Riyo Chuchi - Blog Posts

I agree, she does get slept on.

chuchi sketch dump before bed 

HOW CAN SHE LOOK THIS CUTE?

chuchi sketch dump before bed 

Okay, so I find Riyo Chuchi to be a really interesting character, and this scene from the episode “Trespass” in season one is a fascinating look into her as a person and it’s a fascinating look into the Republic’s political climate at the beginning of the war. This entire episode is a chilling (ha) reminder of how little power the Jedi have, and this interaction is a brilliant one to include.

Because while Riyo isn’t one of the main protagonists, she’s still meant to be a sympathetic character, a character we like and a character we want to succeed. We know that she’s friends with Ahsoka, and we know that she’s at least friendly with Padme. Hell, right after this scene she has a kickass speech and saves the day! Riyo is pretty undeniably portrayed as a good guy to the viewer.

But Riyo still does a pretty huge fandom no-no, for lack of a better way to put it.

Because in this episode, Senator Riyo Chuchi asks the Jedi to negotiate on her planet’s behalf, and when the Council member present says that they can’t, Senator Chuchi changes her tone, and orders them to.

Now, thankfully, Riyo Chuchi is also a logical character, so when Obi-Wan tells her why he said no, she doesn’t fight him on it any further. But it still is fascinating to think about, because… the Jedi serve the Senate. Because even a Senator who’s friends with the “good guys” has no with issue using that fact to her advantage. Because the look that Obi-Wan and Anakin send each other implies that this has absolutely happened before.

It’s just… interesting to think about.

(But also, seriously, the implications throughout this entire episode are kind of horrifying??? Like, within the first two minutes of this episode, we see the Chairman, uh, remind Obi-Wan and Anakin that the Jedi serve the Senate, aka Senator Chuchi in this case, and Riyo then confirms that, leading to Obi-Wan standing down. And that’s pretty much the tone of the entire of the episode! It’s wack.)

girls

Head canon that Leia based her ionic hairdo after Riyo Chuchi's because she looked up to her in politics-

uhhhhh, I tried drawing fox and riyo's child??? She didn't come out as good as I wanted but it's whatever. My fellow Foxiyo shipping artist (or just artists in general)! I challenge you to draw her in your own style and give her a ✨spicy✨ backstory. or don't I can't really tell you what to do.

I used one of those horrible face fuser things and took a fan Fox edit (and I can't for the life of me remember who made it I'm sorry) and this ^ came from this

what the heck did I make?

Is this me, releasing art for a foxiyo grey Jedi fan fiction that I haven’t even started? Of course not! Why would you think that? I never procrastinate on work! NEVER!

Hypothetically...

If Riyo Chuchi where a jedi or grey jedi and hypothetically had two lightsabers made out of gold, what would the blade colors be? This is hypothetical of course. Asking for a friend's dog

So I saw this dress on @ahsokalegend​‘s page, saying it was for her Foxiyo fic called My Guardian angel (witch by the way you should definitely check out cause it’s awesome) and me and my one braincell were like “I need to see her in the actual dress” and this is what came from that. She was really fun to draw, and I’m feeling nice so if anyone wanna use this for whatever you can without my permission. (unless you plan to take credit, then don’t cause that’s just mean)

Who will be the Goddess of Wisdom?

⏳🦉✨

✨🩵Tag list!🩵✨

@orangez3st @crosshairs-dumb-pimp-gf @precioustech @alor-ika

V info page!!

Vihan (nicknamed V by everyone) is the son of Riyo Chuchi and Echo, and a product of a one night stand (Gregor got them drunk), and they co-parent him, and as well as joining the rebellion, he’s an avid Palpatine hater in the senate!!

3/4 are done!! i just need to finish Zay’s now 😔

More info under cut!!

Full name is Vihan “V” Fives Chuchi (Echo chose his middle name)

Projected on him with his sexuality, and the fact that he just likes who he likes (which is literally me)

He met Palpatine due to his mother’s work, and he told V that his hair was ‘scruffy and unkempt’, so, out of spite he keeps it long

Dresses like an absolute loser when he’s not on missions or in gear and claims he’s a fashion icon (he’s not, Nav is)

Is the kind of person to wear baggy ass pyjamas to a formal rebel meeting

When he’s staying on Pabu to visit his dad, his hair goes really curly due to the sun, and then gets really frizzy after he leaves

Helps Riyo in the senate as much as he can, and fills out paperwork and searches documents in his free time to send to her

He collects materials for Zay to fidget with, and always wears whatever she makes

His necklace is the same colour as her kyber crystal so he wears it all the time

Is also very slightly force sensitive, and can just about maybe lift a pencil with it, but doesn’t train or anything, only meditates with Omega and Zay to keep them company (cough cough annoy them), since he can barely use the force

im still in a depressive ass episode but that’s okay because why be sad when you can expand on your ocs!!

Son of the Republic, Hero of the Rebellion

(basically another Star Wars oc)

This is Vihan Chuchi, he was the result of a one night stand between Riyo and Echo (whoops) (Gregor got them both drunk) (they co-parent him)

He’s also like a hairstyle extraordinaire with the amount of different styles I debated giving him

I am planning on giving him a full outfit at some point, I just wanted to give him tattoos

closeups under cut :))

yay

Quinlan: I’VE FOUND HER! *Force pushes Obi-Wan’s bedroom door open*

Obi-Wan: *jumps out of bed, lightsaber in hand, recognizes Quinlan* Yes, Quinlan, please barge into my quarters. I wasn’t sleeping.

Quinlan: THIS ISN’T ABOUT YOU OBI! I AM HAVING A CRISIS.

Obi-Wan: *falls back on bed* What crisis?

Quinlan: *collapses beside him* MY NEMESIS, MY TRUEST ENEMY!

Obi-Wan: …Madame Nu?

Quinlan: What, no. Jocasta has been regulated to third under MY RIVAL and your skeevy grandmaster.

Quinlan: I’ve found THE COMPETITOR FOR THE FAIR FOX’S HEART. The one who kept slipping in with those cookies and scented thank you notes and who bribed the Guardlings.

Obi-Wan: I know I am going to regret this. But who?

Quinlan: Riyo Chuchi.

Obi-Wan: The senator from Pantora?

Quinlan: Obviously. A truly manipulative schemer. Despicable. Clever. Ruthless.

Obi-Wan: Are you sure it’s the same person? Riyo Chuchi is basically a sentient gummybear.

Quinlan: A gummybear soaked in 100% Pantoran vodka maybe. I thought I was unlucky Obi-Wan. She’s been sabotaging me for weeks and I didn’t even realize it was intentional. I almost respect it.

Obi-Wan: ….and what does that have to do with me?

Quinlan: As the biggest slut I know-

Obi-Wan: Retired.

Quinlan: As the biggest retired slut I know, I need your help seducing a man before that alcoholic gummybear wins.

Obi-Wan: If I help you will not break into my apartment for three months.

Quinlan: One.

Obi-Wan: Two.

Quinlan: One and a half.

Obi-Wan: Deal.

Quinlan: Operation Bag A Fox is a go.

I'm exited every time I see Riyo Chuchi because she is such a good person (and character).

But I had the horrifying realisation that she could die in Bad Batch season 3. Because as far as I'm aware she doesn't appear in anything after. She isn't save, like Rex.

Neither is Cody.

Not that Riyo is not pretty with her hair up, but I feel like we need to see her with her hair down, you know?

Echo: Name a more iconic duo than my crippling fear of abandonment and my anxiety. I'll wait. Riyo Chuchi: You and me!! Echo, tearing up: Okay.

Some doodles I had done during my hiatus from the internet that I almost turned into stickers, but never did because I am very lazy lol.

Dates drawn: Sept 18-26, 2023.

This is some of the last Star Wars fanart that I did. :'))

assorted clone wars doods i cant think of a better caption

(commission info // kofi)

I think I found my new favorite Galactic Empire Senator… Riyo Chuchi you are incredible!

You continue your stand for Clone rights! We the fandom stand with you! 🫡

The Bad Batch Season 2 Episode 7 & 8 Review and Discussion - The Consequences of Truth

MASSIVE SPOILER WARNING!

First and foremost, these two episodes were absolutely fantastic from start to finish. It had the same energy that peek Clone Wars had. And the politics. The politics of the clones and the military are some of the best moments to me, as they flesh out the world that our beloved characters live in.

Riyo Chuchi is the absolute goat. End of discussion. I’m so glad that someone is finally stepping up to fight for the clones and their rights, even though it may inevitably be all for nothing. Nevertheless, it was so good to see her appear in TBB, and I love what she was standing for. How the clones have been treated has always broken my heart. They have always deserved so much more and while I know not much will come out of this, it’s good to know that there are people who see them and recognize what they did for the galaxy. Also, it was really nice to see Bail. I wish we got a bit more of him but I understand that perhaps he wants to lay low and not have a target on his back, especially when considering his position in all of this (being the adoptive father of Leia, spearheading the pre-rebellion, etc.)

Seeing the truth be revealed in regards to what really happened to Tipoca City, while short lived, was a victory to me. The dramatic irony that was Rampart saying he was “just following orders,” in the same way that the clones are “just following orders,” was masterful. And to hammer it home, Palpatine saying that “if the clones blindly follow orders” then they need to usher in a new military; thus the introduction of the storm troopers, That stung. Yet, I cannot say I’m necessarily surprised since we are all aware by now of how well Palpatine plays his cards. I am devastated, regardless, at how easy it was for him to spin it around in his favour. 

The final scenes of episode 8 was heartbreaking to say the least. I didn’t expect it at all and I’m honestly really concerned for Echo now that he’s decided to stay with Rex. As we have all speculated, there has to be some sort of event that will push Rex over the edge, enough for him to want to stop fighting. I fear that the possibility of Echo dying has increased because of his decision to stay with Rex and moreover, the chances that his death being the breaking point for Rex has increased. I really hope that isn’t the case though, I don’t think I’d ever recover from that. Plus, It would feel a bit cheap to kill him AGAIN.

To continue from that, the bad batch’s numbers are growing eerily thin. They are now down to four 3.5 members (no offence to Omega, love her character, but let’s be real for a second, she’s not a soldier, she’s a child). I don’t really know what this could mean for them in the long run. All I know is that the family dynamic is breaking down and they may need to start considering their place in all of this; perhaps joining the fight alongside Rex and Echo. 

Overall, these two episodes were on par, if not even better, than episode three. They really gave viewers the insight into the function of the galaxy and its politics at this point in the timeline. Moreover, the tragedy of the clones has been especially highlighted here and it really cements their place in the galaxy. 10/10.

Drawover Mucha. Again. I saw this piece and was like, this is Riyo and Fox. And then I got carried away.

@eobe @eclec-tech @lonewolflupe @ghostymarni

Space girl(s)...show me the stars...

i love them so much...

Clone Wars doodles cause I been on a rewatch binge

I had to draw Chuchi I love her so much she's so PRETTY

Snips, cause yes

And is that a reg?

SIKE ITS REX

GET ‘IM OMEGA!!!

gonna bite

“Red Lines” pt.5

Ryio Chuchi x Commander Fox x Reader x Sergeant Hound

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

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

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

Ila gave you an awkward smile and rushed off.

⸻

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

But R9 was anything but simple.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The thugs swore and lunged.

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

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

Grizzer’s low growl was the first sign.

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

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

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

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

“Hold formation!” Hound barked.

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

“Down!” came the command.

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

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

⸻

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

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

You blinked.

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

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

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

“Let me guess—he insulted them?”

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

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

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

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

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

Another beat of silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stood there for a long moment.

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

⸻

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

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

But the last few images had him still.

R9. Hound. Grizzer.

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

Fox exhaled sharply through his nose.

Behind him, the door hissed open.

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

Fox didn’t answer.

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

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

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

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

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

Fox turned off the screen.

“She’s a senator,” he muttered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fox’s grip tightened on the box.

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

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

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

“I’m fine.”

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

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

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

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

That hung in the air a beat too long.

Fox didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

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

She left.

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

⸻

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

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

“Miss what?”

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

Hound didn’t answer.

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

⸻

Fox didn’t sleep.

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

He wasn’t a man who acted on impulse.

But tonight…

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

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

He pressed the chime.

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

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

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

You opened the door.

And there he was. Fox.

You blinked. “Commander.”

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

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

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

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

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

You smirked faintly. “Jealous?”

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

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

“I warned him not to get attached.”

“Mm. But he already is.”

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

The air stilled.

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

He didn’t answer.

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

“It does,” he snapped.

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

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

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

You softened. Just slightly.

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

“But I can’t ignore it anymore.”

Then—

Knock knock.

Another chime at the door.

You froze. Fox turned.

You opened the door.

Hound stood there. Grizzer sat loyally at his heel.

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

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

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

“I see I’m late.”

Fox stepped forward. “You should go.”

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

“Neither did she ask you.”

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

But neither man budged.

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

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

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

You exhaled slowly, heart loud in your chest.

“I need time,” you said.

Fox nodded stiffly. Hound glanced away, jaw ticking.

Fox left without another word.

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

You closed the door.

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you want tea?” she offered meekly.

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

Commander Fox.

Sergeant Hound.

You weren’t supposed to care.

This was never about feelings.

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

You wanted to make him yours because he seemed unreachable.

You were chasing victory, not romance.

Weren’t you?

And yet…

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

You didn’t ask for this.

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

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

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

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

Fox was the game.

Hound was something else.

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

You sat down slowly on the armrest of the couch.

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

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

“Angry?”

“No.”

“Confused?”

You looked at her then. And said nothing.

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

And still, you sat there. Tea growing cold.

Fox was a competition.

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

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

You looked out the window again.

Maybe you weren’t afraid of choosing wrong.

Maybe… you were afraid of choosing right.

Because right meant letting someone close.

Right meant vulnerability.

Right meant Hound.

⸻

Previous Part | Next Part

“Red Lines” pt.4

Ryio Chuchi x Commander Fox x Reader x Sergeant Hound

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

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

The datapads were already stacked like bricks of guilt.

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

Too much to do. Never enough time.

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

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

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

“I know what they do.”

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

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

The chime of your apartment door interrupted further commentary.

You didn’t look up. “Let them in.”

Maera bowed, then vanished toward the front foyer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And others say effective.”

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

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

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

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

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

Padmé blinked. “Pardon?”

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

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

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

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

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

You shifted slightly in your chair, eyeing her again.

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

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

“Fox,” you supplied, smiling faintly.

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

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

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

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

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

Padmé sighed.

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

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

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

You arched a brow. “A gracious understatement.”

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

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

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

You tilted your head. “You disapprove?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You held your temper,” she said mildly.

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

“I almost miss the yelling.”

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

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

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

“We’re going shopping.”

Maera blinked. “Shopping?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Exactly.”

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

You murmured under your breath:

“Let’s see if protocol can keep up.”

⸻

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

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

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

“Only the cheap ones,” you replied dryly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then something small rammed into your shin.

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

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

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

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

The droid growled.

You grinned. “I’ll take him.”

The shopkeeper blinked. “You will?”

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

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

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

“I collect useful things.”

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

“Senator!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No obliviousness.

“Walking your route?” you asked.

“North patrol. You’re in my sector.”

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

Just real.

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

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

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

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

“I think I could be persuaded.”

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

⸻

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

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

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

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

Maera raised a brow. “The astromech too?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

The protocol droid finally stepped forward, voice even.

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

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

“That could take a while.”

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

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

Everything was sharpening.

Even your toys.

⸻

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

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

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

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

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

“She doesn’t exactly keep you far.”

That made Fox pause.

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

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

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

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

Before the tension could crack the air entirely—

“Commander Fox.”

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

Hound stepped aside, silent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something had changed.

The lines were no longer clean.

He used to know what battlefield he stood on.

Now… he wasn’t so sure.

⸻

It wasn’t like you were following Fox.

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

Pure coincidence, really.

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

She stood closer than usual. Too close.

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

You paused. Watched. Tilted your head.

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

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

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

CLANK—whiiiiiiiiirRRRRRZK—BEEP BEEP BEEP.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not enough.

Never enough.

But still… something.

⸻

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That set the chamber ablaze.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But before she could respond—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“High praise coming from you.”

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

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

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

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

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

You sighed. “And there goes diplomacy.”

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

Maybe.

⸻

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

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

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

You found them both within seconds.

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

They were on Fox.

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

For a few beats, neither did you.

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

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

“Liar.”

You smiled over the rim.

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

You didn’t care about them. Not really.

You moved.

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

Fox nodded. “A fair point, Senator.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not a chance.”

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

Chuchi noticed. Her gaze narrowed.

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

But your attention split.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stood between them, half a heartbeat from chaos.

And somewhere deep down, you enjoyed it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, I never—!”

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

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

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

Fox found you there.

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

“Senator.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then—

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

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

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

And the triangle turned into a square again.

Tight.

Tense.

And ready to collapse.

⸻

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anakin’s jaw twitched.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

⸻

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

Fox.

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

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

The Council was watching. You could feel it.

⸻

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

⸻

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

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

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

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

You looked up slowly.

“About me?”

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

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

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

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

Anakin’s jaw tightened. “Always.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You really upgraded them,” Anakin noted.

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

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

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

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

You gave him a look. “Including you?”

Anakin’s lips quirked. “Especially me.”

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

⸻

Previous Part | Next Part

“Red Lines” pt.1

Fox X Reader

Summary: In the heart of the Republic Senate, political tension runs high—and so does romantic rivalry. Senators [Y/N] and Ryio Chuchi both battle for the attention of Commander Fox. Unbeknownst to Fox, he’s walked straight into the a love triangle he has no idea exists.

⸻

The Senate chamber buzzed with tension—not the kind that demanded attention with yelling or gavel-pounding, but the kind that simmered beneath the surface, the kind that danced behind careful words and meticulously prepared statements.

You sat at your designated repulsorpod, leaning back in your seat with an expression of carefully manufactured boredom. A debate over Republic funding for refugee programs droned on, and across from you, Senator Riyo Chuchi’s voice rang out clear and impassioned.

“We cannot in good conscience divert funds from displaced Outer Rim citizens simply to bolster another military initiative,” she said, chin held high, the folds of her blue and violet robes immaculate.

You raised a brow and tapped your data pad lightly, requesting the floor.

“While I admire Senator Chuchi’s ever-vibrant moral compass,” you began smoothly, tone like silk with a hint of mockery, “perhaps the esteemed senator might consider that without a capable military initiative, there won’t be any citizens left to protect—displaced or otherwise.”

Gasps and murmurs broke out, but Chuchi didn’t flinch.

“That’s a dangerous line of thought, Senator. Lives are not chess pieces.”

You offered her a practiced smile. “And idealism doesn’t win wars.”

The Chancellor’s gavel rang out with sharp finality. “Debate concluded for today. This matter will be brought to committee vote at the end of the week.”

The chamber dispersed slowly, senators floating back into the corridors of marble and durasteel. You stepped off your pod and were already pulling your cloak tighter around your shoulders when a voice called out behind you.

“Senator [L/N], a moment?”

Chuchi.

You turned, arching a brow. “Didn’t get enough of me in the chamber?”

She narrowed her eyes. “I’m not interested in trading barbs with you. I simply want to understand how you can so casually justify funding military expansion when entire systems are starving.”

You smiled, but it didn’t reach your eyes. “Because I’ve seen what happens when we don’t. War isn’t pretty, Senator. You might call me heartless—but I call myself prepared.”

“And I call you reckless.”

You stepped forward, closing the distance. “And I call you naïve.”

The air crackled between you, tension thick—not quite hatred, not quite anything else. She was too sincere. You were too guarded. It was inevitable you’d clash.

Then a new voice cut through the air, cool and commanding.

“Senators.”

Both of you turned in unison.

Standing at full height in pristine red armor was Commander Fox, hands clasped behind his back in perfect posture. The red of the Coruscant Guard gleamed under the overhead lighting, the expressionless T-shaped visor trained on you both.

Beside him stood Chancellor Palpatine, his hands tucked neatly into his sleeves, pale face betraying amusement.

“Ah, Senators. I hope I’m not interrupting,” the Chancellor said, eyes glinting. “Commander Fox will be joining the Senate Security Council temporarily as my personal attaché. You may be seeing more of him in the coming weeks.”

You didn’t hear half of what Palpatine said after Commander Fox.

Your eyes met his visor, and though you couldn’t see his face, something in your chest shifted. He looked like a statue carved from war itself—silent, strong, utterly unreadable.

Next to you, Chuchi straightened slightly.

“Well,” she said softly, “that’s… interesting.”

You shot her a look.

She smirked, just the smallest twist of her lips, and in that second, something shifted again—this time between you and her. An unspoken recognition.

You both had the same thought.

Oh. He’s beautiful.

And neither of you was going to back down.

⸻

The Grand Senate Reception Hall shimmered beneath low, golden lights. Crystal goblets clicked, servers weaved between senators with silent grace, and orchestral music hummed in the background like an afterthought.

You hated every second of it.

The champagne was good, but not good enough to justify the politics that oozed from every polished marble corner. A thousand smiles, none sincere. A thousand compliments, each one a calculation.

You leaned against one of the grand pillars, drink in hand, watching the room like a predator waiting for prey to slip.

“Senator [L/N],” came a too-pleasant voice behind you.

You turned to face Bail Organa. Of course.

“Organa,” you said smoothly. “Slumming it with the likes of me?”

His smile was thin. “Just wondering how long you planned to keep needling Chuchi during committee sessions before it turns into a full-on scandal.”

You tilted your glass in his direction. “Oh, I’m counting on it.”

Before he could respond, Mon Mothma joined him with Padmé in tow. All three wore expressions like they’d stepped in something foul.

“Good evening,” Padmé offered stiffly. “Still nursing your taste for conflict, I see.”

You smirked. “Keeps the blood warm.”

Mon Mothma looked you over like she was assessing a wine stain on her robes. “There’s more to governance than combativeness, Senator.”

You sipped your drink. “Says the woman who’s never had to blackmail a warlord into voting for food aid.”

Padmé frowned. “There are other ways to—”

“Sure,” you cut in. “The moral high road. But it’s paved with corpses who couldn’t afford your patience.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Bail gave a tight nod and ushered them away. You watched them go with a smirk. Poking them was too easy.

A moment later, you felt the air shift.

You didn’t need to look to know who had walked in.

Commander Fox. Standing beside Chancellor Palpatine like a silent shadow, red armor pristine, his helmet tucked under one arm.

The murmurs were immediate—political interest, curiosity, and more than a few appreciative glances. But yours wasn’t casual interest. It was sharp, focused.

You tilted your head as you watched him, just for a moment too long.

Then your eyes slid sideways—and met Chuchi’s.

She was across the room, bathed in soft light, delicate hands curled around a glass of something clear. She followed your gaze to Fox, then back to you.

You smiled. She didn’t.

She turned away, cutting through the crowd with all the elegance her status demanded, and joined a cluster of senators.

You drifted toward a table where the more pragmatic senators had gathered— Ask Aak, Orn Free Taa—laughing too loud and sipping drinks too strong.

“[L/N],” Taa grunted, patting the seat beside him. “We were just discussing how flexible some of the outer rim tax restrictions could be… for the right votes.”

“Always such stimulating conversation,” you replied dryly, sitting with an exaggerated sigh. “I assume the ‘right votes’ are the ones that come with a gift basket.”

Laughter. Real, ugly laughter. You loathed them—but they were useful. They liked you because you weren’t afraid to get your hands dirty. Because you didn’t waste time with speeches about justice and peace.

You spotted Chuchi again. She stood near a window, now much closer to Fox—speaking to him, if briefly. His responses were clipped and polite, the kind of efficiency born from a lifetime of standing guard and keeping his thoughts locked behind durasteel.

She laughed lightly at something he said. Her smile was warm. Kind.

You drained your glass.

She was playing the charm angle.

You? You preferred a more direct approach.

You slipped away from the corrupt senators, weaving through the crowd with predator’s ease, and approached the refreshment table just as Fox turned away from Chuchi.

You timed it perfectly.

“Commander,” you said, voice low and silken.

He turned, visor tilting downward to meet your gaze. Even without seeing his face, his posture straightened slightly.

“Senator,” he acknowledged.

“Enjoying yourself?” you asked, voice casual, picking up another glass.

He hesitated. “Not particularly.”

You smiled, genuinely this time. “Good. You’re not missing anything.”

His head tilted slightly. “I assumed as much.”

There was a pause—an odd, quiet moment in the middle of a too-loud room. Then Chuchi reappeared at Fox’s other side.

“Commander,” she greeted, “I hope [L/N] isn’t boring you with cynicism.”

You raised a brow. “I could say the same about your optimism.”

Fox looked between you, the briefest shift of weight betraying his discomfort. If he realized you were fighting over him, he didn’t show it.

“Senators,” he said carefully, “I’m assigned here for the Chancellor’s protection, not personal conversation.”

“Oh, but conversation is protection,” you said. “The more you know what someone’s hiding, the better you know where to aim.”

Chuchi frowned, eyes narrowing. “Not everyone’s out for blood.”

You tilted your head toward her. “No. But everyone’s out for something.”

Fox stared straight ahead, impassive.

He had no idea what he’d just stepped into.

The pause between the three of you had stretched just a breath too long.

Fox, ever the professional, inclined his head. “If you’ll excuse me, Senators. I have to return to my post.”

Without another word, he turned and strode away with mechanical precision, the red of his armor catching the candlelight like a bloodstain.

You watched him go. So did Chuchi.

The second he was out of earshot, her voice dropped like a blade.

“You know,” she said tightly, “the clones aren’t toys.”

You blinked, slowly turning your head toward her.

“They’re people,” she continued, voice soft but steely. “They’re not here for your amusement, Senator. You don’t get to play with them like they’re decorations to be admired and discarded.”

You took a measured sip of your drink, then smiled—razor-sharp and unbothered. “How charming. I didn’t realize we were giving lectures tonight.”

“This isn’t a joke.”

“Oh, I agree. It’s far funnier than that.”

Chuchi’s jaw tensed.

You swirled the liquid in your glass and added, “Tell me, Senator—do you think standing near him and smiling like a saint makes you so different from me?”

“I am different,” she snapped, surprising even herself with the venom behind her words. “I see him as a person. Not a piece of armor. Not a weapon. Not a status symbol.”

You arched a brow. “And what, exactly, do you think I see?”

She folded her arms. “A game. Another victory to notch in your belt. Another soldier to claim until you get bored.”

You laughed, low and cool. “Please. I have senators for that.”

She didn’t laugh. She just stared—eyes narrowing, mouth tight.

“I respect him,” she said. “You—use people.”

You leaned in, just slightly. “You idealize them. Which is more dangerous, really?”

She didn’t answer, but the look on her face said enough. Her hands were clenched now, knuckles white against the soft blue of her gown.

“I don’t need to explain myself to you,” she muttered.

“No,” you said lightly. “You really don’t.”

You watched her go, shoulders stiff, spine straight, like she was marching into battle. It was almost admirable.

You turned back toward the banquet table, tossing back the rest of your drink. Your reflection stared back at you from the polished surface of a silver decanter—smiling, sharp, and just a little bit empty.

Whatever this thing with Fox was, it wasn’t going to be simple.

And now?

It was war.

The echo of Chuchi’s righteous indignation still rang in your ears as you refilled your drink—this time with something stronger, something that bit like guilt and went down like justification.

Across the room, Mas Amedda stood like a shrine to smugness, flanked by a pair of simpering mid-rim senators and dressed in robes so ostentatious they practically screamed I embezzle with style.

You watched him, your jaw shifting slightly.

There were few things more satisfying than needling the Vice Chair of the Senate. He was pompous, corrupt, and so tightly wound with self-importance that it only took a few words to make him unravel. You needed a release, and he was the perfect target.

You crossed the floor with a glide in your step, your voice syrupy sweet as you approached.

“Vice Chair,” you said, feigning surprise, “I was wondering where the stench of smug had gone. I should’ve known you’d be hiding by the brie.”

Mas Amedda turned, expression souring instantly.

“Senator [L/N],” he drawled. “Still mistaking sarcasm for diplomacy, I see.”

You grinned. “Still mistaking your office for relevance?”

One of the mid-rim senators stifled a laugh. Amedda’s nostrils flared.

“You may be comfortable fraternizing with war profiteers and gang-world delegates, but some of us still value the sanctity of Republic law.”

You raised your glass. “How inspiring. And yet I could’ve sworn I saw your name on the same resource contract that mysteriously bypassed ethical review last week. A clerical error, I’m sure.”

He sneered. “You have no proof.”

You shrugged. “I don’t need proof. I have implication. It’s amazing what a rumor can do, especially when whispered in just the right ears.”

Amedda opened his mouth to fire back—but another voice cut in before he could.

“I’ve often wondered how some of those contracts pass committee oversight,” said Bail Organa, sliding into the conversation like a knife through silk.

You blinked, surprised.

Amedda turned on him, fuming. “Senator Organa—surely you don’t mean to stand beside this sort of company.”

Bail glanced at you. His expression was unreadable, but there was the faintest spark in his eyes. “For once, I find myself intrigued by Senator [L/N]’s line of questioning.”

You tilted your head at him. “Well, well. Welcome to the dark side.”

Bail ignored the jab. “Vice Chair, some of your recent dealings have raised questions. Especially regarding those tax exemptions on Nixor. If I recall correctly, your name appeared in four separate communications with the system’s mining guild.”

Amedda’s eyes narrowed. “You tread dangerously close to slander.”

“I tread carefully,” Bail said smoothly, “but not quietly.”

The Vice Chair stormed off, muttering something in Cheunh you assumed was an insult.

You turned to Bail, still stunned. “Never thought I’d see the day you jumped in with me.”

He exhaled. “Let’s just say I’m tired of watching corruption thrive behind ceremonial titles.”

You studied him for a moment. “So this is your rebellious phase?”

“Don’t get used to it,” he said. “And don’t assume it means I like you.”

“I’d never make that mistake,” you said dryly.

He gave you a look—annoyed, maybe impressed, it was hard to tell—then vanished into the crowd again.

You stood there a moment longer, alone again in a sea of masks and shadows, feeling strangely adrift. You hadn’t expected Bail’s support. You hadn’t expected Chuchi’s anger to sting. And you definitely hadn’t expected Fox to keep creeping into your thoughts like a silent ghost.

You sighed, looking toward the far exit where you’d last seen him standing guard.

This war—on the floor, in the heart, in your head—it was only just beginning.

⸻

The night had thinned to only the devoted and the damned.

You slipped through one of the Senate’s shadowed walkways, heels echoing faintly on polished stone. The reception was dying—senators gone or passed out, secrets spilled or swallowed whole. The quiet was a balm. But you weren’t quite ready to leave.

Not without one last indulgence.

You found him near the overlook—Commander Fox, helmet tucked under one arm, posture razor-straight even at this ungodly hour. Three of his guards flanked him a few paces back, slightly slouched and murmuring low.

You let your presence be known by the scent of your perfume and the lazy drag of your voice.

“Well, well. Still on duty, Commander?” you purred, letting your gaze travel unapologetically over his frame.

Fox turned, visor meeting your gaze. “Senator.”

That voice—low, flat, professional. Predictable. Delicious.

You stepped closer, letting your robe fall open just enough at the collar to hint at skin and intent. “Tell me something, Commander… do you sleep in that armor? Or do you ever let yourself breathe?”

Behind him, one of his troopers coughed loudly.

Fox didn’t move. “Senator, is there something you need?”

You tsked softly. “Need? No. Want? That’s another conversation.”

More snickering from the clones behind him. One of them muttered, “Stars, he really can’t tell…”

“CT-6149,” Fox barked without turning. “Stand down.”

“Yessir,” came the sheepish reply, followed by another muffled laugh.

You smiled, slow and deliberate, eyes half-lidded as you stalked one step closer. “You know, they’re right. You really don’t notice, do you?”

“Notice what?”

“That I’ve been undressing you with my eyes all night.”

One of the guards choked. “By the Force—”

“CT-8812. Silence.”

“Yessir!”

You dragged your fingers lightly along the cold railing, leaning in slightly, letting your body language linger somewhere between temptation and challenge. “You’re an impressive man, Fox. Loyal, deadly, painfully disciplined. It’s… compelling.”

“I’m a soldier,” he said stiffly. “Nothing more.”

You tilted your head. “Mm. Funny. That’s not what I see.”

His visor didn’t flinch. “With respect, Senator, I’m not here to entertain your flirtations.”

You let out a soft, amused sound. “Oh, Commander. I’m not looking for entertainment. I’m looking for cracks. And you… you wear your armor like a second skin, but I wonder how thin it is around your heart.”

Fox said nothing.

You stepped in so close you could almost feel the heat from his chestplate. “Tell me—do you ever let someone get close? Or are you afraid of what you might feel if you did?”

The silence stretched.

Behind him, the clones were practically vibrating with suppressed laughter, every single one of them watching their commanding officer get emotionally outmaneuvered and still not realize he was in a battlefield.

Fox’s voice came eventually, low and sharp. “Return to your patrol routes. Now.”

“Yes, Commander,” they chimed as one, jogging off down the corridor, not even pretending to keep a straight face.

Once they were gone, Fox exhaled slowly. Whether it was relief or tension, you couldn’t tell.

“You should be careful what you say,” he murmured at last.

You arched a brow. “Why? Because you might start listening?”

He was quiet again. Not a refusal. Not an acceptance. Just the weight of something unspoken hanging between you both.

You leaned in once more, lips near his ear.

“You make it so easy, Commander. Standing there like a statue, pretending you don’t know exactly what effect you have on people.”

“I don’t,” he said flatly.

You pulled back, smiling with all teeth and sin. “Exactly.”

You started to turn, then hesitated, gaze flicking to his. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re beautiful when you’re confused.”

He blinked once behind the visor.

Then you were gone—cloak sweeping behind you like the shadow of a secret. You didn’t look back.

Let him stand there and figure it out.

If he could.

The red of your cloak had barely disappeared down the corridor when another figure stepped from the shadows of a nearby archway.

Senator Riyo Chuchi.

Fox turned slightly at the sound of her footsteps—calm, measured, as if she hadn’t just been eavesdropping. But she had. Her composure was pristine as always, but her eyes… they were brighter than usual. Sharp with unspoken thoughts.

“Commander,” she said softly, folding her hands in front of her, voice light as snowfall. “You’re still working?”

Fox nodded. “Ensuring the area’s secure before we rotate out.”

“Diligent as ever.” Her smile was gentle. “Though I imagine your last conversation was… less standard protocol?”

Fox blinked. “Senator?”

Chuchi gestured toward the hallway where you’d just vanished. “Senator [L/N] can be… theatrical, can’t she?”

“She was… being herself,” Fox said cautiously.

Chuchi tilted her head, studying him. “And what do you make of her?”

He was quiet a moment.

“She’s strategic,” he said finally. “Sharp-tongued. Difficult to ignore.”

Chuchi hummed softly in agreement. “Yes. She often commands the room, even when she’s not trying to.”

She stepped beside him now, close—but not too close. Enough that the scent of her light floral perfume barely reached his senses. Enough that if she’d worn armor, she might’ve brushed shoulders with him.

“I couldn’t help but overhear,” she said, voice still soft, but with an edge Fox couldn’t quite place. “She seemed very… intent. On you.”

Fox tensed slightly. “She was teasing.”

“Was she?”

He turned to look at her. “Wasn’t she?”

Chuchi met his gaze, and there was something sad and sweet in her expression. “You don’t see it, do you?”

“See what?”

“That you matter,” she said simply. “To people.”

Fox straightened. “I matter to the Guard. To the Republic.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

She held his gaze a moment longer, then offered a small, fond smile—half kind, half wistful.

“She may flirt like it’s a weapon, but even weapons point at something.”

Fox stared at her, clearly still processing.

“I should go,” she said gently. “I have an early committee session. But, Commander…”

She paused, brushing a nonexistent wrinkle from her sleeve, her voice lower now.

“You may want to start noticing. Before someone gets hurt.”

She turned before he could respond, her steps light, her presence like a soft breeze after a storm.

Fox stood alone again, staring into nothing.

And somewhere deep behind the red of his helmet… confusion bloomed like a silent fire.

⸻

Next part

“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.