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71kedi-yip · 2 years ago

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Ok so, just know I will never write this(for several reasons but mainly because I can't write), but I have this story in my head:(also I got possesed)

So towards the end of red robin, the gotham bombs have been handled, Bruce has returned or is being returned this weekish, Tim is on ok terms with batfam+hero community but there is still an awkwardness. He gets a call, it is a LoA assasin who is loyal to him[can be Pru, but I like Pru leaving LoA so..].

They inform him about Ra's being weird(shoker), how he disapeared for a while(no one suspected anything, I mean his bases were exploded), then he returned, with a baby, that he anounced as his heir, that he claims is his son.

Now, no one has seen this 'son' (Ra's is protective of him), excluding Ra's no one(alive) knows who this baby's other parent is, there is no concrete evidence, but if Tim has learned anything in the last year it is that he has a mean bit of pattern recognition; Tim just got himself a Damian.

(I mean, even if the child is not biologically his, Tim is not letting another child grow up under Ra's shadow. I mean, just safety wise, look at Damian, who tried to murder Tim who knows how many times, what says this new child won't do the same, no other reason, really)

So, Tim disapears, batfam is a bit miffed but there is a lot going on so they just... leave him alone? Do they try to ask Kon to find where he is? Well, even if they thought of doing that, it wouldn't work. Why? Well...

Kon disapears with Tim, because if you turn on that white noise maker without giving me a way to know where you are and whether you are fine, God help me Tim I am going to teach you the true power of TTK by turning the world upside down until I find you. [By this time in cannon Kon is alive. To make this into a 'Tim was desperate/emotionally unstable, he would never do these things otherwise' story you can push his return a few months. I won't. To me, Tim would do this in his sanest. Hell, any good parent would(try to) do this for their child.]

So they sneak into LoA, which is in shambless after red robin so it is kinda easy. That continues until the core of the base, where Ra's and his heir resides, where whatever is left of the most powerfull of the League is crammed into. And those are the people who has seen Red Robin at his most dangerous. Those who are not loyal to him respect him, and the little left whom don't respect him, does fear him. At this point it becomes less sneaking and more decisive steps of a knight through a parade held in his honour.

And I can't help but think of Kon, watching his best friend, who always prefered to fade into shadows, who always reined himself back; in a room(halway) of people who know his power. If he hadn't seen it till now, it would now be obvious to him that Tim has changed.

But I do question how he would perceive this change. Would he see a knife carved from his bestfriend, whom had the potential to be anything he wanted, now forever fated for battle. Or would he see a power cable, with a core made not of copper but gold, whom was always capable of having more power than one would assume, whom always carried more than he let on, whom finally have been pushed to his limits, enough that his insulation -the thing that made him look avarage, the thing that protected others from him- melted off.

When he looked at those ninjas, would he see people cut by his best friend so badly they don't dare get close, or would he see people whom know what Tim is under the electrical tape he sloppily applied for prosperity's sake.

Then they would come face to face with the towering doors of the throne room. And this would be the first time Tim would hesitate. Before turning to Kon and explaining the situation to him: that there will be no turning back from this; that he will walk in there and ask for a duel to death; one Kon can't intercept, whatever happens; that this will be the only way to keep this child safe; and whatever is the result, it will change things.

(Would Kon need this explained? Or would he, a Luthor and an El, heir to two far too big legacies, inherently understand that just like Damian is not safe( even in Gotham), this child won't be safe either. At least not until a better heir for said legacy is found, or, until the legacy gets changed. Would he inherently understand that changing such a legacy is not going to be clean cut? Inherently or not) Kon would understand. He wouldn't be happy, but he would understand. And Tim would push the doors open.

Think the furious hero doing a dramatic entrance into the throne room of the tyrant, doors too big to be pushed by a single person slaming open. Light from the stained windows behind the tyrant painting him into a holy knight, the red following him (blood, cape, wings) making him look much more royal than the tyrant ever did with his crown steeped in cruelty, cowered in the shadow of his throne, his power casts. (Would Tim wear his mask, powerfull, unnerving, a mystery;or would he not, his baby blue eyes all knowing, wise beyond their age, burning with rage, still oh so kind.)

There would be silence, pregnant with change, "Detective" it would be broken by Ra's sneer,"I see you have returned".

"You know why," Tim would lift his bo staff "I have picked my weapon", the silence reborn (,would Ra's have indoor birds? Those who make their home in the rafters, making the morning shift a much happier time. Well, whether he does or not, even they wouldn't make a peep).

And they would clash. Two oceans crashing into eachother. It would be even footed, no one would guess whom might win let alone bet on one.

[In another universe, Ra's would win. Easily, with hundereds of years more experience. In another universe Tim would know that the next confrontation with Ra's would end in certain death after the one he accepted his death in, the one he was thrown out of a window . In that universe Tim would plan with his death in mind. That would be why he would bring Kon with him. Dangerously loyal, a child blamed with his parents' sins. Kon would care for this child, even if Tim died for the chance.] But in this universe, the stale mate would be in Tim's favour, Ra's on his knees, his weapon long forgotten, with Tim's bo pushing into his windpipe. Had Tim slammed it just a bit harder, the match would have ended already.

But Ra's conceited smile wouldn't move, for he would know," I have picked a good heir, a man only 17, already trying to out smart 700" for he would think he knows "how sad he is doomed by his so called morals to never succeed"

"You are mistaking who I am, " Tim would declare "I am not Batman". A knife, built into the bo staff from the first day it was ever used, always in hiding, finally striking. Ra's wouldn't even realize it until it has pierced clean through his windpipe and spine, by then, it would be too late, he would have already taken his last breath.

"and for my child, there is nothing I wouldn't do." One swipe, a cut so clean, it can only be done by a knife being used for the first time and Ra's' head would hit the ground.

The silence, this time much thicker than it has ever been. An era ended, for the Leauge of Assasins, for the world, for Red Robin, for Tim; a new one taking its first breaths.

[Would Tim first ask for a cleaver(to crack his skull, carve his brains out and burn it) to make sure Ra's can't be revived or would he ask for his son. One would make him a better parent, other a better person. In this universe, I have been writing this for too long, it is 3 am and I have a homework due, so it shall be the fast route] They would bring him the child. Looking a few months old, probably just a few days out of the tube.

And Tim would lock eyes with the child, his son, for the first time. So small, so full of potential, already looking at him with so much love. In that moment Tim would know that the words he said with bravado, the last words Ra's al Ghul has ever heard held a much bigger truth than he thought. That there would be nothing he wouldn't do for his son. He would become a parent in that one long gaze, all the excuses he created for his parents would stop making sense, at the same time all the ones he crated for Bruce, for Clark, for Lex, for Lewis, for... In that one long gaze, he would lose any sympathy he held for the ridiculus amount of bad parents he knew.

And Kon. Would he feel fear and concern for his bestfriend, whom just disregarded his one big rule that he created not because of some obligation he held for Batman but rather a fear for the future. Or would Kon, the boy with one parent willing to use his son as a weapon because it will serve him and another willing to let his son be used as a weapon because it is easier, the boy whom just wants to be wanted, whom wants to be worth fighting for; look at his best friend whom just took on a fight even Lex avoided just because of a baby he hadn't even met before, wasn't even sure was his; look at his best friend, now holding a title so powerfull, with hundereds of people willing to die for him in the room right now, ignoring all that power, just locked in a loving stare off with a baby whom has the same baby blue eyes as him and feel, something else.

tim would be the most protective parent out of all batkids, am not taking any criticism on that matter

like he Would kill for his kids without hesitation or second thought. rip bruce wayne but he's different

there's no way this guy would remain sane after already losing most of his loved ones one by one and not being able to save them. he's overprotective he's paranoid he's traumatized and on a verge of insanity He Won't Hesitate Bitch

#i got possessed #timkon #Tim Drake #rambles #kon el kent #in my brain this specific baby has like 5 different ways of being born #I don't care #whether it is timkon clone baby #tim getting damianed #fricking abo #Weird alien bio #or a two way timkon clone baby where Tim creates the embryo and dies slash fakes his death and Kon now revived decides to have the child #or a compleatly normal oh we are young and have the right parts oops #the first child of timkon to me is called Danny Drake sometimes called dd #It's bern a while since I got attached to an OC put whelp #btw this took my whole day basically #that's another reason I won't be writing this #I don't have time #fuck I have hw #sorry I got possesed #Danny Drake #btw I tried to kinda censor the for an example clone baby alt Uni by npt writing the alt uni part cause this is not actually clone baby #and people usually search for the full thing #eh

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citysuk · 10 months ago

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echoes of us | anakin skywalker

pairing: anakin skywalker x fem!reader

summary: anakin has spent the last four years away from you, consumed by his duties as a jedi, trying to move past the pain of your departure. although seeing you again wasn't something that he was expecting, the reunion leads to a tense confrontation, where anakin's deep-seated feelings clash with his lover's sense of duty, highlighting the tragic consequences of their forbidden relationship.

words: 7,1k words (oops)

warnings: please, you already know me so ANGST. kinda manipulative anakin¿ only a little bit. stubborn reader for the sake of the plot, i'm sorry (i'm not). a little bit of spicy hehehhe. no smut tho. no use of y/n but no oc neither. no proofread. i won't say a word about the finale so read to know what happens at the end 😤

notes: i just- (SATURATED SCREAMS). i'm on a star wars binge and i just couldn't help myself, i needed to write this. all i want in life is someone to love me like anakin loves her.

It's been four long years since you left, and Anakin Skywalker has tried to move on with his life. He throws himself into his duties as a Jedi, taking on more missions and responsibilities. He pushes himself to his limits and beyond, trying to forget about the pain of losing you. But no matter how hard he tries, he can't seem to shake the memories. You're always there, lurking in the back of his mind, a constant reminder of what he lost. His heart still aches for you, and he still feels a sense of emptiness inside him.

As the years have passed, he has become more stoic, more reserved. He barely smiles anymore, and his laugh is rare. His fellow Jedi see these changes in him and wonder what has happened to make him so serious and cold. But Anakin keeps his emotions buried deep inside, never letting them surface, never letting anyone see the pain he's feeling. He's become a shadow of his former self, the bright-eyed and carefree Padawan replaced by a hardened and withdrawn Jedi Knight.

As the Clone Wars rage on, Anakin throws himself into battle, fighting with a ferocity and intensity that borders on feral. He's become a skilled and feared warrior, known for his bravery and skill, but also for his ruthless efficiency and lack of mercy towards his enemies. Even his fellow Jedi, the ones who are closest to him, cannot penetrate the shell he’s built around himself. He hides his emotions so well that it’s as if they don’t exist anymore, and no one suspects the depth of the pain he’s carrying inside him. He still feels your loss like a physical wound, and he fears that it will never heal. But he cannot let himself think of it, cannot allow himself to dwell on the past. He has a duty to the Jedi Order and the Republic, and longing can distract him from that.

So he goes through the motions of being a Jedi, fighting in the war, protecting the innocent, and doing his best to serve the greater good. But deep down, he knows that he'll never be truly happy again, that he'll carry his pain to the grave.

There are times, when he’s alone in the darkness of night, that he lets his guard down, that is when he allows his emotions to surface. And in those moments, he allows himself to think of you, to remember the happy times you had together, to ache for what might have been. But then, as the night ends and the morning comes, he pushes those thoughts away, locking them back up inside him, and he goes back to being the stoic and reserved Jedi Knight that everyone expects him to be.

And the cycle of pain and loneliness continues day after day, year after year. He keeps on living, fighting, and serving, but deep down, he knows that a part of him will always be empty, the part that you took when you left.

He wonders sometimes if you ever think of him and if you ever reflect on your time together with the same sense of melancholy and regret that he does. But he doesn’t allow himself to hope for that. It’s better to just keep pushing forward, to keep fighting the war and doing his duty.

That's until he hears the news that your father is coming to visit the Order. His heart skips a beat it's the first thing that he feels. He knows that since you went back to your planet your father never travels without you by his side, and this won't be the exception. His mind reels at the possibility of seeing you again. It’s been four years since you left to help your father in his political arrangements. Four long and lonely years. The thought of being in your presence again, even for a brief moment, fills him with a mix of emotions. Anticipation and dread, hope and fear.

He tries to keep his emotions in check, not wanting to get his hopes up too high. The idea of seeing you again after all this time is too good to be true. Besides, he knows that there is a small chance that you will not come to the temple, but he decides to embrace the possibility of at least seeing you.

When the masters of the Order confirmed that you would arrive with your father, he couldn't help but feel a rush of adrenaline running through his whole body. There's gotta be some sort of catch in this whole situation. But the more he thinks about it, the more he wants it and needs it.

As the day of your arrival approaches, he can't help but feel anxious. He doesn't know what to expect, how he'll react when he sees you. Will he be able to keep his emotions in check? Or will they surface in a wave of longing and regret? He tries to prepare himself, to steel himself for the moment. He tells himself it's just a visit, that it doesn't mean anything. But deep down, he knows that's not true. He's been waiting for this moment for years, and he can't deny the excitement and anticipation that's building inside him.

When the day finally arrives, he waits anxiously in the Temple, trying to remain calm. But his heart is racing, his palms are sweaty, and he can barely keep still. He's acutely aware of every passing moment, every second that brings him closer to seeing you again. His fellow Jedi notice his change in demeanor. He's usually so stoic and collected, but now he's jittery and restless, out of character for him. They wonder what could be causing this change, and they eye him with curious and sometimes amused glances. But Anakin ignores them, his thoughts solely focused on the moment ahead. He rehearses different scenarios in his head, trying to figure out how he’ll act when he sees you. But no matter how he imagines it, he can’t quite predict what will happen. The thought of facing you again after so long both thrills and terrifies him.

And then, finally, the moment arrives. He sees you walking through the Temple, in the company of your father and a few other dignitaries. The sight of you takes his breath away. You’ve grown, your features more mature and defined. But the sight of you holding the hand of another young politician he heard being called Kenth Cardas it's what makes him feel sick to the stomach. His heart clenches as he watches you, a sudden realization hitting him like a knife to the heart. You’re with someone else. Another man. And the pain that washes over him is sharper and more intense than any pain he’s ever felt before.

It takes all his willpower to keep his composure, to keep the expression of his face neutral. But inside, he’s seething with jealousy and hurt. He had been hoping, even expecting, for you to be single.

The thought of another man’s hands on you, another man’s eyes taking in your beauty, it’s almost too much for him to bear. He watches as you, your father, and your companion make your way through the Temple, greeting the Jedi and discussing diplomatic matters. Every step you take, every word you utter, it feels like the knife is being twisted in his heart. He wants to walk up to you, to pull you away from the other man and take you for himself. But he knows that’s not an option. You’re not his. You never were.

The scene is too abhorrent for him, he cannot bear another second of seeing you with another man that isn't him. With a lump in his throat and tears of frustration pricking at his eyes, Anakin turns and strides away from the scene, the sound of your laugh following him as he goes. He can’t stay there, can’t watch you pretending to be happy with someone else. It’s too painful, too agonizing. He needs to get away, to be alone, and try to process the torrent of emotions that threatens to overwhelm him. He heads to one of the quieter parts of the Temple, a place where he can be alone and try to get his emotions under control. He leans against the cold stone wall, his hands clenching into fists. He tries to push the image of you with another man out of his mind, but it’s burned into his memory, seared into his eyeballs. He’s never felt this level of jealousy and hurt before, and he doesn’t know how to deal with it. He feels like he’s unraveling like everything he’s worked to keep under control is suddenly slipping through his fingers. He punches the wall in impotent rage, the pain in his knuckles a welcome distraction from the pain in his heart. He wants to scream, to shout, to let out all the emotions that are boiling inside him. He stays still there for a few minutes which seems like hours, until he feels a presence behind him.

He turns, his heart racing as he senses who it is. And sure enough, there you are, standing a few feet away from him, looking at him with a mixture of concern and uncertainty. An uncomfortable silence settles between them as they stare at each other. The air is thick with emotion and tension, and Anakin feels his heart thudding in his chest. He doesn’t know what to say, or how to react.

He studies you as you stand there, his eyes roving over your face, taking in every detail. You’re even more beautiful than he remembers, but there’s a sense of sadness and resignation in your eyes that he doesn’t quite understand. He wants to say something, to break the silence that hangs between you like a thick fog. But the words stick in his throat, and he can’t force them out. Instead, he just stands there, staring at you like an idiot.

Taking a deep breath, you break the silence, your voice soft and hesitant. “Ani... Can I talk to you? For a moment.”

Anakin nods, barely able to speak. His heart is racing, his mind spinning. He can’t believe you’re really standing here in front of him, that he’s actually talking to you again after all this time. “Of course,” he manages to say, his voice rough and raspy.

You take another step closer, the distance between you feeling like an eternity. You look up at him, your eyes searching his face as if you’re looking for something. “It’s been a long time, you've grown,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper.

He nods again, feeling a lump in his throat. He wants to tell you how much he’s missed you, how many nights he’s spent thinking of you, yearning for you. But the words won’t come. He’s scared, scared to show you the depth of his feelings, scared that you’ll reject him. “Yeah, it has,” he manages to reply, his voice flat and emotionless.

You notice his tone, the way he’s putting up his walls, trying to keep his emotions in check. You know him too well, you can sense how he was feeling, the storm of emotions raging inside him. But you also know how stubborn he can be, how he’s willing to suffer in silence rather than admit his true feelings. You take another step closer, closing the distance between you even further. You reach out to touch his arm, your hand tentative and gentle, like you’re handling a wild animal. He freezes at your touch, his breath catching in his throat. He can feel the heat of your hand through the fabric of his sleeve, the warmth of your touch seeping into his skin. He wants to reach out and pull you to him, bury his face in your hair, and breathe in your scent. But he stands still, frozen in the moment, unable to move. You can feel his tension, the way his body is coiled tight like a spring. But you can also see the flicker of emotions in his eyes, the way his walls are crumbling as he stares at you. You know that underneath the hard exterior, there’s a part of him that’s aching to be let out, yearning for affection and connection.

You move closer still, your hand still gently resting on his arm. You’re so close now that he can feel your breath on his skin, the warmth of your body almost touching his. He shivers involuntarily, overwhelmed by your proximity. He wants to pull you to him, to hold you tight, and never let you go. He looks down at you, his eyes roving over your face, taking in every detail. He notices the flecks of gold in your eyes, the slight blush on your cheeks, the curve of your lips. It’s all he can do to keep his composure, to keep his emotions in check. But seeing you this close to him, feeling your touch on his skin, it’s like a dam breaking inside him. He takes a shuddering breath, trying to steady himself. He wants to tell you how much he’s missed you, how much he’s still in love with you, and how much he’s been hurting since you left. But the words won’t come, stuck in his throat like they’re glued there.

He’s torn between the conflicting desires to push you away and to pull you closer. Part of him wants to protect himself from further hurt, but a greater part of him is desperate to have you close, to feel your touch, and to hear your voice. He stands there, caught in an agony of indecision, his heart and his mind warring with each other. He wants to do the right thing, the sensible thing. But when it comes to you, he’s never been able to do what’s smart or pragmatic. He’s always been guided by his emotions, and right now, his emotions are screaming at him to take what he wants, consequences be damned. He can feel his resolve weakening, the walls he’s built around his heart crumbling. He’s always been a man of action, but right now, he doesn't know what to do.

You look up at him, your heart racing in your chest. You can sense the turmoil inside him, the storm of emotions raging in his eyes. You know that he’s struggling to keep his composure, but you also know how much he’s hurting. You take a deep breath, summoning up the courage to say what you need to say. “Ani, I didn’t forget the time we spent together, the promises we made.”

His eyes widen at your words, his heart skipping a beat. He hadn’t expected you to say that, to admit that you’ve been thinking of him all this time. He feels a surge of hope and longing rise in his chest, his breath catching in his throat. You pressed on, your voice was soft but firm. “The friendship we maintained for so many years will always be marked in my mind, no matter where I am.”

He feels his heart skip a beat at your words. It’s what he’s wanted to hear for so long, the confirmation that you still think of him, that there’s still a chance for them.

He stands there, frozen in the moment, caught between the desire to pull you to him and the fear that if he does, it will only end in heartbreak. He doesn’t know what to say, or how to react. He feels like he’s in a dream like this isn’t happening.

He looks down at you, his eyes roving over your face. He sees the honesty and vulnerability you’re showing him. He wants to believe you, he wants to let himself hope. But he can’t shake the feeling that this is just a cruel trick, the vision of you holding that man's hand it's something that he can't shake off his head. He feels that he’s going to wake up any minute and find himself alone again.

He starts to pull away, his walls going up again. “I don’t believe you,” he says, his voice cold and distant.

Your eyes widen at his words, your heart sinking at the tone of his voice. You had expected some resistance, but you didn’t expect him to deny your feelings outright. "What I'm saying it's truthful, I never stopped thinking about you"

He shakes his head, his eyes hard and cold. He wants to push you away, to protect himself from the pain. “I don’t want to hear it,” he says gruffly. “It’s too late, it’s been four years. You made your choice when I asked you to stay but you left.”

You blink back tears at his words, the hurt and anger in his voice like a knife to your gut. You had hoped that he would understand, that he would see how much you still cared for him. “You know that what we were feeling exceeded friendliness and was wrong, the attachments are prohibited. This was for something bigger than you and me both,” you say, looking at him almost guilty.

He scoffs at your words, his anger rising. “Don’t talk to me about attachments. I know the Code, I know about the stupid rules. But don’t tell me that what we had meant anything to you since you come here now holding another man's hand.” Anakin is seething with jealousy now, his hands clenching into fists. The thought of you with another man, another man touching you and holding you, it’s more than he can bear. He wants to grab you and shake you, to make you understand how much the sight of you with someone else hurts him.

He takes a step closer, looming over you. He’s taller and stronger than you, and he towers above you, his presence intimidating. “Tell me the truth,” he growls. “Did you ever really love me, or was it all just a lie?”

Your heart is racing in your chest as he looms over you, his eyes flashing with anger and hurt. You can feel the tension in the air, the danger and volatility of the situation. “Of course I loved you,” you say, your voice shaking just a little. “I loved you with all my heart, and I still do.”

He sneers at your words, his face twisting into a cruel smile. He doesn’t believe you, doesn’t want to believe you. It’s easier to think that you’re lying, that you never really loved him at all. “Prove it,” he snaps. “Prove that you love me.”

You’re taken aback by his challenge, his demand. You didn’t expect him to ask you to prove your feelings, to put them to the test. “What… what do you mean, prove it?” you ask, your voice small and uncertain.

He takes another step closer, his body almost touching yours. He’s so close that you can feel the heat of his skin, the tension radiating off him in waves. “Kiss me,” he says, his voice low and dangerous. “Kiss me like you mean it. Show me that you’re not just playing with me.”

Your heart skips a beat at his words, the intensity of his gaze, and the heat of his body. You’re nervous and hesitant, but you also feel a pang of longing and desire. You want to prove to him that your feelings are real, that you’re not just toying with him. You can feel his breath on your lips, the heat of his mouth just inches away from yours. "I'm engaged." You blurt out.

His face darkens at your words, the mention of your engagement like a slap in the face. He feels a surge of irrational jealousy and anger, the idea of you marrying someone else infuriating him. “So what?” he snaps. “You’re engaged to someone else, but you’re still here, standing here in front of me, telling me that you love me. Kiss me. You said you still love me. Prove it.”

You're taken aback by his insistence, his refusal to listen to reason. "It's not that simple, Ani," you say, trying to maintain your composure. "I'm with another person now, and it wouldn't be right to-"

He cuts you off, grabbing you by the wrists and pulling you to him so that your bodies are pressed together. He’s breathing heavily, his chest heaving with emotion. He’s on the edge, barely holding it together. He can feel the warmth of your body pressed against his, the scent of your skin, the beat of your heart. “Damn the rules, damn the Code,” he says, his voice low and dangerous. “I want to feel your lips on mine. I want to taste you, I want to hold you. I don’t care about anything else.”

You can see the desperation in his eyes, the hunger and need. You’re torn, part of you wants to give in to his demand, to give yourself over to the passion and desire that always existed between you. But another part of you is wary, knowing that this is dangerous, that indulging in this could lead to nothing but pain and heartache. "Ani, stop," you say, your voice gentle but firm. "We can't do this. We can't let ourselves go down this path."

He scoffs at your words, his grip on your wrists tightening. He can’t believe you’re still resisting him, still holding back when you’ve already admitted that you still love him. “Why not?” he asks, his voice a low growl. “What’s stopping us? You said you love me. You can’t deny that you want this. I can see it in your eyes.”

You feel your resolve weakening, the heat of his body and the intensity of his gaze making it hard to think straight. "I can't do this to Kenth," you say, trying to hold onto your reasoning. "I can't just throw away what I have with him. I can't hurt him like that. He's a good man."

He scoffs again, his jealousy flaring at the mention of your fiancé. To him, he's nothing more than a rival, a hindrance to what he wants. "A good man," he sneers. "What does he have that I don’t? What can he give you that I can’t?"

You take a deep breath, feeling the weight of his question. You know that your fiancé is a good person, kind and respectful, but you also know that he’s not the same as Ani. There’s something about your history with Anakin, something about the passion and intensity of your connection, that’s unique and special. “It’s not about what he has or what he can give me,” you say, your voice quiet but firm. "It's about the future and following the rules for the sake of everyone."

He feels a pang of jealousy and bitterness at your words, the idea of you building a life with someone else it's like his biggest nightmare turning into reality.

“You’re mine,” he says through clenched teeth. “You will always be mine. I don’t care about your fiancé, your future, or anything else. I only care about you. So stop thinking about what you should do, and what you shouldn’t do, and just feel. For once in your life, just let yourself feel what you know you want.”

His words strike a chord within you, the intensity and possessiveness of his declaration igniting a spark of desire deep inside you. You can feel yourself weakening, your resolve cracking under the weight of his words. “Ani, please,” you say, your voice little more than a whisper. “This isn’t fair.”His words send a shiver down your spine, the heat of his body and the strength of his grip making it impossible to resist him. You’re caught between reason and emotion, torn between your loyalty to your fiancé and the deep-seated love you still feel for him. “Please…” you whisper, your voice breaking. “You’re not thinking straight. You don’t know what you’re doing.”

He looks down at you, his eyes burning with intensity. “I know exactly what I’m doing,” he says, his voice fierce and determined. “I’m claiming what should have always been mine. I’m taking what I want. You.” He leans down, his mouth hovering mere inches from yours, his breath hot against your skin. The tension between you is electric, the air thick with desire and need. Your breath catches in your throat, your heart racing in your chest. You can feel the heat and power radiating off of him, the primal force of his need and desire nearly overpowering your senses. You know that you should resist, that you should push him away and run before it’s too late. But you can’t bring yourself to do it. Your body is drawn to his, your mind consumed with the need to feel his lips on yours.

He can see the conflict in your eyes, the battle between your loyalty and your desires. He can tell that you’re close to breaking, close to giving in to what you both want. He leans in even closer, his lips practically touching yours. “Stop fighting it,” he whispers, his voice low and sultry. “Stop trying to be strong, and just let go. I know you want this. You’ve always wanted this.“ His words send a jolt of electricity through your body, the truth of them hitting you like a ton of bricks. You know that he’s right, that deep down you’ve always wanted this, always wanted him. You know that no matter how hard you try to deny it, there will be a part of you that will always belong to him. You can feel your resistance crumbling, your body and mind completely under his control.

He senses your surrender, the last of your resistance crumbling beneath the weight of his words and his touch. He can feel the heat and desire radiating off you, the air between you electric and charged. Without another word, he closes the tiny gap between you and captures your lips with his own. The moment his lips meet yours, it’s like a circuit is completed. The floodgates of long-suppressed desire burst open, and you kiss him back with a passion that takes your breath away. It’s like nothing you’ve ever experienced before, the intensity and heat of it like a storm, crashing over you and consuming you whole. You respond to the kiss with equal hunger and fervor, his hands moving to cup your face, to pull you closer to him. He wants to devour you, to possess you completely. He can feel the tension building between you, the passion and need threatening to overwhelm you both.

You wrap your arms around him, pulling him towards you and molding your body against his. You can feel his strength, his power, the taut muscles of his back, and the heat of his skin beneath his robes. The kiss deepens, your mouths moving together in a dance of desire and need. Your hearts are racing, your bodies electrified by the heat of the kiss.

You feel the possessive urgency in his touch, the hunger and need in his every movement. You can feel the jealousy and the anger, the primal need to possess you completely. And despite yourself, you feel your body responding to his touch, igniting a fire deep within you that you thought was long extinguished.

He breaks the kiss, his eyes burning into yours, his body still pressing you against the wall. He’s panting, his breathing ragged and uneven, his body vibrating with need. “You’re mine,” he growls, his voice raw and hoarse. “No one else is ever going to touch you, no one else is going to have you. I want you to leave him.“

Your mind is hazy, your thoughts clouded by the heat and desire coursing through your body. You know that you should resist him, however, you want to tell him that he owns your body and soul completely. But your mind betrays you, your words coming out in little more than a breath. "I... I can't," you whisper, your voice trembling.

The words are like a cold bucket of water to his face, his eyes flashing with a mixture of hurt and anger. He pulls back from you slightly, his hands still on your hips, anchoring you to the wall. “Why not?” he bites out, his voice rough and sharp. “What’s stopping you?“

You try to find the words to explain, to tell him that it’s too much, that you’re still engaged to someone else. But before you can form the words, he’s leaning back in, his body pressing against yours once again. “Tell me,” he says, his voice a low growl in your ear. “Tell me why you can’t be mine. I want to hear you say it.“ The heat and desire that was coursing through you moments ago has faded, replaced by a sense of guilt and confusion. You know that you should put your foot down, that you should remind him of your engagement. But you’re finding it increasingly hard to think straight as he presses his body against yours, his voice a seductive whisper in your ear. “It's a political arrangement.” You manage to say, the words coming out in a shaky breath.

A low, possessive growl escapes his throat as he hears your words. "What do you mean, a 'political arrangement'?" he snaps, his hands tightening on your hips. "Explain."

You take a shaky breath, your body still pressed against the cool surface of the wall. The primal possessiveness of his touch sends a shiver down your spine. “My marriage. It’s an arrangement made by our families,” you explain, your voice barely above a whisper. “It’s meant to strengthen our families’ political relationships.”

His jaw clenches at your words. The thought of you entering into a political arrangement with someone else, someone who didn’t deserve you, is enough to make his blood boil. He moves his body impossibly closer, his hands shifting to cup your face, his voice a low growl. “So your family basically sold you to someone else for political gain?”

Your heart sinks at the harsh truth of his words. In the back of your mind, you’ve always known that the engagement was more about politics than love. But the truth hurts, especially hearing it said out loud. You can feel the tension and possessive anger in his body, the way his body is pressed against yours like a cage. You know he’s not going to let this go easily. You nod, your voice barely above a whisper. “Essentially, yes.“

His mind reels at your admission, his anger and jealousy growing even stronger. He can’t believe that your family would treat you like a bargaining chip like a possession to be traded away for political gain. “And you agreed to this?” he practically spits out, his voice thick with anger. “You agreed to marry someone you don’t even love?“

Your heart twists at the anger and hurt in his voice, but you can’t deny the truth of his words. You did agree to marry someone you don’t love, all because of your family’s political aspirations. You nod again, your eyes downcast. You’re ashamed and embarrassed, and guilt washes over you like a wave. You know you’ve hurt him by agreeing to marry someone else, but you don’t know how to fix it.

He pulls back slightly, his hands falling from your face. He feels a mix of anger, hurt, and jealousy coursing through him, the primal possessiveness warring with the need to protect you. “So you’re going to marry him?” he asks, his voice low and hoarse. “You’re going to spend the rest of your life with someone you don’t even love? Are you gonna be happy with that?“

You find yourself unable to meet his gaze. You’ve never thought about it that way before, but there isn't much that you can do. You shake your head slowly, your voice barely above a whisper. “It's the best outcome for everyone. For my family, the Order, the Force... and for you.“

His jaw clamps shut at your words, a surge of anger and frustration coursing through him. The thought of you marrying someone else, settling for a life that is anything less than what you deserve, is unbearable to him. “Best outcome for everyone?” he grits out, his voice raw with emotion. “Except for you. What about what you want? What about your happiness?“ His words sting bitterly, the shame and guilt you feel growing stronger. You know that your happiness is not a priority in this arrangement, that it never has been. But the truth hurts, especially when it’s said out loud. You shake your head again, your voice trembling. “It doesn’t matter. I have a duty, the responsibility to see this through.“

His heart aches at your words, the fact that you’re willing to sacrifice your own happiness for the sake of duty is something he can’t understand. It goes against everything he believes in, against everything he fights for. “Duty and responsibility be damned,” he snaps, his voice edged with anger and frustration. “You deserve to be happy. You deserve to be with someone who loves you, who worships the ground you walk on. Not some political arrangement.“

Your heart clenches at his words, the mix of anger and desperation in his voice bringing tears to your eyes. You know he’s right, deep down you’ve always known that you deserve more than you’re settling for. But duty and responsibility have always been pounded into you, and the thought of going against them is terrifying. “It’s not that simple,” you whisper, your voice thick with emotion. “It’s not just about me. It’s about the Republic, the Jedi Order…”

He scoffs at your words, the anger and frustration growing stronger. The fact that you’re still focusing on what's expected of you, even after everything you’ve just shared, is frustrating for him. “None of that matters if you’re not happy. You’re not some pawn to be used in someone else’s game.“

Your heart aches more with every word he says, the truth of them echoing in your head. You know he’s right, you know that your happiness should come first, but the years of conditioning and expectations are hard to break. “I can’t just... abandon everything...” you say, your voice weak. “I can’t disappoint them.“

His eyes flash with anger and disbelief, his patience wearing thin. “You’re more worried about disappointing them than about your happiness? That’s a load of Bantha poodoo and you know it. They don’t deserve your loyalty.”

He's right, you know he is. You've been putting everyone else's needs above your own for so long that it's become second nature. You look up at him, tears streaming down your face. "But what about you?" you whisper, your voice trembling.

“What about me?” he echoes, his voice hoarse with emotion. “You’re choosing someone else over me. You’re choosing a life of political duty over our happiness, over what we could have together.“ He steps closer to you again, his body once again pinning you against the wall. His hands reach out to cup your face, his touch gentle despite the storm of emotion raging within him. “We could have a life together. We could be happy.“

Your heart clenches at his words, the weight of the decision you’re facing hitting you like a ton of durasteel. You know what you want, deep down you know that you’d give anything to be with him. But responsibility, a lifetime of conditioning, is still weighing heavily on you. You lean into his touch, your eyes falling closed. Your voice is a whisper, choked with emotion. “Is that possible?” He feels a pang of pain at your question, the doubt in your voice makes him want to just keep you in his arms until you understand what you mean to him. He’s never been more sure of anything in his life. “Yes,” he says, his voice steady and firm, despite the emotions churning inside him. “It’s possible. It’s more than possible. It’s what I want, what I’ve wanted since I met you.“ His hands tighten on your face, his touch gentle yet possessive. “Please, don’t marry him. Choose me.“

His words and touch cut through the fog of doubt and confusion surrounding you. The thought of choosing him, of having a life with him, fills you with a sense of longing and hope that you’ve never known before. For the first time, the thought of your future isn’t shrouded in obligations, it’s filled with love and happiness. You let out a ragged breath, your body tense. “I don’t want to marry Kenth.” You whisper.

His heart nearly leaps out of his chest at your words, a surge of triumph and relief coursing through him. He pulls you closer, his arms wrapping around you like a vise, pulling you flush against him. His body is taut with need and desire, the primal possessiveness in him raging stronger than ever. “Then don’t.” he whispers into your ear, his voice a low growl. “Be with me.“

Your body melds against him, your trembling hands coming up to rest on his shoulders. You feel a mix of relief and desire and fear coursing through you as you look into his eyes, your voice a whisper. “What if they find out? What if they try to... stop us? Or worse, haunt us?“

He pulls back slightly to look at you, his eyes burning with a mix of passion and determination. The thought of anyone trying to stop or hurt you fills him with a fierce, protective rage. “They’ll try,” he says, his voice hard. “But I’ll never let anything happen to you. I’ll protect you, no matter what. And if anyone tries to stop us, they’ll have to go through me first.“

His words, full of certainty and strength, send a shiver down your spine. You’ve never felt so wanted, so desired, so protected. The thought of being with him, of having his love and loyalty, is both exhilarating and terrifying. You look into his eyes, searching for reassurance. “And what if it doesn’t work?” you ask hesitantly. “What if we can’t make it?“

He sees the doubt and fear in your eyes, and his heart clenches at the thought of losing you. He pulls you even closer, his body pressed against yours, his arms wrapped around you fiercely. “It will work,” he says, his voice firm and unwavering. “I’ll make sure it does. I won’t let anything come between us.“ He leans in, his lips brushing against your ear, his voice a low growl. “I love you. And I won’t let anyone or anything take you away from me.“

His words, spoken with such unwavering conviction, send a jolt of hope and love through you. You’ve never felt so safe, so cherished, so loved. You can feel the heat and strength of his body against yours, the possessiveness and determination radiating off him in waves. You close your eyes, leaning into him, his lips at your ear. “I love you too,“ you whisper, your voice cracking with emotion. “I’ve always loved you.“

Anakin for the first time in his life, feels complete, whole. He embraces you tightly, his hands roaming over your body, possessive and protective. “You’re mine,” he whispers, his voice rough with emotion. “And I’m yours. No one can keep us apart again. Not the Order, not the Republic, not the universe.“

You can feel the possessiveness in his touch, the way his hands roam over your body as though he owns it. And a part of you, a primal, feminine part of you, longs to be owned by him, to belong to him completely. You nod, your body molding against his, your voice a whisper. “I’m yours. Completely yours.“

His heart nearly bursts at your words, your surrender and acceptance igniting a primal, possessive need in him that nearly takes his breath away. He leans in, his lips against your neck, his voice a low, ragged growl. “Say it again. Say you’re mine.“

You tilt your head slightly, giving him better access to your neck, your body melting against his. You feel a shiver of desire run down your spine at his words, his possessive tone sending a wave of heat through you. You let out a shaky breath, your voice a ragged whisper. “I’m yours. I belong to you, completely and utterly.“

Anakin’s eyes lock onto yours, the intensity and determination in his gaze making your breath hitch. His hands coming up to cup your face, his touch achingly gentle. “There are so many words I want to say to you,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. “Words that will never do justice to how I feel about you. You’re the air that I breathe, the thought that consumes me, the obsession that drives me to the brink of madness.“ He leans in closer, his forehead pressing against yours. "You’re the reason I feel alive, the reason I’ll do anything, give anything, to be with you.“ His hands move to your back, his body pressed against yours, the raw need and desire in him almost feral. “I’ve tried to fight it for years, to deny it, but I can't. I can't pretend anymore that I don't want you, that I don't need you. Because I do. I need you more than anything. I’m obsessed with you, completely and utterly obsessed. Living without you it's like not having a soul inside of my body.“

He pulls back slightly, his eyes burning into yours, the force of his emotions like a tidal wave washing over you. “I will do whatever it takes, I will risk everything, I will defy the universe itself, to keep you by my side. You’re mine, and I will never let you go. You’re my love, my every thought, my every dream, my entire existence.“

Your heart is pounding in your chest, the intensity and passion in his words, his voice sending a shiver down your spine. Your hands reach up, touching his face, your fingers tracing over his features gently. “Ani…“ You whisper, your voice thick with emotion. “I… I don’t know what to say. You… you make me feel things I’ve never felt before. You make me feel loved, wanted, desired… worshipped.“

He leans into your touch, his eyes closing as he savors the feeling of your fingers on his skin. A small, vulnerable smile tugs at the corners of his lips as he looks at you. “Say you’ll be mine,” he whispers, his voice gruff with emotion. “Say you’ll stay with me, that you’ll be my everything. I need to hear it, I need to know that you want this as much as I do.“

His vulnerability in that moment, so different from the fierce and possessive man he usually is, makes your heart pound even harder. You look into his eyes, seeing the love, the fear, the need in them. You never knew he was capable of such emotion, such passion. “I’ll stay with you,” you murmur, your voice soft yet filled with conviction. “I’ll be yours, yours completely. For as long as you’ll have me.“

He lets out a ragged breath, his body visibly relaxing as your words sink in. The fear, the doubt, that had been lurking in his eyes vanishes, replaced by something wild and primal, something that nearly takes your breath away. “Forever,” he whispers, his voice hoarse and fierce. “I want you forever. I need you forever. You’re mine now, and I’m never letting you go. Together, we will defy the odds, we will fight fate, we will prove that love, true love, can conquer all."

His lips brush against yours, soft and gentle at first, but quickly turning hungry and demanding. His body presses against yours, the heat of his desire like a fever burning through you. The world around you falls away, leaving only you and him, lost in a moment of complete and utter obsession and love. You’re his and he's yours, and nothing else matters.

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orangez3st · 1 month ago

Text

I Know Who I Married

Commander Wolffe × F!Reader

✧ Summary: Wolffe, a commander of his men and your husband, finds himself trapped between two conflicts. And yet, the ending involves you being your forgiving self, followed by good news.

✧ Tags & Warnings: pregnant reader, songfic, forbidden marriage, a little angsty, domestic fluff, words of affirmation, one (1) mention of sex, maybe inaccurate pregnancy things, oops look at that word count my hand slipped, PLO'BUIR, Wolffe needs a hug

✧ Word Count: 6.8k

✧ A/N: Please accept this angsty-wholesome (and finally non-Delta!) fic bcs it'd be the last one for now! Delta Squad Week is drawing closer and I wanna focus on that, and then I'll get through the piling fic requests. Enjoy this one! (Also did I accidentally lorebuild the 104th and make a new clone OC out of this? Yes.)

Masterlist | Read on AO3

𝑳𝒐𝒐𝒌 𝒂𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅 𝒂𝒕 𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝒍𝒖𝒄𝒌𝒚 𝒘𝒆 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒏𝒐𝒘

— That Would Be Enough - Philippa Soo, Lin-Manuel Miranda [X]

Wolffe swallows heavily as his footsteps, heavy, carry him to the war room. The grey of the venator’s hallways are neverending and ever gloomy as the distance between him and his destination draws closer. The overbearing burden as a leader has never felt so great after the recent campaign. He's lost so many men over false intel that neither he or his captains bothered to reassess.

His fault. He called the shots, even reassured his general that the campaign would run smoothly as planned. As usual. Then he became reckless. He wants to scream until his throat is scratchy and punch the wall until he crushes his knuckles. The warmth of the blood and the pain that'd occur and scratch along his skin would be worth it. Or maybe not even close—to the lives lost.

So many of his men. Wolffe is still able to recall their screams and desperate call for help over the comms as they were ambushed from all sides—and every time, he blinked and breathed through it as he covered the others in his radius to retreat. To fight for another day.

Until then, he must face whatever awaits him, his boots steadily and almost rhythmically resound across durasteel flooring of the ship, as if nothing's different. As if it's just the usual. Oh how he wishes it's the usual.

Two of his men adorned in 104th grey who guard the entrance to the war room spares him a glance, and a nod of respect about a second too late. Hesitance. Hesitance over his authority. Over his competence to lead. Fighting not to tilt his helmet away, Wolffe manages to tilt his focus away instead. He's lost so many men, but never because of his recklessness.

“Commander,” one of them greets, either with the usual respect or to defuse the disregarded tension. Wolffe bets on the latter as he strides past them, taking off his helmet in the process, and into the center of the room.

The holotable glows with field schematics of their next campaign. Wolffe has expected the Admiral, but now the man is nowhere around. Plo Koon always carries a strong presence in the room with his wisdom and perseverance, standing on one side of the table. The High Jedi General is trading a quiet discussion with someone—Wolffe notices the unmistakable ARC get-up and extra belt pouches, said attributes in 104th grey, with a marshal commander rank plaque on his left chest.

Wolffe snaps into attention, his helmet tucked under his arm. “General Plo Koon. Marshal Commander Brontes.” He's managed to quench his shock about three seconds before he spoke. What Brontes is doing here doubles and triples his anxiousness. Steeling himself still even after the Generals waves at ease, he swallows again, tipping his chin a little higher. “You summoned me, General?”

“Yes, Commander,” addresses Plo Koon, turning away from the holotable to face Wolffe. Blue light reflects on his features and his mask. “I wish not to waste your time. We'll be discussing the aftermath of our latest campaign.”

Shit. Direct reprimand. His worst nightmare. In front of Brontes, technically and structurally highest in command, only second after Plo Koon in the 14th Storm Corps? Even worse—much worse. He'd rather have a broken arm. At least he can still put up a fight equally well with the other one. But this? This is a fight he's never going to win in any time, in any scenario.

The General is waiting for him to speak.

“I…” Wolffe can't quite find his own words. Chaos that ensued in the comms a little over one rotation ago still haunts his mind, leaving it blank.

“Sir.” Brontes steps in. “Permission for a private talk with Commander Wolffe for a minute.”

Plo Koon trades a long look with the clone marshal commander that grows softer over time. Wolffe swears he can spot a slightest slump of the Kel Dor’s shoulders, and maybe a sigh that's rattling quietly out of his mask. “Granted.”

And with that, the Jedi marches away to the furthest viewport in the room, hands behind his back, watching the blur of hyperspace in uncharacteristically stiff posture that just settles more self-hatred inside Wolffe.

“Vod.” Brontes' voice next to him pulls him out of his stupor. Wolffe turns to the marshal commander with a look of dread that he doesn't realize himself wearing, until Brontes’ countenance visibly softens. “Wolffe, talk to me. As brothers. I know you're upset.”

“Seems like word travels fast, doesn't it?”

“Wolffe.” A look of warning. “Don’t deflect. You know better than that.”

“Everything that happened is purely my fault, Brontes. M’not even gonna defend myself. I'm ready to take the beating out of this.”

“Are you, really?” Brontes' scarred eyebrow lifts skeptically as he crosses his arms. “Because you look like you're about to burst off at the seams, vod.”

“Oh I didn't know that,” Wolffe grits his teeth.

Brontes sighs. “Save your shebs from blurting emotional and uncontrollable nonsense to the General by talking to me first.” He steps closer, voice lowered and mismatched brown and blue eyes sharp. “What the hell happened? You've never done reckless shit like this. You're always careful. I know you, ner vod. We ran into each other Kamino so many times that I actually lost count.”

Wolffe has come prepared for the speech. “I wasn't careful,” he relents with a sigh, “The war. It never ends. I just…”

Your luminous smile slips to the forefront of his mind. Then your sweet giggle, at something he said. An image where you are truly happy. The sun behind your head makes you glow and grants you a divine halo—an image committed to his memory while you glide through a warm and colorful meadow of beautiful Nabooian flowers. And yet, next to this graceful dance you commence for him, is your steadfast presence in his life. Your beautiful friendship with him, your kindness, and last but never the least, your loyalty.

Once upon a time it led to a secret ceremony of the bonding of two living souls. Marriage. It was done by Mandalorian customs. After uttering the riduurok and trading a kiss as husband and wife, you took him on this quirky yet meaningful idea to get inked around the base of both of your left ring fingers to mimic a wedding ring. Wolffe has your name on his, and you have his. It was perfect. A newfound bliss with a newfound meaning—this world now belongs to you both, and you will do anything to find yourself back in each other's arms despite the circumstances.

After all, you're a civilian. Wolffe is a soldier. His true duty is someplace else and anywhere else at the same time—anywhere in the galaxy where conflict breaks and harms like glass.

“...I just wish this'll be over soon,” Wolffe says somberly, longing for you terribly all of a sudden following those thoughts, that he has to keep the dam from overflowing.

But Brontes stares at him, all deadpan and unamused. “So you thought maybe you'd just chuck a live det in the dark and charge head on even though you know you're probably blasting at an absolute unit of a mutated rancor, which puts all your trigger-happy efforts as useless.”

Wolffe slowly closes his eyes. He takes a deep breath. “It was false intel.”

“That you failed to reassess!” Brontes hisses, “Our comms and intelligence are perfectly capable—they literally kill time by reassessing intel over and over again because that's what they do, but you didn't give the word! It was fatal, Wolffe!”

“We all know we shouldn't trust intel!”

“Doesn't mean to go completely ignored!” Brontes scrubs both hands down his face. “Prime help me. You sure we decanted in the same batch? And neighbors?”

“Wish we weren't, Three-Five.”

“The hell you meant by that, Three-Six?”

Wolffe looks down. “You're a lot more capable in various different fields including emotional control than I am, Marshal.”

The man snorts. “That your best attempt at I don't deserve it this week? Bantha shit. And you take that back.” Brontes points at him. Wolffe says nothing, his gaze secured on his boots still. Brontes sighs, firmly grabbing the other's shoulders. “Wolffe, vod, you're a good man. If you want this war to end as quickly as you prefer it to be, then do things the right way—the way you've always done it. Careful, methodical. Branch out your thoughts, make backups for backup, and most importantly; think about your men. They're your brothers. Cuun vode. They want this war to be over soon, like you do, too.”

He knows how to do it, goddamn it. He was only distracted by the thought of you. Actually no; the thought of sweeping the field as swiftly as possible in that fateful campaign—which was somewhat of a nuisance at the time than you are, occupying his mind—resulted in his apparent recklessness.

“And what are you doing here?” Wolffe asks.

Brontes shrugs. Wolffe quietly, defeatedly, observes the look of guilt in the other's eyes that slips through. “The General requested for me himself. So I took a fighter with me, left my battalion somewhere in Derilyn, and hit hyperspace the next hour.”

“Commander Wolffe,” Plo Koon’s voice booms in the midst of their sudden silence, “May I have a word with you, please.”

Both clones trade a look. Wordlessly, Brontes pats Wolffe in the back, even offering a barely-there smile, before marching to the door. When Wolffe makes his way up to the platform to meet his General, Brontes is already gone, leaving his mind once again preoccupied with haunting errors, along with the cries of his men that had echoed in the comms.

Wolffe lets out a breath. “General Koon,” he begins, “I am fully aware of my tactical incompetence in our last campaign. I'll be very careful that there will be no repetition. The party to blame is no one else but me, and I’m ready to receive punishment.”

The Kel Dor turns to face him. Nearly every time, his expression is completely unreadable. Though over time since Abregado, Wolffe finds comfort in both that—helps with his brutal objectiveness—and the constant presence of his reassurance.

“I’ve been aware of the uneasiness that’s been inside you for so long, Wolffe. Even now.” The sudden sidestep off the topic baffles the commander. Not even a direct nudge about the campaign. This is personal. “You're thinking about the future. About what, or who, awaits back home—awaits you.”

Your smile flits past his mind again.

“Yes, General,” Wolffe confesses, “But my sole focus is on this war.”

Your smile again. This time it's bittersweet, a little somber, but with immeasurable patience full to the brim in your eyes, your lips uttering how much you believe in him that he'll come home. Bidding your goodbyes as early as 0200 before he left for deployment in two hours. Your husband can only imagine you solemnly trying to catch your sleep again without worrying too much about him. He's a commander after all—surely he knows how to avoid death and ensure the best strategy applied in his battles.

“I don't doubt you, son—I never do.” Plo Koon places a gentle hand on Wolffe's shoulder, the weight only reminds him of the unnecessary death of his men. “And yet you let your inner turmoil overtook your judgement, and your actions afterward.”

Following such words, a hushed whisper ghosts his ear in your voice, “And look at the cost.”

Nearly flinching, Wolffe shakes it away. “Yes, sir,” he says firmly, his eyes holding so much shame, “I won't deny it.”

The General quietly watches him. “How long has it been since you last saw your dear wife?”

“It was during our last shore leave, sir.” Wolffe steels himself, trying not to crumble in the face of reality that feels heavier than mere moments ago. “Three months.”

The other man hums. “Then three months is enough.”

Wolffe's mismatched eyes snap up. “Sir?”

“I’m certain she longs for you very much. You need to be there for your wife.” Plo Koon turns around, facing the viewport once more, as if unable to bear the weight of the incoming decision. The azure lights of hyperspace make his earthy complexion shine in contrast. “You are granted one month of shore leave and will board a shuttle back to Coruscant.”

“What?” Wolffe can feel his heart drop to his stomach. Panic. Fright. There's nothing more that scares him than being sidebenched officially under order. “One month—?!”

“Take your mind off the battlefield, son. Recuperate, and reevaluate. You will be reinstated back on duty in exactly one month.”

Wolffe lets the silence slowly kill him. When no other words come from the Jedi, he takes a deep breath and gambles his chances. “General, with all due respect, my duty as commanding officer of the 104th—”

“Will be temporarily taken over by Marshal Commander Brontes per my request. That is why he's here.”

“But sir, please, my duty—”

He closes his mouth when the General raises a hand.

“Your duty now,” Plo Koon says, with a gentleness of a parent, “is to be with your family. You have a home that's waiting for you. A wife who's waiting for you to return home. The decision is final, Commander Wolffe, and the approval is already given directly from me. I issued the order myself. As soon as we leave hyperspace, you will be boarding the shuttle.”

It feels numb afterwards.

It feels like being stripped of everything he's known. His ranks, his purpose, his life. The thought of desertion has never even once crossed his mind. Battlefield is his home.

But… you are his home, too.

“Cease fighting today. Your wife needs you alive, son. She needs your care. She needs your presence.”

Marching out of the room with a new direction that is his quarters, he refrains saying a thing to Brontes. His helmet hides his expression as he merely nods in respectful greeting, but seemingly isn't enough—Brontes gives him a look that he despises so much. Pity. He doesn't need it. He doesn't need anybody else reminding him of his faults. It's embarrassing enough.

What would he tell you?

That he'd had his own men killed? His own brothers? Because he was distracted… by you?

No. He can't say that.

That he'd failed? Faulted, condemned, punished… blamed? His own men looked at him as if he's someone else. The respect remains—visible to the naked eye, stripped to merely ranks—and yet the reverence…

You'd see him as a failure too. The fear has a good, relentless grip on his heart. It aches. It aches to tell you. It aches to be confused.

“I find no comfort if one day I have to be the one knocking on her door to deliver the news that her beloved husband had perished on the battlefield.”

The ride to Coruscant is as quiet as it can be, save for the hum of hyperdrive. A squad of his men escorts him. Wolffe deems the space beyond the confines of his helmet lethal, as if the recycled air of the transport shuttle would destroy his airway and leave his lungs rotten by the time they arrive planetside. His own breath is hot with shame, his fists clenched, failure failure failure repeatedly ringing in his own ears, loud.

Everything makes him feel like a prisoner. A criminal on parole. The feeling worsens when the shuttle breaches atmo.

One month away from the war. A small part of him rejoices to see your smile again, to feel the reunion that would leave his body buzzing from pure happiness to day's end.

The circumstances, however…

“It’ll destroy her,” he’d said, unable to bear the thought of you mourning him. The thought of him leaving you, all alone.

Then the cab ride is just as quiet. The droid driver doesn't bother him—good. The state of the city around him beyond the filmed glass windows is the exact opposite. It's loud. Wolffe sits back, his helmet still on, his fear and utter shame still have a hold on him that if he takes it off it would become real. Too real for him to accept.

He brings nothing with him but armor on his back. He didn't even get to change, but at least he'd spent hours himself mourning in his flagship quarters while mindlessly rubbing over the same spot on his shin plate over and over again.

Just like how they cried over and over again in the comms.

“Love is a powerful motivation to one's spirit—to move them in a certain direction. If one takes it away, that person will never be the same again.”

Before your marriage, Wolffe spares his downtime growing stress lines on his face. He knew he had to provide for you but alas; he is what he is. His weekly stipend barely covers your daily meal, and that's just the sad truth. And yet the other side of such truth is a bright world filled with hope and everlasting joy where you truly want him—to be with him.

So you put your foot down; “This is my own dwelling, I have a steady job where people are constantly dependent on my industry, I love you and I want to be with you, so let's get married.”

It wasn't impatience. It was the fruit of his labor and yours working the relationship through regardless of any differences, the big one is of him being a clone—oftentimes looked down upon, deemed as nothing but patriotic wet droids that die for the people of a republic of nations they never personally know. But not you. Never you.

“Let's get married,” you'd said again—a soft smile, almost pleading and demanding for him to say yes, on your face. “With your customs, if you don't mind. I think I'd love that.”

Wolffe was dumbstruck by your flash decisions. “Are you sure?”

Your smile brightened. “Yes I'm sure.”

Something comes over him as the door of your—and his—dwelling comes into view.

A little different from the typical housing in Coruscant topside, the apartment is tucked away behind a series of office buildings and skyscraper shopping centers. It's a suitable place—perfect, even—for a couple married in secret, and that's all Wolffe would say if someone asks him. Not that he'd rat his own marriage out.

But.

Home.

“And I'm sure you love her very much—and she, you. Dedicate your time for your family, son. Just as much as you do, for the war.”

This place is where you and him make your pleasant memories. Some of them are first-times, some involving hot screaming matches. But you and Wolffe always make it through. Your patience and his resilience. It leads you, him, to all this.

He knows the key code. But he hasn't been home for a very long time, and all your work is done from home.

And now it just strikes him how much pain you're in, living in the void around you. The other side of your bed empty, the other dining chair empty, and even the little space in the shower stall where you take morning showers—empty.

“Because you have one to go home to.”

He rings the bell.

He waits, hands behind his back in a parade rest to formally accept your lash-outs. Your piling frustrations in the form of solid angry hits to his chest, and your tears. Three months is a long time, after all.

No answer. You usually don't take a long time to answer the door. You always refuse to wear earplugs when you're working, so that's not the case. His hand instinctively flies to his pistol.

He rings again.

“One moment!” Your voice. Oh, your voice. You're safe. You're inside.

The door finally slides open.

“Hi, sorry to keep you waiting—” You look up to be met with his gaze—or at least, his visor. But he's certain you’re piercing right through, and gone are his anxieties as if someone is pulling up the blinds. You always do, even since you first met each other.

You stand there just behind the doorway. Wolffe has already expected a slap to the face or hot tears streaming down your cheeks.

But you're… you're radiant. Always are. Your lips widen and stretch into the most beautiful smile he's ever seen—one of the reasons he let himself fall in love with you, willing to sacrifice his all and split his focus on you and the war efforts.

“Wolffe,” you breathe a laugh, stepping over the threshold to relieve him of the soldier's stance. “You’re home.”

It's when you grunt as you stretch your back before placing your hand over your belly briefly that he notices.

Your… inflated… huge belly.

Before he can get any word out, you embrace him, wrapping your arms around his neck and breathing his scent.

Your husband reeks of sweat, fuel, and exhaustion, but the smell is intoxicating and tickling some parts of your brain. It's giving happy sensations for you, but the pregnancy hormones make the sight of him finally home and in your arms irks you greatly.

“Get this blasted helmet off your head, Wolffe,” you seethe, slapping his chest in the process. The mood shifts so quickly it makes him flinch. He quickly obliges, his head nods almost frantic, his defensive walls crumble and sink to the bottom of his stomach.

And now the reality is out to get him. It's all becoming real.

His misery and grief don't even get the chance to surface again the moment you rip his bucket out of his grasp. He catches a glimpse of you biting your lip as you chuck the blasted plastoid piece somewhere behind you before suddenly a sharp, burning pain erupts on the side of his face. His cheek. You just slapped him.

“You were taking too long,” you grit out. Wolffe can feel his heart shattering even more as he listens to your broken voice lashing out at him. “Forgot you're married and have a wife at home?!”

“I'm sorry,” he immediately says, looking away in shame. The shame, the guilt, the pain—it’s all gaining on him again.

“Doesn't cut it,” you hiss, tears brimming in your eyes. “Three months. Every time I called you, you always had the perfect reason to end it early—”

“I’ve always been occupied aboard the fleet—”

“It was just a single holocall!”

“Intragalactic transmission during a period of war campaigns for private fulfillment is supposedly forbidden—”

“YOUR GENERAL ALLOWED IT!” you shout at him, letting a single sob come out but as a strong woman that you are in his eyes, you hold on, taking deep breaths and wiping your fallen tears away. “He covered for you and you know it.”

You're right. He does know.

More added to the blame, and he only gets to hang on this far. He wonders when the dam would break, but… you can't see it. You're in too much pain already because of him. In this state, with such many burdens, he'd prefer grief in quiet.

“Cyare.” He tries—he wants to try. He has to win you back, even though you're still angry at him. “I know it doesn't cut it, but I really am sorry.”

You sniffle, wiping away a stray tear again with the back of your hand before taking his hand in yours. His knees almost buckle at your soft touch, even so since he's still wearing his gloves. “Come inside. You can explain yourself then.”

The warmth of your home engulfs him like a snug blanket and makes him want to sink right there on the couch in the living area. He could ask you to join him there, or in the shower. Domesticity and love call for him as if this place, with you in it, is the only place he should've belonged, not the battlefield.

Alas.

“I… was too ambitious.” He doesn't wait until you've sat down. Wolffe ignores your invitation—a single, loud, demanding pat of the hand on the other side of the couch—and lets his fumes run dry as he desperately tries to still the anxious soldier inside him. This is worse than being confronted by his general.

“There’s always an end to a war and we’re only doing everything we can to erase the distance between us and that ending. I put my dedication and time in that war room with my superiors to ensure our future.”

“Apparently too much time.” You scoff. “Don't be a soldier, Wolffe,” you say almost boredly, glancing away from his rapid-fire reasoning. “You’re home. Be a husband.”

Wolffe shakes his head. “I stand by what I said. It's the truth. I know it's been three months and sometimes… sometimes I ignored that. I've been ignoring you.” His voice cracks. Your heart breaks a little more at that, your fists scrunching the fabric of your loose sweater. “But I'm here now, cyare,” Wolffe says again, “They sent me home because I made a fatal decision.”

You sigh shakily, pushing your forehead to the heel of your hand. “Good.”

Wolffe freezes. “Good?”

“When all means of good communication with you became outrageously impossible, I turned to your general instead,” you glower at him. Wolffe’s eyes shut, his chest heavy—blame blame blame. “I messaged him, begging him to send you home because I needed you here, Wolffe. Seems like he's found a way how to, and I'm thankful for that.”

Wolffe looks at you in disbelief, another fault added to his plate. Plo Koon might care greatly about his commander's secret relationship, but the fact you directly contacted his general without telling him first… you've crossed a line. There's a chain of command one is supposed to go through first, and you’re in violation of that.

“You did what?!”

“I'M NOT SORRY, WOLFFE!”

He watches you, eyes widened. Your hand falls to your belly again, taking deep breaths to steady yourself.

“I needed you, but you were so far away,” you mourn, tears brimming in your eyes again, “I needed you and you weren't responding to my needs, and so I had to do something. I'm your wife.” Wolffe flinches at the way you say the word as your voice cracks with emotion. You take a faltering breath—your gaze, sharp and deadly, and yet hopeful for him to understand under such scrutiny. “And you're a commander in the army. You're driven, you're ambitious—as you said—and that's good. Really,” you continue, cadence growing mournful and sarcastic and disappointed the longer you go. “But you'll always fight until the war is done.”

Wolffe sighs. “The war’s not done—”

“And yet, here you are,” you cut him off, swallowing your mood swing again.

He closes his eyes. His throat bobs as he swallows. “It's a punishment.”

There's silence at first before your surprised tone, almost guilty, cuts through the tension. “What?”

“Plo Koon sent me away from the war.” He doesn't want to open his eyes. It'd be real—too real for him to relive it all over again. The burden is his and his alone, no one else's and especially not yours. Even though you had been the one constantly on his mind. “I was distracted in the last campaign and it was my reckless decisions and executions that… that killed so many of my men on the field.”

“Oh, love…”

“We lost. The cost was too great, it was entirely my fault. He sent me home and my marshal commander took my place. For a month.”

He looks at you. He's not even angry anymore. Resigned. “Did you have a say in that?”

“I did,” you murmur, “But I had no idea…”

The moment your frown fades out from between your brows and your expression softens, Wolffe releases a long breath, sounding almost like relief, as he carefully approaches you and kneels by your feet. “Don’t apologize. You have the right.”

Then, he looks into your eyes. Really looks. Your swollen lids for shedding tears at his unavailability, his failure as a husband. You're in so much pain—that, he is now aware of. The sight simply despairs him, breaking him over and over again, as if taking preparations to haunt him in his sleep.

Slowly, hesitantly and almost shakily as if he doesn't deserve it, he takes your hand and lifts it to his lips. Your knuckles are smooth along his chapped lips, the sensation of finally touching you—his beloved wife—is enlightening.

“Forgive me, ner cyare riduur,” Wolffe murmurs, softly pressing his lips onto your skin in-between phrases. “I've been horrible to you these past few months. You're always on my mind. I love you—always, you must know—and I hope… I hope you can forgive me.” His warm amber brown eyes that you love are glistening with unshed tears. Remorse. “I don't know what I'd do if you can't.”

His heart flutters as he witnesses a smile slowly pulling at your lips. “We’re married, Wolffe.” You squeeze his hand. “And even if we aren't, I can't, for the life of me, not forgive you.”

He kisses your knuckles again. “There's always a line.”

“Then let's hope we won't cross it.”

It brings a soft chuckle out of him—content, confident, safe. Your husband is famously known for his ultra rare smile, and seeing them so often in every moment you spend time together feels like an absolute honor.

You touch his hair at first, longing the feel of it in the tender palm of your hand. But he doesn't want to let you steal his opportunity—because he could enjoy your soft touches further and fall asleep right there and then—so he rises to meet you, still on his knees, leaning into you and props his forearm next to your head on the back of the couch.

Wolffe breathes in the sight of you. You, smiling up at him, your eyes still shining with remaining tears—happy tears. He caresses your cheek softly with his gloved knuckles before nearing your lips, testing the waters. Your smile broadens, accepting his kiss—a long-awaited one, one that both of you deserve all after those painful months of separation.

“Missed you,” Wolffe whispers against your lips, gently taking it again between his before leaning his forehead against yours. “So, so much. I'm so sorry.”

Your eyelashes flutter against his cheek. “I'm sorry, too. For your loss. Your brothers. But you're here now, Wolffe. That's what matters right now. I’m so happy you're here, really am,” you say to him. Wolffe leans against your touch, your thumb brushing along his cheekbone. “And I'm sorry I slapped you,” you pout, “My hormones are all messed up.”

He shakes his head in dismissal. “I deserved it.”

“Want me to kiss it better, love?”

“If I ever refuse, I want you to beat me to death.”

A small giggle erupts from your lips before you pepper his cheek with apologetic kisses, leaving no inch of skin untouched with your love. It's glaring red from when you slapped him, blame the estrogen and cortisol ganging up on your sanity.

Wolffe shifts his attention from you to your pregnant belly. It's been… lovely. All the pain and illness you've gone through seem worth it knowing that it's his children you're carrying. You hadn't found out until 8 weeks. You'd wished he was there at your first ultrasound when your doctor announced you're pregnant with twins.

“Are you feeling okay?” He places his hands gently on your belly. “This looks… painful.”

You stare at him in disbelief. Does he really not know? “This looks—” you parrot him but get cut off.

“Are you, cyare?” Wolffe asks again, firmer this time, and even more serious. “In pain?”

You stifle your smile. Gods, this man.

“Not really. For now.” And thus you roll out a new impish scenario, wondering how it'd go, and how long it'd go. “Well, okay; sometimes.”

“The diagnosis?”

“It’s fine, my love. Nothing's wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong?!”

You bite the inside of your lip, preventing a laugh coming out.

He goes on, eyes sweeping over your body. Your cheeks seem fuller, you gained weight. Other than that, you're healthy. You're glowing. But he can't seem to find out why. “Did you go to your usual doctor?”

“Yes,” you nod, “And um, another kind of doctor.”

Your husband frowns, hard, at your grin. “Another… kind?”

“Wolffe, for the love of gods.” He blinks cluelessly as you pry his gloves off him before dragging his now bare hands beneath your sweater and placing them firmly against your belly. “Here. Feel.”

He sighs at the warmth of your skin, his thumb having the mind of its own caressing them.

You scrutinize him. “Do you have any idea of what might be happening?”

“You don't look sick,” Wolffe analyzes, mismatched eyes meeting your gaze. “You look healthy, in fact.”

“Wolffe,” you giggle, clutching onto his hand, “I’m pregnant.”

In an instant, his eyes flash with clarity and total adoration. His lips part to gasp, the entire focus in his body now directed at your pregnant belly. In the joyful realization and perhaps feeling a little stupid for not clocking it earlier, Wolffe pours all his love into his touches, lifting your sweater to finally look at you. At first you hear what may be a sob, but his sniffle confirms it anyway. The joy of a father.

“So,” Wolffe sniffs again, “So this was when you complained about your late period before I got shipped off…”

“Yeah,” you chuckle, moving your hands into his hair and slowly scratching his scalp. “Y'know what, I think they might be afternoon delight kitchen counter babies. I couldn't forget that one.”

There's so much of that to digest, especially a comeback with that last one—which may be true because he couldn't either. He can't even let out a laugh, his ears already stopped listening at the plural word that you just said.

“Babies?” Wolffe marvels, “Twins?”

You smile, nodding. “Twins.”

And only then he finally laughs. It's not his usual boisterous one when you crack your lamest stupidest dad joke—it sounds wet, relieved, happy, and full of hope. You've talked about this—both of you have been wanting this for quite a long time. Wolffe’s thumb repeatedly brushes over your belly, as if caressing his babies’ heads through the flesh, and his face is leaning closer.

And now your wish is finally granted with not only one but two sweetlings. You've spent day and night thinking what traits they would take once you give birth to them, and once they grow up. Strong and resilient just like their father, you hope.

“Su'cuy, ad’ike. Ner kih’verde,” he murmurs against your skin, “I'm your buir. I’m sorry we're only meeting just now.” Wolffe presses a long kiss to your belly, and another. There are two of them, after all. You feel wetness—your husband's first tears upon knowing that he'll be a father to his own children growing in your womb.

You slip your fingers in between his face and your skin to wipe the trail of tears away from his cheek. “I think they'd understand that their father is fighting to secure their future.”

Wolffe nods weakly, contently. “That's right,” he says, resting his chin on you while meeting your gaze again, his expression curious and helpful. “So is it—are they… Boys? Girls? Both? Have you found out yet?”

You chuckle at his enthusiasm. “Maybe we can find out together this week or next, if you want?”

So you've been waiting for him. His heart aches again—imagine if he refused to come home, ever. “Of course. I'll be there with you,” Wolffe says, a breathy chuckle falling off his lips. “How far along are you?”

“16 weeks.”

“Sixteen. 4 months.”

“Mhm.”

“A month before my deployment,” he repeats, and you nod, humming your affirmation again.

A small part of him that hasn't found resolve cringes—horrified. His previous thoughts are coming back to haunt him—the what-ifs.

“Hey,” calls your voice, cutting through the haze. Wolffe relishes the gentle smile that graces your lips, relishing how fortunate he is to have you. “I know what's going through your head right now.”

The weight in his chest has been crying out to be released. And you're his wife. His worries, his fears and anxieties, become yours, too.

“If only I threw a fit,” he slowly confesses, “I refused to come home, cyare. I would've fought the decision and convinced my general. But then, I wouldn't have known.” He could've flown too close to the sun. He could've died in future campaigns, leaving you alone with… with his babies. His children. They'd be fatherless, and you'd be exhausted to death caring for them alone without him. And they wouldn't know who their father was.

And he wouldn't know he'd be charging head on in the front lines for his children. He wouldn't know.

But then there's your presence again, so bright in his life. You lift his chin with a touch of your fingers so you can pull him out of the abyss of his past thoughts that are looming over him, and so there will only be you—his present and future—to gaze upon, to look at. Not the abyss.

“You're my husband,” you say softly, your thumb caressing his cheek again. “Val buir—their father, Wolffe. And I know that… every regulation out there isn't in our favor, especially now that we're having children—”

He looks guilty. “I’m sorry if this isn't what you imagined.”

Sighing, you pinch his cheek. “I'm not done yet, love. Stop apologizing about stuff that I already know, and I knew I'd go through this before I decided to be married to you. I love you for who you are.”

Wolffe blinks quickly—the corners of his eyes sting. You just… always know what to say. You're always confident, and he loves that.

“And that means I know who you are,” you continue, “I know where your heart and your spirit is. I'm not afraid, Wolffe.”

He sighs heavily. “I don't know—you don't know—if that's the right thing you should've said,” he says, “Don't want you to say empty promises, cyare. You know they do nothing to me.”

“These are all facts, Wolffe. They all came from here.” You grab his hand and place it over your heart. “You are a soldier, love, I can't take the battlefield away from you. But as long as you come home when I need you—for me, that would be enough.”

It's like fire. It's like love renewed, and it's burning bright, the light cleanses the dark in his heart—every strand that pulses insecurities and anxieties that shouldn't even be there.

“I promise,” your husband then vows, “I won't miss something like this ever again. You have my word.”

You grin teasingly. “Again? I haven't even given birth yet. Just how many do you want, Commander?”

Wolffe rolls his eyes. The gesture always makes you laugh, and he knows it. “Cyare, you know what I'm talking about.”

“I know,” you giggle, “Icebreaker.”

Wolffe’s smile is stretched so wide on his lips that he can feel it ache—his cheeks ache. He rarely smiles like this even in the presence of his brothers, but he doesn't hold back with you. He rises slightly to meet your lips, silently wishing to listen and relish your laugh. “I love you,” he mutters, pecking your lips in between phrases, “I love you. So much. So much, cyare, you have no idea.”

You laugh softly. “I know, my love.”

“I'll be here for you,” Wolffe says enthusiastically, and your smile grows even wider as you listen along. “Until you give birth. Maybe I can talk to my general to temporarily put Brontes on my post while I'm away—”

“Wolffe, udesii. It's okay,” you interrupt with a laugh, “I’ll need you more after I give birth. When I get into labor, too.”

He nods, your plea sounding like a superior’s command to him—heck, he almost said yes sir. “I’ll be there. No matter what. We'll do this together, I promise.”

Wolffe lets out a breath. His mind is already forming to-do lists that involve research and possible timestamps and predictions and scenarios to lie his way through military assignments just so he could be there for you, or in case anything happens to you. Maybe he could gamble his lucky attempts with his general.

He leans in to kiss your lips again. “In the meantime, you're gonna tell me everything you've been doing for the past three months?”

You smile. “The good and the bad.”

“Every bit of it?”

“Yes.”

Wolffe then kisses your knuckles, a hint of a smile gracing his lips. “Promise?”

Your giggle is a ripe melody in his ears. His source of joy. You lay your hand on top of his, still resting on your belly—both of your beloved children inside. “Yes I promise.”

Some backstory I didn't get to include: Sha Koon, Plo’s niece, regularly checks in on you so she could relay the information to her uncle because both Kel Dor care so much about your and Wolffe's wellbeing 🩷

Taglist: @yoursrosie @hellfiresky @filamentlights @heidnspeak @lucyysthings @emmaw18 @leiopython-rat

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