“Red Lines” Pt.7

“Crimson Huntress” pt.6

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 ship groaned as it came out of hyperspace, systems still temperamental from the patchwork repairs 4023 had attempted. Sha’rali took the helm as soon as they were clear of the Republic cruiser, muttering about stabilizer recalibrations and how “he’s never flying my ship again.”

The coordinates she picked were obscure—an old moon on the edge of a dying system, a place where ex-cons, fugitives, and ghosts went to disappear.

Perfect.

They landed in the shadow of jagged cliffs, surrounded by rust-colored soil and broken mining equipment left to decay decades ago. K4 and R9 stayed with the ship.

Inside the ship, in the silence after the engines powered down, Sha’rali opened a long storage crate at the foot of her sleeping quarters.

Inside: backup armor. Scuffed. Dusty. Older. Functional, but uninspired.

She ran her hand over the plates—simple matte silver and black, not the black-and-deep-crimson of her real set. That set had been hers, painstakingly custom-forged over the years. She’d scavenged some of the plating from a wrecked Trandoshan warship. Other parts were Mandalorian-forged. The entire set had been a life built into armor.

Now it was ash.

CT-4023 stood in the doorway, helmet in hand, but for once, silent.

She didn’t acknowledge him at first. She just started pulling the plates on—bit by bit. No ceremony. Just necessity. Each click and lock of the armor echoed hollow in the room.

“Doesn’t feel right,” she muttered, staring at the pauldron in her hands. “It’s not mine. This was made for someone else. For a different me.”

4023 stepped closer, his voice low. “You’re still you.”

Sha’rali shook her head. “No. I’m the version of me that got chained up in a cage and forced to kill for show.” She fitted the chestplate, jaw tight. “That me doesn’t deserve the armor I lost.”

“You didn’t lose it,” he said. “It was taken.”

Her hands stilled.

He added, quieter, “And they didn’t take you.”

That got her attention.

She turned, eyes narrowed. “You don’t know what it’s like. That collar wasn’t just electricity. It was every kriffing choice I ever made catching up to me. Every mission. Every betrayal. Every time I looked the other way.”

4023 didn’t flinch. “You made it out.”

“I survived.” She fastened the last strap. “That doesn’t mean I’m still whole.”

He finally stepped close enough that their shadows overlapped. “None of us are.”

Sha’rali looked up at him—really looked. He didn’t wear his helmet now. She saw the streak of healing bruises under his eye, the tired cut across his temple. And the way his jaw clenched not from tension—but from restraint.

“If you’re about to say something comforting,” she warned, “don’t.”

He held up both hands. “Wouldn’t dream of it. I was going to say we need a drink.”

That made her snort. “Now that I’ll accept.”

⸻

The place was dim, seedy, and pulsing with synth-blues and smoke. The bartender was a bored Givin who didn’t ask questions, and the drinks were made with something that likely wasn’t fit for organic consumption.

Perfect.

They sat in the back, under the hum of an old repulsor fan. She drank something pink and deadly-looking. He had something dark and bitter.

A quiet settled in after the second round.

“You don’t talk much about it,” she said, glancing sideways.

“About what?”

“The things you did. The war. Why you left.”

4023 tapped the rim of his glass. “Not much to say that hasn’t already been said in blood.”

“Try me.”

He took a breath, then shrugged. “I followed every order. Did every mission. Survived where others didn’t. Got my ARC designation after pulling a squad out of a sunken droid ambush during the Second Battle of Christophis. Commander Cody called me a kriffing hero.” His mouth twitched, humorless. “Didn’t feel like one.”

“You left your brothers.”

“I left what was left of them.” He finally looked her in the eyes. “And then I found you.”

The silence stretched taut between them.

“Was it worth it?” she asked quietly.

He didn’t blink. “Ask me again in a year.”

She drained her glass and signaled for another. “I’ll hold you to it.”

⸻

Sha’rali had decided that pain was best drowned in the bottom of a glass. Or several.

K4 didn’t object. The droid was many things—lethal, unpredictable, brutally sarcastic—but on rare occasions, he understood when to sit still. He stayed at the corner booth with her, occasionally offering commentary like, “That’s the seventh. You’ll regret the seventh,” or “I am now calculating your blood toxicity level.”

She waved him off with an exaggerated roll of her eyes. “You programmed to nag, or is it just your charming personality?”

He tilted his head. “I’ll let the bacta tank answer that question tomorrow.”

CT-4023 walked back through the dusty thoroughfare of Station, the moonlight cutting jagged shadows between rusted buildings and rock spires. He was nearly at the ship when he heard it.

Footfalls. A scuffle. Grunts. A frightened yelp.

Then—“Get back here, you little kriffer!”

He turned instinctively. A cluster of armed thugs were chasing a young boy through the alleys—a teen, no older than fifteen. The kid had tan skin, sand-blond curls, and a stitched jacket hanging off one shoulder. Panic radiated off him in waves.

4023 stepped between the kid and the thugs without hesitation.

“Wrong alley,” he said, reaching for his blaster.

One of the thugs sneered. “Move, pal. This don’t concern you.”

“It does now.”

The first swing came fast. 4023 ducked it, grabbed the attacker’s wrist, and twisted until the thug screamed and dropped his blade. A second thug lunged, but caught a knee to the gut. The third raised a blaster—

And then went flying.

A wave of invisible force hurled him back against the wall, hard enough to knock him cold.

4023 blinked, turning to the boy.

The kid stood there, shaking, one hand half-raised. His eyes were wide. He’d meant to do it—but not well.

“Come on,” the clone said, grabbing the boy’s arm. “Move.”

They sprinted through the shadows, dodging old repulsor units and abandoned droid parts, until the ship came into view. 4023 punched the security code, and the ramp hissed open.

Inside, under flickering lights, they caught their breath.

“You okay?” 4023 asked.

The boy nodded slowly. “Thanks. For stepping in.”

“I’ve seen worse. What did they want?”

The kid hesitated. “I… might’ve taken something. Credits. A ration card.”

“You a thief?”

“Sometimes,” the boy admitted. Then, quieter, “Mostly just hungry.”

4023 leaned against the bulkhead, arms folded. “That Force trick… you trained?”

The boy didn’t answer at first.

“Used to be. Kinda.”

4023 didn’t press. The silence was enough.

“They… they threw me out,” the boy finally said, eyes down. “My Master. He—he wasn’t what the Jedi are supposed to be. He hurt people. He liked it.” A breath, shaky and raw. “Said I wasn’t strong enough. Said I was useless. So I left.”

“I’ve heard worse reasons to walk away,” 4023 said.

The boy looked up. “You left too?”

The clone nodded once. “Yeah. Whole different story, but… yeah.”

Another pause.

“What’s your name?” 4023 asked.

The kid tilted his head. “Name’s Kael.”

“Kael what?”

“Just Kael. Not sure the rest matters anymore.”

“Fair enough.”

Kael dropped onto the ship’s bench, looking around. “You live here?”

“Something like that.”

Just then, the outer ramp hissed open again.

Sha’rali stumbled in, holding her head like it might fall off. “Why is everything loud,” she groaned, before noticing Kael. Her gaze narrowed. “What is that?”

4023 didn’t flinch. “That’s Kael.”

“We are not keeping strays.”

“Too late. He’s here now.”

She turned to K4, who had just entered behind her. “Did you let him bring a kid onto my ship?”

“I was monitoring your bloodstream. The child was not a threat.”

Sha’rali gave 4023 a withering look. “Tell me you didn’t just take in someone you don’t know.”

4023 crossed his arms. “You took me in.”

“That was different. You’re—” she stopped, reconsidering. Then groaned and waved it off. “Fine. But he’s not staying long.”

Kael said nothing. He watched her with cautious eyes, not revealing anything of what he truly was. Sha’rali didn’t press. She was still too hungover. Too exhausted.

“Just don’t let him touch anything,” she muttered, disappearing into the ship’s corridor.

Once she was gone, Kael looked at 4023. “Are you going to tell her?”

“No,” the clone said. “And for now, she doesn’t need to know.”

Kael nodded. “Thanks. For letting me stay.”

“Don’t thank me yet. Just stay out of sight. Don’t use the Force unless you have to.”

Kael cracked a small smile. “Yes, sir.”

4023 smirked faintly. “Don’t call me sir.”

⸻

Sha’rali Jurok awoke to the sharp stab of light from a cabin viewport and the unforgiving throb of what felt like a vibrohammer lodged behind her eyes.

“Uuughhh.”

Her montrals were ringing. Her mouth tasted like carbon scoring and regret. She flopped onto her back and groaned at the ceiling.

“K4,” she rasped. “Tell me I’m dead.”

The droid’s voice crackled through the intercom, maddeningly cheery. “Unfortunately not. Though based on the volume of your slurred speech and how many times you told the barkeep that you ‘invented violence,’ I’d say you earned the hangover.”

She shoved herself up, regretting it instantly. “Tea. Hot. Strong. Or I’ll melt your legs off.”

“Coming right up,” K4 replied, unbothered as ever.

Sha’rali stumbled into the refresher, splashing water on her face and peeling off last night’s shirt. Her head pounded, her limbs ached, and there was an odd bruise on her shoulder she didn’t remember earning. Probably from the crate she tripped over during her theatrical return to the ship.

By the time she made it to the common area—wearing loose, oversized pants and one of 4023’s black undershirts—K4 was already waiting with a steaming cup of pungent leaf-brew tea.

She accepted it with a grunt, sipping cautiously.

And then stopped mid-sip, eyes narrowing.

“Why,” she said slowly, “is there a teenager sleeping on my couch?”

Kael was sprawled across the cushions, limbs tangled in a spare blanket, head tucked under his arm like a sleeping Tooka cub. His sandy-blond curls flopped into his eyes.

K4 didn’t look up from his task of reorganizing his tools. “That would be the stray you didn’t want us to keep. The one you promptly forgot about after declaring the floor was trying to murder you.”

Sha’rali glared. “He’s still here?”

“Indeed.”

She rubbed her temples. “Right. Fine. Whatever. We are not a daycare.” Then she glanced at the couch again and sighed. “…He’s too small for the cargo hold.”

“Your compassion is overwhelming,” K4 deadpanned.

“I’m not letting him take my quarters,” she muttered. “He’ll take yours.”

The droid’s head swiveled. “Pardon?”

She pointed at him, then at the little astromech who chirped innocently from a corner terminal. “You two. Share. R9 doesn’t need his own room. Neither do you. You’re droids.”

R9 beeped in protest.

Sha’rali scowled. “Don’t sass me.”

“I would protest,” K4 said dryly, “but frankly, R9’s been keeping a hydrospanner collection in his coolant reservoir. I’d prefer not to be next to something that might detonate.”

She leaned on the table, cradling the tea like a lifeline. “Make it work. The kid gets your bunk.”

There was a moment of stunned silence.

“Wait,” she said. “R9 better not have touched my vintage bourbon stash.”

⸻

The heat on Florrum was the kind that pressed in from all sides, dry and sharp with the scent of scorched minerals and ozone. Red dust coated the jagged outcroppings surrounding ship, and the suns heat beat down overhead like they were trying to bake the world flat.

Florrum wasn’t hospitable, but it was quiet. Isolated. Perfect for lying low.

Kael was sitting cross-legged in the shade of the ship’s landing struts, sleeves rolled up, fiddling with a stripped-down blaster pistol. R9 sat nearby projecting a schematic of the weapon, chirping and beeping out helpful commentary.

CT-4023 knelt beside a makeshift workbench, watching Kael. The kid was cautious, fingers nimble but hesitant.

“Don’t force it,” 4023 said, voice modulated by the helm. “Treat it like a lock, not a wall.”

“You’re not jerking the cartridge release clean,” 4023 murmured. “It’s a smooth press and twist, not a snap.”

Kael frowned, then tried again—this time more precise.

The part clicked free.

Kael exhaled slowly and twisted the energy chamber. “Got it.”

“Good. Clean it like I showed you.”

R9 chirped a series of quick, approving beeps, projecting a schematic overhead for reference. Kael grinned at the droid, then glanced at 4023.

“You always teach like this?”

“Only when it matters.”

Kael opened his mouth to ask something more, but the sound of boots crunching over grit snapped both of them to attention.

Sha’rali.

She held a blaster rifle nearly as long as the boy was tall. She tossed it through the air with a casual spin. Kael caught it—barely.

“Hope you know how to aim, stray.”

Kael gawked at the blaster, then back at her. “Uh—I mean, not really—”

4023 rose to his feet. “You can’t just give him a weapon.”

Sha’rali gave him a slow look. “He’s been here two days and already fixed my nav console and bypassed two encrypted locks. He’s not stupid. He can learn.”

“That’s not the point,” 4023 said, stepping closer. “He’s a kid. You don’t train a kid by tossing him a gun.”

“Oh, so now you’re the moral compass?” She grinned mockingly. “Since when do deserters play guardian?”

He stiffened. “Since I decided I wouldn’t let more lives get thrown away because someone thought they were expendable.”

Sha’rali’s smile faded, just slightly.

Kael watched, silent, clutching the blaster awkwardly in both hands.

R9 let out a long, low beep, like he was enjoying the tension. K4 strolled up from behind the ship, pausing just long enough to deadpan, “Are we doing family drama this early?”

“Don’t tempt me,” Sha’rali muttered. Then, to Kael “You want to learn or not?”

The boy nodded, tentative but resolute.

“Then come on. I’ll show you how to not shoot your own face off.”

4023 exhaled. “This is a mistake.”

Sha’rali walked past him with a smirk. “Relax, Captain. If he shoots himself, I’ll let you say ‘I told you so.’”

As Kael followed her toward the rocky outcroppings where a row of makeshift targets waited, 4023 stayed back, hands clenched at his sides.

K4 leaned in next to him. “You’re starting to sound like a dad.”

4023 didn’t look away. “Someone has to.”

⸻

The makeshift firing range was a strip of cracked, sun-baked stone carved between jagged rock outcroppings behind their ship. A line of discarded droid torsos and rusted durasteel plating had been set up for target practice. Kael stood awkwardly in the sand, clutching the oversized blaster like it might bite him.

“Alright, kid. Let’s see if you’re as sharp as your mouth.”

ael looked from the weapon to her, brow raised.

“Is this legal?”

“We’re bounty hunters,” she said. “That’s not a word we use much.”

“Cool,” Kael said. “That’s not concerning at all.”

“Point it downrange, smartass.”

Kael shifted his feet, lifting the blaster like he’d seen on old holos. “So, uh… safety?”

“Off.”

“Trigger?”

“Pull it when you’re ready.”

He squinted at a downed B2 head, stuck on a spike about twenty meters out. “Right. No pressure.”

Sha’rali crossed her arms. “You’re holding that like it’s gonna ask you to dance.”

He exaggerated a twirl with the blaster. “Hey, I’m charming when I try.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Try shooting instead.”

Kael fired. The bolt missed wide and smacked into a distant rock, spooking a nest of small birds.

“Boom,” he said. “Perfect warning shot. That rock won’t mess with us again.”

Sha’rali walked up and repositioned his arms. “You’re overcorrecting. Wrist straight. Elbow low. Plant your feet like you’re ready to fight, not faint.”

“You do realize I’m fifteen, right?” Kael muttered. “Not all of us are built like you.”

She glanced at him. “Good. Less surface area to hit.”

He grinned and took another shot. This time, he clipped the shoulder of the droid head.

“Nice,” Sha’rali said. “Almost impressive.”

“‘Almost impressive’ is literally how I introduce myself at bars,” Kael deadpanned.

“You’ve been to bars?”

“I’ve been thrown out of bars.”

Sha’rali stared at him.

He shrugged. “It was for being too adorable.”

She took a half-step back and barked a laugh. “Stars help me. You’re gonna get us all shot.”

“That’s what the gun’s for, right?”

Sha’rali made a sound between a sigh and a snort, then gestured to another target. “Try again. Faster this time.”

He fired three bolts in quick succession. Two hit, one went wide.

“Not bad,” she said, genuine this time.

Kael lowered the weapon and gave her a crooked smile. “See? Fast learner. And bonus—you didn’t have to yell.”

“I don’t yell,” she said.

He blinked. “That’s so untrue. You yell with your face.”

Sha’rali pointed a finger at him. “You keep sassing, I’ll make you scrub carbon scoring off R9’s undercarriage.”

“I already did that once!” he protested. “I think he’s just dirty on purpose.”

R9 beeped irritably from the ridge.

Kael mimicked the droid with a nasal whine: “Beep-boop, I’m superior to organic life forms. Please validate me.”

Sha’rali chuckled under her breath. “You’re insufferable.”

Kael fired one last shot. Dead center.

Then, casually: “So… this means I’m officially dangerous now, right?”

She tilted her head. “You were already dangerous. Just in a different way.”

Kael’s smile faltered, just slightly. But it returned fast. “Aww. You do like me.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t not say it.”

She walked past him, grabbing the blaster from his hands. “Come on. Let’s see if you’re better at cleaning it than firing it.”

Kael followed, calling out, “I can clean stuff! Especially messes I make! Which is most messes!”

R9 trilled something in binary. Sha’rali didn’t catch it, but Kael did.

“You take that back, you glorified kettle.”

⸻

The cantina on florrum was loud, smoky, and smelled like stale drinks and scorched metal—just the kind of place Sha’rali felt most at home in.

She was leaned against a booth, sifting through bounty listings on a small holopad, K4 standing at her shoulder, red eyes scanning rapidly. R9 beeped from beside them, impatient.

“No, we’re not picking that one,” she muttered, flicking past a listing that promised triple pay for a political extraction job on Serenno. “I like my head where it is.”

K4 tilted his head. “You do tend to lead with it.”

Before Sha’rali could respond, the cantina’s entry chime buzzed.

4023 ducked through the doorway, armor worn and dusty, rifle slung over his back. Behind him, Kael trailed with a grin and hands in his pockets.

Sha’rali straightened. “What’s he doing here?”

“He insisted,” 4023 said flatly.

Kael raised his hand. “Hi. I’m insisting.”

“I told you to stay on the ship.”

“You also told R9 to stop locking the refresher door when you’re hungover,” Kael said. “We all ignore things.”

Sha’rali sighed. “You’re not coming on a job.”

“I can help,” Kael said. “I’m fast, quiet, and pretty good at distracting people by being incredibly annoying.”

K4 muttered, “No argument there.”

4023 stepped closer to her, voice low. “I’ll watch him. He won’t cause trouble.”

“That’s a bold promise for someone I watched nearly fall off the ship ramp yesterday,” she said dryly.

4023’s helmet tilted, annoyed. “He’s not a liability.”

That caught her attention. Not a liability was a very specific kind of defense. Her eyes narrowed at them both.

Kael sat at the booth and grabbed a discarded cup, sniffed it, and made a face. “That smells like regret.”

Sha’rali rounded the table. “You two are keeping something from me.”

4023 didn’t answer. His silence was like a wall.

Sha’rali leaned down to Kael. “Where exactly did 4023 find you?”

Kael blinked. “Oh, you know. Around. Classic back-alley rescue story. Bandits. Dramatic chase. Stuff blew up.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Swear to all the stars, nothing shady.”

“I never said shady.”

“Then I’m doing great!” He finger-gunned her and winked.

K4 let out a groaning whir, and R9 spun a slow, judging circle.

Sha’rali stood upright. “You stay close. One wrong move, and I’ll duct-tape you to the bulkhead.”

“Can’t wait.”

4023 handed her a datapad. “Got something. Cargo heist on Dorin. Neutral zone—Zann Consortium’s getting too bold.”

She raised a brow. “Zann? They don’t normally mess with this sector.”

“Someone’s paying them to.”

Sha’rali studied the bounty details. Mid-risk, high-reward. Could be clean—if they were fast.

“Fine,” she said. “We take it. But you”—she jabbed a finger at Kael—“stay quiet, stay low, and stay behind me.”

Kael saluted, then immediately knocked over the empty cup. “Totally professional.”

4023 shook his head slightly, but didn’t hide the faint trace of amusement under the visor.

As they left the cantina, Sha’rali walked just behind the two of them, watching.

She didn’t trust easy.

And this kid?

This kid moved like he’d been trained. Reacted like he’d seen real action. And that grin he wore like armor—there was hurt under there, hidden deep.

He was something.

And if 4023 thought she wouldn’t figure out what… he was wrong.

⸻

It was supposed to be a simple bounty.

In and out. No theatrics. Just a mid-tier weapons smuggler hiding out in the underbelly of Dorin’s forgotten industrial sector—neutral ground claimed by neither the Separatists nor the Republic. Sha’rali had walked into war zones for less.

Now, her side hurt. Her boots crunched over broken glass and cinders. The clouds above them swirled with gray gas from broken chimneys, and the red light of Dorin’s sky cast a bruised glow across everything.

They’d split up hours ago. 4023, R9, and K4 were tailing the target’s security detail—three armed Nikto guarding crates marked with faint Black Sun sigils. Kael had insisted on sticking with her. She hadn’t wanted it, but for reasons she hadn’t yet sorted through, she let him come.

And now he was walking beside her, hands shoved in the pockets of his oversized jacket, expression casual in a way that didn’t quite fit his age—or maybe that was the trick. Everything about the boy seemed too smooth, too knowing.

“Ever seen anything like this before?” she asked as they passed under an old shuttle engine converted into a tavern canopy.

“Smelled worse,” Kael replied with a smirk. “But yeah. This place is a pit.”

Sha’rali chuckled. “For someone who’s supposed to be watching and learning, you talk like you’ve done this before.”

Kael kicked a loose bolt across the ground. “Maybe I’ve just got a fast learning curve. Or maybe I’m just smarter than you think.”

She stopped, turning to face him.

“Kid, you act like someone who’s been hunted before.”

His face didn’t flinch. He just blinked. “Haven’t we all?”

Sha’rali studied him for a second longer before she kept walking. A warmth had built in her chest recently—some misplaced sense of protectiveness. He annoyed her, sure, but he also reminded her of things she didn’t want to remember. Losses she never signed up to carry.

The silence stretched.

Until the trap closed.

From above, crates fell—smoke bombs first, then sonic grenades. They exploded in a concussive whine, sending dust and debris into the air. Sha’rali instinctively shoved Kael down behind cover, drawing her blaster with a hiss.

Four figures emerged—Zann mercenaries, helmets with glowing red visors, vibro-axes and slugthrowers.

“Down!” she yelled, blasting two shots toward their flanks.

She fired again—and took a hit.

Not a direct one, but enough. A slug tore across her hip, slicing through the lighter armor like flimsiplast. She went down hard, breath ripped from her lungs.

Kael was beside her in an instant. Kael’s eyes scanned the area. There—a suspended cable transport system. Metal cages dangling above the rooftops, used to ferry supply crates between the outpost levels. Most were empty.

“That,” he said, pointing. “If we can get to one of those—”

“Assuming we don’t die before then.”

“Yeah, minor detail.”

They made a break for it.

Sha’rali took point, gunning down two Zann enforcers, but not the third. He got the drop on her, slammed her against a wall with a shock baton. She dropped to one knee, dazed, her blood pooling fast now.

“Sha’rali!”

She clutched her side. “Get out—run, Kael—!”

He didn’t move.

The enforcer raised his blaster—aiming for her head.

Sha’rali raised her blaster, hand shaking, blood pouring through her fingers.

The merc raised his axe—and then he screamed.

Lightning danced across his body, exploding from Kael’s outstretched hand with a crack like thunder. The merc convulsed and dropped, weapon clattering beside him.

Sha’rali’s eyes widened.

Kael stood over her, breathing hard. His expression wasn’t smug this time. It was wild. Torn. Like he’d just let something out he’d promised never to use.

He stepped forward. His hand went to his belt.

Two lightsabers ignited with a twin snap-hiss.

One glowed yellow, bright and unyielding like the twin suns over Tatooine. The other shimmered purple, its glow almost oily in the fog, deep and royal.

Sha’rali couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe.

Kael deflected a bolt as another merc tried to fire, then twisted with terrifying speed and slashed across the man’s chest. The body dropped without a sound.

Then, it was over.

Sha’rali lay half-slumped, blood soaking her side, staring at him as he turned to her. The sabers deactivated and returned to his belt in silence.

He crouched beside her.

“I’ll explain later,” he said quickly. “You’re losing a lot of blood. I need to move you.”

“You’re—” she choked out. “A Jedi.”

He flinched, hesitated. “Was.”

She grabbed his wrist weakly. He helped her to her feet, slinging her good arm over his shoulder. They staggered to the edge and jumped into the open transport cage just as it passed. The door slammed behind them. Kael jammed the control panel—sending it careening down the cable line at full speed.

Sha’rali collapsed into the cage floor, blood soaking the bottom. Kael knelt beside her, ripping part of his tunic to bind her wound.

“Not ideal,” he muttered. “But you’ll live.”

She winced, then looked up at him. The lightsabers now hung on his belt—deactivated, but undeniable.

“I don’t know much about Jedi,” she rasped. “But… saber colors. They mean things, don’t they?”

Kael didn’t answer.

She pointed weakly. “Yellow… purple. That doesn’t seem normal.”

Still silence.

“Which did you get first?”

His jaw clenched. “…Yellow.”

“And the other?”

“…Later.”

“Purple means dark side influence,” she said. “Right? You can’t lie. Not about this.”

He looked away.

“I didn’t ask for it,” he said finally. “I—made a choice. Took a path no one wanted me to take. I… made it mine.”

The wind howled through the cage as they zipped over rooftops and chasms, the speed making her dizzy.

“So what does it mean?” she whispered.

Kael met her gaze.

“It means I’ve seen too much. And I still want to do good. Even if the Force and the Council think I’m not allowed to anymore.”

She stared at him.

Not a kid. Not really. Not anymore.

“Who are you?” she murmured.

He didn’t answer.

They reached the platform. The wind screamed around them as Kael hit the manual override. The cable whined, beginning its crawl toward the canyon’s rim.

Sha’rali, dazed from blood loss, leaned against the bars.

“Why?”

Kael stared forward, hands tight on the rail.

“Because I was taught to follow the light. But the people who taught me… they lived in the dark. And when I saw that… I had to walk away.”

The wind howled through the gaps in the cage. Sha’rali’s eyes fluttered.

“Still think we shouldn’t have kept the stray?” he asked softly, smirking down at her.

She snorted weakly. “You’re still an annoying little shavit.”

“Yeah. But now I’ve got two lightsabers.”

The zipline cage scraped against its upper dock with a violent jolt, and Kael barely had time to steady her before the doors rattled open. He hoisted Sha’rali into his arms again with the kind of gentle strength that betrayed just how fast he was growing up.

Her skin was hot with blood loss, her lekku twitching faintly in pain, but her grip on consciousness didn’t falter.

Not completely.

They sprinted through ash-colored corridors until the silhouette of her ship—scorched, dented, but functional—came into view on the landing pad. K4 and R9 were already lowering the ramp.

4023 emerged from the shadows beside the ship, blaster still drawn. He paused the moment he saw Kael cradling Sha’rali, her side soaked crimson.

“Maker—what happened?!”

Kael didn’t stop. “She’s hit bad.”

“She needs a medkit, now.” 4023 turned toward K4. “Inside—top shelf—move!”

K4 hustled up the ramp, R9 warbling in alarm and taking his usual initiative of zapping the lighting controls to signal high alert mode. The ship’s belly glowed dim red as Kael carried her up the ramp, then carefully lowered her onto the medical bunk.

She groaned and shifted, eyes fluttering open enough to make out the silhouette of 4023 looming above her.

“You know…” she croaked, voice raspy but laced with dry humor, “I think I finally figured out why you picked up the stray Jedi.”

4023’s helmet tilted down at her, pausing mid-injection of bacta stabilizer. “…What?”

“That whole mysterious loner vibe. The broody soldier act. The secret-keeping.” Her grin was faint but unmistakable. “You two are the same brand of trouble. It’s almost sweet.”

Kael raised his eyebrows from where he leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “Should I be flattered or offended?”

“Take your pick,” Sha’rali muttered, wincing as the stabilizer kicked in. “I don’t care, just don’t get blood on my floor.”

4023 straightened up, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “You’re the one bleeding out,” before setting the injector aside.

She gave him a lazy half-glare.

“I’ve been shot before.”

“You say that like it’s impressive.”

“It is impressive.”

Kael snorted.

4023 exhaled. “You’re lucky that wasn’t a direct hit. The bounty’s in the cargo hold, alive—barely. K4 and R9 locked him down before he could bite his own tongue off.”

“Did he have a tongue?” Sha’rali muttered. “He looked like a Dug who’d lost a bar fight with a vibrosaw.”

Kael moved to grab a fresh medwrap and leaned in to help. His hands were steady, but his eyes flicked down to her wound with an unspoken heaviness.

“You saved me,” she said softly, too soft for anyone else but him to hear.

He blinked, his tone shifting. “Of course I did.”

“You used lightning.” She squinted at him. “I’ve heard of Sith doing that.“

He didn’t answer. Not directly. Just helped her sit up enough to rewrap the gauze around her side.

Sha’rali let the silence stretch for a moment.

Then, slowly, “You’re not just a runaway. Not just some padawan who got lost in the war.”

Kael paused with the wrap halfway around her ribs.

4023 interrupted, stepping in just enough to break the moment.

“She needs to rest.”

Sha’rali leaned her head back against the bulkhead, voice dropping. “Yeah, yeah. Protect the kid’s secrets.”

Kael’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t rise to the bait.

“I’ll make myself useful,” he said instead. “Check the engines. K4 said the starboard stabilizer was whining again.”

4023 nodded.

As Kael walked off, Sha’rali’s gaze followed him for a long beat before flicking up to 4023.

“You keeping secrets from me now, too?”

His helmet tilted. “Always have been.”

Her lips quirked despite the pain. “That’s not reassuring.”

“No. It’s not.”

They let that hang there between them.

⸻

Previous Part | Next Part

I've never drawn droids or clones before, so this was a first! :) Thank you @mr-damian-s-power for your order and I hope you like it! 🥰🥰

Hello! Can you do a bad batch x fem!reader where she’s been with them for a bit but they still have an outwardly showed her that they like her but they get close to her/touch her whenever they’re uncomfortable because she might smell/remind them of home(their ship) and she doesn’t really notice at first but when she does it’s all “aw you really do like me!”

Have a good night or day! 💗💕

“The Scent of Home”

Bad Batch x Reader

You’d been traveling with Clone Force 99 for just long enough that your “guest” status had evolved into something more like “resident stowaway they couldn’t get rid of.” Not that you were complaining. The Marauder might not have been luxury living, but it was safe, the crew was (mostly) stable, and there was always something to laugh about—usually Wrecker tripping over his own boots or Tech getting roped into arguments with Gonk.

Still, there was a weird undercurrent to life aboard the ship.

They were… close. Physically. Constantly. And it wasn’t like they were trying to make you uncomfortable, but sometimes, you wondered if the entire squad had collectively decided you didn’t have a personal bubble. You’d turn around and find Echo right over your shoulder while you were cooking rations. Crosshair would sit beside you on missions when there were other seats available. Hunter always managed to casually lean his arm over the back of your chair during briefings. And Tech—sweet, literal, constantly-tapping-on-a-datapad Tech—had started borrowing your jackets when he got cold. Without asking.

You weren’t mad about it. Just… confused.

“Do clone squads not believe in personal space?” you muttered under your breath one evening, squashed between Echo and Wrecker on the narrow seating bench while Hunter briefed the team on their next mission.

“What’s that?” Wrecker asked, already distracted by trying to sneak some of the ration bar you’d left in your pocket.

“Nothing,” you grumbled, tugging it away from him. “Just wondering if elbows have to touch for squad cohesion.”

Echo gave you a slow side-eye and didn’t move away.

⸻

It wasn’t until the fourth night in a row that you found Tech asleep in your chair, legs propped on your bunk, datapad resting on his chest like a satisfied pet, that something in your brain started to itch. You stared at him from the doorway, arms crossed.

“Tech.”

Nothing.

“Tech.”

He stirred, blinked once, then sat up and blinked again like you’d startled him from a dream. “Oh. I—apologies. I must have dozed off.”

“You’re in my chair.”

“Yes, I am aware.” He didn’t move.

“You have your own seat, you know.”

He looked genuinely confused. “I do. But yours is—warmer.”

You squinted. “Warmer?”

“It smells like… here.” He blinked. “Like the ship. Like the inside of the cockpit when we’ve been in hyperspace too long. It’s familiar. Soothing.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it again. “You mean it smells like me.”

“Yes,” he said easily, then added after a beat, “That was not meant to be an intrusive observation.”

You stared at him. “You fell asleep in my chair because I smell like the Marauder?”

“Yes. Precisely.” He paused. “It’s… comforting.”

It took you a full thirty seconds to connect that to the moment yesterday when Crosshair had leaned just a little too close while cleaning his rifle and muttered something about “the smell of ion grease and coffee,” or that time Hunter had caught your wrist absentmindedly and inhaled before letting go like nothing had happened.

You turned on your heel and went straight to the galley. Echo was there, pouring caf, looking sleep-deprived and deeply unrepentant.

“Do all of you use me like some kind of emotional support blanket?”

He paused mid-pour. “Not on purpose.”

“That is not comforting!”

“I mean—” He cleared his throat. “You remind us of home.”

You blinked. “I live here. On the ship.”

“Yes, but… you smell like the inside of it now. You’ve been here long enough. You’re part of it.”

“That’s not normal.”

“Define normal,” Echo said mildly.

⸻

Later that night, you caught Wrecker curled up on your bunk, nose buried deep in your pillow. The image might’ve been cuter if it didn’t confirm every weird suspicion you’d had for weeks.

“Wrecker.”

He cracked one eye open and grinned, not even trying to move. “It smells like you.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“I like it.” He snuggled in further, like a massive, affectionate tooka. “Smells like the Marauder.”

You sighed, but your heart did something traitorous and warm.

“You guys really are emotionally stunted, huh?”

“Hey,” came Hunter’s voice from the doorway, sounding suspiciously amused. “That’s offensive.”

“Is it?” You crossed your arms and turned toward him. “Because instead of telling me you liked me, you all decided to casually absorb my scent like loth-cats?”

Crosshair strolled past behind him, muttering, “Didn’t realize she’d catch on this fast.”

“I didn’t catch on! You basically rolled in my laundry!”

Tech emerged from the cockpit, pushing up his goggles. “To clarify, I merely borrowed your jacket.”

You jabbed a finger in his direction. “You napped in my scent.”

He paused. “Yes… but respectfully.”

There was a long, awkward silence before Wrecker added cheerfully, “We just like you, that’s all.”

You blinked, thrown off by the sudden earnestness. “Like me?”

“Yeah,” he said, as if it were obvious. “You make it feel like home.”

Hunter stepped closer, expression softening in that careful, deliberate way of his. “We didn’t know how to say it. You came into our lives like a storm and just… stayed. It got easier when you were here. Like we could breathe again.”

Crosshair rolled his eyes from the background. “You’re all terrible at subtlety.”

“I don’t think ‘sniffing my blankets’ qualifies as subtle.”

“Would it help,” Echo said slowly, “if we just admitted it properly?”

You stared at them—five elite clone troopers, all looking at you with some variation of awkward affection or hopeful confusion.

“You’re all idiots,” you said finally, grinning despite yourself.

“But… our idiots?” Tech offered, voice hopeful.

You rolled your eyes. “Yeah. Fine. My idiots.”

Wrecker threw his arms up in celebration from your bunk, nearly taking out the overhead panel. “Knew it!”

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

Happy Friday!

“Synaptic Sparks”

Gregor x Reader

The kettle was screaming again.

So was Gregor.

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

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

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

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

You blinked. “You first.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh yeah. Bastard was smug.”

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

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

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

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

You turned to look at him. “Gregor?”

“Yeah?”

“If I forget who you are someday…”

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

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

“That sounds nice,” you said.

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

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

It was insane. It was unstable.

But it was home.

⸻

Outside, the sky cracked with thunder.

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

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

It stuck.

Even if nothing else did.

Hi! I saw you took requests and I was wondering if you could do a Command Squad x Fem!Reader where she’s a general but not because she’s a Jedi but because she actually served in wars before this and they want her respect and flirt with her. And of course any of your flourishes ;)

You’re the best! Xx

“Steel & Stardust”

Fem!Reader x Command Squad (Cody, Wolffe, Fox, Neyo, Bacara, Gree, Bly, and Ponds)

⸻

You weren’t a Jedi. Never wore the robes, never had the Force. You didn’t need it.

Your command had been earned the hard way—blood, shrapnel, and scars in wars no one even bothered to archive anymore. When the Republic came knocking, you told them you didn’t serve causes—you served soldiers. And somehow, that landed you here.

Not in front of them. With them.

The elite. The best the Republic had to offer.

And from the second you stepped into that war room, every helmet turned your way. And when the helmets came off—yeah, that was a problem. Because they were all infuriatingly hot, and even worse, they knew it.

Cody was the first to speak, his voice calm, neutral, but his eyes sharp. “General. You’ll forgive the question, but… what exactly are your qualifications?”

You just smirked, tossing your old service jacket onto the table with a dull thud. “Two border wars, five urban insurgencies, and a ten-year campaign in the Outer Rim before the Jedi decided the galaxy needed saving. That enough for you, Commander?”

Wolffe snorted, amused. “She’s got more battlefield time than half the Jedi Council.”

“She’s not wrong,” Bacara grunted, arms crossed, voice gravelly. “Seen her file. Most of us got bred for war. She just never left it.”

“I like her,” Bly grinned, leaning on the table with a little too much casual charm. “Can we keep her?”

“Not like that, Bly,” Fox muttered, though he didn’t exactly disagree.

“I didn’t say anything,” Bly said with a wicked grin. “Yet.”

You sighed. “Are you always like this, or is it just when there’s a woman in the room who outranks you?”

Gree chuckled. “You outrank us technically. Not in spirit.”

Neyo hadn’t said a word yet, just stared at you like he was dissecting your tactical potential, or possibly imagining your funeral. Could go either way with Neyo.

Ponds gave you a respectful nod. “We’ve worked under a lot of Jedi. Not all of them know what they’re doing. We’d follow you, General.”

And that—that was what mattered.

⸻

You caught them watching you more often than not. In the field, in the war room, during briefings. It wasn’t just the usual soldier-to-general dynamic. No, it was different. Heat in Cody’s gaze when you gave orders. That glint in Wolffe’s eye when you called him out in front of the others. The way Fox lingered just a bit too long when you handed him back his datapad.

Even Neyo—cold, calculating Neyo—started standing just a little too close.

“You know they’re all trying to impress you, right?” Gree asked one night while you were cleaning your gear, his voice low and amused.

You didn’t even glance up. “Trying and failing.”

Bly leaned against your doorway. “Is that a challenge?”

⸻

After you saved their shebs in a firefight—ripping a blaster from a fallen commando and dropping six droids in twelve seconds flat—you were pretty sure something shifted.

They wanted your respect. You already had theirs.

But they wanted more.

So they fought beside you. Ate with you. Got protective in the field. Made excuses to talk to you after hours. Fought over who got assigned to your team. And every now and then… they flirted like it was a competitive sport.

Cody did subtle praise and brooding glances. Always has your back.

Wolffe. The grumpy softie. Pretends he hates you. Would kill anyone who hurt you.

Fox was stoic, but flirty in a dry, sardonic way. Deep down, he’s soft, but you’d have to earn it.

Neyo protective in a weird way. Doesn’t speak much but always notices when you’re off. Secretly touched you remembered his name.

Bacara extremely blunt, intense. A man of few words—but his loyalty is loud.

Gree slightly flirty and professional. Gives you space but always drops a line like, “You ever need a break, General… I know a place.”

Bly was shameless. Teases you endlessly but respects you deeply. Would absolutely fight anyone who disrespects you.

Ponds was quiet support. Loyal. Observes everything. The first one to ask how you’re doing when no one else notices.

And you?

You don’t fall easily. You’ve seen too much.

But if you were going to fall—

It might just be for one of them.

Or all of them.

⸻

79’s was already loud when you walked in. Music thrumming through your bones, the low hum of clone banter and laughter rising and falling like waves. You hadn’t planned to come here. You’d just wanted one damn drink. One moment not steeped in war, planning, or death.

You ran right into Commander Bly. Well, more like his chest.

“General,” he said, and the smile that bloomed on his face was entirely too pretty. He looked you over, gaze lingering just a little too long. “Didn’t know you came here.”

“I don’t,” you replied, stepping back. “Just needed to breathe.”

“You came to a GAR bar to breathe?” Gree chimed in from behind him, drink in hand and eyebrows raised. “You’re worse at relaxing than Fox.”

Speak of the devil—Fox was at the bar, sharp suit shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up. He lifted his glass in greeting and turned away to order another round. You could feel his eyes on you though, like a sniper sight you couldn’t shake.

“You here alone?” Bly asked, leaning against the wall like he knew what he was doing.

“I was,” you replied flatly.

“Tragic,” Gree said, stepping closer, voice smoother than it had any right to be. “This place is full of trouble tonight.”

“Is that what you are, Gree? Trouble?”

“You’ll have to find out.”

And just like that, Cody, Wolffe, Bacara, Ponds, and Neyo filtered in from the second level, coming down the steps like they were part of a slow-motion holodrama.

Cody looked you over once, eyes flickering to the drink in your hand. “Didn’t think we’d see you here.”

“I was hoping I wouldn’t see you here,” you replied, teasing, heat behind the words.

Wolffe smirked. “Too bad.”

Ponds gave a low whistle. “She’s gonna kill one of you tonight.”

“I volunteer,” Bly said without hesitation.

Bacara rolled his eyes and took a slow sip of his drink, staring at you over the rim of the glass like he was thinking something entirely inappropriate—and probably correct.

And Neyo—stone-cold, unreadable—just nodded. “You clean up well, General.”

That made a few of them pause. Compliments from Neyo were about as rare as a Tatooine blizzard.

You were suddenly hyper-aware of how your shirt clung to your skin, how the lights in the bar made everything seem lower, warmer, closer.

Fox appeared beside you without a sound, holding out a drink. “On me.”

You hesitated. “You trying to get me drunk, Commander?”

“If I were, I’d start with something stronger,” he said, voice low, his knuckles brushing yours as you took it.

“Careful,” you said, raising an eyebrow. “You might be starting something you can’t finish.”

“I always finish what I start,” Fox replied smoothly, dead serious.

The tension snapped tight like a tripwire.

Cody moved closer behind you, his breath brushing your neck. “You should be careful with us, General.”

Wolffe stepped in next to him, eyes gleaming. “Or don’t. We like dangerous.”

Gree leaned in from the other side. “And we play well together.”

“You all are shameless,” you muttered, taking a sip just to hide your smirk.

“No,” Ponds said with a shrug. “Just very, very interested.”

You looked around—at eight sets of eyes, different in every way except one thing: they wanted you. Wanted to impress you, challenge you, make you forget—if only for one night—that the galaxy was falling apart outside these walls.

You downed the rest of your drink and smiled, slow and dangerous. “Alright, boys. Try and keep up.”

The night was just beginning.

The music had shifted. Slowed. Lower bass, seductive rhythm. Clone troopers were still everywhere, but the spotlight wasn’t on them anymore.

It was on you.

You hadn’t planned to be the center of the room, but when you started moving through the crowd—hips swaying just enough, eyes catching every glance—you had their undivided attention. Especially when Commander Bly snuck up behind you and took your hand.

“Dance with me,” he said, already guiding you onto the floor like he’d waited years for the excuse.

You let him.

Bly danced like he fought—confident, smooth, close. One hand gripped your hip, the other held yours. His gold armor was traded for casual blacks, but the heat rolling off him was all battle-born adrenaline and want.

“You keep looking at me like that,” you murmured in his ear, “and I’ll start thinking you’re falling for me.”

He faltered—actually faltered. Blinked once, then twice.

You leaned in, lips grazing his jaw. “What’s the matter, Bly? Didn’t think I could flirt back?”

He opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

You slipped away with a smirk.

Gree was next—casual, clever, always too smooth for his own good.

“Careful,” you said, nursing a drink beside him at the bar. “You look like you’re planning something.”

“Just wondering how someone like you keeps every commander in the GAR wrapped around your finger.”

You leaned in, gaze dark. “Who says I don’t already have you wrapped around mine?”

He choked on his drink.

You patted his back, sweet as sin. “I’ll be gentle.”

⸻

Fox looked like he was ready for a war crime when you sat beside him.

“I thought you hated attention,” you said, sipping from your glass.

“I do.”

“And yet,” you murmured, brushing your knee against his, “you keep watching me like I’m a damn threat.”

Fox’s eyes flickered. His jaw clenched. “You are.”

You leaned close. “Then do something about it.”

He looked away. Tight. Tense.

Flustered.

⸻

Neyo didn’t flinch when you approached—but his grip on his glass tightened when you laid your hand lightly on his chest.

“You don’t say much,” you whispered, “but I bet you think about me more than you should.”

His eyes were locked on yours. Still silent.

“You going to prove me wrong?”

He looked down, just for a second. Then turned and walked away—only to stop, just out of reach, and glance back like he wanted you to follow.

God, he was dangerous.

Ponds approached and gave you a smile like calm water hiding a riptide.

“Having fun?” he asked.

“I am now.”

You rested a hand on his arm, feeling the strength there. “You ever going to stop being the sweet one?”

His smile dipped just slightly, darker now. “Only if you ask nicely.”

You stepped closer, voice low. “What if I beg?”

He stared at you like you’d kicked him in the chest.

Bacara barely moved when you brushed his hand at the table, except for the twitch in his jaw.

“You don’t talk much either.”

“I talk when there’s something worth saying.”

You tilted your head. “Then say something. Right now.”

Bacara met your gaze for a long, charged moment. Then—

“You’re dangerous.”

You smirked. “Took you that long to figure it out?”

He shifted in his seat, suddenly needing a long drink.

⸻

Wolffe was already grumpy when you got to him, sitting in the corner like he’d rather be anywhere else—but the second you sat on the arm of his chair, his whole body went rigid.

“What?” he grunted.

“Nothing,” you said sweetly, playing with the edge of his collar. “You just always look like you want to throw me against a wall.”

He inhaled sharply. “Don’t test me.”

“Oh, I am.”

And just for fun, you kissed his cheek. Quick. Sharp. Possessive.

Wolffe went absolutely still. “You’re a menace.”

“You like that.”

⸻

Cody found you at the end of the night—when your guard was just a little lowered, your drink half-finished.

“You were playing us all along,” he said, leaning on the bar beside you, eyes burning.

“Not playing,” you replied. “Just reminding you who’s in charge.”

He chuckled, low and slow. “Then dance with me.”

You didn’t resist when he pulled you back onto the floor, slower this time. Closer.

“You like control,” he murmured in your ear.

You turned in his arms, meeting his gaze dead-on. “Only when they’re strong enough to take it from me.”

Cody stared at you like he wanted to drag you out of the bar and ruin you.

And maybe… just maybe… you’d let him.

You hadn’t meant to start a war in 79’s—but then again, you’d never played fair, had you?

The music was sultry, all slow bass and sin. The lights were low. You’d been dancing with Cody for all of three minutes, and you could already feel the eyes on you. His eyes.

Fox had been brooding at the bar, nursing his whiskey, watching you like a hawk all night. You’d shared a moment earlier, sure—a drink, a brush of skin, words that lingered.

But now you were wrapped up in Cody.

Hands at your waist, lips near your ear, warm breath as he murmured, “You’re playing a dangerous game, General.”

You looked up at him, smug. “Only if someone plays back.”

Cody smirked. “Oh, I’m playing.”

He pulled you in tighter, hand trailing down your spine, and that was it—that was the trigger.

You didn’t see Fox at first—you felt him.

Storming across the floor like a man possessed. Controlled, measured fury wrapped in sleek civilian clothes. A few troopers nearby saw him coming and stepped aside like instinct told them don’t be in his way.

You barely had time to blink before—

“Enough.”

His voice cracked like a blaster shot.

Cody’s hand stiffened at your hip. You turned slowly—heart pounding—to find Fox right in front of you.

Eyes dark. Jaw clenched. Dangerous.

“What’s your problem?” Cody asked, tone calm but wary.

Fox didn’t look at him. Not once. His eyes were on you. “This what you came for?” he asked, voice low and bitter. “To play us against each other like it’s all some kind of game?”

You tilted your head, meeting his fury with wicked calm. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you, Commander.”

His hand shot out—not rough, not cruel—but demanding. His fingers wrapped around your wrist and tugged you a step closer. “I’m not jealous.”

“No?” you asked, breath catching slightly.

“I’m done pretending you’re just another officer.” His voice dipped, raw and sharp. “I see you dancing with him like that and I want to put my fist through the wall.”

A slow hush had fallen across the floor.

You stepped into Fox’s space, bodies nearly touching. “So do something about it.”

For a second, he didn’t breathe.

Then—

His hand slid to your waist. Possessive. Hot. “Dance with me,” he ordered. Not asked. Ordered.

You could have said no.

But you didn’t.

You let him lead you back to the center of the floor, every trooper watching now, every step like a declaration. Fox danced like he wanted to erase Cody’s hands from your skin. He kept you close. Too close. The kind of close that whispered mine without ever saying a word.

“Next time,” he growled in your ear, “I won’t be so polite.”

You smirked against his neck. “That was polite?”

He held you tighter. “You haven’t seen me lose control yet.”

And part of you—twisted, wild, aching—wanted him to.

⸻

A/N

No idea where I was going with this tbh, think I went down my own little route and it ended up liked this 🫤

kind of actually soooo fucking funny that my man jung was like “I’m toast anyway they know what I’m up to” and then the ISB was like “we lost a great man and dedra meero is a rebel spy”

“The Lesser of Two Wars” pt.4

Commander Fox x Reader X Commander Thorn

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

But Hound noticed.

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

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

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

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

Hound blinked again. “…Pardon?”

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

Grizzer let out a soft woof.

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t want to notice.”

“Ah, but you do.”

Thorn didn’t reply.

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

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

“She flirt with you?”

Thorn hesitated. “Not… obviously.”

“But enough to make Fox irritated.”

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

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

They sat in silence for a minute.

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

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

Hound laughed. “Commander, you need sleep.”

“I need a reassignment.”

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

Thorn exhaled slowly.

“Can’t let it show.”

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

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

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

Not lighter. Not heavier.

Just more aware.

⸻

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

Fox didn’t linger in beautiful places.

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

But she hadn’t gone back inside.

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

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

Then she spoke.

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

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

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

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

She turned slightly, surprised.

He added, “Holding up the wall.”

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

He didn’t answer. Not with words.

He took a step closer instead.

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

But enough for her to notice.

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

“I’m not,” he said flatly.

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

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

And then—

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

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

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

She looked over her shoulder. “Why not?”

He didn’t answer.

Because the truth was—

He didn’t know.

He looked away first.

You stared.

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

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

You stepped toward him.

Just slightly.

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

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

Guarded.

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

“I know enough,” you replied, softer.

He didn’t move.

You tried again.

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

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

You stepped closer.

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

His expression didn’t shift. Not much.

But his hands curled faintly at his sides.

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

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

Fox was quiet for a long time. And then—

“Don’t.”

One word. Clipped. Too sharp to be cold.

You blinked. “Don’t… what?”

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

A warning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he didn’t respond.

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

He stayed there.

In the quiet.

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

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

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

The way his silence had said too much.

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

You didn’t expect the next voice you heard.

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

You froze.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He glanced at you, unreadable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You met his gaze and gave nothing back.

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

His smile thinned. “As do I.”

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

He stepped aside, allowing you to pass.

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

You didn’t look back.

You didn’t need to.

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

⸻

Fox sat in the dark.

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

He hadn’t even made it to his bunk.

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

But his mind wasn’t still.

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

This was different.

She hadn’t said it to wound him.

She’d said it like she meant it.

Like she saw him.

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

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

It was wrong. Letting it get to him.

She was a senator. He was a soldier.

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

What the scent of her did to his focus.

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

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

Fox exhaled slowly and reached for his gloves.

Then paused.

His thumb hovered over the comlink tucked beside his helmet.

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

But just knowing she could.

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

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

Duty first.

Always.

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

⸻

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

Exhausted didn’t quite cover it.

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

Stars above, Fox.

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

And then—

The soft buzz of your datapad.

You blinked.

A message.

Not from the Guard.

Not from your aides.

But…

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

You smiled.

And for a moment, the tension eased.

You didn’t reply to Thorn right away.

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

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

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

The typing indicator blinked back almost immediately.

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

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

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

You stared at that last line.

You earned it today.

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

You typed back:

You: You too, Commander.

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

You weren’t asleep long.

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

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

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

A voice—clipped, familiar, urgent—responded.

Fox.

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

You were already moving. “Where?”

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

You froze for only a heartbeat.

“I’ll be ready in five.”

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

The line cut.

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

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

⸻

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

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

The buzzer chimed again.

You hit the panel to open the door.

And there they were.

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

Neither said anything at first.

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

“Senator. We arrived earlier than anticipated.”

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

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

Next to him, Thorn cleared his throat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fox said nothing.

But his shoulders stiffened just slightly.

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

Danger waited out there.

But for now, this tension?

This was its own kind of war.

⸻

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

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

No one spoke at first.

It was you who finally broke the silence.

“This isn’t random, is it?”

Fox’s head turned. Slowly. “No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You wanted honesty,” he replied quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

⸻

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

“Painted in Dust”

Waxer x Twi’lek!Reader (Numa’s older sister)

Warnings: death, mentions of death

⸻

You never forgot the sound of blaster fire echoing through empty streets.

Even with the sun climbing high above Nabat’s fractured skyline, even with the Separatists driven out and your people reclaiming their homes, the war still sat heavy on your chest.

The battle was over.

But it didn’t feel over.

You moved through the dusty ruins of your home, running your fingers along the cracked walls and scorched doorframe, unsure what to hold onto. So much was gone. So much had been taken.

“Hey,” a low voice said behind you.

You turned—and froze.

It was him.

Waxer.

Helmet under one arm, bald head beaded with sweat, armor smudged with chalk and soot. Beside him stood another trooper—Boil, if you remembered right. He had his arms crossed, smirking in that way men do when they know something they’re not saying.

But you didn’t look at Boil.

Your eyes went to Waxer.

And to your little sister—Numa—curled up in his arms, her head against his shoulder.

“Sorry to barge in,” Waxer said quietly. “She wouldn’t let go.”

“I can see that,” you breathed, stepping forward.

Numa’s head popped up at your voice. “Sister!”

You caught her as she wriggled out of Waxer’s arms and ran to you. She threw herself at your legs, and you dropped to your knees to scoop her into your chest, pressing kisses to the top of her dusty head.

Tears burned your eyes.

“I thought I lost you,” you whispered into her hair.

“She hid,” Waxer said. “Smart girl. We found her in a supply closet.”

Boil added, “She gave us more intel than half the generals on this rock.”

Numa giggled, her tiny hand reaching back toward Waxer.

“I was brave,” she said proudly.

You looked up at him. “She wouldn’t have made it without you.”

Waxer rubbed the back of his neck, a little awkward. “She kept us going.”

Boil let out a chuckle and nudged his brother-in-arms. “You’re lucky she didn’t draw all over your head too, shiny.”

“I’m not shiny,” Waxer muttered without heat. “And I like the drawings.”

You noticed the chalk on his armor now—Numa’s doing. Little stars and hearts and lopsided flowers smeared over white plastoid. One even looked like you.

“She drew me?” you asked softly.

Waxer nodded. “She said you always looked after her. She wanted to return the favor.”

Your heart cracked in half.

“Stay,” you said, almost without meaning to. “Just for a little while. Please.”

⸻

They stayed.

Boil found an intact kettle and tried to boil water over an open flame, grumbling about “primitive” cooking while Numa climbed over his lap and demanded a story. He caved within minutes.

Waxer sat beside you on the remains of a stone bench in the courtyard. The village was quiet now—calm. Your people were rebuilding. But in this moment, it was just the two of you.

“Does it always feel like this after a mission?” you asked.

“Sometimes,” he said. “Sometimes worse.”

You watched him for a moment. The slope of his jaw. The cut near his brow. The dark stubble shadowing his skull. He looked young. Too young to have seen so much death.

“You don’t look like a soldier,” you said.

He raised a brow. “I’m wearing full armor.”

“I know,” you said. “But when you’re with her… with Numa… you don’t look like a soldier. You look like a person.”

He blinked slowly. “That’s rare.”

You reached over, fingers brushing his hand. He didn’t flinch.

“She sees you as family,” you murmured. “And she’s usually right about people.”

Waxer swallowed.

“I shouldn’t… I shouldn’t get attached.”

“But you did.”

He didn’t answer.

You turned your hand so your fingers laced with his. “So did I.”

His eyes flicked to your face—wary, stunned, searching.

“I don’t know what happens next,” you said. “But I know what’s happening now.”

You leaned in, and with the softest of brushes, pressed your lips to his cheek—just below the scar.

Waxer sat very, very still.

Boil, across the courtyard, snorted. “About time.”

“Shut up,” Waxer muttered, but he didn’t pull away.

⸻

The next morning, they were set to leave.

Gunships loomed at the edge of the village, ready to extract the 212th.

Boil crouched in front of Numa, letting her tie a flower to his pauldron while Waxer stood beside you, helmet tucked under his arm.

He didn’t speak for a long moment. Then, he said quietly:

“I don’t want to go.”

“Then don’t,” you said, teasing, even as your chest ached. “Desert. Live on Ryloth. I’ll make you dinner.”

He gave a soft, breathy laugh. “Tempting.”

You reached up, cupped his cheek.

“Promise me something,” you said.

He nodded.

“Come back. One day. When the war’s over. Find us.”

His lips pressed into a line. “I’ll try.”

You stared at him. “I want more than try, Waxer.”

He leaned forward, rested his forehead against yours.

“I’ll find my way home,” he whispered.

You let him go.

But your heart didn’t

⸻

The war kept him away—but never silent.

Even when systems burned and the front lines shifted faster than you could chart, Waxer always found time. A few spare minutes between missions, a cracked hologram on a beaten-up transmitter, or the low, static-drenched voice in your ear late at night.

He always reached out.

“Hey, starshine.”

It was your nickname. A joke from the first message, because you said his armor caught the light like a second sun.

You saved every one of his transmissions.

He’d tell you about whatever hellscape he and Boil were deployed on, never in detail, never the real horror of it—but enough to let you know he was alive. You’d tell him about Numa, about how she was growing taller, sassier, stronger. Sometimes she’d grab the comm and yell, “WAXER!!” until he laughed so hard he had to mute his mic.

Sometimes, when he was safe and still and alone, he’d whisper:

“I miss you.”

You always whispered it back.

⸻

Just before Umbara, the transmission came through. Crystal clear.

He was grinning, helmet in hand, dust and soot smudging his cheeks, but his eyes—his eyes held that quiet warmth you’d grown to crave.

“Got something to show you,” he said.

He turned the helmet in his hands. Painted on the side—Numa’s smiling face.

It was rough. A little lopsided. But it was her.

“Maker,” you whispered. “She’s going to lose it.”

“She better,” he said, laughing. “She helped.”

“Boil let you do this?”

“He said it was dumb.” Waxer smirked. “Then asked if I’d paint him next.”

You laughed. You hadn’t laughed that hard in weeks.

He looked away for a second, rubbed the back of his neck. “Hey… when this mission’s done, I’ve got leave. Cody already signed off.”

You blinked. “You’re serious?”

“I’ll be there. You and Numa better be ready. I’m thinking a quiet week. No comms. Just us.”

Your voice caught in your throat. “We’ve been waiting for that since Ryloth.”

“Then I won’t make you wait any longer than I have to,” he said. “Soon, okay?”

“Soon.”

⸻

But soon never came.

⸻

Boil arrived with the 212th’s relief team. Numa ran to him before you saw the look in his eyes. That raw, hollow expression.

He didn’t say anything. Just knelt down and pulled her into a tight embrace. She kept asking where Waxer was. Kept asking why he wasn’t with him.

You stood there. Frozen. Staring.

Boil approached slowly, helmet tucked under one arm. Your heart pounded.

“Where is he?” you asked, already knowing. “He said he was coming back.”

Boil shook his head.

“They were split up,” he said quietly. “He was in a different squad.… no backup.”

You couldn’t breathe.

“I didn’t see him go,” Boil admitted. “But I saw what was left.”

You pressed a hand over your mouth. “He promised—”

“I know,” Boil said, voice cracking. “He meant it.”

He held out Waxer’s helmet. The paint—Numa’s face—was still there. Smudged with ash. But smiling.

You collapsed to your knees. Held it like it was him. Like he might still be warm.

Numa clutched your arm, confused and quiet.

“Did he forget?” she whispered.

You shook your head. “No, little one. He didn’t forget.”

Boil crouched beside you, gaze heavy with guilt. “He talked about you two all the time. You were his anchor. His light. We used to tease him, but… he loved you.”

You didn’t respond.

The helmet said enough.

⸻

You buried it beneath the tree outside your home. Numa placed a flower on top.

Every night after, you looked up at the stars and whispered:

“Just one more call. Just tell me you made it.”

But the silence said it all.

Can i request a fox x reader where he's super soft towards them, not like in a ooc way but where he's just nicer and more relaxed with them than anyone else. And maybe the corrie guard overhears him being soft and they burst into the room like "who are you and what have you done with fox?" lmao

Loveyourwritingmydarlingokeybyeeee <3

“Soft Spot”

Commander Fox x Reader

The Commander of the Coruscant Guard was many things: stern, intense, inflexible, direct, and famously immune to nonsense.

Except, apparently, when it came to you.

No one really noticed it at first. Fox wasn’t exactly the hand-holding type. His version of affection was a nod of acknowledgment or the way he’d always check to see if you made it back to your quarters safely after Senate briefings. But lately, the cracks in the durasteel facade were getting harder to ignore.

Like now.

You were perched on the edge of his desk in the command center, arms crossed lazily while he keyed in reports with one hand and let the other rest lightly—casually—on your thigh.

His voice, low and gravelly, was uncharacteristically gentle.

“You didn’t sleep much last night,” he murmured, not looking at you but very much not hiding his concern. “You’ve got that look in your eye again.”

“I’m fine,” you replied, giving a little smirk. “That’s just how my face looks when a certain commander forgets to bring caf.”

Fox exhaled a quiet laugh. A laugh. “That’s mutiny talk. You want to end up in a holding cell?”

“With you? Might be worth it.”

He stopped typing. Finally looked up. “Careful. I might take you up on that.”

You were just about to tease him back when the door burst open so violently that one of the wall panels actually rattled.

Thorn, Hound, Stone, and Thire stood there like they’d just walked in on a crime scene.

Stone was the first to speak, horrified: “WHO ARE YOU AND WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH FOX?!”

Fox blinked. “Excuse me?”

Hound squinted suspiciously. “No, no, something’s not right. He laughed. I heard it. He laughed. He touched someone willingly. I’m calling medbay—Fox, are you concussed?”

Thorn pointed an accusing finger. “That was flirtation! You flirted, Fox! In Basic! With smiling! You’re a danger to the chain of command!”

Thire just slowly turned to you, deadpan. “How long has this been going on?”

You lifted your hands, grinning. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Fox stood, dead calm. “Get out.”

“No,” Hound said flatly, arms crossed. “Not until you admit you’re in love and also apologize for emotionally terrorizing us with your… softness. I mean, stars, Fox. You said she looked tired like you care. That’s romantic horror.”

Thorn leaned against the doorframe like this was the most entertaining thing he’d seen all cycle. “Is this why you actually smiled yesterday when she waved at you across the hall? I thought you were having a stroke.”

“I’m calling a medic anyway,” Stone added. “Just in case.”

You bit your lip to stifle a laugh. Fox just pinched the bridge of his nose.

“I am going to file so many disciplinary reports,” he muttered.

“And we’ll burn them all,” Thire chirped.

Hound grinned. “C’mon, just admit it, vod. You like her.”

“I never denied it,” Fox replied, surprisingly quiet. His eyes met yours. “I just didn’t think it was any of your business.”

The room went dead silent.

Then Thorn wheezed. “He said it. He said it out loud. Commander Fox has feelings.”

You leaned into Fox’s side, bumping your shoulder into his. “You might want to start locking your door if you’re gonna keep being sweet on me like this.”

“I will now,” he muttered, glaring at the four guards still standing there. “Get. Out.”

Stone waved as he backed out, still looking like he’d witnessed a live explosion.

Thire saluted dramatically. “We’ll leave you to your romantic crimes, sir.”

“I’m telling Jet,” Thorn added gleefully.

Fox groaned and sank back into his chair, rubbing a hand over his face.

You leaned down to kiss his temple. “You okay, Commander?”

He grabbed your hand and pressed it to his chest like it grounded him. “Only because you’re still here.”

From the hallway: “SICKENING!”

Fox raised his blaster. “I will shoot them.”

You just smiled and kissed him again.