You Gonna Let A Bitch With Spider Man- Into The Spider Verse In Her Top 4 Speak To You That Way??

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

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

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

ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ | ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ ᴵᴵ

𝑨𝒓𝒂𝒈𝒐𝒓𝒏 🗡️

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

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

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

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

・His hands are calloused, weather-worn.

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

・He works in silence, brows furrowed in concentration.

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

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

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

・But still, he continues.

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

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

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

“There. You’re ready.”

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

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

・He'll braid it again. Every time.

𝑳𝒆𝒈𝒐𝒍𝒂𝒔 🌙

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

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

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

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

・He steps behind you in complete silence.

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

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

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

・You go still. He doesn’t elaborate.

・And then he sings.

・It's soft, in Elvish.

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

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

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

“You should ask me again sometime.”

・Because this wasn’t just a braid.

・It was a memory.

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

𝑩𝒐𝒓𝒐𝒎𝒊𝒓 🛡️

・Oh how he melts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

・Although he is trying to make it perfect.

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

・Woven like a promise.

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

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

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

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

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

𝑬́𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒓 🏹

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

“You don’t think I can?”

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

"What did you mean?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

𝑭𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒎𝒊𝒓 🌾

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

“You would trust me with something so personal?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

𝑮𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒂𝒍𝒇 🪄

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

stop talking about the USA. I have heard enough about that wretched place

“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

Commander Cody x Queen Reader

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

You were Queen.

And queens did not cower in simple cloth.

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

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

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

_ _ _

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

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

"General Kenobi," you greeted coolly.

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

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

"And who are you?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

_ _ _

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

You found yourself watching him more than the battlefield.

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

He had.

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

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

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

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

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

He stepped closer. "It was."

"We leave at dawn," he said quietly.

You nodded. "You've done well."

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

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

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

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

_ _ _

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You leave at dawn," you said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was a promise.

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

"Until next time, Commander," you whispered.

"Until next time... Your Majesty."

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

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

Happy Friday!

“Synaptic Sparks”

Gregor x Reader

The kettle was screaming again.

So was Gregor.

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

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

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

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

You blinked. “You first.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh yeah. Bastard was smug.”

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

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

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

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

You turned to look at him. “Gregor?”

“Yeah?”

“If I forget who you are someday…”

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

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

“That sounds nice,” you said.

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

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

It was insane. It was unstable.

But it was home.

⸻

Outside, the sky cracked with thunder.

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

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

It stuck.

Even if nothing else did.

“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.

⸻

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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!

“Crossfire” pt.2

Commander Cody x Reader x Captain Rex

The transmission came through encrypted—priority red. Only one man used that level for you.

Palpatine.

You were already on a job halfway across the mid rim, credits in hand, target bleeding out behind you. But the moment his message came through, you abandoned everything. You didn’t hesitate.

Meet me at the Jedi Temple. Do not be late. – S.P.

⸻

You’d walked into war zones with less tension in your shoulders.

The Temple was beautiful in the way ancient weapons are—elegant, polished, deadly. You moved past towering statues and sacred halls, every Jedi you passed giving you the same look: mistrust. Unease.

Good. Let them squirm.

As the war room doors slid open with a soft hiss, all eyes turned to you.

You stepped in slow, measured, the weight of a dozen stares pressing down your spine like a blade. The room was war incarnate—strategy, power, command. And it watched you with silent judgment.

Standing at the forefront:

General Obi-Wan Kenobi, composed as ever, hands folded, a silent storm behind his eyes.

Beside him, Commander Cody, helmet under arm, chin set, already assessing you like a battlefield.

General Anakin Skywalker, lounging in that casual defiance he wore like armor, flanked by Captain Rex, who stood just a little too stiffly for comfort.

Then there was Master Mace Windu, an immovable pillar at the center of it all. His commander, Ponds, stood at his side—stoic, calm, the kind of soldier who watched everything and said little.

Further down, Master Kit Fisto offered a diplomatic nod, the faintest flicker of curiosity in his eyes. His clone, Commander Monk, mirrored him: collected, but his fingers tapped an idle rhythm on his vambrace like he already expected things to go sideways.

And finally, Aayla Secura, calm and unreadable, with Commander Bly behind her—silent, stern, and entirely unimpressed.

At the center of the room, waiting with a smug patience, stood Chancellor Palpatine.

He turned toward you with a grandfather’s smile—one that always felt like it was hiding teeth. “My friends,” he said, “allow me to introduce someone who has served the Republic with discretion and remarkable skill.”

You stood taller, letting your eyes sweep across the room.

“This bounty hunter has been a valuable ally to my office for some time. Her knowledge of Separatist operations is unmatched, and her methods…” His smile deepened. “…are effective.”

You caught the way Cody’s jaw tightened. Rex’s brow furrowed. Bly looked like he’d rather shoot you than shake your hand. Even Windu’s expression soured like something had curdled in the Force.

“She will accompany you on the invasion of Teth, and she has been assigned a special task—one that is not up for discussion.”

He let the weight of that hang for a moment, then stepped aside, gesturing toward the table.

“Now, shall we begin?”

⸻

Rex found you first.

He’d been trailing behind Skywalker, but as soon as the war meeting ended, he broke off and caught up to you in a quiet corridor overlooking the city below.

“You’ve got some nerve,” he said without greeting.

You turned slowly, raising a brow. “Missed you too, Captain.”

He stepped closer, voice low. “What the hell is going on? Since when are you chummy with the Chancellor?”

You tilted your head. “Does it matter?”

“It does to me.”

You stared at him for a moment. That familiar crease in his brow. The way he clenched his jaw when he was confused or angry—usually both. He still looked good in his armor. Still looked at you like he wanted to pull you close and shake you at the same time.

“I do what I’m paid for,” you said quietly. “Same as you.”

“This is different. He trusts you. They’re being told to trust you. And you’ve burned every side you’ve ever stood on.”

You didn’t answer.

And that’s when Skywalker appeared behind him.

“If the Chancellor trusts her,” Anakin said, arms crossed, “then so do I.”

Rex’s mouth parted, confused.

You looked between them. Skywalker’s gaze wasn’t warm—it wasn’t trusting, not really. It was calculated. He was watching how Rex would respond. How you would react. Testing.

“Well,” you said after a beat, “that’s one of us.”

Skywalker smirked, then walked off without another word.

You and Rex stood in silence.

“I’m not the enemy, Rex,” you said softly.

He looked at you for a long time.

“I just don’t know who you are anymore.”

And then he walked away.

⸻

Teth was chaos.

The invasion was in full swing—blaster fire lighting up the canyons, LAATs screaming across the sky, droids collapsing by the dozen under the Jedi-led assault. You were technically assigned to General Secura’s squad—but “assigned” was a loose term. In truth, you were never meant to stay.

Not according to the Chancellor.

Your objective wasn’t battle.

It was extraction.

One target. A child. The son of a Separatist senator. Rumors whispered of his gifts—how things floated when he was upset, how animals followed him like shadows, how he dreamed of things that hadn’t happened yet.

Force-sensitive.

Palpatine wanted him. And the war on Teth was just the perfect smoke screen to get in and get out unseen.

You were already dressed for infiltration—slim-cut armor under your usual gear, hair pulled back, weapons light but sharp. You slipped into one of the forward camps to “check in” before vanishing into the deeper jungle. Just long enough to draw attention—and spark some tension.

⸻

You strolled into the republic outpost with a slow sway in your hips, sweat glistening at your collarbone, a bit of battlefield grit clinging to your boots. The clones were mid-prep, chatter low and urgent.

Commander Monk caught your eye first—leaning against a crate, half-armored, running diagnostics on a vibroblade. He looked up when you approached, a slow smirk forming as he straightened.

“Well,” he said, voice smooth and lazy. “They didn’t say you’d be this pretty.”

You tilted your head, smirking. “They say a lot of things. Some of them are even true.”

He stepped closer, eyes flicking from your face to your hips. “Tell me—are you here to help with the front lines, or just give the troops something nice to look at before they die?”

You leaned in, close enough for your breath to ghost across his jaw. “What if I said both?”

Behind you, Commander Cody passed by with a datapad, slowing just slightly as he caught your voice. His expression was unreadable, but the sideways glance he shot Monk was cold.

A few steps behind him, Rex came into view, muttering something to a trooper. When his eyes landed on you—and how close you were to Monk—his jaw tensed so tight you could hear his teeth grind.

You grinned to yourself.

“Anyway,” you said, pulling back from Monk, “I’m off. Try not to miss me too much.”

He raised a brow. “Can’t make any promises.”

You winked—and slipped out of camp like a ghost.

The child’s location was buried deep within a fortified compound—a Separatist safehouse tucked into the cliffs. He was guarded, but not like a military asset. More like a precious heir.

You got in easy.

You always did.

The boy couldn’t have been more than eight. Pale-skinned, solemn-eyed, with dark curls and quiet power that made the hairs on your arms rise. When you reached for him, he didn’t flinch. Just asked:

“Are you going to kill me?”

“No,” you said gently. “I’m getting you out of here.”

He didn’t resist.

He followed.

You stole a sleek Separatist craft on your way out—just one of a dozen abandoned during the Republic’s assault. Before long, you were rising through Teth’s atmosphere, the battle shrinking beneath you like a dying ember.

You didn’t check in with the Jedi.

Didn’t respond to transmissions.

Just disappeared.

⸻

The rendezvous was barren, wind-swept rock. Palpatine’s shuttle waited like a dark bird, wings hunched, engines humming.

You stepped off your stolen ship, the boy at your side, hand in yours.

Palpatine stood waiting. Hooded. Smiling faintly.

“It is done,” you said.

He gestured. Two guards took the child—gently, but without warmth. The boy looked back at you once, uncertain. You gave him the softest nod you could manage.

When the guards disappeared with him into the shadows, you turned to the Chancellor.

“What do you want with him?”

Silence.

You stepped forward. “You said I’d be paid. You didn’t say I’d be complicit in whatever that was.”

Palpatine’s smile thinned. “You’ve done a great service to the Republic. I advise you not to question what you don’t understand.”

You held his gaze.

And then turned and walked away.

⸻

The battle was won.

The Separatist forces had scattered like ashes in a storm. Teth’s jungle was a smoking mess of twisted metal, scorched bark, and the distant whine of injured ships groaning through the atmosphere.

But despite the victory, the war room was tense. Too tense.

Because one particular wildcard had vanished.

“She was last seen in Sector Eight,” Rex said, tapping a red blinking point on the holomap. “Near the outer ridge, just after we pushed through the southern lines.”

“She gave some excuse about ‘scouting ahead,’” Cody added, arms crossed tight over his chest. “But no one’s heard from her since. No comms. No visual confirmation.”

Skywalker paced. “You think she ran?”

“I don’t know what to think,” Rex said, jaw clenched. “She was being vague the whole campaign. Smiling like she had a secret.”

Obi-Wan raised a brow, ever calm. “She always has a secret.”

Across the table, Master Windu’s expression was carved from stone. “And the Chancellor insisted she be included in this operation?”

“Yes,” Kenobi confirmed, voice edged. “Personally. Claimed she could be trusted. That her presence would be an asset.”

“She hasn’t just disappeared,” said Aayla, frowning. “She vanished—mid-campaign. No distress signal, no call for evac, no trace.”

Mace’s voice was low and hard. “I don’t like it.”

From the shadows near the edge of the tent, Commander Monk muttered, “I liked it just fine until she ghosted.”

Rex gave him a sharp look. “You’re saying she planned it?”

“I’m saying someone who moves like that doesn’t just wander off.”

Skywalker crossed his arms, uneasy. “She’s not exactly known for sticking to orders.”

Cody shook his head, expression grim. “She’s not one of us. She was never one of us. She does what she’s paid to do.”

“And who’s paying her now?” Mace asked.

Silence.

They all glanced at each other.

And that silence was louder than the gunfire outside.

Later that night Rex stood at the edge of the jungle, helmet off, listening to the forest hiss and settle. His grip tightened on the comm link in his hand—static was all it offered.

“She didn’t even say goodbye,” he muttered.

Behind him, Cody walked up, quiet as always.

“She didn’t have to.”

Rex sighed. “She was talking to Monk before she left. Laughing. Flirting.”

“You jealous?”

Rex didn’t answer.

Cody gave a humorless chuckle. “We both know she was never going to stay.”

Rex’s jaw flexed. “I still want to know what she took with her.”

“Me too,” Cody murmured. “Me too.”

They stood there in silence, staring out at the smoke, wondering where the hell you’d gone—and what kind of game you were playing now.

Because disappearing without a trace was one thing.

Disappearing under the nose of two Jedi Generals, four clone commanders, and an entire battalion?

That meant you weren’t just clever.

You were dangerous.

⸻

The light was soft. Too soft.

The war had made the Jedi wary of stillness, and yet the Council chambers were quiet, every breath measured as Windu finished reviewing the final report.

“She vanished mid-operation,” he said, tapping the datapad. “Left her assigned sector without clearance. Never checked in. The child of a high-ranking Separatist senator was confirmed missing within the same timeframe.”

Obi-Wan nodded, arms folded in his robes. “I’ve already confirmed with Republic Intelligence. The senator’s entire estate was found abandoned two days after our withdrawal from Teth.”

“She was never meant to be embedded in that sector,” Aayla added, sharp. “She insisted on being close to the front. Claimed she worked best that way.”

Kit Fisto let out a low hum. “And yet she slipped past Jedi, clones, and Separatist scanners. Not many could pull that off.”

“She’s not just some bounty hunter,” Windu said. “And it’s time we stop pretending otherwise.”

Anakin looked up from where he sat near the window, frowning. “You think she’s a spy?”

“I think she’s dangerous,” Windu said. “Too close to the Chancellor. Too good at disappearing.”

Master Yoda’s eyes opened slowly. “Warn the Chancellor, we must. Dangerous this could become.”

⸻

The office was dimly lit when the Jedi arrived, cloaks still dusted with the desert wind from Teth.

Palpatine greeted them with his usual gentle smile, hands folded, tone gracious. “Masters. What can I do for you?”

Windu stepped forward. “This is about your… associate. The bounty hunter.”

Palpatine raised a brow. “Ah. Her. Yes. A most resourceful ally.”

“She disappeared during a mission we allowed her to join,” Obi-Wan said carefully. “And the child of a Separatist senator vanished at the same time.”

“And she has yet to report to anyone,” Windu added. “Not to the Jedi. Not to the Republic.”

“She reported to me,” Palpatine replied smoothly. “She was carrying out a parallel task under my authority. And she completed it. Efficiently.”

Windu’s voice darkened. “Why were we not informed?”

The Chancellor’s expression didn’t change. “Because the mission was delicate. Sensitive. And because I am well within my rights to employ allies of the Republic when circumstances require.”

“She cannot be trusted,” Windu pressed. “And if she continues to operate under Republic protection—”

“She served the Republic,” Palpatine interrupted, voice suddenly steely beneath the velvet. “She followed orders. She succeeded where others failed. And I personally look forward to working with her again.”

A beat of silence.

“I’d advise you to show her the respect she’s earned.”

The Jedi exchanged tight looks. None spoke.

But in that silence, something changed.

⸻

The music thrummed low, the scent of Corellian whiskey and fried rations thick in the air. Clones lounged around battered metal tables, laughter and banter bouncing off the walls as holo-screens flickered with highlights from the latest front.

Rex sat with a few of his men near the back—Fives, Jesse, and Kix, boots up, drinks half-empty, a rare moment of peace carved from chaos.

Then the bar doors slid open, and everything changed.

You stepped inside like you owned the place—black gloves, low-slung blaster, a smirk like a secret, and just enough sway in your step to turn every head. And you wanted it that way.

“Well, well…” you purred, eyes locking with Rex. “Still alive, Captain?”

Rex blinked, caught between surprise and irritation. “You’ve got some nerve showing up here.”

“I missed you,” you said sweetly, sliding into the booth uninvited. “Didn’t you miss me?”

Jesse let out a low whistle.

“You ghost us mid-campaign, and now you wanna play friendly?” Rex muttered, jaw tight.

You tilted your head, reaching for one of the drinks at the table without asking. “You’re cute when you’re grumpy, Rex.”

“She’s dangerous,” Kix murmured under his breath, nudging Fives.

“She’s hot,” Fives corrected.

You winked at him.

Rex glared.

“You’re drawing attention,” he said through clenched teeth.

“I am the attention, sweetheart,” you replied, leaning in just a little too close. “Don’t act like you don’t love it.”

Then you stood just as suddenly, smoothing your jacket. “Anyway. Just wanted to say hi. You boys behave now.”

You turned on your heel and made for the door, leaving Rex simmering in the wake of too much perfume and not enough answers.

You stepped out into the cool evening air, only to come face to face with a familiar Jedi.

Kit Fisto.

He stood still, robes draped around him like calm waters, but his expression was taut. Watchful.

“Master Fisto,” you said lightly. “Didn’t peg you for the bar scene.”

“I wasn’t in the bar,” he replied evenly. “I was watching it.”

You raised a brow. “Well, that’s not creepy at all.”

He ignored the jab. “You’ve been avoiding the Temple. Avoiding questions.”

“Busy girl,” you said. “Chancellor keeps me on a tight leash.”

Kit stepped closer. “You disappeared during an active campaign. Then reappeared on Coruscant with no debrief. And now you’re… fraternizing.”

You smirked. “With who, exactly?”

“The clones,” he said simply. “Rex. His men. I saw how you looked at them.”

“Maybe I like men in armor,” you replied, flippant.

“Or maybe,” Kit said, voice low and steady, “you’re gathering leverage. Getting too close. Making soldiers trust you.”

Your smile faded just a little.

He didn’t flinch.

“You’re not a Jedi,” he said. “You’re not bound by our code. But they are still our men. And I don’t know what game you’re playing with them, but I see through it.”

You stared at him for a beat, silence thick with tension.

Then you stepped close, eyes narrowed with challenge. “You don’t like me, that’s fine. But don’t mistake attraction for manipulation, Master Jedi. You should know better.”

Kit’s expression didn’t change. “Then prove me wrong.”

You lingered, lips twitching.

But then you were gone, slipping back into the shadows with a flutter of your coat—leaving only questions behind.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

“The Lesser of Two Wars” pt.5

Commander Fox x Reader x Commander Thorn

The aftermath of an attack always came in waves.

Smoke cleared. Evidence was gathered. People lied. And then, the survivors were expected to sit in rooms like this and act like it hadn’t shaken them.

Bail’s office was quiet, the kind of quiet only the dangerously exhausted and the politically cornered could create. A few low-voiced aides bustled around the outer corridor, but inside the room, it was only the senators.

Organa stood by the tall window, arms crossed as he stared down at the Coruscant skyline with a frown etched deep into his brow. Senator Chuchi sat stiffly on the edge of the couch, her shoulder bandaged from shrapnel. Padmé was leaned over the table, scanning a datapad and speaking in hushed tones to Mon Mothma. You stood near the bookcase, arms folded, trying to will the fire in your chest into something productive.

It wasn’t working.

“I’m tired of acting like we’re not under siege,” you muttered aloud.

Padmé looked up, lips pressed thin. “We are. We just haven’t named the enemy yet.”

Chuchi nodded slowly. “They know what they’re doing. Each strike more coordinated. Less about killing—more about threatening. Silencing.”

Bail finally turned, face unreadable. “They want us reactive. Fractured. Suspicious of each other.”

“We should be,” you said, pacing a slow line. “No one’s admitting what’s happening. The Senate hushes it up. Security leaks are too convenient. And somehow every target is someone with a voice too loud for the Chancellor’s comfort.”

That earned a moment of silence.

Mon Mothma spoke softly. “You think he’s involved.”

“I think someone close to him is.”

“We can’t keep pretending these are isolated,” you said finally.

“They know that,” Padmé murmured. “The question is: why isn’t anyone doing more?”

Bail, now standing at the head of his polished desk, didn’t answer immediately. His jaw was set. His gaze flicked over the datachart projected in front of him—attack markers, profiles, probable motives.

“They’re testing the Republic,” he said. “Or what’s left of it.”

“They’re testing us,” Mothma whispered, voice hoarse. “And if we keep responding with silence and procedural delays, they’ll push until there’s no one left to oppose them.”

The words sat heavy.

Outside the door, the crimson shadow of the Coruscant Guard stood watch—Fox and Thorn included, though you hadn’t glanced their way since entering.

But you could feel them. You always did now.

You turned slightly, voice low. “Have any of you gotten direct messages?”

Chuchi looked up sharply. “Threats?”

You nodded.

There was a beat of silence. Then Mothma sighed. “One. Disguised in a customs manifest. It knew… too much.”

Padmé nodded. “Mine was through a Senate droid. Disguised as a corrupted firmware packet.”

You didn’t speak. Yours had come days ago—buried in a late-night intelligence brief with no sender. All it said was:

You are not untouchable.

You hadn’t slept since.

“We need to pressure the Supreme Chancellor,” Bail said.

That earned a sour look from you. “He’ll deflect. Say it’s a security issue, not a political one.”

“Then we make it political,” Mothma said, finally sounding like herself again. “We use our voice. While we still have one.”

The room shifted then. A renewed sense of unity—brittle, but burning.

But in the quiet after, your gaze slipped—just for a moment—toward the guards stationed outside the door.

Fox stood perfectly still, helmet tilted in your direction. Thorn just beside him, arms folded. Neither moved. Neither spoke.

But their presence spoke volumes.

This was war.

And somewhere between the smoke and the silence, something else was taking root—dangerous, fragile, and very hard to ignore.

⸻

The room was dark, save for the steady pulse of holo-screens. Red and blue glows blinked over datafeeds, security footage, encrypted reports—layered chaos organized with military precision.

Fox stood at the center console, arms braced against its edge. Thorn leaned nearby, still in partial armor, visor down. Both men had discarded formalities, if only for this moment.

“This list isn’t shrinking,” Thorn muttered, scrolling through the updated intel. “If anything, it’s tightening.”

Fox tapped in a command, bringing up the names of every senator involved in the recent threats. Mothma. Organa. Chuchi. Amidala. And her.

He paused on her name.

No title. No pretense.

Just:

[FIRST NAME] [LAST NAME]

Planet of Origin: Classified. Access requires Level Six or higher.

Military Status: Former Commander, Planetary Forces, 12th Resistance Front

Notable Actions: Siege of Klydos Ridge, Amnesty Trial #3114-A

Designations: War Criminal (Cleared). Commendation of Valor.

Thorn let out a slow breath. “Well. That explains a few things.”

Fox didn’t speak. His eyes scanned every line—calm, deliberate.

“She was tried?” Thorn asked.

“Yeah. And cleared. But this…” Fox magnified a classified document stamped with a Republic seal. “She made decisions that turned the tide of a planetary civil war. But it cost lives. Enemy and ally.”

“Sounds like a soldier,” Thorn said.

“Sounds like someone who was never supposed to be a senator.”

They both stared at the glowing file, silent for a long beat.

“Why hide it?” Thorn asked. “You’d think someone with that record would lean on it.”

Fox finally replied, quiet: “Because war heroes make people nervous. War criminals scare them. And she was both.”

Thorn folded his arms. “She doesn’t look like someone who’s seen hell.”

“No,” Fox agreed. “But she acts like it.”

A beat passed.

Thorn tilted his head slightly. “You feel it too?”

Fox didn’t answer immediately.

“You’re not the only one watching her, Thorn.”

The words weren’t sharp. They weren’t angry. Just honest.

And for a moment, silence stretched between them—not as soldiers, not as commanders, but as men standing at the edge of something they couldn’t name.

Before either could say more, a message flashed in red across the console:

MOTHMA ESCORT CLEARED. STANDBY FOR NEXT PROTECTIVE ASSIGNMENT: SENATOR [LAST NAME]

Fox closed the file with one last look.

Thorn gave a tight nod.

But as the lights of the war room dimmed behind them, neither could quite forget the file still burning in the back of their minds—or the woman behind it.

⸻

It was hard to feel normal with three clones, a Jedi Padawan, and a Skywalker surrounding your lunch table like you were preparing to launch a military operation instead of ordering garden risotto.

The restaurant had cleared out most of its upper terrace for “Senatorial Security Reasons.” A ridiculous way to say: people were trying to kill you. Again.

Still, Padmé had insisted. And somehow—somehow—you’d ended up saying yes.

The sun was soft and golden through the vine-laced awning above, dappling the white tablecloths with moving light. The air smelled like roasted herbs and fresh rain, but not even that could soften the tension in your shoulders.

“You don’t have to look like you’re about to give a press briefing,” Padmé teased gently, reaching for her wine.

You let out a slow breath, forcing a smile. “It’s hard to relax when I’m being watched like a spice smuggler at customs.”

Across from you, Anakin Skywalker didn’t even flinch. He was leaned casually against the terrace railing, arms folded, lightsaber clipped at the ready. Rex stood a few paces behind, helmet on but gaze sharply fixed beyond the decorative trellises. Ahsoka was beside him, hands on her hips, trying very hard to pretend she wasn’t completely bored.

Then there were your shadows—Fox and Thorn.

They stood just far enough to give the illusion of privacy. Both in full armor. Both still as statues.

You saw them watching everyone. Especially Skywalker.

“I’m just saying,” Padmé said, twirling her fork. “If I were an assassin, this place would be the worst possible place to strike. Too many guards. Too many eyes.”

“Don’t tempt fate,” you muttered.

Ahsoka leaned forward, chin in hand, curious now. “Senator Amidala says you don’t really need all this protection. That true?”

You blinked once. Padmé was smirking into her glass. Of course she was.

“Well,” you said smoothly, lifting your napkin to your lap, “some senators are more difficult to target than others.”

Ahsoka squinted. “That’s not an answer.”

“That’s politics,” you replied with a practiced grin.

From behind, Fox shifted slightly. Thorn’s head turned just barely. They’d heard every word.

Padmé laughed quietly. “She’s been dodging questions since she was seventeen. Don’t take it personally.”

Ahsoka grinned, shaking her head. “Okay, fine. But seriously—what did you do before the Senate?”

You took a slow sip of your wine. “I made a mess of things. Then I cleaned them up. Very effectively.”

“Vague,” Ahsoka said.

“Deliberately.”

The conversation drifted to safer things—fashion, terrible policy drafts, the tragedy of synthetic caf. You allowed yourself to laugh once. Maybe twice. It was good to pretend, even just for a meal.

But as the plates were cleared and sunlight dipped a little lower, you glanced once toward the shadows.

Thorn stood with his arms crossed, ever the silent shield. Fox, next to him, gave you one sharp nod when your eyes met—no smile, no softness, just silent reassurance.

You weren’t sure what made your heart thump harder: the weight of your past threatening to surface… or the way neither of them looked away.

⸻

The wine had just been poured again—Padmé was laughing about a hideous gown she’d been forced to wear for a peace summit on Ryloth—when the world cracked in half.

The sound came first: not a blaster, not the familiar pulse of war—but the high-pitched whistle of precision. You knew that sound. You’d heard it before. In a past life.

Sniper.

Glass shattered near Padmé’s shoulder, spraying the table in glittering fragments. A scream rose somewhere below, muffled by the thick walls of the restaurant. And then—

“GET DOWN!”

Fox moved like lightning. One arm shoved you sideways, sending you down behind the table just as another shot scorched overhead. Thorn dove the opposite direction, deflecting debris with his arm guard, already scanning rooftops.

Anakin’s saber ignited mid-air.

The green blade of Ahsoka’s followed a heartbeat later.

“Sniper on the north building!” Rex barked, blaster up and already coordinating through his helmet comms. “Multiple shooters—cover’s compromised!”

Another blast tore through the awning, scorching Padmé’s chair. You yanked her down with you, shielding her head with your arms.

“Two squads, at least,” Thorn said over comms. “Organized. Not a distraction—this is the hit.”

Skywalker growled something dark and bolted forward, vaulting over the terrace railing with a flash of blue saber and fury.

“Ahsoka!” he shouted back. “Get them out of here—now!”

She was already moving. “Senators, with me!”

You didn’t hesitate—your combat instincts burned hot and automatic. You grabbed Padmé’s hand and ran, ducking low behind Ahsoka as she slashed through the decorative back entrance with her saber. The door hissed open—Fox and Thorn moved in tandem, covering your escape with rapid fire precision.

“Go!” Fox shouted. “We’ll hold the line!”

You and Padmé bolted through the kitchen, past startled staff and broken plates. Behind you, the sounds of a full-scale assault filled the air—blaster fire, shouted orders, another explosion shaking the foundations.

Ahsoka skidded into the alley, saber still lit. “Rex, redirect the speeder evac—pull it two blocks west! We’re going underground!”

Padmé looked pale. You weren’t sure if it was the near-miss or the fact that you were dragging her like a soldier, not a senator.

“This way,” you said, yanking open a service hatch. “Down the delivery chute. Go.”

She blinked. “You’ve done this before.”

“Later.”

Minutes stretched like hours as Ahsoka led you and Padmé through Coruscant’s underlevels. The girl was quick, precise—but young. She kept glancing back at you, questions on her face even in the middle of a mission.

Padmé finally caught her breath. “Are we clear?”

“Almost,” Ahsoka said. “Rex is circling a transport in now. We’ll get you back to the Senate.”

You exhaled slowly, the adrenaline catching up to your bones.

Ahsoka looked at you directly this time. “You weren’t afraid.”

You shook your head. “I’ve been afraid before. This wasn’t it.”

And though she didn’t press, something in her eyes said she understood more than she let on.

Because that wasn’t fear. That was reflex. Memory. War rising again in your blood, no matter how carefully you’d buried it.

And you weren’t sure if that scared you more… or comforted you.

⸻

The plush carpet muffled your steps as you entered the secured room, escorted by the Chancellor’s guards but notably free of the Chancellor himself. Thank the stars. The tension in your jaw was just now beginning to ease.

Padmé sat beside you, brushing glass dust from the hem of her gown. She wasn’t shaking anymore, though her eyes betrayed the flickers of adrenaline still fading. Ahsoka stood at the window, her arms crossed, gaze sharp as she scanned the skyline.

“I should’ve worn flats,” Padmé muttered, leaning toward you. “Last time I try to be fashionable during an assassination attempt.”

You gave a small, dry laugh. “Next time, we coordinate. Combat boots under formalwear. Very senatorial.”

Ahsoka turned slightly, studying you.

Padmé smiled faintly, but her next words were laced with meaning. “Well, you would know. I’ve never seen someone pull a senator out of a sniper’s line of fire with that kind of precision. It was… practiced.”

You didn’t miss the weight in her tone.

“Remind me never to tell you anything personal again,” you quipped, keeping your smile light. “You’re terrible with secrets.”

Padmé raised a brow, amused. “I am a politician.”

“You’re a gossip,” you shot back playfully.

Ahsoka tilted her head, clearly intrigued. “Wait… practiced?”

Before Padmé could answer—or you could pivot—the doors slid open.

Thorn entered first, helmet under one arm. His eyes immediately scanned the room. Fox followed a step behind, helmet still on, shoulders squared, every inch of him sharp and unreadable. But you felt his eyes on you. The pause in his step. The tension in his jaw.

Neither man spoke right away. But they didn’t need to. Their presence filled the room with the kind of silent protection that wasn’t easily taught. Not one senator in the room doubted they’d cleared the entire floor twice over before allowing the doors to open.

Fox’s voice cut through after a beat. “Are you both unharmed?”

Padmé nodded. “We’re fine. Thanks to all of you.”

Thorn’s eyes shifted to you—just a second longer than protocol called for. “You’re calm.”

You shrugged. “Panicking rarely improves aim.”

Ahsoka didn’t let it go. “So… you have training?”

You gave her your best senatorial smile. “Wouldn’t every politician be safer if they did?”

Padmé gave you a look. “You’re dodging.”

“I’m deflecting. There’s a difference.”

Before Ahsoka could press, the door slid open again, and Captain Rex stepped in.

His brow was furrowed beneath his helmet, his tone clipped and straight to the point. “General Skywalker captured one of the assassins. Alive.”

That got everyone’s attention.

Fox stepped forward. “Where is he now?”

“En route to a secure interrogation cell. Skywalker’s escorting him personally. He wants the senators updated.”

Your fingers curled slightly into the fabric of your robe. For all your practiced calm, something burned beneath your ribs.

Someone had targeted you. Again.

⸻

You barely sat.

Your body ached to move—to fight—but instead you paced the perimeter of the small, sterile waiting room the Guard had shoved you into while Skywalker handled the interrogation.

Two chairs. A water dispenser. No windows.

And a commander blocking the only door like a wall of red and steel.

Fox.

You’d seen Thorn step out to “coordinate with Rex,” but Fox hadn’t budged since Rex walked in with the update. Motionless. Head tilted just enough to follow your pacing.

It had been seven minutes.

You stopped finally, resting your palms flat on a small metal desk.

His voice, when it came, was rougher than usual.

“You need to sit down.”

You didn’t look at him. “No.”

“And drink water.”

“No.”

A longer pause.

“You may be a former soldier,” he said quietly, “but you’re still human.”

That actually made you spin around—lips curling into a sharp smile.

“Funny. You treat me more like china than human, most of the time.”

Fox didn’t move, but you could feel the shift.

“You’re not breakable,” he said flatly. “That isn’t the point.”

“What is?”

He was quiet.

You stared at him, taking a slow step closer. You knew it was reckless before your feet moved. But you did it anyway.

“Tell me, Commander.”

Fox didn’t answer immediately.

But then—his head turned just slightly toward the ceiling. As if he was measuring something he didn’t want to name.

You were about to fold your arms, press harder—when he spoke.

Voice low. Tight.

“If anyone’s going to break you, it should be your choice.”

For half a second, your heart stopped.

Your eyes snapped to his visor—not in disbelief, but in something far more dangerous.

He held your stare.

Then turned his body back toward the door in a sharp movement—like he’d reset an entire system with one motion.

“Sit down, Senator,” he said, brushing the moment away like it was protocol.

You did.

But not because he told you to.

Because your knees suddenly felt unsteady.

And outside, Thorn’s shadow was pacing too.

⸻

Thorn wasn’t brooding.

He told himself that twice. Then once more for good measure.

He wasn’t brooding—he was thinking.

Processing.

Decompressing, even.

Helmet off. Armor half-stripped. He leaned against the long bench in the quietest corner of the barracks, pretending not to hear Stone snoring two bunks down. Pretending not to care that Hound’s mastiff, Grizzer, had somehow crawled under his bunk and now slept like it was his.

He ran a hand through his hair.

It should’ve been a normal day—hell, even a standard post-attack lockdown. Escort the senators. Maintain security. Nothing complicated.

But she had looked at him.

Really looked. Past the phrasing, past the title. Past the helmet.

And worse—he’d let her.

That smile she gave when Fox told her to sit, that off-hand comment about being treated like china—it stuck in his mind like a saber mark. Not because of what she said, but because of what she didn’t. The way she tested the air in every conversation. Pressed and pressed until something cracked.

And if she pressed him again—he wasn’t sure he’d hold as well as Fox did.

Thorn sighed sharply and stood, heading for the hall.

He needed air.

Thorn didn’t expect her to be out.

It was late. She’d had a hell of a day. She was a senator.

But there she was, near the far fence where the decorative lights bled softly across the foliage. Arms crossed. Expression unreadable. Alone.

She turned her head a little when she heard his approach, then fully—half a smile forming.

“I wondered who’d come to check on me first.”

Thorn raised an eyebrow. “You expected someone?”

She shrugged, but it was coy. “Let’s not pretend either of you would let me go unmonitored tonight.”

He smirked, just faintly, and stepped closer. “You’re not wrong.”

They stood there, still, in the humid night air. The stars were dim from all the light pollution—but Thorn didn’t look up.

He looked at her.

The silence stretched again.

“You know,” she said after a beat, “for someone who’s so damn good at his job… you’re terrible at hiding how much you care.”

He didn’t deny it. Not this time.

Thorn’s voice was low when he replied. “And you’re good at provoking reactions.”

“You didn’t give me one.”

He met her gaze. “Didn’t I?”

That landed harder than she expected. Her smile faltered.

And when she didn’t answer, Thorn gently touched her elbow—brief, almost professional.

But not quite.

“You’re not just another asset,” he said quietly. “I just don’t know what that means yet.”

Then he stepped away.

And she let him.

But she didn’t stop thinking about it all night.

⸻

The day was mostly quiet—too quiet. Meetings had ended early, and most senators had retreated to their quarters or offworld duties. She had slipped away from the dull chatter, climbing the stairs to the lesser-known observation deck—her sanctuary when the pressure of politics felt too tight around her throat.

But she wasn’t alone for long.

Thorn stepped through the archway, helmet under his arm, posture rigid as ever.

“I figured I’d find you up here,” he said.

She arched a brow. “Am I that predictable?”

“No,” he said. “You’re just hard to keep track of when you want to be. But you only disappear when something’s bothering you.”

She tilted her head slightly, giving him a quiet once-over. “And what makes you think something’s bothering me?”

Thorn didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stepped to the edge, eyes scanning the skyline. When he finally spoke, his voice was low. Measured. “You wear your control like armor, Senator. But it’s heavy. I can see it.”

She turned away from the view to face him fully. “You really shouldn’t say things like that.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re not supposed to care.”

His jaw tensed, the shift subtle, but not lost on her.

“And yet…” she continued, stepping closer, “…here you are. Always near. Always watching. I’m not blind, Thorn. You don’t flinch when there’s danger. But you flinch when I look at you too long.”

He didn’t respond. Not at first.

So she pushed again.

“You’re a good soldier. Loyal. By the book.” Her voice dropped. “So tell me—how much longer are you going to pretend I don’t affect you?”

Thorn’s composure cracked.

It was a split second.

But in that second, he moved—one hand cupping the side of her face, the other bracing her waist as he kissed her. Not roughly. Not rushed. But with the kind of restraint that felt like it was burning both of them alive from the inside out.

He pulled back just enough to breathe—but not enough to let go.

And then—

“Commander.”

The voice cut through the silence like a knife.

Thorn froze.

She turned her head slowly, her heart hammering, to find Fox standing at the top of the stairs—helmet on, voice emotionless.

Almost.

“You’re needed back at the barracks. Now.”

“Sir—”

“Immediately.”

Thorn stepped away, face hardening into a mask. He didn’t look at her again. He simply nodded once to Fox and walked away, every step heavy with restrained emotion.

Fox waited until Thorn disappeared from sight before turning back to her.

“Senator,” he said, voice quieter now, almost too quiet. “That was… out of line.”

She raised a brow, pulse still thrumming from the kiss. “Which part?”

Fox didn’t answer.

But his silence said enough.

Jealousy had sharp edges. And for the first time, he wasn’t hiding his anymore.

⸻

Previous Part | Next Part

“Name First, Then Trouble”

Fives x Female Reader

Warnings: Implied Smut, sexually suggestive

⸻

The air inside 79’s was a hazy blend of spice, sweat, and that old metallic tang of plastoid armor. It was always loud—always full of regs laughing too hard, singing off-key, and clinking glasses with hands that still shook from the front lines. But tonight?

Tonight, you had a spotlight and the attention of half the bar. Most importantly, you had his.

From the small raised stage near the piano, your eyes flicked toward the familiar ARC trooper leaning against the bar. Helmet under one arm, legs crossed at the ankle, blue-striped armor scuffed like it’d seen hell and swaggered out untouched. You knew that look. You’d seen it before—weeks ago, months ago. Fives always came back, and he always watched you like he was starving.

And tonight was no different.

Your set ended to a chorus of cheers. You slid off the piano top, high heels clicking against the floor, hips swaying just enough to keep his eyes hooked.

Fives didn’t even try to hide the grin that curled across his face as you approached.

“Well, well,” he said, voice low and teasing, “I think you were singing just for me.”

You smirked. “If I was, you wouldn’t be standing over there, Trooper.”

He stepped closer without hesitation. “Careful. Say things like that and I’ll assume you missed me.”

You leaned one elbow against the bar. “What if I did?”

Fives looked floored for all of two seconds before he recovered with a cocky grin. “Then I’d say we’re finally on the same page.”

“Is that what you tell all the girls at the front line?”

He laughed. “Only the ones who can make regs forget they’re one bad day from a battlefield.”

From beside him, Echo groaned audibly into his drink. “Stars, Fives, please—just one conversation where you don’t flirt like your life depends on it.”

“Jealous I’ve got better lines than you?” Fives teased, bumping Echo’s shoulder.

“No,” Echo deadpanned. “Jealous of my ability to have shame.”

You laughed, and even Echo cracked a smile at that.

“Don’t mind him,” Fives said, focusing on you again. “He’s just bitter no one sings for him.”

You sipped your drink, voice playful. “And what makes you think I was singing for you?”

Fives stepped in closer—just close enough that you could smell the faint scent of cleanser and battlefield dust clinging to him. “Because,” he said, voice quiet but confident, “you’re looking at me like you already made up your mind.”

Your gaze held his for a long moment. The tension hummed like music between verses—hot and coiled, teasing the drop.

“Maybe I have,” you said softly, setting your glass down.

His eyes widened just a touch. “Yeah?”

You tilted your head, lips curling into a half-smile. “You want to find out?”

Fives blinked. “Find out what?”

You leaned in, brushing your fingers lightly over the edge of his pauldron as you murmured near his ear:

“If you want to come back to my apartment.”

Fives went completely still. Echo actually choked on his drink behind him.

“Stars above,” Echo muttered under his breath, turning away. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”

But Fives? He looked like you’d just handed him victory on a silver tray.

“You’re serious?” he asked, tone equal parts awe and smug disbelief.

You shrugged, playing casual. “I don’t make offers I don’t intend to follow through on, ARC trooper.”

Fives grinned—bright, reckless, and so damn him.

“Lead the way, sweetheart.”

And just like that, you were out the door—with the best kind of trouble following one step behind you.

⸻

The room was warm.

Not just from the heat of tangled limbs and lingering sweat, but from the quiet hum of comfort that followed a particularly good decision. Outside, Coruscant flickered in the distance—speeders zipping by in streaks of light, a low thrum of traffic buzzing like the aftermath of a firefight.

Inside, Fives lay flat on his back in your bed, armor long gone and bedsheets pooled around his hips. He looked like he was trying to decide whether to stretch or sprint away.

You rolled onto your side, propping your head up with one hand and staring down at the man who had flirted with the confidence of a thousand battle droids—and was now staring at the ceiling like it held the answers to the universe.

“So,” you said, amused, “you always go quiet after?”

Fives blinked. “No! I mean—only when I’m… y’know.”

“Emotionally overwhelmed by your own success?”

He let out a weak laugh, dragging a hand through his hair. “Stars, you’re dangerous.”

“I warned you,” you said, poking his bare chest. “You didn’t listen.”

“I did. I just didn’t care.” He looked at you then, eyes softer. “You’re… not what I expected.”

“Because I invited you home? Or because I made you nervous for once?”

Fives groaned. “Both.”

A silence settled again, this one a little heavier—like something was unsaid. He shifted, rubbing the back of his neck, then blurted out:

“Okay, listen. I’m so embarrassed I didn’t ask before, but… what’s your name?”

You blinked. “Are you serious?”

Fives winced. “I meant to ask! But then there was the bar, and the music, and then you invited me home and my brain just… shut down, okay?”

You stared at him. “We slept together, and you don’t even know my name.”

“I know your voice,” he offered. “And your laugh. And your—uh—flexibility.”

You grabbed the pillow and whacked him in the face.

He laughed against the cotton, muffled. “Okay, okay! Truce!”

“My name!” you said firmly.

“Right,” he said, sitting up slightly. “Please. I’m begging.”

You eyed him, then finally said it: “[Y/N].”

Fives whispered it like a secret. “Yeah. That fits.”

You arched a brow. “And what’s your name, Trooper?”

He paused. “You don’t know?”

“Of course I do,” you smirked. “I just wanted to see if you’d finally offer it without bragging about being an ARC.”

He rolled his eyes. “It’s Fives.”

“Fives,” you repeated. “Fives and [Y/N]. Cute. Tragic.”

“I vote tragic,” he said, falling back dramatically into the pillows.

⸻

Echo was waiting for him.

Not with questions. Not with judgment. No—worse. With smug silence.

Fives entered the room whistling, undersuit halfway zipped, hair a little too messy to pass inspection. Echo didn’t even look up from his datapad.

“So,” Echo said, still reading. “Did you have fun last night?”

Fives coughed. “Define fun.”

Echo finally glanced up. “Did you ever ask her name?”

Fives groaned. “How do you know about that?”

“Because, I know you.” Echo said casually, “her name is [Y/N]. She’s sung at 79’s for months. I’ve talked to her before.”

“You what?”

“She’s nice. Friendly. Has great taste in Corellian whiskey.”

“You’ve talked to her?” Fives said, scandalized.

“Multiple times.”

“And you never told me?”

Echo grinned. “Thought you were a professional flirt. Didn’t realize you were just a dumbass with armor.”

Fives pointed a finger. “You’re lucky I’m still emotionally glowing from this morning.”

Echo raised a brow. “Oh, you’re glowing, alright. Like a reg who forgot the basics.”

Fives flopped into his bunk. “You’re cruel.”

“I’m accurate.”

Fives groaned into his pillow. “[Y/N],” he mumbled, testing it again like it was sacred. “Stars… I really like her.”

Echo just chuckled and returned to his datapad.

“You’re doomed,” he said lightly. “Better learn her last name next.”

“She has a last name?”