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?”
Hello there! In Star Wars The Clone Wars, the Coruscant Guard protect the heart of the Republic, but one clone trooper wants to see more action than he signed up for. Turns out, he should be careful what he wishes for!
