“Red And Loyal” Pt.3

“War on Two Fronts” pt.6

Captain Rex x Reader x Commander Bacara

⸻

The Coruscant skyline blurred outside the high-rise window, but she wasn’t really looking at it.

Lights moved. Ships passed. Life carried on.

And yet, she sat still—perched on the edge of the cot in the temporary quarters she’d been granted for this brief return. Her armor was half-off, discarded in pieces across the room. Her saber lay untouched on the table beside her. Fingers twisted the edge of her undersleeve, tugging it, letting go, tugging again.

Her breathing had finally steadied.

But the storm inside hadn’t.

That training room scene played again and again behind her eyes—the shouting, the aggression, the way they’d both stood there like she was some sort of prize. Like her heart was something to be won, not understood.

And for a moment, she hated them both.

Not just for what they did.

But for making her feel small.

For making her doubt herself.

She closed her eyes, leaning forward to rest her arms on her knees. Stars, how had it come to this? She’d survived battles. Held diplomatic ground under fire. She’d stood toe-to-toe with Council members. And yet the moment her heart became involved—she unraveled.

She thought of Bacara first. Of the kiss. The rawness of it. How he touched her like he didn’t know if he’d ever get the chance again.

And yet—he barely said anything. He kept her at a distance until the moment emotion exploded out of him like blaster fire.

Then Rex. Steady. Soft. Listening. But no less possessive when pushed. He was a better man, she thought. A better soldier. But still… a soldier. Still bound by something that meant she’d always be second to the cause.

Were either of them truly what she wanted?

Or had she been so starved for something that felt real in the chaos of war, that she clung to anything that looked like affection?

She stood and crossed the room, pacing, trying to shake the ache out of her bones. Her hand brushed the window frame.

And quietly, bitterly, she whispered to herself—

“Maybe I don’t want either of them.”

Maybe she wanted peace.

Maybe she wanted clarity.

Maybe she wanted herself back.

A knock startled her—sharp and fast.

But she didn’t move.

Not yet.

The knock came again—measured, firm, but not forceful.

She sighed, rolling her eyes with a groan. “If either of you came back to apologize, you’ve got ten seconds before I throw something heavy.”

“No need for theatrics,” came the unmistakable voice from the other side. “It’s just me.”

Her spine straightened like a snapped cord. “Master?”

“I’m coming in,” he said plainly.

The door hissed open before she could answer. Mace Windu stepped in, his presence as steady as the Force itself, robes still crisp despite the lateness of the hour, a subtle frown pressing between his brows as he regarded her. There was no lecture, no judgment, not yet. Only concern veiled beneath the usual stone exterior.

“You don’t look like someone who’s meditating,” he observed.

“I wasn’t,” she replied dryly, arms folded.

“I figured.” He stepped farther inside, his eyes scanning the scattered armor pieces, the half-torn undersleeve she hadn’t realized she was still tugging at. “You look like someone unraveling.”

“I’m not.” Her voice was too quick.

He said nothing.

She sighed, letting the breath shudder out of her as she dropped heavily back onto the edge of the cot.

“I didn’t call for advice,” she muttered.

“I didn’t say you did,” Mace replied simply. He stepped over to the small chair across from her and sat, folding his arms into the sleeves of his robe. “But I heard enough to know something’s shifted.”

Her jaw clenched. “I’m sure you’ve heard plenty by now.”

“I’m not here as a Council member.” His tone was different now—quieter, gentler. “I’m here because you’re my Padawan. No title changes that.”

Something in her broke at that. Just a crack.

“I don’t know what I’m doing, Master.”

“I think you do. I just think you’re afraid to do it.”

She looked at him, eyes sharp. “You think I’m afraid to choose?”

“No,” he said, and it was immediate. “I think you’re afraid to not choose. To walk away. To be alone.”

That struck something deep.

She stared at the floor.

“I don’t want them fighting over me. Like I’m some kind of… prize. And I definitely don’t want to be part of some toxic love triangle during a war.”

“You’ve always led with your heart,” Mace said. “And your heart’s always been too big for the battlefield.”

She blinked, stunned by the softness of it. Mace Windu, the most unshakeable Jedi on the Council, calling her heart too big.

“Doesn’t feel like a strength right now.”

“It is. Even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts.” He leaned forward, elbows on knees. “You’ll figure this out. But don’t let them decide who you are. And don’t let anyone take your peace—not even someone who loves you.”

Her eyes burned now, but she blinked fast to keep them dry.

“Thanks… Master”

He smiled then. A small one. Barely a twitch of his lips—but she saw it.

“I’ll be in the Temple tomorrow. If you need to talk again—just talk—you know where to find me.”

He stood, gave her one last look, then left as quietly as he’d come.

And this time, the silence in the room felt a little less loud.

⸻

The city outside her window glowed in shifting hues of speeders and skyline, lights tracing invisible lines like veins in durasteel. She hadn’t moved much since Mace left—too exhausted to think, too unsettled to sleep. Her mind was loud. Still hurt. Still confused. Still… waiting.

And then came the knock.

Not sharp. Not gentle. Just… steady.

She didn’t answer. She didn’t have the strength to.

The door opened anyway. The audacity made her want to hurl something again—but when she looked up, it wasn’t who she expected.

Bacara stepped inside, helmet tucked under one arm, armor scuffed from some earlier skirmish. His expression was unreadable as always—eyes too sharp, jaw too tense—but there was something in his stance. Hesitation.

She scoffed and turned back toward the window. “You know, I figured you’d be the last one to come knocking.”

He didn’t respond at first. Just stood there, watching her like she was a particularly complex tactical situation. Finally, he set his helmet down on the small table and crossed the room with slow, deliberate steps.

“You didn’t deserve what happened earlier.”

The silence that followed was thick.

“You mean the shouting? The posturing? The way you and Rex acted like I was some kind of prize to be won in a sparring match?” Her voice was calm now, but it carried an edge. “You both embarrassed yourselves. And me.”

“I know,” he said plainly. “That’s why I’m here.”

She turned to face him, arms crossed.

“You don’t do apologies, Bacara.”

“No,” he agreed. “But I can try.”

That stunned her into stillness. He wasn’t joking. Not hiding behind orders or ranks or deflections. There was no sharp military snap to his tone, no bark. Just gravel and honesty.

“I’ve spent most of my life cutting off emotions that slow a man down,” he said. “Guilt. Regret. Affection. All of it. I had to. Mundi—he doesn’t train his men to be… soft.”

“No, he doesn’t,” she muttered. “He trains them to be machines.”

Bacara looked away. “I followed that lead for a long time. It made me strong. It made me efficient. But it also made me a stranger to myself.”

She tilted her head, eyes narrowing. “And what am I in this equation?”

“The reminder that I’m still human.” His voice was quieter now. “That I feel more around you than I’ve felt since Kamino.”

That cracked something in her. Something she’d been gripping tight since the moment things started spiraling.

She swallowed. “You were horrible to me. Not just today. Since the beginning.”

“I know,” he said again. “But I never hated you.”

Her breath hitched.

“I was listening, that night with Windu. I heard everything.” He met her eyes now. “I didn’t come here to beg. And I didn’t come here to fight. I just needed you to know—I don’t want to be the man who makes you doubt your worth. I don’t want to be that Commander. Not with you.”

Her heart was thudding against her ribs. She hated how much he still had that effect on her. Hated that his voice, his damn sincerity, could crack through months of cold.

“I don’t know if I can trust you,” she said softly. “Not yet.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to,” he replied. “But I’m still here.”

He stepped closer—slow, careful—and brushed his hand against hers. His fingers were cold from the night air. She didn’t pull away.

“You kissed me,” she whispered.

“I’d do it again.”

Her eyes flicked up to meet his, something defiant and fragile behind them. “Then do it right this time.”

He did.

This one wasn’t reckless. It wasn’t bitter or angry or desperate. It was slow. It was deliberate. It was raw in a way that hurt and healed at the same time.

When they pulled apart, they didn’t speak. They didn’t need to.

He didn’t stay the night. That wasn’t who they were yet. But when the door closed behind him, the quiet left behind felt different.

Hopeful.

⸻

He knew before she said anything.

He could feel it the second he stepped into her quarters—before the door hissed closed behind him, before she turned to face him, before her eyes even lifted from the floor.

It was in the air. That stillness. The kind of silence that follows a storm and leaves nothing untouched.

Rex stood there a moment, helmet cradled under his arm, expression unreadable. “You’ve made a choice.”

She nodded. Her mouth opened, closed, then finally managed, “I didn’t mean for it to get like this.”

He gave a small, sad smile. “I know.”

“I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“You didn’t.” He said it quickly—too quickly.

Her brow creased, but he held her gaze with that steady calm she’d always admired. “You were never mine to keep,” he said gently. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“But I love you.” The words escaped like breath, hoarse and aching. “You need to know that.”

He exhaled through his nose. Looked away for just a second, then met her eyes again.

“I know that too.”

She took a step closer, but stopped herself. “I didn’t want to string you along. I couldn’t keep doing this to you—this back and forth. I chose Bacara. But that doesn’t mean what we had wasn’t real.”

Rex nodded once, slowly. His throat worked. “He’s not better than me.”

“I know.”

“But you’re better with him?”

She blinked hard. “I don’t know what I am with him. I just know… I don’t want to live in limbo anymore.”

For a moment, he looked like he might say something more. But instead, he stepped forward, reached out, and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. The gentleness of it unraveled her.

“You were always going to break my heart,” he said softly. “I just hoped I’d be enough to stop it from happening.”

She blinked fast. Tears clung to her lashes.

“Rex…”

He shook his head. “Don’t say you’re sorry. You never led me on. We’re soldiers. We steal what moments we can before the war takes them away. You gave me more than I ever expected.”

And then he leaned forward and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to her forehead.

When he stepped back, something in her chest fractured.

“I’ll see you on the next campaign,” he said, voice rough, but steady.

And then he was gone.

She stood there long after the door closed, arms wrapped tight around herself. She didn’t know what she felt more—relief, regret, or the slow, dawning fear that she’d lost something that could never be replaced.

⸻

The halls of the barracks were quiet this late, a kind of peace Rex had never trusted. Silence was just a disguise war wore before it struck again. But this—this wasn’t the battlefield.

This was heartbreak.

He sat on the edge of his bunk, armor half-stripped, chest plate tossed aside, vambraces on the floor. His gloves were clenched in one hand, thumb rubbing worn fabric. Like holding on might keep him from slipping into something dark and stupid.

Jesse passed him once without saying a word. Not because he didn’t care—but because even Jesse knew when something hurt too much for words.

She chose Bacara.

The thought came unbidden, like a knife twisted in his side.

He didn’t hate Bacara. Not really.

But Force, he envied him. Envied the way she softened when she looked at the Commander. Envied the way Bacara could be cold, brutal even, and still… she reached for him. Still found something worth saving in that hard shell of a man.

Rex had bled for her. Laughed with her. Been vulnerable in ways he hadn’t been with anyone else. He’d offered her the part of himself that he didn’t even understand most days.

And she had loved him. She had. That much he didn’t doubt.

But love wasn’t always enough. Not when you’re trying to love two people, and one of them pulls your gravity just a little harder.

He sighed, leaned forward, forearms braced against his knees. Helmet resting between his boots.

“Captain,” a voice said softly from the doorway.

It was Ahsoka.

He didn’t look up. “You shouldn’t be out this late.”

She stepped inside anyway, the door sliding shut behind her.

“I felt it. Through the Force. You’re… not alright.”

He smiled bitterly. “You’re getting better at that.”

Ahsoka folded her arms. “She picked Bacara.”

It wasn’t a question.

“No point in pretending otherwise,” he said. His voice was quiet. Raw.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He lifted his head. His eyes looked older than they should have. “She made a choice. She deserves that. They both do.”

Ahsoka sat on the bunk across from him. “But that doesn’t mean you don’t feel it.”

“No,” Rex said. “It doesn’t.”

There was a long silence between them.

“I always thought you’d end up with someone like her,” Ahsoka said, almost wistfully. “Strong. Sharp. Stubborn.”

He let out a dry chuckle. “Yeah. Me too.”

She leaned forward, her expression gentle but firm. “You didn’t lose her, Rex. You loved her. That counts for something.”

Rex looked at her—this young, impossibly wise Padawan who had seen too much already. “Maybe. But it doesn’t change the fact that I’m alone again.”

“No,” Ahsoka agreed softly. “But it means your heart still works. And that’s something most of us can’t say anymore.”

He looked down at the gloves in his hand. At the callouses on his fingers. At everything he still had to carry.

“I’ll be fine,” he said, mostly to himself.

And maybe, someday, he would be.

But not tonight.

⸻

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

“The Lesser of Two Wars” pt.6

Commander Fox x Reader X Commander Thorn

The Senator didn’t move right away. Fox hadn’t left yet.

His presence lingered like a storm cloud—helmet still on, posture rigid, arms crossed as if restraining something darker beneath the surface. She watched him from the threshold of the corridor, neither of them speaking, the silence dense with unspoken heat.

“You disapproved,” she said softly.

He didn’t answer.

She stepped closer. “But you didn’t look away.”

Fox’s chin dipped, visor tilted down as if to hide the twitch in his jaw.

“Careful, Senator,” he said, voice low, cold, and shaken in a way only she could catch. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”

“And you’re already in it.” Her tone sharpened, but her eyes stayed locked on his visor. “Don’t act like you haven’t been circling me like a hawk since day one.”

Silence.

Then,“You don’t know what I feel.”

“Then say it,” she challenged. “Say something real for once.”

Fox took a slow step forward, closing the distance between them—his body tense, his words tight and deliberate, repeating what she once said to him. “You don’t get to blame me for not hearing the things you’re too kriffing scared to say yourself.”

Her breath caught.

He stared at her for a moment longer. Then turned and walked away before either of them could cross a line they wouldn’t come back from.

⸻

The door to the barracks slammed open.

Fox stormed inside, the hard stomp of his boots warning enough that Thorn didn’t need to look up from the locker he’d been staring into for ten solid minutes.

“You disobeyed every line of protocol.”

Thorn stood. “So now you want to talk about it?”

“You kissed her on duty.”

“You watched it happen.”

Fox ripped off his gloves. “And you still did it.”

There was a pause—just long enough for tension to turn electric.

Thorn’s voice was quiet, but sharp: “You don’t get to pull rank on feelings, Fox. We both want her. Don’t pretend this is about regulation.”

That was it.

Fox swung.

Thorn caught it—barely—and shoved back hard. A scuffle broke out, fists colliding with durasteel lockers, helmets clattering to the floor. Fox grabbed Thorn by the collar, slamming him against the wall.

“You crossed a line.”

“You already crossed it—you’re just mad I got there first.”

A loud bark broke the chaos.

Grizzer lunged.

Hound rushed in a second too late as the mastiff clamped down on Fox’s arm with a growl. Stone grabbed Grizzer’s collar, Thire threw himself between the commanders, and Hound pried the dog off with a sharp command.

Fox’s arm bled. Thorn’s knuckles were bruised. Tension crackled like static.

Everyone froze.

“Stand. Down,” Thire barked, out of breath, eyes darting between them.

Fox wrenched his arm away from Hound, teeth gritted. “Keep that beast on a leash.”

“You two need to sort your osik out,” Hound snapped, patting Grizzer’s head with one hand and pointing at them both with the other. “Because if you don’t, you’re going to get someone killed. And I don’t mean each other.”

They stood in silence—breathing hard, eyes still locked.

It wasn’t over.

Not even close.

The medbay was dim, quiet. Just the way Fox liked it.

He sat on the edge of the cot, undersuit peeled down to his waist, jaw clenched as the auto-dispenser hissed out a cauterizing agent onto the bite wound on his arm. Grizzer had strong jaws. Too strong. The bastard left deep teeth marks, even through his sleeve.

Fox didn’t flinch.

He never did.

But rage simmered just beneath his skin—about the senator, Thorn, himself.

He’d lost control.

Again.

The door slid open.

Fox didn’t look up. “I said I wanted to be alone.”

“You say that every time you get mauled, Foxy.”

Fox’s spine stiffened.

No.

Not him.

Quinlan Vos strolled in like he owned the place, clad in his usual half-buttoned robes, smug grin painted across his face, and Force help the galaxy, his hair was down. That ridiculous mop of beach-bum locks falling into his eyes like he hadn’t just walked into the nerve center of the Republic Guard.

Vos whistled when he saw the blood. “Damn. That a Mastiff, or did Thorn finally snap and bite you?”

Fox didn’t answer.

“You know, for a guy with so much discipline, you really do attract violence like a magnet. It’s almost poetic.”

“Get out.”

“Now now, is that any way to talk to a Jedi Master who just happened to be in the neighborhood and heard a juicy rumor about a senator and two commanders trying to kill each other over her?”

Fox finally turned his head, slow and deliberate, eyes burning. “This is none of your business.”

Vos grinned wider. “That’s the thing about me, Foxy. I make everything my business.”

He walked over, casually picking up a bacta patch. “So which one of you kissed her first?”

Fox didn’t answer. Vos hummed.

“Ah. That’s how it is.”

He peeled the wrapper off the patch and handed it to him. Fox snatched it, slapping it over the wound with unnecessary force.

“You’re in deep, huh?” Vos said quietly now. His voice lost some of the usual lilt, turning thoughtful. “I can see it.”

Fox didn’t look at him.

“I’ve seen men go down this road,” Vos continued, watching him. “Some of them clawed their way back. Most didn’t.”

“She’s not yours,” Fox snapped.

Vos raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t say she was.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Because whether you like it or not, you’re coming undone, Commander. And I have orders to keep the Guard functioning. You spiral out, the whole tower burns with you.”

Fox stood. “I am not spiraling.”

Vos looked him up and down—shirtless, bleeding, jaw bruised, and still trembling with rage.

“Sure,” Vos said, slow and sarcastic. “Totally fine.”

Fox grabbed his gloves and helmet off the tray and stalked past him.

Vos called out as he left, “Tell Thorn I’ll be by to heal his bruises too. Or at least watch Hound chew him out again.”

Fox didn’t stop.

But the door nearly dented when it slammed behind him.

⸻

Thorn sat alone in the barracks’ quiet lounge, nursing a bruised knuckle and a splitting headache. Hound’s lecture was still ringing in his ears. Stone had suggested they cool off with a drink—Thire offered him a frozen steak for his eye. Grizzer, after biting Fox, had the audacity to curl up beside Thorn like he hadn’t instigated an all-out brawl.

The door slid open.

“You know,” came that too-smooth voice, “for a guy named after a sharp object, you sure wear your heart like it’s blunt.”

Thorn groaned and leaned back without looking. “Vos.”

“Commander,” Quinlan said, dropping onto the couch beside him uninvited. “Heard you and Fox went a few rounds over a senator.”

Thorn said nothing.

Vos smirked. “You’re both lucky Grizzer didn’t go for the face.”

Thorn rubbed his temple. “Why are you here?”

“Curiosity,” Vos said breezily. “And because I happen to be good friends with a certain Jedi who served with your senator. Back when she wasn’t a senator, but a commander. Small galaxy.”

Thorn looked over slowly. “You know someone who served with her?”

Vos held up a hand. “Before you ask—no, I won’t tell you who. Jedi confidentiality and all that. But I could get them to talk to her. Maybe help… unravel this whole little triangle you’ve got going on.”

Thorn tensed, then forced himself to relax. “She’s not in a triangle.”

Vos laughed. “Oh, my friend. She is the triangle.”

Thorn didn’t answer.

Instead, his tone shifted. “So it’s true. She really was a commander.”

Vos tilted his head. “Didn’t Fox tell you that already?”

“I wanted to hear it again.”

Vos grew slightly more serious. “Yeah. She was a hell of a one, too. Decorated. Respected. Feared.”

“Feared?” Thorn asked, brow furrowing.

Vos shrugged. “Depends on which side of the war you were on. But most of it’s been buried. Whole campaigns sealed. Records redacted. Even my Jedi friend won’t talk much. Said it’s classified—need-to-know.”

Thorn was silent.

“Truth is,” Vos continued, “you’ll only ever get her side of the story… if she wants you to have it.”

Thorn looked down at his bruised hand.

Vos added, softer, “Don’t push too hard, Thorn. That kind of past doesn’t stay buried without a reason.”

And with that, Vos stood and stretched like he’d done nothing more than offer career advice over caf.

“Tell Fox I say hi,” he called as he walked out. “And maybe try not to murder each other tomorrow. I’ve got credits on both of you for different reasons.”

The door hissed shut, leaving Thorn in a sea of silence… and questions he suddenly wasn’t sure he wanted the answers to.

⸻

The tension had a scent—subtle, metallic. Like ozone before a storm.

She felt it in the way the guards shifted in the halls, in how Fox’s voice had lost its usual edge and become tightly controlled. In how Thorn hadn’t so much as looked her in the eye since yesterday. Something had changed.

She wasn’t surprised when her door chimed. But the man standing on the other side wasn’t Fox. Or Thorn. Or a summons from the Chancellor’s office.

“Kenobi,” she said.

Obi-Wan offered a patient, polite smile. “You always answer like I’ve come bearing bad news.”

“You usually do.”

He sighed. “Well, you’ll be relieved to know this time I only come bearing a headache.”

She stepped aside to let him in. “Vos?”

“Vos.”

That earned a smirk from her. “You want a drink?”

“Desperately

They settled on her balcony, the city golden and low in the sky, just shy of sunset. Ed She poured them both a drink—Alderaanian, smooth, aged. Obi-Wan accepted it with a look of wary gratitude.

“Why do I feel like this is some kind of delayed consequence for my past?” she asked.

“Because it absolutely is,” he replied. “But mostly, Vos sent me.”

She gave him a sideways glance. “He’s enjoying himself, isn’t he?”

“Far too much,” Obi-Wan muttered. “You know how he is. Any hint of personal drama and he acts like he’s watching theatre.”

“I should’ve let him get shot.”

“I was there. You tried to let him get shot.”

That earned a grin from her.

They sat for a moment, quiet. Comfortable. The kind of silence only people with shared history could sit in without it feeling heavy.

“You’ve seen them,” she said eventually. “The commanders.”

Obi-Wan nodded. “Yes.”

“And?”

“And I’d say your presence is… significantly disruptive to their equilibrium.”

She snorted. “That’s a very Jedi way of calling me a problem.”

“I didn’t say you were a problem. I said you’re the gravity. They’re just circling.”

She leaned back in her chair. “Do you think Vos said anything to them?”

Obi-Wan arched a brow. “About?”

“About the war. About what I did.”

There was a beat. The drink in her hand warmed between her fingers.

“Vos knows more than he lets on,” Obi-Wan said carefully. “He always has.”

She looked away, toward the skyline. “I can’t afford them knowing everything. Not yet.”

“I doubt he told them everything. But he may have let enough slip to stir their curiosity.”

“I don’t want their curiosity. I want their professionalism.”

Obi-Wan didn’t say anything to that. He simply sipped his drink, contemplative.

“You were there too,” she said quietly. “You and Vos. You know what it was like.”

“I remember,” he said. “And I remember what you did. I also remember how much of it was buried under politics and repainted as something else.”

“That was the deal,” she said, bitterly. “Be the hero they needed, and maybe they’d forget I started as the villain.”

Obi-Wan set his glass down. “You were never the villain. You were a soldier. A leader. Same as the rest of us.”

“Tell that to the people I buried.”

He didn’t respond to that. Just watched her with those clear, tired eyes that had seen too much and judged too little.

“Do you regret it?” he asked finally.

“I regret that people like me had to exist at all,” she said. “But no. I don’t regret surviving.”

There was a long pause.

“I’ll keep Vos in check,” Obi-Wan said softly. “But I can’t stop the past from catching up.”

“Just slow it down,” she murmured. “Long enough for me to decide how I want to be seen.”

He offered a nod. “You always did like to control your narrative.”

“And yet,” she said with a small smirk, “I let you and Vos tell it for me.”

Obi-Wan chuckled. “You never let us do anything. You were just smart enough to make us think we had the choice.”

She toasted him with her glass. “Still am.”

⸻

It hit faster than a bomb and spread twice as far.

By midmorning, every data terminal in the Senate complex buzzed with alerts. Security systems scrambled, slicing units raced against the breach, and a hush fell over the halls more damning than a public outcry—because silence meant everyone was reading.

The cyber attack had been surgical. Dozens of files lifted from the most secure systems on Coruscant. All senators. All sensitive. Not even the Chancellor was spared. But some were worse than others.

Her file made front-page headlines on five Core Worlds within the hour.

Her face stared back at her from an unauthorized holonet broadcast, grainy war footage playing behind text that read: SENATOR OR WARLORD?

It was all there.

The use of the enemy’s uniform in the infamous ambush at Ridge 17.

The unarmed surrendering prisoners shot in the back after being marched into a ravine.

The nighttime raid that ended with a half-dozen civilians caught in the fire.

The public executions. The battlefield tribunals.

The bloody calculus of survival, simplified and repackaged for mass consumption.

And worse—each sealed report had her name etched in full: Commander [LAST NAME], leader of the 3rd Resistance Legion.

Nowhere to hide.

By the time she reached the Senate floor, the stares had already changed. They weren’t hostile, not outright. But the quiet had grown pointed. Even the senators who’d once embraced her at functions stepped back just slightly, their warmth tempered by uncertainty. Some averted their eyes. A few didn’t bother.

Senator Mon Mothma was the only one who stepped forward.

“You don’t need to explain anything,” she said gently. “You led a war. Most of them haven’t even led a debate.”

The senator gave her a tight smile. “You’re kinder than I expected, Mon.”

“I’m pragmatic. And I’ve seen what war does. You don’t owe them anything.”

Except she did. She owed something. Even if it wasn’t an apology.

In her office, she didn’t sit. She stared at the screen instead—at her own record splayed out across a dozen news outlets. There was no way to know how the public would react. A war hero to some. A butcher to others. To the commanders who now guarded her, she wondered what she was.

A knock at the door startled her.

“Enter.”

Thorn stepped inside, helmet under his arm. He didn’t speak. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes held weight.

“Say it,” she said. “Whatever you’re thinking.”

He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter what I think.”

“It does.”

His jaw clenched. “I’ve fought beside men who did far worse than what’s written here. And I’ve fought beside better men who never made it through a single battle. You made it. You survived. You did what you had to.”

“And if I hadn’t? If I hadn’t done what I did?”

“You wouldn’t be here.”

“Would you still respect me?”

He didn’t answer. That was the answer.

“I didn’t enjoy it,” she said. “But I did it.”

“I know.”

She turned away from him, gripping the edge of her desk.

“And Fox?” she asked quietly. “What does he think?”

“I don’t know,” Thorn admitted. “He hasn’t said a word since the report came out.”

Of course he hadn’t. Fox would carry his judgment in silence. He’d probably carry it straight to the Chancellor’s office and beyond.

But it was Thorn still standing in front of her. Thorn who hadn’t walked away.

That counted for something.

That counted for everything.

⸻

Previous Part | Next Part

“Red Lines” pt.1

Fox X Reader

Summary: In the heart of the Republic Senate, political tension runs high—and so does romantic rivalry. Senators [Y/N] and Ryio Chuchi both battle for the attention of Commander Fox. Unbeknownst to Fox, he’s walked straight into the a love triangle he has no idea exists.

⸻

The Senate chamber buzzed with tension—not the kind that demanded attention with yelling or gavel-pounding, but the kind that simmered beneath the surface, the kind that danced behind careful words and meticulously prepared statements.

You sat at your designated repulsorpod, leaning back in your seat with an expression of carefully manufactured boredom. A debate over Republic funding for refugee programs droned on, and across from you, Senator Riyo Chuchi’s voice rang out clear and impassioned.

“We cannot in good conscience divert funds from displaced Outer Rim citizens simply to bolster another military initiative,” she said, chin held high, the folds of her blue and violet robes immaculate.

You raised a brow and tapped your data pad lightly, requesting the floor.

“While I admire Senator Chuchi’s ever-vibrant moral compass,” you began smoothly, tone like silk with a hint of mockery, “perhaps the esteemed senator might consider that without a capable military initiative, there won’t be any citizens left to protect—displaced or otherwise.”

Gasps and murmurs broke out, but Chuchi didn’t flinch.

“That’s a dangerous line of thought, Senator. Lives are not chess pieces.”

You offered her a practiced smile. “And idealism doesn’t win wars.”

The Chancellor’s gavel rang out with sharp finality. “Debate concluded for today. This matter will be brought to committee vote at the end of the week.”

The chamber dispersed slowly, senators floating back into the corridors of marble and durasteel. You stepped off your pod and were already pulling your cloak tighter around your shoulders when a voice called out behind you.

“Senator [L/N], a moment?”

Chuchi.

You turned, arching a brow. “Didn’t get enough of me in the chamber?”

She narrowed her eyes. “I’m not interested in trading barbs with you. I simply want to understand how you can so casually justify funding military expansion when entire systems are starving.”

You smiled, but it didn’t reach your eyes. “Because I’ve seen what happens when we don’t. War isn’t pretty, Senator. You might call me heartless—but I call myself prepared.”

“And I call you reckless.”

You stepped forward, closing the distance. “And I call you naïve.”

The air crackled between you, tension thick—not quite hatred, not quite anything else. She was too sincere. You were too guarded. It was inevitable you’d clash.

Then a new voice cut through the air, cool and commanding.

“Senators.”

Both of you turned in unison.

Standing at full height in pristine red armor was Commander Fox, hands clasped behind his back in perfect posture. The red of the Coruscant Guard gleamed under the overhead lighting, the expressionless T-shaped visor trained on you both.

Beside him stood Chancellor Palpatine, his hands tucked neatly into his sleeves, pale face betraying amusement.

“Ah, Senators. I hope I’m not interrupting,” the Chancellor said, eyes glinting. “Commander Fox will be joining the Senate Security Council temporarily as my personal attaché. You may be seeing more of him in the coming weeks.”

You didn’t hear half of what Palpatine said after Commander Fox.

Your eyes met his visor, and though you couldn’t see his face, something in your chest shifted. He looked like a statue carved from war itself—silent, strong, utterly unreadable.

Next to you, Chuchi straightened slightly.

“Well,” she said softly, “that’s… interesting.”

You shot her a look.

She smirked, just the smallest twist of her lips, and in that second, something shifted again—this time between you and her. An unspoken recognition.

You both had the same thought.

Oh. He’s beautiful.

And neither of you was going to back down.

⸻

The Grand Senate Reception Hall shimmered beneath low, golden lights. Crystal goblets clicked, servers weaved between senators with silent grace, and orchestral music hummed in the background like an afterthought.

You hated every second of it.

The champagne was good, but not good enough to justify the politics that oozed from every polished marble corner. A thousand smiles, none sincere. A thousand compliments, each one a calculation.

You leaned against one of the grand pillars, drink in hand, watching the room like a predator waiting for prey to slip.

“Senator [L/N],” came a too-pleasant voice behind you.

You turned to face Bail Organa. Of course.

“Organa,” you said smoothly. “Slumming it with the likes of me?”

His smile was thin. “Just wondering how long you planned to keep needling Chuchi during committee sessions before it turns into a full-on scandal.”

You tilted your glass in his direction. “Oh, I’m counting on it.”

Before he could respond, Mon Mothma joined him with Padmé in tow. All three wore expressions like they’d stepped in something foul.

“Good evening,” Padmé offered stiffly. “Still nursing your taste for conflict, I see.”

You smirked. “Keeps the blood warm.”

Mon Mothma looked you over like she was assessing a wine stain on her robes. “There’s more to governance than combativeness, Senator.”

You sipped your drink. “Says the woman who’s never had to blackmail a warlord into voting for food aid.”

Padmé frowned. “There are other ways to—”

“Sure,” you cut in. “The moral high road. But it’s paved with corpses who couldn’t afford your patience.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Bail gave a tight nod and ushered them away. You watched them go with a smirk. Poking them was too easy.

A moment later, you felt the air shift.

You didn’t need to look to know who had walked in.

Commander Fox. Standing beside Chancellor Palpatine like a silent shadow, red armor pristine, his helmet tucked under one arm.

The murmurs were immediate—political interest, curiosity, and more than a few appreciative glances. But yours wasn’t casual interest. It was sharp, focused.

You tilted your head as you watched him, just for a moment too long.

Then your eyes slid sideways—and met Chuchi’s.

She was across the room, bathed in soft light, delicate hands curled around a glass of something clear. She followed your gaze to Fox, then back to you.

You smiled. She didn’t.

She turned away, cutting through the crowd with all the elegance her status demanded, and joined a cluster of senators.

You drifted toward a table where the more pragmatic senators had gathered— Ask Aak, Orn Free Taa—laughing too loud and sipping drinks too strong.

“[L/N],” Taa grunted, patting the seat beside him. “We were just discussing how flexible some of the outer rim tax restrictions could be… for the right votes.”

“Always such stimulating conversation,” you replied dryly, sitting with an exaggerated sigh. “I assume the ‘right votes’ are the ones that come with a gift basket.”

Laughter. Real, ugly laughter. You loathed them—but they were useful. They liked you because you weren’t afraid to get your hands dirty. Because you didn’t waste time with speeches about justice and peace.

You spotted Chuchi again. She stood near a window, now much closer to Fox—speaking to him, if briefly. His responses were clipped and polite, the kind of efficiency born from a lifetime of standing guard and keeping his thoughts locked behind durasteel.

She laughed lightly at something he said. Her smile was warm. Kind.

You drained your glass.

She was playing the charm angle.

You? You preferred a more direct approach.

You slipped away from the corrupt senators, weaving through the crowd with predator’s ease, and approached the refreshment table just as Fox turned away from Chuchi.

You timed it perfectly.

“Commander,” you said, voice low and silken.

He turned, visor tilting downward to meet your gaze. Even without seeing his face, his posture straightened slightly.

“Senator,” he acknowledged.

“Enjoying yourself?” you asked, voice casual, picking up another glass.

He hesitated. “Not particularly.”

You smiled, genuinely this time. “Good. You’re not missing anything.”

His head tilted slightly. “I assumed as much.”

There was a pause—an odd, quiet moment in the middle of a too-loud room. Then Chuchi reappeared at Fox’s other side.

“Commander,” she greeted, “I hope [L/N] isn’t boring you with cynicism.”

You raised a brow. “I could say the same about your optimism.”

Fox looked between you, the briefest shift of weight betraying his discomfort. If he realized you were fighting over him, he didn’t show it.

“Senators,” he said carefully, “I’m assigned here for the Chancellor’s protection, not personal conversation.”

“Oh, but conversation is protection,” you said. “The more you know what someone’s hiding, the better you know where to aim.”

Chuchi frowned, eyes narrowing. “Not everyone’s out for blood.”

You tilted your head toward her. “No. But everyone’s out for something.”

Fox stared straight ahead, impassive.

He had no idea what he’d just stepped into.

The pause between the three of you had stretched just a breath too long.

Fox, ever the professional, inclined his head. “If you’ll excuse me, Senators. I have to return to my post.”

Without another word, he turned and strode away with mechanical precision, the red of his armor catching the candlelight like a bloodstain.

You watched him go. So did Chuchi.

The second he was out of earshot, her voice dropped like a blade.

“You know,” she said tightly, “the clones aren’t toys.”

You blinked, slowly turning your head toward her.

“They’re people,” she continued, voice soft but steely. “They’re not here for your amusement, Senator. You don’t get to play with them like they’re decorations to be admired and discarded.”

You took a measured sip of your drink, then smiled—razor-sharp and unbothered. “How charming. I didn’t realize we were giving lectures tonight.”

“This isn’t a joke.”

“Oh, I agree. It’s far funnier than that.”

Chuchi’s jaw tensed.

You swirled the liquid in your glass and added, “Tell me, Senator—do you think standing near him and smiling like a saint makes you so different from me?”

“I am different,” she snapped, surprising even herself with the venom behind her words. “I see him as a person. Not a piece of armor. Not a weapon. Not a status symbol.”

You arched a brow. “And what, exactly, do you think I see?”

She folded her arms. “A game. Another victory to notch in your belt. Another soldier to claim until you get bored.”

You laughed, low and cool. “Please. I have senators for that.”

She didn’t laugh. She just stared—eyes narrowing, mouth tight.

“I respect him,” she said. “You—use people.”

You leaned in, just slightly. “You idealize them. Which is more dangerous, really?”

She didn’t answer, but the look on her face said enough. Her hands were clenched now, knuckles white against the soft blue of her gown.

“I don’t need to explain myself to you,” she muttered.

“No,” you said lightly. “You really don’t.”

You watched her go, shoulders stiff, spine straight, like she was marching into battle. It was almost admirable.

You turned back toward the banquet table, tossing back the rest of your drink. Your reflection stared back at you from the polished surface of a silver decanter—smiling, sharp, and just a little bit empty.

Whatever this thing with Fox was, it wasn’t going to be simple.

And now?

It was war.

The echo of Chuchi’s righteous indignation still rang in your ears as you refilled your drink—this time with something stronger, something that bit like guilt and went down like justification.

Across the room, Mas Amedda stood like a shrine to smugness, flanked by a pair of simpering mid-rim senators and dressed in robes so ostentatious they practically screamed I embezzle with style.

You watched him, your jaw shifting slightly.

There were few things more satisfying than needling the Vice Chair of the Senate. He was pompous, corrupt, and so tightly wound with self-importance that it only took a few words to make him unravel. You needed a release, and he was the perfect target.

You crossed the floor with a glide in your step, your voice syrupy sweet as you approached.

“Vice Chair,” you said, feigning surprise, “I was wondering where the stench of smug had gone. I should’ve known you’d be hiding by the brie.”

Mas Amedda turned, expression souring instantly.

“Senator [L/N],” he drawled. “Still mistaking sarcasm for diplomacy, I see.”

You grinned. “Still mistaking your office for relevance?”

One of the mid-rim senators stifled a laugh. Amedda’s nostrils flared.

“You may be comfortable fraternizing with war profiteers and gang-world delegates, but some of us still value the sanctity of Republic law.”

You raised your glass. “How inspiring. And yet I could’ve sworn I saw your name on the same resource contract that mysteriously bypassed ethical review last week. A clerical error, I’m sure.”

He sneered. “You have no proof.”

You shrugged. “I don’t need proof. I have implication. It’s amazing what a rumor can do, especially when whispered in just the right ears.”

Amedda opened his mouth to fire back—but another voice cut in before he could.

“I’ve often wondered how some of those contracts pass committee oversight,” said Bail Organa, sliding into the conversation like a knife through silk.

You blinked, surprised.

Amedda turned on him, fuming. “Senator Organa—surely you don’t mean to stand beside this sort of company.”

Bail glanced at you. His expression was unreadable, but there was the faintest spark in his eyes. “For once, I find myself intrigued by Senator [L/N]’s line of questioning.”

You tilted your head at him. “Well, well. Welcome to the dark side.”

Bail ignored the jab. “Vice Chair, some of your recent dealings have raised questions. Especially regarding those tax exemptions on Nixor. If I recall correctly, your name appeared in four separate communications with the system’s mining guild.”

Amedda’s eyes narrowed. “You tread dangerously close to slander.”

“I tread carefully,” Bail said smoothly, “but not quietly.”

The Vice Chair stormed off, muttering something in Cheunh you assumed was an insult.

You turned to Bail, still stunned. “Never thought I’d see the day you jumped in with me.”

He exhaled. “Let’s just say I’m tired of watching corruption thrive behind ceremonial titles.”

You studied him for a moment. “So this is your rebellious phase?”

“Don’t get used to it,” he said. “And don’t assume it means I like you.”

“I’d never make that mistake,” you said dryly.

He gave you a look—annoyed, maybe impressed, it was hard to tell—then vanished into the crowd again.

You stood there a moment longer, alone again in a sea of masks and shadows, feeling strangely adrift. You hadn’t expected Bail’s support. You hadn’t expected Chuchi’s anger to sting. And you definitely hadn’t expected Fox to keep creeping into your thoughts like a silent ghost.

You sighed, looking toward the far exit where you’d last seen him standing guard.

This war—on the floor, in the heart, in your head—it was only just beginning.

⸻

The night had thinned to only the devoted and the damned.

You slipped through one of the Senate’s shadowed walkways, heels echoing faintly on polished stone. The reception was dying—senators gone or passed out, secrets spilled or swallowed whole. The quiet was a balm. But you weren’t quite ready to leave.

Not without one last indulgence.

You found him near the overlook—Commander Fox, helmet tucked under one arm, posture razor-straight even at this ungodly hour. Three of his guards flanked him a few paces back, slightly slouched and murmuring low.

You let your presence be known by the scent of your perfume and the lazy drag of your voice.

“Well, well. Still on duty, Commander?” you purred, letting your gaze travel unapologetically over his frame.

Fox turned, visor meeting your gaze. “Senator.”

That voice—low, flat, professional. Predictable. Delicious.

You stepped closer, letting your robe fall open just enough at the collar to hint at skin and intent. “Tell me something, Commander… do you sleep in that armor? Or do you ever let yourself breathe?”

Behind him, one of his troopers coughed loudly.

Fox didn’t move. “Senator, is there something you need?”

You tsked softly. “Need? No. Want? That’s another conversation.”

More snickering from the clones behind him. One of them muttered, “Stars, he really can’t tell…”

“CT-6149,” Fox barked without turning. “Stand down.”

“Yessir,” came the sheepish reply, followed by another muffled laugh.

You smiled, slow and deliberate, eyes half-lidded as you stalked one step closer. “You know, they’re right. You really don’t notice, do you?”

“Notice what?”

“That I’ve been undressing you with my eyes all night.”

One of the guards choked. “By the Force—”

“CT-8812. Silence.”

“Yessir!”

You dragged your fingers lightly along the cold railing, leaning in slightly, letting your body language linger somewhere between temptation and challenge. “You’re an impressive man, Fox. Loyal, deadly, painfully disciplined. It’s… compelling.”

“I’m a soldier,” he said stiffly. “Nothing more.”

You tilted your head. “Mm. Funny. That’s not what I see.”

His visor didn’t flinch. “With respect, Senator, I’m not here to entertain your flirtations.”

You let out a soft, amused sound. “Oh, Commander. I’m not looking for entertainment. I’m looking for cracks. And you… you wear your armor like a second skin, but I wonder how thin it is around your heart.”

Fox said nothing.

You stepped in so close you could almost feel the heat from his chestplate. “Tell me—do you ever let someone get close? Or are you afraid of what you might feel if you did?”

The silence stretched.

Behind him, the clones were practically vibrating with suppressed laughter, every single one of them watching their commanding officer get emotionally outmaneuvered and still not realize he was in a battlefield.

Fox’s voice came eventually, low and sharp. “Return to your patrol routes. Now.”

“Yes, Commander,” they chimed as one, jogging off down the corridor, not even pretending to keep a straight face.

Once they were gone, Fox exhaled slowly. Whether it was relief or tension, you couldn’t tell.

“You should be careful what you say,” he murmured at last.

You arched a brow. “Why? Because you might start listening?”

He was quiet again. Not a refusal. Not an acceptance. Just the weight of something unspoken hanging between you both.

You leaned in once more, lips near his ear.

“You make it so easy, Commander. Standing there like a statue, pretending you don’t know exactly what effect you have on people.”

“I don’t,” he said flatly.

You pulled back, smiling with all teeth and sin. “Exactly.”

You started to turn, then hesitated, gaze flicking to his. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re beautiful when you’re confused.”

He blinked once behind the visor.

Then you were gone—cloak sweeping behind you like the shadow of a secret. You didn’t look back.

Let him stand there and figure it out.

If he could.

The red of your cloak had barely disappeared down the corridor when another figure stepped from the shadows of a nearby archway.

Senator Riyo Chuchi.

Fox turned slightly at the sound of her footsteps—calm, measured, as if she hadn’t just been eavesdropping. But she had. Her composure was pristine as always, but her eyes… they were brighter than usual. Sharp with unspoken thoughts.

“Commander,” she said softly, folding her hands in front of her, voice light as snowfall. “You’re still working?”

Fox nodded. “Ensuring the area’s secure before we rotate out.”

“Diligent as ever.” Her smile was gentle. “Though I imagine your last conversation was… less standard protocol?”

Fox blinked. “Senator?”

Chuchi gestured toward the hallway where you’d just vanished. “Senator [L/N] can be… theatrical, can’t she?”

“She was… being herself,” Fox said cautiously.

Chuchi tilted her head, studying him. “And what do you make of her?”

He was quiet a moment.

“She’s strategic,” he said finally. “Sharp-tongued. Difficult to ignore.”

Chuchi hummed softly in agreement. “Yes. She often commands the room, even when she’s not trying to.”

She stepped beside him now, close—but not too close. Enough that the scent of her light floral perfume barely reached his senses. Enough that if she’d worn armor, she might’ve brushed shoulders with him.

“I couldn’t help but overhear,” she said, voice still soft, but with an edge Fox couldn’t quite place. “She seemed very… intent. On you.”

Fox tensed slightly. “She was teasing.”

“Was she?”

He turned to look at her. “Wasn’t she?”

Chuchi met his gaze, and there was something sad and sweet in her expression. “You don’t see it, do you?”

“See what?”

“That you matter,” she said simply. “To people.”

Fox straightened. “I matter to the Guard. To the Republic.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

She held his gaze a moment longer, then offered a small, fond smile—half kind, half wistful.

“She may flirt like it’s a weapon, but even weapons point at something.”

Fox stared at her, clearly still processing.

“I should go,” she said gently. “I have an early committee session. But, Commander…”

She paused, brushing a nonexistent wrinkle from her sleeve, her voice lower now.

“You may want to start noticing. Before someone gets hurt.”

She turned before he could respond, her steps light, her presence like a soft breeze after a storm.

Fox stood alone again, staring into nothing.

And somewhere deep behind the red of his helmet… confusion bloomed like a silent fire.

⸻

Next part

“Red Lines” pt.2

Commander Fox x Reader

The silence of your office was deceptive.

Outside the transparisteel windows, Coruscant glittered like a serpent coiled around its secrets—unblinking, beautiful, and always listening. Inside, the low buzz of your private holoterminal grew louder, more urgent.

You closed the thick file in front of you—another half-legal mining contract you’d need to publicly denounce and quietly reroute—and leaned forward. You keyed in your security clearance, and the image that appeared wasn’t what you expected.

Your senior planetary attaché flickered into view, pale-faced and breathing hard.

“Senator,” he said without preamble, “we have a situation. Prison Compound Nine—compromised. Four fugitives escaped.”

You frowned, blood going cold. “Which fugitives?”

“Level-Seven threats. Political dissidents. Former intelligence operatives. Rumor is… they’re already offworld. Possibly Coruscant-bound.”

You sat back slowly, every thought sharpening to a blade’s edge. “That information stays contained until I say otherwise. Send me all identicodes and criminal profiles now.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The transmission ended. You stared at the terminal for a beat longer, then stood, pulling your cloak from the back of the chair. There was only one place this belonged: in the hands of Coruscant’s best-armed babysitters.

And if that just so happened to bring you face-to-face with a certain thick-headed, utterly blind red-armored commander?

All the better.

⸻

The Corrie Guard precinct near the Senate was buzzing with the quiet energy of military protocol. You were met outside the checkpoint by two familiar faces.

“Senator [L/N],” Sergeant Hound greeted you, visor dipping respectfully.

Beside him, Stone offered a nod. “Didn’t expect to see you here, ma’am. Something wrong?”

“Very,” you said crisply, handing over a sealed datapad. “Level-Seven fugitives from my home system. Recently escaped. Highly trained, extremely dangerous, and possibly on Coruscant as we speak.”

Hound’s brow furrowed behind the helmet. “That’s a hell of a situation.”

“They’re targeting something,” you said. “Or someone. My planet’s intelligence division flagged odd comm-traffic patterns aligning with a senator’s office hours—mine.”

Stone shifted, suddenly sharper. “So it’s personal.”

You nodded. “Possibly revenge. Or leverage. Either way, I’m not taking chances.”

As they scanned the datapad, footsteps echoed from the far hall—more measured, more commanding.

Fox.

You turned just in time to see him and Commander Thorn walking down the corridor, deep in conversation.

Thorn spotted you first, expression flickering with mild surprise. “Senator [L/N]. You’re out of your element.”

Fox glanced over—and immediately straightened. “Senator.”

Thorn raised a brow at the datapad in Stone’s hands. “Trouble?”

“Trouble likes to follow me,” you said smoothly. “This time it’s not my fault.”

Fox approached, glancing at the display. His eyes skimmed the alert, the images, the profiles—danger written in every line.

“Level-Sevens,” he said. “You should have come straight to me.”

You smiled, something sharp curling at the edges. “I did.”

He blinked. “You… did.”

You tilted your head. “I thought noticing things was your new skillset.”

Thorn let out a quiet chuckle behind you. Hound tried to look innocent. Stone was grinning outright.

Fox cleared his throat. “We’ll open an internal security file. Assign additional patrols near your office and residence.”

“Perfect,” you said. “Though I’d feel even safer with you around, Commander.”

His silence was almost impressive.

Thorn looked between the two of you, a slow, knowing smile spreading across his face. “Fox, you might want to run a few extra drills. Something tells me you’re going to be… distracted.”

“Commander Thorn,” Fox said, voice ice-cold. “Noted.”

You turned to Fox, voice lower now. “These fugitives are clever. They’ll adapt. You may need someone who knows how they think.”

“You?” he asked.

You gave him a look that could melt glass. “I’m not just a senator, Commander. I’m a survivor. And I don’t play fair.”

He held your gaze.

And again… said nothing.

You smiled. Of course he didn’t. The perfect soldier.

But one day? You’d crack that armor. Even if it killed you.

Fox’s jaw was set like stone behind his helmet. When he finally spoke, the words dropped with the weight of command.

“No, Senator,” he said flatly. “This is a Guard matter now. You’re not to involve yourself in the investigation further.”

The sharp, satisfied click of his words should’ve ended it. Should’ve sent you back to your office to stew in silence.

Instead, it made you smile.

“Mm,” you hummed, crossing your arms slowly. “I don’t recall asking permission, Commander.”

Stone glanced at Hound with barely concealed amusement. Thorn shifted his weight, arms folded, eyes dancing between the two of you with the air of someone watching a high-speed speeder crash.

Fox didn’t flinch. “Your involvement would compromise security and escalate risk. You’re a high-value target—”

“And that makes me an even higher priority to be looped in,” you cut in, voice silk over steel. “You want to contain risk? Then keep me informed.”

Fox’s silence bristled like a drawn blade.

You took a step closer, voice softening just enough to imply intimacy while still pressing hard against his control. “I understand your chain of command, Commander. But I wasn’t asking to be in the field.”

You leaned in just slightly, enough to force him to register the space between you.

“I’m telling you,” you murmured, “that the moment those fugitives are captured—or killed—I expect to be notified. Immediately. Do you understand me?”

There was a subtle twitch in his stance—barely noticeable to anyone else, but you caught it.

He was used to command. Not negotiation.

Not you.

Thorn let out a long, slow whistle. “Well, kark. Should we leave you two alone, or…?”

Fox didn’t move a muscle. “Understood,” he said eventually. “You’ll be notified.”

You offered him a slow, almost sultry smile. “Good. I knew you could be reasonable.”

Then you turned on your heel, cloak swirling, brushing his vambrace with just the whisper of contact.

“Keep your comms open, Commander,” you called over your shoulder. “You might miss me.”

Fox stared after you, helmet tucked under one arm, face unreadable. Thorn stepped in beside him, arms crossed loosely.

“She’s a wildfire,” Thorn said, his voice low. “And you, vod… you’re the dry brush.”

Fox let out a breath that was neither amused nor frustrated—just heavy.

“She’s dangerous,” he muttered.

“Which part?” Thorn asked, grinning. “The intel, the fugitives, or the way she looks at you like she’s already won?”

Fox didn’t answer.

Because honestly?

He wasn’t sure.

⸻

The operations room was lit only by a few soft holoscreens, each projecting sectors of Coruscant’s underlevels and the networked security grid. The city never slept, and neither did the Guard—not with a potential Level-Seven threat loose.

Fox stood at the main display table, eyes scanning red-highlighted routes and names. His jaw worked in quiet rhythm, processing, calculating, assigning.

Thorn leaned against the far wall, helmet off, arms crossed, watching him.

“Okay,” Thorn said eventually, “let’s talk about it.”

Fox didn’t look up. “About what?”

“About the fact that two senators—two, Fox—keep finding excuses to orbit around you like you’re the damn sun.”

Fox didn’t pause in his typing. “They’re politicians. They orbit whoever’s most useful.”

Thorn snorted. “That what you think this is? Strategic kissing up?”

Fox nodded once. “Senator [L/N] plays the long game. She pushes limits, stirs chaos, then waits to see who blinks. Getting in good with the Guard gives her a protective buffer. She knows how valuable we are in a city like this.”

“And Chuchi?”

Fox hesitated. Just a second.

“She’s more direct. But she’s still a senator. Don’t let the soft voice fool you—she’s calculating too. They all are.”

Thorn pushed off the wall and stepped closer. “You really think they’re both suddenly invested in you because they want to cash in political favors?”

Fox gave him a look. “We’re enforcers, Thorn. Leverage. If a senator ends up needing a security report buried or a background skipped on a staffer, who do they think will make that disappear quietly?”

“Right,” Thorn said slowly. “Because Riyo Chuchi is famous for corruption.”

Fox didn’t reply.

“And Senator [L/N] practically breathes ethics, right?” Thorn added, deadpan.

Fox allowed the faintest twitch of his mouth—almost a smirk, if you squinted hard enough.

“She breathes something,” he said under his breath.

Thorn barked a laugh. “Okay, now we’re getting somewhere.”

Fox turned back to the holo. “Neither of them is interested in me, Thorn. They’re playing a game. One loud, one quiet. Same goal.”

“And what goal is that?” Thorn pressed, watching him closely.

Fox tapped a point on the map. “Control.”

“Funny,” Thorn said. “From where I’m standing, it’s not them trying to control you… It’s you trying to control the story you tell yourself.”

Fox didn’t answer.

Because what could he say?

That you, with your blade-sharp grin and eyes like traps, weren’t manipulating him—that you were something else entirely? That Chuchi, kind and composed, looked at him like she meant it?

No. That wasn’t part of the file.

So instead, he changed the subject.

“Assign units to levels 1315 through 1320. Full perimeter sweep. If these fugitives surface, I want them surrounded before they can draw breath.”

Thorn sighed, shaking his head as he pulled his helmet back on. “You’re a kriffing idiot, Fox.”

Fox didn’t respond. Not to that.

He had work to do.

And feelings?

Those were someone else’s mission.

⸻

The Guard’s central command was a hive of movement—troopers reporting in from the lower levels, holoscreens flickering with faces flagged for surveillance, and the quiet undercurrent of discipline humming through every corridor.

Chuchi’s arrival was quiet. Intentional. No Senate aides, no parade of protocol. Just a simple dark-blue cloak, datapad in hand, and a cup of steaming caf that she carried carefully through the armored sea of troopers.

She earned a few surprised glances.

Not many senators walked into the Guard’s domain alone.

But Chuchi wasn’t just any senator.

She spotted Fox just outside the debriefing chamber, helmet tucked under his arm, deep in conversation with Sergeant Boomer. His expression was all sharp lines and worn intensity—he hadn’t slept, that much was obvious.

“Commander Fox,” she said gently.

He turned, startled by her presence. “Senator Chuchi.”

“I heard about the alert,” she said, extending the cup toward him. “I thought you might need this more than I do.”

Fox blinked, hesitated… then accepted the caf with a nod. “Appreciated.”

Chuchi gave a soft smile. “You look like you haven’t slept.”

He didn’t respond to that. Instead, he took a measured sip—cautious, as if caf were unfamiliar ground.

“I imagine the search has consumed your every waking moment,” she said gently.

“Level-Sevens don’t give us much room to breathe,” he admitted. “We’re covering three sectors simultaneously.”

She nodded. “If there’s anything I can do to assist…”

Fox shook his head. “This is Guard jurisdiction. We’ll handle it.”

Chuchi’s smile didn’t falter. “I don’t doubt you will. But sometimes… support comes in quieter forms.”

She didn’t press further. Instead, she stepped closer—just enough to close the conversational space, not the physical one. Her voice lowered.

“You’ve never seemed the type who allows himself to be supported, Commander.”

Fox looked at her, eyebrows just slightly drawn. “I wasn’t trained for that.”

“No,” she said softly. “You were trained to protect others. Not to be seen. Not to be known.”

He said nothing.

So she went on.

“You’ve stood by the Chancellor more times than I can count. Protected the Senate through more crises than half its members realize. And yet… you’re always in the background.”

Fox shifted slightly, as if the weight of her gaze was more difficult to carry than his armor.

“I just wanted you to know,” Chuchi said quietly, “that I see you. As more than just the red and white armor. As more than a commander.”

His grip on the caf cup tightened.

“You don’t have to say anything,” she added quickly, catching the flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. “I know it’s not easy to believe someone might care… without wanting something in return.”

Fox’s voice was quiet, careful. “You’re a senator.”

“I am,” she agreed. “But that doesn’t mean I’m incapable of compassion.”

Silence stretched between them.

“I’ll… see to the patrol reports,” he said after a beat, taking a step back.

“Of course,” Chuchi said with a graceful nod. “Thank you for the work you do, Commander.”

She didn’t watch him walk away. She didn’t need to.

The caf cup still steamed in his hand.

And that was enough—for now.

⸻

The light in your office was dim, filtered through Coruscant’s constant twilight haze. You sat at your desk, datapad in hand, appearing the perfect picture of a diligent senator.

But your posture was too still. Too deliberate.

Because you could feel them.

The air had shifted—too quiet. The usual hum of outer security was gone. Either bypassed or silenced.

You didn’t look up. Instead, you keyed a silent alert under your desk—one flick of your finger against the embedded panel, and the Guard’s emergency line was pinged. No lights. No sound. Just data.

Then you continued working. Quiet. Calm. Like prey that hadn’t realized the snare was already closing.

“I know you’re here,” you said aloud, tapping your stylus against the desk. “You may as well stop playing ghost.”

No answer.

“Unless you’re scared,” you added, voice cool and measured. “I get it. I’d be terrified of me too.”

Silence again.

Then—movement.

From the shadowed arch near the bookshelves, two figures stepped into view. Dark clothing, military-grade sidearms. Faces you recognized from the prison files: former intelligence officers, turned insurgents.

“Senator [L/N],” the first said, voice low and amused. “You’ve grown sharper since your time at home.”

“You’ve grown sloppier,” you replied, still seated. “Three seconds late on your entrance. I almost got bored.”

The second man sneered. “You always did love the sound of your own voice.”

“And you always hated being outwitted. Funny how little’s changed.”

The leader raised his blaster, leveling it at your chest. “We didn’t come to talk.”

“No,” you said, leaning back in your chair. “You came to threaten. To make a statement. Isn’t that what you always wanted? Your glorious revolution of one?”

He stepped closer. “We’ll leave a message they won’t ignore.”

“I don’t think you realize,” you said, voice velvet and steel, “that this isn’t my first time with a gun pointed at me.”

“We’re not politicians, [L/N]. We’re executioners.”

You smiled.

“Cute.”

And then, without breaking eye contact, you slid your hand to the underside of your desk, thumb brushing against the pressure lock.

The drawer snapped open.

Before they could react, your concealed blaster was up and firing.

The shot hit the second insurgent square in the chest—burned through his armor and dropped him cold. The first shouted and dove for cover, return fire slicing across your desk, sparks flying.

You ducked low, rolled sideways, fired again. Missed.

“Should’ve aimed higher,” he snarled.

“Should’ve stayed dead,” you shot back.

The blast doors behind you hissed open with a thunderous echo.

Red armor flooded in—Guard troopers, weapons drawn.

Fox was at the lead, eyes sharp, voice a command. “Stand down! Drop your weapon!”

The insurgent froze, wild-eyed.

“Now!” Stone barked.

He hesitated… then dropped the blaster with a clatter and raised his hands.

Two troopers rushed him, slamming him to the ground and cuffing him with swift, brutal efficiency.

You stood slowly, brushing dust and ash from your robes. Your desk was scorched, half your datapads destroyed—but your eyes glittered like victory.

Fox approached, surveying the wreckage. “You’re injured?”

“Only my decor,” you said, voice breezy. “Though I wouldn’t mind a stiff drink.”

He stared at you. “You could’ve been killed.”

“I was bait,” you said coolly. “And it worked.”

His jaw clenched. “That was reckless.”

“That was necessary.”

“You should’ve let us handle it.”

“I did,” you said, meeting his gaze. “Eventually.”

He said nothing, just studied you with that unreadable expression of his.

But this time… something shifted.

Because now he’d seen you in action.

Not just as a mouthpiece in the Senate—but as someone who could kill, survive, and smile while doing it.

And maybe—just maybe—that stuck with him.

Even if he couldn’t admit it yet.

⸻

Your office still bore the scars of the assault—walls patched hastily, scorch marks half-scrubbed from the floor, the faint odor of blaster fire clinging to the air like the memory of a scream.

You sat behind a temporary desk, legs crossed, reviewing a datachip containing the criminal record of the man who now sat in Guard custody—hands shackled, rights revoked, dignity already gone.

The knock came soft, followed by the hiss of the door.

Senator Chuchi stepped in first, flanked by Bail Organa, Mon Mothma, and Padmé Amidala. Their expressions were taut, somewhere between concern and condemnation.

You didn’t bother standing. You simply looked up, calm as ever.

“We came as soon as we heard,” Chuchi said. “Are you—?”

“Fine,” you interrupted, voice clipped and dry. “Some scorch marks. Ruined upholstery. One corpse. One live capture.”

Padmé’s eyes widened. “You killed one of them yourself?”

“With a desk blaster,” you said. “Excellent reaction time, if I do say so myself.”

Bail stepped forward. “And the surviving fugitive? What’s the process now?”

You set down the datapad and met his gaze evenly. “Extradition. He’ll be transported back to my homeworld within the next standard cycle.”

Chuchi blinked. “That quickly?”

“Expedited process,” you said smoothly. “Emergency clause. Due to the direct assassination attempt.”

Mon Mothma’s voice tightened. “And what will happen once he’s returned?”

You leaned back in your chair, folding your hands. “He’ll be tried for war crimes. The verdict won’t take long. We’ve got extensive documentation.”

“And the sentence?” Bail asked, already bracing.

“Execution,” you said, flat and final. “Public, of course. We’ve already begun preparations.”

Silence.

Padmé’s face paled. “You can’t be serious.”

You smiled thinly. “Deadly.”

“That’s barbaric,” Mon snapped. “He surrendered. He’s a prisoner now.”

“He’s a monster,” you replied. “One who orchestrated mass executions, bombed medical shelters, and personally ordered the deaths of over four hundred civilians on my world. Surrender doesn’t bleach his sins.”

Chuchi stepped forward. “There must be a process—”

“There is,” you cut in. “He’ll be tried under our planetary law, as is our right under interplanetary accords. And I’ll be overseeing the proceedings personally.”

“You’re making a spectacle out of this,” Bail said, disgusted.

“No,” you said calmly. “I’m making a warning.”

“To who?” Padmé demanded. “Everyone who disagrees with you?”

“To everyone who thinks I’ll hesitate,” you said. “Who thinks power means we have to play nice while murderers laugh in our faces.”

Mon’s eyes narrowed. “And what will the people think of a senator who sanctions public execution?”

You stood, slowly, the heat in your gaze simmering just beneath the surface. “They’ll think I finally gave them justice. And if they want more? I’ll build the stage myself.”

A stunned silence followed.

No one knew what to say.

You picked up the extradition order and signed it with a practiced flick of your stylus.

“I’d offer caf,” you said as you slipped it into a courier tube, “but I’ve got a war criminal to ship and an execution schedule to finalize.”

You walked out without waiting for permission—cloak swaying, boots clicking like a countdown.

Behind you, the moral senators were left standing in the ash of their expectations.

And Chuchi?

She watched you leave, lips parted in silent disbelief.

Not because you’d shocked her.

But because she couldn’t decide if she wanted to save you—

—or if she just wanted to know what it felt like to burn like you did.

⸻

The Guard’s HQ buzzed with low-level activity, but Fox’s office was calm—silent save for the faint hum of surveillance holos and the occasional clipped murmur from the comms console.

He stood by the window when you arrived, arms folded behind his back, posture locked in that familiar brace of discipline. He didn’t turn when the door hissed open.

But he didn’t need to.

“Senator,” he said without looking.

“Commander.”

You crossed the threshold slowly, letting the door seal behind you with a soft hiss. No grand entrance. No entourage. Just you.

And the news that was already spreading through the Senate like wildfire.

He finally turned.

Expression unreadable. Just that damn mask of duty, soldered so tight it nearly passed for indifference. But his eyes—those betrayed a flicker of something else. Not judgment. Not pity.

Something harder to name.

“So it’s true,” he said quietly.

You raised an eyebrow. “You’d know better than most. Your troopers ran the background check. You processed the transfer yourself.”

He gave a slight nod. “Doesn’t mean I expected the… outcome.”

“You mean the execution.”

He hesitated. “It’s not my place to comment.”

“Isn’t it?” You stepped closer, boots soft against the polished floor. “You’re in charge of security for the most powerful government body in the Republic. You keep the peace. You enforce the law. Surely you have thoughts when one of us decides to sharpen justice into something a little more… terminal.”

Fox met your gaze steadily. “I’ve seen worse done for less.”

That caught you off guard—not because of what he said, but because of how simply he said it. No hesitation. No theatrics.

Just fact.

You tilted your head. “So you don’t disapprove?”

He looked down briefly, jaw tense. “It’s not about approval. I can’t blame you for wanting blood. Not after what he did.” A pause. “But I was bred for protocol. Not for vengeance.”

You gave a wry smile. “Then it’s a good thing I wasn’t.”

Fox looked at you again, searching—though for what, you couldn’t say.

He finally spoke, voice lower now. “You could’ve left it to a tribunal.”

“I could’ve,” you admitted. “But tribunals don’t speak to grieving families. They don’t look children in the eye and say, ‘We remember what they did to you.’” You stepped in just a little closer. “But a public execution? That does.”

Fox didn’t flinch.

But he didn’t move, either.

A long silence passed between you, taut and electric.

Then you reached for your datapad, keyed something in, and glanced up again.

“I’ll be leaving within the cycle,” you said. “Finalizing everything on my end.”

His voice was quieter now. “And after?”

You smiled. Not cruel, not soft—just sharp.

“I’ll be seeing you in a week.”

He didn’t respond.

You turned to leave.

But just before the door opened, he spoke.

“Senator.”

You glanced back.

“I don’t know if what you’re doing is justice,” he said. “But I know you’re not doing it out of weakness.”

You looked at him for a beat longer.

Then you nodded, just once.

“I never do.”

And then you left, cloak trailing behind like a shadow that never needed the light.

⸻

The ship hummed with the steady lull of hyperspace, stars streaking into lines beyond the viewports. It was the kind of quiet most would call peaceful.

But peace was a foreign language aboard this vessel.

You sat in the command lounge, sipping strong liquor from a crystal glass, the kind produced exclusively by your planet’s border provinces. It tasted like burning and bitter roots.

Fitting.

The two Jedi seated across from you couldn’t have been more different, though both wore concern like armor.

Kenobi was upright and composed, legs crossed, his fingers laced in his lap. Anakin sprawled, arms draped over the chair back, a shadow smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You still have time to change your mind,” Kenobi said gently.

You didn’t bother looking up. “No. I don’t.”

“It’s not too late for a trial. A tribunal through the Republic, something with transparency.”

“Obi-Wan,” Anakin cut in, voice bored, “you know that wouldn’t stick. Half those tribunals are performative at best. He’d be out in five years under some technicality.”

Kenobi shot him a look. “And that justifies state-sanctioned public killing?”

“I’m not justifying it,” Anakin said. “I’m just saying… I get it.”

You finally looked up, eyes cool. “I don’t need either of you to justify it. This isn’t your decision. You’re here as escorts, not advisors.”

“That may be,” Kenobi said, tone frustratingly calm, “but we’re Jedi. It’s our duty to speak when we see paths leading to darkness.”

You leaned back in your chair, holding his gaze. “My planet was born in darkness. Raised in blood and ruin. Still today, it’s ruled by warlords and syndicates that think justice is something bought with blade and coin.”

Kenobi frowned. “But you’re not them.”

You tilted your head. “A public execution is nothing compared to the horrors most of my people have endured. At least this death comes with a verdict.”

Anakin was watching you now, intrigued, leaning forward slightly.

Kenobi looked pained. “You can’t build peace through fear.”

You smiled, slow and cold. “You cannot sell dreams to someone who has walked through nightmares.”

That silenced them both for a beat.

The hum of the engines filled the space. Then, softer, you added:

“When you’re not fed love from a silver spoon, you learn to lick it off knives.”

Kenobi flinched. Not physically—but in that subtle tightening of his jaw, that flicker behind his eyes.

You didn’t enjoy it.

But you didn’t shy away from it either.

“You want to talk of ideals,” you continued, voice quiet but sharp, “but ideals don’t stop warlords. They don’t scare insurgents. And they certainly don’t bring back the families that thing murdered in my name.”

Anakin nodded slowly, almost imperceptibly.

“I’m not here to make you comfortable,” you finished. “I’m here to make a point.”

Kenobi opened his mouth, hesitated, then closed it.

He knew he wouldn’t change your mind.

And deep down, a part of him feared you might be right.

“You’re confusing retribution for justice,” Obi-Wan said, tone sharp but calm, like a man trying to hold onto the edge of a cliff while the rocks crumbled beneath him.

You didn’t rise to the bait.

Anakin did.

“She’s doing what the Republic won’t,” he snapped. “What it can’t.”

Kenobi’s brow furrowed. “She’s about to put a man to death in front of a crowd.”

“He slaughtered civilians, Obi-Wan. Entire villages. She’s not executing a man—she’s putting down a rabid dog.”

“That’s not our place.”

“It’s not yours,” Anakin said darkly, “but don’t presume to speak for everyone.”

You leaned forward, voice low and deliberate. “I’m not doing this because I want to. I’m doing it because someone has to.”

Kenobi looked at you with something dangerously close to pity.

“Justice,” he said, “shouldn’t come from hatred.”

You met his gaze, unflinching. “And yet here we are—riding toward it in a Republic ship, escorted by Jedi who can’t agree on what it even means.”

But before he could reply the red flash of alarms cut through the room like a blade.

“Security breach,” a mechanical voice droned. “Cell block override. Prisoner containment compromised.”

You were already moving.

The Jedi rose in sync beside you, cloaks whipping as they turned down the corridor.

“Stay behind us,” Kenobi ordered.

You didn’t.

The three of you reached the lower deck fast, guards already running in the opposite direction, blasters raised. “He’s loose!” one yelled. “Deck 3, sector C—he’s going for the main hall!”

Your blood ran cold.

That was your route.

You pivoted, cloak flaring behind you as you ran the opposite way—Anakin and Obi-Wan close behind. You passed scorch marks. Broken panels. A dead guard slumped by the bulkhead, throat slashed with something jagged.

You slowed.

And then you saw him.

He stood at the end of the corridor, blaster in one hand, stolen vibroblade in the other. His face was twisted in fury, blood already drying across his temple.

“Senator,” he sneered. “Thought I’d come say goodbye.”

He fired.

You dove.

Searing pain lanced your shoulder as the bolt grazed you—burning, but not fatal. You hit the ground, rolled behind a crate.

Obi-Wan moved first, saber igniting in a clean hum of blue.

“Don’t do this,” he warned.

The prisoner laughed. “You think I’m afraid of death?”

“No,” Anakin said, stepping forward, saber hissing to life—brighter, more furious. “But you should be afraid of me.”

And then the prisoner lunged.

The hallway became chaos—blaster fire, blade against saber, the scream of metal and the hiss of near-misses. You pressed your hand to your wound, blood seeping through your fingers, watching through a haze of pain and fury.

Kenobi parried and dodged, trying to disarm.

Anakin didn’t bother.

His strikes were violent. Purposeful. He fought like a man unbothered by consequence.

A blur—metal clashing, sparks flying.

Anakin drove his saber through the prisoner’s chest.

The man gasped.

Stiffened.

And crumpled to the floor, smoke rising from the wound, eyes staring at nothing.

Silence fell.

You breathed hard, trying to steady your vision.

Kenobi stepped back, saber slowly disengaging, expression grim.

Anakin stood over the body, chest rising and falling.

He looked back at you—not regretful.

Just… resolved.

“You okay?” he asked.

You nodded, clutching your shoulder. “I will be.”

Obi-Wan crouched beside the corpse, checking for a pulse he already knew wasn’t there. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“No,” you said coldly, “but it saves me the paperwork.”

Anakin gave the ghost of a grin.

Kenobi didn’t.

He looked up at you with haunted eyes, and for the first time in hours—maybe ever—he had nothing to say.

Not because he agreed.

But because he finally understood:

Some people were born into dreams.

You were forged in nightmares.

⸻

Previous Part | Next Part

Hope nobody did this with Plo Koon and Commander Wolffe before!

Tumblr messing up the picture's quality again

The template by @mellon-soup under the cut!

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.”

Okay, where is the Mace Windu fandom? Because he’s my favorite Jedi, and I was telling that to some Star Wars fans ik and they looked at me like I was crazy. I need proof we exist.

Hiya babes! Hope you’re doing well! Just outta say I absolutely adore your writing and always brings a smile to my face when you post!!

I was hoping you could do an angst fic where it’s the boys reactions to you jumping in front of them taking a hit/bolt. You can choose the clone group! Xxx

Thank you so much — seriously, your kind words mean the world to me!! I’m so glad my writing can bring a little light to your day 💛

I hope you don’t mind that I decided to go with the Wolf pack for this one. I hope you enjoy 🫶

⸻

“For the Pack”

Reader x 104th Battalion (Wolffe, Sinker, Boost)

⸻

You don’t think. You just move. That’s what instinct does when family is in danger.

The air was thick with heat and cordite, the jungle humid enough to choke on. Blasterfire lit the treeline in wild flashes—red bolts cutting through the green like angry stars. You pressed forward with your saber raised, breath tight in your chest, the Force buzzing like a live wire beneath your skin.

This wasn’t supposed to be a heavy engagement. Just a scouting mission. Routine.

But nothing about war ever stays routine for long.

“Wolffe, move it! You’re exposed!” you shouted, watching him duck behind cover just as two more shots chewed bark over his head.

“Copy that,” Wolffe growled, popping off a few retaliatory blasts. “Boost! Sinker! Sweep the right flank and flush that nest!”

“Already on it!” Boost called from somewhere in the brush.

“We’re getting pinned down out here!” Sinker added, tone sharp but controlled.

You moved closer to Wolffe, saber up, covering his retreat as he repositioned behind the half-blown trunk of a felled tree. The rest of the battalion had spread out, covering the ridgeline, trying to locate the sniper.

That’s when it hit you—the feeling.

The Force spiked.

Time slowed.

A heartbeat ahead of the moment, you felt it: danger, aimed at someone you couldn’t let go.

Wolffe was turning. He wasn’t going to make it in time.

You didn’t think. You just moved.

A leap. A cry. A single instant of instinct and fear and absolute certainty.

And then the bolt hit you square in the back.

Wolffe didn’t register what happened right away. One moment he was turning to call out an order, the next there was a flash of blue, the hum of a saber, and a sickening crack of a body hitting the dirt.

“—[Y/N]?!”

You were lying on your side, smoke rising from your robes, your saber a few meters away, deactivated.

You weren’t moving.

Sinker screamed something wordless over comms. Boost shouted your name.

“MEDIC!” Wolffe was already moving. “Get me a medic now!”

He slid to his knees beside you, hands already tearing open the fabric around the wound, even though he didn’t know what the hell he was doing—just doing. There was too much blood. Too much heat coming off your skin. You were smaller than him, younger, not armored like they were. You were a Jedi, yeah, but also just a kid compared to the rest of them.

His kid. Their kid.

And you’d taken a shot meant for him.

⸻

Hours Later you were in bacta now. Still alive. Barely.

The medics said it was touch and go. The bolt had burned through muscle and clipped something vital. You’d coded once during evac, but they brought you back. Your saber had been returned to Plo Koon, its emitter dented from where it had slammed into the ground.

Wolffe sat in the corner of the medbay, helmet off, armor streaked with dried blood—your blood. He hadn’t moved in two hours.

“Why the hell would she do that?” Sinker muttered, pacing with his helmet tucked under one arm. He was flushed, angry. “We wear armor for a reason. We train for this. She’s a Jedi, not a clone. She’s not supposed to—”

“Be willing to die for us?” Boost cut in, voice tired. “Guess she missed that memo.”

Sinker let out a long, low sigh and scrubbed a hand over his face. “We’re the ones who throw ourselves in front of people. That’s the job. That’s our job.”

Plo Koon stood at your bedside, one hand lightly resting on the glass of the tank. He’d been silent for most of it, his calm presence a strange contrast to the chaos.

“She has always seen you as more than soldiers,” he said gently. “You are her brothers. Her family.”

Wolffe finally spoke, his voice low and rough. “She’s part of the pack. And the pack protects its own.”

“But she nearly died protecting you, Commander,” Boost said. “What does that make us?”

“Alive,” Wolffe answered. “That’s what it makes us. And when she wakes up, she’s going to be reminded that we never leave one of our own behind.”

Sinker stopped pacing, jaw clenched.

“She’s not gonna get off easy for this.”

“Oh, hell no,” Boost muttered. “Soon as she’s conscious, I’m yelling at her.”

“Not before me,” Wolffe said, standing finally. “I’ve got seniority.”

They tried to joke—tried to banter—but it didn’t land. Not yet.

⸻

Your vision was blurry. Everything felt heavy. And sore. So sore.

“Hey—hey! She’s waking up!”

Voices. Familiar. Warm.

You blinked hard. One blurry helmet. Then two. Then a third face appeared—scarred, grim, but so full of relief it almost didn’t look like Wolffe.

“About damn time,” he muttered. “Thought we were gonna have to start arguing over who got to carry your sorry ass out of here.”

You tried to speak, but all that came out was a croaky whisper: “Pack…”

Boost leaned in closer. “Yeah. We’re here.”

Sinker had a hand pressed to your arm, trying not to squeeze too hard. “Don’t you ever do that again.”

You smiled weakly. “Didn’t think about it.”

“No kidding,” Wolffe said, arms crossed now. “You jump in front of another bolt like that and we’re stapling your robes to the floor.”

Plo Koon stepped forward, voice kind and firm. “Rest now, little one. You have done more than enough. The pack is safe. Because of you.”

You let your eyes fall shut again, not from pain this time—but because you knew they were watching over you.

Always would.

“Red Lines” pt.6

Ryio Chuchi x Commander Fox x Reader x Sergeant Hound

 It had started as a harmless ache.

A little tug behind the ribs whenever Commander Fox walked into the room. Not with grandeur. Not with flair. Just… with that same rigid posture, those burning eyes that somehow never saw her the way she wanted him to.

She had told herself it was admiration.

Then it became respect.

And now—now it had rotted into something bitter. Something with teeth.

Riyo Chuchi sat alone on her narrow balcony, the glow of Coruscant washing over her like static. The cup of caf in her hands had long gone cold. She hadn’t touched it in over an hour.

She had seen the senator leave with Sergeant Hound.

She wasn’t blind.

She wasn’t naïve.

But she had been foolish. Foolish to think that a soul like Commander Fox’s could be won by slow kindness. Foolish to think compassion could reach someone built from walls and duty. Foolish to believe that, by offering something gentle, she could edge out something… dangerous.

Because that other senator—you—weren’t gentle.

You were teeth and temptation. Smoke and scorched skies. Morally grey and entirely unrepentant about it.

And Fox?

Fox didn’t look away from that.

Even when he should.

Even when Chuchi was standing right there, offering herself without force, without chaos, without danger.

“He’s blind,” Hound had said once.

Chuchi now wondered—was he really blind… or just unwilling to choose?

She rose and paced the balcony, her soft robes swishing at her ankles.

Fox had stopped coming around.

Not just to her.

To anyone.

She had tried to convince herself he needed time. That maybe—just maybe—he was struggling with how much he appreciated her presence. That maybe it wasn’t fear, or evasion, or guilt.

But she’d seen the report this morning.

Fox had been at your apartment.

Again.

And Hound had been there, too.

Chuchi had always told herself she was the better choice. The right choice. She respected the clones. She believed in their agency. She’d stood in front of the Senate and fought for them.

You?

You flirted like they were game pieces on your board. You wore loyalty like it was a perfume—easy to spray on, easy to wash off. You kissed with ulterior motives.

But none of that seemed to matter.

Fox—her Fox—was looking more and more like a man tangled in something far messier than honor and regulation.

And maybe…

Maybe Chuchi wasn’t just losing a man she admired.

Maybe she was watching herself become invisible.

She sat back down at her desk.

A report glowed softly on the screen.

Senate rumblings. Clone production. Budget cuts.

Another motion you had co-signed. Another session where you and Chuchi—for once—had agreed. Two women, diametrically opposed on almost everything, finding a shared thread in the economy of war.

And yet… even then, Fox hadn’t come to speak with her.

He used to.

Back when things were simpler. Back when your name was just another irritation in the chamber.

Now you were something else. A shadow she couldn’t push away.

She closed the screen.

The caf was still cold.

And for the first time in a long while, Riyo Chuchi felt like she was starting to understand how it felt… to lose to someone who didn’t play fair.

And maybe—just maybe—she was done playing fair herself.

⸻

The door to Fox’s office hissed shut behind him. A low hum of Coruscant’s upper levels buzzed faintly through the durasteel walls. He sat heavily at his desk, helmet off, brow furrowed in a knot that had become all too familiar.

Paperwork. Patrol shifts. Security audits.

Anything but them.

Senator Chuchi’s visits had become less frequent, but more deliberate—caf in hand, eyes soft and hopeful, her voice always brushing the edge of something intimate. He respected her. Admired her, even. But the ache that came with her attention was nothing like the wildfire you left in your wake.

You were different. Unpredictable. Morally flexible. Dangerous in ways that shouldn’t tempt a man like him.

And yet.

A knock at the door cracked through the silence. Before he could answer, Thorn stepped in with his usual smirk.

“You’re a hard man to find these days,” Thorn said, flopping into the chair opposite the desk without invitation.

“I’ve been busy,” Fox replied, voice flat.

“Uh-huh. Busy hiding from senators who want to rip your armor off with their teeth.”

Fox looked up sharply. “Thorn—”

“What? It’s not like we haven’t all noticed. Ryio’s little storm shadow and sweet Senator Chuchi? You’re the Senate’s most eligible clone, Commander.”

“I don’t have time for this.”

Stone appeared in the doorway next, arms folded, the barest twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth. “Heard from one of the Coruscant Guard boys that Hound walked Senator [Y/N] home last week. Real cozy-like.”

Fox’s jaw clenched.

He’d heard the report. Seen the timestamped surveillance footage, even though he’d told himself it was just routine data review. You’d smiled up at Hound, standing close.

Fox had replayed that footage more than he cared to admit.

“Good,” he said. “She deserves protection.”

Thorn snorted. “You’re seething.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re a disaster.”

“Both of them are clearly trying to angle favors,” Fox said sharply, standing and gathering a stack of datapads. “Political gain. Leverage. That’s all it is.”

“Right. Because Chuchi’s weekly caf runs are definitely calculated manipulations,” Thorn said. “And [Y/N]’s violent astromech just happened to get into a scuffle on the same levels Hound was patrolling.”

Fox froze mid-step.

Stone stepped in closer, voice lower. “They like you, vod. And if you can’t see that… well, maybe you’ve spent too long behind that helmet.”

Fox didn’t answer. He left the room instead.

⸻

Later, in the barracks mess, the teasing continued.

“I’m just saying,” a trooper from Hound’s squad said over his tray of nutripaste, “if I had two senators fighting over me, I wouldn’t be sulking in the corner like a kicked tooka.”

“Bet you couldn’t handle one senator, Griggs,” someone snorted.

“Chuchi’s been walking around here like she’s already Mrs. Commander,” another clone said.

“And then there’s [Y/N]—saw her yesterday with that storm in her eyes. Poor Thorn looked like he wanted to duck for cover.”

Fox bit down on his ration bar, silent. The mess hall noise faded into white noise.

They didn’t know what it felt like to be looked at like a man and a weapon at the same time. To be split down the middle between duty and desire, between what he wanted and what he thought he should want.

He finished his meal in silence.

⸻

That night, he stared out the window of his office, Coruscant’s lights a smear of neon and shadow. Two women—both sharp, both powerful, both with eyes only for him.

And now Hound. Loyal. Steady. Looking at you like Fox never could, like he already knew how to handle the firestorm you were.

Fox sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

He couldn’t afford to be anyone’s anything. But the longer this dragged on, the more he realized—

Someone was going to get burned.

And he had no idea if it would be you, Chuchi, Hound…

Or himself.

⸻

The halls of the Coruscant Guard outpost were quieter than usual.

Chuchi walked them with careful purpose, her blue and gold robes rustling faintly. Every guard she passed nodded respectfully, but none met her eyes for more than a second. They knew why she was here.

Everyone did.

She had waited long enough. Played the patient game, the polite game. The understanding game. She brought caf. She asked about his day. She lingered in his space like something that might eventually be welcome.

And yet… he still hadn’t chosen her.

Or her.

The other senator.

The dangerous one. The cunning one. The one who burned like a live wire and left scorch marks wherever she walked. She and Chuchi had sparred in the Senate chamber and beyond, but it was no longer just about politics.

It was about Fox.

She found him in his office—alone, helmet on the desk, datapads stacked in tall towers around him. He didn’t hear her enter at first. Only when she cleared her throat did he glance up.

“Senator Chuchi,” he said, standing automatically.

“Commander,” she returned, keeping her tone calm. Measured.

He gestured to the seat across from him, but she shook her head. “This won’t take long.”

Fox looked… tired. Not the kind of tired from too many hours on patrol, but from something deeper. Something that sat behind his eyes like a storm just waiting.

She softened, just slightly.

“I’ve waited for you to make a decision,” Chuchi began, voice quiet but firm. “I’ve given you space. Time. Respect. And I will always value the work you do for the Republic.”

Fox opened his mouth, but she lifted a hand. “Let me finish.”

He fell silent.

“I am not a woman who throws herself at men. I don’t pine, and I don’t beg. But I do know my worth. And I know what I want.”

Her eyes met his then—sharper than usual, no more dancing around it.

“I want you.”

He blinked, mouth parting slightly.

“But I will not share you,” she continued, each word deliberate. “And I will not wait in line behind another senator, wondering if today is the day you stop pretending none of this is happening.”

Fox exhaled slowly. “Riyo, it’s not that simple—”

“It is simple,” she snapped, the rare flash of fire in her melting-ice demeanor. “You’re just too afraid to admit it. You think this is all politics—me, her, whatever feelings you’re hiding—but it’s not. It’s human. You are allowed to feel, Fox.”

He looked away, jaw tight.

“You don’t have to give me an answer now,” she said, stepping back toward the door. “But if I see you let her string you along again… if you keep acting like you don’t see how this triangle is tearing you and the rest of us apart—then I’ll know.”

She paused, hand on the panel.

“I’ll know you never saw me the way I saw you.”

The door slid open with a quiet hiss.

“Riyo—” he started.

But she was already gone.

⸻

The lights of your apartment were low, casting golden shadows across the walls. You didn’t bother turning them up when the door chimed. You’d been expecting someone—just not him.

Fox stood in the entryway, helmet tucked beneath one arm, armor dusted in evening glare from the city beyond your windows. There was something solemn in his stance. Something final.

You didn’t greet him with your usual smirk or sharp tongue. Something about his posture made your stomach drop.

He stepped in slowly, gaze flickering across the room like he was memorizing it.

Or maybe saying goodbye to it.

“Commander,” you said softly.

He looked up at that—his name from your lips always made him falter.

“[Y/N],” he said, and then stopped. Swallowed. “We need to talk.”

You crossed your arms, trying to keep the steel in your spine, but it was already crumbling.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he said, voice quiet, nearly breaking. “The back and forth. The indecision. The games.”

You blinked slowly, lips parting. “So you’ve made a choice.”

His jaw clenched. “I had to. The Council’s watching us. The Guard is talking. The Senate is twisting every glance into something political. And now… Chuchi’s given me an ultimatum.”

You laughed—bitter and hollow. “And you’re choosing the good senator with the clean conscience.”

He stepped closer. “It’s not about that.”

“Yes,” you said, voice low and wounded. “It is.”

Silence.

His eyes were pained. “You were never easy. You were never safe. But… stars, you made me feel. And I think I could’ve—” His voice caught. “But I can’t be what you need. Not with the eyes of the Republic on my back. I need order. Stability. Not a war disguised as a woman.”

That one hurt.

But the worst part? You agreed.

You straightened your shoulders, not letting him see you shake. “So this is goodbye?”

Fox hesitated… then stepped forward. His gloved hand cupped your cheek for the first—and only—time.

“I don’t want it to be.”

And then he kissed you.

Not a greedy kiss. Not full of passion or hunger. It was a farewell, a promise never made and never kept. His lips tasted like iron and regret.

You didn’t push him away.

You kissed him back like he was already a memory.

Then—

The sharp sound of metal clinking against tile. A low growl.

Fox broke the kiss and turned sharply, helmet already in his hand, defensive stance flickering into place.

Hound stood just inside the open doorway, frozen, Grizzer at his heel.

His eyes said everything before his mouth could.

Rage. Hurt. Disbelief.

He’d come to check on you. Maybe to say something. Maybe to try again.

He saw too much.

Fox stepped back. You didn’t move.

Hound gave a bitter laugh—low and sharp. “Guess I was right. He really is blind. Just not in the way I thought.”

“Hound—” Fox started.

“Don’t,” Hound snapped. “You made your choice, Commander. Leave it that way.”

Grizzer growled again as if echoing the tension.

You didn’t speak. Couldn’t. Your chest was a firestorm and all your usual words had burned up inside it.

Fox nodded once, helmet slipping on with a hiss. He turned without another word and walked past Hound, shoulders square, back straight, like it didn’t just rip him apart.

Once he was gone, Hound looked at you.

You couldn’t read his expression.

But his voice, when it came, was low. Hoarse.

“Did it mean anything?”

And for the first time, you didn’t know how to answer.

The door clicked shut behind them, and the silence that followed wasn’t peaceful—it was suffocating. The echo of his parting words still clung to the walls like smoke. He had barely made it across the threshold before your knees gave out, the strength you had worn like armor dissolving into a ragged breath and clenched fists.

It was Maera who found you first. No questions. Just the sweep of her arms around your shoulders, the calm, anchoring presence of someone who had seen too many things to be surprised anymore.

Ila appeared next, barefoot, eyes wide and fearful, as if heartbreak were a ghost that could be caught. She knelt beside you, small and uncertain, pressing a warm cup of something you wouldn’t drink into your hands.

“I’m fine,” you lied.

“You’re not,” Maera said softly, brushing your hair from your face. “But that’s allowed.”

You had no words. Only the biting, hollow ache that came from being chosen and then discarded, a bruise where something like hope had tried to bloom.

There was a loud clank at the door, followed by the unmistakable shrill of R9.

“R9, no—” Maera started, but you raised a hand.

Let him come.

The astromech rolled forward at full speed, slamming into the table leg hard enough to make it jump. He beeped wildly, whirring aggressively and letting out a stream of binary curses aimed, presumably, at Fox or heartbreak in general. Then, bizarrely, he nestled against your legs like a pissed-off pet.

“He’s… trying to comfort you,” Ila offered. “I think.”

R9 let out a threatening screech at her, but didn’t move from your side. His dome whirled to angle toward you, then projected a low, flickering holo of your favorite constellations—something you’d once offhandedly mentioned when the droid had been in diagnostics. You hadn’t thought he’d remembered.

The stars spun in the dim of the room. The air was thick with grief and the faint scent of whatever perfume lingered on Fox’s armor from when he’d held you.

“He kissed you like a man who didn’t want to let go,” Maera said, her voice measured. “Then why did he?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. But the pain in your chest answered for you.

“I hate him,” Ila whispered, arms wrapped around her knees. “He’s cruel.”

“No,” you murmured, dragging in a shaky breath. “He’s just a coward.”

The protocol droid, VX-7, finally entered—late, as always—with a towel around his photoreceptors. “Mistress, I would be remiss not to mention that heartbreak is statistically linked to decreased political productivity. Might I suggest a short revenge arc, or at least a spa visit?”

That startled a wet, broken laugh out of you.

“Add that to tomorrow’s agenda,” you rasped, still crumpled on the floor between handmaidens and droids and the shards of something you thought might have been real. “A good ol’ fashioned vengeance glow-up.”

R9 shrieked in approval. Probably. Or bloodlust. With him, it was often the same.

Maera sighed and helped you up, one arm tight around your waist. Ila grabbed a blanket. VX-7 muttered about emotional inefficiency. R9 rolled beside you, ready to follow you to hell and back, blasterless but unyielding.

You weren’t fine.

But you weren’t alone.

Not tonight.

⸻

The steam curled around your face as you exhaled, eyes half-lidded, submerged to the shoulders in mineral-rich waters so hot they almost stung. It was late morning in the upper districts—a crisp day, all sun and illusion—and you were tucked into one of the more exclusive private spa villas, far removed from the Senate rotunda or the sterile corridors of your apartment.

You hadn’t said much on the way over. Ila had chatted nervously, her voice drifting like birdsong, while R9 trailed behind with unusual restraint. He even refrained from threatening the receptionist droid, though you’d caught him twitching. Progress.

Maera, of course, hadn’t come. She’d stayed behind with VX-7, dividing and conquering your workload. She had insisted you go. Ordered, even. “We can’t have your eyeliner smudging in session. You’ll look weak,” she’d said dryly, brushing your shoulder with an almost motherly hand. “Take Ila and the murder toaster. Come back looking like a goddess or don’t come back at all.”

So now here you were. Wrapped in luxury, with Ila combing fragrant oil into your hair and the soft whisper of music playing through hidden speakers. A spa technician massaged your calves. A waiter delivered a carafe of citrus-laced water. You had everything—privacy, comfort, the best of what Coruscant could offer.

And still, your heart burned.

Fox had kissed you like a man drowning. And left you like one afraid of getting wet.

Emotionally, the wound hadn’t scabbed. But something was changing beneath it. The devastation had settled into clarity—hard and cool, like a weapon finally tempered.

You weren’t going to beg for a man who couldn’t decide if you were worth wanting.

You were going to rise.

“Should I schedule your next trade summit for the fifth rotation or wait until you’re more… luminous?” VX-7’s voice crackled through the commlink beside your lounge chair. “I’ve taken the liberty of gutting Senator Ask-Alo’s backchannel proposition and rewriting your response to be both cutting and condescending.”

“Send it,” you said without hesitation.

Ila glanced at you. “You… you’re feeling better?”

You didn’t answer right away. You dipped your hand into the water and let the heat lick your wrist.

“No,” you said at last, voice even. “But I’m remembering who I am.”

Ila smiled—relieved, perhaps. R9 beeped something that sounded like “good riddance” and projected an animation of a clone helmet being stomped on by a stiletto. You waved it off with half a smirk.

“Keep dreaming, R9.”

The truth was simpler. You were wounded, yes. But wounds could become armor.

Politically, you’d been cautious, balanced between power blocs and careful dissent. But that was before. Now you saw it clearly—affection and diplomacy had limits. What mattered was leverage.

You were done playing nice.

Done pretending your words didn’t bite.

When you returned to the Senate floor, you would be sharper, colder, untouchable. And this time, no one—not Fox, not Chuchi, not the Jedi Council—would see your vulnerability before they felt your strength.

“VX,” you said into the commlink as you slipped further into the water, your body relaxing even as your mind honed like a blade, “prep the first stage of the next motion. If I’m going to cause waves, I want them to break exactly where I choose.”

“Finally,” VX-7 replied with pride. “Welcome back, Senator.”

R9 beeped smugly.

Ila beamed.

And as the steam closed around you once more, you let yourself smile—a small, private thing.

Let them come.

You were ready.

⸻

Previous Part | Next Part

“The Brightest Flame”

Gregor x Fem!Reader

Inspired by “The Last Goodbye” by Billy Boyd

The desert winds of Seelos whispered through the rusted bones of the old Republic walker.

Gregor sat at the top of a jagged ridge, legs dangling over the edge like a boy far younger than the years he wore in his bones. You sat beside him in silence, watching the sun fall slowly into the red horizon. The heat clung to your skin, but his shoulder was warm in a different way.

You glanced at him. He was smiling, a faint, tired little thing.

“You’re quiet tonight.”

Gregor hummed, voice gravelly but calm. “Guess I’ve said all the crazy things already.”

You chuckled softly. “Not all of them.”

He turned to you then—eyes bright, clear. Not like they used to be. Not the dazed flicker of a soldier half-lost in his own mind. These days, there were more good hours than bad ones. More memory than confusion.

You reached over, brushing a curl of silvered hair from his brow. “You’ve come a long way, you know.”

“So have you.”

“I didn’t have to claw my way out of an explosion and then survive a war I barely remember,” you said.

He tilted his head. “No, you just chose to stay. With me. That’s a different kind of hard.”

The wind picked up. A low, lonely sound that echoed like old battlefields buried in the sand.

Gregor’s smile faded, just a little.

“I think about them sometimes,” he admitted. “My brothers. Darman. Niner. The others I can’t remember.”

You didn’t speak. You just let him.

“I remember fire. And noise. And… laughing. I think I laughed a lot back then.”

“You still do.”

He shook his head gently. “No. Not the same. That laugh back then—it didn’t have so many ghosts in it.”

You reached for his hand, threading your fingers through his calloused ones.

“I love your laugh now. Even when it’s haunted.”

He turned to you, really turned, and the ache in his expression nearly undid you.

“You know what scares me?” he asked softly.

You waited.

“That I’ll forget everything. That one day, I’ll wake up, and your name will be gone. Your face. This moment.”

You gripped his hand tighter. “Then I’ll remind you.”

He let out a shaky breath, lips curving into something fragile. “You’d do that?”

You leaned in, resting your head on his shoulder, heart aching in the quiet.

“Every single time.”

For a long while, neither of you spoke.

The sky bled into twilight—soft, violet hues kissing the edges of the wrecked cruiser below. It was beautiful in a way only something broken could be.

Gregor broke the silence with a whisper.

“You know that song you sing sometimes? About farewells?”

You nodded slowly. “‘The Last Goodbye.’”

He tilted his head against yours. “Sing it again?”

Your voice was soft, barely above the wind. The words carried into the dark like starlight.

“I saw the light fade from the sky

On the wind I heard a sigh…”

Gregor closed his eyes.

You didn’t sing to fix him. You sang because he deserved to be remembered. To have beauty tethered to his broken edges.

You sang until your voice trembled.

Until the stars blinked awake above you.

Until his breathing slowed and steadied, his hand never leaving yours.

And when the final verse faded—

“Though I leave, I’ve gone too soon

I am not leaving you…”

Gregor whispered, voice rough:

“I love you.”

You smiled through tears. “I love you, too.”

And in the stillness, wrapped in the ghosts of his past and the promise of your presence, Gregor held on.

To the moment.

To you.

To what little peace he had left.