Foxy Again 😀 Click For Higher Quality >.> I'm Unsure Why It Looks Blurry On My Tablet..

I say shit like "If my memory serves me" knowing damn well it serves the dark lord

once again i love how star wars takes place in a massive galaxy with thousands of planets and billions of people, and yet every bounty hunter knows each other personally

Hello! I saw that you do song fics and I had the idea for a Cody X Reader with the song “I think they call this love” by Elliot James. Been obsessed over this song for awhile and I think it would be really cute! Xxx (and if it’s possible to add a few of the others clones teasing Cody even obi wan?)

“I Think They Call This Love”

Commander Cody x Reader

Coruscant at night was too loud for someone trying not to fall in love.

Cody wasn’t even sure when it started. It might’ve been the day you were transferred to his unit. Might’ve been the first time you fixed the aim on a malfunctioning turret like it was nothing. Or maybe—just maybe—it was the first time he heard you hum.

You always did that—murmured little melodies under your breath when you thought no one was paying attention. You’d tap your fingers along your belt or your mug, shoulders swaying lightly to some old Core World tune. It was never full-on singing—just enough to hook in Cody’s brain like a memory.

And tonight? You were humming that one again.

“I think they call this love… I think they call this love…”

You were dancing with Waxer near the bar at 79’s, laughing so hard your drink almost spilled, one hand gripping his vambrace as he attempted to twirl you—poorly. Boil leaned against the counter, snickering into his glass.

“I swear, she’s gonna break your neck,” Boil said. “And then Cody’s gonna have to fill out the paperwork.”

Cody sat a few stools down, arms crossed, pretending very hard that he wasn’t staring.

“You know,” Boil added loudly, “if Cody glared any harder, he’d melt the floor.”

“Shut up,” Cody muttered.

“Yeah, sure. Real subtle, Commander,” Waxer called over, catching your hand before you nearly toppled him over. “You’ve been watching her like she’s a walking war crime.”

Wolffe chuckled beside Cody, taking a long sip of his drink. “He gets like this every time. We’ve placed bets. So far, Obi-Wan’s winning.”

Cody turned slowly. “Obi-Wan’s betting on me?”

As if summoned by sass, Obi-Wan appeared behind them, raising a glass like he’d been lurking all night. “Only because I believe in you, Cody. Also because I know how utterly incapable you are at expressing your feelings.”

“Fantastic.”

“Don’t worry,” Rex added dryly. “You’ve got time. She only flirts with you every time she breathes.”

Cody groaned and looked back toward the dancefloor—and you were already walking his way.

Boots light, smile glowing, music catching the end of your latest hum as you slid into the stool beside him. You didn’t look at the others. Just him.

“You okay there, Commander?” you asked, head tilted. “Or should I get you a medic for whatever emotional crisis you’re currently going through?”

Cody blinked. “I—what?”

You leaned closer, voice lower now. “They’re not exactly subtle,” you said with a smile. “And neither are you.”

“I wasn’t staring.”

“You were,” Boil chimed in behind you.

Waxer raised his hand. “Respectfully, he’s been staring for about four months.”

You laughed under your breath and turned fully to Cody, your knees brushing his. “You gonna keep letting them talk for you?”

Cody exhaled slowly. You were so close. Your eyes searched his, not playfully now—but curiously. Hopefully. The hum of the bar faded as your presence filled his whole damn world.

“I think…” he started, voice a little hoarse. “I think I’m in love with you.”

A pause.

Then you grinned. Not surprised. Not mocking. Just relieved.

“That’s funny,” you said softly. “Because I’ve been waiting for you to figure that out.”

And then—you kissed him.

Quick, warm, but everything changed in that second. His hand slid to your waist before he could stop it, and you smiled against his lips like it was the most natural thing in the galaxy.

Behind you, cheers erupted.

“Finally!” Waxer crowed.

“You owe me twenty credits!” Rex shouted at Wolffe.

Boil let out a low whistle. “Hope you’re ready to be the only thing Cody stares at now.”

Obi-Wan raised his glass and added, “It’s about time our fearless Commander admitted he had a heart.”

You didn’t even look back. You just pressed your forehead to Cody’s and whispered, “Don’t let go of me, okay?”

He didn’t.

Not now.

Not ever.

The music swelled again behind you, and for once, Cody let himself listen.

“If this is what they call love…”

He smiled.

Then he wanted all of it—with you.

TBB Echo x Senator!Reader

The Senate was silent—eerily so. Your voice echoed as you stood center-stage, the holocams rolling, senators holding their breath.

You stared up at the massive screen where Palpatine’s hologram flickered with dispassionate cruelty.

“You may rule through fear, Emperor. You may bend systems, strip rights, and silence voices. But the power you believe you wield is nothing more than mere arrogance, left unchecked for far too long. And every tyrant who’s mistaken fear for loyalty has eventually learned the same truth: fear fades. Resistance doesn’t.”

Gasps rippled through the chamber. One senator spilled their drink. Another ducked behind their chair like you’d just tossed a thermal detonator.

The Emperor said nothing. Just smiled.

You finished your speech, spine straight as a durasteel blade. And when you left the chamber, you knew your days were numbered.

~~~~~~

Stormtroopers swarmed the upper districts now. Rumors had spread fast. A senator going rogue? Publicly? That kind of dissent couldn’t go unpunished.

So you went to the one person you hoped still remembered how to keep people off the radar: Cid.

She responded with a single message:

“You’re lucky I owe you. Got a crew incoming. Don’t get dead before they get there.”

~~~~~~

Blasterfire lit up the alley as a squad of troopers chased you through the lower levels. One shot narrowly missed your shoulder as you turned a corner, lungs burning. You weren’t trained for this. Your boots slipped on the slick metal flooring—and you stumbled, crashing against a wall.

A trooper raised his blaster, finger tightening on the trigger—

Then a blue bolt slammed into his helmet.

You blinked. He crumpled. And standing just behind him, face tight with focus and eyes locked on you, was Echo.

“Senator,” he said calmly, extending his arm, “Time to go.”

You grabbed his hand, letting him haul you up.

“Am I glad to see you,” you breathed.

“I know,” he said, smirking slightly. “You’re welcome.”

More troopers rounded the corner, and Echo pulled you behind cover, activating his comm.

“Now would be a great time, Hunter.”

“Exit’s two blocks south. Wrecker’s waiting with the ship. Move fast.”

“Copy that.” Echo glanced at you. “Can you run?”

“I’m a senator, not a senator’s aide,” you snapped, brushing off your robes. “I’ll manage.”

“Then keep up.”

~~~~~~

Wrecker was waving them in, Omega already at the ship’s edge, hair windblown and face alight with curiosity.

“Is that her?” she asked loudly. “The senator who told the Emperor off to his face?”

“Yep,” Tech said, not looking up from his datapad. “I analyzed her speech. Statistically, she’s either incredibly brave or terminally reckless.”

“Those are not mutually exclusive,” Echo muttered.

You darted up the ramp beside him, chest heaving.

Omega grinned. “You’ve got guts.”

You gave her a breathless smile. “And you’ve got a very large clone glaring at me. Should I be worried?”

Wrecker beamed. “That’s my welcome face!”

Hunter approached, giving you a once-over. “You’re lucky Echo was close. Another second and you’d be space dust.”

You turned to Echo, heartbeat still thundering. “You saved my life.”

“Let’s make a habit of not needing that,” he replied, voice softer now. “But… yeah. I did.”

The ship lifted, and you finally allowed yourself to sink into the bench beside him, the weight of your speech, your betrayal of the Empire, and the sudden turn your life had taken crashing down on you.

“You’re not safe anymore,” Echo said after a beat. “They’ll hunt you.”

You met his gaze. “Then I’m in the right company, aren’t I?”

He nodded, his hand resting lightly on yours for a moment longer than necessary.

From across the ship, Omega whispered loudly to Wrecker: “Told you they’d be into each other.”

Wrecker: “Do I owe you credits again?!”

~~~~~~

The Marauder rumbled to a halt just outside Cid’s bar. It still smelled like sweat, spilled ale, and wet carpet. You wrinkled your nose as you stepped off the ship, scanning the place like a senator inspecting a back-alley establishment—which, to be fair, was exactly what this was.

“You sure this is the right place?” you muttered to Echo under your breath.

“Unfortunately,” he replied, offering a small smirk. “Welcome to the galaxy’s finest example of poor life choices and questionable hygiene.”

Cid looked up from behind the bar, munching on what looked like a pickled frog. “You made it. And with all your limbs. That’s new.”

You gave her a tight nod. “We need to talk.”

She waved her stubby fingers toward her office. “Go on then. Let’s discuss what this little favor is gonna cost you.”

As you disappeared behind the door, the Batch headed for a corner booth.

Wrecker slid in first, already eyeing the snacks Cid had laid out. “So…” he said around a mouthful of something crunchy, “Echo’s got a thing for the senator.”

Echo’s head snapped toward him. “What?!”

Tech adjusted his goggles without even glancing up. “Your heartrate elevated approximately twelve percent every time she spoke to you. Statistically speaking, that suggests attraction. Possibly infatuation.”

“I do not have a thing,” Echo muttered, looking around like someone might hear—besides the four people very obviously hearing.

Hunter raised an eyebrow. “You did dive in front of a blaster for her.”

“I would’ve done that for anyone.”

Wrecker grinned. “Yeah, but you didn’t look that heroic when you saved me last week.”

“That’s because you dropped an entire crate of detonators on your own foot.”

Omega slid into the seat beside Echo, kicking her legs casually. “She is really pretty.”

Echo stiffened. “Omega…”

“I saw the way you looked at her,” she said with that knowing look that made even Hunter flinch sometimes. “Like she was a sunset and you hadn’t seen one in a long time.”

Wrecker blinked. “Wow. That was poetic.”

Echo scrubbed a hand over his face. “I don’t—look, she’s a senator. I’m—”

“A clone with a heart,” Omega finished for him. “She saw it, too. The way she smiled at you? She likes you back.”

Echo opened his mouth, then shut it. Then sighed.

“I hate it when you do that.”

“I love it,” Omega chirped. “You should tell her.”

“I just saved her life. I’m not gonna flirt with her right after that.”

Hunter leaned back. “Might be the perfect time, actually. Emotions are high. Could work.”

Tech blinked. “Are we… encouraging romantic entanglements mid-fugitive status?”

Omega grinned. “Yes.”

Echo shook his head, cheeks tinged with color. “You’re all impossible.”

From behind them, the door to Cid’s office creaked open. You stepped out, looking just as poised and stubborn as you did in the Senate—but your eyes immediately found Echo’s across the cantina.

You offered a small, grateful smile. “Still alive, thanks to you.”

Echo stood, clearing his throat. “Anytime.”

Omega elbowed him hard as you approached.

“Ask her about sunsets!” she whispered.

As you made your way back to the booth, you caught the tail end of Omega’s whispering to Echo, her grin too wide and mischievous.

Your brow furrowed in confusion. “Sunsets?” you asked, stepping closer. “What about sunsets?”

Echo stiffened, clearly scrambling for an explanation. He cleared his throat and opened his mouth, only for Omega to literally jump into the conversation.

“Echo wanted to show you the sunset!” she blurted out, her eyes sparkling with that cheeky mischief only she could get away with. “He said they’re beautiful on the outer rim. He even said you might like them.”

Echo turned bright red, his mouth working soundlessly for a moment as his brain tried to catch up to Omega’s open confession. “I—wait, I—no… That’s not what I said—”

You couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped your lips at his obvious discomfort. “Sunsets, huh?” You cocked an eyebrow, leaning on the edge of the table. “That’s a pretty romantic gesture for a soldier.”

Echo quickly waved his hands, as though trying to physically push the words back into his mouth. “It’s not like that. I—I just—Omega, you—you…!”

Omega leaned back in her seat, arms folded with the smug satisfaction of someone who knew exactly what they’d just done. “You should definitely go watch a sunset with her,” she said matter-of-factly. “It’s perfect. You’re both already really good at staring at the sky.”

You gave Echo a playful look. “Well, I don’t mind the idea of a sunset. It’s been a while since I’ve actually seen one.”

Echo exhaled sharply, his gaze dropping to the table, clearly overwhelmed by the situation. His usual calm and composed demeanor was nowhere to be found.

“I—uh—I—” He paused, his hand running over his short-cropped hair in frustration. “I mean… if you want to, I could show you one. I’ve got some good spots, but I really don’t—uh—expect you to—”

Wrecker, always the instigator, leaned forward from the opposite booth. “You wanted to show her a sunset, Echo. Sounds like a date to me.”

“Wrecker!” Echo groaned, burying his face in his hands. “I’m not asking her out—!”

“Well, someone should,” Wrecker grinned. “It’s a good idea. A beautiful sunset and all that. You know, romantic-like.”

Omega crossed her arms and gave Echo an exaggerated side-eye. “You’re really bad at this.”

You watched the whole exchange with a lighthearted smile, clearly amused by how Echo was fidgeting like he was trying to dig his way out of a hole he’d accidentally fallen into. Finally, you leaned in, lowering your voice to something playful and teasing.

“If you’re really offering to show me a sunset, Echo, I’ll take you up on it,” you said, smirking as you watched his eyes widen in disbelief. “But I’m not making any promises about it being romantic.”

Echo blinked, clearly struggling to hide his relief. “Good. Yeah, good. I can do that. I mean—I can show you the sunset. That’s… normal, right?”

Omega gave him a thumbs up from across the table. “Normal! Totally normal.”

Hunter chuckled from the booth. “I don’t think it’s ever been normal with you, Echo.”

“I’m starting to realize that,” Echo muttered, shooting Omega a glare that barely had any heat behind it. “You’re lucky I like you, kid.”

“You’re welcome,” Omega chirped, her eyes glimmering with the kind of satisfaction only a matchmaker could feel.

~~~~~~~

You followed Echo out of the cantina and into the wilds of the Outer Rim, the two of you walking side by side in the fading light. It wasn’t a long journey, but Echo was unusually quiet, his usual confident stride now hesitant. You glanced over at him, trying to gauge whether he was just as nervous as he seemed.

“So,” you began, attempting to break the silence, “this sunset better be worth all the buildup.”

Echo glanced at you, his face turning slightly pink as he looked away quickly. “I mean, yeah, it’s a good spot,” he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s peaceful. Not a lot of people know about it.” He sounded like he was trying to convince himself more than you.

You smiled softly. “You must really like this place. It’s hard to believe a soldier like you would be into something so… serene.”

“Hey, even soldiers need some quiet,” Echo replied, his voice tinged with embarrassment. “I’ve seen enough battlefields to last a lifetime. This? This is… different.”

As you reached a ridge overlooking a vast expanse of orange and purple sky, you stopped. The sun was beginning its slow descent, casting long shadows and bathing everything in golden light. The view was incredible. You couldn’t deny that Echo had chosen well.

“This… is beautiful,” you said quietly, letting the moment settle around you.

Echo stood a few feet away, glancing at the sky, but you could tell he wasn’t really focused on it. He fidgeted with his hands, his posture stiff, as though unsure of what to do with himself.

“Yeah. It is,” he said softly, though he didn’t seem to be looking at the sunset himself. His eyes kept darting back to you, and he swallowed hard.

A beat passed, then another, the two of you standing there in the stillness of the moment.

“So,” you began again, a teasing smile tugging at your lips, “Omega told me you’ve been staring at me like I’m the sunset or something. I’m starting to think she might’ve been onto something.”

Echo let out a strangled sound, something between a cough and a nervous laugh, and quickly turned away, his scomp fumbling with the edge of his armor. “I—look, I didn’t mean for her to—Omega… she has a way of—”

You laughed, your voice light and airy. “It’s fine, Echo. I’m just teasing.”

“Right,” he muttered, scratching his head. “You… you’re teasing. Yeah.”

The silence between you both grew, but now it was different—quieter, more relaxed, despite the awkward tension that had settled in. You couldn’t help but enjoy the strange warmth in the air.

Finally, Echo broke the quiet with a heavy sigh. “I’m really bad at this.”

“Bad at what?”

“At… this,” he gestured vaguely, not looking at you. “At not being awkward. You know, with people. I mean, I spent most of my life with clones, and—well, we didn’t exactly do sunsets.”

“Yeah, I imagine that would be difficult,” you said, your voice softer now. You could see how much this mattered to him, how much he was trying to make the moment right.

“You probably think I’m an idiot,” he mumbled, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

“No,” you said quickly, walking closer to him. “Not at all. You’re just… not used to doing this.”

Echo didn’t meet your eyes. “And I’m not great at… not being awkward around someone I think is way out of my league.”

That stopped you cold. You blinked, processing the words. “Out of your league?”

Echo shrugged, pulling at his sleeve nervously. “You’re a senator. You could have anyone you want. And I’m just—well, I’m just me. A soldier.”

You took a small step closer, closing the gap between the two of you. “Echo,” you said gently, your voice soft but firm. “I’m here because I want to be here. Because I trust you.”

His eyes flicked to yours, searching your face as though looking for any sign that you were just being kind. But what he found was sincerity. You meant it.

The sun dipped lower, the sky ablaze with colors, and Echo took a deep breath, finally meeting your gaze. “I’m really bad at this… but I’m glad you came anyway.”

You smiled and stepped forward, your hand brushing against his—just enough for him to notice. “Me too, Echo. Me too.”

You and Echo walked back in silence, though the tension between you was different now—softer, less painful. The cantina was as busy as before, the dim lights casting long shadows across the floor. The rest of the Batch was already there, and as soon as you and Echo entered, the teasing began.

Wrecker was the first to speak. “So,” he began with a huge grin, “how was the sunset?”

Echo shot him a glare. “I didn’t—we didn’t—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Wrecker laughed. “You two were just looking at the sky, right?”

You gave him a playful side-eye. “Why don’t you ask Omega? She’s the one who knows all about sunsets.”

Omega was sitting at the booth, her feet kicked up, looking entirely too smug for someone her age. “I told you it would be perfect,” she said, glancing at Echo with a knowing look.

Hunter raised an eyebrow. “So, Echo, what happened with the sunset? You get all the way out there just to not—”

Echo groaned and covered his face with his hand. “I’m not answering any of you.”

Tech, ever the neutral party, smiled faintly. “I believe this is the point where you’re supposed to express how much you enjoyed the company of your… companion.”

“Shut up, Tech,” Echo grumbled.

Omega leaned in, looking at you, then at Echo, her grin impossibly wide. “Did you kiss her, Echo?”

Echo nearly choked on his drink. “What? No! We—we—”

“I’m just saying,” Omega continued innocently, “there was some serious chemistry, and I don’t think you’ll be able to ignore it for much longer.”

“Omega,” Echo hissed, looking at her like she’d just dropped a thermal detonator at his feet.

But you just laughed, the tension from earlier melting away. “She’s not wrong, Echo. You’re pretty easy to read.”

Echo could only groan in response, his face as red as the setting sun.

A/N

I kinda hate this tbh, but I had an idea but then I had like a million other ideas while writing this and I feel like it’s kinda mix matched.

“Rules of Engagement”

Commander Neyo x Senator Reader

⸻

You weren’t what the Senate expected.

You laughed too loud, danced too hard, and didn’t mind a drink before a midnight vote. You were also scarily good at passing legislation with a hangover.

Neyo didn’t know what to do with you.

He’d been assigned to guard you temporarily—something about threats, instability, blah blah. You didn’t care. What mattered was that he had a cool speeder, a gravelly voice, and those wraparound tactical visors that made your stomach flutter in ways you couldn’t explain.

He followed you everywhere.

And you made sure to give him a show.

“So what’s your opinion on martinis, Commander?” you asked one night, leaning across the bar table.

“I don’t drink.”

“Of course you don’t. You’ve got that whole ‘I eat war for breakfast’ look.”

He didn’t respond. Just stared. Probably judging you. Or calculating your odds of surviving the dance floor in six-inch heels.

“Come on,” you grinned, tipping your glass back. “You’re always so serious. Loosen up. Life’s short.”

“Life’s valuable,” he said flatly. “Especially yours. You should treat it that way.”

You pouted. “Are you flirting with me or threatening me?”

“Neither,” he replied. “Just trying to keep you alive.”

“How noble.”

That night, you dragged him to The Blue Nova—a Senate-frequented lounge pulsing with lights and low beats. Senators Chuchi and Mon Mothma were already there, nursing cocktails and giggling over some poor intern’s fashion sense.

Neyo stood rigid by the wall, arms crossed, helmet on. You danced.

You danced like no one was watching—except Neyo definitely was. You saw the subtle shift in his stance every time someone got too close to you. Every time someone brushed your waist, he tensed. When one particularly bold diplomat tried to pull you close, Neyo was there in seconds.

“She’s done dancing,” he said coolly.

You smirked as the man scurried off.

“Jealous?” you teased.

“No.”

“You hesitated.”

“I hesitated to answer a ridiculous question.”

You walked up, lips close to his helmet, breath warm.

“I think you like the chaos, Commander,” you whispered. “You just don’t know how to handle it.”

He stared at you for a long moment. Then, to your complete shock—he took his helmet off.

Face sharp. Stern. Battle-scarred. Beautiful.

“I handle a lot of things,” he said softly. “I don’t make a habit of chasing Senators around nightclubs.”

“And yet…”

He stepped closer. Close enough for you to feel the war in him, vibrating under the skin.

“You’re not what I expected,” he said.

You grinned. “Good.”

He didn’t kiss you—not yet. He wasn’t the type. But his gloved hand brushed yours beneath the table, quiet and electric.

And later, when you slipped into your speeder with him and leaned your head on his shoulder, he let you.

Because even soldiers like Neyo had a weakness for bright lights, fast music—and senators who didn’t play by the rules.

⸻

You woke up on your office couch, face down, wearing one boot and someone else’s scarf.

Your stomach roiled.

There was the taste of shame, spice liquor, and possibly fried nuna wings coating your mouth like regret.

“Ungh,” you groaned, clutching your head as if it were a ticking thermal detonator. Your presentation to the Senate chamber was in—oh kriff—thirty-two minutes.

You stumbled toward the refresher, tripped over Chuchi’s shawl, and made it to the toilet just in time to vomit your dignity into oblivion.

Twenty minutes later you were brushing your teeth with one hand, swiping through datapads with the other, your hair tied back in a half-dried bun, steam curling around your face like battlefield smoke.

You were dying.

And still—you were determined to win.

A sharp knock came at the door.

“Senator,” Commander Neyo’s voice rang, low and deadpan as ever.

You staggered to the entry and opened it slightly, eyes bloodshot, breath minty, skin blotchy.

He blinked.

“You look—”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” you rasped, voice hoarse.

He nodded. “Fair.”

He stepped in, glancing around the wreckage—empty drink glasses, a senate-issue heel stuck in a potted plant, a half-written speech blinking on your datapad.

Neyo exhaled slowly through his nose. “We need to go soon.”

You collapsed onto your vanity. “Then fetch the war paint, Commander.”

To his mild horror, you started multitasking like a woman possessed. Concealer. Hair curler. Eyeliner sharper than your tongue. Hydration drops. A stim tab. Robes pressed. Shoes polished.

By the time you swept out of the room, datapad in hand, a vision in deep indigo velvet with subtle shimmer at the cuffs, you looked flawless.

Not a trace of the hungover banshee who almost passed out in the shower. Not a single clue that you’d had one foot in the grave twenty minutes ago.

Neyo stared at you in stunned silence as the turbolift doors opened.

“What?” you asked innocently, breezing past.

“When I first saw you,” he said, voice tight. “You were pale. Trembling. Sweating.”

“I was warmed up.”

He blinked. “You threw up.”

“And now I’m ready to lead a planetary reform discussion.”

He said nothing, but you could feel the tension behind his visor. Not irritation—something else.

Awe, maybe. Or confusion. Or grudging admiration.

He escorted you into the Senate chamber, back straight, flanking you like a shadow. You entered to hushed murmurs from other senators. You took the platform.

Lights brightened. All eyes on you.

You smiled.

Then you spoke.

Commanding. Persuasive. Engaged. Like you hadn’t danced barefoot on a bar counter hours earlier. Like your liver wasn’t currently filing for emancipation.

When it ended, with soft applause and nods of agreement, you stepped down coolly. Neyo followed close behind.

In the corridor, he finally said:

“You’re… something else.”

You smirked. “Are you flirting or threatening me?”

He almost smiled. Almost.

“Neither,” he muttered. “Just trying to keep up.”

⸻

The hovercar ride back to your apartment was silent.

You leaned against the window, sunglasses on despite the overcast Coruscant sky, hand gripping a hydration tablet like it owed you money. Neyo sat beside you, unnervingly still, as usual.

“You pulled it off,” he said finally, breaking the silence.

You didn’t even open your eyes. “Barely. I think I lost consciousness for a moment during Taa’s rebuttal.”

“I noticed,” he replied calmly. “Your left eye twitched in morse code.”

“Did I say ‘sustainable galactic reform through bipartisan unity’?”

“Yes.”

“Impressive.”

“Also a lie.”

You smiled weakly. “I’m not a miracle worker. Just a hot mess with good timing.”

When the speeder landed, Neyo helped you out like a proper guard—but the moment the lift doors closed in your apartment building, your knees buckled slightly.

“Stars,” you groaned, pulling off your shoes like they were weapons.

Neyo caught your elbow, steadying you with practiced hands. You didn’t look at him—couldn’t. Your head was pounding too hard, your bones liquifying.

He didn’t say anything. Just supported you as you limped down the hallway.

Your apartment was clean—thanks to your overpaid droid—but still smelled faintly of scented oil, warm fabrics, and overpriced wine.

The door shut behind you.

And you dropped your datapad like a dying soldier discarding a blaster.

Without preamble, you dragged yourself to your bed and belly-flopped face-first into it with the grace of a crashed starship.

“Urrrghhh,” you groaned into your sheets. “Tell the Senate I died nobly.”

Neyo stood in the doorway for a long second.

Then—

“You forgot to remove your hairpins,” he said.

You made a muffled whining sound.

“You’ll stab yourself.”

“Let the assassination succeed,” you moaned.

But he moved closer. Carefully. Gently.

And began removing the decorative pins from your hair.

One by one.

You stayed perfectly still, secretly stunned. He was… delicate. Surprising.

His gloved fingers swept your hair back from your temple, warm through the fabric, steady and sure.

“Better,” he said softly.

You peeked up at him, mascara smudged, lips dry, eyes bloodshot.

“You’re being weirdly sweet.”

“I’m not sweet.”

“Well, you’re weird then.”

A long pause. He didn’t move away.

Then he added, almost reluctantly, “You did well today.”

You smiled, eyes fluttering shut. “That almost sounded like a compliment, Commander.”

He hesitated.

Then, “Rest. I’ll stand guard.”

Your heart thudded softly against your ribs.

You didn’t respond. Just let yourself finally sleep, Neyo’s presence a silent shadow at your door.

You knew he wouldn’t leave.

And that—for once—felt like safety.

⸻

It was past 0200 when you stirred.

The sheets tangled around your legs like a battlefield, your head finally calm but your throat dry as sand. You padded barefoot across the apartment, wincing at the cold floor and the slight ache still lingering behind your eyes.

You found Neyo right where you expected him.

Standing just outside your bedroom door.

Helmet on. Blaster slung. Spine straight.

Unmoving.

“Have you been standing there this whole time?” you asked, voice low and raspy.

“Yes.”

You blinked at him. “Kriff, Neyo. At least sit. I’m not a senator worth slipping a disc over.”

“Your safety doesn’t rest well on upholstery.”

You snorted softly, leaning against the doorframe. “Still all thorns and durasteel, huh?”

“I’m consistent.”

“Irritatingly so.”

You were about to tease him more when you noticed something shift behind him—just past the window’s faint reflection.

Your eyes snapped to it. Too fast.

Neyo noticed.

Then everything happened at once.

A flash of movement—glass shattering—a stun dart zipping past your ear—

And Neyo tackled you to the ground.

The world blurred. You hit the floor, tucked under his armored weight as a blaster bolt sizzled into the wall where your head had been.

Another shot. Close.

Neyo rolled off you and into cover in one swift, practiced movement. “Stay down!”

You didn’t need to be told twice.

A figure dropped through the busted window—a sleek, masked bounty hunter, compact and fast. They moved like they’d done this a hundred times.

They hadn’t met Neyo before.

He opened fire, short, brutal bursts. Not flashy. Efficient.

The bounty hunter ducked behind a column, tossing a flash charge—blinding light filled the apartment, and you covered your head as the sound cracked through your skull.

Then silence.

Then Neyo’s voice, low, deadly. “You made a mistake.”

You peeked up just in time to see him lunge—shoulder first—into the attacker, sending them crashing through your dining table.

The fight was brutal, close-range. Fists. Elbows. Armor slamming against furniture.

You watched through wide eyes, heart hammering in your ribs.

The bounty hunter went down with a hard grunt—stunned and unconscious before they even hit the floor.

Smoke. Dust. Silence.

Neyo stood over the wreckage, breathing hard, visor glinting in the broken light.

You slowly got up from behind the couch, staring at your shattered window, your ruined table, your torn carpet… and the one thing that somehow remained miraculously untouched:

Your liquor cabinet.

You limped over.

From the wreckage and the chaos, one lonely, very expensive bottle sat upright and proud, like a survivor of war.

You picked it up reverently, uncorked it, and took a long swig.

Then you held it out to Neyo.

“Drink?” you offered hoarsely.

He stared at you for a moment—visor unreadable. Then, slowly, he removed his helmet, setting it on the countertop with a heavy thud.

He took the bottle from your hand.

Took a sip.

Didn’t even flinch.

You whistled. “Tougher than I thought.”

He handed it back. “You don’t know the half of it.”

You grinned, despite the mess around you, your pulse still racing.

“Well,” you said, leaning against the ruined wall. “If this is going to be a regular occurrence, I’m going to need better windows. And more of that bottle.”

He glanced down at the unconscious bounty hunter, then back at you.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

That shouldn’t have made your breath catch.

But it did.

⸻

You were sprawled on your couch with a blanket around your shoulders like a dethroned monarch, cradling a caf mug and trying not to move too much.

Neyo stood a few meters away, helmet back on, deep in conversation with a squad of Coruscant Guard troopers who had secured the perimeter and taken the unconscious bounty hunter into custody. One of them was talking into a datapad, another bagging evidence.

Your apartment looked like a warzone.

Scorch marks on the walls. Smashed glass. Your poor dining table in pieces. A chair impaled by a vibroblade. And somewhere, inexplicably, a boot had ended up in the chandelier.

The door buzzed.

You groaned.

“Tell them I’m dead.”

Neyo didn’t even turn.

The door buzzed again.

You hissed and dragged yourself up with the grace of a dying tooka.

The door slid open.

“Holy kriff—what happened in here?” gasped Senator Chuchi, her eyes wide, sunglasses on despite the dim lighting.

Behind her, Bail Organa and Mon Mothma followed in, blinking like the lights offended them.

Bail took one look around and sighed deeply. “Did you throw a party after the party?”

Riyo covered her mouth. “Oh stars, is that blood?”

“No,” you rasped, sipping caf. “It’s the soul of my décor, leaking out.”

Neyo, still conversing with the Guard, ignored the comment.

Riyo winced, kneeling beside the splintered dining table. “This was antique…”

“So was my liver,” you muttered.

Another Guard trooper approached Neyo. “Sir, we’ve confirmed the bounty was hired off-world. Probably just a scare tactic—or someone testing security.”

“They tested the wrong kriffing senator,” you said from the couch, raising your caf like a battle flag.

Bail crossed his arms. “You’re not staying here.”

“I can’t just vanish in the middle of a political firestorm. I have three meetings today and a vote on trade tariffs.”

“You nearly died.”

“I nearly died hot, Bail. There’s a difference.”

He looked to Neyo. “Can you keep her alive through all this?”

Neyo gave a single nod. “Yes.”

You snorted. “He’s too stubborn to let me die. It’d mess with his stats.”

The Guard filed out slowly, leaving behind scorched walls, broken decor, and the lingering smell of smoke and citrus-scented panic.

Your friends started cleaning instinctively—stacking plates, lifting fallen cushions.

Mon handed you the bottle from last night. “This survived too.”

You stared at it.

Then smiled.

“Guess I’ll call that a diplomatic win.”

⸻

The assassination attempt made the front page of every news feed.

“Assault in the Upper Rings: Senator Survives Bounty Attack in Her Apartment.”

“Corruption? Retaliation? Speculation Rises After Attack on Popular Senator.”

“Bounty Hunter Subdued by Marshall Commander in Daring Apartment Ambush.”

Your face was everywhere—mid-speech, mid-stride, mid-bloody hangover.

They didn’t know that part, of course. But you did.

In the wake of it all, security protocols were rewritten overnight. A flurry of emergency Senate meetings, security panels, and sharp-toothed reporters hunting soundbites. You barely slept. When you did, it was light. Restless. Searching for a presence that wasn’t there.

Neyo had gone back to barracks immediately after the incident. De-briefed. Filed reports. Gave statements.

And now, word had come down.

He was being reassigned.

⸻

The knock on your door was unnecessary.

You already knew it was him.

You opened the door slowly—draped in a robe, caf in hand, rings under your eyes that even the finest Coruscanti powder couldn’t hide.

Neyo stood there in full armor, helmet tucked under one arm.

“I got the memo,” you said before he could speak.

He gave a short nod. “Senate security is shifting to full internal protocol. Coruscant Guard, under Commander Thorn, will oversee protection from now on.”

“Ironic, considering you’re the reason I’m not dead.”

“My orders weren’t to stay,” he said plainly.

You leaned against the doorframe, studying him. His armor had new scuffs. He was cleaned, pressed, regulation-ready… but the quiet between you hummed with something unsaid.

“You going back to the front?” you asked, already knowing.

He nodded.

You stared at him, your throat tight.

“I’m not one for speeches, Neyo. Or long goodbyes. Or… feelings. But I’m pissed.”

That caught his attention.

“Why?”

“Because you’re walking away like none of this mattered. Like I’m just another senator on your route. Another mission. And you know what? I wasn’t. Not to you.”

His eyes dropped for a moment.

Then rose again—meeting yours.

“Of all my deployments,” he said slowly, carefully, like the words were foreign, “this was the first time I didn’t feel like I was wasting time.”

Your breath hitched.

“I didn’t know how to say that,” he added. “Until now.”

You laughed, wet and quiet. “You’ve got a strange way of being soft.”

“I don’t do soft,” he replied, mouth tugging at the corner in what might have been—might have been—a smile.

“Right,” you murmured. “Just war and discipline and smashing bounty hunters into my furniture.”

He stepped closer, lowering his voice.

“If it were up to me,” he said, “I’d stay.”

Your heart stung.

“I know.”

Silence.

Then, on instinct—or maybe defiance—you reached up, fingers brushing his cheek just beside the helmet line. He didn’t move.

And for the briefest second, he leaned into your touch.

Then pulled away.

Duty won again.

“Goodbye, Senator.”

You stood in the doorway long after the lift closed behind him.

Outside, a new Guard squad took position at your apartment.

Inside, you poured the last of the bottle from the night before into a glass.

And toasted to what almost was.

peep boost and sinker from the background of what i'm working on because i need motivation to get through rendering it all 😭

“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 and Loyal” pt.3

Commander Fox x Senator Reader

Three weeks later.

The map table was flickering again, a small glitch from overuse. Red dots pulsed across the countryside—each one marking a loss. Small towns. Villages. Agricultural hubs. All hit hard and fast by Separatist forces. Civilians displaced. Some never accounted for.

The capital was still untouched. For now.

But it felt like waiting for the axe to fall.

You stood at the balcony of the palace’s war room, overlooking the city streets far below. From here, everything looked calm—citizens moving about their day, guards stationed at checkpoints, air traffic kept low and tight. But the mood had shifted.

The fear was no longer quiet.

It was loud now. Angry. Restless.

“I hear them,” you murmured, mostly to yourself. “They want blood. Answers. Safety. And I don’t know how much longer I can promise any of it.”

“You’re not the only one they’re looking to.”

Fox’s voice was low as he approached from behind. You didn’t turn around, but the sound of his boots—heavy, deliberate—was familiar now. Comforting in a way you’d never admit aloud.

“You’ve been visible,” he continued, standing just beside you, close enough that your arm almost brushed his. “At food drops. Patrols. Hospitals. You’ve given them hope.”

You laughed under your breath, bitter. “Hope doesn’t stop blasters.”

“Neither does silence.”

You finally turned your head toward him. His helmet was clipped to his belt, his expression stony but sharp. Exhausted. He hadn’t slept much lately. Neither had you.

“Fox…” you hesitated. “How long do we have?”

He didn’t sugarcoat it.

“They’ve started moving artillery through the passes. Droids are massing just outside the western hills. A few days, maybe. A week if we’re lucky.”

You swallowed hard, throat dry. “And the Senate?”

“No word.”

You nodded stiffly, the weight of it all crashing again onto your chest. The silence that followed was too heavy. Too full of what you couldn’t say.

“Can I ask you something?” you said softly.

Fox didn’t respond, but you felt his attention shift to you completely.

“If I die here… does that make me foolish? Or brave?”

He looked at you for a long moment, eyes unreadable.

“Both.”

You stared back at him. The shadows under his eyes. The scar just beneath his jaw. The faint tremor in his hand before he clenched it into a fist.

You wanted to reach for him. You didn’t.

He turned his head back to the city below. “I won’t let that happen.”

You believed him.

And for a moment, that was enough.

⸻

The command centre was dimly lit, the only illumination coming from the flickering holoprojector and the red glow of the city’s early warning system now running constant cycles.

You stood at the far end of the war room, watching the tactical updates scroll—one after another. Probes spotted at the city’s outer rim. Civilian clusters evacuating from rural holdouts. Streets quieter than they’d ever been.

Everyone knew.

The siege was hours away. Maybe less.

Fox was across the room, standing still with his hands clasped behind his back as a secure holo-comm crackled to life. Thire, Stone, and Hound were all there too—helmeted, silent, braced.

“Transmission confirmed,” the clone technician said. “Republic command, direct line.”

Fox’s lips pressed into a thin line as the Chancellor’s insignia bloomed across the console.

And then, the voice. Cold. Controlled.

“Commander Fox.”

He straightened. “Chancellor Palpatine, sir.”

“I’ve been monitoring the situation. I regret to inform you that the Senate cannot afford to lose one of Coruscant’s most vital protection divisions in a conflict that, regrettably, has not yet reached high-priority status.”

Fox’s jaw tensed. “With respect, sir—the capital will fall without additional defense. Civilians will die.”

“I understand your concern, Commander,” the Chancellor said, his tone maddeningly calm. “But this assignment was temporary. A symbol of good faith. It was never intended to put the Coruscant Guard in direct engagement.”

Fox didn’t reply, but his silence was heavy.

“You will return to Coruscant immediately,” Palpatine continued. “This is not a request. That planet will not survive your deaths. And Coruscant cannot afford to lose you. Do you understand?”

Fox looked down, his voice tightly controlled.

“…Understood, sir.”

The transmission ended in a cold flicker.

The silence that followed was thunderous.

You approached the group, confusion written across your face. “What was that?”

Fox turned toward you, his expression unreadable. “Orders. We’re being recalled.”

You stared at him, stunned. “What?”

Thire shifted uneasily. Stone looked away.

You shook your head, a storm rising behind your eyes. “You can’t leave. We’re hours from a siege, Fox. The entire reason you were here was to protect the capital—”

“And we did,” he said quietly. “We bought you time. We held the line as long as they’d allow.”

“No,” you snapped. “Don’t you dare throw that excuse at me like it’s enough. You stood in front of my people. You promised—you promised me—”

He flinched. The others turned away, giving you both a sliver of privacy that barely mattered now.

“I didn’t want this,” he said, voice rough. “But my duty is to Coruscant. I don’t get to choose where I’m sent. You know that.”

You stared at him, the weight of three weeks—the fights, the hope, the unspoken words—crushing all at once. “Then you should’ve never come at all.”

Fox looked like you’d shot him.

You turned away before he could see your eyes burn. Before he could see the betrayal written so clearly across your face. “Go, then. Follow your duty. I hope it keeps you warm when this place burns.”

He didn’t stop you when you walked away.

But you didn’t see the way his hand twitched at his side, like he was reaching for you without permission. Or the pain etched deep into his face—one he’d never show anyone else.

Not even you.

⸻

The landing pad on Coruscant was too clean.

Too quiet.

Too sterile, after weeks of war-scarred dirt and the sound of air raid sirens pulsing in the background like a heartbeat.

Fox disembarked first, helmet in hand, his armor dusted with soot and ash that felt wrong here—wrong against the smooth marble of the Senate platforms. Behind him, Thire, Stone, and Hound followed, silent at first.

Until the doors of the hangar slid closed and that silence exploded.

“What the hell was that?” Stone barked, ripping off his helmet and throwing it to the ground. “We abandoned them.”

“We followed orders,” Fox snapped back.

“Screw the orders,” Hound growled. “You saw what was coming. That planet was going to fall within the week.”

“And we were told we’re too valuable to risk,” Thire added, bitter. “So we just… left.”

Fox’s teeth ground together. “We are not generals. We don’t decide where we go—we enforce.”

“Yeah?” Stone stepped forward, chest tight with frustration. “Then why do you look like someone ripped your heart out, Fox?”

That shut him up.

For a moment.

He turned on his heel, walking out before he said something he’d regret, the echo of his boots trailing behind him like guilt.

Fox didn’t knock. He just walked straight into Commander Thorn’s office, where the younger clone was still suited up and tinkering with the power cell on his blaster.

Thorn looked up and didn’t miss a beat. “Well, well. If it isn’t the Chancellor’s golden leash.”

Fox closed the door behind him. “I need five minutes without sarcasm.”

Thorn shrugged. “Tough. You came to me.”

Fox exhaled, leaning against the far wall, arms folded tight. “I left a city to burn.”

Thorn paused, finally looking up.

“Wanna run that by me again?”

Fox’s jaw clenched. “I got pulled off a world about to be sieged. The Senator begged for help. The Chancellor ordered us back before the shooting even started.”

Thorn set his blaster down slowly.

“You obeyed, didn’t you?”

“What else could I do?”

“I don’t know,” Thorn said, voice low. “Maybe not leave a planet full of civilians to die?”

Fox glared. “You think I had a choice?”

“No,” Thorn said bluntly. “But I think you wanted one. And that’s the difference.”

Fox looked away. “She—she trusted me. And I—”

“You failed her,” Thorn finished for him. “Yeah. You did.”

The air between them thickened.

But then Thorn leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“You know what makes you a good commander, Fox? You actually give a damn. But you bury it so deep under regs and orders and rules that you forget you’re a person too. You feel this because you should. And because, maybe for once, you met someone who made you wish you could choose.”

Fox didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

“You’re not wrong for caring,” Thorn continued. “But don’t pretend like you didn’t want to stay. Don’t pretend like she didn’t get under your skin. And don’t stand here looking for absolution. You left. And now you have to decide what the hell you’re gonna do about it.”

Fox stood in the quiet for a long time, every breath in his lungs feeling heavier than the last.

Finally, he turned toward the door.

“…Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me,” Thorn said. “Just don’t come crying when you decide to fight for something and it breaks your damn heart.”

⸻

The sky was the color of copper—burning, cracked, smothered in the black breath of war.

From the high balcony of Parliament House, you stood alone.

Below you, the capital city was crumbling. Buildings gutted. Smoke spiraling into the sky like dying prayers. The sounds of explosions echoed from every district—shelling, droid fire, the crackling whine of buildings collapsing into themselves. Your people screamed. And still, you stood.

You could’ve run.

The secret passage beneath the archives still functioned—your aides had begged you to use it. But you refused.

You would not crawl underground while your planet fell above.

When the droids stormed the Parliament, you were still there. You stood at the center of the marble chamber, hands behind your back, your senate robes torn from smoke and grime, your face fierce and unyielding.

The lead tactical droid analyzed you with a flick of its sensor.

“Senator. You are now under the protection of the Confederacy of Independent Systems.”

You didn’t move. “Protection?”

“Your system has been liberated. You will broadcast a message of cooperation to your people. Effective immediately.”

The words felt like venom in your ears.

Two commando droids grabbed your arms, steering you toward the chamber’s grand podium, where your world had once debated laws and trade, justice and reform.

Now it was a prison.

The cameras were already activated. A live broadcast.

You felt the script shoved into your hand—hollow lines written by cowards and liars.

The lights came on.

You stepped up.

Paused.

And dropped the script to the floor.

The droids moved slightly, weapons shifting, but the lead tactical droid gestured for them to wait. Curious. Watching.

You faced the camera.

And then you spoke.

“To the people of this world, hear me now. I stand before you not in surrender, but in defiance. The Separatists believe they have conquered us. That they can break our spirits with fear, and claim our loyalty with fire. But I am still standing.”

You stepped forward, voice rising, the smoke of your burning city curling in the background.

“We did not ask for this war. We did not invite their tyranny. And yet, they came. They scorched our homes. They threatened our children. And now they want us to kneel.”

You stared directly into the lens.

“I will not kneel.”

The tactical droid twitched. Several battle droids raised their blasters—but still, the broadcast continued.

“I may wear chains. I may stand here in a city torn apart. But I will never speak lies to you. I will never call this invasion a liberation. I will never call these machines saviors. The Separatists have not freed us. They have invaded us.”

You were trembling, but you didn’t stop.

“If I die for these words, so be it. At least I’ll die with my people. Not above them.”

You turned away from the camera. “Cut the feed.”

The droids surged forward. One struck you across the face with a metal hand and forced you to your knees.

Blood dripped from your mouth as the tactical droid loomed over you.

“That was not the message we authorized.”

You lifted your chin, defiant even through the pain.

“I suppose I never was good at following scripts.”

The broadcast ended in static.

⸻

The Senate Rotunda roared with outrage.

Holograms flickered across the great chamber—smoke-streaked ruins, the burning capital, and her face, bloodied but proud, replaying over and over again on the center display. The audio was muted now, but they didn’t need the words anymore.

They’d all heard them.

“I will not kneel.”

Senators shouted over one another.

Some demanded sanctions. Others accused the Separatists of war crimes. More still wanted a closed-door meeting with the Chancellor. No one could agree on a solution, but all could agree on one thing:

She had become a problem—and a symbol.

And not one easily silenced.

High above the Senate floor, in the polished marble halls outside the observation balconies, Fox stood alone.

Helmet under his arm.

Watching.

He hadn’t moved since the footage aired. His brothers had gathered at first—Thire, Stone, Hound—but one by one, they’d left when the noise of politics drowned out the only voice that had mattered.

Fox hadn’t left.

He couldn’t.

There she was—her image replaying again, defiant and brave, speaking through blood and fire. Unflinching. Unbroken.

The same woman who had pressed a drink into his hand weeks ago and called him loyal like it meant something.

“She didn’t even blink,” a voice murmured from behind him.

Fox turned slightly. Senator Bail Organa now stood beside him, face solemn.

“She knew what they’d do,” Organa continued, quietly. “And she said it anyway. She looked into that camera and chose truth.”

Fox nodded once. “She stood taller than half the Senate ever has.”

Organa’s mouth tightened. “And now she’s their problem.”

“She’s more than that,” Fox said. His voice was rougher than he intended. “She’s… a symbol now. Maybe even a martyr.”

Bail glanced over at him.

“You care for her.”

Fox didn’t answer right away. His jaw worked for a moment before he said, simply, “I failed her.”

“Not yet,” Organa said gently. “But if you let them forget her—then you do.”

Fox’s gaze drifted back to the flickering hologram of her battered face, eyes burning with conviction, voice ringing in his memory:

“I may wear chains… but I will never speak lies to you.”

If she burned for her people, Fox swore to himself then, he’d make sure the whole damn Republic saw the smoke.

⸻

The cell was white.

Too white. Not a single crack in the walls, not a scratch on the durasteel floor. No windows. No noise beyond the hum of distant generators and the quiet, steady pulse of a camera in the corner.

The Separatists called it a holding chamber.

You called it what it was: a cage.

They hadn’t touched you since the broadcast. Not physically. But the rest—they brought in food and left it untouched for days. They pumped the room full of lights that never dimmed. They brought silence and then the cloying pressure of recorded crowds chanting in a language you didn’t understand. Propaganda blasted in short bursts.

Then came the requests.

The offers.

A comfortable suite. Clothing. Protection. Return to your position of influence, they said. All you had to do was cooperate. Just read the lines. Tell your people that you saw the light. That the Republic abandoned them, and the Confederacy was your new salvation.

You said nothing.

Then they sent him in.

A pale, smooth-faced Neimoidian with manicured nails and a reek of expensive spice. He wore a smile that felt like a threat. He sat across from you at a metal table, fingers laced.

“We do not wish for things to escalate,” he said softly. “The Confederacy values your intellect. Your leadership. Your charisma. You could do so much more if you simply stepped into the right light.”

You stared at him. “There is no light in this place.”

He didn’t lose the smile. “Then create it. Say the words, Senator. Bring peace to your people. Your world is lost to the Republic, but it doesn’t have to be lost to you.”

You leaned forward, voice low and sharp. “Peace bought with a muzzle isn’t peace. It’s obedience. And I don’t bend.”

The Neimoidian’s smile faltered.

“You still believe someone’s coming to save you?” he asked.

You didn’t respond.

“Very well.” He stood and adjusted the sleeves of his robe. “Then we will bring peace another way.”

⸻

You were dragged from your cell two days later.

Paraded through the cracked halls of Parliament, bound in chains.

Droids stood at attention along the corridor. Their red photoreceptors blinked in time with the hollow clank of your boots. Outside, you heard the drone of ships overhead and the dull, distant panic of the crowd being herded into the city square.

The Separatists had arranged an audience.

A warning.

They wanted your execution public.

You were led up the stone steps of the Parliament balcony—the same one where you had stood and broadcast your defiance.

Now, a platform had been raised.

A guillotine of shimmering energy.

A podium to record your final words.

The tactical droid turned to you as the crowd began to hush.

“Final opportunity. Comply. Kneel, and you live.”

You lifted your chin. The chains bit into your wrists. “I will never kneel.”

The crowd heard you.

They remembered.

The city remembered.

Even if the Republic forgot you… even if no one came…

You would die standing.

⸻

The war room on Coruscant was filled with fire.

Not literal flame, but political heat—raw and heavy.

Three Jedi stood in the center, flanked by holograms of the burning capital city, the Separatist’s mock trial preparations, and one final, damning image:

The Senator, shackled and unbowed, standing before her people, moments before execution.

Chancellor Palpatine’s fingers steepled beneath his chin, unreadable as ever. But the furrow in his brow deepened with each word.

Mace Windu’s voice cut like a vibroblade. “This is no longer a matter of planetary resources. It’s a moral failure of the Senate—and of this office.”

Luminara Unduli, serene but stern, added, “We allowed this to happen by remaining neutral. The Senator stood for peace. For integrity. And she is being made an example for her courage.”

Obi-Wan Kenobi, arms crossed, took a step forward. “We know where they’re holding her. The capital has not fallen beyond reach. With your authorization, Chancellor, the 212th can retake it. But we must act now.”

Palpatine’s gaze slid to the flickering hologram again. The city in flames. The people in chains. Her.

He sighed, slowly. “I underestimated the impact of her voice. Perhaps… we all did.”

There was silence.

Then, finally, the Chancellor’s voice rose with forced calm.

“You have your clearance, General Kenobi. Regain control of the planet. Retrieve the Senator. Do not allow her execution to proceed.”

Obi-Wan nodded sharply. “We’ll leave within the hour.”

In the shadows near the back of the chamber, Fox stood silent.

Helmet tucked under his arm, armor polished to discipline, but his jaw clenched tightly. His brothers were gone—scattered after their forced withdrawal—but Fox had stayed. Had watched. Had listened. Had waited.

Beside him stood Commander Cody, arms folded, face grim beneath the overhead lights.

Fox didn’t look over when he spoke, just said, low and bitter, “Took them long enough.”

Cody’s voice was just as quiet. “Politics always move slower than war.”

Fox huffed. “She should never have been left alone. Not like that.”

“She wasn’t,” Cody said.

That made Fox turn.

Cody finally looked over, steady and sure. “You stayed. You remembered. And I’ll make sure she comes home.”

Fox’s lips parted, words catching in his throat.

Cody gave him a small, knowing nod.

“I’ll bring her back, vod. You have my word.”

Previous Part | Next Part

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

Tech. ⚡️💀⚡️

Got the inspo from Sana. Kinda figured

he mostly yells this phrase at Wrecker.