Kind Of Actually Soooo Fucking Funny That My Man Jung Was Like “I’m Toast Anyway They Know What I’m

stop asking “is this good?” and start asking “did it cause emotional damage?” that’s how you know.

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.

---

Over ten years of reading fanfics and I still have yet to come across a single oc/reader insert that was actually well written

Can’t tell if this is meant to be an insult or…?

Either way I’m happy to recommend a few fics that I personally enjoy.

“War on Two Fronts” pt.5

Captain Rex x Reader x Commander Bacara

The Council chamber lights dimmed as the debrief concluded. Bacara and Master Ki-Adi-Mundi exited in synchronized silence, the General’s long strides matching the Commander’s clipped, militant pace. Their boots echoed through the empty corridor.

They didn’t speak until the door to Mundi’s private quarters hissed closed behind them.

“I expected more restraint from her,” Mundi said, lowering his hood and brushing dust from the hem of his robe. “She continues to act with more heart than mind.”

“She held the position,” Bacara answered, standing still, helmet tucked under his arm. “Her plan worked.”

“Despite contradicting my orders. Again.”

Bacara’s brow twitched.

“She isn’t your padawan, Master Jedi.”

Mundi turned, eyes narrowing. “She is not yours either.”

A beat passed between them—tense, unsaid.

Bacara continued evenly. “With all due respect, General, her instincts saved lives. She has a rapport with native systems we lack. That’s why she was sent.”

Mundi stepped closer. “Her defiance encourages division. Among the men. Between us. If she continues to override my command in the field, I will petition for her removal.”

Bacara’s jaw tightened. “Petition it, then.”

A flicker of irritation crossed Mundi’s features—but he said nothing further. The door opened behind them without warning.

“Interesting conversation,” Mace Windu said calmly, stepping into the threshold with arms folded behind his back. “Especially in my temple.”

Mundi straightened. Bacara turned slightly, his posture still.

“Mace,” Mundi said tersely, “I wasn’t aware you were within earshot.”

“You weren’t.” Mace’s gaze was unreadable. “But I am now.”

Bacara shifted subtly as Mundi excused himself with a nod. The door shut behind him, leaving Windu and the Marshal Commander alone.

“I assume that wasn’t the first time he’s said something like that.”

“No, General.”

Mace studied Bacara in silence for a long time.

“She frustrates you.”

“Yes.”

“She challenges you.”

“She challenges everyone.”

Mace didn’t smile, but the corner of his mouth moved. “Good.”

Bacara blinked.

“You were eavesdropping on my conversation with her,”Windu said. “She told me.”

Bacara gave no excuse.

“You took offense.”

Still no reply.

“I’m not asking you to like her, Commander,” Windu continued. “But I trained her. I know every strength and every flaw. And I sent her out there not just to win battles—but to become something more than what the war wants her to be.”

Bacara’s eyes finally lifted to meet his.

“She’ll never become that if everyone keeps expecting her to fit a mold she was never made for.”

Mace turned to leave, then paused.

“She thinks you hate her.”

“I don’t.”

“You should tell her that.”

“I’ll consider it, sir.”

Mace nodded once, sharp and precise. “You’re dismissed, Commander.”

As Bacara stepped into the corridor, he felt the weight of the conversation settle heavier than any armor.

He didn’t hate her. He wasn’t sure what he felt at all.

But he knew something had shifted—and Mace Windu was watching it unfold.

⸻

Coruscant was loud in a way Aleen could never be. Mechanical hums. Shuttles roaring overhead. The ever-present press of voices—clones, officers, droids, senators.

You hated how quickly it swallowed everything you’d just worked for.

The campaign on Aleen had ended with fewer casualties than projected, the native population protected, and General Mundi oddly… complimentary during debriefings. A rare win.

But here, back in the sterile hallways of Republic infrastructure, you felt the shift. The ripple of tension that had nothing to do with the war.

You leaned against the wall outside a conference room, arms crossed, still half in your field gear, watching clone officers file past.

Bacara was across from you, just as silent as ever, helmet clipped to his side.

Not speaking. Not glaring. Not walking away, either.

“I figured you’d vanish again,” you said finally. “Go back to pretending you tolerate me out of obligation.”

He didn’t look over, but his voice was quieter than usual. “I don’t pretend.”

You glanced at him, heart already threatening to betray you by skipping ahead. “No?”

“I told you. I don’t hate you.”

You chuckled softly. “That’s not quite the same as liking me.”

He met your gaze. “No. It’s not.”

Before you could answer, heavy boots rounded the corner—familiar, steady, a presence that always made your chest twist.

Rex.

He paused when he saw you, a half-smile forming. “General.”

“Captain.” You stood straighter, smile automatic.

His eyes flicked briefly to Bacara. The air thickened.

“Didn’t expect you back so soon,” Rex added, his voice just a little too calm.

“Neither did I. Aleen wrapped early. Mundi actually gave me something resembling a compliment.”

“That’s a headline,” Rex joked. But his eyes didn’t leave Bacara.

The other clone commander said nothing. Just stood at your side, unreadable as always.

Ahsoka rounded the corner next, blue-and-white montrals catching the light. She stopped, blinking at the scene—then gave a little nod, as if the Force had just whispered something to her.

“Uh oh,” she said lightly.

You arched a brow. “Uh oh?”

“I think you three need a minute.”

She all but dragged Rex away, glancing back once, her expression somewhere between amusement and concern.

You turned to Bacara, who hadn’t moved.

“Well,” you said, too casually. “That’s going to be awkward later.”

Bacara exhaled slowly. “He’s important to you.”

You frowned. “So are you.”

That made him flinch. Just barely. A breath, a twitch of his jaw.

“I don’t know how to be that,” he said.

“You don’t have to know how. You just have to try.”

He looked at you again—really looked. Then, slowly, he nodded.

“I’m trying.”

You smiled, a bit softer than before. “Good.”

In the distance, you could feel Rex’s presence like a steady pulse. Familiar. Safe.

And beside you, Bacara. Solid. Controlled. Finally cracking open just a little.

Two men. Opposite hearts. And you, suspended in the gravity between them.

⸻

You weren’t sure how long you’d been walking the halls of the base, looking for somewhere quiet. It was one of those nights where sleep hovered but never landed—your thoughts full of too many voices, too many faces.

Rex’s door was open.

He was sitting at the edge of his bunk, still in partial armor, head low, hands loosely clasped. A man built for war—always steady, always composed.

You knocked on the doorframe.

He looked up, unsurprised. “Couldn’t sleep?”

You stepped inside. “I don’t know if I even tried.”

A pause, then a small smile. “Me neither.”

He motioned to the empty bunk across from him. You sat, the air quiet between you. Close, but not too close. Not yet.

“I keep thinking about Aleen,” you said eventually. “And Bacara. And the way I keep orbiting around people I shouldn’t.”

Rex didn’t answer right away. His gaze was locked on the floor.

“I didn’t think you and Bacara were…” he trailed off, then shook his head. “Doesn’t matter.”

“You want it to.”

His eyes met yours—raw, honest. “Yeah. I do.”

It was like oxygen filled the room again.

You rose from the bunk, stepped closer, until there was barely a breath between you. His jaw flexed, but he didn’t back away.

“I don’t know how to do this either,” you whispered. “Not with clones. Not with Jedi codes looming over everything. Not with… you.”

He stood slowly. “I don’t care about codes.”

Your heart beat wildly in your chest as he lifted a hand, thumb brushing lightly over your cheek. You closed your eyes, leaning into his touch.

“Rex,” you breathed. “I—”

The door slid open.

You both jumped apart.

Anakin stood in the doorway, arms crossed, one eyebrow arched.

There was a beat of charged silence before he said, completely deadpan, “Well. Don’t stop on my account.”

You stared, flustered. Rex was already stepping back, straightening like he’d been caught sneaking out of class.

Anakin smirked, stepping into the room. “Relax. I’m not one to judge about… attachments.” The word practically dripped sarcasm.

You glared at him. “How long were you standing there?”

“Long enough to consider knocking. Decided against it.”

Rex cleared his throat. “General—”

Anakin held up a hand. “You’re both adults. You’ve survived more battles than I can count. Just… try not to get caught by someone less forgiving than me.”

You crossed your arms. “Like Master Windu?”

Anakin shrugged, amused. “Exactly.”

And then, his expression softened just a little. “Just be careful, okay? Both of you. This war doesn’t make room for many second chances.”

With that, he turned and left, the door hissing shut behind him.

You and Rex stood in the silence that followed, hearts still racing.

“Next time,” Rex said, voice lower, rougher, “I’m locking the door.”

You smiled—because of course he would.

And yet, the moment had shifted. It hadn’t broken… but it had changed.

Still, you took a step closer.

“Next time,” you whispered, “don’t stop.”

⸻

Mace Windu stood at the high window of the Council chamber, watching Coruscant sprawl beneath him in endless lines of light. His hands were folded behind his back, posture rigid, gaze unreadable.

He had been quiet during the last half of the briefing. Even Yoda had glanced his way once or twice, sensing his distraction.

The briefing ended. The chamber emptied. Only Obi-Wan lingered.

“You’re distracted,” Obi-Wan said casually, tone light, but not mocking.

Mace didn’t turn. “She’s hiding something.”

Obi-Wan didn’t need to ask who she was.

“Your former Padawan is a Knight now. Independent. Capable. Perhaps you’re reading too much into it.”

“She’s… different,” Mace said slowly, frowning. “Something’s shifted. Not in battle. Not in duty. But in her presence. The Force around her feels… pulled.”

Obi-Wan’s eyebrows rose slightly. “You think she’s forming attachments?”

“I know she is.”

That earned a quiet sigh from Kenobi. “And this is a problem because…?”

Mace turned then, expression flat. “Because she’s too much like Skywalker.”

Obi-Wan barked a short laugh before he could stop himself. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“She walks the line,” Mace said, voice low. “Emotion, impulse, recklessness. I accepted it as her master. I even respected it. But I didn’t teach her to love—I taught her to survive.”

here was silence for a moment.

“And yet…” Obi-Wan said thoughtfully, “she still smiles when you’re around. Still calls you her family.”

Mace looked away.

“I’m not condemning her,” he said. “I just… I can feel it. The way she holds herself. Like there’s someone else she’s protecting now. Like she’s already chosen someone.”

“You know who?”

“No,” Mace admitted. “Not yet. But I will.”

⸻

You sat alone beneath one of the massive trees, hood pulled up, trying to meditate but failing.

You felt him before you heard him.

“I taught you not to slouch,” Mace said behind you.

You smirked. “I distinctly remember you teaching me how to disarm a Dathomirian assassin at the age of eleven. Posture didn’t come up.”

Mace sat beside you with a long, deep sigh. “You’ve changed.”

You didn’t answer.

“I’m not angry,” he continued, tone unreadable. “But I sense a disturbance around you. Like the Force is being… shared.”

Your stomach dropped. Not because you were guilty—not exactly—but because you knew he’d never bring this up unless he felt it deeply.

“I’m not in danger,” you said quietly.

“That’s not what I asked.”

You looked at him, then away. “I’ve seen so many die, Master. It’s hard to not care. To not feel.”

“You can care,” Mace said. “But if your feelings endanger your clarity, or the mission—”

“They don’t,” you cut in, sharper than intended. “I haven’t broken. I haven’t fallen.”

Mace was quiet for a long moment.

“I’m not asking for names,” he said eventually. “But if it’s a clone… be careful. You already live in a world built to destroy everything you care about. Don’t give the war something else to take from you.”

Your throat tightened.

“I’ll always be your family,” he added, voice softer. “But I can’t protect you from your own heart.”

And with that, he stood and left, the shadows of the Temple stretching long behind him.

⸻

You stood on the edge of the Temple’s landing platform, overlooking the city lights that shimmered like restless stars. The night was thick with soundless wind, your cloak pulled tight around you as the Force stirred in warning—familiar, heavy footsteps approaching.

You didn’t need to turn. “I thought you’d gone back to GAR Command.”

Bacara stopped a few paces behind you. Silence clung to him, like it always did, but this time it pulsed with something unsaid—uneasy, unrelenting.

“I should have,” he said finally. “But I didn’t.”

You turned, arms folded, studying the commander who had never looked more torn—still in his blacks, helmet in hand, jaw tight with restraint. His eyes didn’t meet yours at first.

“Why are you here, Bacara?”

“I overheard Windu talking to Kenobi,” he said, stepping forward, voice strained. “About you. About something changing in you.”

“And you came to see if it was about you?” you asked, more bitter than you meant.

“And you came to see if it was about you?” you asked, more bitter than you meant.

His eyes snapped to yours. “No. I came because… I needed to know.”

The silence stretched.

You exhaled slowly. “Know what?”

He took another step, until you were within arm’s reach. “Why you’re in my head. Why I haven’t slept since we left Aleen. Why the idea of you with him—Rex—makes me want to break protocol, orders, everything.”

You froze.

“I don’t hate you,” Bacara said, the words sounding like they’d been ripped from somewhere deep and long-buried. “I’ve never hated you. You just… get under my skin.”

“I wasn’t trying to,” you whispered.

“I know,” he snapped, and then faltered, jaw working. “You were just being… you. Loud. Impulsive. Always standing up for the men, even when it meant challenging Jedi. Even when it meant challenging me.”

Your heart pounded.

“I didn’t know what to do with someone like you,” he admitted, voice low now. “I still don’t.”

You reached up slowly, fingertips brushing the edge of his vambrace. “Then don’t think. Just feel.”

His eyes searched yours—dark, tormented, warring with everything he was taught to suppress.

And then he moved.

The kiss wasn’t gentle.

It was raw, unfiltered, all heat and tension and fire. His hand curled around the back of your neck, yours gripped his sleeve as your cloaks whipped in the night air. It was a kiss born of war and silence, of frustration and longing, and the impossibility of it all.

When you broke apart, both breathless, he didn’t speak at first.

But his forehead pressed to yours, and for the first time since you met him, Bacara let himself be still in your presence.

“You’ll be the death of me,” he said quietly.

You almost smiled. “Then we’re even.”

⸻

You were restless.

The training droids lay in sparking heaps around you. Sweat clung to your skin, your lightsaber still humming faintly as you tried to outpace the storm brewing in your mind.

Rex’s quiet steadiness.

Bacara’s raw, barely-contained hunger.

The kiss haunted you.

Bacara had torn a piece of himself open for you—just for a moment. And that moment had scorched you.

But Rex? He saw you. Understood you. Listened. Respected you. And you felt safe in his shadow.

But do you want safety? Or something that burns?

You didn’t get to dwell. The door to the training room hissed open.

Rex stood in the threshold, eyes scanning the wreckage, then finding you. He looked tired. Tense. His shoulders tight beneath his armor.

“I figured I’d find you here,” he said.

You deactivated your saber. “Not hiding, just… thinking.”

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I haven’t.”

“You have.”

There was no accusation in his voice, but something underneath it—a quiet, almost desperate undertone.

“I’ve had a lot to think about.”

He stepped closer, stopping just a breath away. “Was it him?”

You met his eyes. “Rex—”

“You don’t owe me an explanation,” he cut in, voice controlled. Too controlled. “But I need to know what I’m walking into.”

Your breath caught.

“He kissed you.”

It wasn’t a question.

You swallowed. “Yes.”

He looked away, jaw working. Then:

“Did you kiss him back?”

The silence between you was louder than any battle you’d fought.

“Yes,” you whispered.

The answer struck him like a blow. His eyes closed, just for a second. “And what does that mean? For us?”

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “I wish I did.”

Before he could speak again, the door hissed open again.

Bacara.

You felt the energy in the room shift—like a lightsaber igniting in a dry field.

His gaze went immediately to Rex. Then to you. The unspoken claim in his stance was unmistakable.

“Captain,” he said coolly.

“Commander,” Rex returned, just as cold.

Neither moved. Neither blinked.

You stepped between them instinctively. “Stop.”

“She can choose for herself, you know,” Rex said, eyes never leaving Bacara’s.

“I don’t recall asking you,” Bacara said sharply, voice low and dangerous.

“I’m not some object you two get to fight over,” you snapped. “I’m a Jedi. Your general. And I deserve better than this.”

Both men quieted.

But the air between them crackled with something toxic. Territorial. Like two wolves circling the same prey.

“I didn’t ask for this,” you said, voice softer now. “I didn’t want any of it to get this messy.”

“You didn’t have to ask,” Rex said. “Some things just… happen.”

“And some things,” Bacara said, stepping forward, voice firm, “are worth fighting for.”

You stared between them, breath shallow.

You had no answers. No clarity. Only chaos.

And two men willing to burn for you.

The silence was oppressive. No one spoke, but the weight of unspoken things pressed against your chest like a closing fist.

You stepped back, eyes moving between the two of them. Their postures were rigid—pride, anger, jealousy… possession. You hadn’t seen it before, not like this. Not so raw.

But now it was ugly.

“Do you two even hear yourselves?” Your voice was sharp—cutting like shattered glass. “You’re acting like I’m a trophy. Like I’m something to win.”

Neither answered.

That was worse.

You could feel it coming off them in waves—territoriality, rivalry, something primal.

“You think I want this? You think I asked for it? You think watching the two of you size each other up like animals is what I dreamed of when I became a Jedi?”

You hated the way your voice cracked. The hurt that leaked through the fury.

Rex’s brows furrowed—his mouth opened slightly, as if to explain, to offer some gentle word to ground the fire—but you didn’t give him the chance.

And Bacara—Bacara just stood there, arms crossed, jaw tight, refusing to retreat, refusing to feel. That wall was back, stronger than ever, and it felt like a slap.

“I’ve fought beside you. I’ve nearly died beside you. Both of you. And still—you can’t see me. Not really. You only see each other. This—” you gestured between them, “—this pissing contest? It’s not love. It’s not loyalty. It’s not even care. It’s ego. And it makes me sick.”

The hurt was hot now, crawling up your throat.

“I thought you were different,” you said softly to Rex.

He flinched. Just barely.

Then your gaze snapped to Bacara. “And you—maybe I wanted to believe there was more under the armor. But if this is what’s beneath it?” Your lip curled. “Maybe I was wrong.”

You pushed past them, the door hissing open at your approach.

Neither followed.

You didn’t want them to.

For the first time in months, you wanted out.

Out of this room.

Out of their war.

Out of whatever twisted, tangled thing was growing between the three of you.

You didn’t even know what you felt anymore.

You just knew this wasn’t what love was supposed to look like.

And right now, the idea of either of them touching you—holding you—felt like ash in your mouth.

The door slammed shut behind her, leaving only the quiet hum of the training room’s systems—and the echo of everything she said.

Rex stood still, breathing hard, fists clenched at his sides. Bacara hadn’t moved either, like he was carved from stone.

The silence didn’t last.

“You gonna throw a punch, or just stand there brooding?” Rex muttered, without looking at him.

Bacara’s jaw twitched. “Wouldn’t be the worst idea.”

“You’re proving her right, you know.”

That got him. Bacara’s head turned sharply, a flicker of fire behind his eyes. “I don’t need a lecture from a clone who couldn’t keep his feelings in check.”

Rex stepped forward, shoulders squared. “And you think you did? You think shutting her out, giving her crumbs of emotion, and then snapping the second someone else showed interest—that’s any better?”

Bacara’s fists curled.

“I don’t talk,” he said flatly. “I act. I protect. I don’t have time for your soft Republic niceties.”

“No,” Rex snapped, “you have time to throw your weight around. You have time to glare and scowl and push people away until it’s too late.”

That hit harder than intended.

For a second, Rex almost backed down—but the look in Bacara’s eyes was enough to push him forward again.

“You think this is about me stealing her from you? She walked out, Commander. On both of us. Because we made her feel like a thing to fight over. Not a person.”

Bacara turned his back, pacing. “You don’t understand.”

“Try me.”

There was a long beat. Bacara’s hands were on his hips now, his head low, voice rough.

“I don’t know how to… do this,” he admitted, bitter. “I’m trained for war. For tactics. Not…” He shook his head. “Not feelings. Not wanting something I’m not supposed to want.”

“She’s not a mission,” Rex said. “She’s a person. And maybe if we’d both remembered that earlier…”

Bacara turned, face hard again. “You’re still talking like it’s over.”

There was silence.

Then Rex looked away. “Isn’t it?”

The quiet returned—cold, heavy, and full of the ache of something breaking.

Both of them knew they’d pushed her away.

Neither of them knew how to fix it.

But worse—deep down—they weren’t sure they deserved to.

⸻

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

You gonna let a bitch with Spider Man- Into the Spider Verse in her top 4 speak to you that way??

Republic Commando - Delta Squad

Welcome to my latest obsession (I've been calling it my hyperfixation within a hyperfixation within a hyperfixation)! After finally playing Republic Commando (2005) for the first time, I can't get Delta Squad out of my head. And since we never got a face reveal for any of them, I decided to make my own design (since I'm planning on drawing them a lot more 👀). I'll try putting my thought process during designing down below, but before I continue I want to say I was heavily inspired by the following amazing Delta Squad designs, so please go give those some love:

@jaderavenarts (x)

@papanowo (x)

@leafdupe (x)

Alright, buckle up for some ramblings:

38 BOSS As squad leader, I felt like Boss had to look somewhat presentable, without too much self-applied adjustments (like tattoos or alternative haircuts). He has slightly longer hair than Rex, but he likes keeping it short. He does have some stubble on his jaw, because I also felt like he would slightly care about his appearance, but not that much. He has a scar on the left side of his face starting at his lower jaw going up across his cheek, and he has a scar on his right temple crossing through the end of his brow. His hair is the reg-like dark brown and he has the usual dark brown eyes.

40 FIXER I feel like Fixer would stick to the reg look, since he's a bit more into regulations than Sev and Scorch. I did give him slits through both eyebrows, because I thought it would fit with his slicing abilities. He is more careful than the others and wouldn't wrestle with some creature or ordnance (at least not without his bucket on). He does have a thin scar on his chin. I headcanon that he scratches or rubs his chin whenever he feels like he's taking too long slicing (like a tic), and maybe one day he accidentally tore open his skin with a sharp edge of his gauntlet plate; thus the scar on his chin. He has a reg haircut (dark brown) and his eyes are the usual dark brown.

07 SEV Sev, my fierce love.. I was doubting between a buzz cut or the mohawk. I ended up with the mohawk (with undercut) because it gave me the vibes of a hunter/predator. The mohawk is fairly curly at the front. Of course he has several scars, because he isn't afraid to come up close to any hostiles (whether it being enemies or feral creatures they encounter on their missions). The helix of his right ear is slightly torn on three places, like some creature took a bite from it. He has a scar crossing his left eyebrow and one across his lips, making the teeth behind it visible. His hair is the reg-like dark brown and he has the usual dark brown eyes.

62 SCORCH Wooo-ooh! BOOM! That might have happened in his face. You cannot convince me that there is no evidence of explosion-gone-slightly-wrong on this beautiful boy's face. He has a burn mark across the bridge of his nose, across his cheeks, around his right eye and through the middle of his right eyebrow. His right eye is slightly discoloured (lighter than the usual reg eye colour). I don't think it's completely blind, I just think looking at an explosion that close is very unhealthy. He has a bit of a mullet mohawk; broader than Sev's. It's pretty curly, especially at the front, leaving some playful locks dangling down his face. I loved all the partly blonde designs I stumbled upon, so of course I added some blonde streaks through those locks. Besides the streaks, his hair is reg dark brown. His left eye is the usual dark brown too, but as I explained before, the right one is lighter.

I love 'em all but Sev and Scorch are my precious babies but also Boss oh Maker, it's the Tem voice I tell you, I kissed him in my dream last night ahahaha (I'm down bad with the Delta Squad flu, folks). But Fixer is also really cute because he's so baby?? Alright, on to my next Delta Squad piece!

Taglist (read to join): @aknightreaderr @returnofthepineapple @sunshinesdaydream @kotemf @thecoffeelorian @star-wars-lycanwing-bat @bixlasagna @dreamie411 @heidnspeak @earlgreyci @cyaretra

NPT because of RepComm content @orangez3st @kimiheartblade

𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐎𝐓𝐑 𝐦𝐞𝐧 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐬𝐤 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐫

⤷ gender neutral, ambiguous race, and any size reader. Requests are open, thank you for reading!

a/n: I just wanted to write some fluff!

ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ | ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ ᴵᴵ

𝑨𝒓𝒂𝒈𝒐𝒓𝒏 🗡️

・At first, he tilts his head, lips parting like he might question it. But then he sees your expression; calm, trusting, maybe a little playful, and something in him softens.

“I can try,” he says, voice rough around the edges, but warm. “It’s been… a long time since I’ve braided anyone’s hair.”

・You sit together near the fire. His sword is laid beside him, boots still dusty from the road.

・And yet, he treats the moment like it deserves stillness. Like your request has pulled him out of time.

・His hands are calloused, weather-worn.

・You can feel him being careful not to tug too hard.

・He works in silence, brows furrowed in concentration.

・His fingers move slower than Legolas’, less sure than Faramir’s, but steadier than you’d expect.

・Every now and then, he huffs out a breath that sounds like a quiet laugh.

“You have too much hair for this to go unnoticed,” he murmurs. “The braid will hold, but only just. It may rebel before the day is done.”

・But still, he continues.

・And when he finishes...it’s a bit uneven. Slightly lopsided with a few bits of hair hanging out.

・Yet it was done with love and effort and the kind of care no one taught him

・He rests a hand briefly at the base of your braid, like he’s grounding you. Or himself.

“There. You’re ready.”

・And when he sits back, he doesn’t say anything else.

・But throughout the day he watches you, making sure it holds, and if were to come loose, you can come back to him.

・He'll braid it again. Every time.

𝑳𝒆𝒈𝒐𝒍𝒂𝒔 🌙

・He blinks once, slow and surprised, then tilts his head, curious.

“It would be my honor,” he says, with the kind of sincerity that makes your chest tighten.

・Legolas doesn’t ask why. Doesn’t tease.

・He treats the request with deep, quiet admiration. Almost as if you've asked him to perform an ancient rite...which you kinda have.

・He steps behind you in complete silence.

・With featherlight, gentle hands (you hardly feel them at first), he works. And he does it quite quickly.

・You realise this isn't the first time he's braided hair before.

“Each braid has meaning,” he murmurs. “Length. Type. Tension. In my realm, we braid for protection. For remembrance. For love.”

・You go still. He doesn’t elaborate.

・And then he sings.

・It's soft, in Elvish.

・And not one that you know. But it feels old. Comforting. Like wrapping your arms around a loved one you haven't seen in a while.

・When he finishes, he runs one finger gently along the braid’s edge

・And when you turn to look at him; eyes shining and heart full, he meets your gaze and adds, ever so softly:

“You should ask me again sometime.”

・Because this wasn’t just a braid.

・It was a memory.

・And he plans to make more of them with you.

𝑩𝒐𝒓𝒐𝒎𝒊𝒓 🛡️

・Oh how he melts.

“I’ve never been asked to do something like that...But I'll try.”

・He moves to sit behind you, shuffling so that his legs are around you.

・Boromir's hands are big, definitely too big for this, but he continues anyway.

・As he gathers your hair, gently brushing it out of your face and into his palm, he mutters:

“You’ll have to forgive me if it’s not Elvish-perfect,” he murmurs. “We weren’t taught much about braids in the White Tower.”

・And then he grows quiet, thoughtful. This isn’t just a braid anymore. It’s a way to show you affection...a part of him enjoys it.

・Although he is trying to make it perfect.

・At the end, the braid is a little loose, a little uneven, but strong.

・Woven like a promise.

・He secures it with a small leather tie from his own belongings; nothing special, but something his.

“There. Done.” A pause. “I hope it’s alright.”

・You turn to thank him, but he’s already looking away, trying not to smile.

・Fingers twitching like he wants to touch your hair again but won’t; unless you ask.

“If it ever comes undone,” he adds quietly, “you know where to find me.”

𝑬́𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒓 🏹

・He thinks of it as a challenge...straight away.

“You don’t think I can?”

"Ugh! That's not what I meant?"

"What did you mean?"

"Just wanted someone to braid my hair, you ass."

・You weren't even teasing him, but then it becomes a whole thing.

・He kneels down behind you like a man preparing for war. Cracks his knuckles. Rolls his shoulders. And in turn, you roll your eyes.

・When he actually starts, there's a shift. The bravado eases and he becomes focused.

・His rough fingers, to your surprise, are steady.

・And you can feel the care as well...and feel, a protective energy.

・Like if anyone tried to touch your braid he'd punch them.

・When he’s done? He absolutely beams. And before getting up, he tugs the end playfully, then stands back with his arms crossed.

"There. Just got your hair braided by a Third Marshal...that's got to be worth something."

・If someone compliments it later, he absolutely puffs up with pride (but plays it off like it was no big deal)

“Looks good doesn't it. I did it. She asked me. Only right I made sure it was done proper.”

・And although Eomer doesn’t say it out loud, in his mind he promises something wolfish and loyal:

No one touches what I’ve claimed with my hands.

𝑭𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒎𝒊𝒓 🌾

・At first, he blinks—slow and surprised, like he thinks he misheard you.

“You would trust me with something so personal?”

・He isn't teasing. No, Faramir is genuinely honoured.

・Because he's the kind of man who sees tenderness as something rare and doesn’t take it lightly.

・You sit between his knees, and he treats your hair like something sacred.

・The word 'gentle' repeats in his head over and over.

・His hands are warm as he gathers your hair from your shoulders

・His fingers accidentally touch the bareness of your neck and goosebumps erupt.

・You go red; luckily he can't see your face.

・Faramir barely speaks, only jums softly under his breath; something old, maybe a lullaby he remembers from his mother.

・Every now and then he asks, in a light voice:

“Does this feel alright?” “Too tight?” “Shall I start again?”

・Once he's done, (he took his time on purpose), he wraps the end with a small ribbon.

One you didn't know he'd been keeping. As he ties it, it's as if he's sealing a promise.

・For a moment longer than they need to, his fingers linger.

“There. You’re ready to meet kings and storms alike.”

・And if you could see his face, you would notice a faint flush on his cheeks

・Like he's been given something sacred...and he hopes you'll ask him again tomorrow.

𝑮𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒂𝒍𝒇 🪄

・His first reaction is a slight chuckle, partially amused.

“My dear, it has been centuries since I was asked for that favor.”

・He takes a seat and motions for you to sit in front of him. Your legs are crossed on the floor, and your hands are fidgeting in your lap.

・You can feel his long, elegant fingers begin to pick up hair. A slight shiver runs down your spine at the image of it.

・At first he murmurs, in a language you do not know. But his voice is peaceful, and you can hear the chirping of night bugs.

・He knows exactly what he's doing. You’d expect an old wizard to fumble, but Gandalf’s hands are steady

・It takes a while, but the murmurs turn into little humming and you cannot help but smile.

・The braid is meticulous, elegant, maybe a little too perfect.

・You end up with something that feels sacred, like it should be worn into battle or a coronation.

・After he's done, he gives a small hum of approval. In a wistful voice he says:

“So the wind will not catch your thoughts and carry them away.”

・And then he lights his pipe, looks off toward the horizon, and pretends it was no big deal.

・...But for the rest of the journey, he walks a little closer to you.

Star Wars: Bad batch - Luscious Locks

[The Bad Batch are sitting down at a table to eat an actual meal] Crosshair: [absolutely disgusted] Hunter, I swear. If I find ONE MORE HAIR in my food… Hunter: Jealous of my luscious locks? 😏 Crosshair: That’s it! I’m shaving you bald. [Under his breath] Never had to deal with this in the empire. Omega: Don’t! Hunter’s senses will be dulled! Hunter: Yeah, Crosshair. Listen to the kid. My- wait. What? Omega: Hunter’s hair amplifies his senses by acting as an extension of his nervous system. Hunter: Oh, really? 😑 What about smell? Omega: Nose hair. Hunter: Sight? Omega: Eyelashes. Hunter: Hearing? Omega: Ear hair. Hunter: …Fashion sense? Echo: Pft! That ‘tactical’ scarf says otherwise. Hunter: It messes with facial recognition! Echo: How? We share the same face. [Hunter and Echo start bickering] Crosshair, to Tech: She’s kidding, right? Tech: Wrecker, don’t touch that! [Leaves without answering] Crosshair: She’s kidding, right?!

“Collateral Morals” pt.2

Commander Thorn x Senator Reader

It was late—later than it should’ve been for a senator still in heels and warpaint, sprawled across the plush bench of her apartment’s balcony with a drink in hand.

You heard the door behind you hiss open and didn’t need to look.

“Come to stand in the shadows again, Commander?” you asked, not unkindly.

Thorn didn’t answer right away. His boots were heavy against the stone. Methodical. Closer.

“I never left,” he said.

You turned your head, gaze trailing up from the rim of your glass to where he stood in that same godsdamn perfect stance. Helmet in hand. Armor lit by the city’s glow.

“You know, I’ve had men try to seduce me with less intensity than you just standing there.”

Thorn’s jaw tightened. “That’s not what I’m here for.”

“No,” you said, rising to your feet, slow and measured. “You’re here because someone tried to kill me and the Chancellor likes keeping his headaches alive.”

You stepped toward him. Close. Too close.

“When I had lunch with Sheev today,” you murmured, voice quiet and dangerous. “He said nothing. Smiled too wide. Dodged every answer like a trained politician, which—fine, he is. But he’s also worried. About me. About you.”

Thorn said nothing.

Your fingers brushed the edge of his pauldron, then up to the rigid line of his neck. He didn’t move.

“Fox had a talk with you, didn’t he?” you whispered, tipping your head to the side. “Warned you off. Told you I was dangerous.”

His breath hitched, barely audible. “You are.”

You laughed softly. “And yet here you are.”

You reached up—slow, deliberate—and your fingers touched his face. A gloved hand caught your wrist, but not before your thumb brushed his cheekbone. Warm. Real.

He held your wrist, not tightly, but firmly. And still, he didn’t pull away.

His eyes searched yours like they were looking for the part of you that might break him.

“I can’t,” he said hoarsely.

“I know,” you said, and your voice was softer now. “But you want to.”

His eyes closed briefly. The silence that followed was full of all the things he would never say. Couldn’t say.

You leaned forward—just a breath, your lips a whisper from his—but you stopped yourself. A sharp inhale. A blink of clarity.

You pulled back slowly, letting your hand fall.

And this time, he let you.

“I should go inside,” you said quietly, and without looking back, you walked toward the open doors.

Thorn stayed behind, jaw clenched, hands shaking ever so slightly at his sides.

He’d stood on a hundred battlefields without faltering.

And tonight, he’d barely survived a senator’s touch.

⸻

The next morning, he was already stationed by your office door when you arrived. Helmet on. Posture locked. Every line of his body radiating do not engage.

You slowed as you approached, coffee in hand, sunglasses still perched over bloodshot eyes from last night’s excess. You looked like a warning label wrapped in silk.

But when your eyes flicked over Thorn, something in your expression shifted. Slowed.

“Morning, Commander,” you said casually.

“Senator,” he returned. Clipped. Cool.

You quirked an eyebrow. “Oh. So it’s that kind of day.”

He didn’t reply.

You brushed past him, close enough that your perfume clung to his senses long after you’d disappeared into your office. He didn’t turn. Didn’t let it show. But his hands curled into fists at his sides.

Meetings. Briefings. More political backpedaling. You were fire at the podium and glass behind closed doors, cracking in places no one else could see.

Except him.

He stayed silent, always a step behind, always watching. Always wanting.

And never letting it show.

Until you cornered him in a quiet corridor outside the lower senate chambers, away from aides and datapads and Fox’s watching eyes.

“Alright,” you said, arms folded. “Let’s talk about this act you’ve got going.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Commander, you looked like I stabbed you when I pulled away last night, and now you won’t even look at me.”

“I’m doing my job,” he bit out, low and tight.

You took a step forward. He didn’t move. Not away.

“I didn’t imagine it,” you said, voice gentler now. “You wanted it too.”

“Of course I did.” His voice cracked, just a fraction. “But what I want doesn’t matter.”

You blinked, caught off-guard by the raw honesty.

He finally looked at you. And Maker, it hurt—because it wasn’t coldness in his eyes. It was restraint. Desire, wound so tightly around duty it was bleeding.

“I won’t compromise your safety,” he said. “Or your career. Or mine.”

“I never asked you to.”

“No,” he said softly. “But if you touched me like that again, I wouldn’t stop you.”

Silence fell.

And then you stepped back, giving him what he needed—space, control.

But not before saying, “You’re allowed to want something for yourself, Thorn.”

You left him standing there, strung taut, jaw clenched so hard it ached—haunted by the echo of your voice and the ghost of your fingertips on his skin.

⸻

The Coruscant sky was painted in golds and coppers by the time you slid into the dimly lit booth across from Padmé Amidala at one of the few upscale lounges senators could disappear into without the weight of a thousand datapads.

“I needed this,” you sighed, tugging off your blazer and waving down a server. “Vodka. Double. And whatever she’s having.”

Padmé smirked behind the rim of her glass. “Rough week?”

You snorted. “The republic is falling apart, I’m the new poster child for controversial ethics, and my head of security is the embodiment of celibacy and self-restraint.”

Padmé choked. “Thorn?”

“Mmhmm,” you hummed, swirling your drink as it arrived. “The man is built like a war god and treats me like I’m a senator made of glass and moral decay. Which, fair, but still.”

She laughed gently. “He’s just doing his job.”

You rolled your eyes, leaning in, voice lowering to a conspiratorial hush. “I nearly kissed him two nights ago.”

Padmé’s eyebrows lifted in delight. “And?”

“And I stopped myself. But he didn’t stop me.”

You tipped your drink back, and Padmé’s smile softened into something knowing.

“He wants you,” she said.

“I know. And I can’t stop wanting him either. And it’s making me insane.” You exhaled, flopping back in your seat. “It’s all sharp edges and stolen glances and him standing too close every time I breathe. He says he won’t compromise me, but every time he brushes past, it feels like he’s about to snap.”

Padmé was quiet for a moment, sipping her wine. “You’re falling.”

You snorted, tossing your head back with a dramatic groan. “I’m not falling. I fell. And now I’m stuck circling the drain with a blaster-proof blockade standing guard outside my bed.”

She burst out laughing. “Well… at least you’re not in love with a Jedi.”

You blinked. “Wait—”

Padmé smiled sweetly. “We all have secrets, darling.”

Neither of you noticed the clone commander positioned a discreet ten meters away—far enough to respect your privacy.

Close enough to hear every kriffing word.

Thorn stood in the shadows of the wall column, jaw clenched so tight it hurt. Every muscle locked. Every sense burning.

She’d nearly kissed him. She wanted to.

She’d fallen.

And Maker help him… so had he.

His comm buzzed in his ear.

Fox: You good?

Thorn: Fine.

Fox: You don’t sound fine.

Thorn: Drop it, Fox.

But even Fox would’ve known—standing there, listening to her spill her soul to someone else, Thorn was no longer in control.

He was already hers.

⸻

The walk back to your apartment was a symphony of drunken laughter, slurred gossip, and Padmé’s increasingly animated storytelling as she dramatically recounted a botched undercover op involving Anakin, Obi-Wan, and a fruit cart on Saleucami.

“…and then Ahsoka—gods—she’s stuck under the vendor stall, Anakin’s dressed like a spice runner and flirting to distract the guards, and Obi-Wan’s standing there insisting that he does not negotiate with food smugglers!”

You were cackling, one heel dangling from your fingers, the other foot still strapped in. “How did no one get arrested?!”

“They did!” Padmé said brightly. “Three hours in local custody until Bail Organa bailed them out. Still won’t talk about it.”

You wheezed, tears threatening to smudge your eyeliner. Thorn walked a respectful distance behind as you stumbled into your apartment with Padmé on your arm. He was stone-silent, unreadable. Watching. Waiting.

Padmé leaned in close, kissed your cheek, and whispered, “Try not to give him a stroke tonight.” Then she drifted toward the guest room with a final tipsy wave. “Night, Thorn.”

“Ma’am,” he said with a curt nod.

You locked the door behind her, turned, and leaned your back to it. Barefoot. Half-laced dress clinging to your form. Hair a little messy. Eyes gleaming with drink and danger.

“You didn’t laugh at the story,” you said, smiling.

“I’m not paid to laugh.”

“You’re not paid to stare at me like that either, but here we are.”

His jaw clenched.

You took a few slow, swaying steps toward him, gaze locked on his. “You heard what I said to Padmé, didn’t you?”

Silence.

“You stood there all night listening. That wasn’t professionalism, Thorn. That was want.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. But you could feel the energy bleeding from him—taut, trembling restraint.

“So here’s the question,” you whispered, standing toe to toe now. “If I reached up and touched you again… would you stop me this time?”

He breathed, sharp and low. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t push me.”

“I’ve been pushing you since the day we met.” You smiled, close enough now your breath mingled with his. “And you haven’t moved.”

His hand shot up, slamming palm-flat against the wall beside your head—not touching you, but caging you in.

His voice was gravel and fire.

“You don’t understand what you’re asking for.”

“I think I do.”

“You think this is about self-control,” he growled. “It’s not. It’s about what happens after I lose it.”

You stilled.

He was trembling, just slightly. His hand hovered for a moment longer… then he stepped back.

“You’re drunk. Go to bed.”

And with that, Thorn turned and walked toward the front door—but not before you saw it.

His hands were shaking.

The morning sun filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of your Coruscant apartment like a rude guest who hadn’t been invited.

Your head throbbed.

Your mouth tasted like fruit cocktails and regret.

You groaned and turned over, expecting Thorn’s ever-silent figure to be near the front door, arms crossed, stoic and unshakable as always.

But he wasn’t there.

Instead, a different clone stood guard—rookie by the look of him. Eyes flicked to you, then away fast. Too fast.

Thorn had rotated off.

Or maybe… he’d walked out.

You weren’t sure which hurt more.

You flopped back against the bed with a dramatic sigh, pressing your hand to your forehead like a dying duchess. A moment later, the bedroom door creaked open.

“Is it safe to enter the lair of the hungover she-beast?” Padmé’s voice called softly.

“Barely.”

She tiptoed in, curls wild and eyeliner smudged, and flopped down onto your bed like she owned it.

You cracked one eye open. “I thought Naboo nobles were trained to rise at dawn with no signs of vice.”

Padmé gave you a dry look. “I was trained to fake it with dignity. There’s a difference.”

You both groaned in tandem, limbs tangled under silk sheets and discarded shawls.

A beat of silence.

Then you muttered, “He wasn’t there this morning.”

“Thorn?”

You nodded.

Padmé looked at you, then looked at the ceiling. “Anakin stopped answering my comms last night. didn’t say a word to me after we got back here. Just disappeared like a ghost.”

You turned your head. “He’s angry?”

“He’s scared.”

“…Same.”

Another pause.

Padmé sighed. “You know what the worst part is?”

“What?”

“I don’t want to stop. Not with him. Not even when I know how it ends.”

Your throat tightened.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “Me too.”

You both lay there, two senators, two hearts bruised in different ways. Hiding in a bed that smelled like perfume, politics, and unanswered questions.

“I think,” Padmé said softly, “we forget we’re allowed to want something for ourselves.”

You blinked up at the ceiling.

“Maybe I just want someone to choose me,” you admitted, the words foreign and terrifying on your tongue. “Not the senate. Not the speech. Me.”

Padmé reached over and gently took your hand.

“You deserve that,” she said.

And for one small moment, you believed her.

⸻

It was early.

Coruscant’s sky was painted in slow-shifting purples and pale gold, the air crisp for once as the morning traffic lulled just above the skyline.

You walked with Sheev Palpatine through one of the Chancellor’s private botanical gardens—a curated oasis of rare flora nestled between towering Senate spires. Your shoes crunched over smooth stones, the air filled with the faint hum of security droids and rustling leaves.

A few steps behind, your clone escort—a quiet rookie with a barely scuffed pauldron—trailed dutifully. Ahead, Marshal Commander Fox and two of his Coruscant Guard flanked the Chancellor like the shadows of death.

“You look tired, my dear,” Sheev said smoothly, hands folded behind his back. “Rough night?”

“You know exactly how rough,” you replied, a dry smirk tugging at your lips. “I assume you read every surveillance report that crosses your desk.”

“I skim.”

You arched a brow.

He chuckled. “Fine. I skim the interesting ones.”

The rookie behind you choked softly on his breath. You didn’t look back, but your lip twitched in amusement.

“You really shouldn’t waste government resources on my personal misadventures,” you said.

“On the contrary,” Palpatine replied, voice shifting cooler, “your… associations are becoming part of the problem.”

Your smile faltered.

“I hear you’re planning a speech this week,” he continued, not looking at you now. “Regarding clone rights. Voluntary service. Benefits. Citizenship.”

“I’m not planning it. I’m delivering it.”

He gave you a long look. “You’ve made enemies before. But this will paint a much larger target.”

“Then maybe they’ll finally stop aiming for my head and start aiming for something I can survive.”

He did not laugh. Instead, he stepped a little closer.

“I’ve heard more whispers, you know. Another attempt. And this time…” His voice lowered. “I fear it won’t be smoke and shadows.”

You were about to respond when a shriek of blaster fire tore the morning open.

Shots rained down from above the garden terrace. Red bolts split the air as bark and leaves exploded around you. You felt the burn before you heard yourself scream—your upper arm searing with heat as a bolt caught flesh.

“GET DOWN!”

Fox’s voice thundered across the garden.

The rookie guard shoved you behind a large stone fountain, blaster drawn. Fox had already reached the Chancellor’s side, shielding him with practiced efficiency.

But Palpatine didn’t retreat.

Instead, he snapped, “Protect her. Now.”

Fox hesitated—one second, maybe two.

Then he turned on his heel, growled a command to his men, and raced for you.

You slumped behind the fountain, clutching your arm, heart hammering in your chest.

Fox skidded into cover beside you. “You hit?”

“Yeah,” you gasped, pressing your jacket against the burn. “Not bad. Not good either.”

He scanned the rooftops. “We need evac—NOW!”

The rookie stayed glued to your side, face pale but steady.

And Palpatine?

Still standing.

Watching from the distance like the eye of a storm.

He didn’t flinch once.

⸻

The antiseptic sting of the medcenter did little to distract from the throbbing in your arm or the adrenaline still lacing your blood.

You sat upright on the edge of the durasteel cot, jacket discarded, bandages wrapped snugly around your bicep. A healing patch hummed faintly under the gauze, but your mind was elsewhere.

Specifically, down the hall.

You’d heard the boots before you saw the storm that followed them.

Commander Thorn.

Now on his rotation.

He moved through the corridor like a thundercloud given armor and a mission. Dried rain still clung to his kama, helmet clipped under one arm. His expression was stone—tight-jawed, unreadable, but his eyes flicked over every corner like he was calculating the fastest way to kill every man in the building.

He didn’t ask questions.

He issued orders.

You watched from the cracked door as he spoke with the medical officer, then turned on his heel toward the security wing—until another familiar voice cut through the silence.

“Thorn.”

Marshal Commander Fox.

Thorn didn’t flinch. He stopped mid-stride, then turned with slow precision, as if he already knew what Fox was about to say.

You should’ve left it alone.

You should’ve shut the door and gone back to pretending none of this mattered.

But instead, you stepped off the cot, crept quietly to the side of the doorway, and listened.

“You were off shift this morning,” Fox said evenly. “And yet you’re here before the updated security logs.”

“I don’t trust anyone else with her,” Thorn replied, voice low and unshakable.

A pause. Footsteps.

“You’re losing control.”

Thorn didn’t respond.

“You know what she is to the Chancellor. You know what she is to the Senate.”

Thorn’s voice was gravel. “She was almost killed today.”

Fox’s tone sharpened. “And if she had been, what would you have done? Gone rogue? Abandoned post? Killed for her?”

Silence.

A silence so loud, you nearly stepped away—until you heard Thorn’s reply:

“I already would’ve.”

The world stopped.

You pressed your back to the wall, heart skidding.

Fox exhaled harshly. “She’s not yours to protect like that.”

“She’s not a piece of property,” Thorn said, the edge in his voice darker than you’d ever heard it. “Not yours. Not his. And if anyone thinks they can use her without consequence, they’ll answer to me.”

“Careful, Thorn.” Fox’s voice dropped. “You’re starting to sound like you care.”

A beat passed. Then Thorn spoke again, quieter this time:

“I care enough to know I’ll never have her. And too much to stop myself if she’s ever in the crosshairs again.”

That was it.

You stepped back silently, breath caught in your throat.

You didn’t know whether to cry or find him and kiss him like your life depended on it.

⸻

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