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Hound - Blog Posts
It’s Always Sunny on Coruscant: Hound and Grizzer go to a protest!
To be clear, this is a pro-abortion rally. He makes a very compelling argument!
My favorite Star Wars characters in no particular order, categorized clone to non-clone; lemme know yours!
Kix
Hound
Fox
Dogma
Echo
Tech
Crosshair
Rex
Howzer
Gregor
Hardcase
Grey
99
Waxer
Boil
Odd Ball
Gearshift
The clone with Gearshift
Numa
Din Djarin/The Mandalorian
Finn/FN-2187
Kanan/Caleb
Ezra
Cal
Plo Koon
Quinlan Vos
Kallus
Headcanons about Hound
-he is older than the other corries, but younger than the commanders
-he gets hurt training the massifs, as it is a game of trust
-he does get sent on dangerous missions
*just because he’s an ARF trooper doesn’t mean he spends his entire time training animals
-works missing persons cases
*massifs can serve as tracking dogs
-his canines are a little bit sharper than normal
*he finds this funny
-he does regularly encounter senators and other anti-clone believers
*those encounters don’t end well most of the time
-inconsistent sleep schedule, although his is one of the better ones
*it’s still shit
-likes sitting in high places
-the sides of his head is shaved, but the top is long and curly
-standard clone colored hair
-he does have scars
*some are from training, some are from missions, and some are from senators and anti-clonists
-has trauma
-he and Grizzer are besties
-he trains Grizzer as a therapy and service dog in his free time
Happy 2024 TF Rare Pairing Fest everyone!
Finally jumping into this event on day 4 with a Sunstreaker and Hound fic under the prompt "Unlikely Partners"
You can read here
Thanks to @tfrarepairing for this event!
Transformers synergize Chapter 2, page 41 -48
<< previous pages |first page| next pages coming soon
Check the master post to find old pages and stay up to date on new pages
Commission tattoo design of a wolf.
That Dog is Yours
Meet the Coruscant Guards! <3
I really like these boys and I wanted to do my take on their design. I also do believe that at the beginning of the war they tried to stick to the rules regarding appearance but since Senators don’t like to see them without helmets, Fox just said fuck it, keep the armour clean but do whatever the hell you want with your look ( I do believe Hound didn’t shave from the beginning.) Also another headcanon of mine is that the first thing Fox does in the morning is shaving, so looking at his stubble you can judge when was the last time he slept (Thire saw him once with a full beard and took him immediately to their medic)
my people explained (as a godkin)
Finally talking about them, I really like doing that
I personally refer to them as hounds, and I think the latin species name is roughly something like "Canis latrans scelus". You can doubt me on that, my memories are fuzzy as hell
An average hound looks akin to this
With some skintone and hair variations based on the type. We have three type of hounds, Dune mix, Northern Mix, and Grassland/steppe mix
If a hound Is healthy, their hair will be rather shiny, and will wrap into these "doll" like curls
Their favorite foods are mostly meat, milk, and spicy things, but they won't turn down something like a cake.
They love set routines, especially these which involve tons of physical activities, from martial arts to running, and overall spending time outside.
One of the hellhound names I remember is Salo, meaning "the first". It's gender neutral
You can make an oc of this if you want
“Red Lines” pt.7
Ryio Chuchi x Commander Fox x Reader x Sergeant Hound
The lower levels of Coruscant were a different kind of loud—sirens and shouts, hover engines and flickering holoboards bleeding through the smog. It was chaos, yes, but in this chaos, Sergeant Hound felt clarity.
Grizzer padded silently at his side, the massiff’s broad frame alert, nostrils twitching as they passed another vendor selling deep-fried something on a stick. Hound barely registered the scent. His thoughts were louder.
You hadn’t contacted him since the night Fox kissed you.
And Hound hadn’t pressed. Not because he didn’t care. Because he’d needed time—to think, to process, to stop pretending that what he felt for you was just proximity or comfort or familiarity.
It wasn’t.
You had bewitched him from the moment you’d leaned a little too close with that sly smirk, asking if he always kept a massiff at his hip or if he was compensating for something. He’d been intrigued, annoyed, flustered—and slowly, hopelessly drawn in.
He’d watched you orbit Fox like gravity had already chosen. And he’d told himself that if Fox was what you wanted, he wouldn’t stand in the way.
But not anymore.
Fox had kissed you. And then let you go.
Hound would never.
He paused on the overlook just above the market plaza. Grizzer snorted and settled beside him, tail thumping once.
“She deserves better than this,” Hound muttered. “Better than confusion. Better than being second choice.”
Grizzer gave a small bark of agreement.
Hound scratched behind his companion’s ear. His thoughts drifted to the way you’d laughed that night walking home, teasing him about patrol patterns and rogue droids. The way your voice had softened, just a little, when you asked him to walk you back.
You didn’t see it yet—but he did.
You were starting to look at him differently.
He tapped his comm. “I’m going off-duty for the next few hours,” he told Dispatch. “Personal matter.”
No one questioned him.
By the time he arrived at the Senate tower, he was still in uniform—dust and grime on his boots, helmet tucked under his arm, eyes like flint. He approached your apartment with purpose, not hesitation. If you weren’t there, he’d wait. If your droid answered the door with another snippy remark, he’d endure it.
Because this time, he wasn’t going to step aside.
VX-7 opened the door with his usual pomp. “Ah, the canine and his keeper. Should I fetch my Mistress, or are you here to howl at the moon?”
“I’m here to speak with her,” Hound said calmly. “And I’m not leaving until I do.”
VX-7 tilted his head. “Hm. Bold. She may like that.”
“I’m counting on it.”
Ila peeked around the corner from the sitting room, wide-eyed. “She’s still in the steam chamber,” she whispered. “But—she’ll want to see you. I think.”
Hound stepped inside. Grizzer waited obediently at the door.
A few minutes later, you entered the room, wrapped in a plush robe, hair damp, eyes guarded.
“Hound,” you said carefully. “Is everything alright?”
“No,” he said. “Not really.”
You blinked.
He stood a few steps away, helmet still under his arm, the overhead light catching the edge of a fresh bruise on his cheekbone.
“I’ve been patient,” he began. “I stood back while you looked at Fox like he was the only star in your sky. I let it go when he strung you along, when you thought he might choose you. I watched it hurt you, and I said nothing because I thought maybe that was what you needed.”
You stiffened—but you didn’t interrupt.
“But I won’t do it anymore,” Hound said quietly. “Because I see you, and I want you. And if there’s even a part of you that’s starting to see me too—then I’m not backing down.”
Silence stretched.
You didn’t speak. But your expression… shifted. A flicker. Not anger. Not rejection. Something else.
Something softer.
Hound took a step closer. “I’m not here to compete with him,” he added. “I’m here to fight for you.”
And with that, he turned and walked to the door.
Not storming out. Not waiting for an answer.
Just putting it all on the line, finally.
At the threshold, he looked back. “I’ll be at the memorial wall tomorrow. In case you want to talk.”
The door closed behind him.
Grizzer gave a soft whine.
Inside, your handmaiden Maera—quiet as ever—approached and offered you a datapad. “Tomorrow’s agenda,” she said softly. “Unless you’d like to cancel it. Or… change it.”
You didn’t answer.
You just stood in your quiet apartment—heart suddenly too full and too tangled for words—and stared at the door where Hound had just been.
Something had shifted.
And you knew the days ahead would not allow for indecision anymore.
⸻
Commander Fox stared down at the report in his hands, reading the same line for the fourth time without absorbing a word of it.
…Civilian unrest on Level 3124-B has been neutralized with minimal casualties. Local authorities commend the Guard for…
He let out a slow breath, lowering the datapad onto his desk. It clacked quietly against the durasteel surface, the only sound in his private office. The dim lights cast hard shadows across the red plating of his armor. Even here, in the supposed quiet, his thoughts were too loud.
Hound had gone to her.
And she’d seen him.
Fox didn’t need confirmation—he could read the tension in Hound’s body when he returned to the barracks, the uncharacteristic weight in his silence. And worse… the lack of guilt.
Because Hound had nothing to feel guilty for.
You were not his.
Not anymore.
If you ever truly were.
Fox stood abruptly, the motion sharp. His armor creaked at the joints. He crossed the room and keyed his comm. “Patch me through to Senator Chuchi,” he said. “Tell her… I could use a few moments. Off record.”
A pause. Then: “Yes, Commander. She’s in her office.”
He arrived at her quarters just past dusk.
She opened the door herself—no staff, no aides, just Chuchi in a soft navy tunic and loose curls, her usual regal poise set aside for something more honest.
“Fox,” she greeted with a faint smile. “I wasn’t sure if you would come.”
“I wasn’t either,” he admitted.
She stepped back, letting him in.
Her apartment was warmer than his—lamplight instead of fluorescents, cushions instead of steel, a kettle steaming faintly on a side table.
“You look tired,” she said gently.
“I am.” He hesitated. “I’ve been… thinking. About everything.”
She moved toward the kitchenette and poured a cup of tea. “And?”
Fox accepted the cup but didn’t drink. His eyes lingered on the steam curling from the surface.
“Do you think,” he asked, “that I’m blind?”
Chuchi quirked an eyebrow. “You’ll have to be more specific.”
“Hound told me today that I’m so focused on doing the right thing, I can’t see what’s right in front of me. That I’ve made myself blind. That…” He trailed off.
Chuchi sat down across from him, her expression softening.
“He’s right,” she said. “In some ways.”
Fox didn’t argue.
“I know you care for her,” Chuchi continued, voice calm and without malice. “I always knew. And I told myself I didn’t mind being second. That eventually you’d see me.”
Her confession was so unflinchingly honest that Fox looked up in surprise.
“But now?” she added. “I don’t want to be chosen because she walked away. I want to be wanted because I am wanted. Not because I’m convenient. Not because I’m safe.”
“I never meant to make you feel like that,” he said, quietly.
“I know,” she replied. “You’re not cruel, Fox. You’re careful. Too careful. So careful that you might lose everyone while trying to protect them.”
He finally sipped the tea. It was bitter, earthy. Grounding.
“I don’t know what I want,” he confessed.
Chuchi leaned forward. “Then let me help you figure it out.”
He looked up. Her eyes were patient. Warm.
He could fall into that warmth.
He might already be falling.
They stayed like that for a while—talking softly, slowly. Not of war. Not of Senate politics or assignments. Just… of quiet things. Of home worlds and half-remembered childhoods, of what it meant to serve and survive in a galaxy that demanded so much of them both.
At one point, Chuchi placed a gentle hand over his.
He didn’t move away.
Fox didn’t know what the future held.
But tonight—he let himself rest.
Not as a commander. Not as a soldier.
But as a man slowly trying to understand his own heart.
⸻
The Grand Convocation Chamber was abuzz with tension. Holocams glinted in the air, senators murmuring in rising tones as the next point of order was introduced. Mas Amedda’s voice carried over the room like cold oil, slick and condescending.
“We must return to a more structured approach to military resource allocation. The proposed oversight committee is not only unnecessary, but also a potential breach of central authority—”
“With all due respect, Vice Chair,” your voice cut through the air like a vibroblade, sharp and unforgiving, “—that’s the second time this week you’ve attempted to dissolve accountability through procedural smoke screens.”
A hush fell. Some senators leaned forward. Others tried not to visibly smile.
Mas Amedda’s eyes narrowed. “Senator, I remind you—”
“I will not be silenced for speaking the truth,” you said, rising from your place. “This chamber deserves better than manipulation cloaked in regulation. How many more credits will vanish into ‘classified security enhancements’ that never see oversight? How many more clone rotations will be extended because of your so-called ‘budgetary shortfalls’? Enough. We’re hemorrhaging lives and credits—and for what? For your empty assurances?”
Bail Organa stood. “The senator from [your planet] raises a valid concern. We’ve seen an alarming rise in unchecked defense spending with no direct line of transparency. I support her call for oversight.”
More murmurs rippled across the room. Several senators nodded. A few scowled. Mas Amedda looked caught off guard—too public a setting to retaliate, too sharp a blow to ignore.
You didn’t sit.
You owned the floor.
“And if this body continues to protect corruption under the guise of unity,” you said coolly, “then it deserves neither peace nor legitimacy. Some of us may come from worlds ravaged by warlords and tyrants, but at least we recognize the stench when it walks into our halls.”
Gasps. Stifled laughter. Shock.
Even Palpatine, observing from his platform above, remained eerily silent, hands steepled.
From a private senatorial booth above, Chuchi leaned subtly toward Fox, her elegant features drawn tight with concern.
“She’s changed,” she murmured. “She’s always been fiery, yes, but this—this isn’t politics anymore. This is personal.”
Fox, clad in full red armor beside her, arms crossed and expression unreadable, didn’t respond immediately. His eyes remained fixed on you down below.
Your voice. Your anger. Your fire.
He could hear the edge of something unraveling.
“…Maybe it is personal,” he said eventually, quiet enough that only Chuchi could hear. “Maybe it’s always been.”
Chuchi’s brow furrowed.
She looked down at you, then sideways at Fox—and for the first time, she wasn’t sure if she was worried for you… or for him.
This The Senate hearing had adjourned, but the fire hadn’t left your blood. The echo of your words still rang in the marble columns of the hall as senators dispersed in murmuring clusters—some scandalized, others invigorated.
You made no effort to hide your stride as you exited the chamber, heels clicking with deliberate finality. It wasn’t until you entered one of the quiet side halls—lined with tall, arched windows overlooking Coruscant’s twilight skyline—that you heard someone step into pace beside you.
“Senator.”
You didn’t need to look. That voice—smooth, measured, calm—could only belong to Bail Organa.
You sighed. “Come to scold me for lighting a fire under Mas Amedda’s tail?”
“I’d never deny a fire its purpose,” Bail replied, his tone half amused, half cautious. “Though I will admit, your methods have a certain… how shall we say—explosive flair.”
You turned to face him, arching an eyebrow. “And yet you backed me.”
“I did.” He clasped his hands behind his back, dark eyes thoughtful. “Because, despite your delivery—and perhaps even because of it—you were right. There’s rot beneath the surface of our governance. We just have different ways of exposing it.”
“I’m not interested in polishing rust, Organa. If the Republic is breaking, then maybe it needs to crack apart before we can build something better.”
“And maybe,” he said gently, “some of us are still trying to stop it from breaking altogether.”
The silence between you hung for a moment, not hostile—but heavy with tension and philosophical difference.
Then Bail offered a small nod. “You’ve earned some of my respect. And that’s not something I give lightly.”
You tilted your head. “You sound almost surprised.”
“I am.” He smiled faintly. “But I’ve also been in politics long enough to know that sometimes, the most unlikely alliances are the most effective.”
You smirked. “Is that your way of saying you’re not going to block me next time I set the chamber on fire?”
“I’m saying,” he said, turning to walk with you again, “that if you’re going to keep torching corruption, I might as well bring a torch of my own.”
You gave a short laugh—half relief, half wariness.
For all his charm, Organa still felt like the cleanest dagger in the Senate’s drawer—but a dagger all the same. You’d take what allies you could get.
Even if they wore polished boots and Alderaanian silk.
⸻
You were still in your senatorial attire—half undone, jacket slung over a chair, hair falling from its formal coil as you paced the living room. The adrenaline from the hearing had worn off, leaving only a searing void in its place.
A chime broke the silence.
Your head turned. The door.
You weren’t expecting anyone.
When it opened, Hound stood in the threshold, soaked from rain, his patrol armor clinging to him—helmet in one hand, the ever-loyal Grizzer seated obediently behind him. His gaze was sharp, jaw set with some storm you hadn’t yet named.
“Evening, Senator,” he said, voice rougher than usual. “I… I was passing by. Thought you might want company.”
You looked at him for a long beat. “That depends,” you murmured, stepping aside. “Is this an official guard visit… or something else?”
He stepped in without answering, closing the door behind him. Grizzer settled just inside the hall while Hound placed his helmet on a nearby table. His eyes never left you.
“You looked like fire on that floor today,” he said at last, voice quieter now. “Not many people can stand toe-to-toe with Mas Amedda and walk away without flinching.”
“Flinching’s for people who have the luxury of fear,” you replied, moving to the window. “I don’t. Not anymore.”
He followed your voice. “That’s what I’ve always liked about you.”
You turned, slowly. “Always?”
He stepped closer. “Yeah. Always.”
The air thickened between you—your breath catching slightly as the distance closed, the tension pulsing like the city lights outside. You were used to control. Used to strategy and manipulation. But Hound didn’t play your games.
He was standing just inches away now, rain still dripping from his curls, the heat of him radiating in the cool air of the apartment.
“You’re not subtle,” you whispered.
“No,” he said. “But neither are you.”
Your hand reached for the front of his armor, your fingers brushing the duraplast of his chest plate.
“Take it off,” you said.
He did.
Piece by piece, Hound peeled off the armor until it was just him—tired, proud, burning. When you stepped into him, it was with a crash of mouths and breath, a meeting of fire and steel. Your back hit the windowpane as he kissed you like you were something he’d waited too long to touch—fierce, needy, reverent.
You tangled your fingers in the straps of his blacks, dragging him in closer. He groaned softly when you bit his lower lip, and your laugh—low and dark—only stoked the fire between you.
No words.
Just heat. Just hands.
And when you pulled him with you toward your bedroom, it wasn’t about power. Not politics. Not winning.
It was about claiming something—for once—for yourself.
⸻
There was a silence in your bedroom that felt sacred.
Hound lay beside you, one arm thrown over your waist, your back pulled against the warmth of his bare chest. His breathing was slow and steady, his face buried in your hair. You’d never seen him so at peace—off duty, unguarded, real.
Your fingers traced lazy lines on the back of his hand. A smile tugged at your lips. Last night had been… something else. No games. No politics. Just two people stripped bare in every way that mattered.
“Mm,” Hound murmured against your shoulder. “Y’real or did I dream all that?”
You chuckled softly. “If it was a dream, we were both dreaming the same thing. Loudly.”
He groaned. “You’re gonna bring that up every chance you get, aren’t you?”
You smirked. “Absolutely.”
Hound murmured against your skin, “You think they heard us?”
You tilted your head back against his shoulder. “All of them.”
“Guess I better make breakfast. Bribe my way back into their good graces.”
You laughed. “Oh no, Hound. You’re mine this morning. Let them stew.”
He kissed your shoulder. “Yeah… okay. Yours.”
And for the first time in a long time, it felt like someone meant it.
⸻
In the kitchen, Maera sipped her morning tea with one elegantly raised brow. She leaned against the counter, still in her silken robe, listening.
“Did you hear them?” asked Ila, wide-eyed and flushed, whispering as if it wasn’t already obvious. “I mean—I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop! But the walls—Maera, the walls!”
Maera nodded slowly, utterly unbothered. “They certainly weren’t shy about it. Not that they should be. She’s earned a night of pleasure after everything.”
VX-7, polishing silverware despite having no reason to do so, turned his head with a prim little huff. “It was excessive. Disturbingly organic. I recalibrated my audio receptors three times. And still. Still.”
From the corner of the room, R9 let out a sequence of aggressive beeps, which VX-7 translated almost reluctantly.
“He says—and I quote—‘If you’re going to wake an entire building, at least record it for later entertainment.’ Disgusting.”
R9 chirped again. VX-7 turned with stiff disdain. “No, I will not ask her for details.”
Ila giggled helplessly, her face bright red. “Well… it sounded like she was having a really good time. I mean, we’ve all seen how Sergeant Hound looks at her. Like he’d fight the whole galaxy for just one kiss.”
Maera nodded. “He might have done more than kiss.”
VX-7 sputtered. “Decorum.”
⸻
You were halfway through your caf when R9 rolled up, suspiciously quiet—always a bad sign.
He beeped something sharp and insistent.
VX-7 glanced up from organizing your data pads with a sigh. “He’s asking about the sergeant’s… performance.”
You raised a brow. “Oh, is he?”
R9 chirped eagerly.
You took a sip of caf, deliberately slow, then replied dryly, “He was… satisfactory.”
R9 sputtered in a flurry of binary outrage.
“He’s saying that’s not enough,” VX said flatly. “That he deserves explicit schematics after suffering through an evening of audible trauma.”
You smiled serenely. “Tell him he should be grateful I didn’t disconnect his audio receptors entirely.”
R9 beeped in long-suffering protest.
“I am thrilled,” VX-7 cut in, sounding deeply relieved. “Your discretion is appreciated. Some of us prefer not to know everything.”
From the hallway, Maera passed with a subtle smirk. “He did call your name a lot.”
You turned sharply. “Maera.”
“Ila timed it.”
“Ila what?!”
“I—!” came her squeaked voice from the kitchen. “I only did it once!”
R9 twirled in glee.
⸻
Sergeant Hound walked into the base with a straighter spine that morning, like someone who had nothing left to question.
He didn’t try to hide the way his eyes followed you when you passed him in the corridor, or the brief smirk that ghosted across his face when your gaze lingered a little too long.
The men noticed. Stone nudged Thorn, who muttered something under his breath and whistled low.
Fox noticed too.
He was standing by the briefing room entrance when you and Hound exchanged a quiet word. Nothing explicit. Just a hand brushing your elbow. A smile that lasted a beat too long.
Fox’s jaw tightened. His arms crossed. Thorn looked over and said nothing—but the expression said everything.
Later, when the command room emptied out, Chuchi found Fox still standing there, distracted, his gaze distant.
“Commander?” she asked gently.
Fox blinked out of it. “Senator.”
She stepped closer. “Are you alright?”
He didn’t answer right away.
Chuchi, soft but sharp as ever, looked toward the hall you’d disappeared down. “She was always going to be a difficult one to hold, wasn’t she?”
Fox exhaled, low and conflicted. “She never belonged to anyone. I knew that.”
“But you wanted her anyway.”
He glanced at Chuchi then, just briefly. “I wanted… something simple. She’s not simple. And neither are you.”
Chuchi smiled tightly, painfully. “I’m not simple. But I do make decisions.”
She left him standing there with that.
⸻
Your office was quiet for once. You stood by the window, arms folded, staring out across the city while VX read off your schedule and R9 sat in the corner… drawing crude holographic reenactments of the previous night on your datapad.
“R9,” you said without turning around. “I will factory reset you.”
He beeped, sulking audibly.
“I can hear that attitude,” VX added, passing him with a towel. “If she doesn’t, I will factory reset you.”
You smiled faintly and went back to your thoughts. The air had shifted. The square had skewed. And somewhere deep in the Senate and Guard halls… things were about to get more complicated.
⸻
The morning air at the Senate Tower was unusually crisp. You stepped out of the speeder, flanked by Maera and VX-7. R9 brought up the rear, grumbling about having to behave himself in public.
And then came the sharp sound of boots—Hound, already waiting at the base of the steps.
Not in the shadows this time. Not quiet or distant.
He greeted you in full view of Senate staff, Guard personnel, and the few reporters waiting on the fringes.
“Senator,” he said, voice smooth but firm.
“Hound,” you replied, raising a brow. “Early today.”
“I thought I’d escort you up myself,” he said easily. “I know how the halls get… cluttered.”
Maera gave a discreet cough to hide her knowing grin.
You glanced at him, searching, reading. “Trying to start rumors?”
He leaned in slightly. “No. I’m trying to start a pattern.”
R9 beeped in what sounded like scandalized glee.
You smiled despite yourself. “Careful, Sergeant. I might get used to that.”
⸻
The upper atrium buzzed with mingling Senators, Guard officers, and invited Jedi. Drinks flowed, polite words filled the air like smoke, and nothing important was ever really said out loud.
You stood near the balcony, Hound by your side, his stance casual but unmistakably yours. He made no attempt to hide the fact he was there for you. Every look, every nod, every quiet murmur in your direction made it clear.
And people noticed.
Fox noticed.
Across the hall, the Commander stood with Chuchi, her blue cloak draped neatly over her shoulders, her posture a touch more relaxed than usual.
He wasn’t watching you this time—not exactly. He was watching Hound. Watching how natural it seemed.
Chuchi followed his gaze and tilted her head. “Regretting something?”
Fox gave the smallest shake of his head. “Observing.”
She sipped from her glass, then spoke gently. “You don’t have to talk to me like you’re writing a field report, Commander.”
He blinked, then let out the smallest breath of a chuckle. “Habit.”
She glanced at him sideways, then added, “You know… we could make a good habit of this. Talking. Being seen together.”
He looked at her then—really looked.
She was offering something real. Something without barbed wires. Something that didn’t ask him to fight through smoke to see what was there.
“I’d like that,” he said quietly.
Chuchi smiled. Not triumphant. Not possessive. Just… warm.
⸻
Hound was listening to a brief report from a junior officer, but his hand grazed yours beneath the table. A quiet, firm pressure.
You didn’t move away.
The contact was seen.
Thorn narrowed his eyes from across the room. Cody caught it and just hummed, sipping from his glass. Even Plo Koon gave a slightly more observant glance than usual from where he stood with Windu.
You leaned closer to Hound. “We’re being watched.”
His mouth quirked. “I know. Let them.”
And for the first time in a while, it didn’t feel like a triangle.
It felt like something more complicated.
And far more worth the risk.
⸻
Later that night Chuchi stood at Fox’s side at the landing platform. There was no awkwardness in her presence. She was calm. Solid.
Fox looked out over the Coruscanti skyline and finally broke the silence.
“She’ll always be a fire I’m drawn to,” he said, voice low. “But fires burn, and I’m tired of getting burned.”
Chuchi simply nodded. “Then stop standing in the flames.”
Fox turned to her. “And start standing with you?”
“If you’re ready,” she said. “I won’t wait forever. But I won’t walk away just yet.”
He nodded once. Slowly.
⸻
The skies over Coruscant were unusually clear tonight, a shimmer of starlight bleeding through the light pollution. It was a rare calm.
You leaned back into Hound’s chest on your apartment balcony, a warm cup of spiced tea in hand. His arms were around you, solid and sure, resting just below your ribs. Grizzer snored softly inside by the door, and one of the handmaidens—probably Ila—was humming as she cleaned up from dinner.
“Not bad for a long day of Senate chaos,” Hound said, his voice quiet against the shell of your ear.
You snorted. “Aren’t they all long days?”
“Yes. But lately… you don’t carry them the same.”
You turned slightly to face him, your profile catching in the golden light of the city. “And what exactly do I carry now, Sergeant?”
He looked at you, eyes warm and unshaking. “Something real. With me.”
That disarmed you more than it should have.
You gave a soft laugh, shaking your head. “You’re becoming dangerously romantic, Hound.”
“I blame the handmaidens. Maera’s been giving me pointers.”
⸻
Fox stood beside Chuchi on the outer mezzanine of the Senate complex, watching the after-hours city buzz. They had both left the function early, preferring the quiet.
She offered him a half-smile, something softer than she usually showed in public.
“You didn’t even flinch when they brought up her new bill,” Chuchi noted, nodding toward the echoing chamber behind them.
Fox’s mouth quirked. “I’ve learned when to speak and when to listen. She and I… we’re not at odds. Just walking different roads.”
Chuchi reached for his hand, just briefly. “And now you’re on mine.”
Fox nodded once. “It’s steadier ground.”
Their relationship wasn’t loud. It wasn’t full of sparks or danger.
It was the kind of quiet strength that soldiers rarely got to experience. And maybe that’s why he clung to it.
⸻
Later that week, you crossed paths again at a formal reception. Fox, in his dress armor, stood beside Chuchi. You with Hound, his hand resting lightly at your lower back as he murmured something that made you smile.
Fox saw it.
And for the first time in weeks, the look in his eyes wasn’t longing. It was peace.
He nodded toward you.
You nodded back.
It was over. The tension. The rivalry. The ache.
Not forgotten. But resolved.
Chuchi looped her arm through Fox’s, leaning close. “You okay?”
He glanced down at her, his answer simple. “Better than I’ve been in a long time.”
⸻
Back at Your Apartment Maera was running the evening reports with VX, while Ila played soft music through the speakers. R9, curiously well-behaved, was curled up at the foot of the couch like some pet beast.
You stepped in from the hall, dress heels off, hair let down.
Hound looked up from the couch. “Long day?”
“Long enough,” you replied.
He opened an arm for you. “Come here, Senator.”
And you did.
You weren’t a storm anymore. You were a sunrise.
And it was about time.
No more games. No more waiting. Just choices made, and paths finally walked.
⸻
EPILOGUE:
Several years into the reign of the Empire.
The skies of Coruscant no longer shimmered.
They smothered.
Thick clouds of smog and smoke clung to the towers like rot, and the brilliant spires of the Senate were now reduced to shadows beneath the Empire’s long arm. The rotunda stood silent. Gutted. Museumed. Its voice—your voice—silenced.
You were older now. Not old. But seasoned. A relic by Imperial standards.
The red of your senatorial robes had been replaced by somber greys and silks that whispered through empty hallways. You had not spoken in session in years. Not since the body had been stripped of meaning.
But you returned today.
Not for politics.
For memory.
Your boots echoed across the great hall of the abandoned Senate, your handmaidens long gone. Maera had vanished in the purge. Ila had married a Republic officer and fled to the Mid Rim. VX-7 had been decommissioned by the Empire for “behavioral instability.” You had buried his shattered chassis yourself.
Only R9 remained.
The little astromech trailed behind you, his plated casing dull with age, but still stubbornly functional. A grumbling, violent, loyal thing. When they tried to wipe his memory, he electrocuted the technician and disappeared for two years. When he came back, he returned to your side without explanation. You never asked.
You reached the center of the hall—the old speaking platform.
Closed your eyes.
He had stood here once, flanked by red and white armor. Fox.
You had loved him. Fiercely. Then you had lost him. Even now, you weren’t sure if it was to the Empire or to himself. Word came of his reassignment. Rumors of reconditioning. Rumors of defection. None confirmed. His armor never turned up.
Hound… Hound had died in the early rebellion skirmishes, trying to save refugees in the Outer Rim. You’d read the report yourself. Twice. Then deleted it. Grizzer had outlived him. You received the beast, years later. Half-wild and scarred. You kept him at your estate. The last thing Hound had ever loved.
You opened your eyes.
At the base of the podium sat a pair of red clone boots.
Old. Polished.
Ceremonial.
You placed a hand on them and let the silence hold you.
Outside, a storm rolled over the skyline.
R9 beeped low beside you. A mournful note.
“Don’t start with me,” you muttered.
The droid nudged your leg.
You looked out at Coruscant, then up at the distant shadow of the Imperial Palace—formerly the Jedi Temple.
And you smiled. Just slightly.
“They think it’s over,” you whispered. “But embers remember how to burn.”
In the ruins of the Republic, love and rebellion had one thing in common—neither stayed dead forever.
⸻
Previous Part
“Red Lines” pt.6
Ryio Chuchi x Commander Fox x Reader x Sergeant Hound
 It had started as a harmless ache.
A little tug behind the ribs whenever Commander Fox walked into the room. Not with grandeur. Not with flair. Just… with that same rigid posture, those burning eyes that somehow never saw her the way she wanted him to.
She had told herself it was admiration.
Then it became respect.
And now—now it had rotted into something bitter. Something with teeth.
Riyo Chuchi sat alone on her narrow balcony, the glow of Coruscant washing over her like static. The cup of caf in her hands had long gone cold. She hadn’t touched it in over an hour.
She had seen the senator leave with Sergeant Hound.
She wasn’t blind.
She wasn’t naïve.
But she had been foolish. Foolish to think that a soul like Commander Fox’s could be won by slow kindness. Foolish to think compassion could reach someone built from walls and duty. Foolish to believe that, by offering something gentle, she could edge out something… dangerous.
Because that other senator—you—weren’t gentle.
You were teeth and temptation. Smoke and scorched skies. Morally grey and entirely unrepentant about it.
And Fox?
Fox didn’t look away from that.
Even when he should.
Even when Chuchi was standing right there, offering herself without force, without chaos, without danger.
“He’s blind,” Hound had said once.
Chuchi now wondered—was he really blind… or just unwilling to choose?
She rose and paced the balcony, her soft robes swishing at her ankles.
Fox had stopped coming around.
Not just to her.
To anyone.
She had tried to convince herself he needed time. That maybe—just maybe—he was struggling with how much he appreciated her presence. That maybe it wasn’t fear, or evasion, or guilt.
But she’d seen the report this morning.
Fox had been at your apartment.
Again.
And Hound had been there, too.
Chuchi had always told herself she was the better choice. The right choice. She respected the clones. She believed in their agency. She’d stood in front of the Senate and fought for them.
You?
You flirted like they were game pieces on your board. You wore loyalty like it was a perfume—easy to spray on, easy to wash off. You kissed with ulterior motives.
But none of that seemed to matter.
Fox—her Fox—was looking more and more like a man tangled in something far messier than honor and regulation.
And maybe…
Maybe Chuchi wasn’t just losing a man she admired.
Maybe she was watching herself become invisible.
She sat back down at her desk.
A report glowed softly on the screen.
Senate rumblings. Clone production. Budget cuts.
Another motion you had co-signed. Another session where you and Chuchi—for once—had agreed. Two women, diametrically opposed on almost everything, finding a shared thread in the economy of war.
And yet… even then, Fox hadn’t come to speak with her.
He used to.
Back when things were simpler. Back when your name was just another irritation in the chamber.
Now you were something else. A shadow she couldn’t push away.
She closed the screen.
The caf was still cold.
And for the first time in a long while, Riyo Chuchi felt like she was starting to understand how it felt… to lose to someone who didn’t play fair.
And maybe—just maybe—she was done playing fair herself.
⸻
The door to Fox’s office hissed shut behind him. A low hum of Coruscant’s upper levels buzzed faintly through the durasteel walls. He sat heavily at his desk, helmet off, brow furrowed in a knot that had become all too familiar.
Paperwork. Patrol shifts. Security audits.
Anything but them.
Senator Chuchi’s visits had become less frequent, but more deliberate—caf in hand, eyes soft and hopeful, her voice always brushing the edge of something intimate. He respected her. Admired her, even. But the ache that came with her attention was nothing like the wildfire you left in your wake.
You were different. Unpredictable. Morally flexible. Dangerous in ways that shouldn’t tempt a man like him.
And yet.
A knock at the door cracked through the silence. Before he could answer, Thorn stepped in with his usual smirk.
“You’re a hard man to find these days,” Thorn said, flopping into the chair opposite the desk without invitation.
“I’ve been busy,” Fox replied, voice flat.
“Uh-huh. Busy hiding from senators who want to rip your armor off with their teeth.”
Fox looked up sharply. “Thorn—”
“What? It’s not like we haven’t all noticed. Ryio’s little storm shadow and sweet Senator Chuchi? You’re the Senate’s most eligible clone, Commander.”
“I don’t have time for this.”
Stone appeared in the doorway next, arms folded, the barest twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth. “Heard from one of the Coruscant Guard boys that Hound walked Senator [Y/N] home last week. Real cozy-like.”
Fox’s jaw clenched.
He’d heard the report. Seen the timestamped surveillance footage, even though he’d told himself it was just routine data review. You’d smiled up at Hound, standing close.
Fox had replayed that footage more than he cared to admit.
“Good,” he said. “She deserves protection.”
Thorn snorted. “You’re seething.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re a disaster.”
“Both of them are clearly trying to angle favors,” Fox said sharply, standing and gathering a stack of datapads. “Political gain. Leverage. That’s all it is.”
“Right. Because Chuchi’s weekly caf runs are definitely calculated manipulations,” Thorn said. “And [Y/N]’s violent astromech just happened to get into a scuffle on the same levels Hound was patrolling.”
Fox froze mid-step.
Stone stepped in closer, voice lower. “They like you, vod. And if you can’t see that… well, maybe you’ve spent too long behind that helmet.”
Fox didn’t answer. He left the room instead.
⸻
Later, in the barracks mess, the teasing continued.
“I’m just saying,” a trooper from Hound’s squad said over his tray of nutripaste, “if I had two senators fighting over me, I wouldn’t be sulking in the corner like a kicked tooka.”
“Bet you couldn’t handle one senator, Griggs,” someone snorted.
“Chuchi’s been walking around here like she’s already Mrs. Commander,” another clone said.
“And then there’s [Y/N]—saw her yesterday with that storm in her eyes. Poor Thorn looked like he wanted to duck for cover.”
Fox bit down on his ration bar, silent. The mess hall noise faded into white noise.
They didn’t know what it felt like to be looked at like a man and a weapon at the same time. To be split down the middle between duty and desire, between what he wanted and what he thought he should want.
He finished his meal in silence.
⸻
That night, he stared out the window of his office, Coruscant’s lights a smear of neon and shadow. Two women—both sharp, both powerful, both with eyes only for him.
And now Hound. Loyal. Steady. Looking at you like Fox never could, like he already knew how to handle the firestorm you were.
Fox sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.
He couldn’t afford to be anyone’s anything. But the longer this dragged on, the more he realized—
Someone was going to get burned.
And he had no idea if it would be you, Chuchi, Hound…
Or himself.
⸻
The halls of the Coruscant Guard outpost were quieter than usual.
Chuchi walked them with careful purpose, her blue and gold robes rustling faintly. Every guard she passed nodded respectfully, but none met her eyes for more than a second. They knew why she was here.
Everyone did.
She had waited long enough. Played the patient game, the polite game. The understanding game. She brought caf. She asked about his day. She lingered in his space like something that might eventually be welcome.
And yet… he still hadn’t chosen her.
Or her.
The other senator.
The dangerous one. The cunning one. The one who burned like a live wire and left scorch marks wherever she walked. She and Chuchi had sparred in the Senate chamber and beyond, but it was no longer just about politics.
It was about Fox.
She found him in his office—alone, helmet on the desk, datapads stacked in tall towers around him. He didn’t hear her enter at first. Only when she cleared her throat did he glance up.
“Senator Chuchi,” he said, standing automatically.
“Commander,” she returned, keeping her tone calm. Measured.
He gestured to the seat across from him, but she shook her head. “This won’t take long.”
Fox looked… tired. Not the kind of tired from too many hours on patrol, but from something deeper. Something that sat behind his eyes like a storm just waiting.
She softened, just slightly.
“I’ve waited for you to make a decision,” Chuchi began, voice quiet but firm. “I’ve given you space. Time. Respect. And I will always value the work you do for the Republic.”
Fox opened his mouth, but she lifted a hand. “Let me finish.”
He fell silent.
“I am not a woman who throws herself at men. I don’t pine, and I don’t beg. But I do know my worth. And I know what I want.”
Her eyes met his then—sharper than usual, no more dancing around it.
“I want you.”
He blinked, mouth parting slightly.
“But I will not share you,” she continued, each word deliberate. “And I will not wait in line behind another senator, wondering if today is the day you stop pretending none of this is happening.”
Fox exhaled slowly. “Riyo, it’s not that simple—”
“It is simple,” she snapped, the rare flash of fire in her melting-ice demeanor. “You’re just too afraid to admit it. You think this is all politics—me, her, whatever feelings you’re hiding—but it’s not. It’s human. You are allowed to feel, Fox.”
He looked away, jaw tight.
“You don’t have to give me an answer now,” she said, stepping back toward the door. “But if I see you let her string you along again… if you keep acting like you don’t see how this triangle is tearing you and the rest of us apart—then I’ll know.”
She paused, hand on the panel.
“I’ll know you never saw me the way I saw you.”
The door slid open with a quiet hiss.
“Riyo—” he started.
But she was already gone.
⸻
The lights of your apartment were low, casting golden shadows across the walls. You didn’t bother turning them up when the door chimed. You’d been expecting someone—just not him.
Fox stood in the entryway, helmet tucked beneath one arm, armor dusted in evening glare from the city beyond your windows. There was something solemn in his stance. Something final.
You didn’t greet him with your usual smirk or sharp tongue. Something about his posture made your stomach drop.
He stepped in slowly, gaze flickering across the room like he was memorizing it.
Or maybe saying goodbye to it.
“Commander,” you said softly.
He looked up at that—his name from your lips always made him falter.
“[Y/N],” he said, and then stopped. Swallowed. “We need to talk.”
You crossed your arms, trying to keep the steel in your spine, but it was already crumbling.
“I can’t do this anymore,” he said, voice quiet, nearly breaking. “The back and forth. The indecision. The games.”
You blinked slowly, lips parting. “So you’ve made a choice.”
His jaw clenched. “I had to. The Council’s watching us. The Guard is talking. The Senate is twisting every glance into something political. And now… Chuchi’s given me an ultimatum.”
You laughed—bitter and hollow. “And you’re choosing the good senator with the clean conscience.”
He stepped closer. “It’s not about that.”
“Yes,” you said, voice low and wounded. “It is.”
Silence.
His eyes were pained. “You were never easy. You were never safe. But… stars, you made me feel. And I think I could’ve—” His voice caught. “But I can’t be what you need. Not with the eyes of the Republic on my back. I need order. Stability. Not a war disguised as a woman.”
That one hurt.
But the worst part? You agreed.
You straightened your shoulders, not letting him see you shake. “So this is goodbye?”
Fox hesitated… then stepped forward. His gloved hand cupped your cheek for the first—and only—time.
“I don’t want it to be.”
And then he kissed you.
Not a greedy kiss. Not full of passion or hunger. It was a farewell, a promise never made and never kept. His lips tasted like iron and regret.
You didn’t push him away.
You kissed him back like he was already a memory.
Then—
The sharp sound of metal clinking against tile. A low growl.
Fox broke the kiss and turned sharply, helmet already in his hand, defensive stance flickering into place.
Hound stood just inside the open doorway, frozen, Grizzer at his heel.
His eyes said everything before his mouth could.
Rage. Hurt. Disbelief.
He’d come to check on you. Maybe to say something. Maybe to try again.
He saw too much.
Fox stepped back. You didn’t move.
Hound gave a bitter laugh—low and sharp. “Guess I was right. He really is blind. Just not in the way I thought.”
“Hound—” Fox started.
“Don’t,” Hound snapped. “You made your choice, Commander. Leave it that way.”
Grizzer growled again as if echoing the tension.
You didn’t speak. Couldn’t. Your chest was a firestorm and all your usual words had burned up inside it.
Fox nodded once, helmet slipping on with a hiss. He turned without another word and walked past Hound, shoulders square, back straight, like it didn’t just rip him apart.
Once he was gone, Hound looked at you.
You couldn’t read his expression.
But his voice, when it came, was low. Hoarse.
“Did it mean anything?”
And for the first time, you didn’t know how to answer.
The door clicked shut behind them, and the silence that followed wasn’t peaceful—it was suffocating. The echo of his parting words still clung to the walls like smoke. He had barely made it across the threshold before your knees gave out, the strength you had worn like armor dissolving into a ragged breath and clenched fists.
It was Maera who found you first. No questions. Just the sweep of her arms around your shoulders, the calm, anchoring presence of someone who had seen too many things to be surprised anymore.
Ila appeared next, barefoot, eyes wide and fearful, as if heartbreak were a ghost that could be caught. She knelt beside you, small and uncertain, pressing a warm cup of something you wouldn’t drink into your hands.
“I’m fine,” you lied.
“You’re not,” Maera said softly, brushing your hair from your face. “But that’s allowed.”
You had no words. Only the biting, hollow ache that came from being chosen and then discarded, a bruise where something like hope had tried to bloom.
There was a loud clank at the door, followed by the unmistakable shrill of R9.
“R9, no—” Maera started, but you raised a hand.
Let him come.
The astromech rolled forward at full speed, slamming into the table leg hard enough to make it jump. He beeped wildly, whirring aggressively and letting out a stream of binary curses aimed, presumably, at Fox or heartbreak in general. Then, bizarrely, he nestled against your legs like a pissed-off pet.
“He’s… trying to comfort you,” Ila offered. “I think.”
R9 let out a threatening screech at her, but didn’t move from your side. His dome whirled to angle toward you, then projected a low, flickering holo of your favorite constellations—something you’d once offhandedly mentioned when the droid had been in diagnostics. You hadn’t thought he’d remembered.
The stars spun in the dim of the room. The air was thick with grief and the faint scent of whatever perfume lingered on Fox’s armor from when he’d held you.
“He kissed you like a man who didn’t want to let go,” Maera said, her voice measured. “Then why did he?”
You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. But the pain in your chest answered for you.
“I hate him,” Ila whispered, arms wrapped around her knees. “He’s cruel.”
“No,” you murmured, dragging in a shaky breath. “He’s just a coward.”
The protocol droid, VX-7, finally entered—late, as always—with a towel around his photoreceptors. “Mistress, I would be remiss not to mention that heartbreak is statistically linked to decreased political productivity. Might I suggest a short revenge arc, or at least a spa visit?”
That startled a wet, broken laugh out of you.
“Add that to tomorrow’s agenda,” you rasped, still crumpled on the floor between handmaidens and droids and the shards of something you thought might have been real. “A good ol’ fashioned vengeance glow-up.”
R9 shrieked in approval. Probably. Or bloodlust. With him, it was often the same.
Maera sighed and helped you up, one arm tight around your waist. Ila grabbed a blanket. VX-7 muttered about emotional inefficiency. R9 rolled beside you, ready to follow you to hell and back, blasterless but unyielding.
You weren’t fine.
But you weren’t alone.
Not tonight.
⸻
The steam curled around your face as you exhaled, eyes half-lidded, submerged to the shoulders in mineral-rich waters so hot they almost stung. It was late morning in the upper districts—a crisp day, all sun and illusion—and you were tucked into one of the more exclusive private spa villas, far removed from the Senate rotunda or the sterile corridors of your apartment.
You hadn’t said much on the way over. Ila had chatted nervously, her voice drifting like birdsong, while R9 trailed behind with unusual restraint. He even refrained from threatening the receptionist droid, though you’d caught him twitching. Progress.
Maera, of course, hadn’t come. She’d stayed behind with VX-7, dividing and conquering your workload. She had insisted you go. Ordered, even. “We can’t have your eyeliner smudging in session. You’ll look weak,” she’d said dryly, brushing your shoulder with an almost motherly hand. “Take Ila and the murder toaster. Come back looking like a goddess or don’t come back at all.”
So now here you were. Wrapped in luxury, with Ila combing fragrant oil into your hair and the soft whisper of music playing through hidden speakers. A spa technician massaged your calves. A waiter delivered a carafe of citrus-laced water. You had everything—privacy, comfort, the best of what Coruscant could offer.
And still, your heart burned.
Fox had kissed you like a man drowning. And left you like one afraid of getting wet.
Emotionally, the wound hadn’t scabbed. But something was changing beneath it. The devastation had settled into clarity—hard and cool, like a weapon finally tempered.
You weren’t going to beg for a man who couldn’t decide if you were worth wanting.
You were going to rise.
“Should I schedule your next trade summit for the fifth rotation or wait until you’re more… luminous?” VX-7’s voice crackled through the commlink beside your lounge chair. “I’ve taken the liberty of gutting Senator Ask-Alo’s backchannel proposition and rewriting your response to be both cutting and condescending.”
“Send it,” you said without hesitation.
Ila glanced at you. “You… you’re feeling better?”
You didn’t answer right away. You dipped your hand into the water and let the heat lick your wrist.
“No,” you said at last, voice even. “But I’m remembering who I am.”
Ila smiled—relieved, perhaps. R9 beeped something that sounded like “good riddance” and projected an animation of a clone helmet being stomped on by a stiletto. You waved it off with half a smirk.
“Keep dreaming, R9.”
The truth was simpler. You were wounded, yes. But wounds could become armor.
Politically, you’d been cautious, balanced between power blocs and careful dissent. But that was before. Now you saw it clearly—affection and diplomacy had limits. What mattered was leverage.
You were done playing nice.
Done pretending your words didn’t bite.
When you returned to the Senate floor, you would be sharper, colder, untouchable. And this time, no one—not Fox, not Chuchi, not the Jedi Council—would see your vulnerability before they felt your strength.
“VX,” you said into the commlink as you slipped further into the water, your body relaxing even as your mind honed like a blade, “prep the first stage of the next motion. If I’m going to cause waves, I want them to break exactly where I choose.”
“Finally,” VX-7 replied with pride. “Welcome back, Senator.”
R9 beeped smugly.
Ila beamed.
And as the steam closed around you once more, you let yourself smile—a small, private thing.
Let them come.
You were ready.
⸻
Previous Part | Next Part
“Grizzer’s Choice”
Sergeant Hound x Reader
Coruscant’s upper levels were all steel and structure, but down here—beneath the polished platforms and Senate façades—was the Coruscant Guard’s territory. Order in chaos. The pulse of the city was felt more than seen, vibrating faintly under your boots as you stepped into the Guard kennel compound for the first time.
You took a slow breath. It smelled of durasteel, sanitizing agents, and wet fur.
Perfect.
You’d worked with animals your whole life. Big ones. Aggressive ones. Ones people gave up on, called dangerous or impossible. That’s how you landed the job—new mastiff handler for the Coruscant Guard’s prized unit.
A few troopers passed you with curious looks—some respectful, some dismissive. It wasn’t common for civilians to be embedded here. It was rarer still for one to be given a job involving him.
Grizzer.
The massiff lay in the shadowed corner of the compound, head lifted, ears twitching. His yellow eyes locked on you immediately.
The massiff was a fixture in Guard circles. A creature bred for control, raised on structure, trained in pain response and patrol aggression. He wasn’t a pet. He wasn’t a soldier, either. He was something in between—lethal and loyal, the way a war dog should be.
And he didn’t like anyone but his handler. The clone in crimson-striped armor waiting for you outside the kennels stood with arms folded, helmet clipped to his belt, posture sharp as a vibroblade.
“[Y/N]?” he asked, voice clipped.
“Yes, sir. Reporting for assignment.”
“Sergeant Hound,” he introduced. No small talk, no smile. “You’ll be assisting with behavioral oversight and training reinforcement for the precinct’s massiffs. That doesn’t mean taking liberties. You observe. You follow orders. You stay out of the way.”
Not exactly a welcome mat.
You nodded. “Understood.”
He turned on his heel and led you inside.
The kennels were quiet—clean, organized. The soft shuffle of claws on durasteel echoed from a side corridor. Grizzer was massive—thick-muscled, scarred, and alert. His hackles rose the moment his yellow eyes landed on you. His lip twitched in a soundless growl.
You kept your posture loose but grounded. Not threatening. Not submissive.
“Don’t speak,” Hound said quietly. “Just kneel. Hands visible.”
You obeyed without hesitation.
Grizzer approached—slow, ears rotating slightly. You didn’t reach out. You simply held your ground, steady, and let him scent the air between you.
Then, to Hound’s quiet surprise, Grizzer sat. Not completely relaxed. But watching you, calm.
Hound blinked.
“He doesn’t do that,” he muttered.
You finally glanced up. “He does now.””
⸻
Grizzer had taken to you faster than anyone expected. It was subtle—he didn’t become affectionate or eager—but he tolerated your touch, followed your directions, even mirrored your body language during patrol drills. The clone officers noticed. Fox himself dropped a comment during one of the rotation briefings.
“Grizzer’s got a new favorite,” he muttered as he passed you.
You caught Hound watching you more often now—sometimes in silence during shift changes, sometimes while adjusting Grizzer’s gear. Not hostile. Just… thoughtful. Assessing.
That night, while off-duty, you found yourself sitting on the edge of a service stairwell overlooking the lower hangar levels. A small moment of quiet between patrols.
Boots echoed behind you.
“You’re off duty,” Hound said, approaching. “You could be sleeping.”
You smirked without looking back. “You could be too.”
He stood beside you for a moment, then sat—grudgingly, like it offended him to admit he needed rest.
Silence lingered. But not heavy this time. Companionable.
“I’ve seen Grizzer bite men for less than standing too close to me,” he said eventually.
You turned to him, arching a brow. “Should I be worried?”
“No.” He paused. “That’s what’s strange.”
A beat passed.
“He trusts you,” Hound continued. “That’s not something I trained into him. That’s something he chose.”
You studied him—his scarred knuckles, the stiffness in his shoulders that never fully eased. A soldier first. A handler second. A man… somewhere beneath all of that.
“Then I guess he’s smarter than both of us,” you said softly.
Hound looked at you.
Not sharply. Not critically.
Just looked. And for the first time, you saw something tired in him. Not weak. Just worn down from too many deployments, too many arrests, too many shifting rules in a galaxy that didn’t make sense anymore.
“Maybe,” he murmured. “Or maybe he just sees what I’m too used to ignoring.”
You tilted your head. “What’s that?”
“You care. And you don’t ask for anything in return.”
Another pause. A flicker of something in his gaze.
“That’s rare in this job,” he added.
Grizzer padded over from the shadows and laid his heavy head on your lap, letting out a slow sigh.
Hound stared at the massiff, then at you again.
“I was wrong about you,” he said simply. “You’re not here to handle the animals.”
You raised a brow.
“You’re here to remind us we’re more than just uniforms.”
You didn’t respond.
Grizzer’s weight was comforting. His head rested on your lap, massive chest rising and falling in sync with your breathing. You absently scratched behind his coarse ears, your fingers finding the notch from some old skirmish or riot bite. Hound had gone quiet beside you, his elbows resting on his knees, head slightly bowed.
He was still wearing half his armor—greaves, chestplate, the red markings catching the glow from the hangar lights below. He looked tired. But not worn down. Just quiet.
The kind of quiet soldiers earned, not feared.
“You always this silent off-duty?” you asked gently.
Hound exhaled a faint laugh—just enough breath to make it real. “Only when I’m trying not to ruin something.”
You turned toward him slightly. “Ruin what?”
He met your gaze. And something about it—about the lack of armor in his eyes—made the silence between you shift. He didn’t answer right away.
Instead, his hand lifted—callused and gloved—almost as if to brush a stray strand of hair from your face. But he stopped, fingers hovering just near your cheek.
“I’m not good at this,” he said quietly.
You swallowed. “You don’t have to be.”
A breath passed.
He leaned in—barely. The kind of lean that spoke of hesitation, of a soldier measuring risk, calculating damage, even here. Even now.
And you leaned in, too.
It wasn’t a kiss. Not yet. But the space between you narrowed to a thread, the kind you didn’t want to break. His eyes flicked to your mouth, then back up.
Then—
“Sergeant.”
The voice cracked the moment apart like a blaster round through glass.
Both of you jerked slightly apart, tension resetting in your shoulders. Grizzer lifted his head from your lap, a low rumble forming deep in his throat.
Commander Fox stood at the top of the stairwell, arms folded, expression unreadable. His helmet was clipped to his belt, and his voice was flat.
“We’re short a patrol on Sector C-14. I need you on rotation, now.”
Hound’s jaw clenched, but he nodded once, efficient and emotionless.
“Copy that.”
Fox’s gaze slid to you, then to Grizzer—who was now fully on his feet, hackles half-raised, eyes locked on the Commander like he was prey. A low growl echoed across the steel.
“Call off your mutt,” Fox said sharply.
“He’s not a mutt,” you said before thinking, standing slowly and resting a hand on Grizzer’s flank. “He just doesn’t like people who interrupt.”
Fox’s brow twitched. Hound gave you the faintest side-glance—half warning, half impressed.
“See that he’s leashed and off the hangar levels by 2200,” Fox added, then turned and walked off without another word.
Silence returned, but it wasn’t the same.
Hound rose to his feet beside you. Grizzer stayed close to your leg, still staring toward the stairwell.
You broke the quiet first. “Almost.”
He nodded, quiet.
“Yeah.”
Neither of you said it. You didn’t need to.
But as he stepped away, pausing just long enough for one last look, you caught the faintest flicker of something in his voice—something that sounded like hope.
“I’m on rotation ‘til 0300,” he said. “But I’ll be back.”
You nodded once, heart steady but loud. “I’ll wait.”
Grizzer huffed.
Hound gave the massiff a rare half-smile.
“Try not to bite Fox next time,” he muttered.
But even you could tell… he wasn’t entirely serious.
⸻
You were still awake.
The barracks were quiet. You’d been sitting on a folded crate just outside the kennel med bay, a stim-caf growing cold between your hands, eyes scanning the darkened corridor.
When the outer hatch hissed open, your breath caught.
Hound stepped through first—helmet on, armor dulled with soot and carbon scuffs. But it wasn’t him your eyes locked on.
It was Grizzer.
He limped in beside his handler, front right paw curled tight to avoid weight, blood drying in a jagged smear up his shoulder. His thick tail was low but not tucked—still alert, still proud, but hurting.
“Blaster graze,” Hound said as he approached, voice clipped, too calm.
You were already moving.
“I’m not a vet, but—bring him in. Now.”
Hound didn’t argue.
He followed you through the kennel’s side hall into the back medical stall—one of the few areas with proper light and clean storage drawers. You cleared the low bench, grabbing antiseptic, gauze, a med-spray from your locker.
Grizzer lay down without command, eyes tracking you but not fighting. You took that as trust.
You worked in silence. Gently shaving back the singed fur, dabbing the graze clean. It wasn’t deep, but it had burned skin—angry, red, raw.
You caught Hound’s hands twitching at his sides more than once.
“He’ll be okay,” you said softly. “No nerve damage. He’ll walk it off in two days.”
Hound crouched beside Grizzer, resting one hand on the massiff’s uninjured shoulder, his other brushing through the thick fur behind his ear.
The silence that settled wasn’t empty—it was full.
Full of the sound of breath evening out. Of blood pressure lowering. Of armor creaking as a soldier finally let go.
“You care about him like he’s more than a partner,” you said, not as a question.
“He’s the only constant I’ve had since Kamino.”
The way he said it—low, quiet, unsentimental—landed heavy.
“I get that,” you replied. “You lose enough people, the ones who stay matter more.”
Grizzer let out a tired huff and nudged your wrist with his nose.
You smiled. “And he’s got good taste in people.”
Hound looked up at you.
Not guarded this time. Not assessing. Just looking.
“You stayed up,” he said.
“I said I’d wait.”
He stood slowly, watching you as you finished wrapping the bandage. The space between you narrowed again—this time in quiet exhaustion, quiet care.
You didn’t flinch when he reached up—just brushed a hand over your cheek, gentle, almost reverent.
He exhaled.
Then you leaned into him.
And he kissed you.
It wasn’t desperate or sharp—just honest. The kind of kiss that says I trust you, the kind that follows after weeks of tension and hours of worry. You melted into it, letting your hand rest over the back of his neckplate, letting him feel that he wasn’t alone anymore.
Then—
Grizzer groaned and shifted between your legs, snout nudging the both of you apart. He pushed his head under your arm and leaned hard into your ribs, jealous and affectionate all at once.
You laughed, breathless. “You little saboteur.”
“He’s worse than Fox,” Hound muttered.
You and Hound both turned as the side hall door hissed open again.
“Oh for kriff’s—”
Commander Thorn stood in the doorway, a datapad in hand, brows raised.
He took one look at the scene—Grizzer crammed between the two of you like a possessive third wheel, Hound with his hand still at your waist, you flushed and tousled.
There was a long pause.
Thorn blinked once. Then he pivoted neatly on his heel.
“I don’t wanna know about it,” he said, walking off.
The door hissed shut again behind him.
Silence.
Then Hound let out a low chuckle—just a puff of breath, really, but it was genuine. He looked down at you, still holding your waist.
“At least it wasn’t Fox.”
You smiled. “I’ll take it.”
Grizzer gave one last grunt of satisfaction and nosed between you both again.
Hound shook his head, but his hand didn’t leave your side.
Not this time.
“Red and Loyal” pt.1
Commander Fox x Senator Reader
Your voice echoed in the Senate chamber, sharp and laced with desperation.
“They are massing on our borders. Do you understand what that means? My people are not soldiers. If the Separatists come, we won’t stand a chance.”
Bail Organa looked at you with soft regret. Padmé Amidala gave you a sympathetic nod. Even Mon Mothma lowered her eyes.
But sympathy didn’t stop invasions.
Mas Amedda cleared his throat, voice cold. “Senator, the Grand Army’s resources are stretched thin. Reinforcements are already dispatched to Felucia and Mygeeto. We cannot spare more.”
You felt like you’d been struck.
“So we are to be sacrificed?” you snapped, voice rising. “Left to be slaughtered while this chamber debates logistics?”
Whispers erupted. Chancellor Palpatine raised a hand, calm and unbothered. “We understand your concern, Senator. But this is war. Sacrifices must be made.”
You wanted to scream.
Instead, you bowed stiffly and left the chamber before your fury bled into something less diplomatic.
⸻
You didn’t notice him at first—too blinded by anger, by heartbreak, by the fear that your people were going to die for nothing.
But as you stormed through the marble corridors of the Senate building, your shoulder collided with armor.
Red.
Hard.
You looked up—into the steady, unreadable face of Commander Fox.
He barely moved. His arm reached out instinctively, steadying you. “Senator.”
You blinked. You hadn’t realized you were trembling.
“Commander,” you said, voice sharper than you meant.
Fox tilted his head slightly. “Rough session?”
You laughed bitterly. “Only if you consider being told to watch your world burn while they debate budgets rough.”
He said nothing. Not at first. Just watched you, eyes tracking every twitch of emotion on your face.
“I’m sorry,” you muttered, shaking your head. “You don’t need to hear that. You’ve got your own war to fight.”
“I listen better than most senators,” he said quietly.
You blinked.
Fox’s voice was never warm. It was always firm, controlled. Professional.
But this—this was different.
You leaned against the wall, fighting the tears building behind your eyes. “I’m a senator and I’m still powerless.”
“You care,” Fox said, after a beat. “That already makes you different.”
You looked at him. “Do you ever get used to it?”
He was silent. His jaw tensed.
“No,” he said. “But you learn to live with it. Or you break.”
You didn’t realize your hand had drifted close to his until your fingers brushed the back of his glove. A mistake. Or maybe not.
He looked down at your hand, then back at you.
The air between you was taut. Too intimate for a Senate hallway. Too dangerous for two people on opposite sides of a professional line.
And yet…
“If there’s anything I can do,” Fox said, voice low, “for your people… or for you…”
You looked up at him, studying the man beneath the red armor. The one with the tired eyes and careful words. The one who could have kept walking but didn’t.
“You already have,” you whispered.
And then you were gone—leaving Fox standing there, staring at the spot where you’d been.
Fingers still tingling.
⸻
The shuttle’s engines hummed low, a mechanical purr echoing through the Senate docks. The air was thick with fuel, heat, and tension. Your transport was nearly ready—small, lightly defended, and insufficient for what lay ahead, but it would take you home.
You stared out across the city skyline, heart pounding.
They said you were making a mistake. They said returning to your home world was suicide.
But it was your world.
And if it was going to fall, it wouldn’t do so without you standing beside it.
You heard the footsteps before you saw them—measured, purposeful.
Then: the unmistakable voice of Chancellor Palpatine, oiled and theatrical.
“Ah, Senator. So determined.” He approached, flanked by crimson-robed guards and the sharper silhouettes of red Coruscant Guard armor.
Commander Fox stood behind him, helm off, unreadable as ever.
You straightened. “Chancellor.”
“I’ve come to offer you a final word of advice,” Palpatine said smoothly, folding his hands. “Returning to your planet now would be… ill-advised. The situation is deteriorating rapidly.”
You lifted your chin. “Which is why I must be there. My people are scared. They need to see someone hasn’t abandoned them.”
Palpatine sighed, as if burdened by your courage. “Yes, I suspected as much.”
He turned slightly, gesturing behind him.
“I anticipated you would refuse counsel, so I’ve taken the liberty of organizing a security detail to accompany you.”
Your brows furrowed.
“Commander Fox, accompanied by his men” he said, voice silk. “And a squad of my most loyal Guardsmen. Until the Senate can act, they will serve as your protection detail.”
Your eyes snapped to Fox, stunned. He met your gaze with that same unreadable intensity—but his stance was different. Less rigid. Like he had volunteered.
“I…” You turned to Palpatine. “Thank you, Chancellor.”
He gave you a benign smile. “Don’t thank me. Thank Commander Fox. He was the one who insisted your safety be taken seriously.”
Your breath caught.
Palpatine gave a slight bow and turned, robes billowing as he departed with his guards, leaving the dock strangely quiet again.
You looked at Fox.
“You insisted?”
He stepped forward, stopping just shy of arm’s reach. “You’re not a soldier. You shouldn’t have to walk into a war zone alone.”
“Neither should you,” you said softly.
He blinked. “It’s different.”
“Is it?”
You held his gaze for a moment too long.
Fox shifted, jaw tight. “My orders are to protect you. And I intend to do that.”
There was something in his voice. Something unspoken.
“I’m not helpless, you know,” you said, voice a little gentler. “But I’m… glad it’s you.”
His eyes flickered.
“You’ll be staying close, then?” you asked, half teasing, half aching to hear the answer.
“Yes,” he said. No hesitation. “Wherever you are, I’ll be close.”
The words lingered between you. Heavy. Charged.
You nodded slowly, stepping toward the shuttle ramp. “Well then, Commander. Shall we?”
He followed you silently. And when you boarded that ship—uncertain of what awaited—you didn’t feel so alone anymore.
⸻
The ship was mid-hyperspace, engines humming steadily, the stars stretched thin and white outside the viewport like strands of pulled light.
You sat quietly near the front cabin, reading reports from home—civilians evacuating cities, militia forming in panic. Your fingers were white-knuckled around the datapad, but you didn’t notice. Not when your ears were quietly tuned to the conversation just beyond the corridor.
Fox’s men weren’t exactly quiet.
⸻
“Okay,” Thire muttered, not even trying to keep his voice down. “So let me get this straight. You volunteered us for this mission?”
“You hate senators,” Stone chimed in, boots kicked up on a storage crate. “Like… passionately.”
“And politics,” Hound added, his strill sniffing at a nearby panel before letting out a low growl. “And public speaking. And long transport rides. This is literally all your nightmares rolled into one.”
“I didn’t volunteer,” Fox said flatly.
“Didn’t you, though?” Thire drawled.
“We were assigned.”
“You asked to be assigned,” Hound smirked. “Big difference.”
“Orders are orders,” Fox said, clearly trying to end it.
“Right,” Stone said. “And the fact that she’s smart, brave, and has eyes that could melt a blaster coil—totally unrelated.”
Fox didn’t respond.
There was a pause.
“You’re not denying it,” Hound grinned, teeth flashing.
“You’re all on report,” Fox muttered darkly.
“Oh no,” Thire said with mock horror. “You’re going to write me up for noticing you have a crush?”
Fox growled.
“Come on, vod,” Stone said, voice a little gentler. “She’s not like the others. She actually gives a damn. And she looked gutted after the Senate meeting. Anyone could see that.”
“She’s brave,” Fox admitted, low. “She shouldn’t have to do this alone.”
They all went quiet for a beat.
Then Thire leaned in, grinning. “We’re just saying. If you start calling her cyar’ika, we’ll know what’s up.”
Fox shoved the heel of his hand against his temple and groaned.
You were definitely not supposed to have heard any of that.
And yet… here you were, biting back a smile and pretending to be Very Deeply Focused on your datapad, heart fluttering unhelpfully in your chest.
He cared.
He was trying not to—but he cared.
And for someone like Fox, who lived his life behind armor and discipline, that meant everything.
Next Part