I Need To Be Fucked Like He Would Die Without It

“Red Lines” pt.3

Commander Fox x Reader

You sat back in the medical bay with a fresh bandage on your shoulder, sipping from a flask that definitely did not contain approved Republic stimulant rations.

Across from you, Anakin stood with his arms crossed, watching a medic finish patching up your wound. He looked oddly relaxed for a man who had just murdered someone in a hallway.

“Well,” you said, wincing slightly as you flexed your shoulder, “I guess we can cancel the fireworks and the firing squad.”

Anakin smirked. “Probably for the best. The optics were gonna be a nightmare anyway.”

“Please,” you said dryly. “Optics are the one thing my people love messy.”

You tapped a commpad resting beside you on the cot and brought up your ship’s navigation interface. A cheerful little message blinked: ARRIVAL IN SYSTEM: 3 HOURS.

You sighed, dramatically. “Well, there goes my logistical planning. Invitations. Vendor contracts. The gallows.”

Anakin chuckled, a dark edge to his grin. “You’re not seriously disappointed?”

You gave him a look. “I had a speech, Skywalker. A really good one. Rhetoric, flair, applause lines. You ever try to cancel a political execution with less than four hours’ notice? It’s a bloody mess.”

There was a knock at the door. The medic stepped back, giving a polite nod as two figures entered: one in Senate Guard blues, the other a high-ranking emissary from your homeworld, flanked by your personal aide.

Your aide looked vaguely panicked. The emissary looked furious.

“Senator,” the emissary said stiffly. “We’ve just received word. The prisoner is dead?”

You raised your flask in a lazy toast. “Correct. Chose to improvise. Very dramatic.”

“Improvised?” he blinked. “He was executed aboard a Republic vessel—without ceremony, without audience—”

“Without getting any of my damn blood on the carpets,” you interrupted, smiling thinly. “You’re welcome.”

The emissary sputtered. “What are we supposed to tell the people?”

“That the bastard who butchered their families tried to escape justice,” you said, standing slowly, “and one of the Republic’s finest cut him down mid-flight to protect their senator from assassination. That’s better than the show, honestly.”

The aide blinked. “So… we don’t need to delay the post-execution feast?”

You looked to Anakin, deadpan. “Should I bring the corpse in a box as proof, or do you think they’ll take my word for it?”

Anakin shrugged. “You’ve got good stage presence. I’d believe you.”

The emissary pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’ve just upended half our ceremonial protocol—”

“Again,” you said, brushing past him and grabbing your cloak, “you’re welcome.”

As the others filtered out, grumbling and muttering about decorum and wasted resources, Anakin lingered by the door.

“You’re seriously going back home just to give a speech over a dead man’s ashes?” he asked.

You pulled the clasp on your cloak, expression smooth. “Of course. Let them mourn what they wanted and didn’t get. It’s better that way.”

He studied you for a moment, curious. “You always like this?”

You gave him a sidelong glance. “Only when I win.”

And with that, you walked off down the corridor, steps steady, shoulder sore—but spine unbowed.

The execution was over.

But the theatre?

That had only just begun.

⸻

The ship landed at dusk.

Twin suns spilled molten gold across the obsidian landing pads of your capital, casting long shadows that reached toward you like claws. The air was warm and heavy with the scent of spice, steel, and storm-bruised flowers that only bloomed after blood rain.

As the boarding ramp lowered, you felt it. The shift.

You straightened your shoulders.

Slowed your breath.

And shed the Coruscanti bite from your posture like an old coat.

You weren’t the sharp-tongued, rage-baiting senator anymore. Not here.

You were their senator.

The gatekeeper.

The sword and seal of a people forged in war and survival.

You walked down the ramp in silence, your cloak a trailing shadow, your expression unreadable. Behind you, Obi-Wan and Anakin followed—Kenobi, cautious and observing; Skywalker, loose-limbed and openly curious.

A fanfare of percussion instruments and throat-chanting rose from the procession waiting at the foot of the steps—guards in ceremonial armor, banners fluttering, emissaries standing tall.

Your people did not weep for the prisoner. There were no black sashes or flowers laid in mourning.

Instead, there was fire.

Braziers lined the boulevard, flames flickering high to honor justice fulfilled—even if it came wrapped in chaos.

Anakin leaned toward you as you walked. “This is what you call restraint?”

You gave him the barest tilt of your head. “If we wanted excess, we’d have brought the corpse.”

At your side, Kenobi sighed softly. “As disturbing as that image is… your people do have a knack for spectacle.”

“I told you,” you said, keeping your gaze forward. “We don’t flinch from consequences. We honor them.”

⸻

The feast hall was carved from volcanic stone, long and low with vaulted ceilings that shimmered with luminescent moss and jewel-tone metals. The air smelled of roasted meat, spiced fruit, and sweet liquor.

Dancers moved like smoke through the crowd.

There was laughter.

Music.

Toasts shouted in five languages.

You stood near the high table, nursing a goblet of deep amber wine, wearing a formal garment that draped your frame like armor. Every angle of you was honed—graceful, powerful, untouchable.

Anakin was already on his second round with a group of soldiers, trading war stories and draining shots like they were water. He looked alive here, among warriors and firelight.

Kenobi stood off to the side, wine in hand, watching the scene with the expression of a man trapped between judgment and genuine enjoyment.

Eventually, he approached you.

“This,” he said, lifting his glass slightly, “is far more pleasant than I anticipated.”

You arched a brow. “I assumed you’d be sulking about the moral implications of toasting over a would-be assassin’s death.”

“Oh, I still disapprove,” he said, sipping. “But your liquor’s very persuasive. And your musicians have excellent rhythm.”

You gave him a faint smirk. “We don’t mourn the removal of threats. We celebrate survival.”

“You celebrate very well.”

There was a pause. A rare, companionable quiet.

Then Kenobi added, dryly “That said… if I wake up with a tattoo and no memory of where my boots went, I’m blaming Skywalker.”

You let out a low, surprised laugh—real, not performative.

For a moment, the night softened around the edges.

But only for a moment.

Because tomorrow, there would be politics again. Corpses to explain. Reports to file.

But tonight?

Tonight, your world danced in flame.

And you let yourself be theirs.

Even just for one night.

⸻

Coruscant was grey that morning.

Muted sun behind clouds. Rain beading softly against the durasteel windows of Guard HQ.

Inside his office, Commander Fox sat alone behind his desk, datapads stacked in neat columns, stylus in hand, expression unreadable. He didn’t slouch. He didn’t fidget. He just… read.

A private file—heavily encrypted—glowed on the display in front of him.

Subject: Senator [Name] – Incident Debrief & Homeworld Response Log

Status: Prisoner deceased. Jedi casualty: none. Senator: minor injury. Civil unrest: negligible. Execution status: voided. Celebratory feast: confirmed.

He stared at that last line.

Feast.

Fox blinked once. Slowly. Then set the stylus down with clinical precision.

“Of course,” he muttered to himself, tone bone-dry. “Feast.”

There was a polite knock at the door. Sharp, deliberate.

“Enter,” he called.

The door hissed open.

Senator Riyo Chuchi stepped inside, her presence as calm as always—measured, graceful, dressed in soft blues that made her look like something born of snowfall and silence.

“Commander,” she said with a faint smile. “I hope I’m not intruding.”

Fox stood, instinctively straightening his spine. “Senator Chuchi. Not at all.”

She stepped closer, hands folded neatly. Her gaze flicked to the screen behind him, just for a second.

“More reports from the Senator’s trip home?” she asked lightly.

Fox’s mouth twitched—almost a smile, almost a grimace. “You could call it that.”

“I heard there was an incident,” she said, voice softening. “I trust she’s unharmed?”

“Minor injury,” he confirmed. “The prisoner attempted to escape en route. Neutralized.”

Chuchi nodded slowly, then tilted her head. “And the execution?”

“Canceled,” Fox said simply. “She improvised.”

Something flickered across Chuchi’s face—an expression caught somewhere between relief and concern. “That sounds like her.”

Fox gave a faint nod, eyes dropping back to the datapad. “I’m not here to question methods. It’s not my place.”

“You think that’s all it is?” Chuchi asked gently. “Methods?”

He glanced up, brow furrowed slightly.

She stepped closer, just a little. Not pushing—just enough to be noticed.

“Some of us see people,” she said. “Not just politics.”

Fox blinked.

Then looked at her—really looked.

Chuchi smiled, small and earnest. “I thought I’d bring you this,” she added, producing a small insulated container from her satchel. “Fresh caf. Brewed properly. I thought you might need it.”

He stared at it. A beat passed before he took it, careful not to brush her fingers.

“…Thank you,” he said, voice rough with habit more than emotion.

She hesitated. Then: “You don’t have to be polite with me all the time, Commander.”

He glanced up, puzzled.

She smiled again, this one quieter. “You’re not a report.”

With that, she turned to leave, the hem of her cloak brushing the doorway.

Fox stood there for a long moment, caf in hand, staring at the empty space she’d just occupied.

He finally sat back down, the weight of the morning returning to his shoulders.

Report after report.

Fire and feast.

Senators and swords.

He sipped the caf.

It was excellent.

He hated that it made him feel anything at all.

⸻

Coruscant gleamed with its usual sterile indifference as your ship cut through its airways, docking silently under a hazy afternoon sun.

You stepped out dressed not for war, but for the game, a tailored ensemble of muted power, the cut precise, the lines sharp. Behind you, aides hurried, datapads flickering with messages and half-formed excuses for missed committee meetings. You let them speak for you. You didn’t need to explain your absence.

The moment you stepped into the Senate halls again, the shift was palpable.

Your gait was unhurried.

Your expression? Immaculately unreadable.

But the whispers started anyway.

They always did.

⸻

Elsewhere in the Senate Building Padmé Amidala folded her arms in her office, standing at the window with narrowed eyes.

“She’s getting close to you,” she said quietly.

Anakin, sprawled on a chaise like a man without a single political care in the galaxy, frowned up at her. “Close to me? She nearly got murdered last week. I was doing my job.”

Padmé turned. “You’re spending a lot of time with her. You were always… sympathetic to her methods.”

“She’s not wrong about everything,” Anakin said with a shrug. “Her world’s brutal. So she makes brutal calls. Doesn’t mean she’s dangerous.”

“She’s persuasive,” Padmé said flatly. “And you like people who fight like you do. It concerns me.”

Anakin held her gaze. “I know what I’m doing, Padmé.”

Her expression didn’t budge. “I’m not sure she does.”

⸻

The lights in the guard hallway were dimmed. Hound and Thorn sat on a bench outside Fox’s office, casually snacking on ration bars, half-listening to the low murmur of voices inside.

“You reckon she’s finally getting somewhere?” Thorn muttered, cocking his head toward the door.

Hound snorted. “She could wear a sign around her neck saying Fox, take me now, and he’d still think she was lobbying for more security funding.”

Inside, Fox stood at his desk, arms crossed, frowning as you paced slowly in front of him with deliberate grace.

“I’m just saying,” you murmured, tone silk-soft, “the Guard’s response time was impressive. Efficient. You’ve trained them well.”

Fox didn’t blink. “Thank you, Senator.”

You leaned slightly on his desk, watching him with a glint in your eye. “Though I did miss your voice shouting orders over a comm. It’s oddly reassuring.”

He hesitated, just a flicker.

“…It wasn’t necessary to involve myself directly.”

You smiled. “Still. It would’ve made for a good view.”

That one landed.

A slight pause. A faint shift in his stance.

You leaned in, voice low. “Don’t tell me you didn’t miss me, Commander.”

Fox cleared his throat, stiffening slightly. “I’m glad you returned safely.”

“Are you?” you asked, a smirk playing at your lips. “Because the last time I left, I almost died. And when I got back, my favorite clone didn’t even send me a message.”

Fox opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Regrouped.

“I… didn’t want to presume.”

You tilted your head. “Shame. I do like a man with initiative.”

Just outside the office, Thorn elbowed Hound, grinning like an idiot. Hound had a hand over his mouth to keep from laughing.

“Ten credits says he short-circuits before the end of the conversation,” Thorn whispered.

Back inside, Fox glanced toward the door—he knew exactly who was eavesdropping. His voice dropped to a murmur.

“…Some of us aren’t trained in politics.”

You took a slow step closer. “Good. Politics is boring. I prefer action.”

Fox blinked. “I—”

The door creaked.

Fox turned sharply. “Thorn. Hound. Get back to your rounds.”

Two half-stifled laughs vanished down the hall.

You chuckled, slow and rich.

Fox looked somewhere between exasperated and confused. “You enjoy this.”

“Immensely,” you purred. “You’re one of the few people here who doesn’t lie to my face or fawn over my power. It’s refreshing.”

He looked at you for a long moment. The barest crack in the armor.

“…You’re hard to read.”

You stepped back, just slightly—enough to give him space, enough to keep him off balance.

“Good,” you said softly. “Let’s keep it that way.”

Then you turned, brushing past him with a swish of fabric and control.

“Goodnight, Commander.”

“…Goodnight, Senator.”

Outside, Hound was already counting his credits.

⸻

Your office was dim, sunlight creeping in through the high windows like it feared being too bold in your domain. You were lounging in your chair, glass in hand—liquor, not caf—when the door slid open with a hiss.

Skywalker stepped in, alone. No guards. No cloak of diplomacy.

You raised your brows. “No dramatic entrance? I’m disappointed.”

Anakin shrugged as he shut the door. “I’m not here for a debate.”

“Pity. I’m good at those.”

He folded his arms, studying you like he was trying to decide if you were a real threat or just too much trouble to be worth it.

“Padmé’s worried about you,” he said without greeting.

You didn’t even blink. “She’s always worried. It’s her default state.”

“She’s worried about you. And me.”

You blinked once, then tilted your head. “Are you flattered or terrified?”

Anakin cracked a dry grin. “Both.”

Anakin gave you a look. “She thinks you’re manipulating me.”

You smiled, slow and amused. “Are you easily manipulated, Skywalker?”

“No,” he said, too fast, then caught himself. “But you’re not exactly subtle, either.”

“I’m not trying to seduce you,” you said lazily. “If I were, you’d already know. And you’d be very uncomfortable about it.”

That drew a genuine laugh from him.

“I like you,” he said, leaning back against the window frame. “You don’t pretend. Everyone else here pretends.”

You shrugged. “I was raised by men who gutted liars before dinner. I have little patience for masks.”

“You’re going to get eaten alive in here,” he warned.

You grinned. “Skywalker, I am a wolf dressed in velvet. I’ll be okay.”

He turned, and for a moment, you saw it—that same sliver of you in him. Something sharp and secret and smoldering. He respected it.

⸻

Later that afternoon, a message arrived. Private channel. Encrypted.

Johhar Kessen.

Senator of Dandoran. Blunt nails dipped in old blood. His smile always looked like it was hiding something, and his suits were cut with the arrogance of a man who’d never once been held accountable.

He requested a “discreet” meeting in one of the lesser-used conference lounges beneath the rotunda.

You went, of course. Alone.

He welcomed you like a merchant offering cursed jewels.

“Senator,” he purred, “I believe we can help each other.”

You said nothing. Just sat and let him dig the hole himself.

“I’ve noticed your recent… power plays,” he continued. “Decisive. Controversial. Admirable.”

He poured himself a drink but not you.

“I know there are those who would love to see your world scrutinized. Public executions don’t go over well with the Jedi. Or the press.”

You smiled, slow and cold.

He didn’t notice.

“I can smooth that over,” he offered. “Help manage the narrative. In return, I’d like your support on my latest trade deregulation bill. Simple. Clean.”

He leaned closer. “Say yes, and no one ever sees your less polished traditions. Say no…”

He shrugged. “Well. People love a scandal.”

You pressed a button beneath the table.

Recording active.

Your eyes gleamed. You loved a good conflict.

⸻

They packed the rotunda. Senators from the core and mid-rim worlds, trade delegates, press from The Core Chronicle, and the ever-judgmental whispers of Senator murmuring like priestesses behind veils.

You stood at the central platform, spine straight, voice calm.

“I present this recording to the full body.”

The playback began.

Kessen’s voice filled the chamber: smug, slimy, and devastatingly clear.

“…say yes, and no one ever sees your less polished traditions…”

Shock rippled like thunder.

Johhar Kessen stood, red-faced, sputtering. “This is—this is a breach of—”

“Of what, senator?” you snapped, voice like a whip. “Decorum? Legality? You attempted to blackmail a member of this chamber. Do not insult this room by feigning innocence.”

The senators exploded into sound.

Kessen stood, fists clenched. “There’s a process for accusations like this—!”

“Too slow,” you cut in. “Too easily buried.”

Orn Free Taa looked at you like you’d just spit blood onto his robe.

“Your methods are grotesque,” He whispered.

You turned your head. “So are the ones used by half the worlds you turn a blind eye to.”

Chuchi rose slowly. Her eyes never left you.

“Even if he’s guilty… there are better ways.”

“I don’t play by your rules,” you said coolly. “Because your rules were written to protect people like him.”

Kessen had gone dead quiet.

He knew.

And then—

“I support the senator’s actions.”

The room fell silent.

Bail Organa rose, voice calm, but firm.

“I do not support the tactic, but I support her refusal to be intimidated. If we condemn the exposure more than the crime, then we are not a governing body—we are a club.”

Gasps. Murmurs. A few stunned stares.

You watched him.

He looked you in the eye. Gave you a single nod.

Respect. Conditional. Earned.

⸻

Outside the Chamber Chuchi followed you out. You could feel her presence without turning.

“You’ve made enemies.”

“I was never here to make friends.”

Her voice was soft. “You’re going to get hurt.”

You glanced at her over your shoulder. “Let them try.”

And with that, you vanished into the corridors, cloak billowing behind you like a shadow with teeth.

⸻

The report came in clean and quiet, just like the man who delivered it.

Fox stood behind his desk, fingers locked behind his back, posture perfect. Not a single muscle twitching—except for the subtle clench of his jaw as Hound finished reading the datapad aloud.

“…exposed the blackmail attempt on the Senate floor, publicly. Senator Johhar Kessen’s credibility is in tatters. Organa backed her up. So did Organa’s wife.”

A beat of silence.

Fox didn’t move.

“Sir?” Hound prompted.

Fox blinked once, slow. Then nodded.

“She’s reckless,” he said, tone dry and clinical. “But I can’t fault her for exposing corruption.”

“Never said you could,” Hound muttered, crossing his arms. “Just that the fireworks were impressive.”

Fox didn’t smile. Of course he didn’t.

But his silence lingered.

“…you don’t approve?”

“I don’t comment,” Fox corrected.

Hound exhaled through his nose, looking far too amused. “Of course not, Commander.”

The door chimed.

Fox’s eyes flicked up. “Enter.”

Senator Riyo Chuchi stepped in with her usual grace—soft-voiced and composed, carrying two steaming cups of caf like offerings at a shrine.

“Commander,” she greeted gently. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

Fox straightened a touch more, if that was even possible. “Not at all, Senator.”

Chuchi smiled and handed him one of the mugs. “Thought you might need this. You looked tired last time I saw you.”

He accepted it like someone unfamiliar with gifts. “That’s… appreciated.”

“I also wanted to check in,” she added, voice lighter now. “After all the excitement in the Senate. Your guards were quick to respond when Senator [L/N] was attacked—Thorn and Stone handled it excellently.”

“She alerted us herself,” Fox said. “Gave detailed information. Her timing was precise.”

Chuchi hesitated. “You’ve… spoken with her?”

“A few times,” Fox said neutrally, sipping the caf. “Usually regarding security.”

Chuchi tilted her head. “And outside of security?”

Fox blinked at her, expression unreadable behind the helmet of his professionalism. “Why would I?”

She laughed softly. “No reason. Just seemed like she had a certain… fondness.”

Fox blinked again. “For the Guard?”

She smiled politely. “Sure.”

You had come by for a casual follow-up, half-expecting the door to be open, half-expecting to breeze in and rile Fox just for the fun of it. But the sight through the transparent panel brought your steps to a halt.

Fox, standing stiff with a cup in hand.

Chuchi, close—too close—leaning in, speaking softly.

He was focused, respectful, unreadable.

But she…

Her interest was carved into every careful sentence, every flicker of her eyes. She was making her move.

And you weren’t going to interrupt that.

Not directly.

You turned away, pretending not to look.

“Surprised you didn’t barge in.”

You turned to find Hound leaning casually against the corridor wall, arms crossed and helm off, watching you with a wry smile.

“You think I should’ve?”

“Would’ve made good entertainment.” He smirked. “Though maybe Fox’s heart would short-circuit. Pretty sure he still thinks you and Chuchi are just trying to get in his good graces for Senate leverage.”

You snorted.

“He’s blind,” Hound added, shrugging. “If someone looked at me the way you look at him… well. I wouldn’t be wasting it.”

You tilted your head, amused. “If someone looked at you that way, would you even recognize it?”

He grinned. “I’m not the one holding a damn caf like it’s a live grenade while a senator stares at me like I hung the moons.”

You looked back at the door. Your expression softened—just a fraction. “He deserves better than what either of us could give him.”

“Maybe,” Hound said. “But people don’t choose who they make weak for.”

You didn’t reply.

Just watched as the door slid open again—and Chuchi stepped out, graceful as ever, her smile fading the moment she saw you standing there.

You gave her a slow, lazy smile. “Senator.”

“Senator,” she replied coolly, before walking past you without another word.

Fox didn’t follow her out.

You didn’t go in.

The hallway still buzzed faintly from Chuchi’s perfume and perfect poise as she vanished down the corridor.

You stood in silence a moment longer, thoughts tangled, arms crossed.

Hound remained leaned against the wall, watching you carefully. Grizzer sat quietly by his side.

“Feeling dangerous,” Hound murmured, “or just wounded?”

You didn’t take the bait. “You patrol near the East Residential Block?”

“Every other night.” He raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

You gave him a faint smile, more tired than your usual games. “Escort me home.”

He looked you over, caught the guarded tone, the lack of venom, and straightened.

“Security concern?”

“Something like that.” You turned on your heel, cloak flaring softly behind you. “Unless you’ve got a caf date too?”

“Only with Grizzer.”

The massiff gave a pleased huff and trotted after you both.

The three of you walked in rhythm. The quiet buzz of speeders hummed high above, and the lights of Coruscant shimmered like artificial stars.

Grizzer stayed close to your side, his large eyes occasionally flicking up at you like he understood more than he let on.

You glanced at Hound. “I think I lost him.”

“Fox?” he asked, even though he knew the answer.

“Chuchi’s winning,” you muttered. “Or at least… not losing.”

Hound shoved his hands into his belt, voice casual. “You in love with him or just hate the idea of someone else having what you want?”

You didn’t answer right away.

Grizzer’s claws clicked against the polished duracrete. The street was empty, private, lined with the red glow of low-lit signs.

“I don’t do love,” you said finally. “But I respect him. And I liked being the only one who saw the cracks in his armor.”

Hound was quiet a beat. “Fox is hard to read. He’s trained himself not to need anything.”

“I noticed.”

“But needing and wanting are different things.” Hound glanced sideways at you. “You might’ve gotten through to the part of him that wants. Doesn’t mean he knows what to do with it.”

You sighed. “He doesn’t have to do anything. I’ve already made enough of a fool of myself.”

“You haven’t,” Hound said, voice firmer. “You just got tired of playing a game where he doesn’t know the rules.”

You smiled a little. “Maybe he never learned how to play.”

Grizzer grunted and nosed your hand, seeking affection. You obliged, stroking his warm, armored head.

“He likes you,” Hound said. “Only growls at people who give off the wrong scent.”

You raised a brow. “I smell like trouble.”

“Yeah,” Hound agreed. “But not bad trouble.”

You reached your apartment complex, a tall, dark-glassed tower behind a gilded gate. The entrance lights flickered as you approached, and the two guard droids posted at the front scanned you with routine precision.

You turned back to Hound. “Thanks for walking me.”

“Anytime,” he said. “I’ve got five more blocks to hit anyway.”

“Stay safe.”

He smirked. “Says the senator who blew up half the chamber with one datapad.”

You grinned, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes.

Grizzer barked once, deep and throaty, then followed Hound as they headed into the city shadows.

You stood alone at your door, looking out into the dark.

The city blinked back like a thousand indifferent eyes.

⸻

Previous Part | Next Part

strong desire for Echo to take a nice relaxing bath but also concerned about him electrocuting himself

Hello! Not really a request but just some q’s i was wondering which clone do you like to write about the most? Are there any requests you’ve gotten you weren’t to sure about at first but ended up loving what you wrote? Hope you’re doing well and don’t mind the questions! Long time fan! X

I like writing about clones that don’t get a lot of love or are kind of misunderstood. I love grumpy clones or clones that seem a bit harsh.

Fox, Bacara, Neyo, and Sev are some of my favorites. They’ve all have interesting stories or rough reputations, so it’s fun to explore their sides more. While I don’t have many fics about them directly, I do love to sneak them into my other fics.

I do have some favouritism, with Wolffe and Cody being the clones I write about the most on my own accord.

I don’t really have any requests I was unsure about, sometimes with requests I do fear I go my own route too much. I have gotten a few requests to do AUs however, haven’t published any as I don’t like how I’ve gone about them.

I’ve certainly had a few ideas of my own where I liked it at first, then kinda (absolutely) hated it halfway through, but ended up loving it again in the end. Then there have been a few that I just ended up hating, or didn’t know how to end.

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.

“War on Two Fronts” pt.6

Captain Rex x Reader x Commander Bacara

⸻

The Coruscant skyline blurred outside the high-rise window, but she wasn’t really looking at it.

Lights moved. Ships passed. Life carried on.

And yet, she sat still—perched on the edge of the cot in the temporary quarters she’d been granted for this brief return. Her armor was half-off, discarded in pieces across the room. Her saber lay untouched on the table beside her. Fingers twisted the edge of her undersleeve, tugging it, letting go, tugging again.

Her breathing had finally steadied.

But the storm inside hadn’t.

That training room scene played again and again behind her eyes—the shouting, the aggression, the way they’d both stood there like she was some sort of prize. Like her heart was something to be won, not understood.

And for a moment, she hated them both.

Not just for what they did.

But for making her feel small.

For making her doubt herself.

She closed her eyes, leaning forward to rest her arms on her knees. Stars, how had it come to this? She’d survived battles. Held diplomatic ground under fire. She’d stood toe-to-toe with Council members. And yet the moment her heart became involved—she unraveled.

She thought of Bacara first. Of the kiss. The rawness of it. How he touched her like he didn’t know if he’d ever get the chance again.

And yet—he barely said anything. He kept her at a distance until the moment emotion exploded out of him like blaster fire.

Then Rex. Steady. Soft. Listening. But no less possessive when pushed. He was a better man, she thought. A better soldier. But still… a soldier. Still bound by something that meant she’d always be second to the cause.

Were either of them truly what she wanted?

Or had she been so starved for something that felt real in the chaos of war, that she clung to anything that looked like affection?

She stood and crossed the room, pacing, trying to shake the ache out of her bones. Her hand brushed the window frame.

And quietly, bitterly, she whispered to herself—

“Maybe I don’t want either of them.”

Maybe she wanted peace.

Maybe she wanted clarity.

Maybe she wanted herself back.

A knock startled her—sharp and fast.

But she didn’t move.

Not yet.

The knock came again—measured, firm, but not forceful.

She sighed, rolling her eyes with a groan. “If either of you came back to apologize, you’ve got ten seconds before I throw something heavy.”

“No need for theatrics,” came the unmistakable voice from the other side. “It’s just me.”

Her spine straightened like a snapped cord. “Master?”

“I’m coming in,” he said plainly.

The door hissed open before she could answer. Mace Windu stepped in, his presence as steady as the Force itself, robes still crisp despite the lateness of the hour, a subtle frown pressing between his brows as he regarded her. There was no lecture, no judgment, not yet. Only concern veiled beneath the usual stone exterior.

“You don’t look like someone who’s meditating,” he observed.

“I wasn’t,” she replied dryly, arms folded.

“I figured.” He stepped farther inside, his eyes scanning the scattered armor pieces, the half-torn undersleeve she hadn’t realized she was still tugging at. “You look like someone unraveling.”

“I’m not.” Her voice was too quick.

He said nothing.

She sighed, letting the breath shudder out of her as she dropped heavily back onto the edge of the cot.

“I didn’t call for advice,” she muttered.

“I didn’t say you did,” Mace replied simply. He stepped over to the small chair across from her and sat, folding his arms into the sleeves of his robe. “But I heard enough to know something’s shifted.”

Her jaw clenched. “I’m sure you’ve heard plenty by now.”

“I’m not here as a Council member.” His tone was different now—quieter, gentler. “I’m here because you’re my Padawan. No title changes that.”

Something in her broke at that. Just a crack.

“I don’t know what I’m doing, Master.”

“I think you do. I just think you’re afraid to do it.”

She looked at him, eyes sharp. “You think I’m afraid to choose?”

“No,” he said, and it was immediate. “I think you’re afraid to not choose. To walk away. To be alone.”

That struck something deep.

She stared at the floor.

“I don’t want them fighting over me. Like I’m some kind of… prize. And I definitely don’t want to be part of some toxic love triangle during a war.”

“You’ve always led with your heart,” Mace said. “And your heart’s always been too big for the battlefield.”

She blinked, stunned by the softness of it. Mace Windu, the most unshakeable Jedi on the Council, calling her heart too big.

“Doesn’t feel like a strength right now.”

“It is. Even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts.” He leaned forward, elbows on knees. “You’ll figure this out. But don’t let them decide who you are. And don’t let anyone take your peace—not even someone who loves you.”

Her eyes burned now, but she blinked fast to keep them dry.

“Thanks… Master”

He smiled then. A small one. Barely a twitch of his lips—but she saw it.

“I’ll be in the Temple tomorrow. If you need to talk again—just talk—you know where to find me.”

He stood, gave her one last look, then left as quietly as he’d come.

And this time, the silence in the room felt a little less loud.

⸻

The city outside her window glowed in shifting hues of speeders and skyline, lights tracing invisible lines like veins in durasteel. She hadn’t moved much since Mace left—too exhausted to think, too unsettled to sleep. Her mind was loud. Still hurt. Still confused. Still… waiting.

And then came the knock.

Not sharp. Not gentle. Just… steady.

She didn’t answer. She didn’t have the strength to.

The door opened anyway. The audacity made her want to hurl something again—but when she looked up, it wasn’t who she expected.

Bacara stepped inside, helmet tucked under one arm, armor scuffed from some earlier skirmish. His expression was unreadable as always—eyes too sharp, jaw too tense—but there was something in his stance. Hesitation.

She scoffed and turned back toward the window. “You know, I figured you’d be the last one to come knocking.”

He didn’t respond at first. Just stood there, watching her like she was a particularly complex tactical situation. Finally, he set his helmet down on the small table and crossed the room with slow, deliberate steps.

“You didn’t deserve what happened earlier.”

The silence that followed was thick.

“You mean the shouting? The posturing? The way you and Rex acted like I was some kind of prize to be won in a sparring match?” Her voice was calm now, but it carried an edge. “You both embarrassed yourselves. And me.”

“I know,” he said plainly. “That’s why I’m here.”

She turned to face him, arms crossed.

“You don’t do apologies, Bacara.”

“No,” he agreed. “But I can try.”

That stunned her into stillness. He wasn’t joking. Not hiding behind orders or ranks or deflections. There was no sharp military snap to his tone, no bark. Just gravel and honesty.

“I’ve spent most of my life cutting off emotions that slow a man down,” he said. “Guilt. Regret. Affection. All of it. I had to. Mundi—he doesn’t train his men to be… soft.”

“No, he doesn’t,” she muttered. “He trains them to be machines.”

Bacara looked away. “I followed that lead for a long time. It made me strong. It made me efficient. But it also made me a stranger to myself.”

She tilted her head, eyes narrowing. “And what am I in this equation?”

“The reminder that I’m still human.” His voice was quieter now. “That I feel more around you than I’ve felt since Kamino.”

That cracked something in her. Something she’d been gripping tight since the moment things started spiraling.

She swallowed. “You were horrible to me. Not just today. Since the beginning.”

“I know,” he said again. “But I never hated you.”

Her breath hitched.

“I was listening, that night with Windu. I heard everything.” He met her eyes now. “I didn’t come here to beg. And I didn’t come here to fight. I just needed you to know—I don’t want to be the man who makes you doubt your worth. I don’t want to be that Commander. Not with you.”

Her heart was thudding against her ribs. She hated how much he still had that effect on her. Hated that his voice, his damn sincerity, could crack through months of cold.

“I don’t know if I can trust you,” she said softly. “Not yet.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to,” he replied. “But I’m still here.”

He stepped closer—slow, careful—and brushed his hand against hers. His fingers were cold from the night air. She didn’t pull away.

“You kissed me,” she whispered.

“I’d do it again.”

Her eyes flicked up to meet his, something defiant and fragile behind them. “Then do it right this time.”

He did.

This one wasn’t reckless. It wasn’t bitter or angry or desperate. It was slow. It was deliberate. It was raw in a way that hurt and healed at the same time.

When they pulled apart, they didn’t speak. They didn’t need to.

He didn’t stay the night. That wasn’t who they were yet. But when the door closed behind him, the quiet left behind felt different.

Hopeful.

⸻

He knew before she said anything.

He could feel it the second he stepped into her quarters—before the door hissed closed behind him, before she turned to face him, before her eyes even lifted from the floor.

It was in the air. That stillness. The kind of silence that follows a storm and leaves nothing untouched.

Rex stood there a moment, helmet cradled under his arm, expression unreadable. “You’ve made a choice.”

She nodded. Her mouth opened, closed, then finally managed, “I didn’t mean for it to get like this.”

He gave a small, sad smile. “I know.”

“I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“You didn’t.” He said it quickly—too quickly.

Her brow creased, but he held her gaze with that steady calm she’d always admired. “You were never mine to keep,” he said gently. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“But I love you.” The words escaped like breath, hoarse and aching. “You need to know that.”

He exhaled through his nose. Looked away for just a second, then met her eyes again.

“I know that too.”

She took a step closer, but stopped herself. “I didn’t want to string you along. I couldn’t keep doing this to you—this back and forth. I chose Bacara. But that doesn’t mean what we had wasn’t real.”

Rex nodded once, slowly. His throat worked. “He’s not better than me.”

“I know.”

“But you’re better with him?”

She blinked hard. “I don’t know what I am with him. I just know… I don’t want to live in limbo anymore.”

For a moment, he looked like he might say something more. But instead, he stepped forward, reached out, and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. The gentleness of it unraveled her.

“You were always going to break my heart,” he said softly. “I just hoped I’d be enough to stop it from happening.”

She blinked fast. Tears clung to her lashes.

“Rex…”

He shook his head. “Don’t say you’re sorry. You never led me on. We’re soldiers. We steal what moments we can before the war takes them away. You gave me more than I ever expected.”

And then he leaned forward and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to her forehead.

When he stepped back, something in her chest fractured.

“I’ll see you on the next campaign,” he said, voice rough, but steady.

And then he was gone.

She stood there long after the door closed, arms wrapped tight around herself. She didn’t know what she felt more—relief, regret, or the slow, dawning fear that she’d lost something that could never be replaced.

⸻

The halls of the barracks were quiet this late, a kind of peace Rex had never trusted. Silence was just a disguise war wore before it struck again. But this—this wasn’t the battlefield.

This was heartbreak.

He sat on the edge of his bunk, armor half-stripped, chest plate tossed aside, vambraces on the floor. His gloves were clenched in one hand, thumb rubbing worn fabric. Like holding on might keep him from slipping into something dark and stupid.

Jesse passed him once without saying a word. Not because he didn’t care—but because even Jesse knew when something hurt too much for words.

She chose Bacara.

The thought came unbidden, like a knife twisted in his side.

He didn’t hate Bacara. Not really.

But Force, he envied him. Envied the way she softened when she looked at the Commander. Envied the way Bacara could be cold, brutal even, and still… she reached for him. Still found something worth saving in that hard shell of a man.

Rex had bled for her. Laughed with her. Been vulnerable in ways he hadn’t been with anyone else. He’d offered her the part of himself that he didn’t even understand most days.

And she had loved him. She had. That much he didn’t doubt.

But love wasn’t always enough. Not when you’re trying to love two people, and one of them pulls your gravity just a little harder.

He sighed, leaned forward, forearms braced against his knees. Helmet resting between his boots.

“Captain,” a voice said softly from the doorway.

It was Ahsoka.

He didn’t look up. “You shouldn’t be out this late.”

She stepped inside anyway, the door sliding shut behind her.

“I felt it. Through the Force. You’re… not alright.”

He smiled bitterly. “You’re getting better at that.”

Ahsoka folded her arms. “She picked Bacara.”

It wasn’t a question.

“No point in pretending otherwise,” he said. His voice was quiet. Raw.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He lifted his head. His eyes looked older than they should have. “She made a choice. She deserves that. They both do.”

Ahsoka sat on the bunk across from him. “But that doesn’t mean you don’t feel it.”

“No,” Rex said. “It doesn’t.”

There was a long silence between them.

“I always thought you’d end up with someone like her,” Ahsoka said, almost wistfully. “Strong. Sharp. Stubborn.”

He let out a dry chuckle. “Yeah. Me too.”

She leaned forward, her expression gentle but firm. “You didn’t lose her, Rex. You loved her. That counts for something.”

Rex looked at her—this young, impossibly wise Padawan who had seen too much already. “Maybe. But it doesn’t change the fact that I’m alone again.”

“No,” Ahsoka agreed softly. “But it means your heart still works. And that’s something most of us can’t say anymore.”

He looked down at the gloves in his hand. At the callouses on his fingers. At everything he still had to carry.

“I’ll be fine,” he said, mostly to himself.

And maybe, someday, he would be.

But not tonight.

⸻

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

- Good soldiers follow orders

omega

YAAA IM SUCH A HUGE FAN OF YOUR TBB WORK AND I FINALLY HAVE A REQUEST IDEA…

Mandalorian reader who speaks in Mando’a to herself when she thinks she’s alone, and one day cf 99 overhears her!!

tysm if you do this, like I said I love your work and I’m so excited to read more <3 take care lovely!!

Thank you x

I hope this is somewhat close to what you had in mind.

“Secrets in the Shadows”

Bad Batch x Reader

The cantina was loud as usual, reeking of stale spotchka and poor decisions. You sat in the corner booth at Cid’s, helmet off but gauntlets still on, nursing a cheap drink and a cheaper job. You’d just come back from a run that paid in credits so light they could float off your palm. Figures.

You muttered to yourself, low and in a tongue most beings on Ord Mantell didn’t understand.

“Kriffing dikkut,” you muttered under your breath, just loud enough for your own ears. “Ni ru'kir not even cuyir sha borarir today… bal par meg”

You swirled your cup, leaned back with a scowl. In your mind Cid’s got no honor, no plan. Just her greasy fingers in every job on this rock.

Another sip. You were speaking louder now. You thought you were alone. “Meh Ni had options, Ni Ru'kel tettar kaysh shebs off a roof”

“Interesting,” came a voice just behind you.

You froze. Slowly, you turned your head—and saw the familiar faces of Clone Force 99. Hunter stood with his arms folded, head tilted. Tech was already tapping on his datapad. Crosshair had a toothpick in his mouth and that smug glint in his eye. Wrecker was smirking like you just said something hilarious. Echo said nothing, but his gaze was sharp.

“You speak Mando’a,” Tech noted, without looking up. “Quite fluently.”

You stood quickly, not bothering to hide your annoyance.

“No osik,” you snapped. “Didn’t exactly mean for the whole squad to eavesdrop.”

Crosshair chuckled. “You talk to yourself in a dead language, and we’re the weird ones?”

Your visor snapped down. “It’s not dead. Just sleeping. Like a rancor with teeth.”

Hunter took a step closer. “Why keep it quiet?”

You didn’t answer at first. Just stared, then finally said, “Because it’s mine. Because people like Cid don’t deserve to hear it. Because you aruetiise don’t know what it means to carry a name that was earned, not assigned.”

Wrecker looked genuinely hurt. “Hey, we’ve fought with you, bled with you—”

“Doesn’t make us vod,” you interrupted. “Not yet.”

Echo stepped forward, quieter than the rest. “We’re not trying to be something we’re not. But we do understand what it’s like to have your culture stolen and your purpose used.”

That made you pause.

You looked at him for a long time, the words catching in your throat. Then, finally, you said it—soft, but clear.

“Ni ven, ori’vod. But you tell that chakaar Cid if she lowballs me again, I’ll weld her bar shut.”

Crosshair’s smirk widened. “I’ll get the torch.”

Hunter let out a rare chuckle. “Fair enough. Next time, maybe just let us know when you’re venting in Mando’a. We’ll knock first.”

You gave a subtle nod and walked past them, muttering under your breath again.

“I don’t trust you. Not yet.”

But your pace slowed at the door. Just for a second.

And none of them missed it.

“Red Lines” pt.6

Ryio Chuchi x Commander Fox x Reader x Sergeant Hound

 It had started as a harmless ache.

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

She had told herself it was admiration.

Then it became respect.

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

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

She had seen the senator leave with Sergeant Hound.

She wasn’t blind.

She wasn’t naïve.

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

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

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

And Fox?

Fox didn’t look away from that.

Even when he should.

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

“He’s blind,” Hound had said once.

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

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

Fox had stopped coming around.

Not just to her.

To anyone.

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

But she’d seen the report this morning.

Fox had been at your apartment.

Again.

And Hound had been there, too.

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

You?

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

But none of that seemed to matter.

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

And maybe…

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

Maybe she was watching herself become invisible.

She sat back down at her desk.

A report glowed softly on the screen.

Senate rumblings. Clone production. Budget cuts.

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

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

He used to.

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

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

She closed the screen.

The caf was still cold.

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

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

⸻

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

Paperwork. Patrol shifts. Security audits.

Anything but them.

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

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

And yet.

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

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

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

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

Fox looked up sharply. “Thorn—”

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

“I don’t have time for this.”

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

Fox’s jaw clenched.

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

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

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

Thorn snorted. “You’re seething.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re a disaster.”

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

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

Fox froze mid-step.

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

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

⸻

Later, in the barracks mess, the teasing continued.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He finished his meal in silence.

⸻

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

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

Fox sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

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

Someone was going to get burned.

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

Or himself.

⸻

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

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

Everyone did.

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

And yet… he still hadn’t chosen her.

Or her.

The other senator.

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

It was about Fox.

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

“Senator Chuchi,” he said, standing automatically.

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

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

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

She softened, just slightly.

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

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

He fell silent.

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

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

“I want you.”

He blinked, mouth parting slightly.

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

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

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

He looked away, jaw tight.

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

She paused, hand on the panel.

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

The door slid open with a quiet hiss.

“Riyo—” he started.

But she was already gone.

⸻

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

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

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

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

Or maybe saying goodbye to it.

“Commander,” you said softly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence.

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

That one hurt.

But the worst part? You agreed.

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

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

“I don’t want it to be.”

And then he kissed you.

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

You didn’t push him away.

You kissed him back like he was already a memory.

Then—

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

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

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

His eyes said everything before his mouth could.

Rage. Hurt. Disbelief.

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

He saw too much.

Fox stepped back. You didn’t move.

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

“Hound—” Fox started.

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

Grizzer growled again as if echoing the tension.

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

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

Once he was gone, Hound looked at you.

You couldn’t read his expression.

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

“Did it mean anything?”

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

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

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

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

“I’m fine,” you lied.

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

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

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

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

Let him come.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That startled a wet, broken laugh out of you.

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

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

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

You weren’t fine.

But you weren’t alone.

Not tonight.

⸻

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

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

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

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

And still, your heart burned.

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

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

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

You were going to rise.

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

“Send it,” you said without hesitation.

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

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

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

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

“Keep dreaming, R9.”

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

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

You were done playing nice.

Done pretending your words didn’t bite.

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

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

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

R9 beeped smugly.

Ila beamed.

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

Let them come.

You were ready.

⸻

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i finished playing republic commando last week and just cannot stop thinking ab them