Fox X Riyo - Blog Posts

Hi!! Hope you're doing well!! Love your art!!

I saw you were looking for art prompts and may I suggest Foxiyo with a babies. Just an itty bitty babies (can you tell I'm a sucker for babies lol)

Stay hydrated!!

it took them a long time to make just one (1) baby, and he’s already tired 🥹

thank you and thank you for the prompt :3

“Red Lines” pt.7

Ryio Chuchi x Commander Fox x Reader x Sergeant Hound

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

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

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

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

It wasn’t.

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

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

But not anymore.

Fox had kissed you. And then let you go.

Hound would never.

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

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

Grizzer gave a small bark of agreement.

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

You didn’t see it yet—but he did.

You were starting to look at him differently.

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

No one questioned him.

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m counting on it.”

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

Hound stepped inside. Grizzer waited obediently at the door.

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

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

“No,” he said. “Not really.”

You blinked.

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

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

You stiffened—but you didn’t interrupt.

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

Silence stretched.

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

Something softer.

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

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

Not storming out. Not waiting for an answer.

Just putting it all on the line, finally.

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

The door closed behind him.

Grizzer gave a soft whine.

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

You didn’t answer.

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

Something had shifted.

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

⸻

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

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

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

Hound had gone to her.

And she’d seen him.

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

Because Hound had nothing to feel guilty for.

You were not his.

Not anymore.

If you ever truly were.

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

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

He arrived at her quarters just past dusk.

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

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

“I wasn’t either,” he admitted.

She stepped back, letting him in.

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

“You look tired,” she said gently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chuchi sat down across from him, her expression softening.

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

Fox didn’t argue.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He looked up. Her eyes were patient. Warm.

He could fall into that warmth.

He might already be falling.

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

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

He didn’t move away.

Fox didn’t know what the future held.

But tonight—he let himself rest.

Not as a commander. Not as a soldier.

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

⸻

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You didn’t sit.

You owned the floor.

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

Gasps. Stifled laughter. Shock.

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

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

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

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

Your voice. Your anger. Your fire.

He could hear the edge of something unraveling.

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

Chuchi’s brow furrowed.

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

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

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

“Senator.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Even if they wore polished boots and Alderaanian silk.

⸻

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

A chime broke the silence.

Your head turned. The door.

You weren’t expecting anyone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You turned, slowly. “Always?”

He stepped closer. “Yeah. Always.”

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

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

“You’re not subtle,” you whispered.

“No,” he said. “But neither are you.”

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

“Take it off,” you said.

He did.

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

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

No words.

Just heat. Just hands.

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

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

⸻

There was a silence in your bedroom that felt sacred.

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

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

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

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

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

You smirked. “Absolutely.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

⸻

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

VX-7 sputtered. “Decorum.”

⸻

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

He beeped something sharp and insistent.

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

You raised a brow. “Oh, is he?”

R9 chirped eagerly.

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

R9 sputtered in a flurry of binary outrage.

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

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

R9 beeped in long-suffering protest.

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

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

You turned sharply. “Maera.”

“Ila timed it.”

“Ila what?!”

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

R9 twirled in glee.

⸻

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

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

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

Fox noticed too.

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

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

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

“Commander?” she asked gently.

Fox blinked out of it. “Senator.”

She stepped closer. “Are you alright?”

He didn’t answer right away.

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

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

“But you wanted her anyway.”

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

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

She left him standing there with that.

⸻

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

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

He beeped, sulking audibly.

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

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

⸻

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maera gave a discreet cough to hide her knowing grin.

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

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

R9 beeped in what sounded like scandalized glee.

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

⸻

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

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

And people noticed.

Fox noticed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He looked at her then—really looked.

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

“I’d like that,” he said quietly.

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

⸻

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

You didn’t move away.

The contact was seen.

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

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

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

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

It felt like something more complicated.

And far more worth the risk.

⸻

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

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

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

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

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

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

He nodded once. Slowly.

⸻

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That disarmed you more than it should have.

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

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

⸻

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

⸻

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

Fox saw it.

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

He nodded toward you.

You nodded back.

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

Not forgotten. But resolved.

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

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

⸻

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

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

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

“Long enough,” you replied.

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

And you did.

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

And it was about time.

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

⸻

EPILOGUE:

Several years into the reign of the Empire.

The skies of Coruscant no longer shimmered.

They smothered.

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

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

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

But you returned today.

Not for politics.

For memory.

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

Only R9 remained.

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

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

Closed your eyes.

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

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

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

You opened your eyes.

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

Old. Polished.

Ceremonial.

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

Outside, a storm rolled over the skyline.

R9 beeped low beside you. A mournful note.

“Don’t start with me,” you muttered.

The droid nudged your leg.

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

And you smiled. Just slightly.

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

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

⸻

Previous Part

“Red Lines” pt.6

Ryio Chuchi x Commander Fox x Reader x Sergeant Hound

 It had started as a harmless ache.

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

She had told herself it was admiration.

Then it became respect.

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

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

She had seen the senator leave with Sergeant Hound.

She wasn’t blind.

She wasn’t naïve.

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

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

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

And Fox?

Fox didn’t look away from that.

Even when he should.

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

“He’s blind,” Hound had said once.

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

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

Fox had stopped coming around.

Not just to her.

To anyone.

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

But she’d seen the report this morning.

Fox had been at your apartment.

Again.

And Hound had been there, too.

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

You?

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

But none of that seemed to matter.

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

And maybe…

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

Maybe she was watching herself become invisible.

She sat back down at her desk.

A report glowed softly on the screen.

Senate rumblings. Clone production. Budget cuts.

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

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

He used to.

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

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

She closed the screen.

The caf was still cold.

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

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

⸻

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

Paperwork. Patrol shifts. Security audits.

Anything but them.

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

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

And yet.

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

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

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

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

Fox looked up sharply. “Thorn—”

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

“I don’t have time for this.”

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

Fox’s jaw clenched.

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

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

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

Thorn snorted. “You’re seething.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re a disaster.”

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

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

Fox froze mid-step.

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

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

⸻

Later, in the barracks mess, the teasing continued.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He finished his meal in silence.

⸻

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

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

Fox sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

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

Someone was going to get burned.

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

Or himself.

⸻

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

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

Everyone did.

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

And yet… he still hadn’t chosen her.

Or her.

The other senator.

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

It was about Fox.

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

“Senator Chuchi,” he said, standing automatically.

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

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

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

She softened, just slightly.

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

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

He fell silent.

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

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

“I want you.”

He blinked, mouth parting slightly.

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

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

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

He looked away, jaw tight.

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

She paused, hand on the panel.

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

The door slid open with a quiet hiss.

“Riyo—” he started.

But she was already gone.

⸻

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

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

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

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

Or maybe saying goodbye to it.

“Commander,” you said softly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence.

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

That one hurt.

But the worst part? You agreed.

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

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

“I don’t want it to be.”

And then he kissed you.

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

You didn’t push him away.

You kissed him back like he was already a memory.

Then—

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

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

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

His eyes said everything before his mouth could.

Rage. Hurt. Disbelief.

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

He saw too much.

Fox stepped back. You didn’t move.

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

“Hound—” Fox started.

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

Grizzer growled again as if echoing the tension.

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

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

Once he was gone, Hound looked at you.

You couldn’t read his expression.

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

“Did it mean anything?”

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

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

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

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

“I’m fine,” you lied.

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

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

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

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

Let him come.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That startled a wet, broken laugh out of you.

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

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

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

You weren’t fine.

But you weren’t alone.

Not tonight.

⸻

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

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

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

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

And still, your heart burned.

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

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

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

You were going to rise.

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

“Send it,” you said without hesitation.

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

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

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

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

“Keep dreaming, R9.”

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

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

You were done playing nice.

Done pretending your words didn’t bite.

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

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

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

R9 beeped smugly.

Ila beamed.

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

Let them come.

You were ready.

⸻

Previous Part | Next Part

“Red Lines” pt.5

Ryio Chuchi x Commander Fox x Reader x Sergeant Hound

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

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

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

Ila gave you an awkward smile and rushed off.

⸻

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

But R9 was anything but simple.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The thugs swore and lunged.

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

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

Grizzer’s low growl was the first sign.

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

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

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

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

“Hold formation!” Hound barked.

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

“Down!” came the command.

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

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

⸻

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

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

You blinked.

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

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

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

“Let me guess—he insulted them?”

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

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

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

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

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

Another beat of silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stood there for a long moment.

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

⸻

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

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

But the last few images had him still.

R9. Hound. Grizzer.

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

Fox exhaled sharply through his nose.

Behind him, the door hissed open.

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

Fox didn’t answer.

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

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

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

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

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

Fox turned off the screen.

“She’s a senator,” he muttered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fox’s grip tightened on the box.

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

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

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

“I’m fine.”

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

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

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

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

That hung in the air a beat too long.

Fox didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

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

She left.

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

⸻

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

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

“Miss what?”

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

Hound didn’t answer.

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

⸻

Fox didn’t sleep.

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

He wasn’t a man who acted on impulse.

But tonight…

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

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

He pressed the chime.

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

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

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

You opened the door.

And there he was. Fox.

You blinked. “Commander.”

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

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

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

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

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

You smirked faintly. “Jealous?”

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

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

“I warned him not to get attached.”

“Mm. But he already is.”

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

The air stilled.

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

He didn’t answer.

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

“It does,” he snapped.

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

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

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

You softened. Just slightly.

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

“But I can’t ignore it anymore.”

Then—

Knock knock.

Another chime at the door.

You froze. Fox turned.

You opened the door.

Hound stood there. Grizzer sat loyally at his heel.

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

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

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

“I see I’m late.”

Fox stepped forward. “You should go.”

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

“Neither did she ask you.”

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

But neither man budged.

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

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

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

You exhaled slowly, heart loud in your chest.

“I need time,” you said.

Fox nodded stiffly. Hound glanced away, jaw ticking.

Fox left without another word.

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

You closed the door.

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you want tea?” she offered meekly.

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

Commander Fox.

Sergeant Hound.

You weren’t supposed to care.

This was never about feelings.

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

You wanted to make him yours because he seemed unreachable.

You were chasing victory, not romance.

Weren’t you?

And yet…

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

You didn’t ask for this.

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

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

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

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

Fox was the game.

Hound was something else.

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

You sat down slowly on the armrest of the couch.

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

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

“Angry?”

“No.”

“Confused?”

You looked at her then. And said nothing.

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

And still, you sat there. Tea growing cold.

Fox was a competition.

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

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

You looked out the window again.

Maybe you weren’t afraid of choosing wrong.

Maybe… you were afraid of choosing right.

Because right meant letting someone close.

Right meant vulnerability.

Right meant Hound.

⸻

Previous Part | Next Part

“Red Lines” pt.4

Ryio Chuchi x Commander Fox x Reader x Sergeant Hound

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

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

The datapads were already stacked like bricks of guilt.

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

Too much to do. Never enough time.

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

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

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

“I know what they do.”

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

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

The chime of your apartment door interrupted further commentary.

You didn’t look up. “Let them in.”

Maera bowed, then vanished toward the front foyer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And others say effective.”

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

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

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

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

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

Padmé blinked. “Pardon?”

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

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

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

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

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

You shifted slightly in your chair, eyeing her again.

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

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

“Fox,” you supplied, smiling faintly.

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

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

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

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

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

Padmé sighed.

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

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

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

You arched a brow. “A gracious understatement.”

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

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

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

You tilted your head. “You disapprove?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You held your temper,” she said mildly.

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

“I almost miss the yelling.”

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

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

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

“We’re going shopping.”

Maera blinked. “Shopping?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Exactly.”

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

You murmured under your breath:

“Let’s see if protocol can keep up.”

⸻

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

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

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

“Only the cheap ones,” you replied dryly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then something small rammed into your shin.

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

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

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

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

The droid growled.

You grinned. “I’ll take him.”

The shopkeeper blinked. “You will?”

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

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

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

“I collect useful things.”

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

“Senator!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No obliviousness.

“Walking your route?” you asked.

“North patrol. You’re in my sector.”

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

Just real.

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

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

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

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

“I think I could be persuaded.”

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

⸻

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

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

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

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

Maera raised a brow. “The astromech too?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

The protocol droid finally stepped forward, voice even.

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

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

“That could take a while.”

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

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

Everything was sharpening.

Even your toys.

⸻

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

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

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

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

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

“She doesn’t exactly keep you far.”

That made Fox pause.

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

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

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

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

Before the tension could crack the air entirely—

“Commander Fox.”

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

Hound stepped aside, silent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something had changed.

The lines were no longer clean.

He used to know what battlefield he stood on.

Now… he wasn’t so sure.

⸻

It wasn’t like you were following Fox.

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

Pure coincidence, really.

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

She stood closer than usual. Too close.

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

You paused. Watched. Tilted your head.

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

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

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

CLANK—whiiiiiiiiirRRRRRZK—BEEP BEEP BEEP.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not enough.

Never enough.

But still… something.

⸻

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That set the chamber ablaze.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But before she could respond—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“High praise coming from you.”

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

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

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

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

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

You sighed. “And there goes diplomacy.”

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

Maybe.

⸻

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

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

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

You found them both within seconds.

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

They were on Fox.

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

For a few beats, neither did you.

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

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

“Liar.”

You smiled over the rim.

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

You didn’t care about them. Not really.

You moved.

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

Fox nodded. “A fair point, Senator.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not a chance.”

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

Chuchi noticed. Her gaze narrowed.

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

But your attention split.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stood between them, half a heartbeat from chaos.

And somewhere deep down, you enjoyed it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, I never—!”

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

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

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

Fox found you there.

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

“Senator.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then—

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

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

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

And the triangle turned into a square again.

Tight.

Tense.

And ready to collapse.

⸻

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anakin’s jaw twitched.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

⸻

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

Fox.

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

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

The Council was watching. You could feel it.

⸻

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

⸻

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

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

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

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

You looked up slowly.

“About me?”

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

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

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

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

Anakin’s jaw tightened. “Always.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You really upgraded them,” Anakin noted.

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

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

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

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

You gave him a look. “Including you?”

Anakin’s lips quirked. “Especially me.”

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

⸻

Previous Part | Next Part

“Red Lines” pt.3

Commander Fox x Reader

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your aide looked vaguely panicked. The emissary looked furious.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The execution was over.

But the theatre?

That had only just begun.

⸻

The ship landed at dusk.

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

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

You straightened your shoulders.

Slowed your breath.

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

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

You were their senator.

The gatekeeper.

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

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

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

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

Instead, there was fire.

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

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

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

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

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

⸻

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

Dancers moved like smoke through the crowd.

There was laughter.

Music.

Toasts shouted in five languages.

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

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

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

Eventually, he approached you.

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

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

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

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

“You celebrate very well.”

There was a pause. A rare, companionable quiet.

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

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

For a moment, the night softened around the edges.

But only for a moment.

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

But tonight?

Tonight, your world danced in flame.

And you let yourself be theirs.

Even just for one night.

⸻

Coruscant was grey that morning.

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

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

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

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

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

He stared at that last line.

Feast.

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

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

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

“Enter,” he called.

The door hissed open.

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

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

Fox stood, instinctively straightening his spine. “Senator Chuchi. Not at all.”

She stepped closer, hands folded neatly. Her gaze flicked to the screen behind him, just for a second.

“More reports from the Senator’s trip home?” she asked lightly.

Fox’s mouth twitched—almost a smile, almost a grimace. “You could call it that.”

“I heard there was an incident,” she said, voice softening. “I trust she’s unharmed?”

“Minor injury,” he confirmed. “The prisoner attempted to escape en route. Neutralized.”

Chuchi nodded slowly, then tilted her head. “And the execution?”

“Canceled,” Fox said simply. “She improvised.”

Something flickered across Chuchi’s face—an expression caught somewhere between relief and concern. “That sounds like her.”

Fox gave a faint nod, eyes dropping back to the datapad. “I’m not here to question methods. It’s not my place.”

“You think that’s all it is?” Chuchi asked gently. “Methods?”

He glanced up, brow furrowed slightly.

She stepped closer, just a little. Not pushing—just enough to be noticed.

“Some of us see people,” she said. “Not just politics.”

Fox blinked.

Then looked at her—really looked.

Chuchi smiled, small and earnest. “I thought I’d bring you this,” she added, producing a small insulated container from her satchel. “Fresh caf. Brewed properly. I thought you might need it.”

He stared at it. A beat passed before he took it, careful not to brush her fingers.

“…Thank you,” he said, voice rough with habit more than emotion.

She hesitated. Then: “You don’t have to be polite with me all the time, Commander.”

He glanced up, puzzled.

She smiled again, this one quieter. “You’re not a report.”

With that, she turned to leave, the hem of her cloak brushing the doorway.

Fox stood there for a long moment, caf in hand, staring at the empty space she’d just occupied.

He finally sat back down, the weight of the morning returning to his shoulders.

Report after report.

Fire and feast.

Senators and swords.

He sipped the caf.

It was excellent.

He hated that it made him feel anything at all.

⸻

Coruscant gleamed with its usual sterile indifference as your ship cut through its airways, docking silently under a hazy afternoon sun.

You stepped out dressed not for war, but for the game, a tailored ensemble of muted power, the cut precise, the lines sharp. Behind you, aides hurried, datapads flickering with messages and half-formed excuses for missed committee meetings. You let them speak for you. You didn’t need to explain your absence.

The moment you stepped into the Senate halls again, the shift was palpable.

Your gait was unhurried.

Your expression? Immaculately unreadable.

But the whispers started anyway.

They always did.

⸻

Elsewhere in the Senate Building Padmé Amidala folded her arms in her office, standing at the window with narrowed eyes.

“She’s getting close to you,” she said quietly.

Anakin, sprawled on a chaise like a man without a single political care in the galaxy, frowned up at her. “Close to me? She nearly got murdered last week. I was doing my job.”

Padmé turned. “You’re spending a lot of time with her. You were always… sympathetic to her methods.”

“She’s not wrong about everything,” Anakin said with a shrug. “Her world’s brutal. So she makes brutal calls. Doesn’t mean she’s dangerous.”

“She’s persuasive,” Padmé said flatly. “And you like people who fight like you do. It concerns me.”

Anakin held her gaze. “I know what I’m doing, Padmé.”

Her expression didn’t budge. “I’m not sure she does.”

⸻

The lights in the guard hallway were dimmed. Hound and Thorn sat on a bench outside Fox’s office, casually snacking on ration bars, half-listening to the low murmur of voices inside.

“You reckon she’s finally getting somewhere?” Thorn muttered, cocking his head toward the door.

Hound snorted. “She could wear a sign around her neck saying Fox, take me now, and he’d still think she was lobbying for more security funding.”

Inside, Fox stood at his desk, arms crossed, frowning as you paced slowly in front of him with deliberate grace.

“I’m just saying,” you murmured, tone silk-soft, “the Guard’s response time was impressive. Efficient. You’ve trained them well.”

Fox didn’t blink. “Thank you, Senator.”

You leaned slightly on his desk, watching him with a glint in your eye. “Though I did miss your voice shouting orders over a comm. It’s oddly reassuring.”

He hesitated, just a flicker.

“…It wasn’t necessary to involve myself directly.”

You smiled. “Still. It would’ve made for a good view.”

That one landed.

A slight pause. A faint shift in his stance.

You leaned in, voice low. “Don’t tell me you didn’t miss me, Commander.”

Fox cleared his throat, stiffening slightly. “I’m glad you returned safely.”

“Are you?” you asked, a smirk playing at your lips. “Because the last time I left, I almost died. And when I got back, my favorite clone didn’t even send me a message.”

Fox opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Regrouped.

“I… didn’t want to presume.”

You tilted your head. “Shame. I do like a man with initiative.”

Just outside the office, Thorn elbowed Hound, grinning like an idiot. Hound had a hand over his mouth to keep from laughing.

“Ten credits says he short-circuits before the end of the conversation,” Thorn whispered.

Back inside, Fox glanced toward the door—he knew exactly who was eavesdropping. His voice dropped to a murmur.

“…Some of us aren’t trained in politics.”

You took a slow step closer. “Good. Politics is boring. I prefer action.”

Fox blinked. “I—”

The door creaked.

Fox turned sharply. “Thorn. Hound. Get back to your rounds.”

Two half-stifled laughs vanished down the hall.

You chuckled, slow and rich.

Fox looked somewhere between exasperated and confused. “You enjoy this.”

“Immensely,” you purred. “You’re one of the few people here who doesn’t lie to my face or fawn over my power. It’s refreshing.”

He looked at you for a long moment. The barest crack in the armor.

“…You’re hard to read.”

You stepped back, just slightly—enough to give him space, enough to keep him off balance.

“Good,” you said softly. “Let’s keep it that way.”

Then you turned, brushing past him with a swish of fabric and control.

“Goodnight, Commander.”

“…Goodnight, Senator.”

Outside, Hound was already counting his credits.

⸻

Your office was dim, sunlight creeping in through the high windows like it feared being too bold in your domain. You were lounging in your chair, glass in hand—liquor, not caf—when the door slid open with a hiss.

Skywalker stepped in, alone. No guards. No cloak of diplomacy.

You raised your brows. “No dramatic entrance? I’m disappointed.”

Anakin shrugged as he shut the door. “I’m not here for a debate.”

“Pity. I’m good at those.”

He folded his arms, studying you like he was trying to decide if you were a real threat or just too much trouble to be worth it.

“Padmé’s worried about you,” he said without greeting.

You didn’t even blink. “She’s always worried. It’s her default state.”

“She’s worried about you. And me.”

You blinked once, then tilted your head. “Are you flattered or terrified?”

Anakin cracked a dry grin. “Both.”

Anakin gave you a look. “She thinks you’re manipulating me.”

You smiled, slow and amused. “Are you easily manipulated, Skywalker?”

“No,” he said, too fast, then caught himself. “But you’re not exactly subtle, either.”

“I’m not trying to seduce you,” you said lazily. “If I were, you’d already know. And you’d be very uncomfortable about it.”

That drew a genuine laugh from him.

“I like you,” he said, leaning back against the window frame. “You don’t pretend. Everyone else here pretends.”

You shrugged. “I was raised by men who gutted liars before dinner. I have little patience for masks.”

“You’re going to get eaten alive in here,” he warned.

You grinned. “Skywalker, I am a wolf dressed in velvet. I’ll be okay.”

He turned, and for a moment, you saw it—that same sliver of you in him. Something sharp and secret and smoldering. He respected it.

⸻

Later that afternoon, a message arrived. Private channel. Encrypted.

Johhar Kessen.

Senator of Dandoran. Blunt nails dipped in old blood. His smile always looked like it was hiding something, and his suits were cut with the arrogance of a man who’d never once been held accountable.

He requested a “discreet” meeting in one of the lesser-used conference lounges beneath the rotunda.

You went, of course. Alone.

He welcomed you like a merchant offering cursed jewels.

“Senator,” he purred, “I believe we can help each other.”

You said nothing. Just sat and let him dig the hole himself.

“I’ve noticed your recent… power plays,” he continued. “Decisive. Controversial. Admirable.”

He poured himself a drink but not you.

“I know there are those who would love to see your world scrutinized. Public executions don’t go over well with the Jedi. Or the press.”

You smiled, slow and cold.

He didn’t notice.

“I can smooth that over,” he offered. “Help manage the narrative. In return, I’d like your support on my latest trade deregulation bill. Simple. Clean.”

He leaned closer. “Say yes, and no one ever sees your less polished traditions. Say no…”

He shrugged. “Well. People love a scandal.”

You pressed a button beneath the table.

Recording active.

Your eyes gleamed. You loved a good conflict.

⸻

They packed the rotunda. Senators from the core and mid-rim worlds, trade delegates, press from The Core Chronicle, and the ever-judgmental whispers of Senator murmuring like priestesses behind veils.

You stood at the central platform, spine straight, voice calm.

“I present this recording to the full body.”

The playback began.

Kessen’s voice filled the chamber: smug, slimy, and devastatingly clear.

“…say yes, and no one ever sees your less polished traditions…”

Shock rippled like thunder.

Johhar Kessen stood, red-faced, sputtering. “This is—this is a breach of—”

“Of what, senator?” you snapped, voice like a whip. “Decorum? Legality? You attempted to blackmail a member of this chamber. Do not insult this room by feigning innocence.”

The senators exploded into sound.

Kessen stood, fists clenched. “There’s a process for accusations like this—!”

“Too slow,” you cut in. “Too easily buried.”

Orn Free Taa looked at you like you’d just spit blood onto his robe.

“Your methods are grotesque,” He whispered.

You turned your head. “So are the ones used by half the worlds you turn a blind eye to.”

Chuchi rose slowly. Her eyes never left you.

“Even if he’s guilty… there are better ways.”

“I don’t play by your rules,” you said coolly. “Because your rules were written to protect people like him.”

Kessen had gone dead quiet.

He knew.

And then—

“I support the senator’s actions.”

The room fell silent.

Bail Organa rose, voice calm, but firm.

“I do not support the tactic, but I support her refusal to be intimidated. If we condemn the exposure more than the crime, then we are not a governing body—we are a club.”

Gasps. Murmurs. A few stunned stares.

You watched him.

He looked you in the eye. Gave you a single nod.

Respect. Conditional. Earned.

⸻

Outside the Chamber Chuchi followed you out. You could feel her presence without turning.

“You’ve made enemies.”

“I was never here to make friends.”

Her voice was soft. “You’re going to get hurt.”

You glanced at her over your shoulder. “Let them try.”

And with that, you vanished into the corridors, cloak billowing behind you like a shadow with teeth.

⸻

The report came in clean and quiet, just like the man who delivered it.

Fox stood behind his desk, fingers locked behind his back, posture perfect. Not a single muscle twitching—except for the subtle clench of his jaw as Hound finished reading the datapad aloud.

“…exposed the blackmail attempt on the Senate floor, publicly. Senator Johhar Kessen’s credibility is in tatters. Organa backed her up. So did Organa’s wife.”

A beat of silence.

Fox didn’t move.

“Sir?” Hound prompted.

Fox blinked once, slow. Then nodded.

“She’s reckless,” he said, tone dry and clinical. “But I can’t fault her for exposing corruption.”

“Never said you could,” Hound muttered, crossing his arms. “Just that the fireworks were impressive.”

Fox didn’t smile. Of course he didn’t.

But his silence lingered.

“…you don’t approve?”

“I don’t comment,” Fox corrected.

Hound exhaled through his nose, looking far too amused. “Of course not, Commander.”

The door chimed.

Fox’s eyes flicked up. “Enter.”

Senator Riyo Chuchi stepped in with her usual grace—soft-voiced and composed, carrying two steaming cups of caf like offerings at a shrine.

“Commander,” she greeted gently. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

Fox straightened a touch more, if that was even possible. “Not at all, Senator.”

Chuchi smiled and handed him one of the mugs. “Thought you might need this. You looked tired last time I saw you.”

He accepted it like someone unfamiliar with gifts. “That’s… appreciated.”

“I also wanted to check in,” she added, voice lighter now. “After all the excitement in the Senate. Your guards were quick to respond when Senator [L/N] was attacked—Thorn and Stone handled it excellently.”

“She alerted us herself,” Fox said. “Gave detailed information. Her timing was precise.”

Chuchi hesitated. “You’ve… spoken with her?”

“A few times,” Fox said neutrally, sipping the caf. “Usually regarding security.”

Chuchi tilted her head. “And outside of security?”

Fox blinked at her, expression unreadable behind the helmet of his professionalism. “Why would I?”

She laughed softly. “No reason. Just seemed like she had a certain… fondness.”

Fox blinked again. “For the Guard?”

She smiled politely. “Sure.”

You had come by for a casual follow-up, half-expecting the door to be open, half-expecting to breeze in and rile Fox just for the fun of it. But the sight through the transparent panel brought your steps to a halt.

Fox, standing stiff with a cup in hand.

Chuchi, close—too close—leaning in, speaking softly.

He was focused, respectful, unreadable.

But she…

Her interest was carved into every careful sentence, every flicker of her eyes. She was making her move.

And you weren’t going to interrupt that.

Not directly.

You turned away, pretending not to look.

“Surprised you didn’t barge in.”

You turned to find Hound leaning casually against the corridor wall, arms crossed and helm off, watching you with a wry smile.

“You think I should’ve?”

“Would’ve made good entertainment.” He smirked. “Though maybe Fox’s heart would short-circuit. Pretty sure he still thinks you and Chuchi are just trying to get in his good graces for Senate leverage.”

You snorted.

“He’s blind,” Hound added, shrugging. “If someone looked at me the way you look at him… well. I wouldn’t be wasting it.”

You tilted your head, amused. “If someone looked at you that way, would you even recognize it?”

He grinned. “I’m not the one holding a damn caf like it’s a live grenade while a senator stares at me like I hung the moons.”

You looked back at the door. Your expression softened—just a fraction. “He deserves better than what either of us could give him.”

“Maybe,” Hound said. “But people don’t choose who they make weak for.”

You didn’t reply.

Just watched as the door slid open again—and Chuchi stepped out, graceful as ever, her smile fading the moment she saw you standing there.

You gave her a slow, lazy smile. “Senator.”

“Senator,” she replied coolly, before walking past you without another word.

Fox didn’t follow her out.

You didn’t go in.

The hallway still buzzed faintly from Chuchi’s perfume and perfect poise as she vanished down the corridor.

You stood in silence a moment longer, thoughts tangled, arms crossed.

Hound remained leaned against the wall, watching you carefully. Grizzer sat quietly by his side.

“Feeling dangerous,” Hound murmured, “or just wounded?”

You didn’t take the bait. “You patrol near the East Residential Block?”

“Every other night.” He raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

You gave him a faint smile, more tired than your usual games. “Escort me home.”

He looked you over, caught the guarded tone, the lack of venom, and straightened.

“Security concern?”

“Something like that.” You turned on your heel, cloak flaring softly behind you. “Unless you’ve got a caf date too?”

“Only with Grizzer.”

The massiff gave a pleased huff and trotted after you both.

The three of you walked in rhythm. The quiet buzz of speeders hummed high above, and the lights of Coruscant shimmered like artificial stars.

Grizzer stayed close to your side, his large eyes occasionally flicking up at you like he understood more than he let on.

You glanced at Hound. “I think I lost him.”

“Fox?” he asked, even though he knew the answer.

“Chuchi’s winning,” you muttered. “Or at least… not losing.”

Hound shoved his hands into his belt, voice casual. “You in love with him or just hate the idea of someone else having what you want?”

You didn’t answer right away.

Grizzer’s claws clicked against the polished duracrete. The street was empty, private, lined with the red glow of low-lit signs.

“I don’t do love,” you said finally. “But I respect him. And I liked being the only one who saw the cracks in his armor.”

Hound was quiet a beat. “Fox is hard to read. He’s trained himself not to need anything.”

“I noticed.”

“But needing and wanting are different things.” Hound glanced sideways at you. “You might’ve gotten through to the part of him that wants. Doesn’t mean he knows what to do with it.”

You sighed. “He doesn’t have to do anything. I’ve already made enough of a fool of myself.”

“You haven’t,” Hound said, voice firmer. “You just got tired of playing a game where he doesn’t know the rules.”

You smiled a little. “Maybe he never learned how to play.”

Grizzer grunted and nosed your hand, seeking affection. You obliged, stroking his warm, armored head.

“He likes you,” Hound said. “Only growls at people who give off the wrong scent.”

You raised a brow. “I smell like trouble.”

“Yeah,” Hound agreed. “But not bad trouble.”

You reached your apartment complex, a tall, dark-glassed tower behind a gilded gate. The entrance lights flickered as you approached, and the two guard droids posted at the front scanned you with routine precision.

You turned back to Hound. “Thanks for walking me.”

“Anytime,” he said. “I’ve got five more blocks to hit anyway.”

“Stay safe.”

He smirked. “Says the senator who blew up half the chamber with one datapad.”

You grinned, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes.

Grizzer barked once, deep and throaty, then followed Hound as they headed into the city shadows.

You stood alone at your door, looking out into the dark.

The city blinked back like a thousand indifferent eyes.

⸻

Previous Part | Next Part

“Red Lines” pt.2

Commander Fox x Reader

The silence of your office was deceptive.

Outside the transparisteel windows, Coruscant glittered like a serpent coiled around its secrets—unblinking, beautiful, and always listening. Inside, the low buzz of your private holoterminal grew louder, more urgent.

You closed the thick file in front of you—another half-legal mining contract you’d need to publicly denounce and quietly reroute—and leaned forward. You keyed in your security clearance, and the image that appeared wasn’t what you expected.

Your senior planetary attaché flickered into view, pale-faced and breathing hard.

“Senator,” he said without preamble, “we have a situation. Prison Compound Nine—compromised. Four fugitives escaped.”

You frowned, blood going cold. “Which fugitives?”

“Level-Seven threats. Political dissidents. Former intelligence operatives. Rumor is… they’re already offworld. Possibly Coruscant-bound.”

You sat back slowly, every thought sharpening to a blade’s edge. “That information stays contained until I say otherwise. Send me all identicodes and criminal profiles now.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The transmission ended. You stared at the terminal for a beat longer, then stood, pulling your cloak from the back of the chair. There was only one place this belonged: in the hands of Coruscant’s best-armed babysitters.

And if that just so happened to bring you face-to-face with a certain thick-headed, utterly blind red-armored commander?

All the better.

⸻

The Corrie Guard precinct near the Senate was buzzing with the quiet energy of military protocol. You were met outside the checkpoint by two familiar faces.

“Senator [L/N],” Sergeant Hound greeted you, visor dipping respectfully.

Beside him, Stone offered a nod. “Didn’t expect to see you here, ma’am. Something wrong?”

“Very,” you said crisply, handing over a sealed datapad. “Level-Seven fugitives from my home system. Recently escaped. Highly trained, extremely dangerous, and possibly on Coruscant as we speak.”

Hound’s brow furrowed behind the helmet. “That’s a hell of a situation.”

“They’re targeting something,” you said. “Or someone. My planet’s intelligence division flagged odd comm-traffic patterns aligning with a senator’s office hours—mine.”

Stone shifted, suddenly sharper. “So it’s personal.”

You nodded. “Possibly revenge. Or leverage. Either way, I’m not taking chances.”

As they scanned the datapad, footsteps echoed from the far hall—more measured, more commanding.

Fox.

You turned just in time to see him and Commander Thorn walking down the corridor, deep in conversation.

Thorn spotted you first, expression flickering with mild surprise. “Senator [L/N]. You’re out of your element.”

Fox glanced over—and immediately straightened. “Senator.”

Thorn raised a brow at the datapad in Stone’s hands. “Trouble?”

“Trouble likes to follow me,” you said smoothly. “This time it’s not my fault.”

Fox approached, glancing at the display. His eyes skimmed the alert, the images, the profiles—danger written in every line.

“Level-Sevens,” he said. “You should have come straight to me.”

You smiled, something sharp curling at the edges. “I did.”

He blinked. “You… did.”

You tilted your head. “I thought noticing things was your new skillset.”

Thorn let out a quiet chuckle behind you. Hound tried to look innocent. Stone was grinning outright.

Fox cleared his throat. “We’ll open an internal security file. Assign additional patrols near your office and residence.”

“Perfect,” you said. “Though I’d feel even safer with you around, Commander.”

His silence was almost impressive.

Thorn looked between the two of you, a slow, knowing smile spreading across his face. “Fox, you might want to run a few extra drills. Something tells me you’re going to be… distracted.”

“Commander Thorn,” Fox said, voice ice-cold. “Noted.”

You turned to Fox, voice lower now. “These fugitives are clever. They’ll adapt. You may need someone who knows how they think.”

“You?” he asked.

You gave him a look that could melt glass. “I’m not just a senator, Commander. I’m a survivor. And I don’t play fair.”

He held your gaze.

And again… said nothing.

You smiled. Of course he didn’t. The perfect soldier.

But one day? You’d crack that armor. Even if it killed you.

Fox’s jaw was set like stone behind his helmet. When he finally spoke, the words dropped with the weight of command.

“No, Senator,” he said flatly. “This is a Guard matter now. You’re not to involve yourself in the investigation further.”

The sharp, satisfied click of his words should’ve ended it. Should’ve sent you back to your office to stew in silence.

Instead, it made you smile.

“Mm,” you hummed, crossing your arms slowly. “I don’t recall asking permission, Commander.”

Stone glanced at Hound with barely concealed amusement. Thorn shifted his weight, arms folded, eyes dancing between the two of you with the air of someone watching a high-speed speeder crash.

Fox didn’t flinch. “Your involvement would compromise security and escalate risk. You’re a high-value target—”

“And that makes me an even higher priority to be looped in,” you cut in, voice silk over steel. “You want to contain risk? Then keep me informed.”

Fox’s silence bristled like a drawn blade.

You took a step closer, voice softening just enough to imply intimacy while still pressing hard against his control. “I understand your chain of command, Commander. But I wasn’t asking to be in the field.”

You leaned in just slightly, enough to force him to register the space between you.

“I’m telling you,” you murmured, “that the moment those fugitives are captured—or killed—I expect to be notified. Immediately. Do you understand me?”

There was a subtle twitch in his stance—barely noticeable to anyone else, but you caught it.

He was used to command. Not negotiation.

Not you.

Thorn let out a long, slow whistle. “Well, kark. Should we leave you two alone, or…?”

Fox didn’t move a muscle. “Understood,” he said eventually. “You’ll be notified.”

You offered him a slow, almost sultry smile. “Good. I knew you could be reasonable.”

Then you turned on your heel, cloak swirling, brushing his vambrace with just the whisper of contact.

“Keep your comms open, Commander,” you called over your shoulder. “You might miss me.”

Fox stared after you, helmet tucked under one arm, face unreadable. Thorn stepped in beside him, arms crossed loosely.

“She’s a wildfire,” Thorn said, his voice low. “And you, vod… you’re the dry brush.”

Fox let out a breath that was neither amused nor frustrated—just heavy.

“She’s dangerous,” he muttered.

“Which part?” Thorn asked, grinning. “The intel, the fugitives, or the way she looks at you like she’s already won?”

Fox didn’t answer.

Because honestly?

He wasn’t sure.

⸻

The operations room was lit only by a few soft holoscreens, each projecting sectors of Coruscant’s underlevels and the networked security grid. The city never slept, and neither did the Guard—not with a potential Level-Seven threat loose.

Fox stood at the main display table, eyes scanning red-highlighted routes and names. His jaw worked in quiet rhythm, processing, calculating, assigning.

Thorn leaned against the far wall, helmet off, arms crossed, watching him.

“Okay,” Thorn said eventually, “let’s talk about it.”

Fox didn’t look up. “About what?”

“About the fact that two senators—two, Fox—keep finding excuses to orbit around you like you’re the damn sun.”

Fox didn’t pause in his typing. “They’re politicians. They orbit whoever’s most useful.”

Thorn snorted. “That what you think this is? Strategic kissing up?”

Fox nodded once. “Senator [L/N] plays the long game. She pushes limits, stirs chaos, then waits to see who blinks. Getting in good with the Guard gives her a protective buffer. She knows how valuable we are in a city like this.”

“And Chuchi?”

Fox hesitated. Just a second.

“She’s more direct. But she’s still a senator. Don’t let the soft voice fool you—she’s calculating too. They all are.”

Thorn pushed off the wall and stepped closer. “You really think they’re both suddenly invested in you because they want to cash in political favors?”

Fox gave him a look. “We’re enforcers, Thorn. Leverage. If a senator ends up needing a security report buried or a background skipped on a staffer, who do they think will make that disappear quietly?”

“Right,” Thorn said slowly. “Because Riyo Chuchi is famous for corruption.”

Fox didn’t reply.

“And Senator [L/N] practically breathes ethics, right?” Thorn added, deadpan.

Fox allowed the faintest twitch of his mouth—almost a smirk, if you squinted hard enough.

“She breathes something,” he said under his breath.

Thorn barked a laugh. “Okay, now we’re getting somewhere.”

Fox turned back to the holo. “Neither of them is interested in me, Thorn. They’re playing a game. One loud, one quiet. Same goal.”

“And what goal is that?” Thorn pressed, watching him closely.

Fox tapped a point on the map. “Control.”

“Funny,” Thorn said. “From where I’m standing, it’s not them trying to control you… It’s you trying to control the story you tell yourself.”

Fox didn’t answer.

Because what could he say?

That you, with your blade-sharp grin and eyes like traps, weren’t manipulating him—that you were something else entirely? That Chuchi, kind and composed, looked at him like she meant it?

No. That wasn’t part of the file.

So instead, he changed the subject.

“Assign units to levels 1315 through 1320. Full perimeter sweep. If these fugitives surface, I want them surrounded before they can draw breath.”

Thorn sighed, shaking his head as he pulled his helmet back on. “You’re a kriffing idiot, Fox.”

Fox didn’t respond. Not to that.

He had work to do.

And feelings?

Those were someone else’s mission.

⸻

The Guard’s central command was a hive of movement—troopers reporting in from the lower levels, holoscreens flickering with faces flagged for surveillance, and the quiet undercurrent of discipline humming through every corridor.

Chuchi’s arrival was quiet. Intentional. No Senate aides, no parade of protocol. Just a simple dark-blue cloak, datapad in hand, and a cup of steaming caf that she carried carefully through the armored sea of troopers.

She earned a few surprised glances.

Not many senators walked into the Guard’s domain alone.

But Chuchi wasn’t just any senator.

She spotted Fox just outside the debriefing chamber, helmet tucked under his arm, deep in conversation with Sergeant Boomer. His expression was all sharp lines and worn intensity—he hadn’t slept, that much was obvious.

“Commander Fox,” she said gently.

He turned, startled by her presence. “Senator Chuchi.”

“I heard about the alert,” she said, extending the cup toward him. “I thought you might need this more than I do.”

Fox blinked, hesitated… then accepted the caf with a nod. “Appreciated.”

Chuchi gave a soft smile. “You look like you haven’t slept.”

He didn’t respond to that. Instead, he took a measured sip—cautious, as if caf were unfamiliar ground.

“I imagine the search has consumed your every waking moment,” she said gently.

“Level-Sevens don’t give us much room to breathe,” he admitted. “We’re covering three sectors simultaneously.”

She nodded. “If there’s anything I can do to assist…”

Fox shook his head. “This is Guard jurisdiction. We’ll handle it.”

Chuchi’s smile didn’t falter. “I don’t doubt you will. But sometimes… support comes in quieter forms.”

She didn’t press further. Instead, she stepped closer—just enough to close the conversational space, not the physical one. Her voice lowered.

“You’ve never seemed the type who allows himself to be supported, Commander.”

Fox looked at her, eyebrows just slightly drawn. “I wasn’t trained for that.”

“No,” she said softly. “You were trained to protect others. Not to be seen. Not to be known.”

He said nothing.

So she went on.

“You’ve stood by the Chancellor more times than I can count. Protected the Senate through more crises than half its members realize. And yet… you’re always in the background.”

Fox shifted slightly, as if the weight of her gaze was more difficult to carry than his armor.

“I just wanted you to know,” Chuchi said quietly, “that I see you. As more than just the red and white armor. As more than a commander.”

His grip on the caf cup tightened.

“You don’t have to say anything,” she added quickly, catching the flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. “I know it’s not easy to believe someone might care… without wanting something in return.”

Fox’s voice was quiet, careful. “You’re a senator.”

“I am,” she agreed. “But that doesn’t mean I’m incapable of compassion.”

Silence stretched between them.

“I’ll… see to the patrol reports,” he said after a beat, taking a step back.

“Of course,” Chuchi said with a graceful nod. “Thank you for the work you do, Commander.”

She didn’t watch him walk away. She didn’t need to.

The caf cup still steamed in his hand.

And that was enough—for now.

⸻

The light in your office was dim, filtered through Coruscant’s constant twilight haze. You sat at your desk, datapad in hand, appearing the perfect picture of a diligent senator.

But your posture was too still. Too deliberate.

Because you could feel them.

The air had shifted—too quiet. The usual hum of outer security was gone. Either bypassed or silenced.

You didn’t look up. Instead, you keyed a silent alert under your desk—one flick of your finger against the embedded panel, and the Guard’s emergency line was pinged. No lights. No sound. Just data.

Then you continued working. Quiet. Calm. Like prey that hadn’t realized the snare was already closing.

“I know you’re here,” you said aloud, tapping your stylus against the desk. “You may as well stop playing ghost.”

No answer.

“Unless you’re scared,” you added, voice cool and measured. “I get it. I’d be terrified of me too.”

Silence again.

Then—movement.

From the shadowed arch near the bookshelves, two figures stepped into view. Dark clothing, military-grade sidearms. Faces you recognized from the prison files: former intelligence officers, turned insurgents.

“Senator [L/N],” the first said, voice low and amused. “You’ve grown sharper since your time at home.”

“You’ve grown sloppier,” you replied, still seated. “Three seconds late on your entrance. I almost got bored.”

The second man sneered. “You always did love the sound of your own voice.”

“And you always hated being outwitted. Funny how little’s changed.”

The leader raised his blaster, leveling it at your chest. “We didn’t come to talk.”

“No,” you said, leaning back in your chair. “You came to threaten. To make a statement. Isn’t that what you always wanted? Your glorious revolution of one?”

He stepped closer. “We’ll leave a message they won’t ignore.”

“I don’t think you realize,” you said, voice velvet and steel, “that this isn’t my first time with a gun pointed at me.”

“We’re not politicians, [L/N]. We’re executioners.”

You smiled.

“Cute.”

And then, without breaking eye contact, you slid your hand to the underside of your desk, thumb brushing against the pressure lock.

The drawer snapped open.

Before they could react, your concealed blaster was up and firing.

The shot hit the second insurgent square in the chest—burned through his armor and dropped him cold. The first shouted and dove for cover, return fire slicing across your desk, sparks flying.

You ducked low, rolled sideways, fired again. Missed.

“Should’ve aimed higher,” he snarled.

“Should’ve stayed dead,” you shot back.

The blast doors behind you hissed open with a thunderous echo.

Red armor flooded in—Guard troopers, weapons drawn.

Fox was at the lead, eyes sharp, voice a command. “Stand down! Drop your weapon!”

The insurgent froze, wild-eyed.

“Now!” Stone barked.

He hesitated… then dropped the blaster with a clatter and raised his hands.

Two troopers rushed him, slamming him to the ground and cuffing him with swift, brutal efficiency.

You stood slowly, brushing dust and ash from your robes. Your desk was scorched, half your datapads destroyed—but your eyes glittered like victory.

Fox approached, surveying the wreckage. “You’re injured?”

“Only my decor,” you said, voice breezy. “Though I wouldn’t mind a stiff drink.”

He stared at you. “You could’ve been killed.”

“I was bait,” you said coolly. “And it worked.”

His jaw clenched. “That was reckless.”

“That was necessary.”

“You should’ve let us handle it.”

“I did,” you said, meeting his gaze. “Eventually.”

He said nothing, just studied you with that unreadable expression of his.

But this time… something shifted.

Because now he’d seen you in action.

Not just as a mouthpiece in the Senate—but as someone who could kill, survive, and smile while doing it.

And maybe—just maybe—that stuck with him.

Even if he couldn’t admit it yet.

⸻

Your office still bore the scars of the assault—walls patched hastily, scorch marks half-scrubbed from the floor, the faint odor of blaster fire clinging to the air like the memory of a scream.

You sat behind a temporary desk, legs crossed, reviewing a datachip containing the criminal record of the man who now sat in Guard custody—hands shackled, rights revoked, dignity already gone.

The knock came soft, followed by the hiss of the door.

Senator Chuchi stepped in first, flanked by Bail Organa, Mon Mothma, and Padmé Amidala. Their expressions were taut, somewhere between concern and condemnation.

You didn’t bother standing. You simply looked up, calm as ever.

“We came as soon as we heard,” Chuchi said. “Are you—?”

“Fine,” you interrupted, voice clipped and dry. “Some scorch marks. Ruined upholstery. One corpse. One live capture.”

Padmé’s eyes widened. “You killed one of them yourself?”

“With a desk blaster,” you said. “Excellent reaction time, if I do say so myself.”

Bail stepped forward. “And the surviving fugitive? What’s the process now?”

You set down the datapad and met his gaze evenly. “Extradition. He’ll be transported back to my homeworld within the next standard cycle.”

Chuchi blinked. “That quickly?”

“Expedited process,” you said smoothly. “Emergency clause. Due to the direct assassination attempt.”

Mon Mothma’s voice tightened. “And what will happen once he’s returned?”

You leaned back in your chair, folding your hands. “He’ll be tried for war crimes. The verdict won’t take long. We’ve got extensive documentation.”

“And the sentence?” Bail asked, already bracing.

“Execution,” you said, flat and final. “Public, of course. We’ve already begun preparations.”

Silence.

Padmé’s face paled. “You can’t be serious.”

You smiled thinly. “Deadly.”

“That’s barbaric,” Mon snapped. “He surrendered. He’s a prisoner now.”

“He’s a monster,” you replied. “One who orchestrated mass executions, bombed medical shelters, and personally ordered the deaths of over four hundred civilians on my world. Surrender doesn’t bleach his sins.”

Chuchi stepped forward. “There must be a process—”

“There is,” you cut in. “He’ll be tried under our planetary law, as is our right under interplanetary accords. And I’ll be overseeing the proceedings personally.”

“You’re making a spectacle out of this,” Bail said, disgusted.

“No,” you said calmly. “I’m making a warning.”

“To who?” Padmé demanded. “Everyone who disagrees with you?”

“To everyone who thinks I’ll hesitate,” you said. “Who thinks power means we have to play nice while murderers laugh in our faces.”

Mon’s eyes narrowed. “And what will the people think of a senator who sanctions public execution?”

You stood, slowly, the heat in your gaze simmering just beneath the surface. “They’ll think I finally gave them justice. And if they want more? I’ll build the stage myself.”

A stunned silence followed.

No one knew what to say.

You picked up the extradition order and signed it with a practiced flick of your stylus.

“I’d offer caf,” you said as you slipped it into a courier tube, “but I’ve got a war criminal to ship and an execution schedule to finalize.”

You walked out without waiting for permission—cloak swaying, boots clicking like a countdown.

Behind you, the moral senators were left standing in the ash of their expectations.

And Chuchi?

She watched you leave, lips parted in silent disbelief.

Not because you’d shocked her.

But because she couldn’t decide if she wanted to save you—

—or if she just wanted to know what it felt like to burn like you did.

⸻

The Guard’s HQ buzzed with low-level activity, but Fox’s office was calm—silent save for the faint hum of surveillance holos and the occasional clipped murmur from the comms console.

He stood by the window when you arrived, arms folded behind his back, posture locked in that familiar brace of discipline. He didn’t turn when the door hissed open.

But he didn’t need to.

“Senator,” he said without looking.

“Commander.”

You crossed the threshold slowly, letting the door seal behind you with a soft hiss. No grand entrance. No entourage. Just you.

And the news that was already spreading through the Senate like wildfire.

He finally turned.

Expression unreadable. Just that damn mask of duty, soldered so tight it nearly passed for indifference. But his eyes—those betrayed a flicker of something else. Not judgment. Not pity.

Something harder to name.

“So it’s true,” he said quietly.

You raised an eyebrow. “You’d know better than most. Your troopers ran the background check. You processed the transfer yourself.”

He gave a slight nod. “Doesn’t mean I expected the… outcome.”

“You mean the execution.”

He hesitated. “It’s not my place to comment.”

“Isn’t it?” You stepped closer, boots soft against the polished floor. “You’re in charge of security for the most powerful government body in the Republic. You keep the peace. You enforce the law. Surely you have thoughts when one of us decides to sharpen justice into something a little more… terminal.”

Fox met your gaze steadily. “I’ve seen worse done for less.”

That caught you off guard—not because of what he said, but because of how simply he said it. No hesitation. No theatrics.

Just fact.

You tilted your head. “So you don’t disapprove?”

He looked down briefly, jaw tense. “It’s not about approval. I can’t blame you for wanting blood. Not after what he did.” A pause. “But I was bred for protocol. Not for vengeance.”

You gave a wry smile. “Then it’s a good thing I wasn’t.”

Fox looked at you again, searching—though for what, you couldn’t say.

He finally spoke, voice lower now. “You could’ve left it to a tribunal.”

“I could’ve,” you admitted. “But tribunals don’t speak to grieving families. They don’t look children in the eye and say, ‘We remember what they did to you.’” You stepped in just a little closer. “But a public execution? That does.”

Fox didn’t flinch.

But he didn’t move, either.

A long silence passed between you, taut and electric.

Then you reached for your datapad, keyed something in, and glanced up again.

“I’ll be leaving within the cycle,” you said. “Finalizing everything on my end.”

His voice was quieter now. “And after?”

You smiled. Not cruel, not soft—just sharp.

“I’ll be seeing you in a week.”

He didn’t respond.

You turned to leave.

But just before the door opened, he spoke.

“Senator.”

You glanced back.

“I don’t know if what you’re doing is justice,” he said. “But I know you’re not doing it out of weakness.”

You looked at him for a beat longer.

Then you nodded, just once.

“I never do.”

And then you left, cloak trailing behind like a shadow that never needed the light.

⸻

The ship hummed with the steady lull of hyperspace, stars streaking into lines beyond the viewports. It was the kind of quiet most would call peaceful.

But peace was a foreign language aboard this vessel.

You sat in the command lounge, sipping strong liquor from a crystal glass, the kind produced exclusively by your planet’s border provinces. It tasted like burning and bitter roots.

Fitting.

The two Jedi seated across from you couldn’t have been more different, though both wore concern like armor.

Kenobi was upright and composed, legs crossed, his fingers laced in his lap. Anakin sprawled, arms draped over the chair back, a shadow smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You still have time to change your mind,” Kenobi said gently.

You didn’t bother looking up. “No. I don’t.”

“It’s not too late for a trial. A tribunal through the Republic, something with transparency.”

“Obi-Wan,” Anakin cut in, voice bored, “you know that wouldn’t stick. Half those tribunals are performative at best. He’d be out in five years under some technicality.”

Kenobi shot him a look. “And that justifies state-sanctioned public killing?”

“I’m not justifying it,” Anakin said. “I’m just saying… I get it.”

You finally looked up, eyes cool. “I don’t need either of you to justify it. This isn’t your decision. You’re here as escorts, not advisors.”

“That may be,” Kenobi said, tone frustratingly calm, “but we’re Jedi. It’s our duty to speak when we see paths leading to darkness.”

You leaned back in your chair, holding his gaze. “My planet was born in darkness. Raised in blood and ruin. Still today, it’s ruled by warlords and syndicates that think justice is something bought with blade and coin.”

Kenobi frowned. “But you’re not them.”

You tilted your head. “A public execution is nothing compared to the horrors most of my people have endured. At least this death comes with a verdict.”

Anakin was watching you now, intrigued, leaning forward slightly.

Kenobi looked pained. “You can’t build peace through fear.”

You smiled, slow and cold. “You cannot sell dreams to someone who has walked through nightmares.”

That silenced them both for a beat.

The hum of the engines filled the space. Then, softer, you added:

“When you’re not fed love from a silver spoon, you learn to lick it off knives.”

Kenobi flinched. Not physically—but in that subtle tightening of his jaw, that flicker behind his eyes.

You didn’t enjoy it.

But you didn’t shy away from it either.

“You want to talk of ideals,” you continued, voice quiet but sharp, “but ideals don’t stop warlords. They don’t scare insurgents. And they certainly don’t bring back the families that thing murdered in my name.”

Anakin nodded slowly, almost imperceptibly.

“I’m not here to make you comfortable,” you finished. “I’m here to make a point.”

Kenobi opened his mouth, hesitated, then closed it.

He knew he wouldn’t change your mind.

And deep down, a part of him feared you might be right.

“You’re confusing retribution for justice,” Obi-Wan said, tone sharp but calm, like a man trying to hold onto the edge of a cliff while the rocks crumbled beneath him.

You didn’t rise to the bait.

Anakin did.

“She’s doing what the Republic won’t,” he snapped. “What it can’t.”

Kenobi’s brow furrowed. “She’s about to put a man to death in front of a crowd.”

“He slaughtered civilians, Obi-Wan. Entire villages. She’s not executing a man—she’s putting down a rabid dog.”

“That’s not our place.”

“It’s not yours,” Anakin said darkly, “but don’t presume to speak for everyone.”

You leaned forward, voice low and deliberate. “I’m not doing this because I want to. I’m doing it because someone has to.”

Kenobi looked at you with something dangerously close to pity.

“Justice,” he said, “shouldn’t come from hatred.”

You met his gaze, unflinching. “And yet here we are—riding toward it in a Republic ship, escorted by Jedi who can’t agree on what it even means.”

But before he could reply the red flash of alarms cut through the room like a blade.

“Security breach,” a mechanical voice droned. “Cell block override. Prisoner containment compromised.”

You were already moving.

The Jedi rose in sync beside you, cloaks whipping as they turned down the corridor.

“Stay behind us,” Kenobi ordered.

You didn’t.

The three of you reached the lower deck fast, guards already running in the opposite direction, blasters raised. “He’s loose!” one yelled. “Deck 3, sector C—he’s going for the main hall!”

Your blood ran cold.

That was your route.

You pivoted, cloak flaring behind you as you ran the opposite way—Anakin and Obi-Wan close behind. You passed scorch marks. Broken panels. A dead guard slumped by the bulkhead, throat slashed with something jagged.

You slowed.

And then you saw him.

He stood at the end of the corridor, blaster in one hand, stolen vibroblade in the other. His face was twisted in fury, blood already drying across his temple.

“Senator,” he sneered. “Thought I’d come say goodbye.”

He fired.

You dove.

Searing pain lanced your shoulder as the bolt grazed you—burning, but not fatal. You hit the ground, rolled behind a crate.

Obi-Wan moved first, saber igniting in a clean hum of blue.

“Don’t do this,” he warned.

The prisoner laughed. “You think I’m afraid of death?”

“No,” Anakin said, stepping forward, saber hissing to life—brighter, more furious. “But you should be afraid of me.”

And then the prisoner lunged.

The hallway became chaos—blaster fire, blade against saber, the scream of metal and the hiss of near-misses. You pressed your hand to your wound, blood seeping through your fingers, watching through a haze of pain and fury.

Kenobi parried and dodged, trying to disarm.

Anakin didn’t bother.

His strikes were violent. Purposeful. He fought like a man unbothered by consequence.

A blur—metal clashing, sparks flying.

Anakin drove his saber through the prisoner’s chest.

The man gasped.

Stiffened.

And crumpled to the floor, smoke rising from the wound, eyes staring at nothing.

Silence fell.

You breathed hard, trying to steady your vision.

Kenobi stepped back, saber slowly disengaging, expression grim.

Anakin stood over the body, chest rising and falling.

He looked back at you—not regretful.

Just… resolved.

“You okay?” he asked.

You nodded, clutching your shoulder. “I will be.”

Obi-Wan crouched beside the corpse, checking for a pulse he already knew wasn’t there. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“No,” you said coldly, “but it saves me the paperwork.”

Anakin gave the ghost of a grin.

Kenobi didn’t.

He looked up at you with haunted eyes, and for the first time in hours—maybe ever—he had nothing to say.

Not because he agreed.

But because he finally understood:

Some people were born into dreams.

You were forged in nightmares.

⸻

Previous Part | Next Part

“Red Lines” pt.1

Fox X Reader

Summary: In the heart of the Republic Senate, political tension runs high—and so does romantic rivalry. Senators [Y/N] and Ryio Chuchi both battle for the attention of Commander Fox. Unbeknownst to Fox, he’s walked straight into the a love triangle he has no idea exists.

⸻

The Senate chamber buzzed with tension—not the kind that demanded attention with yelling or gavel-pounding, but the kind that simmered beneath the surface, the kind that danced behind careful words and meticulously prepared statements.

You sat at your designated repulsorpod, leaning back in your seat with an expression of carefully manufactured boredom. A debate over Republic funding for refugee programs droned on, and across from you, Senator Riyo Chuchi’s voice rang out clear and impassioned.

“We cannot in good conscience divert funds from displaced Outer Rim citizens simply to bolster another military initiative,” she said, chin held high, the folds of her blue and violet robes immaculate.

You raised a brow and tapped your data pad lightly, requesting the floor.

“While I admire Senator Chuchi’s ever-vibrant moral compass,” you began smoothly, tone like silk with a hint of mockery, “perhaps the esteemed senator might consider that without a capable military initiative, there won’t be any citizens left to protect—displaced or otherwise.”

Gasps and murmurs broke out, but Chuchi didn’t flinch.

“That’s a dangerous line of thought, Senator. Lives are not chess pieces.”

You offered her a practiced smile. “And idealism doesn’t win wars.”

The Chancellor’s gavel rang out with sharp finality. “Debate concluded for today. This matter will be brought to committee vote at the end of the week.”

The chamber dispersed slowly, senators floating back into the corridors of marble and durasteel. You stepped off your pod and were already pulling your cloak tighter around your shoulders when a voice called out behind you.

“Senator [L/N], a moment?”

Chuchi.

You turned, arching a brow. “Didn’t get enough of me in the chamber?”

She narrowed her eyes. “I’m not interested in trading barbs with you. I simply want to understand how you can so casually justify funding military expansion when entire systems are starving.”

You smiled, but it didn’t reach your eyes. “Because I’ve seen what happens when we don’t. War isn’t pretty, Senator. You might call me heartless—but I call myself prepared.”

“And I call you reckless.”

You stepped forward, closing the distance. “And I call you naïve.”

The air crackled between you, tension thick—not quite hatred, not quite anything else. She was too sincere. You were too guarded. It was inevitable you’d clash.

Then a new voice cut through the air, cool and commanding.

“Senators.”

Both of you turned in unison.

Standing at full height in pristine red armor was Commander Fox, hands clasped behind his back in perfect posture. The red of the Coruscant Guard gleamed under the overhead lighting, the expressionless T-shaped visor trained on you both.

Beside him stood Chancellor Palpatine, his hands tucked neatly into his sleeves, pale face betraying amusement.

“Ah, Senators. I hope I’m not interrupting,” the Chancellor said, eyes glinting. “Commander Fox will be joining the Senate Security Council temporarily as my personal attaché. You may be seeing more of him in the coming weeks.”

You didn’t hear half of what Palpatine said after Commander Fox.

Your eyes met his visor, and though you couldn’t see his face, something in your chest shifted. He looked like a statue carved from war itself—silent, strong, utterly unreadable.

Next to you, Chuchi straightened slightly.

“Well,” she said softly, “that’s… interesting.”

You shot her a look.

She smirked, just the smallest twist of her lips, and in that second, something shifted again—this time between you and her. An unspoken recognition.

You both had the same thought.

Oh. He’s beautiful.

And neither of you was going to back down.

⸻

The Grand Senate Reception Hall shimmered beneath low, golden lights. Crystal goblets clicked, servers weaved between senators with silent grace, and orchestral music hummed in the background like an afterthought.

You hated every second of it.

The champagne was good, but not good enough to justify the politics that oozed from every polished marble corner. A thousand smiles, none sincere. A thousand compliments, each one a calculation.

You leaned against one of the grand pillars, drink in hand, watching the room like a predator waiting for prey to slip.

“Senator [L/N],” came a too-pleasant voice behind you.

You turned to face Bail Organa. Of course.

“Organa,” you said smoothly. “Slumming it with the likes of me?”

His smile was thin. “Just wondering how long you planned to keep needling Chuchi during committee sessions before it turns into a full-on scandal.”

You tilted your glass in his direction. “Oh, I’m counting on it.”

Before he could respond, Mon Mothma joined him with Padmé in tow. All three wore expressions like they’d stepped in something foul.

“Good evening,” Padmé offered stiffly. “Still nursing your taste for conflict, I see.”

You smirked. “Keeps the blood warm.”

Mon Mothma looked you over like she was assessing a wine stain on her robes. “There’s more to governance than combativeness, Senator.”

You sipped your drink. “Says the woman who’s never had to blackmail a warlord into voting for food aid.”

Padmé frowned. “There are other ways to—”

“Sure,” you cut in. “The moral high road. But it’s paved with corpses who couldn’t afford your patience.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Bail gave a tight nod and ushered them away. You watched them go with a smirk. Poking them was too easy.

A moment later, you felt the air shift.

You didn’t need to look to know who had walked in.

Commander Fox. Standing beside Chancellor Palpatine like a silent shadow, red armor pristine, his helmet tucked under one arm.

The murmurs were immediate—political interest, curiosity, and more than a few appreciative glances. But yours wasn’t casual interest. It was sharp, focused.

You tilted your head as you watched him, just for a moment too long.

Then your eyes slid sideways—and met Chuchi’s.

She was across the room, bathed in soft light, delicate hands curled around a glass of something clear. She followed your gaze to Fox, then back to you.

You smiled. She didn’t.

She turned away, cutting through the crowd with all the elegance her status demanded, and joined a cluster of senators.

You drifted toward a table where the more pragmatic senators had gathered— Ask Aak, Orn Free Taa—laughing too loud and sipping drinks too strong.

“[L/N],” Taa grunted, patting the seat beside him. “We were just discussing how flexible some of the outer rim tax restrictions could be… for the right votes.”

“Always such stimulating conversation,” you replied dryly, sitting with an exaggerated sigh. “I assume the ‘right votes’ are the ones that come with a gift basket.”

Laughter. Real, ugly laughter. You loathed them—but they were useful. They liked you because you weren’t afraid to get your hands dirty. Because you didn’t waste time with speeches about justice and peace.

You spotted Chuchi again. She stood near a window, now much closer to Fox—speaking to him, if briefly. His responses were clipped and polite, the kind of efficiency born from a lifetime of standing guard and keeping his thoughts locked behind durasteel.

She laughed lightly at something he said. Her smile was warm. Kind.

You drained your glass.

She was playing the charm angle.

You? You preferred a more direct approach.

You slipped away from the corrupt senators, weaving through the crowd with predator’s ease, and approached the refreshment table just as Fox turned away from Chuchi.

You timed it perfectly.

“Commander,” you said, voice low and silken.

He turned, visor tilting downward to meet your gaze. Even without seeing his face, his posture straightened slightly.

“Senator,” he acknowledged.

“Enjoying yourself?” you asked, voice casual, picking up another glass.

He hesitated. “Not particularly.”

You smiled, genuinely this time. “Good. You’re not missing anything.”

His head tilted slightly. “I assumed as much.”

There was a pause—an odd, quiet moment in the middle of a too-loud room. Then Chuchi reappeared at Fox’s other side.

“Commander,” she greeted, “I hope [L/N] isn’t boring you with cynicism.”

You raised a brow. “I could say the same about your optimism.”

Fox looked between you, the briefest shift of weight betraying his discomfort. If he realized you were fighting over him, he didn’t show it.

“Senators,” he said carefully, “I’m assigned here for the Chancellor’s protection, not personal conversation.”

“Oh, but conversation is protection,” you said. “The more you know what someone’s hiding, the better you know where to aim.”

Chuchi frowned, eyes narrowing. “Not everyone’s out for blood.”

You tilted your head toward her. “No. But everyone’s out for something.”

Fox stared straight ahead, impassive.

He had no idea what he’d just stepped into.

The pause between the three of you had stretched just a breath too long.

Fox, ever the professional, inclined his head. “If you’ll excuse me, Senators. I have to return to my post.”

Without another word, he turned and strode away with mechanical precision, the red of his armor catching the candlelight like a bloodstain.

You watched him go. So did Chuchi.

The second he was out of earshot, her voice dropped like a blade.

“You know,” she said tightly, “the clones aren’t toys.”

You blinked, slowly turning your head toward her.

“They’re people,” she continued, voice soft but steely. “They’re not here for your amusement, Senator. You don’t get to play with them like they’re decorations to be admired and discarded.”

You took a measured sip of your drink, then smiled—razor-sharp and unbothered. “How charming. I didn’t realize we were giving lectures tonight.”

“This isn’t a joke.”

“Oh, I agree. It’s far funnier than that.”

Chuchi’s jaw tensed.

You swirled the liquid in your glass and added, “Tell me, Senator—do you think standing near him and smiling like a saint makes you so different from me?”

“I am different,” she snapped, surprising even herself with the venom behind her words. “I see him as a person. Not a piece of armor. Not a weapon. Not a status symbol.”

You arched a brow. “And what, exactly, do you think I see?”

She folded her arms. “A game. Another victory to notch in your belt. Another soldier to claim until you get bored.”

You laughed, low and cool. “Please. I have senators for that.”

She didn’t laugh. She just stared—eyes narrowing, mouth tight.

“I respect him,” she said. “You—use people.”

You leaned in, just slightly. “You idealize them. Which is more dangerous, really?”

She didn’t answer, but the look on her face said enough. Her hands were clenched now, knuckles white against the soft blue of her gown.

“I don’t need to explain myself to you,” she muttered.

“No,” you said lightly. “You really don’t.”

You watched her go, shoulders stiff, spine straight, like she was marching into battle. It was almost admirable.

You turned back toward the banquet table, tossing back the rest of your drink. Your reflection stared back at you from the polished surface of a silver decanter—smiling, sharp, and just a little bit empty.

Whatever this thing with Fox was, it wasn’t going to be simple.

And now?

It was war.

The echo of Chuchi’s righteous indignation still rang in your ears as you refilled your drink—this time with something stronger, something that bit like guilt and went down like justification.

Across the room, Mas Amedda stood like a shrine to smugness, flanked by a pair of simpering mid-rim senators and dressed in robes so ostentatious they practically screamed I embezzle with style.

You watched him, your jaw shifting slightly.

There were few things more satisfying than needling the Vice Chair of the Senate. He was pompous, corrupt, and so tightly wound with self-importance that it only took a few words to make him unravel. You needed a release, and he was the perfect target.

You crossed the floor with a glide in your step, your voice syrupy sweet as you approached.

“Vice Chair,” you said, feigning surprise, “I was wondering where the stench of smug had gone. I should’ve known you’d be hiding by the brie.”

Mas Amedda turned, expression souring instantly.

“Senator [L/N],” he drawled. “Still mistaking sarcasm for diplomacy, I see.”

You grinned. “Still mistaking your office for relevance?”

One of the mid-rim senators stifled a laugh. Amedda’s nostrils flared.

“You may be comfortable fraternizing with war profiteers and gang-world delegates, but some of us still value the sanctity of Republic law.”

You raised your glass. “How inspiring. And yet I could’ve sworn I saw your name on the same resource contract that mysteriously bypassed ethical review last week. A clerical error, I’m sure.”

He sneered. “You have no proof.”

You shrugged. “I don’t need proof. I have implication. It’s amazing what a rumor can do, especially when whispered in just the right ears.”

Amedda opened his mouth to fire back—but another voice cut in before he could.

“I’ve often wondered how some of those contracts pass committee oversight,” said Bail Organa, sliding into the conversation like a knife through silk.

You blinked, surprised.

Amedda turned on him, fuming. “Senator Organa—surely you don’t mean to stand beside this sort of company.”

Bail glanced at you. His expression was unreadable, but there was the faintest spark in his eyes. “For once, I find myself intrigued by Senator [L/N]’s line of questioning.”

You tilted your head at him. “Well, well. Welcome to the dark side.”

Bail ignored the jab. “Vice Chair, some of your recent dealings have raised questions. Especially regarding those tax exemptions on Nixor. If I recall correctly, your name appeared in four separate communications with the system’s mining guild.”

Amedda’s eyes narrowed. “You tread dangerously close to slander.”

“I tread carefully,” Bail said smoothly, “but not quietly.”

The Vice Chair stormed off, muttering something in Cheunh you assumed was an insult.

You turned to Bail, still stunned. “Never thought I’d see the day you jumped in with me.”

He exhaled. “Let’s just say I’m tired of watching corruption thrive behind ceremonial titles.”

You studied him for a moment. “So this is your rebellious phase?”

“Don’t get used to it,” he said. “And don’t assume it means I like you.”

“I’d never make that mistake,” you said dryly.

He gave you a look—annoyed, maybe impressed, it was hard to tell—then vanished into the crowd again.

You stood there a moment longer, alone again in a sea of masks and shadows, feeling strangely adrift. You hadn’t expected Bail’s support. You hadn’t expected Chuchi’s anger to sting. And you definitely hadn’t expected Fox to keep creeping into your thoughts like a silent ghost.

You sighed, looking toward the far exit where you’d last seen him standing guard.

This war—on the floor, in the heart, in your head—it was only just beginning.

⸻

The night had thinned to only the devoted and the damned.

You slipped through one of the Senate’s shadowed walkways, heels echoing faintly on polished stone. The reception was dying—senators gone or passed out, secrets spilled or swallowed whole. The quiet was a balm. But you weren’t quite ready to leave.

Not without one last indulgence.

You found him near the overlook—Commander Fox, helmet tucked under one arm, posture razor-straight even at this ungodly hour. Three of his guards flanked him a few paces back, slightly slouched and murmuring low.

You let your presence be known by the scent of your perfume and the lazy drag of your voice.

“Well, well. Still on duty, Commander?” you purred, letting your gaze travel unapologetically over his frame.

Fox turned, visor meeting your gaze. “Senator.”

That voice—low, flat, professional. Predictable. Delicious.

You stepped closer, letting your robe fall open just enough at the collar to hint at skin and intent. “Tell me something, Commander… do you sleep in that armor? Or do you ever let yourself breathe?”

Behind him, one of his troopers coughed loudly.

Fox didn’t move. “Senator, is there something you need?”

You tsked softly. “Need? No. Want? That’s another conversation.”

More snickering from the clones behind him. One of them muttered, “Stars, he really can’t tell…”

“CT-6149,” Fox barked without turning. “Stand down.”

“Yessir,” came the sheepish reply, followed by another muffled laugh.

You smiled, slow and deliberate, eyes half-lidded as you stalked one step closer. “You know, they’re right. You really don’t notice, do you?”

“Notice what?”

“That I’ve been undressing you with my eyes all night.”

One of the guards choked. “By the Force—”

“CT-8812. Silence.”

“Yessir!”

You dragged your fingers lightly along the cold railing, leaning in slightly, letting your body language linger somewhere between temptation and challenge. “You’re an impressive man, Fox. Loyal, deadly, painfully disciplined. It’s… compelling.”

“I’m a soldier,” he said stiffly. “Nothing more.”

You tilted your head. “Mm. Funny. That’s not what I see.”

His visor didn’t flinch. “With respect, Senator, I’m not here to entertain your flirtations.”

You let out a soft, amused sound. “Oh, Commander. I’m not looking for entertainment. I’m looking for cracks. And you… you wear your armor like a second skin, but I wonder how thin it is around your heart.”

Fox said nothing.

You stepped in so close you could almost feel the heat from his chestplate. “Tell me—do you ever let someone get close? Or are you afraid of what you might feel if you did?”

The silence stretched.

Behind him, the clones were practically vibrating with suppressed laughter, every single one of them watching their commanding officer get emotionally outmaneuvered and still not realize he was in a battlefield.

Fox’s voice came eventually, low and sharp. “Return to your patrol routes. Now.”

“Yes, Commander,” they chimed as one, jogging off down the corridor, not even pretending to keep a straight face.

Once they were gone, Fox exhaled slowly. Whether it was relief or tension, you couldn’t tell.

“You should be careful what you say,” he murmured at last.

You arched a brow. “Why? Because you might start listening?”

He was quiet again. Not a refusal. Not an acceptance. Just the weight of something unspoken hanging between you both.

You leaned in once more, lips near his ear.

“You make it so easy, Commander. Standing there like a statue, pretending you don’t know exactly what effect you have on people.”

“I don’t,” he said flatly.

You pulled back, smiling with all teeth and sin. “Exactly.”

You started to turn, then hesitated, gaze flicking to his. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re beautiful when you’re confused.”

He blinked once behind the visor.

Then you were gone—cloak sweeping behind you like the shadow of a secret. You didn’t look back.

Let him stand there and figure it out.

If he could.

The red of your cloak had barely disappeared down the corridor when another figure stepped from the shadows of a nearby archway.

Senator Riyo Chuchi.

Fox turned slightly at the sound of her footsteps—calm, measured, as if she hadn’t just been eavesdropping. But she had. Her composure was pristine as always, but her eyes… they were brighter than usual. Sharp with unspoken thoughts.

“Commander,” she said softly, folding her hands in front of her, voice light as snowfall. “You’re still working?”

Fox nodded. “Ensuring the area’s secure before we rotate out.”

“Diligent as ever.” Her smile was gentle. “Though I imagine your last conversation was… less standard protocol?”

Fox blinked. “Senator?”

Chuchi gestured toward the hallway where you’d just vanished. “Senator [L/N] can be… theatrical, can’t she?”

“She was… being herself,” Fox said cautiously.

Chuchi tilted her head, studying him. “And what do you make of her?”

He was quiet a moment.

“She’s strategic,” he said finally. “Sharp-tongued. Difficult to ignore.”

Chuchi hummed softly in agreement. “Yes. She often commands the room, even when she’s not trying to.”

She stepped beside him now, close—but not too close. Enough that the scent of her light floral perfume barely reached his senses. Enough that if she’d worn armor, she might’ve brushed shoulders with him.

“I couldn’t help but overhear,” she said, voice still soft, but with an edge Fox couldn’t quite place. “She seemed very… intent. On you.”

Fox tensed slightly. “She was teasing.”

“Was she?”

He turned to look at her. “Wasn’t she?”

Chuchi met his gaze, and there was something sad and sweet in her expression. “You don’t see it, do you?”

“See what?”

“That you matter,” she said simply. “To people.”

Fox straightened. “I matter to the Guard. To the Republic.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

She held his gaze a moment longer, then offered a small, fond smile—half kind, half wistful.

“She may flirt like it’s a weapon, but even weapons point at something.”

Fox stared at her, clearly still processing.

“I should go,” she said gently. “I have an early committee session. But, Commander…”

She paused, brushing a nonexistent wrinkle from her sleeve, her voice lower now.

“You may want to start noticing. Before someone gets hurt.”

She turned before he could respond, her steps light, her presence like a soft breeze after a storm.

Fox stood alone again, staring into nothing.

And somewhere deep behind the red of his helmet… confusion bloomed like a silent fire.

⸻

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