askbox said requests open so in would you be open to doing like Corrie guard x teen reader (platonic/familial obv) where reader is just a troublemaker? Any Corrie is fine
“Of Course It’s You Again”
Corrie Guard x Reader
“You’re banned from five speeder shops, two undercity hover clubs, and a noodle stall, all in the same week. Impressive.”
Fox didn’t even look up from the datapad as he listed the offenses.
“I can explain the noodle stall,” you offered weakly from the holding bench.
“No need.” Thorn leaned in from the doorway, smirking. “The surveillance footage already went viral in the barracks. Who knew you could do a somersault over a steaming vat of soup?”
“It was more of a dive, really,” you muttered.
Fox sighed and finally looked up, helmet tucked under one arm, expression unreadable except for the twitch at his temple. The twitch meant you were pushing it — again.
“You’re fourteen. You should not be on Coruscant’s lower levels alone, let alone swinging from fire escapes with a stolen repulsorboard.”
“I didn’t steal it! I borrowed it. Temporarily. From a rich kid who told me I couldn’t land a trick over an alley gap.” You crossed your arms and tilted your chin. “Joke’s on him. I nailed it.”
“Then crashed through a skylight,” Thorn added helpfully.
“Into a meditation class,” Stone chimed in from the hallway, holding up your scratched-up backpack like it was evidence. “Disturbed twelve people’s inner peace.”
“They weren’t meditating that hard if my landing broke it.”
Fox pinched the bridge of his nose.
You didn’t mean to be trouble. Trouble just seemed to… find you. Or maybe you found it, like some kind of chaos-seeking missile disguised as a scrappy teenager.
Your parents? Gone. Some Senate program dumped you in the Core with a half-decent stipend and no real oversight. Which meant you ran wild. And after the third or fourth brush with disaster — usually involving unauthorized tech or questionable shortcuts through restricted zones — the Coruscant Guard had become a permanent fixture in your life.
Oddly enough, most of them knew you by name now.
And, you had to admit, you kinda liked it.
“Alright, let’s recap. You: jumped a restricted gate, repulsorboarded through a construction site, outran local security, crashed a meditation session, and then somehow ended up hiding inside Commander Thire’s speeder. Which you locked. From the inside.”
“You guys leave the keys in the ignition,” you said with a shrug.
“You hotwired it.”
“…I was trying to turn on the radio.”
Despite it all, they didn’t throw you in juvie. Or hand you off to CSF. Or abandon you to the undercity. No. Fox made you sit in his office with a data slate full of regulations and a mug of caf you weren’t allowed to drink because it was “stunt fuel” for someone like you.
Thorn let you mess with his blaster (unloaded, obviously) while telling you war stories with just enough exaggeration to keep you fascinated. Stone taught you how to rewire a security panel without frying it. And Thire?
Thire let you ride on the back of his speeder once — one time — and immediately regretted it when you whooped like a feral Tooka and tried to stand up mid-traffic.
⸻
It became a routine.
You got into trouble. They found you. Gave you a lecture. Sometimes scolded. Sometimes laughed. Always made sure you got home — or somewhere safe — in one piece.
And somehow, you started sticking around. More than you had to.
Helping Fox sort inventory (“Don’t touch the detonators.”)
Racing Thorn to the mess hall for late-night caf (“You cheat, kid — I saw that shortcut!”)
Even shadowing Stone during his rounds like some kind of half-official, half-feral cadet in training.
⸻
One night, after a quieter-than-usual stunt involving zero arrests but one unauthorized rooftop laser tag game, you found yourself in Fox’s office again.
Only this time, he wasn’t reading you the riot act.
He was quiet, typing something on his terminal, before sliding a small holochip across the desk.
“It’s a training access code,” he said. “To the sim rooms. Restricted hours. You want to waste all that adrenaline, might as well learn to use it properly.”
You blinked. “You want me to train? Like… seriously?”
“You’ve got good instincts. And you keep not dying, which is impressive. Might as well teach you how to not die more efficiently.”
You stared at him, for once, speechless.
“…Don’t make me regret it,” he added gruffly.
“No promises,” you grinned.
⸻
Months Later
You were still a menace. Still pulled dumb stunts. But now?
Now you had a Coruscant Guard ID badge clipped to your belt.
Now you ran errands for the boys during shift change.
Now you helped calibrate stun batons for practice.
Now they called you cadet half-joking, half-proud.
And when one of the shinies asked, “Who the hell is that gremlin in the mechanics bay?”
Stone just shrugged and said, “Ours.”
⸻
It started, like most of your bad decisions, with a dare.
It was supposed to be harmless. A quick dash across a speeder platform mid-rush hour. In and out. Show off a bit. Prove you still had it.
Only… the timing was wrong.
A repulsor malfunctioned. A speeder clipped another, and before you knew it, the skyway snarled into chaos. Shrieking brakes. Flashing lights. Civilians ducking for cover. Someone got clipped trying to pull their kid back.
All because you thought a five-second stunt would be funny.
⸻
“You could’ve killed someone.”
Fox’s voice was low. Worse than yelling. Worse than angry.
His helmet sat untouched on the desk as he paced in front of you, gloved hands clenched into fists.
You sat on the bench in the guard precinct like always — except this time, your hands were shaking.
“I know,” you whispered.
“Do you?” Thorn snapped from the doorway, arms folded tight across his chest. “Do you really? Because we pulled a woman out of a pile of durasteel who wouldn’t have even been there if you hadn’t been playing reckless little kriffing hero on a skyway meant for high-speed traffic—!”
“Thorn,” Fox said sharply. But he didn’t look at you. He couldn’t, yet.
Your throat closed up.
You weren’t crying. You weren’t. You never cried.
But the pressure behind your eyes burned like hell, and your lip wouldn’t stop trembling no matter how hard you bit it.
You’d messed up before — lots of times — but not like this.
Not with people hurt.
Not with Fox looking like he didn’t even know what to do with you.
“I didn’t mean—” your voice cracked. “I didn’t think it’d go that wrong.”
“You never think,” Thorn bit out. His voice had the sharp edge of fear tucked behind the anger. “That’s the problem.”
“I didn’t want anyone to get hurt!” You stood up suddenly, voice rising in raw panic. “I swear I didn’t—I just—I just—!”
Fox turned. His face was hard, but his voice came softer this time.
“You wanted to prove something.”
You froze.
“You wanted to remind them — remind us — you could still pull a trick. Still cause a stir. Still be ‘that kid’ everyone talks about.”
“I just didn’t want to fade out,” you muttered, eyes on the floor. “All the regs coming back from the war, all the shinies taking over, people forget me. I didn’t mean—”
“People could’ve died,” Fox said again, voice tight. “You’re lucky they didn’t.”
The silence that followed felt heavier than armor.
Then Fox exhaled, long and tired.
He knelt slightly so he could look you in the eye.
“And you’re lucky that woman only broke her arm. That her kid’s okay. That we were close enough to help.” He tapped your chest gently with a gloved finger — not harsh, just firm. “You’ve got too much heart and not enough sense sometimes, kid.”
Thorn walked closer too, rubbing the back of his neck like he hated what he was about to say.
“We like you, di’kut,” he muttered. “But karking stars, you scared the hell outta us today.”
“I’m sorry,” you whispered, voice barely audible. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“You didn’t scare us for you,” Thorn said. “You scared us for everyone else. That’s what being responsible means — it ain’t about staying out of trouble. It’s about knowing your actions don’t just hit you. They hit everyone around you.”
You wiped your eyes before tears could actually fall, but Fox saw it anyway.
He stood and sighed again, this time with less weight.
“C’mere.”
You hesitated. Then stepped forward. He pulled you into a quick, solid hug — armor and all — and Thorn gave your back a solid thump.
“Doesn’t mean you’re off the hook,” Fox said into your hair.
“I figured.”
“You’ll be doing sim-room drills at 0500 for a week,” he added. “And writing apology letters to the civilians caught in the crash.”
You winced. “Even the one who called me a goblin?”
“Especially that one.”
“Ugh.”
“Welcome to consequences,” Thorn said dryly. “They suck. But you’ll live.”
⸻
Later, as you sat in the barracks with a steaming mug of stimcaf and an ice pack for your bruised ego, Thorn plopped down next to you.
He didn’t say anything for a minute. Just nudged your shoulder.
“Y’know… some people would’ve run.”
You glanced at him, confused.
“After something like that? You didn’t. You stayed. Took it on the chin. Faced it.”
“…Didn’t feel like I had a choice.”
“You did. And you made the right one.”
“…Does this mean you’ll let me ride the speeder again someday?”
Saw this video and wondered how would the clone commanders (especially Fox and Cody) react to being woken up like this after being under anesthesia?
https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZPHpkm33DogcB-zNGrp/
I just have to say this has been my absolute favourite request ever. If I were in this situation, all those responsible would not want to come within arms length of me.
Captain Rex
Pain pulsed behind his eyes as Captain Rex slowly blinked awake, thick bandages pulling tight across his ribs with every breath. Something was off. Not just the headache. Not just the soreness. It was the sound.
High-pitched. Inconsistent. Chaotic.
Rex squinted—and froze. Anakin Skywalker, Jedi General, Chosen One, War Hero… was kneeling at his bedside. He looked far too excited.
In Anakin’s hands—outstretched like a sacred offering—was a tiny rainbow-colored toy piano.
And headbutting the keyboard with terrifying determination was a miniature horse. No saddle. No reins. Just raw intent.
The notes burst out like blaster fire.
DINK-donk-DEEDLE-DINK.
Rex tried to sit up, failed, and whispered hoarsely, “…What. In the karking hells. Is happening.”
Ahsoka appeared behind Anakin, already giggling into her fist. “You’re awake! Great! Anakin’s been holding that keyboard for, like, twenty minutes.”
“She said this would be therapeutic,” Anakin said, chipper as ever, shifting the keyboard so the horse could better angle its head smashes.
“It’s just a horse, sir.”
“It’s a therapy horse, Rex. They used these at the Temple.”
Another piercing shriek of mismatched notes tore through the room.
Rex stared up at the ceiling. “I’d rather be back on Umbara.”
Commander Cody
Cody woke up in stages. The sterile sting of bacta. The soft beeping of monitors. The aching throb in his arm where a sniper bolt had clipped him.
And then: music.
Horrible, manic, soul-tearing music.
Plonk-plink-plonk-donk!
SCREEEANK.
Bonk.
He opened his eyes—and regretted it instantly. A tiny horse, squat and full of unholy energy, was enthusiastically slamming its face into a plastic keyboard just centimeters from his ear.
Waxer’s voice came from somewhere just out of sight. “How long do you think he can go without screaming?”
Boil snorted. “Oh, he’s screaming on the inside.”
Cody slowly sat up, veins throbbing in his temple. “…If either of you kriffers moves, I will personally reassign you to mop duty. In the Twi’lek school latrines. For six rotations.”
The horse whinnied and pounded out something that sounded like a war crime in audio form.
Waxer: “Worth it.”
Commander Wolffe
Wolffe blinked through the fog of painkillers, his cybernetic eye struggling to focus.
The music was the first thing he processed. Jagged, incoherent, horrifying.
Then the smell.
Hay. Saliva. Something… horse-like.
Finally, the visual.
A tiny horse, standing dutifully on a repurposed medical crate, violently smashing its face into a child’s toy piano. The instrument rocked with each impact, plastic bending ominously.
Wolffe turned his head—slowly—to see Jedi Master Plo Koon watching with what had to be amusement hidden behind his mask.
“…General?”
“The med droid suggested noise therapy,” Plo said calmly. “I added the animal.”
The horse neighed and began stomping the keyboard with one hoof.
“I’m going to bite someone,” Wolffe muttered.
Plo placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Let it in, Commander.”
Wolffe squeezed his eyes shut. “I’d rather let in a blaster bolt.”
Commander Fox
Fox’s return to consciousness was not gentle.
He emerged from blackness to chaos. Bright lights. Movement. And noise that sounded like a keyboard being assaulted by a small angry god.
He didn’t open his eyes. He didn’t move. He just listened, as the unmistakable sound of a toy keyboard being mercilessly assaulted rang through the sterile room.
Another plink-plonk, followed by the faint sound of something neighing.
Fox slowly, very slowly, turned his head.
When he focused his vision, it got worse.
A miniature horse in a tiny red Senate Guard cape was stationed at his bedside, eyes wild, mouth frothing happily as it attacked the toy piano like it had a vendetta.
Fox said nothing. Just watched. Expression flat. Eyes haunted.
Thorn leaned into view, sipping caf. “Good morning, Commander.”
Stone appeared behind him. “I warned him. I warned him this was a bad idea.”
Thorn grinned. “Therapy, Stone. You’re just not cultured.”
Fox remained motionless, gaze fixed on the keyboard as the horse let out a horrific whinny and mashed the keys again.
HONK-plink-BONK-dink-DINK.
Stone looked at him with genuine concern. “Sir… you okay?”
Fox didn’t blink. “I am going to report you both to the Chancellor.”
The horse shrieked through another discordant melody.
Fox didn’t blink. Then, very softly, voice like the last breath of a dying man:
“…I was happier when I was unconscious.”
Thorn sipped his caf. “You’re welcome.”
Commander Bly
Pain. That’s what Bly remembered. Pain and fire and—
…music?
He sat up, vision blurred. A shape moved at his periphery.
He turned—and nearly drew his sidearm.
The miniature horse was staring him down. Face pressed into the toy keyboard, head swinging violently left to right, slamming out notes with the reckless abandon of a droid gone rogue.
Bly recoiled. “What the—?!”
Aayla Secura materialized at his side, arms folded, blue skin radiant under the med tent lighting. “It’s a healing practice. Jedi younglings responded well to musical therapy involving small animals.”
“This isn’t music,” Bly hissed. “It’s sonic terrorism.”
“Breathe, Commander. Let the horse soothe your spirit.”
The horse neighed and pounded out a horrifying scale that ended in what sounded like a death rattle.
Bly whispered, “Please just kill me next time.”
Commander Gree
Gree tried to rise, but the dull ache in his spine kept him grounded.
Then came the music.
Wrong. All of it. Not from a holotape. Not a symphony. This was… live.
He looked over—and choked.
The horse was too close. Its mane was styled in a top knot. Its face dripping with saliva. The toy keyboard was wet. Wet.
It saw him and intensified its playing.
Luminara Unduli appeared like a calm specter behind it. “Do not resist, Commander. Resistance breeds suffering.”
“I’m already suffering.”
The horse turned and licked his boot.
“I will file a report to the Chancellor.”
Commander Bacara
Bacara came to with a start, battle-hardened instincts screaming that something was wrong.
The tent flap was open. The guards were gone. And—
The sound. Dissonant. Unrelenting. Mocking.
He looked over.
There was no explanation. No words. Just a therapy horse with dead eyes and chaos in its soul, headbutting a keyboard like a war chant.
A medic burst in, panting. “Sir—it escaped from the Senatorial therapy wing—we don’t know how it got this far—”
The horse shrieked.
Bacara pulled the blanket over his head. “This war needs to end.”
Commander Neyo
The first thing Neyo noticed was the headache. The second was the pressure in his chest. The third was the music.
If it could be called that.
No, it was more like… auditory violence. A disharmonic slaughter of notes, slammed without rhythm or mercy.
PLONK. TINK. PLINK-PLONK. BONK.
It sounded like someone had thrown a malfunctioning mouse droid down a garbage chute full of wind chimes.
His eyes snapped open. Still groggy. Still healing. But his vision focused—sharply—on the thing at the foot of his bed.
A horse. A tiny horse. With dead, gleaming eyes and a face pressed violently into a plastic child’s keyboard. Its tiny hoof rose and stomped.
Neyo blinked once.
The horse made eye contact.
Then it neighed—a shrill, feral sound—and resumed its rampage across the keys.
He reached under the blanket, slow, methodical, bone-deep hatred growing with each plink and bonk. His fingers curled around cold durasteel.
The moment his DC-17 was free, he sat up and fired.
The medbay erupted in chaos.
A med droid wheeled in, screaming in binary. A nurse dove behind a console. Someone in the hallway shouted, “HE’S AWAKE! GET THE HORSE OUT!”
The bolt sizzled past the horse, barely missing its ear. The creature shrieked and launched itself out of the medbay with a surprising amount of speed for something shaped like a loaf of bread.
Neyo exhaled. Still holding the blaster steady.
A Jedi—a Knight he didn’t recognize—stormed in, horrified. “Commander! That was a certified therapy animal!”
Hay hay hay can you do a part 2 to the storm on Coresant one? Where like after all that the kid has nightmares about the guard not coming to save her in the storm and she wakes up all scared and the guys comfort her (maybe with a pillow fort and them all falling asleep in it🥹) 🫶
-⭐️
“Safe In The Fort”
Coruscant Guard x Teen Reader
The storm had passed.
But the scars it left behind were still very real.
You woke with a start, gasping as the echoes of the nightmare clung to your chest like a vise.
They didn’t come.
They left me.
Your heartbeat thundered painfully against your ribs, a frantic rhythm that refused to calm.
Cold sweat slicked your skin beneath the thin blanket thrown carelessly over you. The air in your small quarters felt heavy — thick with the weight of memories you never wanted to relive again.
Lightning flashed outside the window, briefly illuminating the cramped room with a pale, eerie glow.
The rain was still falling, but softer now. A ghost of the rage from hours ago.
You pulled the blanket tighter, trying to shove the fear away. Tried to remind yourself it was over.
That the Coruscant Guard had found you. Had saved you.
But the dark was loud. And your mind was louder.
⸻
“Kid?”
The voice came softly at first, hesitant. Then more sure.
“Kid, you awake?”
Your breath hitched.
The door to your quarters creaked open just a crack.
Fox’s familiar face appeared, the blue of his eyes soft but alert beneath the helmet.
“Hey,” he said gently, stepping in and closing the door behind him. “We’re worried about you.”
You blinked, swallowing the lump in your throat.
“Wasn’t… wasn’t trying to wake anyone.”
He smiled faintly, kneeling beside your bed.
“I figured you might want company. Or… something.”
You shook your head, words failing.
Fox nodded, understanding without needing more.
⸻
A few minutes later, the door opened wider.
Thorn stepped in, tall and solid, his green armor scuffed and damp from the storm.
Stone followed, lighter on his feet, carrying a crate under one arm.
Without a word, Thorn set the crate down with a soft thunk and began pulling out pillows, blankets, cushions — whatever soft things he could find.
Stone joined him, humming low and steady, hands quick and practiced as he spread a mountain of bedding across the floor.
Fox watched you carefully, then smiled and said, “We’re building a fort.”
You blinked, confusion mixing with exhaustion.
“A fort?”
“Yeah,” Thorn said, his voice rough but warm. “You can’t have nightmares in a pillow fort.”
You wanted to laugh. Wanted to tell them they were ridiculous.
Instead, your lips trembled, and you nodded.
⸻
The three Guards worked quickly, creating a cozy fortress of blankets draped over chairs and crates, piled high with pillows.
You watched, too tired and shaken to speak, as they wove their quiet magic.
The soft nest they made seemed impossible, like a shield against the night’s terror.
Finally, Fox patted the floor beside the makeshift walls.
“Come here.”
You slid from your bed, limbs heavy as wet cloth, and crawled inside.
The smell of worn fabric, mixed with the faint musk of armor, surrounded you — oddly comforting.
⸻
Fox settled beside you, careful not to crush you in his bulky armor.
Thorn stretched out on the opposite side, already closing his eyes.
Stone curled up near the entrance, humming a low tune that seemed to slow the beat of your frantic heart.
The room outside the fort was dark and quiet — but inside, the three were alive with quiet presence.
⸻
Fox reached out, brushing a stray lock of damp hair from your forehead.
“Hey,” he murmured, voice steady and soothing, “you’re safe now.”
You nodded, eyes heavy.
“I’m sorry I scared you,” you whispered.
Fox shook his head.
“You didn’t scare us. You scared yourself. And that’s okay.”
You bit your lip, blinking rapidly.
The nightmares were relentless — memories of being alone in the dark, drowning in cold water, the empty silence after your calls for help.
The weight of it had nearly crushed you.
⸻
“You remember,” Fox said, “we didn’t leave you.”
“We never leave family behind.”
You swallowed the sob rising in your throat.
“Even when you disappear into a storm, even when we don’t find you right away…”
“We come.”
⸻
You let out a shaky breath.
The storm outside rumbled softly — distant, fading.
But inside the pillow fort, your fears began to dissolve.
You closed your eyes.
And this time, the nightmares didn’t come.
⸻
Later — much later — Thorn’s even breathing showed he’d fallen asleep.
Stone’s humming had softened to a whisper.
Fox’s fingers still twined gently in your hair.
You were no longer alone.
⸻
The night passed.
Safe.
Together.
⸻
Morning light spilled through the small window.
You stirred, blinking against the gentle sun.
Fox was awake beside you, watching you with that quiet, fierce protectiveness that felt like home.
Can you do a part two for the Corry guard and the child????? Maybe one where a big storm hits corausant and they can’t find her so they have a big search party and are all super stressed for there little child?🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺
“Red Alert and Rain”
Teen!Reader x Coruscant Guard
Coruscant never got real storms.
Not the way Outer Rim planets did. But this wasn’t a real storm. This was a freak one — a busted weather grid combined with malfunctioning atmospheric regulators meant that tonight, Coruscant was drowning.
The upper levels were flooding. The lower levels were worse.
And you? You were missing.
⸻
“Say that again,” Commander Fox growled.
Thire didn’t flinch, but he looked just as grim. “The kid never came back after their errand run. Last ping was two hours ago. Then nothing. Tracker’s dead. Commlink silent.”
“You lost her?” Thorn’s voice rose in disbelief. “How do you lose a walking security risk in a red hoodie?!”
“We didn’t lose her—!” Stone snapped. “She said she was going out to drop off scrap for the mechanics! That’s not unusual!”
“She was supposed to be back before curfew,” Fox muttered, staring at the storm through the precinct window. Lightning lit up the skyline. “Now the underlevels are flooding, the trains are down, and we have no idea where she is.”
A long, tense silence.
Then Fox turned, voice sharp and clipped. “Mobilize search units. Lock down every route between the barracks and the mechanic bay. She’s out there, and I want eyes on every street and platform. Go.”
⸻
Every Guard moved like it was war.
Because to them… it was.
No one said it aloud, but the fear was obvious. You weren’t just some street kid anymore. You were theirs. Their disaster. Their gremlin. Their little shadow.
The barracks felt too quiet without your sarcastic one-liners or the way you’d sneak caf when no one was looking. Every missing hour was a punch to the gut.
⸻
Meanwhile: You.
Turns out rain + narrow rooftops + a shortcut through Level 1121’s maintenance corridors = a very bad idea.
You’d slipped. Hard.
Twisted your leg.
Crawled into a service tunnel to get out of the water.
And now? You were cold. Soaked. And scared.
Your commlink had shorted out when you hit the ground. Your tracker had been on the fritz since last week. And now the storm was howling above like something out of a horror vid, and your chest was tight with panic.
“…They’re gonna be so mad at me,” you muttered, teeth chattering. “Should’ve just stayed in the stupid garage—”
A distant rumble.
Something creaked overhead.
You flinched, curling tighter into yourself.
⸻
Hours passed.
You didn’t know how many.
But then—
“—you hear that?”
“—hold up—scanner’s pinging—”
“GET ME A LIGHT OVER HERE—”
Bright white flooded the tunnel.
Voices. Footsteps.
Armor. Red.
You blinked blearily just as a figure dropped to their knees in front of you.
“[Y/N]—?”
Fox.
You opened your mouth, but all that came out was a rasping sob.
“Hey—hey,” he said, voice cracking slightly as he caught you. You immediately clung to him like a lifeline. “You’re okay. I’ve got you. We’ve got you.”
You didn’t notice Thorn dropping to the other side. Or Stone barking into his comm for a med evac. Or Thire muttering something that suspiciously sounded like “thank the Force” while pretending he hadn’t been pacing for hours.
All you felt was warmth. Armor. Gloves in your hair. Steady voices calling you “kid” and “menace” and “too damn important to be pulling this again.”
⸻
Later, back in the barracks
You were wrapped in three blankets. Clones from the medcenter had personally delivered soup. Your ankle was splinted. Your hair was still damp. And your soul felt raw.
Fox sat beside you, quiet.
“…You mad?” you finally asked.
He sighed. “I was.”
You nodded. “That’s fair.”
“Now I’m just…” He shook his head. “Scared. You don’t get it, kid. You weren’t just missing. You were missing in that.”
You looked down. “I didn’t mean to get lost.”
“I know.”
“I didn’t think anyone would notice.”
Fox turned. “We noticed.”
Thorn leaned in from the doorway, arms crossed. “The whole sector noticed. Stone was about to hijack a civilian hover barge.”
Stone’s voice echoed from the hall. “I stand by that decision!”
You laughed — a little watery, a little broken.
Fox softened. “Don’t scare me like that again.”
“I’ll try.”
“No. Promise.”
You looked at him — at the commander who always acted like the world sat on his shoulders — and saw the cracks in his mask.
Cat! First of all, love your writing. Second, can I get our lovely Corries hearing the reader sing for the first time? F!reader please
“Don’t Lose That Sound”
Coruscant Guard x Reader
The bar was a dive.
Sticky floors. Dim lighting. The hum of neon signs fighting against the flickering wall panels. A slow haze of smoke drifted above half-empty tables, curling through the rafters like it was trying to escape too.
But the Guard didn’t care.
They weren’t here for the ambiance.
They were here for quiet. For whiskey. For the kind of numb that didn’t get you killed on duty.
And for the first time in a long while, the bar wasn’t even that loud. No brawls. No spice-heads losing it in the corner. Just the soft clink of glasses and murmured conversations.
Fox sat at the booth with Thorn, Stone, and Hound, nursing a drink with all the enthusiasm of a corpse. Even Thorn, always the loudest, was quiet tonight, thumbing a burn mark on his vambrace absently.
The war had been brutal lately. Protests. Bombings. Kidnappings. People turning on the Guard like they weren’t even human. Some days, Fox didn’t feel like he was.
And then—
Then the mic turned on.
A few people looked up, mildly curious. Even the bartender straightened a little, polishing a glass slower than before.
Fox didn’t glance over at first.
Not until Stone muttered, “Wait—is that…?”
Thorn leaned in. “That’s her.”
And it was.
You.
The Guard’s assigned civilian liaison. Translator. Cultural advisor. The one person in the GAR who somehow managed to slip between regulation and reality, existing in their ranks like a ghost and still managing to get things done.
You weren’t standard Republic military. You didn’t wear plastoid. You didn’t shout orders. But you’d saved their shebs more times than Fox could count—with intel, with words, with silence when it mattered.
You were sharp. Efficient. Professional.
And now… standing under a too-bright spotlight, a mic in one hand and your other hand braced against the stand as if to keep the nerves at bay—you were something else entirely.
You didn’t speak.
You just sang.
⸻
It started soft. The kind of song that belonged in a memory.
A low, lilting tune, not in Basic, but something older—Outer Rim dialect, maybe. A lullaby, almost. A story that wove through notes instead of syllables.
Your voice wasn’t loud. But it pulled.
Fox felt it first. That tightness in the chest. Like something forgotten had brushed against his ribs and asked to come home.
You sang like you’d seen war.
Like you’d lost something in it.
Like you hadn’t given up yet.
⸻
He wasn’t the only one staring.
Hound had gone still, the rim of his glass frozen halfway to his lips. His eyes were glassy. Distant. Probably thinking of his strays again.
Stone exhaled slowly, fists unclenching from where they’d been balled tight under the table.
Even Thorn, who had once thrown a chair through a wall because the jukebox skipped, looked like he might break if the song ended too soon.
⸻
You didn’t perform like a professional.
There were no flashy flourishes. No dramatic poses. You just stood there—shoulders a little tense, mouth barely moving as you sang something that clearly came from your bones.
And yet… the bar went silent.
The moment you hit that middle verse—a rising swell that cracked just slightly on a note—it wasn’t the kind of imperfection that ruined the sound. It was the kind that made it real.
Raw.
Someone at the bar actually sniffled.
Fox blinked, startled by the burn behind his own eyes.
What the hell was this song doing to them?
⸻
By the time it ended—your voice trailing off into something quieter than breath—no one clapped.
Not because it wasn’t good.
Because they were stunned.
And maybe a little bit ashamed that they’d just let you walk around all this time, assuming you were just the quiet one with the datapads.
Fox didn’t move.
He was staring at the way you lowered the mic, gave a small, awkward shrug to the bartender, and made your way back toward the tables like you hadn’t just cracked something open in every soul here.
⸻
You didn’t come directly to them. You passed their booth like it wasn’t anything. Maybe it wasn’t—to you.
But Thorn was the first to break the silence.
“You didn’t tell us you could do that.”
You stopped mid-step and turned.
Fox met your eyes. They looked a little brighter now, like the act of singing had peeled something back.
You gave him a small smile. “You never asked.”
Stone gave a quiet breath of disbelief and shook his head. “That was…” He trailed off, not sure how to finish it.
“Like a damn memory,” Hound finished. “Sounded like something from home. Even if it wasn’t.”
You hesitated. Then took a breath and came back to the booth, pulling up the spare chair. The overhead light caught on the edge of your brow, and for the first time in a long while, Fox didn’t just see you as a shadow in the ranks.
You were someone.
A voice.
A heart.
“Music’s from a small moon off Yavin IV,” you murmured. “Old tune. My mother used to sing it when the power cut out during storms.”
Fox studied you, then set down his glass.
“We should’ve known,” he said finally. “That there was more.”
Your smile deepened—not wide, but warm. “You’re not the only ones with pieces left behind.”
For a moment, the war wasn’t real. There were no riots. No orders. No body bags lined up at the Senate’s gates.
Just you. And the sound of something human.
⸻
Later that night, when the bar was closing and the others were already filing out, Fox walked you to the edge of the street, where Coruscant’s cold night air nipped at his collar.
You paused under a rusted streetlight, arms crossed but not defensive. “Thanks for coming.”
He gave a low hum. “Thanks for singing.”
Then, quietly, like it was a secret meant only for you:
“Don’t lose that sound.”
You looked up at him. And Fox swore, for a second, it felt like the galaxy tilted toward something softer.
Thorn didn’t storm. That wasn’t his style. He walked with purpose, armor humming low with motion, cape swaying behind him like a whisper of discipline.
But Hound noticed.
He was lounging against a supply crate near the barracks entrance, tossing a ration bar to Grizzer, who promptly ignored it in favor of chewing on a ruined training boot.
“Evening, Commander,” Hound said, biting back a grin. “You walk like someone just voted to cut rations for clones with sense.”
Thorn didn’t answer. He brushed past, stopped, and then turned around so sharply Hound blinked.
“Why the hell does she smile like that?” Thorn muttered.
Hound blinked again. “…Pardon?”
“Senator,” Thorn said curtly. “The senator. She smiles like she doesn’t care that we’re built for war. Like we’re not walking weapons. Like she’s not afraid of what we are.”
Grizzer let out a soft woof.
Hound tilted his head. “So… what’s the problem?”
“The problem,” Thorn said, pacing now, his helmet under one arm, “is that I find myself caring about her smile. Noticing it. Waiting for it. The nerve of her—walking between two commanders like it’s nothing. Like we’re not trained to see everything as a threat. Like she’s not a threat.”
“To what? Your assignment?” Hound asked, amused. “Or your emotional stability?”
Thorn glared. Grizzer whined, wandered over, and bumped his head into Thorn’s shin. He reached down and idly scratched behind the mastiff’s ears.
“She got under your skin,” Hound said, chewing on the stem of a stim-pop. “Happens to the best of us. She’s clever. Looks good in those robes. Has a backbone of beskar. What’s not to notice?”
“I don’t want to notice.”
“Ah, but you do.”
Thorn didn’t reply.
He sat down heavily on the bench beside Hound, setting his helmet down beside him.
“I shouldn’t even be thinking about this. About her.”
“She flirt with you?”
Thorn hesitated. “Not… obviously.”
“But enough to make Fox irritated.”
Thorn raised a brow. “You noticed that too.”
“Please. Fox’s expression didn’t change, but the man started walking closer to her like she was carrying his damn tracking chip.” Hound chuckled. “Bet he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.”
They sat in silence for a minute.
Grizzer dropped the training boot in front of Thorn and wagged his tail.
Thorn stared at the mangled leather. “That’s about how my brain feels.”
Hound laughed. “Commander, you need sleep.”
“I need a reassignment.”
“You need to admit she’s under your skin and figure out how not to let it compromise your professionalism.”
Thorn exhaled slowly.
“Can’t let it show.”
“Good,” Hound nodded. “Now come inside before Grizzer starts thinking you’ve become a chew toy too.”
Thorn stood, gave the mastiff a final scratch behind the ears, and retrieved his helmet.
He didn’t say another word—but the weight in his steps had shifted. Just a little.
Not lighter. Not heavier.
Just more aware.
⸻
The city was unusually quiet that evening. The hum of speeders far below faded beneath the hush of twilight. The Coruscant skyline glowed, glass and durasteel kissed by soft reds and purples.
Fox didn’t linger in beautiful places.
He was there on duty, posted near the upper balcony where the senator had stepped out “just for a breath.” He hadn’t planned to engage, only observe, protect, return.
But she hadn’t gone back inside.
She leaned against the railing, alone, hair pinned up loosely, a datapad forgotten beside her, as if the very idea of responsibility repulsed her in that moment.
He waited a respectful distance. Still. Silent. Like always.
Then she spoke.
“You ever wonder if all this”—she gestured to the skyline—“is actually worth protecting?”
He said nothing. He was trained for silence. Expected to maintain it.
But her voice was quieter this time. “Sorry. I know that’s dark. I just—feel like I’m holding up a wall no one else wants to fix.”
Fox found himself responding before he thought better of it. “That’s the job.”
She turned slightly, surprised.
He added, “Holding up the wall.”
The senator gave him a faint, exhausted smile. “Do you ever feel like it’s crumbling under your feet anyway?”
He didn’t answer. Not with words.
He took a step closer instead.
A small thing. Measured. Not enough to draw attention.
But enough for her to notice.
Her gaze lowered to the space now between them. “Commander,” she said gently, teasingly, “if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were getting comfortable.”
“I’m not,” he said flatly.
She tilted her head. “Shame. It’s a lovely view.”
He said nothing, but his eyes didn’t move from her.
And then—
She turned away. Not dramatically. Just slowly, thoughtfully, brushing a finger along the rail’s edge.
“It’s funny,” she said, voice soft again. “I think I trust you more than I trust half the Senate.”
“You shouldn’t,” he replied, too quickly.
She looked over her shoulder. “Why not?”
He didn’t answer.
Because the truth was—
He didn’t know.
He looked away first.
You stared.
Fox was composed, always. The kind of man who spoke with fewer words than most used in a breath. You’d watched him through Senate hearings, committee debriefings, and those long silences standing at your side. He was built for control—stone-set and unshakable.
Which is why this moment felt like seeing a fault line in a mountain.
You stepped toward him.
Just slightly.
“I asked why not,” you repeated, your voice lower now. Not coy. Not teasing. Just… honest.
Fox’s helmet was clipped to his belt, his posture precise. But his jaw had locked. His brow was tight—not angry, not annoyed.
Guarded.
“You don’t know me,” he finally said, eyes fixed on the horizon like it might offer him cover.
“I know enough,” you replied, softer.
He didn’t move.
You tried again.
“You think I trust people easily?” A dry laugh left you. “I sit beside men who sell planets and call it compromise. I’ve had allies vote against my own bills while smiling at me from across the chamber. But you—when you walk into a room, everything sharpens.”
That got his attention. A flicker of his gaze, brief but direct.
You stepped closer.
“You don’t talk unless it’s important. You watch everything. And no one gets close, not really. But I see the way your men listen when you speak. I see how you stand between danger and everyone else without asking for anything in return.”
His expression didn’t shift. Not much.
But his hands curled faintly at his sides.
“I trust you, Commander,” you said. “And I don’t think that’s a mistake.”
The wind picked up slightly, rustling the edge of your robe.
Fox was quiet for a long time. And then—
“Don’t.”
One word. Clipped. Too sharp to be cold.
You blinked. “Don’t… what?”
He turned to face you fully now, and there was something there—in his eyes, usually so still. Not anger. Not fear.
A warning.
“Don’t mistake professionalism for something it isn’t.”
You looked up at him for a moment, unmoving. “I’m not.”
His jaw flexed. “Then don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to.”
That hit a nerve. You stood straighter, chest tight.
“You don’t get to blame me for not hearing the things you’re too chicken to say,” you said quietly, your voice clipped but steady.
His breath caught—not visibly, not audibly. But you saw it. In the eyes. In the way his shoulders tightened, like something had landed.
But he didn’t respond.
You watched him another moment, then stepped back, retreating into the cool hallway of the Senate building without another word.
He stayed there.
In the quiet.
And stared after you like the words had hit him somewhere unarmored.
The marble under your boots echoed with each step, but you walked without a sound.
The exchange with Fox still thrummed in your chest. The way he’d looked at you. The way he hadn’t.
The way his silence had said too much.
You pressed a hand to your temple, trying to will the flush in your skin to cool. You hadn’t meant to push that far—but stars, you had been waiting for something. Anything. A sign that the wall wasn’t so impenetrable.
You didn’t expect the next voice you heard.
“My dear senator,” came the smooth, silk-wrapped timbre of Chancellor Palpatine.
You froze.
Not because of fear. But because his voice always had that effect.
You turned and offered the practiced smile you reserved for… certain company.
“Chancellor,” you said, clasping your hands politely in front of you. “I didn’t see you.”
He stepped into the corridor from the far end, draped in red and black, expression benevolent, but sharp beneath the surface.
“I was passing through after a long meeting with the Banking Clan representatives. Tense discussions, I’m afraid. I trust you’re well?”
“Well enough,” you replied smoothly. “Just getting some air.”
“Ah,” he said, folding his hands behind his back as he walked beside you. “We all need moments of reflection. Though I imagine yours are far and few between these days. The Senate rarely allows much rest.”
You gave a short laugh. “No. It certainly doesn’t.”
He glanced at you, unreadable.
“I hear the Guard’s been paying close attention to you lately. Commander Fox himself, no less. It’s good to see such… attentiveness. You must feel very safe.”
Your spine straightened slightly. “They’re dedicated men. I’m grateful for their protection.”
“I’m sure you are,” he said, the warmth in his tone not quite reaching his eyes. “Still… I hope you remember where your true allies lie.”
You offered him the same tight smile. “Of course, Chancellor.”
He regarded you for a moment longer. “You’ve always been a passionate voice, Senator. Young. Decisive. I do hope you’ll continue to support the efforts of the Republic, especially as we move into… more delicate phases of wartime policy.”
You didn’t flinch. “I serve the people of my system. And I believe in the Republic.”
“But belief,” he said, gently, “is only part of the duty. Sometimes we must make difficult choices. Unpopular ones.”
You met his gaze and gave nothing back.
“Then I hope the right people are making them,” you replied.
His smile thinned. “As do I.”
You inclined your head. “If you’ll excuse me, Chancellor, I do have a report to finish.”
He stepped aside, allowing you to pass.
“Of course. Rest well, Senator. You’ll need your strength.”
You didn’t look back.
You didn’t need to.
The shadow of his presence stretched long after his footsteps faded.
⸻
Fox sat in the dark.
Helmet on the table. Armor half-unclasped. Fingers pressed to the bridge of his nose.
He hadn’t even made it to his bunk.
The locker room was silent, most of the Guard long since rotated out or posted elsewhere. The overheads were dimmed. Only the soft mechanical hum of the lockers and the occasional flicker of red light from an indicator broke the stillness.
But his mind wasn’t still.
He’d heard people raise their voices at him before. Angry senators, frustrated generals, clones pushed to the brink. That was easy. Anger rolled off him like rain off plastoid.
This was different.
She hadn’t said it to wound him.
She’d said it like she meant it.
Like she saw him.
And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t know what to do with that.
His hands flexed in his lap, slow and deliberate. He remembered how she looked tonight—standing under the red-gold skyline, eyes bright but tired, speaking softly like they were the only two people left in the galaxy.
It was wrong. Letting it get to him.
She was a senator. He was a soldier.
It wasn’t supposed to matter what her voice did to his chest.
What the scent of her did to his focus.
He wasn’t Thorn. He didn’t lean in. He didn’t get rattled by conversation, didn’t let his mouth run ahead of his orders.
But… she’d gotten under his skin. Somehow.
Fox exhaled slowly and reached for his gloves.
Then paused.
His thumb hovered over the comlink tucked beside his helmet.
He stared at it for a moment. Not to call her. He wouldn’t.
But just knowing she could.
That if she needed him, his name would be the first thing spoken through the channel.
He set his jaw, stood up, and locked his armor back into place.
Duty first.
Always.
But his mind stayed behind, somewhere on a balcony, in the dusk light… with her.
⸻
The door slid open with its usual soft chime. You stepped inside, heels clicking gently against polished stone, and leaned heavily against the wall the moment it shut behind you.
Exhausted didn’t quite cover it.
The encounter with the Chancellor still lingered like static. And Fox—
Stars above, Fox.
You kicked off your shoes, dropped your bag, and made your way into the kitchen. You poured yourself something strong and cold, letting the silence of your private apartment sink in.
And then—
The soft buzz of your datapad.
You blinked.
A message.
Not from the Guard.
Not from your aides.
But…
Commander Thorn: Heard there was a rough hearing. You alive in there, or should I break down the door?
You smiled.
And for a moment, the tension eased.
You didn’t reply to Thorn right away.
You stared at the message, lips curving despite the weight still pressing behind your ribs. A chuckle slipped out—quiet, private. The kind meant only for a screen, not a roomful of senators.
Your fingers hovered over the keys for a second before typing:
You: Alive. Barely. Tempted to fake my death and move to Naboo. You free to help bury the body?
The typing indicator blinked back almost immediately.
Thorn: Only if I get first choice on the alias. I vote “Duchess Trouble.”
You: That’s terrible. But I’m keeping it.
Thorn: Thought you might. Get some rest. You earned it today.
You stared at that last line.
You earned it today.
You weren’t sure why those words hit harder than anything in the hearing. Maybe it was because it came from someone who saw things most senators never would. Maybe because it was real.
You typed back:
You: You too, Commander.
And then you set the datapad down, changed out of your formal wear, and let exhaustion carry you to bed.
You weren’t asleep long.
The shrill tone of your emergency comms broke through your dreams like a blaster shot.
You jerked upright, blinking against the haze of sleep, reaching for the device without hesitation.
“H-hello?” your voice cracked, still hoarse from sleep.
A voice—clipped, familiar, urgent—responded.
Fox.
“Senator. There’s been another incident. We’re en route.”
You were already moving. “Where?”
“Senator Mothma’s estate. Explosive detonation near her security gate. No confirmed injuries, but it’s close enough to send a message.”
You froze for only a heartbeat.
“I’ll be ready in five.”
Fox didn’t waste time on reassurance. “We’ll be outside your building. Don’t go anywhere alone.”
The line cut.
You stood in the dark for a second, pulse racing, mind already shifting into survival mode.
Whatever peace you’d clawed out of tonight had just shattered.
⸻
It was a controlled knock—no panic, no urgency—but hard enough to rattle the stillness of the apartment. You flinched, fumbling with your robe as you darted from your bedroom barefoot, still half-dressed.
“Stars, already?” you muttered, cinching the robe at your waist.
The buzzer chimed again.
You hit the panel to open the door.
And there they were.
Fox. Thorn. Towering in crimson armor, backlit by the corridor lights and the glint of Coruscant’s neon skyline. Visors staring forward. Blasters holstered—but you could feel the tension radiating off them like heat from durasteel.
Neither said anything at first.
Then, in a voice low and composed, Fox spoke:
“Senator. We arrived earlier than anticipated.”
“Yeah, no kidding,” you breathed, pushing a damp strand of hair behind your ear. Your robe was thin—too thin, you realized, as the air from the hallway crept over your skin. You crossed your arms instinctively, but it didn’t hide much.
Fox’s helmet tilted slightly—eyes dragging across your form in a quiet, tactical sweep. Not leering. Just… a longer pause than necessary.
Next to him, Thorn cleared his throat.
You raised an eyebrow at both of them. “Enjoying the view, Commanders?”
They didn’t flinch. Of course they didn’t. Both statues of composure, helmets hiding any flicker of reaction.
Fox spoke again, brisk. “We’ll step inside and secure the apartment. You have five minutes.”
“Yes, sir,” you muttered with mock-formality, brushing past them with bare feet against the floor. As you turned, you caught it—Fox’s head slightly turning to follow your movement. A fraction too long.
And thank the stars for helmets, because if you saw his face, you’d never let him live it down.
They moved through your apartment in practiced rhythm, clearing rooms, scanning corners, locking down windows and possible points of breach. Thorn stayed closer to the door, back to the wall, but his shoulders were taut beneath the red of his armor.
You emerged a few minutes later, dressed properly now—hair pulled back, expression sharpened by the adrenaline still running its course.
Fox glanced your way first. His visor tilted again, more subtle this time.
“All clear,” he said, voice crisp. “You’re to be escorted to the Guard’s secure transport. We’ll be moving now.”
You met his visor with a crooked smile. “You didn’t even compliment my robe.”
Thorn, behind him, let out a breath. It might’ve been a laugh. Or a sigh of please, not now.
Fox said nothing.
But his shoulders stiffened just slightly.
And as you stepped between them, one on each side, the heat of their presence pressed in like a second skin.
Danger waited out there.
But for now, this tension?
This was its own kind of war.
⸻
The hum of the engine filled the silence. City lights flared and blurred past the transparisteel windows as the transport cut through the lower atmosphere. Inside, the dim blue glow from the dash consoles painted all three of you in a cold, unflinching light.
Fox sat across from you, arms folded, helmet still on. Thorn was beside him, angled slightly your way—watching the shadows outside like they might reach in and pull the vehicle apart.
No one spoke at first.
It was you who finally broke the silence.
“This isn’t random, is it?”
Fox’s head turned. Slowly. “No.”
Thorn added, “Three incidents in four days. All different targets, different methods. But same message.”
You nodded, arms tucked around yourself. “The threat’s not just violence—it’s disruption. Fear. Shake up the ones trying to hold the peace together.”
Fox leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. “Senator Organa’s transport was sabotaged. Padmé Amidala intercepted a coded threat embedded in one of her Senate droid updates. And now Mothma’s estate.”
“All prominent senators,” Thorn said. “Known for opposing authoritarian measures, trade blockades, or Separatist sympathies. Whoever this is… they’re strategic.”
“And the Senate’s pretending it’s coincidence.” You exhaled a sharp breath. “Cowards.”
Fox didn’t respond, but you saw it in the turn of his helmet—like he’d heard a truth too sharp to name.
Thorn’s voice cut the quiet next. “You’re on the list too, Senator. Whether they’ve moved or not, you’ve been marked.”
You met his gaze, even through the visor. “That’s not exactly comforting, Commander.”
“You wanted honesty,” he replied quietly.
You blinked, caught off guard—not just by the words, but the tone. Low. Sincere. Laced with something warmer than protocol.
Fox shifted, barely. A turn of his body, a flicker of subtle tension.
“They’ll keep escalating,” he said. “We don’t know how far.”
The transport took a turn, and city lights streamed in again, outlining their armor in a way that made them seem more like war statues than men.
And yet, when you looked at them—Fox silent and braced for anything, Thorn watching you with just the slightest flicker of concern behind the visor—it wasn’t fear that struck you.
It was the creeping awareness that maybe the danger outside wasn’t the only storm building.
