“The Lesser Of Two Wars” Pt.9

“Red Lines” pt.3

Commander Fox x Reader

You sat back in the medical bay with a fresh bandage on your shoulder, sipping from a flask that definitely did not contain approved Republic stimulant rations.

Across from you, Anakin stood with his arms crossed, watching a medic finish patching up your wound. He looked oddly relaxed for a man who had just murdered someone in a hallway.

“Well,” you said, wincing slightly as you flexed your shoulder, “I guess we can cancel the fireworks and the firing squad.”

Anakin smirked. “Probably for the best. The optics were gonna be a nightmare anyway.”

“Please,” you said dryly. “Optics are the one thing my people love messy.”

You tapped a commpad resting beside you on the cot and brought up your ship’s navigation interface. A cheerful little message blinked: ARRIVAL IN SYSTEM: 3 HOURS.

You sighed, dramatically. “Well, there goes my logistical planning. Invitations. Vendor contracts. The gallows.”

Anakin chuckled, a dark edge to his grin. “You’re not seriously disappointed?”

You gave him a look. “I had a speech, Skywalker. A really good one. Rhetoric, flair, applause lines. You ever try to cancel a political execution with less than four hours’ notice? It’s a bloody mess.”

There was a knock at the door. The medic stepped back, giving a polite nod as two figures entered: one in Senate Guard blues, the other a high-ranking emissary from your homeworld, flanked by your personal aide.

Your aide looked vaguely panicked. The emissary looked furious.

“Senator,” the emissary said stiffly. “We’ve just received word. The prisoner is dead?”

You raised your flask in a lazy toast. “Correct. Chose to improvise. Very dramatic.”

“Improvised?” he blinked. “He was executed aboard a Republic vessel—without ceremony, without audience—”

“Without getting any of my damn blood on the carpets,” you interrupted, smiling thinly. “You’re welcome.”

The emissary sputtered. “What are we supposed to tell the people?”

“That the bastard who butchered their families tried to escape justice,” you said, standing slowly, “and one of the Republic’s finest cut him down mid-flight to protect their senator from assassination. That’s better than the show, honestly.”

The aide blinked. “So… we don’t need to delay the post-execution feast?”

You looked to Anakin, deadpan. “Should I bring the corpse in a box as proof, or do you think they’ll take my word for it?”

Anakin shrugged. “You’ve got good stage presence. I’d believe you.”

The emissary pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’ve just upended half our ceremonial protocol—”

“Again,” you said, brushing past him and grabbing your cloak, “you’re welcome.”

As the others filtered out, grumbling and muttering about decorum and wasted resources, Anakin lingered by the door.

“You’re seriously going back home just to give a speech over a dead man’s ashes?” he asked.

You pulled the clasp on your cloak, expression smooth. “Of course. Let them mourn what they wanted and didn’t get. It’s better that way.”

He studied you for a moment, curious. “You always like this?”

You gave him a sidelong glance. “Only when I win.”

And with that, you walked off down the corridor, steps steady, shoulder sore—but spine unbowed.

The execution was over.

But the theatre?

That had only just begun.

⸻

The ship landed at dusk.

Twin suns spilled molten gold across the obsidian landing pads of your capital, casting long shadows that reached toward you like claws. The air was warm and heavy with the scent of spice, steel, and storm-bruised flowers that only bloomed after blood rain.

As the boarding ramp lowered, you felt it. The shift.

You straightened your shoulders.

Slowed your breath.

And shed the Coruscanti bite from your posture like an old coat.

You weren’t the sharp-tongued, rage-baiting senator anymore. Not here.

You were their senator.

The gatekeeper.

The sword and seal of a people forged in war and survival.

You walked down the ramp in silence, your cloak a trailing shadow, your expression unreadable. Behind you, Obi-Wan and Anakin followed—Kenobi, cautious and observing; Skywalker, loose-limbed and openly curious.

A fanfare of percussion instruments and throat-chanting rose from the procession waiting at the foot of the steps—guards in ceremonial armor, banners fluttering, emissaries standing tall.

Your people did not weep for the prisoner. There were no black sashes or flowers laid in mourning.

Instead, there was fire.

Braziers lined the boulevard, flames flickering high to honor justice fulfilled—even if it came wrapped in chaos.

Anakin leaned toward you as you walked. “This is what you call restraint?”

You gave him the barest tilt of your head. “If we wanted excess, we’d have brought the corpse.”

At your side, Kenobi sighed softly. “As disturbing as that image is… your people do have a knack for spectacle.”

“I told you,” you said, keeping your gaze forward. “We don’t flinch from consequences. We honor them.”

⸻

The feast hall was carved from volcanic stone, long and low with vaulted ceilings that shimmered with luminescent moss and jewel-tone metals. The air smelled of roasted meat, spiced fruit, and sweet liquor.

Dancers moved like smoke through the crowd.

There was laughter.

Music.

Toasts shouted in five languages.

You stood near the high table, nursing a goblet of deep amber wine, wearing a formal garment that draped your frame like armor. Every angle of you was honed—graceful, powerful, untouchable.

Anakin was already on his second round with a group of soldiers, trading war stories and draining shots like they were water. He looked alive here, among warriors and firelight.

Kenobi stood off to the side, wine in hand, watching the scene with the expression of a man trapped between judgment and genuine enjoyment.

Eventually, he approached you.

“This,” he said, lifting his glass slightly, “is far more pleasant than I anticipated.”

You arched a brow. “I assumed you’d be sulking about the moral implications of toasting over a would-be assassin’s death.”

“Oh, I still disapprove,” he said, sipping. “But your liquor’s very persuasive. And your musicians have excellent rhythm.”

You gave him a faint smirk. “We don’t mourn the removal of threats. We celebrate survival.”

“You celebrate very well.”

There was a pause. A rare, companionable quiet.

Then Kenobi added, dryly “That said… if I wake up with a tattoo and no memory of where my boots went, I’m blaming Skywalker.”

You let out a low, surprised laugh—real, not performative.

For a moment, the night softened around the edges.

But only for a moment.

Because tomorrow, there would be politics again. Corpses to explain. Reports to file.

But tonight?

Tonight, your world danced in flame.

And you let yourself be theirs.

Even just for one night.

⸻

Coruscant was grey that morning.

Muted sun behind clouds. Rain beading softly against the durasteel windows of Guard HQ.

Inside his office, Commander Fox sat alone behind his desk, datapads stacked in neat columns, stylus in hand, expression unreadable. He didn’t slouch. He didn’t fidget. He just… read.

A private file—heavily encrypted—glowed on the display in front of him.

Subject: Senator [Name] – Incident Debrief & Homeworld Response Log

Status: Prisoner deceased. Jedi casualty: none. Senator: minor injury. Civil unrest: negligible. Execution status: voided. Celebratory feast: confirmed.

He stared at that last line.

Feast.

Fox blinked once. Slowly. Then set the stylus down with clinical precision.

“Of course,” he muttered to himself, tone bone-dry. “Feast.”

There was a polite knock at the door. Sharp, deliberate.

“Enter,” he called.

The door hissed open.

Senator Riyo Chuchi stepped inside, her presence as calm as always—measured, graceful, dressed in soft blues that made her look like something born of snowfall and silence.

“Commander,” she said with a faint smile. “I hope I’m not intruding.”

Fox stood, instinctively straightening his spine. “Senator Chuchi. Not at all.”

She stepped closer, hands folded neatly. Her gaze flicked to the screen behind him, just for a second.

“More reports from the Senator’s trip home?” she asked lightly.

Fox’s mouth twitched—almost a smile, almost a grimace. “You could call it that.”

“I heard there was an incident,” she said, voice softening. “I trust she’s unharmed?”

“Minor injury,” he confirmed. “The prisoner attempted to escape en route. Neutralized.”

Chuchi nodded slowly, then tilted her head. “And the execution?”

“Canceled,” Fox said simply. “She improvised.”

Something flickered across Chuchi’s face—an expression caught somewhere between relief and concern. “That sounds like her.”

Fox gave a faint nod, eyes dropping back to the datapad. “I’m not here to question methods. It’s not my place.”

“You think that’s all it is?” Chuchi asked gently. “Methods?”

He glanced up, brow furrowed slightly.

She stepped closer, just a little. Not pushing—just enough to be noticed.

“Some of us see people,” she said. “Not just politics.”

Fox blinked.

Then looked at her—really looked.

Chuchi smiled, small and earnest. “I thought I’d bring you this,” she added, producing a small insulated container from her satchel. “Fresh caf. Brewed properly. I thought you might need it.”

He stared at it. A beat passed before he took it, careful not to brush her fingers.

“…Thank you,” he said, voice rough with habit more than emotion.

She hesitated. Then: “You don’t have to be polite with me all the time, Commander.”

He glanced up, puzzled.

She smiled again, this one quieter. “You’re not a report.”

With that, she turned to leave, the hem of her cloak brushing the doorway.

Fox stood there for a long moment, caf in hand, staring at the empty space she’d just occupied.

He finally sat back down, the weight of the morning returning to his shoulders.

Report after report.

Fire and feast.

Senators and swords.

He sipped the caf.

It was excellent.

He hated that it made him feel anything at all.

⸻

Coruscant gleamed with its usual sterile indifference as your ship cut through its airways, docking silently under a hazy afternoon sun.

You stepped out dressed not for war, but for the game, a tailored ensemble of muted power, the cut precise, the lines sharp. Behind you, aides hurried, datapads flickering with messages and half-formed excuses for missed committee meetings. You let them speak for you. You didn’t need to explain your absence.

The moment you stepped into the Senate halls again, the shift was palpable.

Your gait was unhurried.

Your expression? Immaculately unreadable.

But the whispers started anyway.

They always did.

⸻

Elsewhere in the Senate Building Padmé Amidala folded her arms in her office, standing at the window with narrowed eyes.

“She’s getting close to you,” she said quietly.

Anakin, sprawled on a chaise like a man without a single political care in the galaxy, frowned up at her. “Close to me? She nearly got murdered last week. I was doing my job.”

Padmé turned. “You’re spending a lot of time with her. You were always… sympathetic to her methods.”

“She’s not wrong about everything,” Anakin said with a shrug. “Her world’s brutal. So she makes brutal calls. Doesn’t mean she’s dangerous.”

“She’s persuasive,” Padmé said flatly. “And you like people who fight like you do. It concerns me.”

Anakin held her gaze. “I know what I’m doing, Padmé.”

Her expression didn’t budge. “I’m not sure she does.”

⸻

The lights in the guard hallway were dimmed. Hound and Thorn sat on a bench outside Fox’s office, casually snacking on ration bars, half-listening to the low murmur of voices inside.

“You reckon she’s finally getting somewhere?” Thorn muttered, cocking his head toward the door.

Hound snorted. “She could wear a sign around her neck saying Fox, take me now, and he’d still think she was lobbying for more security funding.”

Inside, Fox stood at his desk, arms crossed, frowning as you paced slowly in front of him with deliberate grace.

“I’m just saying,” you murmured, tone silk-soft, “the Guard’s response time was impressive. Efficient. You’ve trained them well.”

Fox didn’t blink. “Thank you, Senator.”

You leaned slightly on his desk, watching him with a glint in your eye. “Though I did miss your voice shouting orders over a comm. It’s oddly reassuring.”

He hesitated, just a flicker.

“…It wasn’t necessary to involve myself directly.”

You smiled. “Still. It would’ve made for a good view.”

That one landed.

A slight pause. A faint shift in his stance.

You leaned in, voice low. “Don’t tell me you didn’t miss me, Commander.”

Fox cleared his throat, stiffening slightly. “I’m glad you returned safely.”

“Are you?” you asked, a smirk playing at your lips. “Because the last time I left, I almost died. And when I got back, my favorite clone didn’t even send me a message.”

Fox opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Regrouped.

“I… didn’t want to presume.”

You tilted your head. “Shame. I do like a man with initiative.”

Just outside the office, Thorn elbowed Hound, grinning like an idiot. Hound had a hand over his mouth to keep from laughing.

“Ten credits says he short-circuits before the end of the conversation,” Thorn whispered.

Back inside, Fox glanced toward the door—he knew exactly who was eavesdropping. His voice dropped to a murmur.

“…Some of us aren’t trained in politics.”

You took a slow step closer. “Good. Politics is boring. I prefer action.”

Fox blinked. “I—”

The door creaked.

Fox turned sharply. “Thorn. Hound. Get back to your rounds.”

Two half-stifled laughs vanished down the hall.

You chuckled, slow and rich.

Fox looked somewhere between exasperated and confused. “You enjoy this.”

“Immensely,” you purred. “You’re one of the few people here who doesn’t lie to my face or fawn over my power. It’s refreshing.”

He looked at you for a long moment. The barest crack in the armor.

“…You’re hard to read.”

You stepped back, just slightly—enough to give him space, enough to keep him off balance.

“Good,” you said softly. “Let’s keep it that way.”

Then you turned, brushing past him with a swish of fabric and control.

“Goodnight, Commander.”

“…Goodnight, Senator.”

Outside, Hound was already counting his credits.

⸻

Your office was dim, sunlight creeping in through the high windows like it feared being too bold in your domain. You were lounging in your chair, glass in hand—liquor, not caf—when the door slid open with a hiss.

Skywalker stepped in, alone. No guards. No cloak of diplomacy.

You raised your brows. “No dramatic entrance? I’m disappointed.”

Anakin shrugged as he shut the door. “I’m not here for a debate.”

“Pity. I’m good at those.”

He folded his arms, studying you like he was trying to decide if you were a real threat or just too much trouble to be worth it.

“Padmé’s worried about you,” he said without greeting.

You didn’t even blink. “She’s always worried. It’s her default state.”

“She’s worried about you. And me.”

You blinked once, then tilted your head. “Are you flattered or terrified?”

Anakin cracked a dry grin. “Both.”

Anakin gave you a look. “She thinks you’re manipulating me.”

You smiled, slow and amused. “Are you easily manipulated, Skywalker?”

“No,” he said, too fast, then caught himself. “But you’re not exactly subtle, either.”

“I’m not trying to seduce you,” you said lazily. “If I were, you’d already know. And you’d be very uncomfortable about it.”

That drew a genuine laugh from him.

“I like you,” he said, leaning back against the window frame. “You don’t pretend. Everyone else here pretends.”

You shrugged. “I was raised by men who gutted liars before dinner. I have little patience for masks.”

“You’re going to get eaten alive in here,” he warned.

You grinned. “Skywalker, I am a wolf dressed in velvet. I’ll be okay.”

He turned, and for a moment, you saw it—that same sliver of you in him. Something sharp and secret and smoldering. He respected it.

⸻

Later that afternoon, a message arrived. Private channel. Encrypted.

Johhar Kessen.

Senator of Dandoran. Blunt nails dipped in old blood. His smile always looked like it was hiding something, and his suits were cut with the arrogance of a man who’d never once been held accountable.

He requested a “discreet” meeting in one of the lesser-used conference lounges beneath the rotunda.

You went, of course. Alone.

He welcomed you like a merchant offering cursed jewels.

“Senator,” he purred, “I believe we can help each other.”

You said nothing. Just sat and let him dig the hole himself.

“I’ve noticed your recent… power plays,” he continued. “Decisive. Controversial. Admirable.”

He poured himself a drink but not you.

“I know there are those who would love to see your world scrutinized. Public executions don’t go over well with the Jedi. Or the press.”

You smiled, slow and cold.

He didn’t notice.

“I can smooth that over,” he offered. “Help manage the narrative. In return, I’d like your support on my latest trade deregulation bill. Simple. Clean.”

He leaned closer. “Say yes, and no one ever sees your less polished traditions. Say no…”

He shrugged. “Well. People love a scandal.”

You pressed a button beneath the table.

Recording active.

Your eyes gleamed. You loved a good conflict.

⸻

They packed the rotunda. Senators from the core and mid-rim worlds, trade delegates, press from The Core Chronicle, and the ever-judgmental whispers of Senator murmuring like priestesses behind veils.

You stood at the central platform, spine straight, voice calm.

“I present this recording to the full body.”

The playback began.

Kessen’s voice filled the chamber: smug, slimy, and devastatingly clear.

“…say yes, and no one ever sees your less polished traditions…”

Shock rippled like thunder.

Johhar Kessen stood, red-faced, sputtering. “This is—this is a breach of—”

“Of what, senator?” you snapped, voice like a whip. “Decorum? Legality? You attempted to blackmail a member of this chamber. Do not insult this room by feigning innocence.”

The senators exploded into sound.

Kessen stood, fists clenched. “There’s a process for accusations like this—!”

“Too slow,” you cut in. “Too easily buried.”

Orn Free Taa looked at you like you’d just spit blood onto his robe.

“Your methods are grotesque,” He whispered.

You turned your head. “So are the ones used by half the worlds you turn a blind eye to.”

Chuchi rose slowly. Her eyes never left you.

“Even if he’s guilty… there are better ways.”

“I don’t play by your rules,” you said coolly. “Because your rules were written to protect people like him.”

Kessen had gone dead quiet.

He knew.

And then—

“I support the senator’s actions.”

The room fell silent.

Bail Organa rose, voice calm, but firm.

“I do not support the tactic, but I support her refusal to be intimidated. If we condemn the exposure more than the crime, then we are not a governing body—we are a club.”

Gasps. Murmurs. A few stunned stares.

You watched him.

He looked you in the eye. Gave you a single nod.

Respect. Conditional. Earned.

⸻

Outside the Chamber Chuchi followed you out. You could feel her presence without turning.

“You’ve made enemies.”

“I was never here to make friends.”

Her voice was soft. “You’re going to get hurt.”

You glanced at her over your shoulder. “Let them try.”

And with that, you vanished into the corridors, cloak billowing behind you like a shadow with teeth.

⸻

The report came in clean and quiet, just like the man who delivered it.

Fox stood behind his desk, fingers locked behind his back, posture perfect. Not a single muscle twitching—except for the subtle clench of his jaw as Hound finished reading the datapad aloud.

“…exposed the blackmail attempt on the Senate floor, publicly. Senator Johhar Kessen’s credibility is in tatters. Organa backed her up. So did Organa’s wife.”

A beat of silence.

Fox didn’t move.

“Sir?” Hound prompted.

Fox blinked once, slow. Then nodded.

“She’s reckless,” he said, tone dry and clinical. “But I can’t fault her for exposing corruption.”

“Never said you could,” Hound muttered, crossing his arms. “Just that the fireworks were impressive.”

Fox didn’t smile. Of course he didn’t.

But his silence lingered.

“…you don’t approve?”

“I don’t comment,” Fox corrected.

Hound exhaled through his nose, looking far too amused. “Of course not, Commander.”

The door chimed.

Fox’s eyes flicked up. “Enter.”

Senator Riyo Chuchi stepped in with her usual grace—soft-voiced and composed, carrying two steaming cups of caf like offerings at a shrine.

“Commander,” she greeted gently. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

Fox straightened a touch more, if that was even possible. “Not at all, Senator.”

Chuchi smiled and handed him one of the mugs. “Thought you might need this. You looked tired last time I saw you.”

He accepted it like someone unfamiliar with gifts. “That’s… appreciated.”

“I also wanted to check in,” she added, voice lighter now. “After all the excitement in the Senate. Your guards were quick to respond when Senator [L/N] was attacked—Thorn and Stone handled it excellently.”

“She alerted us herself,” Fox said. “Gave detailed information. Her timing was precise.”

Chuchi hesitated. “You’ve… spoken with her?”

“A few times,” Fox said neutrally, sipping the caf. “Usually regarding security.”

Chuchi tilted her head. “And outside of security?”

Fox blinked at her, expression unreadable behind the helmet of his professionalism. “Why would I?”

She laughed softly. “No reason. Just seemed like she had a certain… fondness.”

Fox blinked again. “For the Guard?”

She smiled politely. “Sure.”

You had come by for a casual follow-up, half-expecting the door to be open, half-expecting to breeze in and rile Fox just for the fun of it. But the sight through the transparent panel brought your steps to a halt.

Fox, standing stiff with a cup in hand.

Chuchi, close—too close—leaning in, speaking softly.

He was focused, respectful, unreadable.

But she…

Her interest was carved into every careful sentence, every flicker of her eyes. She was making her move.

And you weren’t going to interrupt that.

Not directly.

You turned away, pretending not to look.

“Surprised you didn’t barge in.”

You turned to find Hound leaning casually against the corridor wall, arms crossed and helm off, watching you with a wry smile.

“You think I should’ve?”

“Would’ve made good entertainment.” He smirked. “Though maybe Fox’s heart would short-circuit. Pretty sure he still thinks you and Chuchi are just trying to get in his good graces for Senate leverage.”

You snorted.

“He’s blind,” Hound added, shrugging. “If someone looked at me the way you look at him… well. I wouldn’t be wasting it.”

You tilted your head, amused. “If someone looked at you that way, would you even recognize it?”

He grinned. “I’m not the one holding a damn caf like it’s a live grenade while a senator stares at me like I hung the moons.”

You looked back at the door. Your expression softened—just a fraction. “He deserves better than what either of us could give him.”

“Maybe,” Hound said. “But people don’t choose who they make weak for.”

You didn’t reply.

Just watched as the door slid open again—and Chuchi stepped out, graceful as ever, her smile fading the moment she saw you standing there.

You gave her a slow, lazy smile. “Senator.”

“Senator,” she replied coolly, before walking past you without another word.

Fox didn’t follow her out.

You didn’t go in.

The hallway still buzzed faintly from Chuchi’s perfume and perfect poise as she vanished down the corridor.

You stood in silence a moment longer, thoughts tangled, arms crossed.

Hound remained leaned against the wall, watching you carefully. Grizzer sat quietly by his side.

“Feeling dangerous,” Hound murmured, “or just wounded?”

You didn’t take the bait. “You patrol near the East Residential Block?”

“Every other night.” He raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

You gave him a faint smile, more tired than your usual games. “Escort me home.”

He looked you over, caught the guarded tone, the lack of venom, and straightened.

“Security concern?”

“Something like that.” You turned on your heel, cloak flaring softly behind you. “Unless you’ve got a caf date too?”

“Only with Grizzer.”

The massiff gave a pleased huff and trotted after you both.

The three of you walked in rhythm. The quiet buzz of speeders hummed high above, and the lights of Coruscant shimmered like artificial stars.

Grizzer stayed close to your side, his large eyes occasionally flicking up at you like he understood more than he let on.

You glanced at Hound. “I think I lost him.”

“Fox?” he asked, even though he knew the answer.

“Chuchi’s winning,” you muttered. “Or at least… not losing.”

Hound shoved his hands into his belt, voice casual. “You in love with him or just hate the idea of someone else having what you want?”

You didn’t answer right away.

Grizzer’s claws clicked against the polished duracrete. The street was empty, private, lined with the red glow of low-lit signs.

“I don’t do love,” you said finally. “But I respect him. And I liked being the only one who saw the cracks in his armor.”

Hound was quiet a beat. “Fox is hard to read. He’s trained himself not to need anything.”

“I noticed.”

“But needing and wanting are different things.” Hound glanced sideways at you. “You might’ve gotten through to the part of him that wants. Doesn’t mean he knows what to do with it.”

You sighed. “He doesn’t have to do anything. I’ve already made enough of a fool of myself.”

“You haven’t,” Hound said, voice firmer. “You just got tired of playing a game where he doesn’t know the rules.”

You smiled a little. “Maybe he never learned how to play.”

Grizzer grunted and nosed your hand, seeking affection. You obliged, stroking his warm, armored head.

“He likes you,” Hound said. “Only growls at people who give off the wrong scent.”

You raised a brow. “I smell like trouble.”

“Yeah,” Hound agreed. “But not bad trouble.”

You reached your apartment complex, a tall, dark-glassed tower behind a gilded gate. The entrance lights flickered as you approached, and the two guard droids posted at the front scanned you with routine precision.

You turned back to Hound. “Thanks for walking me.”

“Anytime,” he said. “I’ve got five more blocks to hit anyway.”

“Stay safe.”

He smirked. “Says the senator who blew up half the chamber with one datapad.”

You grinned, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes.

Grizzer barked once, deep and throaty, then followed Hound as they headed into the city shadows.

You stood alone at your door, looking out into the dark.

The city blinked back like a thousand indifferent eyes.

⸻

Previous Part | Next Part

Hunter x Pabu Reader

⸻

Pabu Festival Night

The sun dipped below the horizon, casting golden light over the sea as the village of Pabu came alive with lanterns, laughter, and the mouthwatering scent of street food. Strings of glowing paper lights swayed between buildings, and music floated through the air—something old, joyous, and deeply local.

You were elbow-deep in flour and slightly burnt noodles at a stall near the center square, laughing as a group of children tried to help and made an absolute mess of everything. Your hair stuck to your face, there was something sticky on your pants, and your smile had never been wider.

Hunter leaned against a post nearby, arms crossed, eyes locked on you like you were the only person on the planet. His squad hovered beside him, all wearing variations of amused smirks—except Tech, who was deeply invested in analyzing the music’s rhythm pattern with furrowed brows.

“Stars, he’s doing it again,” Echo said, nudging Hunter’s side with his elbow.

“Doing what?” Hunter muttered, not looking away.

“Staring at her like she’s a dessert he’s too afraid to order,” Wrecker said with a laugh. “Come on, Sarge, just tell her she looks pretty with noodles in her hair.”

“She does,” Hunter said under his breath, then quickly shook his head. “Shut up.”

“She’s going to think you’re broken,” Tech added dryly. “Most humans engage in verbal communication when expressing attraction.”

“You’re all insufferable,” Hunter growled.

“Hey, Hunter!” Omega’s voice chirped brightly, cutting through the banter as she skipped over, cheeks pink with excitement. “Did you ask her yet?”

Wrecker snorted. “Maker, Omega, we’ve talked about subtlety.”

“Oh! Right,” Omega grinned, then leaned up conspiratorially, stage-whispering way too loudly, “You should ask her though. She wants you to. I asked.”

Hunter stared at her, stunned. “You what?”

“Matchmaking,” she said proudly. “Crosshair said you’d drag your feet forever so I thought I’d help.”

“Crosshair’s not even here.”

“Exactly. I’m doing his part too.”

Before Hunter could come up with a coherent response, you turned and spotted them. Your smile brightened when your eyes landed on him.

“Hey! You guys just gonna lurk or actually join the party?”

Hunter stood straighter, clearing his throat. “We’re—uh—considering our options.”

“I’m voting for food and dancing!” Omega beamed, grabbing Hunter’s hand and dragging him forward. “Come on, she saved us noodles.”

⸻

Later, By the Dancing Lanterns

You swayed barefoot on the warm stone path, clutching a sweet drink in one hand and laughing as locals pulled strangers into their dancing circles. The music had picked up, and lights flickered off the sea like tiny stars had dropped into the water.

You spotted Hunter hanging at the edge of it all, looking like a soldier at the edge of a battlefield he didn’t quite understand.

You approached him slowly, grinning up at him as you offered your hand. “Dance with me?”

He blinked. “I don’t dance.”

“You’ve got enhanced reflexes and perfect rhythm,” you said, teasing. “You’ll be fine. I’ll even go easy on you.”

A beat passed. His eyes searched yours, and then—to the shock of everyone within fifty feet—he took your hand.

The music wrapped around you like warmth as he followed you into the circle, stiff at first, focused too hard on every step.

“You’re thinking about it too much,” you whispered, drawing closer. “Let go. It’s just you and me.”

His hand slid to your waist, a bit hesitant, a bit bold. “Easier said than done.”

“Well,” you murmured, brushing your fingers along his chest, “if it helps… I’ve wanted to touch you like this for a long time.”

He exhaled sharply, eyes darkening. “You really know how to mess with a guy’s focus.”

“I have excellent timing.”

He finally smiled—small, crooked, but real. “You do.”

You moved together, slower now, drifting into your own little orbit as the circle of dancers spun around you. The music faded into the background, and all that remained was the warmth of his hands, the steadiness of his breath, and the unspoken pull that had been building for months.

⸻

The festival had died down, lanterns bobbing on the sea, distant laughter echoing through the trees. You and Hunter sat by the water, his arm loosely around your shoulders, your head resting against him.

“Didn’t think I’d ever have this,” he said quietly.

You turned toward him. “What?”

“This kind of life. Something soft. Someone like you.”

Your heart twisted. “You deserve this. All of it.”

His fingers brushed against yours, then threaded together slowly. “I used to think needing someone made me weak.”

“And now?”

He looked at you, voice low. “Now I think it makes me human.”

You leaned in, letting your lips brush against his. “Took you long enough.”

From somewhere up the hill, Wrecker’s voice bellowed: “Pay up! I told you they’d kiss before midnight!”

Omega cheered. “You’re welcome!”

Hunter groaned and buried his face in your shoulder. “They’re never letting this go.”

“Good,” you smiled. “Neither am I.”

⸻

“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.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

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.

“My Boys, My Warriors” pt.3

Clone Commanders x Reader (Platonic/Motherly)

⸻

The fires in the Kalevalan mountains burned low, the cold wind howling through the high passes. The Death Watch camp was bustling—more recruits, more stolen weapons, more rumors.

And then, the arrival.

Obi-Wan Kenobi and Duchess Satine Kryze.

Uninvited.

You stood with Vizsla on the high ridge as he drew the blade from his hip. The Darksaber hissed to life like a living flame—black as night, glowing at the edges like the promise of death.

The effect on the Mandalorians below was instant: awe, devotion, fevered whispers.

But your stomach twisted.

“This isn’t the way,” you muttered under your breath.

Vizsla grinned, eyes gleaming. “It’s our way now.”

You didn’t answer. Not yet.

When Kenobi and Satine confronted Vizsla, words were exchanged. Accusations. Pleas.

Then lightsabers.

Vizsla went for Kenobi—sloppy, showy. It was never about skill with him. It was about spectacle.

You intervened. Not to protect Vizsla. But to test Kenobi. To understand.

Your beskad clashed against his blade, sparks flying. He was strong, but not unkind. Precise.

“You trained the clone commanders,” he said mid-duel, surprised. “You’re her.”

You didn’t answer. Only pushed him harder.

He deflected and stepped back, breathing heavy. “They still speak of you.”

Your guard faltered. Just a beat. But he saw it.

“Cody is my Commander.”

You let them go. Kenobi and Satine escaped into the mountains under cover of night. Vizsla fumed. Called it weakness. Called you soft.

You didn’t respond.

But later, in secret, others came to you—Death Watch members uneasy with the fanaticism growing in Vizsla’s wake. You weren’t the only one with doubts.

You weren’t alone.

Not yet.

⸻

“General?” Cody asked, voice low.

Obi-Wan glanced up from the datapad, still damp from the rain on Kamino. The war had kept them moving—campaign to campaign—but this conversation had waited long enough.

“What happened on Kalevala,” Cody said. “You recognized someone.”

Obi-Wan studied him a moment, then nodded. “Yes.”

Cody looked down, exhaling.

“I think…” Kenobi paused, unsure how to soften the blow. “I think it was your buir.”

Cody’s breath hitched. He didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. For a long moment, he said nothing.

“I didn’t believe it at first,” Kenobi went on gently. “But her fighting style. Her presence. It was unmistakable.”

Cody sat on the crate beside him, helmet in his lap. “She used to sing to us,” he said quietly. “Used to say we’d be legends.”

Obi-Wan’s voice softened. “I don’t think she’s lost. Not entirely.”

“She joined the Death Watch.”

“She didn’t kill me when she could have.”

Cody blinked hard. “She always said if you had to fight… you fight for something worth dying for. Maybe she thinks she’s doing that.”

Obi-Wan nodded. “Maybe. Or maybe she’s trying to protect something she already lost.”

Later That Night

Cody stood outside his quarters, datapad in hand. He stared at the encrypted channel. No new messages. Nothing in months.

But still… he keyed in a short phrase.

Just two words.

Still there?

He sent it.

And waited.

The barracks were quiet tonight.

Too quiet.

The kind of quiet that only happened right before everything changed.

Cody sat on the edge of his bunk, polishing his helmet even though it was already spotless. The other troopers in his unit were mostly asleep, some murmuring in dreams, others shifting restlessly. Outside, thunder rolled low across the skies.

And then—

Ping.

His datapad lit up.

An encrypted file.

No message. No words. No source.

He stared at it.

He knew that signature. Knew the rhythm of its encryption—she’d taught it to them. Said it was how Mandalorians passed messages in the old days. Heartbeats in code. A kind of song.

And now…

A file.

Cody clicked play.

And the room was filled with a voice from his childhood.

“Do you still dream? Do you, do you sleep still?

I fill my pockets full of stones and sink

Thе river will flow, and the sun will shine 'cause

Mama will be there in the mornin'”

Her voice was soft, low, carrying that rough edge it always had—like wind against beskar. He remembered hearing it in the cadet bunks, late at night, when the storms outside made even the toughest of them curl tighter under their blankets. He remembered her kneeling beside the youngest, brushing a hand over their short buzzed hair, humming softly.

He remembered how it made them feel safe. Like they were home.

And now, years later, on the edge of the Clone Wars…

He was hearing it again.

“Slumber, child, slumber, and dream, dream, dream

The river murdered you and now it takes me

Dream, my baby

Mama will be there in the mornin'”

He blinked, chest tight.

Cody didn’t cry. Not in front of his men. Not in front of anyone.

But tonight, he pressed the datapad to his chest and closed his eyes.

You okay, sir?”

It was Waxer, leaning in from his bunk. Boil sat up too, eyes curious.

Cody cleared his throat. “Fine.”

Boil tilted his head. “Was that…?”

Cody nodded once. “Yeah.”

The others didn’t press. But slowly, one by one, troopers across the barracks stirred. Listening.

No one spoke.

They just let her voice fill the room.

⸻

On Mandalore’s moon, the woman who had sent the file stood beneath the stars.

Helmet tucked under her arm.

She watched the horizon and murmured to herself, “Fight smart. Fight together. And come back.”

She would never send them words.

They already knew them.

But she could still sing them to sleep.

⸻

The fire crackled low in the mouth of the cave, throwing shadows across the jagged stone walls. Outside, the frost of the moon’s night crept in, but inside, the warmth of the flames and the quiet hum of her voice kept it at bay.

She sat cross-legged by the fire, her helmet resting beside her, eyes unfocused as she sang under her breath. The melody was soft, familiar, drifting like smoke.

Behind her, a few Death Watch recruits murmured amongst themselves, throwing glances her way, unsure of what to make of the rare lullaby from a warrior like her.

One of them approached. Young. Sharp-eyed. Barely out of adolescence, with a chip on his shoulder and something to prove.

“Buir,” he said cautiously, the word catching awkwardly in his throat. “That song. You sing it a lot.”

She didn’t look at him. Not right away. She just nodded, still staring into the flames.

“Who was it for?” he asked. “Someone on Mandalore?”

Her voice came low, worn. “No.”

The recruit waited. He didn’t sit, but he didn’t leave either. After a moment, she gestured for him to join her by the fire. He sat slowly, hands resting on his knees, trying to act like he wasn’t still scared of her.

She let the silence sit a little longer before she answered.

“I trained soldiers once. Before the war broke out. Children, really. Grown in tubes, bred for battle. They were mine to shape… my responsibility.”

“You mean the clones?” he asked, surprised. “The clones?”

She nodded slowly.

“They were… good boys,” she said, a soft smile tugging at her lips. “Too good for what the galaxy would ask of them.”

“You cared about them,” the recruit said, almost like it was an accusation.

“I still do,” she replied without hesitation.

He looked at her—this woman in weathered beskar who fought harder than anyone in Death Watch, who’d left behind her name and her history to walk the path of insurgency. The woman who could break bones without blinking… and yet sang lullabies to shadows.

“They’re fighting for the Republic now,” he said. “Isn’t that… the enemy?”

She looked at him then. Really looked at him.

“I didn’t train enemies,” she said. “I trained survivors. Sons. And no matter where they are, or who they fight for, they are mine.”

The recruit shifted uncomfortably.

“I thought you joined Death Watch to protect Mandalore,” he said. “To fight the pacifists, the weakness Satine brought.”

“I did,” she said quietly. “But that doesn’t mean I stopped loving the people I left behind. Sometimes war splits you down the middle. Sometimes you fight with one half of your soul… while mourning with the other.”

The fire crackled between them.

After a long pause, the recruit finally asked, “Do you think they remember you?”

She smiled, just a little.

“I hope they remember the song.”

⸻

The air on Mandalore was thin and sterile—peaceful in a way that felt almost unnatural.

Walking through Sundari’s wide, shining corridors in full armor again, the reader felt the stares of pacifist advisors, senators, and citizens alike. A Mandalorian warrior hadn’t walked these halls in years. Not since they were exiled—branded relics of a bloody past the new government had tried to bury.

She kept walking.

Each step echoed with restraint, but not regret.

When she reached the palace gates, the guards blocked her path, hands twitching toward the stun batons at their sides.

“I seek audience with the Duchess Satine,” she said, voice even. “Tell her an old warrior has come home to bend the knee.”

The guards exchanged skeptical glances, but one of them relayed the message through their comms. A beat passed. Then another.

Then: “The Duchess will see you.”

Satine Kryze sat tall on her throne, draped in royal silks, her expression unreadable.

The reader approached slowly, helmet in hand, her armor still painted in the battle-worn shades of Death Watch—though the sigil had been scorched off.

Satine’s eyes narrowed. “You walk into my court bearing the same steel that once stood with Vizsla and his radicals. Why should I hear a word from your mouth?”

The reader dropped to one knee.

Not in submission.

In promise.

“I left them.”

Satine arched a brow. “And I’m meant to believe that?”

“You’ve heard what Vizsla plans. He wields the Darksaber like a hammer, believing Mandalore’s strength is only measured in fire and conquest.” Her voice was low but sure. “But true strength is not brutality. It’s knowing when not to strike. It’s survival. Legacy.”

Satine rose from her throne slowly. “That sounds more like my philosophy than that of a sworn Mandalorian.”

The reader’s head lifted.

“I am sworn to the Creed,” she said. “The whole Creed. Not just the warmongering chants of the fallen, but the heart of it—the protection of our people. The survival of our world. That is the way.”

Satine studied her.

Something in her eyes softened.

“You pledge yourself to me?”

“I pledge myself to Mandalore,” the reader answered. “And right now… you are the only one keeping her heart beating.”

A long pause.

Then Satine stepped forward, extended a hand.

“Then come,” she said. “If you would stand for peace, walk beside me. I leave for Coruscant in the morning.”

⸻

The duchess’s starcruiser hummed steadily through hyperspace, bound for Coruscant. Peace had no place in the stars anymore—pirates, bounty hunters, Separatist saboteurs—any one of them could strike at any time. Satine’s diplomatic voyage needed more than security.

It needed Jedi.

And hidden among the entourage was a shadow in Beskar.

You.

You stood silently behind the duchess, armor painted anew—neutral tones, a far cry from your old Death Watch markings. Most on board didn’t recognize you, especially with the helmet on. But Obi-Wan had looked twice when he boarded. Said nothing. Just gave you a subtle nod—acknowledgement… and warning.

You were a guest here.

But you were also something dangerous.

t started when the droid attacked. The assassin model, slinking through the ventilation shafts like a ghost.

The ship rocked as explosions tore through the hull—one hit dangerously close to the engines. Screams echoed down the halls.

As the Jedi and clone troopers mobilized, you were already moving, your beskad drawn from your hip in a practiced motion. The moment you cut through the access panel and leapt into the ducts after the droid, Obi-Wan barked, “She’s with us—don’t stop her!”

You burst from the duct with a grunt, landing in a crouch between clone troopers and the assassin droid that had been pinning them down. In one quick move, you flipped the beskad in your hand and hurled it—metal slicing through the droid’s neck and sending sparks flying.

The clones blinked, surprised.

Then one of them spoke, stunned.

“…Buir?”

Your eyes met his.

Cody.

He looked older now. Sharper. War-worn. But the way he said that word—the softness beneath the gravel in his voice—stopped your heart for a beat.

“Cody,” you breathed.

Before you could say more, another explosion rocked the ship and the Jedi shouted orders. You both surged back into motion, fighting side by side as if no time had passed. Rex appeared at your flank, helmet on but unmistakable.

“Never thought I’d see you again,” he said through the comms.

“You look taller,” you shot back.

“Still can’t outshoot me,” he quipped.

“Let’s test that once we survive this.”

Later, when the droid was destroyed and the ship stabilized, you stood with your back against the durasteel wall, helmet off, sweat dripping down your brow.

Cody approached slowly. His armor was scraped, singed.

He stood in front of you silently.

“You left,” he said.

You nodded. “I had to. It wasn’t safe. Not with the Kaminoans growing colder… not with what was coming.”

His jaw clenched. But then he exhaled slowly, nodding.

“You’re here now,” he said. “That’s all that matters.”

A pause.

“You were right, you know,” he added quietly. “We weren’t ready for the galaxy. But we survived. Because of what you gave us.”

You looked at him—really looked at him—and placed your hand on his chest plate.

“I’m proud of you, Cody. All of you.”

Rex joined, helmet tucked under one arm, a crooked grin on his face. “Buir’s gonna make us get all sappy, huh?”

“I’ll arm-wrestle you to shut you up,” you smirked.

They laughed.

For the first time in years.

⸻

Coruscant never changed.

Even from orbit, it looked like a city swallowing itself—buildings stacked on buildings, lights never fading, shadows never still. You stood by the Duchess’s side as her diplomatic cruiser descended toward the Senate landing pad, flanked by Jedi, Senators, and clone guards, all navigating the choreography of politics and danger.

The moment your boots hit the durasteel of the Senate rotunda, you felt it—that tingle down the back of your neck.

You weren’t welcome here.

But you didn’t need to be.

You were here for Mandalore.

And for them.

As Duchess Satine prepared to speak, you fell back slightly—watching her take the grand platform before the Senate assembly, her calm, steady voice echoing through the chamber. She spoke of peace. Of neutrality. Of independence.

The words stirred an old ache in you—half pride, half grief. She was strong in her own way. You respected that now.

But while the chamber listened, your eyes scanned.

And locked on him.

Standing at attention near the perimeter, crimson armor gleaming under the Senate lights, was Marshal Commander Fox. He hadn’t seen you yet. Too focused, too professional. But you approached him like a ghost walking out of the past.

“Still standing tall, I see,” you said, voice low enough not to draw attention.

Fox turned, his sharp gaze meeting yours—and then widening. “No kriffing way.”

You smirked.

He stared, then let out a small huff of disbelief. “You vanish for years and that’s the first thing you say?”

“You didn’t need me anymore,” you said. “You were always going to be something.”

Fox’s jaw tightened, emotion flickering. “We needed you more than you think.”

“Marshal Commander,” you said, mock-formal. “Look at you. I leave for a couple years, and you’re babysitting Senators now. Impressive.”

He rolled his eyes but smiled. “I thought I was hallucinating. You’re supposed to be dead, or exiled, or something dramatic.”

“Only in spirit,” you replied. “Congratulations, Fox. You earned that armor.”

He hesitated.

Then gave you a quiet nod. “It’s not the same without you.”

“It’s not supposed to be,” you said softly. “You were always meant to outgrow me.”

He looked away for a second, then back, voice lower. “The others talk about you sometimes. Cody. Rex. Bly. Even Wolffe, and that man doesn’t talk about anyone.”

“Tell them I remember every one of them.”

“You’ll tell them yourself,” he said, then added, almost too quickly, “Right?”

You didn’t answer. Just touched his shoulder lightly. “You did good, Fox. Better than good. You lead now. That means you carry the burden… but you also get to set the tone. The next generation of vode? They’re watching you.”

He blinked a few times. “You always were the only one who said things like that.”

“And meant it,” you added.

He nodded, slower this time. “It’s good to see you. You look… older.”

You smirked. “Try keeping your head above water in a sea of Vizsla fanatics and tell me how fresh you look after.”

“Fair.”

⸻

The danger came in silence.

You and the Duchess had returned to the Senate landing platform, flanked by Jedi and clone escort. The diplomatic skyspeeder waited, gleaming in the light.

The moment Satine stepped into the speeder, a faint whine filled the air—subtle, but wrong.

Your instincts screamed.

“Don’t start the engine!” you barked, lunging forward—too late.

The speeder blasted off—far too fast, veering wildly.

“Something’s wrong with the repulsors!” Anakin shouted. “The nav systems are locked!”

You were already sprinting toward a nearby speeder bike, Obi-Wan mounting another. “We have to catch her!”

Fox was shouting into his comms, coordinating pursuit and clearance through air lanes.

You and Obi-Wan flew through the sky, weaving around towers as Satine’s speeder dipped and jolted erratically.

Your voice cut through the comms, “Hold her steady, I’m going in.”

Obi-Wan gaped. “You’ll crash!”

“Yeah. Probably.”

You leapt from the bike.

Time slowed.

Your gauntlet mag-grip latched onto the spiraling speeder as you crashed hard against the hull. Satine inside looked up, startled.

You smashed the manual override, pried open the control panel, and yanked the sabotage node free—sparks flew, and the speeder jerked before leveling out.

By the time it landed, your shoulder was dislocated and you were covered in soot.

Later, in the quiet aftermath, you sat against a stone column inside the Senate’s private halls, shoulder hastily reset, your armor scorched. Satine was alive, thanks to you. Obi-Wan sat on the edge of a bench nearby, breathing slow and deep.

“She saved you,” he told Satine softly.

“She tends to do that,” Satine said with a tired smile.

You looked up at him, brows raised. “Surprised?”

He shook his head. “Not at all.”

Fox approached quietly, handing you a fresh water flask.

“You didn’t have to jump out of a speeder,” he muttered.

You took a long drink. “Didn’t want you to miss out on another tragedy.”

He rolled his eyes and leaned against the wall beside you. “You’re the worst role model, you know that?”

You nudged his shin with your boot. “Yet somehow, you turned out alright.”

He gave you a rare smile. “Welcome home. At least for now.”

⸻

The speeder explosion had rattled the city, but Satine had emerged alive. Shaken, but composed.

You hadn’t left her side once.

Now, with the Senate’s mess behind her—for now—Satine prepared to return to Mandalore. You stood outside the diplomatic chambers, speaking softly with Fox while waiting for her departure documents to be signed. That’s when he said it:

“They’re here. Wolffe and Bacara. I told them you were on-planet.”

Your breath caught.

“I wasn’t sure if I should have, but—”

“No,” you said quickly. “Thank you.”

He didn’t press further. He just gave you a nod and walked off to oversee the Senate Guard rotation.

You didn’t wait.

⸻

The military side of Coruscant always had a different air—colder, louder, filled with tension that clung to the skin like storm-wet armor.

You found them in a quiet corridor beside their departing ship. Wolffe leaned against a crate, arms crossed, helmet at his side, expression unreadable as ever. Bacara sat on a lower bench, hunched, hands folded between his knees.

They looked up at the same time.

It took less than a heartbeat before Bacara stood and crossed the space to you.

“Buir.”

You wrapped your arms around him before he could finish exhaling the word. It was like hugging a rock—solid and unyielding—but you felt the slight tremble in his breath. That was enough.

“You’ve grown,” you said.

“You say that every time.”

“Because you always do.”

Wolffe approached more cautiously, arms still crossed, but the faint flicker of softness in his expression gave him away.

“You didn’t think to send a message?” he asked.

“I couldn’t,” you said honestly. “Too much would’ve come with it. You boys had to become who you’re meant to be without me hovering.”

“We were better with you hovering,” Bacara muttered.

Wolffe gave a grunt. “I thought you were dead, for a while.”

“I know,” you said, quieter. “That was the idea, at first.”

Wolffe stepped forward, finally breaking that last bit of space between you. His brow was tense, eyes shadowed.

“We talked about you. Even now. When things get bad.”

“You remember the lullaby?” you asked.

Bacara scoffed. “You think we’d forget?”

You grinned.

“Where are you headed?” Bacara asked, nodding to your sidearm and armor, half-concealed beneath a diplomatic cloak.

“Back to Mandalore. With the Duchess.”

Wolffe gave you a long, searching look. “Back with the pacifists?”

“No,” you said. “Not as one of them. As her sword. Her shield. She’s not perfect—but her fight is worth something. And if Mandalore’s going to survive this war, it’ll need more than weapons. It’ll need balance.”

Wolffe’s jaw ticked. “And if you’re wrong?”

“Then I’d rather die standing beside hope than kneeling beside zealotry.”

Bacara snorted. “Still stubborn.”

“Still your buir.”

You embraced them both, tighter this time.

“I’m proud of you,” you whispered.

They didn’t say anything. They didn’t have to.

As you turned to leave, your boots echoing against the durasteel floor, you let your voice rise—soft and familiar.

The lullaby.

Altamaha-Ha.

A haunting thread of melody that followed them into war before.

Now, it lingered behind you like a ghost in the mist.

Wolffe didn’t look away. Bacara closed his eyes.

They would carry that sound into every battle.

Just like they carried you.

⸻

The return to Mandalore was quiet. Satine had dismissed her guards—except for you. You stood at her side now, not as a threat, not as a rebel, not as a Death Watch traitor, but as a Mandalorian, reborn in purpose.

It hadn’t been easy convincing the Council to allow it. The Duchess had vouched for you, which meant more than words. But still, whispers followed in your wake. Once a warrior, always a weapon. You heard them. You ignored them.

Inside the domed city, pacifism still ruled. A beautiful, cold kind of peace. No blades. No armor. No fire.

You wore your beskar anyway.

“You’re unsettling them,” Satine said quietly beside you, overlooking the city from the palace balcony.

“I’m protecting them.”

“They don’t see it that way.”

“They will, when someone decides to test your boundaries again.”

She looked at you, eyes soft but steeled. “You’re still so steeped in it. War. Blood. Even your presence is a threat to them.”

“I’m not a threat to you, Satine.”

“No,” she said, voice nearly a whisper. “Not to me.”

A pause. Her hand rested gently against the railing. “You could have joined Vizsla. His path would’ve made more sense for someone like you.”

“I did,” you admitted. “But sense doesn’t mean truth. His war is born of pride. Yours… is born of hope. That’s harder. But stronger.”

She turned toward you. “You really believe that?”

You nodded once. “Only the strongest shall rule Mandalore. And I’ve fought in enough wars to know that strength is more than the blade you carry. It’s knowing when to sheathe it.”

A long silence settled between you. She looked away, clearly fighting some retort, but in the end… she let it go.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Satine said softly.

You didn’t smile, but your silence meant everything.

⸻

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

Hello! I saw that you do song fics and I had the idea for a Cody X Reader with the song “I think they call this love” by Elliot James. Been obsessed over this song for awhile and I think it would be really cute! Xxx (and if it’s possible to add a few of the others clones teasing Cody even obi wan?)

“I Think They Call This Love”

Commander Cody x Reader

Coruscant at night was too loud for someone trying not to fall in love.

Cody wasn’t even sure when it started. It might’ve been the day you were transferred to his unit. Might’ve been the first time you fixed the aim on a malfunctioning turret like it was nothing. Or maybe—just maybe—it was the first time he heard you hum.

You always did that—murmured little melodies under your breath when you thought no one was paying attention. You’d tap your fingers along your belt or your mug, shoulders swaying lightly to some old Core World tune. It was never full-on singing—just enough to hook in Cody’s brain like a memory.

And tonight? You were humming that one again.

“I think they call this love… I think they call this love…”

You were dancing with Waxer near the bar at 79’s, laughing so hard your drink almost spilled, one hand gripping his vambrace as he attempted to twirl you—poorly. Boil leaned against the counter, snickering into his glass.

“I swear, she’s gonna break your neck,” Boil said. “And then Cody’s gonna have to fill out the paperwork.”

Cody sat a few stools down, arms crossed, pretending very hard that he wasn’t staring.

“You know,” Boil added loudly, “if Cody glared any harder, he’d melt the floor.”

“Shut up,” Cody muttered.

“Yeah, sure. Real subtle, Commander,” Waxer called over, catching your hand before you nearly toppled him over. “You’ve been watching her like she’s a walking war crime.”

Wolffe chuckled beside Cody, taking a long sip of his drink. “He gets like this every time. We’ve placed bets. So far, Obi-Wan’s winning.”

Cody turned slowly. “Obi-Wan’s betting on me?”

As if summoned by sass, Obi-Wan appeared behind them, raising a glass like he’d been lurking all night. “Only because I believe in you, Cody. Also because I know how utterly incapable you are at expressing your feelings.”

“Fantastic.”

“Don’t worry,” Rex added dryly. “You’ve got time. She only flirts with you every time she breathes.”

Cody groaned and looked back toward the dancefloor—and you were already walking his way.

Boots light, smile glowing, music catching the end of your latest hum as you slid into the stool beside him. You didn’t look at the others. Just him.

“You okay there, Commander?” you asked, head tilted. “Or should I get you a medic for whatever emotional crisis you’re currently going through?”

Cody blinked. “I—what?”

You leaned closer, voice lower now. “They’re not exactly subtle,” you said with a smile. “And neither are you.”

“I wasn’t staring.”

“You were,” Boil chimed in behind you.

Waxer raised his hand. “Respectfully, he’s been staring for about four months.”

You laughed under your breath and turned fully to Cody, your knees brushing his. “You gonna keep letting them talk for you?”

Cody exhaled slowly. You were so close. Your eyes searched his, not playfully now—but curiously. Hopefully. The hum of the bar faded as your presence filled his whole damn world.

“I think…” he started, voice a little hoarse. “I think I’m in love with you.”

A pause.

Then you grinned. Not surprised. Not mocking. Just relieved.

“That’s funny,” you said softly. “Because I’ve been waiting for you to figure that out.”

And then—you kissed him.

Quick, warm, but everything changed in that second. His hand slid to your waist before he could stop it, and you smiled against his lips like it was the most natural thing in the galaxy.

Behind you, cheers erupted.

“Finally!” Waxer crowed.

“You owe me twenty credits!” Rex shouted at Wolffe.

Boil let out a low whistle. “Hope you’re ready to be the only thing Cody stares at now.”

Obi-Wan raised his glass and added, “It’s about time our fearless Commander admitted he had a heart.”

You didn’t even look back. You just pressed your forehead to Cody’s and whispered, “Don’t let go of me, okay?”

He didn’t.

Not now.

Not ever.

The music swelled again behind you, and for once, Cody let himself listen.

“If this is what they call love…”

He smiled.

Then he wanted all of it—with you.

“Crimson Huntress” pt.4

Summary: A rogue ARC trooper and a ruthless Togruta bounty hunter form an uneasy alliance, dodging Jedi, Death Watch, and their pasts as war rages across the galaxy.

The stars outside the cockpit stretched like silver thread.

K4 stood behind her with arms folded, posture straight as ever, while R9 whirred and beeped irritably at the navicomputer.

CT-4023—no name yet, not really—was in the back compartment, hunched over a collection of scavenged armor plates and paint canisters. The former Death Watch gear had been repainted, reshaped, stripped of its past. Now it gleamed black and silver, and he was adding gold trims by hand.

Thin lines along the gauntlets. A thin gold ring around the helmet’s visor. Lines across the chest plate that traced down to the waist, like some stylized sigil not yet realized.

Sha’rali leaned in the doorway, arms crossed. She tilted her head slightly, examining his work with a curious smirk.

“You’re getting good with that brush,” she said. “You ever consider art school?”

CT-4023 snorted softly, not looking up. “Didn’t really have elective credits in Kamino.”

“You’re making it your own. That’s important.” Her voice turned thoughtful. “But it’s missing something.”

He paused, brush held in mid-air. “What?”

She tapped the side of the helmet. “A sigil.”

“A what?”

“A mark. Something to show people who you are.” She strode in and rapped a knuckle against the chest plate. “This says ‘I’m not Death Watch.’ Good. Now it needs to say you. Your legend. Your kill mark.”

He raised an eyebrow. “That’s a little dramatic.”

“You’re in a dramatic profession.”

K4 entered, setting a tray of caf and protein ration cubes on the workbench like a disapproving butler.

“Don’t encourage her,” the droid said flatly. “She’s referring to ‘kill marks’ again. Last time, she convinced a Rodian to fight a massiff pack for aesthetic purposes.”

“That Rodian survived,” Sha’rali said.

“Barely. Missing two fingers now.”

CT-4023 chuckled, leaning back slightly. “So what are you suggesting? I kill a Nexu or something?”

Sha’rali’s grin widened. “I was thinking bigger.”

R9 gave a loud, gleeful chirp.

K4 straightened. “She means a rancor.”

CT-4023 blinked.

Sha’rali gave an exaggerated shrug. “If you want a real sigil, you’ve got to earn it. Nothing screams ‘I survived’ like carving your crest from the hide of a rancor.”

“That is an excellent way to get him killed,” K4 said without pause.

R9 let out a string of beeps, none of them polite.

“He thinks it’d be entertaining,” K4 translated.

CT-4023 glanced between the two droids, then back to Sha’rali. “You’re not serious.”

“I’m always serious,” she said. “Unless I’m not. Which is almost always.”

He shook his head. “How would you even find a rancor?”

Sha’rali turned, tapping a few keys on the ship’s console. A bounty notice flickered up on the screen, the text in rough Huttese.

BOUNTY NOTICE

Location: Vanqor

Target: Rampaging Rancor (Unauthorized Biological Transport)

Payment: 14,000 credits, alive or dead.

Bonus: Removal of damage caused to Hutt mining facility.

“Lucky day,” she said.

CT-4023 stared at her, incredulous. “You’re joking.”

“Perfect combo. Get paid and get a sigil.”

“Get killed,” K4 corrected. “Get eaten.”

R9 chirped encouragingly and rolled in a little celebratory circle.

The clone leaned back in the seat, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“I haven’t even picked a name yet, and you want to throw me at a rancor.”

“That’s how legacies are made,” Sha’rali said. “Trial by teeth.”

He gave her a long look, then glanced at the armor he was customizing. The gold, the sleek silver lines. A life being rewritten.

“…If I die,” he muttered, “you better name me something cool.”

Sha’rali grinned like a wolf. “Deal.”

K4 sighed heavily and walked off. “This is going to end in flames and evisceration.”

Behind him, R9 beeped again—gleefully.

⸻

The ship set down hard against a craggy plateau overlooking the remains of the Hutt mining facility—scorched earth, collapsed scaffolds, and deep claw marks in durasteel walls. Sha’rali stepped off the ramp with her helmet tucked under one arm, cloak snapping behind her in the dry wind. CT-4023 followed, fully armored and now gleaming with fresh black, silver, and just enough gold to catch the sun.

R9 trailed behind, scanning the area with his photoreceptor. K4 lingered at the ramp, arms crossed.

“I do not approve of this location,” the droid muttered.

Sha’rali grinned over her shoulder. “You don’t approve of most places.”

“This one smells of feral biology and lawsuits.”

They descended into the ruins, weaving past shattered mine carts and burned-out equipment. Sha’rali crouched near a huge claw mark in a support column, then ran gloved fingers across the torn metal.

“Definitely a rancor,” she muttered. “But…”

“But what?” CT-4023 asked.

She glanced at him, then pointed toward the perimeter fence—what was left of it. Several posts had been knocked flat at an angle far too low for an adult rancor.

“It’s small. Or young.”

“Can a baby rancor really do this much damage?”

“If it’s scared enough,” she said, standing. “But if this is the one that got loose from transport, it’s barely out of its nesting pen. Hardly worth a fight.”

He frowned. “So no sigil?”

Sha’rali’s smirk returned. “You don’t earn your legacy punching toddlers. We’ll find you a real beast.” She tossed him a wink. “For now, let’s bag this one and get paid.”

A low growl interrupted her.

They both turned. From the remains of a collapsed control station emerged the rancor—gray-skinned, covered in soot and oil, no taller than Sha’rali’s shoulder. The creature bellowed a shrill, unsure roar and pawed at the ground with thick, oversized claws.

“…Adorable,” Sha’rali whispered.

“Not the word I’d use,” CT-4023 muttered, raising his blaster.

Before either of them moved, a sound cracked across the ruin—a slow, deliberate clap.

“Now that was real sweet. But I don’t think that beast belongs to either of you.”

Both bounty hunter and clone whirled.

Cad Bane stood atop a rusted crane boom above them, wide-brimmed hat casting long shadows, twin blasters already drawn and idle at his sides.

R9 emitted a rapid stream of hostile beeping.

Sha’rali narrowed her eyes. “Bane.”

“Sha’rali,” he said, voice smooth and mocking. “Still making a mess of the galaxy one body at a time?”

“Still dressing like an antique?”

He chuckled. “You got jokes. Still running with droids and damaged goods, I see.” His glowing red eyes flicked to CT-4023. “Or is this one just for decoration?”

CT-4023 subtly angled his stance. His grip on his blaster tightened, but Sha’rali lifted a hand.

“Easy,” she muttered. “Don’t give him a reason.”

“Oh, he won’t need one,” Bane said, leaping lightly from the crane and landing with a dusty thud. “I’ve got a claim on that rancor. Took the job same as you. Fair game.”

“We saw it first,” Sha’rali said. “We do the work, we take the creds.”

“You ain’t taken anything unless you’re faster than me, darlin’.”

“You remember what happened last time you called me that?”

“I do,” he said, drawing one blaster slowly. “Still got the burn mark.”

The baby rancor let out a pitiful moan, clearly confused by all the shouting and guns.

K4’s voice crackled over comms:

“Permission to vaporize the cowboy?”

“No,” Sha’rali said under her breath. “Yet.”

CT-4023 stepped forward, his voice quiet but direct. “You want a fight, you’ll get one. But if you’re smart, you’ll back off.”

Bane cocked his head. “Oh? Clone with a backbone. That’s new.”

“He’s not a clone anymore,” Sha’rali said. “He’s mine.”

Bane smiled faintly. “That’s cute.”

Then, blasters lifted. The air tensed.

The baby rancor screamed—and bolted.

“Dank ferrik,” Sha’rali muttered, grabbing CT-4023 by the arm. “Move!”

They took off after the fleeing beast, Bane shouting curses as he followed. Blaster fire cracked overhead. The chase had begun.

The baby rancor might have been small, but it was fast.

It barreled through the cracked remains of Vanqor’s refinery sector, sending up sprays of dust and ash with every thundering step. Sha’rali sprinted after it, cloak flying behind her, boots slamming down on twisted metal and scorched duracrete.

Behind her, CT-4023 kept pace easily, blaster ready—but not firing. Too risky. The beast was unpredictable, and so was the Duros hot on their trail.

Cad Bane vaulted down from a higher walkway with his typical fluid grace, twin LL-30s gleaming in the sunlight.

“Back off, Bane!” Sha’rali barked, skidding around a collapsed wall.

“You first,” he called, voice rich with laughter. “Or is this the kind of job where you just chase things and look good?”

CT-4023 fired a warning shot at the ground near Bane’s feet. “You want a reason, you’ll get one.”

The Duros twirled a pistol on one finger and grinned. “There he is. Knew there had to be some spine under all that polish.”

A sudden roar cut through the banter as the rancor skidded into a half-collapsed loading dock. It turned with alarming agility and slammed its bulk into a rusted hauler, flipping the entire vehicle like it was made of paper.

“Definitely not harmless,” CT-4023 muttered.

“Good instincts,” Sha’rali said as she ducked behind a support beam. “Next time, don’t wait so long to shoot.”

“I was assessing the threat.”

“You’re always going to be outgunned, clone. Don’t wait for the threat to assess you.”

The rancor tore through crates of crushed ore, dust clouding the air. Bane fired a pair of stun rounds that went wide, one of them shattering against a crate beside Sha’rali’s head.

“Watch it!” she snapped.

“Your face’ll heal just fine,” Bane called. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“You’re still mad about the throat thing, huh?”

CT-4023 blinked. “Throat thing?”

Sha’rali grinned.

He gave her a sharp look, breathing hard as they ducked behind another broken wall. “You seem to know every bounty hunter.”

“Networking. I get around.”

“That’s not comforting.”

Before she could respond, the rancor burst through the wall just ahead of them. It had a piece of durasteel stuck to its horned crest and a smear of blood on one shoulder—but it wasn’t limping. If anything, it was more aggressive now.

It reared back and let out a bellow that rattled the air.

Sha’rali dropped low and rolled to the side, blaster out. CT-4023 lunged forward, landing atop a storage container and drawing the creature’s attention.

“Hey!” he shouted, waving his arms. “Come on, you overgrown tooka!”

The rancor lunged toward him.

As it did, he tossed a flash pellet from his belt. The grenade burst in its face, sending the rancor reeling—temporarily stunned.

“Not bad,” Sha’rali said, running up beside him. “You fight like an ARC again.”

“I was an ARC,” he shot back, vaulting down. “Doesn’t exactly leave you.”

“You sure about that?”

Another blast tore through the haze—Bane was back, boots skidding across rubble. He aimed a net launcher at the beast’s legs, but it jerked sideways, the net missing by a meter.

“Slippery little thing!” Bane snarled. “Almost like it wants to make my life difficult.”

“Must be karma,” Sha’rali muttered, motioning to CT-4023. “Let’s flank it. You take left, I go up.”

He nodded, darting off with precision. She scaled a metal scaffold, bracing herself against the top beam, calculating.

Bane took a shot. It hit.

The stun round finally struck true, seizing the baby rancor’s back leg—and it screeched.

Not in pain. In rage.

It turned, lifted a pile of scrap with one clawed hand, and hurled it like a missile. Sha’rali ducked. Bane wasn’t as fast.

The debris clipped his shoulder and sent him flying into a pile of twisted girders.

“Serves you right,” she muttered, leaping from the scaffolding and landing hard beside CT-4023.

He was already adjusting his blaster’s charge, set to nonlethal.

“Plan?”

“We tire it out,” she said. “Hit and move. No kill shots. It’s the bounty.”

“And if Bane tries again?”

“We shoot him in the leg.”

He cracked a grin.

The two charged again—tandem precision. Sha’rali moved like a shadow; CT-4023, like a ghost of war, deadly and silent. The rancor slammed its fists down in fury, but they were never where it expected.

It was slower now. Panting. Enraged.

They worked as a unit—hunter and reborn soldier—flashing around the beast like twin blades.

Finally, a shot from CT-4023’s blaster hit just right, just under the shoulder. The creature stumbled, blinked, and fell to one side, snorting and curling into itself.

Down.

Still breathing.

Sha’rali stood over it, blaster lowered. Her eyes flicked to CT-4023.

“That… was teamwork.”

He shrugged. “Told you. ARC instincts.”

“Starting to think I should keep you around.”

“You already are.”

She laughed once, low and genuine.

Behind them, Bane groaned from the scrap pile.

CT-4023 nodded toward him. “Want me to shoot him in the leg anyway?”

Sha’rali smirked. “Tempting. But let him walk it off.”

R9 rolled up through the debris, trilling something smug and judgmental.

“You missed the fun,” CT-4023 said.

R9 beeped and showed a grainy hologram of Bane getting clobbered.

“I stand corrected,” he muttered.

Sha’rali placed a hand on the clone’s pauldron. “Let’s get this beast secured and get off this rock.”

He looked at her, eyes searching. “Hey… you ever think maybe you’re starting to trust me?”

She paused, then leaned in with a smirk.

“No. But you’re fun to have around.”

⸻

The drop site was a wreck of rusted platforms and storm-pitted walls, tucked in the shadow of a collapsed hangar. Sha’rali crouched beside the groaning frame of the baby rancor, still unconscious, still breathing hard. CT-4023 stood nearby, helmet off, glancing between the beast and their battered surroundings.

“You think your ship’s equipped to hold a rancor?” he asked, voice dry.

Sha’rali stood, brushing grit from her armor. “If it isn’t, K4 will figure it out. He likes problem-solving. Especially when the problem is violent.”

A mechanical growl came through the comms. K4’s voice filtered in over the channel, crisp and irritated:

“If this thing eats my upholstery, I’m turning it into boots.”

CT-4023 snorted. “You’d have to catch it first.”

“I caught you, didn’t I?”

Sha’rali rolled her eyes and tapped the comm off. “Let’s move before someone gets clever.”

As if summoned by bad karma, a long shadow fell over the landing pad behind them.

Cad Bane stepped into view, bruised, covered in soot, and not smiling anymore.

Two of his droids flanked him, both armed. He looked straight at Sha’rali, and then to CT-4023 with slow, calculated disapproval.

“You always did cheat well,” he said. “Still no class.”

“You’re just mad I’m better,” Sha’rali replied, unphased, blaster at her side—but loose, ready.

CT-4023 moved forward instinctively, placing himself half between her and the Duros.

Bane’s eyes didn’t miss it. “Got yourself a new watchdog, huh? Looks Republic. Smells like one, too.”

“Not Republic anymore,” the clone said flatly.

“Oh, right. Deserter.” Bane spat the word like a curse. “You know what they pay for one of your kind these days? Not as much as a Jedi, but enough.”

“I don’t care what you think I’m worth,” CT-4023 replied, voice steady. “You’d still have to take me alive.”

Bane cocked his head. “Who said anything about alive?”

A long silence stretched. Then: the high whine of a charging rifle.

But not from Bane.

From above.

K4 stood atop the ship’s gangway, rifle in hand, optics glowing gold in the dusk.

“Three hostiles locked. Suggest standing down before I redecorate the area with Duros-colored paste.”

CT-4023 stepped forward. “You heard him.”

Sha’rali added, “Walk away, Bane. You lost.”

Bane stared at the three of them—then past them, at the ship. The beast. The clone. The droid overhead. And finally… Sha’rali.

The weight of the loss settled in his posture. And still, he smiled.

“Still reckless. Still lucky.”

She grinned. “And still ahead.”

Bane muttered something in Duros under his breath, holstered his pistols, and turned.

“Next time,” he called over his shoulder, “you won’t have your pet clone or your smart-mouthed droid to save you.”

Sha’rali didn’t answer.

She didn’t have to.

They watched him vanish into the rusted ruins, silent except for the distant clang of droid footsteps fading with him.

CT-4023 finally exhaled. “He doesn’t lose often.”

“No,” Sha’rali agreed, nudging the rancor with her boot. “But when he does… stars, it’s satisfying.”

They dragged the sleeping creature onto a maglift. It groaned but didn’t wake. K4 guided them in from the ramp, already prepping the cargo bay containment field.

“If it moves, I’m putting it in carbonite.”

“Just sedate it again if it twitches,” Sha’rali said.

CT-4023 helped lower the beast onto the containment pad, then paused beside it. For a moment, he simply stared.

“What?” Sha’rali asked, wiping blood from her forehead.

He looked at her, then the ship around them. “You realize I’ve helped you tranquilize a rancor, outmaneuver Cad Bane, and survive a job that should’ve gotten us both killed.”

She grinned and leaned in, voice dry. “So, what you’re saying is…”

He sighed. “I guess I’m sticking around.”

“Says the man who almost painted a target on his chest last week,” K4 muttered from the cockpit.

R9 chirped happily from the corridor, replaying footage of the rancor crushing a speeder.

CT-4023 watched it for a second and shook his head. “Remind me to reprogram that one.”

Sha’rali smirked and clapped a hand to his shoulder. “Welcome to the life, trooper.”

He smirked back, already thinking about the sigil he’d carve next.

⸻

Tatooine’s twin suns scorched down on the durasteel hull of Sha’rali’s ship as it touched down outside Jabba’s palace. The ship’s systems whined in protest at the sand and heat. CT-4023 stood at the airlock, armor dark and gleaming in the harsh light, the sigil on his pauldron not yet painted—blank, unclaimed.

Sha’rali fastened the final restraint on the crate that held the sedated baby rancor, her jaw tense.

“Keep your helmet on,” she warned as she keyed open the hatch.

“Why?”

She turned, voice low. “Jabba had a bounty on your head a few rotations ago. You were Republic property—‘runaway government clone,’ worth a few thousand credits dead. He might not remember, but some of his lackeys will.”

CT-4023 looked at her carefully. “And you think bringing a rancor here is a better idea?”

She flashed him a sharp grin. “He likes rancors. Plus, they’re the ones who posted the bounty on the rancor, remember? If we don’t deliver, someone else will—and worse, we lose our payout.”

The airlock hissed open and the thick heat of Tatooine hit them like a wall. The gates to Jabba’s fortress loomed ahead, half-buried in sunbaked stone. CT-4023 followed behind her as they dragged the heavy sled forward—R9 chirping irritably in the back, and K4 remaining behind to monitor the ship.

As they approached, the gates creaked open, and a Gamorrean guard grunted before stepping aside. They were ushered into the vast, dim throne room by a hissing Twi’lek majordomo. The stink of spice, sweat, and rotting meat hung in the air. Sha’rali walked differently here—shoulders broader, stride slower, swagger more exaggerated. Her eyes were colder, smile sharper.

CT-4023 recognized the change instantly.

This wasn’t the woman he fought beside. This was Sha’rali the hunter. This was who she was before him.

Jabba lounged on his dais, bloated and wheezing, surrounded by sycophants and criminals. Music thumped in the background, too loud and chaotic. The sled with the rancor came to a halt, and the crate groaned as the beast stirred inside.

The Hutt let out a deep chuckle, slurred through slime.

“Sha’rali Jurok… bringing me gifts again, are you?”

She bowed low, but not respectfully—more theatrically. “Not gifts, Your Excellency. Merchandise. A baby rancor, caught on Vanqor. Aggressive, untrained. I believe your people were the ones asking.”

A ripple of intrigue spread through the chamber. Several beings leaned forward.

Jabba’s massive tongue slid across his lips.

“Yes… the bounty was ours.”

CT-4023 scanned the room—twelve guards, some with Hutt Cartel markings. He didn’t like the odds.

Jabba gestured, and a chest of credits was dragged forward, a heavy thud against the stone.

“Payment. Generous. As requested.”

Before they could collect, a tall Trandoshan slithered into view.

Bossk.

He eyed Sha’rali, nostrils flaring, tongue flicking. “Didn’t think you had the guts to show your face here.”

She didn’t smile. “Didn’t think you’d still have yours.”

And then—another shape emerged from the crowd.

A boy. Twelve, maybe thirteen. Battered green Mandalorian armor, a blaster far too large for his frame slung low. Boba Fett.

He eyed CT-4023 with suspicion, then glanced at Sha’rali.

“That armor doesn’t look like yours.”

Sha’rali tilted her head. “Does now.”

CT-4023’s jaw tightened under the helmet. His hand hovered close to his blaster.

Boba looked at the clone longer, gaze calculating, almost… knowing.

Sha’rali held the younger Fett’s gaze. “You planning on collecting, kid?”

Boba shrugged. “Not unless there’s still a bounty.”

She leaned forward slightly. “There’s not.”

Tension pulsed for a long moment.

And then—Jabba let out a rumbling laugh that echoed through the throne room. He slammed a chubby hand on a panel, and droids wheeled the crate away with the young rancor.

“Your business is done, Sha’rali. Go.”

She inclined her head. “Gladly.”

They turned and walked out—slowly, deliberately. CT-4023 followed, his heart pounding beneath his armor. Only once the ship’s doors sealed behind them did he exhale.

On the ramp, he turned to her. “That… was not fun.”

Sha’rali shrugged, not breaking stride. “Palace jobs never are.”

“You’re different in there,” he said. “Cold. Calculated.”

“Necessary.”

He studied her a long moment. “You’ve done a lot to keep me alive.”

Sha’rali gave him a look, sharp and unreadable. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

R9 beeped as it wheeled up the ramp.

⸻

The holotable flickered in the middle of the ship’s lounge, casting green-blue light over the metal floor. CT-4023 sat across from it, arms folded, as CID’s scaly face materialized in grainy hologram. Her voice rasped through the static.

“Sha’rali. Got a job for you. High-value intel, Separatist origin. Interested?”

Sha’rali didn’t respond right away. She stood to the side, arms crossed, one brow raised. She’d never taken a job that directly brushed up against the war—never wanted to. It was one thing to skirt the edges, pick off cartel bounties, or rob a warlord. But a mission involving Separatist intel? That was new ground.

Suspicious ground.

“Where’s this data?” she asked, eyes narrowing.

“Hidden in a vault on Vucora. Some shadow installation the Separatists set up during the early days of the war, went dark two years ago. Word is the place is waking up again—maybe just droids, maybe more. Someone wants eyes on it.”

“What’s the payout?”

“Fifteen thousand. Half up front, half after extraction. I’ll upload the location files and security specs.”

Sha’rali glanced to CT-4023. He’d been quiet, watching the projection with an odd kind of familiarity. When she met his eyes, he just gave a short nod.

“Let’s do it,” he said. “I know what to expect. Their vaults follow certain protocols—recursive redundancies, external relays, droid patrols. I was trained for this kind of thing.”

Sha’rali blinked at him, just once.

“Thought you were trained to blow things up.”

He shrugged. “Only after we broke in.”

A low chuckle rumbled in her throat. “Fine. K4, R9—get the data off Cid and start planning the infiltration.”

R9 chirped and spun toward the holotable. K4 bowed slightly. “As you wish. I’ll begin compiling relevant schematics and countermeasures.”

Sha’rali grabbed her sidearm and slid it into its holster.

“I’ll be back in an hour.”

CT-4023 frowned. “Where are you going?”

“Cid wants to talk face-to-face. Probably wants me to sign my life away. Or threaten me, which she loves more.”

CT-4023 frowned. “Is that a joke?”

“No,” Sha’rali replied flatly. “That’s Cid.”

⸻

The private booth was humid and dim, stinking of grease, cheap liquor, and warm reptile. Cid poured a drink into a chipped glass and slid it across the table as Sha’rali dropped into the seat opposite her.

“Still running around with the clone?” Cid rasped. Her yellow eyes gleamed under the low light.

Sha’rali picked up the drink, gave it a sniff, and downed half in one go. “He’s useful.”

“You don’t usually keep your assets this long.”

Sha’rali leaned back, her expression unreadable. “He hasn’t tried to kill me yet.”

Cid gave a dry chuckle. “You could’ve ditched him after Ord Mantell. Would’ve been smart.”

Sha’rali’s voice lost its humor. “You could’ve not sold us out. But here we are.”

Cid rolled her eyes. “Information’s a commodity, sweetheart. He was intel. Valuable intel.”

“You sold it to the Republic.”

“I sell to whoever pays. You know that.”

Sha’rali set her glass down with a sharp clink.

“You and I have an understanding, Cid. But if you ever sell me out again—if I find out you bring heat down on me—don’t expect me to show up for drinks next time.”

Cid didn’t blink. “Relax. I’m still alive, aren’t I? I do what I need to do to stay that way. And if keeping the Republic happy buys me another year, so be it.”

Sha’rali stared at her, unflinching.

“You’d sell anyone out to save your scaly hide.”

Cid gave a thin smile. “Damn right I would. And don’t act like you’re any different. We do what we have to. We always have.”

Sha’rali finished her drink and stood.

“Send the final access key to my ship.”

Cid raised her glass. “Don’t die, Jurok.”

⸻

Back aboard the ship, K4 was already deep into mapping the infiltration route to the Separatist vault. R9 chirped a steady stream of suggested entry points, and CT-4023 stood over the holotable, adjusting droid patrol routes and slicing protocols from memory.

Sha’rali watched him for a moment. It struck her again—he belonged in this kind of environment. Tactical. Efficient. Sharp. Even without his clone designation, without the armor he used to wear, he was still a weapon honed for this kind of work.

That unnerved her more than she’d admit.

“Looks like you’re in your element,” she muttered.

CT-4023 glanced over, his expression unreadable beneath the shadows.

“Let’s just say old habits die hard.”

⸻

The Separatist vault complex jutted from the side of a rocky cliff on Vucora’s dark side, the sky above black and starless. Only the flicker of malfunctioning perimeter lights gave any indication the base was still online. What should’ve been a graveyard of old tech buzzed faintly with shielded power signatures and long-range comm static.

Sha’rali crouched at the edge of a crag overlooking the access route—an old maglift shaft welded shut. Her black and crimson armor blended perfectly into the rock.

K4 hovered behind her, humming softly. R9 was already halfway down the cliff, magnetic locks clinging to rusted piping. CT-4023 stood next to her, helmet on, modified to hide the remnants of its Death Watch origins. The new gold detailing was subdued in the shadows, but it caught a glint of moonlight now and then like a quiet pulse.

He adjusted the voice modulator inside his helmet. “Test. One. Two.”

Sha’rali gave him a quick glance. “Good enough. Don’t talk unless you have to.”

He nodded. “You think we’ll really run into anyone?”

She let out a slow breath, fingers tightening on her carbine. “I picked up a Republic signal on the long-range scanner this morning. I didn’t want to spook you, but… something’s off. K4, what did that encrypted ping resolve as?”

K4 tapped a few keys on his forearm datapad. “Garbled signature, but buried under that noise was a Republic tactical beacon. A very recent one.”

CT-4023 stiffened.

“I thought this was a forgotten base.”

“It was,” Sha’rali said. “Until now.”

R9 beeped twice. A warning.

K4’s tone dropped. “We’ve got six warm bodies approaching the northwest hangar. Five human, one Togruta. Jedi.”

CT-4023 tensed. “Anakin.”

Sha’rali looked over at him sharply. “You know the squad?”

He hesitated. “Skywalker, Tano, Rex. The rest could be anyone.”

Sha’rali’s hand went to her blaster but didn’t draw. “Fantastic. That’s half the Republic’s worst nightmare squad. Just what I wanted.”

“I can handle it,” CT-4023 said.

“You’re going to stay out of their way,” Sha’rali snapped. “Helmet stays on. Modulator on. No nicknames, no slip-ups. We don’t know what Kit Fisto and Eeth Koth told the Republic. They may think you’re dead—or they may think you’re still out there. We can’t risk it.”

He nodded slowly. “Understood.”

“I’m serious,” she said, grabbing his shoulder. “If Rex recognizes you, if Skywalker so much as suspects, we are both karking done.”

He looked away. “I know.”

They slipped into the base through a rusted maintenance conduit on the far side of the cliff, bypassing the active hangar. Lights flickered and droids twitched in long-forgotten alcoves, half-powered and unresponsive.

The vaults were down two levels, buried under what looked like a mining wing that had collapsed in on itself. Sha’rali and K4 moved like ghosts. CT-4023 hung back slightly, his posture alert but purposeful.

K4 piped up softly. “Republic presence is closer than I estimated. A security system just logged a slicing breach near Subsection Twelve.”

“That’s the vault wing,” Sha’rali muttered. “Of course it is.”

They took a side route—old scaffolding, hanging cables, twisted metal. K4 led the way, decrypting each access point as they moved. R9 deployed ahead on a repulsor trail, scouting.

Over comms, faint voices came through.

“Keep your eyes open, Jesse. If these droids are online, there’s a reason.”

“You sure there’s intel here, General?”

“It’s not intel I’m looking for,” came Skywalker’s voice. “It’s movement. Something activated this base. And it wasn’t us.”

CT-4023 froze as Rex’s voice followed. He didn’t breathe.

“You think it’s a trap, sir?”

“Everything’s a trap, Tup,” Fives cut in. “That’s the fun part.”

Sha’rali looked back at 4023. “You good?”

He gave a tight nod. “Fine.”

They pushed deeper, K4 bypassing old turrets and sending fake signals to maintenance drones. The Jedi team was moving in the same direction but from the other side.

Sha’rali opened a secure hatch to a vault junction. “We’ve got ten minutes max before they converge here. We get in, get the files, and we go.”

CT-4023 slid into position beside her. “Or?”

“Or we run into your old family.”

The vault was colder than the rest of the facility—preserved by an emergency power grid designed to keep datacores stable. K4 cracked the encrypted node, R9 plugged in, and data began copying to a secure chip.

Sha’rali stood watch, carbine up.

CT-4023 moved closer to a dusty wall covered in etchings—old campaign markings, Clone War deployments, maps of Separatist offensives.

The Separatist mainframe crackled as R9’s manipulator arm whirred furiously inside the terminal. Green light spilled across the chamber’s walls while Sha’rali crouched beside the droid, blaster drawn, eyes flicking toward the door.

“Anything?” she hissed.

“Encrypted layers,” R9 chirped smugly. “Primitive. But layered like an onion. You ever peeled an onion, meatbag?”

Sha’rali narrowed her eyes. “Peel faster.”

Above them, K4’s calm voice crackled through the comms:

“Security patrols have doubled. The Jedi must have triggered alarms in the south sector. Ten hostiles converging on your location in ninety seconds.”

She muttered a curse.

4023, stationed at the northern corridor with his helmet on and voice modulator active, responded quickly. “I’ll cut off their advance. Hold this point. Don’t move until R9 pulls the data.”

Sha’rali glanced over her shoulder. “Keep your head down. If any of them catch a glimpse—”

“I know,” he interrupted. “Helmet stays on.”

He slinked into the shadows without another word.

The old CT-4023 was gone—this version of him, wearing black and silver repurposed Death Watch armor laced with his own colors, didn’t belong to the Republic anymore. He belonged to no one. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t lethal.

Two droids rounded the corridor corner—4023 stepped from the darkness, quiet and brutal. His vibroblade slid through the first one’s neck joint. The second didn’t even get to fire.

Meanwhile, back in the server room, R9 let out a low, triumphant beep.

“Got it. Data packet acquired. Core command lines copied. No alarms tripped.” A pause. “Well, not from us.”

Sha’rali’s comm buzzed again. “We’ve got trouble,” K4 said smoothly. “Skywalker and his squad are converging. If they find this server cracked, they’ll know someone else is here.”

Sha’rali activated her shoulder mic. “Everyone fall back to exfil point delta.”

4023 was already moving—slipping past motionless droid husks, evading the flicker of blue blades in the hallway. He paused once, just once, as he caught a glimpse through a distant grate.

Fives.

He stood beside Ahsoka, his DC-17s drawn, watching Skywalker argue with Rex about taking the east corridor. The voices stirred ghosts.

Memories of barracks laughter. Of daring missions. Of joking over rations and watching each other’s backs.

Now… he was nothing but a shadow.

“4023,” Sha’rali’s voice cut in urgently. “Move.”

He did.

⸻

The team reassembled at the old mining shaft they’d used for insertion. R9 detached from the mainframe, rolled back under K4’s cover, and together they descended the narrow escape lift. Above them, shouts rang out, boots storming the hall.

Sha’rali dropped beside him last. “We got it. R9 says there’s mention of a movement. Something big. High-level tactical orders. Could be good leverage for Cid.”

“Could be a war crime list too,” 4023 muttered, tapping the encrypted drive into K4’s care.

“We’ll let her worry about that.”

As they disappeared into the shaft and the light above them narrowed, 4023 sat in silence—jaw clenched under the helmet. He hadn’t seen Skywalker’s face, hadn’t dared get that close. But he’d felt the weight of it.

He remembered the war. The camaraderie. The brotherhood.

But he also remembered Umbara.

⸻

Outside, Sha’rali’s ship lifted into the dusk, cloaking engaged. They slipped off-world before GAR command could trace their incursion.

“We need to lay low for a few days,” Sha’rali said as she slumped into the co-pilot’s seat. “Once we deliver this to Cid, we move fast. If the Jedi know we were there…”

“They didn’t see me,” 4023 said flatly. “But I saw them.”

She turned to him, saw the clenched fists in his lap.

“You alright?”

He didn’t answer for a long moment. “They’re still good soldiers.”

“Some of them,” she said.

Then quieter, she added, “But that doesn’t mean they wouldn’t have shot you if they knew who you were.”

He didn’t respond.

K4 returned with R9 behind him, dropping a datapad onto the console. “Analysis underway. Data includes strategic orders, fleet movements, and two encrypted names I don’t recognize.”

Sha’rali exhaled. “That’s the next problem.”

They were ghosts again, slipping through systems and secrets—one step ahead of the war, one step behind its consequences.

⸻

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

Corrie Gaurd Material List❤️💋❌🚨

|❤️ = Romantic | 🌶️= smut or smut implied |🏡= platonic |

Commander Fox

- x Singer/PA Reader pt.1❤️

- x Singer/PA Reader pt.2❤️

- x Singer/PA Reader pt.3❤️

- x Singer/PA Reader pt.4❤️

- x Caf shop owner reader ❤️

- x reader “command and consequence”❤️

- x Reader “Command and Consequence pt.2”❤️

- x Senator Reader “Red and Loyal” multiple parts ❤️

- “Red Lines” multiple parts

- “soft spot” ❤️

Commander Thorn

- x Senator Reader “Collateral Morals” multiple parts❤️

- x Senator Reader “the lesser of two wars” multiple parts ❤️

Sergeant Hound

- X Reader “Grizzer’s Choice”

Overall Material List