Areyoufuckingcrazy - The Walking Apocalypse

I think the key to a happy life as an adult woman is to channel your inner weird little girl and make her happy

Oh my gosh I love your writing! I was wondering if you could do a story with Wrecker and a f!jedireader? Where the reader saves his life and he falls in love with her.

Heart of the Wreckage

Wrecker x Female Jedi!Reader

You didn’t ask to be assigned to Clone Force 99.

You preferred structure. Discipline. A command chain you didn’t have to second-guess every five minutes. Instead, you got five walking exceptions to Republic standard procedure—and one of them was already trying to balance a blaster rifle on his nose when you entered the hangar.

The docking bay echoed with the metallic thrum of shifting armor and quiet tension. You stood at the base of the Marauder’s ramp, arms folded, cloak stirring around your boots. Clone Force 99 loomed ahead like a puzzle you hadn’t quite solved—Hunter’s brooding intensity, Tech’s sharp tongue, Crosshair’s narrowed eyes, and then there was Wrecker, already waving enthusiastically at you as if you were old friends.

You blinked. “He’s…very expressive.”

“Get used to it,” Hunter said, deadpan. “He’s also stronger than anyone you’ve ever met, and more loyal.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

This wasn’t your first joint operation with clones, but it was the first time you were paired with them. The “defective” batch. You’d read the reports. Tactical improvisation. Non-reg protocol. Explosive results.

Wrecker bounded forward. “You’re the Jedi, huh? I like your robes—got that windblown, mysterious vibe!”

You raised an eyebrow. “Thank you, I think?”

He gave a grin so wide it made you instinctively smile back.

⸻

The jungle was alive with rot, buzzes, and heat. The Marauder was docked a klick out. You adjusted your lightsaber on your belt and took point through the underbrush, boots silent, posture confident.

“Y’know,” you said over your shoulder, “I’ve read the reports on your squad. Impressive. In a ‘dangerously unregulated’ kind of way.”

“Some of us take that as a compliment,” Tech murmured, tapping at his datapad.

Wrecker, however, just grinned. “You should see us when things blow up. That’s when we really shine.”

You smirked. “I’m not impressed by explosions. I’m impressed by control.”

The moment the words left your mouth, blaster fire rained down from a hidden perimeter.

“Ambush!” Hunter barked.

You didn’t hesitate. Lightsaber flared to life, spinning in a fluid arc as you dropped into the fray. You cut through the first turret with a lazy flourish, pivoting to take out a second.

Behind you, Wrecker charged into enemy fire with a feral roar, ripping a tree trunk out of the ground to use as cover. It was absurd. It was stupid. It worked.

And then it happened—a concussive blast erupted from underfoot.

“Wrecker!” you shouted as he disappeared in a bloom of smoke and dirt.

You dove toward him without thinking. The smoke parted to reveal him half-buried in debris, face bloodied, armor cracked.

No time for the Force. No time for hesitation.

You dropped beside him, heaving metal plating off his chest, fingers scrabbling for a pulse. “You absolute brute,” you hissed, breath tight. “Why didn’t you check for mines?”

He groaned. “Didn’t think… they were sneaky enough…”

His eyelids fluttered.

“Stay with me, big guy,” you muttered, dragging him up with far more strength than your size suggested. “You don’t get to die on my mission.”

A blaster bolt screamed toward you from above.

You whipped your saber upward behind your back, deflecting the shot cleanly. Another followed. Then five.

They were targeting him.

You positioned yourself between Wrecker and the enemy without thinking. Your saber spun in tight arcs, catching bolts from all sides. The jungle lit up in rhythmic flashes of violet and red.

Crosshair’s voice crackled over comms. “Snipers—north treeline!”

“I see them,” you snapped. “But they’re not getting past me.”

One droid tried to flank you from the left—its aim dead-set on Wrecker’s exposed chest. You lunged forward and hurled your saber like a boomerang, slicing through its head. The hilt curved back into your palm as you returned to your guard position over Wrecker.

A glint of movement—a second droideka unfolded ten meters away, shield igniting with a hum.

You narrowed your eyes.

“Alright,” you muttered. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

The droideka fired. Rapid-fire bolts slammed into your defenses. You slid forward on instinct, redirecting each bolt into the tree line. You advanced one step at a time, deflecting, pushing, keeping it busy—until suddenly, a heavy explosion cracked the jungle from the opposite side.

Hunter and Crosshair emerged from the flank.

The droideka went down in fire and shrapnel.

You dropped to your knees, panting, your saber still lit in one hand. Then you turned back to Wrecker.

He groaned.

“Stars above,” you exhaled.

“Did…” His voice rasped, dazed. “Did I miss the fun?”

You gave a breathless, relieved laugh.

“You almost were the fun.”

His eyes opened sluggishly, and he blinked at you.

“You stayed?” he croaked.

You stared at him. “Of course I stayed.”

He tried to sit up, wincing immediately. You caught him by the shoulder and pressed him back down.

“Easy,” you said. “I just deflected enough blaster fire to light a city block. Don’t make me fight you too.”

⸻

Wrecker was stable—barely. The field medkit had done what it could. You sat on the ramp of the ship later that evening, arms crossed, watching as he stubbornly limped his way toward you with his torso still wrapped in gauze.

“Shouldn’t you be lying down?” you said.

He grinned, sheepish. “Wanted to say thanks.”

You glanced at him. “For getting blown up?”

“For pulling me out. You didn’t have to.”

“You’re part of the squad,” you replied coolly. “And I don’t leave people behind.”

“But you really went for it,” he said, sinking down beside you. “Didn’t think a Jedi would care that much about a guy like me.”

You snorted. “You think I risk my life for just anyone? Please.”

He looked startled.

You smirked. “You’re lucky I have a soft spot for wrecking balls with big dumb hearts.”

That earned a booming laugh from him. “Aw, c’mon—I ain’t that dumb.”

“I said big dumb heart, not brain. You fought well. Just… try not to step on anything next time.”

He tilted his head, watching you more seriously now. “You’re different from what I expected. Thought Jedi were supposed to be all calm and quiet.”

“I am calm,” you replied loftily. “I just happen to be excellent. And if I don’t remind people of that, who will?”

Wrecker blinked. Then grinned so wide it made something in your chest twist a little. “You’re funny.”

You looked away, suddenly aware of the warmth in your cheeks. “Don’t get used to it.”

“Too late.”

Silence fell. Comfortable, maybe even a little intimate.

“You really scared me back there,” you admitted finally, voice lower now.

“Scared myself too,” he said. “But it helped, havin’ you there.”

He looked at you then—not with the usual goofy enthusiasm, but something softer. Real. “I like that you don’t treat me like I’m just the muscle.”

You didn’t respond right away. Just nodded, watching a Felucian bird glide overhead.

“…I like that you let me save you,” you said eventually. “Don’t make it a habit.”

Wrecker chuckled and bumped your shoulder with his.

“No promises.”

“The Lesser of Two Wars” pt.12

Commander Fox x Reader X Commander Thorn

Vos had eventually dozed off on the couch after recounting his entire day in painstaking detail, mid-rant about Kenobi’s latest sarcastic remark. GH-9 had draped a throw blanket over him like a passive-aggressive truce, muttering about “freeloading Force-wielders,” while R7 beeped threats softly from across the room.

The senator stood by the kitchen sink, sipping water and staring out into the hazy city night. The lights of Coruscant stretched infinitely, a galaxy unto itself—one that never paused, even when she desperately needed to.

And then—three knocks.

Soft, deliberate. From the main door this time.

She glanced at the droids. R7, without being asked, wheeled over to peek at the hallway cam.

The screen lit up.

Fox.

Alone. No helmet. No men.

She didn’t hesitate.

She opened the door, and for a moment, neither of them said anything. His eyes were tired, rimmed with something unreadable. Not quite regret. Not quite resolve.

His eyes shifted over her shoulder, likely clocking Vos asleep on the couch.

“I won’t stay long.”

“You can,” she said quietly, stepping aside.

Fox entered like a man walking into enemy territory—not with fear, but with precision. Everything about him was still: his breath, his hands, the way his gaze lingered on her before dropping to the floor.

“I wasn’t sure if I should come,” he said. “After everything.”

“You always think too much before doing what you want.”

He gave a dry, soft laugh. “Maybe.”

The room was dim, her empty wineglass still on the table, the half-eaten leftovers now covered by GH’s impeccable sense of order. R7 retreated into the shadows. GH quietly powered down in the corner, muttering, “If I hear one bedspring creak, I’m deleting myself.”

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” she said, voice low.

Fox’s jaw twitched.

He crossed the space between them in two quiet steps. Her hands found his shoulders—tension in the muscle, coiled like a spring. His forehead pressed to hers, his breath warm.

“Tell me to leave,” he said hoarsely. “And I will.”

“I don’t want you to.”

She kissed him.

It wasn’t hurried or desperate—it was slow, sure, deliberate. The kind of kiss that came after months of missteps, guarded words, and chances nearly lost. His hands cupped her jaw as if anchoring himself. Her fingers found the hem of his blacks, tugging him gently forward.

They stumbled toward the bedroom, the city behind them still humming.

Clothes were shed without rush—just the gradual unveiling of want. Of unspoken truths. Of the weight they both carried and the tiny moment they let themselves set it down.

He was careful. Reverent. She was unapologetically sure of him.

And when it was over, when they were curled together in the dark, his hand found hers beneath the covers. A breath passed. A wordless promise lingered in the space between heartbeats.

For once, neither of them said a thing.

There was no need.

⸻

Soft morning light filtered through the sheer curtains, painting long golden stripes across the bed and the bodies tangled beneath the sheets.

Fox stirred first—slow, careful. His arm was wrapped around her waist, her face tucked into the crook of his neck, breathing even and warm against his skin. For a man who was always half-tense, half-suspicious, he had let himself fully relax—for once.

He looked down at her, brushed a strand of hair from her forehead, and exhaled quietly.

Safe.

Here, in this impossible little pocket of stillness, he felt safe.

She shifted slightly, nuzzling into him, and he tightened his hold instinctively.

“You’re still here,” she murmured, voice hoarse with sleep.

“Didn’t want to leave,” he replied, just above a whisper. “Didn’t want this to be just once.”

“It won’t be,” she said, fingers tracing a lazy line across his chest. “Unless you snore. That’s a dealbreaker.”

He smirked. “You snore.”

“Lies.”

There was a loud clatter from the main living area, followed by GH-9’s distinctly judgmental voice.

“He stayed the whole night. I must say, I didn’t expect the Commander to be the clingy one. And here I was rooting for Thorn’s rebound arc.”

“GH,” the senator groaned, pressing her face into Fox’s chest. “Why did I give you a voice box again?”

“Because without him, you’d have no one to judge your choices properly.”

More noise. A loud thump. R7’s panicked, angry beeping echoed into the bedroom.

Fox lifted his head. “Is someone—?”

“Vos,” she sighed.

A pause. “Of course.”

R7 let out a sharp screech followed by the sound of something sparking.

From the living room, Vos yelled “You psychotic bin of bolts! That nearly hit my hair!”

More angry beeps.

“You can’t just light me on fire!”

Fox sat up as GH-9 came into the bedroom and calmly announced, “Vos has been warned. R7 has logged multiple offenses. Honestly, I’m surprised he hasn’t been tased already.”

Fox gave her a look. “Do I want to know what R7’s made of?”

“No,” she said immediately.

Outside the bedroom door, Quinlan’s voice carried “I just came to say good morning! And maybe… ask how many rounds you two—OKAY I’M GOING.”

A snap of static and the sound of flailing robes later, Vos presumably ran for his life, with R7 in hot pursuit.

Fox laid back down slowly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Why is your life like this?”

She grinned into the pillow. “Keeps me young.”

He glanced at her. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

“Don’t tempt me,” she whispered, leaning over to kiss his jaw. “Now. Lie back down, Commander. We’re pretending the galaxy doesn’t exist for five more minutes.”

Outside, GH’s voice rang again.

“I’ll make caf. And breakfast. For two.”

⸻

“Alright,” Stone said, setting down his tray in the mess with a heavy clunk, “am I the only one who noticed Fox didn’t come back to the barracks last night?”

Thire raised a brow and sat beside him. “You’re not. His bunk hasn’t been touched. Hound, anything on your end?”

Hound glanced up from feeding Grizzer bits of smoked meat under the table. “He left with us last night, remember? Said he was heading home. Then poof. No helmet, no comms. Nothing.”

Stone leaned in, frowning. “That man is never late. And definitely never unaccounted for.”

“Unless…” Thire started, a sly grin growing. “He wasn’t alone.”

All three went silent for a second.

Then:

“Oh no.”

“Oh stars.”

“Oh hells.”

Their synchronized realisation was only made worse when Thorn walked by, paused mid-step, and slowly turned back to face them.

“What are you lot whispering about?” he asked, tone suspiciously flat.

Thire cleared his throat. “Just… wondering where Fox was last night.”

“Why?”

“Because no one’s seen him. Didn’t report in. Didn’t come home.”

Stone added carefully, “You wouldn’t happen to know where he was, would you?”

Thorn didn’t answer. He stared. And then, very slowly, that seed of doubt began to unfurl in his chest like a poison bloom.

He hadn’t seen her since the senator came back from her homeworld. And Fox had been… twitchy. Avoidant.

His jaw tightened. “You don’t think he was with—?”

“Morning, gentlemen!”

Quinlan Vos breezed in, still half-draped in his robe, hair tousled like he hadn’t slept a minute—and somehow smug as ever.

He dropped into a seat, reached for a mug of caf, and grinned. “You are not going to believe what I heard last night.”

Thire narrowed his eyes. “From where?”

Vos took a long sip of caf, then tapped his temple. “Senator’s couch. You’d be surprised how little soundproofing those walls have.”

There was a long, awful pause.

“You slept on her couch?” Stone asked, appalled.

Vos wiggled his fingers. “Slept is a strong word. Meditated with dramatic flair, more like. Anyway—Fox dropped by around midnight. Stayed the night. Definitely didn’t leave until early morning. I heard… things.” He waggled his brows.

Thorn’s blood went cold.

“You’re saying they—?”

“I’m saying,” Vos interrupted with a smirk, “there was some very rhythmic furniture movement, and I was not going to interrupt round two. Or was it three?”

Hound groaned. “Oh maker.”

Thire blinked. “I’m gonna throw up.”

Grizzer barked once, unhelpfully.

And Thorn—he just stood there. Stiff. Quiet. Jaw clenched so hard it ached.

Vos finally noticed. “Oh. Thorn. You okay, buddy?”

The commander turned and left without a word.

Vos blinked. “Was it something I said?”

Stone and Thire glared.

Hound just muttered, “You’re the worst, Vos.”

Vos grinned. “I try.”

Thorn didn’t remember much of the walk out of the mess hall.

His boots hit the corridor floor harder than necessary, hands clenched into fists at his sides. It felt like pressure was building in his chest—hot, dense, and impossible to ignore. Every step echoed like a heartbeat in his ears, and not a single one of those karking words from Vos would stop replaying.

Rhythmic furniture movement.

Round two. Or was it three?

He stopped in the hallway outside the barracks and pressed both hands against the durasteel wall, breathing hard through his nose.

It shouldn’t matter.

She wasn’t his.

But he’d had her. At least for a night. One goddamn night where he’d seen her smile against the morning sun, tangled in the sheets with him. Where it felt like something peaceful and warm was possible.

And Fox—

Fox always took everything in stride. Cold, quiet, controlled Fox. Until suddenly, he didn’t. Until he showed up where he wasn’t expected and stayed the night.

Thorn’s hand slammed into the wall with a metallic clang. A few clones walking past glanced at him but didn’t dare speak. Not with the look on his face.

He hadn’t thought he’d be jealous of Fox. Not him. Not the cold, haunted commander who held himself so far back from everyone that even his own brothers walked on eggshells around him. But now, all Thorn could picture was her mouth on Fox’s, her body against his, those sharp eyes going soft the way they had only once before—when she looked at Thorn.

He pressed the heel of his palm to his eye socket, trying to force the thoughts away.

Maybe it was just physical. A mistake. A moment. Maybe Fox wouldn’t even mention it again.

But deep down, Thorn knew.

Fox didn’t do casual. Fox didn’t indulge unless he meant something by it. And the way he’d been looking at her lately… the way he’d softened.

Thorn turned abruptly and headed toward the training wing. He needed to hit something. Sparring droids, punching bags, stone walls—anything.

He couldn’t walk this off. Not this time.

He couldn’t stand the idea of losing her.

Not to him.

⸻

The sun had begun to dip below the skyline, casting the Senate District in a soft golden glow. It was quiet—eerily so, for Coruscant—and for once, she welcomed the stillness.

She was sitting on her balcony, a cup of tea long forgotten beside her. R7 beeped quietly from the corner, then rolled back inside, sensing her need to be alone.

The knock came anyway.

She didn’t even look. “Door’s open.”

It hissed open a second later, and Thorn stood there in full red armor, helmet under one arm, his hair mussed, his expression unreadable.

She looked up at him slowly. “I figured you’d be storming through the training halls.”

“I did.” His voice was lower than usual. “Didn’t help.”

She gave him a soft, bitter smile. “Then I suppose I’ll be your next attempt at relief.”

“That’s not why I’m here.”

There was a beat of silence. The tension between them felt like it had a pulse of its own.

She stood, arms folding across her chest. “I never lied to you, Thorn.”

“I know.”

“I told you I couldn’t choose. That I cared about you both.” Her voice cracked a little at the edges, raw with the weight of it. “That hasn’t changed.”

“I didn’t come here to demand anything,” he said quietly. “I just… I needed to see you. I needed to know if it meant something. What happened between us. Or if I was just—”

“You weren’t just anything.” Her eyes locked with his. “Don’t do that to yourself. Don’t do that to me.”

He took a step closer. “Then what am I?”

She hesitated. “You’re someone I care about. Someone I trusted with more than I’ve trusted anyone in a long time. But that doesn’t mean I don’t care for him, too. This isn’t… easy.”

He closed the last bit of distance, standing just inches away now. “I’m not asking for easy. I never wanted perfect. Just something real.”

Her lips parted, a shaky breath escaping her. “Thorn…”

And then his lips were on hers.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t patient. It was desperate, almost painful—like if he didn’t kiss her now, if he didn’t feel her, he’d fall apart entirely.

She let him.

For a few suspended seconds, she let herself fall into the gravity of him—the anger, the confusion, the ache of not being enough and wanting too much. Her fingers curled into his armor, his hands gripping her waist like she was the last solid thing in the galaxy.

But she pulled back first.

His forehead pressed against hers, breath uneven.

“I can’t promise you anything,” she whispered, barely able to speak past the emotion in her throat.

“I’m not asking for a promise,” he murmured. “Just don’t shut me out.”

She nodded, slowly. “I won’t.”

Neither of them moved for a while. The city buzzed far beneath them, but up here, they were just two people—trying to make sense of a storm neither had control over.

⸻

The room was quiet, save for the faint hum of the Coruscant skyline outside and the soft rustling of sheets as Thorn shifted beside her. She was curled against him, her fingers tracing the edge of his armor, the weight of his body warm and familiar next to hers.

For the moment, the chaos of the galaxy seemed miles away. The Senate, the battles, the confusion with Fox, it all felt distant. All that remained was the steady rhythm of Thorn’s breath and the warmth of his presence.

She sighed, not wanting to break the silence. But she had to.

“Where will you go?” Her voice was barely above a whisper, the words fragile as they left her lips.

Thorn’s hand found hers, gently squeezing. “Padmé’s mission. There’s a squad of us assigned to protect her, make sure nothing goes wrong while she’s there.” His voice was casual, like this was just another assignment, another day in the life of a soldier.

But she could hear the edge in his tone, the unspoken weight of what it meant. She couldn’t help but feel a tightness in her chest.

“You’re going with her?” Her voice trembled slightly.

He nodded. “I’ll be with her, watching over her and the others. No one will get through me.”

But she knew the truth. The reality of war was far darker than the comfort of his words.

A quiet moment passed between them, the distance between their hearts widening with the inevitable separation.

She turned her face to the side to look at him, her fingers grazing his jaw. “Be careful.”

“I always am,” he said, but there was a sadness behind his smile, a knowing that neither of them could ignore.

Her stomach churned. She didn’t want him to leave. She didn’t want to watch him walk away, knowing how fragile life was in the galaxy they lived in.

“I wish I could go with you,” she murmured. “Not as a senator… just as me. I want to be by your side, Thorn.”

His fingers brushed her cheek, a tenderness in his touch that betrayed the soldier he was. “I know. I wish you could, too. But I can’t ask you to leave your duties.”

There it was—the line between them. The weight of who she was and what she had to do, and the soldier who had nothing but his duty to give.

“I’ll be back before you know it,” he promised, though the doubt lingered in his eyes. There was something in his gaze—a flicker of fear, of uncertainty—that unsettled her.

He was trying to reassure her, but she could feel it in her gut. She didn’t want to let him go. Not like this. Not with war still raging, not knowing what the future would hold.

But what could she do? She couldn’t keep him with her. And as much as she hated to admit it, she knew she couldn’t stand in the way of his duty either.

She nodded, her lips trembling as she kissed him again, softer this time. “Come back to me, Thorn. Promise me.”

He kissed her back, deeply, holding her close as if trying to make the moment last forever.

“I promise. I’ll come back to you. I’ll always come back.”

You lay there for a while longer, not speaking, just holding onto each other as the time ticked away. The feeling of his heartbeat beneath her fingers, the warmth of his body next to hers, was the only thing that anchored her to this fleeting moment of peace.

⸻

The next morning, the air felt heavy. Thorn, dressed in his full armor, stood by the door. His helmet sat at his side, and for once, the mask didn’t seem like a symbol of his strength. It seemed like a weight.

“I’ll be back soon,” he said quietly, looking at her one last time before the mission.

The time they had spent together—intimate, raw, fleeting—had been enough to make him hesitate. He wanted to hold her longer. To delay the mission, to stay here in the quiet with her for just a few more hours. But he couldn’t. Duty called, as it always did.

She nodded, standing in the doorway with her arms crossed over her chest.

She could feel her heart beating erratically. There was a bitter taste in her mouth, the unspoken fear gnawing at her insides.

She watched him walk down the hallway, her heart heavy with a sense of dread that she couldn’t shake. And as the door closed behind him, she tried to push the worry aside. She had to. For his sake.

The sound of the door sealing shut behind him echoed through the apartment. It was the sound of finality.

And as Thorn left her behind, she had no idea that this goodbye might be the last time she’d see him alive.

⸻

The mission was supposed to be routine. Thorn and his squad were assigned to protect Padmé, but as they soon discovered, nothing in the War ever went according to plan.

In the chaos, Thorn found himself surrounded, his blaster raised, a fierce determination in his eyes. But even the most skilled of soldiers could only hold out for so long.

⸻

Back on Coruscant, the days dragged on. The Senate halls were filled with the usual bustle, but the senator couldn’t shake the feeling of something missing. Thorn’s absence weighed on her.

She was in her office, sorting through reports and data pads that had piled up during her absence. The windows were open, letting in the soft glow of Coruscant’s afternoon sun, though it offered little warmth.

R7 chirped as he rolled past, dragging a half-toppled stack of flimsiplast behind him like a stubborn child refusing to clean up. GH-9 muttered something sarcastic in binary about the senator’s inability to delegate.

She was halfway through dictating a speech when the door chimed.

“Come in,” she called without looking up.

The door opened. She didn’t expect to look up and see Fox standing there.

The moment she saw his face, she knew.

He wasn’t in full armor. No helmet, no blaster. Just the weight of something unspeakable dragging his shoulders low. His eyes—those always-sharp, unreadable eyes—were glassy.

“Senator,” he said softly, almost like he wished he didn’t have to speak at all.

Her heart dropped.

“What is it?” she asked, the datapad slipping from her hands, forgotten on the desk.

Fox stepped inside and the door closed behind him with a quiet hiss.

“It’s Thorn.”

The words struck like a punch to the chest. She froze. Her stomach twisted.

“No.”

“He was escorting Senator Amidala They were ambushed. He held the line.” Fox’s voice was steady, trained. But beneath it, something trembled. “He fought like hell.”

Her knees buckled, and she sat down hard in her chair, as if the air had been knocked out of her.

“He didn’t—he didn’t make it,” Fox finished, the words hanging in the air like smoke after an explosion.

Silence.

R7 rolled up beside her, quietly for once, and GH-9 hovered in the background, hands twitching nervously.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t cry. Just sat there with her hands clenched in her lap, her nails biting into her palms. She stared at the wall, eyes unfocused.

“I shouldn’t have let him go alone.”

Fox took a step closer, voice low. “There’s nothing you could’ve done.”

She looked up at him sharply, and for a brief moment, he saw all of it—the love, the guilt, the devastation.

“You don’t know that.”

“No,” he said gently. “But I know he wouldn’t want you blaming yourself.”

Her jaw trembled. “He promised me. He said he’d come back.”

Fox moved then, silent but certain. He knelt beside her chair, placing one gloved hand over hers. It was the first time she’d seen him like this—unguarded, vulnerable.

“I didn’t want to be the one to tell you,” he admitted. “But I knew… it had to be me.”

She looked at him, truly looked. And something in her cracked.

Tears welled up and finally fell. Not loud, not dramatic. Just quiet, helpless grief.

Fox stayed where he was, grounding her with his hand, offering nothing but his presence and the unspoken ache of his own loss. Thorn had been one of them—his brother, his friend. And now, just another ghost in the long line behind them.

“I loved him,” she said hoarsely, the words torn from her chest. “And I never got to tell him.”

Fox nodded, his thumb brushing gently over her fingers. “He knew.”

They sat there like that for a long time. No titles, no ranks, no roles—just two people mourning a man who had mattered more than words could ever say.

⸻

It was late.

The city outside her window was alive with light, but her apartment was dark, save for the soft hum of R7 recharging in the corner and the occasional flicker of Coruscant speeders casting pale shadows across the room.

She stood at the balcony, robe drawn tight around her, fingers curled around a mug of untouched caf long since gone cold. The wind carried faint echoes of the night—traffic, laughter, the mechanical heartbeat of a world that never paused.

Behind her, she heard the soft hiss of her door sliding open.

She didn’t turn.

“I didn’t lock it, did I?” she murmured, her voice distant.

“No.” Fox’s voice was quiet, steady as ever, but softer somehow. “Didn’t think you’d want to be alone.”

She didn’t answer right away. Just stood there, watching nothing, letting the silence stretch between them like a fragile thread.

“I told you I couldn’t choose,” she said at last, her voice breaking around the edges. “Between you and him. I—I cared too much for you both.”

Fox stepped closer, but didn’t touch her.

“I know.”

Her throat tightened, and she finally turned to face him. His helmet was tucked under one arm, and without it, he looked tired. Hollowed out. But there was a warmth in his gaze, something real—something she wasn’t sure how to accept right now.

“The galaxy chose for me,” she whispered, bitterness thick on her tongue. “And it was cruel.”

Fox nodded once, eyes lowering. “It always is.”

They stood there in silence again. The wind picked up, brushing her hair into her face. She closed her eyes.

“He died protecting someone else,” she said. “Of course he did.”

“That’s who he was.”

“I didn’t get to say goodbye.”

Neither did Fox.

But Fox didn’t say it. He only looked at her with a quiet pain that mirrored her own.

After a while, she moved, just enough to stand beside him instead of across from him. Their shoulders nearly touched. And for the first time since the news had broken her in two, she let herself lean—just slightly—against him.

Fox didn’t move. Didn’t startle. He simply stayed.

The two of them stood there, side by side, in a moment that felt suspended in time. No war. No orders. No decisions to make.

Just grief. Just memory. Just a little peace, wrapped in shared silence and what could have been.

In the days that followed Thorn’s death, something shifted between her and Fox—but it wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t loud. It was in the small things.

He didn’t knock anymore.

She didn’t ask him to leave.

He never asked if he could stay, and she never told him no. When she broke into tears mid-sentence in a meeting with Bail and Mon, she felt Fox’s gloved hand rest lightly on her back—quiet, grounding, unspoken. When she returned to her apartment after long hours in the Senate, he was often already there, helmet on the table, sitting silently with R7 humming nearby and GH-9 making snide remarks about his choice in boots.

Their intimacy wasn’t the same as it once was. It wasn’t born of flirtation, or the tension of forbidden glances. It was quiet. Fragile. Real.

She didn’t laugh as much anymore, and Fox didn’t try to make her. But when she smiled—those rare, slow, exhausted smiles—he was always looking.

One night, weeks later, she woke to find herself tangled in her sheets, her heart racing from a dream she couldn’t remember. The bed beside her was empty, but she heard the sound of movement from the other room. When she padded out, she found him on the balcony, just like she had been that night.

He didn’t notice her at first. He was staring out at the city, the lights reflected in the faint lines beneath his eyes.

“I keep thinking about what he’d say if he saw us now,” she said quietly.

Fox didn’t flinch. “He’d be pissed.”

That got a breath of a laugh from her. “Yeah. He would.”

She stepped beside him, this time without hesitation. He looked at her—not with guilt or doubt, but something gentler.

“I’m not trying to take his place,” Fox said. “I wouldn’t do that. I couldn’t.”

“I know.”

“But I’m here. And I care about you.”

She nodded, voice soft. “And I care about you.”

The silence between them wasn’t heavy anymore. It was something else now. Shared understanding. Mutual grief. A kind of bond forged not through heat or fire, but through the slow, enduring ache of loss.

She reached for his hand, and this time, he took it.

⸻

It had been months—long, heavy months since the galaxy fell into silence.

The war had ended, but the peace that followed felt like a lie whispered in a storm. The Republic was no more. The Jedi were gone. The Senate now served an Emperor.

And Fox… was still hers.

Somehow, in the ruins of everything, they had survived—together. Their love had grown not with grand gestures or declarations, but in quiet mornings and guarded nights. The droids still bickered. The city still roared. But in their home, they found a rhythm.

She had feared he’d be swept away by the tides of this new Empire. Feared that one day he wouldn’t come back. And that fear… never quite left her.

It settled in her bones like frost.

That morning, she sat on the edge of their bed, dressing in silence. Fox stood near the window, fastening his chest plate, his helmet cradled beneath his arm. The early Coruscant light bathed them both in a pale hue, sterile and cold.

He was going to the Jedi Temple.

“Why you?” she asked softly, not for the first time.

“Because the Emperor trusts me,” he said. It wasn’t pride—it was resignation. “And because I follow orders.”

She swallowed. “You followed orders during the war too. And look where we are now.”

He turned to face her, his expression unreadable, as always. But then he stepped forward, kneeling slightly in front of her. He took her hands in his, calloused fingers brushing against hers.

“I’ll come back to you,” he said quietly. “I always come back.”

“That’s not what I’m afraid of,” she whispered. “I’m afraid of what’s left of you when you do.”

He didn’t answer—not right away. Instead, he leaned in, pressing his forehead to hers, the silence stretching between them like a wire ready to snap.

“You saved what was left of me once,” he murmured. “Whatever happens in that temple… I’ll still be him. I’ll still be yours.”

She nodded, eyes burning. “You’d better be.”

He kissed her, slow and deep, and for a moment the galaxy outside didn’t exist. No Empire. No purge. Just them. Just love, worn but unyielding.

Then, without another word, he picked up his helmet, straightened, and walked out the door.

She stood alone, the echo of his footsteps retreating down the hall.

And for the first time in weeks, the senator who had survived the war—who had outlived Thorn, Padmé, and a thousand dreams—sat in silence and prayed.

⸻

The senator sat in the same chair by the window, her fingers wrapped around a cup of now-cold tea.

The sun had long risen. She hadn’t moved.

It had been hours since Fox left for the Jedi Temple. She had done this before—waited for him to come home, waited for news, waited for the sound of armored boots in the hallway followed by that quiet, familiar knock.

But this time, it never came.

Instead, a Senate aide delivered the news. Cold. Efficient. Detached.

Commander Fox is dead.

Her world stopped spinning.

She hadn’t cried. Not at first. Just sat there. Staring. Breathing through the tremor that clawed its way up her throat. She waited for someone to say it was a mistake. That the report had been wrong. That he’d walk through the door like he always did, maybe with a bruise or a weary joke.

But he didn’t.

GH-9 paced the floor, helpless for once. R7 sat by the door, unmoving, eerily quiet—no beeps, no complaints. Just stillness.

“He forgot,” she whispered at last, her voice dry and cracking.

GH-9 paused, turning his photoreceptors to her. “Pardon, senator?”

“He forgot to tell them… about Vader. He didn’t warn his men. He walked in blind, trusting too much. He…” She laughed, a dry, heartbroken sound. “Fox. He followed the rules. Right to the end.”

She folded in on herself, pressing her forehead to her knees. Her voice came out muffled, trembling. “He left me too.”

No one tried to tell her it would be okay. Not this time. Even the droids stayed silent.

She had lost Thorn to the war. Padmé to politics and truth. The Jedi to treason and betrayal.

And now Fox.

The man who had once been all steel and restraint, who had learned to laugh again in her arms, who held her when the galaxy grew too loud, who said he’d come back… and meant it.

He meant it.

But even Fox couldn’t survive this new galaxy.

Hours passed.

She lay down on the bed, curling into the spot where he used to sleep. The sheets still smelled like him—warm leather, dust, and something sharp and clean like the wind before rain.

Her hand found his pillow and clutched it to her chest.

And finally—finally—she cried.

⸻

News of Fox’s death reached her like an echo—distant, half-believed, but devastating all the same. He was just gone. No funeral. No body. No honors. Only silence.

She tried to go back to her life. Attending hollow Senate sessions filled with sycophants and fear. Sitting in on Imperial briefings delivered with too much steel and too little soul. Every corridor she walked felt colder. Every face around her wore a mask.

He had died protecting that machine. And now, it turned as if he’d never existed.

She grieved in private. She didn’t scream. She didn’t fall apart. She simply… withdrew. Fox had once told her that the Empire’s greatest weapon wasn’t force—it was apathy. It made people stop feeling. She remembered that.

But she wouldn’t stop feeling.

So when survivors of distant systems quietly sought her out… she listened.

When a child refugee from Garel slipped her a hand-drawn map of a new labor camp… she didn’t throw it away.

When a clone deserter arrived at her estate with wounds on his back and no name, she gave him food. And a place to rest.

It was only help, she told herself.

But helping turned into organizing. Organizing turned into funding. Funding turned into sabotage. Quietly. Carefully. No grand speeches. No banners. No cause, not officially. Just steps. One after another.

She still spoke in the Senate, but her voice was quieter now. Calculated. She didn’t argue. She watched. Noticed who kept their heads down and who looked over their shoulders. Who clenched their fists beneath the table.

And then she began connecting them.

They weren’t a rebellion. Not yet.

They were just people who remembered.

⸻

*time skip*

The banners were gone.

Where once the towering buildings of Coruscant bore the stark emblem of the Empire, now they flew the soft golds and blues of the New Republic. It had taken years. Blood, betrayal, sacrifice. But the machine had been broken.

She stood on a balcony overlooking the Senate Plaza, the same one where she’d once greeted Padmé, where she’d once stood beside Thorn, where Fox had kissed her in the early light of a safer time.

Everything was quieter now.

Not because there wasn’t work to do—there was always work—but because the fear had lifted. People laughed in the streets again.

Her hair was streaked with grey now, skin lined with years that had not always been kind. But her eyes… they were still sharp, still tired, still watching.

She didn’t hold a seat in the new Senate. She had turned it down. She said she’d done her time, spoken enough, lost too much. The new leaders were young, hopeful, idealistic. She didn’t want to shape them. She just wanted them to do better.

Some called her a war hero. Others, a relic. A few, a ghost.

She was all of them. And none.

On quiet mornings, she would walk the Senate gardens. GH-9 still chattered beside her. R7 wheeled along just ahead, ever feisty, ever suspicious, always scanning for threats that might never come.

Sometimes, she swore she saw a flash of red and white armor in the crowd. Sometimes, she turned too fast, thinking she’d heard a voice she knew.

But no. They were gone. Thorn. Fox. So many others.

And yet, she remained.

When asked if it was worth it, she never gave the same answer twice.

Sometimes she said yes.

Sometimes she said no.

And sometimes, she just looked out over the city and said,

“Ask me again tomorrow.”

Previous part

A/N

I didn’t know how to end this, so I ended it bittersweet/tragic. I absolutely hate this ending ahahaha.

Commander Cody x Twi’lek Reader

The battle for Ryloth raged on, the skies above choked with smoke and the echoes of blaster fire. The clones fought valiantly, as they always did, but in the midst of the war, it was the civilians who suffered most. The Twi'leks were caught between the Separatists' relentless assault and the Republic's effort to free them.

Commander Cody, his distinctive armor marked with the colors of the 212th Attack Battalion, was in the thick of it, leading his troops through the war-torn streets. The noise of the battle was deafening, but he focused, always focused, as he barked orders and ensured his men stayed on task.

Then, in the midst of the chaos, he saw her.

A Twi'lek woman, her emerald skin marked with the familiar patterns of her people, stumbled in the open, narrowly avoiding a blaster bolt. Her eyes were wide with fear, and her lekku twitched nervously. She was no soldier—just a civilian, caught in the crossfire.

Without thinking, Cody sprinted toward her, grabbing her arm and pulling her to safety just as another volley of blaster fire whizzed past them. They ducked into the shadow of a nearby building, the sound of the battle muffled by the walls around them.

"Stay down," Cody ordered, his voice calm despite the chaos. His heart was racing, adrenaline flooding his veins, but his instincts were razor-sharp. "I'll make sure you're safe."

She nodded, her wide eyes still full of fear. She was clearly shaken, but her strength was evident. She wanted to run, to fight, but she knew she had no place in this war. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the distant sounds of blaster fire. "I—I don't know what I would've done without you."

Cody looked at her, his brow furrowing slightly. There was something about her, something that tugged at him, but he didn't have time to think about it. There was a war to fight, and civilians needed to be protected.

He turned back toward his men, ensuring the area was clear before giving her a nod. "Stay close. I'll get you out of here."

But just as he stepped toward the street to lead her to safety, a distant explosion rocked the ground beneath them. Cody stumbled, pain shooting up his side as he fell to one knee, his vision swimming. He reached out, steadying himself, but the pain was too much.

"Commander!" she gasped, rushing to his side.

"I'm fine," he gritted through clenched teeth, but his body betrayed him, and he crumpled against the wall. Blood seeped through the cracks in his armor, a clear sign that he had been injured more seriously than he realized.

"No, you're not," she insisted, kneeling beside him. "Let me help you. Please."

Her eyes were full of concern, and something deeper—something warmer—flashed between them. It was a connection neither of them had expected but couldn't ignore. In the middle of the battle, amidst the destruction and death, there was only the two of them in this small corner of the world.

She pulled a medical kit from the pack she had slung over her shoulder, her hands steady as she worked to clean his wounds. Cody winced, but he remained quiet, letting her do what she could.

"You're a medic?" he asked, his voice strained but appreciative.

"No," she replied softly, applying pressure to his side. "Just someone who knows a little bit about surviving. I've had to learn." Her words were matter-of-fact, but there was something raw in her tone that made Cody's heart tighten.

Her hands were gentle, moving with care, as if she could heal not just his body but the war-torn world around them. It was a kindness, a rare gift in a universe filled with conflict, and Cody found himself entranced by the sincerity in her touch.

Once the worst of the bleeding had been stopped, she sat back, wiping the sweat from her brow. Cody caught his breath, the pain dulling but not entirely gone.

"You're a good woman," he said softly, his voice low, a hint of admiration in his words.

She smiled at him, though her eyes were full of uncertainty. "I'm just doing what needs to be done. It's the only way I can survive."

Cody's eyes softened as he gazed at her. He had been trained to fight, to lead, to be the soldier the Republic needed, but in this moment, all he wanted was to stay. To stay here with her, away from the war, even if only for a little while.

But duty called. And as the sounds of battle drew closer, Cody knew he had to go. He stood slowly, wincing at the pain in his side but determined.

"You need to get to safety," he said, his voice resolute. "It's not safe here."

She stood as well, her eyes sad but understanding. "I know. But... what about you? What happens to you?"

Cody gave a half-smile, despite the pain. "I'll be fine. I'll be with my men again soon enough."

She didn't look convinced, but she didn't argue. Instead, she stepped closer, looking up at him with a mixture of gratitude and something else. Something deeper.

Cody hesitated, his heart pounding in his chest. In the midst of the war, in the middle of a planet torn apart by conflict, they were two people, bound by something greater than the galaxy around them.

Without thinking, he reached out and cupped her cheek gently. Her eyes widened, but she didn't pull away. In that brief moment, time seemed to stand still.

And then, without a word, he leaned down, brushing his lips softly against hers. It was a kiss filled with everything they both couldn't say, everything that had built up between them in their short time together. It was tender, lingering, and full of all the things they couldn't share—*but* they did, in that fleeting moment.

When they pulled away, Cody's breath was unsteady, his heart racing, but he forced a smile. "Goodbye," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "And thank you. For everything."

She smiled softly, a sad yet knowing expression crossing her face. "Goodbye, Commander," she replied, her voice steady. "Stay safe out there."

With one last glance, Cody turned and began to walk away, the pull of duty stronger than anything else. But as he disappeared into the distance, he couldn't shake the memory of her—her touch, her kiss, and the warmth in her eyes.

He didn't know what the future held. He didn't know if they would ever meet again. But for a brief moment, amidst the chaos of war, he had found something that felt worth fighting for.

And that was enough.

---

mon mothma getting wasted and dancing to space pop music because one of her oldest friends is about to get assassinated and she feels guilty while her cousin sits and mopes because she just saw her situationship for the first time in ages and it was only because she's here to carry out said assassination. andor is AWESOME.

rain season

Me: I'll stay silent so they don't know I'm judging The face I'm silent with:

this place sucks im gonna drink six beers and jack off

Do y'all ever read a fic so good that it makes you want to elevate your own craft and also befriend the writer? It's almost like, "Hi! You write so well that you've inspired me to embark on a creative training arc. Also, can I yell about the character in your dms because you get it?"