Sergeant Hound - Blog Posts

It’s Always Sunny on Coruscant: Hound and Grizzer go to a protest!

To be clear, this is a pro-abortion rally. He makes a very compelling argument!

My favorite Star Wars characters in no particular order, categorized clone to non-clone; lemme know yours!

Kix

Hound

Fox

Dogma

Echo

Tech

Crosshair

Rex

Howzer

Gregor

Hardcase

Grey

99

Waxer

Boil

Odd Ball

Gearshift

The clone with Gearshift

Numa

Din Djarin/The Mandalorian

Finn/FN-2187

Kanan/Caleb

Ezra

Cal

Plo Koon

Quinlan Vos

Kallus

Headcanons about Hound

-he is older than the other corries, but younger than the commanders

-he gets hurt training the massifs, as it is a game of trust

-he does get sent on dangerous missions

*just because he’s an ARF trooper doesn’t mean he spends his entire time training animals

-works missing persons cases

*massifs can serve as tracking dogs

-his canines are a little bit sharper than normal

*he finds this funny

-he does regularly encounter senators and other anti-clone believers

*those encounters don’t end well most of the time

-inconsistent sleep schedule, although his is one of the better ones

*it’s still shit

-likes sitting in high places

-the sides of his head is shaved, but the top is long and curly

-standard clone colored hair

-he does have scars

*some are from training, some are from missions, and some are from senators and anti-clonists

-has trauma

-he and Grizzer are besties

-he trains Grizzer as a therapy and service dog in his free time

I am having thoughts about Corrie Massiffs.

About them being trained as emotional support animals as well as their actual jobs.

About them being long lived (maybe 30-50 year life span) and choosing their corries as their people to protect.

Sensing when their corries need support and helping them though panic attacks and anxiety issues, helping them sleep and guarding them through the night. Helping with their fears and drawing them out of dark spiralling thoughts and having the best hugs.

Thinking about the Corries also being the massiffs emotional support people who do just as much for them, who love them oh so dearly. Who play games with them and always try to get them treats and protect them with everything they have.

Thinking about the way the Massiffs would calm their corries down, little nudges and heads on laps or sitting on them entirely.

Thinking about how neither the corrie nor the massiff like to be apart.

Thinking about about them whining over the bodies of their corries and refusing to move, nudging them desperate for them to wake up. Having to be pulled away and never being the same after.

Thinking about them sitting by the door to the icebox room and refusing to move until their corrie comes back, then following right next to them as they're helped to a space to lie down and curling up with them so their person can take their body heat and feel warm and safe and letting their corries hug tight.

Thinking about the massiffs sitting outside the med bay and just whining and scratching on the door. About Grizzer refusing to move and sounding distressed after Hound was carried in and about Hound finally waking with Grizzer on his lap.

About everything getting all too much all of a sudden for Pup and Bumble pulling him away to get him somewhere quieter and then putting her head in his lap and licking his face and being a warm solid presence for Pup to focus on and calm down and feel safe.

About massiffs knowing their corries are overworking themselves and trying to make them sleep. Of Grizzer knowing it upsets Hound and that Fox is almost his person too so he steals Fox's datapad and leads him to his bed then sits on him. Fox scratches him behinds the ear with a very soft chuckle and admits he could probably do with a few hours.

Grizzer trying to get the smell of Palpatine off of Fox. All the massiffs trying to get the smells of Senators off their corries and take the horrible smell of distress away.

Thinking about no-Order 66 where the massiffs stay with their corries and help them with their recovery post-war and this spreading through the GAR. They get even more training on how to be support animals and they love getting to help and love their people who love them so dearly back.

Thinking about Order-66, and the massiffs not understanding whats happened to their corries. Why they're not them anymore.

About any blackout mission and their corries aren't behaving like their people and they don't smell of anything, not fear not joy not sadness not anything they can usually sense, they can't read any emotion off their corries and they don't know what to do. Trying to get them to react, trying to bring them out of it or simply waiting for them to come back and being worried until they do.

You know, just thinking thoughts...

haat cuyir let dayn ~ Truth Revealed Chapter 5 has been posted on ao3 as of 12/29/22

Chapter Summary:

Fox continued speaking, stating, "Like I said when you first arrived, this isn't the Front. The Guard has different regulations then you did out there and until I can trust you to understand this and follow the rules that have been put in place, I can't rely on you to not act like arrogant Shinies."

"How many rules do you need for Flimsi work?" Wolffe muttered to Bly who slightly shrugged in response.

"We do more than just Flimsi-work Wolffe." Fox stated, "Contrary to popular belief apparently." Fox muttered loud enough for all of them to hear what he said. How long would it take for them to understand this simple concept?

“Red Lines” pt.7

Ryio Chuchi x Commander Fox x Reader x Sergeant Hound

The lower levels of Coruscant were a different kind of loud—sirens and shouts, hover engines and flickering holoboards bleeding through the smog. It was chaos, yes, but in this chaos, Sergeant Hound felt clarity.

Grizzer padded silently at his side, the massiff’s broad frame alert, nostrils twitching as they passed another vendor selling deep-fried something on a stick. Hound barely registered the scent. His thoughts were louder.

You hadn’t contacted him since the night Fox kissed you.

And Hound hadn’t pressed. Not because he didn’t care. Because he’d needed time—to think, to process, to stop pretending that what he felt for you was just proximity or comfort or familiarity.

It wasn’t.

You had bewitched him from the moment you’d leaned a little too close with that sly smirk, asking if he always kept a massiff at his hip or if he was compensating for something. He’d been intrigued, annoyed, flustered—and slowly, hopelessly drawn in.

He’d watched you orbit Fox like gravity had already chosen. And he’d told himself that if Fox was what you wanted, he wouldn’t stand in the way.

But not anymore.

Fox had kissed you. And then let you go.

Hound would never.

He paused on the overlook just above the market plaza. Grizzer snorted and settled beside him, tail thumping once.

“She deserves better than this,” Hound muttered. “Better than confusion. Better than being second choice.”

Grizzer gave a small bark of agreement.

Hound scratched behind his companion’s ear. His thoughts drifted to the way you’d laughed that night walking home, teasing him about patrol patterns and rogue droids. The way your voice had softened, just a little, when you asked him to walk you back.

You didn’t see it yet—but he did.

You were starting to look at him differently.

He tapped his comm. “I’m going off-duty for the next few hours,” he told Dispatch. “Personal matter.”

No one questioned him.

By the time he arrived at the Senate tower, he was still in uniform—dust and grime on his boots, helmet tucked under his arm, eyes like flint. He approached your apartment with purpose, not hesitation. If you weren’t there, he’d wait. If your droid answered the door with another snippy remark, he’d endure it.

Because this time, he wasn’t going to step aside.

VX-7 opened the door with his usual pomp. “Ah, the canine and his keeper. Should I fetch my Mistress, or are you here to howl at the moon?”

“I’m here to speak with her,” Hound said calmly. “And I’m not leaving until I do.”

VX-7 tilted his head. “Hm. Bold. She may like that.”

“I’m counting on it.”

Ila peeked around the corner from the sitting room, wide-eyed. “She’s still in the steam chamber,” she whispered. “But—she’ll want to see you. I think.”

Hound stepped inside. Grizzer waited obediently at the door.

A few minutes later, you entered the room, wrapped in a plush robe, hair damp, eyes guarded.

“Hound,” you said carefully. “Is everything alright?”

“No,” he said. “Not really.”

You blinked.

He stood a few steps away, helmet still under his arm, the overhead light catching the edge of a fresh bruise on his cheekbone.

“I’ve been patient,” he began. “I stood back while you looked at Fox like he was the only star in your sky. I let it go when he strung you along, when you thought he might choose you. I watched it hurt you, and I said nothing because I thought maybe that was what you needed.”

You stiffened—but you didn’t interrupt.

“But I won’t do it anymore,” Hound said quietly. “Because I see you, and I want you. And if there’s even a part of you that’s starting to see me too—then I’m not backing down.”

Silence stretched.

You didn’t speak. But your expression… shifted. A flicker. Not anger. Not rejection. Something else.

Something softer.

Hound took a step closer. “I’m not here to compete with him,” he added. “I’m here to fight for you.”

And with that, he turned and walked to the door.

Not storming out. Not waiting for an answer.

Just putting it all on the line, finally.

At the threshold, he looked back. “I’ll be at the memorial wall tomorrow. In case you want to talk.”

The door closed behind him.

Grizzer gave a soft whine.

Inside, your handmaiden Maera—quiet as ever—approached and offered you a datapad. “Tomorrow’s agenda,” she said softly. “Unless you’d like to cancel it. Or… change it.”

You didn’t answer.

You just stood in your quiet apartment—heart suddenly too full and too tangled for words—and stared at the door where Hound had just been.

Something had shifted.

And you knew the days ahead would not allow for indecision anymore.

⸻

Commander Fox stared down at the report in his hands, reading the same line for the fourth time without absorbing a word of it.

…Civilian unrest on Level 3124-B has been neutralized with minimal casualties. Local authorities commend the Guard for…

He let out a slow breath, lowering the datapad onto his desk. It clacked quietly against the durasteel surface, the only sound in his private office. The dim lights cast hard shadows across the red plating of his armor. Even here, in the supposed quiet, his thoughts were too loud.

Hound had gone to her.

And she’d seen him.

Fox didn’t need confirmation—he could read the tension in Hound’s body when he returned to the barracks, the uncharacteristic weight in his silence. And worse… the lack of guilt.

Because Hound had nothing to feel guilty for.

You were not his.

Not anymore.

If you ever truly were.

Fox stood abruptly, the motion sharp. His armor creaked at the joints. He crossed the room and keyed his comm. “Patch me through to Senator Chuchi,” he said. “Tell her… I could use a few moments. Off record.”

A pause. Then: “Yes, Commander. She’s in her office.”

He arrived at her quarters just past dusk.

She opened the door herself—no staff, no aides, just Chuchi in a soft navy tunic and loose curls, her usual regal poise set aside for something more honest.

“Fox,” she greeted with a faint smile. “I wasn’t sure if you would come.”

“I wasn’t either,” he admitted.

She stepped back, letting him in.

Her apartment was warmer than his—lamplight instead of fluorescents, cushions instead of steel, a kettle steaming faintly on a side table.

“You look tired,” she said gently.

“I am.” He hesitated. “I’ve been… thinking. About everything.”

She moved toward the kitchenette and poured a cup of tea. “And?”

Fox accepted the cup but didn’t drink. His eyes lingered on the steam curling from the surface.

“Do you think,” he asked, “that I’m blind?”

Chuchi quirked an eyebrow. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

“Hound told me today that I’m so focused on doing the right thing, I can’t see what’s right in front of me. That I’ve made myself blind. That…” He trailed off.

Chuchi sat down across from him, her expression softening.

“He’s right,” she said. “In some ways.”

Fox didn’t argue.

“I know you care for her,” Chuchi continued, voice calm and without malice. “I always knew. And I told myself I didn’t mind being second. That eventually you’d see me.”

Her confession was so unflinchingly honest that Fox looked up in surprise.

“But now?” she added. “I don’t want to be chosen because she walked away. I want to be wanted because I am wanted. Not because I’m convenient. Not because I’m safe.”

“I never meant to make you feel like that,” he said, quietly.

“I know,” she replied. “You’re not cruel, Fox. You’re careful. Too careful. So careful that you might lose everyone while trying to protect them.”

He finally sipped the tea. It was bitter, earthy. Grounding.

“I don’t know what I want,” he confessed.

Chuchi leaned forward. “Then let me help you figure it out.”

He looked up. Her eyes were patient. Warm.

He could fall into that warmth.

He might already be falling.

They stayed like that for a while—talking softly, slowly. Not of war. Not of Senate politics or assignments. Just… of quiet things. Of home worlds and half-remembered childhoods, of what it meant to serve and survive in a galaxy that demanded so much of them both.

At one point, Chuchi placed a gentle hand over his.

He didn’t move away.

Fox didn’t know what the future held.

But tonight—he let himself rest.

Not as a commander. Not as a soldier.

But as a man slowly trying to understand his own heart.

⸻

The Grand Convocation Chamber was abuzz with tension. Holocams glinted in the air, senators murmuring in rising tones as the next point of order was introduced. Mas Amedda’s voice carried over the room like cold oil, slick and condescending.

“We must return to a more structured approach to military resource allocation. The proposed oversight committee is not only unnecessary, but also a potential breach of central authority—”

“With all due respect, Vice Chair,” your voice cut through the air like a vibroblade, sharp and unforgiving, “—that’s the second time this week you’ve attempted to dissolve accountability through procedural smoke screens.”

A hush fell. Some senators leaned forward. Others tried not to visibly smile.

Mas Amedda’s eyes narrowed. “Senator, I remind you—”

“I will not be silenced for speaking the truth,” you said, rising from your place. “This chamber deserves better than manipulation cloaked in regulation. How many more credits will vanish into ‘classified security enhancements’ that never see oversight? How many more clone rotations will be extended because of your so-called ‘budgetary shortfalls’? Enough. We’re hemorrhaging lives and credits—and for what? For your empty assurances?”

Bail Organa stood. “The senator from [your planet] raises a valid concern. We’ve seen an alarming rise in unchecked defense spending with no direct line of transparency. I support her call for oversight.”

More murmurs rippled across the room. Several senators nodded. A few scowled. Mas Amedda looked caught off guard—too public a setting to retaliate, too sharp a blow to ignore.

You didn’t sit.

You owned the floor.

“And if this body continues to protect corruption under the guise of unity,” you said coolly, “then it deserves neither peace nor legitimacy. Some of us may come from worlds ravaged by warlords and tyrants, but at least we recognize the stench when it walks into our halls.”

Gasps. Stifled laughter. Shock.

Even Palpatine, observing from his platform above, remained eerily silent, hands steepled.

From a private senatorial booth above, Chuchi leaned subtly toward Fox, her elegant features drawn tight with concern.

“She’s changed,” she murmured. “She’s always been fiery, yes, but this—this isn’t politics anymore. This is personal.”

Fox, clad in full red armor beside her, arms crossed and expression unreadable, didn’t respond immediately. His eyes remained fixed on you down below.

Your voice. Your anger. Your fire.

He could hear the edge of something unraveling.

“…Maybe it is personal,” he said eventually, quiet enough that only Chuchi could hear. “Maybe it’s always been.”

Chuchi’s brow furrowed.

She looked down at you, then sideways at Fox—and for the first time, she wasn’t sure if she was worried for you… or for him.

This The Senate hearing had adjourned, but the fire hadn’t left your blood. The echo of your words still rang in the marble columns of the hall as senators dispersed in murmuring clusters—some scandalized, others invigorated.

You made no effort to hide your stride as you exited the chamber, heels clicking with deliberate finality. It wasn’t until you entered one of the quiet side halls—lined with tall, arched windows overlooking Coruscant’s twilight skyline—that you heard someone step into pace beside you.

“Senator.”

You didn’t need to look. That voice—smooth, measured, calm—could only belong to Bail Organa.

You sighed. “Come to scold me for lighting a fire under Mas Amedda’s tail?”

“I’d never deny a fire its purpose,” Bail replied, his tone half amused, half cautious. “Though I will admit, your methods have a certain… how shall we say—explosive flair.”

You turned to face him, arching an eyebrow. “And yet you backed me.”

“I did.” He clasped his hands behind his back, dark eyes thoughtful. “Because, despite your delivery—and perhaps even because of it—you were right. There’s rot beneath the surface of our governance. We just have different ways of exposing it.”

“I’m not interested in polishing rust, Organa. If the Republic is breaking, then maybe it needs to crack apart before we can build something better.”

“And maybe,” he said gently, “some of us are still trying to stop it from breaking altogether.”

The silence between you hung for a moment, not hostile—but heavy with tension and philosophical difference.

Then Bail offered a small nod. “You’ve earned some of my respect. And that’s not something I give lightly.”

You tilted your head. “You sound almost surprised.”

“I am.” He smiled faintly. “But I’ve also been in politics long enough to know that sometimes, the most unlikely alliances are the most effective.”

You smirked. “Is that your way of saying you’re not going to block me next time I set the chamber on fire?”

“I’m saying,” he said, turning to walk with you again, “that if you’re going to keep torching corruption, I might as well bring a torch of my own.”

You gave a short laugh—half relief, half wariness.

For all his charm, Organa still felt like the cleanest dagger in the Senate’s drawer—but a dagger all the same. You’d take what allies you could get.

Even if they wore polished boots and Alderaanian silk.

⸻

You were still in your senatorial attire—half undone, jacket slung over a chair, hair falling from its formal coil as you paced the living room. The adrenaline from the hearing had worn off, leaving only a searing void in its place.

A chime broke the silence.

Your head turned. The door.

You weren’t expecting anyone.

When it opened, Hound stood in the threshold, soaked from rain, his patrol armor clinging to him—helmet in one hand, the ever-loyal Grizzer seated obediently behind him. His gaze was sharp, jaw set with some storm you hadn’t yet named.

“Evening, Senator,” he said, voice rougher than usual. “I… I was passing by. Thought you might want company.”

You looked at him for a long beat. “That depends,” you murmured, stepping aside. “Is this an official guard visit… or something else?”

He stepped in without answering, closing the door behind him. Grizzer settled just inside the hall while Hound placed his helmet on a nearby table. His eyes never left you.

“You looked like fire on that floor today,” he said at last, voice quieter now. “Not many people can stand toe-to-toe with Mas Amedda and walk away without flinching.”

“Flinching’s for people who have the luxury of fear,” you replied, moving to the window. “I don’t. Not anymore.”

He followed your voice. “That’s what I’ve always liked about you.”

You turned, slowly. “Always?”

He stepped closer. “Yeah. Always.”

The air thickened between you—your breath catching slightly as the distance closed, the tension pulsing like the city lights outside. You were used to control. Used to strategy and manipulation. But Hound didn’t play your games.

He was standing just inches away now, rain still dripping from his curls, the heat of him radiating in the cool air of the apartment.

“You’re not subtle,” you whispered.

“No,” he said. “But neither are you.”

Your hand reached for the front of his armor, your fingers brushing the duraplast of his chest plate.

“Take it off,” you said.

He did.

Piece by piece, Hound peeled off the armor until it was just him—tired, proud, burning. When you stepped into him, it was with a crash of mouths and breath, a meeting of fire and steel. Your back hit the windowpane as he kissed you like you were something he’d waited too long to touch—fierce, needy, reverent.

You tangled your fingers in the straps of his blacks, dragging him in closer. He groaned softly when you bit his lower lip, and your laugh—low and dark—only stoked the fire between you.

No words.

Just heat. Just hands.

And when you pulled him with you toward your bedroom, it wasn’t about power. Not politics. Not winning.

It was about claiming something—for once—for yourself.

⸻

There was a silence in your bedroom that felt sacred.

Hound lay beside you, one arm thrown over your waist, your back pulled against the warmth of his bare chest. His breathing was slow and steady, his face buried in your hair. You’d never seen him so at peace—off duty, unguarded, real.

Your fingers traced lazy lines on the back of his hand. A smile tugged at your lips. Last night had been… something else. No games. No politics. Just two people stripped bare in every way that mattered.

“Mm,” Hound murmured against your shoulder. “Y’real or did I dream all that?”

You chuckled softly. “If it was a dream, we were both dreaming the same thing. Loudly.”

He groaned. “You’re gonna bring that up every chance you get, aren’t you?”

You smirked. “Absolutely.”

Hound murmured against your skin, “You think they heard us?”

You tilted your head back against his shoulder. “All of them.”

“Guess I better make breakfast. Bribe my way back into their good graces.”

You laughed. “Oh no, Hound. You’re mine this morning. Let them stew.”

He kissed your shoulder. “Yeah… okay. Yours.”

And for the first time in a long time, it felt like someone meant it.

⸻

In the kitchen, Maera sipped her morning tea with one elegantly raised brow. She leaned against the counter, still in her silken robe, listening.

“Did you hear them?” asked Ila, wide-eyed and flushed, whispering as if it wasn’t already obvious. “I mean—I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop! But the walls—Maera, the walls!”

Maera nodded slowly, utterly unbothered. “They certainly weren’t shy about it. Not that they should be. She’s earned a night of pleasure after everything.”

VX-7, polishing silverware despite having no reason to do so, turned his head with a prim little huff. “It was excessive. Disturbingly organic. I recalibrated my audio receptors three times. And still. Still.”

From the corner of the room, R9 let out a sequence of aggressive beeps, which VX-7 translated almost reluctantly.

“He says—and I quote—‘If you’re going to wake an entire building, at least record it for later entertainment.’ Disgusting.”

R9 chirped again. VX-7 turned with stiff disdain. “No, I will not ask her for details.”

Ila giggled helplessly, her face bright red. “Well… it sounded like she was having a really good time. I mean, we’ve all seen how Sergeant Hound looks at her. Like he’d fight the whole galaxy for just one kiss.”

Maera nodded. “He might have done more than kiss.”

VX-7 sputtered. “Decorum.”

⸻

You were halfway through your caf when R9 rolled up, suspiciously quiet—always a bad sign.

He beeped something sharp and insistent.

VX-7 glanced up from organizing your data pads with a sigh. “He’s asking about the sergeant’s… performance.”

You raised a brow. “Oh, is he?”

R9 chirped eagerly.

You took a sip of caf, deliberately slow, then replied dryly, “He was… satisfactory.”

R9 sputtered in a flurry of binary outrage.

“He’s saying that’s not enough,” VX said flatly. “That he deserves explicit schematics after suffering through an evening of audible trauma.”

You smiled serenely. “Tell him he should be grateful I didn’t disconnect his audio receptors entirely.”

R9 beeped in long-suffering protest.

“I am thrilled,” VX-7 cut in, sounding deeply relieved. “Your discretion is appreciated. Some of us prefer not to know everything.”

From the hallway, Maera passed with a subtle smirk. “He did call your name a lot.”

You turned sharply. “Maera.”

“Ila timed it.”

“Ila what?!”

“I—!” came her squeaked voice from the kitchen. “I only did it once!”

R9 twirled in glee.

⸻

Sergeant Hound walked into the base with a straighter spine that morning, like someone who had nothing left to question.

He didn’t try to hide the way his eyes followed you when you passed him in the corridor, or the brief smirk that ghosted across his face when your gaze lingered a little too long.

The men noticed. Stone nudged Thorn, who muttered something under his breath and whistled low.

Fox noticed too.

He was standing by the briefing room entrance when you and Hound exchanged a quiet word. Nothing explicit. Just a hand brushing your elbow. A smile that lasted a beat too long.

Fox’s jaw tightened. His arms crossed. Thorn looked over and said nothing—but the expression said everything.

Later, when the command room emptied out, Chuchi found Fox still standing there, distracted, his gaze distant.

“Commander?” she asked gently.

Fox blinked out of it. “Senator.”

She stepped closer. “Are you alright?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Chuchi, soft but sharp as ever, looked toward the hall you’d disappeared down. “She was always going to be a difficult one to hold, wasn’t she?”

Fox exhaled, low and conflicted. “She never belonged to anyone. I knew that.”

“But you wanted her anyway.”

He glanced at Chuchi then, just briefly. “I wanted… something simple. She’s not simple. And neither are you.”

Chuchi smiled tightly, painfully. “I’m not simple. But I do make decisions.”

She left him standing there with that.

⸻

Your office was quiet for once. You stood by the window, arms folded, staring out across the city while VX read off your schedule and R9 sat in the corner… drawing crude holographic reenactments of the previous night on your datapad.

“R9,” you said without turning around. “I will factory reset you.”

He beeped, sulking audibly.

“I can hear that attitude,” VX added, passing him with a towel. “If she doesn’t, I will factory reset you.”

You smiled faintly and went back to your thoughts. The air had shifted. The square had skewed. And somewhere deep in the Senate and Guard halls… things were about to get more complicated.

⸻

The morning air at the Senate Tower was unusually crisp. You stepped out of the speeder, flanked by Maera and VX-7. R9 brought up the rear, grumbling about having to behave himself in public.

And then came the sharp sound of boots—Hound, already waiting at the base of the steps.

Not in the shadows this time. Not quiet or distant.

He greeted you in full view of Senate staff, Guard personnel, and the few reporters waiting on the fringes.

“Senator,” he said, voice smooth but firm.

“Hound,” you replied, raising a brow. “Early today.”

“I thought I’d escort you up myself,” he said easily. “I know how the halls get… cluttered.”

Maera gave a discreet cough to hide her knowing grin.

You glanced at him, searching, reading. “Trying to start rumors?”

He leaned in slightly. “No. I’m trying to start a pattern.”

R9 beeped in what sounded like scandalized glee.

You smiled despite yourself. “Careful, Sergeant. I might get used to that.”

⸻

The upper atrium buzzed with mingling Senators, Guard officers, and invited Jedi. Drinks flowed, polite words filled the air like smoke, and nothing important was ever really said out loud.

You stood near the balcony, Hound by your side, his stance casual but unmistakably yours. He made no attempt to hide the fact he was there for you. Every look, every nod, every quiet murmur in your direction made it clear.

And people noticed.

Fox noticed.

Across the hall, the Commander stood with Chuchi, her blue cloak draped neatly over her shoulders, her posture a touch more relaxed than usual.

He wasn’t watching you this time—not exactly. He was watching Hound. Watching how natural it seemed.

Chuchi followed his gaze and tilted her head. “Regretting something?”

Fox gave the smallest shake of his head. “Observing.”

She sipped from her glass, then spoke gently. “You don’t have to talk to me like you’re writing a field report, Commander.”

He blinked, then let out the smallest breath of a chuckle. “Habit.”

She glanced at him sideways, then added, “You know… we could make a good habit of this. Talking. Being seen together.”

He looked at her then—really looked.

She was offering something real. Something without barbed wires. Something that didn’t ask him to fight through smoke to see what was there.

“I’d like that,” he said quietly.

Chuchi smiled. Not triumphant. Not possessive. Just… warm.

⸻

Hound was listening to a brief report from a junior officer, but his hand grazed yours beneath the table. A quiet, firm pressure.

You didn’t move away.

The contact was seen.

Thorn narrowed his eyes from across the room. Cody caught it and just hummed, sipping from his glass. Even Plo Koon gave a slightly more observant glance than usual from where he stood with Windu.

You leaned closer to Hound. “We’re being watched.”

His mouth quirked. “I know. Let them.”

And for the first time in a while, it didn’t feel like a triangle.

It felt like something more complicated.

And far more worth the risk.

⸻

Later that night Chuchi stood at Fox’s side at the landing platform. There was no awkwardness in her presence. She was calm. Solid.

Fox looked out over the Coruscanti skyline and finally broke the silence.

“She’ll always be a fire I’m drawn to,” he said, voice low. “But fires burn, and I’m tired of getting burned.”

Chuchi simply nodded. “Then stop standing in the flames.”

Fox turned to her. “And start standing with you?”

“If you’re ready,” she said. “I won’t wait forever. But I won’t walk away just yet.”

He nodded once. Slowly.

⸻

The skies over Coruscant were unusually clear tonight, a shimmer of starlight bleeding through the light pollution. It was a rare calm.

You leaned back into Hound’s chest on your apartment balcony, a warm cup of spiced tea in hand. His arms were around you, solid and sure, resting just below your ribs. Grizzer snored softly inside by the door, and one of the handmaidens—probably Ila—was humming as she cleaned up from dinner.

“Not bad for a long day of Senate chaos,” Hound said, his voice quiet against the shell of your ear.

You snorted. “Aren’t they all long days?”

“Yes. But lately… you don’t carry them the same.”

You turned slightly to face him, your profile catching in the golden light of the city. “And what exactly do I carry now, Sergeant?”

He looked at you, eyes warm and unshaking. “Something real. With me.”

That disarmed you more than it should have.

You gave a soft laugh, shaking your head. “You’re becoming dangerously romantic, Hound.”

“I blame the handmaidens. Maera’s been giving me pointers.”

⸻

Fox stood beside Chuchi on the outer mezzanine of the Senate complex, watching the after-hours city buzz. They had both left the function early, preferring the quiet.

She offered him a half-smile, something softer than she usually showed in public.

“You didn’t even flinch when they brought up her new bill,” Chuchi noted, nodding toward the echoing chamber behind them.

Fox’s mouth quirked. “I’ve learned when to speak and when to listen. She and I… we’re not at odds. Just walking different roads.”

Chuchi reached for his hand, just briefly. “And now you’re on mine.”

Fox nodded once. “It’s steadier ground.”

Their relationship wasn’t loud. It wasn’t full of sparks or danger.

It was the kind of quiet strength that soldiers rarely got to experience. And maybe that’s why he clung to it.

⸻

Later that week, you crossed paths again at a formal reception. Fox, in his dress armor, stood beside Chuchi. You with Hound, his hand resting lightly at your lower back as he murmured something that made you smile.

Fox saw it.

And for the first time in weeks, the look in his eyes wasn’t longing. It was peace.

He nodded toward you.

You nodded back.

It was over. The tension. The rivalry. The ache.

Not forgotten. But resolved.

Chuchi looped her arm through Fox’s, leaning close. “You okay?”

He glanced down at her, his answer simple. “Better than I’ve been in a long time.”

⸻

Back at Your Apartment Maera was running the evening reports with VX, while Ila played soft music through the speakers. R9, curiously well-behaved, was curled up at the foot of the couch like some pet beast.

You stepped in from the hall, dress heels off, hair let down.

Hound looked up from the couch. “Long day?”

“Long enough,” you replied.

He opened an arm for you. “Come here, Senator.”

And you did.

You weren’t a storm anymore. You were a sunrise.

And it was about time.

No more games. No more waiting. Just choices made, and paths finally walked.

⸻

EPILOGUE:

Several years into the reign of the Empire.

The skies of Coruscant no longer shimmered.

They smothered.

Thick clouds of smog and smoke clung to the towers like rot, and the brilliant spires of the Senate were now reduced to shadows beneath the Empire’s long arm. The rotunda stood silent. Gutted. Museumed. Its voice—your voice—silenced.

You were older now. Not old. But seasoned. A relic by Imperial standards.

The red of your senatorial robes had been replaced by somber greys and silks that whispered through empty hallways. You had not spoken in session in years. Not since the body had been stripped of meaning.

But you returned today.

Not for politics.

For memory.

Your boots echoed across the great hall of the abandoned Senate, your handmaidens long gone. Maera had vanished in the purge. Ila had married a Republic officer and fled to the Mid Rim. VX-7 had been decommissioned by the Empire for “behavioral instability.” You had buried his shattered chassis yourself.

Only R9 remained.

The little astromech trailed behind you, his plated casing dull with age, but still stubbornly functional. A grumbling, violent, loyal thing. When they tried to wipe his memory, he electrocuted the technician and disappeared for two years. When he came back, he returned to your side without explanation. You never asked.

You reached the center of the hall—the old speaking platform.

Closed your eyes.

He had stood here once, flanked by red and white armor. Fox.

You had loved him. Fiercely. Then you had lost him. Even now, you weren’t sure if it was to the Empire or to himself. Word came of his reassignment. Rumors of reconditioning. Rumors of defection. None confirmed. His armor never turned up.

Hound… Hound had died in the early rebellion skirmishes, trying to save refugees in the Outer Rim. You’d read the report yourself. Twice. Then deleted it. Grizzer had outlived him. You received the beast, years later. Half-wild and scarred. You kept him at your estate. The last thing Hound had ever loved.

You opened your eyes.

At the base of the podium sat a pair of red clone boots.

Old. Polished.

Ceremonial.

You placed a hand on them and let the silence hold you.

Outside, a storm rolled over the skyline.

R9 beeped low beside you. A mournful note.

“Don’t start with me,” you muttered.

The droid nudged your leg.

You looked out at Coruscant, then up at the distant shadow of the Imperial Palace—formerly the Jedi Temple.

And you smiled. Just slightly.

“They think it’s over,” you whispered. “But embers remember how to burn.”

In the ruins of the Republic, love and rebellion had one thing in common—neither stayed dead forever.

⸻

Previous Part

“Red Lines” pt.6

Ryio Chuchi x Commander Fox x Reader x Sergeant Hound

 It had started as a harmless ache.

A little tug behind the ribs whenever Commander Fox walked into the room. Not with grandeur. Not with flair. Just… with that same rigid posture, those burning eyes that somehow never saw her the way she wanted him to.

She had told herself it was admiration.

Then it became respect.

And now—now it had rotted into something bitter. Something with teeth.

Riyo Chuchi sat alone on her narrow balcony, the glow of Coruscant washing over her like static. The cup of caf in her hands had long gone cold. She hadn’t touched it in over an hour.

She had seen the senator leave with Sergeant Hound.

She wasn’t blind.

She wasn’t naïve.

But she had been foolish. Foolish to think that a soul like Commander Fox’s could be won by slow kindness. Foolish to think compassion could reach someone built from walls and duty. Foolish to believe that, by offering something gentle, she could edge out something… dangerous.

Because that other senator—you—weren’t gentle.

You were teeth and temptation. Smoke and scorched skies. Morally grey and entirely unrepentant about it.

And Fox?

Fox didn’t look away from that.

Even when he should.

Even when Chuchi was standing right there, offering herself without force, without chaos, without danger.

“He’s blind,” Hound had said once.

Chuchi now wondered—was he really blind… or just unwilling to choose?

She rose and paced the balcony, her soft robes swishing at her ankles.

Fox had stopped coming around.

Not just to her.

To anyone.

She had tried to convince herself he needed time. That maybe—just maybe—he was struggling with how much he appreciated her presence. That maybe it wasn’t fear, or evasion, or guilt.

But she’d seen the report this morning.

Fox had been at your apartment.

Again.

And Hound had been there, too.

Chuchi had always told herself she was the better choice. The right choice. She respected the clones. She believed in their agency. She’d stood in front of the Senate and fought for them.

You?

You flirted like they were game pieces on your board. You wore loyalty like it was a perfume—easy to spray on, easy to wash off. You kissed with ulterior motives.

But none of that seemed to matter.

Fox—her Fox—was looking more and more like a man tangled in something far messier than honor and regulation.

And maybe…

Maybe Chuchi wasn’t just losing a man she admired.

Maybe she was watching herself become invisible.

She sat back down at her desk.

A report glowed softly on the screen.

Senate rumblings. Clone production. Budget cuts.

Another motion you had co-signed. Another session where you and Chuchi—for once—had agreed. Two women, diametrically opposed on almost everything, finding a shared thread in the economy of war.

And yet… even then, Fox hadn’t come to speak with her.

He used to.

Back when things were simpler. Back when your name was just another irritation in the chamber.

Now you were something else. A shadow she couldn’t push away.

She closed the screen.

The caf was still cold.

And for the first time in a long while, Riyo Chuchi felt like she was starting to understand how it felt… to lose to someone who didn’t play fair.

And maybe—just maybe—she was done playing fair herself.

⸻

The door to Fox’s office hissed shut behind him. A low hum of Coruscant’s upper levels buzzed faintly through the durasteel walls. He sat heavily at his desk, helmet off, brow furrowed in a knot that had become all too familiar.

Paperwork. Patrol shifts. Security audits.

Anything but them.

Senator Chuchi’s visits had become less frequent, but more deliberate—caf in hand, eyes soft and hopeful, her voice always brushing the edge of something intimate. He respected her. Admired her, even. But the ache that came with her attention was nothing like the wildfire you left in your wake.

You were different. Unpredictable. Morally flexible. Dangerous in ways that shouldn’t tempt a man like him.

And yet.

A knock at the door cracked through the silence. Before he could answer, Thorn stepped in with his usual smirk.

“You’re a hard man to find these days,” Thorn said, flopping into the chair opposite the desk without invitation.

“I’ve been busy,” Fox replied, voice flat.

“Uh-huh. Busy hiding from senators who want to rip your armor off with their teeth.”

Fox looked up sharply. “Thorn—”

“What? It’s not like we haven’t all noticed. Ryio’s little storm shadow and sweet Senator Chuchi? You’re the Senate’s most eligible clone, Commander.”

“I don’t have time for this.”

Stone appeared in the doorway next, arms folded, the barest twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth. “Heard from one of the Coruscant Guard boys that Hound walked Senator [Y/N] home last week. Real cozy-like.”

Fox’s jaw clenched.

He’d heard the report. Seen the timestamped surveillance footage, even though he’d told himself it was just routine data review. You’d smiled up at Hound, standing close.

Fox had replayed that footage more than he cared to admit.

“Good,” he said. “She deserves protection.”

Thorn snorted. “You’re seething.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re a disaster.”

“Both of them are clearly trying to angle favors,” Fox said sharply, standing and gathering a stack of datapads. “Political gain. Leverage. That’s all it is.”

“Right. Because Chuchi’s weekly caf runs are definitely calculated manipulations,” Thorn said. “And [Y/N]’s violent astromech just happened to get into a scuffle on the same levels Hound was patrolling.”

Fox froze mid-step.

Stone stepped in closer, voice lower. “They like you, vod. And if you can’t see that… well, maybe you’ve spent too long behind that helmet.”

Fox didn’t answer. He left the room instead.

⸻

Later, in the barracks mess, the teasing continued.

“I’m just saying,” a trooper from Hound’s squad said over his tray of nutripaste, “if I had two senators fighting over me, I wouldn’t be sulking in the corner like a kicked tooka.”

“Bet you couldn’t handle one senator, Griggs,” someone snorted.

“Chuchi’s been walking around here like she’s already Mrs. Commander,” another clone said.

“And then there’s [Y/N]—saw her yesterday with that storm in her eyes. Poor Thorn looked like he wanted to duck for cover.”

Fox bit down on his ration bar, silent. The mess hall noise faded into white noise.

They didn’t know what it felt like to be looked at like a man and a weapon at the same time. To be split down the middle between duty and desire, between what he wanted and what he thought he should want.

He finished his meal in silence.

⸻

That night, he stared out the window of his office, Coruscant’s lights a smear of neon and shadow. Two women—both sharp, both powerful, both with eyes only for him.

And now Hound. Loyal. Steady. Looking at you like Fox never could, like he already knew how to handle the firestorm you were.

Fox sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

He couldn’t afford to be anyone’s anything. But the longer this dragged on, the more he realized—

Someone was going to get burned.

And he had no idea if it would be you, Chuchi, Hound…

Or himself.

⸻

The halls of the Coruscant Guard outpost were quieter than usual.

Chuchi walked them with careful purpose, her blue and gold robes rustling faintly. Every guard she passed nodded respectfully, but none met her eyes for more than a second. They knew why she was here.

Everyone did.

She had waited long enough. Played the patient game, the polite game. The understanding game. She brought caf. She asked about his day. She lingered in his space like something that might eventually be welcome.

And yet… he still hadn’t chosen her.

Or her.

The other senator.

The dangerous one. The cunning one. The one who burned like a live wire and left scorch marks wherever she walked. She and Chuchi had sparred in the Senate chamber and beyond, but it was no longer just about politics.

It was about Fox.

She found him in his office—alone, helmet on the desk, datapads stacked in tall towers around him. He didn’t hear her enter at first. Only when she cleared her throat did he glance up.

“Senator Chuchi,” he said, standing automatically.

“Commander,” she returned, keeping her tone calm. Measured.

He gestured to the seat across from him, but she shook her head. “This won’t take long.”

Fox looked… tired. Not the kind of tired from too many hours on patrol, but from something deeper. Something that sat behind his eyes like a storm just waiting.

She softened, just slightly.

“I’ve waited for you to make a decision,” Chuchi began, voice quiet but firm. “I’ve given you space. Time. Respect. And I will always value the work you do for the Republic.”

Fox opened his mouth, but she lifted a hand. “Let me finish.”

He fell silent.

“I am not a woman who throws herself at men. I don’t pine, and I don’t beg. But I do know my worth. And I know what I want.”

Her eyes met his then—sharper than usual, no more dancing around it.

“I want you.”

He blinked, mouth parting slightly.

“But I will not share you,” she continued, each word deliberate. “And I will not wait in line behind another senator, wondering if today is the day you stop pretending none of this is happening.”

Fox exhaled slowly. “Riyo, it’s not that simple—”

“It is simple,” she snapped, the rare flash of fire in her melting-ice demeanor. “You’re just too afraid to admit it. You think this is all politics—me, her, whatever feelings you’re hiding—but it’s not. It’s human. You are allowed to feel, Fox.”

He looked away, jaw tight.

“You don’t have to give me an answer now,” she said, stepping back toward the door. “But if I see you let her string you along again… if you keep acting like you don’t see how this triangle is tearing you and the rest of us apart—then I’ll know.”

She paused, hand on the panel.

“I’ll know you never saw me the way I saw you.”

The door slid open with a quiet hiss.

“Riyo—” he started.

But she was already gone.

⸻

The lights of your apartment were low, casting golden shadows across the walls. You didn’t bother turning them up when the door chimed. You’d been expecting someone—just not him.

Fox stood in the entryway, helmet tucked beneath one arm, armor dusted in evening glare from the city beyond your windows. There was something solemn in his stance. Something final.

You didn’t greet him with your usual smirk or sharp tongue. Something about his posture made your stomach drop.

He stepped in slowly, gaze flickering across the room like he was memorizing it.

Or maybe saying goodbye to it.

“Commander,” you said softly.

He looked up at that—his name from your lips always made him falter.

“[Y/N],” he said, and then stopped. Swallowed. “We need to talk.”

You crossed your arms, trying to keep the steel in your spine, but it was already crumbling.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he said, voice quiet, nearly breaking. “The back and forth. The indecision. The games.”

You blinked slowly, lips parting. “So you’ve made a choice.”

His jaw clenched. “I had to. The Council’s watching us. The Guard is talking. The Senate is twisting every glance into something political. And now… Chuchi’s given me an ultimatum.”

You laughed—bitter and hollow. “And you’re choosing the good senator with the clean conscience.”

He stepped closer. “It’s not about that.”

“Yes,” you said, voice low and wounded. “It is.”

Silence.

His eyes were pained. “You were never easy. You were never safe. But… stars, you made me feel. And I think I could’ve—” His voice caught. “But I can’t be what you need. Not with the eyes of the Republic on my back. I need order. Stability. Not a war disguised as a woman.”

That one hurt.

But the worst part? You agreed.

You straightened your shoulders, not letting him see you shake. “So this is goodbye?”

Fox hesitated… then stepped forward. His gloved hand cupped your cheek for the first—and only—time.

“I don’t want it to be.”

And then he kissed you.

Not a greedy kiss. Not full of passion or hunger. It was a farewell, a promise never made and never kept. His lips tasted like iron and regret.

You didn’t push him away.

You kissed him back like he was already a memory.

Then—

The sharp sound of metal clinking against tile. A low growl.

Fox broke the kiss and turned sharply, helmet already in his hand, defensive stance flickering into place.

Hound stood just inside the open doorway, frozen, Grizzer at his heel.

His eyes said everything before his mouth could.

Rage. Hurt. Disbelief.

He’d come to check on you. Maybe to say something. Maybe to try again.

He saw too much.

Fox stepped back. You didn’t move.

Hound gave a bitter laugh—low and sharp. “Guess I was right. He really is blind. Just not in the way I thought.”

“Hound—” Fox started.

“Don’t,” Hound snapped. “You made your choice, Commander. Leave it that way.”

Grizzer growled again as if echoing the tension.

You didn’t speak. Couldn’t. Your chest was a firestorm and all your usual words had burned up inside it.

Fox nodded once, helmet slipping on with a hiss. He turned without another word and walked past Hound, shoulders square, back straight, like it didn’t just rip him apart.

Once he was gone, Hound looked at you.

You couldn’t read his expression.

But his voice, when it came, was low. Hoarse.

“Did it mean anything?”

And for the first time, you didn’t know how to answer.

The door clicked shut behind them, and the silence that followed wasn’t peaceful—it was suffocating. The echo of his parting words still clung to the walls like smoke. He had barely made it across the threshold before your knees gave out, the strength you had worn like armor dissolving into a ragged breath and clenched fists.

It was Maera who found you first. No questions. Just the sweep of her arms around your shoulders, the calm, anchoring presence of someone who had seen too many things to be surprised anymore.

Ila appeared next, barefoot, eyes wide and fearful, as if heartbreak were a ghost that could be caught. She knelt beside you, small and uncertain, pressing a warm cup of something you wouldn’t drink into your hands.

“I’m fine,” you lied.

“You’re not,” Maera said softly, brushing your hair from your face. “But that’s allowed.”

You had no words. Only the biting, hollow ache that came from being chosen and then discarded, a bruise where something like hope had tried to bloom.

There was a loud clank at the door, followed by the unmistakable shrill of R9.

“R9, no—” Maera started, but you raised a hand.

Let him come.

The astromech rolled forward at full speed, slamming into the table leg hard enough to make it jump. He beeped wildly, whirring aggressively and letting out a stream of binary curses aimed, presumably, at Fox or heartbreak in general. Then, bizarrely, he nestled against your legs like a pissed-off pet.

“He’s… trying to comfort you,” Ila offered. “I think.”

R9 let out a threatening screech at her, but didn’t move from your side. His dome whirled to angle toward you, then projected a low, flickering holo of your favorite constellations—something you’d once offhandedly mentioned when the droid had been in diagnostics. You hadn’t thought he’d remembered.

The stars spun in the dim of the room. The air was thick with grief and the faint scent of whatever perfume lingered on Fox’s armor from when he’d held you.

“He kissed you like a man who didn’t want to let go,” Maera said, her voice measured. “Then why did he?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. But the pain in your chest answered for you.

“I hate him,” Ila whispered, arms wrapped around her knees. “He’s cruel.”

“No,” you murmured, dragging in a shaky breath. “He’s just a coward.”

The protocol droid, VX-7, finally entered—late, as always—with a towel around his photoreceptors. “Mistress, I would be remiss not to mention that heartbreak is statistically linked to decreased political productivity. Might I suggest a short revenge arc, or at least a spa visit?”

That startled a wet, broken laugh out of you.

“Add that to tomorrow’s agenda,” you rasped, still crumpled on the floor between handmaidens and droids and the shards of something you thought might have been real. “A good ol’ fashioned vengeance glow-up.”

R9 shrieked in approval. Probably. Or bloodlust. With him, it was often the same.

Maera sighed and helped you up, one arm tight around your waist. Ila grabbed a blanket. VX-7 muttered about emotional inefficiency. R9 rolled beside you, ready to follow you to hell and back, blasterless but unyielding.

You weren’t fine.

But you weren’t alone.

Not tonight.

⸻

The steam curled around your face as you exhaled, eyes half-lidded, submerged to the shoulders in mineral-rich waters so hot they almost stung. It was late morning in the upper districts—a crisp day, all sun and illusion—and you were tucked into one of the more exclusive private spa villas, far removed from the Senate rotunda or the sterile corridors of your apartment.

You hadn’t said much on the way over. Ila had chatted nervously, her voice drifting like birdsong, while R9 trailed behind with unusual restraint. He even refrained from threatening the receptionist droid, though you’d caught him twitching. Progress.

Maera, of course, hadn’t come. She’d stayed behind with VX-7, dividing and conquering your workload. She had insisted you go. Ordered, even. “We can’t have your eyeliner smudging in session. You’ll look weak,” she’d said dryly, brushing your shoulder with an almost motherly hand. “Take Ila and the murder toaster. Come back looking like a goddess or don’t come back at all.”

So now here you were. Wrapped in luxury, with Ila combing fragrant oil into your hair and the soft whisper of music playing through hidden speakers. A spa technician massaged your calves. A waiter delivered a carafe of citrus-laced water. You had everything—privacy, comfort, the best of what Coruscant could offer.

And still, your heart burned.

Fox had kissed you like a man drowning. And left you like one afraid of getting wet.

Emotionally, the wound hadn’t scabbed. But something was changing beneath it. The devastation had settled into clarity—hard and cool, like a weapon finally tempered.

You weren’t going to beg for a man who couldn’t decide if you were worth wanting.

You were going to rise.

“Should I schedule your next trade summit for the fifth rotation or wait until you’re more… luminous?” VX-7’s voice crackled through the commlink beside your lounge chair. “I’ve taken the liberty of gutting Senator Ask-Alo’s backchannel proposition and rewriting your response to be both cutting and condescending.”

“Send it,” you said without hesitation.

Ila glanced at you. “You… you’re feeling better?”

You didn’t answer right away. You dipped your hand into the water and let the heat lick your wrist.

“No,” you said at last, voice even. “But I’m remembering who I am.”

Ila smiled—relieved, perhaps. R9 beeped something that sounded like “good riddance” and projected an animation of a clone helmet being stomped on by a stiletto. You waved it off with half a smirk.

“Keep dreaming, R9.”

The truth was simpler. You were wounded, yes. But wounds could become armor.

Politically, you’d been cautious, balanced between power blocs and careful dissent. But that was before. Now you saw it clearly—affection and diplomacy had limits. What mattered was leverage.

You were done playing nice.

Done pretending your words didn’t bite.

When you returned to the Senate floor, you would be sharper, colder, untouchable. And this time, no one—not Fox, not Chuchi, not the Jedi Council—would see your vulnerability before they felt your strength.

“VX,” you said into the commlink as you slipped further into the water, your body relaxing even as your mind honed like a blade, “prep the first stage of the next motion. If I’m going to cause waves, I want them to break exactly where I choose.”

“Finally,” VX-7 replied with pride. “Welcome back, Senator.”

R9 beeped smugly.

Ila beamed.

And as the steam closed around you once more, you let yourself smile—a small, private thing.

Let them come.

You were ready.

⸻

Previous Part | Next Part

“Red Lines” pt.5

Ryio Chuchi x Commander Fox x Reader x Sergeant Hound

The air in your apartment was thick with the scent of fresh caf and polished metal. VX-7 was cataloging cargo manifests aloud, you were buried in holo-messages from your homeworld, and your youngest handmaiden, Ila, was struggling with the administrative mess of requisitions.

“I’ll just send R9 to the Archives for the Senatorial batch codes,” Ila muttered, mostly to herself. “It’s just a short run…”

You looked up briefly. “You think he’ll make it back without committing at least one act of domestic terrorism?”

Ila gave you an awkward smile and rushed off.

⸻

Sending R9 on an errand alone was a calculated risk. One that your youngest handmaiden, Ila, had made with the hopeful naivety of youth and a fondness for your temperamental astromech. All he had to do was retrieve a storage drive containing encrypted senatorial files from a private archive tucked down in the lower industrial levels. Straightforward. Simple.

But R9 was anything but simple.

The moment he rolled through the grime-slicked service streets of 1313, he began vocalizing loud, critical remarks about the state of the infrastructure, the scent of unwashed bodies, and something particularly crude about the corrosion level of nearby durasteel. He drew attention — not the good kind.

Three local thugs lounging near a loading bay watched the little droid trundle by with a mechanic’s socket extended and whirring ominously, his dome swiveling like a watchdog.

“Ey,” one muttered. “You see that paint job? That’s Senate-polished. He’s gotta be running something pricey.”

“He’s alone,” said another. “Strip him, crack him open, see what’s in the chassis.”

R9, having just pinged the encrypted server inside the archive’s access hatch, paused. He rotated slowly, gave a low-pitched bwooooop of distaste, and — lacking any real weapons — activated the most infuriating response in his database.

He began blaring alarms. Loudly. Shrieking like a siren caught in a blender.

The thugs swore and lunged.

R9 took off — fast for a dome on treads, his body bobbing wildly as he careened down a freight ramp, shouting obscenities in binary, slamming into walls, flattening garbage bins. He clipped a cart full of dead power cells and launched half of it across the street.

The thugs followed, yelling threats and trying to cut him off through alleyways.

Grizzer’s low growl was the first sign.

Hound, half-distracted reading over a datapad update, looked up as the massiff’s ears perked sharply. His hand went to his blaster as he heard the unmistakable wailing of a security alarm — not from a building, but from a droid.

“Sounds like a distressed astromech,” his second said, already pivoting.

“R9,” Hound muttered. He didn’t even need confirmation.

The chaos hit them a second later — the droid burst from a side alley with grime on his dome and scorch marks on his shell, his wheels barely clinging to traction.

“Hold formation!” Hound barked.

The thugs following R9 didn’t see the Guard until they were within blaster range.

“Down!” came the command.

Blasters were raised. A few shots cracked through the air, warning only.

The gang scattered fast, melting into the deeper shadows, but not before a sharp standoff that lasted almost a full minute — one thug pulling a vibroblade, R9 running circles around him like a demon possessed until Grizzer lunged and sent the attacker screaming into a trash pile.

⸻

When the door chimed, you didn’t expect him.

Hound stood tall in the frame, helmet clipped to his belt, armor still dusty from the underlevels. Grizzer sat calmly at his feet. And behind him, looking thoroughly dented and gleefully unapologetic, was R9.

You blinked.

“Ila,” you called over your shoulder, “I believe you owe R9 a droid polish and a formal apology.”

R9 rolled in immediately like a conquering hero, dirt trailing behind him on your marble floor. Grizzer snorted.

“He’s fine,” Hound said. “Mouthy, but fine. I found him just before he got himself stripped down for parts by a couple of gutter rats.”

“Let me guess—he insulted them?”

“Repeatedly. Then played a fire alarm at full volume until every sentient on the block wanted him dead.”

You couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up. “That does sound like him.”

But your smile faded when you caught the edge in Hound’s voice. There was tension, cold and bristling. You weren’t sure if it was anger or something else.

“Thank you,” you said. “For bringing him back.”

He nodded once. “I was in the area. And I figured you’d prefer him in one piece.”

Another beat of silence.

You stepped toward him slightly. “Hound… why haven’t I seen you?”

His eyes didn’t meet yours at first. But when they did, they weren’t cruel — just tired.

“Because watching you pine for someone who can’t see you hurts more than I expected.”

Your throat went tight. You reached for something to say, but Hound was already pulling his helmet back into place.

“I’m on duty,” he said quietly. “I shouldn’t be here long.”

He turned to go. Grizzer hesitated, then followed, casting one last look back before disappearing into the hall.

You stood there for a long moment.

Then R9 gave a chirp, smug and seemingly amused, before trundling past you and knocking over a vase.

⸻

Fox stood in the small debriefing chamber just off the main barracks floor, arms crossed, his expression blank—but his thoughts anything but.

He was reviewing surveillance stills from the lower levels, a routine update Hound had submitted after a patrol skirmish. Normally he’d skim, mark, and move on.

But the last few images had him still.

R9. Hound. Grizzer.

And you—Senator [Y/N], barefoot in your apartment doorway, accepting the return of your droid with what looked suspiciously like a smile. Not the tight, senatorial smirk you wore in chambers—but something gentler. Something real.

Fox exhaled sharply through his nose.

Behind him, the door hissed open.

Thorn entered, cocking a brow as he noted what was on screen. “You really need to stop watching footage of her like it’s surveillance and not a highlight reel.”

Fox didn’t answer.

Thorn leaned on the wall beside him, arms crossed. “So Hound saw her, huh?”

“Hound was returning her astromech. That’s his job.”

Thorn grinned faintly. “Sure. And it didn’t bother you at all.”

Fox’s jaw flexed. “It’s not my business.”

“You keep saying that,” Thorn said, pushing off the wall and gesturing to the monitor. “But you’re in here on your own time reviewing droid patrol footage like she’s some high-level security threat.”

Fox turned off the screen.

“She’s a senator,” he muttered.

“And you’re obsessed,” Thorn finished for him, laughing under his breath.

Before Fox could muster a retort, the door buzzed again. This time, Chuchi entered with her usual quiet grace, a wrapped package in hand. She paused slightly when she saw Thorn—though only Fox noticed the way her eyes flicked toward the screen before it went dark.

“I hope I’m not interrupting,” she said softly.

“Not at all,” Thorn said with a little too much amusement. “I was just leaving. Commander, you might want to check in with Hound before he writes another glowing report about your senator.”

Fox shot him a look sharp enough to cut durasteel. Thorn winked at Chuchi and left.

She stepped forward and offered the package. “It’s for your men. Some spicebread from Pantora—local tradition after a successful operation.”

Fox accepted it with a nod. “Very kind of you.”

There was a silence. Chuchi’s eyes lingered a moment too long on his face.

“I heard about Hound’s incident in the lower levels,” she said, too casually. “I’m glad everyone was unharmed.”

Fox’s grip tightened on the box.

“Do you think it’s safe,” she continued, “for a senator to be sending a droid into those levels alone?”

Fox’s expression gave nothing away. “Not my place to say. Hound handled it.”

She tilted her head, studying him. “You seem…off.”

“I’m fine.”

“Mm.” She stepped a little closer. “You’ve been avoiding me. Us.”

He looked at her finally, and this time it wasn’t blank—it was confused, conflicted, and tired of trying to not be any of those things.

“There’s too much attention already on all of us,” he said. “The Jedi…”

“Yes,” Chuchi said gently. “But I think the Jedi are looking in the wrong place.”

That hung in the air a beat too long.

Fox didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Chuchi, ever patient, simply gave him a quiet smile. “I won’t press. But you’re not as unreadable as you think, Commander.”

She left.

Fox remained frozen, staring at the closed door, still holding the untouched box of spicebread.

⸻

Thorn leaned against the wall, arms folded. Hound approached from the turbolift, helmet under his arm, Grizzer trailing beside him.

“Tell me you didn’t miss that,” Thorn muttered as they passed each other.

“Miss what?”

“Love triangle’s becoming a rectangle. Fox is going to implode.”

Hound didn’t answer.

But his jaw clenched, and Grizzer gave a low, warning growl.

⸻

Fox didn’t sleep.

He hadn’t slept in days, not really—not with the nagging image of your soft voice, your hand brushing Hound’s shoulder, the droid you laughed with being returned by another man. Not with Chuchi’s careful smiles, the subtle intimacy in her glances, the scent of Pantoran spicebread still clinging to his uniform.

He wasn’t a man who acted on impulse.

But tonight…

Fox walked. Uniform on. Helmet in hand. Through the corridors. Down the levels. Past the Senate district guard post. Eyes forward. Purposeful.

He didn’t stop until he stood outside your door.

He pressed the chime.

Inside, you sat at your desk, still working. Your handmaiden Maera had just retired for the evening, and Ila was curled up near the sitting area, half-asleep with a datapad in hand.

R9 made a whirring snort from the corner, annoyed at the interruption. VX-7, ever composed, silently stood by the window, processing civic forms.

When the door buzzed, you stood slowly, raising a brow. You hadn’t ordered anything.

You opened the door.

And there he was. Fox.

You blinked. “Commander.”

He looked…tense. The usual stoicism wasn’t there. This was something different.

“I need to talk to you,” he said. His voice was low. Not unkind. Just…controlled.

You stepped aside, letting him in. “What’s wrong?”

He paced a few steps inside, as if figuring out what to say. Helmet still in hand, shoulders stiff.

“I saw Hound return your droid,” he said.

You smirked faintly. “Jealous?”

He looked at you sharply, but didn’t deny it.

“He’s a good man,” you said instead. “You warned him about me?”

“I warned him not to get attached.”

“Mm. But he already is.”

Fox’s jaw worked, his eyes finally locking onto yours. “So are you.”

The air stilled.

“And what about you?” you asked, stepping closer. “Still pretending to be the untouchable commander while two senators orbit you like moons?”

He didn’t answer.

You chuckled. “You’re a fool, Fox. Chuchi looks at you like you’re salvation. I look at you like you’re the problem. And you—you act like none of it matters.”

“It does,” he snapped.

Silence. His own words surprised him. He stared at you, as if realizing them for the first time.

You stepped closer again, close enough to feel the tension rolling off him in waves. “Then why do you act like it doesn’t?”

“I don’t know how to want anything,” he said. “Not like this. Not when it’s you. Or her. Or—stars, it’s too much.”

You softened. Just slightly.

“I never asked you to pick me,” you whispered.

“But I can’t ignore it anymore.”

Then—

Knock knock.

Another chime at the door.

You froze. Fox turned.

You opened the door.

Hound stood there. Grizzer sat loyally at his heel.

He took one look at Fox inside your apartment and stiffened.

“I was passing by,” he said coolly. “Wanted to check in after…the other day. With R9.”

You looked between them—Fox rigid behind you, Hound standing tall, eyes sharper than you’d ever seen.

“I see I’m late.”

Fox stepped forward. “You should go.”

“Why?” Hound said calmly. “She didn’t ask you to come here.”

“Neither did she ask you.”

You stepped in before they could start tearing chunks out of each other. “Both of you. Enough.”

But neither man budged.

Fox’s voice was lower now, quiet. “She deserves someone who won’t be swayed by charm and anger.”

“She deserves someone who doesn’t run from his own damn feelings,” Hound bit back.

You blinked. Both of them stared at you. Waiting. Wanting. Two men, so very different—one a tightly wound hurricane of order and responsibility, the other a grounded storm with loyalty that ran deeper than bone.

You exhaled slowly, heart loud in your chest.

“I need time,” you said.

Fox nodded stiffly. Hound glanced away, jaw ticking.

Fox left without another word.

Hound gave you a last look before following, Grizzer trotting after him.

You closed the door.

VX-7 muttered something about emotional inefficiency. R9 beeped threateningly.

Ila stirred from her nap. “…What did I miss?”

You sighed, rubbing your temples. “Just two men, three messes, and a very complicated heart.”

R9 beeped threateningly at the wall, still angry about something. VX-7 stood like a loyal monument in the corner, staring at you with polite judgment.

Ila peeked at you from her half-dozing state on the couch.

“Do you want tea?” she offered meekly.

You didn’t answer. Just wandered to the wide window, arms crossed, pulse still fluttering in your neck.

Commander Fox.

Sergeant Hound.

You weren’t supposed to care.

This was never about feelings.

This was about power. About leverage. About proving that you could make the untouchable clone commander look at you like he might burn alive from it. About winning—because Chuchi always did, and this time, you refused to be second.

You wanted to make him yours because he seemed unreachable.

You were chasing victory, not romance.

Weren’t you?

And yet…

Fox had stood in your apartment like a man on the verge of something he didn’t have the words for. Hound had looked at you like he already knew.

You didn’t ask for this.

You weren’t a schoolgirl with crushes. You were a senator who had survived warlords and assassination attempts. You had danced through political fires in stilettos and made corruption weep.

So why—why—did your chest ache as you stared out the window and thought of Hound’s eyes?

Why did the way he said “She didn’t ask you to come here” echo louder in your head than all of Fox’s arguments combined?

Why, when Hound left, did you feel like you’d just watched loyalty walk away from you?

Fox was the game.

Hound was something else.

Fox made you feel like you were fighting for the last piece of oxygen in a room slowly filling with smoke. Hound made you feel like there was still air left in the galaxy.

You sat down slowly on the armrest of the couch.

Ila brought over a cup of tea and set it down carefully. “You look… sad,” she said gently.

You let out a low breath. “I’m not sad.”

“Angry?”

“No.”

“Confused?”

You looked at her then. And said nothing.

VX-7 moved quietly to refill your data terminal with updates from the next day’s hearings. R9 rolled into the hallway to menace the janitorial droid.

And still, you sat there. Tea growing cold.

Fox was a competition.

So why did it feel like losing him might actually hurt?

And why, in all the chaos, was the one who saw you clearest still waiting—quietly, without pressure, without pride—and why hadn’t you chosen him yet?

You looked out the window again.

Maybe you weren’t afraid of choosing wrong.

Maybe… you were afraid of choosing right.

Because right meant letting someone close.

Right meant vulnerability.

Right meant Hound.

⸻

Previous Part | Next Part

“Red Lines” pt.4

Ryio Chuchi x Commander Fox x Reader x Sergeant Hound

The doors hissed closed behind you, muting Coruscant’s constant thrum. Your heels clicked against the marble tiling—white-veined, blood-dark stone imported from home, etched with quiet pride.

The apartment was dim, tasteful, and cold—just the way you preferred it. You dropped your cloak onto the back of a chaise and walked straight for your desk.

The datapads were already stacked like bricks of guilt.

You sank into the high-backed chair, activated the holoscreen, and scrolled through messages from governors, planetary councils, and military liaisons. The usual blend of corruption, ego, and veiled threats disguised as diplomacy.

Too much to do. Never enough time.

“Perhaps you should consider a protocol droid,” murmured Maera, your senior handmaiden, gliding in with a cup of steaming blackleaf tea. “One of the newer models. They can help prioritize correspondence and handle… the more tedious tasks.”

You looked at her over the rim of your cup. “So you mean let a metal snitch sit in my office all day?”

“They’re quite helpful,” she said, folding her hands. “Especially with translations, cross-senate scheduling, cultural briefings—”

“I know what they do.”

Maera gave you a patient look—the kind she’d perfected over years of serving someone who never stopped. “You don’t have to do everything yourself.”

“Of course I do,” you said, already scanning through another briefing. “Because no one else does it right.”

The chime of your apartment door interrupted further commentary.

You didn’t look up. “Let them in.”

Maera bowed, then vanished toward the front foyer.

You heard the faint murmur of pleasantries, the soft wheeze of servos, and then—

“Oh, this place again,” came the indignant voice of a droid. “Why does it always smell faintly of molten durasteel and latent judgment?”

“C-3PO,” came Padmé’s warning voice, graceful and composed even when exasperated.

You turned slightly in your chair to face your guests. Senator Amidala, as ever, was luminous in Naboo silk, gold accents at her collar and sleeves. Anakin followed just behind her, less formal, hands in his belt, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.

C-3PO trailed in with careful offense, wringing his hands as if expecting you to insult him on sight.

You stood slowly, arching a brow. “I’d say it’s a surprise, but I’ve been too tired to lie today.”

Padmé gave you a sharp smile—more real than most. “We came to discuss the fallout from the Senate hearing. Your… performance with Senator Kessen.”

Anakin was already smirking. “You mean the part where she lit his reputation on fire and danced in the ashes?”

“I didn’t dance,” you said mildly. “I just pointed out the arson had been self-inflicted.”

Padmé pressed her lips together. “It was a bold move. Some say reckless.”

“And others say effective.”

“Others,” Padmé said carefully, “are wondering if you’re trying to provoke more conflict than resolution.”

You rolled your eyes and gestured to the chair opposite your desk. “Sit down, Senator. You’ll get a cramp standing on that moral high ground all night.”

She exhaled, and—credit to her—actually sat.

You watched her for a moment, then lazily turned your gaze to C-3PO, who was busy inspecting a vase and making soft noises of horror at the lack of polish.

“So,” you said abruptly. “Do you enjoy having a protocol droid?”

Padmé blinked. “Pardon?”

You leaned forward, expression sly and disarming. “C-3PO. Is he worth the constant commentary and fragility? Or do you keep him around to make you feel more composed by comparison?”

C-3PO squawked. “I beg your pardon, Senator, I am an exceptionally rare and invaluable translation and etiquette droid—”

Padmé raised a hand, silencing him gently. “I find him useful. Occasionally irritating, but… helpful.”

“Hmm.” You leaned back. “I suppose it’s easier when you don’t mind being listened to.”

Anakin stifled a laugh. Padmé gave him a warning glance.

You shifted slightly in your chair, eyeing her again.

“You didn’t come here just for diplomacy. What’s the real reason?”

“I did want to talk about Kessen,” Padmé said evenly. “But… yes. There’s more. I’m concerned about the alliances you’re forming. With Skywalker. With… certain Guard officers.”

“Fox,” you supplied, smiling faintly.

Her expression flickered. “You’re not subtle.”

“I’ve never needed to be,” you said. “Subtlety is for people whose power isn’t visible.”

Padmé’s voice softened. “Be careful. People are watching you more closely than ever. You’ve made enemies, and you’re not on neutral ground anymore.”

You stood slowly, brushing nonexistent dust off your skirt. “I’ve never had neutral ground.”

Behind her, Anakin leaned on the back of the couch with a half-smirk. “Told you she’d say something like that.”

Padmé sighed.

The light in your home office softened as the sun began to vanish behind the metallic skyline. Coruscant’s artificial twilight crept in, and shadows elongated against the marble floor, the sharp silhouette of the Senate still looming in the distance through your tall windows.

Padmé stood now, hands folded neatly in front of her, expression calm, composed—but not cold.

“For what it’s worth,” she said quietly, “we’ve never seen eye-to-eye in the Senate. Our values differ, and our approaches even more so.”

You arched a brow. “A gracious understatement.”

She continued without rising to the bait. “But I still want you to be safe.”

That made you blink, just for a moment. A flicker of something softened your features, though it disappeared just as quickly.

Padmé took a breath, glancing sidelong at Anakin before she added, “And while I don’t agree with the friendship you and Skywalker seem to have built, I understand why you formed it.”

You tilted your head. “You disapprove?”

“I worry,” she corrected. “He has a habit of getting drawn into… chaos. You carry more of it than most.”

You gave a slow, dark smile. “I thought he liked that.”

“He does,” Anakin chimed in from the corner, hands clasped behind his back.

Padmé gave him a sharp glance. He shrugged like a delinquent Padawan.

“But regardless,” Padmé said firmly, refocusing on you, “he’ll protect you, if you need it. That’s what he does. Whether I agree or not.”

You regarded her in silence for a long moment. Then you said, with just enough edge to be honest but not cruel, “It’s strange, Amidala. I don’t think we’ve ever spoken this long without one of us trying to crush the other in a committee vote.”

Padmé gave a small, tired laugh. “Well. There’s a first time for everything.”

You nodded once. “Your concern is noted. And… accepted.”

Padmé inclined her head, graceful as ever. Then, with one final look, she turned and made for the door.

C-3PO clanked after her. “Oh thank the Maker. Honestly, Senator, I don’t think I was designed for this level of tension!”

Anakin lingered a little longer, offering a subtle grin as he passed you.

“Don’t do anything reckless while I’m gone.”

You smirked. “You make it sound like a challenge.”

The apartment fell into stillness once more, the doors hissing shut behind Senator Amidala and her entourage. Outside, Coruscant’s traffic lanes shimmered like veins of light against the dusk. Inside, you remained at your desk, arms crossed loosely, head tilted back to stare at the ceiling as the silence swelled around you.

Footsteps padded softly across the marble, and Maera re-entered the study. She moved with careful grace, but she was watching you closely—too closely for comfort.

“You held your temper,” she said mildly.

You smirked, eyes still on the ceiling. “I’m evolving.”

“I almost miss the yelling.”

You finally looked down. “Don’t get sentimental.”

Maera glanced at the datapads still stacked on the desk, then turned her attention back to you. “What’s on the agenda for tomorrow?”

You exhaled through your nose and stood, smoothing the front of your robes with a practiced flick of your fingers.

“We’re going shopping.”

Maera blinked. “Shopping?”

You gave her a devilish smile—cool, amused, but exhausted around the edges. “For a protocol droid.”

She blinked again, just once more slowly. “I thought you hated protocol droids.”

“I do,” you agreed. “But I hate having to draft a thousand reply letters to planetary governors even more.”

She blinked again. “Is this because Senator Amidala made hers look useful?”

“It’s because I’ve learned that war criminals don’t schedule their own executions and Kessen’s supporters won’t shut up in my inbox.” You paused, then added with a shrug, “And fine, maybe I’m tired of forgetting which language the Kray’tok trade delegation prefers.”

Maera offered a rare grin, genuine but subtle. “I’ll call the droid district and start vetting models.”

“Do that,” you said. “Make sure whatever we get can take sass, curse in Huttese, and redact documents on command.”

“And maybe something that doesn’t faint when you pull a blaster on someone mid-sentence?”

“Exactly.”

She left with a knowing nod, and you stood alone for a beat longer, your eyes drifting to the window, to the glowing silhouette of the Senate dome.

You murmured under your breath:

“Let’s see if protocol can keep up.”

⸻

Mid-morning sunlight filtered through the transparisteel roof of Coruscant’s droid district. Neon signs buzzed, offering quick repairs and overpriced firmware updates. The air stank of ionized metal and fast food.

You stood between two handmaidens: Maera, your ever-calm shadow, and young Ila, who looked like she’d been plucked from a finishing school and hadn’t yet realized she was in a war-torn galaxy. Ila was already staring wide-eyed at a droid with one arm replaced by a kitchen whisk.

“Are they all this… rusty?” she asked, wrinkling her nose.

“Only the cheap ones,” you replied dryly.

The first shop was a disappointment. The protocol droid bowed so low it knocked its head on the counter. The second tried to upsell you a ‘companion droid’ that made Ila blush violently. By the fourth shop, you were regretting everything.

“Maybe we just commission one from Kuat,” Maera muttered.

“Why? So it can bankrupt us while correcting my grammar?”

Then, in the fifth cramped storefront, you found it.

VX-7. The protocol droid stood motionless—sleek plating dulled by years, but optics sharp and intelligent. It didn’t grovel, didn’t babble. When you asked if it could handle over three dozen planetary dialects, it replied in all of them. When you asked if it could manage your schedule, redact sensitive communications, and tell a governor to kark off in six ways without causing a diplomatic incident, it smiled faintly and said:

“Of course, Senator. I specialize in tactfully worded hostility.”

You turned to Maera. “I’m keeping this one.”

Then something small rammed into your shin.

You looked down to see a battered astromech droid—paint chipped, dome scratched, one leg replaced with an old cargo hauler’s stabilizer. It beeped at you. Aggressively.

“What’s this?” you asked, raising a brow.

The shopkeeper looked apologetic. “R9-VD. Mean little bastard. Picks fights with power converters. Nearly blew a hole in my storage unit last week.”

Ila gasped. “Oh stars—he’s twitching!”

The droid growled.

You grinned. “I’ll take him.”

The shopkeeper blinked. “You will?”

“Buy one, bleed one free. Sounds like a bargain.”

“I was hoping you’d say that,” he muttered, already dragging the crate of restraining bolts out from behind the counter. “Take him before he sets fire to my register again.”

Maera stared at you. “You’re collecting feral droids now?”

“I collect useful things.”

You exited into the street, the new protocol droid gliding beside you, R9 clanking along behind like a stubby little demon. Ila was still muttering prayers under her breath. You were halfway through admiring your new acquisitions when a familiar bark echoed from across the thoroughfare.

“Senator!”

You turned to find Sergeant Hound, helmet off, walking toward you in full armor—Grizzer trotting loyally at his side.

“Well, well,” you said. “Look who I find when I’m burdened with two droids and a fainting noble.”

Hound laughed, scratching behind Grizzer’s ear. “Running errands?”

“Recruiting staff,” you said, nodding toward the droids. “The tall one speaks over a thousand languages. The short one hates everything.”

Grizzer growled affectionately at the astromech, who let out an aggressive beep in return.

“Careful,” Hound chuckled. “Grizzer likes him.”

You watched the way he stood—relaxed but alert, protective but never patronizing. When he met your eyes, there was no awkwardness, no nervous fumbling.

No obliviousness.

“Walking your route?” you asked.

“North patrol. You’re in my sector.”

“How fortunate for me,” you said, letting your tone shift slightly—warm, measured, curious. Not performative.

Just real.

Hound smiled, a little wider than usual. “Need an escort home again, Senator?”

“Only if Grizzer promises not to chew on R9’s restraining bolt.”

The droid made a noise like it was loading a weapon. Grizzer barked once, delighted.

Hound looked between you, the droids, your handmaidens—then back to you.

“I think I could be persuaded.”

You smiled. And for the first time in a while, it reached your eyes.

⸻

The doors to your apartment hissed open with a smooth sigh of hydraulics. The droids rolled and clicked in after you, their sensors flicking to scan the space—uninvited, instinctual, and irritating.

“Ila,” you called before your cloak hit the back of the nearest chair. “Make sure the astromech doesn’t electrocute anything.”

“Yes, Senator!” she said quickly, scrambling after the droid as it began sniffing around the comm terminal like it wanted to chew through the wires.

“Maera,” you continued, already tugging off your gloves. “I want them both repainted, polished, and calibrated by tomorrow morning.”

Maera raised a brow. “The astromech too?”

“I want it looking like it belongs to a senator, not some spice-smuggler from Nal Hutta.”

“The protocol droid seems compliant,” Maera said dryly. “The other one just tried to bite the upholstery.”

You turned and narrowed your eyes at R9-VD, who stared back—optics glowing, dome twitching.

“I don’t care if it wants to die in rusted anonymity. It’s going to shine. And we’ll scrub the attitude off if we have to sandblast it.”

Maera only nodded, too used to this by now. She snapped her fingers toward the cleaning droids and pulled out a datapad to begin scheduling repairs and a polish crew.

You poured yourself a glass of something dark and expensive and leaned against the balcony frame. The city buzzed beyond the transparisteel, a sleepless, greedy animal that had become your second home.

The protocol droid finally stepped forward, voice even.

“Shall I begin familiarizing myself with your schedule, Senator?”

“Start with everything I’ve put off since the Kessen disaster.”

“That could take a while.”

“Good,” you said with a small smile. “That means I’ll finally be caught up.”

As the droids were ushered away for cleaning, you took a sip of your drink, eyes never leaving the skyline.

Everything was sharpening.

Even your toys.

⸻

Coruscant’s dusk cast long shadows over the Guard barracks. Inside the command room, Fox stood over a data console, reviewing the latest internal report—a thinly veiled attempt to stay busy, to stay removed. The hum of troop activity outside was constant, comforting. Controlled.

Hound leaned against the far wall, arms folded, helmet clipped to his belt. He’d been unusually quiet on patrol. Fox noticed.

“You’ve been around the senator a lot lately,” Fox said, voice neutral, still scanning the holoscreen. “She using you for access?”

Hound’s brow ticked upward, slow and unimpressed. “That a serious question?”

Fox finally looked up. “She doesn’t keep people close unless she can gain from it.”

“She doesn’t exactly keep you far.”

That made Fox pause.

Hound pushed off the wall and stepped forward, tone low. “You ever think she’s not using either of us?”

“She’s a politician,” Fox said bluntly. “That’s what they do.”

“And you’re a commander,” Hound shot back. “You’re supposed to see the battlefield. But somehow you can’t see that both those senators—Chuchi and her—don’t just want your vote in a hearing. They want you. And you—kriffing hell, Fox—you’re so deep in denial, it’s tragic.”

Fox opened his mouth, but nothing came. His jaw tensed. His fingers curled tighter over the edge of the console.

Before the tension could crack the air entirely—

“Commander Fox.”

The voice was delicate, practiced, kind. Senator Chuchi stepped into the command room, her pale blue presence a breath of cold air between the two men.

Hound stepped aside, silent.

Chuchi held out a small datapad. “These are the updated refugee settlement numbers. I thought it best to deliver them personally.”

Fox took it, fingers brushing hers for half a second too long. “Appreciated, Senator.”

Chuchi’s eyes lingered on him, soft but calculating. “I also hoped to ask you about additional patrol rotations near the lower levels. I’ve had…concerns.”

Her tone was careful, concern genuine—but her glance toward Hound didn’t go unnoticed.

Hound met it with polite detachment, but behind his eyes, something shifted. He excused himself quietly and stepped past them, boots heavy on the stone floor. Neither of them saw the way his jaw clenched or the storm in his expression as he exited.

Fox stood frozen a moment longer, datapad in hand, Chuchi watching him.

Something had changed.

The lines were no longer clean.

He used to know what battlefield he stood on.

Now… he wasn’t so sure.

⸻

It wasn’t like you were following Fox.

You just happened to be heading toward the main Guard corridor with a report in hand. The protocol droid clanked behind you, reciting lines of political updates from other mid-rim systems while your new astromech—newly repainted in deep senate gold and high-gloss black—scuttled along beside it, muttering occasional threats at passing security cameras.

Pure coincidence, really.

You slowed when you rounded the corner near the war room. There they were—Fox and Chuchi.

She stood closer than usual. Too close.

Her hand brushed his vambrace as she handed him something. Fox didn’t pull away. He didn’t lean in either. Just… stood there. Controlled. Focused. But not untouched.

You paused. Watched. Tilted your head.

For a second, you hated her grace. Her softness. The way she made proximity seem natural instead of tactical. And how Fox didn’t seem to flinch from it.

A glimmer of something crawled up your spine—irritation? Jealousy? No. You didn’t have the luxury of that.

Before you could form a thought sharp enough to fling like a dagger—

CLANK—whiiiiiiiiirRRRRRZK—BEEP BEEP BEEP.

R9-VD rounded the corner like a demon loosed from hell’s server room, chased by your newly programmed protocol droid, whose polished plating gleamed like a diplomatic dagger.

“Senator!” the protocol droid trilled. “Your schedule is running precisely six minutes behind! Shall we move?”

Fox turned instantly at the racket, his expression shifting from unreadable to just vaguely resigned.

Chuchi stepped back from him with that serene smile she always wore in public, just a whisper too composed.

“Ah,” you said smoothly as you strode into view, “Don’t let me interrupt.”

“Senator,” Fox greeted you, stiff but polite. Chuchi nodded.

You let your gaze flick between them, slowly. One brow raised, mouth curved like you already knew the answer to a question no one asked. “Looks like everyone’s getting awfully familiar lately.”

“Professional coordination,” Chuchi replied, not missing a beat.

“Mm,” you hummed, eyes on Fox. “Is that what they’re calling it now?”

Fox’s brow twitched. Chuchi’s smile remained.

You snapped your fingers, and both droids froze. “Let’s go. We’ve got senators to ignore and corruption to thin out.”

As you swept past, you didn’t miss the way Fox glanced at you—just for a heartbeat.

Not enough.

Never enough.

But still… something.

⸻

The rotunda thundered with voices—some raised in passion, others carefully modulated with practiced deceit. The topic today was dangerous, volatile: the proposal for the accelerated production of a new wave of clone battalions.

You stood with one arm draped lazily along the back of your bench, expression unreadable but gaze sharp as vibroglass. Across the chamber, Chuchi had just taken the floor.

“I speak not against the clones themselves,” Chuchi said clearly, firmly. “But against the idea that we can continue this endless production without consequence. We are bankrupting our future.”

Your fingers tapped against the railing, the only sign of interest until you leaned forward to activate your mic.

“For once,” you said, voice cutting smoothly through the chamber, “I find myself in agreement with my esteemed colleague from Pantora.”

A ripple of surprise swept through the seats like a silent explosion. A rare alliance—unthinkable.

You continued. “We’re manufacturing soldiers like credits grow on trees. They don’t. The Banking Clan is already circling like carrion. Every new battalion is another rope around the Republic’s neck.”

That set the chamber ablaze.

Senator Ask Aak from Malastare sputtered his disagreement. “Our survival depends on maintaining numerical superiority!”

“And what happens when we can’t feed those numbers, Senator?” you snapped. “Do we sell your planet’s moons next?”

As chaos unfolded, the usual suspects fell into line—corrupt senators offering their support for more clone production, their pockets no doubt already lined with promises from arms manufacturers and banking lobbyists.

After the session ended, you stood shoulder to shoulder with Chuchi outside the rotunda. She looked exhausted but satisfied.

“Strange day,” she said quietly. “Stranger allies.”

You sipped from a flask you definitely weren’t supposed to have in the Senate building. “Don’t get used to it.”

But before she could respond—

“Senators,” came the purring, bloated voice of Orn Free Taa, waddling over with the smugness of someone who believed he owned the floor he walked on. “Your sudden alliance is… fascinating. One might wonder what prompted it. A common bedfellow, perhaps?”

You opened your mouth—but your protocol droid stepped forward first, blocking your path like a prim, glossy wall.

“Senator Taa,” the droid began in clipped, neutral tones. “While my mistress would be more than happy to humor your curious obsession with projecting your insecurities onto others, she is currently preoccupied with not strangling you with her own Senate robes.”

Taa blinked, thrown off by the droid’s tone. “Excuse me?”

The protocol unit didn’t miss a beat. “Forgive me, Senator. That was the polite version. I am still calibrating my diplomatic protocols, but I’ve been programmed specifically to identify corruption, incompetence, and conversational redundancy. You seem to be triggering all three.”

A sharp wheeze escaped Taa’s throat. “Why, I never—!”

“I suspect you have,” the droid interjected coolly, “and quite often.”

You didn’t even try to hide your smirk. “Don’t worry, Senator. He’s new. Still ironing out his filters. But I must say—he has excellent instincts.”

Chuchi choked on a laugh she tried very hard to disguise as a cough. Taa huffed and stormed off in an indignant swirl of silks and jowls.

Your droid turned to you. “Mistress, was I too subtle?”

“Perfect,” you said, patting its durasteel head. “I’ll make sure you get an oil bath laced with Corellian spice.”

Beside you, Chuchi finally let her laugh out. “I never thought I’d say this, but I may actually like your droid.”

“High praise coming from you.”

You both stood there for a quiet moment, mutual respect buried beneath mutual exhaustion.

“Today was strange,” she murmured again. “But… maybe not entirely bad.”

You tilted your head. “Don’t tell me you’re warming up to me, Chuchi.”

She gave you a look—wry, but not cold. “I’m starting to wonder if the galaxy would survive it if I did.”

Before you could respond, your astromech barreled out of the shadows, shrieking some new string of mechanical curses at a cleaning droid it had apparently declared war against.

You sighed. “And there goes diplomacy.”

Chuchi smiled. “Maybe the Senate could use more of that.”

Maybe.

⸻

The Grand Atrium of the Senate tower glittered with chandeliers imported from Alderaan, light dancing off glass and gold like it had something to celebrate. The banquet was a delicate affair—sponsored by the Supreme Chancellor himself, under the guise of “Republic Unity” and “Cross-Branch Collaboration.”

You could smell the tension in the air the moment you stepped in.

Long tables overflowed with artful dishes and finer wines. Senators mingled with Jedi, Guard officers, and military brass. Laughter drifted across the space, hollow and too loud. You walked in dressed to kill, as always—not in literal armor, but close enough. Your eyes swept the crowd. Scanned. Not for enemies. Just… two men.

You found them both within seconds.

Fox stood near the far arch, stoic in formal Guard reds, talking with Mace Windu and Master Yoda. Chuchi was at his side, hands clasped politely, expression open, deferential. Her eyes weren’t on Windu.

They were on Fox.

Across the room, Hound leaned against a support pillar near the musicians, his posture deceptively casual. Grizzer lay at his feet like a shadow. Hound’s eyes found yours immediately. He didn’t look away.

For a few beats, neither did you.

“You’re staring again,” your handmaiden whispered as she passed, wine in one hand.

“I’m assessing military distribution,” you replied flatly, plucking the glass.

“Liar.”

You smiled over the rim.

The Jedi presence tonight was thick. Kenobi, cloaked in his usual piety. Skywalker, prowling the crowd like he’d rather be anywhere else. Even Plo Koon and Shaak Ti made appearances, the Council exuding quiet power.

You didn’t care about them. Not really.

You moved.

Chuchi’s voice reached your ears as you approached the table where she and Fox stood. “I just think the Guard needs greater Senate oversight—not control, but transparency. For their safety.”

Fox nodded. “A fair point, Senator.”

“I’m shocked,” you drawled, appearing at his other side. “You usually flinch when people imply oversight.”

Chuchi’s smile cooled half a degree. “Some of us don’t believe in oversight being synonymous with domination.”

You sipped your wine. “I don’t dominate anyone who doesn’t want to be.”

Fox choked on his drink. Windu raised a brow and promptly walked away.

Chuchi’s stare could have frosted glass. “You’re impossible.”

“Debatable,” you replied. Then, sweetly, “Careful, Senator. You’re starting to sound jealous.”

Before Fox could open his mouth—likely to misinterpret all of this—Hound appeared beside you.

“Senator,” he said, his voice a little low, a little warm. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

You tilted toward him just slightly. “Trying to avoid me?”

“Not a chance.”

Fox’s eyes flicked toward you both. Sharp. Confused.

Chuchi noticed. Her gaze narrowed.

The conversation fractured as other senators arrived—Mon Mothma offered a cool nod, Padmé a quiet, guarded greeting. Bail approached with that politician’s smile and a quick, dry joke about the wine being better than the Senate votes.

But your attention split.

Fox’s shoulders were tense. He wasn’t making eye contact. Not with Chuchi. Not with you.

You leaned closer to Hound instead. “Tell me, Sergeant. Ever get tired of playing guard dog?”

“Not if the person I’m guarding’s worth the chase.”

That pulled a quiet snort from you. Fox heard it.

Chuchi, lips pressed in a fine line, excused herself and stepped aside—clearly trying to regain the upper hand.

The music swelled. Jedi floated between circles of influence. No one else seemed to notice that the air had gone charged, electric. A love square strung tight.

You stood between them, half a heartbeat from chaos.

And somewhere deep down, you enjoyed it.

The lights in the atrium dimmed just slightly as a new musical ensemble began to play—string instruments from Naboo, delicate and formal. On the surface, everything was polished elegance. Beneath, cracks were spreading.

Chuchi had excused herself from your circle not out of disinterest, but strategy. She’d caught sight of your handmaidens lingering near a refreshments table, their gowns modest and their eyes sweeping the room with practiced subtlety.

“Excuse me,” she said with a gentle smile as she approached. “You’re the senator’s attendants, yes?”

Your senior handmaiden, Maera offered only a nod. Ila, eager to please and twice as naive, curtsied.

“She’s fortunate to have you,” Chuchi continued, a kindness in her voice. “It can’t be easy, assisting someone so… involved in such controversial matters.”

“It isn’t,” said the younger girl quickly. “But she’s not what people say. She just—”

“She just doesn’t care who she angers, as long as it moves the line,” the elder interrupted. “It’s her strength. And her flaw.”

Chuchi tilted her head. “You’re fiercely loyal.”

“We don’t have the luxury of softness where we’re from, Senator Chuchi,” the elder said simply. “Not all planets grow up in peace.”

Before Chuchi could respond, a sudden flare of static caught attention nearby.

Your protocol droid—newly repainted and proud in fresh navy and chrome—was engaged in a verbal deathmatch with none other than C-3PO.

“I assure you,” Threepio huffed, “I have been fluent in over six million forms of communication since before you were assembled, and—”

“Perhaps,” your droid cut in smoothly, “but proficiency does not equal relevance. One might be fluent in six million forms of conversation and still be incapable of saying anything useful.”

“Well, I never—!”

“Correct. And that, sir, is the problem.”

Nearby Jedi Council members were visibly trying not to react, though Plo Koon’s mask did a poor job of hiding the amused twitch at the edge of his mouth.

Amid the chaos, you had drifted from the center. Politics buzzed behind you. You found yourself near the balcony edge—narrow, cordoned off, affording a view of Coruscant’s skyline.

Fox found you there.

You knew it was him before he spoke—he moved like precision, shadow and control in equal measure.

“Senator.”

You didn’t turn, not right away. “Commander.”

He stepped beside you, stiff in his formal armor, helmet clipped to his belt.

“I noticed your… astromech’s absence tonight.”

You smirked faintly. “Yes, well. I’d like to avoid sparking an incident with the Jedi Council over a ‘misunderstanding.’ He has a habit of setting things on fire and claiming self-defense.”

Fox made a sound—something between a huff and a grunt. Amused. Maybe.

You turned your head slightly, catching his expression. “Disappointed? I thought you didn’t approve of my companions.”

“I don’t,” he admitted. “But I’m…used to them.”

That was, for Fox, practically a declaration of fondness.

“I’d say the same about you,” you said, voice quieter now. “I don’t approve of you either. But I’ve gotten used to you.”

His jaw flexed. He didn’t answer. Not directly. But his eyes lingered longer than they should have.

Then—

“Senator,” Chuchi’s voice cut across the air like a scalpel.

You turned to find her approaching, poised and polished. Behind her, your protocol droid and C-3PO were still trading passive-aggressive historical references. Hound watched the balcony from a distance, arms crossed, unreadable.

Fox straightened the moment Chuchi arrived. You stepped back just a little.

And the triangle turned into a square again.

Tight.

Tense.

And ready to collapse.

⸻

Beyond the golden arches of the Senate Hall, music swelled and faded like waves. Goblets clinked. Laughter rolled off the lips of polished politicians and robed generals. But not everyone was celebrating.

Behind an alcove veiled by rich burgundy drapes, four Jedi stood in quiet counsel.

Mace Windu, ever the sentinel of Order, stood at the head of the half-circle, his gaze fixed beyond the banquet like he could see the fractures forming beneath the marble.

“His behavior has changed,” Windu said. “Subtly. But not insignificantly.”

“He still reports for duty,” Plo Koon offered, voice gravel-smooth but thoughtful. “Still acts with discipline.”

“And yet,” Shaak Ti murmured, “I have observed Commander Fox linger longer than usual at Senate functions. His patrol patterns shift more often when certain senators are present. And he has taken… liberties with Senator Ryio’s assignments.”

“Nothing has breached protocol,” Anakin interjected. “Fox is loyal. He’s the best the Guard has.”

Shaak Ti gave him a long look. “And yet, there is more than one clone whose loyalty might now be divided.”

Anakin’s jaw twitched.

“This isn’t Kamino,” Windu said coolly. “We cannot afford emotional compromise in the Guard—not now, not when tensions are already splintering the Senate. These clones were not bred for palace intrigue.”

Plo Koon folded his arms. “And yet we bring them into the heart of it.”

“We trained them to follow orders,” Shaak Ti added gently. “Not hearts.”

Anakin looked between them, the shadows of his past bleeding into the tension. He didn’t need to ask who else they were talking about. It wasn’t just Fox. Hound had been seen near Senator [Y/N]’s apartment. Thorn, too, had lingered far longer than necessary when she’d been attacked.

“She’s dangerous,” Mace continued, tone edged in steel. “Not reckless—but calculating. Clever. Her alliances shift like smoke, and I do not trust her attention toward Fox or the others.”

“She’s done nothing wrong,” Anakin said.

“Yet,” Windu countered. “Keep watch, Skywalker. If she’s tangled them in personal threads, it must be cut. Quickly.”

⸻

You sipped from your glass of deep red wine, half-listening to a cluster of outer rim delegates arguing over fleet taxation. But your eyes wandered, again, to the crimson armor across the room.

Fox.

He was speaking with Mon Mothma and Bail Organa. Calm. Professional. Controlled, as always.

But his gaze flickered toward you now and then—unreadable, unreadably Fox. And just behind him, your polished protocol droid hovered patiently, Maera and Ila whispering about a dessert tray.

The Council was watching. You could feel it.

⸻

The air inside the Jedi Councilchamber was tense, still, and too quiet. Four members of the Coruscant Guard stood before the Jedi Council’s senior representatives: Fox, Thorn, Stone, and Hound, all sharp in posture, their expressions unreadable behind the stoic training of a million battlefield hours.

Opposite them, stood Masters Mace Windu, Shaak Ti, Plo Koon, and a late-arriving Anakin Skywalker, who kept to the shadows of the room.

“This is not an accusation,” Master Windu began, tone steely. “But a reminder. You are peacekeepers. Defenders of the Republic. Not participants in the political games of its Senate.”

Shaak Ti added gently, “We’ve noted a… shift. Certain guards developing close ties to senators. Attachments. Loyalties. Intimacies. We remind you that such relationships blur lines—lines that should never have been crossed.”

Plo Koon looked to them with quiet concern. “It is not about love, nor about loyalty. It is about danger. Risk. The Republic cannot afford to have its protectors compromised by personal bonds.”

Hound flinched. Barely. Fox didn’t move, but Thorn cast him a pointed glance.

“We won’t name names,” Windu said, “but this is your only warning. Choose duty.”

Dismissed, the clones saluted and filed out, silent as ghosts—yet burdened more heavily than ever.

⸻

It was nearly midnight when the knock came. You weren’t expecting anyone—Maera had already sent off the last reports, and Ila was curled up with a datapad on the couch.

Maera opened the door, only to blink as Anakin Skywalker strolled in, cloak trailing and R2-D2 chirping along behind him.

“Don’t tell me the Jedi are doing door-to-door interrogations now,” you said, not bothering to stand from your desk.

“Just figured you should hear it from someone who doesn’t speak in riddles and judgment,” Anakin replied. “They warned the Guard today.”

You looked up slowly.

“About me?”

“About all of it. You. Chuchi. Hound. Fox.”

You leaned back in your chair, lacing your fingers together. “So the Council knows?”

“They suspect,” he clarified. “But they’ve already made up their minds. No direct interference. But they’ll start pulling strings. Reassignments. Surveillance. Sudden policy shifts.”

You exhaled slowly. “Let me guess. The clones are the ones punished.”

Anakin’s jaw tightened. “Always.”

He came closer, leaning against the wall by your window. “Whatever this is, [Y/N], if you want to protect them—you keep it behind closed doors. Don’t give the Council an excuse.”

Your eyes narrowed, flicking up to him. “And what would you know about secret relationships with forbidden attachments?”

Anakin looked out over the Coruscant skyline. “More than you think.”

R2-D2 gave a sympathetic beep. At his side, your own droid—R9—rolled out from the side hall, curious as ever. Shockingly, the grumpy little astromech gave R2 a pleased warble. The two machines chirped at each other in low binary, exchanging stories, gossip, perhaps a murder plot. You couldn’t tell.

“Great,” you muttered. “My homicidal trash can made a friend.”

VX-7 entered as well, standing sentinel near the door and giving R2 a quick scan before offering a polite, professional greeting. “Designation confirmed. Diplomatic assistant, Anakin Skywalker. Cleared for temporary access.”

“You really upgraded them,” Anakin noted.

“They’re smarter than most senators,” you said with a dry smirk. “And less dangerous.”

He moved to leave, but hesitated. “Just… be careful. I know you think you don’t owe anyone anything—but Hound’s already in too deep. And Fox? He’s starting to crack.”

“Fox doesn’t even know he’s in love,” you said coolly.

“Exactly,” Anakin said. “That makes him more dangerous than the rest of us.”

You gave him a look. “Including you?”

Anakin’s lips quirked. “Especially me.”

Then he and R2 were gone, and the apartment fell quiet again—except for the low, strangely comforting chatter of astromechs speaking in beeps and secrets.

⸻

Previous Part | Next Part

“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

“Grizzer’s Choice”

Sergeant Hound x Reader

Coruscant’s upper levels were all steel and structure, but down here—beneath the polished platforms and Senate façades—was the Coruscant Guard’s territory. Order in chaos. The pulse of the city was felt more than seen, vibrating faintly under your boots as you stepped into the Guard kennel compound for the first time.

You took a slow breath. It smelled of durasteel, sanitizing agents, and wet fur.

Perfect.

You’d worked with animals your whole life. Big ones. Aggressive ones. Ones people gave up on, called dangerous or impossible. That’s how you landed the job—new mastiff handler for the Coruscant Guard’s prized unit.

A few troopers passed you with curious looks—some respectful, some dismissive. It wasn’t common for civilians to be embedded here. It was rarer still for one to be given a job involving him.

Grizzer.

The massiff lay in the shadowed corner of the compound, head lifted, ears twitching. His yellow eyes locked on you immediately.

The massiff was a fixture in Guard circles. A creature bred for control, raised on structure, trained in pain response and patrol aggression. He wasn’t a pet. He wasn’t a soldier, either. He was something in between—lethal and loyal, the way a war dog should be.

And he didn’t like anyone but his handler. The clone in crimson-striped armor waiting for you outside the kennels stood with arms folded, helmet clipped to his belt, posture sharp as a vibroblade.

“[Y/N]?” he asked, voice clipped.

“Yes, sir. Reporting for assignment.”

“Sergeant Hound,” he introduced. No small talk, no smile. “You’ll be assisting with behavioral oversight and training reinforcement for the precinct’s massiffs. That doesn’t mean taking liberties. You observe. You follow orders. You stay out of the way.”

Not exactly a welcome mat.

You nodded. “Understood.”

He turned on his heel and led you inside.

The kennels were quiet—clean, organized. The soft shuffle of claws on durasteel echoed from a side corridor. Grizzer was massive—thick-muscled, scarred, and alert. His hackles rose the moment his yellow eyes landed on you. His lip twitched in a soundless growl.

You kept your posture loose but grounded. Not threatening. Not submissive.

“Don’t speak,” Hound said quietly. “Just kneel. Hands visible.”

You obeyed without hesitation.

Grizzer approached—slow, ears rotating slightly. You didn’t reach out. You simply held your ground, steady, and let him scent the air between you.

Then, to Hound’s quiet surprise, Grizzer sat. Not completely relaxed. But watching you, calm.

Hound blinked.

“He doesn’t do that,” he muttered.

You finally glanced up. “He does now.””

⸻

Grizzer had taken to you faster than anyone expected. It was subtle—he didn’t become affectionate or eager—but he tolerated your touch, followed your directions, even mirrored your body language during patrol drills. The clone officers noticed. Fox himself dropped a comment during one of the rotation briefings.

“Grizzer’s got a new favorite,” he muttered as he passed you.

You caught Hound watching you more often now—sometimes in silence during shift changes, sometimes while adjusting Grizzer’s gear. Not hostile. Just… thoughtful. Assessing.

That night, while off-duty, you found yourself sitting on the edge of a service stairwell overlooking the lower hangar levels. A small moment of quiet between patrols.

Boots echoed behind you.

“You’re off duty,” Hound said, approaching. “You could be sleeping.”

You smirked without looking back. “You could be too.”

He stood beside you for a moment, then sat—grudgingly, like it offended him to admit he needed rest.

Silence lingered. But not heavy this time. Companionable.

“I’ve seen Grizzer bite men for less than standing too close to me,” he said eventually.

You turned to him, arching a brow. “Should I be worried?”

“No.” He paused. “That’s what’s strange.”

A beat passed.

“He trusts you,” Hound continued. “That’s not something I trained into him. That’s something he chose.”

You studied him—his scarred knuckles, the stiffness in his shoulders that never fully eased. A soldier first. A handler second. A man… somewhere beneath all of that.

“Then I guess he’s smarter than both of us,” you said softly.

Hound looked at you.

Not sharply. Not critically.

Just looked. And for the first time, you saw something tired in him. Not weak. Just worn down from too many deployments, too many arrests, too many shifting rules in a galaxy that didn’t make sense anymore.

“Maybe,” he murmured. “Or maybe he just sees what I’m too used to ignoring.”

You tilted your head. “What’s that?”

“You care. And you don’t ask for anything in return.”

Another pause. A flicker of something in his gaze.

“That’s rare in this job,” he added.

Grizzer padded over from the shadows and laid his heavy head on your lap, letting out a slow sigh.

Hound stared at the massiff, then at you again.

“I was wrong about you,” he said simply. “You’re not here to handle the animals.”

You raised a brow.

“You’re here to remind us we’re more than just uniforms.”

You didn’t respond.

Grizzer’s weight was comforting. His head rested on your lap, massive chest rising and falling in sync with your breathing. You absently scratched behind his coarse ears, your fingers finding the notch from some old skirmish or riot bite. Hound had gone quiet beside you, his elbows resting on his knees, head slightly bowed.

He was still wearing half his armor—greaves, chestplate, the red markings catching the glow from the hangar lights below. He looked tired. But not worn down. Just quiet.

The kind of quiet soldiers earned, not feared.

“You always this silent off-duty?” you asked gently.

Hound exhaled a faint laugh—just enough breath to make it real. “Only when I’m trying not to ruin something.”

You turned toward him slightly. “Ruin what?”

He met your gaze. And something about it—about the lack of armor in his eyes—made the silence between you shift. He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, his hand lifted—callused and gloved—almost as if to brush a stray strand of hair from your face. But he stopped, fingers hovering just near your cheek.

“I’m not good at this,” he said quietly.

You swallowed. “You don’t have to be.”

A breath passed.

He leaned in—barely. The kind of lean that spoke of hesitation, of a soldier measuring risk, calculating damage, even here. Even now.

And you leaned in, too.

It wasn’t a kiss. Not yet. But the space between you narrowed to a thread, the kind you didn’t want to break. His eyes flicked to your mouth, then back up.

Then—

“Sergeant.”

The voice cracked the moment apart like a blaster round through glass.

Both of you jerked slightly apart, tension resetting in your shoulders. Grizzer lifted his head from your lap, a low rumble forming deep in his throat.

Commander Fox stood at the top of the stairwell, arms folded, expression unreadable. His helmet was clipped to his belt, and his voice was flat.

“We’re short a patrol on Sector C-14. I need you on rotation, now.”

Hound’s jaw clenched, but he nodded once, efficient and emotionless.

“Copy that.”

Fox’s gaze slid to you, then to Grizzer—who was now fully on his feet, hackles half-raised, eyes locked on the Commander like he was prey. A low growl echoed across the steel.

“Call off your mutt,” Fox said sharply.

“He’s not a mutt,” you said before thinking, standing slowly and resting a hand on Grizzer’s flank. “He just doesn’t like people who interrupt.”

Fox’s brow twitched. Hound gave you the faintest side-glance—half warning, half impressed.

“See that he’s leashed and off the hangar levels by 2200,” Fox added, then turned and walked off without another word.

Silence returned, but it wasn’t the same.

Hound rose to his feet beside you. Grizzer stayed close to your leg, still staring toward the stairwell.

You broke the quiet first. “Almost.”

He nodded, quiet.

“Yeah.”

Neither of you said it. You didn’t need to.

But as he stepped away, pausing just long enough for one last look, you caught the faintest flicker of something in his voice—something that sounded like hope.

“I’m on rotation ‘til 0300,” he said. “But I’ll be back.”

You nodded once, heart steady but loud. “I’ll wait.”

Grizzer huffed.

Hound gave the massiff a rare half-smile.

“Try not to bite Fox next time,” he muttered.

But even you could tell… he wasn’t entirely serious.

⸻

You were still awake.

The barracks were quiet. You’d been sitting on a folded crate just outside the kennel med bay, a stim-caf growing cold between your hands, eyes scanning the darkened corridor.

When the outer hatch hissed open, your breath caught.

Hound stepped through first—helmet on, armor dulled with soot and carbon scuffs. But it wasn’t him your eyes locked on.

It was Grizzer.

He limped in beside his handler, front right paw curled tight to avoid weight, blood drying in a jagged smear up his shoulder. His thick tail was low but not tucked—still alert, still proud, but hurting.

“Blaster graze,” Hound said as he approached, voice clipped, too calm.

You were already moving.

“I’m not a vet, but—bring him in. Now.”

Hound didn’t argue.

He followed you through the kennel’s side hall into the back medical stall—one of the few areas with proper light and clean storage drawers. You cleared the low bench, grabbing antiseptic, gauze, a med-spray from your locker.

Grizzer lay down without command, eyes tracking you but not fighting. You took that as trust.

You worked in silence. Gently shaving back the singed fur, dabbing the graze clean. It wasn’t deep, but it had burned skin—angry, red, raw.

You caught Hound’s hands twitching at his sides more than once.

“He’ll be okay,” you said softly. “No nerve damage. He’ll walk it off in two days.”

Hound crouched beside Grizzer, resting one hand on the massiff’s uninjured shoulder, his other brushing through the thick fur behind his ear.

The silence that settled wasn’t empty—it was full.

Full of the sound of breath evening out. Of blood pressure lowering. Of armor creaking as a soldier finally let go.

“You care about him like he’s more than a partner,” you said, not as a question.

“He’s the only constant I’ve had since Kamino.”

The way he said it—low, quiet, unsentimental—landed heavy.

“I get that,” you replied. “You lose enough people, the ones who stay matter more.”

Grizzer let out a tired huff and nudged your wrist with his nose.

You smiled. “And he’s got good taste in people.”

Hound looked up at you.

Not guarded this time. Not assessing. Just looking.

“You stayed up,” he said.

“I said I’d wait.”

He stood slowly, watching you as you finished wrapping the bandage. The space between you narrowed again—this time in quiet exhaustion, quiet care.

You didn’t flinch when he reached up—just brushed a hand over your cheek, gentle, almost reverent.

He exhaled.

Then you leaned into him.

And he kissed you.

It wasn’t desperate or sharp—just honest. The kind of kiss that says I trust you, the kind that follows after weeks of tension and hours of worry. You melted into it, letting your hand rest over the back of his neckplate, letting him feel that he wasn’t alone anymore.

Then—

Grizzer groaned and shifted between your legs, snout nudging the both of you apart. He pushed his head under your arm and leaned hard into your ribs, jealous and affectionate all at once.

You laughed, breathless. “You little saboteur.”

“He’s worse than Fox,” Hound muttered.

You and Hound both turned as the side hall door hissed open again.

“Oh for kriff’s—”

Commander Thorn stood in the doorway, a datapad in hand, brows raised.

He took one look at the scene—Grizzer crammed between the two of you like a possessive third wheel, Hound with his hand still at your waist, you flushed and tousled.

There was a long pause.

Thorn blinked once. Then he pivoted neatly on his heel.

“I don’t wanna know about it,” he said, walking off.

The door hissed shut again behind him.

Silence.

Then Hound let out a low chuckle—just a puff of breath, really, but it was genuine. He looked down at you, still holding your waist.

“At least it wasn’t Fox.”

You smiled. “I’ll take it.”

Grizzer gave one last grunt of satisfaction and nosed between you both again.

Hound shook his head, but his hand didn’t leave your side.

Not this time.

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

“The Lesser of Two Wars” pt.10

Commander Fox x Reader X Commander Thorn

The transmission hit her desk with all the weight of a blaster bolt.

Her planet. Under threat.

The Separatists were making moves—fleet signatures near the outer perimeter of her system, whispers of droid deployment, unrest stoked in territories that hadn’t seen true peace in years. She knew the signs. She’d lived through them once.

And she was not going to watch her world burn again.

She stood before the Senate with a voice louder than it had ever been.

The Senate chambers were suffocating. The cries of war, politics, and pleas for support blurred into white noise as the senator stood at the center, resolute and burning with purpose.

“My planet is under threat,” she said, voice clear, powerful. “We have no fleet, no shield generator, no standing army worth more than a gesture. We were promised protection when we joined this Republic. Will you now let us burn for being forgotten?”

A pause followed. Murmurs stirred. Eyes averted.

“Request denied,” one senator muttered.

“You owe us this!” she shouted, her words echoing through the chambers. “I gave everything I had to stabilize my planet. My people know what war costs. They know what it takes to survive it. But they shouldn’t have to do it alone.”

Some senators looked away. Others whispered. A few nodded, expressions grim with understanding or guilt.

Chancellor Palpatine raised a single hand, silencing the room.

“You will have one battalion,” he said at last, voice velvet and dangerous. “We do not have more to spare.”

Her gut twisted, but she bowed her head. “Thank you, Chancellor.”

No one looked at her when she nodded in silence, but the steel in her spine was unmistakable.

The descent back to her homeworld was cold, unceremonious.

Commander Neyo stood at the head of the troop transport, motionless, arms behind his back, helmet fixed forward. Every movement of his men was calculated, seamless. The 91st Reconnaissance Corps was surgical in nature—swift, efficient, detached.

Master Stass Allie stood nearby, hands folded in front of her. She radiated composed strength, yet there was a gentleness to her that seemed at odds with Neyo’s blunt precision.

“I advise you not to disembark with the vanguard,” Stass said evenly. “Let the initial scan and sweep conclude before you step into an active zone.”

“This is my home,” the senator replied, eyes fixed on the viewport. “And I won’t return to it behind a wall of armor.”

Neyo turned slightly. “Then stay out of our way. We’re not here to make emotional reunions.”

The senator didn’t flinch.

“I didn’t ask you to be.”

The ship pierced the cloud cover, revealing the battered surface below. Her capital city—once a war zone, now partially rebuilt—spread like a scar across red earth. Familiar buildings stood among ruins and reconstruction. It hadn’t healed. Not fully. Not yet.

The shuttle landed. Dust curled around the hull as the ramp lowered.

Neyo’s troops deployed immediately, securing the perimeter with wordless discipline. The senator stepped down, her boots hitting home soil for the first time since she had sworn herself to diplomacy instead of command.

She took a breath.

The air still held the tang of iron, of scorched ground and old blood. Her eyes burned, not from wind.

She walked out ahead of the Jedi, ahead of the soldiers. Alone.

The wind carried voices—hushed, reverent, fearful. Civilians and civil guards had gathered to watch from a distance. Her return wasn’t met with cheers. Only silence. Recognition.

And wariness.

“She’s back,” someone murmured.

Another whispered, “After everything she did?”

Master Stass Allie watched carefully. “You knew this wouldn’t be easy.”

“I didn’t come back for easy,” the senator said, her voice firm. “I came back because I have to. Because I won’t let this place fall again.”

Commander Neyo gave no comment. His orders were simple: defend the system, follow the Jedi, and keep the senator from becoming a casualty or a liability.

As they moved out to establish the command post, the senator stood atop a ridge just beyond the city. She looked out over the familiar lands—the riverbed turned battleground, the hills where she buried her dead, the skyline marked with the skeletons of buildings still bearing her war scars.

For a moment, she didn’t feel like a senator.

She felt like a commander again.

Only this time, she wasn’t sure which version of her was more dangerous.

⸻

The makeshift command tent was pitched atop a fortified overlook, giving the 91st a wide tactical view of the lowland valley just outside the capital city. Dust clung to every surface, and holomaps flickered under the dim lights as Stass Allie, Commander Neyo, and the senator gathered around the central table.

Stass was calm as ever, a quiet storm of wisdom and strategy. Neyo stood rigid beside her, visor lowered, hands clasped behind his back.

The senator, though wearing no armor, held a presence that could bend the room.

“We’re expecting a heavy push through the mountain pass. Based on Seppie patterns, they’ll aim to box in the capital and strangle supply lines. We need to flank before they dig in,” Stass said, pointing to the high ridges on the eastern approach.

“The ridge is tactically sound,” Neyo added. “Minimal resistance, optimal vantage. If we come down from the temple heights here—” he gestured, tapping the map with precision, “—we’ll break their formation before they reach the capital walls.”

“No.”

The word cut sharp through the low hum of the command tent.

Neyo’s head tilted. “Pardon?”

The senator leaned in, steady but resolute. “That approach takes us through Virean Plateau.”

“Yes,” Neyo said flatly. “It’s elevated, provides cover, and we can route artillery through the lower trails.”

“It’s sacred ground.”

Stass glanced at the senator, then back to the map. “Sacred or not, the Separatists won’t hesitate to use it.”

“I know,” the senator replied. “But I also know what happens when that soil is soaked with blood. I made that mistake once. I won’t make it again.”

Neyo didn’t react immediately. The silence hung for a moment too long.

“So we disregard the optimal path because of sentiment?” he asked, voice devoid of tone.

“It’s not sentiment,” she answered. “It’s consequence. Virean Plateau is more than earth—it’s memory. It’s where we buried our dead after the first uprising. My own people nearly turned on me for allowing it to become a battlefield. If we desecrate it again, there may be no peace left to return to.”

Stass Allie offered a glance of measured approval.

“Alternative?” she asked.

The senator reached across the table, tapping a narrow canyon west of the capital. “We pull them in here—tight quarters, limited maneuvering. Use a bottleneck tactic with mines set along the walls. They’ll have no choice but to cluster. When they do, we collapse the ridgeline.”

“A canyon ambush is high-risk,” Neyo said. “We’ll lose men.”

“We’ll lose more if we trample sacred ground and spark another civil uprising in the middle of a war. You don’t win with the cleanest plan. You win with the one that leaves something behind to rebuild.”

Stass nodded slowly. “She’s right.”

Neyo didn’t argue. He only leaned back, helmet fixed on the senator.

“I’ll adjust the approach. But don’t expect the enemy to respect your boundaries.”

“I don’t,” she replied. “That’s why we’ll strike first.”

Stass looked between them—soldier, Jedi, and the politician who once ruled like a warlord. There was no denying it.

The senator wasn’t a commander anymore.

But the commander was still very much alive.

⸻

The canyon was harsh and narrow, carved by centuries of wind and fury. Now it would become the place they’d make their stand.

The senator walked the length of the rocky pass beside Neyo and a few of his officers, outlining trap points with the kind of confidence most senators never possessed. Her voice was sure. Her boots didn’t falter. Her fingers grazed the canyon wall as she surveyed the terrain—like she was greeting an old friend rather than scouting a battleground.

Neyo had seen Jedi generals hesitate more than she did.

“We’ll place remote charges here,” she said, stopping near a brittle overhang. “If the droids push too fast, we bring the rocks down and funnel them into kill zones here—” she pointed again, “—and here. Then your men pick them off with sniper fire from the high spines.”

“Clever,” said one of the clones, glancing at Neyo.

“Risky,” Neyo replied, but his tone wasn’t cold. Just observant.

She turned to face him fully. “Victory demands risk. I thought you understood that better than anyone.”

Neyo’s visor met her eyes. There was silence, then: “You speak like a soldier.”

“I was one,” she said. “The galaxy just prefers to forget that part.”

Over the next few hours, she moved among the men—kneeling beside them, helping place mines, checking line of sight through scopes, confirming relay ranges with engineers. Stass Allie watched with a calm kind of pride, saying nothing. Neyo observed with calculated interest.

She laughed once—soft, almost involuntary—when a younger clone dropped a charge too early and scrambled after it. She helped him reset it. She got her hands dirty.

She didn’t give orders from a chair. She stood with them in the dust.

Neyo found himself watching more than he should. Not because he didn’t trust her—but because something had shifted. Slightly. Quietly. In a way he didn’t welcome.

Respect.

It crept in slowly. Earned with sweat and grit. She didn’t demand it. She claimed it.

And somewhere beneath that iron discipline of his, Neyo began to wonder—

If she looked at him the way she did Thorn or Fox… would he really be so different from them?

It disturbed him.

He didn’t want to admire her. Not like that.

But when she stood atop the ridge that night, wind catching her hair, the stars reflecting in her eyes as she looked over the battlefield they were shaping together, Neyo didn’t see a senator.

He saw a force.

He saw someone worth following.

And he suddenly understood just a little more about Fox—and hated that understanding with every part of himself.

The trap was set.

From the top of the canyon ridges, the 91st Reconnaissance Corps lay in wait, eyes sharp behind visors, rifles trained on the winding path below. Beside them, one hundred of the senator’s own planetary guard stood tall, armor painted in the deep ochre and black of her homeland, their spears and blasters at the ready. The senator stood at the head of her people, clad in their ancestral war armor—obsidian plates trimmed with silver and red, a high-collared cape catching the canyon wind like a banner.

She was a vision of history reborn.

General Stass Allie stood with Neyo above, watching the enemy approach—a column of Separatist tanks and droid squads snaking into the narrow death trap.

“All units,” Neyo’s voice crackled over comms. “Hold position.”

The canyon trembled with the metallic march of the droids.

Then—detonation.

Explosions thundered down the cliffside as rock and fire collapsed over the lead tanks, just as planned. Droids scattered, confused, rerouting, pushing forward into the choke point—and then the 91st opened fire.

Sniper bolts rained from above.

The senator’s people surged from behind the outcroppings with war cries, cutting into the confused line of droids. She led them—blade drawn, cloak flowing behind her—fierce and unrelenting. For a moment, the tide was perfect.

And then it broke.

A spider droid crested an unscouted rise from the rear—missed in recon. It fired before anyone could react.

The blast hit near the senator.

She was thrown through the air, landing hard against a rock with a crack that echoed over the battlefield.

“SENATOR!” one of her guards screamed, his voice raw and desperate as he ran toward her, but she was already pushing herself up on shaking arms, blood running from her temple.

“ADVANCE, GOD DAMMIT!” she shouted, hoarse and furious. “They’re right there! Don’t you dare stop now!”

Her people faltered only for a moment.

Then they roared as one and charged again, stepping over her, past her, and into the storm of fire and metal.

From above, Neyo watched, jaw clenched beneath his helmet. Stass Allie placed a hand on his shoulder as if to calm him—but it wasn’t his rage she was tempering.

It was something else.

The senator stood—bloodied, staggering—but unbroken. She took up her sword again and limped forward, refusing to let anyone see her fall.

And the canyon echoed with the sound of war and loyalty—and the scream of a woman who would not be made small by pain.

Her leg burned. Her side screamed with every breath. But the senator forced herself upright, gripping her sword tight enough for her knuckles to pale beneath her gloves. The dust stung her eyes. Blaster fire carved bright streaks through the canyon air. Her guard surged ahead of her—but she refused to let them lead alone.

Not here. Not again.

She limped forward, blade dragging against the stone until the blood from her brow soaked into her collar. The pain grounded her, reminded her she was alive—reminded her that she had to be.

A Separatist droid rounded the corner—a commando unit. It raised its blaster.

Too slow.

She lunged forward with a cry and cleaved the droid clean through the chestplate, sparks flying as it collapsed.

“Fall back to the rally point!” one of the clones called, but she didn’t. She moved forward instead, shoulder to shoulder with the men and women of her world, guiding them through the chaos, calling orders, ducking fire.

From the ridge, Neyo watched. “Is she insane?”

“She’s winning,” Stass Allie replied, eyes narrowed beneath her hood. “Don’t pretend you’re not impressed.”

He said nothing.

Below, a final wave of droids tried to regroup—but it was too late. The choke point had collapsed behind them in rubble, and the senator’s forces flanked them from both sides.

Trapped.

The 91st swept down from the cliffs like silent ghosts—precise, efficient, ruthless. The senator’s guard hit from the ground, coordinated, focused, fighting like people with something to prove.

With something to protect.

She reached the center just in time to plunge her blade into the last B2 battle droid before it could fire. It slumped, dead weight and scorched metal, collapsing at her feet.

Then—silence.

The canyon held its breath.

The last of the droids fell, and the only sound was the crackle of smoking wreckage and the harsh breaths of soldiers.

They’d won.

The senator stood among the wreckage, blood trickling down her face, her people all around her—some wounded, some helping others to their feet. She breathed heavily, sword lowered, shoulders sagging.

Neyo descended from the cliffs with a small team, Stass Allie close behind. His armor was immaculate, untouched by battle. Hers was battered, scorched, soaked.

And yet she looked stronger than ever.

Their eyes met across the dust and ruin.

He gave a short, tight nod.

“You disobeyed every strategic rule in the book,” he said, voice flat.

“And I saved my people,” she replied, barely above a rasp.

Another pause.

Then, quiet—barely perceptible—Neyo muttered, “…Noted.”

⸻

The city beyond the canyon lit up in firelight and song.

Victory drums echoed off the walls of the ancient stone hall as the people of her planet celebrated the blood they shed—and the blood they did not. Bonfires lined the streets. Horns blared. Men and women danced barefoot in the dust, tankards raised high. Her world had survived another war. And like always, they honored it with noise and joy and wine.

The clones of the 91st were invited—expected—to join. They looked stunned at first, caught off guard by the raw emotion and warmth thrown at them. But it didn’t take long before some of them loosened up, helmets off, cups in hand. A few were pulled into dances. One poor trooper got kissed on the mouth by a war widow three times his age.

Commander Neyo remained on the outskirts. Always watching. Always apart.

The senator—dressed down in soft, flowing local fabrics now stained with wine and dust, her war paint only half faded—was plastered. Laughing one moment, arguing with an elder the next, trying to teach a clone how to chant over the firepit after that.

Eventually, she broke from the crowd. She spotted Neyo standing at the edge of the firelight, arms folded, as if even now he couldn’t relax.

She staggered up to him, hair wild, eyes sharp even beneath the drunken haze.

“Neyo,” she said, slurring just slightly, “why are you always standing so still? Don’t you ever feel anything?”

“I feel plenty,” he replied. “I just don’t need to dance about it.”

She narrowed her eyes and jabbed a finger at him. “You’re a cold bastard.”

“Correct.”

She stepped closer, closer than she normally would. “You made Fox apologise.”

He didn’t answer.

Her gaze flicked over his helmet. “He wouldn’t have done that. Not without something—big. What did you say to him?”

A pause.

“He was out of line,” Neyo finally said. “I reminded him what his rank means.”

“That’s not all,” she pushed. “What did you really say?”

He looked at her then, just barely, as if debating whether to speak at all. Finally:

“I told him that if he was going to act like a lovesick cadet, then he should resign his commission and go write poetry. Otherwise, he needed to remember he’s a marshal commander. And act like it.”

She blinked. “That’s exactly what you said?”

“No,” Neyo said, dryly. “What I actually said would’ve made your generals back during the war flinch.”

She snorted. “I like you more when you’re drunk.”

“I don’t get drunk.”

She leaned in, bold with wine. “Maybe if you did, you’d understand why I’m not angry with him.”

He stared at her, unreadable.

“I’m not angry,” she repeated. “But he didn’t tell me how he felt. You scared him into making amends, but you can’t make him say it.” She tilted her head. “And now you’ve got him cornered. And you’re mad at him for it.”

“You don’t know anything about me,” Neyo said quietly.

“No,” she said, “but you keep looking at me like you wish I didn’t belong to someone else.”

The silence hung for a moment.

Then Neyo stepped back. “Enjoy your celebration, Senator.”

He turned and walked away.

She stood there for a long moment—then swayed on her feet, laughing softly to herself, and staggered back toward the fire.

⸻

Her head throbbed like war drums.

The sun was too bright. The sheets were too scratchy. Her mouth tasted like smoke and fermented fruit. And worst of all—

“—and furthermore, Senator, I must note that your behavior last night was entirely unbecoming of your station—”

“GH-9,” she croaked from the bed, voice raw, “if you say one more word, I will bury your smug golden head in the canyon and file it as a tragic mining accident.”

The protocol droid paused. “I was merely expressing concern, Senator—”

The beeping started next.

Sharp, furious chirps in a tone that could only be described as personally offended.

“Don’t you start,” she groaned, flopping a pillow over her head. “R7, I don’t have time for your attitude. I left you here because I value my life.”

The astromech bleeped something that sounded like a slur.

GH-9 tilted its shiny head. “I believe he just suggested you value nothing and have the moral fiber of a womp rat.”

“Tell him he’s not wrong.”

R7 gave a triumphant whistle and spun in a little angry circle.

She dragged herself out of bed like a corpse rising from the grave. Her hair was a disaster. Her ceremonial paint from the night before had smeared into a mess of black streaks and gold glitter. Her armor lay in a forgotten pile across the room, boots kicked halfway under the dresser.

“You two weren’t supposed to come back with me,” she mumbled as she washed her face with cold water. “That’s why I left you. GH, you talk too much, and R7, you nearly tasered Senator Ask Aak the last time we were in session.”

The astromech beeped proudly.

“I told you he wasn’t a Separatist.”

R7’s dome swiveled in defiance.

GH-9 cleared its vocabulator. “Might I remind you, Senator, that both of us are programmed for loyal service, and your reckless abandon in leaving us behind—”

She flicked water at it.

“Don’t test me,” she muttered, pulling on her fresh tunic.

The shuttle was due to depart in two hours. Neyo and his battalion had already begun packing. The war drums had long gone quiet, and now, only the dull hush of cleanup remained outside her window.

She looked around the modest bedroom—her old bedroom. It hadn’t changed. Neither had the ache in her chest when she looked at it. Not grief. Not nostalgia. Something heavier. Something unnamed.

Behind her, GH-9 stood stiffly, arms behind his back like a tutor waiting for his student to fail.

R7, on the other hand, rolled up beside her and nudged her leg.

She sighed and rested a hand on his dome.

“Fine,” she muttered. “You can both come. Just promise me one of you won’t mouth off in front of the Chancellor, and the other won’t stab anyone.”

R7 whirred.

“That wasn’t a no.”

⸻

The landing platform gleamed in the pale Coruscanti sun, all cold durasteel and blinding reflection. The moment the ramp descended, she could already see the unmistakable figures of Fox and Thorn standing at the base—arms crossed, boots braced, both of them looking equal parts tense and eager.

Her stomach flipped. The droids rolled down behind her.

Fox got to her first, posture rigid, helmet tucked under his arm. “Senator.”

His voice was that low, professional gravel—too careful. Like he wasn’t sure how to greet her now. Like the war, the chaos, and everything unsaid was standing between them.

Thorn was right behind him. He looked less cautious, his gaze dragging over her face, her still-healing arm. “You look like hell,” he said with a small grin.

“Still better than you with your shirt off,” she muttered, smirking up at him.

Thorn’s grin widened. “That’s not what you said on—”

BANG.

A harsh metallic clang interrupted whatever comeback he had lined up. The three of them turned just in time to see her astromech, R7, ramming into Thorn’s shin with a furious burst of mechanical outrage.

“R7!” she barked, storming over. “What did I say about assaulting people?”

The droid chirped angrily and spun his dome toward her, then toward Fox, then let out a long series of beeps that sounded vaguely like profanity. Thorn took a step back, wincing and muttering something about “murder buckets.”

“I think he’s upset no one moved out of his way,” GH-9 said unhelpfully from behind her, arms folded in disdain. “I did warn him to wait, but he believes officers should respect seniority.”

“He’s a droid,” Thorn snapped, rubbing his leg. “A violent one.”

Fox was eyeing R7 with both brows raised. “You didn’t mention you were traveling with an explosive.”

“Fox,” she said, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Don’t provoke him. He’s got a fuse shorter than a thermal detonator and a kill count I don’t want to know.”

“Probably a higher one than mine,” Thorn muttered.

The astromech let out a smug beep.

Fox gave a subtle nod to GH-9. “And what’s his problem?”

“I talk too much,” GH-9 supplied proudly.

“You do,” the Senator stated.

The senator gave up, dragging a hand down her face. “Can we just go? Please? Before he tases someone and it becomes a diplomatic incident?”

Fox stepped aside. Thorn limped with exaggerated pain. R7 spun in satisfaction and zipped ahead like a victorious little gremlin.

She exhaled and muttered under her breath, “I should’ve left them again.”

⸻

Previous Part | Next Part

“The Lesser of Two Wars” pt.4

Commander Fox x Reader X Commander Thorn

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

But Hound noticed.

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

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

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

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

Hound blinked again. “…Pardon?”

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

Grizzer let out a soft woof.

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t want to notice.”

“Ah, but you do.”

Thorn didn’t reply.

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

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

“She flirt with you?”

Thorn hesitated. “Not… obviously.”

“But enough to make Fox irritated.”

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

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

They sat in silence for a minute.

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

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

Hound laughed. “Commander, you need sleep.”

“I need a reassignment.”

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

Thorn exhaled slowly.

“Can’t let it show.”

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

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

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

Not lighter. Not heavier.

Just more aware.

⸻

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

Fox didn’t linger in beautiful places.

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

But she hadn’t gone back inside.

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

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

Then she spoke.

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

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

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

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

She turned slightly, surprised.

He added, “Holding up the wall.”

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

He didn’t answer. Not with words.

He took a step closer instead.

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

But enough for her to notice.

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

“I’m not,” he said flatly.

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

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

And then—

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

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

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

She looked over her shoulder. “Why not?”

He didn’t answer.

Because the truth was—

He didn’t know.

He looked away first.

You stared.

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

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

You stepped toward him.

Just slightly.

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

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

Guarded.

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

“I know enough,” you replied, softer.

He didn’t move.

You tried again.

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

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

You stepped closer.

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

His expression didn’t shift. Not much.

But his hands curled faintly at his sides.

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

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

Fox was quiet for a long time. And then—

“Don’t.”

One word. Clipped. Too sharp to be cold.

You blinked. “Don’t… what?”

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

A warning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he didn’t respond.

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

He stayed there.

In the quiet.

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

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

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

The way his silence had said too much.

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

You didn’t expect the next voice you heard.

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

You froze.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He glanced at you, unreadable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You met his gaze and gave nothing back.

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

His smile thinned. “As do I.”

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

He stepped aside, allowing you to pass.

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

You didn’t look back.

You didn’t need to.

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

⸻

Fox sat in the dark.

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

He hadn’t even made it to his bunk.

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

But his mind wasn’t still.

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

This was different.

She hadn’t said it to wound him.

She’d said it like she meant it.

Like she saw him.

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

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

It was wrong. Letting it get to him.

She was a senator. He was a soldier.

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

What the scent of her did to his focus.

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

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

Fox exhaled slowly and reached for his gloves.

Then paused.

His thumb hovered over the comlink tucked beside his helmet.

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

But just knowing she could.

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

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

Duty first.

Always.

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

⸻

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

Exhausted didn’t quite cover it.

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

Stars above, Fox.

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

And then—

The soft buzz of your datapad.

You blinked.

A message.

Not from the Guard.

Not from your aides.

But…

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

You smiled.

And for a moment, the tension eased.

You didn’t reply to Thorn right away.

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

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

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

The typing indicator blinked back almost immediately.

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

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

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

You stared at that last line.

You earned it today.

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

You typed back:

You: You too, Commander.

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

You weren’t asleep long.

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

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

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

A voice—clipped, familiar, urgent—responded.

Fox.

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

You were already moving. “Where?”

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

You froze for only a heartbeat.

“I’ll be ready in five.”

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

The line cut.

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

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

⸻

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

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

The buzzer chimed again.

You hit the panel to open the door.

And there they were.

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

Neither said anything at first.

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

“Senator. We arrived earlier than anticipated.”

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

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

Next to him, Thorn cleared his throat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fox said nothing.

But his shoulders stiffened just slightly.

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

Danger waited out there.

But for now, this tension?

This was its own kind of war.

⸻

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

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

No one spoke at first.

It was you who finally broke the silence.

“This isn’t random, is it?”

Fox’s head turned. Slowly. “No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You wanted honesty,” he replied quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

⸻

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

“Red and Loyal” pt.1

Commander Fox x Senator Reader

Your voice echoed in the Senate chamber, sharp and laced with desperation.

“They are massing on our borders. Do you understand what that means? My people are not soldiers. If the Separatists come, we won’t stand a chance.”

Bail Organa looked at you with soft regret. Padmé Amidala gave you a sympathetic nod. Even Mon Mothma lowered her eyes.

But sympathy didn’t stop invasions.

Mas Amedda cleared his throat, voice cold. “Senator, the Grand Army’s resources are stretched thin. Reinforcements are already dispatched to Felucia and Mygeeto. We cannot spare more.”

You felt like you’d been struck.

“So we are to be sacrificed?” you snapped, voice rising. “Left to be slaughtered while this chamber debates logistics?”

Whispers erupted. Chancellor Palpatine raised a hand, calm and unbothered. “We understand your concern, Senator. But this is war. Sacrifices must be made.”

You wanted to scream.

Instead, you bowed stiffly and left the chamber before your fury bled into something less diplomatic.

⸻

You didn’t notice him at first—too blinded by anger, by heartbreak, by the fear that your people were going to die for nothing.

But as you stormed through the marble corridors of the Senate building, your shoulder collided with armor.

Red.

Hard.

You looked up—into the steady, unreadable face of Commander Fox.

He barely moved. His arm reached out instinctively, steadying you. “Senator.”

You blinked. You hadn’t realized you were trembling.

“Commander,” you said, voice sharper than you meant.

Fox tilted his head slightly. “Rough session?”

You laughed bitterly. “Only if you consider being told to watch your world burn while they debate budgets rough.”

He said nothing. Not at first. Just watched you, eyes tracking every twitch of emotion on your face.

“I’m sorry,” you muttered, shaking your head. “You don’t need to hear that. You’ve got your own war to fight.”

“I listen better than most senators,” he said quietly.

You blinked.

Fox’s voice was never warm. It was always firm, controlled. Professional.

But this—this was different.

You leaned against the wall, fighting the tears building behind your eyes. “I’m a senator and I’m still powerless.”

“You care,” Fox said, after a beat. “That already makes you different.”

You looked at him. “Do you ever get used to it?”

He was silent. His jaw tensed.

“No,” he said. “But you learn to live with it. Or you break.”

You didn’t realize your hand had drifted close to his until your fingers brushed the back of his glove. A mistake. Or maybe not.

He looked down at your hand, then back at you.

The air between you was taut. Too intimate for a Senate hallway. Too dangerous for two people on opposite sides of a professional line.

And yet…

“If there’s anything I can do,” Fox said, voice low, “for your people… or for you…”

You looked up at him, studying the man beneath the red armor. The one with the tired eyes and careful words. The one who could have kept walking but didn’t.

“You already have,” you whispered.

And then you were gone—leaving Fox standing there, staring at the spot where you’d been.

Fingers still tingling.

⸻

The shuttle’s engines hummed low, a mechanical purr echoing through the Senate docks. The air was thick with fuel, heat, and tension. Your transport was nearly ready—small, lightly defended, and insufficient for what lay ahead, but it would take you home.

You stared out across the city skyline, heart pounding.

They said you were making a mistake. They said returning to your home world was suicide.

But it was your world.

And if it was going to fall, it wouldn’t do so without you standing beside it.

You heard the footsteps before you saw them—measured, purposeful.

Then: the unmistakable voice of Chancellor Palpatine, oiled and theatrical.

“Ah, Senator. So determined.” He approached, flanked by crimson-robed guards and the sharper silhouettes of red Coruscant Guard armor.

Commander Fox stood behind him, helm off, unreadable as ever.

You straightened. “Chancellor.”

“I’ve come to offer you a final word of advice,” Palpatine said smoothly, folding his hands. “Returning to your planet now would be… ill-advised. The situation is deteriorating rapidly.”

You lifted your chin. “Which is why I must be there. My people are scared. They need to see someone hasn’t abandoned them.”

Palpatine sighed, as if burdened by your courage. “Yes, I suspected as much.”

He turned slightly, gesturing behind him.

“I anticipated you would refuse counsel, so I’ve taken the liberty of organizing a security detail to accompany you.”

Your brows furrowed.

“Commander Fox, accompanied by his men” he said, voice silk. “And a squad of my most loyal Guardsmen. Until the Senate can act, they will serve as your protection detail.”

Your eyes snapped to Fox, stunned. He met your gaze with that same unreadable intensity—but his stance was different. Less rigid. Like he had volunteered.

“I…” You turned to Palpatine. “Thank you, Chancellor.”

He gave you a benign smile. “Don’t thank me. Thank Commander Fox. He was the one who insisted your safety be taken seriously.”

Your breath caught.

Palpatine gave a slight bow and turned, robes billowing as he departed with his guards, leaving the dock strangely quiet again.

You looked at Fox.

“You insisted?”

He stepped forward, stopping just shy of arm’s reach. “You’re not a soldier. You shouldn’t have to walk into a war zone alone.”

“Neither should you,” you said softly.

He blinked. “It’s different.”

“Is it?”

You held his gaze for a moment too long.

Fox shifted, jaw tight. “My orders are to protect you. And I intend to do that.”

There was something in his voice. Something unspoken.

“I’m not helpless, you know,” you said, voice a little gentler. “But I’m… glad it’s you.”

His eyes flickered.

“You’ll be staying close, then?” you asked, half teasing, half aching to hear the answer.

“Yes,” he said. No hesitation. “Wherever you are, I’ll be close.”

The words lingered between you. Heavy. Charged.

You nodded slowly, stepping toward the shuttle ramp. “Well then, Commander. Shall we?”

He followed you silently. And when you boarded that ship—uncertain of what awaited—you didn’t feel so alone anymore.

⸻

The ship was mid-hyperspace, engines humming steadily, the stars stretched thin and white outside the viewport like strands of pulled light.

You sat quietly near the front cabin, reading reports from home—civilians evacuating cities, militia forming in panic. Your fingers were white-knuckled around the datapad, but you didn’t notice. Not when your ears were quietly tuned to the conversation just beyond the corridor.

Fox’s men weren’t exactly quiet.

⸻

“Okay,” Thire muttered, not even trying to keep his voice down. “So let me get this straight. You volunteered us for this mission?”

“You hate senators,” Stone chimed in, boots kicked up on a storage crate. “Like… passionately.”

“And politics,” Hound added, his strill sniffing at a nearby panel before letting out a low growl. “And public speaking. And long transport rides. This is literally all your nightmares rolled into one.”

“I didn’t volunteer,” Fox said flatly.

“Didn’t you, though?” Thire drawled.

“We were assigned.”

“You asked to be assigned,” Hound smirked. “Big difference.”

“Orders are orders,” Fox said, clearly trying to end it.

“Right,” Stone said. “And the fact that she’s smart, brave, and has eyes that could melt a blaster coil—totally unrelated.”

Fox didn’t respond.

There was a pause.

“You’re not denying it,” Hound grinned, teeth flashing.

“You’re all on report,” Fox muttered darkly.

“Oh no,” Thire said with mock horror. “You’re going to write me up for noticing you have a crush?”

Fox growled.

“Come on, vod,” Stone said, voice a little gentler. “She’s not like the others. She actually gives a damn. And she looked gutted after the Senate meeting. Anyone could see that.”

“She’s brave,” Fox admitted, low. “She shouldn’t have to do this alone.”

They all went quiet for a beat.

Then Thire leaned in, grinning. “We’re just saying. If you start calling her cyar’ika, we’ll know what’s up.”

Fox shoved the heel of his hand against his temple and groaned.

You were definitely not supposed to have heard any of that.

And yet… here you were, biting back a smile and pretending to be Very Deeply Focused on your datapad, heart fluttering unhelpfully in your chest.

He cared.

He was trying not to—but he cared.

And for someone like Fox, who lived his life behind armor and discipline, that meant everything.

Next Part