Latest Posts by areyoufuckingcrazy - Page 5

“The Lesser of Two Wars” pt.9

Commander Fox x Reader X Commander Thorn

The senator had just finished brushing out her hair when the knock sounded on her door. Not urgent. Not protocol. A familiar rhythm.

She smirked before she even opened it.

“Kenobi.”

“Senator,” he greeted smoothly, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. He wore civilian robes again, lighter and less formal than the ones for Council meetings. He looked tired but amused.

She poured him a drink without asking.

“Let me guess,” she said. “Vos got you in trouble again?”

Obi-Wan laughed as he accepted the glass. “Not this time. Surprisingly. I’m here for a bit of… tea.”

Her brow lifted. “You’re bringing gossip now? I didn’t think you were the type.”

“Oh, I’m not,” he said, sipping. “But Commander Cody is. And as it turns out, your favorite Marshal Commander had quite the dramatic evening.”

Her smirk faltered. “Fox?”

“Mhm. Got into a full-on barracks brawl with Commander Thorn. It took Stone, Thire, Hound—and Grizzer, apparently—to break it up. Neyo had to drag Fox out by his collar and gave him a verbal lashing so brutal Cody said even he winced.”

She blinked. “What?”

Obi-Wan leaned casually against the back of her sofa. “Cody said it was over a woman. A senator. Tall. Sharp-tongued. Dangerous past. Ringing any bells?”

She rolled her eyes and finished her drink. “I thought Jedi were above this sort of drama.”

He smiled at her over the rim of his glass. “Not when we served alongside the subject of said drama during a war that’s still mostly classified.”

That shut her up.

“You always knew how to turn a knife with a smile,” she muttered, setting the glass down.

Obi-Wan’s face gentled. “They care about you. Both of them. Deeply.”

“And I didn’t ask for that.”

“No,” he agreed. “But you earned it. The good and the bad of that kind of loyalty.”

She sighed, suddenly tired. “Did Vos tell them anything?”

Obi-Wan hesitated, then answered honestly. “No. Not really. Just implied. He knows better than to break sealed records. But they’re not stupid, either. Thorn saw the way you moved before you even said a word. Fox… saw something else.”

She didn’t respond.

He set the empty glass down beside hers. “I told Vos to stay out of it. I doubt he listened. But if you want this kept quiet… you might want to speak with the commanders yourself. Before someone else decides to dig deeper.”

Her voice was soft now. “What would you do?”

Obi-Wan gave a small shrug. “I’d probably lie. But I’m not sure that’s your style anymore.”

They shared a long look—one soldier to another, stripped of titles.

“Thank you,” she said at last.

He smiled. “Of course. You always did keep the battlefield interesting.”

As he turned to go, she called after him, dry as sand.

“Tell Cody if he wants to gossip, he should at least have the nerve to come see me himself.”

Obi-Wan chuckled all the way to the door. “Careful what you wish for.”

⸻

The senator had just settled into her chair, datapad in hand, when a familiar and entirely unwelcome sound echoed from her balcony—three sharp knocks, the rattle of the door handle, and then—

“Don’t pretend you’re not home. I saw the lights on.”

She sighed through her teeth. “Vos…”

Opening the door, she found the Jedi standing there with his usual self-satisfied smirk and not a single ounce of shame.

“You ever heard of calling first?” she asked flatly.

“I don’t believe in unnecessary formalities between old war buddies,” he said, brushing past her like he owned the place. “Besides, I’ve got juicy gossip and a bottle of Corellian red.”

She shut the door with a click. “Kenobi beat you to it.”

Vos froze mid-step. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope. Came by earlier. Looked annoyingly smug the whole time.”

“Dammit,” Vos muttered. “I was hoping to be the one to tell you about the Fox and Thorn Brawl.”

She smirked and took the bottle from him anyway. “Nice try. Obi-Wan already filled me in on the punches, the growling, the whole squad pile-up.”

Vos flopped into her armchair, legs over the arm like a delinquent. “Alright, but did he tell you the best part?”

She gave him a look.

Vos wiggled his eyebrows. “Fox apologized.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “To his men?”

Vos pointed at her with a grin. “There it is. That face. Knew you didn’t hear that part.”

She blinked. “Fox. Marshal Commander Fox. The same man who’d rather choke on his own pride than admit he even has feelings, much less regret?”

“The very same,” Vos said cheerfully. “Apparently gave Hound a bone for his mastiff and everything. I think it actually threw the Guard into a full existential crisis.”

She laughed softly. “Neyo must’ve really given it to him.”

“Oh, he did,” Vos said, eyes twinkling. “Word is, Neyo’s dressing down was so intense, Fox was halfway convinced he’d be reassigned to latrine duty.”

She snorted and poured two glasses of wine, handing one to him.

“Maybe,” she drawled, “I’ve been flirting with the wrong commanders.”

Vos choked on his sip, grinning over the rim of his glass. “Oh no, sweetheart. Even you couldn’t break Neyo.”

She raised her brows. “Is that a challenge?”

“Not unless you’re into men who quote the regs during intimate moments.”

She laughed harder than she had in days.

As the amusement settled, Vos looked at her with a little more seriousness than usual. “You alright, really?”

She didn’t answer right away. Just stared into her glass.

“I don’t regret anything I did back then,” she said. “But I hate how it’s all resurfacing. Like that version of me is still dragging shadows into every room I walk into.”

Vos leaned forward, voice uncharacteristically gentle. “You survived a civil war, ended it, and turned your planet toward peace. And now you’re sitting here, sipping wine in the Senate instead of burning in some bunker. That’s not a shadow. That’s a story. And no one tells it better than you.”

She gave him a long look.

“Thanks,” she said quietly.

He winked. “Still not letting you off the hook for kissing both your bodyguards though. That’s just messy.”

She threw a pillow at him.

⸻

The sun was just beginning to set, casting a warm, amber hue across the polished floors of her apartment when the soft buzz of her door alerted her to a visitor.

She didn’t expect him.

Not after everything.

When the door slid open, Thorn stood there in full armor, helmet tucked under one arm. His expression was unreadable, guarded in that way soldiers perfected when they didn’t want their emotions to show—except in his eyes. His eyes betrayed something deeper.

“Can I come in?” he asked quietly.

She hesitated… just long enough for him to notice.

Then she stepped aside.

They didn’t speak at first. She returned to her small table where a glass of wine still sat half-drunk, and Vos’ laughter still lingered faintly in the air, as if the apartment hadn’t fully exhaled him yet.

Thorn remained near the doorway, not quite relaxed, not quite tense.

“You don’t have to say it,” she finally murmured, watching the wine swirl in her glass. “I know. You were right.”

He furrowed his brows. “Right about what?”

She gave a soft, dry laugh. “That this was a mistake. All of it.”

Thorn exhaled sharply, stepping closer. “That’s not what I meant. Not really.”

“You kissed me.”

“You pushed me,” he said with a flicker of that fire that always simmered under his calm. “And I wanted to be kissed.”

She looked up at him. “And then Fox sent you back like a cadet who got caught sneaking out.”

His jaw flexed. “Because I let my feelings show. Because I let him see something he didn’t want to see.”

She stood slowly, her voice gentle but firm. “Thorn… this is dangerous. For both of us. And not just because of rank.”

“I know.”

“And you’re still here.”

He nodded. “Because I can’t stop thinking about you. Even after the fight. Even after watching Fox—” He stopped himself, jaw tightening.

She stepped closer now, mere inches between them. “You’re jealous.”

He didn’t deny it. “I’m angry. Because I tried to walk away. I tried to be the one who did the right thing.”

“And I ruined that for you?”

He looked at her—really looked at her—and in that moment there was no senator, no clone, no war. Just two people with too much history already bleeding into every breath.

“No,” he said quietly. “You made it impossible for me to pretend I didn’t care.”

There was silence.

Then she reached out and touched his chestplate with her fingers, barely grazing it.

“Then stop pretending,” she said.

But neither of them moved.

Neither of them stepped closer.

Not yet.

Not until the next moment demanded it.

Thorn stood still, looking at her hand on his chest like it burned. Maybe it did. Maybe it branded him in a way his armor couldn’t protect against. His voice was low, raw. “You shouldn’t say that.”

“Why?” she asked, just as softly. “Because you might believe me?”

He set his helmet down on the table with a heavy thud and finally stepped into her space—close enough that she could feel the heat of him, the tension wound tight beneath his skin. She thought he might kiss her again, but he didn’t. Not yet.

Instead, he reached up and gently ran his knuckles along her cheek, like she might vanish if he touched her too firmly. “You terrify me,” he murmured.

She didn’t laugh. “You don’t scare easy.”

“I’ve marched into blaster fire. Held the line when we were outnumbered twenty to one. I’ve watched brothers die and kept moving.” He shook his head slowly. “But I’ve never wanted anything I wasn’t supposed to have. Until you.”

The words were quiet. Devastating.

Her hand slid up his chestplate, then around the back of his neck, pulling him closer—slowly, as if giving him a chance to step away.

He didn’t.

Their lips met with a quiet kind of urgency, like a dam that had finally cracked. It wasn’t the heat of two people caught in lust—it was aching, it was slow, it was raw with everything they’d tried to suppress. His hands found her waist, pulling her in gently, like he couldn’t believe she was really there.

She guided him out of the armor piece by piece, fingers steady, eyes never leaving his. When he pulled her to the bedroom, it wasn’t with dominance or control, but with reverence.

There, stripped of titles, armor, and pretense, they became something fragile and real.

He kissed her like a man desperate to remember softness.

She held him like someone who hadn’t been touched without expectation in years.

And when they lay tangled afterward, skin to skin in the stillness, his fingers traced the scars on her shoulder without asking about them. She didn’t offer the stories. Not yet. But she turned her head to rest against his chest and felt his heartbeat settle under her cheek.

For a long moment, there was only silence.

Then he said, almost too quiet to hear, “I don’t know how to protect you from this. From Fox. From me.”

She closed her eyes.

“You don’t have to,” she whispered. “Just stay.”

And he did.

⸻

Thorn woke first.

For a moment, he didn’t move—afraid that if he did, it would break whatever fragile illusion he was trapped in. The room was bathed in soft morning light, filtered through sheer curtains that swayed ever so slightly in the Coruscant breeze. Outside, speeders hummed far below, distant and dull. But inside…

Peace.

Real, disarming peace.

She was still asleep, curled against him, her breathing even and steady. Her hand was draped lightly over his stomach, and her leg was tangled with his beneath the covers. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had touched him without urgency. No missions. No blood. No orders. Just… this.

Serenity.

And it terrified him more than battle ever could.

His hand moved on its own, gently brushing a strand of hair from her face, then resting against her bare back. The warmth of her skin anchored him. Her scent lingered faintly—clean, soft, a little sweet—and he closed his eyes just to soak in the feeling a little longer.

She stirred slightly, murmuring something incoherent before blinking awake.

“Mmm… you’re still here,” she said softly, her voice half-sleep, half-smile.

“Yeah,” he said, voice low, “I am.”

Her hand slid up his chest, fingers tracing a small scar near his collarbone. “You always this quiet in the morning?”

“Not usually awake this long without an alert blaring in my ear.”

She chuckled lightly. “Well… no alarms here.”

He nodded slowly, gaze drifting to the ceiling, as though trying to memorize the silence. “It’s strange. This—” he glanced down at her “—all of it. Quiet. Safe. I didn’t think I’d ever feel this.”

“You don’t like it?” she asked, teasing gently, but there was something vulnerable beneath it.

“I didn’t say that.” He met her eyes. “I just… don’t know how to trust it. Or how long it’ll last.”

She leaned in, brushing her lips softly over the scar on his jaw. “Maybe that’s what makes it worth having.”

For a long time, they stayed there. No rushing. No secrets. Just breath and skin and warmth.

He never thought he’d have something like this—however brief.

⸻

Fox stood outside the senator’s residence, helmet tucked under his arm.

He’d been pacing for ten minutes.

It was ridiculous. He’d faced death, treason, riots, bombs—Jedi. And yet nothing left him this gutted. This unsure.

Just say it. Say something. Anything.

She deserved to know. After everything. After the tension, the stolen glances, the fights, and—Force help him—the kiss. Thorn might have made his move first, but Fox wasn’t going to keep his silence anymore.

His fist hovered near the door chime.

He didn’t press it.

“Standing there long enough to grow roots, Commander?” Hound’s voice cut in, casual and amused.

Fox turned sharply to find Hound leaning against the nearest pillar with his arms crossed, Grizzer panting beside him, tail wagging lazily. Thire stood just behind, arms behind his back in mock-formal stance, an insufferable little smirk tugging at his lips.

“I swear,” Fox muttered, “the two of you have the worst timing.”

“Oh, don’t mind us,” Thire said, trying and failing to look innocent. “We just figured we’d keep an eye on our ever-composed Marshal Commander before he does something insane like… confess feelings.”

Fox gave him a glare that could have melted phrik plating.

“Just don’t bite anyone this time,” Hound added with a sidelong glance at Grizzer, who barked once and licked Fox’s hand.

“I didn’t bite anyone,” Fox growled.

“No, you didn’t,” Thire said under his breath.

Fox was about to fire back a very direct suggestion when—

“Oh, what is this delightful little pow-wow?” came a voice from behind them, smug and syrupy smooth.

All four turned just in time to see Quinlan Vos lounging in the hallway, arms crossed, leaning like he owned the building.

Fox clenched his jaw.

Vos looked far too pleased with himself. “Let me guess… someone was finally going to admit they’re hopelessly in love with the senator? Or was it going to be another punch-up over who gets to carry her datapad?”

“Vos,” Fox said in warning, already half-drawing himself up to full height.

Vos waved a hand. “Relax, Commander Killjoy. I’m just here to observe. Gossip from Kenobi is delicious lately. Honestly, I’m just trying to keep up with all the drama.”

Thire bit back a laugh.

Fox sighed through his nose and muttered, “I’m going to regret not stunning him.”

Vos gave him a wink. “You already do.”

Fox turned back toward the door and this time raised his hand again.

Then lowered it.

Vos raised an eyebrow. “Need me to knock for you?”

Fox turned and walked away.

⸻

Quinlan Vos strolled into the senator’s apartment like he owned the place. He didn’t knock. He didn’t announce himself. He didn’t ask. Naturally.

That wasn’t the Vos way.

He’d barely made it three steps past the threshold when a shape rounded the corner from the hallway—bare chest, tousled hair, pants only halfway buttoned, a blaster slung low on one hip like he’d half expected a fight.

Commander Thorn froze.

Vos grinned.

“Oh,” Vos said, voice all sunshine and sin. “Well this explains why Fox has been spiraling.”

Thorn blinked, assessing, a quiet, burning calculation forming in his eyes. “How the hell did you get in here?”

Vos gestured vaguely at the security panel. “I’ve got my ways. Jedi and their spooky talents, you know.”

“That’s not an answer,” Thorn replied coolly, stepping forward, muscles taut like coiled wire beneath sun-kissed skin. “This is a secure residence.”

“And yet…” Vos made a sweeping gesture around the room. “Here I am.”

Thorn glared.

“Relax, soldier boy. I didn’t see anything,” Vos said, though his smirk implied otherwise. “Well… not everything. Just enough to put together why Fox looked like he was going to snap a durasteel beam in half.”

“You here for a reason or just looking to get punched again?” Thorn said, folding his arms across his bare chest.

Vos’s eyes drifted—not subtly—to Thorn’s arms, then his jaw, then back to his eyes. “Tempting. But no.”

He took a lazy step further into the apartment. “I came to drop some news, actually. Then maybe raid her liquor cabinet, trade some gossip, and go back to annoying every clone I’ve ever met.”

Thorn didn’t move. “She’s not here.”

Vos cocked his head. “She usually is around this hour. Let me guess—you wore her out?”

The look Thorn gave him could’ve killed a man if it had weight.

“Fine, fine,” Vos said, holding his hands up in surrender. “I’ll wait. Shirtless hostility aside, I do like you, Thorn. You’ve got a nice left hook.”

“You try me again, you’ll meet the right one.”

Vos grinned, utterly unbothered.

“And for the record,” Thorn added, tone low and steely, “if you ever break into this apartment again—Jedi or not—I’ll throw you off the balcony.”

Vos tapped his chin thoughtfully. “What floor is this again?”

“High enough.”

Vos clapped his hands once. “Noted.”

He wandered to the couch, dropped onto it like he lived there, and propped his boots up on the table.

Thorn watched him like one might a wild nexu.

⸻

She wasn’t expecting anyone when the lift doors opened on her floor.

She certainly wasn’t expecting him.

Fox.

Full armor. Helmet off. That sharp, unreadable expression carved into his face like durasteel. For a moment, neither of them said anything. The corridor lights hummed low between them. His eyes—dark, stormy, and too honest—met hers.

Behind him, lingering at a respectful distance, were Hound, Thire… and Grizzer, sitting dutifully by Hound’s side, tongue lolling, tail tapping quietly against the floor.

She blinked. “Fox?”

His jaw flexed. “Senator.”

She stepped out of the lift slowly, feeling the air shift between them. Vos was still upstairs—gods help her—but seeing Fox like this, seeing the way he looked at her, like he had something on the tip of his tongue and couldn’t let it go, sent her pulse thrumming.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, softer than she meant.

“I was going to…” He trailed off, mouth pressing into a firm line. He glanced over his shoulder toward Hound and Thire, who were doing their absolute best to not look like they were listening—while very much listening.

Grizzer gave a low grumble.

Fox sighed. “I was going to talk to you.”

The senator tilted her head slightly. “About?”

He shook his head, gaze sharp, searching her face. “I don’t know anymore. I thought I knew what I wanted to say but… seeing you now…”

There was something in his eyes. Regret. Hunger. Guilt.

“You’ve already seen me,” she said gently. “That’s not the part you’re afraid of.”

He breathed in through his nose, like he wanted to steady himself—but it didn’t work. “You’re not making this easy.”

“I wasn’t trying to.”

Behind him, Hound cleared his throat. Loudly.

Fox’s eye twitched.

She stepped closer, brushing past him deliberately slow as she whispered near his ear, “If you have something to say, Marshal Commander, say it. Before someone else does first.”

His breath hitched.

Grizzer barked softly, tail thumping louder now. A silent warning. Or encouragement. Hard to tell.

Fox straightened, but didn’t follow her as she walked past him toward her door.

He stood still, watching.

And then—finally—he turned and walked away.

⸻

Fox had barely turned the corner when his men caught up with him. The quiet corridor buzzed with tension and discontent. Hound and Thire exchanged knowing looks as they trailed close behind.

“Why didn’t you say anything, Fox?” Hound demanded in a low voice, eyes narrowing.

“You had the chance—” Thire piped in, his tone laced with exasperated disbelief.

“A commander should speak when it matters. We expected more from you.”

Hound scoffed. “You were standing there like a malfunctioning protocol droid. What the hell happened to your plan?”

“I had a plan,” Fox muttered. “Then she looked at me.”

Fox’s jaw was set, and his silence only fueled the growing argument. He kept walking, head bowed, but the clones weren’t having it. Voices rose, accusations bounced around the corridor like stray blaster fire, until suddenly a commotion broke the standoff.

Fox’s eye twitched. “Not helping.”

“I am helping,” Hound insisted. “You’re just being—Grizzer, no!”

It was too late.

The mastiff had leapt up on his hind legs, snatched Fox’s helmet clean out of his arms with his teeth, and sprinted off like a warhound possessed.

Fox stared. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Oh, hells no,” Thire groaned, taking off after him. “That helmet’s got tracking tech and encryption!”

“He’s headed back toward—oh kriff—”

The three of them took off after Grizzer, who had already bounded back into the senator’s building. He knew exactly where he was going.

“Hound,” Fox wheezed as they rounded the stairwell. “If that animal gets us court-martialed, I’m taking you with me.”

Up another flight. And another.

They reached her apartment door just in time to see Grizzer’s large paws scratching at it, tail wagging like this was the most normal thing he’d ever done.

Before anyone could knock or grab the hound, the door swung open.

The senator stood there, blinking.

Grizzer barreled in, tail high, helmet still in his mouth. And—because clearly this day wasn’t chaotic enough—the three clones followed him in before she could even speak.

“Grizzer!” Hound hissed. “Drop it—”

The senator raised a brow, calmly closing the door behind them as she looked around.

Thorn stepped into view from the hallway, half-buttoning up a shirt that still hung open on his chest, a faint bite mark peeking near his collarbone.

Fox blinked and looked anywhere but there.

“Thorn,” he greeted flatly.

“Fox,” Thorn said, with a faint smirk. “Hound. Thire.”

And then—“Fid you scale my balcony again?” the senator called out, walking toward the living room.

“Technically no,” came a familiar, smug voice. “I came in the actual door this time.”

Vos was sprawled on the couch, feet up, eating something from her fruit bowl. A communicator was open in his palm.

“Kenobi says hi,” Vos added, holding up the comm.

“Why is Kenobi—” the senator stopped, pinched the bridge of her nose. “Never mind. Of course he is.”

Fox was still standing near the threshold, utterly still, face redder than a Coruscanti sunset.

Grizzer trotted up to him and finally, finally dropped the helmet at his feet like a trophy.

“Thanks,” Fox muttered.

“You’re welcome,” the senator said, tone dry.

Vos grinned. “You boys want drinks or…?”

“No,” all three clones snapped in unison.

The senator crossed her arms, her expression flat with just a hint of amusement.

“Anyone else planning to enter uninvited?” she asked. “Any Jedi lurking in the vents? More clones rappelling down from the roof?”

Vos didn’t even look up from his seat. “I think Kenobi and Cody are fine where they are,” he said casually, waving the comm. “Say hi, boys.”

“Hello, Senator,” Kenobi’s voice came through crystal-clear. “Lovely morning. Very dramatic. Please continue.”

“Cody’s listening too,” Vos added. “He’s muted. He wants the unedited drama.”

Fox closed his eyes briefly, clearly regretting every life choice that had led to this moment.

Meanwhile, Thire nudged Fox hard with an elbow. “You gonna tell her or not?”

“Tell her what?” Thorn asked, stepping into the living room, now actually buttoning his shirt. “We’ve all made enough of a scene this week—what’s another confession?”

Hound, in the corner, was crouched with Grizzer. “You’re on thin ice, you little thief,” he muttered as Grizzer panted happily, tongue lolling and proud of himself.

“Fox has something to say,” Thire announced helpfully, louder this time.

Fox shot him a glare that could’ve cut durasteel. “I will demote you.”

“From what?” Thire smirked. “From one of your only friends? Go ahead, Marshal Commander.”

The senator arched a brow. “You’ve been trying to tell me something, Commander?”

Fox cleared his throat, suddenly stiff. “I—it’s not exactly the right moment.”

“Oh, no, now it is,” Thorn said, folding his arms. “You ran off this morning. You stood outside the door for five minutes. You let a dog start this diplomatic crisis. Now you’re here, with an audience. No better time.”

Vos, lounging like he was poolside, grinned wider. “He’s right. Go on. Tell the pretty senator how much you want to kiss her boots or whatever it is that’s making you punch your own men in the jaw.”

“I didn’t punch him over—” Fox stopped himself. His voice dropped. “You know what? Fine.”

He stepped forward.

All the clones went quiet. Even Grizzer stopped panting.

The senator met his eyes, unreadable.

“I care about you,” Fox said, low and raw, like every word was an uphill battle. “More than I should. I’ve tried to be professional. I’ve tried to respect the fact that you’re a senator, and I’m a soldier—but I’ve failed. I’ve failed spectacularly. And I’m tired of pretending I haven’t.”

Silence fell like a hammer.

Kenobi’s voice broke it.

“Finally,” he muttered. “That’s been excruciating.”

Vos cackled. “Cody says he owes me twenty credits. I told him you’d say it first.”

Fox looked like he might combust on the spot. The senator, for once, seemed genuinely speechless.

Thorn’s jaw tightened.

“So what now?” he asked, his tone flat but his eyes stormy. “You said it. What changes?”

Fox looked at him directly. “I don’t know.”

The tension in the room twisted tighter, like a drawn bow.

The senator sighed and turned away, pouring herself a drink—one for her, one for Fox, and, hesitantly, one for Thorn.

“Congratulations,” she said dryly, handing the glass to Fox. “You all ruined a perfectly quiet morning.”

Vos raised his own glass from the couch. “To chaos. And confessions.”

“Shut up, Vos,” Thorn and Fox said at the same time.

⸻

“Well,” Obi-Wan said, sipping his tea on the Temple balcony, “that was messier than I expected.”

Cody chuckled from where he leaned against the railing. “You expected something else? Fox, Thorn, a senator, a mastiff, and Vos all in one room? You should’ve known better.”

Obi-Wan gave him a wry look. “I do know better. But I still hold out hope for dignity.”

Cody snorted. “No dignity left in that room. Pretty sure Vos filmed it. He’s probably editing the holo as we speak.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” Obi-Wan muttered.

Cody paused, glancing down at the datapad he’d been half-scrolling through. “Honestly, I never thought Fox would crack. The man’s a walking fortress. But after everything, I guess… even he has limits.”

“Of course he does,” Obi-Wan said. “They all do. They were never meant to hold in so much for so long.”

A heavy silence settled between them, not somber—but thoughtful. Until—

“He shouldn’t be cracking.”

Both men turned their heads.

Marshal Commander Neyo had approached silently, his armor immaculate, posture as rigid as durasteel. He stood with his hands behind his back, his expression as frosted as ever.

“Fox is unfit,” Neyo said coolly. “He’s lost control of his unit, he’s fraternizing with a senator, and his judgment is compromised. He should’ve been relieved of command cycles ago.”

Cody straightened, not quite defensive yet, but no longer relaxed. “He’s had it hard, Neyo. You know that.”

“We’ve all had it hard,” Neyo snapped. “That’s not an excuse. The Guard isn’t a soap opera. It isn’t some… emotional playground. What he’s doing compromises the entire integrity of the Guard. And by extension, the Chancellor’s security.”

Obi-Wan’s brow lifted. “You’re saying a man who’s devoted his life to that very cause is now a liability because he’s caught feelings?”

“I’m saying he’s made it personal,” Neyo replied coldly. “And personal costs lives.”

Cody’s jaw tensed. “He’s not a droid, Neyo. He’s a soldier. A man. He’s not perfect, but he’s held the line longer than most of us could.”

Neyo’s expression didn’t shift. “Then maybe it’s time someone else held the line.”

He turned on his heel and walked off without another word.

Obi-Wan watched him go, then sighed into his cup. “Do you ever wonder what it would take to get Neyo to actually crack?”

Cody muttered, “Yeah. But I think even then, he’d just shatter quietly and judge everyone else for crying.”

Obi-Wan let out a soft laugh. “What about Fox?”

Cody was quiet for a beat too long. Then, with rare honesty: “He won’t shatter. He’ll burn.”

⸻

The senator hadn’t slept.

Her apartment was quiet now, the chaos from earlier a memory reduced to half-drunk tea, a discarded clone pauldron by the couch, and Vos’s lingering laughter echoing faintly in her ears. He’d long since vanished—probably off to stir up more drama with a HoloNet gossip blog or Jedi Council member who didn’t ask to be looped into romantic entanglements.

She sat curled up on the edge of her window seat, the city stretching far below, wrapped in the blue shimmer of Coruscant’s dusk.

The door chimed once.

She didn’t answer.

It slid open anyway.

“Senator,” Thorn’s voice came first, soft but firm.

She turned her head to see both of them—Thorn and Fox—standing side by side but somehow miles apart. They looked battle-ready in posture but stripped bare in the eyes. Thorn held his helmet in one hand, arms stiff at his sides. Fox stood with his arms behind his back, jaw clenched, shadows around his eyes making him look ten years older.

Neither looked like they wanted to be the one to speak first.

So she did. “If this is about earlier—”

“It is,” Fox said, cutting in, voice sharp but not cruel. “It has to be.”

Thorn glanced at him, then at her. “We can’t keep dancing around it.”

She folded her hands in her lap, brows pulling together. “I didn’t ask either of you to—”

“No,” Thorn interrupted gently. “You didn’t. But we’re here anyway.”

Fox moved a step forward, his tone tighter. “You’ve made space for both of us, and I know it wasn’t your intention, but—” He paused, exhaled hard. “It’s tearing everything apart.”

Her eyes widened, throat tightening. “Fox—”

“You have to choose,” he said flatly.

The silence afterward felt like a vacuum.

Thorn didn’t speak up to disagree.

He looked at her, gaze softer but no less serious. “I know what we’ve shared. I don’t regret any of it. But I can’t… I won’t keep putting you in the middle. Not if it’s hurting you.”

She stood slowly, her hands falling to her sides, eyes bouncing between them—Fox in his red and black, expression restrained but brimming. Thorn, still rumpled from their quiet morning, eyes carrying the weight of every soft moment they hadn’t dared name.

“I care for both of you,” she admitted, voice raw. “But this—this isn’t fair to any of us. You want me to choose like it’s easy. Like it’s a battle strategy. But this isn’t war. This is my heart.”

Fox’s jaw ticked. Thorn dropped his gaze.

“I’ve spent years making impossible decisions,” she continued. “And most of them got people killed or broken. But this? I don’t want to choose between two people who’ve risked everything to protect me. Two people I trust.” Her voice cracked. “Two people I never meant to hurt.”

Fox looked at the floor. Thorn looked away.

“I can’t choose,” she whispered. “Not now.”

Neither man spoke.

And for the first time in a long time, she wished someone would just give her an order.

⸻

Previous Part | Next Part

Can i request the 501's reaction to you being sick? Specifically with a fever or something that's easy to hide. And the reader has rarely been sick before so everyone freaking out when they eventually find out lmao

I love your writing <3 you deserve so many more likes my darling

“You’re What?!”

501st x Reader

You’d dodged blaster fire, explosive shrapnel, and the temper of half the 501st. But this… this damn fever was your greatest adversary yet.

“You’re lookin’ a bit pale, General,” Jesse had noted the day before, squinting at you over a deck of sabacc cards.

“I’m always pale. Comes with the territory,” you’d said, waving him off and trying to ignore the sweat rolling down your spine.

You figured it would pass. It always did. You never got sick. But two days in, your joints ached, your brain felt like it was melting, and even Rex noticed something was off.

“You alright?” he asked after training drills, brows drawn tight beneath his helmet as you leaned too long on the wall.

“Fine. Just tired.”

Rex had narrowed his eyes but let it go. For the moment.

That night, you crawled into your bunk fully dressed, armor still half-on, because even removing your boots felt like a battle. You swore no one would know. You were fine.

The next morning, you nearly face-planted in the mess hall. Nearly. But unfortunately, not before Fives caught your elbow mid-sway.

“Woah—woah! Easy, General!” His arm wrapped around you like a vice. “Are you drunk? Wait, are you drunk? Is that allowed? Why wasn’t I invited?”

“I’m fine,” you rasped, voice barely above a whisper.

Fives blinked. Then frowned.

“…You sound like a malfunctioning comm.”

And suddenly the entire table went silent. Hardcase dropped his tray. Jesse dropped his jaw. Kix, who had just sat down with his caf, froze mid-sip.

“You’re sick?” Kix stood so fast he knocked over his drink. “You’ve never been sick!”

“Statistically speaking,” Echo said cautiously, “this might be an omen.”

“Don’t say omen, she’ll think she’s dying!” Jesse snapped.

“I’m not—” you started, and immediately broke into a coughing fit so violent it made Kix’s med-scanner ping before he even used it.

Rex had walked in by then, and you knew you were doomed when he barked, “What’s going on?”

“She’s sick,” Fives said dramatically, like he was reporting a battlefield casualty.

“Proper sick,” Echo added, wide-eyed.

“Like, fever and everything,” Jesse chimed in.

Rex turned to you slowly, like you’d just declared war on Kamino.

“Is this true?”

You stared, swaying a little. “Maybe.”

Rex took one step toward you and you flinched. “Don’t touch me. You’ll catch it.”

He looked offended. “You think I care about that?”

The moment your knees buckled, six clones lunged at you like you were the last ration bar on the ship.

⸻

Later, in the medbay You were tucked into a cot, surrounded by snacks, water bottles, and what looked suspiciously like a handmade blanket from Fives.

“I’m not dying,” you muttered, as Kix took your temperature for the fifth time.

“You had a fever of 39.5. You were dying,” he said flatly.

Rex was pacing. “Next time you feel off, you tell someone.”

“She thought she could tough it out,” Echo said knowingly. “Classic move.”

Fives leaned on the bedrail. “Don’t worry, General. We’re not letting you go anywhere until you’re back to full sass levels.”

Hardcase grinned. “And I’m standing guard. Fever or not, no one touches our General.”

You coughed again and muttered, “This is ridiculous.”

Jesse threw a blanket over your head. “So are you.”

Hardcase nodded gravely. “This is emotionally devastating.”

Even Anakin showed up halfway through the ordeal. “Heard you caught the plague. Do you need me to file a formal mission postponement?”

“…It’s a cold, sir.”

“That’s what you said before that speeder crash, and we both know how that ended.”

By the time your fever broke the next day, the entire 501st had personally sworn vengeance on germs, replaced your room filters, and started force-feeding you water every hour.

And when you walked into the hangar a day later, freshly cleared by Kix and very much alive?

There was a banner.

“WELCOME BACK FROM THE BRINK OF DEATH.”

Hardcase had made it himself. With glitter.

Day 1 of being cleared by Kix: You felt good. Not perfect, but good enough to want your normal routine back. Unfortunately, the 501st had other plans.

Rex refused to let you do anything strenuous. “You’re still on light duty,” he said as he handed you a datapad and pointed to the command center chair. “You sit, drink water, and look authoritative. That’s it.”

“Can I at least lift the datapad myself?” you asked dryly.

“…Only if it’s under 2 kilograms.”

Fives popped up behind you, placing a fluffy blanket over your shoulders. “You didn’t even cough, but just in case.”

“I’m not cold.”

“You might be cold.”

Hardcase walked by with a steaming mug of something he said was “clone-approved recovery tea,” which suspiciously smelled like caf and fruit rations. You didn’t ask.

Tup slipped a flower behind your ear. “For morale.”

Dogma, meanwhile, was pacing with a clipboard, occasionally checking on your hydration levels. “Eight sips every hour. Non-negotiable.”

At lunch, you tried to sneak away to the mess.

Jesse blocked the doorway like a bouncer. “Authorized personnel only. And by that, I mean people not recently raised from the dead.”

“I had a fever. I didn’t flatline.”

“You might as well have! I had to emotionally process that in real time.”

Echo leaned around him. “I made you soup.”

“…Why are there six different bowls?”

“We all made you soup.”

“I am not eating six soups.”

“Yes, you are,” Kix said from behind you, arms crossed. “Recovery protocol. Article 7B. Look it up.”

You were 80% sure he made that up.

That night, as you returned to your bunk, someone had strung up another banner.

“WELCOME BACK: PLEASE STAY THAT WAY”

There was even a checklist on your locker:

• No dying

• No hiding symptoms

• Tell Kix everything

• At least try to act mortal

You sighed and smiled despite yourself. There was a little sketch of you, wrapped in a blanket, being force-fed soup by Fives. They’d drawn themselves too—grinning like idiots, looming behind you like overprotective brothers.

You curled up that night with a warm stomach, sore cheeks from smiling, and an overwhelming sense of comfort.

You weren’t just better.

You were home.

“The Lesser of Two Wars” pt.8

Commander Fox x Reader x Commander Thorn

It was late.

The upper halls of the Senate were near silent, the buzz of daylong debates finally faded into stillness. The Senator walked the corridors alone, the soles of her boots echoing softly over polished floors. Fox had offered to escort her back to her office, but they’d both stayed behind—long after the others had gone—to “wrap up” some excuse neither of them really believed.

He was waiting near the entrance to her office, helmet under his arm, every inch of him wound tight.

“I should go,” he said, voice low.

“You should,” she agreed.

He didn’t move.

She stepped closer. “You’ve been watching me all night.”

“I’m supposed to.” His gaze flicked over her face. “You’re still under protection.”

“From what, Commander?” she asked, her voice dipped in something soft, sharp. “What exactly are you protecting me from right now?”

Fox swallowed. He didn’t answer.

She moved closer still, until the air between them felt thinner than breath. “You’ve been trying to outrun this since the moment I met you.”

He looked at her like she was dangerous. Like she was something he couldn’t survive.

And then he kissed her.

No hesitation this time. No orders to fall back. Just the hard grip of a calloused hand at her jaw, the pull of lips meeting hers like the break of a dam. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t pretty. But Maker, it was honest.

They parted just slightly—his breath hitched, her eyes half-lidded with disbelief.

But they weren’t alone anymore.

Thorn stood a few meters down the hall, fists clenched at his sides, fury carved into every line of his face. “Are you karking serious?”

Fox turned sharply. “Thorn—”

“You son of a bitch.” Thorn strode forward. “You pulled rank on me. You sent me back to barracks like I was some shinie with no impulse control—and here you are—”

“It’s not the same,” Fox snapped.

“Oh, it’s not? Enlighten me.”

“You were careless.”

“And you’re a hypocrite.”

The next second, fists were flying.

Thorn hit first, shoulder braced as he slammed Fox into the wall with enough force to rattle the durasteel. Fox didn’t hesitate, launching a hard right hook that cracked across Thorn’s cheek. The fight was a tangle of trained bodies, of grunts and snapped oaths, two elite commanders going feral in polished halls that had seen too much.

The Senator stepped back once—twice—then growled under her breath.

“Enough.” Her voice was thunderous. When they didn’t stop, she surged forward.

She grabbed Thorn’s collar and yanked him back hard enough to throw him off balance. He stumbled and fell. Before Fox could recover, she spun and caught him with a sharp heel to the back of the leg, sending him to the ground with a pained grunt.

They both stared up at her in stunned silence.

Hair tousled. Jaw tight. Fury simmering just beneath her skin.

“You two are commanders. Grown men. Soldiers. And you’re throwing punches like teenagers in a hangar bay.”

They didn’t respond.

She exhaled sharply, pacing between them. “You want to fight over me? You better ask yourselves why. Because I’m not a prize to be won. I’m a senator, a former commander, and the next one of you who uses your fists to make a point better be ready to go through me first.”

They were quiet for a long moment. Then Thorn muttered, “Yes, ma’am.”

Fox nodded, slower. “Understood.”

She gave them each a final, withering glare… then turned on her heel and walked away, leaving the silence of their bruises and bitter pride behind her.

⸻

The walk back to the barracks was silent.

Fox and Thorn, bruised and bloody in places they wouldn’t admit, barely glanced at one another. The silence between them crackled—too raw, too heavy to be ignored.

When they stepped inside the common area, the atmosphere shifted. Hound was the first to notice. He sat lounging on the couch, polishing his boots with Grizzer dozing at his feet. Stone and Thire flanked the table, eating ration bars and playing sabacc.

“Stars,” Stone muttered, eyes flicking up. “Did someone dropkick you both off a gunship?”

“Thorn looks like he kissed a shock baton,” Thire added.

Hound smirked, wiping his hands. “Please tell me you two didn’t fight each other.”

“It’s none of your business,” Fox snapped, pulling off his gloves and heading toward his bunk.

But Thorn, scowling and still charged with adrenaline, threw his helmet down with a loud clang.

“Oh, you want to act like it didn’t happen? Sure. Let’s lie to the rest of the battalion now, too.” He turned to the others. “Fox kissed the senator. After all that crap about professionalism. After he pulled rank on me.”

The room went quiet.

Stone raised his eyebrows. Thire gave a low whistle.

Hound blinked. “No kidding. Thought you two were going to chew each other’s armor off first.”

Fox spun around, jaw tight. “Drop it, Hound.”

But Hound smirked wider. “Guess it hits different when it’s you breaking your own rules, huh?”

The hit came fast.

Fox’s fist cracked across Hound’s jaw, sending him sprawling backward onto the floor. Grizzer was on his feet in an instant, growling deep, protective instincts firing off like alarms. The other clones leapt up, reaching for Hound, grabbing Fox’s arm—but the mastiff didn’t wait.

The beast lunged, barking furiously, teeth bared.

“Back!” Fox shouted, backing up, hand reaching instinctively for the stunner at his hip. “Control your animal, or I will.”

“You even threaten him again, I swear to—” Hound was up now, lip bloodied, rage simmering.

Stone and Thire jumped in to block both sides, but Thorn charged next, shoving Fox hard in the chest.

“You karking hypocrite!”

The barracks exploded into chaos.

It was fists and shouts and boots scraping over concrete. Grizzer was barking, circling, teeth snapping near anyone too close to Hound. Fox and Thorn were at each other’s throats again, Thire wrestling Thorn back while Stone tried to keep Fox from swinging again.

And then—

“Enough!”

Two voices barked like blaster fire.

Marshal Commanders Cody and Neyo stood in the threshold like twin storms.

Every clone froze. Even Grizzer stilled, tail twitching low, a warning growl still rolling in his chest.

Fox’s chest heaved, bruised knuckles clenched. Neyo stepped forward without hesitation, gripped Fox by the collar of his blacks, and dragged him toward the hallway.

“You’re coming with me,” Neyo snapped. “Now.”

Fox didn’t argue. He let himself be pulled from the room, the others watching in silence.

Cody stood a moment longer, arms folded, gaze sweeping the wrecked common space.

“You’re supposed to be leaders,” he said, voice cold. “Not a squad of kriffing cadets on their first week. You think command comes without control? That it gives you license to throw punches over who’s got feelings?”

They said nothing.

“You want to blow off steam, take it to the training floor. I don’t want to hear another word about brawls in the barracks. And if I do—I will sort it out next time. And none of you want that.”

“Yes, sir,” came the low, unified murmur.

Cody turned sharply and left.

Grizzer whined softly, pressing his head to Hound’s thigh.

Thire muttered under his breath. “They’re gonna kill each other before the war does.”

Stone leaned back against the wall, shaking his head. “Or fall in love with the same senator and burn down Coruscant trying.”

⸻

Fox didn’t say a word as Neyo gripped the front of his armor and dragged him down the corridor like a disgraced cadet. His boots scraped and slammed against the durasteel floor with every step. Fox could feel the eyes of the Guard on him as they passed—wide, silent, shocked.

The door to an empty training room hissed open.

Neyo shoved Fox inside so hard he stumbled.

The door slammed shut.

“You arrogant, undisciplined fool,” Neyo spat, voice venomous. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Fox stood tall, silent. His lip still bled from the earlier fight.

Neyo stalked in a tight circle around him like a predator, helmet tucked under his arm, jaw rigid with fury. “You are a Marshal Commander, Fox. You’re supposed to be an example. A standard. The Republic’s line of order.”

Fox’s fingers twitched.

“And yet I find you brawling like a gutter rat in your own barracks. Punching your own men. Threatening to put down a mastiff like you’ve lost every ounce of judgment and humanity you ever had.”

“I—”

“Shut your mouth.”

Neyo’s voice cracked like a whip. His gray eyes were ice, unrelenting.

“You are a disgrace,” he snapped. “You think Palpatine doesn’t have ears everywhere? You think your little war of hormones hasn’t been noticed?”

Fox clenched his jaw.

“This senator—whatever obsession you’ve developed—it’s compromised you. You’ve turned into the kind of unstable mess that gets people killed.”

Neyo stepped closer, his voice quieter but deadlier. “You’ve forgotten what we are. We serve. We protect. We don’t feel. We’re not allowed to want.”

“She’s different,” Fox muttered.

Neyo barked a cold laugh.

“Oh, she’s different, alright. She’s got you tearing your own command apart from the inside out. You’ve broken your discipline. You’ve broken rank. You’ve broken yourself.”

Fox’s nostrils flared. He didn’t speak.

Neyo’s tone dipped lower, cutting.

“You wanna throw it all away for a senator with a bloody past and a smile that melts steel? Fine. But you’ll do it without that title. Without that armor. Without the men who trusted you.”

That one hit.

Fox looked up sharply.

Neyo’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t want to be a commander anymore, Fox? Say the word. I’ll strip your code and you can go chase tail in the lower levels with every other brain-dead grunt who forgot what we were bred for.”

The room rang with silence.

Then—

“I haven’t forgotten,” Fox said quietly. “Not for a second.”

Neyo stared him down. And for the first time, Fox looked… tired.

“I’m trying to hold it together,” Fox said. “But it’s like she pulled a pin and now I can’t stuff everything back in.”

Neyo stared at him a moment longer, then turned his back.

“I don’t want excuses. I want a commander.”

He walked out without another word.

The door hissed shut behind him.

Fox stood alone in the dim quiet, shaking slightly, adrenaline bleeding off.

Then the door slid open again.

“Hell of a beating,” Cody said mildly, stepping in. “He always did know how to cut deep.”

Fox didn’t answer. He kept his eyes on the scuffed floor.

Cody walked over, calm as ever, arms crossed.

“You want to talk about it?”

“I kissed her,” Fox said finally.

Cody didn’t even blink.

Fox exhaled, shoulders heavy. “After I punished Thorn for the same thing.”

“Ah,” Cody said. “So this is a whole mess.”

“She does something to me, Cody. I don’t know how to explain it. I’ve spent years keeping myself locked down. Keeping control. Then she walks in and it’s like… everything I’ve buried starts clawing its way back up.”

Cody was quiet.

Fox’s voice dropped lower. “She’s fire. Controlled chaos. And I’m supposed to be stone.”

“Even stone cracks under enough pressure,” Cody said. “You’re not a machine, vod. You never were. But what you are is a leader. And you’ve got to decide which version of you survives this. The soldier, or the man.”

Fox looked up at him.

Cody’s voice softened just a touch. “You can’t be both. Not forever.”

⸻

The barracks were quieter than usual when Fox walked in.

He didn’t storm through like a commander this time—didn’t bark orders, didn’t expect salutes. He walked with purpose, but not with authority. His helmet was under his arm, and something strange lingered in his expression… something like regret.

The lounge had the usual suspects: Hound nursing a bruised jaw, Thire reading reports, Stone half-dozing in the corner. Grizzer lay sprawled under the table, big head on his paws.

They all looked up when Fox stopped in the doorway.

He stood there a second, then took a breath.

“I was out of line.”

That alone was enough to make Hound blink.

“I let personal feelings cloud my judgment. I lost control. I disrespected my rank and you, my brothers.”

Silence.

“I’m sorry.”

He stepped forward. From behind his back, he pulled out a wrapped bundle.

“I figured if I owed anyone the biggest apology…” He crouched down, unwrapped it, and slid a hefty bone across the floor.

Grizzer’s ears perked. He sniffed it, then took it gently—almost respectfully—and lumbered off to gnaw in peace.

“Thanks,” Hound muttered, rubbing his jaw. “Still hurts like hell.”

Fox gave a wry smirk. “It should.”

Stone chuckled. “You gonna cry next or…?”

Fox just shook his head. “No. But I am going to make it right.”

He nodded once, turned, and left.

⸻

Thorn was on the upper level, seated on a bench outside the weapons maintenance bay, arms folded, helmet beside him.

Fox approached slowly.

“Thorn.”

No answer.

Fox took a breath, then sat beside him, not too close. Just close enough.

“I was wrong,” he said simply. “What I did… punishing you, calling you out… then doing the same thing myself. That’s not leadership. That’s hypocrisy.”

Thorn glanced over, eyes dark with residual anger. “No argument here.”

“I don’t expect you to forgive me,” Fox said. “But I didn’t want to pretend it didn’t happen.”

Thorn let out a breath, slow and heavy.

“You’re still in love with her?”

Fox didn’t answer for a long moment.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “Have been for a while. Doesn’t mean I have the right to be.”

Thorn leaned back, looking up at the overhead lights. “You ever think we’re not built for this kind of thing?”

“All the time.”

Another pause.

“I appreciate the apology,” Thorn said at last. “Doesn’t erase the bruise, but it helps.”

Fox gave a short nod.

They sat in silence a little longer—two soldiers, two men, caught between duty and desire.

Then Fox stood. “I’ll see you on rotation.”

Thorn nodded. “Yeah. See you then.”

As Fox walked away, Thorn called after him, voice neutral but edged in meaning.

“Don’t screw it up again.”

Fox didn’t look back. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Previous Part | Next Part

“The Lesser of Two Wars” pt.7

Commander Fox x Reader x Commander Thorn

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

Fox hadn’t spoken to her since the leak.

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

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

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

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

“The term war criminal certainly has… gravity.”

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

Palpatine’s smile was almost affectionate. Almost.

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

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

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

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

“Useful for what, exactly?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Of what?”

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

“I’ve held worse,” she said.

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

She stepped forward, spine straight, voice low.

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

Fox’s head turned slightly—just slightly.

Palpatine smiled wider. “Good. Very good.”

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

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

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

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

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

She finally spoke.

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

There was a long pause.

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

Her breath caught.

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

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

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

⸻

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

“War Criminal in the Senate?”

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

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

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

Her hands didn’t shake. Not this time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

She pressed forward.

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

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

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

Silence.

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

She turned slightly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A beat of silence.

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

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

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

“She’s more useful than I thought.”

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

Thorn didn’t answer.

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

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

And some storms change the shape of entire worlds.

⸻

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The room tensed. Even Grizzer lifted his head.

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

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

“But I am your superior.”

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

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

“She always was,” Thorn said.

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

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

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

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

Fox didn’t answer.

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

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

Because personal feelings had already breached the perimeter.

And everyone knew it.

⸻

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence passed between them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

⸻

The message blinked on her datapad:

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

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

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

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

BANG BANG BANG!

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

Another loud knock. BANG!

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re far too irritating.”

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

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

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

“You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re avoiding.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her gaze cut sideways toward him. “Vos.”

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

“I swear, if you meddled—”

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

“But you were there.”

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

She didn’t reply.

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

She looked at him then, eyes hard but grateful.

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

He grinned. “See? I am charming.”

⸻

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

“The Lesser of Two Wars” pt.6

Commander Fox x Reader X Commander Thorn

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

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

“You disapproved,” she said softly.

He didn’t answer.

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

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

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

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

Silence.

Then,“You don’t know what I feel.”

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

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

Her breath caught.

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

⸻

The door to the barracks slammed open.

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

“You disobeyed every line of protocol.”

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

“You kissed her on duty.”

“You watched it happen.”

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

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

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

That was it.

Fox swung.

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

“You crossed a line.”

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

A loud bark broke the chaos.

Grizzer lunged.

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

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

Everyone froze.

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

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

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

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

It wasn’t over.

Not even close.

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

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

Fox didn’t flinch.

He never did.

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

He’d lost control.

Again.

The door slid open.

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

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

Fox’s spine stiffened.

No.

Not him.

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

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

Fox didn’t answer.

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

“Get out.”

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

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

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

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

Fox didn’t answer. Vos hummed.

“Ah. That’s how it is.”

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

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

Fox didn’t look at him.

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

“She’s not yours,” Fox snapped.

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

“Then why are you here?”

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

Fox stood. “I am not spiraling.”

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

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

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

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

Fox didn’t stop.

But the door nearly dented when it slammed behind him.

⸻

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

The door slid open.

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

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

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

Thorn said nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thorn didn’t answer.

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

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

“I wanted to hear it again.”

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

“Feared?” Thorn asked, brow furrowing.

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

Thorn was silent.

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

Thorn looked down at his bruised hand.

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

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

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

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

⸻

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

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

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

“Kenobi,” she said.

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

“You usually do.”

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

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

“Vos.”

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

“Desperately

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

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

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

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

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

“I should’ve let him get shot.”

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

That earned a grin from her.

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

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

Obi-Wan nodded. “Yes.”

“And?”

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

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

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

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

Obi-Wan arched a brow. “About?”

“About the war. About what I did.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tell that to the people I buried.”

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

“Do you regret it?” he asked finally.

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

There was a long pause.

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

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

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

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

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

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

⸻

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

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

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

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

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

It was all there.

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

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

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

The public executions. The battlefield tribunals.

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

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

Nowhere to hide.

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

Senator Mon Mothma was the only one who stepped forward.

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

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

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

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

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

A knock at the door startled her.

“Enter.”

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

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

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

“It does.”

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

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

“You wouldn’t be here.”

“Would you still respect me?”

He didn’t answer. That was the answer.

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

“I know.”

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

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

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

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

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

That counted for something.

That counted for everything.

⸻

Previous Part | Next Part

“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

“The Lesser of Two Wars” pt.4

Commander Fox x Reader X Commander Thorn

Thorn didn’t storm. That wasn’t his style. He walked with purpose, armor humming low with motion, cape swaying behind him like a whisper of discipline.

But Hound noticed.

He was lounging against a supply crate near the barracks entrance, tossing a ration bar to Grizzer, who promptly ignored it in favor of chewing on a ruined training boot.

“Evening, Commander,” Hound said, biting back a grin. “You walk like someone just voted to cut rations for clones with sense.”

Thorn didn’t answer. He brushed past, stopped, and then turned around so sharply Hound blinked.

“Why the hell does she smile like that?” Thorn muttered.

Hound blinked again. “…Pardon?”

“Senator,” Thorn said curtly. “The senator. She smiles like she doesn’t care that we’re built for war. Like we’re not walking weapons. Like she’s not afraid of what we are.”

Grizzer let out a soft woof.

Hound tilted his head. “So… what’s the problem?”

“The problem,” Thorn said, pacing now, his helmet under one arm, “is that I find myself caring about her smile. Noticing it. Waiting for it. The nerve of her—walking between two commanders like it’s nothing. Like we’re not trained to see everything as a threat. Like she’s not a threat.”

“To what? Your assignment?” Hound asked, amused. “Or your emotional stability?”

Thorn glared. Grizzer whined, wandered over, and bumped his head into Thorn’s shin. He reached down and idly scratched behind the mastiff’s ears.

“She got under your skin,” Hound said, chewing on the stem of a stim-pop. “Happens to the best of us. She’s clever. Looks good in those robes. Has a backbone of beskar. What’s not to notice?”

“I don’t want to notice.”

“Ah, but you do.”

Thorn didn’t reply.

He sat down heavily on the bench beside Hound, setting his helmet down beside him.

“I shouldn’t even be thinking about this. About her.”

“She flirt with you?”

Thorn hesitated. “Not… obviously.”

“But enough to make Fox irritated.”

Thorn raised a brow. “You noticed that too.”

“Please. Fox’s expression didn’t change, but the man started walking closer to her like she was carrying his damn tracking chip.” Hound chuckled. “Bet he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.”

They sat in silence for a minute.

Grizzer dropped the training boot in front of Thorn and wagged his tail.

Thorn stared at the mangled leather. “That’s about how my brain feels.”

Hound laughed. “Commander, you need sleep.”

“I need a reassignment.”

“You need to admit she’s under your skin and figure out how not to let it compromise your professionalism.”

Thorn exhaled slowly.

“Can’t let it show.”

“Good,” Hound nodded. “Now come inside before Grizzer starts thinking you’ve become a chew toy too.”

Thorn stood, gave the mastiff a final scratch behind the ears, and retrieved his helmet.

He didn’t say another word—but the weight in his steps had shifted. Just a little.

Not lighter. Not heavier.

Just more aware.

⸻

The city was unusually quiet that evening. The hum of speeders far below faded beneath the hush of twilight. The Coruscant skyline glowed, glass and durasteel kissed by soft reds and purples.

Fox didn’t linger in beautiful places.

He was there on duty, posted near the upper balcony where the senator had stepped out “just for a breath.” He hadn’t planned to engage, only observe, protect, return.

But she hadn’t gone back inside.

She leaned against the railing, alone, hair pinned up loosely, a datapad forgotten beside her, as if the very idea of responsibility repulsed her in that moment.

He waited a respectful distance. Still. Silent. Like always.

Then she spoke.

“You ever wonder if all this”—she gestured to the skyline—“is actually worth protecting?”

He said nothing. He was trained for silence. Expected to maintain it.

But her voice was quieter this time. “Sorry. I know that’s dark. I just—feel like I’m holding up a wall no one else wants to fix.”

Fox found himself responding before he thought better of it. “That’s the job.”

She turned slightly, surprised.

He added, “Holding up the wall.”

The senator gave him a faint, exhausted smile. “Do you ever feel like it’s crumbling under your feet anyway?”

He didn’t answer. Not with words.

He took a step closer instead.

A small thing. Measured. Not enough to draw attention.

But enough for her to notice.

Her gaze lowered to the space now between them. “Commander,” she said gently, teasingly, “if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were getting comfortable.”

“I’m not,” he said flatly.

She tilted her head. “Shame. It’s a lovely view.”

He said nothing, but his eyes didn’t move from her.

And then—

She turned away. Not dramatically. Just slowly, thoughtfully, brushing a finger along the rail’s edge.

“It’s funny,” she said, voice soft again. “I think I trust you more than I trust half the Senate.”

“You shouldn’t,” he replied, too quickly.

She looked over her shoulder. “Why not?”

He didn’t answer.

Because the truth was—

He didn’t know.

He looked away first.

You stared.

Fox was composed, always. The kind of man who spoke with fewer words than most used in a breath. You’d watched him through Senate hearings, committee debriefings, and those long silences standing at your side. He was built for control—stone-set and unshakable.

Which is why this moment felt like seeing a fault line in a mountain.

You stepped toward him.

Just slightly.

“I asked why not,” you repeated, your voice lower now. Not coy. Not teasing. Just… honest.

Fox’s helmet was clipped to his belt, his posture precise. But his jaw had locked. His brow was tight—not angry, not annoyed.

Guarded.

“You don’t know me,” he finally said, eyes fixed on the horizon like it might offer him cover.

“I know enough,” you replied, softer.

He didn’t move.

You tried again.

“You think I trust people easily?” A dry laugh left you. “I sit beside men who sell planets and call it compromise. I’ve had allies vote against my own bills while smiling at me from across the chamber. But you—when you walk into a room, everything sharpens.”

That got his attention. A flicker of his gaze, brief but direct.

You stepped closer.

“You don’t talk unless it’s important. You watch everything. And no one gets close, not really. But I see the way your men listen when you speak. I see how you stand between danger and everyone else without asking for anything in return.”

His expression didn’t shift. Not much.

But his hands curled faintly at his sides.

“I trust you, Commander,” you said. “And I don’t think that’s a mistake.”

The wind picked up slightly, rustling the edge of your robe.

Fox was quiet for a long time. And then—

“Don’t.”

One word. Clipped. Too sharp to be cold.

You blinked. “Don’t… what?”

He turned to face you fully now, and there was something there—in his eyes, usually so still. Not anger. Not fear.

A warning.

“Don’t mistake professionalism for something it isn’t.”

You looked up at him for a moment, unmoving. “I’m not.”

His jaw flexed. “Then don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to.”

That hit a nerve. You stood straighter, chest tight.

“You don’t get to blame me for not hearing the things you’re too chicken to say,” you said quietly, your voice clipped but steady.

His breath caught—not visibly, not audibly. But you saw it. In the eyes. In the way his shoulders tightened, like something had landed.

But he didn’t respond.

You watched him another moment, then stepped back, retreating into the cool hallway of the Senate building without another word.

He stayed there.

In the quiet.

And stared after you like the words had hit him somewhere unarmored.

The marble under your boots echoed with each step, but you walked without a sound.

The exchange with Fox still thrummed in your chest. The way he’d looked at you. The way he hadn’t.

The way his silence had said too much.

You pressed a hand to your temple, trying to will the flush in your skin to cool. You hadn’t meant to push that far—but stars, you had been waiting for something. Anything. A sign that the wall wasn’t so impenetrable.

You didn’t expect the next voice you heard.

“My dear senator,” came the smooth, silk-wrapped timbre of Chancellor Palpatine.

You froze.

Not because of fear. But because his voice always had that effect.

You turned and offered the practiced smile you reserved for… certain company.

“Chancellor,” you said, clasping your hands politely in front of you. “I didn’t see you.”

He stepped into the corridor from the far end, draped in red and black, expression benevolent, but sharp beneath the surface.

“I was passing through after a long meeting with the Banking Clan representatives. Tense discussions, I’m afraid. I trust you’re well?”

“Well enough,” you replied smoothly. “Just getting some air.”

“Ah,” he said, folding his hands behind his back as he walked beside you. “We all need moments of reflection. Though I imagine yours are far and few between these days. The Senate rarely allows much rest.”

You gave a short laugh. “No. It certainly doesn’t.”

He glanced at you, unreadable.

“I hear the Guard’s been paying close attention to you lately. Commander Fox himself, no less. It’s good to see such… attentiveness. You must feel very safe.”

Your spine straightened slightly. “They’re dedicated men. I’m grateful for their protection.”

“I’m sure you are,” he said, the warmth in his tone not quite reaching his eyes. “Still… I hope you remember where your true allies lie.”

You offered him the same tight smile. “Of course, Chancellor.”

He regarded you for a moment longer. “You’ve always been a passionate voice, Senator. Young. Decisive. I do hope you’ll continue to support the efforts of the Republic, especially as we move into… more delicate phases of wartime policy.”

You didn’t flinch. “I serve the people of my system. And I believe in the Republic.”

“But belief,” he said, gently, “is only part of the duty. Sometimes we must make difficult choices. Unpopular ones.”

You met his gaze and gave nothing back.

“Then I hope the right people are making them,” you replied.

His smile thinned. “As do I.”

You inclined your head. “If you’ll excuse me, Chancellor, I do have a report to finish.”

He stepped aside, allowing you to pass.

“Of course. Rest well, Senator. You’ll need your strength.”

You didn’t look back.

You didn’t need to.

The shadow of his presence stretched long after his footsteps faded.

⸻

Fox sat in the dark.

Helmet on the table. Armor half-unclasped. Fingers pressed to the bridge of his nose.

He hadn’t even made it to his bunk.

The locker room was silent, most of the Guard long since rotated out or posted elsewhere. The overheads were dimmed. Only the soft mechanical hum of the lockers and the occasional flicker of red light from an indicator broke the stillness.

But his mind wasn’t still.

He’d heard people raise their voices at him before. Angry senators, frustrated generals, clones pushed to the brink. That was easy. Anger rolled off him like rain off plastoid.

This was different.

She hadn’t said it to wound him.

She’d said it like she meant it.

Like she saw him.

And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t know what to do with that.

His hands flexed in his lap, slow and deliberate. He remembered how she looked tonight—standing under the red-gold skyline, eyes bright but tired, speaking softly like they were the only two people left in the galaxy.

It was wrong. Letting it get to him.

She was a senator. He was a soldier.

It wasn’t supposed to matter what her voice did to his chest.

What the scent of her did to his focus.

He wasn’t Thorn. He didn’t lean in. He didn’t get rattled by conversation, didn’t let his mouth run ahead of his orders.

But… she’d gotten under his skin. Somehow.

Fox exhaled slowly and reached for his gloves.

Then paused.

His thumb hovered over the comlink tucked beside his helmet.

He stared at it for a moment. Not to call her. He wouldn’t.

But just knowing she could.

That if she needed him, his name would be the first thing spoken through the channel.

He set his jaw, stood up, and locked his armor back into place.

Duty first.

Always.

But his mind stayed behind, somewhere on a balcony, in the dusk light… with her.

⸻

The door slid open with its usual soft chime. You stepped inside, heels clicking gently against polished stone, and leaned heavily against the wall the moment it shut behind you.

Exhausted didn’t quite cover it.

The encounter with the Chancellor still lingered like static. And Fox—

Stars above, Fox.

You kicked off your shoes, dropped your bag, and made your way into the kitchen. You poured yourself something strong and cold, letting the silence of your private apartment sink in.

And then—

The soft buzz of your datapad.

You blinked.

A message.

Not from the Guard.

Not from your aides.

But…

Commander Thorn: Heard there was a rough hearing. You alive in there, or should I break down the door?

You smiled.

And for a moment, the tension eased.

You didn’t reply to Thorn right away.

You stared at the message, lips curving despite the weight still pressing behind your ribs. A chuckle slipped out—quiet, private. The kind meant only for a screen, not a roomful of senators.

Your fingers hovered over the keys for a second before typing:

You: Alive. Barely. Tempted to fake my death and move to Naboo. You free to help bury the body?

The typing indicator blinked back almost immediately.

Thorn: Only if I get first choice on the alias. I vote “Duchess Trouble.”

You: That’s terrible. But I’m keeping it.

Thorn: Thought you might. Get some rest. You earned it today.

You stared at that last line.

You earned it today.

You weren’t sure why those words hit harder than anything in the hearing. Maybe it was because it came from someone who saw things most senators never would. Maybe because it was real.

You typed back:

You: You too, Commander.

And then you set the datapad down, changed out of your formal wear, and let exhaustion carry you to bed.

You weren’t asleep long.

The shrill tone of your emergency comms broke through your dreams like a blaster shot.

You jerked upright, blinking against the haze of sleep, reaching for the device without hesitation.

“H-hello?” your voice cracked, still hoarse from sleep.

A voice—clipped, familiar, urgent—responded.

Fox.

“Senator. There’s been another incident. We’re en route.”

You were already moving. “Where?”

“Senator Mothma’s estate. Explosive detonation near her security gate. No confirmed injuries, but it’s close enough to send a message.”

You froze for only a heartbeat.

“I’ll be ready in five.”

Fox didn’t waste time on reassurance. “We’ll be outside your building. Don’t go anywhere alone.”

The line cut.

You stood in the dark for a second, pulse racing, mind already shifting into survival mode.

Whatever peace you’d clawed out of tonight had just shattered.

⸻

It was a controlled knock—no panic, no urgency—but hard enough to rattle the stillness of the apartment. You flinched, fumbling with your robe as you darted from your bedroom barefoot, still half-dressed.

“Stars, already?” you muttered, cinching the robe at your waist.

The buzzer chimed again.

You hit the panel to open the door.

And there they were.

Fox. Thorn. Towering in crimson armor, backlit by the corridor lights and the glint of Coruscant’s neon skyline. Visors staring forward. Blasters holstered—but you could feel the tension radiating off them like heat from durasteel.

Neither said anything at first.

Then, in a voice low and composed, Fox spoke:

“Senator. We arrived earlier than anticipated.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” you breathed, pushing a damp strand of hair behind your ear. Your robe was thin—too thin, you realized, as the air from the hallway crept over your skin. You crossed your arms instinctively, but it didn’t hide much.

Fox’s helmet tilted slightly—eyes dragging across your form in a quiet, tactical sweep. Not leering. Just… a longer pause than necessary.

Next to him, Thorn cleared his throat.

You raised an eyebrow at both of them. “Enjoying the view, Commanders?”

They didn’t flinch. Of course they didn’t. Both statues of composure, helmets hiding any flicker of reaction.

Fox spoke again, brisk. “We’ll step inside and secure the apartment. You have five minutes.”

“Yes, sir,” you muttered with mock-formality, brushing past them with bare feet against the floor. As you turned, you caught it—Fox’s head slightly turning to follow your movement. A fraction too long.

And thank the stars for helmets, because if you saw his face, you’d never let him live it down.

They moved through your apartment in practiced rhythm, clearing rooms, scanning corners, locking down windows and possible points of breach. Thorn stayed closer to the door, back to the wall, but his shoulders were taut beneath the red of his armor.

You emerged a few minutes later, dressed properly now—hair pulled back, expression sharpened by the adrenaline still running its course.

Fox glanced your way first. His visor tilted again, more subtle this time.

“All clear,” he said, voice crisp. “You’re to be escorted to the Guard’s secure transport. We’ll be moving now.”

You met his visor with a crooked smile. “You didn’t even compliment my robe.”

Thorn, behind him, let out a breath. It might’ve been a laugh. Or a sigh of please, not now.

Fox said nothing.

But his shoulders stiffened just slightly.

And as you stepped between them, one on each side, the heat of their presence pressed in like a second skin.

Danger waited out there.

But for now, this tension?

This was its own kind of war.

⸻

The hum of the engine filled the silence. City lights flared and blurred past the transparisteel windows as the transport cut through the lower atmosphere. Inside, the dim blue glow from the dash consoles painted all three of you in a cold, unflinching light.

Fox sat across from you, arms folded, helmet still on. Thorn was beside him, angled slightly your way—watching the shadows outside like they might reach in and pull the vehicle apart.

No one spoke at first.

It was you who finally broke the silence.

“This isn’t random, is it?”

Fox’s head turned. Slowly. “No.”

Thorn added, “Three incidents in four days. All different targets, different methods. But same message.”

You nodded, arms tucked around yourself. “The threat’s not just violence—it’s disruption. Fear. Shake up the ones trying to hold the peace together.”

Fox leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. “Senator Organa’s transport was sabotaged. Padmé Amidala intercepted a coded threat embedded in one of her Senate droid updates. And now Mothma’s estate.”

“All prominent senators,” Thorn said. “Known for opposing authoritarian measures, trade blockades, or Separatist sympathies. Whoever this is… they’re strategic.”

“And the Senate’s pretending it’s coincidence.” You exhaled a sharp breath. “Cowards.”

Fox didn’t respond, but you saw it in the turn of his helmet—like he’d heard a truth too sharp to name.

Thorn’s voice cut the quiet next. “You’re on the list too, Senator. Whether they’ve moved or not, you’ve been marked.”

You met his gaze, even through the visor. “That’s not exactly comforting, Commander.”

“You wanted honesty,” he replied quietly.

You blinked, caught off guard—not just by the words, but the tone. Low. Sincere. Laced with something warmer than protocol.

Fox shifted, barely. A turn of his body, a flicker of subtle tension.

“They’ll keep escalating,” he said. “We don’t know how far.”

The transport took a turn, and city lights streamed in again, outlining their armor in a way that made them seem more like war statues than men.

And yet, when you looked at them—Fox silent and braced for anything, Thorn watching you with just the slightest flicker of concern behind the visor—it wasn’t fear that struck you.

It was the creeping awareness that maybe the danger outside wasn’t the only storm building.

⸻

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

“The Lesser of Two Wars” Pt.3

Commander Fox x Reader X Commander Thorn

The walk back from the senator’s apartment was quiet.

Fox didn’t speak, and Thorn didn’t expect him to. Not at first.

But the silence felt different now—less like calm, more like something that wanted to crack open.

They turned a corner, stepping into the shadow of the senate tower, boots echoing in near-perfect unison.

“She’s sharp,” Thorn said finally.

Fox’s gaze remained forward. “She’s reckless.”

“Reckless, or brave?”

“Doesn’t matter. She shouldn’t provoke like that.”

Thorn huffed. “What, her teasing you?”

Fox stopped walking. Just for a moment.

“She pushes boundaries.”

“You didn’t seem to mind.”

A pause. Long enough for a speeder to pass by overhead.

Fox turned his head just slightly, just enough to meet Thorn’s eyes.

“I’m not here to indulge senators.”

“No,” Thorn said, quieter now. “You’re here to protect them.”

They walked again.

This time, Thorn’s voice was more level. More careful.

“She’s not like the others.”

Fox said nothing.

“She sees things,” Thorn continued. “Knows when someone’s watching her. Picks up on shifts, silences. She noticed how you walked closer today.”

“I did my job.”

“You changed how you did your job.”

Fox stopped again. Thorn didn’t.

The air between them was a taut wire now, humming beneath the words neither of them would say.

“She’s a risk,” Fox said.

Thorn finally turned. “Or a reason.”

“A reason for what?”

But Thorn didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

They both knew.

Neither man would speak it. Not here. Not now.

But between the edges of their words—beneath the armor, the protocol, the rank—was something alive.

And she was the flame drawing both of them in.

The corridors of the Coruscant Guard base felt colder than usual as Fox and Thorn walked back toward their quarters. The sounds of their footsteps—staccato and measured—echoed around them, a rhythmic reminder of their role, their duty.

And yet, something felt different tonight. Thorn could sense it in the air between them. Fox hadn’t said a word since their conversation on the walk back, and Thorn wasn’t about to press him.

They were just about to turn down the hall leading to their rooms when a trio of figures stepped into view.

Hound, Stone, and Thire.

The trio stood in the shadows of the hallway, their faces hidden beneath their helmets but the casual stance of their posture unmistakable. They were lounging in a way that only soldiers who’d seen too much could manage—relaxed, but always alert.

Hound was the first to speak, his voice muffled but clear through his helmet’s com. “Marshal Commander, Commander Thorn.” He nodded, acknowledging them both. “We were just finishing a sweep of the upper levels.”

Stone smirked, tilting his helmet toward Fox. “So, how’s the senator doing? Keeping you busy?”

Fox narrowed his eyes slightly, but kept his expression neutral. “What’s your point, Stone?”

Stone chuckled under his breath, the amusement evident even through the tone of his voice. “Just saying, it’d be nice if we had the honor of watching over someone a little more… attractive than Orn Free Taa. You know, someone who’s actually worth our time.”

Thorn’s body stiffened, his hands balling into fists at his sides.

Fox’s stance didn’t change. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t give an inch.

But the subtle tension in his jaw was enough to send a ripple of warning through Thorn’s gut. He could feel the charge in the air. He could see Fox’s mind working behind his helmet, weighing his next move.

Thorn opened his mouth to respond, but Fox was faster.

“Get back to your positions,” Fox’s voice was cold, commanding, and unequivocal. “All of you. Now.”

Hound’s helmet tilted slightly, as though he was considering Fox’s words. There was no malice in the moment, but the tone was unmistakable—Fox wasn’t just commanding his subordinates, he was asserting something more.

“Yes, sir,” Hound replied, stepping back and motioning for the others to follow.

Thire, however, raised an eyebrow. “You don’t have to bite our heads off, Fox. We were just messing with you.”

Fox’s gaze locked onto Thire. It wasn’t threatening, but it was firm. Unyielding.

“I don’t care what you think about her. She’s not your concern,” Fox said, his voice clipped.

Thorn watched the exchange with growing awareness. He didn’t need to hear more to understand what was beneath the surface. Something was brewing between Fox and the senator. Something Fox didn’t want his men—his brothers—to poke at.

Stone shrugged, lifting his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright, just making sure you weren’t too distracted, Fox.”

Fox didn’t say another word.

With a final, brief glance at Thorn, he turned on his heel and walked toward the quarters, Thorn following a step behind.

Once they were out of earshot, Thorn allowed himself to breathe. His mind, sharp as ever, raced to piece everything together.

Fox had always been professional, but that reaction—defensive, terse—hadn’t been just about the senator’s safety. There was something else there.

And Thorn wasn’t sure whether he was grateful for it—or jealous of it.

⸻

The air in the briefing chamber was stagnant with politics, but you barely noticed. You’d grown used to breathing it in.

Your eyes, however, had their own agenda.

Fox and Thorn stood across the room—one against the wall like he’d been carved from it, the other with his arms behind his back and a half-step forward, like he was ready to speak but never would unless asked. Both unreadable. Both unnervingly focused.

And both watching you.

Well—not watching. But you knew better than to believe that.

Senator Mon Mothma sat beside you, her voice soft as she leaned in. “You have their full attention, you know.”

You blinked, startled. “What?”

She gave a faint, knowing smile. “Don’t play coy. Half the room’s worried about this assassin on the loose. The other half’s watching how the Coruscant Guard looks at you.”

You gave a half-laugh under your breath. “They’re soldiers. They look like that at everyone.”

“No,” Mon Mothma said gently. “They don’t.”

You glanced up again—Thorn now in quiet conversation with Riyo Chuchi, Fox standing near the entrance with his arms crossed.

Both still facing you.

You cleared your throat. When the briefing was dismissed, senators filtered out in twos and threes, murmuring lowly. You didn’t stand right away. You were thinking. Weighing a dangerous idea.

And then you stood—stepping toward Thorn before Fox.

Thorn looked at you with the faintest raise of his brow. Not surprised. Not expectant either. Just… ready.

“Commander,” you said with a smile. “Do you think we’re being overly paranoid, or is this new threat credible?”

Thorn paused for just a moment too long before answering. “It’s credible enough to keep me awake at night.”

Your lips curled. “That’s oddly poetic.”

“I can be full of surprises,” he said, offering a dry, almost-smile.

Behind you, you heard the soft shift of armor—Fox drawing closer, unprompted.

Interesting.

“Do you think I need a tighter guard detail?” you asked, turning your attention to Fox now, letting your gaze linger a little too long.

Fox looked down at you. His expression was unmoved, but you noticed—he stood closer than usual again.

“You’ll have what’s necessary,” he replied evenly.

“Not the answer I asked for,” you said softly.

“It’s the one that matters.”

You tilted your head, eyes flicking between the two commanders. “Well, if either of you feels like getting some air later, I’m thinking of walking the gardens.”

A beat passed.

Neither took the bait. But something shifted in both of them.

Not a word. Not a twitch.

But the silence held more than anyone else could hear.

You smiled, just a little.

“Gentlemen.”

Then you turned and left—heels clicking, chin high, spine tall.

And behind you, two commanders stood side by side.

Saying nothing.

Feeling everything.

⸻

The gardens behind the Senate building were meant for tranquility—tall hedges, polished stone walkways, subtle lighting filtered through glassy foliage. It smelled of rainwater and something faintly floral, like a memory from somewhere else.

You weren’t sure you expected anyone to actually take your invitation.

You definitely didn’t expect both of them.

Thorn arrived first, boots quiet against the stone, his presence announced only by the change in the air—he always carried some heat with him, something sharp under control.

“You walk alone often?” he asked, keeping pace beside you without being asked to.

“I like fresh air after long hours of stale conversation,” you replied.

“I can understand that.”

You were about to say more when another sound joined your footsteps.

Fox.

He didn’t speak, just joined on your other side, walking as though he’d always been there.

You blinked, looking between them. “Well. Either I’m under heavy surveillance or someone took my suggestion seriously.”

Thorn offered a soft huff of breath. “I like gardens.”

Fox didn’t answer.

You let the silence stretch. Let them settle.

You stopped near a low wall that overlooked the glimmering speeder lanes far below, resting your hands on the cool stone. Neither man flanked you now—both standing a polite distance back, quiet sentinels in crimson armor.

It was ridiculous, how safe they made you feel. And how annoying that safety had a heartbeat.

“I suppose I should feel flattered,” you said lightly. “Two commanders taking time from their endless duties to walk among flowers with a senator who doesn’t even like politics.”

Fox’s voice was low. “I’m assigned to your protection.”

“I’m not.” Thorn looked at you. “I came because I wanted to.”

You glanced sideways at him, then at Fox—whose jaw had tensed the slightest bit.

Interesting.

You turned to face them fully now, hands behind your back like any good statesperson. But your words were not diplomatic.

“You know,” you mused, “if I didn’t know better, I’d think both of you were trying very hard not to look like you wanted to be here.”

Fox’s gaze didn’t waver. “It’s not about want. It’s about necessity.”

“You always so careful with your words, Commander?”

“I have to be.”

Thorn stepped a fraction closer. “Some of us know how to loosen the screws once in a while.”

You smiled. Not smug—just amused. Alive. Thrilled by what danced beneath their armored restraint.

“I’ll leave you both to your necessary screws and careful words,” you said, taking a few steps back toward the Senate tower. “But thank you—for indulging a restless senator tonight.”

And then you left them there. Both men. Still, silent, unmoving beneath the warm garden lights.

Unspoken things tightening around their throats.

And neither of them ready to say a word about it.

Not yet.

⸻

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

“The Lesser of Two Wars” Pt.2

Commander Fox x Reader x Commander Thorn

The club was one of those places senators didn’t publicly admit to frequenting—no names at the entrance, no press allowed, no datapad scans. Just a biometric scan, a whisper to the doorman, and you were in.

Nestled high above the skyline in 500 Republica, it was a favorite among the young elite and the exhausted powerful. All glass walls and plush lounges, dim gold lighting that clung to skin like honey, and music that never rose above a sensual hum. Everything in here was designed to make you forget who you were outside of it.

And tonight, that suited you just fine.

You had a drink in hand—something blue and expensive and far too smooth—and laughter on your lips. Not your usual politician’s laughter either. No smirking charm or polite chuckles. This one was real, deep in your belly, a rare sound that only came out when you were far enough removed from the Senate floor.

“Tell me again how you managed to silence Mas Amedda without being sanctioned,” you asked through your grin, blinking slowly at Mon Mothma from across the low-glass table.

“I didn’t silence him,” Mon said, sipping delicately at a glowing green drink. “I simply implied I’d reveal the contents of his personal expenditures file if he didn’t yield his five minutes of floor time.”

“You blackmailed him,” Chuchi said, eyes wide and utterly delighted. “Mon.”

“It wasn’t blackmail. It was diplomacy. With consequences.”

You nearly choked on your drink. “Stars above, I love you.”

You weren’t the only one laughing. Bail Organa was seated nearby with his jacket off and sleeves rolled, regaling Padmé and Senator Ask Aak with a dry tale about a conference that nearly turned into a duel. For once, there were no lobbyists, no cameras, no agendas. Just the quiet, rare illusion of ease among people who usually bore the weight of worlds.

But ease was temporary. The night wore on, and senators began to peel away one by one—some called back to work, others escorted home under guard, a few sneaking off with less noble intentions. Mon and Chuchi left together, promising to check in on you the next day. Padmé disappeared with only a look and a knowing smile.

You, however, weren’t ready to go.

Not until the lights got just a bit too warm and the drinks turned your blood to sugar. Not until the music softened your spine and left your thoughts curling in all directions.

By the time you left the booth, your heels wobbled. You weren’t drunk-drunk. Just the kind of warm that made everything feel funny and your judgment slightly off. Enough to skip the staff-speeder and walk yourself toward the street-level lift like a very determined, very unstable senator.

You barely made it past the threshold of the club when someone stepped into your path.

“Senator.”

That voice.

Low. Smooth. Metal-wrapped silk.

You blinked, head tilting up.

Commander Thorn.

Helmet tucked under one arm, brow slightly raised, red armor catching the glint of the city lights like lacquered flame. His expression was hard to read—professional, always—but it wasn’t Fox-level impassive. There was a quiet alertness in his eyes, and something… else. Something you couldn’t name through the fuzz of your thoughts.

You gave him a slow once-over, then grinned.

“Well, well. If it isn’t the charming one.”

Thorn’s lips twitched. Almost a smile. Almost.

“You’re leaving without an escort.”

“Can’t imagine why. I’m obviously walking in a very straight line.”

You took a bold step and swerved instantly.

He caught your elbow in one gloved hand, his grip steady, sure. “Right.”

You laughed softly, not pulling away. “Did Fox send you?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“I was stationed nearby. Saw you entered and didn’t leave with the other senators. Waited.”

You blinked, the words catching up slowly.

“You waited?”

His tone was casual. “Senators don’t always make smart choices after midnight.”

You scoffed. “And you’re here to protect me from what—bad decisions?”

“Possibly yourself.”

You leaned in slightly, still smiling. “That doesn’t sound very neutral, Commander.”

“It’s not.”

That surprised you.

Not the words—the admission.

He guided you toward the secure transport platform. You walked close, his arm still steadying you, your perfume drifting between you like static. You felt him glance down at you again, and for once, you didn’t deflect it with a joke. You let the silence stretch, warm and a little unsteady, like everything else tonight.

When you reached your private residence, he walked you to the lift, hand never once leaving your arm. It wasn’t possessive. It was watchful. Protective. Unspoken.

The lift doors opened.

You turned to him. Slower now. Sober enough to remember the mask you usually wore—but too tired to lift it fully.

“Thank you,” you murmured. “Really.”

“I’d rather see you escorted than carried,” he said simply.

A beat passed.

“I think I like you better outside of duty,” you said, voice quieter. “You’re a little more human.”

And for the first time, really, Thorn smiled.

Not a twitch. Not a ghost.

A real one.

It was gone before you could memorize it.

“Goodnight, Senator.”

You stepped into the lift.

“Goodnight, Commander.”

The doors closed, and your chest ached with something that wasn’t quite intoxication.

⸻

You barely had time to swallow your caf when the doors to your office hissed open without announcement.

That never happened.

You looked up mid-sip, scowling—only to find Senator Bail Organa storming in with the calm urgency of a man who never rushed unless the building was on fire.

“Good morning,” you said warily. “Is something—”

“There’s been a threat,” he interrupted. “Targeted. Multiple senators. Chuchi, Mon, myself. You.”

You lowered your mug, slowly. “What kind of threat?”

Bail handed you a datapad with an encrypted message flashing in red. You scanned it quickly.

Anonymous intel. Holo-snaps of your recent movements. Discussions leaked. Your voting history underlined in red. The threat was vague—too vague for your comfort. But it didn’t feel like a bluff.

And it had your name in it.

You exhaled sharply. “Any idea who’s behind it?”

“Too early to confirm. Intelligence thinks it’s separatist-aligned extremists or a shadow cell embedded in the lower districts.”

“Of course they do.”

Bail gave you a meaningful look. “Security’s being doubled. The Chancellor’s assigning escorts for all senators flagged.”

You raised a brow. “Let me guess. I don’t get to pick mine.”

“No. But I thought you’d appreciate knowing who was assigned to you.”

The door opened again before you could ask.

Two sets of footsteps. Distinct.

Heavy. Precise.

You didn’t have to turn around to know.

Fox.

Thorn.

Of course.

Fox was already scanning the room. No helmet, but sharp as a knife, his eyes flicking to every shadow, every corner of your office like you were under attack now. Thorn walked half a step behind, expression calm, posture less rigid, but still unmistakably alert.

“I see we’re all being very subtle about this,” you muttered, glancing at the armed men flanking your office now like guards of war.

“You’re on the list,” Fox said. His voice was like crushed gravel—low, even, never cruel, but always tired.

“What list, exactly?” you asked, crossing your arms. “The ‘Too Mouthy to Survive’ list?”

Thorn’s mouth twitched again—always the one with the faintest hint of humor behind the armor.

“The High Risk list,” Fox replied simply.

“And how long will I be babysat?”

“Until the threat is neutralized or your corpse is cold,” Thorn said, deadpan.

You blinked.

“Was that a joke?”

“I don’t joke.”

“He does,” Fox said without looking at him. “Badly.”

“I hate this already,” you muttered, rubbing your temple.

Bail cleared his throat. “They’ll rotate between shifts. Never both at the same time, unless the situation escalates.”

Your head snapped up. “Both?”

“Yes,” Bail said flatly. “Two of the best. You should consider yourself lucky.”

“I’d feel luckier if my personal space wasn’t about to become a crime scene.”

Thorn stepped forward, tone gentler than Fox’s but still authoritative. “We’re not here to interfere with your duties. Just protect you while you do them.”

“And that includes sitting in on committee meetings? Speeches? Dinner receptions?”

Fox nodded. “All of it.”

You looked between them—Fox, with his granite stare and professional distance, and Thorn, who still hadn’t quite stopped looking at you since last night.

Something in your gut twisted. Not fear. Not annoyance.

Something dangerous.

This wasn’t just political anymore.

You were being watched. Stalked. Hunted.

And these two were now your only shield between that threat and your life.

You hated the idea of needing protection.

You hated how safe you felt around them even more.

⸻

The Senate chamber was unusually quiet.

Not silent—never silent—but that thick kind of quiet that came before a storm. Murmurs dipped beneath the domes, senators eyeing each other with the unease of shared vulnerability. No one said it outright, but the threat had spread. Everyone had heard.

And everyone knew some of them were marked.

You sat straighter in your pod than usual, spine taut, eyes fixed on nothing and everything. You’d spoken already—brief, pointed, and barbed. You had no patience today for pacifying words or empty declarations of unity.

Somewhere behind you, still and unreadable as always, stood Commander Fox.

He hadn’t flinched when your voice rose, hadn’t twitched when you called out the hypocrisy of a few senior senators who once claimed loyalty to neutrality but now conveniently aligned with protection-heavy legislation.

Fox didn’t speak. He didn’t move. He didn’t need to.

His presence was a loaded weapon holstered at your back.

You ended your speech with a clipped nod, disengaged the microphone, and leaned back in your seat. The applause was polite. The glares from across the chamber were not.

When the hearing adjourned, your pod retracted slowly, returning to the docking tier. You stood, heels clicking against the durasteel, and without needing to signal him, Fox stepped into motion behind you.

He said nothing.

You said nothing—at first.

But halfway down the polished hallway leading back toward your office, you tilted your head slightly.

“You know, you’re a hard one to read, Commander.”

Fox’s gaze didn’t waver from the path ahead. “That’s intentional.”

“I figured.” You glanced sideways. “But you’re really good at it. Do you even blink?”

“Occasionally.”

Your lips twitched, a smile curling despite yourself.

“Not a lot of people can keep up with me,” you said, voice softer now. “Even fewer try.”

Fox didn’t reply immediately. But something shifted.

Not in what he said—but in what he didn’t.

He moved just half a step closer.

Most wouldn’t have noticed. But you were trained to pick up the smallest things—micro-expressions, body language, political deflections hidden in tone. And you noticed now that he was watching you more directly. That his shoulders weren’t held quite as far from yours. That his footsteps echoed in perfect sync with yours.

You turned your head toward him, brow raised.

“I thought proximity would make you uncomfortable,” he said, finally.

You blinked. “Because I’m a senator?”

“Because you don’t like being watched.”

“Everyone watches senators,” you said. “You’re just better at it.”

Another step.

Closer.

He still didn’t look at you outright, but you felt it. That shift in awareness. That quiet, focused gravity pulling toward you without making a sound.

“What’s your read on me, then?” you asked.

Fox stopped walking.

So did you.

He finally turned his head. Just slightly. Just enough.

“You’re smart enough to know what not to say in public,” he said. “But reckless enough to say it anyway.”

You stared at him, breath caught somewhere between offense and amusement.

“And that makes me what? A liability?”

“It makes you visible,” Fox said. “Which is more dangerous than anything else.”

Your mouth was dry. “Is that your professional opinion?”

His eyes didn’t leave yours.

“Yes.”

You felt the air shift between you. Unspoken, heavy.

Then, just like that, he stepped ahead of you again, resuming the walk as though the pause hadn’t happened at all.

You followed.

But your heart was beating faster.

And you weren’t sure why.

You were almost at your office when the change in guard was announced.

“Senator,” Fox said, pausing by the lift. “My shift’s ending. Commander Thorn will take over from here.”

You opened your mouth to ask something—anything—but he was already stepping back. Already gone.

And just like that, you felt it.

The cold absence where his presence had been.

The lift doors opened before the silence had a chance to stretch too far.

“Senator,” Thorn greeted, stepping out with that easy, assured confidence that Fox never wore.

His helmet was clipped to his belt this time, revealing the full sharpness of his jaw, the subtle smirk tugging one corner of his mouth upward. His expression was casual—friendly, even—but his eyes swept you over with that same tactical precision as Fox’s.

You noticed it, even if others wouldn’t.

“Commander Thorn,” you said, brushing a stray strand of hair back. “How fortunate. I was just getting bored of no conversation.”

Thorn chuckled. “That sounds like Fox.”

“He said maybe twelve words the entire time.”

“Four of them were probably your name and title.”

You smirked, but your tone turned dry. “And you’re any different?”

He fell into step beside you without needing to be told. “Maybe. Depends.”

“On?”

He tilted his head slightly. “Whether you want someone who listens, or someone who talks.”

You glanced up at him, not expecting that level of insight. “Bold for a man I barely know.”

“I’d say we know each other better than most already,” he said casually. “I’ve seen you argue with half the Senate, smile at the rest, and stumble out of a club at 0200 pretending you weren’t drunk.”

Your cheeks flushed. “I was not pretending.”

He grinned. “Then you were very convincing.”

You reached your office doors. The security droid scanned you and unlocked with a soft click. You didn’t go in right away.

“You’re not like him,” you said after a beat.

“Fox?” Thorn’s brow lifted. “No. He’s the wall. I’m the gate.”

You gave him a look.

“That’s either poetic or deeply concerning.”

He leaned slightly closer—close enough that you could feel the warmth of him, the sheer reality of the man behind the armor. “Just means I’m easier to talk to.”

You didn’t respond immediately.

But your fingers lingered a little longer on the door panel than they needed to.

“I’ll be inside for a few hours,” you said finally, voice softer now.

Thorn didn’t step back. “I’ll be right here.”

The door closed between you, but your heart was still beating just a little too loud.

⸻

You were seated at your desk, halfway through tearing apart a policy proposal when the alarms flared to life—blaring red lights streaking across the transparisteel windows of your office.

Your comms crackled a second later.

“All personnel, code red. Attack in progress. Eastern Senate wing compromised.”

You stood so fast your chair tipped over.

Outside your door, Thorn’s voice was already sharp and commanding.

“Stay inside, Senator. Lock the doors.”

“Thorn—”

“I said lock it.”

You hesitated for only a second before slamming your palm against the panel. The doors sealed shut with a hiss, cutting off the sounds beyond.

Your pulse thundered in your ears. The east wing. You didn’t need a layout map to know who worked down there.

Mon Mothma.

Riyo Chuchi.

You turned toward your comm panel and opened a direct line.

It didn’t go through.

The silence that followed was worse than any explosion.

Moments passed. Five. Ten. Long enough for doubt to slither into your chest.

Then the door unlocked.

You turned quickly—but not in fear. Readiness.

Thorn stepped inside, blaster still drawn. His armor was singed, one pauldron scraped, the other glinting with something wet and copper-dark.

“Are they okay?” you asked, voice too sharp, too desperate.

“One confirmed injured,” Thorn said. “Not fatal. Attackers fled. Still sweeping the halls.”

You exhaled, relief unspooling painfully down your spine.

Thorn crossed the room to you, checking the windows before stepping back toward the door.

“I’m getting you out,” he said.

“Now?”

“It’s not safe here.”

You followed him without hesitation.

But just before the hallway opened fully before you, another figure joined—emerging from the opposite end with dark armor, dark eyes, and a darker expression.

Fox.

He didn’t speak. Just looked at Thorn. Then at you.

Then back at Thorn.

Thorn gave a small, dry nod. “Guess command figured double was safer.”

Fox stepped into pace beside you, opposite Thorn.

Neither man said a word.

But you felt it.

The change. The pressure. The electricity.

Both commanders moved in unison—professional, focused, unshakable. But their attention wasn’t just on the halls or the shadows. It was on each other. Measuring. Reading. Holding something back.

And you?

You were caught directly between them.

Literally.

And, for the first time, maybe not unwillingly.

The Senate had been locked down, but your apartment—tucked within the guarded diplomat district—was cleared for return. Not safe, not exactly, but safer than a building that had just seen smoke and fire.

Fox and Thorn flanked you again.

The hover transport dropped you three streets out, citing security rerouting, so the rest of the way had to be walked. Late-night fog curled between the towers, headlights casting long shadows.

You should’ve been quiet. Should’ve been tense.

But something about the presence of both commanders beside you—so alike and yet impossibly different—made your voice turn lighter. Bolder.

“I feel like I’m being escorted by a wall and a statue,” you teased, glancing sideways. “Guess which is which.”

Thorn let out a low snort, barely audible.

Fox, predictably, did not react.

You smiled a little. Then pressed further.

“You really don’t say much, do you, Commander?” you asked, turning slightly toward Fox as your heels clicked against the pavement.

“Only when necessary.”

“Lucky for me I enjoy unnecessary things.”

Fox’s eyes didn’t flicker. Not outwardly. But he said nothing, which somehow made the game more interesting.

You leaned in, just enough to brush near his armor as you passed a narrow alley. “What if I said it’s necessary for me to hear you say something soft? Maybe something charming?”

Fox didn’t stop walking. But his gaze turned fully to you now, sharp and unreadable.

“Then I’d say you’re testing me,” he said lowly.

Your breath caught for a beat.

Behind you, Thorn cleared his throat—just once, quiet but pointed.

You looked back at him with a sly smile. “Don’t worry, Commander. I’m not starting a fight. Just making conversation.”

“You’re good at that,” Thorn said, polite but cool.

Was that… jealousy? No. Not quite. But close enough to touch it.

You reached your door and turned toward both men.

“Are either of you coming inside?” you asked, only half joking.

Fox didn’t answer. Thorn gave you a knowing smile.

“Not unless it’s protocol, Senator.”

You shrugged dramatically. “Shame.”

The locks activated with a soft click. You turned just before stepping through the threshold.

“Goodnight, Commander Thorn. Commander Fox.”

Fox gave you a single nod.

Thorn, ever the warmer one, offered a parting smile. “Sleep easy, Senator. We’ve got eyes on your building all night.”

You stepped inside.

And as the door closed behind you, you pressed your back to it… smiling. Just a little.

One was a wall. The other a gate.

And both were beginning to open.

⸻

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

“The Lesser of Two Wars” Pt.1

Commander Fox x Senator Reader x Commander Thorn

Summary: The senator becomes the quiet obsession of two elite commanders, sparking a slow-burn love triangle beneath the surface of duty and politics.

If anyone ever asked, you’d tell them you became a Senator by accident.

You weren’t born with a silver tongue or bred in the soft halls of Coruscant. No. You earned your seat by scraping your way up through the mess of planetary diplomacy, one bitter compromise at a time. And somehow—against your better judgment—you’d gotten good at it.

Politics were war without blasters.

And most days, you’d rather take a shot to the chest than attend another committee meeting.

Still, here you were—draped in crimson silks, shoulders squared like armor, and face carved into the perfect expression of interest. The Senate roared with debate. Systems cried for resources. Sycophants whispered and bartered behind you. But your voice—when you chose to use it—cut through like a vibroblade. That’s what made you dangerous.

Padmé once told you that change was a quiet thing, made in corridors and council rooms, not just battlefields. You told her it felt more like drowning slowly in bureaucracy. She just smiled like she knew a secret you didn’t.

The Senate was a performance.

A stage lined with robes instead of armor, filled with actors who knew how to posture but not how to listen.

You hated it.

And yet, you were one of its stars—elected against the odds, sharp-tongued, unrelenting, and quietly feared by those who underestimated you. You never pretended to like the political game. You just played it better than most.

Still, days like this tested your patience. The emergency session dragged past the second hour, voices rising, layered with false concern and masked self-interest. You didn’t roll your eyes—but it was a near thing.

“Senator,” came the calm voice of a nearby aide. “Security detail has arrived to sweep the outer hall. Commander Fox, Commander Thorn.”

You turned your head slightly as the two men entered the chamber.

Fox came first.

Red armor, regulation-sharp posture, unreadable expression. His presence was quiet but absolute, a man built for control. He walked with measured steps, every movement efficient. You watched him briefly—no longer than anyone else in the room—and noted how his gaze swept the perimeter with military precision.

He didn’t look at you. Not directly. Not for more than a second.

But you noticed the exact moment he registered you.

His shoulders didn’t shift. His mouth didn’t twitch. Nothing gave him away.

But you were good at reading people. And Fox? He was good at not being read.

Thorn followed.

Equally sharp, but louder in presence. His armor bore the polished gleam of someone who took pride in every inch of presentation. He offered a crisp nod to the aides and exchanged a brief, professional word with Senator Organa.

His eyes passed over you once. No pause. No flicker. But the angle of his head adjusted half a degree your way when he moved to stand by the chamber doors. Like he’d marked your position—nothing more.

Professional. Respectful. Untouched.

You exhaled slowly and turned back to your datapad.

Two Commanders. Two versions of unshakable.

You’d been warned of their reputations, of course. Fox, the stoic hammer of Coruscant. Thorn, the bold shield. Both deeply loyal to the Guard. Both rarely assigned together. Their presence meant the Senate was bracing for tension—possibly violence.

You liked them already.

Not because they were charming. Not because they were handsome—though they were, infuriatingly so.

But because they didn’t stare. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t approach with the practiced familiarity of most men who wanted something from a Senator.

No, they were disciplined. Detached.

And that, somehow, made them more dangerous than the rest.

⸻

Later, as the session adjourned and conversation bled into the marble corridors, you passed by them on your way to the lift.

Fox gave a slight incline of his head. Barely a greeting.

Thorn stood perfectly still, gaze straight ahead.

You didn’t stop. You didn’t speak.

But as the lift doors closed behind you, you felt it in your chest—that faint, inexplicable tightness. The kind that warned you of a fight you hadn’t seen coming.

And would never be able to vote your way out of.

⸻

The reception was loud.

Not in volume—but in elegance. Every glass clink, every diplomatic smile, every strategically placed compliment. That was how politicians shouted: with opulence, posture, and carefully crafted subtext.

You stood among it all, still in your robes from earlier, the deep crimson of your sleeves catching the soft amber light of the chandeliers. Surrounding you were names that made the galaxy shiver: Organa, Amidala, Mothma, Chuchi. Allies. Friends. Survivors.

You sipped something you didn’t like and watched the room, bored.

“Twice in one day?” Mon Mothma leaned in gently. “You deserve a medal.”

“Or a decent drink,” you muttered.

Padmé snorted into her glass.

You gave them a smile—small, real—and let your eyes drift.

And there they were. Again.

Commander Fox stood posted by the far archway.

Commander Thorn lingered near the entry steps. Both in armor. Both on duty. Both immaculately indifferent to the golden reception unfolding around them.

You could’ve ignored them.

You should’ve.

But after a half-hour of polite conversation and nothing to sink your teeth into, the idea of a genuine challenge was too appealing to resist.

You slipped away from your group, threading through gowns and murmurs. Your steps were casual but deliberate.

Thorn noticed first. You caught the faint movement of his helmet tilting. Then, quickly and without announcement, you redirected toward Fox.

He didn’t flinch. Not when you stopped a polite distance from him. Not when you met his visor directly. Not even when you tilted your head and offered the first word.

“You know,” you said mildly, “you’re very good at pretending I’m not standing here.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then: “I’m on duty, Senator.”

You gave him a slow nod. “So you are. Must be terribly dull work, watching senators pretend they aren’t scheming.”

“I’ve seen worse.”

“Really?” You leaned in slightly. “What’s worse than watching politicians drink for four hours straight?”

He didn’t answer. But there was a pause—a longer one than regulation probably allowed.

Then finally: “This isn’t the place for conversation.”

“Neither was the Senate floor,” you replied, tone still light. “But you seemed comfortable enough ignoring me there, too.”

At that, something shifted. Barely.

His stance remained rigid. But there was a tightness in his voice now. Controlled tension.

“I don’t make it a habit to engage senators unnecessarily.”

You smiled. Not smug—genuinely amused.

“Don’t worry, Commander. I’m not here to engage you unnecessarily. I just wanted to see if you had a voice beneath all that silence.”

Another pause.

Then, quietly, like it had to be pried loose from steel:

“You’ve heard it now.”

And with that, he returned his gaze forward, unreadable once again.

You lingered a second longer than appropriate. Then turned, walking back to the crowd without looking over your shoulder.

Across the room, Thorn watched the entire exchange.

Didn’t move. Didn’t comment. But his gaze followed you as you rejoined your peers.

Unlike Fox, Thorn had no need for stillness. His restraint was a choice.

And he’d just decided not to intervene.

Not yet.

⸻

You hated how the armor caught the light.

Crimson and white, clean-cut, unblemished—too perfect. Commander Thorn didn’t just wear his armor; he carried it like a statement. Like confidence forged in durasteel.

He stood near one of the tall reception windows now, half-shadowed by draping silk and flickering light. Unlike Fox, who radiated stillness, Thorn watched everything in motion. His gaze tracked movement like a soldier born for the battlefield—alert, calculating, assessing.

But not unkind.

You’d caught his eye earlier during your exchange with Fox. He hadn’t interfered. Hadn’t so much as shifted his weight. But you saw the way he watched you walk away.

And now, with your patience for schmoozing officially dead, you veered toward him with no hesitation.

He acknowledged you before you spoke. A small nod. That alone told you he was already more accommodating than his brother-in-arms.

“Senator,” he said. Not cold. Not warm. Polite. Neutral.

“Commander Thorn,” you echoed, coming to a stop beside him. “You look like you’ve spent the last hour resisting the urge to roll your eyes.”

His mouth twitched. Almost a smile. “Discipline.”

“Right,” you said dryly. “That thing I’m told I lack.”

“Wouldn’t be so sure. You made it through three conversations with Senator Ask Aak without drawing a weapon.”

“That is discipline,” you murmured, half to yourself.

Thorn’s gaze didn’t waver, but there was something in the tilt of his head, the faint ease in his shoulders. He wasn’t as closed-off as Fox, but still impossibly hard to read. He didn’t lean in. Didn’t flirt. But he listened. Sharply.

“You don’t like these events,” he said plainly.

You raised an eyebrow. “I’m shocked it’s that obvious.”

“You’ve looked at the clock seven times.”

You smirked. “Maybe I was counting the seconds until someone interesting finally spoke to me.”

He said nothing to that—no flustered denial, no cocky retort. Just the same steady, unreadable look. But his fingers tapped once—just once—against the side of his thigh.

Interesting.

“I take it you don’t like politicians,” you added.

“I’m a Coruscant Guard, Senator. I don’t get the luxury of liking or disliking.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He turned his head slightly, visor reflecting soft gold.

“It’s the only one I’m giving you. For now.”

You were about to press that—to tease it open, to see if there was a warmer man behind the armor—but fate, cruel and punctual, had other plans.

“Senator!” came a voice from behind you. Shrill. Forced.

You didn’t have to turn to know who it was.

Senator Orn Free Taa. Slime.

Thorn’s posture straightened by the inch. You fought the urge to groan.

“Senator,” you greeted coolly, turning.

“I must speak with you about your position on the Sevarcos embargo. It’s urgent.” He smiled like a Hutt—greasy and too wide. “We can’t keep putting blind faith in the neutrality of mining guilds.”

You glanced at Thorn once more. He didn’t move. But the angle of his helmet, ever so subtle, told you he was still watching.

You gave him a single step back. The silent kind of goodbye.

He didn’t stop you. But his voice, soft and unhurried, followed you as you turned.

“Be careful, Senator. You look like you’re about to say what you really think.”

You smirked.

“Don’t worry, Commander. I’ve survived worse than honesty.”

⸻

“By the stars,” you hissed as the door closed behind you, muffling the tail end of the diplomatic reception, “I’m going to strangle Taa with his own headtails.”

Mon Mothma, lounging with practiced poise on your office settee, didn’t even flinch. “That’s the third time you’ve threatened to kill a fellow senator this month.”

“It’s not a threat if I have plans.” You flung your datapad onto the desk and tore off your formal sash like it personally offended you. “He cornered me twice. Once about mining guilds, and once about ‘strengthening our bipartisan bond,’ whatever the hell that means.”

Mon hummed, sipping something chilled. “You’re too good at your job. That’s the problem.”

You collapsed beside her, robe twisted at the collar and hair loosening from its earlier neatness. “I swear, if I get one more leering invitation to a strategy meeting over dinner—”

“You’ll start accepting them and sabotaging their food.”

You sighed deeply. “Tempting.”

The soft clink of glass was the only reply for a moment. It was late now. The reception had dwindled, but your irritation hadn’t. The pressure. The performance. The underhanded proposals thinly veiled behind political niceties. You hated it. Hated the hypocrisy. Hated that you had to smile while enduring it.

“I just—” you started again, quieter now. “I didn’t sign up for this to climb power ladders. I wanted to help. Not play diplomat dress-up while watching bills get butchered by people who care more about their name than the outcome.”

Mon glanced sideways at you, ever the picture of composed empathy. “And yet, you still manage to do good.”

You scoffed but said nothing more. Your throat felt tight in that old, familiar way. Not tears. Just frustration. A weight you couldn’t always name.

A polite knock cut the quiet.

You blinked, sat straighter. Mon rose, brushing down her dress with a grace you could never quite copy.

“Enter,” you called, standing as the door slid open.

Commander Fox stepped in.

Of course.

His armor gleamed despite the late hour. Hands clasped behind his back, posture impeccable, expression unreadable as always. A faint shimmer of exhaustion touched the edges of his movements, but it never cracked the facade.

“Apologies for the interruption, Senator,” he said, voice even, “but I’m required to confirm your quarters have been secured following the reception.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You’re personally doing room checks now, Commander?”

“Protocol,” he said simply. “A precaution. There’s been increased chatter about potential targeting of senators affiliated with the Trade Route Oversight.”

You and Mon exchanged a look.

“I’ll give you two a moment,” she said lightly, already stepping out. “Try not to threaten him with silverware.”

The door hissed shut behind her.

You turned to Fox, arms crossing loosely over your chest. “You weren’t stationed here earlier. Thorn had this wing.”

“He was reassigned.”

“How convenient,” you murmured, studying him.

Fox didn’t blink.

You sighed. “Well? Do you need me to stand still while you sweep for bombs? Or is this the part where you sternly lecture me about walking away from my escort earlier?”

To your surprise, there was the slightest pause. A fraction of a beat too long.

“…You’re not as unreadable as you think,” you added, gaze narrowing. “You listen like you’re memorizing every word.”

“I am.”

That surprised you. Just a little.

“But not,” he continued, “because I intend to use any of it. Only because I’ve learned the most dangerous people in the galaxy are the ones everyone else stops listening to.”

Your arms dropped to your sides.

For once, you didn’t have a clever reply. Just a pulse that thudded too loud in the quiet.

Fox stepped past you, eyes scanning the perimeter of the room. His tone was quieter when he spoke again.

“You don’t need to pretend you’re unaffected. Not with me. But you do need to be careful, Senator. You’re surrounded by predators—”

You turned slightly. “And what are you?”

He looked at you then. Finally. Even through the helmet, it felt like impact.

“Trained,” he said.

Then he stepped back toward the door.

“Your quarters are secure. Good night, Senator.”

And just like that, he was gone.

You stood in the silence, heart still. Breath caught somewhere too deep in your chest.

Too good to show interest.

But stars, did he listen.

⸻

Next Chapter

Hi! I was so happy to see you take requests!! I was wondering if you could do a Hunter X reader where she takes care of his hair? Plays with it and brushes it maybe then he confesses his love for her?

You write so beautifully and I would love to see any of your added flare! 💖

“Flower Tactics”

Hunter x Reader

You’d never admit it out loud, but you were obsessed with Hunter’s hair.

Not just in a “wow, that man is rugged and beautiful” kind of way—which he was, obviously—but in a “let me run my fingers through it and brush it until it shines like war-hardened silk” kind of way. It was therapeutic. Meditative. And, much to your delight, he let you do it.

Today, he sat cross-legged on a crate while you perched behind him on a bench, methodically brushing through his dark locks. His bandana was off, laying beside him, and he looked entirely too relaxed for a trained soldier.

“Y’know,” you mused as you carefully untangled a knot, “if you were any more relaxed, I’d think you were napping.”

“I might be,” Hunter replied, voice low and content. “Your fingers are dangerous. You could put a rancor to sleep with that touch.”

“Is that a compliment or a warning?”

“Both.”

You laughed and leaned forward slightly, tugging the brush down again. “So… you’re telling me I have tactical hair magic?”

“I’m saying if you ever turn on us, brushing me into unconsciousness would be an effective ambush.”

A beat passed.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” you said sweetly, and Hunter let out a low, amused chuckle.

“I like her,” Wrecker announced from across the Marauder’s hull. He was munching on something that definitely wasn’t a vegetable. “She’s got a whole plan to take you down, and you’re just sittin’ there like a sleepy tooka.”

“Only because you’re jealous I’ve got hair to brush,” Hunter quipped back.

Wrecker puffed out his chest dramatically. “You think if I glue some on, she’ll brush mine too?”

“No,” you replied immediately. “But I’ll draw flowers on your scalp.”

Tech sighed. “Please don’t encourage him.”

“Oh, I’m not encouraging,” you grinned. “I’m enabling. Very different.”

You reached into the little pouch at your side and pulled out a tiny cluster of wildflowers—yellow, blue, soft white. Carefully, you started weaving them into Hunter’s braid.

He noticed.

“…Are you putting flowers in my hair?” His voice held that dangerous edge, but you could hear the smile buried underneath.

“Absolutely.”

“I’m a soldier.”

“Even soldiers deserve to look cute.”

“Cute?” he asked, amused.

“Devastatingly cute,” you corrected, giving the braid a final tug. “There. Now you’re battle-ready and bouquet-chic.”

From the back, Echo groaned. “I can’t believe I’m seeing this.”

“You’re just mad no one wants to flower-bomb your hair,” you teased.

“He doesn’t have any,” Omega piped up helpfully, skipping into the room. She stopped in front of Hunter and beamed. “You look so pretty!”

Hunter raised an eyebrow. “Pretty, huh?”

“You should let her do your hair every day,” Omega added slyly. “You smile more when she’s touching it.”

Hunter froze. So did you.

Wrecker burst into laughter so loud it shook the crate.

“Oof! She got you good!” he said, pointing at Hunter like it was the funniest thing he’d seen all week.

You cleared your throat, cheeks warm. “Smart kid.”

“She’s not wrong,” Hunter muttered.

You blinked. “…What?”

Hunter turned, slowly, looking up at you with that intense expression that made your brain short-circuit. “I do smile more when you touch me.”

It wasn’t a tease. It wasn’t a joke.

He meant it.

Your breath caught in your throat. “That’s… dangerous information.”

“I trust you with it.” His gaze softened. “And maybe a little more than that.”

You stared at him, heart hammering. “Are you saying…?”

“I’m saying I love it when you brush my hair. I love it when you laugh. I love it when you drive the others crazy, and when you sneak me extra caf rations, and when you make even this ship feel like home.”

Wrecker snorted. “Finally.”

Echo made a gagging noise. Tech muttered, “Statistically speaking, it was only a matter of time.”

Omega clapped her hands and declared, “About time!”

Hunter smiled up at you through his flower-crowned braid. “So? What do you say?”

You bent down and kissed his forehead, fingers brushing gently through his hair. “I say… I’m going to need a lot more flowers.”

⸻

The ship had gone still.

No snark from Echo. No clanking from Wrecker. No light tinkering from Tech. Even Omega was tucked into her bunk, curled up with Lula like the galaxy couldn’t touch her.

And in the silence of that rare peace, Hunter sat on the edge of your bed with his back to you, braid still woven down his back, the tiny wildflowers now a little wilted from the heat of the day.

You stepped behind him quietly, holding the soft brush he always let you use. Always yours to borrow.

“Can I?” you asked gently, even though you both already knew the answer.

Hunter nodded once. “Please.”

So you started at the bottom—slowly, carefully loosening the braid, your fingers delicate. The petals came free one by one, falling onto the blanket like pieces of some strange memory.

He didn’t speak. Not yet.

And you didn’t push him.

Instead, you moved gently through his hair, unwinding the tightness of the day. With each pass of your hands, his shoulders lowered, his breath slowed.

You didn’t need the words.

But you wanted them.

You loved him. You’d known it for a while now. And maybe you were scared that if you said it, it would break the fragile, perfect peace that this quiet moment gave you both.

But you didn’t have to say it first.

He did.

Softly. Barely above a whisper. Like it had been resting on his tongue all day, just waiting to be safe enough to speak.

“I love you.”

You froze—just for a breath. Then smiled so softly it ached in your chest.

“I know,” you whispered back, fingers brushing behind his ear. “I’ve known.”

He turned to look at you. Hair loose, shadowed eyes soft, vulnerability written in every line of his face.

“Then why haven’t you said it?”

You leaned in, resting your forehead against his. “Because I wanted you to say it first.”

Hunter huffed out a tiny laugh. “Tactical move.”

“Always,” you smiled.

He reached up and cupped your jaw gently, his touch feather-light. “I love you,” he repeated, more sure now. “Not just when you’re brushing my hair. Not just when you’re teasing the others. Always.”

You kissed him this time—slow and lingering, hands tangled in his now-loose hair, wild and soft between your fingers.

“I love you too,” you whispered into the space between your lips.

The flowers were gone. The braid undone.

But somehow, this moment felt even more whole.

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.

“Pull the Trigger”

Scorch (RC-1262) x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Suggestive content

You shouldn’t have let him take the detonator.

But here you were—sprinting down a blackened corridor on a Separatist cruiser, the air behind you thick with smoke and laughter. His laughter.

“Scorch!” you shouted, coughing. “That was not what I meant when I said ‘make a distraction’!”

He turned, grinning under his helmet, shoulders relaxed like this was a holiday and not a mission gone sideways. “Come on, mesh’la. It worked, didn’t it?”

“You blew out two support beams and almost buried us alive!”

He jogged backward in front of you, still grinning. “Almost only counts in sabacc and thermal charges. You should know that by now.”

You skidded to a stop near a still-smoking hatch, chest heaving. The emergency lights flickered blood-red across the metal walls, shadows dancing. Scorch leaned one arm against the bulkhead, casually blocking your path like this was some kind of game. His visor tilted down toward you.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you asked, trying to catch your breath.

His voice lowered, suddenly rougher. “Because you’re flushed, panting, and glaring at me like you want to kill me or kiss me.”

Your lips parted. “And if I do both?”

“Then I really hope you start with the kissing.”

The heat between you wasn’t from the explosions anymore.

You stepped forward, crowding into his space, fingers curling into the edge of his armor. “You know you’re a menace, right?”

Scorch reached up, tugged his helmet off with one hand and dropped it with a careless clatter.

“I’m your menace,” he said.

And then his mouth was on yours—hot, fast, unrelenting.

His hand cupped your jaw, tilting your head back so he could deepen the kiss, and you didn’t even try to hide the sound you made. It felt like falling into the middle of a detonation—chaotic and exhilarating and impossible to stop.

He tasted like heat and danger. The kind of kiss that burned.

You shoved him back against the wall and bit his bottom lip just enough to make him growl.

“You get off on this, don’t you?” you breathed. “The adrenaline. The explosions. Me pissed off and in your face.”

“I like the view,” he said, eyes dark and wild. “You in combat gear, cursing at me. Gets my blood pumping.”

You rolled your eyes, but your hands didn’t leave him. One of them slipped under a loosened strap on his chest plate. “You’re so full of it.”

“I’m full of something,” he muttered, voice low.

You kissed him again—harder this time. His hands found your hips, grounding you like a storm. You didn’t have time to undress, not here, not now—but Maker, you wanted to. And he knew it.

Instead, you just stayed locked together like that—gripping, kissing, devouring—until the hallway filled with smoke again and the comm crackled to life.

“Scorch, where the hell are you?” Sev’s voice snapped. “Extraction in four minutes.”

Scorch broke the kiss with a low groan and leaned his forehead against yours, breath hot on your skin.

“Guess we’ll have to finish this later, sweetheart.”

“Assuming you don’t blow us up first.”

He smirked. “Now where’s the fun in playing it safe?”

You grabbed your blaster and turned down the corridor. “You coming?”

He slipped his helmet back on, voice crackling through the filter. “Behind you, always.”

And as you ran, side by side toward the drop zone with the scent of smoke and something wilder still clinging to your lips, you knew this was how it would always be with him.

Fast. Fiery. Unpredictable.

A joyride with a lit fuse and no brakes.

And you wouldn’t trade it for anything.

this place sucks im gonna drink six beers and jack off

“Recalibration”

Tech x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Suggestive content, spicy tension, clothing still on, touches and innuendo, mild dominance/control themes

You’d noticed it before—how Tech’s fingers twitched just slightly when you leaned over him to grab a datapad. How his jaw clenched when you touched his shoulder in passing. The way his eyes—behind those lenses—followed you a fraction too long.

You didn’t push. Not at first. But you knew.

You knew.

And you waited.

Until now.

The Marauder was parked and quiet. Everyone else was either sleeping or out doing recon. You stayed behind under the excuse of “gear maintenance,” but Tech knew that was a lie. You could see it in the way he hadn’t looked up from his diagnostics once since you sat down across from him. But the corner of his mouth twitched like he was waiting for something.

The tension was coiled between you like a tripwire.

You stretched, slowly, arms overhead—shirt lifting just slightly at the waist—and Tech’s eyes flicked upward before he caught himself and looked back down.

But not fast enough.

You smiled.

“Problem, Tech?”

He adjusted his goggles. “No. Merely running recalibrations on the navigation matrix. Your movement caught my periphery.”

“My movement?”

He paused. “…yes.”

You stood and crossed to him, leaning on the console, your hip nearly brushing his shoulder.

“I don’t think it’s the matrix that needs recalibrating.”

He stilled.

When he looked up this time, there was something… not clinical in his expression. Something sharp. Focused. Hungry.

“You’re provoking a reaction,” he said, voice low.

“I know.”

He rose slowly, the air between you crackling with heat. He stepped forward—and kept stepping until your back hit the bulkhead behind you. The flat metal cooled your skin where your spine met it. His hand came up beside your head, not touching but close enough to make your breath catch.

“I’ve been very patient,” he murmured, eyes scanning yours like he was mapping terrain.

“Too patient,” you said, voice a whisper.

His hand ghosted up your arm. “You want satisfaction.”

It wasn’t a question.

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to.

He leaned in, lips brushing your jaw—not quite kissing, not yet. His hand slipped around your waist, fingers splayed, controlling without force.

“I’m accustomed to solving problems with precision,” he said, mouth at your ear now, voice as steady as a scalpel. “And I have studied you—extensively.”

You let out a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh.

“You’ve been studying me?”

“I observe everything,” he said simply. “The way your breath hitches when I remove my gloves. The way your pupils dilate when I speak close to your ear. The way you pretend not to notice when I watch you.”

His hand moved lower—fingertips dragging slowly, teasing over fabric.

“I’ve considered all variables,” he went on. “The tension. The time. The proximity. And I’ve concluded…”

His lips finally pressed to yours—precise, controlled, until you responded with something not controlled at all. Then he let go. Just a little.

You moaned against his mouth, hands gripping the front of his gear, pulling him in. His kiss deepened, mouth commanding now, and he pressed you harder into the wall, like he’d been waiting months for this.

Maybe he had.

When he pulled back, barely, he breathed:

“I am very thorough.”

You laughed, a little breathless, a little wrecked.

“I can tell.”

Tech’s hand curved along the inside of your thigh, over clothes, but still enough to make you shudder.

He tilted his head. “Your reaction suggests positive feedback.”

You kissed him again—harder this time—and gasped against his mouth. “Keep going and I’ll give you a damn thesis.”

His smirk was quick and hot and wicked.

“Excellent. I do enjoy peer-reviewed results.”

And then he was kissing you again, touch deliberate, every movement calculated for maximum effect—like you were another piece of tech he had mastered. Only this time, you were the one burning under his hands, unraveling under precision.

No chaos.

No wild passion.

Just sharp edges.

Purpose.

Satisfaction.

“The Brightest Flame”

Gregor x Fem!Reader

Inspired by “The Last Goodbye” by Billy Boyd

The desert winds of Seelos whispered through the rusted bones of the old Republic walker.

Gregor sat at the top of a jagged ridge, legs dangling over the edge like a boy far younger than the years he wore in his bones. You sat beside him in silence, watching the sun fall slowly into the red horizon. The heat clung to your skin, but his shoulder was warm in a different way.

You glanced at him. He was smiling, a faint, tired little thing.

“You’re quiet tonight.”

Gregor hummed, voice gravelly but calm. “Guess I’ve said all the crazy things already.”

You chuckled softly. “Not all of them.”

He turned to you then—eyes bright, clear. Not like they used to be. Not the dazed flicker of a soldier half-lost in his own mind. These days, there were more good hours than bad ones. More memory than confusion.

You reached over, brushing a curl of silvered hair from his brow. “You’ve come a long way, you know.”

“So have you.”

“I didn’t have to claw my way out of an explosion and then survive a war I barely remember,” you said.

He tilted his head. “No, you just chose to stay. With me. That’s a different kind of hard.”

The wind picked up. A low, lonely sound that echoed like old battlefields buried in the sand.

Gregor’s smile faded, just a little.

“I think about them sometimes,” he admitted. “My brothers. Darman. Niner. The others I can’t remember.”

You didn’t speak. You just let him.

“I remember fire. And noise. And… laughing. I think I laughed a lot back then.”

“You still do.”

He shook his head gently. “No. Not the same. That laugh back then—it didn’t have so many ghosts in it.”

You reached for his hand, threading your fingers through his calloused ones.

“I love your laugh now. Even when it’s haunted.”

He turned to you, really turned, and the ache in his expression nearly undid you.

“You know what scares me?” he asked softly.

You waited.

“That I’ll forget everything. That one day, I’ll wake up, and your name will be gone. Your face. This moment.”

You gripped his hand tighter. “Then I’ll remind you.”

He let out a shaky breath, lips curving into something fragile. “You’d do that?”

You leaned in, resting your head on his shoulder, heart aching in the quiet.

“Every single time.”

For a long while, neither of you spoke.

The sky bled into twilight—soft, violet hues kissing the edges of the wrecked cruiser below. It was beautiful in a way only something broken could be.

Gregor broke the silence with a whisper.

“You know that song you sing sometimes? About farewells?”

You nodded slowly. “‘The Last Goodbye.’”

He tilted his head against yours. “Sing it again?”

Your voice was soft, barely above the wind. The words carried into the dark like starlight.

“I saw the light fade from the sky

On the wind I heard a sigh…”

Gregor closed his eyes.

You didn’t sing to fix him. You sang because he deserved to be remembered. To have beauty tethered to his broken edges.

You sang until your voice trembled.

Until the stars blinked awake above you.

Until his breathing slowed and steadied, his hand never leaving yours.

And when the final verse faded—

“Though I leave, I’ve gone too soon

I am not leaving you…”

Gregor whispered, voice rough:

“I love you.”

You smiled through tears. “I love you, too.”

And in the stillness, wrapped in the ghosts of his past and the promise of your presence, Gregor held on.

To the moment.

To you.

To what little peace he had left.

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

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

“Echoes in the Dust”

The Bad Batch x Fem!Reader

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

The ridge was narrow. Too narrow.

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

It was never simple.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“[Y/N]—!”

You dropped.

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

Then the world became air and stone and darkness.

⸻

Above, everything exploded into chaos.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She’s dead.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She’s alive,” he said.

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

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

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

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

She trusted you, Crosshair had said.

No. She trusted him.

And he’d failed her.

Hunter turned and began strapping a rope to his belt.

“Sergeant?” Tech asked cautiously.

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

Echo moved first. “I’m with you.”

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

Even Crosshair nodded, silent again.

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

She can’t be gone.

Not you.

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

He’d find you.

Or die trying.

⸻

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your figure.

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

Hunter nearly dropped the lantern.

“[Y/N]—!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Crosshair didn’t respond.

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

The med evac was chaotic.

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

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

And Hunter… he sat beside you.

His hands were covered in your blood.

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

No one argued. No one corrected him.

Because part of them believed it too.

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

“She moved!” he barked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Only Crosshair said nothing.

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

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

He rested his hand beside yours.

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

There was a pause.

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

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

But your vitals held.

You were still fighting.

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

⸻

It started with a sound.

A weak, choked wheeze from the medbay.

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

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

“Tech!”

Footsteps thundered in from the cockpit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He looked up then, eyes glassy behind his goggles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then a spike.

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

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

Wrecker dropped to his knees beside you, voice trembling.

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

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

Your fingers twitched.

A tiny movement. Almost nothing.

But Wrecker gasped.

“She moved!”

Tech’s head snapped up. “What?”

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

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

You let out a weak, pained breath.

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

“…H-Hun…ter…”

Both men froze.

Tears filled Wrecker’s eyes.

“She said his name…”

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

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

“There’s still time.”

They kept watch through the night. Neither slept.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

⸻

The Marauder was silent.

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

And Echo stayed awake.

He always did.

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

He hadn’t moved for hours.

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

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

Your lips moved.

Barely.

He straightened. “Hey…?”

Your fingers twitched under his hand.

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

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

Your eyes opened.

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

“…Echo…?”

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

Echo’s mouth fell open.

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

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

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

Your brow furrowed faintly. “Hurts.”

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

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

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

You obeyed—too tired to fight it.

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

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

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

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

There was a long pause.

You looked up at him, brow knitting again.

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

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

“But you stayed.”

“Of course I stayed.”

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

“You haven’t slept.”

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

Another silence.

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

“…I’m sorry.”

Echo stared at you, stunned.

“For what?” he breathed.

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

His expression broke. “No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m here.”

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

“You’re here.”

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

But Echo met Hunter’s gaze.

And nodded.

“She woke up.”

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

Salve! I was wondering if you could do a 501st x Fem!Reader where she can comfort the boys after they have nightmares. Cuddly and fluffy fic? Love your work! 💙🇳🇴

“The Warmth Between Wars”

501st x Fem!Reader

⸻

The war was quiet tonight, at least on this side of the stars.

Your bunk was tucked into the corner of the 501st’s temporary barracks, a little pocket of calm in a galaxy always set to burn. The lights were dim, the hum of the base a low lull, and most of the troopers were supposed to be asleep.

But you’d learned that sleep didn’t come easy to men who’d seen too much.

That’s why you stayed awake—your blankets soft and open, arms ready, heart steady.

The first to appear was Hardcase—because of course it was. Loud in everything he did except when he was hurting. You heard his footsteps even before you saw him.

“Hey,” he said sheepishly, scratching the back of his neck. “Couldn’t shut my brain off. Kept hearing the gunfire… y’know. Just noise. Dumb.”

You patted the spot beside you. “It’s not dumb.”

Hardcase flopped down like a kicked puppy, curling into your side with his head pressed against your chest. “You smell better than blaster fire,” he mumbled.

You chuckled, brushing a hand through his wild hair. “High praise.”

A few minutes later, Echo slipped in like a ghost, eyes hollow.

“Wasn’t even my nightmare,” he whispered. “It was Fives’. I heard him in his sleep.”

“Then bring him too.”

Echo looked back over his shoulder. Sure enough, Fives emerged from the shadows, rubbing his eyes.

“You’re like a kriffing magnet,” Fives grumbled, but he smiled when he saw you and Hardcase.

“Only for broken things,” you teased softly.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Fives replied, nestling in beside Echo, his back brushing yours. You reached back and grabbed his hand, grounding him.

The bunk was growing crowded—but there was always room.

Kix came next, grumbling about how it wasn’t “medically advisable” for this many people to share a bunk, but you knew better.

“You’re not here for medical advice, are you?” you asked.

“…No,” he muttered, surrendering as he slid under the blanket at your feet, resting his head near your knees.

Then Appo arrived, quiet and unsure, his helmet still on.

“You can take it off,” you said gently. “You don’t have to wear the war in here.”

He hesitated… then removed it.

The look in his eyes told you everything: too many losses. Too much weight.

You pulled him down beside you. “Just for tonight, let it go.”

Jesse and Dogma came together—one cracked jokes, the other said nothing. But both of them settled close, drawn by the comfort you offered without needing to ask.

Eventually, even Rex came.

He stood at the edge of the pile like a soldier standing watch. Not ready to be vulnerable. Not yet.

“Captain?” you said softly.

His eyes flicked to yours.

You didn’t pressure him. Just opened your arm, just a little, just enough.

Rex hesitated… then stepped forward and sank to the floor beside your bunk, resting his head against your thigh. You ran your fingers through his hair, slow and steady.

No one spoke for a while. The room was warm with breath and body heat, filled with the soft sound of steady inhales.

For just a few hours, there was no war. No armor. No titles. Just tired men wrapped around someone who loved them.

You pressed your lips to the crown of Fives’ head, gave Jesse’s hand a squeeze, and reached down to cup Rex’s cheek.

“You’re safe,” you whispered. “All of you. Tonight, you’re safe.”

And the nightmares stayed away.

“Collateral Morals” pt.3

Commander Thorn x Senator Reader

The door to the medcenter’s private lounge hissed shut behind you.

Thorn stood by the window, shoulders square, helmet tucked under his arm. He hadn’t moved since your approach—not even when you softly said his name. He just stared out over the Coruscant skyline like it held all the answers he didn’t want to give.

“You didn’t have to say any of that,” you murmured.

He didn’t turn. “You shouldn’t have heard it.”

“I did.”

Silence. The kind that suffocates instead of soothes.

“I almost died today,” you said, quieter now. “And I wasn’t afraid—not until I thought I wouldn’t see you again.”

That got him. His jaw clenched, his hand flexed slightly around the helmet.

Still, he didn’t turn.

You stepped closer.

“I know what I am to Palpatine,” you said. “I know what I am to the Senate. But I also know what I am to myself. And I decide who I fight for. Who I—”

You stopped yourself.

He finally turned.

His gaze locked on yours, unreadable. But there was fire under it. Desperation held at bay by sheer force of discipline.

You reached up slowly and brushed your fingers across his cheekbone.

Then you kissed his cheek—softly, gently—just a press of lips and intent.

He inhaled like it hurt. Like that tiny moment cracked something deep in him he’d welded shut for too long.

You barely had time to step back before his hand caught your wrist.

“Don’t,” he warned, voice hoarse.

“Don’t what?” you asked, eyes searching his. “Don’t remind you you’re human? Don’t care about the man who’s taken a thousand blaster bolts for people who’ll never say thank you?”

His grip on your wrist tightened—but not in anger.

In surrender.

When he kissed you, it wasn’t gentle.

It was weeks—months—of denial and fury and silent longing crashing into one devastating moment. His hand cupped the back of your neck, pulling you flush to him, mouth slanting against yours with heat and hunger and restraint just barely breaking.

You gasped against his lips, fingers curling into the chest plate of his armor.

He pulled back only slightly, forehead resting against yours, breath ragged.

“This can’t happen,” he whispered. “Not with the world watching.”

“No one’s watching right now.”

Another breath.

Another pause.

“Stars help me.”

And then he kissed you again—this time slower, deeper, with the kind of reverence that felt like goodbye…but tasted like finally.

⸻

You didn’t see Thorn for the rest of the night.

He left with a muttered apology and a promise to update the security perimeter. Left you standing in that medcenter hallway with your lips tingling and your heart pounding like it had just broken orbit.

By morning, he was back to his place at your side—precise, professional, and maddeningly unreadable.

But you felt it. Every time he stood too close. Every time his fingers brushed yours when he handed over a datapad. Every time you looked up from your notes and found him already watching you.

The morning dragged with briefings, follow-up reports, and a thousand quiet, political fires to douse. The media was frothing at the mouth, both condemning and romanticizing the assassination attempt. Holonet headlines split between calling you reckless and righteous. Some claimed the attack was staged.

None of that mattered.

Because your speech on clone rights was in twenty-four hours, and everything would either change or implode.

Which is why, after dodging three lobbyists and an overzealous committee head, you found yourself in the Chancellor’s private garden, seated across from him in the dappled sunlight of the Senate’s oldest courtyard.

“You never were good at letting people protect you,” Sheev said lightly, sipping his tea. His guards, including Fox, stood discreetly in the background. Yours stood just as close. Thorn, like a shadow.

“I don’t need protection,” you replied, tone too sharp. “I need the truth.”

Sheev smiled—soft, amused, a little tired. “Ah. There she is.”

You frowned. “You always say that. What do you mean by it?”

His eyes flicked toward yours, and for the briefest moment, something ancient passed between you. Not cruel. Not kind. Just… knowing.

“You forget, my dear,” he said quietly, “I’ve known you since before you even knew who you were.”

You blinked. “Sheev…”

“I warned you this bill would make enemies.” He set his cup down gently. “And still you press forward. Still you speak for them, even when they cannot speak for themselves. That’s why I… care. Why I sent the guards before you even asked.”

You didn’t respond right away. A breeze lifted the hem of your shawl. Thorn shifted behind you, ever-present, ever silent.

“Sheev… Why do you always look out for me, really?” you asked at last, softly.

His smile was small, secretive. “A legacy. A spark. Perhaps… the only one left who remembers who I was before all this.”

He reached out and gently patted your bandaged arm. “So take care, my dear. The brighter you burn, the more shadows you cast.”

Later that evening, as you reviewed the final draft of your speech, you felt the tension coil tighter in the room.

Thorn stood by the window, pretending to review security updates. But you knew he wasn’t reading them.

“I’m still doing it,” you said, not looking up from your datapad.

“I know.”

“And you’re still going to try and stop anyone from hurting me.”

“I’ll kill them first.”

You glanced up.

Thorn’s face was blank. But his eyes weren’t.

You stood and walked toward him, datapad forgotten.

“This doesn’t scare you?” you asked. “What’s about to happen?”

“I’ve been bred for war,” he replied. “But you… you’re marching into something I can’t shoot my way out of.”

You stepped closer.

He didn’t move.

“They’ll come for you after this,” he said. “They’ll smear you. Silence you. Maybe worse.”

“I don’t care.”

He looked down at you, jaw tight.

“I do.”

There was no kiss this time. No heat. Just quiet. Just that fragile thing neither of you could name anymore.

Then he whispered, almost against his will,

“If I lose you… I lose the only good thing I’ve ever had.”

⸻

The Chamber was filled with a hundred murmuring voices, thousands of glowing pods drifting through its cavernous air like stars in orbit—an artificial galaxy of opinions, power, and politics.

You stood at its center.

Not on a podium.

Not behind the usual barrier between you and them.

You requested to speak from the floor, where soldiers stood during war briefings. Where men like Thorn bled for a Republic that still debated whether they were people or property.

The moment your pod activated and floated to the center, the chamber dimmed. Silence rippled outward. The Chancellor looked down from his high throne, unmoving. The Senators stared, curious.

And Thorn?

He stood by the wall behind you, a silent sentinel, his helmet clipped to his belt. He watched you like the entire galaxy depended on it.

Because maybe it did.

You exhaled slowly, adjusted the mic, and began.

“I stand before you today not as a politician,” you said, “but as a citizen of the Republic… and as someone who refuses to look away any longer.”

A few murmurs. Standard fare. You kept going.

“The Republic abolished slavery. We enshrined freedom and autonomy into our laws. And yet—every single day—we send a slave army to die for us.”

That got attention.

Real, shifting, heavy attention.

You could feel it in the air. The stirring. The discomfort.

“I have seen firsthand how the clones live. How they are bred, trained, deployed—and discarded. And I ask you this: when did we decide that genetically engineered soldiers were somehow less deserving of the rights we promised every sentient being in this galaxy?”

One senator stood abruptly. “These are dangerous accusations!”

“They are truths,” you countered, voice ringing clear. “I am not here to shame the army. I am here to shame us. They serve with honor. We lead with cowardice.”

Palpatine did not react.

Not visibly.

But you saw his fingers fold together slowly, precisely.

You turned slightly, catching Thorn’s eyes briefly. He gave you the smallest of nods.

“They are not expendable. They are not tools. They are men. Brothers. Sons. Heroes. And they deserve recognition, freedom, and the right to choose their own futures.”

You reached into your sleeve and produced a small datapad.

“This bill—The Sentient Rights Amendment—will enshrine personhood into law for all clone troopers, mandating post-war compensation, choice of discharge, and full citizenship.”

Outrage. Cheers. Scoffs. A wave of sound rolled over the chamber.

You let it.

You wanted it.

Because silence had kept them enslaved for too long.

You looked straight at the Chancellor’s pod.

And for once, his smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“I have been warned. Threatened. Nearly killed. But I will not stop.”

Your voice dropped slightly, but the words struck harder than ever.

“Because if we cannot recognize the humanity in those who fight for us… then perhaps we never had any to begin with.”

The mic shut off.

Silence fell once more.

And in that breathless moment, your eyes found Thorn again—still unmoving, but his hand had curled into a fist against his thigh.

Not out of rage.

Out of hope.

And maybe… something dangerously close to pride.

⸻

The door to your private quarters sealed behind you with a soft hiss.

Your fingers trembled—not from fear, but adrenaline still crackling in your veins like an aftershock. You’d done it. You’d stood before the entire Senate and spoken the truth, every brutal syllable. No sugarcoating. No diplomacy. Just raw, righteous fire.

Your hand reached for the decanter near the bar, but before you could pour, you sensed him.

Thorn. Silent. Present. A force of nature in your periphery.

“I didn’t ask for a shadow tonight,” you said over your shoulder, keeping your voice light. “Unless you’re here to drink with me.”

“You were nearly killed last week,” he replied. “You’re not getting one night off from protection because you’re feeling brave.”

You finally looked at him.

He stood just inside the doorway, helm tucked under one arm, red kama dark in the low lighting. His face unreadable—always unreadable—but his eyes had that sharp, glowing heat that you were beginning to recognize. Something he kept buried. Something you kept digging up.

“You heard it all?” you asked, quieter now.

He nodded once.

“What’d you think?”

Thorn didn’t answer right away. Instead, he crossed the room with slow, deliberate steps. Each one sounded louder than it should have. Maybe because your heart wouldn’t stop pounding. Maybe because you wanted to hear him move, like confirmation that he was real.

When he stopped in front of you, barely a foot away, you could smell the faint trace of durasteel and citrus polish that always clung to him.

“You speak like a weapon,” he said, voice low. “You make people listen. You make them feel.”

That wasn’t what you expected. “I make them angry.”

“You make them remember they still have souls.”

There it was again—that crack in the armor. That flicker of something he refused to name. But it was closer now. Closer than ever.

You looked up at him, suddenly too aware of the space between you.

And the fact that neither of you was stepping back.

“Thorn,” you said softly, unsure what was about to happen.

He leaned forward, head tilting just slightly until his forehead almost touched yours. Almost.

“I remember everything,” he murmured. “Every time you test me. Every time you look at me like you’re daring me to slip.”

“I don’t mean to—”

“You do.”

A beat of silence.

Your breath caught.

And his gloved hand reached up, slow, steady—cupping your cheek like he was touching something sacred. He didn’t kiss you. Not yet. But his thumb brushed the edge of your jaw, and your resolve shattered like glass beneath his calloused touch.

“I can’t be what you want,” he said, jaw tight. “Not while this war is still burning.”

“I don’t need perfect,” you whispered. “I just need you.”

He closed his eyes, leaning into your touch.

And for a single, stolen moment, his walls collapsed.

You pressed your lips to his—not out of seduction, but desperation.

And Thorn… let it happen.

Then returned it.

Firm. Unapologetic. Hands gripping your waist like a man starved of something only you could give.

When he finally pulled away, breath ragged, his forehead rested against yours.

“This doesn’t change who I am,” he warned.

“I wouldn’t want it to.”

“You’re going to make this impossible, aren’t you?”

You smiled, eyes still closed. “That’s kind of my thing.”

⸻

The Senate floor was still echoing with the aftermath of your speech. The proposed bill—once a bold declaration—was now a detonated explosive, and the shockwaves had begun to rattle the Republic’s most carefully constructed pillars. Some senators were emboldened. Some were enraged. But most… were afraid.

And fear was Sheev’s favorite thing.

So when you received his personal request for a private meeting—no guards, no aides—you didn’t hesitate. You knew what it meant.

This wasn’t a request.

This was a reckoning.

Sheev stood at the broad window overlooking the City, hands clasped behind his back, as though he were observing a galaxy already in his grasp. His robes shimmered faintly in the dim light. For once, he didn’t mask the edge in his voice when you entered.

“You should have listened when I told you to let this go,” he said.

You crossed your arms. “I’ve never listened to you when it mattered. Why start now?”

He turned to face you slowly, expression carved from marble. “This bill has made enemies of powerful people. Systems that were once on our side are pulling their support. You’re fracturing the illusion of control. Of order.”

“Good,” you said coolly. “Maybe they’ll finally see that this war isn’t order—it’s manipulation. It’s slavery with a shinier name.”

A flash of irritation crossed his face. “You are standing on the edge of a very thin wire, my dear. And I am the one who decides if you fall.”

Your gaze sharpened, steel beneath silk. “So don’t catch me next time?”

He blinked. Slightly caught off guard.

You took a step forward. Not threatening—but unshaken.

“You want to protect me, Sheev. Because once, we were friends. You watched me rise in this Senate. Watched me set rooms on fire with my words. And maybe—maybe—there’s a part of you that remembers what it felt like to believe in something before power hollowed you out.”

His mouth twitched. A rare, dangerous smile.

“I protect what I can control,” he said simply.

You tilted your head. “Then that explains it. Why you’re finally done protecting me.”

Silence settled like dust between you.

Then, you let the words fall from your lips like the cut of a knife:

“You’re not the puppet anymore. You’re the master. No more hidden hands. No more cloaks and whispers.”

His face remained neutral, but something shifted behind his eyes. The faintest flicker. Not surprise—no, he was beyond that. But perhaps a recognition. Of danger. Of defiance.

You stepped closer, voice quiet but sharp as a vibroblade.

“You want strings? Find another doll. Because I won’t dance for you. Not in chains. Not ever.”

For a moment, he just stared.

Then he chuckled, low and slow.

“You’re braver than most,” he said softly. “But bravery is so often mistaken for foolishness. And foolish senators tend to meet… premature ends.”

You didn’t flinch.

“Then I suppose I’ll just have to be loud enough that the whole galaxy hears me before I go.”

You left the Chancellor’s office with your jaw set and heart hammering. The air outside the Senate complex felt thinner somehow. Like the planet knew. Like something knew.

There was a weight on your chest as you descended the polished steps, the kind you couldn’t reason away. Thorn wasn’t waiting for you—he had been pulled to another meeting, a reassignment shuffle. You were supposed to be protected. But at the Chancellor’s request… you’d come alone.

Your speeder sat sleek and silent in the private loading dock. You didn’t notice the subtle shimmer of tampered wiring along the undercarriage. Didn’t feel the wrongness in the air as you keyed in the start code.

Too angry. Too rattled. Too sure of yourself.

You rocketed upward into the Coruscant skyline.

And then everything ruptured.

Not in fire—not at first. It was more like the air being ripped apart. Then heat. Then white light and spinning glass and screaming metal and a blinding flash that swallowed the world.

Your speeder broke apart mid-air. Rigged. Remote-triggered.

There was no time to scream. No time to brace.

You were weightless.

Then…

Nothing.

⸻

He didn’t run.

He walked with iron in his spine and a hollow in his chest. Walked like a man who already knew, but needed to see with his own eyes before the earth gave out under him.

Fox was there. No words exchanged.

They didn’t need to be.

She was already gone when they pulled her out of the wreckage. No pulse. No miracles. Just wrecked beauty and blood on marble skin.

Thorn stood over the body, jaw clenched, fingers shaking ever so slightly as he reached out and brushed a piece of charred hair from her forehead.

“I was right behind you,” he said hoarsely. “I was coming.”

He didn’t cry.

He didn’t move.

Just stood there, muscles locked in silence, until a nurse gently placed her hand on his arm.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

He nodded once. Then left the room like a man retreating from a war he’d already lost.

⸻

Later That Night Fox stood before Chancellor Palpatine.

“She’s dead,” Fox said, his voice low, unreadable.

Palpatine stood with his back to the towering windows, the light of Coruscant’s endless skyline gleaming coldly on his robes. He didn’t turn.

“I know,” he said quietly.

There was no satisfaction in his voice. No cunning, no venom. Just… stillness.

“She was my niece.”

Fox froze.

Palpatine finally turned to face him, eyes shadowed but bright—burning with something deeper than grief.

“Not by blood most would count,” he said. “But I raised her like my own. Protected her. Watched her grow into that firebrand of a woman.” He inhaled slowly, his hands clasped behind his back. “She defied me to the last breath. As I expected.”

Fox’s throat worked. “Then why—?”

“I didn’t order this,” Palpatine interrupted sharply, the chill in his voice sharp as a blade. “I warned her to stop because I knew it was coming. I heard whispers. But I never gave the command.”

Silence stretched between them.

“I want the one who arranged it,” Palpatine said, voice dropping to a deadly low. “I want them found. I want them dragged before me, crawling, broken, pleading for death.”

He stepped closer to Fox, and though his posture was composed, the darkness behind his gaze crackled.

“She was mine. And my blood has been spilled.”

He paused. The mask of the Chancellor slipped just enough for the monster beneath to bleed through.

“Tell Thorn,” he said, voice like a storm about to break, “that if he truly loved her—he will find the ones responsible… before I do.”

Fox nodded stiffly, spine straight. “Yes, Chancellor.”

“And Fox,” Palpatine said, voice lowering once more, “when we find them… there will be no mercy.”

⸻

Previous Part

“Collateral Morals” pt.2

Commander Thorn x Senator Reader

It was late—later than it should’ve been for a senator still in heels and warpaint, sprawled across the plush bench of her apartment’s balcony with a drink in hand.

You heard the door behind you hiss open and didn’t need to look.

“Come to stand in the shadows again, Commander?” you asked, not unkindly.

Thorn didn’t answer right away. His boots were heavy against the stone. Methodical. Closer.

“I never left,” he said.

You turned your head, gaze trailing up from the rim of your glass to where he stood in that same godsdamn perfect stance. Helmet in hand. Armor lit by the city’s glow.

“You know, I’ve had men try to seduce me with less intensity than you just standing there.”

Thorn’s jaw tightened. “That’s not what I’m here for.”

“No,” you said, rising to your feet, slow and measured. “You’re here because someone tried to kill me and the Chancellor likes keeping his headaches alive.”

You stepped toward him. Close. Too close.

“When I had lunch with Sheev today,” you murmured, voice quiet and dangerous. “He said nothing. Smiled too wide. Dodged every answer like a trained politician, which—fine, he is. But he’s also worried. About me. About you.”

Thorn said nothing.

Your fingers brushed the edge of his pauldron, then up to the rigid line of his neck. He didn’t move.

“Fox had a talk with you, didn’t he?” you whispered, tipping your head to the side. “Warned you off. Told you I was dangerous.”

His breath hitched, barely audible. “You are.”

You laughed softly. “And yet here you are.”

You reached up—slow, deliberate—and your fingers touched his face. A gloved hand caught your wrist, but not before your thumb brushed his cheekbone. Warm. Real.

He held your wrist, not tightly, but firmly. And still, he didn’t pull away.

His eyes searched yours like they were looking for the part of you that might break him.

“I can’t,” he said hoarsely.

“I know,” you said, and your voice was softer now. “But you want to.”

His eyes closed briefly. The silence that followed was full of all the things he would never say. Couldn’t say.

You leaned forward—just a breath, your lips a whisper from his—but you stopped yourself. A sharp inhale. A blink of clarity.

You pulled back slowly, letting your hand fall.

And this time, he let you.

“I should go inside,” you said quietly, and without looking back, you walked toward the open doors.

Thorn stayed behind, jaw clenched, hands shaking ever so slightly at his sides.

He’d stood on a hundred battlefields without faltering.

And tonight, he’d barely survived a senator’s touch.

⸻

The next morning, he was already stationed by your office door when you arrived. Helmet on. Posture locked. Every line of his body radiating do not engage.

You slowed as you approached, coffee in hand, sunglasses still perched over bloodshot eyes from last night’s excess. You looked like a warning label wrapped in silk.

But when your eyes flicked over Thorn, something in your expression shifted. Slowed.

“Morning, Commander,” you said casually.

“Senator,” he returned. Clipped. Cool.

You quirked an eyebrow. “Oh. So it’s that kind of day.”

He didn’t reply.

You brushed past him, close enough that your perfume clung to his senses long after you’d disappeared into your office. He didn’t turn. Didn’t let it show. But his hands curled into fists at his sides.

Meetings. Briefings. More political backpedaling. You were fire at the podium and glass behind closed doors, cracking in places no one else could see.

Except him.

He stayed silent, always a step behind, always watching. Always wanting.

And never letting it show.

Until you cornered him in a quiet corridor outside the lower senate chambers, away from aides and datapads and Fox’s watching eyes.

“Alright,” you said, arms folded. “Let’s talk about this act you’ve got going.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Commander, you looked like I stabbed you when I pulled away last night, and now you won’t even look at me.”

“I’m doing my job,” he bit out, low and tight.

You took a step forward. He didn’t move. Not away.

“I didn’t imagine it,” you said, voice gentler now. “You wanted it too.”

“Of course I did.” His voice cracked, just a fraction. “But what I want doesn’t matter.”

You blinked, caught off-guard by the raw honesty.

He finally looked at you. And Maker, it hurt—because it wasn’t coldness in his eyes. It was restraint. Desire, wound so tightly around duty it was bleeding.

“I won’t compromise your safety,” he said. “Or your career. Or mine.”

“I never asked you to.”

“No,” he said softly. “But if you touched me like that again, I wouldn’t stop you.”

Silence fell.

And then you stepped back, giving him what he needed—space, control.

But not before saying, “You’re allowed to want something for yourself, Thorn.”

You left him standing there, strung taut, jaw clenched so hard it ached—haunted by the echo of your voice and the ghost of your fingertips on his skin.

⸻

The Coruscant sky was painted in golds and coppers by the time you slid into the dimly lit booth across from Padmé Amidala at one of the few upscale lounges senators could disappear into without the weight of a thousand datapads.

“I needed this,” you sighed, tugging off your blazer and waving down a server. “Vodka. Double. And whatever she’s having.”

Padmé smirked behind the rim of her glass. “Rough week?”

You snorted. “The republic is falling apart, I’m the new poster child for controversial ethics, and my head of security is the embodiment of celibacy and self-restraint.”

Padmé choked. “Thorn?”

“Mmhmm,” you hummed, swirling your drink as it arrived. “The man is built like a war god and treats me like I’m a senator made of glass and moral decay. Which, fair, but still.”

She laughed gently. “He’s just doing his job.”

You rolled your eyes, leaning in, voice lowering to a conspiratorial hush. “I nearly kissed him two nights ago.”

Padmé’s eyebrows lifted in delight. “And?”

“And I stopped myself. But he didn’t stop me.”

You tipped your drink back, and Padmé’s smile softened into something knowing.

“He wants you,” she said.

“I know. And I can’t stop wanting him either. And it’s making me insane.” You exhaled, flopping back in your seat. “It’s all sharp edges and stolen glances and him standing too close every time I breathe. He says he won’t compromise me, but every time he brushes past, it feels like he’s about to snap.”

Padmé was quiet for a moment, sipping her wine. “You’re falling.”

You snorted, tossing your head back with a dramatic groan. “I’m not falling. I fell. And now I’m stuck circling the drain with a blaster-proof blockade standing guard outside my bed.”

She burst out laughing. “Well… at least you’re not in love with a Jedi.”

You blinked. “Wait—”

Padmé smiled sweetly. “We all have secrets, darling.”

Neither of you noticed the clone commander positioned a discreet ten meters away—far enough to respect your privacy.

Close enough to hear every kriffing word.

Thorn stood in the shadows of the wall column, jaw clenched so tight it hurt. Every muscle locked. Every sense burning.

She’d nearly kissed him. She wanted to.

She’d fallen.

And Maker help him… so had he.

His comm buzzed in his ear.

Fox: You good?

Thorn: Fine.

Fox: You don’t sound fine.

Thorn: Drop it, Fox.

But even Fox would’ve known—standing there, listening to her spill her soul to someone else, Thorn was no longer in control.

He was already hers.

⸻

The walk back to your apartment was a symphony of drunken laughter, slurred gossip, and Padmé’s increasingly animated storytelling as she dramatically recounted a botched undercover op involving Anakin, Obi-Wan, and a fruit cart on Saleucami.

“…and then Ahsoka—gods—she’s stuck under the vendor stall, Anakin’s dressed like a spice runner and flirting to distract the guards, and Obi-Wan’s standing there insisting that he does not negotiate with food smugglers!”

You were cackling, one heel dangling from your fingers, the other foot still strapped in. “How did no one get arrested?!”

“They did!” Padmé said brightly. “Three hours in local custody until Bail Organa bailed them out. Still won’t talk about it.”

You wheezed, tears threatening to smudge your eyeliner. Thorn walked a respectful distance behind as you stumbled into your apartment with Padmé on your arm. He was stone-silent, unreadable. Watching. Waiting.

Padmé leaned in close, kissed your cheek, and whispered, “Try not to give him a stroke tonight.” Then she drifted toward the guest room with a final tipsy wave. “Night, Thorn.”

“Ma’am,” he said with a curt nod.

You locked the door behind her, turned, and leaned your back to it. Barefoot. Half-laced dress clinging to your form. Hair a little messy. Eyes gleaming with drink and danger.

“You didn’t laugh at the story,” you said, smiling.

“I’m not paid to laugh.”

“You’re not paid to stare at me like that either, but here we are.”

His jaw clenched.

You took a few slow, swaying steps toward him, gaze locked on his. “You heard what I said to Padmé, didn’t you?”

Silence.

“You stood there all night listening. That wasn’t professionalism, Thorn. That was want.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. But you could feel the energy bleeding from him—taut, trembling restraint.

“So here’s the question,” you whispered, standing toe to toe now. “If I reached up and touched you again… would you stop me this time?”

He breathed, sharp and low. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t push me.”

“I’ve been pushing you since the day we met.” You smiled, close enough now your breath mingled with his. “And you haven’t moved.”

His hand shot up, slamming palm-flat against the wall beside your head—not touching you, but caging you in.

His voice was gravel and fire.

“You don’t understand what you’re asking for.”

“I think I do.”

“You think this is about self-control,” he growled. “It’s not. It’s about what happens after I lose it.”

You stilled.

He was trembling, just slightly. His hand hovered for a moment longer… then he stepped back.

“You’re drunk. Go to bed.”

And with that, Thorn turned and walked toward the front door—but not before you saw it.

His hands were shaking.

The morning sun filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of your Coruscant apartment like a rude guest who hadn’t been invited.

Your head throbbed.

Your mouth tasted like fruit cocktails and regret.

You groaned and turned over, expecting Thorn’s ever-silent figure to be near the front door, arms crossed, stoic and unshakable as always.

But he wasn’t there.

Instead, a different clone stood guard—rookie by the look of him. Eyes flicked to you, then away fast. Too fast.

Thorn had rotated off.

Or maybe… he’d walked out.

You weren’t sure which hurt more.

You flopped back against the bed with a dramatic sigh, pressing your hand to your forehead like a dying duchess. A moment later, the bedroom door creaked open.

“Is it safe to enter the lair of the hungover she-beast?” Padmé’s voice called softly.

“Barely.”

She tiptoed in, curls wild and eyeliner smudged, and flopped down onto your bed like she owned it.

You cracked one eye open. “I thought Naboo nobles were trained to rise at dawn with no signs of vice.”

Padmé gave you a dry look. “I was trained to fake it with dignity. There’s a difference.”

You both groaned in tandem, limbs tangled under silk sheets and discarded shawls.

A beat of silence.

Then you muttered, “He wasn’t there this morning.”

“Thorn?”

You nodded.

Padmé looked at you, then looked at the ceiling. “Anakin stopped answering my comms last night. didn’t say a word to me after we got back here. Just disappeared like a ghost.”

You turned your head. “He’s angry?”

“He’s scared.”

“…Same.”

Another pause.

Padmé sighed. “You know what the worst part is?”

“What?”

“I don’t want to stop. Not with him. Not even when I know how it ends.”

Your throat tightened.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “Me too.”

You both lay there, two senators, two hearts bruised in different ways. Hiding in a bed that smelled like perfume, politics, and unanswered questions.

“I think,” Padmé said softly, “we forget we’re allowed to want something for ourselves.”

You blinked up at the ceiling.

“Maybe I just want someone to choose me,” you admitted, the words foreign and terrifying on your tongue. “Not the senate. Not the speech. Me.”

Padmé reached over and gently took your hand.

“You deserve that,” she said.

And for one small moment, you believed her.

⸻

It was early.

Coruscant’s sky was painted in slow-shifting purples and pale gold, the air crisp for once as the morning traffic lulled just above the skyline.

You walked with Sheev Palpatine through one of the Chancellor’s private botanical gardens—a curated oasis of rare flora nestled between towering Senate spires. Your shoes crunched over smooth stones, the air filled with the faint hum of security droids and rustling leaves.

A few steps behind, your clone escort—a quiet rookie with a barely scuffed pauldron—trailed dutifully. Ahead, Marshal Commander Fox and two of his Coruscant Guard flanked the Chancellor like the shadows of death.

“You look tired, my dear,” Sheev said smoothly, hands folded behind his back. “Rough night?”

“You know exactly how rough,” you replied, a dry smirk tugging at your lips. “I assume you read every surveillance report that crosses your desk.”

“I skim.”

You arched a brow.

He chuckled. “Fine. I skim the interesting ones.”

The rookie behind you choked softly on his breath. You didn’t look back, but your lip twitched in amusement.

“You really shouldn’t waste government resources on my personal misadventures,” you said.

“On the contrary,” Palpatine replied, voice shifting cooler, “your… associations are becoming part of the problem.”

Your smile faltered.

“I hear you’re planning a speech this week,” he continued, not looking at you now. “Regarding clone rights. Voluntary service. Benefits. Citizenship.”

“I’m not planning it. I’m delivering it.”

He gave you a long look. “You’ve made enemies before. But this will paint a much larger target.”

“Then maybe they’ll finally stop aiming for my head and start aiming for something I can survive.”

He did not laugh. Instead, he stepped a little closer.

“I’ve heard more whispers, you know. Another attempt. And this time…” His voice lowered. “I fear it won’t be smoke and shadows.”

You were about to respond when a shriek of blaster fire tore the morning open.

Shots rained down from above the garden terrace. Red bolts split the air as bark and leaves exploded around you. You felt the burn before you heard yourself scream—your upper arm searing with heat as a bolt caught flesh.

“GET DOWN!”

Fox’s voice thundered across the garden.

The rookie guard shoved you behind a large stone fountain, blaster drawn. Fox had already reached the Chancellor’s side, shielding him with practiced efficiency.

But Palpatine didn’t retreat.

Instead, he snapped, “Protect her. Now.”

Fox hesitated—one second, maybe two.

Then he turned on his heel, growled a command to his men, and raced for you.

You slumped behind the fountain, clutching your arm, heart hammering in your chest.

Fox skidded into cover beside you. “You hit?”

“Yeah,” you gasped, pressing your jacket against the burn. “Not bad. Not good either.”

He scanned the rooftops. “We need evac—NOW!”

The rookie stayed glued to your side, face pale but steady.

And Palpatine?

Still standing.

Watching from the distance like the eye of a storm.

He didn’t flinch once.

⸻

The antiseptic sting of the medcenter did little to distract from the throbbing in your arm or the adrenaline still lacing your blood.

You sat upright on the edge of the durasteel cot, jacket discarded, bandages wrapped snugly around your bicep. A healing patch hummed faintly under the gauze, but your mind was elsewhere.

Specifically, down the hall.

You’d heard the boots before you saw the storm that followed them.

Commander Thorn.

Now on his rotation.

He moved through the corridor like a thundercloud given armor and a mission. Dried rain still clung to his kama, helmet clipped under one arm. His expression was stone—tight-jawed, unreadable, but his eyes flicked over every corner like he was calculating the fastest way to kill every man in the building.

He didn’t ask questions.

He issued orders.

You watched from the cracked door as he spoke with the medical officer, then turned on his heel toward the security wing—until another familiar voice cut through the silence.

“Thorn.”

Marshal Commander Fox.

Thorn didn’t flinch. He stopped mid-stride, then turned with slow precision, as if he already knew what Fox was about to say.

You should’ve left it alone.

You should’ve shut the door and gone back to pretending none of this mattered.

But instead, you stepped off the cot, crept quietly to the side of the doorway, and listened.

“You were off shift this morning,” Fox said evenly. “And yet you’re here before the updated security logs.”

“I don’t trust anyone else with her,” Thorn replied, voice low and unshakable.

A pause. Footsteps.

“You’re losing control.”

Thorn didn’t respond.

“You know what she is to the Chancellor. You know what she is to the Senate.”

Thorn’s voice was gravel. “She was almost killed today.”

Fox’s tone sharpened. “And if she had been, what would you have done? Gone rogue? Abandoned post? Killed for her?”

Silence.

A silence so loud, you nearly stepped away—until you heard Thorn’s reply:

“I already would’ve.”

The world stopped.

You pressed your back to the wall, heart skidding.

Fox exhaled harshly. “She’s not yours to protect like that.”

“She’s not a piece of property,” Thorn said, the edge in his voice darker than you’d ever heard it. “Not yours. Not his. And if anyone thinks they can use her without consequence, they’ll answer to me.”

“Careful, Thorn.” Fox’s voice dropped. “You’re starting to sound like you care.”

A beat passed. Then Thorn spoke again, quieter this time:

“I care enough to know I’ll never have her. And too much to stop myself if she’s ever in the crosshairs again.”

That was it.

You stepped back silently, breath caught in your throat.

You didn’t know whether to cry or find him and kiss him like your life depended on it.

⸻

Previous Part | Next Part

“Collateral Morals” pt.1

Commander Thorn x Senator!Reader

The Senate chamber was a palace of marble and double-speak.

Your voice cut through it like a vibroblade.

“I will not stay silent while the Republic condemns slavery in the same breath it sends engineered men to die nameless in another system’s dust!”

Murmurs rippled. Eyes narrowed. A few senators visibly flinched.

“I will not—cannot—stand by while the Republic claps itself on the back for dismantling slavery on one hand and sends the clone army to their deaths with the other.”

You continued, stepping away from the podium, unshaken despite the weight of every eye trained on you.

“We decry the Zygerians, the Hutts, the slavers of the outer rim—but we justify the manufacturing of a living, breathing people because they wear our uniform and die for our cause.”

There was a stillness in the room now. Even the usual side-chatter had ceased.

You weren’t drunk. Not now. Not here.

You were righteous. Unapologetic. You were chaos in silk, fire behind a senator’s seal.

“They are not tools. They are not assets. They are men. We claim moral superiority while deploying an engineered slave force across the galaxy. We praise the courage of the clones while denying them names, futures, choices.”

A few senators whispered among themselves. Bail Organa looked grim. Mon Mothma’s hands were clasped in silent support. But others—the loyalists, the corporate-backed, the status quo—were already sharpening their rebuttals.

You stared them down.

“The clones are not our property. And if we continue to treat them as such, the Republic is not the democracy we pretend it is.”

You bowed your head. “That’s all.”

And you walked off the podium to the thunderous silence of a room unsure whether to cheer or crucify you.

⸻

You returned to your apartment, dimly lit, your shoes discarded at the door, and your shoulder already aching from tension and too many political threats disguised as advice.

You poured a drink—nothing fancy—and leaned against your balcony rail, staring at the neon jungle below.

“You did good,” you murmured to yourself. “Or at least, you told the truth.”

You raised your glass. “To inconvenient truths.”

That’s when the glass shattered.

You froze. A second bolt followed, scorching the edge of your balcony railing.

Sniper.

You dropped to the floor just as a third bolt zipped over your head, and crawled behind the couch, heart hammering. Your comm was somewhere in your bag across the room. The lights flickered. You could hear movement. Someone was in the apartment.

A shadow shifted across the floor.

Then—crash.

A body slammed through the window behind you, and you screamed, scrabbling backward as the intruder raised a blaster.

But before he could fire—Three red bolts tore through the assassin’s chest.

You blinked, stunned, as the armored figure that followed stepped over the body and into your apartment like the chaos meant nothing.

Crimson armor. Sharp as a blade. Helmet marked with authority.

Commander Thorn.

He scanned the room once, then motioned to his men.

“Clear.”

Two more red-armored Coruscant Guards entered, rifles up, fanning out.

“Senator,” Thorn said, voice clipped. “You’re being placed under full security protection by order of the Chancellor.”

You were still catching your breath. “Nice to meet you too.”

Thorn’s helmet didn’t move. “You were targeted by a professional. It wasn’t random.”

“No kidding,” you muttered, pulling yourself up. “Didn’t think a critic of the military complex would be popular.”

His head tilted slightly. “You’ll be assigned two guards at all times. Myself included.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You? You’re—what, my babysitter now?”

“I’m your shield,” he said coolly. “Whether you like it or not.”

There was steel in his posture, in his voice, but also something else—something unreadable beneath the weight of his duty.

You scoffed, brushing glass off your skirt. “Hope you’re not allergic to disaster, Commander. I tend to attract it.”

“You attract assassins,” he said. “Disaster is just the symptom.”

You paused.

“…You’re kind of intense.”

He stared.

“You’re kind of loud,” he replied.

You blinked—then grinned. “This is going to be so much fun.”

⸻

You woke up to three missed calls, two blistering news headlines, and one very annoyed clone standing guard inside your kitchen.

Thorn hadn’t moved from his post since 0400.

You stumbled in wearing a shirt that definitely wasn’t clean and cradling your hangover like an old lover.

He didn’t even blink at your state.

“Your 0900 meeting with the Chancellor has been moved up,” he said without looking at you. “You’re expected in twenty minutes.”

You opened the fridge. Empty. “Does that meeting come with caf?”

“No.”

“You’re a real charmer, Thorn.”

No answer.

You slapped together something vaguely edible, tossed on the cleanest outfit from the pile on your couch, and let Thorn escort you through the durasteel halls of 500 Republica like a dignified mess being smuggled into a formal event.

Outside your building, the press was already gathered. Dozens of them, hollering questions, waving holorecorders. Most were shouting about your speech. Others were speculating on the assassination attempt.

You lowered your sunglasses, jaw tight.

Thorn’s voice was calm in your ear. “Keep walking. Don’t engage.”

You didn’t.

But you did flash a grin at the cameras.

“Can’t kill the truth, folks!” you shouted over the noise. “Especially not with bad aim!”

Thorn muttered something under his breath, possibly a curse, definitely not a compliment.

⸻

“She’s here?” Palpatine said, glancing toward the door. “Well, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Punctuality was never her strength.”

You walked in like you owned the building. “She can hear you, Sheev.”

Thorn stayed just inside the doorway, silent as ever, arms folded across his chest.

Palpatine gave you a smile that was mostly teeth. “Senator. I trust you’re recovering?”

“I’m not dead,” you said, collapsing into a chair without being asked. “Which is more than I expected, considering how many people are pissed at me right now.”

He folded his hands. “You courted controversy.”

You raised a brow. “I told the truth.”

“A dangerous thing to do in wartime,” he replied smoothly.

You ignored that, leaning forward. “How’d you know, Sheev?”

Palpatine tilted his head. “Know what?”

“That I was in danger. The Guards were in my apartment before my assassin finished climbing in. You reassigned one of the Republic’s best commanders to me. That wasn’t a panic decision. That was preparation.”

He smiled again. “I have… many sources. Intelligence moves quickly.”

“Cut the bantha,” you said, eyes narrowing. “You know something you’re not saying.”

He didn’t deny it. “Perhaps. But for now, consider this a favor from an old friend.”

“Friend,” you scoffed. “You just like having me close where you can monitor the damage.”

He laughed—light, calculated. “That too.”

You stood. “You owe me answers.”

“I owe you safety,” he corrected. “And you owe the Republic your discretion.”

Thorn shifted behind you, a silent shadow.

“Come on, Commander,” you muttered. “Let’s go before I commit a diplomatic incident.”

⸻

The day hadn’t gotten better.

You’d dodged three interviews, gotten a drink thrown at you by a rival senator’s aide, and broken your datapad in half slamming it on a desk during a debate about clone rights.

You flopped onto your couch, exhausted, mascara smudged, shoes kicked off, hair a mess.

Thorn stood by the window like a living sculpture, arms behind his back.

“You don’t say much,” you mumbled.

“Not required.”

“You don’t flinch either.”

“No point.”

You cracked one eye open. “You ever… relax?”

Silence.

You laughed. “Of course not. You’re like a walking bunker.”

More silence.

You looked over at him. “Do you hate me?”

“No.”

“Then why do you look at me like I’m a mess waiting to happen?”

He finally turned his head toward you. “Because you are.”

You blinked—then smiled.

“For a guy who’s made of rules and laser bolts, you’re kinda boring.”

“I’m not here to be fun.”

You sat up, facing him. “Why are you here then, really? Is it just duty? Or did someone decide I was too much trouble to leave unmonitored?”

He didn’t answer.

But he didn’t leave either.

You leaned closer, voice quieter now. “Do you think I’m wrong about the clones?”

“No.”

You blinked.

“But I follow orders,” he said. “You question them. That makes us different.”

You smiled faintly. “Or it makes us the same. You follow orders to protect lives. I break them for the same reason.”

His visor tilted just slightly. “We’ll see.”

And for a moment, the tension between you wasn’t about politics, or rules, or ideology.

It was the electric kind.

The kind that promised more.

⸻

The club was called The Silver Spire, and it was upscale enough for senators to pretend they weren’t slumming it, but scandalous enough that holonet gossipers would have a field day by morning.

You stepped out of the transport wearing a dress that didn’t scream “senator” so much as it whispered come ruin your reputation with me.

Thorn, behind you, said nothing.

Padmé was already waiting at the front with a small group—Senator Chuchi, Bail Organa (reluctantly), and Mon Mothma, who had her hair up and her tolerance down.

Three red-armored Coruscant Guards flanked the entrance, scanning the street. Thorn spoke into his comm lowly as you joined the others.

“Extra security is in place. Interior sweep complete. Rooftop clear.”

Padmé greeted you with a grin. “Tried to get here early so we could actually enjoy ourselves before the whispers start.”

“I’m already hearing whispers,” you said, nudging her. “Mostly from the commander behind me.”

“I don’t whisper,” Thorn said flatly.

Padmé bit a smile. “Clearly.”

Just then, a new figure approached—dark robes, loose tunic, that signature brow of broody disapproval.

“Senator,” Anakin Skywalker said to Padmé, too formally. “Council approved my presence tonight—just as added protection.”

Padmé raised a brow. “Did they?”

“They did,” he said. “Too many of you gathered in one place after a recent assassination attempt… it’s a risk.”

“Right,” you said, sipping your cocktail from a flask you hadn’t told Thorn you’d brought. “And I’m sure it has nothing to do with the fact that Padmé’s here.”

Anakin ignored that. Barely.

Thorn, beside you, was watching the crowd, the rooftops, the angles of the building like he was mapping out a warzone.

You turned slightly toward him. “Do you ever stop scanning?”

“Only when you stop being a walking target.”

You laughed. “So never?”

“Exactly.”

Inside, the music was low and tasteful, the lights golden. You were seated in a semi-private booth, guarded at all angles. The senators tried to act casual—like they weren’t all wearing panic buttons and sipping around holonet spies.

You watched Padmé and Anakin from across the table. They didn’t touch. They didn’t flirt.

But their eyes never really left each other.

You leaned toward Thorn, who stood behind you like a silent monolith.

“Are all Jedi that obvious when they’re trying not to be obvious?”

Thorn didn’t blink. “No.”

You smiled. “So it’s just Skywalker.”

Thorn didn’t answer—but you were almost sure his mouth twitched.

You sat back, swirling your drink. “You ever go out, Commander? When you’re off duty?”

“I’m never off duty.”

“Do you have a bed?”

“Yes.”

“Do you use it or does it stand in the corner like a decoration?”

Thorn finally looked down at you. “Do you ever stop talking?”

“Do you ever start?”

That almost-smile again.

And just like that, the press of people, the chatter, the pretense—it all seemed distant.

Just you and Thorn and the buzz of something quietly building between bulletproof walls.

“Y’know,” you murmured, “you should really enjoy this moment.”

Thorn’s gaze flicked down. “Why?”

You tilted your head. “Because it’s the closest you’ll ever be to letting your guard down.”

For a second, just a second, his eyes lingered.

Not as a soldier. Not as your shield.

As a man.

Then—

“Senator—movement on the south entrance.”

His voice was clipped, all business again. The moment gone.

You stood, heartbeat ticking faster, not because of the threat—but because you hadn’t realized how close you’d gotten to crossing a line neither of you acknowledged.

The commotion turned out to be nothing.

A waiter with nerves and a tray full of champagne had slipped near the side entrance, knocking over a heat lamp and sending sparks into the ornamental drapes.

No fire. No attack.

Just a very excitable Skywalker igniting his saber in the middle of the dance floor like a drama king with no sense of subtlety.

“Code Red!” he shouted. “Everyone get down!”

“Anakin, stand down!” Padmé hissed, yanking his arm. “It’s a spilled drink and a curtain, not a coup.”

You leaned sideways in your booth, already two cocktails and one shot past rational thinking. “Didn’t know Jedi training included interpretive panic.”

Commander Thorn muttered something into his comm as his men de-escalated the scene. His voice was sharp, focused, firm.

Yours was not.

“Commander,” you slurred, tipping your glass slightly in his direction. “You ever seen a lightsaber waved around that fast outside of a bedroom?”

Chuchi nearly snorted her drink. Padmé covered her mouth to hide her laugh.

Mon Mothma gave a long-suffering sigh. “I knew letting her have wine was a mistake.”

You grinned at her, shameless. “Mistakes are just… educational chaos.”

“Stars,” Bail said dryly, “you’re drunker than a Republic budget.”

You slapped the table proudly. “Drunk, but alive! Which is better than last night, thank you very much.”

Thorn exhaled, long and quiet. “You’re done drinking.”

You blinked up at him, all wide eyes and mischief. “You can’t tell me what to do.”

He stared down at you. “You’re under protection detail.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m under you,” you whispered.

Dead silence.

Padmé choked.

Mon Mothma turned very interested in the far wall.

Thorn blinked once, slowly, before turning to the other senators. “Evening’s over. Time to go.”

⸻

You were a pile of glitter, political scandal, and heels. And you refused to walk.

“You’re heavy for someone who doesn’t eat real food,” Thorn grunted, carrying you in full armor up four flights of stairs after you refused the lift, citing, “The lights are judging me.”

You giggled against his shoulder. “You’re comfy. Like a walking shield.”

“That’s literally my job,” he deadpanned.

“I like your voice,” you slurred. “You always sound like you’re disappointed in me.”

“I am.”

You laughed so hard you nearly slid out of his arms.

He adjusted his grip with practiced ease. “You’re going to be hurting in the morning.”

“I already hurt,” you mumbled. “But, like, in a sexy tragic way.”

He snorted. Actually snorted.

You grinned. “Was that a laugh, Commander?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

He deposited you onto your couch with surprising gentleness, removing your heels and placing them neatly aside.

You flopped dramatically. “You missed your calling. Should’ve been a nurse.”

“I don’t have the patience.”

You curled up, eyes closing. “You’re not what I expected.”

He stood over you, helmet off now, expression unreadable. “Neither are you.”

“Is that a compliment?” you asked through a yawn.

He watched you quietly, the chaotic senator turned half-conscious mess under his protection.

“It might be.”

You were half-curled on the couch now, dress hiked slightly, makeup smudged, dignity somewhere on the floor with your shoes. Thorn hadn’t left—not even after you’d settled. He stood a few paces away, helmet off, arms crossed over his broad chest.

Watching. Waiting. Guarding.

“I’m not always like this,” you muttered into the throw pillow. “The drinking. The… dramatics.”

“You don’t need to explain.”

“I do.” You shifted slightly, blinking blearily at him. “I’m supposed to be a leader. I give speeches about justice, fight for ethics, talk about ending the war, and then I come home and pour whiskey over my own hypocrisy.”

His expression didn’t change. But something in his stance eased.

“You’re not a hypocrite,” he said quietly.

You looked up, surprised.

“I’ve seen hypocrites,” he added. “They talk about morality while funding the war. You talk about morality and get shot for it.”

You laughed—low and bitter. “So what does that make me?”

He hesitated. “It makes you dangerous… and honest.”

You sat up slowly, legs tucked beneath you, your eyes catching his in the low apartment light.

“You really think I’m dangerous?” you asked, voice dipping softer.

His jaw ticked. “Not in the way they do.”

That made you smile.

He didn’t move as you stood, slowly, stepping closer. The room felt smaller. Or maybe just warmer. It could’ve been the wine. Or maybe just him—that presence, that gravity. Commander Thorn wasn’t the type of man women flirted with lightly. He didn’t bend. He didn’t soften.

And still… you reached out, fingers brushing his forearm.

“You ever wish you weren’t born for war?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper. “That you could just… be?”

Something flickered in his eyes. Not pain. Not quite. But something quiet. Something unspoken.

“I don’t know what I’d be if I wasn’t a soldier.”

You stepped even closer now, your chest nearly brushing his, head tilted up, eyes locked. “Maybe something softer.”

“I don’t do soft,” he said.

“I noticed.”

And for a heartbeat—just one—you leaned in. Close enough to kiss him. Close enough to feel the heat between you tighten, coil, burn.

But you stopped.

Just short.

Your breath hitched. You stepped back quickly, blinking it all away.

“I should sleep,” you said, a little too quickly.

Thorn didn’t stop you. Didn’t move. But he watched you turn and disappear toward your bedroom, silent and unreadable.

You paused in the doorway. Just once. Just to check.

He was still standing there.

Still watching.

Still unreadable.

⸻

Morning crept in too early.

You cracked one eye open, instantly regretting it.

Head pounding. Mouth dry. Memory foggy. Your brain felt like a poorly written senate proposal—messy, circular, and somehow your fault.

The last thing you remembered clearly was Thorn’s voice. Then his arms. Then…

Stars.

You sat up too fast and nearly fell right back down.

“Water. Water, water, water,” you croaked to the empty room.

A glass appeared on the side table beside you.

You blinked up.

Commander Thorn.

Helmet on now. Fully armored. Exactly how he should look. Except—

He was standing just a bit too close.

“Appreciate it,” you muttered, taking the water. “You didn’t have to stay.”

“I did,” he said simply.

Right. Assigned protection detail. Not a choice. Orders.

Still—something about the way he looked at you felt like choice.

You downed the water and stood slowly, stretching. “So, uh… rough night?”

He didn’t answer.

You didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. The memory of how close you’d gotten—how close you’d almost—

No. You shook it off.

Professionalism. That’s what today needed. That’s what he was good at.

You, less so.

“Thanks for not letting me fall face-first into the street, by the way,” you said lightly, walking past him toward the kitchenette.

His arm brushed yours. Light. Barely a graze. But enough.

Your breath caught.

“Would’ve been an unfortunate headline,” he said. Still steady. Still unreadable.

“Senator turns into pavement garnish?” you replied, trying for a laugh. “Would’ve matched my mood lately.”

He didn’t laugh. But he looked at you. Really looked.

“I meant what I said last night.”

You blinked. “Which part?”

“You’re not a hypocrite.”

You busied yourself making caf, hands a little too shaky, smile a little too bright. “Well, that’s nice of you, Commander.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t fill the silence.

But you could feel it. The tension in the room like a tripwire.

“About last night…” you started, not even knowing where the sentence would end.

“It didn’t happen,” he said smoothly. “You were drunk. I was on duty.”

Right. Of course. Clean line. No moment.

You turned around with your cup. “You’re very good at this.”

“At what?”

“Being a soldier. Not breaking character.”

His eyes met yours behind that visor. “It’s not a character.”

You stepped around him—again too close, again intentional—and he didn’t move. Just let your shoulder skim his chestplate.

“You should eat something,” he said quietly. “Briefing at 0900.”

You nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”

But as you passed, you felt it again—his hand brushed your lower back. Light. Careful. Not an accident.

He didn’t speak again. He didn’t need to.

He wanted you.

And he wouldn’t act on it.

Because that’s what made him him

⸻

The Chancellor’s private dining room was lavish, but you’d long stopped noticing the gold trim and absurd chandeliers. You lounged in your chair, a flute of something far too expensive in hand, pretending you weren’t hungover and avoiding Thorn’s gaze like it was a live thermal detonator.

Across from you, the Supreme Chancellor smiled—too pleasantly, too knowingly.

“Well, if it isn’t the Republic’s most unpredictable idealist,” Palpatine drawled, pouring his own glass. “You’re in the news again.”

You groaned into your drink. “Don’t pretend you don’t love it, Sheev.”

Fox twitched behind the Chancellor, eyes flicking between you and Thorn with that razor-sharp gaze of his. Thorn stood two steps behind your chair—silent, steady, a red-and-white wall of unreadable authority. But Fox saw the difference. The slight tilt of Thorn’s stance. The angle of his chin. The way his eyes never really left you.

It was subtle. Surgical.

But not subtle enough for Fox.

He stepped beside Thorn under the guise of adjusting his vambrace. “You good, Commander?”

Thorn didn’t look at him. “I’m fine.”

“Mm,” Fox murmured. “Right.”

You and the Chancellor kept chatting—well, arguing more than anything. You never could sit through a lunch with Sheev without poking holes in something.

“So,” you said, slicing into your overpriced meal, “how did you know to send guards for me before the assassination attempt? I never requested security.”

The Chancellor’s eyes glinted. “I make it my business to know when my senators are in danger.”

“Your timing was suspiciously perfect.”

“Are you accusing me of conspiracy?” he asked with an arched brow, too amused.

“I’m accusing you of being five moves ahead of everyone, as usual,” you replied dryly.

Behind you, Thorn shifted ever so slightly. Fox noticed that too.

Fox leaned closer, voice low enough only Thorn could hear. “You’ve got a thing for her.”

Thorn said nothing.

“You don’t even flinch when she says the Chancellor’s first name. That’s love or lunacy, vod.”

Still, no reply. Just the twitch of a jaw.

Fox chuckled under his breath, then stepped back to his position, but the damage was done.

You looked back at Thorn over your shoulder, sensing the change. “Everything alright back there, Commander?”

“Yes, Senator,” he said smoothly, though his voice was a little rougher than usual.

You raised a brow. “You seem… tenser than usual. Something in the wine?”

“Possibly,” Fox muttered from across the room.

You narrowed your eyes but let it go. You turned back to the Chancellor, who was watching the exchange with mild curiosity and a hint of amusement, like he was reading a play he already knew the ending to.

“Oh, I like this,” he murmured, smiling into his glass.

You leaned in toward him conspiratorially. “Don’t get clever, Sheev. You’re not writing my love life.”

His smile only widened.

But behind you, Thorn stood stiff as stone—closer than ever.

And Fox, watching it all unfold, didn’t say another word.

But he knew.

⸻

The meeting had ended. Senators filtered out. The Chancellor had retreated to his private chamber. And you? You were gone with a flick of your hand and a half-hearted “Don’t let them kill each other, Commander.”

Now, the room was quieter. Almost peaceful. Almost.

Fox found Thorn where he knew he’d be—by the far window, helmet tucked under one arm, eyes still tracking your last known direction. His posture was perfect, as always. Controlled. Still.

Too still.

Fox stepped up beside him, arms crossed over red plastoid. “You got it bad.”

Thorn’s gaze didn’t shift. “Not the time, Marshal.”

Fox exhaled, slow and deliberate. “Look, I’m not trying to be a di’kut. But you need to hear this—from someone who actually gives a damn about you.”

Thorn’s silence stretched long enough to feel like permission.

“She’s not just another senator. She’s not just your senator.” Fox’s voice dropped low. “She’s his.”

At that, Thorn’s jaw ticked. Just barely. But Fox saw it.

“The Chancellor’s had her back for years. Don’t know why, don’t care. Maybe it’s her mouth, maybe it’s the trouble she causes, maybe it’s guilt—but she’s got more power than half that rotunda and she knows it.”

“I know who she is,” Thorn said quietly.

“Do you?” Fox leaned in, voice tight. “Do you know what he’s capable of when it comes to protecting her?”

Thorn met his eyes then, sharp as a blade.

“I’ve seen what he’s capable of.”

Fox gave a bitter smile. “Then don’t be stupid. Because if something happens—if you’re the reason she gets hurt, distracted, reckless—he won’t just end your career, Thorn. He’ll end you.”

Thorn looked away. “She’s already reckless.”

“But you keep her steady,” Fox snapped. “You’re already involved. I see it. I see the way you track her movements like a sniper. The way your whole body shifts when she’s near.”

He paused, voice softening just a hair.

“I get it. I really do. She’s electric. She makes everyone feel like they’re on fire. Even the Chancellor lets her talk to him like an old friend.”

A beat passed.

“She calls him Sheev, Thorn. That alone should terrify you.”

Thorn didn’t laugh. But something like it ghosted behind his eyes.

Fox straightened. “Just… be careful. Keep your walls up. Because she doesn’t need a guard who forgets who he is. And you don’t need to be another ghost in her story.”

They stood in silence a moment longer—two commanders, scarred and stubborn, still brothers beneath it all.

Then Thorn spoke, low and steady.

“I know what I’m doing.”

Fox shook his head, muttered, “No, you don’t,” and walked away.

Next Chapter

Hey! I’m from Australia(Melbourne) too!! I had a request for a Wollfe X Fem!Reader where he has to rescue her but it’s like disneys Hercules where Meg says “I’m a damsel and I’m in distress, I can handle this” and it’s a bunch of cute banter and flirting and maybe some spice thrown in? Love your work! Xx

Hey lovely! Thank you for your request, I hope the below is somewhat what you were hoping for!

“Tactical Complications”

Commander Wolffe x Reader

Blaster bolts screamed overhead, debris rained from the shattered rooftop, and your heels—gorgeous, custom, Senate-issue—were now coated in soot.

Typical.

You were pinned behind the shattered remains of what used to be a speeder—now a flaming, sparking coffin. Your blaster was out of charge, your dress had a tear the size of a hyperspace route down the side, and your thigh throbbed from where shrapnel had bit deep.

So no, this wasn’t ideal.

But it wasn’t your first disaster either.

“You’re going to regret this,” you muttered to the squad of droids advancing with heavy steps. “Because I’m very well-connected, and also—” you raised the empty blaster like it was worth something, “—kind of terrifying when cornered.”

The droids didn’t seem impressed.

And then—

Blasterfire. Sharp, clean, precise.

Heads popped. Limbs flew. The last droid barely had time to turn before its chest caved inward from a single, well-placed bolt.

Smoke curled in the air as silence fell.

You didn’t look surprised when he stepped into view—tall, armored, and absolutely furious.

Commander Wolffe.

“You took your time,” you called, voice dry. “I was two seconds from charming them into an alliance.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at you—soot-smudged, limping, bleeding—like you were a glitch in his mission log he couldn’t delete.

“You’re injured.”

“You’re observant.”

He stormed toward you, ignoring your sass, and crouched beside your leg. “Hold still.”

“Careful,” you breathed, as his fingers brushed your bare thigh to check the wound. “You keep touching me like that, people might talk.”

“You’re bleeding through your sarcasm,” he said coolly. “Try being quiet for five seconds.”

You leaned closer, voice low. “That sounded suspiciously like a request.”

He looked up at you then, helmet off, one brow twitching with something like restraint. His hands were steady. His jaw—tight.

“You disobeyed direct evacuation orders,” he muttered, wrapping a field bandage tight. “And you think I’m the one being reckless.”

“I had intel,” you shot back. “I stayed to gather it. The mission mattered.”

“You nearly got vaped.”

“Please. I’ve had worse nights in the Senate.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. Just for a second. A crack in the façade.

“I should drag you out of here by your pretty little neck,” he muttered.

“Pretty?” you echoed, pretending to swoon. “Wolffe, I didn’t know you cared.”

“I don’t.”

“Liar.”

He lifted you with ease, one arm under your knees, the other around your back. You hissed through your teeth at the movement, clutching his pauldron.

“You don’t have to carry me.”

“I’m not arguing with a senator who thinks she’s immortal.”

You stared up at him as the evac ship loomed in view. “You’re angry.”

“I’m furious.”

You smirked. “And yet, you still came for me.”

His grip tightened.

“I always come for what’s mine.”

Your breath caught.

He didn’t look at you again, didn’t say another word. But you felt it—that heat simmering under all his armor, all his rules.

And you knew next time… he wouldn’t be so professional.

“Cold Front”

Commander Bacara x Reader

The bass of the music thumped like a heartbeat. Smoke curled lazily through violet lights, and every set of eyes in the room was fixed on the dancer in the center of it all—you.

You moved like you didn’t care who watched, like the galaxy’s chaos didn’t touch you. It was part of the act. No one noticed the way you studied people back. No one but him.

He didn’t belong here.

Commander Bacara stood against the far wall, still in his armor, helmet clipped to his side, expression unreadable but stern. Even from the stage, you could tell—he hated this place. Too loud. Too soft. Too alive.

You liked that about him.

After your set, you made your way through the crowd, glittering drink in hand, heels clicking with purpose. You stopped in front of him, smiling with a tilt of your head.

“Enjoy the show, Commander?”

“No,” he answered flatly.

You laughed, sipping your drink. “Honesty. Refreshing.”

“This establishment is inefficient. Security is lax. Your exit routes are exposed. You shouldn’t be working here.”

“And you shouldn’t be in a nightclub, but here we are.”

He didn’t smile. He didn’t look away either.

“I was told you have information,” he said. “About a Separatist envoy using this venue for meetings.”

You shrugged. “Maybe I do.”

His brow furrowed. “This is a war zone, not a performance.”

“It’s both,” you said, leaning in. “You wear that armor like it’s your skin. I wear this smile like it’s mine. We both hide behind something, Bacara.”

He froze. Most didn’t call him that. Certainly not dancers with glitter on their collarbones.

“I’m not here to play games.”

“I’m not here to fight a war,” you countered. “Yet somehow, we’re both losing.”

A silence settled between you.

You studied his face—cut from stone, eyes like a blizzard on Mygeeto. A soldier made for killing. Raised in cold, trained to crush. He probably thought you were soft. Flimsy. Useless.

But he didn’t walk away.

“Tell me what you know,” he said, lower this time. “I’ll make sure you’re protected.”

You leaned in closer, close enough to smell the cold steel scent of him. “What makes you think I want protection?”

He didn’t answer.

You touched the edge of his chestplate with a single finger. “You’re all edge, Bacara. No softness.”

“I don’t need softness.”

“Maybe not,” you said, stepping back. “But I think you want it. Even if you hate yourself for it.”

He stared, jaw clenched, like he was bracing for something. You smiled again and turned.

“I’ll send the intel,” you called over your shoulder. “But next time, you come here as a guest. Not a soldier.”

You didn’t see him leave.

But hours later, when you returned to your dressing room, there was a small datapad on your table. Coordinates. A thank you. And nothing else.

Cold. Precise. Just like him.

And somehow… you couldn’t wait to see him again.

⸻

You didn’t expect him to return.

Men like Bacara didn’t double back for anything—especially not for someone like you. You were used to one-way glances, hot stares, empty promises dressed up as danger.

But two nights later, he was there again. Right on time. Leaning against the rusting frame of a service door

, arms crossed, helmet clipped to his belt, white armor streaked with grime from travel.

Silent.

You lit a cigarra with one hand and tossed him the datachip with the other. He caught it easily.

“Happy?” you asked, blowing a stream of smoke toward the gutter light. “Encrypted. Real-time surveillance, time stamps, backdoor schematics. Everything the Separatist envoy’s been up to in my club.”

He turned the chip over in his palm, then slipped it into a compartment at his belt.

“You held onto this longer than necessary,” he said.

You arched a brow. “You didn’t ask nicely.”

“I don’t ask.”

“Right,” you muttered, flicking ash. “Clone Commanders don’t ‘ask.’ They demand, they invade, they execute. Such charm.”

He didn’t rise to the bait. “And you’re not just a dancer.”

You turned to him then, leaning back against the wall. “No, I’m not. But I’m also not your informant. Or your ally. I gave you what you wanted because I wanted to.”

He studied you. Cool, detached, calculated.

You hated that he could look right through you. Hated it more that you let him.

“You’re efficient,” he said finally. “Unsentimental.”

“You say that like it’s a compliment.”

“It is.”

The rain started again—soft, cold, hissing down the walls. You shivered despite yourself, arms crossing over your chest. He noticed. Of course he did.

Still, he didn’t offer anything.

Just stepped forward, close enough that his presence alone made the alley feel smaller.

“This intel—” he began.

“I know what it means,” you cut in. “The envoy’s selling clone positions to mercenary networks. My club was the drop zone. I didn’t know until I did. I fixed it.”

“You interfered.”

You gave a slow smile. “What’re you gonna do, arrest me?”

His gaze didn’t shift. “If you were a threat, you’d be dead.”

A beat passed.

“Flattering,” you said. “Your version of flirting, I guess.”

“I don’t flirt.”

“No,” you murmured, looking up at him, “you don’t.”

The silence between you stretched long. Not soft. Never soft. Just charged.

He didn’t step closer. You didn’t touch him.

But something was laid bare in that narrow space between your bodies. A wordless understanding. You gave him your intel. He gave you his time.

“You’re leaving tonight,” you guessed.

“Yes.”

“You’ll be back?”

“Not if I can help it.”

You nodded, forcing a grin. “Careful, Bacara. You keep talking like that, I might start thinking you’re consistent.”

He turned, no further words, already walking into the rain.

You didn’t watch him go. Not this time.

You just stayed in the alley, smoke burning low, wondering why you felt like you’d just given away something more dangerous than a datachip.

⸻

The club was closing, lights dimmed, staff gone. You were alone backstage, slipping off your heels, when you heard the door open.

You didn’t flinch. You knew who it was before he said a word.

“You said you were leaving,” you said, not looking at him.

“I am.”

“You lost, Commander?”

His footsteps echoed—measured, armored, unhurried. When you turned, Bacara was there in the doorway, helmet in hand, gaze locked on you like a tactical target.

“I don’t like loose ends,” he said.

“Is that what I am to you?” you asked, voice light but brittle. “A mission to complete?”

“You gave me intel I didn’t earn. That’s motive.”

“So this is you—closing the loop?”

His jaw clenched slightly, eyes narrowing.

“I don’t leave variables behind,” he said.

You snorted, stepping toward him slowly, deliberately. “That’s funny. Because I think you came back for the one thing you can’t control.”

The space between you evaporated. You barely registered him moving—just felt your back hit the wall behind you, hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs.

Bacara loomed in front of you, one hand braced beside your head, the other gripping your chin, not cruel, but firm.

“Careful,” he said, voice low and lethal. “You think you’re dangerous because you wear a new name every night. But I see the cracks.”

Your breath caught. You didn’t want to flinch. But you did. Slight. Barely there.

He saw it.

And leaned in closer.

“I don’t care about the act,” he growled. “I care about the one underneath it. The one who lies, cheats, and keeps a weapon under the floorboards.”

You stared up at him, lips parted, heart pounding against your ribs like it wanted out.

“And what do you want with her?” you whispered.

“I want her to stop pretending she’s untouchable.”

His hand slid from your jaw to your throat—never tight, never cruel—but there. Asserting. Commanding.

You didn’t push him away.

You tilted your head back, letting out a slow breath. “You going to order me around now, Commander?”

“I don’t give orders to civilians,” he said.

His hand flexed. “But I do take control.”

Then his mouth was on yours—hard, claiming, no warning. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet. It was war. His hand fisted in your hair as he pressed you to the wall, your body fitting to his armor, your fingers gripping the cold edge of his chestplate like it anchored you to reality.

You kissed back like you’d been starving. Because you were. For something that wasn’t fake. For someone who didn’t need you to perform.

His grip never wavered. He knew exactly what he was doing. Every move was intentional—controlled, dominant, unyielding.

When he finally pulled away, you were breathless. Dizzy. Your hands shaking slightly where they rested on his armor.

He didn’t look smug. He looked the same. Just focused.

“This changes nothing,” he said, voice even.

You licked your lips, voice rasped. “Good. I hate messy.”

He stepped back. Just a fraction.

“War calls,” he said simply. “Don’t follow.”

“I won’t,” you lied.

His eyes lingered one last time.

And then he was gone.

Yeah you could say I’m doing numbers on tumblr. And that numbers? One

Some lad from some TV show

Anons: please stop drawing Tech without a shirt

Me: *whispers* I’ll never stop

We interrupt your regularly scheduled political tragedy to bring you SPACE PIGEONS.

“The Quiet Rebellion”

Captain Howzer x Twi’lek Reader

⸻

Freedom was a strange thing.

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

You’d fought to be here.

Fought to exist.

Now you fought for something.

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

Which made your situation with Captain Howzer… complicated.

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

You hated him immediately.