“The Lesser Of Two Wars” Pt.10
“The Lesser of Two Wars” pt.10
Commander Fox x Reader X Commander Thorn
The transmission hit her desk with all the weight of a blaster bolt.
Her planet. Under threat.
The Separatists were making moves—fleet signatures near the outer perimeter of her system, whispers of droid deployment, unrest stoked in territories that hadn’t seen true peace in years. She knew the signs. She’d lived through them once.
And she was not going to watch her world burn again.
She stood before the Senate with a voice louder than it had ever been.
The Senate chambers were suffocating. The cries of war, politics, and pleas for support blurred into white noise as the senator stood at the center, resolute and burning with purpose.
“My planet is under threat,” she said, voice clear, powerful. “We have no fleet, no shield generator, no standing army worth more than a gesture. We were promised protection when we joined this Republic. Will you now let us burn for being forgotten?”
A pause followed. Murmurs stirred. Eyes averted.
“Request denied,” one senator muttered.
“You owe us this!” she shouted, her words echoing through the chambers. “I gave everything I had to stabilize my planet. My people know what war costs. They know what it takes to survive it. But they shouldn’t have to do it alone.”
Some senators looked away. Others whispered. A few nodded, expressions grim with understanding or guilt.
Chancellor Palpatine raised a single hand, silencing the room.
“You will have one battalion,” he said at last, voice velvet and dangerous. “We do not have more to spare.”
Her gut twisted, but she bowed her head. “Thank you, Chancellor.”
No one looked at her when she nodded in silence, but the steel in her spine was unmistakable.
The descent back to her homeworld was cold, unceremonious.
Commander Neyo stood at the head of the troop transport, motionless, arms behind his back, helmet fixed forward. Every movement of his men was calculated, seamless. The 91st Reconnaissance Corps was surgical in nature—swift, efficient, detached.
Master Stass Allie stood nearby, hands folded in front of her. She radiated composed strength, yet there was a gentleness to her that seemed at odds with Neyo’s blunt precision.
“I advise you not to disembark with the vanguard,” Stass said evenly. “Let the initial scan and sweep conclude before you step into an active zone.”
“This is my home,” the senator replied, eyes fixed on the viewport. “And I won’t return to it behind a wall of armor.”
Neyo turned slightly. “Then stay out of our way. We’re not here to make emotional reunions.”
The senator didn’t flinch.
“I didn’t ask you to be.”
The ship pierced the cloud cover, revealing the battered surface below. Her capital city—once a war zone, now partially rebuilt—spread like a scar across red earth. Familiar buildings stood among ruins and reconstruction. It hadn’t healed. Not fully. Not yet.
The shuttle landed. Dust curled around the hull as the ramp lowered.
Neyo’s troops deployed immediately, securing the perimeter with wordless discipline. The senator stepped down, her boots hitting home soil for the first time since she had sworn herself to diplomacy instead of command.
She took a breath.
The air still held the tang of iron, of scorched ground and old blood. Her eyes burned, not from wind.
She walked out ahead of the Jedi, ahead of the soldiers. Alone.
The wind carried voices—hushed, reverent, fearful. Civilians and civil guards had gathered to watch from a distance. Her return wasn’t met with cheers. Only silence. Recognition.
And wariness.
“She’s back,” someone murmured.
Another whispered, “After everything she did?”
Master Stass Allie watched carefully. “You knew this wouldn’t be easy.”
“I didn’t come back for easy,” the senator said, her voice firm. “I came back because I have to. Because I won’t let this place fall again.”
Commander Neyo gave no comment. His orders were simple: defend the system, follow the Jedi, and keep the senator from becoming a casualty or a liability.
As they moved out to establish the command post, the senator stood atop a ridge just beyond the city. She looked out over the familiar lands—the riverbed turned battleground, the hills where she buried her dead, the skyline marked with the skeletons of buildings still bearing her war scars.
For a moment, she didn’t feel like a senator.
She felt like a commander again.
Only this time, she wasn’t sure which version of her was more dangerous.
⸻
The makeshift command tent was pitched atop a fortified overlook, giving the 91st a wide tactical view of the lowland valley just outside the capital city. Dust clung to every surface, and holomaps flickered under the dim lights as Stass Allie, Commander Neyo, and the senator gathered around the central table.
Stass was calm as ever, a quiet storm of wisdom and strategy. Neyo stood rigid beside her, visor lowered, hands clasped behind his back.
The senator, though wearing no armor, held a presence that could bend the room.
“We’re expecting a heavy push through the mountain pass. Based on Seppie patterns, they’ll aim to box in the capital and strangle supply lines. We need to flank before they dig in,” Stass said, pointing to the high ridges on the eastern approach.
“The ridge is tactically sound,” Neyo added. “Minimal resistance, optimal vantage. If we come down from the temple heights here—” he gestured, tapping the map with precision, “—we’ll break their formation before they reach the capital walls.”
“No.”
The word cut sharp through the low hum of the command tent.
Neyo’s head tilted. “Pardon?”
The senator leaned in, steady but resolute. “That approach takes us through Virean Plateau.”
“Yes,” Neyo said flatly. “It’s elevated, provides cover, and we can route artillery through the lower trails.”
“It’s sacred ground.”
Stass glanced at the senator, then back to the map. “Sacred or not, the Separatists won’t hesitate to use it.”
“I know,” the senator replied. “But I also know what happens when that soil is soaked with blood. I made that mistake once. I won’t make it again.”
Neyo didn’t react immediately. The silence hung for a moment too long.
“So we disregard the optimal path because of sentiment?” he asked, voice devoid of tone.
“It’s not sentiment,” she answered. “It’s consequence. Virean Plateau is more than earth—it’s memory. It’s where we buried our dead after the first uprising. My own people nearly turned on me for allowing it to become a battlefield. If we desecrate it again, there may be no peace left to return to.”
Stass Allie offered a glance of measured approval.
“Alternative?” she asked.
The senator reached across the table, tapping a narrow canyon west of the capital. “We pull them in here—tight quarters, limited maneuvering. Use a bottleneck tactic with mines set along the walls. They’ll have no choice but to cluster. When they do, we collapse the ridgeline.”
“A canyon ambush is high-risk,” Neyo said. “We’ll lose men.”
“We’ll lose more if we trample sacred ground and spark another civil uprising in the middle of a war. You don’t win with the cleanest plan. You win with the one that leaves something behind to rebuild.”
Stass nodded slowly. “She’s right.”
Neyo didn’t argue. He only leaned back, helmet fixed on the senator.
“I’ll adjust the approach. But don’t expect the enemy to respect your boundaries.”
“I don’t,” she replied. “That’s why we’ll strike first.”
Stass looked between them—soldier, Jedi, and the politician who once ruled like a warlord. There was no denying it.
The senator wasn’t a commander anymore.
But the commander was still very much alive.
⸻
The canyon was harsh and narrow, carved by centuries of wind and fury. Now it would become the place they’d make their stand.
The senator walked the length of the rocky pass beside Neyo and a few of his officers, outlining trap points with the kind of confidence most senators never possessed. Her voice was sure. Her boots didn’t falter. Her fingers grazed the canyon wall as she surveyed the terrain—like she was greeting an old friend rather than scouting a battleground.
Neyo had seen Jedi generals hesitate more than she did.
“We’ll place remote charges here,” she said, stopping near a brittle overhang. “If the droids push too fast, we bring the rocks down and funnel them into kill zones here—” she pointed again, “—and here. Then your men pick them off with sniper fire from the high spines.”
“Clever,” said one of the clones, glancing at Neyo.
“Risky,” Neyo replied, but his tone wasn’t cold. Just observant.
She turned to face him fully. “Victory demands risk. I thought you understood that better than anyone.”
Neyo’s visor met her eyes. There was silence, then: “You speak like a soldier.”
“I was one,” she said. “The galaxy just prefers to forget that part.”
Over the next few hours, she moved among the men—kneeling beside them, helping place mines, checking line of sight through scopes, confirming relay ranges with engineers. Stass Allie watched with a calm kind of pride, saying nothing. Neyo observed with calculated interest.
She laughed once—soft, almost involuntary—when a younger clone dropped a charge too early and scrambled after it. She helped him reset it. She got her hands dirty.
She didn’t give orders from a chair. She stood with them in the dust.
Neyo found himself watching more than he should. Not because he didn’t trust her—but because something had shifted. Slightly. Quietly. In a way he didn’t welcome.
Respect.
It crept in slowly. Earned with sweat and grit. She didn’t demand it. She claimed it.
And somewhere beneath that iron discipline of his, Neyo began to wonder—
If she looked at him the way she did Thorn or Fox… would he really be so different from them?
It disturbed him.
He didn’t want to admire her. Not like that.
But when she stood atop the ridge that night, wind catching her hair, the stars reflecting in her eyes as she looked over the battlefield they were shaping together, Neyo didn’t see a senator.
He saw a force.
He saw someone worth following.
And he suddenly understood just a little more about Fox—and hated that understanding with every part of himself.
The trap was set.
From the top of the canyon ridges, the 91st Reconnaissance Corps lay in wait, eyes sharp behind visors, rifles trained on the winding path below. Beside them, one hundred of the senator’s own planetary guard stood tall, armor painted in the deep ochre and black of her homeland, their spears and blasters at the ready. The senator stood at the head of her people, clad in their ancestral war armor—obsidian plates trimmed with silver and red, a high-collared cape catching the canyon wind like a banner.
She was a vision of history reborn.
General Stass Allie stood with Neyo above, watching the enemy approach—a column of Separatist tanks and droid squads snaking into the narrow death trap.
“All units,” Neyo’s voice crackled over comms. “Hold position.”
The canyon trembled with the metallic march of the droids.
Then—detonation.
Explosions thundered down the cliffside as rock and fire collapsed over the lead tanks, just as planned. Droids scattered, confused, rerouting, pushing forward into the choke point—and then the 91st opened fire.
Sniper bolts rained from above.
The senator’s people surged from behind the outcroppings with war cries, cutting into the confused line of droids. She led them—blade drawn, cloak flowing behind her—fierce and unrelenting. For a moment, the tide was perfect.
And then it broke.
A spider droid crested an unscouted rise from the rear—missed in recon. It fired before anyone could react.
The blast hit near the senator.
She was thrown through the air, landing hard against a rock with a crack that echoed over the battlefield.
“SENATOR!” one of her guards screamed, his voice raw and desperate as he ran toward her, but she was already pushing herself up on shaking arms, blood running from her temple.
“ADVANCE, GOD DAMMIT!” she shouted, hoarse and furious. “They’re right there! Don’t you dare stop now!”
Her people faltered only for a moment.
Then they roared as one and charged again, stepping over her, past her, and into the storm of fire and metal.
From above, Neyo watched, jaw clenched beneath his helmet. Stass Allie placed a hand on his shoulder as if to calm him—but it wasn’t his rage she was tempering.
It was something else.
The senator stood—bloodied, staggering—but unbroken. She took up her sword again and limped forward, refusing to let anyone see her fall.
And the canyon echoed with the sound of war and loyalty—and the scream of a woman who would not be made small by pain.
Her leg burned. Her side screamed with every breath. But the senator forced herself upright, gripping her sword tight enough for her knuckles to pale beneath her gloves. The dust stung her eyes. Blaster fire carved bright streaks through the canyon air. Her guard surged ahead of her—but she refused to let them lead alone.
Not here. Not again.
She limped forward, blade dragging against the stone until the blood from her brow soaked into her collar. The pain grounded her, reminded her she was alive—reminded her that she had to be.
A Separatist droid rounded the corner—a commando unit. It raised its blaster.
Too slow.
She lunged forward with a cry and cleaved the droid clean through the chestplate, sparks flying as it collapsed.
“Fall back to the rally point!” one of the clones called, but she didn’t. She moved forward instead, shoulder to shoulder with the men and women of her world, guiding them through the chaos, calling orders, ducking fire.
From the ridge, Neyo watched. “Is she insane?”
“She’s winning,” Stass Allie replied, eyes narrowed beneath her hood. “Don’t pretend you’re not impressed.”
He said nothing.
Below, a final wave of droids tried to regroup—but it was too late. The choke point had collapsed behind them in rubble, and the senator’s forces flanked them from both sides.
Trapped.
The 91st swept down from the cliffs like silent ghosts—precise, efficient, ruthless. The senator’s guard hit from the ground, coordinated, focused, fighting like people with something to prove.
With something to protect.
She reached the center just in time to plunge her blade into the last B2 battle droid before it could fire. It slumped, dead weight and scorched metal, collapsing at her feet.
Then—silence.
The canyon held its breath.
The last of the droids fell, and the only sound was the crackle of smoking wreckage and the harsh breaths of soldiers.
They’d won.
The senator stood among the wreckage, blood trickling down her face, her people all around her—some wounded, some helping others to their feet. She breathed heavily, sword lowered, shoulders sagging.
Neyo descended from the cliffs with a small team, Stass Allie close behind. His armor was immaculate, untouched by battle. Hers was battered, scorched, soaked.
And yet she looked stronger than ever.
Their eyes met across the dust and ruin.
He gave a short, tight nod.
“You disobeyed every strategic rule in the book,” he said, voice flat.
“And I saved my people,” she replied, barely above a rasp.
Another pause.
Then, quiet—barely perceptible—Neyo muttered, “…Noted.”
⸻
The city beyond the canyon lit up in firelight and song.
Victory drums echoed off the walls of the ancient stone hall as the people of her planet celebrated the blood they shed—and the blood they did not. Bonfires lined the streets. Horns blared. Men and women danced barefoot in the dust, tankards raised high. Her world had survived another war. And like always, they honored it with noise and joy and wine.
The clones of the 91st were invited—expected—to join. They looked stunned at first, caught off guard by the raw emotion and warmth thrown at them. But it didn’t take long before some of them loosened up, helmets off, cups in hand. A few were pulled into dances. One poor trooper got kissed on the mouth by a war widow three times his age.
Commander Neyo remained on the outskirts. Always watching. Always apart.
The senator—dressed down in soft, flowing local fabrics now stained with wine and dust, her war paint only half faded—was plastered. Laughing one moment, arguing with an elder the next, trying to teach a clone how to chant over the firepit after that.
Eventually, she broke from the crowd. She spotted Neyo standing at the edge of the firelight, arms folded, as if even now he couldn’t relax.
She staggered up to him, hair wild, eyes sharp even beneath the drunken haze.
“Neyo,” she said, slurring just slightly, “why are you always standing so still? Don’t you ever feel anything?”
“I feel plenty,” he replied. “I just don’t need to dance about it.”
She narrowed her eyes and jabbed a finger at him. “You’re a cold bastard.”
“Correct.”
She stepped closer, closer than she normally would. “You made Fox apologise.”
He didn’t answer.
Her gaze flicked over his helmet. “He wouldn’t have done that. Not without something—big. What did you say to him?”
A pause.
“He was out of line,” Neyo finally said. “I reminded him what his rank means.”
“That’s not all,” she pushed. “What did you really say?”
He looked at her then, just barely, as if debating whether to speak at all. Finally:
“I told him that if he was going to act like a lovesick cadet, then he should resign his commission and go write poetry. Otherwise, he needed to remember he’s a marshal commander. And act like it.”
She blinked. “That’s exactly what you said?”
“No,” Neyo said, dryly. “What I actually said would’ve made your generals back during the war flinch.”
She snorted. “I like you more when you’re drunk.”
“I don’t get drunk.”
She leaned in, bold with wine. “Maybe if you did, you’d understand why I’m not angry with him.”
He stared at her, unreadable.
“I’m not angry,” she repeated. “But he didn’t tell me how he felt. You scared him into making amends, but you can’t make him say it.” She tilted her head. “And now you’ve got him cornered. And you’re mad at him for it.”
“You don’t know anything about me,” Neyo said quietly.
“No,” she said, “but you keep looking at me like you wish I didn’t belong to someone else.”
The silence hung for a moment.
Then Neyo stepped back. “Enjoy your celebration, Senator.”
He turned and walked away.
She stood there for a long moment—then swayed on her feet, laughing softly to herself, and staggered back toward the fire.
⸻
Her head throbbed like war drums.
The sun was too bright. The sheets were too scratchy. Her mouth tasted like smoke and fermented fruit. And worst of all—
“—and furthermore, Senator, I must note that your behavior last night was entirely unbecoming of your station—”
“GH-9,” she croaked from the bed, voice raw, “if you say one more word, I will bury your smug golden head in the canyon and file it as a tragic mining accident.”
The protocol droid paused. “I was merely expressing concern, Senator—”
The beeping started next.
Sharp, furious chirps in a tone that could only be described as personally offended.
“Don’t you start,” she groaned, flopping a pillow over her head. “R7, I don’t have time for your attitude. I left you here because I value my life.”
The astromech bleeped something that sounded like a slur.
GH-9 tilted its shiny head. “I believe he just suggested you value nothing and have the moral fiber of a womp rat.”
“Tell him he’s not wrong.”
R7 gave a triumphant whistle and spun in a little angry circle.
She dragged herself out of bed like a corpse rising from the grave. Her hair was a disaster. Her ceremonial paint from the night before had smeared into a mess of black streaks and gold glitter. Her armor lay in a forgotten pile across the room, boots kicked halfway under the dresser.
“You two weren’t supposed to come back with me,” she mumbled as she washed her face with cold water. “That’s why I left you. GH, you talk too much, and R7, you nearly tasered Senator Ask Aak the last time we were in session.”
The astromech beeped proudly.
“I told you he wasn’t a Separatist.”
R7’s dome swiveled in defiance.
GH-9 cleared its vocabulator. “Might I remind you, Senator, that both of us are programmed for loyal service, and your reckless abandon in leaving us behind—”
She flicked water at it.
“Don’t test me,” she muttered, pulling on her fresh tunic.
The shuttle was due to depart in two hours. Neyo and his battalion had already begun packing. The war drums had long gone quiet, and now, only the dull hush of cleanup remained outside her window.
She looked around the modest bedroom—her old bedroom. It hadn’t changed. Neither had the ache in her chest when she looked at it. Not grief. Not nostalgia. Something heavier. Something unnamed.
Behind her, GH-9 stood stiffly, arms behind his back like a tutor waiting for his student to fail.
R7, on the other hand, rolled up beside her and nudged her leg.
She sighed and rested a hand on his dome.
“Fine,” she muttered. “You can both come. Just promise me one of you won’t mouth off in front of the Chancellor, and the other won’t stab anyone.”
R7 whirred.
“That wasn’t a no.”
⸻
The landing platform gleamed in the pale Coruscanti sun, all cold durasteel and blinding reflection. The moment the ramp descended, she could already see the unmistakable figures of Fox and Thorn standing at the base—arms crossed, boots braced, both of them looking equal parts tense and eager.
Her stomach flipped. The droids rolled down behind her.
Fox got to her first, posture rigid, helmet tucked under his arm. “Senator.”
His voice was that low, professional gravel—too careful. Like he wasn’t sure how to greet her now. Like the war, the chaos, and everything unsaid was standing between them.
Thorn was right behind him. He looked less cautious, his gaze dragging over her face, her still-healing arm. “You look like hell,” he said with a small grin.
“Still better than you with your shirt off,” she muttered, smirking up at him.
Thorn’s grin widened. “That’s not what you said on—”
BANG.
A harsh metallic clang interrupted whatever comeback he had lined up. The three of them turned just in time to see her astromech, R7, ramming into Thorn’s shin with a furious burst of mechanical outrage.
“R7!” she barked, storming over. “What did I say about assaulting people?”
The droid chirped angrily and spun his dome toward her, then toward Fox, then let out a long series of beeps that sounded vaguely like profanity. Thorn took a step back, wincing and muttering something about “murder buckets.”
“I think he’s upset no one moved out of his way,” GH-9 said unhelpfully from behind her, arms folded in disdain. “I did warn him to wait, but he believes officers should respect seniority.”
“He’s a droid,” Thorn snapped, rubbing his leg. “A violent one.”
Fox was eyeing R7 with both brows raised. “You didn’t mention you were traveling with an explosive.”
“Fox,” she said, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Don’t provoke him. He’s got a fuse shorter than a thermal detonator and a kill count I don’t want to know.”
“Probably a higher one than mine,” Thorn muttered.
The astromech let out a smug beep.
Fox gave a subtle nod to GH-9. “And what’s his problem?”
“I talk too much,” GH-9 supplied proudly.
“You do,” the Senator stated.
The senator gave up, dragging a hand down her face. “Can we just go? Please? Before he tases someone and it becomes a diplomatic incident?”
Fox stepped aside. Thorn limped with exaggerated pain. R7 spun in satisfaction and zipped ahead like a victorious little gremlin.
She exhaled and muttered under her breath, “I should’ve left them again.”
⸻
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rip anakin skywalker you would have hated dune
Wrecker x shop keeper reader
*Based on Pabu*
⸻
Your little sushi shop didn’t look like much from the outside—just a corner nook with faded sea-blue paint and a handwritten chalkboard menu—but it was yours. A quiet dream built on fish markets, rice steamers, and the salty Pabu breeze.
And it had one very big, very loud, very lovable regular.
Wrecker.
He first stumbled in by accident, really. Something about Omega spotting the place and dragging him along with promises of “raw fish and weird seaweed rolls” she wanted to try.
You remembered watching him duck to fit through the doorway, nearly taking the paper lantern with him. The moment he sat on the cushion—you swore it gave up the ghost. You’d nearly burst out laughing. So had Omega.
And yet, after one massive order (three rolls, two bowls of rice, and miso soup he drank straight from the pot), he patted his stomach and declared it the “best food I ever had that didn’t come in a ration pack or get cooked over a fire by Crosshair!”
He meant it. He kept coming back. Sometimes with Omega, sometimes alone.
And over time… you fell.
It wasn’t sudden. It wasn’t fireworks. It was slow. Like the way he grinned with soy sauce on his cheek. The way he lit up whenever Omega told stories and always listened like every word was gold. The way he tried to use chopsticks and ended up stabbing his sushi like it had wronged him. The way he always complimented your food. Even on the days you messed up the rice.
He sat at the same spot. Always the far left cushion, near the open window where he could watch the sea and keep an eye on Omega playing with the local kids.
He told you stories too. About the Batch. About the war. About planets you’d never heard of and creatures he’d wrestled, often embellishing the size.
“I swear, the thing was this big!” he’d gesture, arms spread wider than your doorway.
You’d laugh. You always laughed.
But lately, it hurt a little. Because you loved him. And you didn’t know if he saw you as anything other than “the sushi girl.” A friend. A safe place. A routine.
You weren’t extraordinary. You didn’t fly ships or fight droids. You didn’t save people or have scars to show for anything but kitchen burns.
You were just… here. Making sushi.
And he was Wrecker.
⸻
It was a quiet evening when he came alone. The sun painted everything in gold, the sea calm and whispering.
You were cleaning up when you heard the familiar grunt of him ducking through the doorway.
“Hey, Wrecker,” you said, smiling softly. “No Omega?”
“She’s off with Hunter. Some market thing.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Thought I’d drop by anyway. Got a seat for me?”
“Always.”
He took his spot. You brought out his favorite roll without asking.
You didn’t talk much at first. Just the quiet sound of chopsticks failing and him switching to his fingers after a few tries.
“Y’know,” he said suddenly, “I like it here.”
You paused, halfway to wiping down a table. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. It’s peaceful. And you’re always nice to me. Even when I eat too much.”
You chuckled, heart thumping. “I like having you here.”
He looked up at you then, serious in a way he rarely was.
“I hope this ain’t weird,” he said. “But I think about you. A lot. When I’m not here.”
Your breath caught.
He kept going, nervously, like he was charging into battle. “I don’t really get how all this… love stuff works. But I know how I feel. And I know I wanna be around you more. If that’s okay.”
Your hands were shaking. You smiled, eyes misting over.
“I thought I was just a friend to you,” you whispered.
“Nah,” he said, softly this time. “You’re more.”
He stood, awkwardly towering over the bar, then reached out and touched your hand with his massive, callused fingers.
“Unless you don’t want that. Then I can just keep eatin’ sushi and shuttin’ up.”
You laughed through a tear. “I want that. I’ve wanted that.”
⸻
From then on, nothing changed—and everything did.
Wrecker still sat in the same seat. Still made a mess. Still laughed too loud.
But now he held your hand under the table. Now he walked you home after close, grumbling that he had to make sure you were safe—even on the safest island in the galaxy. Now he left tiny gifts on the counter: shiny shells, carved wood, one time a flower that got squished in his fist but still smelled sweet.
Omega noticed right away, of course. She beamed at you both.
“Took you long enough,” she said, biting into a rice ball. “He talks about you all the time.”
You just smiled and passed her another plate.
Your heart full. Your quiet dream now shared.
⸻
Read more by me
hello! this is my first time sending any sort of request so i hope this is the right place! i absolutely love your writing and was wondering if you could write Hunter x a plus sized f reader (more specifically a reader struggling with loving her body). maybe sfw with a hint of suggestiveness? thank you!! <3
“All the parts of you”
Hunter x Plus-Sized Fem!Reader
⸻
You stared at your reflection in the mirror of the Marauder’s fresher, scowling as you tugged at your shirt. It clung to the softest parts of you. The waistband of your pants had folded over—again—and if you stood a certain way, your stomach looked—
“Like a whole moon orbiting around me,” you muttered under your breath, smirking bitterly. “Galactic gravitational pull and all.”
It was your thing, after all. Make the joke before anyone else could. Keep it light. Pretend you didn’t care. Pretend you didn’t hurt.
You didn’t hear Hunter step in.
“You always talk about yourself like that when you think no one’s listening?”
Your heart skipped, stomach sinking faster than gravity.
You turned. “Well, yeah. Someone’s gotta say it. Might as well be me before someone beats me to the punchline.”
He didn’t laugh. Not even a twitch of a smirk.
“Don’t do that,” he said, voice low and steady.
You raised an eyebrow, trying to brush past him. “It’s just a joke, Sarge.”
His hand came up, gentle but firm, stopping you before you could flee.
“It’s not funny,” he said. “Not to me.”
You tried to shrug it off, even as your throat tightened. “Relax. I’m not fishing for compliments. I’m just realistic, you know? Built like a bantha in body armor. It’s fine.”
He blinked slowly. Once.
Then, “Don’t say that about my girl.”
Your breath caught. “I’m not—”
“You are,” he interrupted. “I haven’t said it yet, but you are.”
Your protest fizzled somewhere in your chest.
He stepped closer, and now his hand was on your waist—your soft waist, the one you avoided letting anyone touch—like it belonged there.
“Do you know how hard it is for me to keep my hands off you when you wear that shirt?”
You blinked. “You mean the shirt that makes me look like a wrapped ration pack?”
“I mean the shirt that hugs you in all the right places,” he murmured, sliding his hand along the curve of your hip like it was art. “The one that reminds me exactly how good you’d feel in my arms. Or on my lap. Or under me.”
Your cheeks burned. “Hunter…”
“I love how you look,” he said. “But more than that, I love you. All the parts you try to cover. All the jokes you use to hide the things you’re still learning to live with.”
His tone was quiet. Serious.
“You don’t need to pretend with me.”
Your throat ached. Your hands twitched at your sides like they didn’t know whether to cover your face or grab his.
“I don’t know how to believe you,” you admitted softly.
“That’s okay,” he said. “Let me believe it for both of us until you can.”
You stared at him, all your words gone, and he kissed you—slow, reverent, grounding.
And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel like something to fix.
You felt like someone wanted.
⸻
Later that night, you made another joke about needing “extra rations to fuel all this real estate,” and he didn’t hesitate.
He pulled you flush against him, kissed your neck, and growled in your ear:
“I hope you’ve got extra, sweetheart. I plan to spend all night exploring every damn inch of you.”
⸻
A/N - kind self inserted here, I’m a bigger girl and tend to make the jokes before anyone else can, not that most do
Hardcase x Medic Reader
⸻
The soft beep of monitors and the sterile scent of antiseptic filled the dimly lit medbay. Most of the beds were empty tonight—except for one, where Hardcase was half-sitting, half-lurking like a bored animal ready to bolt.
You entered with a tablet in hand, already sighing. “If I find you trying to ‘stretch your legs’ one more time, I swear I’ll sedate you.”
Hardcase gave you an innocent grin, all teeth and mischief. “Come on, doc, I was just doing a lap. For circulation. You wouldn’t want my muscles to atrophy, would you?”
You raised an eyebrow. “Hardcase, you have three broken ribs and a hairline fracture in your leg. Sit. Down.”
He threw his hands up in mock surrender and flopped back dramatically onto the cot, letting out an exaggerated groan. “You wound me more than the blaster bolt did.”
“You’re lucky I was there to drag your sorry shebs off the field,” you muttered, scrolling through his vitals. “Next time, maybe don’t charge a tank on foot.”
“I had a plan.”
“You yelled ‘I’ve got this!’ and ran straight at it.”
“…Exactly.”
You looked up, lips twitching. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet, here you are. Checking on me. Again.” He tilted his head, gaze softening. “You always come back, don’t you?”
That gave you pause. The playful tone slipped, just for a second. “That’s the job.”
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “But not everyone does it like you.”
Silence settled between you, not heavy—but charged. Tense in a different way.
You set the tablet down and approached the side of his bed. “You’re a good soldier, Hardcase. But you don’t have to be the loudest in the room to matter. You don’t have to hide behind all that energy.”
He looked at you, blinking. “You see that?”
“I patch up your bones. I hear what your heart’s doing, too.”
He let out a slow breath, the grin slipping into something smaller, more genuine. “You’re kind of amazing, you know that?”
You leaned in, crossing your arms. “And you’re kind of an idiot.”
Suddenly, his arm shot out—gently—and pulled you forward by your wrist, just enough that you stumbled and caught yourself on the edge of his bed.
“If you wanted me in your bed, cyare,” he murmured, voice low and teasing, “you could’ve just asked.”
You glared down at him, breath caught somewhere between a laugh and a curse. “You’re lucky you’re injured, clone.”
He smirked. “What happens when I’m not?”
Your hand lingered on his chest, feeling the steady rhythm beneath it. “Guess we’ll find out.”
His grin faded into something warmer. “I hope we do.”
⸻
strong desire for Echo to take a nice relaxing bath but also concerned about him electrocuting himself
501st Material List 💙🦋🛋️🥶
|❤️ = Romantic | 🌶️= smut or smut implied |🏡= platonic |
Overall
- “The Warmth Between Wars”🏡
- “Your What?!"🏡
- “Armour for the Skin” 🏡
- “Hearts of the 501st” ❤️
Arc Trooper Fives
- x bounty hunter reader pt.1❤️
- x bounty hunter reader pt.2 ❤️
- x reader “This Life”❤️
- x reader “Name First, Then Trouble”🌶️
- x Sith!Reader “The Worst Luck”❤️
Captain Rex
- x Jedi Reader❤️
- x Villager Reader ❤️
- x reader “what remains”❤️
- x Sith Assassin Reader “only one target”❤️
- x Reader “Ghosts of the Game”
- x Bounty Hunter Reader “Crossfire” multiple characters ❤️
- x Jedi Reader “War On Two Fronts” multiple parts
- “Smile”❤️
- “501st Confidential (Except it’s Not)” ❤️
Arc Trooper Echo
- x Old Republic Jedi Reader❤️
- x Old Republic Jedi Reader pt.2❤️
- “A Ghost in the Circuit” 🏡❤️
Hardcase
- x medic reader ❤️
Kix
- x Jedi reader “stitches & secrets”❤️
- “First Name Basis” ❤️
Overall Material List
“The Lesser of Two Wars” Pt.1
Commander Fox x Senator Reader x Commander Thorn
Summary: The senator becomes the quiet obsession of two elite commanders, sparking a slow-burn love triangle beneath the surface of duty and politics.
If anyone ever asked, you’d tell them you became a Senator by accident.
You weren’t born with a silver tongue or bred in the soft halls of Coruscant. No. You earned your seat by scraping your way up through the mess of planetary diplomacy, one bitter compromise at a time. And somehow—against your better judgment—you’d gotten good at it.
Politics were war without blasters.
And most days, you’d rather take a shot to the chest than attend another committee meeting.
Still, here you were—draped in crimson silks, shoulders squared like armor, and face carved into the perfect expression of interest. The Senate roared with debate. Systems cried for resources. Sycophants whispered and bartered behind you. But your voice—when you chose to use it—cut through like a vibroblade. That’s what made you dangerous.
Padmé once told you that change was a quiet thing, made in corridors and council rooms, not just battlefields. You told her it felt more like drowning slowly in bureaucracy. She just smiled like she knew a secret you didn’t.
The Senate was a performance.
A stage lined with robes instead of armor, filled with actors who knew how to posture but not how to listen.
You hated it.
And yet, you were one of its stars—elected against the odds, sharp-tongued, unrelenting, and quietly feared by those who underestimated you. You never pretended to like the political game. You just played it better than most.
Still, days like this tested your patience. The emergency session dragged past the second hour, voices rising, layered with false concern and masked self-interest. You didn’t roll your eyes—but it was a near thing.
“Senator,” came the calm voice of a nearby aide. “Security detail has arrived to sweep the outer hall. Commander Fox, Commander Thorn.”
You turned your head slightly as the two men entered the chamber.
Fox came first.
Red armor, regulation-sharp posture, unreadable expression. His presence was quiet but absolute, a man built for control. He walked with measured steps, every movement efficient. You watched him briefly—no longer than anyone else in the room—and noted how his gaze swept the perimeter with military precision.
He didn’t look at you. Not directly. Not for more than a second.
But you noticed the exact moment he registered you.
His shoulders didn’t shift. His mouth didn’t twitch. Nothing gave him away.
But you were good at reading people. And Fox? He was good at not being read.
Thorn followed.
Equally sharp, but louder in presence. His armor bore the polished gleam of someone who took pride in every inch of presentation. He offered a crisp nod to the aides and exchanged a brief, professional word with Senator Organa.
His eyes passed over you once. No pause. No flicker. But the angle of his head adjusted half a degree your way when he moved to stand by the chamber doors. Like he’d marked your position—nothing more.
Professional. Respectful. Untouched.
You exhaled slowly and turned back to your datapad.
Two Commanders. Two versions of unshakable.
You’d been warned of their reputations, of course. Fox, the stoic hammer of Coruscant. Thorn, the bold shield. Both deeply loyal to the Guard. Both rarely assigned together. Their presence meant the Senate was bracing for tension—possibly violence.
You liked them already.
Not because they were charming. Not because they were handsome—though they were, infuriatingly so.
But because they didn’t stare. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t approach with the practiced familiarity of most men who wanted something from a Senator.
No, they were disciplined. Detached.
And that, somehow, made them more dangerous than the rest.
⸻
Later, as the session adjourned and conversation bled into the marble corridors, you passed by them on your way to the lift.
Fox gave a slight incline of his head. Barely a greeting.
Thorn stood perfectly still, gaze straight ahead.
You didn’t stop. You didn’t speak.
But as the lift doors closed behind you, you felt it in your chest—that faint, inexplicable tightness. The kind that warned you of a fight you hadn’t seen coming.
And would never be able to vote your way out of.
⸻
The reception was loud.
Not in volume—but in elegance. Every glass clink, every diplomatic smile, every strategically placed compliment. That was how politicians shouted: with opulence, posture, and carefully crafted subtext.
You stood among it all, still in your robes from earlier, the deep crimson of your sleeves catching the soft amber light of the chandeliers. Surrounding you were names that made the galaxy shiver: Organa, Amidala, Mothma, Chuchi. Allies. Friends. Survivors.
You sipped something you didn’t like and watched the room, bored.
“Twice in one day?” Mon Mothma leaned in gently. “You deserve a medal.”
“Or a decent drink,” you muttered.
Padmé snorted into her glass.
You gave them a smile—small, real—and let your eyes drift.
And there they were. Again.
Commander Fox stood posted by the far archway.
Commander Thorn lingered near the entry steps. Both in armor. Both on duty. Both immaculately indifferent to the golden reception unfolding around them.
You could’ve ignored them.
You should’ve.
But after a half-hour of polite conversation and nothing to sink your teeth into, the idea of a genuine challenge was too appealing to resist.
You slipped away from your group, threading through gowns and murmurs. Your steps were casual but deliberate.
Thorn noticed first. You caught the faint movement of his helmet tilting. Then, quickly and without announcement, you redirected toward Fox.
He didn’t flinch. Not when you stopped a polite distance from him. Not when you met his visor directly. Not even when you tilted your head and offered the first word.
“You know,” you said mildly, “you’re very good at pretending I’m not standing here.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then: “I’m on duty, Senator.”
You gave him a slow nod. “So you are. Must be terribly dull work, watching senators pretend they aren’t scheming.”
“I’ve seen worse.”
“Really?” You leaned in slightly. “What’s worse than watching politicians drink for four hours straight?”
He didn’t answer. But there was a pause—a longer one than regulation probably allowed.
Then finally: “This isn’t the place for conversation.”
“Neither was the Senate floor,” you replied, tone still light. “But you seemed comfortable enough ignoring me there, too.”
At that, something shifted. Barely.
His stance remained rigid. But there was a tightness in his voice now. Controlled tension.
“I don’t make it a habit to engage senators unnecessarily.”
You smiled. Not smug—genuinely amused.
“Don’t worry, Commander. I’m not here to engage you unnecessarily. I just wanted to see if you had a voice beneath all that silence.”
Another pause.
Then, quietly, like it had to be pried loose from steel:
“You’ve heard it now.”
And with that, he returned his gaze forward, unreadable once again.
You lingered a second longer than appropriate. Then turned, walking back to the crowd without looking over your shoulder.
Across the room, Thorn watched the entire exchange.
Didn’t move. Didn’t comment. But his gaze followed you as you rejoined your peers.
Unlike Fox, Thorn had no need for stillness. His restraint was a choice.
And he’d just decided not to intervene.
Not yet.
⸻
You hated how the armor caught the light.
Crimson and white, clean-cut, unblemished—too perfect. Commander Thorn didn’t just wear his armor; he carried it like a statement. Like confidence forged in durasteel.
He stood near one of the tall reception windows now, half-shadowed by draping silk and flickering light. Unlike Fox, who radiated stillness, Thorn watched everything in motion. His gaze tracked movement like a soldier born for the battlefield—alert, calculating, assessing.
But not unkind.
You’d caught his eye earlier during your exchange with Fox. He hadn’t interfered. Hadn’t so much as shifted his weight. But you saw the way he watched you walk away.
And now, with your patience for schmoozing officially dead, you veered toward him with no hesitation.
He acknowledged you before you spoke. A small nod. That alone told you he was already more accommodating than his brother-in-arms.
“Senator,” he said. Not cold. Not warm. Polite. Neutral.
“Commander Thorn,” you echoed, coming to a stop beside him. “You look like you’ve spent the last hour resisting the urge to roll your eyes.”
His mouth twitched. Almost a smile. “Discipline.”
“Right,” you said dryly. “That thing I’m told I lack.”
“Wouldn’t be so sure. You made it through three conversations with Senator Ask Aak without drawing a weapon.”
“That is discipline,” you murmured, half to yourself.
Thorn’s gaze didn’t waver, but there was something in the tilt of his head, the faint ease in his shoulders. He wasn’t as closed-off as Fox, but still impossibly hard to read. He didn’t lean in. Didn’t flirt. But he listened. Sharply.
“You don’t like these events,” he said plainly.
You raised an eyebrow. “I’m shocked it’s that obvious.”
“You’ve looked at the clock seven times.”
You smirked. “Maybe I was counting the seconds until someone interesting finally spoke to me.”
He said nothing to that—no flustered denial, no cocky retort. Just the same steady, unreadable look. But his fingers tapped once—just once—against the side of his thigh.
Interesting.
“I take it you don’t like politicians,” you added.
“I’m a Coruscant Guard, Senator. I don’t get the luxury of liking or disliking.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He turned his head slightly, visor reflecting soft gold.
“It’s the only one I’m giving you. For now.”
You were about to press that—to tease it open, to see if there was a warmer man behind the armor—but fate, cruel and punctual, had other plans.
“Senator!” came a voice from behind you. Shrill. Forced.
You didn’t have to turn to know who it was.
Senator Orn Free Taa. Slime.
Thorn’s posture straightened by the inch. You fought the urge to groan.
“Senator,” you greeted coolly, turning.
“I must speak with you about your position on the Sevarcos embargo. It’s urgent.” He smiled like a Hutt—greasy and too wide. “We can’t keep putting blind faith in the neutrality of mining guilds.”
You glanced at Thorn once more. He didn’t move. But the angle of his helmet, ever so subtle, told you he was still watching.
You gave him a single step back. The silent kind of goodbye.
He didn’t stop you. But his voice, soft and unhurried, followed you as you turned.
“Be careful, Senator. You look like you’re about to say what you really think.”
You smirked.
“Don’t worry, Commander. I’ve survived worse than honesty.”
⸻
“By the stars,” you hissed as the door closed behind you, muffling the tail end of the diplomatic reception, “I’m going to strangle Taa with his own headtails.”
Mon Mothma, lounging with practiced poise on your office settee, didn’t even flinch. “That’s the third time you’ve threatened to kill a fellow senator this month.”
“It’s not a threat if I have plans.” You flung your datapad onto the desk and tore off your formal sash like it personally offended you. “He cornered me twice. Once about mining guilds, and once about ‘strengthening our bipartisan bond,’ whatever the hell that means.”
Mon hummed, sipping something chilled. “You’re too good at your job. That’s the problem.”
You collapsed beside her, robe twisted at the collar and hair loosening from its earlier neatness. “I swear, if I get one more leering invitation to a strategy meeting over dinner—”
“You’ll start accepting them and sabotaging their food.”
You sighed deeply. “Tempting.”
The soft clink of glass was the only reply for a moment. It was late now. The reception had dwindled, but your irritation hadn’t. The pressure. The performance. The underhanded proposals thinly veiled behind political niceties. You hated it. Hated the hypocrisy. Hated that you had to smile while enduring it.
“I just—” you started again, quieter now. “I didn’t sign up for this to climb power ladders. I wanted to help. Not play diplomat dress-up while watching bills get butchered by people who care more about their name than the outcome.”
Mon glanced sideways at you, ever the picture of composed empathy. “And yet, you still manage to do good.”
You scoffed but said nothing more. Your throat felt tight in that old, familiar way. Not tears. Just frustration. A weight you couldn’t always name.
A polite knock cut the quiet.
You blinked, sat straighter. Mon rose, brushing down her dress with a grace you could never quite copy.
“Enter,” you called, standing as the door slid open.
Commander Fox stepped in.
Of course.
His armor gleamed despite the late hour. Hands clasped behind his back, posture impeccable, expression unreadable as always. A faint shimmer of exhaustion touched the edges of his movements, but it never cracked the facade.
“Apologies for the interruption, Senator,” he said, voice even, “but I’m required to confirm your quarters have been secured following the reception.”
You raised an eyebrow. “You’re personally doing room checks now, Commander?”
“Protocol,” he said simply. “A precaution. There’s been increased chatter about potential targeting of senators affiliated with the Trade Route Oversight.”
You and Mon exchanged a look.
“I’ll give you two a moment,” she said lightly, already stepping out. “Try not to threaten him with silverware.”
The door hissed shut behind her.
You turned to Fox, arms crossing loosely over your chest. “You weren’t stationed here earlier. Thorn had this wing.”
“He was reassigned.”
“How convenient,” you murmured, studying him.
Fox didn’t blink.
You sighed. “Well? Do you need me to stand still while you sweep for bombs? Or is this the part where you sternly lecture me about walking away from my escort earlier?”
To your surprise, there was the slightest pause. A fraction of a beat too long.
“…You’re not as unreadable as you think,” you added, gaze narrowing. “You listen like you’re memorizing every word.”
“I am.”
That surprised you. Just a little.
“But not,” he continued, “because I intend to use any of it. Only because I’ve learned the most dangerous people in the galaxy are the ones everyone else stops listening to.”
Your arms dropped to your sides.
For once, you didn’t have a clever reply. Just a pulse that thudded too loud in the quiet.
Fox stepped past you, eyes scanning the perimeter of the room. His tone was quieter when he spoke again.
“You don’t need to pretend you’re unaffected. Not with me. But you do need to be careful, Senator. You’re surrounded by predators—”
You turned slightly. “And what are you?”
He looked at you then. Finally. Even through the helmet, it felt like impact.
“Trained,” he said.
Then he stepped back toward the door.
“Your quarters are secure. Good night, Senator.”
And just like that, he was gone.
You stood in the silence, heart still. Breath caught somewhere too deep in your chest.
Too good to show interest.
But stars, did he listen.
⸻
Next Chapter
We interrupt your regularly scheduled political tragedy to bring you SPACE PIGEONS.
“In all honesty darling, they only started calling me the Negotiator because the slut was considered too unprofessional.” - Obi-Wan Kenobi to Cody at some point in the war
Someone, Evermore (Sunshine, Evermore.) by songofsewerrats on ao3
https://archiveofourown.org/works/62754613
@songofsewerrats
Edit: since this post is being seen by a lot of people, im letting you guys know that this fic is the best Codywan fic I’ve ever read and I strongly recommend you to check it out!
Corrie Gaurd Material List❤️💋❌🚨
|❤️ = Romantic | 🌶️= smut or smut implied |🏡= platonic |
Commander Fox
- x Singer/PA Reader pt.1❤️
- x Singer/PA Reader pt.2❤️
- x Singer/PA Reader pt.3❤️
- x Singer/PA Reader pt.4❤️
- x Caf shop owner reader ❤️
- x reader “command and consequence”❤️
- x Reader “Command and Consequence pt.2”❤️
- x Senator Reader “Red and Loyal” multiple parts ❤️
- “Red Lines” multiple parts
- “soft spot” ❤️
Commander Thorn
- x Senator Reader “Collateral Morals” multiple parts❤️
- x Senator Reader “the lesser of two wars” multiple parts ❤️
Sergeant Hound
- X Reader “Grizzer’s Choice”
Overall Material List
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