Areyoufuckingcrazy - The Walking Apocalypse

“Caf Break”

Fixer (RC-1140) x Reader

Your caf shop wasn’t fancy.

One countertop. Four chipped booths. A sputtering holosign that read “CAF & CRUNCH – OPEN” with a flicker that hadn’t been fixed in years.

You didn’t get many clones here.

Too far out. Too quiet. The garrison was small, the rotations fast. They didn’t stay long enough to know your name.

Except one.

Helmet always on. Barely spoke. Green armor with white detailing, scuffed and battle-worn. He ordered the same thing every time: strong black caf, no sweetener, no conversation.

You didn’t know his name.

So you called him Greenie in your head.

And Greenie had come back five times in two weeks.

Fixer was not… sure why he kept returning.

He told himself it was logistical.

The caf was strong. No risk of contamination. The shop was unassuming—good line of sight to both entrances, windows provided 180-degree visibility, and the booths weren’t bolted down, making them usable as cover in case of attack.

It made tactical sense.

But when he sat there—helmet on, fingers curled loosely around the mug—he found himself… pausing.

Observing.

You always had a smudge of caf dust on your apron. You were quick with a smile, not pushy. Efficient. Clean workspace. Minimal chatter unless engaged first. He liked that.

And once, when he’d stood up too fast and knocked a napkin holder onto the floor, you’d just picked it up, smiled, and said, “Even commandos have off days, huh?”

He’d stared at you for three seconds too long. An eternity in commando time.

The next day, he came back.

And the next.

And today, too.

You slid the mug in front of him with a soft clink.

“Double strength, no frills. You’re predictable.”

He paused.

“…Efficient,” he corrected, voice metallic through the helmet.

You leaned against the counter. “So’s a vending droid. At least you tip better.”

He almost smiled.

Almost.

It became routine.

You worked mornings. Fixer showed up during early rotation hours. You made the caf before he even ordered it. He never told you anything—not his name, not his rank, not his mission—but he watched you like he was memorizing your movements. Not in a creepy way. More like… cataloging. Like he was trying to understand something he didn’t have the words for.

Like you were the tactical puzzle he couldn’t solve.

Once, during a light rain, you asked, “Ever thought of taking the bucket off?”

He tilted his head. “No.”

You laughed. “Figures.”

Fixer didn’t feel like he was capable of anything outside the mission.

That’s what being a commando meant. That’s what Skirata had hammered into them. That’s what the Kaminoans designed them for: purpose. Obedience. Kill and move. Survive and follow orders.

He didn’t know what to do with the warmth in his chest when he saw you slide him that caf with a smile.

He didn’t understand why he had memorized the way you tucked your hair behind your ear when you were annoyed. Or the way you sang—quietly, under your breath—when you thought the shop was empty.

He didn’t understand why your voice filtered into his mind even when he was on missions. Why he thought about what your laugh might sound like without the helmet filtering it.

So he stayed quiet.

He came back.

Again.

And again.

And again.

It wasn’t until the sixth visit that you reached over the counter with a datapad.

“Can I at least know what to call you? Something better than ‘Greenie’? Because that’s what I call you in my head and I’m not proud of it.”

He blinked under the helmet. “That’s… not mission-critical information.”

“You’re not on a mission right now.”

“I’m always on a mission.”

You leaned closer, arms crossed, smile playful but firm. “Even when you’re drinking caf?”

He hesitated.

“…Fixer.”

You raised a brow. “That your name or your function?”

“…Yes.”

You laughed, not unkindly. “Alright, Fixer. I’ll remember that.”

He nodded.

He didn’t say it, but he’d already memorized your name from the receipt tucked under the register. He knew your schedule. Your preferred blend. The way you wrote cursive Y’s when you took orders by hand.

He knew too much. But not enough.

⸻

A few days later, the war came closer.

There was an explosion not far from the marketplace. Distant but sharp. You flinched when it hit, spilling caf across the counter. Patrons ducked. One of the booths cracked.

And he was there—immediately.

Fixer pushed through the front entrance before the echoes even died out, blaster raised, visor scanning the room. He found you kneeling behind the counter, heart racing, but unhurt.

You looked up.

“…Fixer?”

He crossed to you fast, like the space between you was an obstacle to eliminate.

“Status?”

“I’m fine.”

He didn’t answer. He just knelt in front of you, one gloved hand gently resting on your shoulder, scanning you for wounds like you were a member of his squad.

You put your hand over his. “I told you I’m okay.”

There was silence. Then—very slowly—he retracted his hand.

“I’m glad.”

You smiled, a little breathless. “You’re not supposed to get attached to civilians, you know.”

“I know.”

“You’re doing it anyway.”

“I know that, too.”

And this time, you reached for his hand. Not as a test. As an answer.

“Good,” you said softly.

He didn’t respond. Not verbally.

But he didn’t let go.

The warmth of your hand lingered in his glove longer than it should have.

Fixer didn’t move at first. Your fingers were still resting gently against his, your eyes steady on his visor, like you could see the man under the armor. Maybe you could.

But then—

“Fixer, move! We’ve got heat east side, half klick. Now!”

Boss.

Fixer’s helmet comm crackled with urgency. Nothing friendly. All business.

He stood abruptly, the shift from human to commando so clean it almost hurt.

You blinked. “Fixer—?”

But he was already backing away, rifle primed.

“Stay inside,” he said shortly. “Secure the back door. Bolt it.”

He paused just before turning to leave—like he wanted to say something else—but then Delta Squad’s comms lit up again.

“Scorch, get your shebs on the west flank. Sev, overwatch from the north tower. We’re drawing them in.”

Fixer was gone.

⸻

Outside, the air was sharp with smoke and ozone.

A low-flying transport had been taken out above the market square—probably a Republic one—and the Separatist droids were crawling from alleyways and downed cargo haulers like insects swarming a carcass. Civilians screamed in the distance. Blaster fire echoed in tight bursts. Close.

Fixer moved with precision, slipping into cover beside Boss, who was already giving orders like the leader he was.

“Sev’s in position. Scorch is making a mess—”

“Hey! Controlled chaos!” Scorch’s voice chirped over comms, followed immediately by a thunderous explosion and a cheer. “They loved that one.”

Boss didn’t flinch. “Fixer, tighten the east corridor. Thermal count says another squad’s flanking through the maintenance tunnels.”

Fixer nodded. “On it.”

“Wait, you came from the caf shop, right?” Scorch broke in again, teasing. “See your girlfriend?”

Fixer didn’t respond.

Sev’s dry voice cut in from the high perch. “Confirmed: Fixer’s still pretending he doesn’t care. Target rich environment out here, by the way.”

Boss sighed. “Focus.”

“I am focused,” Scorch muttered. “Focused on how Fixer only starts calling for backup after he’s finished checking on his civilian crush.”

“Mission protocol prioritizes non-combatant safety,” Fixer replied flatly, already sweeping a corner with his DC-17m.

“Oh sure,” Scorch drawled, “real tactical of you to hold her hand first.”

There was a brief silence on comms. Boss might’ve smirked behind his visor. Sev definitely did.

Fixer didn’t dignify it with a response. Instead, he tapped a few commands into his HUD, redirected two proximity mines, and crouched behind a stack of durasteel crates near the alley entrance.

“Contact,” he said coolly.

The moment the droids stepped into range, his trap triggered—concise, brutal, clean.

Three droids dropped. One limped, firing blindly. Fixer silenced it with a single shot.

“Boring as ever,” Sev muttered from above, “but effective.”

“Hey,” Scorch chimed in again, still grinning. “You think if we all survive this, Fixer will ask her out? Or will he file a formal requisition request for feelings first?”

Fixer adjusted his grip on the rifle. “I’m removing your access to my armor diagnostics.”

“You’d have to admit you have emotions to do that, Fixer.”

“Scorch. Focus.” Boss’s voice was flat, but even he sounded amused now.

Delta moved like a single organism—tight communication, seamless roles. Boss pushed forward through the square, marking targets. Scorch covered left, laughing and setting a charge with a little too much enthusiasm. Sev picked enemies off from above with clinical detachment. And Fixer—silent, efficient—was always one step ahead, rerouting their tech, coordinating their intel, watching every back but never speaking unless necessary.

But even as he moved through the field, his mind flickered once—briefly—to the warmth of your hand. Your voice. The way you’d looked at him like he wasn’t just another armored shadow walking into fire.

It made him hesitate, just for half a heartbeat.

Enough for a B2 to round the corner and raise its arm.

The blaster charge lit up red.

Fixer ducked—too slow.

The bolt clipped his shoulder plate, sending him sprawling behind cover.

“Fixer, report!” Boss barked.

“Still operational,” Fixer said through gritted teeth, locking down the pain response. “Hit left pauldron. Armor held.”

“You good?” Scorch piped up.

“Focus on the droids,” Fixer snapped.

But he wasn’t angry.

Not really.

He was… rattled. Not by the injury. By the distraction.

You.

⸻

Back inside the caf shop, the attack faded into muffled blasts and distant fire.

You stayed behind the counter, just like he said, listening. Waiting.

And worrying.

He had said he was always on a mission.

But now, you were his distraction.

And whether that was a danger or something more… you weren’t sure.

Not yet.

But you planned to find out.

The front bell above the caf shop door gave a soft ding as it opened, and you were already halfway around the counter before you even saw who it was.

Fixer stepped in, pauldron scorched, boots heavy with ash and grime, but otherwise unscathed. Your eyes immediately snapped to the dark blast mark burned into the green-painted armor at his shoulder.

“You’re hit,” you blurted, crossing to him fast. “Are you—?”

“It didn’t breach,” Fixer said flatly, already raising a gloved hand as if to calm you. “Armor held.”

You frowned. “Then why is it black?”

“Because that’s what happens when you’re shot,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Smartass,” you muttered under your breath, then caught yourself and looked up at him. “You scared me.”

He hesitated.

The visor tilted slightly—just enough for the gesture to feel human.

“…Didn’t mean to,” he said.

You exhaled and reached toward the damaged armor before pausing. “May I?”

He nodded once.

Your fingers ghosted over the edge of the charred plate. “I don’t see any cracks. Must’ve been a glancing shot.”

“It was close.” A beat. “Got distracted.”

You looked up. “By what?”

He paused.

“…By nothing,” Fixer said quickly, though even he knew it wasn’t convincing.

The moment stretched—almost something there between you, something unspoken—until the door slammed open again behind him.

Ding!

“Oh, look who’s still alive,” Scorch called, already marching in and tracking mud across the floor like it was a personal hobby. Sev followed, glowering at the bell above the door like it had offended him.

Scorch spun toward you with a grin. “Hope you’re not charging for emotional trauma because this one’s racked up a tab.”

You stifled a laugh as Fixer’s shoulders stiffened.

“Don’t you have ordinance to prep?” he said, still facing you but clearly addressing the clowns behind him.

“We did that already,” Sev said dryly. “Between Scorch’s interpretive dance through the war zone and your heroic trip back here.”

“Very heroic,” Scorch added, sauntering toward a table in the corner and dropping heavily into a chair. “He braved fire for caf and companionship. That’s love.”

Fixer didn’t even look at them. “I will incapacitate you both.”

“That’s the most romantic thing he’s ever said to us,” Scorch said, placing a hand on his heart. “He cares, Sev.”

“Threats of violence are usually how I express affection,” Sev stated, sitting across from his brother and immediately flipping over the sugar jar to poke at it with a spoon.

You tried very, very hard not to laugh.

Fixer finally turned, slowly, helmet tilting in their direction. “If either of you speaks again before I walk out of this shop, I’m initiating lockdown protocol in your armor suits.”

“Oh no,” Scorch gasped, hands in mock horror. “You wouldn’t dare run a diagnostic loop on my HUD in the middle of a firefight!”

“Or reroute his targeting overlay to display motivational quotes,” Sev added blandly. “‘You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take.’”

“‘Live, laugh, lob a thermal.’”

You couldn’t hold it in anymore. A laugh escaped, bright and warm.

Fixer turned back to you, somehow looking both flustered and resigned despite the expressionless helmet.

“Sorry about them,” he said simply.

“I kind of love them,” you said. “In a ‘please don’t ever leave them unsupervised with anything explosive’ way.”

“Too late for that,” Sev said, deadpan. Almost staring into Scorch’s soul.

Scorch waved. “Tell him how much you love him, too! It’ll be great. Cathartic. Might even make his audio receptors short-circuit.”

Fixer sighed audibly through the comm, a long-suffering sound. “I’m going to detonate your ration packs.”

“Bold of you to assume I don’t already eat explosives.”

Sev nodded. “He does. It’s a problem.”

Fixer shook his head and leaned just a little closer to you, as if to reclaim some fraction of normalcy.

“You’re okay?” he asked again, quieter now.

You nodded. “Yeah. Thanks to you.”

He shifted slightly on his feet. “…I’ll check in again before we redeploy.”

“Looking forward to it.”

For a moment, he didn’t move. And then, with the softest rasp of durasteel, he stepped back, already preparing to rejoin the chaos he’d walked away from.

“Don’t worry,” you called after him, grinning as Sev and Scorch stood to follow. “I’ll keep your seat warm.”

Scorch stopped beside you, stage-whispered, “He likes you,” and ducked just in time to avoid a light punch to the helmet from Fixer.

The three of them walked out, side by side, back into the fray.

And you watched them go, heart a little lighter.

Hunter x Pabu Reader

⸻

Pabu Festival Night

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re all insufferable,” Hunter growled.

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

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

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

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

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

“Crosshair’s not even here.”

“Exactly. I’m doing his part too.”

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

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

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

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

⸻

Later, By the Dancing Lanterns

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

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

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

He blinked. “I don’t dance.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I have excellent timing.”

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

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

⸻

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

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

You turned toward him. “What?”

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

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

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

“And now?”

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

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

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

Omega cheered. “You’re welcome!”

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

“Good,” you smiled. “Neither am I.”

⸻

Commander Fox x Singer/PA Reader pt. 2

There was an unspoken tradition at the Coruscant Guard offices: the moment you showed up, coffee cups paused mid-air, datapads lowered, and someone inevitably muttered, "Oh look, she's still alive."

You strolled in two weeks late, absolutely glowing.

"Didn't know we were giving out extended vacations now," Trina said, her words clipped like a blaster bolt. "Maybe I should fake a spiritual awakening and disappear too."

You peeled off your sunglasses and smiled sweetly. "You should. Maybe they'll find your personality out there."

Snickers echoed through the hall.

Trina's eyes narrowed into twin black holes of corporate rage. "Commander Fox has been asking where you were."

That gave you the slightest pause. "Oh? Worried I was dead?"

She shrugged. "Or hoping."

You shot her a wink and breezed past, fully aware your hair looked too perfect for someone who just "found herself in nature."

---

Fox found you twenty minutes later, posted up at your desk with your boots on said desk, sipping caf and flipping through a holo-mag like someone who was not, in fact, two weeks behind on reports.

He stood silently at your side until you acknowledged him.

"Commander," you said brightly. "Miss me?"

"You disappeared. Again."

You looked up at him with the most innocent expression in the galaxy. "Went on a spiritual retreat."

He raised an eyebrow. "To where?"

"Kashyyyk. Hung out with some Wookiees. Meditated. Learned how to nap in trees."

Fox stared. You kept sipping your caf.

"They're big on inner peace," you added, deadpan. "Also, apparently I snore."

He didn't smile. But he also didn't press. Just that slow blink of his, the way his gaze lingered a little too long like he was cataloguing bruises or new scars.

"You weren't hurt?" he asked.

You softened. Just a little. "No, Commander. I wasn't hurt."

He nodded once and walked away.

*He cared.*

He'd never say it. But it was there.

---

Later that week, you returned from your mandatory ethics seminar—snoozefest—only to find your desk had been mysteriously moved... into the hallway.

Trina passed by with a smug little strut. "You missed a lot of meetings. We needed the space."

You leaned back in your new spot. "You know, if this is your way of flirting, I'm flattered."

"I'd rather kiss a Hutt."

You gasped. "Don't tempt me with a good time."

---

That night, you sang again at 79's. A slower set this time. Sadder. You weren't sure why—maybe something about Fox's voice that day still stuck with you.

And just like always... he was there.

Helmet off. Silent in the corner.

You sang to him without saying it. And when you left the club through the back again, this time you didn't get far before his voice stopped you.

"Wait."

You turned. "Following me again?"

He stepped closer. Not quite in your space. But close enough that you could see the faint tension in his jaw.

"I thought something happened," he said quietly.

You swallowed. "Fox—"

"Next time, just tell someone."

You blinked. "Why?"

A long pause.

"Because if something *did* happen," he said, "I'd want to know."

And then, like he couldn't bear to say more, he turned and walked into the night.

You watched him go, heart tight, a laugh threatening to rise in your throat just to cover the way your chest ached.

Aurra Sing had said you were valuable.

Fox... made you feel seen.

And somewhere in the distance, under the glow of Coruscant's neon skyline, a shadow watched.

Waiting.

---

The next morning, your desk was still in the hallway.

Trina had redecorated the spot where it used to be with a potted plant and a framed motivational poster that read "Discipline Defines You." You were considering setting it on fire.

"Morning, Sunshine," you chirped as you walked past her with your caf. "How's the tyrannical dictatorship going?"

Trina didn't even flinch. "At least I show up for work."

"Oh, please. If you were a droid, you'd overheat from micromanaging."

And there it was—that smirk from the other assistant.

Kess.

She leaned over her desk like she was watching a drama unfold in real time. "Okay, okay, play nice, girls. It's not even second caf yet."

Trina rolled her eyes. "Pick a side, Kess."

Kess grinned. "I like the view from the middle."

You narrowed your eyes. "You said Trina once threatened to replace your shampoo with grease trap water."

"She was joking," Kess said quickly.

"I was not," Trina snapped.

"I mean... still better than your perfume," you added under your breath.

Kess audibly choked on her tea.

---

Later that day, Commander Fox called you into his office.

The tension in the room dropped the moment you stepped inside, replaced by something electric and quiet. He didn't say anything at first, just stared at you like he was trying to decide if you were a puzzle or a headache.

"You vanished for two weeks," he finally said. "Now your overdue reports are two months overdue."

"I'll get to them," you said lightly, flopping into the chair opposite him. "Eventually."

Fox pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Also," you added, "Trina moved my desk into the hallway. Which I'm 80% sure is illegal."

"I'll talk to her."

You blinked. "You will?"

"She's not your superior."

A strange warmth bloomed in your chest. You masked it with sarcasm. "So chivalrous, Commander."

He gave you a look, one corner of his mouth twitching. "Just don't give me a reason to regret it."

---

That night at 79's the lights were low and your voice was velvet as you sang something slow and sultry. The bar was busy, but you spotted him—Fox, helmet off again, watching like he always did. Quiet. Unmoving. Yours, just for the length of a song.

You left through the back after your set, wrapping your coat tighter around yourself as the cool Coruscant air bit at your skin.

You didn't hear the footsteps until it was too late.

A hand slammed against the wall near your head, and a sharp voice coiled around you like a whip.

"Well, well. Songbirds off duty again."

Aurra Sing.

Her chalk-white skin shimmered in the streetlight, that deadly antenna gleaming above her forehead. She smiled without warmth.

"I've been watching you," she said. "You've got... potential."

You stepped back, heart hammering. "I'm not interested."

"No?" She clicked her tongue. "You work with the Guard. You're close with the Marshal Commander. You wander the galaxy without ever leaving a trace. I could use someone like that."

"I'm not a bounty hunter."

She leaned in closer, voice dropping. "Yet."

Your fingers twitched near your concealed weapon. Aurra's eyes flicked down and back, amused.

"Relax. I'm not here to kill you," she said. "Just... reminding you that people are watching. And not just me."

She melted back into the shadows before you could respond.

You stood alone in the alley, breath shaky, heart pounding.

You weren't scared.

But you were very, very awake.

---

The next morning, Trina took one look at you dragging yourself into work late with dark circles under your eyes and said, "Did the retreat monks kick you out for being annoying?"

Kess tried to stifle her laugh and failed.

You just smirked. "If you must know, I was nearly murdered by a galactic legend last night. What did *you* do, Trina? Color-code the caf pods again?"

Fox passed by just as you said it, pausing only to glance at you—an unreadable look in his eyes.

You gave him a half-smile.

He didn't return it.

But his hand twitched near his blaster.

He'd heard. And that meant he knew something was off.

You were starting to wonder if you were the one being watched… or the one being protected.

---

rip anakin skywalker you would have hated dune

I lied put your clothes back on. I don't know how to fuck and I'm scared

“The Lesser of Two Wars” Pt.2

Commander Fox x Reader x Commander Thorn

The club was one of those places senators didn’t publicly admit to frequenting—no names at the entrance, no press allowed, no datapad scans. Just a biometric scan, a whisper to the doorman, and you were in.

Nestled high above the skyline in 500 Republica, it was a favorite among the young elite and the exhausted powerful. All glass walls and plush lounges, dim gold lighting that clung to skin like honey, and music that never rose above a sensual hum. Everything in here was designed to make you forget who you were outside of it.

And tonight, that suited you just fine.

You had a drink in hand—something blue and expensive and far too smooth—and laughter on your lips. Not your usual politician’s laughter either. No smirking charm or polite chuckles. This one was real, deep in your belly, a rare sound that only came out when you were far enough removed from the Senate floor.

“Tell me again how you managed to silence Mas Amedda without being sanctioned,” you asked through your grin, blinking slowly at Mon Mothma from across the low-glass table.

“I didn’t silence him,” Mon said, sipping delicately at a glowing green drink. “I simply implied I’d reveal the contents of his personal expenditures file if he didn’t yield his five minutes of floor time.”

“You blackmailed him,” Chuchi said, eyes wide and utterly delighted. “Mon.”

“It wasn’t blackmail. It was diplomacy. With consequences.”

You nearly choked on your drink. “Stars above, I love you.”

You weren’t the only one laughing. Bail Organa was seated nearby with his jacket off and sleeves rolled, regaling Padmé and Senator Ask Aak with a dry tale about a conference that nearly turned into a duel. For once, there were no lobbyists, no cameras, no agendas. Just the quiet, rare illusion of ease among people who usually bore the weight of worlds.

But ease was temporary. The night wore on, and senators began to peel away one by one—some called back to work, others escorted home under guard, a few sneaking off with less noble intentions. Mon and Chuchi left together, promising to check in on you the next day. Padmé disappeared with only a look and a knowing smile.

You, however, weren’t ready to go.

Not until the lights got just a bit too warm and the drinks turned your blood to sugar. Not until the music softened your spine and left your thoughts curling in all directions.

By the time you left the booth, your heels wobbled. You weren’t drunk-drunk. Just the kind of warm that made everything feel funny and your judgment slightly off. Enough to skip the staff-speeder and walk yourself toward the street-level lift like a very determined, very unstable senator.

You barely made it past the threshold of the club when someone stepped into your path.

“Senator.”

That voice.

Low. Smooth. Metal-wrapped silk.

You blinked, head tilting up.

Commander Thorn.

Helmet tucked under one arm, brow slightly raised, red armor catching the glint of the city lights like lacquered flame. His expression was hard to read—professional, always—but it wasn’t Fox-level impassive. There was a quiet alertness in his eyes, and something… else. Something you couldn’t name through the fuzz of your thoughts.

You gave him a slow once-over, then grinned.

“Well, well. If it isn’t the charming one.”

Thorn’s lips twitched. Almost a smile. Almost.

“You’re leaving without an escort.”

“Can’t imagine why. I’m obviously walking in a very straight line.”

You took a bold step and swerved instantly.

He caught your elbow in one gloved hand, his grip steady, sure. “Right.”

You laughed softly, not pulling away. “Did Fox send you?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“I was stationed nearby. Saw you entered and didn’t leave with the other senators. Waited.”

You blinked, the words catching up slowly.

“You waited?”

His tone was casual. “Senators don’t always make smart choices after midnight.”

You scoffed. “And you’re here to protect me from what—bad decisions?”

“Possibly yourself.”

You leaned in slightly, still smiling. “That doesn’t sound very neutral, Commander.”

“It’s not.”

That surprised you.

Not the words—the admission.

He guided you toward the secure transport platform. You walked close, his arm still steadying you, your perfume drifting between you like static. You felt him glance down at you again, and for once, you didn’t deflect it with a joke. You let the silence stretch, warm and a little unsteady, like everything else tonight.

When you reached your private residence, he walked you to the lift, hand never once leaving your arm. It wasn’t possessive. It was watchful. Protective. Unspoken.

The lift doors opened.

You turned to him. Slower now. Sober enough to remember the mask you usually wore—but too tired to lift it fully.

“Thank you,” you murmured. “Really.”

“I’d rather see you escorted than carried,” he said simply.

A beat passed.

“I think I like you better outside of duty,” you said, voice quieter. “You’re a little more human.”

And for the first time, really, Thorn smiled.

Not a twitch. Not a ghost.

A real one.

It was gone before you could memorize it.

“Goodnight, Senator.”

You stepped into the lift.

“Goodnight, Commander.”

The doors closed, and your chest ached with something that wasn’t quite intoxication.

⸻

You barely had time to swallow your caf when the doors to your office hissed open without announcement.

That never happened.

You looked up mid-sip, scowling—only to find Senator Bail Organa storming in with the calm urgency of a man who never rushed unless the building was on fire.

“Good morning,” you said warily. “Is something—”

“There’s been a threat,” he interrupted. “Targeted. Multiple senators. Chuchi, Mon, myself. You.”

You lowered your mug, slowly. “What kind of threat?”

Bail handed you a datapad with an encrypted message flashing in red. You scanned it quickly.

Anonymous intel. Holo-snaps of your recent movements. Discussions leaked. Your voting history underlined in red. The threat was vague—too vague for your comfort. But it didn’t feel like a bluff.

And it had your name in it.

You exhaled sharply. “Any idea who’s behind it?”

“Too early to confirm. Intelligence thinks it’s separatist-aligned extremists or a shadow cell embedded in the lower districts.”

“Of course they do.”

Bail gave you a meaningful look. “Security’s being doubled. The Chancellor’s assigning escorts for all senators flagged.”

You raised a brow. “Let me guess. I don’t get to pick mine.”

“No. But I thought you’d appreciate knowing who was assigned to you.”

The door opened again before you could ask.

Two sets of footsteps. Distinct.

Heavy. Precise.

You didn’t have to turn around to know.

Fox.

Thorn.

Of course.

Fox was already scanning the room. No helmet, but sharp as a knife, his eyes flicking to every shadow, every corner of your office like you were under attack now. Thorn walked half a step behind, expression calm, posture less rigid, but still unmistakably alert.

“I see we’re all being very subtle about this,” you muttered, glancing at the armed men flanking your office now like guards of war.

“You’re on the list,” Fox said. His voice was like crushed gravel—low, even, never cruel, but always tired.

“What list, exactly?” you asked, crossing your arms. “The ‘Too Mouthy to Survive’ list?”

Thorn’s mouth twitched again—always the one with the faintest hint of humor behind the armor.

“The High Risk list,” Fox replied simply.

“And how long will I be babysat?”

“Until the threat is neutralized or your corpse is cold,” Thorn said, deadpan.

You blinked.

“Was that a joke?”

“I don’t joke.”

“He does,” Fox said without looking at him. “Badly.”

“I hate this already,” you muttered, rubbing your temple.

Bail cleared his throat. “They’ll rotate between shifts. Never both at the same time, unless the situation escalates.”

Your head snapped up. “Both?”

“Yes,” Bail said flatly. “Two of the best. You should consider yourself lucky.”

“I’d feel luckier if my personal space wasn’t about to become a crime scene.”

Thorn stepped forward, tone gentler than Fox’s but still authoritative. “We’re not here to interfere with your duties. Just protect you while you do them.”

“And that includes sitting in on committee meetings? Speeches? Dinner receptions?”

Fox nodded. “All of it.”

You looked between them—Fox, with his granite stare and professional distance, and Thorn, who still hadn’t quite stopped looking at you since last night.

Something in your gut twisted. Not fear. Not annoyance.

Something dangerous.

This wasn’t just political anymore.

You were being watched. Stalked. Hunted.

And these two were now your only shield between that threat and your life.

You hated the idea of needing protection.

You hated how safe you felt around them even more.

⸻

The Senate chamber was unusually quiet.

Not silent—never silent—but that thick kind of quiet that came before a storm. Murmurs dipped beneath the domes, senators eyeing each other with the unease of shared vulnerability. No one said it outright, but the threat had spread. Everyone had heard.

And everyone knew some of them were marked.

You sat straighter in your pod than usual, spine taut, eyes fixed on nothing and everything. You’d spoken already—brief, pointed, and barbed. You had no patience today for pacifying words or empty declarations of unity.

Somewhere behind you, still and unreadable as always, stood Commander Fox.

He hadn’t flinched when your voice rose, hadn’t twitched when you called out the hypocrisy of a few senior senators who once claimed loyalty to neutrality but now conveniently aligned with protection-heavy legislation.

Fox didn’t speak. He didn’t move. He didn’t need to.

His presence was a loaded weapon holstered at your back.

You ended your speech with a clipped nod, disengaged the microphone, and leaned back in your seat. The applause was polite. The glares from across the chamber were not.

When the hearing adjourned, your pod retracted slowly, returning to the docking tier. You stood, heels clicking against the durasteel, and without needing to signal him, Fox stepped into motion behind you.

He said nothing.

You said nothing—at first.

But halfway down the polished hallway leading back toward your office, you tilted your head slightly.

“You know, you’re a hard one to read, Commander.”

Fox’s gaze didn’t waver from the path ahead. “That’s intentional.”

“I figured.” You glanced sideways. “But you’re really good at it. Do you even blink?”

“Occasionally.”

Your lips twitched, a smile curling despite yourself.

“Not a lot of people can keep up with me,” you said, voice softer now. “Even fewer try.”

Fox didn’t reply immediately. But something shifted.

Not in what he said—but in what he didn’t.

He moved just half a step closer.

Most wouldn’t have noticed. But you were trained to pick up the smallest things—micro-expressions, body language, political deflections hidden in tone. And you noticed now that he was watching you more directly. That his shoulders weren’t held quite as far from yours. That his footsteps echoed in perfect sync with yours.

You turned your head toward him, brow raised.

“I thought proximity would make you uncomfortable,” he said, finally.

You blinked. “Because I’m a senator?”

“Because you don’t like being watched.”

“Everyone watches senators,” you said. “You’re just better at it.”

Another step.

Closer.

He still didn’t look at you outright, but you felt it. That shift in awareness. That quiet, focused gravity pulling toward you without making a sound.

“What’s your read on me, then?” you asked.

Fox stopped walking.

So did you.

He finally turned his head. Just slightly. Just enough.

“You’re smart enough to know what not to say in public,” he said. “But reckless enough to say it anyway.”

You stared at him, breath caught somewhere between offense and amusement.

“And that makes me what? A liability?”

“It makes you visible,” Fox said. “Which is more dangerous than anything else.”

Your mouth was dry. “Is that your professional opinion?”

His eyes didn’t leave yours.

“Yes.”

You felt the air shift between you. Unspoken, heavy.

Then, just like that, he stepped ahead of you again, resuming the walk as though the pause hadn’t happened at all.

You followed.

But your heart was beating faster.

And you weren’t sure why.

You were almost at your office when the change in guard was announced.

“Senator,” Fox said, pausing by the lift. “My shift’s ending. Commander Thorn will take over from here.”

You opened your mouth to ask something—anything—but he was already stepping back. Already gone.

And just like that, you felt it.

The cold absence where his presence had been.

The lift doors opened before the silence had a chance to stretch too far.

“Senator,” Thorn greeted, stepping out with that easy, assured confidence that Fox never wore.

His helmet was clipped to his belt this time, revealing the full sharpness of his jaw, the subtle smirk tugging one corner of his mouth upward. His expression was casual—friendly, even—but his eyes swept you over with that same tactical precision as Fox’s.

You noticed it, even if others wouldn’t.

“Commander Thorn,” you said, brushing a stray strand of hair back. “How fortunate. I was just getting bored of no conversation.”

Thorn chuckled. “That sounds like Fox.”

“He said maybe twelve words the entire time.”

“Four of them were probably your name and title.”

You smirked, but your tone turned dry. “And you’re any different?”

He fell into step beside you without needing to be told. “Maybe. Depends.”

“On?”

He tilted his head slightly. “Whether you want someone who listens, or someone who talks.”

You glanced up at him, not expecting that level of insight. “Bold for a man I barely know.”

“I’d say we know each other better than most already,” he said casually. “I’ve seen you argue with half the Senate, smile at the rest, and stumble out of a club at 0200 pretending you weren’t drunk.”

Your cheeks flushed. “I was not pretending.”

He grinned. “Then you were very convincing.”

You reached your office doors. The security droid scanned you and unlocked with a soft click. You didn’t go in right away.

“You’re not like him,” you said after a beat.

“Fox?” Thorn’s brow lifted. “No. He’s the wall. I’m the gate.”

You gave him a look.

“That’s either poetic or deeply concerning.”

He leaned slightly closer—close enough that you could feel the warmth of him, the sheer reality of the man behind the armor. “Just means I’m easier to talk to.”

You didn’t respond immediately.

But your fingers lingered a little longer on the door panel than they needed to.

“I’ll be inside for a few hours,” you said finally, voice softer now.

Thorn didn’t step back. “I’ll be right here.”

The door closed between you, but your heart was still beating just a little too loud.

⸻

You were seated at your desk, halfway through tearing apart a policy proposal when the alarms flared to life—blaring red lights streaking across the transparisteel windows of your office.

Your comms crackled a second later.

“All personnel, code red. Attack in progress. Eastern Senate wing compromised.”

You stood so fast your chair tipped over.

Outside your door, Thorn’s voice was already sharp and commanding.

“Stay inside, Senator. Lock the doors.”

“Thorn—”

“I said lock it.”

You hesitated for only a second before slamming your palm against the panel. The doors sealed shut with a hiss, cutting off the sounds beyond.

Your pulse thundered in your ears. The east wing. You didn’t need a layout map to know who worked down there.

Mon Mothma.

Riyo Chuchi.

You turned toward your comm panel and opened a direct line.

It didn’t go through.

The silence that followed was worse than any explosion.

Moments passed. Five. Ten. Long enough for doubt to slither into your chest.

Then the door unlocked.

You turned quickly—but not in fear. Readiness.

Thorn stepped inside, blaster still drawn. His armor was singed, one pauldron scraped, the other glinting with something wet and copper-dark.

“Are they okay?” you asked, voice too sharp, too desperate.

“One confirmed injured,” Thorn said. “Not fatal. Attackers fled. Still sweeping the halls.”

You exhaled, relief unspooling painfully down your spine.

Thorn crossed the room to you, checking the windows before stepping back toward the door.

“I’m getting you out,” he said.

“Now?”

“It’s not safe here.”

You followed him without hesitation.

But just before the hallway opened fully before you, another figure joined—emerging from the opposite end with dark armor, dark eyes, and a darker expression.

Fox.

He didn’t speak. Just looked at Thorn. Then at you.

Then back at Thorn.

Thorn gave a small, dry nod. “Guess command figured double was safer.”

Fox stepped into pace beside you, opposite Thorn.

Neither man said a word.

But you felt it.

The change. The pressure. The electricity.

Both commanders moved in unison—professional, focused, unshakable. But their attention wasn’t just on the halls or the shadows. It was on each other. Measuring. Reading. Holding something back.

And you?

You were caught directly between them.

Literally.

And, for the first time, maybe not unwillingly.

The Senate had been locked down, but your apartment—tucked within the guarded diplomat district—was cleared for return. Not safe, not exactly, but safer than a building that had just seen smoke and fire.

Fox and Thorn flanked you again.

The hover transport dropped you three streets out, citing security rerouting, so the rest of the way had to be walked. Late-night fog curled between the towers, headlights casting long shadows.

You should’ve been quiet. Should’ve been tense.

But something about the presence of both commanders beside you—so alike and yet impossibly different—made your voice turn lighter. Bolder.

“I feel like I’m being escorted by a wall and a statue,” you teased, glancing sideways. “Guess which is which.”

Thorn let out a low snort, barely audible.

Fox, predictably, did not react.

You smiled a little. Then pressed further.

“You really don’t say much, do you, Commander?” you asked, turning slightly toward Fox as your heels clicked against the pavement.

“Only when necessary.”

“Lucky for me I enjoy unnecessary things.”

Fox’s eyes didn’t flicker. Not outwardly. But he said nothing, which somehow made the game more interesting.

You leaned in, just enough to brush near his armor as you passed a narrow alley. “What if I said it’s necessary for me to hear you say something soft? Maybe something charming?”

Fox didn’t stop walking. But his gaze turned fully to you now, sharp and unreadable.

“Then I’d say you’re testing me,” he said lowly.

Your breath caught for a beat.

Behind you, Thorn cleared his throat—just once, quiet but pointed.

You looked back at him with a sly smile. “Don’t worry, Commander. I’m not starting a fight. Just making conversation.”

“You’re good at that,” Thorn said, polite but cool.

Was that… jealousy? No. Not quite. But close enough to touch it.

You reached your door and turned toward both men.

“Are either of you coming inside?” you asked, only half joking.

Fox didn’t answer. Thorn gave you a knowing smile.

“Not unless it’s protocol, Senator.”

You shrugged dramatically. “Shame.”

The locks activated with a soft click. You turned just before stepping through the threshold.

“Goodnight, Commander Thorn. Commander Fox.”

Fox gave you a single nod.

Thorn, ever the warmer one, offered a parting smile. “Sleep easy, Senator. We’ve got eyes on your building all night.”

You stepped inside.

And as the door closed behind you, you pressed your back to it… smiling. Just a little.

One was a wall. The other a gate.

And both were beginning to open.

⸻

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

I saw your fic “What’s that smell” and thought it was absolutely beautiful! I was wondering what would be the rest of the batches reactions to the new smells. I can’t imagine what their ship would smell like and then having it change and maybe even be cleaner. You’re the best! Xx

Their ship would 100% smell like oil, sweat, blaster residue, old caf, dusty armor polish, and wet dog on a good day.

Here is what I believe the rest of the batches reactions are.

Crosshair

The first time he notices it, he’s practically scowling.

He hates things he can’t immediately explain, and suddenly the ship doesn’t smell like burnt wiring and recycled air anymore — it smells like…

something soft.

Something warm.

Something he can’t stop breathing in.

He’s so annoyed about it he follows you around for an entire day, sniffing the air like a pissed-off lothcat, trying to figure out if it’s you or if someone installed a karking air freshener.

When he finally realizes it’s you, he just stands there staring at you for a long second, lips pressed into a tight line.

Then he mutters:

“You smell… distracting.”

Like it’s a personal insult.

Will absolutely lean in closer than necessary just to breathe you in — but if you catch him, he’ll immediately go “Hmph” and pretend you’re the weird one.

Wrecker

Wrecker’s the first to flat-out say it.

He scoops you up into a bone-crushing hug one day, immediately sniffs, and then pulls back with wide, amazed eyes.

“Whoa! You smell amazing! Like… like sunshine! And pastries! And soap!”

He is obsessed after that. Every time you walk by, he inhales dramatically like a toddler discovering their favorite candy.

“Can we keep ya?” he jokes — but he means it. You’re like a walking comfort blanket for him.

The Marauder slowly starts smelling better too because Wrecker starts cleaning more — purely because he wants the nice smell to stick around.

Tech

Tech notices immediately, but being Tech, he processes it differently.

“Interesting,” he says aloud the first time you pass him. “The olfactory change is quite pleasant.”

Then he starts… researching it.

He runs calculations about human pheromones and attraction rates. He theorizes that your presence might lower the crew’s stress levels by up to 23%.

He doesn’t even realize he’s orbiting closer to you during missions until Wrecker points it out.

Embarrassed, he adjusts his goggles and mutters something about “optimal proximity for psychological benefits.”

Translation: You smell good and it’s making his brain short-circuit, help.

Echo

Echo notices it like a punch to the face because he’s so hyperaware of sensory input now.

The Marauder always smells like metal and grime — he’s used to it — but you?

You smell like rain hitting dry ground. Like something clean and alive and real.

It shakes him a little.

Reminds him of before — before the war, before everything.

He tries to be subtle about it, but you catch him lingering near you sometimes, jaw tight like he’s trying not to let himself want it.

One day you brush past him and he closes his eyes for half a second, just breathing you in.

He doesn’t say anything about it for a long time.

Until maybe you tease him — and he finally admits, voice low and rough:

“You make this whole ship feel… less like a graveyard.”

Which might be the most devastatingly sweet thing Echo could ever say.

Title: Good Looking

Hunter x Reader

⸻

The cantina flickered with low, golden light. One of those places where time didn’t move right—where music played like a memory, and everyone spoke a little softer after dark.

You sat on the edge of a cracked booth, legs stretched, nursing a cheap drink you weren’t really drinking. Your armor was off, your hair a mess, and there was still grime on your hands from the skirmish earlier that day. You should’ve been back at the ship, cleaning up or passing out. But you weren’t.

Because he was still here.

Hunter leaned against the bar, arms crossed, talking quietly to the bartender. His bandana was off for once, letting those wild curls fall free around his face. He looked tired—always did—but he still stood like he carried the weight of everyone else’s safety before his own. That kind of burden was its own kind of beauty.

You didn’t realize you were staring until he turned and caught you.

He didn’t look away.

Neither did you.

Eventually, he walked over. Sat across from you without asking, sliding into the cracked booth like it had always been meant for two.

“You okay?” he asked.

You shrugged. “Still got all my limbs.”

He smirked. “That’s a start.”

You studied him under the flickering cantina lights. He was always so composed in battle, so sharp, so focused. But like this, up close and quiet, there was something softer behind his eyes. Something a little tired. A little lonely.

“You’re always looking after everyone else,” you said suddenly, voice low. “Who looks after you?”

Hunter blinked, caught off guard by the question. He looked down, then back at you with a small, dry laugh. “You know… I don’t really think about it.”

“You should.”

You reached out and brushed a thumb across his knuckles—just once, just enough.

He didn’t flinch.

“You’re good looking when you’re not pretending to be indestructible,” you murmured. The words slipped out like a secret.

Hunter tilted his head, smile crooked, eyes watching you like he was trying to decide if he was dreaming or if he just hadn’t let himself want this before.

“You’ve been drinking,” he said.

You held his gaze. “A little. But I’d say it sober.”

He leaned forward, forearms on the table, his voice low and gravelly. “Then say it again.”

You felt your breath hitch, just a little.

“You’re good looking, Hunter,” you said. “But I think I like you even more when you let yourself feel.”

A beat passed. Two. He looked down at your hand, still near his. Then he reached for it—gently, carefully, like something fragile in a war-torn world.

“I think I feel too much when I’m around you,” he said. “And that scares me more than battle ever could.”

You didn’t answer. Just let the silence sit between you—heavy, intimate, real.

The music kept playing. The world outside kept spinning. But for now, it was just the two of you, sitting across from each other like the war had paused. Like the night belonged to people who’d been scarred, and tired, and still dared to want something more.

Hi! I’m not sure if you’ve heard of Epic the musical and the song “There are other ways” but I was thinking a Tech X Reader where he gets lost and comes across a sorceress and she seduces him and it’s very steamy? Lmk if this is ok, if not feel free to delete. Xx

“There Are Other Ways”

Tech x Reader

Tech had been separated from the squad before. Statistically speaking, given the volume of missions they undertook in unpredictable terrain, the odds were precisely 3.8% per assignment. He should have been more prepared for it—should have accounted for environmental disruptions, latent electromagnetic fields, or the possibility of the forest itself being… alive.

Still, none of that explained why his visor fritzed out the moment he crossed the river.

Or why the fog grew thicker when he tried to retrace his steps.

Or why the trees whispered his name like they knew him.

“Tech…”

He halted. The voice came from ahead—feminine, melodic. Not from his comm. And certainly not Omega playing a prank. She didn’t sound like a dream.

His grip tightened on his blaster. “Reveal yourself.”

And you did.

You stepped from the mist as if you belonged to it. Bare feet sinking into moss, the water licking around your ankles. The moon crowned you, making the fine threads of your cloak shimmer like woven starlight. Your gaze was ancient. Curious. Smiling.

“I’ve been waiting,” you said, voice like silk over steel.

Tech’s eyes narrowed behind his visor. “Statistically improbable, considering I had no intention of entering this region of the forest, nor becoming separated from my unit.”

“Perhaps I saw what you could not,” you said, tilting your head. “Or perhaps I called, and you listened.”

He ran a diagnostic scan. No lifeforms detected. No hostile readings. The air was too quiet.

“Are you… Force-sensitive?”

You laughed—a soft, knowing sound that made his stomach tighten.

“I’m something like that. Does it matter?”

“It very much does. If you are a threat, I am obligated to neutralize—”

But you were closer now. He hadn’t seen you move. Your fingers touched the edge of his armor with something like reverence.

“I’m not a threat unless you ask me to be.”

His breath hitched. Just once. Just enough for you to notice.

“You’re… a clone trooper. The mind of your little unit.” You circled him slowly. “Always calculating. Always thinking. Never letting go.”

“I find control to be preferable to chaos,” he said sharply.

“And yet,” you whispered, stepping behind him, your hand brushing the nape of his neck, “you walked into the chaos anyway.”

His fingers twitched. He should have stepped forward. Should have recalibrated his scanner. Should have moved—

But he didn’t.

Because something about your presence tugged at the part of him he kept locked away. The part he filed under unnecessary. Indulgent. Weak.

“Your body,” you murmured, lips brushing the shell of his ear, “wants what your mind won’t allow.”

He stiffened.

You smiled, warm and wicked, stepping in front of him again, your fingers now brushing the soft lining between his chest armor and undersuit. “You wear this like a wall. But you’re still a man beneath it.”

“I am not… easily manipulated,” he managed, though his voice had dropped, deeper than he liked.

“I’m not manipulating you, Tech.” You met his gaze. “I’m offering you a choice. You can walk away. Return to your mission. Your team. Your purpose.”

You stepped closer, and his breath caught as your hand slid beneath the edge of his cowl, your touch feather-light. “Or you can let go. Just for one night. Just this once.”

He shouldn’t. He knew he shouldn’t. He could list a hundred reasons why this was an anomaly. A deviation. A risk.

And yet—

His hand came up, slowly, almost shaking. Not to stop you. To touch you. To feel you. To confirm you were real.

You leaned in.

“I can show you other ways,” you whispered.

Then your lips brushed his—tentative at first, waiting. And when he didn’t pull away, you deepened the kiss, slow and exploratory, as if trying to map the mind he kept so tightly wound.

Tech’s world tilted.

Because for the first time in years, he wasn’t thinking.

He was feeling.

And when he let his blaster fall to the moss, when his hands found your waist and pulled you against him, when he kissed you back with a desperation he didn’t know he had—

He wasn’t the mind anymore.

He was a man.

His breath stuttered.

Tech wasn’t used to this—not the heat rising in his chest, nor the sensation of lips ghosting down his neck like a whisper meant only for the softest, most hidden parts of him.

Your eyes drank him in—not with hunger, but with reverence. His freckles, his sharp cheekbones, the slight twitch in his jaw that betrayed the storm behind his glasses.

“You’re beautiful,” you said softly.

Tech blinked. “That is… an illogical observation.”

You smiled. “Then your logic needs reprogramming.”

He made a noise—half protest, half breathless laugh—but it caught in his throat when your hands touched the bare skin of his collarbone. Your thumbs pressed lightly into the muscles of his neck. Tech didn’t realize how tense he always was until he felt himself melting beneath your touch.

“Tell me to stop,” you whispered.

“I…” His voice caught. “I cannot.”

You nodded, leaning in until your forehead touched his. “Then don’t.”

He didn’t.

Instead, he kissed you—desperately this time, hands curling at your waist as if anchoring himself to something real, something grounding in the swirling chaos of magic and sensation.

You pressed against him, warm and solid and devastatingly soft. One hand curled into his hair, the other sliding beneath the edge of his armor as you slowly coaxed it free. Piece by piece, you helped him shed it—not forcefully, never rushing. Like a ritual. Like he was something sacred.

When the last plate fell into the moss with a thud, he stood before you stripped of all defenses, chest rising and falling in quiet, stunned silence.

“You’re still thinking,” you said gently, brushing your nose against his.

“I—always think,” he breathed.

“Then let me think for you tonight.”

He didn’t protest when you led him backward into the moss, the magic of the forest warming the ground like a living bed. You straddled his lap, kissing him slow, deep, like you wanted to memorize every stifled sound he made.

Tech’s hands roamed—tentative, reverent, needy. He touched like a man learning to live in his own skin for the first time. Every sigh, every moan, every tremble you pulled from him was a tiny rebellion against the order he clung to.

And gods—how he clung to you instead.

Your magic hummed beneath your skin, wrapping around his ribs like silk. It didn’t control him. It didn’t bend his will. It simply amplified everything he was already feeling, pulling him deeper into you, into this—the illusion, the escape, the exquisite loss of control.

Your mouths met again and again. His glasses were somewhere in the moss. His hands splayed along the curve of your back. And when you whispered his name, over and over, like it was the only truth left in the galaxy—

He whispered yours back like a prayer.

Like he had always known it.

Like logic had never mattered at all.

“The Butcher and The Wolf”pt.2

Commander Wolffe x Princess Reader

R4 trilled while plugging data‑spikes into the sleek shuttle’s nav‑computer; TC polished the boarding ramp as though senators would rate its shine. Inside, [Y/N] sealed a crate of festival gifts—kyber‑laced lanterns, citrus‑spiced tihaar—when the hangar doors parted.

In strode Master Plo Coon and Kenobi, with his most innocent smile. Behind them Commander Cody and an impeccably straight‑backed Commander Wolffe.

Kenobi surveyed the scene, eyes twinkling. “My lady, I trust Coruscant treated you… memorably?”

Plo’s mask inclined. “Yes, I understand you’ve already formed a—shall we say—effective working rapport with our best security personnel.”

TC’s head swiveled. “If you refer to last night’s flawless briefing, Masters, I assure you my presentation notes were—”

“—copied from my schematics,” R4 beeped smugly.

Kenobi chuckled. “Quite. Though some reports suggest the princess herself gathered more… field intelligence than anticipated.”

Wolffe’s helmet visor dipped a millimeter; only Cody saw the pained grimace. He murmured, “Steady, vod, you’ve faced droid armies—Jedi teasing won’t kill you.”

[Y/N] kept a serene smile. “Coruscant was enlightening, Master Kenobi. Your commanders are… thorough.”

“Thorough,” Kenobi echoed, barely suppressing a grin. “An admirable quality.”

Plo produced a data‑chip. “Your Highness, these are revised escort protocols for the festival. The Council looks forward to cooperating.”

Cody added, “Wolfpack leads the clone detachment. We’ll rendezvous in orbit over Karthuna.” He patted Wolffe’s pauldron. “Commander is eager to ensure everything runs smoothly.”

Wolffe managed, “Honored to serve, Princess.” Translation: please let the floor swallow me.

R4 gave a warbling laugh. TC translated dryly, “R4 suggests the commander already has extensive knowledge of our customs—particularly nightlife.”

Kenobi coughed into his sleeve; even Plo’s mask seemed to smile.

[Y/N] ascended the ramp, pausing beside Wolffe. Low enough for only him: “Try not to judge anyone before second breakfast, Commander.”

He answered just as quietly, “Next time, title first, drinks second.”

Her wink was pure mischief. “Where’s the fun in that?”

With diplomatic farewells exchanged, the Jedi departed, Cody dragging a still‑smirking Kenobi. Wolffe lingered as engines warmed, visor reflecting the princess who had upended his meticulously ordered world.

R4’s hatch closed, TC waved primly, and the shuttle lifted skyward—toward open borders, a five‑day festival, and a reunion sure to test the Wolf’s composure more than any battlefield.

⸻

Commander Wolffe had survived orbital bombardments, trench sieges, and General Grievous’s cackling—but nothing tested endurance like the embassy’s protocol droid at full lecture speed.

TC strode the aisle between jump‑seats where Wolffe, Boost, and Sinker buckled in.

“…and the Festival of Dawning begins with a kuur‑vaan procession. That translates roughly as ‘dance of a thousand sparks,’ involving micro‑kyber filaments that ignite in sequence—quite breathtaking, provided you wear appropriate eye shielding. Now, the correct greeting is ‘Gal’shara’ with palms outward—never inward, or you imply the listener lacks honor. Also, avoid offering your left hand—historically used for bloodletting rituals dating back—”

Sinker slumped. “Commander, permission to eject myself through the air‑lock.”

Boost whispered, “Could be worse—could be a Senate speech.”

TC continued, undeterred. “—and if you’re offered sapphire tihaar, remember it’s an apology drink, not casual refreshment. Accepting without cause is tantamount to admitting fault. Speaking of fault, did you know the northern fault‑line—”

Wolffe pinched the bridge of his nose. “Droid, compile this in a datapad. My men will study quietly.”

“Oh, certainly, Commander. I have already prepared a 312‑page primer, complete with holo‑graphs.”

Sinker mouthed three‑hundred‑twelve?! Boost mimed choking.

⸻

[Y/N] sat cross‑legged in her cabin, R4 projecting a secure blue holo of King Talren—silver‑bearded, stern eyes softened only for his daughter.

“Little Dawn,” he greeted, using her childhood nickname, “I won’t waste time. Loyalist scouts uncovered three insurgent cells. Extremists insist reopening our borders is betrayal; some whisper of Separatist aid.”

A map flared beside him—red sigils in mountain passes.

“I need those cells silenced before the festival opens,” the king said. “You know the terrain. Take whatever force is required, but keep off‑worlders uninvolved. This must look like an internal matter.”

[Y/N] bowed her head. “It will be done, Father.”

The holo faded. R4 beeped a query.

“Prep infiltration loadouts,” she answered. “Low‑flash sabers, sonic mines, and two squads of Shadow Guard on standby. We strike first nightfall.”

R4 warbled approval, projecting tactical overlays. She added waypoints, carving silent routes Wolffe’s clones would never notice.

⸻

Later, passing Wolffe in the corridor, [Y/N] offered a casual nod. He paused, as if sensing undercurrents, but protocol kept him silent.

Behind him TC called, “Commander, I neglected to mention Karthunese dining order—if the Princess serves you last, it’s actually a sign of high esteem—”

Wolffe muttered a prayer for battlefield blasterfire to drown out etiquette lessons.

In her quarters, [Y/N] traced insurgent sigils on the holo with a gloved fingertip, resolve hardening. Opening Karthuna’s doors to the galaxy meant showing strength the old way—quiet, decisive, unseen.

And if the Wolf and his troopers never learned how the festival stayed peaceful, all the better.

⸻

The twin suns of Karthuna cast copper light over the obsidian‑paved sky‑dock as the Republic cruiser settled with a hiss of repulsors. King Talren stood flanked by honor guards whose sun‑metal armor threw brilliant flares into the air. Behind him waited the planetary senator, Senator Vessar, and the ever‑skeptical Governor of Interior Works, Governor Rhun.

The ramp dropped. Out strode Masters Plo Coon and Kenobi, Chancellor Palpatine in ceremonial crimson, a cluster of senators, and the clone detachment led by Commanders Cody and Wolffe flanked by Boost and Sinker.

Talren bowed with a warrior’s economy. “Karthuna welcomes the Republic. May the Force greet you as friend and guest.”

A respectful murmur answered. Yet even before introductions concluded, his daughter slipped to his side, murmured, “Urgent Shadow Guard matter, Father,” and—still in civilian vest and braid—beelined for a sand‑silver speeder.

Wolffe’s visor tracked her, but protocol held him. Engines howled; the speeder vanished down a cliff‑side lift‑tube toward the high passes.

Talren inhaled—the first lie ready on his tongue.

⸻

Kenobi stepped forward, large smile in place. “Your Majesty, we look forward to your famous Festival of Dawning.”

“As do we all,” Talren replied, steering the party toward the citadel’s balcony overlooking the festival valley—far from launch bays or military comms.

Chancellor Palpatine clasped gloved hands. “Your daughter leads the festivities, does she not? I had hoped to congratulate her.”

“She prepares a…surprise presentation,” Talren said smoothly. “Artists’ temperaments, Chancellor.”

Governor Rhun muttered just loud enough, “More like a warrior itching for mischief.”

Senator Vessar chimed in, tone dripping dry humor, “I assure our off‑world partners the princess habitually vanishes moments before debuting something spectacular—or spectacularly dangerous.”

Talren fixed them both with a steel‑edged smile that promised discussion later.

Plo Coon shifted his weight, Kel‑Dor mask unreadable. “Your Highness, Clone Commander Wolffe will require coordination with your security captain.”

“Of course.” Talren gestured toward the fortress doors. “Commander, my staff will relay schematics over luncheon. Meanwhile, allow me to show the Chancellor our kyber‑terraced gardens—quite safe, I assure you.”

Wolffe’s unspoken protest died behind the visor; duty bound, he followed Cody toward a briefing alcove where TC awaited with yet another data‑slab. Talren breathed easier: one crisis delayed, if not averted.

As the king guided the diplomats through colonnades, Governor Rhun leaned in: “You risk interstellar incident if the princess sparks bloodshed while the Republic picnics outside our walls.”

Talren’s voice stayed velvet, danger beneath. “Better insurgent blood in the mountains than senator blood in the streets.”

Senator Vessar added, half‑teasing, “If she returns with soot on her boots, I shall schedule extra press holos to reframe it as heroic cultural demonstration.”

Kenobi caught the whisper, grin curving. “Your court seems…spirited, Majesty.”

Talren allowed the tiniest exhale of amusement. “Karthuna has waited fifteen years to step back onto the galactic stage, General. We intend to give a performance worth the ticket.”

Above them, fireworks crews tested micro‑sparklers; bright hisses masked the distant roar of a speeder blazing toward insurgent territory.

In a quiet moment against the balcony rail, Talren gazed over valley tents blooming for festival week, mind split between choreography of diplomats and the razor‑work his daughter undertook beyond those peaks.

He whispered to the wind, “Return swift, Little Dawn.”

⸻

By mid‑afternoon the princess was still missing.

Commander Wolffe stood on the citadel parapet overlooking the valley’s bustling festival city, visor fixed on the distant scar of mountains her speeder had taken.

Local Sun‑Guard Captain Arven stepped up, spearhaft tapping stone.

“Enjoying the view, off‑worlder?”

“I’d enjoy it more if your crown heir were within com‑range,” Wolffe replied. “Transmit her last coordinates.”

“Princess has classified authority.”

Wolffe’s servo‑joint clicked as his gauntlet clenched. “My mandate is to protect every Republic dignitary on this rock—including her.”

Arven smirked. “Karthuna protected itself centuries before troopers in white armor needed it. Stand down, Commander.”

Cody’s voice crackled through Wolffe’s comlink: “Easy, vod. Diplomacy first.”

Wolffe never took his eye from the peaks. Diplomacy ends when the VIP bleeds, he thought—and weighed the odds of “borrowing” a gunship.

New LAATs screamed in, disgorging Jedi and clones.

Anakin Skywalker and Ahsoka Tano with the 501st, assigned to guard Senator Padmé Amidala of Naboo and a cadre of Core‑World legislators.

Masters Mace Windu and Ki‑Adi‑Mundi arrived with Commanders Ponds and Bacara respectively, doubling ground strength.

Skywalker clapped Wolffe’s pauldron. “Heard your princess pulled a disappearing act—sounds like my kind of trouble.”

“Not helping, General,” Wolffe growled, though Ahsoka’s sympathetic grin eased his temper a notch.

Senators debarked in a flurry of aides, holo‑recorders, and fashion impractical for mountain air. Festival staff hustled to reroute them toward reception halls—distraction, Talren hoped, until his daughter returned.

Master Yoda, leaning on his gimer stick, sought King Talren atop a sun‑warmed terrace strewn with kyber wind‑chimes. The diminutive Jedi regarded the monarch’s sun‑metal cuirass and the twin‑bladed saber at his hip.

“Strong in the Force, your people are,” Yoda began. “Yet light and dark you name not. Curious, this is.”

Talren inclined his head. “Master, on Karthuna we are taught: there is no dawn without night. Deny darkness, and daylight loses meaning. Balance is not the absence of shadow, but its harmony with light.”

“Hmmm.” Yoda’s ears twitched thoughtfully. “Unnatural, you say, to void one side?”

“As unnatural as silencing half a heartbeat,” Talren answered. “We do not fear the shadow; we fear imbalance.”

Wind‑chimes chimed like distant sabers. Yoda closed his eyes, absorbing the resonance.

“Much to learn, even I have,” he murmured. “And much to guard, we both must.”

Talren’s gaze drifted to the mountains. “Agreed, Master Yoda. Balance must sometimes be defended by hidden blades.”

⸻

Sunset torched the valley when a sand‑silver speeder roared through the citadel gates. Clone guards scrambled aside as [Y/N] leapt off, still in dust‑streaked vest and combat shorts. She vaulted a barricade, sprinting for the grand foyer.

“Hey—civilian access is restricted!” bellowed Commander Fox, Crimson Guard staff lowered across her path.

She halted, breath steady despite the climb. “I live here, thanks.”

Before Fox could run ID, Chancellor Palpatine emerged from a delegation knot, eyes narrowing with fox‑like curiosity.

“My dear, racing through secure halls in such…practical attire—is something amiss?”

[Y/N] offered a flawless court bow that contrasted sharply with her grime‑spattered boots. “Merely last‑minute festival preparations, Chancellor. Please excuse me; I must dress for the gala.”

Palpatine’s smile sliced thin. “Ah, duty never rests. I look forward to your presentation this evening.”

Fox straightened as realization dawned. “Wait—you’re—”

She winked. “Classified, Commander.” Then slipped past, leaving red armor and red robes equally bemused.

In her chamber, TC fussed with brocade gowns while R4 powered a sonic shower.

“Your Highness, the schedule is punishing: welcome gala at nineteen‑hundred, holo‑address at twenty‑two, and saber exhibition by dawn.”

“Then we’d better look lethal and lovely,” [Y/N] said, toweling off. She chose a floor‑length gown of midnight silk that clung to sculpted muscle, high slits revealing thigh holsters for compact hilts. Sun‑metal pauldrons mirrored her crown, but the gown’s sleeveless cut displayed the lattice of scars down both arms—plasma burns, shrapnel lines, duelist nicks—each a story she refused to hide.

TC clipped the circlet into her damp hair. “Might I suggest gloves to soften the, ah, impression?”

She flexed scarred fingers. “No. Let the galaxy see what Karthuna’s balance looks like.”

R4 projected her entrance route. She studied it, then smiled. “Time to charm senators, silence rumors, and—perhaps—make a wolf squirm.”

⸻

A fanfare of crystal horns cut through conversation. Doors parted, revealing Princess [Y/N] radiant in midnight silk and sun‑metal crown, scars on her bare arms glinting like silver filigree. Senators gasped—half at the regality, half at the unapologetic battle‑marks.

Master Kenobi murmured to Skywalker, “Grace and menace in equal measure—definitely your type, Anakin.”

Skywalker smirked. “She’d have me for breakfast.”

Padmé Amidala complimented the gown’s craftsmanship; [Y/N] returned praise for Naboo’s relief programs, steering talk away from rumored insurgents.

Master Windu approached her, he attempted to discuss security perimeters; the princess assured him Karthuna’s Shadow Guard had “every shadow covered.”

Across the room, Governor Rhun whispered to holoreporters, stoking stories of her “reckless mountain excursion.” TC hovered, intercepting leading questions with cutting etiquette lessons.

Commander Wolffe, helmet clipped to belt, stood near a terrace arch with Cody and Plo Coon. When [Y/N] approached, conversation faltered like a blaster misfire.

She offered a delicate curtsy—mischief in her eyes. “Commander, I trust the briefing notes were…illuminating?”

“They were extensive,” Wolffe said evenly. “Yet somehow omitted your talent for disappearing.”

“Ah, but every good security test includes an unscheduled drill.” She stepped closer, voice just for him: “You passed—eventually.”

The faintest flush darkened Wolffe’s neck. “Next time give me a comm frequency, not a cliff to chase.”

[Y/N] arched a brow. “And deny you the exercise?” Her fingers brushed the edge of his pauldron as she glided past. “Meet me on the terrace at midnight—strictly business, of course.”

Wolffe exhaled—half growl, half laugh—as Cody elbowed him, grinning. “Careful, vod. That one dances with both halves of the Force.”

Strings struck up Karthuna’s dawn‑waltz. Jedi mingled with diplomats while clone troopers ringed the hall’s perimeter. Suspicion, politics, and bright music braided in the air—yet for a heartbeat, harmony held.

In the high galleries, R4 scanned faces, feeding the princess data on a Separatist envoy concealed among trade delegates—tonight’s real threat.

Midnight loomed, and outside the terrace doors, mountain winds whispered of balance, blades, and a wolf answering a princess’s call.

⸻

Princess [Y/N] leaned against the balustrade, moon‑silver kissing the scars on her shoulders. Commander Wolffe stood close, arms folded—attempt at stoic ruined by her playful tug on the strap of his pauldron.

“Still on duty, Commander?” she teased.

“Always.”

“So devoted,” she murmured, fingers ghosting along the seam where synth‑skin met armor. “Makes a woman wonder how else that focus might—”

A scarlet bolt sizzled through the ballroom windows. Shouts. Glass rained like crystal hail.

Inside, Governor Rhun lay sprawled behind an overturned buffet, cloak smoking at the shoulder. Clone guards returned fire toward upper galleries; a masked shooter vaulted onto a chandelier cable and vanished in a flash‑grenade’s glare.

Skywalker, Ahsoka, Windu ignited sabers; Cody’s troopers fanned out. Wolffe ushered [Y/N] through the shattered doors into the throne corridor, senators scrambling behind.

⸻

Heavy doors slammed. Present: King Talren, Chancellor Palpatine, Masters Yoda, Windu, Kenobi, Commanders Cody, Wolffe, Ponds, Bacara, Senator Padmé, and a handful of shaken delegates. Rhun, arm bacta‑wrapped, was dragged in by medics.

Tension whipped like live wire.

[Y/N] broke the silence, voice flat: “Pity the shooter missed.”

Gasps; Wolffe’s helmet snapped toward her.

Rhun snarled. “Should’ve been you that got shot!”

She advanced, eyes blazing. “I opposed reopening our borders. Tonight proves me right. We invited every power broker in the war to one valley—painted a target the size of a moon.”

King Talren’s tone cut ice. “Peace requires risk.”

“Blind risk courts massacre,” she shot back. “Insurgents in our mountains, Separatist agents in our ballroom—now assassins under our roof.”

Palpatine interjected silkily, “Surely, Princess, the Republic can strengthen your security.”

“More soldiers won’t erase the bull’s‑eye you represent, Chancellor.”

Mace Windu’s gaze narrowed. “You suggest isolation while the galaxy burns?”

“I suggest survival,” she answered.

Arguments flared—senators citing diplomacy, clones citing protocol. Wolffe stepped between factions, voice drill‑sergeant sharp: “Focus. Assassin is still loose. Mandates later, lockdown now.”

Plo Coon, calm amid storm, nodded approval.

King Talren exhaled. “Commander Wolffe, you have joint authority with my Shadow Guard. Hunt the shooter.”

Wolffe met [Y/N]’s gaze—heat of earlier flirtation replaced by razor respect. “Princess—coming?”

She clicked twin sabers to her belt. “Lead the way, Commander.”

Rhun blanched; Padmé exchanged a knowing look with Kenobi—battle partners born.

The moment the throne‑room doors slammed behind them, [Y/N] was already moving—midnight gown gathered in one fist, the other dropping her double sabers into waiting palms.

Wolffe fell in at her shoulder, DC‑17 raised. The marble corridor echoed with their synchronized footfalls.

“Shadow Guard breach tunnel’s this way,” she hissed, sweeping aside a wall‑tapestry to reveal a spiral stair cut straight into obsidian.

He nodded once. “After you, Princess.”

The air grew cooler, alive with a faint crystalline hum. Iridescent kyber veins glowed within the stone, casting violet and jade shadows across their path.

Wolffe switched his helmet lamp to low‑band; [Y/N] didn’t bother—her people’s Force‑attuned sight caught every shimmer.

A blaster scorch on the stair railing.

“Fresh,” she murmured.

“Means we’re close,” Wolffe replied, pulse settling into the calm that preceded battle.

The stair disgorged them into a vast cavern—kyber pillars rising like frozen lightning. At the far end, the assassin’s silhouette leapt between crystal spires, cloak tattered by security bolts.

Wolffe’s comm clicked twice—Boost and Sinker sealing exits above.

“Corner him,” Wolffe ordered.

“Alive,” [Y/N] added. “I want intel before he bleeds out.”

They split wordlessly: Wolffe low along a mineral ridge, [Y/N] sprinting the high ledge, gown whipping behind like a war‑banner.

The assassin spun, twin WESTARs barking scarlet. Wolffe dove, bolts sparking off crystal as [Y/N] sprang from above, sabers igniting.

A vibro‑dagger flicked from the assassin’s wrist—met by Wolffe’s gauntlet, beskad plating deflecting the strike. He slammed the butt of his pistol into the assailant’s ribs.

“Yield,” the commander growled.

A hissed curse the killer smashed a detonator against the pillar. Kyber screamed as fractures spider‑webbed, light flaring.

[Y/N] threw Wolffe back with a Force‑shove and thrust both sabers into the crystal, channeling energy away in a surge of blinding radiance. The explosion muted to a concussive thump; shards rained harmlessly.

When vision cleared, the assassin lay dazed, binders already clamping on under Wolffe’s practiced hands.

“Who hired you?” the princess demanded.

The prisoner spat blood, defiant. “Karthuna’s own who crave true freedom—and the Confederacy rewards such courage.”

Wolffe’s visor tipped toward [Y/N]. Confirmation.

⸻

Governor Rhun’s voice boomed across the ballroom remnant—holocams hovering:

“This outrage proves openness invites anarchy! I petition immediate curfew, martial oversight by local forces, and expulsion of unnecessary off‑world elements!”

Several senators, rattled, murmured agreement. Separatist sympathizers whispered through the crowd, feeding fear.

Master Windu folded his arms. “Governor, the assassin wielded Separatist tech. Cooperation with the Republic, not isolation, thwarts such threats.”

Rhun’s smile was razor‑thin. “Yet my princess would see me dead; perhaps the Council should examine internal loyalties first.”

King Talren’s reply was cut short by the distant rumble of kyber—catacomb fight vibrations reaching high halls. Panic rippled anew.

Wolffe and [Y/N] emerged, armor and gown dusted in crystal powder, prisoner in tow. Gasps rippled through assembled officials.

“Governor Rhun,” [Y/N] announced, voice carrying. “Your assassin failed. And he’s confessed to Separatist backing—backing that feeds on fear you happily sow.”

Rhun’s complexion drained.

Palpatine stepped forward, tone silken. “A grave accusation, Princess. Proof?”

Wolffe activated the assassin’s cracked vambrace: a holo‑sigil of the Techno Union flickered. That, plus recorded confession from his helmet‑cam, filled the air in chilling blue.

Yoda’s ears drooped, sad but certain. “Darkness invited not by borders, but hearts seeking power, yes.”

Arguments flared, but now the tide shifted: senators demanding inquiry into Rhun’s dealings, Jedi reinforcing joint patrols, clones and Sun‑Guard sharing data rather than territory. The assassin was led away.

In the aftershock, [Y/N] turned to Wolffe, adrenaline still bright in her eyes.

“You kept up,” she said softly.

“You lit up half a mountain,” he retorted, relief threading the words.

A grin tugged her lips. “Balance, Commander—little light, little dark.”

His chuckle surprised them both. “Next time, maybe just a dance.”

She offered her arm—scarred, unhidden. He took it, escorting her back into the fractured ballroom where a new balance—uneasy, hard‑won—waited to be forged.

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