Commander Wolffe X “Village Crazy” Reader

“Red Lines” pt.3

Commander Fox x Reader

You sat back in the medical bay with a fresh bandage on your shoulder, sipping from a flask that definitely did not contain approved Republic stimulant rations.

Across from you, Anakin stood with his arms crossed, watching a medic finish patching up your wound. He looked oddly relaxed for a man who had just murdered someone in a hallway.

“Well,” you said, wincing slightly as you flexed your shoulder, “I guess we can cancel the fireworks and the firing squad.”

Anakin smirked. “Probably for the best. The optics were gonna be a nightmare anyway.”

“Please,” you said dryly. “Optics are the one thing my people love messy.”

You tapped a commpad resting beside you on the cot and brought up your ship’s navigation interface. A cheerful little message blinked: ARRIVAL IN SYSTEM: 3 HOURS.

You sighed, dramatically. “Well, there goes my logistical planning. Invitations. Vendor contracts. The gallows.”

Anakin chuckled, a dark edge to his grin. “You’re not seriously disappointed?”

You gave him a look. “I had a speech, Skywalker. A really good one. Rhetoric, flair, applause lines. You ever try to cancel a political execution with less than four hours’ notice? It’s a bloody mess.”

There was a knock at the door. The medic stepped back, giving a polite nod as two figures entered: one in Senate Guard blues, the other a high-ranking emissary from your homeworld, flanked by your personal aide.

Your aide looked vaguely panicked. The emissary looked furious.

“Senator,” the emissary said stiffly. “We’ve just received word. The prisoner is dead?”

You raised your flask in a lazy toast. “Correct. Chose to improvise. Very dramatic.”

“Improvised?” he blinked. “He was executed aboard a Republic vessel—without ceremony, without audience—”

“Without getting any of my damn blood on the carpets,” you interrupted, smiling thinly. “You’re welcome.”

The emissary sputtered. “What are we supposed to tell the people?”

“That the bastard who butchered their families tried to escape justice,” you said, standing slowly, “and one of the Republic’s finest cut him down mid-flight to protect their senator from assassination. That’s better than the show, honestly.”

The aide blinked. “So… we don’t need to delay the post-execution feast?”

You looked to Anakin, deadpan. “Should I bring the corpse in a box as proof, or do you think they’ll take my word for it?”

Anakin shrugged. “You’ve got good stage presence. I’d believe you.”

The emissary pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’ve just upended half our ceremonial protocol—”

“Again,” you said, brushing past him and grabbing your cloak, “you’re welcome.”

As the others filtered out, grumbling and muttering about decorum and wasted resources, Anakin lingered by the door.

“You’re seriously going back home just to give a speech over a dead man’s ashes?” he asked.

You pulled the clasp on your cloak, expression smooth. “Of course. Let them mourn what they wanted and didn’t get. It’s better that way.”

He studied you for a moment, curious. “You always like this?”

You gave him a sidelong glance. “Only when I win.”

And with that, you walked off down the corridor, steps steady, shoulder sore—but spine unbowed.

The execution was over.

But the theatre?

That had only just begun.

⸻

The ship landed at dusk.

Twin suns spilled molten gold across the obsidian landing pads of your capital, casting long shadows that reached toward you like claws. The air was warm and heavy with the scent of spice, steel, and storm-bruised flowers that only bloomed after blood rain.

As the boarding ramp lowered, you felt it. The shift.

You straightened your shoulders.

Slowed your breath.

And shed the Coruscanti bite from your posture like an old coat.

You weren’t the sharp-tongued, rage-baiting senator anymore. Not here.

You were their senator.

The gatekeeper.

The sword and seal of a people forged in war and survival.

You walked down the ramp in silence, your cloak a trailing shadow, your expression unreadable. Behind you, Obi-Wan and Anakin followed—Kenobi, cautious and observing; Skywalker, loose-limbed and openly curious.

A fanfare of percussion instruments and throat-chanting rose from the procession waiting at the foot of the steps—guards in ceremonial armor, banners fluttering, emissaries standing tall.

Your people did not weep for the prisoner. There were no black sashes or flowers laid in mourning.

Instead, there was fire.

Braziers lined the boulevard, flames flickering high to honor justice fulfilled—even if it came wrapped in chaos.

Anakin leaned toward you as you walked. “This is what you call restraint?”

You gave him the barest tilt of your head. “If we wanted excess, we’d have brought the corpse.”

At your side, Kenobi sighed softly. “As disturbing as that image is… your people do have a knack for spectacle.”

“I told you,” you said, keeping your gaze forward. “We don’t flinch from consequences. We honor them.”

⸻

The feast hall was carved from volcanic stone, long and low with vaulted ceilings that shimmered with luminescent moss and jewel-tone metals. The air smelled of roasted meat, spiced fruit, and sweet liquor.

Dancers moved like smoke through the crowd.

There was laughter.

Music.

Toasts shouted in five languages.

You stood near the high table, nursing a goblet of deep amber wine, wearing a formal garment that draped your frame like armor. Every angle of you was honed—graceful, powerful, untouchable.

Anakin was already on his second round with a group of soldiers, trading war stories and draining shots like they were water. He looked alive here, among warriors and firelight.

Kenobi stood off to the side, wine in hand, watching the scene with the expression of a man trapped between judgment and genuine enjoyment.

Eventually, he approached you.

“This,” he said, lifting his glass slightly, “is far more pleasant than I anticipated.”

You arched a brow. “I assumed you’d be sulking about the moral implications of toasting over a would-be assassin’s death.”

“Oh, I still disapprove,” he said, sipping. “But your liquor’s very persuasive. And your musicians have excellent rhythm.”

You gave him a faint smirk. “We don’t mourn the removal of threats. We celebrate survival.”

“You celebrate very well.”

There was a pause. A rare, companionable quiet.

Then Kenobi added, dryly “That said… if I wake up with a tattoo and no memory of where my boots went, I’m blaming Skywalker.”

You let out a low, surprised laugh—real, not performative.

For a moment, the night softened around the edges.

But only for a moment.

Because tomorrow, there would be politics again. Corpses to explain. Reports to file.

But tonight?

Tonight, your world danced in flame.

And you let yourself be theirs.

Even just for one night.

⸻

Coruscant was grey that morning.

Muted sun behind clouds. Rain beading softly against the durasteel windows of Guard HQ.

Inside his office, Commander Fox sat alone behind his desk, datapads stacked in neat columns, stylus in hand, expression unreadable. He didn’t slouch. He didn’t fidget. He just… read.

A private file—heavily encrypted—glowed on the display in front of him.

Subject: Senator [Name] – Incident Debrief & Homeworld Response Log

Status: Prisoner deceased. Jedi casualty: none. Senator: minor injury. Civil unrest: negligible. Execution status: voided. Celebratory feast: confirmed.

He stared at that last line.

Feast.

Fox blinked once. Slowly. Then set the stylus down with clinical precision.

“Of course,” he muttered to himself, tone bone-dry. “Feast.”

There was a polite knock at the door. Sharp, deliberate.

“Enter,” he called.

The door hissed open.

Senator Riyo Chuchi stepped inside, her presence as calm as always—measured, graceful, dressed in soft blues that made her look like something born of snowfall and silence.

“Commander,” she said with a faint smile. “I hope I’m not intruding.”

Fox stood, instinctively straightening his spine. “Senator Chuchi. Not at all.”

She stepped closer, hands folded neatly. Her gaze flicked to the screen behind him, just for a second.

“More reports from the Senator’s trip home?” she asked lightly.

Fox’s mouth twitched—almost a smile, almost a grimace. “You could call it that.”

“I heard there was an incident,” she said, voice softening. “I trust she’s unharmed?”

“Minor injury,” he confirmed. “The prisoner attempted to escape en route. Neutralized.”

Chuchi nodded slowly, then tilted her head. “And the execution?”

“Canceled,” Fox said simply. “She improvised.”

Something flickered across Chuchi’s face—an expression caught somewhere between relief and concern. “That sounds like her.”

Fox gave a faint nod, eyes dropping back to the datapad. “I’m not here to question methods. It’s not my place.”

“You think that’s all it is?” Chuchi asked gently. “Methods?”

He glanced up, brow furrowed slightly.

She stepped closer, just a little. Not pushing—just enough to be noticed.

“Some of us see people,” she said. “Not just politics.”

Fox blinked.

Then looked at her—really looked.

Chuchi smiled, small and earnest. “I thought I’d bring you this,” she added, producing a small insulated container from her satchel. “Fresh caf. Brewed properly. I thought you might need it.”

He stared at it. A beat passed before he took it, careful not to brush her fingers.

“…Thank you,” he said, voice rough with habit more than emotion.

She hesitated. Then: “You don’t have to be polite with me all the time, Commander.”

He glanced up, puzzled.

She smiled again, this one quieter. “You’re not a report.”

With that, she turned to leave, the hem of her cloak brushing the doorway.

Fox stood there for a long moment, caf in hand, staring at the empty space she’d just occupied.

He finally sat back down, the weight of the morning returning to his shoulders.

Report after report.

Fire and feast.

Senators and swords.

He sipped the caf.

It was excellent.

He hated that it made him feel anything at all.

⸻

Coruscant gleamed with its usual sterile indifference as your ship cut through its airways, docking silently under a hazy afternoon sun.

You stepped out dressed not for war, but for the game, a tailored ensemble of muted power, the cut precise, the lines sharp. Behind you, aides hurried, datapads flickering with messages and half-formed excuses for missed committee meetings. You let them speak for you. You didn’t need to explain your absence.

The moment you stepped into the Senate halls again, the shift was palpable.

Your gait was unhurried.

Your expression? Immaculately unreadable.

But the whispers started anyway.

They always did.

⸻

Elsewhere in the Senate Building Padmé Amidala folded her arms in her office, standing at the window with narrowed eyes.

“She’s getting close to you,” she said quietly.

Anakin, sprawled on a chaise like a man without a single political care in the galaxy, frowned up at her. “Close to me? She nearly got murdered last week. I was doing my job.”

Padmé turned. “You’re spending a lot of time with her. You were always… sympathetic to her methods.”

“She’s not wrong about everything,” Anakin said with a shrug. “Her world’s brutal. So she makes brutal calls. Doesn’t mean she’s dangerous.”

“She’s persuasive,” Padmé said flatly. “And you like people who fight like you do. It concerns me.”

Anakin held her gaze. “I know what I’m doing, Padmé.”

Her expression didn’t budge. “I’m not sure she does.”

⸻

The lights in the guard hallway were dimmed. Hound and Thorn sat on a bench outside Fox’s office, casually snacking on ration bars, half-listening to the low murmur of voices inside.

“You reckon she’s finally getting somewhere?” Thorn muttered, cocking his head toward the door.

Hound snorted. “She could wear a sign around her neck saying Fox, take me now, and he’d still think she was lobbying for more security funding.”

Inside, Fox stood at his desk, arms crossed, frowning as you paced slowly in front of him with deliberate grace.

“I’m just saying,” you murmured, tone silk-soft, “the Guard’s response time was impressive. Efficient. You’ve trained them well.”

Fox didn’t blink. “Thank you, Senator.”

You leaned slightly on his desk, watching him with a glint in your eye. “Though I did miss your voice shouting orders over a comm. It’s oddly reassuring.”

He hesitated, just a flicker.

“…It wasn’t necessary to involve myself directly.”

You smiled. “Still. It would’ve made for a good view.”

That one landed.

A slight pause. A faint shift in his stance.

You leaned in, voice low. “Don’t tell me you didn’t miss me, Commander.”

Fox cleared his throat, stiffening slightly. “I’m glad you returned safely.”

“Are you?” you asked, a smirk playing at your lips. “Because the last time I left, I almost died. And when I got back, my favorite clone didn’t even send me a message.”

Fox opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Regrouped.

“I… didn’t want to presume.”

You tilted your head. “Shame. I do like a man with initiative.”

Just outside the office, Thorn elbowed Hound, grinning like an idiot. Hound had a hand over his mouth to keep from laughing.

“Ten credits says he short-circuits before the end of the conversation,” Thorn whispered.

Back inside, Fox glanced toward the door—he knew exactly who was eavesdropping. His voice dropped to a murmur.

“…Some of us aren’t trained in politics.”

You took a slow step closer. “Good. Politics is boring. I prefer action.”

Fox blinked. “I—”

The door creaked.

Fox turned sharply. “Thorn. Hound. Get back to your rounds.”

Two half-stifled laughs vanished down the hall.

You chuckled, slow and rich.

Fox looked somewhere between exasperated and confused. “You enjoy this.”

“Immensely,” you purred. “You’re one of the few people here who doesn’t lie to my face or fawn over my power. It’s refreshing.”

He looked at you for a long moment. The barest crack in the armor.

“…You’re hard to read.”

You stepped back, just slightly—enough to give him space, enough to keep him off balance.

“Good,” you said softly. “Let’s keep it that way.”

Then you turned, brushing past him with a swish of fabric and control.

“Goodnight, Commander.”

“…Goodnight, Senator.”

Outside, Hound was already counting his credits.

⸻

Your office was dim, sunlight creeping in through the high windows like it feared being too bold in your domain. You were lounging in your chair, glass in hand—liquor, not caf—when the door slid open with a hiss.

Skywalker stepped in, alone. No guards. No cloak of diplomacy.

You raised your brows. “No dramatic entrance? I’m disappointed.”

Anakin shrugged as he shut the door. “I’m not here for a debate.”

“Pity. I’m good at those.”

He folded his arms, studying you like he was trying to decide if you were a real threat or just too much trouble to be worth it.

“Padmé’s worried about you,” he said without greeting.

You didn’t even blink. “She’s always worried. It’s her default state.”

“She’s worried about you. And me.”

You blinked once, then tilted your head. “Are you flattered or terrified?”

Anakin cracked a dry grin. “Both.”

Anakin gave you a look. “She thinks you’re manipulating me.”

You smiled, slow and amused. “Are you easily manipulated, Skywalker?”

“No,” he said, too fast, then caught himself. “But you’re not exactly subtle, either.”

“I’m not trying to seduce you,” you said lazily. “If I were, you’d already know. And you’d be very uncomfortable about it.”

That drew a genuine laugh from him.

“I like you,” he said, leaning back against the window frame. “You don’t pretend. Everyone else here pretends.”

You shrugged. “I was raised by men who gutted liars before dinner. I have little patience for masks.”

“You’re going to get eaten alive in here,” he warned.

You grinned. “Skywalker, I am a wolf dressed in velvet. I’ll be okay.”

He turned, and for a moment, you saw it—that same sliver of you in him. Something sharp and secret and smoldering. He respected it.

⸻

Later that afternoon, a message arrived. Private channel. Encrypted.

Johhar Kessen.

Senator of Dandoran. Blunt nails dipped in old blood. His smile always looked like it was hiding something, and his suits were cut with the arrogance of a man who’d never once been held accountable.

He requested a “discreet” meeting in one of the lesser-used conference lounges beneath the rotunda.

You went, of course. Alone.

He welcomed you like a merchant offering cursed jewels.

“Senator,” he purred, “I believe we can help each other.”

You said nothing. Just sat and let him dig the hole himself.

“I’ve noticed your recent… power plays,” he continued. “Decisive. Controversial. Admirable.”

He poured himself a drink but not you.

“I know there are those who would love to see your world scrutinized. Public executions don’t go over well with the Jedi. Or the press.”

You smiled, slow and cold.

He didn’t notice.

“I can smooth that over,” he offered. “Help manage the narrative. In return, I’d like your support on my latest trade deregulation bill. Simple. Clean.”

He leaned closer. “Say yes, and no one ever sees your less polished traditions. Say no…”

He shrugged. “Well. People love a scandal.”

You pressed a button beneath the table.

Recording active.

Your eyes gleamed. You loved a good conflict.

⸻

They packed the rotunda. Senators from the core and mid-rim worlds, trade delegates, press from The Core Chronicle, and the ever-judgmental whispers of Senator murmuring like priestesses behind veils.

You stood at the central platform, spine straight, voice calm.

“I present this recording to the full body.”

The playback began.

Kessen’s voice filled the chamber: smug, slimy, and devastatingly clear.

“…say yes, and no one ever sees your less polished traditions…”

Shock rippled like thunder.

Johhar Kessen stood, red-faced, sputtering. “This is—this is a breach of—”

“Of what, senator?” you snapped, voice like a whip. “Decorum? Legality? You attempted to blackmail a member of this chamber. Do not insult this room by feigning innocence.”

The senators exploded into sound.

Kessen stood, fists clenched. “There’s a process for accusations like this—!”

“Too slow,” you cut in. “Too easily buried.”

Orn Free Taa looked at you like you’d just spit blood onto his robe.

“Your methods are grotesque,” He whispered.

You turned your head. “So are the ones used by half the worlds you turn a blind eye to.”

Chuchi rose slowly. Her eyes never left you.

“Even if he’s guilty… there are better ways.”

“I don’t play by your rules,” you said coolly. “Because your rules were written to protect people like him.”

Kessen had gone dead quiet.

He knew.

And then—

“I support the senator’s actions.”

The room fell silent.

Bail Organa rose, voice calm, but firm.

“I do not support the tactic, but I support her refusal to be intimidated. If we condemn the exposure more than the crime, then we are not a governing body—we are a club.”

Gasps. Murmurs. A few stunned stares.

You watched him.

He looked you in the eye. Gave you a single nod.

Respect. Conditional. Earned.

⸻

Outside the Chamber Chuchi followed you out. You could feel her presence without turning.

“You’ve made enemies.”

“I was never here to make friends.”

Her voice was soft. “You’re going to get hurt.”

You glanced at her over your shoulder. “Let them try.”

And with that, you vanished into the corridors, cloak billowing behind you like a shadow with teeth.

⸻

The report came in clean and quiet, just like the man who delivered it.

Fox stood behind his desk, fingers locked behind his back, posture perfect. Not a single muscle twitching—except for the subtle clench of his jaw as Hound finished reading the datapad aloud.

“…exposed the blackmail attempt on the Senate floor, publicly. Senator Johhar Kessen’s credibility is in tatters. Organa backed her up. So did Organa’s wife.”

A beat of silence.

Fox didn’t move.

“Sir?” Hound prompted.

Fox blinked once, slow. Then nodded.

“She’s reckless,” he said, tone dry and clinical. “But I can’t fault her for exposing corruption.”

“Never said you could,” Hound muttered, crossing his arms. “Just that the fireworks were impressive.”

Fox didn’t smile. Of course he didn’t.

But his silence lingered.

“…you don’t approve?”

“I don’t comment,” Fox corrected.

Hound exhaled through his nose, looking far too amused. “Of course not, Commander.”

The door chimed.

Fox’s eyes flicked up. “Enter.”

Senator Riyo Chuchi stepped in with her usual grace—soft-voiced and composed, carrying two steaming cups of caf like offerings at a shrine.

“Commander,” she greeted gently. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

Fox straightened a touch more, if that was even possible. “Not at all, Senator.”

Chuchi smiled and handed him one of the mugs. “Thought you might need this. You looked tired last time I saw you.”

He accepted it like someone unfamiliar with gifts. “That’s… appreciated.”

“I also wanted to check in,” she added, voice lighter now. “After all the excitement in the Senate. Your guards were quick to respond when Senator [L/N] was attacked—Thorn and Stone handled it excellently.”

“She alerted us herself,” Fox said. “Gave detailed information. Her timing was precise.”

Chuchi hesitated. “You’ve… spoken with her?”

“A few times,” Fox said neutrally, sipping the caf. “Usually regarding security.”

Chuchi tilted her head. “And outside of security?”

Fox blinked at her, expression unreadable behind the helmet of his professionalism. “Why would I?”

She laughed softly. “No reason. Just seemed like she had a certain… fondness.”

Fox blinked again. “For the Guard?”

She smiled politely. “Sure.”

You had come by for a casual follow-up, half-expecting the door to be open, half-expecting to breeze in and rile Fox just for the fun of it. But the sight through the transparent panel brought your steps to a halt.

Fox, standing stiff with a cup in hand.

Chuchi, close—too close—leaning in, speaking softly.

He was focused, respectful, unreadable.

But she…

Her interest was carved into every careful sentence, every flicker of her eyes. She was making her move.

And you weren’t going to interrupt that.

Not directly.

You turned away, pretending not to look.

“Surprised you didn’t barge in.”

You turned to find Hound leaning casually against the corridor wall, arms crossed and helm off, watching you with a wry smile.

“You think I should’ve?”

“Would’ve made good entertainment.” He smirked. “Though maybe Fox’s heart would short-circuit. Pretty sure he still thinks you and Chuchi are just trying to get in his good graces for Senate leverage.”

You snorted.

“He’s blind,” Hound added, shrugging. “If someone looked at me the way you look at him… well. I wouldn’t be wasting it.”

You tilted your head, amused. “If someone looked at you that way, would you even recognize it?”

He grinned. “I’m not the one holding a damn caf like it’s a live grenade while a senator stares at me like I hung the moons.”

You looked back at the door. Your expression softened—just a fraction. “He deserves better than what either of us could give him.”

“Maybe,” Hound said. “But people don’t choose who they make weak for.”

You didn’t reply.

Just watched as the door slid open again—and Chuchi stepped out, graceful as ever, her smile fading the moment she saw you standing there.

You gave her a slow, lazy smile. “Senator.”

“Senator,” she replied coolly, before walking past you without another word.

Fox didn’t follow her out.

You didn’t go in.

The hallway still buzzed faintly from Chuchi’s perfume and perfect poise as she vanished down the corridor.

You stood in silence a moment longer, thoughts tangled, arms crossed.

Hound remained leaned against the wall, watching you carefully. Grizzer sat quietly by his side.

“Feeling dangerous,” Hound murmured, “or just wounded?”

You didn’t take the bait. “You patrol near the East Residential Block?”

“Every other night.” He raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

You gave him a faint smile, more tired than your usual games. “Escort me home.”

He looked you over, caught the guarded tone, the lack of venom, and straightened.

“Security concern?”

“Something like that.” You turned on your heel, cloak flaring softly behind you. “Unless you’ve got a caf date too?”

“Only with Grizzer.”

The massiff gave a pleased huff and trotted after you both.

The three of you walked in rhythm. The quiet buzz of speeders hummed high above, and the lights of Coruscant shimmered like artificial stars.

Grizzer stayed close to your side, his large eyes occasionally flicking up at you like he understood more than he let on.

You glanced at Hound. “I think I lost him.”

“Fox?” he asked, even though he knew the answer.

“Chuchi’s winning,” you muttered. “Or at least… not losing.”

Hound shoved his hands into his belt, voice casual. “You in love with him or just hate the idea of someone else having what you want?”

You didn’t answer right away.

Grizzer’s claws clicked against the polished duracrete. The street was empty, private, lined with the red glow of low-lit signs.

“I don’t do love,” you said finally. “But I respect him. And I liked being the only one who saw the cracks in his armor.”

Hound was quiet a beat. “Fox is hard to read. He’s trained himself not to need anything.”

“I noticed.”

“But needing and wanting are different things.” Hound glanced sideways at you. “You might’ve gotten through to the part of him that wants. Doesn’t mean he knows what to do with it.”

You sighed. “He doesn’t have to do anything. I’ve already made enough of a fool of myself.”

“You haven’t,” Hound said, voice firmer. “You just got tired of playing a game where he doesn’t know the rules.”

You smiled a little. “Maybe he never learned how to play.”

Grizzer grunted and nosed your hand, seeking affection. You obliged, stroking his warm, armored head.

“He likes you,” Hound said. “Only growls at people who give off the wrong scent.”

You raised a brow. “I smell like trouble.”

“Yeah,” Hound agreed. “But not bad trouble.”

You reached your apartment complex, a tall, dark-glassed tower behind a gilded gate. The entrance lights flickered as you approached, and the two guard droids posted at the front scanned you with routine precision.

You turned back to Hound. “Thanks for walking me.”

“Anytime,” he said. “I’ve got five more blocks to hit anyway.”

“Stay safe.”

He smirked. “Says the senator who blew up half the chamber with one datapad.”

You grinned, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes.

Grizzer barked once, deep and throaty, then followed Hound as they headed into the city shadows.

You stood alone at your door, looking out into the dark.

The city blinked back like a thousand indifferent eyes.

⸻

Previous Part | Next Part

I don't want a Career I want to Fuck Around

Happy Weekend! I was wondering if you could do an angst fic w/ TBB x Fem!Reader where they’re on a mission and the ground crumbles beneath her and she falls and they think she could be dead? Thanks! Xx

Happy Thursday! Sorry for the delay, I hope this is somewhat what you had in mind😊

“Echoes in the Dust”

The Bad Batch x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Falling, presumed death, grief, survivor’s guilt, panic

The ridge was narrow. Too narrow.

You moved with your blaster raised and your jaw set, following closely behind Wrecker as the team pushed forward. The rocky terrain was riddled with ravines, fault lines, and fractured earth—left scarred by years of shelling and seismic bombardments. The mission was supposed to be simple: infiltrate a Separatist holdout and extract data.

It was never simple.

“Movement on the northwest cliff,” you called into your comm. “Looks like clankers repositioning.”

“Copy that,” Echo’s voice crackled. “Tech, I’m sending coordinates to your pad.”

Hunter glanced back at you, just a flick of his head, a silent confirmation. You nodded. I’m good.

You were always good. Until the ground gave out beneath you.

It was subtle at first—just a soft shift under your boots, like loose gravel. But then came the snap. A hollow, wrenching crack that echoed through the canyon like thunder. The rock splintered beneath your feet. You didn’t have time to scream.

Just time to look up—into Hunter’s eyes.

“[Y/N]—!”

You dropped.

The last thing you saw was his outstretched hand, just a second too late.

Then the world became air and stone and darkness.

⸻

Above, everything exploded into chaos.

Hunter hit the ridge on his knees, arms dragging at loose rock, clawing like an animal trying to dig you back out. “No, no, no—”

Echo slid in beside him, scanning with one cybernetic arm extended. “I can’t see her. It’s—kriff—it’s a vertical drop. She went straight down.”

“I should’ve grabbed her!” Wrecker was pacing in wild circles, fists clenched, eyes wet. “I was right in front of her—I should’ve—she was right there!”

“She didn’t even scream,” Echo murmured. “She just… vanished.”

“I’m scanning for vitals,” Tech said, already tapping furiously at his datapad, but his voice was thin. “There’s no signal. No movement. Her comm—either it was destroyed in the fall or… or she’s—”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Hunter snapped, voice like a knife.

The wind howled through the crevice she’d fallen into, dragging dust and silence with it.

Crosshair stood several meters back, motionless, his DC-17M dangling loosely in his grip.

“Say it,” Echo growled, glaring at him. “You’ve been quiet this whole time. Just say whatever snide thing you’re thinking so we can all lose it together.”

Crosshair’s eyes flicked up, storm-gray and unreadable.

“She’s dead.”

“Shut your mouth!” Wrecker roared, storming toward him, but Echo shoved himself in between.

“She could be alive,” Echo said fiercely, though his voice cracked. “It’s possible. People survive worse.”

Crosshair didn’t move. “Not from that height.”

“I said shut it!” Wrecker shoved him back, but it was all broken fury—guilt bleeding through his rage. “She was smiling, dammit. Right before. She looked at me and said, ‘We’ll all get out of this,’ and I didn’t even answer her back—!”

“Stop.” Hunter’s voice cut clean through the storm.

He stood now, rigid and furious, his back to the team, staring into the void where you’d fallen.

“She’s alive,” he said.

Tech looked up from his pad slowly. “Statistically—”

“I don’t give a damn about statistics.” His voice was hoarse. “I felt her. She was right here. She’s part of us. She wouldn’t just be… gone.”

His hand trembled slightly. Not from fear. From the weight of it.

He was the one who told you to cover the flank. He was the one who said the ridge was stable enough.

She trusted you, Crosshair had said.

No. She trusted him.

And he’d failed her.

Hunter turned and began strapping a rope to his belt.

“Sergeant?” Tech asked cautiously.

“We’re going down there. All of us. We don’t stop until we find her. I don’t care if we have to tear the planet apart.”

Echo moved first. “I’m with you.”

Wrecker stepped up beside them, his breath hitching. “Me too. Always.”

Even Crosshair nodded, silent again.

As Hunter stood at the edge, ready to descend into the place where you vanished, a single thought thundered in his mind:

She can’t be gone.

Not you.

Not when your laugh was still echoing in his ears. Not when you told him last night, during watch, that you’d be careful. Not when he never got to tell you that he needed you more than he ever let on.

He’d find you.

Or die trying.

⸻

The descent into the ravine was slow, agonizing, and silent.

The team moved as one—Hunter leading with a lantern clipped to his belt, casting narrow beams over jagged rock and twisted earth. Echo and Tech followed with scanners, mapping every crevice. Wrecker moved boulders with his bare hands, gritting his teeth with each one. Crosshair, ever the rear guard, watched from behind, but his silence was sharp, eyes flicking everywhere.

Hunter’s voice echoed through the narrow stone corridor. “Check every ledge. Every outcropping.”

“She could’ve hit a rock shelf and rolled,” Echo said, carefully scanning below. “Or worse…”

“Don’t,” Wrecker said. “Don’t even say it. She’s alive. She has to be.”

They moved deeper into the ravine—until the beam of Hunter’s light caught something.

“Wait,” Tech whispered, grabbing Echo’s arm.

There—thirty feet below them, half-buried under collapsed shale and bloodied stone—was a figure.

Your figure.

You were sprawled on your side, your body twisted unnaturally, one leg crushed beneath a slab of rock. Blood soaked through your jacket. Your head had struck something hard—too hard—and you weren’t moving.

Hunter nearly dropped the lantern.

“[Y/N]—!”

He was down the rest of the way before anyone could stop him, crashing to his knees beside you.

“Don’t move her!” Echo shouted, sliding in behind. “Not yet. Let me check—”

But Hunter’s hands were already trembling as they hovered over you, too afraid to touch. Too afraid that this—this fragile, broken thing—was all that was left.

“She’s breathing,” Echo said. “Shallow. Pulse is—kriff—irregular. She’s lost a lot of blood.”

Wrecker dropped beside them, tears already streaking the dust on his cheeks.

“Is she—? She’s gonna make it, right? Echo?”

“She’s unconscious,” Echo said quietly. “And we need to get her out now.”

“Spinal trauma is possible,” Tech added, eyes locked on his scanner. “Multiple fractures. Her femur is broken—bleeding into the tissue. Concussion. Rib damage. Internal bleeding likely.”

Crosshair didn’t come any closer. He stood just at the edge of the light, staring down at you with an unreadable expression.

“You said she was dead,” Wrecker growled, voice shaking.

Crosshair didn’t respond.

Because he knew now—death would’ve been kinder than this.

The med evac was chaotic.

Hunter carried you the entire climb back—refused to let anyone else even try. He held you close to his chest like something fragile, as if you’d fall again if he let go. Your blood had soaked through his armor by the time they reached the surface.

Back on the Marauder, the team worked together in silent urgency. Wrecker helped secure you to the gurney. Echo and Tech patched what they could. Crosshair kept watch, pacing like a trapped animal.

And Hunter… he sat beside you.

His hands were covered in your blood.

“I should’ve caught you,” he whispered.

No one argued. No one corrected him.

Because part of them believed it too.

You twitched in your sleep once—just a small movement, a flicker of pain across your brow—and Hunter nearly leapt out of his seat.

“She moved!” he barked.

“She’s still unconscious,” Tech reminded. “That doesn’t guarantee cognition. The swelling in her brain—”

“I don’t care what the scans say,” Hunter growled. “She’s fighting.”

He reached down and brushed a blood-matted strand of hair from your face.

“You hear me?” he whispered, voice cracking. “You hold on. You fight like you always do. You’re not going to leave us like this.”

Wrecker sat on the floor beside the cot, staring at your hand dangling off the edge.

“You’re not allowed to die, okay?” he said, softly, almost childlike. “You still owe me a rematch.”

Echo leaned against the wall, arms crossed, jaw clenched tight. “She shouldn’t have been the one to fall. It should’ve been—”

“Don’t,” Tech said, just as quiet. “We all blame ourselves. That’s not useful now.”

Only Crosshair said nothing.

But later—when the others had finally dozed off in shifts, and the med droid was running scans—he sat beside you alone.

“Idiots, all of them,” he muttered. “They think they lost you. I know better.”

He rested his hand beside yours.

“You’re not dead. You’re just too damn stubborn.”

There was a pause.

“…So come back. Or I’ll never forgive you.”

You didn’t wake up that night. Or the next.

But your vitals held.

You were still fighting.

And the squad—your family—never left your side.

⸻

It started with a sound.

A weak, choked wheeze from the medbay.

Wrecker heard it first—he’d been sitting on the floor beside your cot for the past hour, humming under his breath and telling you stories like he had every day since they pulled you from the ravine.

But when he heard your breathing stutter—heard that awful, wet gasp—he was on his feet in an instant.

“Tech!”

Footsteps thundered in from the cockpit.

Tech was there in seconds, datapad in one hand, expression already shifting from calculation to panic.

“Vitals are dropping. Pulse erratic. Respiratory distress—dammit—her lung may have collapsed.”

The med droid whirred a warning in binary, and Tech shoved it aside, already working to stabilize you. Wrecker stood frozen, fists clenched at his sides, helpless as machines blared and blood began soaking through your bandages again.

“She was getting better,” Wrecker whispered. “She was breathing normal yesterday. You said she was stabilizing!”

“I said her vitals were holding,” Tech snapped, voice tight and uncharacteristically sharp. “I also said we didn’t know the full extent of internal damage yet. The concussion is worsening. There’s pressure building against her brainstem. Her body is going into systemic shock.”

“Then fix it!” Wrecker’s voice cracked. “You fix everything! Please—”

Tech’s hands moved fast, too fast—grabbing gauze, recalibrating IV drips, re-administering stimulants. But beneath the precision was fear. A gnawing, brittle kind of fear that made his fingers shake.

“I’m trying,” Tech said, barely above a whisper now. “I’m trying, Wrecker.”

Your body jerked suddenly—just a twitch, but it sent a ripple of panic through them both.

Tech cursed under his breath. “She needs proper medical facilities. A bacta tank. A neuro-regeneration suite. This ship is not equipped to handle this kind of trauma long-term.”

“So what, we just wait and watch her die?” Wrecker whispered.

“No!” Tech snapped, louder this time. “We don’t let her die.”

He slammed his fist down on the console—just once—but the sound echoed like a gunshot through the Marauder. Wrecker flinched. Tech never lost control. Never raised his voice. Never made a sound unless it meant something.

And now, he looked like he was about to break.

“I’ve calculated a thousand outcomes,” Tech murmured, softer now. “And every variable keeps changing. Her body is unpredictable. She’s unstable. But she’s also resilient. She’s survived things that should’ve killed her ten times over.”

He looked up then, eyes glassy behind his goggles.

“But if we don’t find a way to get her real care—soon—we will lose her.”

Wrecker turned away, one massive hand covering his face. He’d never felt so useless. Not when they’d crashed on Ordo. Not when they’d been stranded on Ryloth. Never like this.

“I don’t know what to do,” he said. “I’m strong. I can carry her. Fight for her. But I can’t fix her, Tech. I can’t even hold her without hurting her worse.”

Tech approached quietly, placing a hand on Wrecker’s shoulder—a rare gesture.

“You are helping,” he said. “You’re keeping her tethered. She needs that. She needs us.”

The med console beeped—soft, steady. A pause.

Then a spike.

Her heart rate surged. Your head tilted slightly to the side. Blood trickled from your nose. Another alarm.

“No, no, no—stay with us,” Tech muttered, already grabbing the stabilizer. “Don’t go. Not yet.”

Wrecker dropped to his knees beside you, voice trembling.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he whispered. “You don’t get to leave like this. You didn’t even finish your story about the time you pantsed Crosshair in front of the general. Remember that?”

He sniffed, brushing a strand of hair from your sweat-slicked face. “You said you’d tell me how you pulled it off without getting court-martialed. Said you’d sing me that dumb lullaby you like. Said you’d stay.”

Your fingers twitched.

A tiny movement. Almost nothing.

But Wrecker gasped.

“She moved!”

Tech’s head snapped up. “What?”

“She moved! Her hand—right here—she twitched.”

Tech scanned you again. “Neurological activity spiked. Minimal, but—”

You let out a weak, pained breath.

Another wheeze. Then a garbled sound—almost like a word, trapped somewhere deep in your throat.

“…H-Hun…ter…”

Both men froze.

Tears filled Wrecker’s eyes.

“She said his name…”

“She’s still in there,” Tech whispered, blinking quickly. “Cognitive reflexes are initiating. That’s… that’s something.”

He turned to Wrecker, and for once, there was nothing cold or clinical in his tone.

“There’s still time.”

They kept watch through the night. Neither slept.

Wrecker read to you from the old datapad you always teased him for hoarding.

Tech adjusted your vitals every hour, even when nothing had changed, just to keep his hands busy.

And in the silence between beeping monitors and heavy breaths, they both spoke to you—about nothing, about everything.

Wrecker told you about the time he and you almost got arrested on Corellia for stealing bad caf. How your laugh had made him feel human again.

Tech told you the probability of your survival was now sitting at 18.6%, up from 9%. And that statistically, if anyone could beat the odds, it was you.

Wrecker chuckled through his tears. “Told you, didn’t I? Too stubborn to die.”

Tech looked down at your still hand, then whispered—just once—“Please… don’t.”

⸻

The Marauder was silent.

Tech had finally collapsed from exhaustion in the co-pilot seat, goggles askew, still clutching the datapad with your vitals. Wrecker was curled on the floor next to your bed, snoring lightly with one hand near yours. Crosshair sat with his back to the far wall, arms crossed, eyes closed—but not asleep.

And Echo stayed awake.

He always did.

He was seated at your bedside, one cybernetic hand gently resting on the edge of the cot. The hum of the ship’s systems filled the space between the heart monitor’s steady rhythm. Your breathing—still shallow, but no longer ragged—was the only music Echo needed.

He hadn’t moved for hours.

You’d gotten worse. Then better. Then worse again. And through all of it, he’d held on. Let the others break. Let them rage. He had to be the one who didn’t fall apart.

But now, as he sat alone in the flickering light, his thumb brushed your bandaged hand—and he whispered, “You can’t keep scaring us like this.”

Your lips moved.

Barely.

He straightened. “Hey…?”

Your fingers twitched under his hand.

Your head shifted slightly on the pillow, a soft whimper escaping your throat. Your eyelashes fluttered—slow, disoriented, like your mind hadn’t caught up to your body.

“Hey.” Echo leaned closer, voice trembling now. “Come on… come on, mesh’la. You’re safe.”

Your eyes opened.

Just a sliver at first. Squinting into the low light.

“…Echo…?”

It was a rasp, a whisper, but it was real.

Echo’s mouth fell open.

And for the first time since the fall—since the screaming, the blood, the race against time—his composure cracked.

You blinked slowly, pain visible behind your glazed eyes. “W-Where…?”

“Still on the Marauder. We haven’t moved. We couldn’t.” His voice was low and hoarse. “You weren’t stable enough.”

Your brow furrowed faintly. “Hurts.”

“I know.” He gently adjusted your oxygen mask, smoothing your hair back. “You took a hell of a fall.”

You tried to shift, but your body betrayed you—wracked with weakness, ribs aching, limbs sluggish.

Echo placed a firm hand on your shoulder. “Don’t move yet. Please. Just stay still.”

You obeyed—too tired to fight it.

“I thought…” You coughed, eyes fluttering. “Thought I heard Wrecker crying.”

Echo actually smiled, though his eyes were wet. “Yeah. That happened.”

You let out the faintest exhale—almost a laugh. “He’s a big softie.”

“Only for you,” Echo whispered, squeezing your hand carefully. “You scared him half to death.”

There was a long pause.

You looked up at him, brow knitting again.

“…You thought I was gone, didn’t you?”

Echo’s throat tightened. “We all did.”

“But you stayed.”

“Of course I stayed.”

Your gaze lingered on him. He looked exhausted. Hollowed out. His prosthetic arm twitched like he’d been clenching it too long.

“You haven’t slept.”

He laughed quietly—bitter and warm all at once. “Didn’t want to miss this.”

Another silence.

And then, so faint it barely reached him, you whispered—

“…I’m sorry.”

Echo stared at you, stunned.

“For what?” he breathed.

“For falling. For worrying you. For being weak.”

His expression broke. “No.”

He leaned in, voice rough. “Don’t ever say that. You didn’t fall because you were weak. You fell because the ground gave out. Because war is cruel. Because life isn’t fair.”

He blinked back tears. “But you lived. And that means more than anything.”

Your vision blurred—not from injury this time, but from the emotion in his voice.

He looked at you like you were the most important thing in the galaxy.

“I thought I lost you,” he said. “And I wasn’t ready.”

You let your eyes close again, overwhelmed by exhaustion—but you smiled softly through cracked lips.

“I’m here.”

He pressed his forehead gently to your hand, exhaling a shaky breath.

“You’re here.”

When the others returned—when Hunter stumbled in and dropped to his knees, when Wrecker cried again, when Crosshair stood frozen for a full minute, just staring—you were already asleep.

But Echo met Hunter’s gaze.

And nodded.

“She woke up.”

And for the first time in days, the silence didn’t feel so heavy.

Hello! I saw that you do song fics and I had the idea for a Cody X Reader with the song “I think they call this love” by Elliot James. Been obsessed over this song for awhile and I think it would be really cute! Xxx (and if it’s possible to add a few of the others clones teasing Cody even obi wan?)

“I Think They Call This Love”

Commander Cody x Reader

Coruscant at night was too loud for someone trying not to fall in love.

Cody wasn’t even sure when it started. It might’ve been the day you were transferred to his unit. Might’ve been the first time you fixed the aim on a malfunctioning turret like it was nothing. Or maybe—just maybe—it was the first time he heard you hum.

You always did that—murmured little melodies under your breath when you thought no one was paying attention. You’d tap your fingers along your belt or your mug, shoulders swaying lightly to some old Core World tune. It was never full-on singing—just enough to hook in Cody’s brain like a memory.

And tonight? You were humming that one again.

“I think they call this love… I think they call this love…”

You were dancing with Waxer near the bar at 79’s, laughing so hard your drink almost spilled, one hand gripping his vambrace as he attempted to twirl you—poorly. Boil leaned against the counter, snickering into his glass.

“I swear, she’s gonna break your neck,” Boil said. “And then Cody’s gonna have to fill out the paperwork.”

Cody sat a few stools down, arms crossed, pretending very hard that he wasn’t staring.

“You know,” Boil added loudly, “if Cody glared any harder, he’d melt the floor.”

“Shut up,” Cody muttered.

“Yeah, sure. Real subtle, Commander,” Waxer called over, catching your hand before you nearly toppled him over. “You’ve been watching her like she’s a walking war crime.”

Wolffe chuckled beside Cody, taking a long sip of his drink. “He gets like this every time. We’ve placed bets. So far, Obi-Wan’s winning.”

Cody turned slowly. “Obi-Wan’s betting on me?”

As if summoned by sass, Obi-Wan appeared behind them, raising a glass like he’d been lurking all night. “Only because I believe in you, Cody. Also because I know how utterly incapable you are at expressing your feelings.”

“Fantastic.”

“Don’t worry,” Rex added dryly. “You’ve got time. She only flirts with you every time she breathes.”

Cody groaned and looked back toward the dancefloor—and you were already walking his way.

Boots light, smile glowing, music catching the end of your latest hum as you slid into the stool beside him. You didn’t look at the others. Just him.

“You okay there, Commander?” you asked, head tilted. “Or should I get you a medic for whatever emotional crisis you’re currently going through?”

Cody blinked. “I—what?”

You leaned closer, voice lower now. “They’re not exactly subtle,” you said with a smile. “And neither are you.”

“I wasn’t staring.”

“You were,” Boil chimed in behind you.

Waxer raised his hand. “Respectfully, he’s been staring for about four months.”

You laughed under your breath and turned fully to Cody, your knees brushing his. “You gonna keep letting them talk for you?”

Cody exhaled slowly. You were so close. Your eyes searched his, not playfully now—but curiously. Hopefully. The hum of the bar faded as your presence filled his whole damn world.

“I think…” he started, voice a little hoarse. “I think I’m in love with you.”

A pause.

Then you grinned. Not surprised. Not mocking. Just relieved.

“That’s funny,” you said softly. “Because I’ve been waiting for you to figure that out.”

And then—you kissed him.

Quick, warm, but everything changed in that second. His hand slid to your waist before he could stop it, and you smiled against his lips like it was the most natural thing in the galaxy.

Behind you, cheers erupted.

“Finally!” Waxer crowed.

“You owe me twenty credits!” Rex shouted at Wolffe.

Boil let out a low whistle. “Hope you’re ready to be the only thing Cody stares at now.”

Obi-Wan raised his glass and added, “It’s about time our fearless Commander admitted he had a heart.”

You didn’t even look back. You just pressed your forehead to Cody’s and whispered, “Don’t let go of me, okay?”

He didn’t.

Not now.

Not ever.

The music swelled again behind you, and for once, Cody let himself listen.

“If this is what they call love…”

He smiled.

Then he wanted all of it—with you.

"I didn't comment on a fic I liked because I don't think the author would care or remember my comment anyway". fanfic writer here, I still remember comments I got on my fics from seven years ago. I still think about them and they still make me smile. your kind comments are what motivates us and what helps us keep writing.

I personally know writers who take screenshot and print out comments they got from their readers.

TL;DR comments matter to us writers more than you think. if you like a fanfic, never be shy to let the author know ♡

“is this character good or bad” “is this ship unproblematic or not” “is this arc deserving of redemption or not” girl…

“The Lesser of Two Wars” pt.7

Commander Fox x Reader x Commander Thorn

The Chancellor’s office was colder than it looked. Gilded in gold trim, with its long shadows and false warmth, it resembled a sunlit cage. The senator stood before the central desk, flanked by two members of the Coruscant Guard—Commander Fox at her right, another clone at her back.

Fox hadn’t spoken to her since the leak.

He hadn’t even looked at her unless it was protocol.

The Chancellor, however, looked very much at her. With studied eyes and fingers steepled beneath his chin, he regarded her as though calculating the weight of a weapon he wasn’t quite sure how to use yet.

“The leaks,” he began slowly, “have caused quite the stir.”

“I’m aware,” she said, tone even. “I’ve been called a few new things today.”

“The term war criminal certainly has… gravity.”

She didn’t flinch. “So does survivor.”

Palpatine’s smile was almost affectionate. Almost.

“I don’t often indulge sentiment,” he said, “but I must admit, I’ve always admired survivors. Those who understand that mercy is a luxury afforded only after the enemy is dead. It is… unfortunate the galaxy doesn’t share my appreciation.”

She didn’t trust the glint in his eye. But she nodded anyway.

“Let’s speak plainly, shall we?” he said, leaning forward. “You are now the most scandalous figure in the Senate. Some believe that makes you dangerous. Others think it makes you untouchable. Personally, I think it makes you useful—in the right context.”

Her stomach twisted. She didn’t like being cornered.

“Useful for what, exactly?”

Palpatine smiled. “For influence. Fear, my dear Senator, is a currency. You’ve just been handed a vault.”

Behind her, Fox shifted ever so slightly. No words, but his presence pulled taut like a tripwire.

She glanced at him—his stance rigid, eyes hidden behind the dark visor. But he was watching. Listening. She could feel the judgment simmering beneath the armor.

“You didn’t bring me here for punishment,” she said slowly. “You brought me here to see if I could still be an asset.”

Palpatine gave a light, rasping chuckle. “Punishment is such a crude concept. No—what I want is assurance.”

“Of what?”

“That you won’t break. That you won’t run. That you can hold your seat without crumbling under the weight of your history.”

“I’ve held worse,” she said.

“And if the press or your colleagues push harder?”

She stepped forward, spine straight, voice low.

“Then I remind them that the only reason they’re standing in that chamber and not buried in an unmarked field is because people like me did what they couldn’t stomach.”

Fox’s head turned slightly—just slightly.

Palpatine smiled wider. “Good. Very good.”

He turned to Fox next. “Marshal Commander, I trust you’ve prepared contingency security protocols?”

“Yes, sir,” Fox answered, voice sharp as durasteel. “Her safety is covered from every angle.”

“Excellent. Then I believe we’re done.”

As she turned to leave, Fox fell into step behind her. Not beside her—behind. Like she was no longer something to walk beside, but something to guard from a distance.

The silence between them lasted until the lift doors sealed them inside.

She finally spoke.

“Do you believe it?” she asked, eyes forward.

There was a long pause.

“I believe you’re dangerous,” Fox said flatly. “But I always did.”

Her breath caught.

“And I believe,” he added quietly, “you’re the only senator in that building I’d trust to walk through hell and come out standing.”

She turned her head toward him, heart twisting in place.

His gaze didn’t meet hers. But his hand briefly, subtly, shifted just an inch closer—close enough to brush against hers before pulling away again.

⸻

The Grand Convocation Chamber thrummed with tension. Senators filled the tiers like birds on a wire, whispering, watching, waiting. The galactic newsfeeds were still hot with headlines. The holo-screens didn’t let her forget:

“War Criminal in the Senate?”

“Senator’s Bloodied Past Revealed in Classified Data Dump”

“Hero or Butcher? Galactic Public Reacts to Senator’s Dark War Record.”

And she stood in the eye of the storm, on the central speaking platform—small beneath the towering dome, but with every eye in the room on her.

Her hands didn’t shake. Not this time.

“Senators,” she began, voice calm, every syllable measured. “I will speak today not to deny what you’ve read, nor to ask for your forgiveness. I will speak to remind you what war does to people, to nations, to souls.”

The chamber quieted, the usual interjections or scoffs absent for once.

“When my planet was at war, we weren’t fighting over trade routes or petty disputes. We were fighting because our people had nothing left to eat. Because homes were burning. Because leaders had abandoned us. And because in the ashes of desperation, monsters rose wearing familiar flags.”

Her gaze rose to the tiers. She didn’t read from a datapad. Her words came from memory—etched into her spine like every scar she didn’t show.

“We did what we had to do. I did what I had to do.”

There were murmurs from a few senators—others still whispered behind data tablets.

She pressed forward.

“I’ve read the headlines. I know what they’re calling me now. War criminal. Executioner. Deceiver. I’m not here to rewrite history to make myself more palatable. I’m here to explain why.”

A flicker of movement in the Guard section. Fox stood rigid. Thorn just beside him, jaw locked, eyes shadowed. Hound and Stone were in the perimeter, unreadable. Vos, of course, had chosen a front-row seat among the Jedi delegation, grinning faintly.

“Have any of you ever been on the ground in a war zone?” she asked. “Not from a ship, not through a report, but in the mud, where every face you see might be the last one you ever do?”

Silence.

“I’ve made decisions that I’ll carry for the rest of my life. I’ve given orders I wish I never had to. But those decisions saved my people. My world stands united today because I chose resolve over ruin. I chose to wear the weight of history instead of letting it crush the next generation.”

She turned slightly.

“There was a time even my own people branded me a war criminal. They painted my name across memorials as if I was a villain. And I accepted that pain, because in time… they saw what I had done. They saw peace take root.”

She breathed deeply. Her voice softened, but carried more strength in that hush than in any shout.

“Now I fight for them in a different war. Not with a rifle. Not with deception. But with my voice. In these chambers. I will not run from my past. I will not be ashamed of the blood I spilt to protect my home.”

One senator stood—Bail Organa, his expression grim but respectful.

“She has the floor,” he said, shooting down an attempted interruption from Orn Free Taa.

Mon Mothma sat in contemplative stillness. Padmé’s eyes shone with restrained emotion. Others watched with wary curiosity, some with disdain.

At the Chancellor’s podium, Palpatine remained motionless. He looked pleased—like someone watching a rare animal prove its worth in the wild.

“I came to this Senate to make sure no one else has to make the decisions I did,” the senator finished. “So the next child born on my world doesn’t grow up hearing bombs in the distance. So they never have to wear my scars. That’s what I stand for now. And I won’t apologize for surviving.”

A beat of silence.

Then, scattered applause. Hesitant. Then stronger. Not unanimous—but it didn’t need to be. It was enough.

In the gallery, Thorn exhaled through his nose, shoulders sinking like a tension cord had snapped loose. Fox remained motionless, helmet still tucked under one arm—but his eyes tracked her every movement, his jaw clenched tight.

Later, as the senators filed out, murmuring amongst themselves, Palpatine spoke to Mas Amedda in a hushed aside, lips curling faintly.

“She’s more useful than I thought.”

Vos caught Thorn’s shoulder in the corridor and whispered, “Your war criminal’s got a spine of durasteel. I’d be careful with that.”

Thorn didn’t answer.

Fox lingered behind as she left the chamber. Just close enough for her to feel it.

The storm wasn’t over. But she’d stood in it without flinching.

And some storms change the shape of entire worlds.

⸻

The briefing room tucked behind the Coruscant Guard’s barracks was dimly lit, blue holoscreens casting flickers over the faces of the commanders seated around the central table. The atmosphere was thick—less with the weight of military protocol and more with something unsaid.

Commander Stone was the first to break the silence, arms crossed over his chest. “So… it’s true then. She did all that. And now it’s on every damn channel.”

“She did what she had to do,” Thorn said flatly, from where he leaned back in his seat. “None of us were there.”

Fox didn’t look at him. He was focused on the holo-feed looping headlines and excerpts from the senator’s public speech. His jaw worked, teeth grinding behind tight lips.

“She’s not hiding it,” Hound added, Grizzer resting his massive head in the man’s lap. “That counts for something.”

“Counts for more than most around here,” Thire muttered.

Stone raised an eyebrow. “You lot thinking what I’m thinking?”

“If you’re thinking she’s more of a soldier than half the senators we’ve ever had to babysit,” Hound said, scratching behind Grizzer’s ears, “then yeah.”

Thorn exhaled, sharp. “I already knew there was something in her. You don’t carry yourself like that unless you’ve seen real battle. Felt real loss.”

Fox finally spoke. “What else do we know?”

The question was hard, calculated, detached—but Thorn’s gaze snapped to him anyway. “About her? Or about your jealousy?”

The room tensed. Even Grizzer lifted his head.

Fox turned to Thorn at last, expression unreadable. “Careful, Commander.”

“You’re not my General,” Thorn said coolly, but the bite was real.

“But I am your superior.”

Stone cleared his throat loudly, trying to cut through the heat. “We all saw how she handled the Senate. That was command presence. Controlled the room like a field op. And she didn’t flinch when they threw her to the wolves.”

Fox leaned over the holotable, voice low. “She’s not just some politician anymore. The whole damn galaxy sees it. That makes her a target in more ways than one.”

“She always was,” Thorn said.

Another stare between the two men. Hound’s eyes flicked back and forth between them, and he muttered under his breath to Grizzer, “We’re going to need a bigger distraction than you, buddy.”

Thire shook his head. “Point is, the leak backfired. She came out stronger. People are backing her now. Some senators are scared. Some want her silenced.”

Fox folded his arms. “So we protect her.”

“You mean you protect her?” Thorn asked, tone lighter but laced with that edge only soldiers could hear.

Fox didn’t answer.

Hound stood. “Alright. This is heading somewhere messy. Let’s not forget, we’re not in the field. We’re on Coruscant. We do our jobs. We don’t let personal feelings get in the way.”

But even as he said it, no one met each other’s eyes.

Because personal feelings had already breached the perimeter.

And everyone knew it.

⸻

“You’re enjoying this far too much,” Obi-Wan said, cradling a mug of something strong enough to pass for caf, though it smelled more like fermented spice.

Vos smirked, lounging back on the armrest of a couch in Kenobi’s Coruscant quarters, one boot kicked up on the low table between them. “Oh, come on. It’s not every day I get to see two commanders practically lose their minds over a senator.”

Obi-Wan arched a brow. “They’re not losing their minds. They’re… protective.”

“Protective?” Vos laughed. “You didn’t see Fox after the hearing. Man looked like someone had kicked his speeder and insulted his genetics in the same breath.”

Kenobi sipped from his mug. “I saw the footage. She handled it well.”

Vos’s grin softened, just a bit. “Yeah. She did. Same way she handled that siege back on her planet. No one expected her to hold that ridge—hell, even I doubted she would. But she did. She held the line until we got there. Lost half her unit doing it.”

Obi-Wan nodded slowly. “You never said much about that campaign.”

“Because she didn’t want anyone to,” Vos replied. “Told me once that her victories came at the price of becoming something she didn’t recognize in the mirror. Said peace didn’t clean blood from your hands, only buried it.”

Silence passed between them.

Then Obi-Wan spoke, quieter now. “Do you think the leak will change her?”

Vos exhaled, dragging a hand through his long hair. “No. But it’ll change how others see her. And she’ll see that. She’ll feel it. Same way we did after Geonosis, or Umbara, or… hell, pick a battlefield.”

“She’s not a Jedi, Quinlan. She doesn’t have the Code to fall back on.”

Vos shrugged. “That might be what saves her.”

Kenobi set his cup down. “And what exactly do you think I can do for her?”

“You’re already doing it,” Vos said, stretching. “You’re one of the only people left she still trusts. And the clones? They’re going to tear each other apart if someone doesn’t get them back in line.”

Obi-Wan frowned. “You’re the one who stirred the pot, Quinlan.”

Vos stood and headed for the door with a grin. “Yeah. But you’re the one who has to keep it from boiling over.”

Kenobi watched him go, sighing softly before turning to the window. Below, Coruscant’s cityscape blinked like starlight trapped in durasteel. The senator’s voice echoed in his mind—measured, passionate, defiant.

A war hero. A survivor. And now, a symbol caught in the middle of something neither of them could fully control.

And Quinlan Vos, as always, had thrown kindling on an already smoldering fire.

⸻

The message blinked on her datapad:

[VOS]: Hey, sunshine. We need to talk. Open your door before I decide to climb something I probably shouldn’t.

She stared at it, lips pressed in a flat line. The datapad dimmed after a moment of her not responding.

“No,” she muttered to herself, tossing the device onto the couch as she stepped into her modest apartment’s kitchen. She wasn’t in the mood for Vos’ brand of chaos—not tonight. Not after the day she’d had.

She barely made it through pouring a glass of water before—

BANG BANG BANG!

Her eyes snapped to the glass doors leading out to the balcony.

Another loud knock. BANG!

Then came the muffled but unmistakable voice of Jedi Master Quinlan Vos.

“I know you saw my message! Don’t ignore me, Senator, I scaled four levels of durasteel infrastructure to get up here!”

She groaned, pressing her forehead to a cabinet door. “Force help me.”

She crossed the apartment with an air of reluctant resignation and unlocked the balcony door. Vos was standing there, slightly winded but grinning as if he’d just dropped by for tea.

“You’re lucky I didn’t stun you through the glass,” she said, stepping aside.

Vos strolled in like he owned the place. “You wouldn’t have. I’m far too charming.”

“You’re far too irritating.”

He smirked, shrugging off the slight. “That too.”

She folded her arms. “What do you want, Vos?”

He grew more serious at that, the mischief retreating just slightly from his expression. “I want to know how you’re holding up. And I figured you wouldn’t actually answer that unless I forced my way onto your balcony.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re avoiding.”

Her jaw clenched, but she didn’t deny it.

“Listen,” Vos said, voice lower now, “I know what it feels like when your past catches up. You think it’s going to rip away everything you’ve built. But it won’t. Not unless you let it.”

She turned away, facing the cityscape, arms still wrapped around herself. “You saw the looks in the rotunda. They’re not going to forget. They’re not supposed to.”

“They’re not supposed to forgive either,” Vos said quietly. “But some of them will. Especially the ones that matter.”

She was silent for a long moment. Then: “Did you say anything to Fox or Thorn?”

Vos leaned on the balcony rail beside her. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

Her gaze cut sideways toward him. “Vos.”

He smiled faintly. “You’re not the only one who knows how to give a political answer.”

“I swear, if you meddled—”

“I didn’t tell them the whole truth. I couldn’t, even if I wanted to. Most of it’s still classified… even to me.”

“But you were there.”

“I was. And I saw you do what needed doing when no one else had the spine.”

She didn’t reply.

“I’m not here to dig,” Vos said, standing upright again. “Just to remind you that you didn’t survive that war to start hiding again now.”

She looked at him then, eyes hard but grateful.

“Fine,” she said at last. “You can stay for a drink. One.”

He grinned. “See? I am charming.”

⸻

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Wrecker x shop keeper reader

*Based on Pabu*

⸻

Your little sushi shop didn’t look like much from the outside—just a corner nook with faded sea-blue paint and a handwritten chalkboard menu—but it was yours. A quiet dream built on fish markets, rice steamers, and the salty Pabu breeze.

And it had one very big, very loud, very lovable regular.

Wrecker.

He first stumbled in by accident, really. Something about Omega spotting the place and dragging him along with promises of “raw fish and weird seaweed rolls” she wanted to try.

You remembered watching him duck to fit through the doorway, nearly taking the paper lantern with him. The moment he sat on the cushion—you swore it gave up the ghost. You’d nearly burst out laughing. So had Omega.

And yet, after one massive order (three rolls, two bowls of rice, and miso soup he drank straight from the pot), he patted his stomach and declared it the “best food I ever had that didn’t come in a ration pack or get cooked over a fire by Crosshair!”

He meant it. He kept coming back. Sometimes with Omega, sometimes alone.

And over time… you fell.

It wasn’t sudden. It wasn’t fireworks. It was slow. Like the way he grinned with soy sauce on his cheek. The way he lit up whenever Omega told stories and always listened like every word was gold. The way he tried to use chopsticks and ended up stabbing his sushi like it had wronged him. The way he always complimented your food. Even on the days you messed up the rice.

He sat at the same spot. Always the far left cushion, near the open window where he could watch the sea and keep an eye on Omega playing with the local kids.

He told you stories too. About the Batch. About the war. About planets you’d never heard of and creatures he’d wrestled, often embellishing the size.

“I swear, the thing was this big!” he’d gesture, arms spread wider than your doorway.

You’d laugh. You always laughed.

But lately, it hurt a little. Because you loved him. And you didn’t know if he saw you as anything other than “the sushi girl.” A friend. A safe place. A routine.

You weren’t extraordinary. You didn’t fly ships or fight droids. You didn’t save people or have scars to show for anything but kitchen burns.

You were just… here. Making sushi.

And he was Wrecker.

⸻

It was a quiet evening when he came alone. The sun painted everything in gold, the sea calm and whispering.

You were cleaning up when you heard the familiar grunt of him ducking through the doorway.

“Hey, Wrecker,” you said, smiling softly. “No Omega?”

“She’s off with Hunter. Some market thing.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Thought I’d drop by anyway. Got a seat for me?”

“Always.”

He took his spot. You brought out his favorite roll without asking.

You didn’t talk much at first. Just the quiet sound of chopsticks failing and him switching to his fingers after a few tries.

“Y’know,” he said suddenly, “I like it here.”

You paused, halfway to wiping down a table. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. It’s peaceful. And you’re always nice to me. Even when I eat too much.”

You chuckled, heart thumping. “I like having you here.”

He looked up at you then, serious in a way he rarely was.

“I hope this ain’t weird,” he said. “But I think about you. A lot. When I’m not here.”

Your breath caught.

He kept going, nervously, like he was charging into battle. “I don’t really get how all this… love stuff works. But I know how I feel. And I know I wanna be around you more. If that’s okay.”

Your hands were shaking. You smiled, eyes misting over.

“I thought I was just a friend to you,” you whispered.

“Nah,” he said, softly this time. “You’re more.”

He stood, awkwardly towering over the bar, then reached out and touched your hand with his massive, callused fingers.

“Unless you don’t want that. Then I can just keep eatin’ sushi and shuttin’ up.”

You laughed through a tear. “I want that. I’ve wanted that.”

⸻

From then on, nothing changed—and everything did.

Wrecker still sat in the same seat. Still made a mess. Still laughed too loud.

But now he held your hand under the table. Now he walked you home after close, grumbling that he had to make sure you were safe—even on the safest island in the galaxy. Now he left tiny gifts on the counter: shiny shells, carved wood, one time a flower that got squished in his fist but still smelled sweet.

Omega noticed right away, of course. She beamed at you both.

“Took you long enough,” she said, biting into a rice ball. “He talks about you all the time.”

You just smiled and passed her another plate.

Your heart full. Your quiet dream now shared.

⸻

Read more by me

“The Quiet Rebellion”

Captain Howzer x Twi’lek Reader

⸻

Freedom was a strange thing.

You could be chained for years—shackled, broken, silenced—and still not feel as free as you did when you sprinted through the jungle with a stolen blaster and your heart racing like it had somewhere to go.

You’d fought to be here.

Fought to exist.

Now you fought for something.

Cham Syndulla had given you a cause. A home. A voice. And you’d die before you let anyone take that away again.

Which made your situation with Captain Howzer… complicated.

You first saw him standing tall in the Ryloth city square, surrounded by clone troopers in gleaming armor. He wasn’t barking orders like the others. He watched. Measured. Thought.

You hated him immediately.

Until you didn’t.

The first time you really spoke, it was because of Hera.

“Put me down!” Hera screamed, dangling from the edge of a roof she wasn’t supposed to be on.

You scrambled to reach her—but Howzer got there first, catching her mid-fall and cradling her against his chest.

“Hera,” he said, calm and soft, “you alright, kid?”

She blinked at him. “Yeah… you have a really strong arm.”

“Perks of the job.”

You expected him to arrest her. Lecture her. Instead, he handed her off to you, nodded once, and said:

“She’s bold. Reminds me of someone.”

It was the first time he looked at you like he saw you—not a rebel, not a threat, but someone.

You didn’t know how to feel about that.

⸻

Weeks passed.

The Empire’s grip tightened. Ryloth tensed. So did you.

But Howzer—he didn’t act like a loyal dog. He asked questions. Protected civilians. Argued with Admiral Rampart in front of everyone.

And when you crossed paths again—this time in secret, near an old Separatist outpost—you confronted him.

“You gonna shoot me now, Captain?” you asked, blaster raised.

He didn’t flinch. “No. I came to talk.”

You laughed bitterly. “Clones don’t talk. They obey.”

“I’m trying not to.”

That stopped you cold.

You lowered your weapon, cautiously.

“I’ve seen what the Empire is doing,” he said, stepping closer. “I don’t agree with it. I think you don’t either.”

“I was a slave,” you spat. “I know what tyranny looks like.”

He didn’t argue.

“I’ve been watching you,” he added. “Fighting. Protecting people. Risking everything for them. You don’t run. You don’t hide. You remind me of why I started wearing this armor in the first place.”

Your breath hitched.

And just like that, the tension between you snapped—not with violence, but something gentler. Warmer.

Something that felt like understanding.

⸻

From then on, you met in secret.

He smuggled you information—troop movements, transport schedules, weak points in the blockade.

You brought Hera to some of the meetings. She liked to sit on a crate, Chopper at her side, giving snarky commentary.

“Are you two in love yet?” she asked one night, kicking her legs.

You choked on your drink. Howzer actually blushed.

“I—I don’t think soldiers are allowed to be in love,” he said awkwardly.

“Then it’s a good thing I’m not a soldier,” you muttered.

Hera just shrugged. “I think you should kiss. You look at her like my dad looks at my mom.”

You and Howzer shared a long, stunned silence. Chopper beeped something crude.

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” Howzer muttered.

But later, when the night was quiet and you were alone with him, the firelight dancing off his armor, you finally asked,

“Why are you doing this? Risking everything?”

He looked at you, eyes soft, jaw clenched.

“Because you showed me something real,” he said. “And I want to fight for it—for you—instead of some banner that doesn’t mean anything anymore.”

You leaned in, heart thudding.

And when you kissed him, it wasn’t soft. It was earned.

Fierce. Honest. Full of fire and freedom and all the things you’d both been denied for too long.

You weren’t free of danger.

You weren’t safe.

But you had something better.

You had each other.

And even in the heart of an Empire, that was rebellion enough.

⸻

happy Monday friend! Can I request some angst and fluff with wrecker that ends in cuddles please? I could use a giant hug today! Thank you so much for being awesome

“Big Enough to Hold You”

Wrecker x Reader

You didn’t mean to snap at him.

It wasn’t Wrecker’s fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault, really. The day had just been too much—the mission gone sideways, another evac too close to the edge, too many people screaming, not enough time. You’d gotten separated. Lost track of him. Thought—just for a moment—you’d lost him for good.

And when he came back, grinning like he always did, banged up but fine…

You’d yelled.

“Don’t do that to me again!”

His smile faded instantly, eyes wide like a kicked tooka.

“I—I didn’t mean to—”

“I thought you were dead, Wrecker!”

Silence followed your words like a stormcloud.

You didn’t wait for him to respond. Just turned on your heel and left the ship’s ramp, sitting down hard on a nearby crate, hands shaking, throat tight. You weren’t even mad at him. You were scared. You were so damn scared.

And then you heard the heavy footsteps.

Slow. Hesitant.

You didn’t look up, but you felt the weight of him settle next to you. Big. Warm. Safe.

“…M’sorry,” Wrecker said quietly.

You blinked. Looked up.

He was staring at the ground, fingers picking at his gloves, like he thought you might still snap. Like he was afraid you wouldn’t want him close.

That hurt more than anything else.

“No,” you whispered, voice cracking. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled. I just… you scared me, Wrecker.”

His brow furrowed. “I didn’t mean to. I was just trying to hold the line ‘til Hunter pulled you out. Wasn’t gonna let ‘em get near you.”

“I know,” you said, throat tight. “That’s the problem.”

He looked at you then—really looked. And whatever he saw on your face must’ve broken something in him, because the next second you were swept into the warmest, strongest hug you’d ever known.

“I’m right here,” he said into your hair. “I’m big enough to hold anything you’re feeling, alright? Scared, sad, mad—don’t matter. Just don’t shut me out.”

You clung to him. Just melted into that broad chest, buried your face in his neck and breathed. He smelled like metal and burn marks and something warm and safe. Like home.

“I don’t want to lose you,” you said, voice muffled.

“You won’t,” he promised. “Not if I got anything to say about it.”

He shifted, adjusting you easily in his lap until you were curled into him like a child, his arms wrapped around you like a fortress. He rocked you gently—just a little—and hummed something soft under his breath. You didn’t know the tune. You didn’t need to.

Time passed. Neither of you moved.

Eventually, he whispered, “You good now?”

You nodded against his chest. “Better now.”

“Good,” he said, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “’Cause I ain’t lettin’ go for a while.”

And he didn’t.

The rocking slowed, and his hand settled at the back of your head, big fingers threading through your hair with slow, careful strokes. Your breathing evened out against his chest, your fingers still curled in his shirt like you were afraid he’d disappear if you let go.

He noticed.

He always noticed.

Wrecker didn’t say anything—just held you tighter, chin resting on your head like it belonged there. Like you belonged there.

“You sleepin’?” he murmured after a while, voice hushed and tender.

No answer.

A soft smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He shifted his grip, effortlessly lifting you into his arms like you weighed nothing, like you were precious. Your cheek rested against his shoulder, breath warm against his skin.

The others were quiet in their bunks. Tech was reading. Echo nodded in greeting. Hunter glanced over but didn’t say a word—he just smiled, soft and knowing, and went back to sharpening his knife.

Wrecker nudged the door to your shared space open with his boot and brought you inside.

The lights were low. The sheets were turned down.

He set you down on the bed with all the care in the galaxy, brushing a hand over your hair, tucking the blanket around you. You stirred slightly—just enough to mumble his name in a sleep-heavy voice.

“Wreck…”

“I’m here,” he said, instantly, quietly. “I’m right here, sweetheart.”

You reached for him blindly. “Don’t go.”

His heart cracked in two. “Not goin’ anywhere.”

He climbed into bed beside you, the mattress dipping beneath his size, and pulled you into him like a gravity well. One arm beneath your head, the other wrapped securely around your waist, your head nestled beneath his chin.

Your body relaxed completely—safe, warm, wrapped in the scent and strength of him.

You were already asleep again.

But he didn’t sleep for a while. He just lay there, holding you, watching your chest rise and fall with every breath. A gentle giant wrapped around the most important person in his world.

And when he did sleep, it was with a soft smile, because for once he knew you were safe.

And you knew you were loved.