“Crossfire” Pt.4

“Red Lines” pt.4

Ryio Chuchi x Commander Fox x Reader x Sergeant Hound

The doors hissed closed behind you, muting Coruscant’s constant thrum. Your heels clicked against the marble tiling—white-veined, blood-dark stone imported from home, etched with quiet pride.

The apartment was dim, tasteful, and cold—just the way you preferred it. You dropped your cloak onto the back of a chaise and walked straight for your desk.

The datapads were already stacked like bricks of guilt.

You sank into the high-backed chair, activated the holoscreen, and scrolled through messages from governors, planetary councils, and military liaisons. The usual blend of corruption, ego, and veiled threats disguised as diplomacy.

Too much to do. Never enough time.

“Perhaps you should consider a protocol droid,” murmured Maera, your senior handmaiden, gliding in with a cup of steaming blackleaf tea. “One of the newer models. They can help prioritize correspondence and handle… the more tedious tasks.”

You looked at her over the rim of your cup. “So you mean let a metal snitch sit in my office all day?”

“They’re quite helpful,” she said, folding her hands. “Especially with translations, cross-senate scheduling, cultural briefings—”

“I know what they do.”

Maera gave you a patient look—the kind she’d perfected over years of serving someone who never stopped. “You don’t have to do everything yourself.”

“Of course I do,” you said, already scanning through another briefing. “Because no one else does it right.”

The chime of your apartment door interrupted further commentary.

You didn’t look up. “Let them in.”

Maera bowed, then vanished toward the front foyer.

You heard the faint murmur of pleasantries, the soft wheeze of servos, and then—

“Oh, this place again,” came the indignant voice of a droid. “Why does it always smell faintly of molten durasteel and latent judgment?”

“C-3PO,” came Padmé’s warning voice, graceful and composed even when exasperated.

You turned slightly in your chair to face your guests. Senator Amidala, as ever, was luminous in Naboo silk, gold accents at her collar and sleeves. Anakin followed just behind her, less formal, hands in his belt, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.

C-3PO trailed in with careful offense, wringing his hands as if expecting you to insult him on sight.

You stood slowly, arching a brow. “I’d say it’s a surprise, but I’ve been too tired to lie today.”

Padmé gave you a sharp smile—more real than most. “We came to discuss the fallout from the Senate hearing. Your… performance with Senator Kessen.”

Anakin was already smirking. “You mean the part where she lit his reputation on fire and danced in the ashes?”

“I didn’t dance,” you said mildly. “I just pointed out the arson had been self-inflicted.”

Padmé pressed her lips together. “It was a bold move. Some say reckless.”

“And others say effective.”

“Others,” Padmé said carefully, “are wondering if you’re trying to provoke more conflict than resolution.”

You rolled your eyes and gestured to the chair opposite your desk. “Sit down, Senator. You’ll get a cramp standing on that moral high ground all night.”

She exhaled, and—credit to her—actually sat.

You watched her for a moment, then lazily turned your gaze to C-3PO, who was busy inspecting a vase and making soft noises of horror at the lack of polish.

“So,” you said abruptly. “Do you enjoy having a protocol droid?”

Padmé blinked. “Pardon?”

You leaned forward, expression sly and disarming. “C-3PO. Is he worth the constant commentary and fragility? Or do you keep him around to make you feel more composed by comparison?”

C-3PO squawked. “I beg your pardon, Senator, I am an exceptionally rare and invaluable translation and etiquette droid—”

Padmé raised a hand, silencing him gently. “I find him useful. Occasionally irritating, but… helpful.”

“Hmm.” You leaned back. “I suppose it’s easier when you don’t mind being listened to.”

Anakin stifled a laugh. Padmé gave him a warning glance.

You shifted slightly in your chair, eyeing her again.

“You didn’t come here just for diplomacy. What’s the real reason?”

“I did want to talk about Kessen,” Padmé said evenly. “But… yes. There’s more. I’m concerned about the alliances you’re forming. With Skywalker. With… certain Guard officers.”

“Fox,” you supplied, smiling faintly.

Her expression flickered. “You’re not subtle.”

“I’ve never needed to be,” you said. “Subtlety is for people whose power isn’t visible.”

Padmé’s voice softened. “Be careful. People are watching you more closely than ever. You’ve made enemies, and you’re not on neutral ground anymore.”

You stood slowly, brushing nonexistent dust off your skirt. “I’ve never had neutral ground.”

Behind her, Anakin leaned on the back of the couch with a half-smirk. “Told you she’d say something like that.”

Padmé sighed.

The light in your home office softened as the sun began to vanish behind the metallic skyline. Coruscant’s artificial twilight crept in, and shadows elongated against the marble floor, the sharp silhouette of the Senate still looming in the distance through your tall windows.

Padmé stood now, hands folded neatly in front of her, expression calm, composed—but not cold.

“For what it’s worth,” she said quietly, “we’ve never seen eye-to-eye in the Senate. Our values differ, and our approaches even more so.”

You arched a brow. “A gracious understatement.”

She continued without rising to the bait. “But I still want you to be safe.”

That made you blink, just for a moment. A flicker of something softened your features, though it disappeared just as quickly.

Padmé took a breath, glancing sidelong at Anakin before she added, “And while I don’t agree with the friendship you and Skywalker seem to have built, I understand why you formed it.”

You tilted your head. “You disapprove?”

“I worry,” she corrected. “He has a habit of getting drawn into… chaos. You carry more of it than most.”

You gave a slow, dark smile. “I thought he liked that.”

“He does,” Anakin chimed in from the corner, hands clasped behind his back.

Padmé gave him a sharp glance. He shrugged like a delinquent Padawan.

“But regardless,” Padmé said firmly, refocusing on you, “he’ll protect you, if you need it. That’s what he does. Whether I agree or not.”

You regarded her in silence for a long moment. Then you said, with just enough edge to be honest but not cruel, “It’s strange, Amidala. I don’t think we’ve ever spoken this long without one of us trying to crush the other in a committee vote.”

Padmé gave a small, tired laugh. “Well. There’s a first time for everything.”

You nodded once. “Your concern is noted. And… accepted.”

Padmé inclined her head, graceful as ever. Then, with one final look, she turned and made for the door.

C-3PO clanked after her. “Oh thank the Maker. Honestly, Senator, I don’t think I was designed for this level of tension!”

Anakin lingered a little longer, offering a subtle grin as he passed you.

“Don’t do anything reckless while I’m gone.”

You smirked. “You make it sound like a challenge.”

The apartment fell into stillness once more, the doors hissing shut behind Senator Amidala and her entourage. Outside, Coruscant’s traffic lanes shimmered like veins of light against the dusk. Inside, you remained at your desk, arms crossed loosely, head tilted back to stare at the ceiling as the silence swelled around you.

Footsteps padded softly across the marble, and Maera re-entered the study. She moved with careful grace, but she was watching you closely—too closely for comfort.

“You held your temper,” she said mildly.

You smirked, eyes still on the ceiling. “I’m evolving.”

“I almost miss the yelling.”

You finally looked down. “Don’t get sentimental.”

Maera glanced at the datapads still stacked on the desk, then turned her attention back to you. “What’s on the agenda for tomorrow?”

You exhaled through your nose and stood, smoothing the front of your robes with a practiced flick of your fingers.

“We’re going shopping.”

Maera blinked. “Shopping?”

You gave her a devilish smile—cool, amused, but exhausted around the edges. “For a protocol droid.”

She blinked again, just once more slowly. “I thought you hated protocol droids.”

“I do,” you agreed. “But I hate having to draft a thousand reply letters to planetary governors even more.”

She blinked again. “Is this because Senator Amidala made hers look useful?”

“It’s because I’ve learned that war criminals don’t schedule their own executions and Kessen’s supporters won’t shut up in my inbox.” You paused, then added with a shrug, “And fine, maybe I’m tired of forgetting which language the Kray’tok trade delegation prefers.”

Maera offered a rare grin, genuine but subtle. “I’ll call the droid district and start vetting models.”

“Do that,” you said. “Make sure whatever we get can take sass, curse in Huttese, and redact documents on command.”

“And maybe something that doesn’t faint when you pull a blaster on someone mid-sentence?”

“Exactly.”

She left with a knowing nod, and you stood alone for a beat longer, your eyes drifting to the window, to the glowing silhouette of the Senate dome.

You murmured under your breath:

“Let’s see if protocol can keep up.”

⸻

Mid-morning sunlight filtered through the transparisteel roof of Coruscant’s droid district. Neon signs buzzed, offering quick repairs and overpriced firmware updates. The air stank of ionized metal and fast food.

You stood between two handmaidens: Maera, your ever-calm shadow, and young Ila, who looked like she’d been plucked from a finishing school and hadn’t yet realized she was in a war-torn galaxy. Ila was already staring wide-eyed at a droid with one arm replaced by a kitchen whisk.

“Are they all this… rusty?” she asked, wrinkling her nose.

“Only the cheap ones,” you replied dryly.

The first shop was a disappointment. The protocol droid bowed so low it knocked its head on the counter. The second tried to upsell you a ‘companion droid’ that made Ila blush violently. By the fourth shop, you were regretting everything.

“Maybe we just commission one from Kuat,” Maera muttered.

“Why? So it can bankrupt us while correcting my grammar?”

Then, in the fifth cramped storefront, you found it.

VX-7. The protocol droid stood motionless—sleek plating dulled by years, but optics sharp and intelligent. It didn’t grovel, didn’t babble. When you asked if it could handle over three dozen planetary dialects, it replied in all of them. When you asked if it could manage your schedule, redact sensitive communications, and tell a governor to kark off in six ways without causing a diplomatic incident, it smiled faintly and said:

“Of course, Senator. I specialize in tactfully worded hostility.”

You turned to Maera. “I’m keeping this one.”

Then something small rammed into your shin.

You looked down to see a battered astromech droid—paint chipped, dome scratched, one leg replaced with an old cargo hauler’s stabilizer. It beeped at you. Aggressively.

“What’s this?” you asked, raising a brow.

The shopkeeper looked apologetic. “R9-VD. Mean little bastard. Picks fights with power converters. Nearly blew a hole in my storage unit last week.”

Ila gasped. “Oh stars—he’s twitching!”

The droid growled.

You grinned. “I’ll take him.”

The shopkeeper blinked. “You will?”

“Buy one, bleed one free. Sounds like a bargain.”

“I was hoping you’d say that,” he muttered, already dragging the crate of restraining bolts out from behind the counter. “Take him before he sets fire to my register again.”

Maera stared at you. “You’re collecting feral droids now?”

“I collect useful things.”

You exited into the street, the new protocol droid gliding beside you, R9 clanking along behind like a stubby little demon. Ila was still muttering prayers under her breath. You were halfway through admiring your new acquisitions when a familiar bark echoed from across the thoroughfare.

“Senator!”

You turned to find Sergeant Hound, helmet off, walking toward you in full armor—Grizzer trotting loyally at his side.

“Well, well,” you said. “Look who I find when I’m burdened with two droids and a fainting noble.”

Hound laughed, scratching behind Grizzer’s ear. “Running errands?”

“Recruiting staff,” you said, nodding toward the droids. “The tall one speaks over a thousand languages. The short one hates everything.”

Grizzer growled affectionately at the astromech, who let out an aggressive beep in return.

“Careful,” Hound chuckled. “Grizzer likes him.”

You watched the way he stood—relaxed but alert, protective but never patronizing. When he met your eyes, there was no awkwardness, no nervous fumbling.

No obliviousness.

“Walking your route?” you asked.

“North patrol. You’re in my sector.”

“How fortunate for me,” you said, letting your tone shift slightly—warm, measured, curious. Not performative.

Just real.

Hound smiled, a little wider than usual. “Need an escort home again, Senator?”

“Only if Grizzer promises not to chew on R9’s restraining bolt.”

The droid made a noise like it was loading a weapon. Grizzer barked once, delighted.

Hound looked between you, the droids, your handmaidens—then back to you.

“I think I could be persuaded.”

You smiled. And for the first time in a while, it reached your eyes.

⸻

The doors to your apartment hissed open with a smooth sigh of hydraulics. The droids rolled and clicked in after you, their sensors flicking to scan the space—uninvited, instinctual, and irritating.

“Ila,” you called before your cloak hit the back of the nearest chair. “Make sure the astromech doesn’t electrocute anything.”

“Yes, Senator!” she said quickly, scrambling after the droid as it began sniffing around the comm terminal like it wanted to chew through the wires.

“Maera,” you continued, already tugging off your gloves. “I want them both repainted, polished, and calibrated by tomorrow morning.”

Maera raised a brow. “The astromech too?”

“I want it looking like it belongs to a senator, not some spice-smuggler from Nal Hutta.”

“The protocol droid seems compliant,” Maera said dryly. “The other one just tried to bite the upholstery.”

You turned and narrowed your eyes at R9-VD, who stared back—optics glowing, dome twitching.

“I don’t care if it wants to die in rusted anonymity. It’s going to shine. And we’ll scrub the attitude off if we have to sandblast it.”

Maera only nodded, too used to this by now. She snapped her fingers toward the cleaning droids and pulled out a datapad to begin scheduling repairs and a polish crew.

You poured yourself a glass of something dark and expensive and leaned against the balcony frame. The city buzzed beyond the transparisteel, a sleepless, greedy animal that had become your second home.

The protocol droid finally stepped forward, voice even.

“Shall I begin familiarizing myself with your schedule, Senator?”

“Start with everything I’ve put off since the Kessen disaster.”

“That could take a while.”

“Good,” you said with a small smile. “That means I’ll finally be caught up.”

As the droids were ushered away for cleaning, you took a sip of your drink, eyes never leaving the skyline.

Everything was sharpening.

Even your toys.

⸻

Coruscant’s dusk cast long shadows over the Guard barracks. Inside the command room, Fox stood over a data console, reviewing the latest internal report—a thinly veiled attempt to stay busy, to stay removed. The hum of troop activity outside was constant, comforting. Controlled.

Hound leaned against the far wall, arms folded, helmet clipped to his belt. He’d been unusually quiet on patrol. Fox noticed.

“You’ve been around the senator a lot lately,” Fox said, voice neutral, still scanning the holoscreen. “She using you for access?”

Hound’s brow ticked upward, slow and unimpressed. “That a serious question?”

Fox finally looked up. “She doesn’t keep people close unless she can gain from it.”

“She doesn’t exactly keep you far.”

That made Fox pause.

Hound pushed off the wall and stepped forward, tone low. “You ever think she’s not using either of us?”

“She’s a politician,” Fox said bluntly. “That’s what they do.”

“And you’re a commander,” Hound shot back. “You’re supposed to see the battlefield. But somehow you can’t see that both those senators—Chuchi and her—don’t just want your vote in a hearing. They want you. And you—kriffing hell, Fox—you’re so deep in denial, it’s tragic.”

Fox opened his mouth, but nothing came. His jaw tensed. His fingers curled tighter over the edge of the console.

Before the tension could crack the air entirely—

“Commander Fox.”

The voice was delicate, practiced, kind. Senator Chuchi stepped into the command room, her pale blue presence a breath of cold air between the two men.

Hound stepped aside, silent.

Chuchi held out a small datapad. “These are the updated refugee settlement numbers. I thought it best to deliver them personally.”

Fox took it, fingers brushing hers for half a second too long. “Appreciated, Senator.”

Chuchi’s eyes lingered on him, soft but calculating. “I also hoped to ask you about additional patrol rotations near the lower levels. I’ve had…concerns.”

Her tone was careful, concern genuine—but her glance toward Hound didn’t go unnoticed.

Hound met it with polite detachment, but behind his eyes, something shifted. He excused himself quietly and stepped past them, boots heavy on the stone floor. Neither of them saw the way his jaw clenched or the storm in his expression as he exited.

Fox stood frozen a moment longer, datapad in hand, Chuchi watching him.

Something had changed.

The lines were no longer clean.

He used to know what battlefield he stood on.

Now… he wasn’t so sure.

⸻

It wasn’t like you were following Fox.

You just happened to be heading toward the main Guard corridor with a report in hand. The protocol droid clanked behind you, reciting lines of political updates from other mid-rim systems while your new astromech—newly repainted in deep senate gold and high-gloss black—scuttled along beside it, muttering occasional threats at passing security cameras.

Pure coincidence, really.

You slowed when you rounded the corner near the war room. There they were—Fox and Chuchi.

She stood closer than usual. Too close.

Her hand brushed his vambrace as she handed him something. Fox didn’t pull away. He didn’t lean in either. Just… stood there. Controlled. Focused. But not untouched.

You paused. Watched. Tilted your head.

For a second, you hated her grace. Her softness. The way she made proximity seem natural instead of tactical. And how Fox didn’t seem to flinch from it.

A glimmer of something crawled up your spine—irritation? Jealousy? No. You didn’t have the luxury of that.

Before you could form a thought sharp enough to fling like a dagger—

CLANK—whiiiiiiiiirRRRRRZK—BEEP BEEP BEEP.

R9-VD rounded the corner like a demon loosed from hell’s server room, chased by your newly programmed protocol droid, whose polished plating gleamed like a diplomatic dagger.

“Senator!” the protocol droid trilled. “Your schedule is running precisely six minutes behind! Shall we move?”

Fox turned instantly at the racket, his expression shifting from unreadable to just vaguely resigned.

Chuchi stepped back from him with that serene smile she always wore in public, just a whisper too composed.

“Ah,” you said smoothly as you strode into view, “Don’t let me interrupt.”

“Senator,” Fox greeted you, stiff but polite. Chuchi nodded.

You let your gaze flick between them, slowly. One brow raised, mouth curved like you already knew the answer to a question no one asked. “Looks like everyone’s getting awfully familiar lately.”

“Professional coordination,” Chuchi replied, not missing a beat.

“Mm,” you hummed, eyes on Fox. “Is that what they’re calling it now?”

Fox’s brow twitched. Chuchi’s smile remained.

You snapped your fingers, and both droids froze. “Let’s go. We’ve got senators to ignore and corruption to thin out.”

As you swept past, you didn’t miss the way Fox glanced at you—just for a heartbeat.

Not enough.

Never enough.

But still… something.

⸻

The rotunda thundered with voices—some raised in passion, others carefully modulated with practiced deceit. The topic today was dangerous, volatile: the proposal for the accelerated production of a new wave of clone battalions.

You stood with one arm draped lazily along the back of your bench, expression unreadable but gaze sharp as vibroglass. Across the chamber, Chuchi had just taken the floor.

“I speak not against the clones themselves,” Chuchi said clearly, firmly. “But against the idea that we can continue this endless production without consequence. We are bankrupting our future.”

Your fingers tapped against the railing, the only sign of interest until you leaned forward to activate your mic.

“For once,” you said, voice cutting smoothly through the chamber, “I find myself in agreement with my esteemed colleague from Pantora.”

A ripple of surprise swept through the seats like a silent explosion. A rare alliance—unthinkable.

You continued. “We’re manufacturing soldiers like credits grow on trees. They don’t. The Banking Clan is already circling like carrion. Every new battalion is another rope around the Republic’s neck.”

That set the chamber ablaze.

Senator Ask Aak from Malastare sputtered his disagreement. “Our survival depends on maintaining numerical superiority!”

“And what happens when we can’t feed those numbers, Senator?” you snapped. “Do we sell your planet’s moons next?”

As chaos unfolded, the usual suspects fell into line—corrupt senators offering their support for more clone production, their pockets no doubt already lined with promises from arms manufacturers and banking lobbyists.

After the session ended, you stood shoulder to shoulder with Chuchi outside the rotunda. She looked exhausted but satisfied.

“Strange day,” she said quietly. “Stranger allies.”

You sipped from a flask you definitely weren’t supposed to have in the Senate building. “Don’t get used to it.”

But before she could respond—

“Senators,” came the purring, bloated voice of Orn Free Taa, waddling over with the smugness of someone who believed he owned the floor he walked on. “Your sudden alliance is… fascinating. One might wonder what prompted it. A common bedfellow, perhaps?”

You opened your mouth—but your protocol droid stepped forward first, blocking your path like a prim, glossy wall.

“Senator Taa,” the droid began in clipped, neutral tones. “While my mistress would be more than happy to humor your curious obsession with projecting your insecurities onto others, she is currently preoccupied with not strangling you with her own Senate robes.”

Taa blinked, thrown off by the droid’s tone. “Excuse me?”

The protocol unit didn’t miss a beat. “Forgive me, Senator. That was the polite version. I am still calibrating my diplomatic protocols, but I’ve been programmed specifically to identify corruption, incompetence, and conversational redundancy. You seem to be triggering all three.”

A sharp wheeze escaped Taa’s throat. “Why, I never—!”

“I suspect you have,” the droid interjected coolly, “and quite often.”

You didn’t even try to hide your smirk. “Don’t worry, Senator. He’s new. Still ironing out his filters. But I must say—he has excellent instincts.”

Chuchi choked on a laugh she tried very hard to disguise as a cough. Taa huffed and stormed off in an indignant swirl of silks and jowls.

Your droid turned to you. “Mistress, was I too subtle?”

“Perfect,” you said, patting its durasteel head. “I’ll make sure you get an oil bath laced with Corellian spice.”

Beside you, Chuchi finally let her laugh out. “I never thought I’d say this, but I may actually like your droid.”

“High praise coming from you.”

You both stood there for a quiet moment, mutual respect buried beneath mutual exhaustion.

“Today was strange,” she murmured again. “But… maybe not entirely bad.”

You tilted your head. “Don’t tell me you’re warming up to me, Chuchi.”

She gave you a look—wry, but not cold. “I’m starting to wonder if the galaxy would survive it if I did.”

Before you could respond, your astromech barreled out of the shadows, shrieking some new string of mechanical curses at a cleaning droid it had apparently declared war against.

You sighed. “And there goes diplomacy.”

Chuchi smiled. “Maybe the Senate could use more of that.”

Maybe.

⸻

The Grand Atrium of the Senate tower glittered with chandeliers imported from Alderaan, light dancing off glass and gold like it had something to celebrate. The banquet was a delicate affair—sponsored by the Supreme Chancellor himself, under the guise of “Republic Unity” and “Cross-Branch Collaboration.”

You could smell the tension in the air the moment you stepped in.

Long tables overflowed with artful dishes and finer wines. Senators mingled with Jedi, Guard officers, and military brass. Laughter drifted across the space, hollow and too loud. You walked in dressed to kill, as always—not in literal armor, but close enough. Your eyes swept the crowd. Scanned. Not for enemies. Just… two men.

You found them both within seconds.

Fox stood near the far arch, stoic in formal Guard reds, talking with Mace Windu and Master Yoda. Chuchi was at his side, hands clasped politely, expression open, deferential. Her eyes weren’t on Windu.

They were on Fox.

Across the room, Hound leaned against a support pillar near the musicians, his posture deceptively casual. Grizzer lay at his feet like a shadow. Hound’s eyes found yours immediately. He didn’t look away.

For a few beats, neither did you.

“You’re staring again,” your handmaiden whispered as she passed, wine in one hand.

“I’m assessing military distribution,” you replied flatly, plucking the glass.

“Liar.”

You smiled over the rim.

The Jedi presence tonight was thick. Kenobi, cloaked in his usual piety. Skywalker, prowling the crowd like he’d rather be anywhere else. Even Plo Koon and Shaak Ti made appearances, the Council exuding quiet power.

You didn’t care about them. Not really.

You moved.

Chuchi’s voice reached your ears as you approached the table where she and Fox stood. “I just think the Guard needs greater Senate oversight—not control, but transparency. For their safety.”

Fox nodded. “A fair point, Senator.”

“I’m shocked,” you drawled, appearing at his other side. “You usually flinch when people imply oversight.”

Chuchi’s smile cooled half a degree. “Some of us don’t believe in oversight being synonymous with domination.”

You sipped your wine. “I don’t dominate anyone who doesn’t want to be.”

Fox choked on his drink. Windu raised a brow and promptly walked away.

Chuchi’s stare could have frosted glass. “You’re impossible.”

“Debatable,” you replied. Then, sweetly, “Careful, Senator. You’re starting to sound jealous.”

Before Fox could open his mouth—likely to misinterpret all of this—Hound appeared beside you.

“Senator,” he said, his voice a little low, a little warm. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

You tilted toward him just slightly. “Trying to avoid me?”

“Not a chance.”

Fox’s eyes flicked toward you both. Sharp. Confused.

Chuchi noticed. Her gaze narrowed.

The conversation fractured as other senators arrived—Mon Mothma offered a cool nod, Padmé a quiet, guarded greeting. Bail approached with that politician’s smile and a quick, dry joke about the wine being better than the Senate votes.

But your attention split.

Fox’s shoulders were tense. He wasn’t making eye contact. Not with Chuchi. Not with you.

You leaned closer to Hound instead. “Tell me, Sergeant. Ever get tired of playing guard dog?”

“Not if the person I’m guarding’s worth the chase.”

That pulled a quiet snort from you. Fox heard it.

Chuchi, lips pressed in a fine line, excused herself and stepped aside—clearly trying to regain the upper hand.

The music swelled. Jedi floated between circles of influence. No one else seemed to notice that the air had gone charged, electric. A love square strung tight.

You stood between them, half a heartbeat from chaos.

And somewhere deep down, you enjoyed it.

The lights in the atrium dimmed just slightly as a new musical ensemble began to play—string instruments from Naboo, delicate and formal. On the surface, everything was polished elegance. Beneath, cracks were spreading.

Chuchi had excused herself from your circle not out of disinterest, but strategy. She’d caught sight of your handmaidens lingering near a refreshments table, their gowns modest and their eyes sweeping the room with practiced subtlety.

“Excuse me,” she said with a gentle smile as she approached. “You’re the senator’s attendants, yes?”

Your senior handmaiden, Maera offered only a nod. Ila, eager to please and twice as naive, curtsied.

“She’s fortunate to have you,” Chuchi continued, a kindness in her voice. “It can’t be easy, assisting someone so… involved in such controversial matters.”

“It isn’t,” said the younger girl quickly. “But she’s not what people say. She just—”

“She just doesn’t care who she angers, as long as it moves the line,” the elder interrupted. “It’s her strength. And her flaw.”

Chuchi tilted her head. “You’re fiercely loyal.”

“We don’t have the luxury of softness where we’re from, Senator Chuchi,” the elder said simply. “Not all planets grow up in peace.”

Before Chuchi could respond, a sudden flare of static caught attention nearby.

Your protocol droid—newly repainted and proud in fresh navy and chrome—was engaged in a verbal deathmatch with none other than C-3PO.

“I assure you,” Threepio huffed, “I have been fluent in over six million forms of communication since before you were assembled, and—”

“Perhaps,” your droid cut in smoothly, “but proficiency does not equal relevance. One might be fluent in six million forms of conversation and still be incapable of saying anything useful.”

“Well, I never—!”

“Correct. And that, sir, is the problem.”

Nearby Jedi Council members were visibly trying not to react, though Plo Koon’s mask did a poor job of hiding the amused twitch at the edge of his mouth.

Amid the chaos, you had drifted from the center. Politics buzzed behind you. You found yourself near the balcony edge—narrow, cordoned off, affording a view of Coruscant’s skyline.

Fox found you there.

You knew it was him before he spoke—he moved like precision, shadow and control in equal measure.

“Senator.”

You didn’t turn, not right away. “Commander.”

He stepped beside you, stiff in his formal armor, helmet clipped to his belt.

“I noticed your… astromech’s absence tonight.”

You smirked faintly. “Yes, well. I’d like to avoid sparking an incident with the Jedi Council over a ‘misunderstanding.’ He has a habit of setting things on fire and claiming self-defense.”

Fox made a sound—something between a huff and a grunt. Amused. Maybe.

You turned your head slightly, catching his expression. “Disappointed? I thought you didn’t approve of my companions.”

“I don’t,” he admitted. “But I’m…used to them.”

That was, for Fox, practically a declaration of fondness.

“I’d say the same about you,” you said, voice quieter now. “I don’t approve of you either. But I’ve gotten used to you.”

His jaw flexed. He didn’t answer. Not directly. But his eyes lingered longer than they should have.

Then—

“Senator,” Chuchi’s voice cut across the air like a scalpel.

You turned to find her approaching, poised and polished. Behind her, your protocol droid and C-3PO were still trading passive-aggressive historical references. Hound watched the balcony from a distance, arms crossed, unreadable.

Fox straightened the moment Chuchi arrived. You stepped back just a little.

And the triangle turned into a square again.

Tight.

Tense.

And ready to collapse.

⸻

Beyond the golden arches of the Senate Hall, music swelled and faded like waves. Goblets clinked. Laughter rolled off the lips of polished politicians and robed generals. But not everyone was celebrating.

Behind an alcove veiled by rich burgundy drapes, four Jedi stood in quiet counsel.

Mace Windu, ever the sentinel of Order, stood at the head of the half-circle, his gaze fixed beyond the banquet like he could see the fractures forming beneath the marble.

“His behavior has changed,” Windu said. “Subtly. But not insignificantly.”

“He still reports for duty,” Plo Koon offered, voice gravel-smooth but thoughtful. “Still acts with discipline.”

“And yet,” Shaak Ti murmured, “I have observed Commander Fox linger longer than usual at Senate functions. His patrol patterns shift more often when certain senators are present. And he has taken… liberties with Senator Ryio’s assignments.”

“Nothing has breached protocol,” Anakin interjected. “Fox is loyal. He’s the best the Guard has.”

Shaak Ti gave him a long look. “And yet, there is more than one clone whose loyalty might now be divided.”

Anakin’s jaw twitched.

“This isn’t Kamino,” Windu said coolly. “We cannot afford emotional compromise in the Guard—not now, not when tensions are already splintering the Senate. These clones were not bred for palace intrigue.”

Plo Koon folded his arms. “And yet we bring them into the heart of it.”

“We trained them to follow orders,” Shaak Ti added gently. “Not hearts.”

Anakin looked between them, the shadows of his past bleeding into the tension. He didn’t need to ask who else they were talking about. It wasn’t just Fox. Hound had been seen near Senator [Y/N]’s apartment. Thorn, too, had lingered far longer than necessary when she’d been attacked.

“She’s dangerous,” Mace continued, tone edged in steel. “Not reckless—but calculating. Clever. Her alliances shift like smoke, and I do not trust her attention toward Fox or the others.”

“She’s done nothing wrong,” Anakin said.

“Yet,” Windu countered. “Keep watch, Skywalker. If she’s tangled them in personal threads, it must be cut. Quickly.”

⸻

You sipped from your glass of deep red wine, half-listening to a cluster of outer rim delegates arguing over fleet taxation. But your eyes wandered, again, to the crimson armor across the room.

Fox.

He was speaking with Mon Mothma and Bail Organa. Calm. Professional. Controlled, as always.

But his gaze flickered toward you now and then—unreadable, unreadably Fox. And just behind him, your polished protocol droid hovered patiently, Maera and Ila whispering about a dessert tray.

The Council was watching. You could feel it.

⸻

The air inside the Jedi Councilchamber was tense, still, and too quiet. Four members of the Coruscant Guard stood before the Jedi Council’s senior representatives: Fox, Thorn, Stone, and Hound, all sharp in posture, their expressions unreadable behind the stoic training of a million battlefield hours.

Opposite them, stood Masters Mace Windu, Shaak Ti, Plo Koon, and a late-arriving Anakin Skywalker, who kept to the shadows of the room.

“This is not an accusation,” Master Windu began, tone steely. “But a reminder. You are peacekeepers. Defenders of the Republic. Not participants in the political games of its Senate.”

Shaak Ti added gently, “We’ve noted a… shift. Certain guards developing close ties to senators. Attachments. Loyalties. Intimacies. We remind you that such relationships blur lines—lines that should never have been crossed.”

Plo Koon looked to them with quiet concern. “It is not about love, nor about loyalty. It is about danger. Risk. The Republic cannot afford to have its protectors compromised by personal bonds.”

Hound flinched. Barely. Fox didn’t move, but Thorn cast him a pointed glance.

“We won’t name names,” Windu said, “but this is your only warning. Choose duty.”

Dismissed, the clones saluted and filed out, silent as ghosts—yet burdened more heavily than ever.

⸻

It was nearly midnight when the knock came. You weren’t expecting anyone—Maera had already sent off the last reports, and Ila was curled up with a datapad on the couch.

Maera opened the door, only to blink as Anakin Skywalker strolled in, cloak trailing and R2-D2 chirping along behind him.

“Don’t tell me the Jedi are doing door-to-door interrogations now,” you said, not bothering to stand from your desk.

“Just figured you should hear it from someone who doesn’t speak in riddles and judgment,” Anakin replied. “They warned the Guard today.”

You looked up slowly.

“About me?”

“About all of it. You. Chuchi. Hound. Fox.”

You leaned back in your chair, lacing your fingers together. “So the Council knows?”

“They suspect,” he clarified. “But they’ve already made up their minds. No direct interference. But they’ll start pulling strings. Reassignments. Surveillance. Sudden policy shifts.”

You exhaled slowly. “Let me guess. The clones are the ones punished.”

Anakin’s jaw tightened. “Always.”

He came closer, leaning against the wall by your window. “Whatever this is, [Y/N], if you want to protect them—you keep it behind closed doors. Don’t give the Council an excuse.”

Your eyes narrowed, flicking up to him. “And what would you know about secret relationships with forbidden attachments?”

Anakin looked out over the Coruscant skyline. “More than you think.”

R2-D2 gave a sympathetic beep. At his side, your own droid—R9—rolled out from the side hall, curious as ever. Shockingly, the grumpy little astromech gave R2 a pleased warble. The two machines chirped at each other in low binary, exchanging stories, gossip, perhaps a murder plot. You couldn’t tell.

“Great,” you muttered. “My homicidal trash can made a friend.”

VX-7 entered as well, standing sentinel near the door and giving R2 a quick scan before offering a polite, professional greeting. “Designation confirmed. Diplomatic assistant, Anakin Skywalker. Cleared for temporary access.”

“You really upgraded them,” Anakin noted.

“They’re smarter than most senators,” you said with a dry smirk. “And less dangerous.”

He moved to leave, but hesitated. “Just… be careful. I know you think you don’t owe anyone anything—but Hound’s already in too deep. And Fox? He’s starting to crack.”

“Fox doesn’t even know he’s in love,” you said coolly.

“Exactly,” Anakin said. “That makes him more dangerous than the rest of us.”

You gave him a look. “Including you?”

Anakin’s lips quirked. “Especially me.”

Then he and R2 were gone, and the apartment fell quiet again—except for the low, strangely comforting chatter of astromechs speaking in beeps and secrets.

⸻

Previous Part | Next Part

Title: “Ride”

Hunter x Reader

Warnings: slightly sexually suggestive

⸻

You swore he was doing it on purpose.

That whole “silent and brooding” thing he had going on? Weaponized. His voice, low and gravelly, the way he leaned against walls like they were built just for him, arms crossed and muscles on full display. He moved like he had time to kill and knew exactly how dangerous he looked doing it.

You were not immune. Maker, you were struggling.

It didn’t help that the Hunter Effect seemed to get worse during downtime. No blasterfire, no missions, just a hot planet, a half-broken fan in the corner of the Marauder, and him doing pull-ups in a sweat-soaked tank top like he was in some holodrama made for thirst traps.

You were trying not to stare. Failing miserably.

Hunter dropped from the bar with a soft thud and turned toward you like he’d felt the heat of your gaze. Probably had. Damn enhanced senses.

“You alright over there?” he asked, voice rich with amusement.

“Fine,” you replied, a little too quickly.

He raised a brow as he walked past, close enough to brush your shoulder with his—on purpose, probably. You bit your lip. Hard.

“Y’look a little flushed,” he said, and there was that grin. The knowing one. “Could be the heat. Could be something else.”

“Could be your ego,” you fired back, refusing to look up from your datapad.

He didn’t answer, but you could feel the smirk behind you.

Later that night, the heat stuck around—and so did he. The others were asleep or off doing their own thing, and you ended up side by side with Hunter near the edge of the ship’s loading ramp, sitting in the dark, stars overhead. You were close—closer than you usually allowed yourself to be.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just passed you a flask of something strong and let the silence settle.

Then—

“You know,” he said, voice quiet, “I’ve noticed how you look at me.”

Your breath caught.

“I don’t mind,” he continued, “but I figured I’d give you the chance to stop pretending.”

You turned to face him. He was already looking at you, intense and calm, like he’d been waiting for this moment.

“Pretending?” you asked, trying to play dumb.

He gave a soft chuckle. “You’re not subtle, mesh’la. And I’ve got good instincts.”

Your lips parted, but nothing came out. Because honestly… yeah. He was right. And you were caught.

Hunter shifted closer, gaze dropping to your lips just briefly—enough.

“I’ve been watching you too,” he added, voice low now, like a secret. “Listening to how your heartbeat changes when I get close. I like the way you look at me. Like you’re thinking about what it’d be like.”

Your throat went dry. “To do what?”

He smirked. “To ride.”

You choked on air.

“I meant a speeder,” he said, utterly deadpan.

You shoved his arm. “You’re a menace.”

“You love it.”

You paused.

“Yeah,” you admitted softly. “I really do.”

His smile dropped into something deeper, something real. His hand brushed yours, lingered.

“Then maybe it’s time we stop dancing around it.”

You looked at him—really looked. The man you fought beside, trusted with your life, laughed with, wanted like nothing else.

“Okay,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “Let’s ride.”

He leaned in, lips ghosting yours.

“Hold on tight, sweetheart.”

⸻

“Cold Wind”

Commander Cody x Jedi!Reader

Post-Order 66, early Imperial Era

⸻

They called her a terrorist now.

Once upon a time, they called her General. Jedi. Friend.

But those days were ash.

The Jedi Order was gone—betrayed by its own soldiers, hunted by the Empire it helped birth, and erased from history like an inconvenient stain. Those who survived scattered like broken glass across the galaxy, hiding in shadows, smothering their light, hoping to live long enough to spark something again.

But not you.

You didn’t run. You didn’t bow. You didn’t hide.

You fought.

A lonely hero. Trying to fight too many battles.

Openly. Proudly. Recklessly, some would say. But you didn’t care. If they wanted to call you a terrorist, then let them. You were dangerous. Not because of your power, but because of your refusal to give up.

You lit your saber like a beacon in the dark. You attacked Imperial convoys. Freed enslaved workers. Raided supply depots. Stole data. Inspired whispers across the Outer Rim.

They posted your face on wanted screens with the words:

HIGHLY DANGEROUS. JEDI TERRORIST. KILL ON SIGHT.

And you laughed. Because for the first time in a long time, you felt alive.

But even fire can burn cold. Especially when you burn alone.

“Life likes to blow the cold wind…

Sometimes it freezes my shadow.”

⸻

The battle on Gorse was a blur of smoke, fire, and screams.

Another raid. Another desperate gamble. But this one wasn’t like the others.

Because he was there.

Commander Cody.

You saw him the moment he stepped out of the dropship. Clad in black-trimmed Imperial armor, a commander’s pauldron on his shoulder, his movements precise, efficient, familiar.

It hit you like a punch to the gut.

You froze, mid-fight, your saber humming in your grip.

He saw you too. His helmet tilted. A heartbeat of stillness passed between you across the chaos.

And just like that, time rewound.

Missions. Long nights. Campsite coffee and war-room arguments. His voice in your comm: “Copy that, General.”

His voice in your dreams: “Stay alive. I’ll watch your back.”

But that was before. Before the betrayal. Before the chips. Before everything.

Now?

He raised his blaster rifle.

You didn’t move.

He didn’t shoot.

The stormtroopers around him hesitated, uncertain.

“Stand down,” Cody barked, his voice cold, sharp, and absolute. The troopers obeyed instantly.

You took one slow step forward.

“Cody,” you said, voice low.

His grip tightened, knuckles white beneath plastoid.

“You should’ve disappeared with the rest,” he said.

“I don’t know how to be quiet,” you answered, lifting your chin. “In the midst of all this darkness… I must sacrifice my ego for the greater good. There isn’t room for selfish..”

He said nothing.

For one awful second, you thought he might arrest you.

Instead, he turned and ordered a retreat.

He didn’t even look back.

⸻

Weeks passed.

You tried to forget. You kept fighting. You told yourself that the man you remembered was gone. Replaced by protocol. Stripped of soul.

But still… something gnawed at you.

The way he hadn’t shot. The way he’d told his men to stand down. The way his voice trembled just slightly when he said your name.

You started scanning intercepted comms during downtime.

Just in case.

And then, one night, across a crackling, half-jammed signal from a rebel slicer…

“—Commander Cody. AWOL.

Deserted post.

Last seen heading into the Outer Rim.

Do not engage without support.

Consider highly dangerous.”

You stopped breathing.

He left.

He left.

Everything blurred after that—coordinates, favors, stolen codes, sleepless nights. You chased shadows across half the galaxy. You didn’t know what you’d say if you found him.

But you knew you had to.

⸻

You found him on a dead moon. The kind no one bothered with anymore—cold, quiet, abandoned.

The outpost was half-crumbled. The fire inside even more so.

He was sitting beside it, helmet off, hunched forward, hands resting on his knees. His face looked older. Harder. Tired in a way that sleep couldn’t fix.

You stepped into the firelight without a word.

His head lifted. He didn’t reach for a weapon.

“Took you long enough,” Cody said quietly.

You swallowed. “You left.”

“You were right,” he replied. “You didn’t hide. I did. I stayed in the system because I thought it was safer. Cleaner. But it’s just slower death.”

Silence stretched between you. Wind howled outside, cold enough to steal breath.

“I thought I lost you,” you whispered.

Cody’s voice cracked just slightly. “I thought I destroyed you.”

You moved toward him, every step heavy.

“Why didn’t you shoot me?” you asked.

He looked at you—really looked. Like he was memorizing you again.

“Because even after everything… I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.”

You sat across from him, the flickering light catching on your saber hilt.

“You’ve got nowhere to go,” you said softly. “Neither do I.”

He let out a slow breath. “Then maybe we stay nowhere. Together.”

You stared at the flames, and for the first time in years, they felt warm.

“I’m still a wanted terrorist,” you reminded him.

Cody’s mouth quirked, just slightly. “Guess that makes me a traitor.”

You glanced at him. “I think I missed you.”

He met your eyes. “I know I missed you.”

And for a moment, the galaxy fell away. No war. No orders. Just two people sitting in the ruins of everything, quietly choosing each other anyway.

Hi! I had a fun idea for maybe a Bad batch or even 501st fic where it’s clones x fem!reader where’s she’s trying to be undercover as a guy and is trying her best not to get caught (like how mulan plays ping in Disneys Mulan) bit of crack but maybe some spice if it fits?

Love your writing, it’s so addictive! Xx

“Call Me Pynn”

501st x Fem!Reader

The Republic needed a local contact for a black ops infiltration on an Outer Rim moon run by a rogue droid manufacturer supplying the Separatists. The factory was buried under city sprawl, well-guarded, and impossible to breach without drawing too much attention. So the plan was simple: go in quiet, sneak through the underworld channels, and shut down the operation from the inside.

And for once, you were the contact.

The catch? You had to go in disguised—a young male merc, neutral in the conflict but “curious” enough to lend his skills. Intel said the droids had been tricked into recruiting unaffiliated guns. All you had to do was get in, get the layout, and feed it to the Republic.

Of course, the Jedi had “improved” the plan. Now you were being assigned to a squad for deep cover infiltration—the 501st.

And they thought you were a boy.

⸻

You were barely five minutes in when you walked into the wrong locker room.

“Yo, Pynn! Took you long enough,” Fives called out, peeling off his blacks like it was a kriffing spa day. “Locker’s open next to mine. You sharing with Jesse—he snores, so wear earplugs.”

You blinked. “Wait—I thought I had quarters—”

“No time,” Rex interrupted, walking by with a towel over his shoulder and absolutely no shame. “We’re shipping out at 0600. Briefing in twenty.”

Anakin, sitting on a bench with a datapad, looked up and smirked. “You’ll get used to the smell.”

You stood there, frozen. You were still in partial armor, hair short under your helmet, chest bound so tight you could barely breathe. You hadn’t even figured out how to change in private yet.

Then Fives pulled you in, slinging an arm around your shoulder. “You showerin’? C’mon, kid. You’re part of the team now. No secrets.”

Oh no.

⸻

You managed to fake an urgent comm call to avoid the group debrief butt-naked shower bonding time.

Now, sitting stiffly between Jesse and Kix, you studied the holomap.

“Droid patrols here, here, and here,” Anakin said, pointing to the glowing corridors of the factory. “You and Pynn go in first, disguised as freelancers. The rest of us follow once the back door’s open.”

Rex narrowed his eyes. “You sure he’s ready for that?”

“I’m standing right here,” you muttered, lowering your voice an octave.

“Relax,” Anakin replied. “Pynn’s more experienced than he looks. Isn’t that right?”

You nod. “Seen worse gigs.”

“Where?” Kix asked. “Nar Shaddaa? Ord Mantell?”

You pause. “…Yes.”

“Which one?”

“Both. At the same time.”

Kix blinked. Fives let out a low whistle. “Damn. Respect.”

You were barely holding it together. Between the compression binder, the fake voice, and the constant fear of discovery, your nerves were fried.

And yet… you caught Jesse watching you from the corner of his eye. That half-grin. Suspicious. Too suspicious.

⸻

Barracks

Lights out. You’d pulled your bunk curtain shut and were lying stiff as a corpse in full blacks, binder still on. You couldn’t risk changing. Not here. Not yet.

Then came the whisper.

“Hey… Pynn.”

You nearly jumped out of your skin.

It was Fives.

You pulled the curtain back just enough to peek. “What?”

He grinned. Way too close. “You snore like a frightened tooka.”

“I do not.”

“You do. Also—you sleep fully dressed. Bit weird, huh?”

You stared. “Cold-blooded. Like a Trandoshan.”

He chuckled. “Alright, alright. Just checking.”

Then he leaned in a little more, eyes flicking down your face.

“You ever kissed anyone, Pynn?”

You choked. “What kind of question—”

“You know. Just asking.”

Pause.

“…What would that make you if I had?” you shot back, trying to channel swagger instead of fear.

Fives winked. “Confused. But not uninterested.”

⸻

The city smelled like burnt copper and damp oil. Steam hissed from vents and flickering lights strobed against wet duracrete. Jesse walked ahead of you, dressed in stolen merc armor and moving like he’d always been on the wrong side of the law.

You trailed behind, posture low, helmet tucked under one arm, trying not to look like a girl bound so tightly her ribs wanted to snap.

Your alias was “Pynn Vesh”: rogue merc, unaffiliated, decent with tech, better with blasters. That part was true. The part where you were definitely not a woman infiltrating a droid facility with the Republic’s most observant soldiers? Not so true.

“Factory gate’s two klicks east,” Jesse muttered over his shoulder. “You good?”

“Fine,” you rasped, lowering your voice.

“You always sound like that, or is this just your merc voice?” he teased.

“Puberty was… weird for me,” you muttered.

Jesse gave a huff of amusement but didn’t push it. Thank the stars.

You slipped through the outer checkpoint without issue, your stolen ident chip scanning green. Jesse grinned at the droid guard, real smooth.

“Name’s Jax. This is my partner, Pynn. We’re here to see Garesh. He’s expecting us.”

The droid blinked in binary.

“Proceed.”

As you stepped through the blast doors into the factory interior, Jesse leaned close.

“You’re pretty quiet for a merc.”

You glanced at him. “Quiet doesn’t get me shot.”

He smirked. “Fair. But I still can’t figure you out.”

“Is that a problem?”

“No,” Jesse said easily. “Just makes me curious. You got anyone waiting back home?”

You froze.

“What?”

“You know—girlfriend, boyfriend, someone who writes you sappy comms? Never thought mercs got the chance.”

Oh. Oh no.

Behind you, another voice crackled through the comm.

“Pynn?”

Anakin.

You flinched.

“Y-yeah?”

“Signal’s clean. You’re in. Factory’s wide open on thermal—mostly droids. You’ll need to plant the beacon by the east terminal. That’ll give us access.”

“Copy.”

But Jesse wasn’t done.

“Seriously though. Someone’s gotta be missing you.”

You blinked fast, keeping your face neutral. “No time for that.”

Fives cut in over comms, voice full of amusement. “You mean you’ve never hooked up? Stars, you’re worse than Rex.”

“Hey.” Rex barked.

“Just saying!” Fives laughed. “We fight, we bleed, and apparently some of us die virgins.”

You almost choked.

“Would you all shut up?” you hissed.

Jesse chuckled. “You’re blushing.”

“No, I’m—shut up.”

“Wait,” Anakin said suddenly. His voice changed—focused. “Zoom in on Pynn’s thermal feed.”

You stopped cold.

“Why?” Jesse asked.

There was a beat of silence.

Then Anakin’s voice again, casual but sharp. “Something’s… off.”

You started sweating under your armor. The binder tightened like a vice around your ribs.

Jesse looked at you sideways. “You sick or something?”

“I’m fine,” you snapped, too quickly.

“Pynn,” Anakin said. “Stay sharp. Jesse, watch his six.”

You reached the terminal, hands shaking. Plugged in the beacon. Light turned green. Done.

“We’re clear,” you breathed.

“Copy that. Pull out—quietly.”

You started to move—then froze again.

A droid had turned.

Its photoreceptors locked on you.

“Unauthorized personnel detected—”

“Shab,” Jesse growled.

“Engaging—”

Blasterfire lit the air.

“GO!” Jesse shouted, grabbing your arm.

You bolted, ducking bolts, binder cutting into your chest, heartbeat like a drum. Jesse covered your back as you both ran into the alleys.

⸻

Back at the safehouse, breathless and bruised, you collapsed into a chair. Jesse paced, helmet off, frowning.

“You okay?”

“Fine,” you gasped, trying to discreetly loosen your chest wrap under your shirt. It was soaked with sweat.

“You sure? You were… wheezing.”

“Kriff, let a guy breathe.”

He stared at you. “…You are a guy, right?”

Your heart stopped.

The room went dead silent.

You opened your mouth.

Before you could say anything, the door opened.

Anakin stepped inside.

Slowly.

Staring straight at you.

You froze.

He cocked his head.

“…Pynn,” he said, voice low. “We need to talk.”

You stood rigid by the supply crates, breathing hard through your nose as Anakin Skywalker stared you down like you were a broken protocol droid confessing to murder.

Jesse sat slumped on the couch behind you, fiddling with his helmet, clearly confused but too tired to start asking weird questions. Yet.

Anakin took one slow step forward, arms crossed over his chest.

“You want to explain what that thermal scan was?”

You clenched your jaw. “I was told this op was need-to-know, General. Even your team wasn’t supposed to know.”

“Uh-huh.”

Another step. He was studying you like a puzzle. You hated it.

You lowered your voice, just enough. “I was sent in under deep cover. Female operative, disguised as male. Assigned contact for internal breach. Command wanted eyes inside without the boys sniffing it out.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“Oh,” he said finally. “So you’re not a guy.”

You scowled. “What gave it away?”

Anakin cracked a grin. “Besides the thermal? You run like you’re trying not to split a seam.”

“I am.”

He huffed out a laugh.

“Okay. Well, you’re a crap dude.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Voice is too soft. You’re skittish as hell. And you make weird eye contact with Fives. Which honestly just made me think you were scared of him, but now I’m guessing you were trying not to get flirted into oblivion.”

“I was absolutely scared of him.”

Anakin chuckled again, shaking his head. “Stars help you when they find out.”

You stiffened. “They can’t.”

“Relax. I’m not going to say anything.”

You blinked. “You’re not?”

“Nope.” He smirked. “But you’ll crack. That’s not a threat, it’s a guarantee. I give it two days before Jesse walks in on you binding your chest or Fives tries to play strip sabaac.”

You groaned, dropping your head against the crate with a dull thud.

“Don’t remind me.”

He leaned casually against the wall. “So what’s your name?”

You hesitated. Then sighed.

“Y/N.”

“Nice to meet you, Y/N.” His grin widened. “You know, this is probably the least chaotic thing to happen to me this month.”

“That’s horrifying.”

“Tell me about it.” His tone grew a bit softer. “You handled yourself well out there, by the way.”

You blinked.

“Thanks… General.”

“But seriously,” he added, already halfway to the door, “the second Fives finds out, he’s going to combust.”

You buried your face in your hands.

Fives paused by the safehouse wall, where he’d been leaning casually with a ration bar, totally not eavesdropping. His eyebrows were furrowed in deep confusion.

He looked at Jesse, who had joined him during the tail end of the conversation.

Jesse blinked. “Did—did General Skywalker just call Pynn she?”

Fives chewed his bar, brow furrowed. “I thought he said they.”

Jesse squinted at the door.

“I think I need to sit down.”

⸻

The worst thing about pretending to be a guy?

Sleeping with the guys.

You’d been given a cot shoved between Jesse and Kix. Jesse snored like a malfunctioning speeder bike and Kix talked in his sleep—violently. And you? You’d slept curled under a blanket, stiff as a body in carbonite, binder nearly slicing into your sides.

Now it was morning. And unfortunately, your binder strap had snapped.

You stood frozen in the refresher, one gloved hand holding the compression vest tightly closed, staring at yourself in the cracked mirror.

There was a knock.

“Pynn?” Jesse’s voice.

Your soul left your body.

“You good?” he called again. “You’ve been in there for like… thirty minutes.”

“I’m fine,” you croaked, voice cracking so hard it practically betrayed everything.

Jesse paused. “…you sound weird.”

“I’m constipated!” you blurted.

Silence.

“…Okay,” Jesse muttered, “well, drink water or something.”

You slapped a hand over your face. Kriffing hell.

You had managed to throw on your chest plate and keep things moderately together, but something was off. The guys were starting to notice.

Especially Jesse.

He was watching you.

Not like in a creepy way. Just—watching. Narrow-eyed. Curious.

And Kix? The medic?

He kept frowning at the way you moved. At your stiff posture. At how your breaths came shallow. You were doomed.

“Hey, Pynn,” Jesse called while twirling a blaster idly. “Come run drills with me.”

You nearly flinched. “Drills?”

He grinned. “Yeah. Hand-to-hand. See what you’re made of.”

“No thanks,” you said quickly. “I, uh—pulled something.”

Fives piped in from the corner: “What, your integrity?”

“I will shoot you.”

Jesse kept smirking. “What are you so afraid of, Pynn? Losing to me? C’mon. Don’t be shy.”

You were about to answer when you turned too fast—your vest caught on the table edge—and a rip echoed through the air.

Time slowed.

Your chest plate dropped.

Your binder loosened.

And suddenly, you were holding the front of your shirt together with both hands, eyes wide in pure panic.

Fives blinked.

Hard.

Jesse straight-up choked.

Hardcase—Force bless him—walked into the room mid-moment and said, “Hey, are we outta rations?—Oh kriff.”

Everyone froze.

You didn’t breathe.

Then Jesse’s eyes dropped. His jaw dropped lower.

“…You’re a girl,” he whispered.

Fives made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a prayer. “That’s why you wouldn’t shower.”

“I knew something was off,” Kix muttered, half in awe, half scandalized.

You were burning alive.

Anakin appeared in the doorway with a cup of caf, took one look at the scene, and sipped slowly.

“I gave her two days,” he said smugly.

Jesse looked back at you, face suddenly unreadable. “…Well,” he said, clearing his throat, “guess the mission really was classified.”

Fives leaned on the wall and grinned at you. “You know, you’re a lot prettier when you’re not pretending to be constipated.”

“I hate all of you.”

Commander Fox x Singer/PA Reader pt.4

The base had fallen into chaos. The sharp beeping of alarms echoed through the corridors, sending waves of tension throughout the facility. It was a rare moment of vulnerability for the Republic, and the last thing anyone had expected was Cad Bane, the notorious bounty hunter, to escape from his containment cell.

The guard stationed at his cell had been lax, and the mistake had proven costly. The high-alert klaxon sounded through the base as soon as Bane's cell had been breached, and every clone in the vicinity had scrambled to act. The corridors buzzed with the hurried footsteps of soldiers moving to secure the area, but the fugitive had already disappeared into the shadows.

Fox had been among the first to respond, his focus sharp as ever. His instincts were honed for situations like this—situation after situation where quick thinking was required. He'd immediately ordered a lockdown, sending squads to lock down the base and search every inch of the facility, but Bane had always been a step ahead.

Thorn, ever the stoic and capable commander, had taken charge of the search team. He was methodical, ensuring every room, every vent, every corner of the base was scoured. His calm, commanding presence calmed the other clones as they executed their assignments, and the search continued with the precision only a seasoned commander could bring.

As for you, you were, as usual, observing from the sidelines. The office had cleared out, with most of the staff focused on the lockdown. It wasn't often the facility was on such high alert, and you'd been relegated to helping with the more menial tasks. Even so, you couldn't help but be drawn into the chaos.

Through the halls, you had heard Fox's voice, barking orders into his comm as he led the charge to track Bane's escape route. It was the kind of mission Fox thrived in—the kind that required focus and relentless determination. But as the hours ticked on, you could tell he was growing more frustrated. Bane was slipping through their fingers.

It wasn't until the sun began to set, casting long shadows across the base, that Fox returned. His boots clicked sharply against the floor, his jaw set, his face as hard as stone. He was visibly irritated, his focus laser-sharp, but the frustration was palpable. He had always been able to handle these types of situations, but Bane was something else—slippery, cunning, and relentless.

"You should've seen the way he slipped past us," Fox muttered to Thorn as he strode into the command center, his eyes never leaving the glowing screens in front of him. "He's too good. We're gonna have to rework our entire strategy if we're going to catch him."

Thorn didn't reply immediately, though you could tell he shared the same frustration. "He's still here. We'll find him. No one's getting out of this base."

Fox glanced at him sharply, his eyes betraying a rare vulnerability. "That's not the problem," he said, the words more clipped than usual. "The problem is he's playing us. I'll need to stay focused, Thorn. This won't be over until he's back in his cell."

The tension in the air thickened, the base still on high alert. The clones moved efficiently, conducting their sweep of the area, but Fox's mind was elsewhere. The escape had rattled him in a way that wasn't typical. Maybe it was because Bane had outsmarted them—or maybe because he had already begun thinking of what could come next. Whatever it was, Fox wasn't about to let it distract him from the task at hand.

As the day wore on, the base remained under lockdown, but you knew Fox would need a break. That night, you had something to offer him that he didn't expect.

***

The stage at 79's was dimly lit, the familiar hum of the bar filling the space. The crowd had gathered, and you could feel the pulse of anticipation in the air as you stepped onto the stage. The drinks were flowing, the conversations were louder than usual, and the usual mix of soldiers and off-duty personnel filled the room. But tonight, you weren't just going to be a face in the crowd. You were going to perform, as you always did—letting the music take over and letting the world around you fade.

When you took the stage, the room quieted, and the eyes of those in the bar turned toward you. A guitar hung around your neck, your fingers brushing over the strings as you tuned it just before you began. It was almost like you could feel the weight of Fox's gaze on you, even though you didn't look for him.

You'd spotted him earlier when you entered, standing near the back of the room. His usual stoic presence made him blend into the shadows, but there was no mistaking him. Commander Fox had made his way to 79's, a rare moment of him stepping outside of his usual duties, and you knew exactly why he was there.

He was here to watch you.

You started your set, letting the rhythm of the music flow through you. The crowd was hooked, as they always were, but tonight, there was something different. As the song progressed, you caught his eye—he wasn't just watching anymore. His gaze had softened, and for a moment, he wasn't the hardened commander. He was just Fox—someone who had chosen to be here, to be with you, in this space.

After the final note rang out, the crowd applauded, and you stepped down from the stage. Fox was already at the bar, a drink in hand, though he hadn't touched it. His eyes tracked you as you made your way over, a brief nod to acknowledge his presence before he looked at you directly.

"That was..." Fox began, his voice low, yet genuine. He searched for the right words, his usual confidence slipping as he softened. "I didn't expect that."

You grinned, your heart racing. "What? That I could hold a tune? You doubt me, Fox?"

His lips twitched in what almost resembled a smile. "I didn't doubt you." His eyes lingered on you, a shift in his expression. "You're more than I imagined."

It was the quiet admission you hadn't expected, but it was everything you needed to hear. Fox had always been careful with his words, but tonight, the mask had slipped, just enough to see something raw underneath.

You stepped closer to him, the moment charged with a tension neither of you could ignore. The crowd's noise faded into the background as you stood before him, the space between you almost electrified.

Without thinking, you reached up, fingers brushing lightly against his jaw. He didn't pull away; instead, his eyes darkened, and his hand rested gently on your waist, a silent invitation.

And then, with no more words needed, you kissed him—slow, tentative at first, but deepening as the weight of everything between you came rushing to the surface. Fox's hand moved to your back, pulling you closer, his kiss almost desperate, as though he were trying to make up for lost time. When you finally pulled away, both of you were breathless.

"Fox..." you whispered, your voice soft, yet full of meaning.

"I've always wanted to say this," he murmured, his forehead resting against yours. "I don't know when it happened... but I care about you. More than I should."

You couldn't stop the smile that tugged at your lips. "I care about you too, Fox."

And in that moment, surrounded by the music and the chaos of 79's, nothing else mattered. Not the war, not the Republic, not the danger that always loomed just outside the door. All that mattered was the person standing in front of you—the person who had finally let down their walls and confessed the truth.

The escape had been contained, but you knew this moment—this feeling—wouldn't escape either.

Directive Breach

Boss (Delta Squad) x Reader

Warnings: injuries, suggestive content,l

⸻

The jungle was thick with steam and smoke, the scent of burning metal and charred flesh choking the air. Delta Squad’s evac had been shot down. You were the only survivor from your recon team. Boss had taken command of the op—naturally.

“Stick close,” he ordered, his voice rasping through the modulator, sharp like durasteel dragged across stone.

You rolled your eyes, already moving. “I didn’t survive a crashing gunship to get babysat by a buckethead.”

He turned just enough to look at you, that T-shaped visor catching the fading light. “I don’t babysit. I lead.”

“And I slice,” you shot back, shouldering your pack. “Let me do my job.”

“We already have a slicer” he respond, before he turned forward again. But you could feel him watching you—tracking your movements with that eerie commando focus. It had been two days of this now: evading patrols, patching up your leg, sleeping back-to-back under foliage so thick you couldn’t see the stars.

Tonight, it rained. Not the cooling kind—this rain was warm, heavy, pressing the jungle into silence. You sat in a hollowed-out tree, tuning your equipment while Boss kept watch. When he finally returned to your makeshift camp, you didn’t look up.

“How bad’s your leg?”

“Fine.”

“You’re limping harder than yesterday.”

“You’re observant. I’m touched.”

“Stop being stubborn,” he muttered, kneeling in front of you. His gauntlet brushed your knee as he examined the torn fabric and swelling underneath. “You need rest.”

“You need to stop looking at me like that,” you whispered.

Silence stretched. You met his gaze, even if you couldn’t see his eyes behind the visor. Something heavy passed between you. Maybe it was the danger. Maybe it was the exhaustion. Or maybe it was the way he’d hauled you out of that wreckage, swearing he’d get you home.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said finally, voice lower. “You’re not one of us.”

“No. I’m not. But I’m here now.” You leaned closer, your voice daring. “And so are you.”

His breath caught, almost imperceptible beneath the rain. Then—he reached up and disengaged the seal on his helmet. The hiss of depressurization was drowned out by your heartbeat.

And when he took it off, you saw him—finally. Tanned skin streaked with grime and blood. Jaw tight. Eyes locked on yours like they were burning through you.

“Tell me to stop,” he said.

You didn’t. You leaned in.

He kissed you hard—like everything he’d been holding back had snapped. His gloves were rough on your skin, tugging you closer, anchoring you to him like he was afraid you’d disappear. You curled your fingers into the collar of his armor and pulled until you could feel the heat of his body beneath the plastoid.

“I’ve got one night,” he murmured against your throat. “One night before I’m a soldier again.”

“Then make it count,” you whispered.

And he did.

⸻

The war would keep going. The Republic would keep taking. But in a jungle no one would remember, under a rain no one would care about, Boss let himself be something other than a number—and you let yourself fall for a soldier who wasn’t supposed to love.

⸻

rip anakin skywalker you would have hated dune

Commander Fox x singer/PA Reader pt. 1

Summary: By day, she’s a chaotic assistant in the Coruscant Guard; by night, a smoky-voiced singer who captivates even the most disciplined clones—especially Commander Fox. But when a botched assignment, a bounty hunter’s warning, she realizes the spotlight might just get her killed.

_ _ _ _

The lights of Coruscant were always loud. Flashing neon signs, sirens echoing through levels, speeders zipping like angry wasps. But nothing ever drowned out the voice of the girl at the mic.

She leaned into it like she was born there, bathed in deep blue and violet lights at 99's bar, voice smoky and honey-sweet. She didn't sing like someone performing—she sang like she was telling secrets. And every clone in the place leaned in to hear them.

Fox never stayed for the full set. Not really. He'd linger just outside the threshold long enough to catch the tail end of her voice wrapping around the words of a love song or a low bluesy rebellion tune before disappearing into the shadows, unreadable as ever.

He knew her name.

He knew too much, if he was honest with himself.

---

By some minor miracle of cosmic misalignment, she showed up to work the next day.

Coruscant Guard HQ was sterile and sharp—exactly the opposite of her. The moment she stepped through the entrance, dragging a caf that was more sugar than stimulant, every other assistant looked up like they were seeing a ghost they didn't like.

"She lives," one of them muttered under their breath.

She gave a mock-curtsy, her usual smirk tugging at her lips. "I aim to disappoint."

Her desk was dusty. Her holopad had messages backed up from a week ago. And Fox's office door was—blessedly—closed.

She plopped into her chair, kicking off her boots and spinning once in her chair before sipping her caf and pretending to care about her job.

Unfortunately, today was not going to let her coast.

One of the other assistants—a tight-bunned brunette with a permanently clenched jaw—strolled over, datapad in hand and an expression that said *we're about to screw you over and enjoy it.*

"You're up," the woman said. "Cad Bane's in holding. He needs to be walked through his rights, legal rep options, the whole thing."

The reader blinked. "You want *me* to go talk to *Cad Bane?* The bounty hunter with the murder-happy fingers and sexy lizard eyes?"

"Commander Fox signed off on it."

*Bullshit,* she thought. But aloud, she said, "Well, at least it won't be boring."

---

Security in the lower levels of Guard HQ was tight, and the guards scanned her badge twice—partly because she never came down here, partly because nobody believed she had clearance.

"Try not to get killed," one said dryly as he buzzed her into the cell block.

"Aw, you do care," she winked.

The room was cold. Lit only by flickering fluorescents, with reinforced transparisteel separating her from the infamous Duros bounty hunter. He sat, cuffs in place, slouched like he owned the room even in chains.

"Well, well," Cad Bane drawled, red eyes narrowing with amusement. "Don't recognize you. They finally lettin' in pretty faces to read us our bedtime stories?"

She ignored the spike of fear in her chest and sat across from him, activating the datapad. "Cad Bane. You are being held by the Coruscant Guard for multiple counts of—well, a lot. I'm supposed to inform you of your legal rights and representation—"

"Save it," he said, voice low. "You're not just an assistant."

Her brow twitched. "Excuse me?"

"You smell like city smoke and spice trails. Not paper. Not politics. I've seen girls like you in cantinas two moons from Coruscant, drinkin' with outlaws and singin' like heartbreak's a language." His smile widened. "And I've seen that face. You got a past. And it's catchin' up."

She stood, blood running colder than the cell. "We're done here."

"Hope the Commander's watchin'," Cad added lazily. "He's got eyes on you. Like you're his favorite secret."

She turned and walked—*fast*.

---

Fox was waiting at the end of the hallway when she emerged, helm on, arms crossed, motionless like a statue.

"Commander," she said, voice trying to stay casual even as adrenaline buzzed in her fingers. "Didn't think I rated high enough for personal escorts."

"Why were you down there alone?" His voice was calm. Too calm.

"You signed off on it."

"I didn't."

Her stomach sank. The air between them thickened, tension clicking into place like a blaster being loaded.

"I'll speak to the others," Fox said, stepping closer. "But next time you walk into a room with someone like Cad Bane, you *tell me* first."

She raised a brow. "Since when do you care what I do?"

"I don't," he said too fast.

But she caught it—*the tiny flicker of something human beneath the armor.*

She tilted her head, smirk tugging at her lips again. "If you're going to keep me alive, Commander, I'm going to need to see you at the next open mic night."

Fox turned away.

"I don't attend bars," he said over his shoulder.

"Good," she called back. "Because I'm not singing for the others."

He paused. Just once. Barely. Then he walked on.

She didn't need to see his face to know he was smiling.

---

She walked back into the offices wearing oversized shades, yesterday's eyeliner, and the confidence of someone who refused to admit she probably shouldn't have tequila before 4 a.m.

The moment she crossed the threshold, tight-bun Trina zeroed in.

"Hope you enjoyed your field trip," Trina said, arms folded, sarcasm sharp enough to cut durasteel.

"I did, actually. Made a new friend. His hobbies include threats and murder. You'd get along great," the reader shot back, grabbing her caf and sipping without breaking eye contact.

Trina sneered. "You weren't supposed to go alone. But I guess you're just reckless enough to survive it."

The reader stepped closer, voice dropping. "You sent me because you thought I'd panic. You wanted a show."

"Well, if Commander Fox cares so much, maybe he should stop playing bodyguard and just transfer you to front-line entertainment," Trina snapped.

"Jealousy isn't a good look on you."

"It's not jealousy. It's resentment. You don't work, you vanish for days, and yet he always clears your screw-ups."

She leaned in. "Maybe he just likes me better."

Trina's jaw clenched, "Since you're suddenly here, again, congratulations—you're finishing the Cad Bane intake. Legal processing. Standard rights. You can handle reading, yeah?"

The reader smiled sweetly. "Absolutely. Hooked on Phonics."

---

Two security scans and a passive-aggressive threat from a sergeant later, she was back in the lower cells, now much more aware of just how many surveillance cams were watching her.

Cad Bane looked even more smug than before.

"Well, ain't this a pleasant surprise," he drawled, shackles clicking as he shifted in his seat. "You just can't stay away from me, huh?"

She dropped into the chair across from him, datapad in hand, face expressionless.

"Cad Bane," she began, voice clipped and professional, "you are currently being held under charges of murder, kidnapping, sabotage, resisting arrest, impersonating a Jedi, and approximately thirty-seven other counts I don't have time to read. I am required by Republic protocol to inform you of the following."

He tilted his head, red eyes watching her like a predator amused by a small animal reading from a script.

"You have the right to remain silent," she continued. "You are entitled to legal representation. If you do not have a representative of your own, the Republic will provide you with one."

Bane snorted. "You mean one of those clean little lawyer droids with sticks up their circuits? Pass."

She didn't blink. "Do you currently have your own legal representation?"

"I'll let you know when I feel like cooperating."

She tapped on the datapad, noting his response.

"Further information about the trial process and detention terms will be provided at your next hearing."

"You're not very warm," he mused.

"I'm not here to be."

"Pity. I liked earliers sass."

She stood up. "Try not to escape before sentencing."

"Tell your Commander I said hello."

That stopped her. Just for a second.

Bane smiled wider. "What? You thought no one noticed?"

She didn't give him the satisfaction of a reply. She left with her heart thudding harder than she wanted to admit.

That night, 79's was packed wall to wall with off-duty clones, local droids trying to dance, and smugglers pretending not to be smugglers. She stood under the lights, voice curling around a jazz-infused battle hymn she'd rewritten to sound like a love song.

And there, in the shadows by the bar, armor glinting like red wine under lights—

Commander Fox.

She didn't falter. Not when her eyes met his. Not when her voice dipped into a sultry bridge, not when he didn't look away once.

After the show, she took the back exit—like always. And like always, she sensed the wrongness first.

A chill up her spine. A presence behind her, too quiet, too deliberate.

She spun. "You're not a fan, are you?"

The woman stepped out of the shadows with a predator's grace.

Aurra Sing.

"You're more interesting than I expected," she said. "Tied to the Guard. Friendly with a Commander. Eyes and ears on all the right rooms."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Aurra's lip curled. "Doesn't matter. You're on my radar now."

And she vanished.

Back in her apartment, she barely kicked off her boots when there was a knock at the door. She checked the screen.

Fox.

Still in full armor. Still unreadable.

"I saw her," he said before she could speak. "Aurra Sing. She was following you."

"I noticed," she said, trying to sound casual. "What, did you tail me all the way from 79's?"

"I don't trust bounty hunters."

"Not even the ones who sing?"

He didn't answer. Either he didn't get the joke, or he was to concerned to laugh.

"You came to my show," she said softly. "Why?"

"I was off-duty."

"Sure. That's why you were in full armor. Just blending in."

A beat passed. Then he said, "You were good."

"I'm always good."

Another silence stretched between them. Less awkward, more charged.

"You're not safe," Fox said finally. "You shouldn't be alone."

"Yeah? You offering to babysit me?"

He almost smiled. Almost. Then, wordless, he stepped back into the corridor.

The door closed.

But for a moment longer, she stood there, heartbeat loud, his words echoing in her mind.

You're not safe.

And for the first time in a long time, she believed it.

———

Part 2

Commander Cody x Queen Reader

The scent of smoke and metal still clung to the air as your heels echoed down the marbled hallway of your battered palace. The ornate glass windows had been blasted out, replaced with ragged holes and jagged edges. Sunlight streamed through in fractured patterns, landing across the gold embroidery of your gown and the heavy sapphires around your neck. The dress was too fine for war, too stiff for practicality—but you wore it anyway.

You were Queen.

And queens did not cower in simple cloth.

You now stood unmoving at the top of the grand staircase, the full weight of your crown pressing into your brow. You wore gold today. Not out of vanity, but strategy. A queen in splendor inspires hope. Even in ruin.

"Your Majesty," came the low voice of your advisor, hurrying behind you, "the Republic forces have landed. General Kenobi himself leads them, along with the 212th."

You nodded once, expression like carved obsidian. "Take me to them."

_ _ _

Obi-Wan Kenobi looked every bit the seasoned general, robes dusty from landing, beard trimmed despite the chaos. At his side stood a clone in white and orange armor, helmet tucked under one arm. He stood straight-backed and still, as if carved from the same stone as your palace columns.

You descended the steps slowly, every movement deliberate. You knew how to command a room. You knew how to wield silence as a weapon.

"General Kenobi," you greeted coolly.

He bowed. "Your Majesty. We regret the delay. The 212th is ready to assist."

Your gaze drifted to the commander. Younger than the general. Sharper somehow. His dark eyes met yours, unreadable.

"And who are you?"

"Commander Cody, ma'am," he said, voice clipped and precise. "At your service."

You took a moment, letting your silence test him. He didn't shift. He didn't waver. Good.

"I'm not interested in pleasantries, Commander. The Separatists hold my people hostage in the east quarter. If you're here to help, do it. If not, get out of my city."

Cody inclined his head, neither offended nor intimidated. "Understood, Your Majesty."

Obi-Wan cleared his throat, clearly amused. "I believe you'll find Commander Cody is quite... efficient."

You turned, the gems on your gown glittering with every step. "Then I expect results."

_ _ _

You watched the battle unfold from a tower overlooking the eastern district, eyes tracking orange and white armor sweeping through the rubble like fire. Commander Cody moved like he was born for it—blaster ready, tactics sharp, calm under fire.

You found yourself watching him more than the battlefield.

It wasn't just attraction. No, you'd been courted before. Dignitaries. Princes. Senators. But none of them understood war. None of them had bled for something greater. None of them had stood unmoved when you raised your voice.

He had.

Later, he found you in the ruined throne room, maps and war reports strewn across a cracked obsidian table. You didn't look up as he entered, but you felt him pause. Watching you.

"You're not what I expected," he said.

You arched a brow. "Because I'm young?"

"Because you're beautiful," he said bluntly. "And still more terrifying than most warlords I've met."

A slow, dangerous smile touched your lips. "Careful, Commander. That sounded almost like admiration."

He stepped closer. "It was."

"We leave at dawn," he said quietly.

You nodded. "You've done well."

He gave a faint smile. "So have you."

There was silence, the kind that hangs just before a storm—or a kiss. You stood close. Closer than duty allowed. Your hand brushed against his arm as you passed him, deliberately slow.

"I'm not the type to wait around, Commander," you said softly. "But I remember loyalty."

And with that, you left him standing in the ruins of a palace he helped save—his heart torn between orders and the ghost of your perfume.

_ _ _

Night blanketed the capital in quiet shades of blue and silver. The fires had died down. The people slept. The palace—scarred but standing—breathed silence through its stone corridors.

You stood alone on the balcony of your private quarters, the city below wrapped in darkness. A wind brushed through your hair, catching on the delicate sapphire pins at your temples. You weren't in ceremonial silk tonight—just a velvet robe, deep indigo, soft against your skin. Lighter. Easier to breathe in.

"You should be resting," came his voice behind you, low and steady.

You didn't turn. "So should you."

Cody stepped forward, stopping beside you, eyes scanning the skyline. He looked out of place here—so sharp and war-worn against the softness of your world—but somehow, he belonged.

"They'll be fine without me for a few hours," he said.

You let the silence stretch. Then: "It wasn't just my people they came for. The Separatists wanted to break me. Make an example of this world. Of me."

Cody glanced at you, surprised by the honesty in your voice. Your chin was still high, your spine still regal—but your voice was softer now. Human.

"I've never been this close to losing everything," you murmured.

He didn't offer pity. He didn't rush in with hollow reassurances. He just stood beside you, letting your words exist without judgment.

"You didn't lose," he said finally.

You turned to look at him, his face half-lit by moonlight. You studied him—creased brow, quiet strength, the scar at his temple. Not beautiful, not polished. But real.

"You leave at dawn," you said.

He nodded. "We've been reassigned. New system. New war."

You looked down, then away. "Will I see you again?"

The question slipped out before you could cage it. A raw thread of vulnerability woven into your otherwise unshakable voice.

Cody didn't hesitate. "If there's a path back here, I'll take it."

You stepped closer, close enough to feel the heat of his skin through his blacks.

"Then go with honor," you whispered. "And come back with your heart still yours."

He tilted his head slightly, brow furrowing. "Why mine?"

"Because..." You hesitated, just for a breath. "You're the first man who's ever looked at me and didn't see just a crown."

His jaw tightened, barely. His gaze dropped to your mouth. Then, slowly—carefully—he reached up, cupping your face with a gloved hand.

"Then I hope when I come back..." he murmured, voice low, "you'll still be wearing it."

You leaned in before you could think twice. Your lips met his—soft, sure, but brief. A kiss meant to linger.

It wasn't passion. It wasn't fire.

It was a promise.

When you pulled away, your forehead rested against his for just a moment longer.

"Until next time, Commander," you whispered.

"Until next time... Your Majesty."

And then he was gone, swallowed by the quiet night, the war, and the stars.