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rottenfyre · 20 days ago

Text

⸻ ᴍ ᴀ ꜱ ᴛ ᴇ ʀ ⸻

Pairing: Platonic Yoda x Fem Reader

Headcanon: What if he become obsessed with a child he found?

Note: English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

The first time Yoda saw you, he knew you were special. Not only because of your unique heritage—silver-haired, with a lifespan as long as his own—but because of your innate connection to the Force. You were but a child, no older than ten, trembling as the Jedi Council deliberated your fate. Your race had perished in the galaxy’s endless wars, leaving you alone and frightened, a mere remnant of a once-proud people.

"Your master, I will be," he declared, his voice steady, though his eyes betrayed a strange, quiet fondness. "Protect you, I must."

You had clung to him that day, seeing in him the father figure you never had. From then on, it was always "Master Yoda this" and "Master Yoda that." You idolized him, followed him everywhere, and sought his approval in everything.

You weren’t the most talented Padawan. No matter how hard you tried, you always seemed to fall short. Your lightsaber techniques were clumsy, your connection to the Force unstable. You wanted so desperately to prove yourself, to make Yoda proud, but failure followed you like a shadow.

"Patience, young one," Yoda would say whenever your frustration got the better of you. "Learn from failure, you must. Grow stronger, it will make you."

But patience wasn’t your strength. You were a storm of emotions, a whirlwind of insecurities. You’d cry when you thought no one could hear, and Yoda would find you, always. His presence was calming, his words reassuring.

"Disappointed in you, I am not," he told you one night as you sobbed over yet another failed mission. "Proud, I am. Perseverance, I see in you. Light, still burns within."

You’d lean into him, feeling the rare warmth of his small hands patting your back. Those moments were your solace, the reason you kept going.

But even Yoda couldn’t shield you from your own darkness. The galaxy was cruel, and so was the life of a Jedi. You were sent on a mission to mediate a conflict, and it went horribly wrong. The anger you felt when innocent lives were taken—when you couldn’t save them—consumed you.

In a moment of blind rage, you struck down an innocent man. The realization hit you immediately. You stared at the lifeless body, your hands trembling.

You ran. You didn’t even wait to hear what Yoda would say. You couldn’t face him, not after what you’d done. You left the Jedi Order, left everything behind, and disappeared into the galaxy.

You were twenty-seven when you fell. The galaxy was cruel, and you bore the brunt of its ugliness. You saw suffering, pain, and injustice everywhere, and the Jedi way—detachment, passivity—felt like weakness. Slowly, your convictions crumbled.

It started small. Defying orders to save lives, using your abilities to tip the scales of justice where the Jedi refused. Then came the rage, the willingness to harm for what you believed was a greater good. The final step was inevitable: the Sith tempted you, and you fell.

When Yoda confronted you, you held your red lightsaber with trembling hands. His small frame stood steady, his ears drooping with sorrow.

"Know you not what this path brings?" he asked, voice heavy. "Darkness, despair. Return to the light, you must."

But you couldn't. Not then.

For years, you wreaked havoc, your name whispered in fear across the galaxy. Yoda never stopped searching for you. When the galaxy thought you irredeemable, he did not. "Still my child, you are," he told himself, over and over. It was obsession, though he would never admit it. He saw you as a piece of himself, and the idea of you being lost to him was unbearable.

When you came back, your once-red lightsaber gleamed white. You knelt before the Council, before Yoda, head bowed in shame. You were older but not wiser, broken but not defeated. You begged for forgiveness, tears streaming down your face as you recounted the atrocities you had committed.

"I’ve done terrible things," you admitted. "But I want to change. I can’t take back what I’ve done, but… I want a second chance."

The Council debated for hours, but Yoda's voice was the loudest. He defended you fiercely, his wisdom twisted by his obsession. "Fault mine, it was," he said. "Failed her, I have. Deserve this chance, she does."

The Council hesitated, but Yoda did not. "Forgiven, you are," he said, his voice unwavering. "But a Jedi, you are no longer."

You were forgiven, though trust came slowly. You trained among them again, but the Jedi Order was no longer your home. You saw the glances, felt the unease, and knew you didn’t belong. And Yoda... Yoda hovered, always watching, always near. You called him "Master" still, but his gaze on you felt heavier now, like a shadow you couldn’t escape.

When you left, it broke him.

"You would leave?" he asked, his voice quieter than usual. "Abandon me, you will?"

"Master, I can’t stay. I’m not a Jedi anymore." Your white lightsaber hung at your hip, proof of your redemption but also of your distance from the Order. "I just… I want to live my life."

He said nothing, but the sadness in his eyes lingered with you long after you were gone.

You roamed the galaxy, helping where you could, but never staying long. You were no hero—your past weighed too heavily on you for that. Sometimes, you returned to the Order, offering your aid in battles or conflicts, but you never stayed. Yoda was always there, waiting, his eyes lighting up at the sight of you.

"Stay, you should," he urged once, his voice almost desperate.

But you shook your head. "I can’t, Master."

He didn’t argue, but his disappointment was palpable. Even as you walked away, you felt his presence lingering, like a shadow you could never truly escape.

The first time you told Yoda you were pregnant, he was silent for a long time. His eyes, those wise and piercing eyes, studied you as if trying to comprehend every layer of your decision.

“Certain, are you?” he finally asked, his voice softer than you expected.

You nodded, your hand resting protectively on your stomach. “I’m the last of my kind, Master. If I don’t do this… my people will truly be gone forever.”

Yoda didn’t argue. How could he? He understood the weight of legacy, the pain of being alone. But he also knew the risks. You were still impulsive, still reckless, and the galaxy was no place for a single mother who had once fallen to the dark side.

When the time came, you gave birth to a child with silver hair and vibrant eyes—so much like your own. You named him after a word in your lost language, something beautiful and meaningful that Yoda didn’t quite understand but respected nonetheless.

Your first child was only a few weeks old when you left him with Yoda. “I can’t keep him with me,” you said, guilt heavy in your voice. “It’s not safe where I go. But he will be safe with you.”

Yoda sighed deeply, his ears drooping slightly. “Responsibility, this is. Ready, I hope you are for what it means.”

“I’ll come back for him,” you promised. “I always will.”

And you did… but only briefly. Each time, you brought another child, a tiny bundle of life that you cradled as if they were your entire world. Yoda’s quarters, once quiet and orderly, soon became a chaotic haven filled with the giggles and cries of silver-haired children.

Yoda wasn’t just a caretaker—he was a grandparent. He spoiled them in his own subtle ways, sharing stories of the Jedi Order, teaching them basic Force techniques, and letting them climb all over him despite his grumbled protests.

“Off me, you must get!” he’d say, his voice stern but his eyes sparkling with affection as one of your toddlers tugged on his ears.

He gave each child a nickname in his unique Yoda way: “Little Spark” for the one most attuned to the Force, “Noisy One” for the loudest, and “Wanderer” for the one who always managed to escape his watchful gaze.

When the older children started asking about you, Yoda would sit them down and tell them stories—not of your fall or your struggles, but of your strength and resilience. “Strong, your mother is. Brave, she has always been. Love you, she does, more than the stars themselves.”

When you returned, Yoda would hand you a baby with a pointed look. “Your turn, it is. Sleep, I have not had in weeks.”

But his complaints were always lighthearted, and you’d see the way his expression softened when he watched you with your children. You’d sit together, your eldest snuggled against your side while Yoda held the youngest, and for a moment, it felt like you had a real family.

“I couldn’t do this without you,” you admitted once, your voice quiet.

“Know this, I do,” he replied with a small smile. “But for them, do it we must.”

Despite his love for the children, Yoda’s possessiveness over you never faded. He worried about the dangers you faced, about the darkness that still lingered in your heart. Each time you left, he wondered if it would be the last.

“Reckless, you are,” he scolded one day as you prepared to leave again. “Selfish, it is, to risk yourself so.”

“I’m doing this for them,” you argued.

“For them, stay you should,” he countered, his voice unusually sharp. “Enough, you are, without running away.”

But he let you go, as he always did, because he knew he couldn’t stop you. All he could do was keep your children safe, raising them in your absence and waiting for the day you’d finally stay.

The eldest was always the responsible one, the leader of the pack, and the first to step forward when it came time to leave. He knelt before Yoda in the meditation chamber, his silver hair tied back and his lightsaber clipped to his belt.

“Ready, I hope you are,” Yoda said, his voice gruff but soft. “Proud, I am, of you.”

He smiled, though his hands trembled slightly. “Thank you, Master Yoda. I’ll make you proud.”

As they left the Temple, the younger siblings gathered by the window to watch, their faces pressed against the glass.

“When will he come back?” one of the youngest asked, tugging on Yoda’s robe.

“Soon, perhaps,” Yoda replied, though he knew it might not be true. “Miss him, we will.”

The middle children were harder to say goodbye to. They had always been the troublemakers, the ones who could turn a quiet evening into utter chaos. But they, too, were destined for greatness.

One became a Jedi diplomat, their quick wit and charm making them a natural negotiator. Another joined the Jedi Guardians, their fearless nature perfect for protecting the galaxy.

“Behave, you must,” Yoda warned as they prepared to leave. “Reckless, you are still.”

“Don’t worry, Master,” one of them quipped with a grin. “I’ll try not to blow anything up.”

Yoda’s ears drooped as he watched them board their starships, the Temple suddenly feeling quieter—too quiet.

The twins were inseparable even in their departure. They had always been the wildest of the group, sneaking off on adventures and dragging each other into mischief.

“We’re going to explore the Outer Rim,” one announced, while the other nodded enthusiastically.

“Trouble, you will find,” Yoda muttered, though his tone lacked its usual sternness.

“Don’t worry, we’ll send holovids!” they promised, hugging him tightly.

As they disappeared into the stars, Yoda felt a pang of worry that wouldn’t leave him. But he also knew they needed to find their own way.

The youngest, always the most sensitive, lingered the longest. He had spent the most time with Yoda, often sitting with him during his meditations or helping him tend to the gardens.

“I’m scared,” he admit, his small voice trembling. “What if I’m not ready?”

Yoda placed a hand on his shoulder, his gaze steady. “Ready, you are. Strong, you have become.”

He hugged him tightly, tears in his eyes. “I’ll come back. I promise.”

“Keep that promise, you must,” he replied, his voice soft.

Eventually, you returned, finding Yoda in his chambers surrounded by the mementos you and your children had left behind.

“They’re doing well,” you said, pride evident in your voice.

“Good teachers, they had,” Yoda replied with a small smile.

You sat beside him, both of you silently reflecting on the family you had built together.

“Home, they will always have here, and you,” Yoda murmured.

“I hope so,” you replied softly.

As the years passed, Yoda's attachment only deepened. You were his failure, his pride, his guilt, and his joy, all wrapped into one. Every time you left, it felt like a piece of him was torn away. And when you returned, no matter how briefly, he clung to you with an intensity that frightened you.

"Missed you, I have," he would say, his small hands gripping your arm tightly, his gaze unyielding. "Leave again, you must not."

But you always did.

Even in his final years, he thought of you, his mind consumed by what-ifs. What if he had stopped you from leaving? What if he had been stricter, or softer, or something in between? What if you had stayed?

In his heart, you were still his child, his greatest failure, and his deepest love. And though he let you go, he never truly released you.

@ʀᴏᴛᴛᴇɴꜰʏʀᴇ 2024. ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴄᴏᴘʏ, ᴛʀᴀɴꜱʟᴀᴛᴇ ᴏʀ ᴜꜱᴇ ᴀɴʏ ᴏꜰ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋꜱ ʜᴇʀᴇ ᴏʀ ᴀɴʏ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴡᴇʙꜱɪᴛᴇꜱ.