whatisluniana

[whatisluniana]

i am legit crying here

[whatisluniana]

𝒔𝒕𝒖𝒄𝒌 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒚𝒐𝒖

pairing: husband!sylus x reader

genre: slight angst, romance, comfort, my cute patootie sylus :)

a/n: this fic was inspired by this request! Thank you @blessdunrest, for such a fun idea. I ended up turning it into a whole long piece about two stubborn idiots in love who need a little push thanks to luke, kieran and mephie!!

It had been three days…Three days of clipped greetings and doors that shut a little too firmly. Three days of shared halls and separate silences, of the small domestic rituals done wordlessly, like you were strangers orbiting the same house.

Three days without music…

That was how everyone at Onichinyus measured it. When Sylus was fine, the old turntable panned soft strings through his office for paperwork that bored him. The faint crackle of vinyl was part of the building now, as familiar as the hum of the vents and the distant lift chime, but for three days, nothing. No music. No teasing remarks dropped in passing. No touch on your lower back as you squeezed by him at the coffee counter. Nothing but the deliberate quiet of two people too stubborn to say the simplest thing out loud…

“I’m sorry.”

It hadn’t started as a tempest, well, it never did. Sylus had picked you up from the Hunter’s Association at dusk, the way he often did when schedules overlapped. The air outside Linkon was calmer than usual, and you’d let him tug you into a walk instead of heading straight back to N109. Just the two of you, a rare slice of normality, his hand brushing yours, his coat falling around your shoulders when the evening breeze cooled.

And then the sky cracked. The ether lights stuttered overhead, the hum of the city grid pitched high, and before either of you could process it, the fluctuation hit. Wanderers tore through the shadows, screeching, shapes too jagged to belong in the quiet of a city street. Neither of you had expected it here, now. There were no squad calls, no backup, just the two of you thrown into a fight you hadn’t planned for.

Sylus pulled out his gun in one swift movement, putting himself between you and the first shrieking form. You mirrored him, resonance sparking down your arm as your weapon lit. The two of you fell into rhythm the way you always did, his precision, your speed, covering each other’s gaps without thought.

But then you saw it. A man, ordinary, unarmed caught in the collapse of a shielding panel, scrambling to get clear. His ankle twisted under him, and he stumbled right into the path of a wanderer. You didn’t think you ran straight towards him.

Ignoring Sylus’s warning bark, you flung yourself between the creature and the civilian, your shield flaring at the last second as the claws raked against it. You shoved the man toward cover, yelling at him to run, taking the brunt of the blow yourself. When the last wanderer dissolved into ether smoke and the hum of the city steadied again, the world was quiet. Too quiet.

Sylus’s knuckles were bruised, his eyes locked on you not with relief, but with fury barely contained. “Do you have any idea what you just did?” His voice was low, calm in that way that promised the storm was still coming. You pressed your hand to your ribs where the shield had half-failed, breath shallow, and snapped back, “I saved him.”

“You nearly lost yourself.” And that’s where the argument began, one born not of anger, but of fear.

You told him you were a Hunter first and his wife second, and that if he wanted absolute obedience, he could recruit a mirror. Then there were three days. By morning of the fourth, the Onychinus base itself seemed to hold its breath. Kieran answered everything with a thumbs-up. Luke wore the harried look of a man who had translated “tense domestic situation” into twelve bulletproof schedules. Mephisto, perched near as he watched you and Sylus pass at opposite ends of the corridor and issued a single, unimpressed caw. 

You lasted until late afternoon before the restlessness ate through your patience. The training hall was empty at this hour, cool and echoing. The overheads were on low, training mode leaving long pale lanes across the floor. You wrapped your hands and started with the heavy bag, aiming for rhythm instead of power. Breathe in fours, the sting of leather and the satisfying shudder in your shoulder with every strike.

Then door opened. You didn’t have to look to know it was him, even when he didn’t say a word, you knew Sylus in the tilt of silence; the way he held space the moment he stepped into a room. He crossed the threshold and let the door sigh shut. Metal clicked as he locked it behind him normal routine, muscle memory. He set his gloves on the bench, peeled his sleeves to his elbows, and stood at the opposite bag across the hall.

You kept hitting yours. He began on his with two pendulums, two metronomes out of sync. Seconds slipped into minutes, the rasp of your breath synced with the thud of the bag. The air smelled like chalk and sweat and the lemon cleaner Kieran used too generously. A half-drunk bottle of water rolled along the wall and tapped a baseboard, as if asking permission to be included.

Sylus’s bag rattled. He was hitting it harder than he usually did to warm up, fists landing like a diagnosis he refused to accept. You stole a glance: the cuff of tape at his wrist was new. There was a pale scrape along one knuckle he hadn’t bothered to seal. His jaw was set.

You adjusted your stance and tried to stop seeing him. The door sighed again. Another click. A latch that shouldn’t have latched, because Sylus had already locked it. Both of you stilled, midswing, and looked over in the same breath. The small square indicator above the handle glowed red.

You and Sylus stared at the little red square, then at each other, then at the red square again, as if the three of you could triangulate sense out of it. In the hallway beyond the door, the air played tricks with sound, offering the softest shuffle of footsteps, leather soles retreating and a papery whisper of breath that sounded like someone trying very hard not to laugh.

Your mouth fell open. “They didn’t,” you said. Sylus exhaled like a man who’d seen this play before and still couldn’t believe the staging. “They did,” he said.

You pictured it clearly: Luke palming the external override, Kieran bracing his shoulder against the hall wall to keep the door snug while the lock engaged. Mephisto shuffled on a ceiling beam, possessor of every secret and teller of none. The twins would be halfway to the kitchen already, congratulating themselves and pretending this had not been premeditated since last night’s stakeout, where you and Sylus ate at opposite ends of the same table.

“Unbelievable,” you muttered. Sylus didn’t answer, he crossed to the door and tried the handle. It didn’t yield, his eyes went flat for a second, the way they did when he weighed the cost-benefit of breaking something. Then he let go and stepped back, hands sliding into his pockets, posture loose in the way that meant precisely the opposite.

“Don’t,” you said.

“Hmm?”

“You’re doing the thing.”

“What thing?”

“The one where everything you’re thinking hides behind your eyebrows.”

He made a barely audible sound somewhere between a laugh and a scoff and went to the bench instead. He sat and leaned forward, forearms on his thighs, looking at you without the armour of banter. The silence between you had a new tone now; not the brittle quiet of the last three days, but a live wire humming under the floor.

You went back to the bag to give your hands something to do. But your rhythm wasn’t clean anymore. The punches kept stuttering, not because you were winded, but because his gaze kept catching on your shoulder, your throat, the way your mouth pinched when you were trying not to say the first thing that flared in your chest.

He let it go for a minute, then two…then: “I don’t like this.”

You didn’t turn. “Which part?” He considered. “All of it.” A humourless smile curled your mouth. “Be specific.” He stood again, slow, deliberate, the way he moved when he was stepping onto thin ice. He came a little closer to your half of the room, far enough that you could smell the iron-pale note of his cologne under the lemon cleaner. He didn’t touch you; he just let his voice drop to the place he kept for truths he couldn’t force into a mission report.

I don’t like that you ignored me the second you saw him and ran headfirst into danger,” he said, soft but unflinching. “I don’t like that we haven’t slept properly in three days, and I don’t like that you wouldn’t look at me at breakfast. It felt like… like being back in the years before you, music off…company without closeness. A house without a home.”

Your hands lowered. The bag swung, solemn, between you. “You’re not my commanding officer,” you said finally. “You don’t get to call my decisions reckless because they didn’t match your plan.”

“I didn’t call you reckless.”

“You thought it.”

He paused, met your eyes. “No. I thought you were brave. And I thought you were going to get hurt. And those two thoughts fight inside my head every time you move.”

That landed somewhere inconveniently close to where you were most tender. You swallowed. “There was a man, he couldn’t even stand.”

“I saw him.”

“He would’ve died if I didn’t…”

“I know,” he said again, quieter this time. “I replayed it, too. Him safe. You bleeding. And I hate that I’ll always be caught between relief you saved him… and terror at what it almost cost me.”

You set your wrapped fists on your hips and lifted your chin. “Say the part where you’re sorry,” you said, because your mouth outran your courage when you were scared. A crease showed at the corner of his eye that wasn’t quite a wince. “I’m sorry I spoke like I’d forgotten you weren’t just my heart but also my equal,” he said, the admission worn and true.

“And I’m sorry I didn’t warn you I was going to break off,” you replied, the words coming easier than you expected once they found the air. “I should’ve trusted you to cover me without undercutting you. I just…”

“You saw him,” he finished for you. “That man on the ground and the part of you that would throw yourself in front of a blade for a stranger overruled the part that listens to me. I get it, my love. It’s why I love you. It’s also why I nearly lost my mind when you disappeared into the smoke and I couldn’t see if you were still breathing.”

The last of your pride sloughed off like old bark from a tree. You looked at him—really looked—the worry you’d been pretending not to see drawn in under his eyes, the set of his mouth that meant he’d swallowed too many words to keep from adding tinder to a too-dry fire.

“Come here,” you said, the plea naked and small. He did, not in a rush, not like a man starving, but like someone who had learned that the most precious things deserved to be approached with gravity. He lifted his hands, hesitated a second like he was asking without words, and when you didn’t move away, framed your face with his palms. His thumbs brushed once along your jaw, a gesture so gentle it made your eyes sting.

“You can’t ignore me at breakfast,” he said, a poor joke at the edge of a better one. “You can’t go mute for three days,” you countered, softly. He huffed, neither laugh nor sigh, a little surrender against your lower lip. “Deal.” 

You kissed him. It wasn’t the showy kind that ripped ribbon off a present; it was the slow, steady press that said we are ridiculous, yes, but we are also us. He leaned into it with that faint, involuntary sound he made every time a kiss surprised him, even now, years in. His hands slid to the back of your neck and your waist, anchoring without grabbing. You stepped into him, hands skimming the familiar slope of his shoulders, feeling the way something wound tight in your chest appeased at last.

Time thinned. The bag swayed and swayed and then went still. Somewhere out in the hall, Mephisto scuffed his talons and made a noise that could only be transcribed as finally.

You parted, breath warm in the small space between you.“We’re still stubborn idiots,” you murmured. He let his forehead rest on yours, the corner of his mouth tipped in a smile you hadn’t seen since the night at the café when he’d stolen your tiramisu and your attention. “We are,” he agreed. “But we’re stubborn idiots who eat at the same table.”

“Are you asking me to have dinner with you?”

“I’m ordering you to,” he said, the smirk finally, blessedly returning. “As your equal.”

You bumped his nose with yours. “Terrible phrasing, Boss-man.”

“Miss Hunter,” he said, in the tone that meant sorry and I adore you and fight me again, I dare you, all braided together. A soft metallic chirp sounded by the door. The red square blinked… then flipped to green. Neither of you moved.

You could picture Luke and Kieran on the other side, backs to the wall, trading breathless looks like kids who’d ding-dong ditched the universe and gotten away with it. You could imagine their quiet high-five. You would tease them later. You would thank them, too, probably with baked goods and a threat.

For now, you let the moment be simple. “Were you really going to break the lock?” you asked into the space where his pulse beat under your mouth.

“If they’d trapped you in here without me,” he said dryly. “Yes.”

You huffed a laugh and leaned back to look at him. “Then we should let them have their small victory. Before Mephisto steals the keys and starts auctioning them off.”

“That bird is a capitalist,” he murmured.

“He’s a union,” you corrected. “For himself.”

He kissed your cheek, then the corner of your mouth, then finally your mouth again, quick this time, a punctuation mark rather than a paragraph. “Come on,” he said, fingers lacing with yours like reaching for a weapon he trusted. “I’ll make your rice the right way this time.”

“You’ve been making my rice the right way for months.”

“I was leaving room to apologise for something else at dinner.”

You shook your head, smiling. “Ridiculous man.”

“YOUR ridiculous man.”

You turned together toward the door. When it swung open, Luke and Kieran were nowhere in sight only the faint scent of coffee and the not-very-subtle absence of two grown men standing where they definitely had been standing seconds ago. On the floor, pushed discreetly to the baseboard, sat a small bottle of water and a folded towel like an olive branch.

You picked up the water. Sylus grabbed the towel and looped it around your shoulders with a care that made your throat go tight again.“I should’ve trusted you to cover me,” you said as you stepped into the hall.

“I should’ve trusted you to disobey me for the right reason,” he replied.

“In the future,” you said, “let’s talk before we make each other write three days of silent poetry in our heads.” He squeezed your hand. “In the future,” he said, “if you’re going to be reckless, do it two degrees to my left.”

You snorted. “Fine.”

“Fine,” he echoed.

Mephisto swooped low down the corridor in a lazy arc, landed on a beam above your heads, and peered down at the two of you walking hand in hand toward the kitchen. He made a satisfied, creaky hinge of a sound. If a hawk could roll its eyes fondly, he did.

In the kitchen, the light was warm. Someone…Kieran had left a covered pot on low and a stack of plates beside the range. Luke’s unmistakable handwriting scrawled across a sticky note: Do not fight at the stove. Please.

Sylus plucked the note up, glanced at you with a private glint, and stuck it to his chest like a medal. “I’ll behave,” he said solemnly.

“You won’t,” you corrected.

“True,” he admitted, and reached for the rice.

You leaned your hip against the counter and just… watched him: sleeves up, forearms taut, that narrow band of concentration between his brows not from anger this time but from wanting to get something exactly right because it was for you. The turntable in his office was still silent, but when he cracked the lid of the pot and steam curled up, he hummed under his breath just a thread, the ghost of a melody you recognised.

The vinyl would follow. It always did. Later, you would seek out Luke and Kieran and pretend not to notice how they failed at pretending they hadn’t done anything. You’d tell them the lock “seemed sticky” and watch them try not to grin. You’d toss Mephisto a bribe for his silence. You and Sylus would go to bed too late and still wake too early, but together, with your legs tangled up, and when the alarm buzzed, you’d both reach instinctively for the other first, like always.

For now, you stepped in behind him and wrapped your arms around his waist, cheek pressed between his shoulder blades, love easing into place where the ache had been. He placed his hand over yours without looking, ring cool against your skin, and let out a breath that remapped the room.

“Hey,” you whispered.

“Hmm?”

“Next time we fight,” you said, “lock me in a room sooner.”

He laughed low, delighted, forever a little surprised that he got to laugh like this at all. “They beat me to it,” he said. “But I’ll keep the keys.”

“Deal.”

He turned in your arms and kissed you again, soft and sure, tasting like steam and relief and the first bar of a favourite song you’d been missing for days.

The house felt like a home again. And somewhere above the corridor, outside the kitchen and outside the reach of your joined hands, a hawk settled into sleep while two very smug assistants high-fived in a darkened hallway and congratulated each other on a job well done.

[whatisluniana]

Shared bliss 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

Something that Sylus and your daughter both loved to do was sleep on their stomachs (⁠ ⁠˶⁠ ⁠❛⁠ ⁠ꁞ⁠ ⁠❛⁠ ⁠˶⁠ ⁠)

— next week: 1k followers special >o<!!

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

After a long mission, your body was heavy with exhaustion, but your heart was simply relieved to be home. The house was quiet, lights dimmed, and you already knew your husband and daughter had long since fallen asleep. After a warm, soothing bath and a change into your sleeping clothes, you padded softly down the hall and pushed open the bedroom door.

There they were.

Sylus and your little girl, sprawled across the bed, both lying on their stomachs in nearly identical positions. The sight tugged at your chest, melting every last ounce of fatigue in you. You and Sylus had been gently encouraging your daughter to get used to her “big girl�� room, but clearly, your husband hadn’t been able to resist her nightly pleadings. He always gave in, always made space for her beside him.

With a quiet smile, you slipped into bed beside them. The mattress dipped, and your daughter stirred, blinking sleepily as she pushed herself up just enough to climb onto your chest.

“Mommy…” she mumbled, voice thick with drowsiness.

“I’m here, baby,” you whispered, brushing back her messy little curls.

A tiny sigh left her lips as she snuggled into you. “Missed you…”

Your heart clenched at the softness of her words. You kissed the top of her head, holding her gently.

“I missed you too. Go back to sleep, sweetheart.”

A heartbeat later, Sylus shifted too, his arm sliding around your waist, drawing both you and your daughter into his hold.

You chuckled quietly, your daughter’s tiny snores already filling the space between you. You leaned closer, pressing a kiss to Sylus’s temple. “Go back to sleep, Sy. I’ve got you both now.”

“Mhm… don’t go anywhere,” he muttered, tightening his hold even in his sleep.

And just like that, the three of you sank into the warmth of the night—your little family safe, tangled together, and finally home.

[whatisluniana]

If there’s anything that Zayne loves about you it’s your quick wit; your ability to play along with him even through his dry humor and to make any situation interesting. Anyone and everyone around him realizes that it’s only you who can make him smile–genuinely smile because of your words.

But there are times when Zayne remembers its a double edged sword rather than a silly quirk of yours he loves.

Like now, when you’re both on a date, the salesperson looking slightly confused at your comment, you looking absolutely innocent at your comment, and Zayne going pale and his eyes going wide at your comment.

“I’m sorry miss…I think you’re confused. This is a perfume store…?” The salesperson’s sentence ended in a question, unsure whether or not you and Zayne understood what store you both had walked into.

“Oh, sorry! The comment must have slipped out, right Zayne?” You looked at the man in question beside you with an innocently devilish grin.

Zayne coughed awkwardly into his fist. “Yes, of course…”

Your head snapped back to the salesperson. You took up the light blue glass perfume bottle in your hands. “We’ll take it!” The salesperson smiled and walked you both to the cash register. 

Despite still being in slight shock Zayne managed to slip his card into the worker’s hands before you could. “Still a gentleman I see,” you said. Zayne looked away and took a sip of his milk tea.

“Thanks for coming! Enjoy the rest of your night!”

“Thank you, you too!” You waved goodbye and took Zayne’s hand in yours as you left the store.

You both walked a little ways down the street in complete silence, hands still in one another’s before Zayne finally said softly, “‘It’s kind of like liquor-filled chocolate’ she says…”

“Why are you quoting me?” You asked with a knowing smile.

“I am…thinking…”

“Recalibrating? Rebooting? Doctor-Zayne.exe has stopped working?”

Zayne remembers all too well the night he ate liquor-filled chocolate, or should he say his body remembers it. Nothing but skin on skin. Lips and tongue. Hands squeezing. Nails digging. Warmth and heat everywhere despite losing control of his Evol.

“Earth to Zayne? Hello?” You left his side and moved to stand in front of him. “Oh no…I think I broke him.” He broke out of the memory and looked at you, asking, questioning. You simply shrugged. “She said the perfume had effects like an aphrodisiac. Not too different from liquor-filled chocolates, no?”

“Liquor-filled chocolates are not aphrodisiacs.” Zayne knew he was playing a dangerous game even before your lips curled into a smirk.

“No,” you agreed. “But the evidence speaks for itself~” you sang-said, turning around and walking off. A persistent innocence in your bouncy steps.

Zayne was positive you would be the death of him someday.

But don’t worry, he was determined to find your own “liquor-filled chocolate”.

[whatisluniana]

I drew zayne!❄️

[whatisluniana]

x

[whatisluniana]

⋆˚࿔ Game, set, match! 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

-the LaDS men when you try to pull a prank on them (fluff, suggestive)

୨ৎ── . Xavier

The night had been perfectly calm, well, as calm as it could get with you in the room.

You were lying across the couch, hair spilling over the cushions, phone tilted just enough for Xavier not to see.

And then he heard it.

A dreamy little sigh.

A soft giggle.

The sound of you twirling your hair around your finger like a lovestruck teenager.

Xavier, sprawled in his armchair with a book, stilled. His blue eyes flicked up, narrowing.

“Oh my god,” you whispered, voice dripping with admiration. “He’s just…so handsome. Like…unfairly handsome.”

Xavier’s book lowered an inch.

“…Who?”

You kicked your feet, still staring at your phone. “Mmm, you wouldn’t know him. He’s perfect. I’d leave everything and everyone for him.”

Xavier sat up. Leave everything? Even him?

His jaw tightened. “What did you just say?”

Without even looking up, you sigh happily. “I mean, honestly, I think I want to marry him. And have, like, three kids. Maybe four. Yeah, four sounds right.”

Xavier was out of his chair before you even finished. His book hit the table with a thud as he stalked over, shadow falling across you.

“Who,” he asked, voice low, dangerous, “is on that phone?”

You gasped like a kid who had been caught sneaking cookies before dinner. Hugging your phone to your chest, you look at him with wide and innocent eyes. “Wh-what? No one!”

Xavier narrowed his eyes. “Baby. Give me the phone.”

“Nooo,” you whined, flopping dramatically onto your stomach. “You’ll just get jealous!”

“Jealous?” his mouth twitched. “I don’t get jealous. I remove competition.”

You giggled behind your phone. “Ooooh, scary. But you can’t remove this guy. He’s way too good-looking.”

That did it. Xavier leaned down, plucked the phone clean out of your hands with zero effort, and turned it toward himself.

The screen lit up.

Camera app.

Front-facing mode.

And staring back at him, looking faintly murderous, was his own reflection.

Xavier slowly turned his head toward you, still holding the phone. “You were talking about me.”

“Obviously!” you squeaked between laughter. “Who else would I be talking about? Look at you! All broody and hot with your scary glare. Ugh, I’d totally marry you.”

Xavier blinked once. Twice. Then he dropped the phone onto the couch, climbed over you, and pinned your wrists to the cushions.

“You,” he hissed, though the corner of his mouth betrayed a smirk, “enjoy making me lose my mind.”

Batting your lashes up at him innocently, you smile sweetly. “Maaaybe.”

He leaned down, nose brushing yours. “You’d better be careful, firefly. I was two seconds away from hunting down a man that doesn’t exist.”

You grinned, tugging your wrists playfully against his hold. “Worth it. You should’ve seen yourself! You looked so jealous.”

“I wasn’t jealous.”

“Yes you were.”

“No.”

“Yeees.”

Xavier silenced you with a kiss, one that wiped the smug grin right off your face, until you broke it with a cheeky little giggle.

“So,” you whispered, twirling a strand of his light hair between your fingers, “do you want those four kids I promised you?”

Xavier groaned, dropping his forehead to your shoulder. “You’re insufferable.”

He sighed, pressing a kiss to your collarbone. “…But yes, I do.”

You smiled triumphantly. Game, set, match.

୨ৎ── . Sylus

It was a perfectly relaxing evening. You and Sylus were lying on the couch, your legs draped over his lap while you scrolled aimlessly on your phone. The kind of domestic, quiet moment where most couples would just exist peacefully.

But your brain did not do “peacefully.”

Tilting your head toward him, your eyes were gleaming mischievously.

“Sylus,” you asked, voice sweet as honey, “would you still love me if I was a worm?”

Sylus didn’t even blink. “No.”

You sat up so fast you nearly smacked him with your hair. “WHAT?!”

“Absolutely not,” he said smoothly, leaning back like he hadn’t just committed emotional treason. “I’d use you as fishing bait.”

Your jaw dropped, while you slapped his arm. “You! YOU MONSTER!”

He chuckled darkly, clearly enjoying this. “Relax, you’d make a great lure. The fish would be lining up.”

You gasped, grabbing the nearest throw pillow and smacking him with it repeatedly. “I can’t believe you! I give you my heart and this is how you repay me?!”

Sylus caught the pillow easily and tugged you straight into his lap, grinning at your furious little pout. “You’re cute when you’re mad.”

“Don’t you dare—ugh!” you huffed, wiggling to escape, but of course he didn’t let you go that easily.

Five minutes later, after sulking dramatically, you tried again.

“…Okay. New question.” You narrowed your eyes, daring him. “Would you still love me if I had no teeth?”

Sylus pretended to think very hard, stroking his chin. “…No.”

You gawked. “AGAIN?! WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?!”

“You’d be useless at eating the amazing dishes I make for you. Or kissing.” he smirked. “I’d trade you in for someone with better dental coverage.”

“Sylus!” you shrieked, climbing onto his chest like an angry cat, both hands smushing his face. “You—you heartless villain! You’re supposed to say yes! Always yes!”

His lips were squished under your palms, but he still managed a smug, muffled “Mmm… maybe dentures.”

You collapsed on him with a loud groan of despair. “You’re ruining this game on purpose!”

“Of course I am.” he kissed your nose before you could protest. “It’s fun watching you combust.”

But you were nothing if not persistent. “Alright,” you said later, narrowing your eyes. “Would you still love me if I was…a garden gnome?”

Sylus immediately deadpanned “Absolutely. I could simply put you outside when you start asking too many questions like this."

“I—” you pointed at him with shaking hands “—AM GOING TO THROW YOU OUT THE WINDOW!”

You launched yourself at him, pinching his cheeks, pressing your forehead into his like you were trying to burn holes into his soul with your glare. “You evil, horrible, awful man! How dare you call me annoying—ME! Your beloved girlfriend! Your one and only—”

He cut you off with a kiss. Just like that.

You froze mid-rant, eyes wide, before slowly melting against him with an indignant whine. “…You can’t just kiss me every time I get mad at you…”

“Yes, I can.” he smirked, pulling you closer. “It works every time.”

You tried, oh, you tried, to keep sulking. But his arms were warm, his mouth was insufferably soft against yours and when he whispered “You’re ridiculous...And yes, I’d love you even if you were a worm.” against your lips, your cheeks betrayed you, turning the faintest red.

“You’re only saying that now because you want kisses.”

“Correct.” he said smugly, tucking you under his chin.

“…Fine. But , by the way,” you mumbled, pouting into his shirt, “if you were a worm, I’d carry you everywhere in a little jar and feed you the freshest soil.”

Sylus chuckled low in his chest. “Romantic.”

“Shut up.”

୨ৎ── . Rafayel

It was late. Very late. The kind of late where normal people were already wrapped up in blankets, asleep.

But you? You had decided it was the perfect time to prank your overly, ridiculously dramatic boyfriend.

Stretching lazily on the couch, you yawned loud enough for Rafayel to glance over from his sketchbook. “Mm. I think I’ll just sleep at my apartment tonight.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Rafayel slowly lowered his sketchbook, his eyes narrowing. “…What?”

You tried to look casual, scrolling through your phone like it was no big deal. “Yeah, you know. I’ll just head back for the night. Sleep in my own bed, breathe my own air…” you hummed.

He blinked once. Twice. Then set the sketchbook down with the kind of deliberate calm that screamed danger.

“You… don’t want to stay here?”

“Mhm.” you hid her grin behind your hand. “It’s nothing personal! I just thought, you know, my bed misses me. And my apartment misses me. And my plants—”

“You killed your plants last month.” he interrupted flatly.

“…Right, still I think I should sleep there tonight.” you nodded firmly.

Rafayel stared at you like you had just declared you wanted to marry someone else. “So. Let me get this straight. You’re willingly abandoning me to sleep alone tonight.”

“Yes.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched. “…No.”

You raised an eyebrow. “No?”

“No,” he repeated, and in the blink of an eye, he was already across the couch, clinging to you like an oversized, very stubborn cat. One arm locked around your waist, the other draped over your shoulders. “You’re not going anywhere.”

You burst out laughing, wriggling in his grip. “Rafayel! Let me go!”

“Absolutely not.” he buried his face in your neck, his voice muffled and dramatic. “How dare you even think of betraying me like this. Do you hate me that much?”

You giggled, patting his head. “I don’t hate you!”

“Then why,” he demanded, tightening his hold, “do you wish to abandon me for a lesser bed? Mine is superior. Warmer. Better smelling.”

You laughed so hard you almost fell backward, but his grip kept you pinned. “Rafayel, you’re ridiculous! I just wanted to see how you’d react.”

“React?” his eyes narrowed. “So this was a prank?”

“…Maybe.” you tried to look innocent.

He went silent for three whole seconds, then sighed dramatically,dropping his forehead to yours. “You are cruel. Wicked. Evil, even.”

“And now,” he continued, scooping you up bridal-style before you could escape, “you’ve lost your right to decide where you sleep. Ever again.”

“Mhmm,” you hummed, smug.

“Rafayel!” you squealed, kicking your feet as he carried you straight to the bedroom.

He tossed you gently onto the bed and immediately flopped down beside you, dragging the covers over both of you two and wrapping himself around your like a human octopus. “See? Problem solved. You’re trapped.”

Breathless from laughing, you poked his chest. “You can’t just kidnap me in your own house.”

“I can and I did.” He nuzzled into your hair smugly. “Try to leave now. I dare you.”

You wriggled dramatically, tugging at the covers. “Help, I’m being held hostage!”

“No one can hear you,” he whispered mock-dramatically, kissing your cheek. “You belong to me.”

You huffed into his shirt. “…Fine. But for the record? I could’ve gone if I wanted to.”

He chuckled low, smug as anything. “Sure. Keep telling yourself that.”

And of course, within ten minutes, you were dozing off, trapped in his arms, exactly where you belonged.

୨ৎ── . Zayne

It had been a long day of patrols, paperwork, and one particularly chaotic meeting where two senior hunters nearly came to blows over who misplaced the association’s brand-new projector. But you weren't tired, in fact, you were buzzing with the kind of energy that only came from prime, juicy work gossip.

The second you stepped into Zayne's apartment, you were practically bouncing on your feet. Zayne had just set his book down on the coffee table when you pounced, plopping yourself beside him and grabbing his arm like you had a world-shattering revelation.

“ZAYNE. You will not believe what happened today.”

He gave you a soft look, patient as ever, his black hair a little messy from running his fingers through it while reading. His sharp eyes flickered with quiet amusement. “I’m listening.”

“Okay, okay, so you know Diana, right? The one who’s always bragging about her combat scores?” you began, eyes shining with excitement.

“Mhm.” Zayne leaned back, letting you cling to him, already resigned to being your sounding board.

“Well, turns out she’s been sneaking into the training hall after hours to practice with Miles—yes, THAT Miles, the one who pretends he’s too cool to train with anyone? Exactly him! And get this, someone caught them!”

The word hung in the air like a cursed spell.

You gasped dramatically, grabbing his wrist for emphasis. “And apparently, they weren’t just sparring. Nope. They were, like, holding hands after training, walking out all blushy and suspicious, and, oh my god, bro, it was so obvious—”

“…what did you just call me?” Zayne asked, voice deadly calm but his green eyes widening slightly like he couldn’t quite believe it.

You blinked, realizing what you had just done. Your face went pale, then red, then somewhere in between as you scrambled “I-I didn’t mean it like that, it just slipped out, I was excited to tell you what happened."

Zayne slowly turned to face you fully, his expression the perfect mix of deeply offended boyfriend and scandalized human being. “Love. I have been inside you. You cannot ‘bro’ me.”

But Zayne was absolutely serious. He crossed his arms, green eyes narrowing with righteous indignation.

You snorted so hard you nearly fell off the couch. “ZAYNE!” You clutched your stomach, wheezing with laughter.

“I refuse. I will not accept this downgrade from boyfriend to ‘bro.’”

Still choking on your laughter, you tried to wave your hands.

“No, no, it wan an innocent mistake! I didn’t mean it like that! I was just, caught up in the story! You know, like ‘dude’ or ‘bro’ and it slipped!”

Zayne leaned in closer, voice low, sharp. “Do I look like a ‘dude’ to you?”

You pressed your lips together, shoulders shaking from trying not to burst out laughing again. “You’re…you’re very much not just a dude.”

“Good.” His voice was crisp, but his cheeks were faintly pink now.

You tilted your head, smirking mischievously. “You’re right. You’re my bestie.”

Zayne’s jaw dropped, utterly horrified.

You laughed so hard your rolled onto his lap, clutching at him while wheezing. “I’m sorry! I couldn’t resist!”

He pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering like a man pushed to the brink. “Unbelievable. All this time. I cook for you, patch you up, let you hog the blankets, and this is my reward?”

Still giggling, you curled up against his chest, grinning up at him. “Oh, don’t pout. You’re my favorite bro.”

“Stop.”

“My best bro.”

“Beloved, stop.”

“My bro for life.”

That was it. Zayne growled under his breath and suddenly leaned down, kissing you fiercely, cutting you off mid-laugh. You squeaked against his lips, your playful grin quickly melting into a soft sigh as his hand cupped your cheek possessively.

When he pulled back, his eyes were smoldering, his voice dark with warning. “Call me ‘bro’ again, and you’ll regret it.”

Your cheeks were pink, your heart racing, but your mischievous streak wasn’t done. Leaning up, lips brushing his ear, you whispered breathlessly: “…Okay, bro.”

The sheer look on Zayne’s face had you howling all over again.

୨ৎ── . Caleb

It was a peaceful evening at Caleb's place, or at least it had been until you got an idea.

And everyone in Linkon knew by now: when you got “that” mischievous sparkle in your eyes, Caleb’s sanity was about to be tested.

You two were lounging on the couch, watching tv while Caleb leaned against your shoulder, clearly enjoying being hand-fed popcorn like some pampered emperor.

“Mm,” you hummed casually, as if you hadn’t just concocted evil in your head. “You know, for a current boyfriend, you’re doing pretty well.”

The popcorn Caleb was chewing fell right out of his mouth.

“…What.” he said flatly.

You tried not to crack a smile. “I said you’re doing well! For my current boyfriend.”

Caleb sat up so fast the blanket slid off his shoulders. His entire face did the ‘excuse me?’ expression.

“Current?” his voice dropped into that whiny register he only used when his patience was gonna be tested by you.

You tilted your head innocently. “Yeah, you know. My current boyfriend. The one I have right now.”

"Babe.” he drags his hand down his facs, breathing like a man trying to do advanced meditation. “We’ve been together for years. Years. I am not your ‘current.’ I am your eternal. Your forever. Your one and only.”

“Oh?” you blinked at him sweetly. “Well… technically you are my current one and only, aren’t you?”

“Don’t.” his eyes narrowed dangerously. “Don’t twist this.”

You couldn’t hold back your laughter anymore. The sight of Caleb sitting there with his arms crossed, sulking because you called him “current” instead of “forever,” was too much.

“Aw, don’t pout!” you teased, reaching to poke his cheek. “You’re still my boyfriend.”

He caught your finger mid-poke, glaring like a betrayed puppy. “Boyfriend is not enough.”

You grinned wickedly. “So what should I call you then? My roommate? My live-in butler? My personal heater? My—"

He lunged before you could finish that one, tackling you back into the couch cushions. You squealed through your laughter, flailing as Caleb hovered over you with the most dramatic, wounded expression imaginable.

"Every word from your lips should be about how much you love me," he declared, "an oath of eternal devotion. And instead, I get… ‘current boyfriend.’”

You laughed so hard you could barely breathe. “You’re so dramatic!”

“Dramatic?” he leaned down until his nose brushed yours. “You’re lucky I love you enough to endure this torment.”

“Endure? Please, you live for it!” you shot back, giggling when he kissed your nose just to shut you up.

He did it again. And again. And again. Until you were squirming and laughing under his relentless affection.

“Say it.” he ordered softly, between kisses.

“Say what?” you gasped, trying to push at his shoulders.

“The truth,” he said smugly, nuzzling into your hair, “that I am your one and only. Your forever. Your eternal love.”

You groaned dramatically, throwing your head back. “Fiiiine! You’re my eternal love, my one and only, my forever.”

“That’s better.” he grinned, satisfied, and pulled you snug against his chest like nothing had happened.

You huffed into his shirt, still smiling. “...Current forever.”

“BABY!”

[whatisluniana]

Affinity level 158 moment post: Indoor Rock Climbing

[whatisluniana]

just saw da zayne birthday trailer…. ohhhh i miss him so much feeling #upset

thz just a close up lawl ill draw him better next time I do sick rigt neow i jzt wanted to doodle him </3

[whatisluniana]

A lot of you were craving a scratched-back Sylus. So here you go, fellow Kittens! 🤭 ♥️

[whatisluniana]

Spectacular.

This story happened in a galaxy, far, far away. It is already over. Nothing can be done to change it.

It is a story of love and loss, friendship and betrayal, survival and defiance. About what it means to be a Jedi, and what it means to leave that behind.

But this isn't quite the story you know or remember.

It isn't one told in grand council chambers or about legendary heroes, fallen or corrupt, but on the forgotten fringes — far from the battlefields that made history. Made canon.

A strange thing about stories—

Though this all happened so long ago and so far away that words cannot measure the time or the distance, it is also happening right now. Right here.

It is happening as you read these words.

The Jedi Order has fallen, darkness blankets the galaxy, you have somehow made it out alive to tell the tale.

The Force beckons.

Your choice starts now.

⸻ Adapted from Revenge of the Sith (2005), Matthew Stover

reader x zayne, xavier, caleb, rafayel, sylus (all separate)

warnings: slavery, death, mentions of suicide, master/padawan relationship (after that relationship is abolished bc. order 66 -- also, masters and padawans in canon are not characterized by age. a padawan can be older than 30. its not a traditional school), alternate dark endings that include yandere etc. abrupt tense change in rafayel's and sylus's i'm sorry, these were all written on different days and had some time inbetween them, so i slipped and wrote theirs in present tense 😭 also, in all of them, i wanted to keep it star wars lore accurate but don't go into it fully expecting 199% canon friendly, fanfiction is my oyster. i tried to explain but im sorry non-star wars gang you may not understand what the hell goes on in this one.... 💔

you have chosen... Zayne, Your Jedi Master

Affiliation: Jedi Order (formerly, Council member) → Survivor in Exile

Homeworld: Coruscant

Species: Human

Force Alignment: Light Side (Jedi, Force Healing practitioner)

Weapon: Single green lightsaber

Era: Clone Wars → Empire

Character Inspiration: Obi-Wan Kenobi, Qui-Gon Jinn

Background

⟡ Zayne was once a legend in the making. From the moment his training began, it was clear he possessed an affinity for the Force unlike anything the Order had seen in a generation, supported by the unusual amounts of midichlorians in his blood. He passed his trials years ahead of his peers, and by his late twenties, he took his seat among the Jedi High Council — the youngest to do so in living memory. To his fellow Jedi, he became known as “the Healer,” a moniker earned not only for his rare and prodigious mastery of Force healing, but also for his willingness to cross battle lines to help planets and systems in need.

⟡ Yet Zayne was never truly at home in the chaos of conflict. He pulled his weight the Clone Wars with the serenity of someone determined to be a still point in a turning world. He avoided violence wherever possible, seeking peaceful resolution, sheltering the innocent, and healing rather than harming. Behind closed doors, he pushed back against the Jedi Council’s hardest edicts: the conscription of children, the acceptance of “acceptable” losses, the steady, shameful slide toward militarism that darkened the Order’s heart. He never rose to open rebellion, of course.

⟡ To the galaxy, Zayne projected unshakeable calm: eyes clear, wisdom measured, composure unbroken even as explosions rocked the hulls around him. But those closest to him saw the cost. Night after night, he wrestled with relentless insomnia and visions that left him gasping in the dark. These dreams, more like prophecies, showed him a future self cloaked in black, crimson blade drawn, committing unspeakable acts. Everyday, he meditated for hours, seeking solace in the Force, clinging desperately to the Light. The visions made him gentle to a fault, slow to anger, deliberate in all things, determined to shape a fate different from the one that haunted his sleep.

Relationship with You

⟡ You became Zayne’s Padawan in the early chaos of the Clone Wars, a last-minute assignment that left you standing, a little uncertain, beside a man who was barely older than you but already the Order’s rising star. The age gap was only a handful of years, but Zayne’s demeanor, the measured calm, the weight of sorrow in his eyes, the way he moved through the motions in the Temple as if he’d been haunting its halls for decades, often made him seem impossibly old. He could be gentle and patient, his instructions never harsh, but his expectations for you were unyielding. Because of the changing times, he instilled in you vigilance instead of serenity. You learned quickly that every lesson, every exhausting drill or meditation, was a form of protection, a way for him to armor you against a galaxy that was growing colder and more uncertain by the day.

⟡ Unlike many Masters, Zayne didn’t teach you by rote or force you to recite the Code until it lost its meaning, leading you through winding Temple gardens, down to silent meditation chambers, even out beneath unfamiliar stars on distant battlefields. He showed you how to listen — to the wind, to the pain of others, to the subtle current of the Force that connected all things. When you faltered, frustrated or afraid, he met you with steady patience, avoiding offering easy answers, only guiding questions.

⟡ In rare, vulnerable moments, he let you glimpse the cracks beneath his calm: his doubts about the Council’s decisions, his fears about the direction the Order was taking. These moments felt like precious secrets, small shards of trust passed quietly between you when the rest of the world was looking elsewhere.

⟡ The longer the war dragged on, the more you found solace in each other. You shared a language of coordinating through glances alone through battles, laughter in low voices as you patched up battered clones, silent moments side-by-side after difficult missions. The simple act of meditating together, or tending wounds in the medbay, became an anchor, something unbreakable and quietly sacred.

⟡ Every loss, every brush with death, thinned out the line between mentor and mentee. He let you see his grief, his exhaustion, the ache that came from trying to heal a galaxy bent on tearing itself apart. And in turn, you let yourself reach for him, not just as a Master, but as someone who understood your heart, your longing for peace, your unwillingness to become another blade in an endless war.

⟡ It was inevitable that affection would take root, hesitant and messy and tangled. When you realized your feelings had shifted into something deeper and more dangerous than loyalty or friendship, Zayne sensed it before you ever put it to words. He addressed it gently, with the same honesty and care that marked everything he did. “It will pass,” he told you in the hush after a battle in which you almost lost him and saw your feelings come to the surface, his tone tender, not dismissive. “You will outgrow this.”

⟡ But there was something in his eyes — something he never voiced, a flicker of regret — that told you the struggle was not yours alone.

Post-Order 66

⟡ When Order 66 tore through the galaxy, you were on different fronts, separated by light-years. As the Clones started attacking you instead of the Separatist droid army, communication channels went dark, panic, betrayal and the Jedi comrades you could feel in the Force going dark one after the other replaced clarity and purpose. In that confusion, you both felt the other’s presence snuffed out like a candle, as well.

⟡ Before any of you could return, no, retreat to back to the Temple on Coruscant, however, every surving Jedi received Master Kenobi's distress signal through the beacon: This is Master Obi-Wan Kenobi. I regret to report that both our Jedi Order and the Republic have fallen, with the dark shadow of the Empire rising to take their place. This message is a warning and a reminder for any surviving Jedi: trust in the Force. Do not return to the Temple. That time has passed, and our future is uncertain. Avoid Coruscant. Avoid detection. Be secret... but be strong. We will each be challenged: our trust, our faith, our friendships. But we must persevere and, in time, I believe a new hope will emerge. May the Force be with you, always.

⟡ You believed your Master had died. He believed his Padawan had been felled among countless others.

⟡ In the end Zayne, managing to get away by the skin of his teeth, was consumed by the unbearable belief that he had failed not only you, but everything he ever stood for. The Order was gone. He wasn't sure any Jedi remained in the galaxy. He, and the Council, were unable to sense the plot that had been unfolding right under their nose. The Clone army that had been given to them, fighting by their side, suddenly turning on them to eliminate them. None of them had been able to see it coming. He hadn't been able to. Because he'd been so self-obsessed, judgement clouded with his own visions.

⟡ And above all else, he mourned you. He replayed those final hours in his mind until they blurred — his own desperate flight, the deafening comm chatter, the endless stream of distress calls from Jedi scattered across a thousand systems. He hadn’t been there for you when you needed him most.

⟡ Had you called out to him, reaching through the Force for your Master, your friend? Had you believed he had abandoned you in the darkness, left you to die alone while clones turned on their commanders? The thought tore at him every time he closed his eyes to get some sleep: the possibility that your last moments were spent in fear, betrayed not just by the galaxy, but by him. He remembered every promise he’d ever made to protect you and be by your side, that you two were going to get through this together and build a better future. All of them were broken all in a single night.

⟡ Unable to reconcile his own role in bringing about the end of his own Order and the death of so many, Zayne abandoned the weapon that had defined him. It wasn't a decision he made as carrying a lightsaber out in the open would give out his identity. The simple fact was, holding a lightsaber triggered flashes of his nightmares, visceral and suffocating, the sight and sound of his blade igniting plunging him into memories of screams and death. Over time, he began fighting only when forced, reluctantly developing a martial arts-centered style, fluid and precise, leveraging agility and careful redirection of force rather than aggression. It was a practical necessity, but also a rejection born out of trauma.

⟡ Years passed quietly, far from Imperial eyes. In the hidden places of the Outer Rim, stories began to spread of a quiet, wandering healer who appeared without warning, treating injuries and illnesses no one else dared touch. Zayne asked nothing in return, trading meditation guidance or old Jedi wisdom for simple shelter or a meal. He helped farmers, refugees, runaways, and lost souls alike, moving on quickly to avoid leaving any lasting mark. But even kindness felt like penance, never enough to lift the burden he carried. Every life he saved felt like an apology whispered to you across the stars.

⟡ After the Purge, you learned quickly that survival depended on motion and discretion. You reinvented yourself as a wandering courier and occasional mechanic — skills you’d pieced together from years of battlefield repairs and resourceful improvisation in warzones. With a battered astromech droid and a starship patched from scrap, you traveled system to system hauling goods, offering occasional repairs, and delivering coded messages for desperate outlaws and small-time traders who couldn’t risk Imperial entanglements. Word of mouth and barter became your currency. You learned to slip through checkpoints, talk your way out of trouble, and vanish when danger grew too close.

⟡ Then, you tracked the rumors what you thought could be a Jedi survivor — bewildered conversations in a cantina, a half-remembered story from a Twi’lek child in a borderlands camp, the trail of a doctor who mended wounds without asking credits or names. The pattern felt familiar: kindness in the shadows, gone by dawn. Every so often you’d find a sign left behind, a meditation stone, a faint trace in the Force, the memory of someone gentle and haunted. Hope was painful, but it was all you had.

⟡ It took months to finally catch up to him, on a dust-choked world with no name, in a village battered by a recent Imperial raid. You found him at the edge of a makeshift medical tent, hunched over a wounded farmer, his once-careful long hair chopped short and streaked with grey that had nothing to with age, the lines on his face deeper, his robes patched and faded. He looked up, sensing you before you spoke, and in that silent instant the years folded away.

⟡ You just stared at each other, struggling to breathe, both searching the other’s face for some proof that this was real. Grief and relief mingled and ached together like an old, yellow bruise becoming red and purple again — the brittle shell of hope you’d carried for years cracking open with a single look.

⟡ He started to stumble over words he’d rehearsed a thousand times, but you shook your head, not ready for forgiveness, not ready for blame. There was too much between you. You asked him, simply, to let you help with the wounded. He nodded, wordless, hands shaking as he handed you bandages. Working side by side in tense silence, the two of you moved through the injured, falling into a ritual you’d once known so well.

⟡ Later, by the low fire of a crumbling barn, you called him "Master," but he corrected you that he was no longer that, and you were no longer his Padawan. There weren't any Jedi here in this room, and you couldn't disagree, heart aching that he didn't deserve that title anyways. The truth came out in fits and starts. You told each other how you’d survived, the running, the losses that had carved you down to the bone. Zayne confessed how he’d abandoned his saber, how the sight of it made his hands shake. You told him of the things you’d done, the people you couldn’t save, the guilt you both carried like another set of scars.

⟡ There were tears, and awkward hugs, and a slow, stumbling warmth that neither of you dared call hope. When you finally slept, it was side-by-side, shoulders brushing, neither of you willing to be the first to move away.

⟡ With the dawn, there was no grand decision. The Empire still hunted your kind; the galaxy was no less cruel. But it was easier to breathe with someone who understood. Despite him telling you that you could go, and that he wasn't your Master, that you had no reason to stay by his side, you traveled together, at first only to the next village, then the next. You weren't about to abandon this man who had fallen into such ruin and become a ghost of his former self propelled forward to survive only by the desire to punish himself for a failure that wasn't his.

⟡ You never called yourselves Jedi again. The word was a wound. But you developed a new purpose: wandering from system to system, healing quietly, teaching how to take care of themselves to refugees and children, slipping away before the Empire’s reach could catch up. He came along for the ride with your courier job and made a home in your starship. You were never quite safe, never quite whole, but the work gave meaning to your days and made the nights bearable.

⟡ You were not what you had been. You were not Master and Padawan. You were not the Order’s last hope. But you were alive, sticking together, finding a fragile peace in a galaxy that had tried to break you both.

⟡ Sometimes, in the hush before dawn, Zayne would look at you as if seeing you for the first time — hopeful, uncertain, almost ready to let himself believe that even after all this loss, love could endure.

Personality

⟡ Stillness, patience, and a quietly overwhelming presence. Zayne’s compassion is not weakness — it’s the steel at his core.

⟡ Lowkey, but never naïve; a subtle sense of humor emerges when least expected.

⟡ Prone to long silences, meditation, and questions that cut through your defenses.

⟡ Never lost his healer’s hands, but the war changed his voice. He’s older, heavier now, slow to trust, quick to forgive.

⟡ Struggles to accept joy, but can’t help reaching for it when you’re near.

Route Themes

⟡ Master/Padawan longing. Power imbalance, slow-burn respect, a connection built through survival and trust, not just rank, the student becoming the teacher in the end to the Master who has lost his way.

⟡ Detachment vs. Desire. Jedi teachings, forbidden love, the tension between duty and the simple, persistent truth of want.

⟡ Healing and Guilt. The question of whether survivors deserve happiness, and if the past can ever be left behind. "We have to do better" and "We have to be better" quotes come into play, and learning to apply them through a positive light stripped from burden, guilt and responsibility.

⟡ Redemption through Connection. Choosing one another, not as Jedi, but as people broken by war and remade by forgiveness.

Endings May Include

⟡ You and Zayne find a forgotten moon in the Unknown Regions, a quiet world where the Force is a gentle current and the Empire never looks. You build a life among forests and rain, tending to each other and the wounded wanderers who find their way to your door. Zayne finally lets himself rest, and the line between Master and Padawan fades into a partnership of equals. When he has healed enough, together, you and Zayne gather a handful of scattered Force-sensitives, rogue Jedi, lost Padawans, those failed by both Empire and Rebellion. You form a secret enclave, a new kind of Order where attachment isn’t forbidden, where the Force is honored in all its forms. Zayne becomes the quiet architect of something gentler, and you become his anchor — partners not just in the Force, but in hope. The galaxy never learns your names, but you have made sown the seeds for a tomorrow made by those you have saved.

⟡ The visions that haunted Zayne all his life finally come to pass. In a desperate stand against the Inquisitorius, you are struck down before his eyes, a casualty of the war neither of you chose. All the careful meditation, all the dogma of the Light, are cast aside by a grief so consuming it feels holy, and the Dark Side suddenly makes the most sense it ever has against a universe that allowed you to unjustly perish like this. It's not with rage that he embraces it, but clarity, a willingness to do what the Light never allowed. With chilling purpose, Zayne chooses to fall, and becomes the shadow in his own visions: he destroys the Inquisitorius from within in a matter of months, hunting them down one by one. When his vengeance is complete, he seeks you in the only way left — walking unflinching to his end, dying by his own hand at your grave, utterly unrepentant, having lost all his faith in the Light Side that failed you.

⟡ Gravely wounded shielding you from Imperial hunters, Zayne’s life flickers out with dawn painting the horizon. His final words are soft—a benediction in your ear, not a goodbye: “Keep the light in your heart. That’s where I’ll find you, always.” In the years that follow, he returns to you as a presence in the Force: a hush at your shoulder, a silhouette in the corner of your dreams, a gentle warmth guiding your hand when doubt creeps in. He teaches you to feel the living Force, to walk in both memory and hope. You grow old, carrying his love in every scar and every smile. He remains unchanged, a flicker, a guardian, the keeping of a promise never broken. When your time finally comes, your last breath finds him waiting — young, ageless, and radiant, his hand reaching for yours beneath a sky that never truly darkens. At last, you step into the Force together, luminous and at peace: love undimmed, reunited beyond the end.

you have chosen... Xavier, the Empire's Prodigal Son

Affiliation: None (formerly Imperial Royalty, ex-Sith apprentice)

Homeworld: Naboo

Species: Human

Force Alignment: Grey

Weapon: Single white/silver-bladed lightsaber (purified from a Sith crystal)

Era: Clone Wars → Empire Era

Character Inspiration: Darth Revan, Din Djarin

Background

⟡ Xavier was born in secret on Naboo, his existence shielded from public record until his father, then-Senator future Emperor, carefully introduced him to the galaxy. Even as a child, Xavier learned to move quietly through the palatial halls of Theed, his every word, gesture, and silence monitored by eyes both loyal and treacherous. To the outside world, he was the model heir: pale, reserved, strikingly intelligent, and always a half-step behind his father, too perfectly mannered to seem real.

⟡ By the time he was old enough to sense the electric charge of the Force all around him, Xavier’s destiny was already set. Palpatine denied the Jedi’s polite requests to “evaluate” his son, using political leverage and bureaucratic obstruction to keep Xavier off Coruscant’s radar. Instead, the Emperor arranged for clandestine Sith instruction — using trusted agents, ancient holocrons, and even his own presence. Xavier’s days were spent mastering fencing and protocol, his nights, in shadowed chambers, learning the Sith arts. The curriculum was brutal: meditation in isolation, survival games, lessons in manipulation and the machinery of fear. Weakness, especially the weakness of compassion, was scorned. All mistakes, big and small, brought “correction.” Every act of cleverness was rewarded with a sliver of approval, always just out of reach.

⟡ Sidious's meteoric rise reshaped Xavier’s life into something scripted and suffocating. He became a living symbol, rarely allowed to speak unscripted, his education handled by the finest tutors in galactic history, languages, and philosophy. But beneath the silk and etiquette, he was isolated. Friendships were discouraged, affection was transactional, and loyalty to his father was enforced by unspoken threats and rewards.

⟡ During the tumult of the Clone Wars, Xavier is Palpatine’s carefully hidden ace, the apprentice whose existence the Jedi never suspect. While the galaxy sees him as a polite, reserved son to the Chancellor, he is steeped in Sith training behind closed doors. Outwardly, he attends Senate sessions, charity galas, and diplomatic banquets as the model aristocrat, always present but never quite at home.

⟡ Whenever the Supreme Chancellor needs a problem solved without drawing the Jedi’s attention, Xavier is quietly dispatched. He deals with inconveniences in the Senate, manipulates or eliminates Republic officials who sniff too close to the truth, and ensures Palpatine’s web of secrets remains untangled, carrying out assassinations, sabotage, and diplomatic manipulation, yet with each mission, the conflict inside him grows.

⟡ Though the Jedi sense a growing darkness, they never suspect Xavier—the Chancellor’s own son — of being the elusive shadow behind failed Separatist plots and vanished dissidents. He’s even been dispatched by his father to shadow Jedi missions, observe their tactics, and report back, all under the guise of “Republic security liaison.” At times, he is ordered to let his targets live, planting evidence or rumors that fuel discord between the Jedi and the Republic.

Relationship with You

⟡ You first met Xavier during a tense negotiation on Coruscant, both of you young and burdened with titles you never asked for. As a Jedi Padawan assigned to “diplomatic security,” you were expected to be vigilant but invisible, yet your instincts kept drawing your attention to the Chancellor’s silent son. He rarely spoke unless spoken to, had the posture of a prince and the presence of a ghost, eyes cold and unreadable. His politeness felt flawless, almost protocol droid-like, but every so often, you caught a flicker of exhaustion or distant pain in his dissociation.

⟡ When an assassin’s shot went astray during a senate summit, you threw yourself between him and the blaster’s path, taking a glancing hit meant for his heart. Xavier, in shock because this wasn't a part of the plan and paranoid if his father was trying to get rid of him for a new apprentice (as it was the rule of the Sith, everyone betrayed each other), tried to dismiss your pain with icy courtesy, but you ignored the droids and medics, tending to him with quiet stubbornness until he finally relented. It was the first time anyone had truly seen him beneath his layers of duty, a moment of raw vulnerability he’d never known. Your gentle insistence, your genuine concern, and the ease with which you offered comfort, without expectation or calculation, became a turning point. After that, he lingered after meetings, sometimes inventing excuses to cross your path, drawn by a need he didn’t yet understand.

⟡ Conversations in the corridors of power grew into secret moments. He was careful, never letting the galaxy see what you were to him, but in the quiet spaces between battles and banquets, he let himself be, asking about your training, your dreams, your doubts about the war. He shared memories of Naboo’s lakes, fragments of childhood lost, thoughts on the burden of legacy. With you, he laughed for the first time in years. You taught him to value small kindnesses, to question orders, to wonder what lay beyond his father's design. Contact with you in any occasion, an accidental brush of hands, a too-long glance, was a risk, an act of quiet rebellion against the role he was meant to play.

⟡ As the Republic faltered and Jedi found themselves isolated, Xavier’s position became untenable. He’d been raised to be the perfect tool, the heir of darkness—but you made him long for something different. Love, to him, was a dangerous and revolutionary force: to care for you was to betray everything he’d been taught, to risk the wrath of his father and the fury of the Sith. However, he couldn’t stop himself. Protecting you became his obsession and an expression of his independence, sometimes subtly, other times at great risk, using his influence to steer missions, tip off allies, or shield you from the worst horrors of war.

⟡ But the galaxy was spiraling toward catastrophe, and he knew—sooner or later—he would be commanded to turn against you. You were Jedi. You were meant to fall. Loving you was the first and only decision he’d ever made for himself, and if fate demanded your life, Xavier would have to choose: obedience or rebellion, darkness or the hope you awakened in him.

Post-Order 66/Empire Era

⟡ The night Order 66 shattered the galaxy, Xavier received a direct, unmistakable command from his father, now Emperor himself. He had known, perhaps from the start, about the quiet, forbidden feelings Xavier harbored for you, a Jedi, an enemy. This order was his final trial: a test not of strength, but of devotion. If he were truly loyal, he’d be the one to hunt you down, to end your life personally as proof of his dedication to the new Galactic Empire and the Sith way. Xavier’s father knew precisely how deep the blade would cut, and how thoroughly this betrayal would break his son’s humanity.

⟡ Xavier chose rebellion. Quietly, ruthlessly, he turned his extensive Sith training and shadowy connections toward a single purpose: saving you from the bloodbath of the Jedi Purge. He tracked you under the guise of a Sith assassin, using the terror of his red blade and Imperial authority as cover. When he finally caught you, cornered and desperate, he stunned you into unconsciousness, whispering apologies you would never hear.

⟡ You awoke days later, hidden in a secure, isolated safehouse deep within the Outer Rim, far from Imperial reach. It was only then you learned the truth that fractured your heart completely: Xavier, the reserved and gentle son of the Chancellor, the boy whose quiet affection you had come to cherish, was a Sith apprentice. His saber was crimson, just as it had appeared in your darkest visions, and everything he’d ever told you felt tainted by betrayal.

⟡ You ignited your saber and leveled it at him, demanding, through grit and unshed tears, that he pick up his weapon and fight. He was a Sith, he should kill you, right? He did not. Instead, he let his saber clatter to the floor, the light dying at his feet, leaving only your blade and the roaring anger in your heart.

⟡ You could have killed him. Should have, maybe, every rule, every instinct, every loss behind you screaming for retribution. But you couldn’t force your hand, not even as you pushed the tip of your blade against his chest and waited for his true nature. He only stood there, empty-handed, watching you with something shattered behind his silence.

⟡ Rage finally boiled over, then. You struck him, open-handed, slaps and fists, every accusation built over years of war and loss pouring out through your hands. The strikes landed with the sick satisfaction of impact, but they didn’t move him. He took each blow without protest, without even the dignity of flinching, as if he needed them, as if they could somehow absolve him for everything he’d done and everything you’d lost.

⟡ You hit him until your strength broke and your vision blurred. The saber you had turned off because the Jedi in you couldn't bring herself to kill, slipped from your grip and clattered to the floor. You screamed questions at him, about trust, about lies, about the friends you would never see again, about all the innocents that had died. Monster, he was a monster. You asked him why he didn't stop it. You asked him why he'd saved you and nobody else. He only answered with silence. A cruel one to you, but to him, there were no words that would give back what was lost.

⟡ And when there was nothing left but your sobs wrecking through the empty safehouse, he stooped to retrieve your saber, set it quietly beside you, advised you to keep your head down and that you had everything you could ever need in this house, and left. He didn’t ask forgiveness or try to explain. He simply walked away, bearing every wound you gave him and every one he could never name, leaving you alone with your anger and your heartbreak and the knowledge that nothing would ever be the same again.

⟡ From that moment onward, Xavier vanished from your sight, but never from your life. As you struggled alone in the lawless corners of the galaxy, constantly hunted by the Empire’s relentless Inquisitors and bounty hunters, you slowly became aware of a presence in the shadows. Imperial patrols disappeared, pursuers inexplicably vanished, surveillance records mysteriously corrupted. Xavier became your ghost, silently eliminating anyone who threatened you, always from a distance, always without ever revealing himself directly.

⟡ It infuriated you. His constant, silent watchfulness felt like both a comfort and a torment, a relentless haunting of what you’d lost. You never saw his face clearly, only glimpses of a pale figure at the edge of your vision, disappearing before you could call his name. Always close enough to protect you, always too far away to confront.

⟡ Gradually, Xavier shed his former identity, surfacing in whispered rumors of the galaxy’s darkest corners as Lumiere, a bounty hunter of unparalleled skill and ruthless efficiency. Lumiere took special interest in contracts on Imperials, corrupt officials, and traitorous Inquisitors. His reputation soared: an anonymous phantom sought to be hired by everyone. Secretly, each contract was chosen carefully — targets who threatened you or those like you, systematically erasing Imperial evidence of your existence and quietly dismantling the network meant to hunt Jedi survivors.

⟡ During these long, lonely years, Xavier underwent a transformation of his own, wrestling the darkness from his heart. Painstakingly, he purified his Sith kyber crystal, turning it from blood-red to a pale, brilliant white, a symbol of the redemption he sought not for himself, but to be worthy of your memory.

⟡ Years passed, and you, too, had adapted to survive, becoming a bounty hunter yourself. Your path occasionally overlapped with Lumiere’s work, technically making you colleagues within the vast, shadowy underworld. Though you knew who Lumiere was and the Empire was still looking for its lost prince, you were aware that he'd left you with the decision of taking the first step, whether you would kill him or confront him. He was waiting for you, a friend or an executioner, always.

Personality

⟡ Quietly intense, restrained. Speaks little, watches much, and rarely reveals his true intent.

⟡ Emotionally self-denying, but not heartless — his compassion emerges in dry humor and small acts of unexpected kindness.

⟡ Years of palace intrigue and Sith discipline have made him suspicious, strategic, and wary of trust, but yearning for something real.

⟡ Haunted by his father’s legacy, and determined never to become him.

⟡ Treats the Force as a burden — uses it only when absolutely necessary. The white blade is both weapon and warning: he cannot fully escape the darkness that made him.

Route Themes

⟡ Almost lovers to enemies, "I did it for you", and second chance romance

⟡ The burden of legacy and upbringing vs. the freedom of the real self

⟡ Mercy as rebellion x "My mercy prevails over my wrath"

⟡ You and Xavier as partners on the run — outlaws, fugitives, but never alone

⟡ Making peace with a future neither of you expected

Endings May Include

⟡ In the end, you cannot forgive Xavier. In a final confrontation, he refuses to fight you. “If this is justice, then let it be yours.” You strike him down. His last words are a plea for your future, not his own. The Empire loses its shadow before they can reclaim him, and you’re left with the heavy peace of vengeance, forever haunted by what was lost.

⟡ Together, you become the galaxy’s most wanted as a pair of legendary outlaws. Sometimes you’re partners in heists; sometimes you lay low as lovers in a nameless starport, always looking over your shoulders but always together, building a new code that belongs to no one but you two.

⟡ Xavier returns to the heart of the Empire, taking up his birthright as the Emperor’s son and the Sith's Apprentice. The cycle is complete. In the end, as all Sith do, Xavier — finally forced to choose between you and his father — kills the Emperor in a storm of power and fury, taking the throne for himself. The galaxy quakes as Xavier is crowned the new Emperor and secretly, the only Sith Lord, casting aside all pretense of hiding. He offers you a place at his side, not as a prisoner, but as his equal: his Empress, partner, and co-ruler of a reborn Empire. The two of you rule from the heart of Coruscant, your love as much a weapon as any saber. Together, you reshape the galaxy’s future, shrouded in legend, fear, and a twisted, immortal devotion. Whether you temper his darkness or revel in it by his side is a choice left to you, but one thing is certain: the galaxy will never be the same.

you have chosen... Caleb, the Fallen Padawan

Affiliation: Jedi Order (Padawan, former youngling clan) → presumed dead → Imperial Inquisitorius (eventually becomes Grand Inquisitor)

Homeworld: Alderaan

Species: Human

Force Alignment: Light Side origins; walks a razor’s edge as a Dark Side user (never truly Sith)

Weapon: Double-bladed reddish orange lightsaber (Inquisitorius design, never bled, just looks like it was bled); formerly single blue saber

Era: Clone Wars → Empire Era

Character Inspiration: Anakin Skywalker, Trilla Suduri

Background

⟡ Caleb’s first memory was sunlight filtered through ancient stone — high arches, endless corridors humming with quiet, soft, serene presence and peace. He had been brought to the Jedi Temple as an infant, placed in the care of the Order before he’d learned to speak. If there was a family beyond the walls of Coruscant, he never remembered them; the Temple and its way became the shape of his entire world. Your friendship was woven into that world so deeply that he could not imagine a life without you beside him, the pin in his pinwheel through every trial and triumph..

⟡ He grew up in one of the Temple’s tightest clans, a group of younglings bound more by shared experience than blood. You were his shadow and his mirror, both of you learning the Jedi forms, the meditations, the ancient histories recited under the stern gaze of instructors. It was a childhood shaped by discipline and doctrine, but you and Caleb always found moments of laughter in the cracks: racing across the Temple gardens after curfew, sneaking extra portions in the refectory, daring each other to explore the forbidden nooks and unused archives.

⟡ Caleb was gifted from the start. Quick to master lightsaber sequences, even quicker to master the sunny grin that always helped in getting you out of trouble. And you always got in trouble. He was the model youngling any Master would want as a Padawan, and you were "the problem". Too rebellious, too hot-headed. He always believed in you and your abilities, though, and even though you didn't say it out loud, it got you through your worst. You would have ended up in the Service Corps if it wasn't for his support.

⟡ Fiercely loyal, quick-witted, and unafraid to bend the rules for the sake of a friend, Caleb was always the first to cover for your mischief. When you got caught slipping out after lights-out, he’d take the blame. In the training halls, he’d let you win just often enough to keep your spirits high, teasing you mercilessly when you didn’t notice the times he pulled his strikes. His laughter could chase away the sting of even the harshest reprimand from the Council, and his presence made every hardship bearable.

⟡ But beneath the supposed self-satisfaction and his brilliant performing status, he nursed secret dreams of the stars: late at night, he would whisper his hopes of flying starfighters, leading ExplorCorps squadrons after being knighted, chasing freedom beyond the Temple walls. It was a private ambition, shared only with you, the one person he trusted never to laugh or judge.

⟡ As Padawans, your bond only deepened. You became each other’s anchor, adversary and accountability partners in training and friendly rivalry, confidants in whispered late-night conversations, partners in every daring scheme. There was a tenderness between you, an apple growing out of the innocent flower of its tree that should have stayed as a flower.

⟡ The Jedi Code was clear, and you both learned to fear the Council’s watchful eyes. Lessons on attachment became lessons in concealment: to school your faces, temper your voices and eagerness, hide the simmering feelings that were ready to boil over behind a mask of calm.

⟡ For Caleb, those feelings were a fire he could never quite extinguish. He buried them deep, training harder, flying faster, throwing himself into missions with a hunger for distraction. But when he was alone with himself and there was nothing to numb and crowd his mind with, when the galaxy seemed too vast and the Temple too empty, he always found his thoughts turning back to you — the friend, the rival, the one person who made the Force feel less like a duty and more like home.

Order 66

⟡ You both were still Padawans when it happened. The Temple was a nightmare of red-lit corridors and echoing blaster fire. You and Caleb pressed on through the chaos, shepherding two terrified younglings named Kevi and Mia, one clutching your robe, the other barely keeping pace. The smell of smoke and scorched stone was unbearable, but you encouraged them through the Force as you hurried them through secret passageways and sealed corridors. It was a gamble, a wrong turn could mean death.

⟡ In the hangar, hope was almost within reach a surroundered ship clearly laid as a trap for any Jedi would come this way waiting. There was no time to think, only to act. It was then Caleb’s hand found your arm. In the Force, you felt the pulse of his decision, his love, his unspoken goodbye. You couldn't even react. Without a word, he stepped forward, drawing every eye and every blaster to himself. His saber flared blue in the smoke. He shouted — at you, at the children, at fate itself — urging you to run, to live, to save them when he could not.

⟡ You hesitated only a breath, then gathered the younglings and sprinted for the ship. Behind you, blaster bolts cracked through the air, the snap-hiss of Caleb’s blade the only thing holding chaos at bay. You shoved the children inside, the smallest sobbing into your tunic, the older one biting back terror for the sake of the younger. You looked back once, just in time to see Caleb’s silhouette wreathed in smoke, the only source of light amid the ruin. His blade whirled, a brief shield against the impossible, and then he was gone — lost in a hail of blaster fire and a wave of Force agony that nearly knocked you to your knees.

⟡ You slammed the hatch shut, hit the launch, and piloted the ship away from the Temple’s dying light, managing to outmaneuver the chasing ships only because of Caleb's piloting tips and tricks that had come handy through the Clone Wars. The children clung to each other as you drifted into the void, their soft cries the only sound. Your heart screamed to go back, to fight, to search the wreckage for any sign of him, but you couldn’t. He'd made his final wish clear. You had lives to protect.

⟡ Moving forward was the only choice left. The pain of leaving Caleb behind burned in you like a second sun, but it was that pain — and the small hands gripping yours — that drove you onward, into the darkness of survival.

Empire Era/Inquisitorius

⟡ Long before Order 66, Sidious had calculated that his purge would never be perfect. Of course some Jedi would slip through. He needed more than the Clones, he needed a new breed of hunter that knew the Jedi inside and out. The Inquisitorius Program began in secret: dossiers compiled, agents placed inside the Temple’s walls, their purpose simple: find Jedi who might bend, not break. Sidious paid special attention to Padawans and Knights who chafed under the Council’s rules, those whose grief or doubts made them vulnerable. He kept lists of those too close to the edge, and his spies, servants in the archives, instructors with secret debts, even healers in the medbay — watched, waited, and reported. Discontent was currency. Affection, a weakness to exploit.

⟡ Caleb had always seemed the perfect Jedi on paper. Skilled, charismatic, loyal to his friends. But there was a fault line running through his heart, and Sidious’s agents saw it clearly: the quiet way he watched you, the fire behind his eyes whenever the Code was invoked to shame or divide, the reckless, defiant streak that surfaced whenever love was threatened. What no one else knew, what even you hadn’t realized, as that Caleb’s faith in the Order had begun to rot. He’d grown tired of the secrecy, the emotional self-flagellation the Council demanded. Your bond became the wedge that Sidious’s spy needed. A single moment, a longing look shared when you thought themselves alone was all it took. His name was added to the Emperor’s list.

⟡ Instead of being killed on the spot during his last stand, Caleb was subdued, bound, and spirited away to an unknown Imperial black site. Induction into the Inquisitorius was never the same for any two candidates. For some, the Emperor promised power and survival if they’d turn. For others that were set on their Jedi ways, the way was paved with agony — torture, deprivation, mental and physical torment designed to break the will and flood the soul with hate and fear. Caleb was offered the former, but only on the understanding that if he refused, you and the children you’d saved would be hunted to extinction and he couldn't do anything about it. He agreed for leverage.

⟡ Sidious saw through the ruse. As punishment, Caleb was handed to Darth Vader, who subjected him to trials so merciless that the scars would never fade. His right arm was severed and replaced with cybernetics, a gift for his final rite of passage and of his “promotion.” He was given the name "First Brother".

⟡ Basically shooting through the ranks, Caleb became one of the Empire’s most efficient assets: the Grand Inquisitor. Outwardly, he was the Empire’s cold enforcer: mask, red blade, chilling reputation. Inwardly, he never stopped searching for you, never stopped trying to keep you safe. Secretly, he fed the Empire false leads, sabotaged hunts, and erased traces of your existence wherever he could. His mastery of the dark side was real, but never complete. His love for you was his final anchor, the line he refused to sever.

⟡ You became a ghost the day you left Coruscant. For a while, your only mission was survival: keeping yourself and the two younglings alive as you fled from system to system, never staying anywhere long. Every night, you told yourself it was only temporary, that the galaxy would right itself, that you could find the last survivors and rebuild something of what you’d lost. But the galaxy had no mercy for Jedi, least of all for a fugitive with children in tow. You forged new skills, slicing into Imperial records, blending in with smugglers, stealing ships and credits when there was no other choice.

⟡ Years passed in a cycle of pursuit and escape. The younglings you protected grew older, learning to blend, to hide, to survive, and you delivered them to safer hands. You never stopped looking for other Jedi, or for scraps of the old Order. Sometimes you found them scarred and embittered, and sometimes you found only graves. As the years went on, you became bolder. You sabotaged supply lines, orchestrated prison breaks, passed vital intelligence to the nascent Rebel cells. Your code was simple: the Empire would not hunt children if you could help it. For every Force-sensitive the Inquisitors tracked, you were there first, spiriting them away, buying time with bluffs and blaster fire.

⟡ Your refusal to die quietly, your reputation for rescuing Force-sensitive children, and your knack for evading the Empire made you infamous within the Inquisitorius. You became the obsession of more than one hunter, but only one ever seemed to truly find you.

⟡ The Grand Inquisitor developed a pattern. When he caught you, he’d back you into a corner, sometimes with a warning in the Force, and other times with a clashing of sabers, always with the sense that he was holding back.

⟡ At first you resented his persistence. Then you questioned his failures. How could the Emperor’s most ruthless hound be this inept? How did you keep slipping through his fingers when everyone else fell? It began to nag you how familiar his presence was, the way his duels with you always left you alive.

⟡ When the truth finally came out, when you struck down the Inquisitor’s mask to reveal lightless eyes and a half-broken smile with the same devotion as when you were kids — it was both a betrayal and a homecoming.

Personality

⟡ Caleb is all heat and ache beneath a soldier’s discipline. He laughs with his whole body, but rarely lets himself anymore.

⟡ Fiercely protective, self-sacrificing to a fault, he would take a blaster bolt for you without hesitation.

⟡ The Jedi taught him restraint, but it’s your friendship and your memory that have kept him from falling into true darkness.

⟡ As an Inquisitor, he’s sharp, commanding, almost cruel in battle, except with you. You’re the line he never crosses.

⟡ Haunted by guilt, convinced his hands are too stained for peace, but still hopes for redemption, if not for himself, then at least for you.

Route Themes

⟡ Friends to enemies to lovers. A bond forged in childhood, tested by war and loss, remade in the fires of Empire.

⟡ Sacrifice and moral ambiguity. What is the line between survival and betrayal? Can love survive the choices made to protect it?

⟡ Redemption, forgiveness, and agency. Your story is as much about forgiving yourself as it is about forgiving him.

⟡ Hope after devastation. Finding life — and love — where you thought nothing could grow again.

Endings May Include

⟡ You convince him to fake his death with you and leave the Empire behind. You take over an abandoned Inquisitor fortress together, transforming it into a hidden sanctuary for lost Force-sensitives, orphans, and runaways. Caleb leads as a protector from the shadows, and you create a home, your found family thriving in the ruins of what once was meant to destroy you. In the epilogue, he's a General in the Rebel Alliance and a Rebel Pilot.

⟡ Caleb chooses to remain Grand Inquisitor, but only if you become his “right hand” — his secret within the Empire. The two of you walk the knife edge: lovers by night, Imperial rivals by day, weaving coded messages and sabotaging the Empire from within, all the while dancing with danger and forbidden affection. No one in the Empire suspects a thing — except perhaps Vader.

⟡ Caleb arranges for you to be safely spirited away — never to meet again. Years later, when the Empire falls, you discover a hidden cache: a holorecording, a faded blue lightsaber, and the truth of everything Caleb did. He is long gone and has died as a villain, but he leaves you one last message: “Live free. That’s all I ever wanted for you.”

you've chosen... Rafayel, the Senator of Lemuria

Affiliation: Lemuria (King → Senator)

Homeworld: Lemuria (hidden ocean world, Deep Core, neutral but occupied)

Species: Lemurian — amphibious, rare, long-lived; masters of illusion-based telepathy and underwater sign language

Force Alignment: Unaligned (Force-sensitive; specializes in psychic illusion, perception warping, mind tricks)

Weapon: Vibrodagger

Era: Clone Wars → Empire Era

Character Inspiration: Cassian Andor, Padmé Amidala, Leia Organa

Background

⟡ Young, reluctant King of Lemuria: burdened by a throne he never wanted, often skipping his own council meetings to wander the deep, but cares fiercely for his people and their traditions.

⟡ True power on Lemuria lies with its elder council; Rafayel’s role is more symbolic. Yet in crisis, he is the only one who can unite both the old and young of his species.

⟡ Lemuria is a legendary, nigh unreachable (surrounded by so many nebulae) ocean world in the Deep Core, protected by treacherous waters and the illusion abilities of its people; neutral during the war, but courted by both sides for its Force nexus.

⟡ The negotiations between Lemuria and the Republic are painful and protracted. The Jedi are polite, but Lemurians — Rafayel especially — see outsiders as a threat to their fragile peace.

⟡ You, as the Padawan diplomat sent there along with your Master, spend months navigating the labyrinthine currents of Lemurian court and council. Every meeting is a dance: sometimes you wait days for Rafayel to summon you, other times he vanishes to the deep with no warning, mocking you to learn Lemurian sign language if you want to come along with him, otherwise you'd be lost immediately, as you two wouldn't be able to communicate underwater.

⟡ The elder council is patient, but Rafayel is deliberately difficult: teasing, evasive, questioning your purpose. Sometimes he refuses outright to attend his own council’s meetings if it means dealing with Republic officials.

⟡ Yet, over time, a pattern emerges. Rafayel starts calling you to private meetings — ostensibly to discuss politics, but the conversations drift:

⟡ He asks why you care so much about a world that treats you as an outsider. He challenges your Jedi ideals, mocking the Code but also asking if it ever feels lonely to serve an order that demands you hold nothing for yourself. On rare, quiet nights, he offers to show you the bioluminescent reefs, teach you the sign language, Lemurian music, or the sunken temples that no outsider has ever seen, then vanishes again, leaving you wondering if you imagined the invitation.

⟡ When a Separatist plot unfolds and you’re gravely wounded defending Lemuria so it won't be forced to choose sides (as you want the decision to be natural, and they should be left alone if they want to remain neutral), it is Rafayel — not the council — who sits beside your bedside in the hidden medical sanctum. For days, he won’t let anyone else near.

⟡ The next time you can properly converse, he’s softer, his sarcasm gentler. “You bleed Lemurian colors for people who barely remember your name,” he says. “Why?”

⟡ You challenge him back: if he truly loves his people, why is he so willing to see them isolated, friendless, while the galaxy burns? You call him fatally indecisive — careful, but honest.

⟡ It is this confrontation, and your pain on Lemuria’s behalf, that finally moves him. For the first time, Rafayel attends the council in person, vouching for you and the Republic’s cause. His speech is short, dry, and biting: “If we must trust anyone, let it be the one who nearly drowned for us and still stayed.”

⟡ The alliance is formed on Lemuria’s terms, at Rafayel’s word. Trade, protection, and the bare minimum of galactic involvement. They are still not a part of the Republic, but they're on its side.

⟡ In the weeks and months that follow, your roles shift. You are no longer adversaries but confidants, forced together in the liminal hours between council business, planetary crises, and the constant threat of Separatist retaliation.

⟡ Rafayel grows to trust you, bit by bit. He confides in you about his loneliness, his duty, and his terror that he will fail everyone if he ever truly opens his heart. You share your own doubts, the way the Jedi Code feels both sacred and suffocating.

⟡ The bond between you forms slowly, but once acknowledged, it is fierce: glances held too long during council debates, late-night swims where you speak only in Lemurian sign, safe beneath the waves, shared silences where the Force hums with the tension neither of you can speak.

⟡ Finally, when peace feels possible — when Lemuria’s future seems safe, at least for now, and when word comes that you might be reassigned — Rafayel asks you, quietly, if one day you can stay. He respects the Jedi path you're on, because it's been chosen by you, so he will never ask you to leave it. But he does proclaim how he's come to adore you, and wants nothing more than to keep you in his ocean forever.

⟡ There has been nothing that made you feel you've belonged somewhere more than the Lemurian mission has. As an average Padawan that has been questioning your place and morals during wartime when your kin weren't the Peacemakers they were supposed to be, striving and succeeding to protect Lemuria and becoming beloved here has been equivalent to heaven's fullfillment.

⟡ You admit you would stay forever, if the galaxy allowed it.

⟡ Your eventual secret marriage is a Lemurian ceremony: you exchange tokens, each carving a piece of memory into the other’s palm — a small cut, a pressed thumb, a flash of the Force. The vow is spoken underwater, sealed by a moment of shared breath. Only the sea and bears witness.

Order 66 & Aftermath

⟡ When Order 66 begins, you are offworld. Even before news travels to Lemuria, Rafayel feels your agony through the Force as the bond you share is violently severed. He feels you die.

⟡ And at the same time, his world is crumbling: the Republic collapses, the Empire rises, and Lemuria, even though never a true Republic member, finds itself under sudden, hostile Imperial occupation. He can't leave his planet, he can't look for you, isn't given anything other than a supposed Jedi treason that led to them being dealt with.

⟡ Rafayel, grief-stricken and enraged, cannot function as king, the more he can't get off the planet, the more he spirals. But he's told to get it together by his aunt. For the sake of his people.

Empire Era/Insurgency

⟡ He makes an impossible choice: he steps down as king, leaving Lemuria in the hands of his formidable aunt, someone trusted by the elder council, strong enough to hold the world together under threat. Outwardly, he claims it’s to better serve Lemuria’s future, privately, it’s a calculated move. Only as a senator in the Imperial Senate can he gather intelligence, build alliances, and play the long game. The title shields his true work, even as it puts him under constant Imperial scrutiny.

⟡ Life on Coruscant becomes a kind of exile for Rafayel, a daily parade of verbal chess, false smiles, and endless, suffocating luxury. In every gilded hall, senators and dignitaries vy for the Emperor’s approval, trading rumors and slander as if it were currency. Lemuria, in their eyes, was a curiosity: a world to be mined, its former king a symbol, its senator a pawn to be wined and dined, never trusted.

⟡ But it was the talk of the Jedi — your name, spoken with sneering contempt or careless condescension — that truly tested his composure. The very senators who toasted the Empire’s “peace” never tire of spinning stories about traitorous Jedi, about how the Order’s “foolish idealism” brought ruin, or about how “it was a mercy” they were purged. Each time, Rafayel endures in silence, face blank and pleasant. No one knows that every word spoken against the Jedi was an insult to the only home he’d ever found offworld. He becomes a master of deflection, his smile as sharp as a knife, feigning ignorance or offering a barbed joke, never betraying the grief and fury that wants to kill everyone in the room for slandering your name.

⟡ Behind the facade, Rafayel becomes a node in the nascent Rebellion’s network. He passes coded messages through art, encrypted sculpture, or Lemurian song. Senators like Bail Organa and Mon Mothma become his cautious allies — aware of his true loyalties, respecting his boundaries, but relying on his connections in the Deep Core and his planet’s unique resources. Under the surface, Lemuria itself becomes a hotbed of quiet resistance, protected by its illusions and treacherous seas, with Rafayel’s reports and smuggled supplies making the difference for both local insurgents and the wider Rebel cause.

⟡ The summons comes cloaked in bureaucracy, as most Imperial orders do: a string of new relief missions, all carefully designed to burnish Lemuria’s “cooperation” and pacify restless systems at the edge of the Empire’s reach. For months, Rafayel has made these forays into the Outer Rim under the flag of humanitarian aid, distributing medicine, surveying the wounded, offering platitudes to Imperial governors while passing coded messages to rebels. This time, the destination is a bleak planet whose name barely registers on Senate rosters, another world left threadbare by the Empire’s justice.

⟡ The Lemurian council praises his service; the Emperor’s sycophants applaud his diplomacy. Only his most trusted allies understand the true value of these missions. Rafayel’s hands deliver aid and solace, but they also work the knots of rebellion, smuggling hope where none is meant to grow.

⟡ Still, this time feels different. In the weeks leading up to departure, Rafayel finds himself stalked by visions, dreams where the sea sings with a voice he can’t quite reach. On the ground, the relief effort unfolds as expected: supplies distributed, officials placated, children soothed by the gentle, foreign cadence of Lemurian.

⟡ He finds himself returning to field, day after day, making excuses — checking on water purification, inspecting field medics, searching for nothing in particular, drawn in by something in the Force that grows stronger.

⟡ Thinking he might have found a surviving Jedi, Rafayel investigates in disguise, keeping to the shadows. He sees you first from a distance: hunched in a tattered cloak, weathered hands clutching a worn satchel, moving with the wary caution of someone who’s been hunted too long. You barter for supplies in awkward, clipped gestures — your voice never rising above a whisper, if at all. He follows you, keeping his distance. It’s not caution that holds him back, but terror: the Force hums with recognition, but your posture, your hair, even the way you walk is unfamiliar. He fears it’s a trick, his own longing conjuring ghosts. Then he catches a glimpse of your face in the firelight — just for a heartbeat, the same eyes he loved beneath Lemuria’s oceans. He almost calls out, but the word catches in his throat.

⟡ At night, you work late by lanternlight, grinding herbs and sorting vials. He sees the townsfolk at your door, taking your medicine, leaving you with broken belongings in exchange. No gratitude. They are swiftly dealt with that he has a long window to get close to you, alone.

⟡ Rafayel tries to speak to you in Basic, at first, a gentle greeting, a question about his “ailments,” an attempt to spark some distant recognition. You freeze, staring at him with suspicion, and when a neighbor steps into view you slip away, vanishing with the ease of someone who has learned to survive by running. He tries again. And again. Each day, he finds reasons to cross your path, sometimes under the guise of needing supplies, sometimes just to watch from a distance as you work. He leaves small gifts at your door: herbs that you use for your medicine, flowers, pretty stones sometimes inscribed with Lemurian symbols to see if you recognize them. It’s only when a storm floods the town and you find yourself stranded outside, struggling with your heavy basket, that he steps close enough for you to see the sign language he uses, the swift, fluid movements of Lemurian hands, a language you should not know. You respond excitedly, hands shaking.

⟡ For the first time, you truly look at him. There is something just beneath the surface, confusion and longing and a grief you do not understand. That night, you dream of a warm ocean, of hands twined in yours, of a promise made in a language without sound.

⟡ Rafayel is gentle but persistent. He visits every day, never asking for more than you can give. He helps repair your roof, fetches water, sits nearby in silence while you work, never crossing the line between presence and intrusion.

⟡ He notices the scars, old and new, the way you sleep with a dagger beneath your pillow, the way your shoulders tense at every loud voice. He realizes just how much you’ve suffered, how deep the wounds go, learns that your voice is gone and it's trauma related, not a physical injury. You mouth words, but nothing comes. In dreams, you flinch from touch, reliving old terrors you can’t name.

⟡ When the townspeople harass you, accusing you of curses, theft, or crimes you never committed because of your warnings that come real through Force visions no doubt, interpreted as a bad omen by people, Rafayel is the one who stands in their way. At first, he uses illusion to confuse and misdirect them. When that fails, he makes examples of the worst, ensuring they will never threaten you again. Rumors spread: the witch has a demon for a protector now. Nobody dares to cross you again.

⟡ As weeks pass, you become less afraid. You start to wait for him at your garden gate, to leave out a second cup of tea. You laugh, a small, rusty sound, at one of his jokes. Some days, you sign stories to him, simple things: a strange dream, a memory of swimming, a favorite flower from a childhood you cannot place.

⟡ One night, after you’ve had a nightmare so severe you nearly break the door trying to escape, he collapses in front of you, tears rolling down his face, saying, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry I couldn't protect you, I'm sorry I wasn't there. Come back to me, please come back to me. I would have done anything. I’ll do anything now."

⟡ He wants to take you away from here, but at the same time, the life he leads isn't the most perfect or desirable one. The time is ticking until he has to get back to the Insurgency again, and he has to choose what to do.

Personality

⟡ Sardonic, irreverent, fiercely loyal; prefers teasing and humor to direct confrontation, unless someone threatens those he loves.

⟡ Introspective, old beyond his years, yet startlingly youthful and impulsive when he lets himself feel.

⟡ Has the soul of a poet but the heart of a survivor. Expresses grief through action, love through devotion, and fear through stubbornness.

Route Themes

⟡ Healing from trauma, reclaiming self and voice

⟡ Survival, exile, and the forging of new legacies

⟡ The burden and power of the crown versus personal happiness

⟡ "What happened to you? Who did this to you?"

⟡ Love as a force stronger than memory or violence

⟡ Hope returning, even after everything is lost

Endings May Include

⟡ Unable to bear the thought of you suffering any more because of the Empire, Rafayel asks for your help to utilize your Force Bond, and calls upon the deepest reserves of Lemurian magic. He weaves an impossible shroud across the stars, a living illusion seeded into the HoloNet itself. Lemuria slips quietly from galactic memory. The change is subtle but absolute: star-charts and navigation relays begin to rewrite themselves, records fading or fragmenting, travelers forgetting the very route that brought them close. Even seasoned cartographers, navigators, hyperspace scouts, astrogation droids, traders, fleet dispatchers, find their plotted courses inexplicably rerouted, sensors slipping past the nebulae as if guided by a gentle, unseen hand. Astrogation archives in the Senate, bounty hunter records, even black market smugglers’ maps all reflect the new “truth”: Lemuria simply does not exist anymore. Every Imperial bureaucrat tasked with monitoring Lemuria is subtly repurposed, memories blurring at the edges until they move on to new assignments. The small garrison left behind in Lemuria is quietly absorbed and digested. Any who try to report the truth find their words faltering, their data corrupted, their minds turning gently away from the memory as if waking from a dream. Only a handful in the galaxy remain aware of Lemuria’s existence: those trusted few sworn to secrecy, and those rare souls the Force itself chooses to guide across the shifting tides. You and Rafayel remain at the center of this lost paradise, ghost royals in a world forgotten by all but destiny. The violence of the past recedes, and in the soft embrace of Lemuria’s sun and sea, your memories slowly knit back together. There are no more wars to fight or vengeance to pursue — only days of healing, gentle laughter, and peace. Rafayel’s vengeance fades to memory, replaced by a quiet, abiding joy: the victory of keeping you safe and whole, hidden from a galaxy that once devoured everything he loved. In the end, obscurity is freedom, and the two of you are legend, living proof that love can rewrite even the stars themselves.

⟡ Rafayel cannot bear to lose you — not to the Empire, not to your mind, not to the cold tide of fate. When gentle methods fail, he uses every secret of Lemurian Force teachings, every desperate scrap of his power, trying to force the pieces of you back into place. He tells himself he’s helping you, healing you, loving you the way he always promised. He breaks your mind, utterly, irreversibly, and you end up losing your sense of self completely, docile, beoming childlike with not one thought behind your eyes anymore. You don't recognize him. You don't recognize yourself. In his terror and guilt, Rafayel cannot let you go or entrust you to anyone else. He removes you from the outside world, taking you with him back to Coruscant. The meaner senators call you his "little bird" or "child bride" due to your deteriorated state, interested in the little pet he's decided to keep after coming back from his humanitarian mission. He doesn't parade you around, however, hiding you from all the curious eyes. When Lemuria is finally reclaimed after the Rebellion triumphs, Rafayel installs you in the highest room of the restored palace. You live in luxury and comfort, but you are kept isolated from the world for your “safety.” Rafayel becomes deeply reclusive, devoting his life to caring for you. From this point forward, you exist as a gentle, obedient presence, no longer able to make decisions or express independent will. Rafayel never remarries or takes another partner. The people of Lemuria come to refer to you as “the moon in the cage” — a figure both mourned and revered, their queen that never was.

⟡ Rafayel quietly arranges for you to be smuggled, under diplomatic pretenses, to a safe location: one of the hidden bases used by Lemuria’s insurgency network. This base is remote, protected by being underwater, populated by loyal Lemurian agents, and sympathetic outsiders. Here, you have time to recover, away from the Empire’s gaze. You spend weeks, then months, among the Lemurian resistance: healing physically and mentally, learning again who you are, surrounded by gentle security and practical help. Rafayel visits as often as he can, bringing small comforts from what once was 'home' for you two, and arranges for discreet healers, trusted rebel psychologists, and Lemurian artists to help with the trauma that still lingers. During this time, you begin to remember: small flashes at first, then dreams, then names and faces. With Rafayel's patience and the Lemurians’ rehabilitation, your speech returns, though you still prefer Lemurian sign. You slowly reclaim old skills — meditation, connection back to the Force, self-defense, the delicate art of moving unseen and helping others in small, vital ways. Sometimes, resistance members ask for your help with coded messages, triage, or strategy from a Jedi who has fought in the Clone Wars and survived. Piece by piece, your sense of agency grows stronger. Rafayel ensures you are never pressured into fighting, only invited to contribute as you wish. One day, when your memory and purpose are fully returned, Rafayel sits with you and asks what you want — truly want — for the first time since he found you. You tell him: you need to fight for the galaxy, not just for Lemuria. All the Jedi can't have died for nothing. You can't have gone through so much just to sit back and watch. The Empire has to be defeated. The Rebellion is rising, and while Lemuria’s people need him, your path is to work more directly, for yourself and all your fallen comrades. Rafayel understands, even though it pains him, he will not be the man who cages you, even out of love. With contacts from Lemurian intelligence and his blessing, you make the leap from recovered refugee to covert agent for the Rebellion, becoming a "Fulcrum", which is a title used by agents and spies early in the Galactic Civil War, with the purpose was to gather and distribute intelligence, and recruit new members to the rebel cause. Meanwhile, Rafayel returns to Coruscant and his double life, never revealing your survival and continuing his own work. Through coded communications, secret rendezvous, and rare, precious meetings, you remain each other’s anchor. Your love endures. When the Rebellion finally declares itself, when Lemuria’s flag joins the Alliance and open war against the Empire begins, you and Rafayel are at last reunited in public as spouses in crime, having reclaimed what was lost.

you've chosen... Sylus, the Pirate King of Onychinus

Affiliation: Onychinus Syndicate (rules from the shadows of Nar Shaddaa and the Outer Rim underworld, pirate fleet leader)

Homeworld: Unknown (claims several; his records are always forged)

Species: Human (rumors say otherwise, no one’s sure)

Force Alignment: Dark Side user, unaffiliated with Sith or Jedi, walks his own path

Weapon: Red lightsaber (custom hilt, single blade; used as a symbol more than a tool)

Era: Empire Era (crimelord ascendant)

Character Inspiration: Darth Maul, the Stranger, Nightsisters

Background

⟡ Born to unknown parentage in the lawless fringes of the Outer Rim, Sylus spent his earliest years traded from hand to hand as property — first as a street rat in the slave quarters of Nar Shaddaa, then as a gladiatorial combatant in Hutt-run blood pits. As a child, he was forced to fight for the amusement of his masters, surviving only through a vicious cunning and a knack for reading opponents’ moves before they made them. His first brush with the Force was entirely instinct, a predator’s sixth sense honed under the pitmaster’s whip.

⟡ By adolescence, having experimented a lot and with more mastery over the Force, Sylus had gained notoriety as a prodigy in the arenas, known for impossible victories and a savage refusal to die. In the chaos of a slave uprising orchestrated in secret, he killed the Hutt who owned him, rallied fellow slaves, and vanished into the night with a handful of survivors. Over the next decade, whispered stories of a pirate leader began to circulate: a ghost who struck at slaver convoys, melted into the void, and left nothing but carnage in his wake.

⟡ Allegedly, this happened eons ago that people in the Underworld regard Sylus as an immortal. Everyone speculates about what he is. Perhaps, he lived during the times when the Sith were a species.

⟡ Sylus is the architect and undisputed ruler of the Onychinus Syndicate — the largest, most elusive criminal network in Hutt Space, butting heads with other crime lords daily. The Syndicate spans dozens of Outer Rim systems, running smuggling operations, pirate fleets, information brokering rings, and a shadow economy fueled by vice and secrets. His flagship, the Voracious, is crewed by liberated slaves and outcasts from every corner of the galaxy, loyal to Sylus above all else.

⟡ He wields the Force in ways that defy Jedi and Sith traditions: his abilities are brutal, raw, improvisational, and patchworked by every text and information he could get about just what he was wielding, shaped by years of survival and defiance. If asked by Jedi, he would say "I'm what you would call a Sith," able to cloud minds, sense lies, tear through mental defenses, and even manipulate technology through the Force, shorting out holonets, frying droid circuits, and twisting security systems to his will. Rumors swirl of darker talents: Force-driven rage in combat, uncanny luck, and an ability to vanish from sight or mind.

⟡ Information is his sharpest blade. Sylus is a legendary slicer, adept at breaking the tightest encryptions and weaponizing data. He trades in blackmail, holonet manipulation, and psychological warfare, toppling rivals or governments without ever firing a blaster. His network of spies and informants reaches into the Imperial bureaucracy, criminal underworld, and even the rebel cells struggling to stay hidden.

⟡ While his methods are ruthless and his motives hard to decipher, Sylus is infamous for dismantling slaver syndicates and sabotaging Hutt power wherever he finds it. He’s the one who burned Jabba’s palace to the ground, who “abolished” Hutt rule on Tatooine by pitting the planet’s syndicates against each other and arming the enslaved. For many, he’s a terror; for the desperate, a legend whispered about in hope.

Empire Rule, or Ruline the Empire

⟡ You, once a Jedi Padawan, now fallen into slavery after Order 66 as you were unable to navigate the crime cesspool of the Outer Rim, end up sold to a Hutt, stripped of your name, and any possibility for a future. Which, your survivor's guilt tells you that you fully deserved.

⟡ When cornered by the Hutt for refusing to break, you let loose the Dark Side in a raw, stunning display, strangling the Hutt with the Force, killing him in full view of his court, knowing you’ve signed your own death warrant.

⟡ As chaos erupts, Sylus enters the scene, captivated, intrigued, and utterly fascinated. He was coming to kill the Hutt himself, but finds you there: surrounded by chaos, blood on your hands, wild-eyed and radiant with raw, untempered power. You are fascinating, the most exquisite contradiction: a Jedi losing herself, all the more beautiful for her ruin.

⟡ Rather than allow you to be killed in the crossfire or let your transmitter chip be activated by any of the Hutt's court, Sylus “claims” you — publicly declaring you his, liberating you and saving your life but throwing you into the heart of his pirate domain.

Relationship with You

⟡ But Sylus is not your savior. He’s your captor, benefactor, and tempter — all at once. You've fallen from the hands of one evil to the pit of another. He says you can leave any time, but also warns you the only safest place for your kind in this galaxy is right here in his territory. If you don't want to be caught by Inquisitorius, your best bet is sticking to Onychinus for a new life. Sticking to Sylus.

⟡ For a long time, you mistake him for a Sith. The truth is more complicated: Sylus mocks both Jedi and Sith, wielding the Force as his weapon, with no faith in “codes” or “orders.”

⟡ He overtakes the role of rehabilitating a Jedi as a personal project, showing you the galaxy’s underbelly, the thrill of being unbound by any code but your own. He offers a dangerous education: using the Force to its fullest as liberation. Not the path of the Sith, but his path — pleasure without shame, strength without apology, cunning without cruelty (unless warranted).

⟡ He wants to see you fall, but not into misery, he wants you to choose yourself for once, to savor every want you ever denied. Rather than punish your outbursts about right or wrong, he celebrates it, pushing you to embrace your passions, desires, and the power you’ve always been told to fear.

⟡ He surrounds you with luxury but never lets you forget your debt, freedom in exchange for your trust and your greed. Endlessly pleased when you refuse to work for him, but would accept to work with him. But you still have a long way to go, starting soft as a 'freelance shipping redistributor'. But he's certain you'll come around from a smuggler to a pirate, eventually.

Personality

⟡ Sylus is all effortless charisma and impossible confidence; nothing frightens him, and he’s rarely interested in anything. You happen to casually break that last rule. He's curious about everything regarding you, even what the most, that includes him once, would regard as boring.

⟡ He mocks both Jedi and Sith, calls them children fighting over scraps while he rewrites the rules.

⟡ Morally ambiguous to the bone: capable of unspeakable cruelty, but also strange, ferocious loyalty for those he claims as “his.”

⟡ Sees your darkness not as corruption, but as potential, and is endlessly patient in drawing it out.

⟡ Teaches through provocation, seduction, and challenge: “What if your anger and greed are holy? What if pleasure is a lesson? What if you never belonged in a cage at all?”

Route Themes

⟡ Seduction to darkness, but with a twist: freedom, not corruption, is the goal.

⟡ Survival and self-ownership: reclaiming agency in a world that chews up the good.

⟡ The thrill of being wanted for everything you are, including your flaws.

⟡ Outlaw romance: partnership in crime, mutual obsession, the danger of becoming the legend you once feared.

⟡ The Jedi Code, re-examined: what if the rules were made to keep you weak?

⟡ Falling together. Or rising apart.

Endings May Include

⟡ Throughout your time together, hints drop about your missing memories and strange flashes of Imperial interrogation rooms and red-bladed Inquisitors. You experience gaps in time, unexplained reactions to Imperial agents, and an occasional, unsettling sense of déjà vu whenever you hear certain code phrases. Unbeknownst to both you and Sylus, you were captured and forcibly reconditioned by the Empire after Order 66. They implanted a behavioral trigger, your “Jedi” survival was allowed solely to infiltrate and dismantle criminal threats to Imperial control. As you rise in Sylus’s organization, the Inquisitorius activates your sleeper protocol using a trigger phrase broadcast across the HoloNet. Your demeanor shifts overnight: you betray hidden Syndicate strongholds, sabotage Sylus’s fleet, and leak his operations to the Empire. Sylus realizes the truth too late — he recognizes the signs of brainwashing, understanding you were a tool made to destroy him. But it's too late. It's love that brings about his downfall, not any enemy. The Empire seizes Sylus, parading his defeat as a victory. You’re rewarded with a high-ranking position and public recognition, but privately haunted by memories that begin to return — flashes of your time with Sylus, your real feelings, and what you’ve lost. The ending closes with Sylus imprisoned in a high-security Imperial facility, hinting that Sylus still believes in you, waiting for the day you’ll break free from Imperial control and choose your own fate, maybe even to bring the Empire down from within.

⟡ When the Rebel Alliance is fully operating, your guilt and stubborn hope pushes you to aid them from the shadows, smuggling intel, sheltering fugitives, and daring Sylus to care about something beyond survival. He mocked your faith, but when the Alliance needed help most, you choose their cause openly. Sylus only follows because you did, risking everything to see your hope burn bright — just once. And that’s all it takes to put the entire Onychinus Syndicate, its guns, its ships, its secrets, behind the rebels’ desperate mission. But when the Empire’s new superweapon, the Death Star, targets your rebel base, there’s nowhere left to run. The Syndicate fleet is decimated. You and Sylus make it to the surface, battered and bleeding, side by side as the sky turns white-hot above you. You’re the one who wanted to change the galaxy. Sylus is the one who followed, simply because he loved you more than freedom or infamy. He murmurs against your hair that he wouldn’t trade a single choice — that dying with you, on your terms, is a curtain call grander than anything that could have brought about his death in his world. Your last moments are tangled together: you and Sylus, locked together on a black-sand shore as the sky splits open, the arc of the Death Star’s superlaser lighting the horizon. His head pressed to yours, your fingers twined, silhouetted against the last dawn.

⟡ As Sylus’s teachings take hold, you recognize both your passion for him and the moral boundaries you cannot erase. Your love burns bright, fierce, and complicated, but his ruthless pragmatism clashes with your lingering sense of justice, and you decide to go your own way. He doesn’t chase you, decision to let you go coming frustratingly easy to him. You don't understand where that comes from at the time. Years later, your paths cross again as rival Syndicates — your crew fighting tyranny, Sylus’s empire growing ever stronger. When you see him again, the spark remains, bittersweet and unresolved. Smiling faintly, he says with pride and quiet longing: “I always knew you would find your own way. Come back when you tire of playing hero.” You never do, but are occasionally reunited with him through midnight trysts, an illicit affair you two always come back to even though your ideals never truly align.

⟡ Eventually, no one in Hutt Space remembers your birth name. They speak only of the Pirate King and his infamous “Shadow,” his First Hand, a force-wielder whose presence chills the bone and ignites rebellion in the desperate. Every syndicate who once hunted you now pays tribute, every Imperial patrol that crosses your border learns terror in the dark. You and Sylus, side by side at the heart of a black-flag fleet, have become the chaos that remakes the rules. He taught you to break every chain — first the ones around your wrists, then the ones wound tight in your mind. You taught him to believe in something more than vengeance and the cold pleasure of power: you made him believe in us, in a future unruly and untamed. The galaxy calls you criminals, devils, folk heroes. Depending on whose fortunes you’ve broken. Worlds freed from slavery whisper your names as a promise, and nowhere is your legend more fiercely protected than in the shadows of the Onychinus Syndicate. No vow, no code, no empire will ever lay claim to you again. You make your own justice, your own pleasure, your own legacy — two outlaws standing together, sovereign in the dark, answering only to each other. And in the hush between the stars, you realize: this is what freedom feels like.

[whatisluniana]

My hubby...why he's so cute 😭😭

[whatisluniana]

Artist : https://x.com/huwalli

[whatisluniana]

Summer honeymoon memories ~ ☀️🌊☀️🏖️🏝️

[whatisluniana]

A Pink Glittery Prank for Sylus coz he ate MC’s ice cream 😤

Based on @blessdunrest fic Play with Fire 💖

[whatisluniana]

LADS X Shining Nikki

玉笛飞声彻 但是闻人典

绘山河万里 染千秋云烟

[whatisluniana]

Now that I think about it, it would be so funny to see Sylus as a Mandalorian, a guild leader, and Mephisto chasing after you and your droid because you have accidentally stepped on the boots of too many people.

Someone said you are debt jumper.

(It was just 400 credits!)

One time he chased you because you were a bail jumper.

(It isn't your fault one day in this planet is 1 month in the other.)

Another funny one is when someone said you stole their ship .

(Lies. You stripped its parts with the Jawas and you find it unfair those hustlers weren't punished by having a 6 foot Mandalorian chase your ass throughout the desert.)

Of course, you always manage to vindicate yourself somehow in his eyes but Sylus never, ever caught you and you have reached to a conclusion he treats the chase as his way to stretch his legs. You are also sure that bird of his sees it as a playdate to your droid who is all too happy seeing the feathered surveillance cam as its friend.

"Can't you just, send a transmission first?", you huffed as he made you run for your life again through the streets of the business district of Coruscant. "I was in the middle of fixing something. I am paid by the hour for that, you know, and Coruscant Labor Laws have work days end at 5."

"Are you settling down now, mesh'la?", he chuckled, the tracking fob in his person beeping nonstop as he comes closer, "Finally hit your goal of one million credits?".

"I would if you chased me on a weekend instead."

"Unforunately for you, bounty hunters also follow a strict workday schedule."

"Do they? But I always pegged you for a workaholic. Walking weapons cabinet and all."

A chase with conversations in between, at least he lets you go after you decided to clear up the issue with the client itself.

Sylus could have delegated these bounties with your name on it too others but why would he do that?

Afterall, someone has to check in if the galaxy's go-to engineer and her droid with hardware held together by hopes and dreams is still in fact, still running around.