords and tyrants, but at least we recognize the stench when it walks into our halls.”

Gasps. Stifled laughter. Shock.

Even Palpatine, observing from his platform above, remained eerily silent, hands steepled.

From a private senatorial booth above, Chuchi leaned subtly toward Fox, her elegant features drawn tight with concern.

“She’s changed,” she murmured. “She’s always been fiery, yes, but this—this isn’t politics anymore. This is personal.”

Fox, clad in full red armor beside her, arms crossed and expression unreadable, didn’t respond immediately. His eyes remained fixed on you down below.

Your voice. Your anger. Your fire.

He could hear the edge of something unraveling.

“…Maybe it is personal,” he said eventually, quiet enough that only Chuchi could hear. “Maybe it’s always been.”

Chuchi’s brow furrowed.

She looked down at you, then sideways at Fox—and for the first time, she wasn’t sure if she was worried for you… or for him.

This The Senate hearing had adjourned, but the fire hadn’t left your blood. The echo of your words still rang in the marble columns of the hall as senators dispersed in murmuring clusters—some scandalized, others invigorated.

You made no effort to hide your stride as you exited the chamber, heels clicking with deliberate finality. It wasn’t until you entered one of the quiet side halls—lined with tall, arched windows overlooking Coruscant’s twilight skyline—that you heard someone step into pace beside you.

“Senator.”

You didn’t need to look. That voice—smooth, measured, calm—could only belong to Bail Organa.

You sighed. “Come to scold me for lighting a fire under Mas Amedda’s tail?”

“I’d never deny a fire its purpose,” Bail replied, his tone half amused, half cautious. “Though I will admit, your methods have a certain… how shall we say—explosive flair.”

You turned to face him, arching an eyebrow. “And yet you backed me.”

“I did.” He clasped his hands behind his back, dark eyes thoughtful. “Because, despite your delivery—and perhaps even because of it—you were right. There’s rot beneath the surface of our governance. We just have different ways of exposing it.”

“I’m not interested in polishing rust, Organa. If the Republic is breaking, then maybe it needs to crack apart before we can build something better.”

“And maybe,” he said gently, “some of us are still trying to stop it from breaking altogether.”

The silence between you hung for a moment, not hostile—but heavy with tension and philosophical difference.

Then Bail offered a small nod. “You’ve earned some of my respect. And that’s not something I give lightly.”

You tilted your head. “You sound almost surprised.”

“I am.” He smiled faintly. “But I’ve also been in politics long enough to know that sometimes, the most unlikely alliances are the most effective.”

You smirked. “Is that your way of saying you’re not going to block me next time I set the chamber on fire?”

“I’m saying,” he said, turning to walk with you again, “that if you’re going to keep torching corruption, I might as well bring a torch of my own.”

You gave a short laugh—half relief, half wariness.

For all his charm, Organa still felt like the cleanest dagger in the Senate’s drawer—but a dagger all the same. You’d take what allies you could get.

Even if they wore polished boots and Alderaanian silk.

⸻

You were still in your senatorial attire—half undone, jacket slung over a chair, hair falling from its formal coil as you paced the living room. The adrenaline from the hearing had worn off, leaving only a searing void in its place.

A chime broke the silence.

Your head turned. The door.

You weren’t expecting anyone.

When it opened, Hound stood in the threshold, soaked from rain, his patrol armor clinging to him—helmet in one hand, the ever-loyal Grizzer seated obediently behind him. His gaze was sharp, jaw set with some storm you hadn’t yet named.

“Evening, Senator,” he said, voice rougher than usual. “I… I was passing by. Thought you might want company.”

You looked at him for a long beat. “That depends,” you murmured, stepping aside. “Is this an official guard visit… or something else?”

He stepped in without answering, closing the door behind him. Grizzer settled just inside the hall while Hound placed his helmet on a nearby table. His eyes never left you.

“You looked like fire on that floor today,” he said at last, voice quieter now. “Not many people can stand toe-to-toe with Mas Amedda and walk away without flinching.”

“Flinching’s for people who have the luxury of fear,” you replied, moving to the window. “I don’t. Not anymore.”

He followed your voice. “That’s what I’ve always liked about you.”

You turned, slowly. “Always?”

He stepped closer. “Yeah. Always.”

The air thickened between you—your breath catching slightly as the distance closed, the tension pulsing like the city lights outside. You were used to control. Used to strategy and manipulation. But Hound didn’t play your games.

He was standing just inches away now, rain still dripping from his curls, the heat of him radiating in the cool air of the apartment.

“You’re not subtle,” you whispered.

“No,” he said. “But neither are you.”

Your hand reached for the front of his armor, your fingers brushing the duraplast of his chest plate.

“Take it off,” you said.

He did.

Piece by piece, Hound peeled off the armor until it was just him—tired, proud, burning. When you stepped into him, it was with a crash of mouths and breath, a meeting of fire and steel. Your back hit the windowpane as he kissed you like you were something he’d waited too long to touch—fierce, needy, reverent.

You tangled your fingers in the straps of his blacks, dragging him in closer. He groaned softly when you bit his lower lip, and your laugh—low and dark—only stoked the fire between you.

No words.

Just heat. Just hands.

And when you pulled him with you toward your bedroom, it wasn’t about power. Not politics. Not winning.

It was about claiming something—for once—for yourself.

⸻

There was a silence in your bedroom that felt sacred.

Hound lay beside you, one arm thrown over your waist, your back pulled against the warmth of his bare chest. His breathing was slow and steady, his face buried in your hair. You’d never seen him so at peace—off duty, unguarded, real.

Your fingers traced lazy lines on the back of his hand. A smile tugged at your lips. Last night had been… something else. No games. No politics. Just two people stripped bare in every way that mattered.

“Mm,” Hound murmured against your shoulder. “Y’real or did I dream all that?”

You chuckled softly. “If it was a dream, we were both dreaming the same thing. Loudly.”

He groaned. “You’re gonna bring that up every chance you get, aren’t you?”

You smirked. “Absolutely.”

Hound murmured against your skin, “You think they heard us?”

You tilted your head back against his shoulder. “All of them.”

“Guess I better make breakfast. Bribe my way back into their good graces.”

You laughed. “Oh no, Hound. You’re mine this morning. Let them stew.”

He kissed your shoulder. “Yeah… okay. Yours.”

And for the first time in a long time, it felt like someone meant it.

⸻

In the kitchen, Maera sipped her morning tea with one elegantly raised brow. She leaned against the counter, still in her silken robe, listening.

“Did you hear them?” asked Ila, wide-eyed and flushed, whispering as if it wasn’t already obvious. “I mean—I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop! But the walls—Maera, the walls!”

Maera nodded slowly, utterly unbothered. “They certainly weren’t shy about it. Not that they should be. She’s earned a night of pleasure after everything.”

VX-7, polishing silverware despite having no reason to do so, turned his head with a prim little huff. “It was excessive. Disturbingly organic. I recalibrated my audio receptors three times. And still. Still.”

From the corner of the room, R9 let out a sequence of aggressive beeps, which VX-7 translated almost reluctantly.

“He says—and I quote—‘If you’re going to wake an entire building, at least record it for later entertainment.’ Disgusting.”

R9 chirped again. VX-7 turned with stiff disdain. “No, I will not ask her for details.”

Ila giggled helplessly, her face bright red. “Well… it sounded like she was having a really good time. I mean, we’ve all seen how Sergeant Hound looks at her. Like he’d fight the whole galaxy for just one kiss.”

Maera nodded. “He might have done more than kiss.”

VX-7 sputtered. “Decorum.”

⸻

You were halfway through your caf when R9 rolled up, suspiciously quiet—always a bad sign.

He beeped something sharp and insistent.

VX-7 glanced up from organizing your data pads with a sigh. “He’s asking about the sergeant’s… performance.”

You raised a brow. “Oh, is he?”

R9 chirped eagerly.

You took a sip of caf, deliberately slow, then replied dryly, “He was… satisfactory.”

R9 sputtered in a flurry of binary outrage.

“He’s saying that’s not enough,” VX said flatly. “That he deserves explicit schematics after suffering through an evening of audible trauma.”

You smiled serenely. “Tell him he should be grateful I didn’t disconnect his audio receptors entirely.”

R9 beeped in long-suffering protest.

“I am thrilled,” VX-7 cut in, sounding deeply relieved. “Your discretion is appreciated. Some of us prefer not to know everything.”

From the hallway, Maera passed with a subtle smirk. “He did call your name a lot.”

You turned sharply. “Maera.”

“Ila timed it.”

“Ila what?!”

“I—!” came her squeaked voice from the kitchen. “I only did it once!”

R9 twirled in glee.

⸻

Sergeant Hound walked into the base with a straighter spine that morning, like someone who had nothing left to question.

He didn’t try to hide the way his eyes followed you when you passed him in the corridor, or the brief smirk that ghosted across his face when your gaze lingered a little too long.

The men noticed. Stone nudged Thorn, who muttered something under his breath and whistled low.

Fox noticed too.

He was standing by the briefing room entrance when you and Hound exchanged a quiet word. Nothing explicit. Just a hand brushing your elbow. A smile that lasted a beat too long.

Fox’s jaw tightened. His arms crossed. Thorn looked over and said nothing—but the expression said everything.

Later, when the command room emptied out, Chuchi found Fox still standing there, distracted, his gaze distant.

“Commander?” she asked gently.

Fox blinked out of it. “Senator.”

She stepped closer. “Are you alright?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Chuchi, soft but sharp as ever, looked toward the hall you’d disappeared down. “She was always going to be a difficult one to hold, wasn’t she?”

Fox exhaled, low and conflicted. “She never belonged to anyone. I knew that.”

“But you wanted her anyway.”

He glanced at Chuchi then, just briefly. “I wanted… something simple. She’s not simple. And neither are you.”

Chuchi smiled tightly, painfully. “I’m not simple. But I do make decisions.”

She left him standing there with that.

⸻

Your office was quiet for once. You stood by the window, arms folded, staring out across the city while VX read off your schedule and R9 sat in the corner… drawing crude holographic reenactments of the previous night on your datapad.

“R9,” you said without turning around. “I will factory reset you.”

He beeped, sulking audibly.

“I can hear that attitude,” VX added, passing him with a towel. “If she doesn’t, I will factory reset you.”

You smiled faintly and went back to your thoughts. The air had shifted. The square had skewed. And somewhere deep in the Senate and Guard halls… things were about to get more complicated.

⸻

The morning air at the Senate Tower was unusually crisp. You stepped out of the speeder, flanked by Maera and VX-7. R9 brought up the rear, grumbling about having to behave himself in public.

And then came the sharp sound of boots—Hound, already waiting at the base of the steps.

Not in the shadows this time. Not quiet or distant.

He greeted you in full view of Senate staff, Guard personnel, and the few reporters waiting on the fringes.

“Senator,” he said, voice smooth but firm.

“Hound,” you replied, raising a brow. “Early today.”

“I thought I’d escort you up myself,” he said easily. “I know how the halls get… cluttered.”

Maera gave a discreet cough to hide her knowing grin.

You glanced at him, searching, reading. “Trying to start rumors?”

He leaned in slightly. “No. I’m trying to start a pattern.”

R9 beeped in what sounded like scandalized glee.

You smiled despite yourself. “Careful, Sergeant. I might get used to that.”

⸻

The upper atrium buzzed with mingling Senators, Guard officers, and invited Jedi. Drinks flowed, polite words filled the air like smoke, and nothing important was ever really said out loud.

You stood near the balcony, Hound by your side, his stance casual but unmistakably yours. He made no attempt to hide the fact he was there for you. Every look, every nod, every quiet murmur in your direction made it clear.

And people noticed.

Fox noticed.

Across the hall, the Commander stood with Chuchi, her blue cloak draped neatly over her shoulders, her posture a touch more relaxed than usual.

He wasn’t watching you this time—not exactly. He was watching Hound. Watching how natural it seemed.

Chuchi followed his gaze and tilted her head. “Regretting something?”

Fox gave the smallest shake of his head. “Observing.”

She sipped from her glass, then spoke gently. “You don’t have to talk to me like you’re writing a field report, Commander.”

He blinked, then let out the smallest breath of a chuckle. “Habit.”

She glanced at him sideways, then added, “You know… we could make a good habit of this. Talking. Being seen together.”

He looked at her then—really looked.

She was offering something real. Something without barbed wires. Something that didn’t ask him to fight through smoke to see what was there.

“I’d like that,” he said quietly.

Chuchi smiled. Not triumphant. Not possessive. Just… warm.

⸻

Hound was listening to a brief report from a junior officer, but his hand grazed yours beneath the table. A quiet, firm pressure.

You didn’t move away.

The contact was seen.

Thorn narrowed his eyes from across the room. Cody caught it and just hummed, sipping from his glass. Even Plo Koon gave a slightly more observant glance than usual from where he stood with Windu.

You leaned closer to Hound. “We’re being watched.”

His mouth quirked. “I know. Let them.”

And for the first time in a while, it didn’t feel like a triangle.

It felt like something more complicated.

And far more worth the risk.

⸻

Later that night Chuchi stood at Fox’s side at the landing platform. There was no awkwardness in her presence. She was calm. Solid.

Fox looked out over the Coruscanti skyline and finally broke the silence.

“She’ll always be a fire I’m drawn to,” he said, voice low. “But fires burn, and I’m tired of getting burned.”

Chuchi simply nodded. “Then stop standing in the flames.”

Fox turned to her. “And start standing with you?”

“If you’re ready,” she said. “I won’t wait forever. But I won’t walk away just yet.”

He nodded once. Slowly.

⸻

The skies over Coruscant were unusually clear tonight, a shimmer of starlight bleeding through the light pollution. It was a rare calm.

You leaned back into Hound’s chest on your apartment balcony, a warm cup of spiced tea in hand. His arms were around you, solid and sure, resting just below your ribs. Grizzer snored softly inside by the door, and one of the handmaidens—probably Ila—was humming as she cleaned up from dinner.

“Not bad for a long day of Senate chaos,” Hound said, his voice quiet against the shell of your ear.

You snorted. “Aren’t they all long days?”

“Yes. But lately… you don’t carry them the same.”

You turned slightly to face him, your profile catching in the golden light of the city. “And what exactly do I carry now, Sergeant?”

He looked at you, eyes warm and unshaking. “Something real. With me.”

That disarmed you more than it should have.

You gave a soft laugh, shaking your head. “You’re becoming dangerously romantic, Hound.”

“I blame the handmaidens. Maera’s been giving me pointers.”

⸻

Fox stood beside Chuchi on the outer mezzanine of the Senate complex, watching the after-hours city buzz. They had both left the function early, preferring the quiet.

She offered him a half-smile, something softer than she usually showed in public.

“You didn’t even flinch when they brought up her new bill,” Chuchi noted, nodding toward the echoing chamber behind them.

Fox’s mouth quirked. “I’ve learned when to speak and when to listen. She and I… we’re not at odds. Just walking different roads.”

Chuchi reached for his hand, just briefly. “And now you’re on mine.”

Fox nodded once. “It’s steadier ground.”

Their relationship wasn’t loud. It wasn’t full of sparks or danger.

It was the kind of quiet strength that soldiers rarely got to experience. And maybe that’s why he clung to it.

⸻

Later that week, you crossed paths again at a formal reception. Fox, in his dress armor, stood beside Chuchi. You with Hound, his hand resting lightly at your lower back as he murmured something that made you smile.

Fox saw it.

And for the first time in weeks, the look in his eyes wasn’t longing. It was peace.

He nodded toward you.

You nodded back.

It was over. The tension. The rivalry. The ache.

Not forgotten. But resolved.

Chuchi looped her arm through Fox’s, leaning close. “You okay?”

He glanced down at her, his answer simple. “Better than I’ve been in a long time.”

⸻

Back at Your Apartment Maera was running the evening reports with VX, while Ila played soft music through the speakers. R9, curiously well-behaved, was curled up at the foot of the couch like some pet beast.

You stepped in from the hall, dress heels off, hair let down.

Hound looked up from the couch. “Long day?”

“Long enough,” you replied.

He opened an arm for you. “Come here, Senator.”

And you did.

You weren’t a storm anymore. You were a sunrise.

And it was about time.

No more games. No more waiting. Just choices made, and paths finally walked.

⸻

EPILOGUE:

Several years into the reign of the Empire.

The skies of Coruscant no longer shimmered.

They smothered.

Thick clouds of smog and smoke clung to the towers like rot, and the brilliant spires of the Senate were now reduced to shadows beneath the Empire’s long arm. The rotunda stood silent. Gutted. Museumed. Its voice—your voice—silenced.

You were older now. Not old. But seasoned. A relic by Imperial standards.

The red of your senatorial robes had been replaced by somber greys and silks that whispered through empty hallways. You had not spoken in session in years. Not since the body had been stripped of meaning.

But you returned today.

Not for politics.

For memory.

Your boots echoed across the great hall of the abandoned Senate, your handmaidens long gone. Maera had vanished in the purge. Ila had married a Republic officer and fled to the Mid Rim. VX-7 had been decommissioned by the Empire for “behavioral instability.” You had buried his shattered chassis yourself.

Only R9 remained.

The little astromech trailed behind you, his plated casing dull with age, but still stubbornly functional. A grumbling, violent, loyal thing. When they tried to wipe his memory, he electrocuted the technician and disappeared for two years. When he came back, he returned to your side without explanation. You never asked.

You reached the center of the hall—the old speaking platform.

Closed your eyes.

He had stood here once, flanked by red and white armor. Fox.

You had loved him. Fiercely. Then you had lost him. Even now, you weren’t sure if it was to the Empire or to himself. Word came of his reassignment. Rumors of reconditioning. Rumors of defection. None confirmed. His armor never turned up.

Hound… Hound had died in the early rebellion skirmishes, trying to save refugees in the Outer Rim. You’d read the report yourself. Twice. Then deleted it. Grizzer had outlived him. You received the beast, years later. Half-wild and scarred. You kept him at your estate. The last thing Hound had ever loved.

You opened your eyes.

At the base of the podium sat a pair of red clone boots.

Old. Polished.

Ceremonial.

You placed a hand on them and let the silence hold you.

Outside, a storm rolled over the skyline.

R9 beeped low beside you. A mournful note.

“Don’t start with me,” you muttered.

The droid nudged your leg.

You looked out at Coruscant, then up at the distant shadow of the Imperial Palace—formerly the Jedi Temple.

And you smiled. Just slightly.

“They think it’s over,” you whispered. “But embers remember how to burn.”

In the ruins of the Republic, love and rebellion had one thing in common—neither stayed dead forever.

⸻

Previous Part

“on all levels except physical, i am a wolf”

Rebels Wolffe x Reader

Summary: Wolffe x Medic!Reader set post-Order 66 during the Rebels era. Listened to the song “somewhere only we know” by Keane and made me think of old man Wolffe.

⸻

The sky of Seelos burned orange as another sun dipped beneath the jagged horizon. The Ghost had landed hours ago, stirring the sand, dust, and old ghosts from their resting places.

You stood at the edge of the clearing, arms crossed, scanning the ramshackle AT-TE turned-home ahead. Your breath caught when you saw him—helmet under one arm, same eye scar, same heavy gait. But time had added weight to his shoulders and silver to his hair.

Wolffe.

He hadn’t seen you yet. Or maybe he had and just didn’t believe it. You smiled.

“Well, kark me,” you called, stepping forward, “either I’m dreaming or the years have not been kind to you, old man.”

He froze mid-step. His one eye widened, flickering with something too raw to be masked. His voice was gravel when he finally spoke.

“Medic?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Still calling me that after all this time? Not even a ‘hey, great to see you, thought you were dead’?”

He dropped his helmet, closing the distance in long, heavy steps. You didn’t realize you were trembling until he reached you—until his gloved hand gently took your arm like he wasn’t sure if you’d disappear.

“You left,” he said. Not accusing. Just fact.

“So did you,” you whispered. “War ended. Republic died. So many of us died with it.”

A moment passed where neither of you breathed. The wind whistled over cracked metal and dry earth. The sun dipped a little lower.

Wolffe’s eye searched your face like it had answers to questions he never dared to ask. “Why now?” he said. “Why here?”

You glanced back toward the Ghost, where Sabine and Zeb were offloading supplies, Hera and Kanan deep in discussion. “I’m with them now. The Ghost crew. Ezra brought us out here. Said there were… good men worth finding.”

Wolffe looked away. “Not sure that’s true anymore.”

You touched his cheek—scarred, weathered, familiar. “Still wearing your guilt like a second set of armor, huh?”

“Maybe.”

“I remember when you used to smile,” you murmured. “Used to fight like hell, patch your brothers up, then sit with me under stars on Ryloth like the war wasn’t chewing us to pieces.”

His silence was heavy, but he didn’t pull away. Just watched you with that quiet intensity he always had.

“I’ve thought about you,” you said. “Over the years. Wondered if you made it. Wondered if you found peace somewhere.”

“This is the closest I got,” he said, glancing back at the AT-TE. “It’s not much.”

“It’s something,” you offered. “Somewhere only we know.”

A tired smirk tugged at his lips. “Still quoting that old song you used to hum in the medbay?”

You shrugged. “Catchy. And depressing. Fit the vibe.”

He chuckled—actually chuckled. It was a rare sound, worn and dry but still alive. “You really haven’t changed.”

You leaned in, nudging his shoulder. “You have. More lines. More grump. Less hair.”

“I shaved it.”

“Sure, sure. That’s what they all say.”

He shook his head, muttering a fond “damn smartass” under his breath.

The sun was nearly gone now, and the stars began to appear, faint and blinking like the ghosts of all you’d lost.

You stepped closer, chest brushing his armor. “You think we could find that peace again?” you asked, soft. “Maybe not like before, but… something close?”

He didn’t answer right away. But his hand found yours—calloused, warm, grounding.

“Stay a while,” he said. “Just… stay.”

You squeezed his hand.

“For now,” you said. “I’ll stay.”

And under a Seelos sky, two remnants of a broken galaxy found the smallest sliver of something whole. A memory made real. A place only you two remembered.

Somewhere only you knew.

⸻

THIS

𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐎𝐓𝐑 𝐦𝐞𝐧 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐬𝐤 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐫

⤷ gender neutral, ambiguous race, and any size reader. Requests are open, thank you for reading!

a/n: I just wanted to write some fluff!

ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ | ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ ᴵᴵ

𝑨𝒓𝒂𝒈𝒐𝒓𝒏 🗡️

・At first, he tilts his head, lips parting like he might question it. But then he sees your expression; calm, trusting, maybe a little playful, and something in him softens.

“I can try,” he says, voice rough around the edges, but warm. “It’s been… a long time since I’ve braided anyone’s hair.”

・You sit together near the fire. His sword is laid beside him, boots still dusty from the road.

・And yet, he treats the moment like it deserves stillness. Like your request has pulled him out of time.

・His hands are calloused, weather-worn.

・You can feel him being careful not to tug too hard.

・He works in silence, brows furrowed in concentration.

・His fingers move slower than Legolas’, less sure than Faramir’s, but steadier than you’d expect.

・Every now and then, he huffs out a breath that sounds like a quiet laugh.

“You have too much hair for this to go unnoticed,” he murmurs. “The braid will hold, but only just. It may rebel before the day is done.”

・But still, he continues.

・And when he finishes...it’s a bit uneven. Slightly lopsided with a few bits of hair hanging out.

・Yet it was done with love and effort and the kind of care no one taught him

・He rests a hand briefly at the base of your braid, like he’s grounding you. Or himself.

“There. You’re ready.”

・And when he sits back, he doesn’t say anything else.

・But throughout the day he watches you, making sure it holds, and if were to come loose, you can come back to him.

・He'll braid it again. Every time.

𝑳𝒆𝒈𝒐𝒍𝒂𝒔 🌙

・He blinks once, slow and surprised, then tilts his head, curious.

“It would be my honor,” he says, with the kind of sincerity that makes your chest tighten.

・Legolas doesn’t ask why. Doesn’t tease.

・He treats the request with deep, quiet admiration. Almost as if you've asked him to perform an ancient rite...which you kinda have.

・He steps behind you in complete silence.

・With featherlight, gentle hands (you hardly feel them at first), he works. And he does it quite quickly.

・You realise this isn't the first time he's braided hair before.

“Each braid has meaning,” he murmurs. “Length. Type. Tension. In my realm, we braid for protection. For remembrance. For love.”

・You go still. He doesn’t elaborate.

・And then he sings.

・It's soft, in Elvish.

・And not one that you know. But it feels old. Comforting. Like wrapping your arms around a loved one you haven't seen in a while.

・When he finishes, he runs one finger gently along the braid’s edge

・And when you turn to look at him; eyes shining and heart full, he meets your gaze and adds, ever so softly:

“You should ask me again sometime.”

・Because this wasn’t just a braid.

・It was a memory.

・And he plans to make more of them with you.

𝑩𝒐𝒓𝒐𝒎𝒊𝒓 🛡️

・Oh how he melts.

“I’ve never been asked to do something like that...But I'll try.”

・He moves to sit behind you, shuffling so that his legs are around you.

・Boromir's hands are big, definitely too big for this, but he continues anyway.

・As he gathers your hair, gently brushing it out of your face and into his palm, he mutters:

“You’ll have to forgive me if it’s not Elvish-perfect,” he murmurs. “We weren’t taught much about braids in the White Tower.”

・And then he grows quiet, thoughtful. This isn’t just a braid anymore. It’s a way to show you affection...a part of him enjoys it.

・Although he is trying to make it perfect.

・At the end, the braid is a little loose, a little uneven, but strong.

・Woven like a promise.

・He secures it with a small leather tie from his own belongings; nothing special, but something his.

“There. Done.” A pause. “I hope it’s alright.”

・You turn to thank him, but he’s already looking away, trying not to smile.

・Fingers twitching like he wants to touch your hair again but won’t; unless you ask.

“If it ever comes undone,” he adds quietly, “you know where to find me.”

𝑬́𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒓 🏹

・He thinks of it as a challenge...straight away.

“You don’t think I can?”

"Ugh! That's not what I meant?"

"What did you mean?"

"Just wanted someone to braid my hair, you ass."

・You weren't even teasing him, but then it becomes a whole thing.

・He kneels down behind you like a man preparing for war. Cracks his knuckles. Rolls his shoulders. And in turn, you roll your eyes.

・When he actually starts, there's a shift. The bravado eases and he becomes focused.

・His rough fingers, to your surprise, are steady.

・And you can feel the care as well...and feel, a protective energy.

・Like if anyone tried to touch your braid he'd punch them.

・When he’s done? He absolutely beams. And before getting up, he tugs the end playfully, then stands back with his arms crossed.

"There. Just got your hair braided by a Third Marshal...that's got to be worth something."

・If someone compliments it later, he absolutely puffs up with pride (but plays it off like it was no big deal)

“Looks good doesn't it. I did it. She asked me. Only right I made sure it was done proper.”

・And although Eomer doesn’t say it out loud, in his mind he promises something wolfish and loyal:

No one touches what I’ve claimed with my hands.

𝑭𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒎𝒊𝒓 🌾

・At first, he blinks—slow and surprised, like he thinks he misheard you.

“You would trust me with something so personal?”

・He isn't teasing. No, Faramir is genuinely honoured.

・Because he's the kind of man who sees tenderness as something rare and doesn’t take it lightly.

・You sit between his knees, and he treats your hair like something sacred.

・The word 'gentle' repeats in his head over and over.

・His hands are warm as he gathers your hair from your shoulders

・His fingers accidentally touch the bareness of your neck and goosebumps erupt.

・You go red; luckily he can't see your face.

・Faramir barely speaks, only jums softly under his breath; something old, maybe a lullaby he remembers from his mother.

・Every now and then he asks, in a light voice:

“Does this feel alright?” “Too tight?” “Shall I start again?”

・Once he's done, (he took his time on purpose), he wraps the end with a small ribbon.

One you didn't know he'd been keeping. As he ties it, it's as if he's sealing a promise.

・For a moment longer than they need to, his fingers linger.

“There. You’re ready to meet kings and storms alike.”

・And if you could see his face, you would notice a faint flush on his cheeks

・Like he's been given something sacred...and he hopes you'll ask him again tomorrow.

𝑮𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒂𝒍𝒇 🪄

・His first reaction is a slight chuckle, partially amused.

“My dear, it has been centuries since I was asked for that favor.”

・He takes a seat and motions for you to sit in front of him. Your legs are crossed on the floor, and your hands are fidgeting in your lap.

・You can feel his long, elegant fingers begin to pick up hair. A slight shiver runs down your spine at the image of it.

・At first he murmurs, in a language you do not know. But his voice is peaceful, and you can hear the chirping of night bugs.

・He knows exactly what he's doing. You’d expect an old wizard to fumble, but Gandalf’s hands are steady

・It takes a while, but the murmurs turn into little humming and you cannot help but smile.

・The braid is meticulous, elegant, maybe a little too perfect.

・You end up with something that feels sacred, like it should be worn into battle or a coronation.

・After he's done, he gives a small hum of approval. In a wistful voice he says:

“So the wind will not catch your thoughts and carry them away.”

・And then he lights his pipe, looks off toward the horizon, and pretends it was no big deal.

・...But for the rest of the journey, he walks a little closer to you.

I think the key to a happy life as an adult woman is to channel your inner weird little girl and make her happy

“Crimson Huntress” pt.5

Summary: A rogue ARC trooper and a ruthless Togruta bounty hunter form an uneasy alliance, dodging Jedi, Death Watch, and their pasts as war rages across the galaxy.

The hum of the nav systems filled the cockpit like a second heartbeat. Sha’rali lounged in the pilot’s chair, legs kicked up on the console, a bitter half-smile ghosting her lips as she twirled a datachip between her clawed fingers. K4 was seated at his usual post, arms neatly folded, optics quietly calculating a dozen hypotheticals per second. CT-4023, cloaked in the black-and-gold silhouette of his stolen Death Watch armor, leaned against the doorway—silent, watching, always thinking.

R9 beeped irritably behind them, displeased with the turbulence in their hyperspace jump.

“We’ve got a message,” Sha’rali announced finally, holding the chip up. “Cid wants to cash in a favor.”

K4 didn’t look away from the dash. “Has she ever not wanted to cash in a favor?”

“What’s the job?” 4023 asked, stepping forward. His voice was filtered through a soft modulator, a new addition he’d insisted on since they crossed paths with the Jedi.

Sha’rali hesitated. “Extraction. A high-value target hiding out near the Pyke mining sector on Oba Diah. Bring him in alive. No questions.”

Silence stretched.

“Absolutely not,” K4 said immediately.

“The last time we dealt with the Pykes, I beheaded and gutted their entire envoy.”

Sha’rali’s smile was hollow. “Yeah. I remember.”

She stared at the chip, lekku twitching in thought. “But this… smells off. Cid says it’s clean, but she never says who the bounty actually goes to. She just wants us to bring them to a contact near the mining ridges. High pay, low profile. Too good to be real.”

R9 chirped something pessimistic.

“See? Even the murder-bucket agrees,” K4 muttered.

4023 folded his arms. “Could be a trap.”

“Of course it’s a trap,” Sha’rali said, tossing the chip onto the dash. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t spring it our way.”

She stood, voice sharp. “We’ve done worse. We go in smart, fast, and prepared. I’m not walking away from that kind of payout unless we’re bleeding for it.”

⸻

The descent into Oba Diah was storm-torn, the planet’s perpetual haze wrapping around the ship like greasy smoke. They broke through cloud cover to reveal jagged mountains of crumbling rock and a sprawling field of collapsed spice tunnels and rusted outposts, choked with vines and half-sunken in mud.

“I’ve got visuals on the coordinates,” 4023 reported, peering through the scopes. “Looks like a freight depot—long abandoned. No obvious defenses.”

“That means the defenses are under it,” K4 muttered, powering up the ship’s turrets just in case.

They landed on a flat ridge about half a klick from the depot. The wind howled. R9 rolled out first, sensors scanning, chirping warnings as they moved toward the structure.

No sign of the bounty.

Sha’rali stopped, raising a hand. “Wait—something’s wrong.”

Blaster fire ripped through the fog before she finished the sentence. Three, maybe four snipers opened up from higher ground, forcing them to scatter. From below, shadows moved—masked Pyke enforcers emerging from the tunnels.

“It’s a karking ambush!” 4023 snapped, taking cover behind a crumbling support strut and returning fire with expert precision.

“Cid set us up!” Sha’rali growled, drawing her blade and igniting her carbine in the same motion. “Or the Pykes want revenge for last time.”

K4 was already in the thick of it, carving a brutal path through the encroaching attackers. R9 let out a warble and overloaded a Pyke’s rifle with a sneaky spike of electricity before zipping away.

“We’re flanked!” 4023 shouted. “We need to fall back to the ship!”

Sha’rali was already running to cover them, moving like a phantom across the mud-slicked ground. A blast clipped her shoulder, spinning her, but she stayed upright—barely.

They made it halfway up the slope toward the ridge when the ground gave way beneath her.

The slide was sudden—violent. Sha’rali screamed as the ledge crumbled beneath her boots, her body tumbling down a steep incline of slick stone and wet earth. She slammed hard into the wall of a ravine, her world blinking white for a moment.

Mud filled her mouth and nose. Her limbs ached. The world tilted, then faded entirely.

She woke to darkness, the taste of iron in her mouth.

The rain had stopped, replaced by the cold fog of early night. She was half-submerged in muck, one arm twisted beneath her, the other reaching weakly for a blaster that was no longer there.

A low growl reached her ears—followed by footsteps. She tried to sit up.

ZZZT! A blue stun bolt hit her chest and locked her muscles.

Her head rolled back. Shadows loomed overhead—tall, spindly shapes with cruel eyes and weapons drawn. Zygerrians.

“Well, well,” one of them sneered. “Look what the mud dragged in.”

“Didn’t think we’d find anything this far out,” said one.

“Togruta,” said another, examining her lekku. “The boss pays double for rare ones. Especially the exotic warriors.”

“She armed?”

“Not anymore.”

They roughly pulled her upright, manacles clicking around her wrists. A sack was drawn over her head.

“Let’s not waste time,” said their leader. “She’ll fetch a good price, and the rain’ll hide our tracks.”

Sha’rali, numb and helpless, listened as her captors dragged her through the mud, away from the ridge where her crew still fought to survive.

The last thing she heard before unconsciousness returned was the sound of manacles clicking shut and the hiss of a slaver ship’s ramp.

Sha’rali came to with a jolt, every nerve alight with sharp, biting pain.

The collar around her neck sizzled again, just enough to warn her: move wrong, and it would do worse. Her vision swam. Her body ached. She lay curled in the cold corner of a small durasteel cage, no larger than a weapons locker. Her head throbbed and her arms had been chained to the floor beneath her knees.

She blinked and realized, with an instant spike of fury, that she was wearing something else. Something not hers.

A sheer cloth top barely held together with golden clasps, hanging loose over her chest. A belt of jangling beads and threadbare silk wrapped low on her hips, a mockery of Togrutan ceremonial wraps—cut, tattered, revealing far more than concealing. Gold bangles adorned her wrists and ankles like leashes waiting for a pull.

Worse than all of it was the humiliation.

Her gear—gone. Her weapons, stripped. Her battle-worn leathers replaced with something insulting.

She let out a low growl, a primal sound, the only power she had left.

The sound of a collar shocking someone else brought her head up sharply.

Across the dim hold of the Zygerrian ship, other cages lined the walls. There were a few other slaves—no one she recognized.

From across the dimly lit slave hold, a small voice whispered, “Don’t move too much. The collar goes off again.”

Sha’rali turned her head with effort, spotting a tiny Twi’lek girl—barely into adolescence. Her bright lavender skin had been bruised and scuffed, and she wore a nearly identical outfit. Her expression was hollow.

Sha’rali softened, even through the pain. “Name?”

“Romi,” the girl said, eyes flicking to the guards stationed down the corridor. “They picked me up on Serennno. You?”

Sha’rali didn’t answer immediately. Her identity was armor, teeth, pride. Here, stripped of all that, she was raw. Exposed.

“I’m Sha’rali,” she said eventually, voice husky.

Romi shifted forward in her cage, chains clinking. “They said we’re being taken to Kadavo. The market.”

Sha’rali tensed. Kadavo. The Zygerrian slave capital. A place of chains and cruelty, known throughout the galaxy.

More cages filled the edges of the hold. One of them held a half-unconscious Weequay. Another, a silent Bothan who hadn’t spoken once since she’d woken. But one cage—reinforced and locked with magnetic bindings—held more movement than the rest.

Sha’rali turned slightly, squinting through the flickering lights.

Clones.

Four of them, huddled in a cell large enough to barely contain them. No armor, no gear, just dark underlayers and grim expressions. They didn’t look at her. They didn’t speak to her. But she could tell they were military—how they sat, how they breathed. Watchful.

One had a cybernetic eye and a scar down his face.

He sat perfectly still, arms crossed over his knees. Beside him were two others who looked like they were meant to work as a pair—one smaller, wiry, the other more broad. And one sat farther in the back, staring down at the floor with a blank expression.

Captured days ago, she guessed. Brought in from somewhere else. Probably a different hunt altogether.

They didn’t know her. She didn’t know them. That was fine.

Her jaw clenched as she tried again to shift, and the collar lit her nerves like firecrackers.

“Don’t,” Romi whispered. “They enjoy it when we scream.”

Sha’rali didn’t scream. She refused. But stars, she saw the edges of her vision blur.

“How long have we been in space?” she asked through gritted teeth.

“A day maybe?” Romi shrugged, small shoulders trembling.

There was a soft voice, raspy with age, from the cell beside her.

“Another Togruta… it’s been a long time since I’ve seen one so wild-eyed.”

Sha’rali turned slowly. An elder Togruta woman sat quietly in the cage next to hers. Wrinkled face, faded markings. One lekku shortened by a blade.

“I’m not wild,” Sha’rali muttered.

“You were when they dragged you in,” the elder replied. “You bit one, didn’t you?”

“Maybe.”

The woman gave a weary smile. “Keep your fire. But don’t waste it. Zygerrians like to break the ones who burn brightest.”

“I’m not going to break.”

“I hope not,” the woman said softly. “Not all of us made it.”

Sha’rali fell into silence, watching the floor. One breath. Then another.

She tried to calculate. Figure out how far they were from Vanqor. Whether CT-4023 was alive. Whether K4 had escaped. Whether R9 was tracking her.

R9 will come, she told herself again. He always comes.

There was a sudden rattle. Movement. The clones stirred in their cell, but didn’t rise.

From the corridor came bootsteps—Zygerrian guards, sneering as they inspected their ‘merchandise.’ One paused at Sha’rali’s cage, scanning her through the bars.

The sneer widened. “Pretty little thing. You’ll sell high.”

She didn’t say anything. Just stared him down, even as her chains bit in.

The guard shocked her again anyway, just for fun.

Sha’rali grit her teeth, her whole body seizing—but she still didn’t scream.

As her vision dimmed around the edges, she whispered, “You better come soon, 4023… before I kill someone with my bare hands.”

And somewhere, beyond metal hulls and dark space, her partner was already hunting.

They would find her.

Or they would burn half the galaxy trying.

⸻

The hiss of pressurized air released the docking clamps.

The slave ship shuddered as it touched down on the rust-colored landing pad of Zygerria’s capital city, the skyline stained by dusk and industry. Somewhere beyond the bulkhead, the smell of ash and spice wafted in through the filters. The chains on Sha’rali’s wrists bit tighter with each shift of the ship’s descent.

She crouched low, silent. The young Twi’lek beside her trembled with every movement. Romi hadn’t spoken since the collar shocked her last—she stared at the floor, lips moving in prayer to gods Sha’rali didn’t know.

They were about to be marched into a nightmare.

But fate, as it often did, changed the game.

Footsteps echoed down the metal ramp—heavier than Zygerrian boots, sharper. Cleaner. The guards suddenly went rigid. No whip-cracks. No laughter.

One of them hissed. “He’s here.”

The cell bay door opened, and silence fell.

Count Dooku stepped aboard the slave barge with the self-assured stillness of a man who owned the galaxy. His cloak barely brushed the filthy floors, his expression unchanged by the scent of sweat and blood in the air. Two MagnaGuards flanked him, pikes gleaming with precision.

Sha’rali’s jaw clenched.

No karking way.

She stayed quiet, head bowed. But her eyes tracked his every step.

Dooku passed by the cages one by one, as if inspecting exotic animals at market. His sharp gaze barely flickered across the weaker slaves—until he reached the reinforced cell.

The clones.

He paused, the corners of his mouth curling faintly with distaste. “Four clones, captured far from the front lines. Republic property, now reclaimed.” His hand lifted and he gestured. “Take them. They’ll be of use.”

The MagnaGuards activated the containment field, marched in, and extracted the four troopers one by one—silent, grim, defeated but not broken. The one with the cybernetic eye locked eyes with Sha’rali as he passed. There was no recognition. No trust. But something primal passed between them: a shared need to survive.

Then Dooku stopped in front of her cage.

Sha’rali didn’t look away.

His gaze swept over her, from the cracked collar to the flimsy silks that failed to hide the bruises. And then—recognition.

“Ah. Now that is a surprise.” Dooku’s voice was velvet and venom. “The bounty hunter who infiltrated my Saleucami facility and escaped with my asset.”

Sha’rali said nothing, but the muscles in her jaw flexed.

“You’re lucky to be alive,” Dooku mused. “But fortune, I see, has a cruel sense of humor.”

He gestured once more. “Take her. I have… great plans.”

⸻

Dooku’s ship jumped through hyperspace. Crossed to a new Outer Rim world far beyond the standard slave routes.

A planet called Garvoth.

She saw it as they broke atmosphere—dusty terrain split by massive black structures, an arena the size of a city nestled in the heart of its capital. A gladiator world. One built for bloodsport and spectacle. One of Dooku’s quiet experiments in influence and economic power.

And it would be her prison.

The ship landed inside the holding bay beneath the arena. The clones were taken to confinement cells with reinforced durasteel. Sha’rali, however, was dragged toward another chamber—spacious, decorated in cold stone and banners. A viewing box for the Count.

Dooku waited for her.

“This world respects only strength,” he said as the guards shackled her to the wall. “And so will you.”

“You want me to fight for you?” she sneered.

He raised a brow. “I want you to bleed for me.”

He turned away, surveying the arena through the window. “You’ll earn me coin, of course. The crowd will adore you. A rare Togruta—violent, cunning, exotic. But more importantly, you will learn discipline. You will suffer humiliation. And through that, understand your place.”

“I won’t wear this,” she growled, yanking against the chains. “I want my armor.”

Dooku didn’t even turn to her. “You will wear what I allow. That slave garb suits you. Let it be a reminder of your failure.”

“You’re making a mistake,” she spat.

Finally, Dooku turned. And this time, his voice was edged with steel.

“No. You did, when you thought you could steal from me and vanish into the stars. Now you’ll fight in my arena for the amusement of others, and when the time comes, you will kneel. Or you will die screaming.”

Sha’rali stared him down, her teeth bared. But the cold in her chest sank deeper than defiance.

She’d survived a lot. She would survive this.

But when they dragged her into the gladiator pits—clad in silk and chains, forced to stand before a roaring crowd—she realized that survival might no longer be enough.

Not this time.

⸻

The ring of chains and the roar of bloodthirsty crowds still echoed in her ears long after the arena closed for the night.

Sha’rali stood against the stone wall of the shared cell, blood drying on her collarbone. The faint shimmer of lights cast tall shadows from the barred ceiling overhead. Her pulse had steadied hours ago. The fresh bruises—earned in a match against a Trandoshan dual-wielder—were still blooming. But she’d won. Again.

Of course she had.

Winning meant survival.

Losing meant becoming the crowd’s next “bonus attraction.”

She wasn’t interested in the latter.

Across the cell, the four clones sat—silent as they always were after the torture sessions. Each one bore signs of interrogation: bruises around neural ports, cracked lips, blood-caked brows. They were tough—made to withstand this. But even the strongest men could only take so much.

Commander Wolffe leaned back against the wall, his one remaining eye watching her like a predator unsure if it recognized another of its kind. Boost and Sinker had become background noise, withdrawn into a shared misery. But Comet—he looked different tonight.

He was staring at her. Hard.

“You knew him.”

Sha’rali turned her head slightly, not bothering to ask who.

“That clone deserter. CT-4023.”

Her breath caught, just for a second. Just long enough for Comet to notice.

She shrugged lazily. “Did. Once.”

“What happened to him?”

The question hung in the air, heavy and quiet.

Wolffe’s eye twitched. Boost glanced up.

Sha’rali lowered herself onto the stone floor, one leg stretched out, her arm draped over her knee. “I killed him.”

Comet blinked. “What?”

“He was wounded. Couldn’t go on. Didn’t want to be captured. Didn’t want to be brought back to the Republic like some karking piece of malfunctioning tech. Said it was better to go out free.” She let out a cold, humorless laugh. “So I put a blaster to the back of his head and gave him what he asked for.”

She didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. Delivered it like truth.

Silence.

A low exhale from Wolffe.

“That was still a brother,” he said. Quiet. Even.

Sha’rali tilted her head. “Was he?”

Wolffe’s stare darkened. “I didn’t agree with him. Didn’t respect what he did. But he made a choice. Same as any of us.”

Sha’rali’s expression hardened. “That’s where you’re wrong.”

Now she stood again, the weariness leaving her limbs, something sharper stirring underneath.

“You think people make choices? That when they hit the crossroads, they look both ways and decide where they go?”

She stepped toward them. Not aggressive—just close. Just enough to make the words bite.

“We don’t steer our lives. We follow roads already paved. Decisions made for us. And we walk them because someone else put us there.”

Comet frowned. “He chose to leave. That was his road.”

“No,” she snapped. “That wasn’t his road. That was the ditch he fell into after someone else put a wall in his way.”

Now they were all looking at her. Even Sinker.

She gestured to each of them. “You were born in tanks, raised for war. Never got to choose your name. Never got to choose your purpose. You were pointed like weapons and told to fight for peace. And if you said no? If you broke formation?” She stepped back. “Suddenly you weren’t worth saving.”

Boost’s mouth opened, but Wolffe’s voice cut through first.

“Not every path is made for us. Some we build.”

She looked at him. Really looked.

And for a moment, Sha’rali’s fire dimmed—just a flicker.

“Maybe,” she said softly. “But some of us don’t have bricks. Just dust and bones.”

No one replied.

Later, when the lights dimmed and the cell returned to silence, Comet turned his face toward the wall, thoughtful.

“She didn’t kill him,” he muttered to no one in particular.

Wolffe didn’t answer. But the faintest movement in his jaw suggested he was thinking the same thing.

Somewhere in the arena halls, cheers erupted for the next match.

Sha’rali stared at the ceiling, chains rattling softly with every breath.

And somewhere deep in her chest, guilt gnawed like a parasite.

The scent of sweat, metal, and blood clung to the air like a second skin.

Sha’rali sat cross-legged on the cold durasteel floor of the holding cell beneath the arena, her back pressed against the wall, chin tilted upward as she listened to the muffled screams of the crowd above. The cell was wide and shared with others—warriors of every species, scarred and broken, pacing like caged beasts awaiting their turn in the pit.

To her left, a Nikto sharpened a serrated blade on a stone with slow, deliberate strokes. To her right, a horned Weequay chanted something in his native tongue, smearing blood across his chest like a ritual. They didn’t look at her. No one did.

Except the Mirialan in the far corner.

Sha’rali had fought her two matches ago and broken her arm in three places. The Mirialan hadn’t looked away from her since.

She didn’t care.

She was tired. Tired of collars and cages. Tired of being a spectacle.

You’re not broken. Not yet.

The thought was weak, but it held her together.

The clang of the outer doors yanked her from her thoughts.

Two guards entered, clad in dark red plating. They didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.

The other warriors moved aside, murmuring low in their respective languages. Sha’rali didn’t bother to move.

But the man who entered behind the guards made her rise to her feet.

Dark armor, blue and grey, the familiar marking of the Death Watch sigil on the shoulder plate. His T-visored helmet gleamed under the flickering lights.

“Hello, darling,” the voice behind the modulator sneered.

She didn’t flinch.

“Didn’t expect to see one of you again,” she said evenly.

The Mandalorian took a step closer. “Didn’t expect to find you like this.” He tilted his head, gaze raking over the slave outfit Dooku still made her wear into every match. “Seems fortune finally found a way to humble you.”

Sha’rali clenched her fists behind her back. “If you’re here to talk about my fashion choices, I’m sure you can find a market vendor somewhere.”

He laughed.

“Came to deliver a message,” he said. “Some of our brothers didn’t take kindly to what you did to a few of ours on Ord Mantell. Word travels.”

“Tell them they should’ve picked a fight with someone their own size,” she spat.

“Funny thing about revenge…” he leaned in, the edges of his armor scraping the bars. “It’s patient. Dooku may have you now, but he’ll sell you eventually. Maybe to the Hutts. Maybe to someone else. Or maybe… to us.”

Sha’rali’s eyes narrowed.

“Don’t bother trying to kill me now,” he added, voice low. “Not in here. Not under Dooku’s nose. But when you’re off the leash…” He clicked his tongue. “We’ll see how many fights that pretty face wins without armor.”

Then he left. No dramatic flourish. No parting threat.

Just silence.

And the smoldering hatred burning in her chest.

Time passed. Maybe hours.

The noise from above never stopped—cheers, screams, roars of victory or defeat.

The holding cell emptied one by one as the matches ticked on. Eventually, only a few remained—Sha’rali among them.

She leaned her head back, closing her eyes just for a moment.

And then—

A flicker of movement at the corner of her vision.

She opened her eyes and blinked once.

A hooded figure had slipped past the perimeter guards, barely more than a shadow in the corridor beyond the cells.

Then a second. Taller, cloaked in brown and grey, masked in a rebreather that made no sound.

Her breath caught.

The first figure moved closer, carefully approaching her cell. The face beneath the hood lifted.

Green skin. Black eyes. Tentacles.

Kit Fisto.

He didn’t speak. Just looked at her.

“You’re bold,” she whispered.

He smiled faintly. “We could say the same of you.”

Her eyes darted to the figure behind him—Plo Koon. She didn’t recognize him, not yet, but she registered his presence as someone important.

“What are you doing here?”

Kit’s voice lowered. “Tracking rumors. Slave trafficking routes. Missing clones.”

That gave her pause.

She took a single step forward, speaking just low enough for only him to hear.

“I know where four of them are. Republic clones. One of them might be someone important. But I want out of here. I get out—they get out.”

Plo Koon approached the bars, gazing at her with quiet intensity.

“You’re not in a position to negotiate,” he said.

“Neither are you,” she shot back. “You’re sneaking around an Outer Rim arena like thieves instead of storming the place like Jedi. That tells me you’re not ready for a full assault. I’m your best lead.”

Kit exhaled slowly. “She’s not wrong.”

Plo nodded reluctantly.

Sha’rali stepped closer still, voice taut. “Just… get me out of here. I’m running out of fights to win.”

Kit’s smile dimmed. “We will. Just not now.”

“Why?”

He glanced toward the corridor again. “Because pulling you now would compromise the mission. Dooku’s still close. And you’ll draw too much attention.”

Sha’rali looked at him like he was handing her a death sentence.

Kit added quietly, “But I give you my word: we will come back. Hold on.”

She stepped back, slowly. Her arms folded.

“I’m good at holding on.”

Then they were gone—slipping away into the shadows as easily as they came.

She sank back down to the cell floor.

Alone again.

But this time, not without hope.

⸻

The cracked walls of the ruin gave little shelter from the heat, but it was quiet—perfect for plotting the kind of infiltration mission the Jedi Council wouldn’t officially sanction.

Kit Fisto leaned against a half-collapsed arch, studying the star map sprawled across the makeshift table. The arena was a fortress in disguise: subterranean barracks, automated defenses, paid mercs, slavers, and now—intel suggested—a cell of captured clone troopers being prepped for transport off-world.

“We’ll need a distraction,” Kit said at last, tendrils twitching thoughtfully.

Plo Koon’s arms folded as he approached. “One loud enough to distract Dooku’s guards and half the arena?”

Kit smiled. “You know who’s in the cell block beneath the arena floor?”

“Sha’rali,” Plo answered without hesitation. “She’s become rather… visible.”

“She’s also angry, armed, and impossible to control. Dooku should’ve known better.”

“She’s dangerous.”

Kit’s grin deepened. “That’s what makes her perfect.”

Plo didn’t answer immediately. He watched Kit carefully, as if looking for something beyond the words.

“You admire her.”

“She’s useful,” Kit said too quickly.

“Careful, old friend,” Plo murmured. “We’ve both seen what attachment can do.”

Kit gave a noncommittal shrug. “I’m not attached. I’m… curious. And I trust she’ll survive.”

Plo’s head tilted slightly. “You don’t want her to just survive. You want her to burn the whole place down.”

Kit’s smile turned sly. “And give us just enough cover to do what we came for.”

⸻

Sha’rali sat alone against the wall, knees tucked, arms resting atop them. Her bare skin shimmered with sweat and grime, the thin silk of her slave outfit clinging to her frame in the damp underground air. Bruises lined her arms, her ribs ached, and her hands were still raw from her last match.

But her eyes… her eyes were still sharp.

A droid voice crackled over the speaker. “Sha’rali. Prepare for combat. Arena Gate C.”

She rose slowly, bones stiff, and cracked her knuckles one at a time. As she followed the guard droids, a whisper caught her ear. She turned—and froze.

A Death Watch warrior leaned against the shadows, helmet off, sneering.

“You were harder to find than expected,” he said coolly. “Dooku’s prize pet. A pity. I preferred you in armor.”

Sha’rali’s jaw clenched. “If you’re here to talk, don’t waste my time.”

“Not talking. Threatening,” he said with a smirk. “You deserve to suffer before we gut you.”

Her stare didn’t flinch. “Try.”

He stepped close. “I will.”

The guard droids called for her again. The Death Watch warrior melted back into the shadows, leaving her with the low growl of the arena gate grinding open.

The roar of the crowd hit her like a wall of heat. Torchlight flickered off rusted metal. The stands were packed—mercs, slavers, offworld nobles, and worse.

And in the pit—waiting—was him.

Death Watch armor. Blade drawn. Familiar.

Her jaw tightened.

Above them, Kit and Plo stood cloaked among the nobles in the upper tiers, watching. Kit’s fingers twitched near his hilt. “If this goes wrong…”

Plo interrupted, “Then we make sure it doesn’t.”

“She doesn’t know we’re moving now,” Kit said quietly.

“Let her fight,” Plo replied. “We need that chaos.”

Kit’s eyes narrowed. “She’s going to hate us for this.”

“Perhaps. But hate is not our concern today.”

The clash was brutal. The Mandalorian came in swinging, heavy and arrogant, and Sha’rali danced out of reach, barefoot, using her environment. She slammed his head into the rusted arena wall, reversed his grip on his own blade, and gutted him—but then—

The collar.

Agony flared through her entire body. Her scream was swallowed by the crowd.

From above, Kit’s smile vanished.

Enough.

He reached out through the Force—quiet, quick, like a breath—and twisted.

The collar’s circuits sparked and ruptured. It snapped open and fell.

Sha’rali gasped in sudden relief—and rose like a fury reborn.

One clean stroke of the beskad.

The Mandalorian dropped in a heap.

And four more descended from the stands, armed and livid.

Blaster fire cracked as Sha’rali flipped behind a column, one of her attackers landing face-first in the sand. The crowd screamed as security tried to contain the fight, but Death Watch didn’t care.

Kit and Plo vanished from the stands, cloaks flaring as they dropped into the tunnels.

Guards shouted—then screamed—as blue and yellow sabers ignited.

In the clone cell block, Comet jolted awake at the sound of a lightsaber humming through durasteel.

“Is that…?”

The door blew open. Kit stepped through. “You boys want out?”

Wolffe, bound but alert, gave a dry grunt. “Took you long enough.”

⸻

Sha’rali fought like hell. Her body screamed in protest, but she gave no ground. She flipped one of the Death Watch warriors into the stands, stole his blaster, and fired two shots into another’s knee.

She didn’t look up, but she felt them.

Felt the Jedi move like shadows behind her. Felt the clones disappear through secret tunnels.

She wasn’t the priority.

But she had bought them every second they needed.

And Kit had freed her. If only for now.

The last warrior lunged—Sha’rali caught his arm mid-swing and drove her blade into his neck.

The crowd roared as he dropped.

She stood alone. Bloody. Breathing hard.

She didn’t smile. She just waited for the next battle.

The collar was gone.

The weight of it—the constant pressure at her neck, the memory of electric agony—was finally gone. Her skin bore the blistered outline like a brand, but it no longer hummed against her throat. That tiny mercy meant everything.

But she was still in the arena.

Still a prisoner. Still unarmed. And now, very much a target.

As the last of the Death Watch bodies were dragged away by the chaos of the crowd, Sha’rali slipped through the corridor before the guards regrouped. Blood and sand caked her bare feet as she limped toward the outer gates, ducking behind blast doors and stone columns, every inch of her body aching—but free.

Her thoughts raced. Find a way out. Don’t wait for help. No one’s coming back. Move.

She reached a side hangar—partially open, barely guarded in the confusion. Inside: a pair of light speeders, smoke still curling from one’s engine where its last rider had crash-landed.

Sha’rali didn’t hesitate.

She jumped into the intact speeder, hotwired it with fingers still shaking from adrenaline, and punched the throttle.

The gates burst open with a scream of metal and dust.

The rocky terrain of Garvoth’s volcanic surface stretched before her—red stone, jagged peaks, and pockets of glowing lava carving a dangerous path forward. Wind whipped against her face, the pit silks still clinging uselessly to her skin.

And behind her—they came.

Two MagnaGuards.

Sleek, relentless, and faster than they had any right to be.

Blaster bolts tore past her head as she swerved down into a ravine, hoping the rock formations would slow them. Sparks flew from her speeder’s rear. One glancing hit. The engine coughed.

Her fingers tightened on the controls. “C’mon, not now—”

One MagnaGuard landed beside her with a heavy clang, gripping the side of her speeder like a metal parasite.

Sha’rali screamed and slammed the controls, flipping the speeder into a side barrel roll. The droid tumbled, crashing against the rocks in a spray of sparks.

The second guard launched a grappling hook toward her back—

BOOM.

A blaster cannon lit up the sky. The droid exploded mid-air.

Above her—salvation.

A Republic gunship streaked over the cliffs, sleek and low, with Kit Fisto manning the side cannon, his eyes scanning. Plo Koon piloted with grim precision, the clones—Wolffe, Sinker, Boost, and Comet—visible in the open ramp, all braced for pickup.

Kit saw her, flashed that grin of his, and shouted over comms, “We’ve got her!”

Plo dipped low, opening the bay.

Sha’rali gunned the failing speeder up the final slope, launched it off a ridge, and leapt.

For one moment—nothing.

Then strong arms caught her dragging her in mid-air as the others pulled them both into the open gunship ramp. The MagnaGuard’s severed head followed a moment later, blasted out of the sky by Comet.

They hit the deck hard.

“Welcome aboard,” Wolffe muttered dryly, barely hiding his disdain.

Sha’rali rolled onto her back, panting, bloodied and half-naked, but smiling.

Kit leaned over her, panting too. Their eyes locked, close—too close.

“Get her a damn blanket,” Sinker snapped, tossing a medkit at Comet.

Plo glanced back from the cockpit. “Hold on. This planet’s not going to let us leave without a few last fireworks.”

The ship turned, rising. The volcanic ridge ahead began to crack, tremble—fighters scrambling, sirens wailing behind them.

But inside the gunship, in that brief moment between chaos and freedom—Sha’rali let herself believe she might actually be free.

⸻

The Resolute loomed above Garvoth like a silent judgment—sleek, bristling with weapons, and painted in sharp Republic red. The Jedi’s extraction ship docked at the cruiser’s forward hangar, and for the first time in weeks, Sha’rali Jurok felt the sterile chill of Republic metal beneath her feet instead of ash and blood.

She stood tall despite the exhaustion, battle-worn but alive. Her coral-pink skin still bore the scuffed bruises of the arena, and the humiliating slave silks clung to her body like a mocking second skin. No armor. No boots. No weapons. No dignity.

Not yet.

The Jedi disembarked first—Kit Fisto and Plo Koon exchanging murmured words with the clone troopers as the hangar’s personnel snapped to attention. No one quite knew what to make of Sha’rali, but eyes lingered. Murmurs followed.

Her long, dark montrals and white-marked lekku swung low behind her as she walked, every movement a show of endurance and grace, her head held high despite everything. Her presence was unmistakable—an imposing silhouette of strength and survival wrapped in silks designed to degrade.

The moment she reached the interior hallways of the cruiser, she turned sharply to the nearest clone officer.

“I need access to your long-range comms,” she said with an edge in her voice that brokered no argument. “Now.”

Plo Koon, standing nearby, nodded once. “Grant her full access. She has earned that and more.”

The communications officer left the room after setting her up. The doors hissed shut.

Sha’rali leaned over the console, sharp teeth gritted. She punched in the code sequence from memory, praying the encryption still held.

The holocomm sparked to life.

A crackle—then static—then the familiar voice of K4 rang through the speakers with uncharacteristic relief.

“Thank the black holes of Malastare. You’re alive.”

Sha’rali exhaled. “Good to hear you too, K.”

A rustle behind him. K4’s head turned.

“R9 just blasted a hole in the med bay door. I’ll assume it was celebratory.”

Then, quieter:

“You disappeared, Sha. I thought we lost you. And… your clone’s about to reprogram me and R9 out of pure grief and boredom.”

Sha’rali blinked. “He what?”

“He said he’d turn me into a cooking droid if I didn’t stop trying to slice into Pyke intel files while he was pacing. He’s a menace.”

Another clattering crash, then CT-4023’s voice in the background:

“Tell her to stop dying and I’ll stop trying to teach you to make caf.”

Sha’rali laughed. Actually laughed, full-throated and real.

“Tell him we’re en route. Only tea is permitted on my ship. Try not to break anything else.”

K4 paused.

“…Can’t promise that.”

When she emerged again to prepare for departure, Kit Fisto caught her arm gently at the elbow.

“Are you sure you don’t want something else to wear?” he asked, eyes flicking to the ripped silks still barely hanging from her form.

“I want my ship. My crew. And my armor,” she replied, stepping past him.

But he didn’t move right away.

“I’ll see that your armor is returned to you. But… I hope you understand this war’s getting messier. Even our rescues.”

Sha’rali glanced at him. “You Jedi always think there’s a clean way to bleed. There isn’t.”

Kit’s expression flickered with something—regret? Or something else?

But neither of them said it.

⸻

The ship looked like it had barely survived.

The starboard wing was scorched, one of the landing thrusters had a distinct hole in it, and a trail of carbon scoring marked the underbelly.

Sha’rali stared, then turned slowly toward the ramp where K4 and R9 stood side-by-side like misbehaving children.

K4 pointed to the clone, who was leaning against the hatch in his stolen armor, helmet on, arms crossed—quiet.

“You let him fly it?”

“I was busy dismembering Pyke agents,” K4 deadpanned. “He decided basic flight training could wait.”

CT-4023 finally spoke, voice slightly modulated through the vocoder he still insisted on wearing in Republic space. “You got captured. I had to improvise.”

Sha’rali narrowed her eyes. “You crashed my ship.”

R9 chirped a delighted, vicious sound—likely agreeing.

He shrugged. “We lived.”

But she stepped closer, pausing a mere foot from him. She tilted her head, watching the way he shifted under her gaze, posture rigid.

Even through the helmet, she could feel it.

The bare silks, the sight of her—freed but still wearing the chains of her capture—made something in him twitch. He was trying not to look, but he was also not looking away.

“Got something to say, soldier?” she asked coolly.

CT-4023 cleared his throat. “Just glad you’re back.”

Something in her hardened. “I’m not the same one who left.”

A long silence stretched. Then he said, quiet, “I know.”

Behind them, K4 muttered to R9.

R9’s response was a series of crude, affirming beeps.

⸻

Previous part | Next Part

Happy friday! Or whatever day you see this 😄 your gregor story was so sweet 🥹 I was wondering if I could request something with bad batch era gregor and a reader who also has some memory problems or similar head trauma issues to him and they bond and click over that? Kind of like your wolffe village crazy reader hut with gregor? Thank you! 🫶🏻🥹🩷

Happy Friday!

“Synaptic Sparks”

Gregor x Reader

The kettle was screaming again.

So was Gregor.

Not out of pain or fear—just because it matched the vibe.

You, meanwhile, were crouched on top of the kitchen counter, staring at a half-eaten ration bar and muttering like a mystic. “It’s not food. It’s compressed war crimes in foil.”

Gregor—wearing one boot, one sock, and a pair of cargo shorts that definitely belonged to someone else—pointed at it with the intensity of a man who hadn’t slept in 36 hours.

“Lick it. Maybe it’ll bring back a memory.”

You blinked. “You first.”

“No way. Last time I licked something weird, I forgot how to blink for a week.”

You both burst out laughing, which rapidly devolved into wheezing. Gregor collapsed onto the floor, hand on his chest. “Kr—kriff, I think I pulled something. Brain muscle. The left one.”

You slid down from the counter, your hand trailing across the cabinets like they were handholds on a starship mid-crash. “They said head trauma would make things difficult. They didn’t say it would make things entertaining.”

Gregor grinned up at you from the floor, that familiar deranged glint in his eyes. “It’s like being haunted by yourself.”

You sat beside him. “I forget people’s names, but I remember the sound blasters make when they tear through durasteel. That seems fair.”

“I forgot how to open a door last week. Just stared at it. Thought it was mocking me.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder. “Was it?”

“Oh yeah. Bastard was smug.”

There was a moment of quiet, broken only by the groan of the aging outpost walls and the occasional kettle death-wail. Gregor’s hand found yours—messy, calloused fingers, twitchy and warm.

“You know,” he said, voice low, “sometimes I think the only reason I’m still kicking is because I don’t remember how to stop.”

“That’s poetic,” you murmured. “In a way that makes me concerned for both of us.”

He chuckled. “Yeah, I’m real inspirational. Clone propaganda poster level.”

You turned to look at him. “Gregor?”

“Yeah?”

“If I forget who you are someday…”

“I’ll just remind you,” he said simply. “Over and over. ‘Til it sticks again. Or until I forget too, and we can introduce ourselves like strangers every morning.”

You smiled. It hurt your face, but it was real.

“That sounds nice,” you said.

“We could make a game of it. Day seventy-eight: You think I’m a bounty hunter. Day eighty-five: I think you’re a hallucination.”

You laughed so hard you nearly fell backward. Gregor caught you—barely—and pulled you into a messy half-hug that turned into a full one, both of you on the floor, limbs tangled like tossed laundry.

It was insane. It was unstable.

But it was home.

⸻

Outside, the sky cracked with thunder.

Inside, you and Gregor planned a tea party for your imaginary friends and discussed the philosophical implications of soup.

Memory was a shaky thing. But whatever this was between you?

It stuck.

Even if nothing else did.

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