Thorn - Blog Posts
I couldn't finish the drawing I had of these guys that I started in May, so I made a simpler one!
Feat. vessels Mimic, Thorn, and Briar (left to right)! Thorn is mine and the other two belong to @hollypies and @original-character-chaos respectively!
Thorn through the entirety of Memory of Babel
I literally love this whole thread with my entire being, and I'm not entirely sure why.
Halt gets to Skandia and Erak sees him and decides, "Hey, Halt is an old friend, might as well see what he's up to," and now he also gets to see the absolute chaos unfold as this unintended throuple meets up and has to explain themselves to each other. Erak doesn't think he's ever seen any of them so embarrassed before. While he may be able to put it aside for Karina and maybe Thorn if he does some begging and is extremely lucky, Halt has no such chance because of how much of a sarcastic pain in the ass (mostly affectionate) Erak finds him to be. Erak will not only never let Halt live this down, he will gleefully spill the beans to every mutual friend he and Halt have
According to the wiki, Karina Mikkelswife is two years older than Halt and that feels cursed somehow
They’re finished! Our characters from Dusk City Outlaws! Thorn, the Warden sharpshooter @savagegardenaesthetic), Puck, the Forgotten grifter (allenjan74 on Twitter), Hazel, the Gravedigger poisoner (@suzirya), and my Valentine, the Vesper masquerader. Our judge is YesIAmMackenzie on Twitter.
A rough sketch of our group’s Dusk City Outlaw characters! (YesIAmMackenzie on Twitter is the judge)
From left to right,Thorn the sharpshooter (@savagegardenaesthetic) Puck the grifter (Allenjan74 on Twitter), Hazel the poisoner (@suzirya), and Valentine is my masquerader.
Meet the Coruscant Guards! <3
I really like these boys and I wanted to do my take on their design. I also do believe that at the beginning of the war they tried to stick to the rules regarding appearance but since Senators don’t like to see them without helmets, Fox just said fuck it, keep the armour clean but do whatever the hell you want with your look ( I do believe Hound didn’t shave from the beginning.) Also another headcanon of mine is that the first thing Fox does in the morning is shaving, so looking at his stubble you can judge when was the last time he slept (Thire saw him once with a full beard and took him immediately to their medic)
Thank you for putting this into such eloquent words! I also like how you present your takes on this @murtagh-thorn and @thearunadragon.
! I made an interesting realization just now in the shower! On a couple of occasions, Eragon and Nasuada suggest that Murtagh should act in the way Tornac would have as a way to change for the better and, ultimately, change his true name to free himself from Galbatorix and fight for them instead. Eragon insinuates this without directly mentioning Tornac: "Look at someone whom you admire but who has chosen paths other than your own through life and model your actions upon his." But in the context of Murtagh's backstory, this advice strongly evokes Tornac. And Nasuada outright names him: "Ask yourself: what would Tornac have wanted you to do?"
But that's a very curious demand for them to make because Murtagh is already emulating Tornac. Consider what we know about him. Tornac served Galbatorix, he would have had to for the king to entrust him with Murtagh's care. They lived in Uru'baen together as Murtagh grew up with Tornac raising him and he would have had to be in Galbatorix's service for all that time. Yet, he had no love for the king given that, when Murtagh wanted to abandon the Empire and flee, he was immediately ready to join him and help him leave that very same night. So he served the Empire for many years even though he had no true desire to be support them or the king, in order to provide the care and protection that Murtagh needed, until Murtagh was ready to make his own choice and take his own risk and Tornac turned his back on the king for him without hesitation.
That's exactly what Murtagh is doing. By yielding to Galbatorix and complying with his commands, Murtagh is doing the same thing for Thorn. He's bowed to this broad, great evil so he can look after the needs of an individual when no one else is willing nor able to. He does what he does to prevent Thorn from being tortured, to keep him from being broken, helpless against the king were Murtagh to abandon him. So he doesn't, the same way Tornac never abandoned him. And in the end, they rebel in a very similar way too. When Thorn is ready to carve his own path and fight for the right to claim his own life for the first time, and Murtagh wants to reclaim the life he desired but thought lost, they stand by each other and break free from Galbatorix.
For him to act the way that Tornac would requires that period of reluctant subservience so he can save the one he loves most. They ask Murtagh to follow Tornac's example, ignorant to the fact that the actions they so disapprove of are doing exactly that. And I wonder if this is a root of Murtagh's defining anger, an anger at Eragon and Nasuada's implication that the compromises that saved his own life and provided him much needed love and support through his childhood- the compromises that saved Thorn, the partner of his heart, when no one else (certainly no one from the Varden) would have helped him- were wrong. That they were immoral, they were not worth while, they were not enough, they fell short, they were wrong. Because such an implication is really a dismissal of Murtagh and Thorn's wellbeing- arguably of their lives.
With this little cobweb potion, you'll fall into dark devotion~
Next Helmet ⛑ Commander Thorn 🥰
I love the thought of grumpy x sunshine bromance with Fox and Thorn. Thorn being the sunshine character and Fox being the grumpy one.
Fox always seems annoyed whenThorn jokes around or gets on his nerves but he secretly likes it and doesn’t mind a little but of company.
There is no more division between thorns and roses,
But there is one between your heart and mine..
So fill the void with an unsheathed dagger
And let my heart bleed red and divine.
With @staff 's recent post saying 1/4 of this site is LGBTQ going around, I'd like to see what the actual demographic is
So!
Please reblog for bigger sample size!
"The Hex Girls" concept art from "Scooby Doo and The Witch's Ghost" by Jim Stenstrum
Earth, Wind, Fire and Air
We may look bad, but we don't care
We ride the Wind we feel the Fire
To love the Earth is our one desire
To love the Earth is our one desire
🧛🏻♀🧛🏼♀️ 🧛🏽♀🦇🕸🕷🌌🌕
Corrie Gaurd Material List❤️💋❌🚨
|❤️ = Romantic | 🌶️= smut or smut implied |🏡= platonic |
Commander Fox
- x Singer/PA Reader pt.1❤️
- x Singer/PA Reader pt.2❤️
- x Singer/PA Reader pt.3❤️
- x Singer/PA Reader pt.4❤️
- x Caf shop owner reader ❤️
- x reader “command and consequence”❤️
- x Reader “Command and Consequence pt.2”❤️
- x Senator Reader “Red and Loyal” multiple parts ❤️
- “Red Lines” multiple parts
- “soft spot” ❤️
Commander Thorn
- x Senator Reader “Collateral Morals” multiple parts❤️
- x Senator Reader “the lesser of two wars” multiple parts ❤️
Sergeant Hound
- X Reader “Grizzer’s Choice”
Overall Material List
“The Lesser of Two Wars” pt.4
Commander Fox x Reader X Commander Thorn
Thorn didn’t storm. That wasn’t his style. He walked with purpose, armor humming low with motion, cape swaying behind him like a whisper of discipline.
But Hound noticed.
He was lounging against a supply crate near the barracks entrance, tossing a ration bar to Grizzer, who promptly ignored it in favor of chewing on a ruined training boot.
“Evening, Commander,” Hound said, biting back a grin. “You walk like someone just voted to cut rations for clones with sense.”
Thorn didn’t answer. He brushed past, stopped, and then turned around so sharply Hound blinked.
“Why the hell does she smile like that?” Thorn muttered.
Hound blinked again. “…Pardon?”
“Senator,” Thorn said curtly. “The senator. She smiles like she doesn’t care that we’re built for war. Like we’re not walking weapons. Like she’s not afraid of what we are.”
Grizzer let out a soft woof.
Hound tilted his head. “So… what’s the problem?”
“The problem,” Thorn said, pacing now, his helmet under one arm, “is that I find myself caring about her smile. Noticing it. Waiting for it. The nerve of her—walking between two commanders like it’s nothing. Like we’re not trained to see everything as a threat. Like she’s not a threat.”
“To what? Your assignment?” Hound asked, amused. “Or your emotional stability?”
Thorn glared. Grizzer whined, wandered over, and bumped his head into Thorn’s shin. He reached down and idly scratched behind the mastiff’s ears.
“She got under your skin,” Hound said, chewing on the stem of a stim-pop. “Happens to the best of us. She’s clever. Looks good in those robes. Has a backbone of beskar. What’s not to notice?”
“I don’t want to notice.”
“Ah, but you do.”
Thorn didn’t reply.
He sat down heavily on the bench beside Hound, setting his helmet down beside him.
“I shouldn’t even be thinking about this. About her.”
“She flirt with you?”
Thorn hesitated. “Not… obviously.”
“But enough to make Fox irritated.”
Thorn raised a brow. “You noticed that too.”
“Please. Fox’s expression didn’t change, but the man started walking closer to her like she was carrying his damn tracking chip.” Hound chuckled. “Bet he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.”
They sat in silence for a minute.
Grizzer dropped the training boot in front of Thorn and wagged his tail.
Thorn stared at the mangled leather. “That’s about how my brain feels.”
Hound laughed. “Commander, you need sleep.”
“I need a reassignment.”
“You need to admit she’s under your skin and figure out how not to let it compromise your professionalism.”
Thorn exhaled slowly.
“Can’t let it show.”
“Good,” Hound nodded. “Now come inside before Grizzer starts thinking you’ve become a chew toy too.”
Thorn stood, gave the mastiff a final scratch behind the ears, and retrieved his helmet.
He didn’t say another word—but the weight in his steps had shifted. Just a little.
Not lighter. Not heavier.
Just more aware.
⸻
The city was unusually quiet that evening. The hum of speeders far below faded beneath the hush of twilight. The Coruscant skyline glowed, glass and durasteel kissed by soft reds and purples.
Fox didn’t linger in beautiful places.
He was there on duty, posted near the upper balcony where the senator had stepped out “just for a breath.” He hadn’t planned to engage, only observe, protect, return.
But she hadn’t gone back inside.
She leaned against the railing, alone, hair pinned up loosely, a datapad forgotten beside her, as if the very idea of responsibility repulsed her in that moment.
He waited a respectful distance. Still. Silent. Like always.
Then she spoke.
“You ever wonder if all this”—she gestured to the skyline—“is actually worth protecting?”
He said nothing. He was trained for silence. Expected to maintain it.
But her voice was quieter this time. “Sorry. I know that’s dark. I just—feel like I’m holding up a wall no one else wants to fix.”
Fox found himself responding before he thought better of it. “That’s the job.”
She turned slightly, surprised.
He added, “Holding up the wall.”
The senator gave him a faint, exhausted smile. “Do you ever feel like it’s crumbling under your feet anyway?”
He didn’t answer. Not with words.
He took a step closer instead.
A small thing. Measured. Not enough to draw attention.
But enough for her to notice.
Her gaze lowered to the space now between them. “Commander,” she said gently, teasingly, “if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were getting comfortable.”
“I’m not,” he said flatly.
She tilted her head. “Shame. It’s a lovely view.”
He said nothing, but his eyes didn’t move from her.
And then—
She turned away. Not dramatically. Just slowly, thoughtfully, brushing a finger along the rail’s edge.
“It’s funny,” she said, voice soft again. “I think I trust you more than I trust half the Senate.”
“You shouldn’t,” he replied, too quickly.
She looked over her shoulder. “Why not?”
He didn’t answer.
Because the truth was—
He didn’t know.
He looked away first.
You stared.
Fox was composed, always. The kind of man who spoke with fewer words than most used in a breath. You’d watched him through Senate hearings, committee debriefings, and those long silences standing at your side. He was built for control—stone-set and unshakable.
Which is why this moment felt like seeing a fault line in a mountain.
You stepped toward him.
Just slightly.
“I asked why not,” you repeated, your voice lower now. Not coy. Not teasing. Just… honest.
Fox’s helmet was clipped to his belt, his posture precise. But his jaw had locked. His brow was tight—not angry, not annoyed.
Guarded.
“You don’t know me,” he finally said, eyes fixed on the horizon like it might offer him cover.
“I know enough,” you replied, softer.
He didn’t move.
You tried again.
“You think I trust people easily?” A dry laugh left you. “I sit beside men who sell planets and call it compromise. I’ve had allies vote against my own bills while smiling at me from across the chamber. But you—when you walk into a room, everything sharpens.”
That got his attention. A flicker of his gaze, brief but direct.
You stepped closer.
“You don’t talk unless it’s important. You watch everything. And no one gets close, not really. But I see the way your men listen when you speak. I see how you stand between danger and everyone else without asking for anything in return.”
His expression didn’t shift. Not much.
But his hands curled faintly at his sides.
“I trust you, Commander,” you said. “And I don’t think that’s a mistake.”
The wind picked up slightly, rustling the edge of your robe.
Fox was quiet for a long time. And then—
“Don’t.”
One word. Clipped. Too sharp to be cold.
You blinked. “Don’t… what?”
He turned to face you fully now, and there was something there—in his eyes, usually so still. Not anger. Not fear.
A warning.
“Don’t mistake professionalism for something it isn’t.”
You looked up at him for a moment, unmoving. “I’m not.”
His jaw flexed. “Then don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to.”
That hit a nerve. You stood straighter, chest tight.
“You don’t get to blame me for not hearing the things you’re too chicken to say,” you said quietly, your voice clipped but steady.
His breath caught—not visibly, not audibly. But you saw it. In the eyes. In the way his shoulders tightened, like something had landed.
But he didn’t respond.
You watched him another moment, then stepped back, retreating into the cool hallway of the Senate building without another word.
He stayed there.
In the quiet.
And stared after you like the words had hit him somewhere unarmored.
The marble under your boots echoed with each step, but you walked without a sound.
The exchange with Fox still thrummed in your chest. The way he’d looked at you. The way he hadn’t.
The way his silence had said too much.
You pressed a hand to your temple, trying to will the flush in your skin to cool. You hadn’t meant to push that far—but stars, you had been waiting for something. Anything. A sign that the wall wasn’t so impenetrable.
You didn’t expect the next voice you heard.
“My dear senator,” came the smooth, silk-wrapped timbre of Chancellor Palpatine.
You froze.
Not because of fear. But because his voice always had that effect.
You turned and offered the practiced smile you reserved for… certain company.
“Chancellor,” you said, clasping your hands politely in front of you. “I didn’t see you.”
He stepped into the corridor from the far end, draped in red and black, expression benevolent, but sharp beneath the surface.
“I was passing through after a long meeting with the Banking Clan representatives. Tense discussions, I’m afraid. I trust you’re well?”
“Well enough,” you replied smoothly. “Just getting some air.”
“Ah,” he said, folding his hands behind his back as he walked beside you. “We all need moments of reflection. Though I imagine yours are far and few between these days. The Senate rarely allows much rest.”
You gave a short laugh. “No. It certainly doesn’t.”
He glanced at you, unreadable.
“I hear the Guard’s been paying close attention to you lately. Commander Fox himself, no less. It’s good to see such… attentiveness. You must feel very safe.”
Your spine straightened slightly. “They’re dedicated men. I’m grateful for their protection.”
“I’m sure you are,” he said, the warmth in his tone not quite reaching his eyes. “Still… I hope you remember where your true allies lie.”
You offered him the same tight smile. “Of course, Chancellor.”
He regarded you for a moment longer. “You’ve always been a passionate voice, Senator. Young. Decisive. I do hope you’ll continue to support the efforts of the Republic, especially as we move into… more delicate phases of wartime policy.”
You didn’t flinch. “I serve the people of my system. And I believe in the Republic.”
“But belief,” he said, gently, “is only part of the duty. Sometimes we must make difficult choices. Unpopular ones.”
You met his gaze and gave nothing back.
“Then I hope the right people are making them,” you replied.
His smile thinned. “As do I.”
You inclined your head. “If you’ll excuse me, Chancellor, I do have a report to finish.”
He stepped aside, allowing you to pass.
“Of course. Rest well, Senator. You’ll need your strength.”
You didn’t look back.
You didn’t need to.
The shadow of his presence stretched long after his footsteps faded.
⸻
Fox sat in the dark.
Helmet on the table. Armor half-unclasped. Fingers pressed to the bridge of his nose.
He hadn’t even made it to his bunk.
The locker room was silent, most of the Guard long since rotated out or posted elsewhere. The overheads were dimmed. Only the soft mechanical hum of the lockers and the occasional flicker of red light from an indicator broke the stillness.
But his mind wasn’t still.
He’d heard people raise their voices at him before. Angry senators, frustrated generals, clones pushed to the brink. That was easy. Anger rolled off him like rain off plastoid.
This was different.
She hadn’t said it to wound him.
She’d said it like she meant it.
Like she saw him.
And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t know what to do with that.
His hands flexed in his lap, slow and deliberate. He remembered how she looked tonight—standing under the red-gold skyline, eyes bright but tired, speaking softly like they were the only two people left in the galaxy.
It was wrong. Letting it get to him.
She was a senator. He was a soldier.
It wasn’t supposed to matter what her voice did to his chest.
What the scent of her did to his focus.
He wasn’t Thorn. He didn’t lean in. He didn’t get rattled by conversation, didn’t let his mouth run ahead of his orders.
But… she’d gotten under his skin. Somehow.
Fox exhaled slowly and reached for his gloves.
Then paused.
His thumb hovered over the comlink tucked beside his helmet.
He stared at it for a moment. Not to call her. He wouldn’t.
But just knowing she could.
That if she needed him, his name would be the first thing spoken through the channel.
He set his jaw, stood up, and locked his armor back into place.
Duty first.
Always.
But his mind stayed behind, somewhere on a balcony, in the dusk light… with her.
⸻
The door slid open with its usual soft chime. You stepped inside, heels clicking gently against polished stone, and leaned heavily against the wall the moment it shut behind you.
Exhausted didn’t quite cover it.
The encounter with the Chancellor still lingered like static. And Fox—
Stars above, Fox.
You kicked off your shoes, dropped your bag, and made your way into the kitchen. You poured yourself something strong and cold, letting the silence of your private apartment sink in.
And then—
The soft buzz of your datapad.
You blinked.
A message.
Not from the Guard.
Not from your aides.
But…
Commander Thorn: Heard there was a rough hearing. You alive in there, or should I break down the door?
You smiled.
And for a moment, the tension eased.
You didn’t reply to Thorn right away.
You stared at the message, lips curving despite the weight still pressing behind your ribs. A chuckle slipped out—quiet, private. The kind meant only for a screen, not a roomful of senators.
Your fingers hovered over the keys for a second before typing:
You: Alive. Barely. Tempted to fake my death and move to Naboo. You free to help bury the body?
The typing indicator blinked back almost immediately.
Thorn: Only if I get first choice on the alias. I vote “Duchess Trouble.”
You: That’s terrible. But I’m keeping it.
Thorn: Thought you might. Get some rest. You earned it today.
You stared at that last line.
You earned it today.
You weren’t sure why those words hit harder than anything in the hearing. Maybe it was because it came from someone who saw things most senators never would. Maybe because it was real.
You typed back:
You: You too, Commander.
And then you set the datapad down, changed out of your formal wear, and let exhaustion carry you to bed.
You weren’t asleep long.
The shrill tone of your emergency comms broke through your dreams like a blaster shot.
You jerked upright, blinking against the haze of sleep, reaching for the device without hesitation.
“H-hello?” your voice cracked, still hoarse from sleep.
A voice—clipped, familiar, urgent—responded.
Fox.
“Senator. There’s been another incident. We’re en route.”
You were already moving. “Where?”
“Senator Mothma’s estate. Explosive detonation near her security gate. No confirmed injuries, but it’s close enough to send a message.”
You froze for only a heartbeat.
“I’ll be ready in five.”
Fox didn’t waste time on reassurance. “We’ll be outside your building. Don’t go anywhere alone.”
The line cut.
You stood in the dark for a second, pulse racing, mind already shifting into survival mode.
Whatever peace you’d clawed out of tonight had just shattered.
⸻
It was a controlled knock—no panic, no urgency—but hard enough to rattle the stillness of the apartment. You flinched, fumbling with your robe as you darted from your bedroom barefoot, still half-dressed.
“Stars, already?” you muttered, cinching the robe at your waist.
The buzzer chimed again.
You hit the panel to open the door.
And there they were.
Fox. Thorn. Towering in crimson armor, backlit by the corridor lights and the glint of Coruscant’s neon skyline. Visors staring forward. Blasters holstered—but you could feel the tension radiating off them like heat from durasteel.
Neither said anything at first.
Then, in a voice low and composed, Fox spoke:
“Senator. We arrived earlier than anticipated.”
“Yeah, no kidding,” you breathed, pushing a damp strand of hair behind your ear. Your robe was thin—too thin, you realized, as the air from the hallway crept over your skin. You crossed your arms instinctively, but it didn’t hide much.
Fox’s helmet tilted slightly—eyes dragging across your form in a quiet, tactical sweep. Not leering. Just… a longer pause than necessary.
Next to him, Thorn cleared his throat.
You raised an eyebrow at both of them. “Enjoying the view, Commanders?”
They didn’t flinch. Of course they didn’t. Both statues of composure, helmets hiding any flicker of reaction.
Fox spoke again, brisk. “We’ll step inside and secure the apartment. You have five minutes.”
“Yes, sir,” you muttered with mock-formality, brushing past them with bare feet against the floor. As you turned, you caught it—Fox’s head slightly turning to follow your movement. A fraction too long.
And thank the stars for helmets, because if you saw his face, you’d never let him live it down.
They moved through your apartment in practiced rhythm, clearing rooms, scanning corners, locking down windows and possible points of breach. Thorn stayed closer to the door, back to the wall, but his shoulders were taut beneath the red of his armor.
You emerged a few minutes later, dressed properly now—hair pulled back, expression sharpened by the adrenaline still running its course.
Fox glanced your way first. His visor tilted again, more subtle this time.
“All clear,” he said, voice crisp. “You’re to be escorted to the Guard’s secure transport. We’ll be moving now.”
You met his visor with a crooked smile. “You didn’t even compliment my robe.”
Thorn, behind him, let out a breath. It might’ve been a laugh. Or a sigh of please, not now.
Fox said nothing.
But his shoulders stiffened just slightly.
And as you stepped between them, one on each side, the heat of their presence pressed in like a second skin.
Danger waited out there.
But for now, this tension?
This was its own kind of war.
⸻
The hum of the engine filled the silence. City lights flared and blurred past the transparisteel windows as the transport cut through the lower atmosphere. Inside, the dim blue glow from the dash consoles painted all three of you in a cold, unflinching light.
Fox sat across from you, arms folded, helmet still on. Thorn was beside him, angled slightly your way—watching the shadows outside like they might reach in and pull the vehicle apart.
No one spoke at first.
It was you who finally broke the silence.
“This isn’t random, is it?”
Fox’s head turned. Slowly. “No.”
Thorn added, “Three incidents in four days. All different targets, different methods. But same message.”
You nodded, arms tucked around yourself. “The threat’s not just violence—it’s disruption. Fear. Shake up the ones trying to hold the peace together.”
Fox leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. “Senator Organa’s transport was sabotaged. Padmé Amidala intercepted a coded threat embedded in one of her Senate droid updates. And now Mothma’s estate.”
“All prominent senators,” Thorn said. “Known for opposing authoritarian measures, trade blockades, or Separatist sympathies. Whoever this is… they’re strategic.”
“And the Senate’s pretending it’s coincidence.” You exhaled a sharp breath. “Cowards.”
Fox didn’t respond, but you saw it in the turn of his helmet—like he’d heard a truth too sharp to name.
Thorn’s voice cut the quiet next. “You’re on the list too, Senator. Whether they’ve moved or not, you’ve been marked.”
You met his gaze, even through the visor. “That’s not exactly comforting, Commander.”
“You wanted honesty,” he replied quietly.
You blinked, caught off guard—not just by the words, but the tone. Low. Sincere. Laced with something warmer than protocol.
Fox shifted, barely. A turn of his body, a flicker of subtle tension.
“They’ll keep escalating,” he said. “We don’t know how far.”
The transport took a turn, and city lights streamed in again, outlining their armor in a way that made them seem more like war statues than men.
And yet, when you looked at them—Fox silent and braced for anything, Thorn watching you with just the slightest flicker of concern behind the visor—it wasn’t fear that struck you.
It was the creeping awareness that maybe the danger outside wasn’t the only storm building.
⸻
Previous Chapter | Next Chapter
“The Lesser of Two Wars” Pt.2
Commander Fox x Reader x Commander Thorn
The club was one of those places senators didn’t publicly admit to frequenting—no names at the entrance, no press allowed, no datapad scans. Just a biometric scan, a whisper to the doorman, and you were in.
Nestled high above the skyline in 500 Republica, it was a favorite among the young elite and the exhausted powerful. All glass walls and plush lounges, dim gold lighting that clung to skin like honey, and music that never rose above a sensual hum. Everything in here was designed to make you forget who you were outside of it.
And tonight, that suited you just fine.
You had a drink in hand—something blue and expensive and far too smooth—and laughter on your lips. Not your usual politician’s laughter either. No smirking charm or polite chuckles. This one was real, deep in your belly, a rare sound that only came out when you were far enough removed from the Senate floor.
“Tell me again how you managed to silence Mas Amedda without being sanctioned,” you asked through your grin, blinking slowly at Mon Mothma from across the low-glass table.
“I didn’t silence him,” Mon said, sipping delicately at a glowing green drink. “I simply implied I’d reveal the contents of his personal expenditures file if he didn’t yield his five minutes of floor time.”
“You blackmailed him,” Chuchi said, eyes wide and utterly delighted. “Mon.”
“It wasn’t blackmail. It was diplomacy. With consequences.”
You nearly choked on your drink. “Stars above, I love you.”
You weren’t the only one laughing. Bail Organa was seated nearby with his jacket off and sleeves rolled, regaling Padmé and Senator Ask Aak with a dry tale about a conference that nearly turned into a duel. For once, there were no lobbyists, no cameras, no agendas. Just the quiet, rare illusion of ease among people who usually bore the weight of worlds.
But ease was temporary. The night wore on, and senators began to peel away one by one—some called back to work, others escorted home under guard, a few sneaking off with less noble intentions. Mon and Chuchi left together, promising to check in on you the next day. Padmé disappeared with only a look and a knowing smile.
You, however, weren’t ready to go.
Not until the lights got just a bit too warm and the drinks turned your blood to sugar. Not until the music softened your spine and left your thoughts curling in all directions.
By the time you left the booth, your heels wobbled. You weren’t drunk-drunk. Just the kind of warm that made everything feel funny and your judgment slightly off. Enough to skip the staff-speeder and walk yourself toward the street-level lift like a very determined, very unstable senator.
You barely made it past the threshold of the club when someone stepped into your path.
“Senator.”
That voice.
Low. Smooth. Metal-wrapped silk.
You blinked, head tilting up.
Commander Thorn.
Helmet tucked under one arm, brow slightly raised, red armor catching the glint of the city lights like lacquered flame. His expression was hard to read—professional, always—but it wasn’t Fox-level impassive. There was a quiet alertness in his eyes, and something… else. Something you couldn’t name through the fuzz of your thoughts.
You gave him a slow once-over, then grinned.
“Well, well. If it isn’t the charming one.”
Thorn’s lips twitched. Almost a smile. Almost.
“You’re leaving without an escort.”
“Can’t imagine why. I’m obviously walking in a very straight line.”
You took a bold step and swerved instantly.
He caught your elbow in one gloved hand, his grip steady, sure. “Right.”
You laughed softly, not pulling away. “Did Fox send you?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“I was stationed nearby. Saw you entered and didn’t leave with the other senators. Waited.”
You blinked, the words catching up slowly.
“You waited?”
His tone was casual. “Senators don’t always make smart choices after midnight.”
You scoffed. “And you’re here to protect me from what—bad decisions?”
“Possibly yourself.”
You leaned in slightly, still smiling. “That doesn’t sound very neutral, Commander.”
“It’s not.”
That surprised you.
Not the words—the admission.
He guided you toward the secure transport platform. You walked close, his arm still steadying you, your perfume drifting between you like static. You felt him glance down at you again, and for once, you didn’t deflect it with a joke. You let the silence stretch, warm and a little unsteady, like everything else tonight.
When you reached your private residence, he walked you to the lift, hand never once leaving your arm. It wasn’t possessive. It was watchful. Protective. Unspoken.
The lift doors opened.
You turned to him. Slower now. Sober enough to remember the mask you usually wore—but too tired to lift it fully.
“Thank you,” you murmured. “Really.”
“I’d rather see you escorted than carried,” he said simply.
A beat passed.
“I think I like you better outside of duty,” you said, voice quieter. “You’re a little more human.”
And for the first time, really, Thorn smiled.
Not a twitch. Not a ghost.
A real one.
It was gone before you could memorize it.
“Goodnight, Senator.”
You stepped into the lift.
“Goodnight, Commander.”
The doors closed, and your chest ached with something that wasn’t quite intoxication.
⸻
You barely had time to swallow your caf when the doors to your office hissed open without announcement.
That never happened.
You looked up mid-sip, scowling—only to find Senator Bail Organa storming in with the calm urgency of a man who never rushed unless the building was on fire.
“Good morning,” you said warily. “Is something—”
“There’s been a threat,” he interrupted. “Targeted. Multiple senators. Chuchi, Mon, myself. You.”
You lowered your mug, slowly. “What kind of threat?”
Bail handed you a datapad with an encrypted message flashing in red. You scanned it quickly.
Anonymous intel. Holo-snaps of your recent movements. Discussions leaked. Your voting history underlined in red. The threat was vague—too vague for your comfort. But it didn’t feel like a bluff.
And it had your name in it.
You exhaled sharply. “Any idea who’s behind it?”
“Too early to confirm. Intelligence thinks it’s separatist-aligned extremists or a shadow cell embedded in the lower districts.”
“Of course they do.”
Bail gave you a meaningful look. “Security’s being doubled. The Chancellor’s assigning escorts for all senators flagged.”
You raised a brow. “Let me guess. I don’t get to pick mine.”
“No. But I thought you’d appreciate knowing who was assigned to you.”
The door opened again before you could ask.
Two sets of footsteps. Distinct.
Heavy. Precise.
You didn’t have to turn around to know.
Fox.
Thorn.
Of course.
Fox was already scanning the room. No helmet, but sharp as a knife, his eyes flicking to every shadow, every corner of your office like you were under attack now. Thorn walked half a step behind, expression calm, posture less rigid, but still unmistakably alert.
“I see we’re all being very subtle about this,” you muttered, glancing at the armed men flanking your office now like guards of war.
“You’re on the list,” Fox said. His voice was like crushed gravel—low, even, never cruel, but always tired.
“What list, exactly?” you asked, crossing your arms. “The ‘Too Mouthy to Survive’ list?”
Thorn’s mouth twitched again—always the one with the faintest hint of humor behind the armor.
“The High Risk list,” Fox replied simply.
“And how long will I be babysat?”
“Until the threat is neutralized or your corpse is cold,” Thorn said, deadpan.
You blinked.
“Was that a joke?”
“I don’t joke.”
“He does,” Fox said without looking at him. “Badly.”
“I hate this already,” you muttered, rubbing your temple.
Bail cleared his throat. “They’ll rotate between shifts. Never both at the same time, unless the situation escalates.”
Your head snapped up. “Both?”
“Yes,” Bail said flatly. “Two of the best. You should consider yourself lucky.”
“I’d feel luckier if my personal space wasn’t about to become a crime scene.”
Thorn stepped forward, tone gentler than Fox’s but still authoritative. “We’re not here to interfere with your duties. Just protect you while you do them.”
“And that includes sitting in on committee meetings? Speeches? Dinner receptions?”
Fox nodded. “All of it.”
You looked between them—Fox, with his granite stare and professional distance, and Thorn, who still hadn’t quite stopped looking at you since last night.
Something in your gut twisted. Not fear. Not annoyance.
Something dangerous.
This wasn’t just political anymore.
You were being watched. Stalked. Hunted.
And these two were now your only shield between that threat and your life.
You hated the idea of needing protection.
You hated how safe you felt around them even more.
⸻
The Senate chamber was unusually quiet.
Not silent—never silent—but that thick kind of quiet that came before a storm. Murmurs dipped beneath the domes, senators eyeing each other with the unease of shared vulnerability. No one said it outright, but the threat had spread. Everyone had heard.
And everyone knew some of them were marked.
You sat straighter in your pod than usual, spine taut, eyes fixed on nothing and everything. You’d spoken already—brief, pointed, and barbed. You had no patience today for pacifying words or empty declarations of unity.
Somewhere behind you, still and unreadable as always, stood Commander Fox.
He hadn’t flinched when your voice rose, hadn’t twitched when you called out the hypocrisy of a few senior senators who once claimed loyalty to neutrality but now conveniently aligned with protection-heavy legislation.
Fox didn’t speak. He didn’t move. He didn’t need to.
His presence was a loaded weapon holstered at your back.
You ended your speech with a clipped nod, disengaged the microphone, and leaned back in your seat. The applause was polite. The glares from across the chamber were not.
When the hearing adjourned, your pod retracted slowly, returning to the docking tier. You stood, heels clicking against the durasteel, and without needing to signal him, Fox stepped into motion behind you.
He said nothing.
You said nothing—at first.
But halfway down the polished hallway leading back toward your office, you tilted your head slightly.
“You know, you’re a hard one to read, Commander.”
Fox’s gaze didn’t waver from the path ahead. “That’s intentional.”
“I figured.” You glanced sideways. “But you’re really good at it. Do you even blink?”
“Occasionally.”
Your lips twitched, a smile curling despite yourself.
“Not a lot of people can keep up with me,” you said, voice softer now. “Even fewer try.”
Fox didn’t reply immediately. But something shifted.
Not in what he said—but in what he didn’t.
He moved just half a step closer.
Most wouldn’t have noticed. But you were trained to pick up the smallest things—micro-expressions, body language, political deflections hidden in tone. And you noticed now that he was watching you more directly. That his shoulders weren’t held quite as far from yours. That his footsteps echoed in perfect sync with yours.
You turned your head toward him, brow raised.
“I thought proximity would make you uncomfortable,” he said, finally.
You blinked. “Because I’m a senator?”
“Because you don’t like being watched.”
“Everyone watches senators,” you said. “You’re just better at it.”
Another step.
Closer.
He still didn’t look at you outright, but you felt it. That shift in awareness. That quiet, focused gravity pulling toward you without making a sound.
“What’s your read on me, then?” you asked.
Fox stopped walking.
So did you.
He finally turned his head. Just slightly. Just enough.
“You’re smart enough to know what not to say in public,” he said. “But reckless enough to say it anyway.”
You stared at him, breath caught somewhere between offense and amusement.
“And that makes me what? A liability?”
“It makes you visible,” Fox said. “Which is more dangerous than anything else.”
Your mouth was dry. “Is that your professional opinion?”
His eyes didn’t leave yours.
“Yes.”
You felt the air shift between you. Unspoken, heavy.
Then, just like that, he stepped ahead of you again, resuming the walk as though the pause hadn’t happened at all.
You followed.
But your heart was beating faster.
And you weren’t sure why.
You were almost at your office when the change in guard was announced.
“Senator,” Fox said, pausing by the lift. “My shift’s ending. Commander Thorn will take over from here.”
You opened your mouth to ask something—anything—but he was already stepping back. Already gone.
And just like that, you felt it.
The cold absence where his presence had been.
The lift doors opened before the silence had a chance to stretch too far.
“Senator,” Thorn greeted, stepping out with that easy, assured confidence that Fox never wore.
His helmet was clipped to his belt this time, revealing the full sharpness of his jaw, the subtle smirk tugging one corner of his mouth upward. His expression was casual—friendly, even—but his eyes swept you over with that same tactical precision as Fox’s.
You noticed it, even if others wouldn’t.
“Commander Thorn,” you said, brushing a stray strand of hair back. “How fortunate. I was just getting bored of no conversation.”
Thorn chuckled. “That sounds like Fox.”
“He said maybe twelve words the entire time.”
“Four of them were probably your name and title.”
You smirked, but your tone turned dry. “And you’re any different?”
He fell into step beside you without needing to be told. “Maybe. Depends.”
“On?”
He tilted his head slightly. “Whether you want someone who listens, or someone who talks.”
You glanced up at him, not expecting that level of insight. “Bold for a man I barely know.”
“I’d say we know each other better than most already,” he said casually. “I’ve seen you argue with half the Senate, smile at the rest, and stumble out of a club at 0200 pretending you weren’t drunk.”
Your cheeks flushed. “I was not pretending.”
He grinned. “Then you were very convincing.”
You reached your office doors. The security droid scanned you and unlocked with a soft click. You didn’t go in right away.
“You’re not like him,” you said after a beat.
“Fox?” Thorn’s brow lifted. “No. He’s the wall. I’m the gate.”
You gave him a look.
“That’s either poetic or deeply concerning.”
He leaned slightly closer—close enough that you could feel the warmth of him, the sheer reality of the man behind the armor. “Just means I’m easier to talk to.”
You didn’t respond immediately.
But your fingers lingered a little longer on the door panel than they needed to.
“I’ll be inside for a few hours,” you said finally, voice softer now.
Thorn didn’t step back. “I’ll be right here.”
The door closed between you, but your heart was still beating just a little too loud.
⸻
You were seated at your desk, halfway through tearing apart a policy proposal when the alarms flared to life—blaring red lights streaking across the transparisteel windows of your office.
Your comms crackled a second later.
“All personnel, code red. Attack in progress. Eastern Senate wing compromised.”
You stood so fast your chair tipped over.
Outside your door, Thorn’s voice was already sharp and commanding.
“Stay inside, Senator. Lock the doors.”
“Thorn—”
“I said lock it.”
You hesitated for only a second before slamming your palm against the panel. The doors sealed shut with a hiss, cutting off the sounds beyond.
Your pulse thundered in your ears. The east wing. You didn’t need a layout map to know who worked down there.
Mon Mothma.
Riyo Chuchi.
You turned toward your comm panel and opened a direct line.
It didn’t go through.
The silence that followed was worse than any explosion.
Moments passed. Five. Ten. Long enough for doubt to slither into your chest.
Then the door unlocked.
You turned quickly—but not in fear. Readiness.
Thorn stepped inside, blaster still drawn. His armor was singed, one pauldron scraped, the other glinting with something wet and copper-dark.
“Are they okay?” you asked, voice too sharp, too desperate.
“One confirmed injured,” Thorn said. “Not fatal. Attackers fled. Still sweeping the halls.”
You exhaled, relief unspooling painfully down your spine.
Thorn crossed the room to you, checking the windows before stepping back toward the door.
“I’m getting you out,” he said.
“Now?”
“It’s not safe here.”
You followed him without hesitation.
But just before the hallway opened fully before you, another figure joined—emerging from the opposite end with dark armor, dark eyes, and a darker expression.
Fox.
He didn’t speak. Just looked at Thorn. Then at you.
Then back at Thorn.
Thorn gave a small, dry nod. “Guess command figured double was safer.”
Fox stepped into pace beside you, opposite Thorn.
Neither man said a word.
But you felt it.
The change. The pressure. The electricity.
Both commanders moved in unison—professional, focused, unshakable. But their attention wasn’t just on the halls or the shadows. It was on each other. Measuring. Reading. Holding something back.
And you?
You were caught directly between them.
Literally.
And, for the first time, maybe not unwillingly.
The Senate had been locked down, but your apartment—tucked within the guarded diplomat district—was cleared for return. Not safe, not exactly, but safer than a building that had just seen smoke and fire.
Fox and Thorn flanked you again.
The hover transport dropped you three streets out, citing security rerouting, so the rest of the way had to be walked. Late-night fog curled between the towers, headlights casting long shadows.
You should’ve been quiet. Should’ve been tense.
But something about the presence of both commanders beside you—so alike and yet impossibly different—made your voice turn lighter. Bolder.
“I feel like I’m being escorted by a wall and a statue,” you teased, glancing sideways. “Guess which is which.”
Thorn let out a low snort, barely audible.
Fox, predictably, did not react.
You smiled a little. Then pressed further.
“You really don’t say much, do you, Commander?” you asked, turning slightly toward Fox as your heels clicked against the pavement.
“Only when necessary.”
“Lucky for me I enjoy unnecessary things.”
Fox’s eyes didn’t flicker. Not outwardly. But he said nothing, which somehow made the game more interesting.
You leaned in, just enough to brush near his armor as you passed a narrow alley. “What if I said it’s necessary for me to hear you say something soft? Maybe something charming?”
Fox didn’t stop walking. But his gaze turned fully to you now, sharp and unreadable.
“Then I’d say you’re testing me,” he said lowly.
Your breath caught for a beat.
Behind you, Thorn cleared his throat—just once, quiet but pointed.
You looked back at him with a sly smile. “Don’t worry, Commander. I’m not starting a fight. Just making conversation.”
“You’re good at that,” Thorn said, polite but cool.
Was that… jealousy? No. Not quite. But close enough to touch it.
You reached your door and turned toward both men.
“Are either of you coming inside?” you asked, only half joking.
Fox didn’t answer. Thorn gave you a knowing smile.
“Not unless it’s protocol, Senator.”
You shrugged dramatically. “Shame.”
The locks activated with a soft click. You turned just before stepping through the threshold.
“Goodnight, Commander Thorn. Commander Fox.”
Fox gave you a single nod.
Thorn, ever the warmer one, offered a parting smile. “Sleep easy, Senator. We’ve got eyes on your building all night.”
You stepped inside.
And as the door closed behind you, you pressed your back to it… smiling. Just a little.
One was a wall. The other a gate.
And both were beginning to open.
⸻
Previous Chapter | Next Chapter
“The Lesser of Two Wars” Pt.1
Commander Fox x Senator Reader x Commander Thorn
Summary: The senator becomes the quiet obsession of two elite commanders, sparking a slow-burn love triangle beneath the surface of duty and politics.
If anyone ever asked, you’d tell them you became a Senator by accident.
You weren’t born with a silver tongue or bred in the soft halls of Coruscant. No. You earned your seat by scraping your way up through the mess of planetary diplomacy, one bitter compromise at a time. And somehow—against your better judgment—you’d gotten good at it.
Politics were war without blasters.
And most days, you’d rather take a shot to the chest than attend another committee meeting.
Still, here you were—draped in crimson silks, shoulders squared like armor, and face carved into the perfect expression of interest. The Senate roared with debate. Systems cried for resources. Sycophants whispered and bartered behind you. But your voice—when you chose to use it—cut through like a vibroblade. That’s what made you dangerous.
Padmé once told you that change was a quiet thing, made in corridors and council rooms, not just battlefields. You told her it felt more like drowning slowly in bureaucracy. She just smiled like she knew a secret you didn’t.
The Senate was a performance.
A stage lined with robes instead of armor, filled with actors who knew how to posture but not how to listen.
You hated it.
And yet, you were one of its stars—elected against the odds, sharp-tongued, unrelenting, and quietly feared by those who underestimated you. You never pretended to like the political game. You just played it better than most.
Still, days like this tested your patience. The emergency session dragged past the second hour, voices rising, layered with false concern and masked self-interest. You didn’t roll your eyes—but it was a near thing.
“Senator,” came the calm voice of a nearby aide. “Security detail has arrived to sweep the outer hall. Commander Fox, Commander Thorn.”
You turned your head slightly as the two men entered the chamber.
Fox came first.
Red armor, regulation-sharp posture, unreadable expression. His presence was quiet but absolute, a man built for control. He walked with measured steps, every movement efficient. You watched him briefly—no longer than anyone else in the room—and noted how his gaze swept the perimeter with military precision.
He didn’t look at you. Not directly. Not for more than a second.
But you noticed the exact moment he registered you.
His shoulders didn’t shift. His mouth didn’t twitch. Nothing gave him away.
But you were good at reading people. And Fox? He was good at not being read.
Thorn followed.
Equally sharp, but louder in presence. His armor bore the polished gleam of someone who took pride in every inch of presentation. He offered a crisp nod to the aides and exchanged a brief, professional word with Senator Organa.
His eyes passed over you once. No pause. No flicker. But the angle of his head adjusted half a degree your way when he moved to stand by the chamber doors. Like he’d marked your position—nothing more.
Professional. Respectful. Untouched.
You exhaled slowly and turned back to your datapad.
Two Commanders. Two versions of unshakable.
You’d been warned of their reputations, of course. Fox, the stoic hammer of Coruscant. Thorn, the bold shield. Both deeply loyal to the Guard. Both rarely assigned together. Their presence meant the Senate was bracing for tension—possibly violence.
You liked them already.
Not because they were charming. Not because they were handsome—though they were, infuriatingly so.
But because they didn’t stare. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t approach with the practiced familiarity of most men who wanted something from a Senator.
No, they were disciplined. Detached.
And that, somehow, made them more dangerous than the rest.
⸻
Later, as the session adjourned and conversation bled into the marble corridors, you passed by them on your way to the lift.
Fox gave a slight incline of his head. Barely a greeting.
Thorn stood perfectly still, gaze straight ahead.
You didn’t stop. You didn’t speak.
But as the lift doors closed behind you, you felt it in your chest—that faint, inexplicable tightness. The kind that warned you of a fight you hadn’t seen coming.
And would never be able to vote your way out of.
⸻
The reception was loud.
Not in volume—but in elegance. Every glass clink, every diplomatic smile, every strategically placed compliment. That was how politicians shouted: with opulence, posture, and carefully crafted subtext.
You stood among it all, still in your robes from earlier, the deep crimson of your sleeves catching the soft amber light of the chandeliers. Surrounding you were names that made the galaxy shiver: Organa, Amidala, Mothma, Chuchi. Allies. Friends. Survivors.
You sipped something you didn’t like and watched the room, bored.
“Twice in one day?” Mon Mothma leaned in gently. “You deserve a medal.”
“Or a decent drink,” you muttered.
Padmé snorted into her glass.
You gave them a smile—small, real—and let your eyes drift.
And there they were. Again.
Commander Fox stood posted by the far archway.
Commander Thorn lingered near the entry steps. Both in armor. Both on duty. Both immaculately indifferent to the golden reception unfolding around them.
You could’ve ignored them.
You should’ve.
But after a half-hour of polite conversation and nothing to sink your teeth into, the idea of a genuine challenge was too appealing to resist.
You slipped away from your group, threading through gowns and murmurs. Your steps were casual but deliberate.
Thorn noticed first. You caught the faint movement of his helmet tilting. Then, quickly and without announcement, you redirected toward Fox.
He didn’t flinch. Not when you stopped a polite distance from him. Not when you met his visor directly. Not even when you tilted your head and offered the first word.
“You know,” you said mildly, “you’re very good at pretending I’m not standing here.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then: “I’m on duty, Senator.”
You gave him a slow nod. “So you are. Must be terribly dull work, watching senators pretend they aren’t scheming.”
“I’ve seen worse.”
“Really?” You leaned in slightly. “What’s worse than watching politicians drink for four hours straight?”
He didn’t answer. But there was a pause—a longer one than regulation probably allowed.
Then finally: “This isn’t the place for conversation.”
“Neither was the Senate floor,” you replied, tone still light. “But you seemed comfortable enough ignoring me there, too.”
At that, something shifted. Barely.
His stance remained rigid. But there was a tightness in his voice now. Controlled tension.
“I don’t make it a habit to engage senators unnecessarily.”
You smiled. Not smug—genuinely amused.
“Don’t worry, Commander. I’m not here to engage you unnecessarily. I just wanted to see if you had a voice beneath all that silence.”
Another pause.
Then, quietly, like it had to be pried loose from steel:
“You’ve heard it now.”
And with that, he returned his gaze forward, unreadable once again.
You lingered a second longer than appropriate. Then turned, walking back to the crowd without looking over your shoulder.
Across the room, Thorn watched the entire exchange.
Didn’t move. Didn’t comment. But his gaze followed you as you rejoined your peers.
Unlike Fox, Thorn had no need for stillness. His restraint was a choice.
And he’d just decided not to intervene.
Not yet.
⸻
You hated how the armor caught the light.
Crimson and white, clean-cut, unblemished—too perfect. Commander Thorn didn’t just wear his armor; he carried it like a statement. Like confidence forged in durasteel.
He stood near one of the tall reception windows now, half-shadowed by draping silk and flickering light. Unlike Fox, who radiated stillness, Thorn watched everything in motion. His gaze tracked movement like a soldier born for the battlefield—alert, calculating, assessing.
But not unkind.
You’d caught his eye earlier during your exchange with Fox. He hadn’t interfered. Hadn’t so much as shifted his weight. But you saw the way he watched you walk away.
And now, with your patience for schmoozing officially dead, you veered toward him with no hesitation.
He acknowledged you before you spoke. A small nod. That alone told you he was already more accommodating than his brother-in-arms.
“Senator,” he said. Not cold. Not warm. Polite. Neutral.
“Commander Thorn,” you echoed, coming to a stop beside him. “You look like you’ve spent the last hour resisting the urge to roll your eyes.”
His mouth twitched. Almost a smile. “Discipline.”
“Right,” you said dryly. “That thing I’m told I lack.”
“Wouldn’t be so sure. You made it through three conversations with Senator Ask Aak without drawing a weapon.”
“That is discipline,” you murmured, half to yourself.
Thorn’s gaze didn’t waver, but there was something in the tilt of his head, the faint ease in his shoulders. He wasn’t as closed-off as Fox, but still impossibly hard to read. He didn’t lean in. Didn’t flirt. But he listened. Sharply.
“You don’t like these events,” he said plainly.
You raised an eyebrow. “I’m shocked it’s that obvious.”
“You’ve looked at the clock seven times.”
You smirked. “Maybe I was counting the seconds until someone interesting finally spoke to me.”
He said nothing to that—no flustered denial, no cocky retort. Just the same steady, unreadable look. But his fingers tapped once—just once—against the side of his thigh.
Interesting.
“I take it you don’t like politicians,” you added.
“I’m a Coruscant Guard, Senator. I don’t get the luxury of liking or disliking.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He turned his head slightly, visor reflecting soft gold.
“It’s the only one I’m giving you. For now.”
You were about to press that—to tease it open, to see if there was a warmer man behind the armor—but fate, cruel and punctual, had other plans.
“Senator!” came a voice from behind you. Shrill. Forced.
You didn’t have to turn to know who it was.
Senator Orn Free Taa. Slime.
Thorn’s posture straightened by the inch. You fought the urge to groan.
“Senator,” you greeted coolly, turning.
“I must speak with you about your position on the Sevarcos embargo. It’s urgent.” He smiled like a Hutt—greasy and too wide. “We can’t keep putting blind faith in the neutrality of mining guilds.”
You glanced at Thorn once more. He didn’t move. But the angle of his helmet, ever so subtle, told you he was still watching.
You gave him a single step back. The silent kind of goodbye.
He didn’t stop you. But his voice, soft and unhurried, followed you as you turned.
“Be careful, Senator. You look like you’re about to say what you really think.”
You smirked.
“Don’t worry, Commander. I’ve survived worse than honesty.”
⸻
“By the stars,” you hissed as the door closed behind you, muffling the tail end of the diplomatic reception, “I’m going to strangle Taa with his own headtails.”
Mon Mothma, lounging with practiced poise on your office settee, didn’t even flinch. “That’s the third time you’ve threatened to kill a fellow senator this month.”
“It’s not a threat if I have plans.” You flung your datapad onto the desk and tore off your formal sash like it personally offended you. “He cornered me twice. Once about mining guilds, and once about ‘strengthening our bipartisan bond,’ whatever the hell that means.”
Mon hummed, sipping something chilled. “You’re too good at your job. That’s the problem.”
You collapsed beside her, robe twisted at the collar and hair loosening from its earlier neatness. “I swear, if I get one more leering invitation to a strategy meeting over dinner—”
“You’ll start accepting them and sabotaging their food.”
You sighed deeply. “Tempting.”
The soft clink of glass was the only reply for a moment. It was late now. The reception had dwindled, but your irritation hadn’t. The pressure. The performance. The underhanded proposals thinly veiled behind political niceties. You hated it. Hated the hypocrisy. Hated that you had to smile while enduring it.
“I just—” you started again, quieter now. “I didn’t sign up for this to climb power ladders. I wanted to help. Not play diplomat dress-up while watching bills get butchered by people who care more about their name than the outcome.”
Mon glanced sideways at you, ever the picture of composed empathy. “And yet, you still manage to do good.”
You scoffed but said nothing more. Your throat felt tight in that old, familiar way. Not tears. Just frustration. A weight you couldn’t always name.
A polite knock cut the quiet.
You blinked, sat straighter. Mon rose, brushing down her dress with a grace you could never quite copy.
“Enter,” you called, standing as the door slid open.
Commander Fox stepped in.
Of course.
His armor gleamed despite the late hour. Hands clasped behind his back, posture impeccable, expression unreadable as always. A faint shimmer of exhaustion touched the edges of his movements, but it never cracked the facade.
“Apologies for the interruption, Senator,” he said, voice even, “but I’m required to confirm your quarters have been secured following the reception.”
You raised an eyebrow. “You’re personally doing room checks now, Commander?”
“Protocol,” he said simply. “A precaution. There’s been increased chatter about potential targeting of senators affiliated with the Trade Route Oversight.”
You and Mon exchanged a look.
“I’ll give you two a moment,” she said lightly, already stepping out. “Try not to threaten him with silverware.”
The door hissed shut behind her.
You turned to Fox, arms crossing loosely over your chest. “You weren’t stationed here earlier. Thorn had this wing.”
“He was reassigned.”
“How convenient,” you murmured, studying him.
Fox didn’t blink.
You sighed. “Well? Do you need me to stand still while you sweep for bombs? Or is this the part where you sternly lecture me about walking away from my escort earlier?”
To your surprise, there was the slightest pause. A fraction of a beat too long.
“…You’re not as unreadable as you think,” you added, gaze narrowing. “You listen like you’re memorizing every word.”
“I am.”
That surprised you. Just a little.
“But not,” he continued, “because I intend to use any of it. Only because I’ve learned the most dangerous people in the galaxy are the ones everyone else stops listening to.”
Your arms dropped to your sides.
For once, you didn’t have a clever reply. Just a pulse that thudded too loud in the quiet.
Fox stepped past you, eyes scanning the perimeter of the room. His tone was quieter when he spoke again.
“You don’t need to pretend you’re unaffected. Not with me. But you do need to be careful, Senator. You’re surrounded by predators—”
You turned slightly. “And what are you?”
He looked at you then. Finally. Even through the helmet, it felt like impact.
“Trained,” he said.
Then he stepped back toward the door.
“Your quarters are secure. Good night, Senator.”
And just like that, he was gone.
You stood in the silence, heart still. Breath caught somewhere too deep in your chest.
Too good to show interest.
But stars, did he listen.
⸻
Next Chapter
I present to you these lush roses on full display in bloom. Don't you think they're flourishing with life, love and static electricity?