“Operation: Stay Forever”

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

“Armor for the Skin”

501st x Reader

The overhead lumens slam on like artillery. Groans ripple through the barracks, but you roll out of your bunk already gathering your contraband caddy—a slim duraplast kit labeled “Mk‑III MedPatch”

Fives, half‑dressed and wholly curious, nods at the kit. “Alright, mystery box—you packing bacta or blasters in there?”

You flick the latch. Bottles, tubes, and sachets unfold like a miniature armory—just shinier and pastel‑colored.

“Moisturizer,” you say, dotting cream onto your cheeks. “SPF 50. Sun in space still finds a way.”

Fives blinks. “You’re lotion‑plating your face before breakfast?”

You smile. “Armor for the skin.”

As you pat the sunscreen in, Fives watches, fascinated. “How long does all that take? We get, like, sixty seconds to hit the refresher.”

“Practice,” you reply, capping the tube. “And a bit of multitasking.”

Across the aisle, Jesse mutters, “She’s waxing her cheeks?”—which earns him a smack from Kix.

The medic tilts his head, curious. “Actually, hydrating the epidermis reduces micro‑tears that form when helmets chafe. Fewer micro‑tears, fewer infections.”

Fives groans. “Kix, not you too!”

Tup perks up. “Will it stop my forehead from peeling on desert drops?”

“Only if you commit,” you reply, tossing him a travel‑size tube.

Tup bobbles it. “Commit to… face goop?”

“Commit to self‑care, shiny,” Jesse teases, but he secretly dabs a fingertip of cream on the scar running over his temple when he thinks no one’s watching.

Hardcase flips down from the top bunk, dangling upside‑down. “What about night routine? Can we weaponize it?”

You laugh. “Weaponize hydration?”

You begin to rattle off the list for your routines while shoving items back into the caddy.

Jesse whistles. “That’s more steps than disassembling a DC‑17.”

“It’s upkeep,” you say, snapping the kit shut. “Blasters, armor, skin. Treat them right and they won’t fail mid‑mission.”

Kix, ever the medic, hums thoughtfully. “Prevention over cure—sound protocol.”

Rex marches past the doorway, barking for PT. He notices the cluster around your bunk, eyes the lotions, then decides he’s not paid enough to investigate at 0500. “Five minutes to muster. Whatever you’re doing—do it faster.”

The squad scrambles. You close your caddy with a click, satisfied. Step one: curiosity planted.

As you pass Fives he murmurs, “Armor for the skin, huh?”

“Exactly, vod,” you grin, tapping his chest plate. “And just like yours—it’s personal issue.”

He barks a laugh, then jogs after the others—already plotting how to requisition micellar water under “optical clarity supplies.”

Curiosity piqued, routine revealed. Now the real fun begins.

⸻

An hour later, after PT and standard mess rations, the 501st files toward the strategy room. You’re meant to present local intel, but you duck into the refresher first to rinse sweat and slap on a leave‑in hair mask.

Inside, Tup stares at his reflection, damp curls drooping. “How tight is the towel supposed to be?”

“Snug, not suffocating.” You demonstrate the twist‑and‑tuck, shaping his towel into a tidy turban. He looks like a spa holo‑ad—if spa ads featured wide‑eyed clone troopers in duty blacks.

Rex storms in mid‑lesson. The captain’s expression cycles through confusion, exasperation, acceptance in under a second. “Explain.”

“Deep‑conditioning,” you answer. “Helmet hair’s a war crime.”

Dogma, arms folded behind Rex, scowls. “Regulation headgear only.”

You pat the towel. “Technically, still a head covering.”

Hardcase bursts from a stall, face covered in neon‑green clay. “I CAN’T MOVE MY MOUTH! THIS STUFF SETS LIKE DURASTEEL!”

Kix swoops in with a damp cloth. “That’s the detox mask, vod. Rinse at four minutes, not forty.”

Fives leans in the doorway, filming everything. “Historical documentation, Rex. Posterity.”

Rex pinches the bridge of his nose. “You have two minutes to look like soldiers before General Skywalker arrives.”

Tup whispers, “Uh… do I rinse or…?”

You yank the towel free with a flourish; his curls bounce, glossy. “Ready for battle,” you declare.

Rex sighs. “One minute forty‑five.”

⸻

The 501st rolls in after an endless maintenance drill, expecting lights‑out. Instead, you’ve transformed the common room into a makeshift spa: footlockers draped in clean towels, maintenance lamps angled like vanity lights, and rows of mysterious packets labeled hydrating, brightening, volcanic detox…

Rex stops dead in the doorway, helmet under his arm.

“Vod, why does it smell like a med‑bay and a flower‑shop had a firefight?”

You beam. “Team‑building. Captain’s orders.”

Rex narrows his eyes—he definitely did not give those orders—but one look at the exhausted squad convinces him to play along. You pass out microfiber headbands—Tup’s bun peeks through adorably—then cue soft lo‑fi on a datapad.

⸻

The 501st rolls in after an endless maintenance drill, expecting lights‑out. Instead, you’ve transformed the common room into a makeshift spa: footlockers draped in clean towels, maintenance lamps angled like vanity lights, and rows of mysterious packets labeled hydrating, brightening, volcanic detox…

Rex stops dead in the doorway, helmet under his arm.

“Vod, why does it smell like a med‑bay and a flower‑shop had a firefight?”

You beam. “Team‑building. Captain’s orders.”

Rex narrows his eyes—he definitely did not give those orders—but one look at the exhausted squad convinces him to play along.

You pass out microfiber headbands—Tup’s bun peeks through adorably—then cue soft lo‑fi on a datapad.

Fives foams cleanser like he’s icing a ration cake, flicks bubbles at Jesse.

Hardcase grabs an industrial solvent bottle. You snatch it away. “Wrong kind of chemical peel, blaster‑brain.”

Kix demonstrates gentle circular motions; the squad copies, mumbling mock mantras.

Faces disappear beneath colors and cartoons.

Fives foams cleanser like he’s icing a ration cake, flicks bubbles at Jesse.

Hardcase grabs an industrial solvent bottle. You snatch it away. “Wrong kind of chemical peel, blaster‑brain.”

Kix demonstrates gentle circular motions; the squad copies, mumbling mock mantras.

Faces disappear beneath colors and cartoons.

Jesse paints Dogma’s clay mask into perfect camo stripes; Dogma tries to protest, fails, secretly loves it.

Rex sighs as you smooth the sheet onto his face. “If this vid leaks, I’m demoting everyone.”

Tup giggles when the nerf‑printed mask squeaks. Fives records the sound bite for future memes.

Everyone reclines on mesh webbing strung between crates.

The timer pings. Masks come off—revealing eight glowing, ridiculously refreshed faces.

Hardcase flexes. “Feel like I could head‑butt a super tactical droid and leave an imprint.”

Fives snaps a holo of Rex’s newfound radiance. “Captain, you’re shining.”

Rex grumbles, but his skin does glow under the fluorescents. “Get some rack time, troopers. 0600 briefing. And… keep the extra packets. Field supply, understood?”

A chorus of cheerful “Yes, sir!”

You watch them file out, each tucking a sheet‑mask packet into utility belts like contraband. Mission accomplished: the 501st is combat‑ready—and complexion‑ready—for whatever tomorrow throws at them.

⸻

Obi‑Wan strolls through the hangar, robe billowing. He pauses mid‑conversation with Cody, eyes widening at the radiant 501st lined up for deployment.

“My word, gentlemen, you’re positively effulgent.”

Jesse grins—dazzling. “Training and discipline, General.”

Cody side‑eyes Rex. “Whatever you’re doing, send the regimen to the 212th.”

Anakin trots up, spying a stash of leftover masks tucked behind Rex’s pauldron. He plucks one. “Charcoal detox? Padmé swears by these.” He pockets it with a conspiratorial wink.

Rex mutters, “Necessary field supplies, General.”

You walk by, sling a go‑cup of caf into Rex’s free hand. “Don’t forget SPF,” you remind, tapping his helmet.

Rex looked over to Cody, Deadpan “Non‑negotiable, apparently.”

⸻

Blaster fire and powdered sand fill the air. Jesse dives behind a ridge. “Double‑cleanse tonight—this dust is murder on my pores!”

Fives snorts through the comms. “Copy, gorgeous. Bring the aloe.”

Hardcase detonates a bunker, cheers, then yelps, “Mask first, explosions later—got it!”

Rex stands, sand sifting off armor, skin protected under a sheer layer of sunscreen that miraculously survived the firefight. He shakes his head but can’t hide the small smile.

“Alright, 501st,” he calls. “Let’s finish this op—tonight we rehydrate, tomorrow we conquer.”

You chuckle, loading a fresh power‑cell. The war may rage on, but for this legion, victory now comes with a healthy glow.

⸻

A/N

This was a request, however I accidentally deleted the request in my inbox.

“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.

“Uncalculated Variables”

Tech x Jedi!Reader

Summary: Clone Wars-era op with the Bad Batch. Jedi reader + Quinlan Vos bestie assisting the op.

⸻

If Tech had known he’d be spending the mission with two unorthodox Jedi, he might have requested recalibration for his brain implant.

Vos was already a variable he’d accounted for—reckless, talented, infuriatingly good, unpredictable. But you?

You were something else entirely.

You strolled off the gunship like the war was a camping trip, a lightsaber strapped to your hip and a ridiculous grin on your face as you greeted Wrecker with a high five mid-jump.

“Miss me, big guy?”

Wrecker beamed. “You always make it more fun!”

Vos followed close behind, flipping a thermal detonator in one hand like it was a toy. “They let you off Coruscant without me? I’m hurt.”

You glanced over your shoulder. “Please. You’d just get jealous when I steal all the glory.”

Vos grinned. “You wish.”

Tech stared. “I fail to see how this level of casualness is appropriate for a battlefield.”

You turned to him with a slow smile. “Ah, you must be Tech.”

He straightened instinctively. “Yes. You are correct.”

You offered a hand—not stiff or formal, but open, easy. There was mischief in your eyes. “I’ve read your file. You’re the one with the brains and the dry commentary.”

He hesitated before taking your hand. “That is… not inaccurate.”

You leaned in, voice low. “I like brains.”

He blinked. “As do most species. It is vital for survival.”

Vos coughed loudly behind you—possibly to hide a laugh.

Wrecker elbowed Hunter. “I like this Jedi.”

Tech ignored them, adjusting his goggles. “We are operating on a strict schedule. I’d prefer we keep distractions—”

“Lighten up, Tech,” you teased, falling into step beside him. “If you smiled any less, we’d have to start checking for signs of carbon freezing.”

“I assure you, I am functioning within optimal emotional parameters.”

You hummed thoughtfully. “Sounds lonely.”

He shot you a side glance, but your tone was playful, not unkind.

“I don’t understand you,” he muttered.

You grinned. “Most don’t. That’s half the fun.”

⸻

Later, during recon, Vos and Wrecker were off chasing a “weird energy reading,” Crosshair was perched up somewhere, and Hunter had gone ahead to secure the route. That left you and Tech crouched behind cover, scanning a Separatist outpost through the macrobinoculars.

“Y’know,” you said casually, “if you ever wanted to break all your rules and do something reckless, I’m very available.”

Tech frowned. “I don’t require your availability. This mission is already well underway.”

You stifled a laugh. “Not what I meant.”

He blinked, confused. “Was it a code? I didn’t detect one.”

You turned to him, resting your chin on your hand. “You’re cute when you’re confused.”

His ears turned slightly pink.

“I’m not confused,” he replied quickly. “Merely… recalibrating.”

You laughed again, soft and warm. “You’re fun, Tech. Even if you don’t know it.”

He didn’t reply. Just stared out at the outpost, glasses slightly fogged. Processing. Buffering.

You winked as you stood. “Come on, Brain Boy. Let’s go break some droids.”

And behind you, Tech mumbled—

“…I don’t understand you.”

But oh, he wanted to.

⸻

“Move your pretty brain, Tech!”

Your shout cut through the blaster fire as you Force-shoved a B1 battle droid clean off the ridge. The droid hit the canyon wall with a clang before falling into a satisfying silence.

Tech barely managed to duck behind the rock as two more shots ricocheted past his goggles.

“I’m attempting to calculate the terrain advantages, not—”

You dropped beside him, lightsaber humming with heat. “Flirt later, calculate less. We’re getting spicy out here.”

“I am not flirting—”

“You will be,” you said sweetly, spinning to deflect a bolt. “Just haven’t hit the right button yet.”

“Force help me,” Crosshair muttered over comms. “I’m in hell.”

Vos cackled somewhere on the ridge. “This is why I bring her on ops.”

You winked in Tech’s direction. “Besides, I like it when smart boys get flustered.”

“I am not—” he started, only to cut himself off when you leapt over the boulder and ran directly into blaster fire.

“Wait—don’t—!”

But you were already slicing through droids, movements chaotic and fluid. A little wild, a little beautiful. Vos followed behind you with a war cry and a detonator.

“Stop being reckless in combat!” Tech snapped, ducking as sparks flew overhead.

Wrecker hollered from behind cover. “She’s so cool, right?!”

Tech was still reeling from how your braid moved like a whip when you spun, when a Super Battle Droid on the ridge zeroed in on his location.

He didn’t see it. But you did.

“Tech!”

You moved fast—a leap, a slide down the gravel slope, and then a blinding crack of energy as you shoved him to the ground and blocked the bolt meant for his chest with your saber.

The shockwave sent you both tumbling behind a ledge.

For a second, there was only the buzz of his ears and the hum of your saber still hot in the air.

You looked down at him—arms braced on either side of his shoulders, breathing hard, body pressed against his.

His goggles were crooked. His heart was absolutely not functioning in optimal parameters.

“You good?” you asked, voice low.

“I…” Tech swallowed. “Yes. Thanks to you.”

You leaned a little closer. “That’s two times I’ve saved your life this week. You might owe me.”

“I… suppose I do.”

You smiled. “We’ll figure out the payment plan later.”

Vos dropped beside you, covered in soot and grinning. “I saw that. That was hot. I’d kiss you for that save.”

“Why are they like this,” the sniper muttered and then glanced over to Tech. “Can’t believe I’m third-wheeling a courtship in the middle of a kriffing warzone.”

“Fourth-wheeling,” Vos corrected. “I’m emotionally invested.”

You grinned as you helped Tech up. “Don’t worry, brain boy. They’re only teasing”

You patted his chest, then turned back toward the canyon, saber blazing back to life.

“We’ll talk later. Right now? Droids first. Feelings… maybe after explosives.”

And then you were off again, a whirlwind of Force and fire.

Tech stood frozen, fingers twitching at his belt.

Vos clapped him on the back. “Welcome to the mess, genius.”

⸻

You were sitting cross-legged on the Marauder’s ramp, tossing pebbles at Wrecker’s helmet while he tried to balance a crate on one hand.

Vos was beside you, chewing on dried fruit like it was the best thing he’d ever tasted. He elbowed you after a particularly impressive throw.

“You ever gonna tell Tech you’re into him?” Vos asked, mouth half-full.

You smirked. “And ruin the comedy of him trying to math his way through courtship? No thanks.”

Wrecker laughed. “He is actin’ weird lately. Said I was being ‘emotionally invasive’ for askin’ if he liked you!”

Vos grinned. “He’s got it bad.”

“And I am loving it,” you replied, spinning a pebble in your fingers. “Every time I flirt, he acts like I just challenged his understanding of gravity.”

Right on cue, Tech walked down the ramp, datapad clutched in hand, goggles slightly askew. He stopped in front of you, cleared his throat.

“I… performed a series of diagnostics regarding interpersonal compatibility,” he said, utterly serious. “According to twenty-seven factors—including personality, adaptability, combat style, and dietary preferences—we are a statistically promising match.”

Vos dropped his fruit.

You blinked. “Did you just… scientifically determine that we should date?”

“I—well—yes,” Tech said. “But only if you’re interested. Which—based on your heart rate and verbal cues—I suspect you might be.”

Vos exploded into laughter, falling back on the ramp.

“Oh my Maker,” he wheezed. “You absolute nerd.”

You grinned at Tech. “That might be the most romantic math I’ve ever heard.”

Tech pushed his glasses up. “I thought you’d appreciate the data.”

“I do,” you said, standing and brushing your hands off. “But next time, try leading with something like: ‘I think you’re beautiful and I’d like to kiss you.’”

Tech turned crimson. “I—yes. Noted.”

“Relax,” you teased, stepping closer. “I’m not gonna kiss you.”

His expression fell a little.

“Yet,” you added.

From behind the crates, Crosshair exhaled loudly. “Maker, just kiss already or go back to sexually tense banter. This is painful.”

You turned. “Aw, Cross. You jealous you’re not the one I’m throwing pebbles at?”

He scowled. “I’d rather be shot.”

Vos stood and slung an arm around your shoulders. “Honestly, same.”

You nudged him. “You’re just mad you’re not the prettiest Jedi in the room anymore.”

Vos gasped dramatically. “Rude. And false.”

Tech, meanwhile, was still buffering.

“I may need to recalibrate my approach,” he murmured, mostly to himself.

“Or,” you said, tapping his datapad, “you could just ask me to spend time with you. No variables required.”

He paused, then looked up at you, eyes suddenly very soft.

“…Would you like to accompany me on a walk through the canyon ridge at 1900 hours? Statistically, it would be—”

You leaned in, smirking. “Careful, Tech. That almost sounded like a date.”

He adjusted his goggles. “I was… hoping it would be.”

Vos made a gagging noise. Crosshair muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, “nerds.”

And you?

You just smiled.

⸻

1900 hours hit, and you were waiting by the canyon overlook, robes loose and windswept, arms crossed like you hadn’t just spent twenty minutes trying to decide if you looked “dateable.”

You sensed him before you saw him—Tech’s unique mental frequency, all angles and tension and humming data flow. He approached precisely on time, goggles slightly askew, holding… a field scanner?

“Is that for scanning terrain,” you asked, grinning, “or just a really dramatic way to say you’re nervous?”

“I—” Tech adjusted his grip. “It is a tool for environmental analysis and—possibly—also distraction.”

You snorted. “So yes.”

The two of you walked along the ridge trail, the orange twilight casting soft shadows on the canyon walls. Silence settled, not uncomfortable, just… charged. Like the pause before a storm—or a kiss.

“So,” you said finally, “have you been practicing your flirting?”

Tech looked over, hesitant. “I did… research.”

“Oh no.”

He cleared his throat. “Your presence activates all of my… neurological functions.”

You blinked. “That… was almost sexy.”

“Almost?”

“You lost me at neurological.”

Tech looked disappointed. You reached over, brushing your fingers over his arm. “Don’t worry, I like the weird.”

“I am attempting,” he said, more softly this time, “to understand how to… express what I feel.”

You tilted your head. “And what do you feel?”

He turned toward you fully now. “I feel that your presence both stabilizes and disorients me. That your actions on the battlefield—reckless though they are—captivate me. That your voice lingers in my thoughts long after transmission ends. And that when you saved my life… I was afraid, not of death, but of losing the chance to tell you any of this.”

Your breath caught.

“…Tech,” you said, gently.

“I am aware,” he rushed to add, “that emotions are complex, and Jedi traditionally—”

You stepped forward and kissed him.

It wasn’t long or intense, just a warm press of lips. Steady. Sure.

When you pulled back, his goggles were fogged.

“Shutting up works too,” you whispered.

From somewhere nearby, a stick snapped.

You both turned just in time to hear Vos swear and fall directly out of a bush.

“I WASN’T SPYING,” he yelled.

“Maker above—” Tech muttered.

Crosshair’s voice crackled over the comm: “I told him you’d hear his dumbass breathing.”

Wrecker’s voice came next: “I think it’s sweet! Tech’s got a girlfriend!”

Vos was on his feet, brushing himself off. “Sorry—carry on. Proud of you, Tech. Didn’t think you had it in you.”

You groaned. “I am going to murder all of you.”

Tech looked dazed.

“Can we… do that again?” he asked quietly.

You smiled, tugging him close. “Yeah. This time with less audience.”

being a symbolism enjoyer should humble you because at the end of the day no matter how eloquently you articulate it youre essentially saying "i love it when things have meaning"

“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

“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.

⸻

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