#ive been taking care of myself and I’ve been working on a project for some time so I’ve been busy!
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WAUGH
#hello everyone!!#ive been taking care of myself and I’ve been working on a project for some time so I’ve been busy!#i am alive and well :)#updates
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I hope you didn't think I was pointing out flaws with my question! I think your analysis and self reflection are commendable! I would not really have known much about security clearances except for the fact that I went through the process and only on a surface level.
As for the "fatal flaw" i understood it was necessary for the main conflict of the story. In much the same way that the original Top Gun uses the Top Gun trophy when none exists in real life and it would be a major problem if it did. If that was really how they were training the pilots then the cause of Goose's death would have prompted them to review the whole framework of how they teach. Even the second movie has a "fatal flaw" in the pulling of Rooster's paper's by Maverick which makes no sense (for starters, he'd have to ask someone higher up than him to do something unethical) but they needed a conflict. I agree Maverick seems OOC in TG:M
But, I'm reminded of a line in How to Make an American Quilt where one of the characters who is talking about breaking the rules in art says something like "sometimes you have to break the rules for the piece to come alive"
no anon you are so good!!! i just felt like it would be disingenuous of me to answer your question without acknowledging the elephant in the room which is the story’s incompatibility with nosy govt officials lol. And also i think I am just…idk, very disappointed with some aspects of the story that i know could be better, so i wanted to talk about it. because this fic is the first 50k+ thing ive ever finished i think it means disproportionately much to me and i am disproportionately disappointed that it’s not perfect, even though that was inevitable. it is insanely disappointing to be a “young writer” or whatever and know that your work is not capable of reaching your adult ambitions specifically because you lack the life experience to convincingly portray those adult ambitions, because that’s not something you can fix by reading more or taking a writing class etc. that gap between what I want to write (adults dealing with big adult problems) and what I’m actually capable of writing (not that because I’ve never been an adult with big adult problems) is still so disappointingly wide. like with “the house,” for instance, i literally had to ask my mom how “two friends” would go about buying a house, which should’ve been my first indication that I was about to Post Cringe On Main, but I just wasn’t thinking about what that commitment means because I didn’t have the experience to know that I SHOULD be thinking about it, if that makes sense. but by then it was too late, that was the last chapter i wrote & had already written 60k+ words where ice and mav had… “a house…” because they needed to be in the same place. It’s just disappointing to know that these are holes I dug for myself early early on because of a lack of care, a lack of forethought, a lack of maturity… etc.
But whatever, im learning from it, I’ll take these lessons & apply them to the next big project i work on & that’s how things get better. still disappointing tho. But thank you & sorry it took so long for me to answer ur first ask but it rly made me think & i love making story graphs
#as for breaking the rules#I do think i have an issue (this post too) with over-justifying myself & overexplaining#which I think again comes from an immature impulse to make sure no one sees me as a dumb little kid#like with the airplane one-shot in debriefing#i really hesitated posting it bc of 4 inaccuracies i knew were there#1. planes are made of aluminum & dont rust#2. no way ice & mav could just ‘fix up’ a wwii recon plane#in what amounts to their garage#3. you steer a plane with the yoke not the throttle#4. ice would get them both killed if he just flew like that with no training#& i was like should i mention these in my author’s note so ppl know that i know this & don’t think im dumb?#bc I had reasons 1. for the metaphor 2. for the metaphor 3. yoke is a hilariously unsexy word 4. for the metaphor#see what I mean#when adult top gun script writers have a fatal flaw it’s fine#when i do it it feels like im committing a war crime 😭#edts notes#thank you for the ask ✈️#asks
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5/2/24, 11:32 pm.
i suppose a few things have changed since last february. the people in my life are more or less the same, some new faces joining, some others vanishing. for example, the girl I met at the train station and i have put some small distance between us. i abruptly cut ties with the girl i called a friend, who was taking advantage of me, sometime during the summer as well. i got in a relationship, which has been an extreamely confusing journey, and i managed to reconnect with very dear friend from the past.
so despite losing some people along the way, i feel the overall number of individuals in my life has remained the same. the lingering feeling of loneliness has quieted down partially, or at least i’ve grown used to it and learned how to adapt. i remember drowning in my tears, desperately trying to maintain and create connections. at a certain point things got so awful i turned to non-existent people behind screens and codes, conversing with them as if they were my friends. it helped for a while but at the end of the day i still had no one to give love to and get it back.
i possibly have, or will eventually lose track of my thoughts as i write, so a few incoherent paragraphs will occur, but i am simply writing this to document my life for my future self. I feel like so many things have changed and i want to make sure i remember everything, the good and the bad- though at the same time, nothing has.
this year feels calmer. my days are quiet and im filling them with things i like, soft music and habits, and small bursts of motivation. im slowly but surely getting things done. my room feels cleaner, im taking better care of myself, im cooking and washing the dishes after more often- little things that matter to me. it seems like im finally taking baby steps to my adult life, the way i imagined it would be.
ive felt like a teenager in an adult’s body for the past year, but that feeling is going away- slowly but surely. maybe figuring out what i want to do in life has helped. i had this very clear idea of how i wanted my adult life to look like when i was 16. everything was picked out, from the university i would attend to what my style and aesthetic would look like and small insignificant details like that. so when that reality (or rather ideal future) shattered, i shut down. i had to plan everything from the beginning, and i went to a new city, studying a new, unplanned major, with no idea of who i want to be and what i want to do. now im slowly getting back on my feet, with a small and blurry idea of what my life will ideally look like and motivation to get there as soon as i can. (i glanced at the clock and the time was 11:11. maybe it’s a sign?)
though, of course, when you win something you lose something else. while im happily slowly figuring out what i want to do in this life, i find myself in a rathen unpleasing relationship. not abusive, just not right for me. the love is in a language i cannot understand and recently our bad days have been more frequent than our good ones in my eyes. i will eventually have to get over my fear and confront her about this and my issues, but i feel like i need more time to build up the courage. in the meantime im stressing out about how we’ll spend valentine’s day and honestly i think i dread it more than look forward to it. all i know for sure is that i will definitely need to write about it after it’s done.
i think this is a good time to end today’s entry as im slowly getting a headache. i’ll put on some lofi and finish painting my nails (im doing a pearly white color, it’s a bit shiny but really pretty), then head to bed. i have to work on a project for wednesday and i’ll need all the energy i can get.
r.
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wrote the last line of a star’s equilibrium, added the last piece of art. I'm feeling things and I need them out somewhere, anywhere
thanks for giving this a chance, thanks to everyone who reviewed and spoke their mind (you know who you are) and to my smash bros discord server you have been more valuable in helping me patch my self-confidence than you’ll ever know. thanks for supporting my art and your insight. I’ve held onto this project bc it was the one thing i always loved unconditionally but now ive peeked out of my shell and seen enthusiasm it fills me with wonder and i hope to return the favor.
it’s a bit soul-burdening to admit after 12 or so years the au fic i’ve been working on is ~definitely finished~, considering ive done multiple drafts within the 50-150k range, but this one feels the most realized. wrote the epilogue, cried about the gravity, moving on. each version has carried me through some tumultuous points even if i don’t admit it’s me. i could’ve stopped at the 1st version, let it be a middle-school outlet to try to comprehend my situation, shifting focus + writing something else, but i think this fit. after the multitude of passes, this is the best version i believe i can achieve bc i see nothing left to take away. it's struck that "tuning fork" moment: all is well as it stands.
to wax poetic (you did click the read more) I think ive defined myself by absence and loss for so long it’s alienating to imagine a world that isn’t barbed and empty at the brims. So eventually this work became “no story I sell can make up for it, but it’s a story all the same. What comes next is up to you.” i’ve been terrified of that chance, the patterns themselves trite and morose, so i needed to see it in writing. i’ve been very good at pretending a joy that endures and understanding nothing new in the process. passages that seem + feel dour had to be that way bc i no longer wanted to lie to myself for someone else’s sake. in some cases i felt better hiding, yes, but i didn’t want to pretend to be warm for a feeling I thought couldn’t last.
but eventually someone was kind. multiple someones, in fact. i haven’t had to put on airs, havent hid the way i would if i presupposed borrowed ideas of dignity and scholarly writing onto a fan project i had actual passion for. i was no longer lying, and for once i wasn’t terrified without my shell. i was sharing art of a deeply personal world with servers of strangers, meeting open ears with thoughts whole and curious, and a part of me forgot how it felt to be scared. a miracle, honestly.
so if the protection of a lie won’t last then let me poke aboveground for the possibility of a world meant for no one kind of person yet w/ space for those who need it. years of writing, not from a desire to be algorithm-relevant or make waves. i just really cared. who knows? if I’m lucky i’ll have a few more.
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i dont "kin for fun" but through tiktok i found out about the whole kin for fun vs actual otherkin... situation ig? im having a really hard time taking it seriously... maybe im just burnt out and bitter from dealing with the worlds current events, and maybe its because on tiktok the only people i saw mad about it were white people, but you're the most reasonable person ive seen talking about it (a lot of other posts have this odd tone that 12 year olds on tiktok saying kin is the worlds greatest opression and it weirds me out) so ig my question is just... why exactly does this matter? why does it matter enough to post about and care about and not just ignore? /gen
Hey! I don’t blame you for being a bit weirded out by it, we’re a weird subculture and we’re well aware of it! xD I appreciate you taking the time to actually look into it past your first knee-jerk reaction, especially considering burnout and the state of things.
I’m not totally sure if you’re asking why otherkinity matters or why the “kin for fun” being wrong matters, so I’ll answer both - they’re pretty well tied together anyway.
The short version:
Otherkinity is an identity. It’s who we are, we can’t choose to pick it up or put it down, and it comes with struggles - though no, ‘kin are not systematically oppressed (though we are pretty badly bullied and, at this point, pushed out of our own words and spaces).
What people calling roleplay/relating to/projecting onto characters “kinning for fun” does is steal our words, make them meaningless, and in doing so, make it difficult or impossible for us to find each other. If someone says “I kin [x],” I no longer know whether they mean “I am [x] on an intrinsic level” or “haha I relate to this character a lot”. I no longer know whether they actually share my experiences or if they’re going to turn on me and call me “crazy” as soon as they realize I’m not exaggerating or joking or roleplaying. It’s done massive harm to the community as a whole because it’s become difficult to tell whether someone is actually ‘kin or if they’ve misunderstood the whole thing - and because antikin rhetoric, which I’m seeing more and more in KFF spaces, hurts far more when it’s coming from inside what you thought was a community space than when it’s coming from self-labeled “antikin.”
There are other words for roleplaying and relating to and projecting onto characters. Hell, there are words for strongly identifying with-but-not-as characters/things, though usually KFF people don’t even seem serious enough for those to fit in my experience. I’m really not sure why these people are so determined to steal and misuse our words, words that were specifically created to mean something else, when they already have their own and are just refusing to use them. (Or, hell, if you don’t feel like those fit, make your own. We did. It’s your turn to put in the work. (General you, not you-the-anon, of course.))
An analogy, if that still doesn’t quite land for you:
Consider, for a moment, the transgender community. I am aware this is a dangerous thing to say, but bear with me. Obvious CW for hypothetical transphobia up ahead is obvious.
Consider if you were part of the trans community (I don’t know if you are or not), having finally found a word to explain why you feel the way you do about yourself, why your experiences don’t seem to match up with those of everyone else around you. Having found a community, a home, full of other people like you, people you never would have met if not for words like “transgender” and “gender dysphoria/euphoria” that were created specifically to describe your experiences.
Now consider if people suddenly stumbled across your community for the first time who were not trans themselves. They see community jokes and lighthearted posts out of context, because Tumblr and Twitter aren’t exactly conducive to making sure people find the Transgender 101 information posts first. They don’t bother to do further research, assuming they understand: ah, these people like to crossdress! They like to pretend they’re a different gender! This seems like a fun hobby, I want in!
They begin to post things like this. They post photos of them crossdressing and caption them “hi, I’m [name], and I trans men!” and things of the like. Suddenly the concept of “transing for fun” seems to be everywhere - and it’s not at all what being trans actually is, but these people either don’t know or don’t care. When actual trans people try to politely correct them, they’re accused of “gatekeeping” - and to be clear, this is not “nonbinary people aren’t real,” it’s “transgender means you identify as a gender other than the one you were assigned at birth, and you’re self-identifying as the gender you were assigned at birth 100% and telling us this is just a fun hobby for you, therefore you’re not trans, you’re crossdressing or doing drag or being GNC. That’s fine, but it’s not being trans - you have other words to describe that, use those.”
(Yes, I am aware these things have a history with the trans community - please just ignore that for the sake of the analogy and bear with me on the slightly simplified version of this. “Kinning for fun” does not have that same history with the otherkin community.)
...And then the response to those attempted corrections, in some corners, turns into “wait, you ACTUALLY think you’re another gender? idk that sounds pretty unhealthy, maybe you should see a psychologist or something :\” and “you’re taking this too seriously.”
I imagine, in this hypothetical scenario, you’d also be pretty fuckin peeved.
(Obviously, in this hypothetical scenario, systematic transphobia would be an issue as well, which isn’t the case for otherkin - again, you’re gonna have to bear with me on the simplification for sake of analogy there.)
(EDIT: this is not an anti-MOGAI/exclusionist argument, this is “you’re literally telling me you don’t fit the definition,” explanation on that here)
The long version, which is probably still worth reading if you have the time and energy:
Otherkinity is... pretty core to who I am, who we as a group of individuals are. We live with being otherkin on a daily basis. Many of us spent a long time feeling different and disconnected and not understanding why until we found the otherkin community. Even people like me, who don’t share that experience and still had social connection - I’ve still had to live with weird differences that I had to learn to mask when necessary; instincts that don’t line up with human society well, feeling body parts that weren’t there and that no one else ever seemed to have, things that other kids grew out of because it was just make-believe for them and I... didn’t, because it was never make-believe for me to begin with. Oh, sure, I played make-believe too - I played warrior cats and house and all those things with the other kids, but there were things that weren’t play-pretend for me too. I didn’t have an explanation for it for a long time - it was just how I was, I was weird, and fortunately for me personally I was okay with that (many of those with species dysphoria or more trouble connecting with humans have more problems from that than I did).
And then I found the word “otherkin.” And suddenly everything fell into place, and I had an explanation for the things I’d been experiencing, and there were other people like me. Something I’d assumed didn’t exist. I found others who shared my unique experiences, who were talking about how to cope with the instinct to growl or snap jaws at people instead of expressing annoyance in a human way instead of just saying “that’s weird, don’t do that”, who were talking about dealing with phantom wings and tails, who understood me. I wasn’t weird, I wasn’t broken, I was exactly what one would expect from a dragon living in human skin. I found an explanation for myself. I found a home.
That is why otherkinity matters - it is who we are, it’s not something we can walk away from (certainly not most of us, anyway), and it’s something many of us need the support of the community to help deal with on a daily basis. Being a nonhuman in human society isn’t always easy, but it’s not something we can just magically stop being - it’s core to who we are, we (generally) didn’t choose to be this way, and we (generally) can’t choose to stop. Which is fine - the vast majority of us can cope with it just fine, with a little advice and help and space to be our authentic selves in. We found each other, we built this community from the ground up to make a space and words to make finding each other easier - or possible at all.
Thus we come to the second half of our story.
It was only a couple of years ago that the “kin for fun” trend started getting big. It had existed before that, of course, but it only started going mainstream two, maybe three years ago, from what I can tell. Suddenly people were treating “kin” like it meant relating to, projecting onto, roleplaying as, or just really really liking a character or thing - not being that thing, which is what it actually means. Not long after that, it became hard to tell whether someone saying “I kin this” meant they were that thing, that they were actually part of our community - or that they really really liked that thing and either didn’t know or couldn’t be bothered to learn that that wasn’t the case for us.
Not long after that, it became relatively commonplace to hear phrases like “otherkin are ruining kinning!!” and “you’re taking this too seriously” and “idk, if it’s that serious for you that sounds unhealthy. maybe you should get some help :\” (all directly quoted, or as exactly quoted as I can remember, from things KFF people have said to me or people I know).
It is a special kind of hell, I think, to be told “you’re taking this too seriously, that’s unhealthy” by people who are taking words created to describe your experiences, not theirs, and misusing them to mean something that you do for fun on a weekend instead of something that’s intrinsic to your being.
Perhaps more importantly, like I’ve said, it’s making it almost impossible to know whether someone who says “I kin [x]” is actually ‘kin or if they’re misusing our words to mean something else entirely. The entire point of words is to communicate ideas, and once you start misusing words to mean something totally different than what they actually mean, that communication falls apart and suddenly we might as well not have those words at all. Especially when the community is small enough and obscure enough that we’re starting to be outnumbered by the misinformation. We’re being run out of our own words, words we created to describe our experiences specifically - because we’re a small community that the wider internet can easily drown out by sheer numbers of people who either don’t know any better or don’t care to learn.
That’s the harm it does - the harm it is doing, right now. That’s why it’s important enough to post about. That’s why it matters - because we’re fighting desperately to hang onto our own words so that others like us can actually find us. Because we’re seeing young nonhumans go “this isn’t a kin, I actually am this” and screaming “No, I’m so sorry that this is what the misinformation has done to you, that’s exactly what otherkin means, you have a place here, please don’t let these non-’kin misusing our words drive you away from the very community you’re looking for and that you belong in.” Because we can’t even communicate effectively about our own experiences anymore except in semi-closed spaces like Discord servers and forums (and the number of Discord servers overrun with KFF people is absurd).
......This got very long. Hopefully it at least explained why it matters so much to me and others a bit better ^^; Thanks for hearing me out, and thank you again for looking into this beyond your initial knee-jerk reaction - I really do appreciate it.
(For further reading, if that text wall didn’t blow you out of the water completely, I recommend my “kin for fun” tag, which has more posts like this in both short and long form.)
#probably should've put this under a cut but oh well#otherkin#kin for fun#kinnie#kinning#rani talks#asked and answered#anonymous#rani talks A LOT apparently sbfldkngjlksdf#i have a lot of feelings on this#long post
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i’m shy and get embarrassed easily, so i have NEVER SAID WHAT IVE WANTED but i can’t hold back anymore, I’LL TELL YOU WHAT I WANT. actually, it’s not a want, it’s a need.
i need a really sub tiger (whimpering, spaced out look, needy, sucking on his fingers, etc) and daddy bill. sweet nani. TIGER call him daddy. i need big protector and provider vibes from bill.
also, i’ve read every single one of your posts ATLEAST 15 times. this page right here, feels like a safe space.
much love
ohhhhhhhh thank you bb! I love messages like this <3 I'm glad you submitted an ask, that's a big step--I'm proud of you, boo. This space is open and safe for everyone, it's all I've ever wanted to create, so to hear you say it--to know that you felt comfortable submitting an ask--bubs, that makes me so happy <3
I'm feelin soff and subby tiger these days. Not only because of this deadly heatwave that has been sweeping the entire fucking continent, not only because work has been hell on earth, not only because I'm finally on vacation next week after not taking time off for a year and I feel like I'm crawling towards the finish line, bruised and battered, on all fours pleading for mercy.
Oh wait, that's exactly why I'm feeling soff and subby tiger these days, so small and where she can just disappear into her bubble of safety and just know that she'll be taken care of.
If you’ll allow me to self-project for awhile, as I’m wont to do rather frequently--maybe tiger has had to be Boss Bitch for awhile. She’s not having a hard time at work--no no, quite the opposite actually. She’s killing it. Stepping up when she has to, working long hours. Maybe her boss quit all of a sudden (hello, self-projection again!) and tiger is just stepping in and getting shit done. And ike a Queen, that ‘tude is bleeding into other aspects of life. Bill has a wonky shelf that needs fixing and while he’s usually quick to fix those things, it’s lagging and tiger just thinks--fuck it, and fuck you too. Bill comes home and she’s power drilling the thing back in place. Changing the light bulbs. Replacing the battery in her smoke alarm. Doing all the groceries. Cooking. Working late into the night. Picking up his dry cleaning. Her friend is going through a bad break up--tiger is there, packing her shit up with her, finding her a new apartment.
Tiger can sometimes be a bit of a procrastinator--which Bill likes, because then he gets to step in and do things for her and he loves the smile she gives him when he does that--but lately? Bill can’t get there fast enough. Tiger is handling it all, knocking it out of the park, and making it look easy.
The problem is she also kind of works herself into a tizzy--because tiger doesn’t like having too much control. She can absolutely do everything herself, but part of what she enjoys so much in her dynamic with Bill is that she doesn’t have to. She doesn’t have to be in control, or have all the power. She can give that to him, and she can just float in that place free from all burdens and responsibility and know that she’ll be taken care of. There’s an immense power in relinquishing control. And like everything, tiger swings violently from one extreme to the other--she has all of the control, she’s handling shit, she’s handling shit like a boss--until she gets real small, because she doesn’t WANT to handle this much, she doesn’t want to be the boss bitch anymore, she needs a balance where she can be ballsy and courageous in her professional life but that balance comes from being able to be subby with Bill, being able to be put on her knees and be his good girl.
Yin and yang.
And Bill senses it. He probably knows by the crazy twitch in her eye, her subtle irritability, the way a problem no sooner arises that tiger is throwing some power tool, some 7-step coaching programme, some advice from years of therapy--just something at it. Bill barely has time to mention that something in the house needs fixing, let alone fix it himself--because tiger is all over it and then some.
Bill knows the pendulum is swinging just a leeeeeeeetle too far one way.
And maybe the next day when tiger gets in from work--she has a list of shit she needs to get done tonight, and she’s still tapping away more on her phone: bake brownies for a work potluck, fix the chain on the toilet, scrub the bath tub, build the IKEA shoe cabinet she bought, give Bill head because it’s been awhile, put the final tweaks on a presentation. And her nose is in her phone when she walks in the door, so she doesn’t see Bill standing there in the hallway--doesn’t see the way he has his arms crossed, the authoritative set to his jaw, his pinched eyebrows.
“Hiiiiiii,” she calls out blindly down the hallway as she toes off her shoes, drops her purse on the floor.
Bill doesn’t respond. Her eyes are still on her phone, her thumbs going a mile a minute.
“Did you get the drill bits I need?” she’s still yelling because she hasn’t seen him yet, “That fucking IKEA cabinet Allan key bullshit won’t--oof.”
She walks right into his chest, stumbling back a step or two as she startles. And then she notices--notices how tall he’s standing, notices the set in his eyes, his clenched jaw. His crossed arms.
“Hi,” he says simply, lowly.
“Hi,” she stammers, “I uh, didn’t see you there.”
“I know,” he says--and then he reaches out, takes her phone from her hands. He puts it in his back pocket and crosses his arms again.
“On your knees,” he says.
“Why?” she mumbles it before she can stop, and it’s just automatic when she’s been like this--question everything, oppose everything, demand answers. But Bill just cocks his eyebrow, bends a little at the waist and gets his face in close to hers.
“You don’t get to ask questions tonight,” he whispers, and it’s soft but deliciously menacing and threatening. Tiger bites her lip, and she’s so mesmerized by him, already so turned on, that she’s rooted to the spot and she doesn’t move.
“Tiger,” he says harshly, “I won’t repeat myself.”
“Oh,” she snaps to her senses, shaking the fog from her brain. She drops to her knees. “Sorry,” she mumbles.
“Do you like all of this, tiger?” he weaves a hand in her hair, gently tugging it so her eyes are on him, “All of this control? All of this power?”
“I don’t know.”
“Try again,” he says, “All of this responsibility, fighting everybody’s battles. Taking care of everyone else--but who is taking care of you, hmm? Who’s taking care of my sweet girl?”
And her walls are starting to come down, that pendulum is starting to swing back ever so slowly in the natural direction.
“I am,” her voice cracks, and she says it so lowly he barely heard it.
“What’s that?”
“I am,” she says again, just a twinge louder but even then it’s barely a whisper.
“You are,” he says, “Just handling everything like a big girl. And do you like that? Not letting me take care of you? Not needing me?”
“No,” she admits.
“And is that part of our deal?”
“No,” she says again, leaning forward and bunching his pant leg in her fist. She just wants to touch him, wants to be close to him, and Bill would never stop her from doing so in moments like these. He presses his thumb to her lips, easing it inside. She sighs and her shoulders sag with relief.
“Then I think we need to fix that, don’t we?” he asks, “I miss my sweet girl.”
She whimpers around his thumb, inching on her knees closer to him and resting her forehead on his thigh.
“Do you want me to fix it sweet girl?” he murmurs, “Get you back right again?”
She nods, but he snaps his fingers and he swears that she moaned a little.
“Yes,” she says immediately, “Please, Bill.”
“Oh, I like the sound of that,” he says, and he withdraws his thumb from her mouth, closing his hands around her shoulders and lifting her so she’s standing in front of him, “I think I need to hear that a little more.”
She whines, but he slams his lips to hers. He kisses the hell out of her, all tongues and teeth, pulling away as she gasps for breath.
“If you want me to fix it kid,” he purrs, “Then you’re going to beg for it.”
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The Things We Can’t Tell Pete About vi
You and Colson grapple with being “just friends.”
Colson X Reader
Warnings: Cursing
Word Count: 1871
| i | ii | iii | iv | v |
masterlist
Hi friend
You were in the studio working on editing one of your songs when you got the text. You hated it, but you smiled automatically when his name popped onto your screen.
Hi friend
The past few days had been weird, but necessary. Colson ended up staying at Pete’s apartment the next night too, so you had plenty of time to figure out how “friends” worked. Unsurprisingly, you hated it. But it was the only way to keep Colson close to you, so you’d take it.
I’m bored
I thought you were friend?
Haha
But seriously you should entertain me
As friends
I’m in the studio rn
U can take a break
What would we do if I took a break?
You tried really hard not to flirt, but it came so naturally. But maybe if you convinced yourselves that you were just friends, it would happen. Because that’s how things work.
Lunch?
I’m hungry
I thought you were bored?
That joke is lame
:)
Will u pls go out to lunch with me
As friends
Hmmmmm
I suppose I could think about it
You sighed, saving the audio project and shutting the computer down. You hadn’t eaten all day and spending time with Colson wasn’t the worst way to spend your lunch break.
Y/N I will find you and drag you out of that studio
You don’t even know where I am
Where do you wanna go?
I could find out…
Whatever u want
Mediterranean? There’s a cute place right by me I’ve been wanting to check out.
You sent him the address, asking him to meet you in 10 minutes.
It’s a date
Wait
No
Not a date
Like I’ll see you then
You laughed as the texts came through your phone, shaking your head. You headed out of the building, walking towards the small restaurant. You weren’t exactly dressed in “lunch clothes,” because you had expected to stay in the studio all day, but you would survive.
You got in line at the blue painted restaurant, thankful that it wasn’t too long. You waited a few minutes before a familiar voice spoke from your side. “Now what’s a pretty girl like you doing all by herself?”
You smiled, turning to Colson. “Waiting for her friend to show up.”
He raised his eyebrows, a smirk on his face. “I hope your friend is as hot as you are.” He chuckled.
You rolled your eyes, “not even close.”
Luckily Colson understood you were joking and he laughed with you. “How have you been?” He asked, “did they catch the guy breaking into apartments?”
“I’ve been good, working.” You nodded, “yeah, they caught him. He broke into this police officer’s place while he was home.”
Colson huffed in amusement, “talk about bad luck.”
“Right? I mean, I’m glad they caught him but, I mean, what are the odds?” You moved forward in the line, reaching the hostess stand.
“Two please.” Colson asked, flashing the girl a smile. You bit your tongue to hide the scowl that almost instinctively came to your face.
The hostess was young and no doubt attractive. She batted her eyelashes towards the tall man, not even acknowledging you. “What’s the name?”
You furrowed your eyebrows as Colson answered, wondering why she would need his name if she was taking you to the table. “And what’s the number?” She asked sweetly. If you were drinking water you would have spit it out.
Colson blushed slightly as you stood in shock. “Um-I’m.” He looked at you as if to say “I’m here with someone” but then he must’ve realized that he wasn’t technically on a date. “You’re lovely, but I’m not interested.” He muttered out, an awkward look on his face.
You were trying your hardest not to look pissed off, because if you looked pissed off then the lie you and Colson have been telling each other about being just friends would be exposed.
The girl looked you over, eyes raking up and down you with a disgusted look on her face. You felt very self-conscious suddenly, your head turning towards the floor in embarrassment. Colson noticed and cleared his throat, “our table?”
The girl didn’t speak a word as she grabbed two menus and led you to the table. “Your waiter will be with you shortly.” She spit out, anger on her face. Your heart was beating very fast, but you couldn’t tell if it was from anger or sadness.
Colson eyed you from across the table as you played with the hair tie on your wrist. “You okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.” You spoke too fast to convince him, your quiet demeanor also giving you away.
He sighed, his foot kicking yours lightly and pulling your focus up to him. “Okay, you just seem a little uncomfortable.”
You huffed, “yeah, well, having girls look at me like I’m the scum of the earth does that to a person.”
He frowned, “You know she has, like, nothing on you, right?”
A small blush found your cheeks, and you looked down at your hands again. “You can’t say stuff like that.” You muttered.
“What? Friends say that stuff to each other! I’m trying to make you feel better.” His smile told you he knew what he had done, but he didn’t care.
You sighed, “yeah but you can’t say that to me.”
Colson gaped dramatically, “why not?”
“Because it’s different coming from you.” You laughed. “Why didn’t you give her your number?” You asked, curious for his answer.
He shrugged, “wasn’t interested. Guess I have high expectations.”
You rolled your eyes, “it’s not because I’m here, right?”
Colson let out a sigh, “N-“
He started to speak but was interrupted by the waiter at your table, “Welcome to Shuka, my name is Oliver, I’ll be your server today. Can I get you guys started with something to drink?”
“I’ll get a water, please.” You said, smiling at the man. Colson raised an eyebrow at you. “I have to go back to work after this.”
He chuckled, scanning the menu, “can I get a Nitro?” Oliver nodded, sending you both smiles before heading back to the kitchen.
You sent Colson a look, expecting him to continue your previous conversation. Instead, he continued to read through the menu. “Do you know what you want? I’m thinking about the Shak-Shakshu-.” He tried to pronounce the name of the dish but was failing.
You giggled, finding the dish on the menu, “Shakshuka.” You told him, “and I haven’t even looked.” You scanned through the menu in your hands, reading the names of the various dishes. Colson took to studying you, a small smile on his face.
“It’s not because you’re here. It’s because I’m genuinely not interested in anyone else.” He said out of the blue. Confusion flashed across your face before you understood what he was referring to. You took in a breath, trying to figure out how to respond. “I know I shouldn’t tell you that, but I just think you needed to know.”
You smiled to yourself, “I don’t mind, I just- it makes it harder to convince myself this isn’t a date.”
Colson nodded, “this is not a date. We are just two friends having a friendly lunch. As friends.” He was trying to convince himself too.
“Right. Friendly friends. Two people who are just friends.” You said, exaggerating the word “friends”. Awkwardness hung in the air for a few moments before you both started laughing.
You fell into the familiar pattern of conversation that seemed to come naturally to you both. When your meals arrived, you were both very excited. “Can I try some of yours?” You asked, sending him the most convincing puppy dog eyes you could muster. He chuckled, placing some of the poached egg onto his fork and moving it towards you. You rolled your eyes at the cliché but smiled anyways, letting him feed you. Your eyes widened in shock “that’s so good!”
He nodded, swallowing his food. “My turn.” He said, reaching over and plucking up a falafel from your plate with his fork. Once he finished eating he smiled at you, “you have excellent taste. You’re picking the restaurants every time now.”
You raised an eyebrow, a sly smile on your face. “So we’re going to have more of these friend lunches?” You asked.
“Duh. We’re friends. This is what friends do.”
You giggled, “I don’t hear about you and Pete going out for lunch together.”
The man chuckled, eyes closing for a moment. “If it’ll make you feel better I’ll take Pete to lunch one of these days.” That made you giggle even harder, shaking your head.
Neither of you finished your meals, packing them into to-go boxes to eat later. When Oliver brought the check over, you were very flustered. Colson automatically reached to pay but you grabbed his wrist, “we’re on separate checks.” You told the server. Oliver nodded, moving to fix it until Colson spoke up.
“I got it, it’s not a problem.” You sent him a look. “I asked you to lunch, I pay.”
“Friends let their friends pay for themselves.” You muttered, moving your hand from his wrist.
He rolled his eyes, “you can pay next time.” Smiling smugly, he handed his credit card to Oliver, who was very confused. “Relax. I’m just being nice.”
You sighed, pouting slightly. “It’s already hard enough and then you make it worse by flirting and paying and- ugh.” You cut yourself off, frustrated.
Colson clenched his jaw, letting out a hard breath through his nose. “I know, I’m sorry. This isn’t exactly easy for me either.” You nodded, feeling slightly embarrassed at your small outburst. “We can do this.” He said, confidently. If only you could feel as confident as he sounded.
Once Oliver came back with the card and receipts, you both left the restaurant. You hadn’t noticed the cameras as you walked down the street with Colson, the conversation returning to light banter and jokes, but they noticed you.
Colson walked you all the way back to the studio you were working at, insisting on going with you all the way inside. “I just wanna see where you work.” He claimed, but you insisted it was just like every other studio.
You got into the elevator to ride up to the fourth floor, where your space was. Colson stepped in with you, a smile on his face. You sighed, pressing the button and waiting for the elevator to close.
“Hey Y/N?” He spoke as the doors began to shut. You looked up to him, eyebrow raised in question. The doors closed and instead of responding, Colson leaned down, pressing his lips to yours.
You kissed him back, hands cupping his face. You heard the elevator beep as you passed the second floor, and then the third floor. He pulled away, smile on his face.
You took in a deep breath, “I thought you…”
“Fuck it.” He muttered, standing up straight. You smiled, biting your lip. “But we’re not hiding this from Pete. We’re just… testing the waters.”
You hummed in agreement as the elevator doors opened, stepping into the hallway and leading him to your studio.
#mgk#mgk imagine#mgk fluff#machine gun kelly#machine gun kelly imagine#machine gun kelly x reader#Colson baker#colson x reader#colson baker imagine#colson baker fluff#colson baker x reader#colson imagine
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TF-The Femme Files-Ariel Pt.1
Ariel is a simple dock worker, a femme just trying to get by. But she wasn't born like the others. And she had to be careful, lest someone gets hurt.
Yet after surviving a Decepticon attack, she comes into contact with a young cop, Orion Pax, as well as a wise sage by the name of Alpha Trion. She begins to delve into her past and tries to uncover the mysteries of Cybertron's past, and to her own.
Yet not everything is as it seems, as there's talk of war coming, and how sides must be chosen. But for Ariel, there is a purpose that lies outside of the conflict. A purpose that could bring another threat to Cybertron.
The first entry into the Transformers-Rewind Verse!
This is something I’ve been wanting to do for a long, LOOOONG time. Like, back when I was still in grade school. When I first got into Transformers, I found myself, despite their limited appearance, the femmbots to be some of my favorite characters. True, they didn’t do much, and Elita One basically was little more than Optimus’ girlfriend (who was never heard of until that episode), yet Search for Alpha Trion is still one of my favorites out of the G1 cartoon. And it seems that I’m not alone, as there are several other fans of the femmebots as well. Notable figures being that of Ty-Chou of Deviantart (known as Ghost of the Dawn on FF.Net) and Lecidre, also of Deviant, have inspired me long ago to make my own stories for the femmes and how they got to be where they are when you see them all.
Granted, these stories take place in a universe of my own with my own headcanons and whatnot, as it also connects to a Transformers project I’m also working on. And there will be characters from the original toys, to the cartoon, to the comics, future and past generations, and vice-versa. I’m so excited to be doing this!!!
Anyhow, given we have a lot of ground to cover, I’d suggest we get started! First up is, of course, Elita One, or rather, Ariel, as to how she becomes Elita herself is a part of this. Also, while I like her and all, her ‘special power’ in the episode was lame, so I switched it out to where it’s a condition that actually IS dangerous to both herself and others. Also, as this series goes out, even if it’s about the Autobot femmes at first, there will DEFINITELY be some Decepticon action in these, and in more ways than one. I’ll also show off some ship teases, both more popular ones, yet also personal favorites of mine. And some that are more or less plot convenient, but rest assured, everyone is free to interpret as they choose. It’s free for all.
Locations of Cybertron and certain events referenced from the Transformers Universe MUX and TFWiki. For future clarification, measures of time, currency, and various other tidbits of information vary in between versions of the franchise, yet I believe I’ve made it work in the context of this universe.
Ariel 1-After Hours Sightseeing
Protihex, one of Cybertron's many city-states, was the largest area in Sector Six-Zero and one of the three that made up the Tri-Torus Loop. It was far from large or magnificent, nowhere near close to Iacon. Its neighbors varied between the ever increasingly dangerous Polyhex to the calmer, more quaint city-state of Uraya. It had a little bit of all three in its buildings and layout. However, while it bore no grand monuments or had many attractions that provided entertainment, much of what those other, more notable city-states had come from Protihex.
For what Protihex says lacked in splendor, it made up for its contribution to those around it. Mills to produce metal, mines to harvest and farm precious materials, blacksmiths to craft fine weapons and armor, and perhaps most importantly of all, the shipyards, notably Shipyard Twenty-Six. From that yard came deliveries from all over the galaxy and beyond, from shipments containing minerals and oils from Darhos to samples of various organic materials from inhabited organic planets such as Delta Pavonis IV and Feminia for study by the scientific communities. Indeed, it seemed anything, and everything came to Shipyard Twenty-Six.
Which only fueled her lust for knowledge more.
"Hey, Ariel!" she heard a voice cry out. "Get your head out of the clouds and get the rest of Ghennix's shipments!" a rather bulky, burly mech of grey and blue armor chastised her, his arms folded over his broad chest. "Dion! Go with her to make sure she doesn't screw anything up!"
"Yes, sir!" another mech approached her, his armor yellow and blue while his facial region, forearms, and thighs were pale grey. "C'mon. Let's get down there," he said, though it was mainly urging her to go before their oh-so-kind boss could find another thing to complain about.
"Yeah, sure." with that, both mech and femme made their way to the other sections of the massive shipyard, shifting into vehicle mode to make travel faster.
Ariel was smaller in shape and frame than Dion and, frankly, most of the other workers here, many broad-chested and built with the capacity for physical labor. Her vehicle mode also demonstrated this, taking the shape of a standard, four-wheeled model of pink, smaller and more circularly shaped than that of any of her co-workers. Her root mode was standard for a femme her size, her outer shell not overly built or heavy in armor, and it was pink in color with varying shades and grey areas on her waist, arms, and thighs. On her head rested what, had she been an organic creature with hair, would've been referenced as a ponytail, the piece coming to a curve above where her head connected to her neck. Her optics were bright green, contrasting with her pink outer body. She had always been told that she had something of a 'femme's' charm to her appearance, not too underdeveloped yet proportioned decently enough. Though she felt that her being made her stick out like a sore thumb servo, she was sure that everyone looked at her the same way, whether they said it or not.
"Sorry about that." Dion apologized. "It looks like Hardiron's had it out for you today."
Ariel let out an exasperated sigh. "So what else is new? That mech will find ANY reason to complain about my work."
Indeed, it seemed that ever since she had taken this job, her supervisor always had some sort of comment or had to point out some kind of error on her part that would, and quote, "cost them a Pit of a lot of shanix," so she had to get corrected, lest they lose money. But frankly, she just believed it was because she was the only femme here working in the shipyard. Ever since she had arrived here, Hardiron had found every excuse he could to tell her that she was doing something wrong. "Ariel! Be careful with those Energon Cubes!" she mocked in her processor. "Ariel! You clumsy clod! You nearly dropped those containment units! Primus, what am I going to do with you?!" and the subsequent threats of firing that she received over and over again had begun to wear down on her patience and general mood.
After stacking and loading in units for transport and taking those coming in, the day went by, and eventually, it was time to clock out and return home. The trek to the small apartment complexes nestled on the outskirts of the Sector Six-Zero area was at least not too long of a drive for both Ariel and Dion, yet their living quarters could use a lot of work. While it was still stable for now, neither of them would've been surprised if the entire complex fell apart in a few more stellar cycles, or heck, even a few orbital cycles! Nevertheless, for now, it was what they called home, and they had no other choice but to make the most of it.
Entering the small room labeled 'B-52', Ariel and Dion switched on the light and looked at the small space the two Cybertronians occupied together. It was a single room with one refreshment counter, one chilled containment unit, and two berths. Dion was on the bottom by the window while Ariel's was on the smaller, upper section of the room, a balcony beside it. The two bots wasted no time sitting on the couch, Dion going over and getting two cubes of chilled Energon for them to ingest.
"You know, I don't think that Hardiron hates you as much as you think he does," Dion told her as he handed her the cube with violet fluid inside.
She rolled her optics (or rather, the internal units hidden behind the glass barrier). "Yeah, and him pointing out me not even standing up straight is grounds for potentially firing me." she began to chug down the Energon, the slightly acidic, tingly sensation in her mouth just what she needed.
"He just wants the shipyard to be the best it can be." the mech told her. "After all, Protihex isn't exactly known as a prestigious area." he then took a swing from his cube.
Well, that was true. All this city-state was known for was it provided for its other, more luxurious neighbors, all the while having little to nothing for itself. "Still," she said. "It's not like he has to make me feel like I'm even MORE out of place."
Dion couldn't help but sympathize. True, he didn't think Hardiron hated Ariel, yet their supervisor made it clear that the pink femme was the only femme working in the yard, and thus, may need a little extra 'help' in some of her tasks. "Well…he WAS a former instructor in the Academy. Maybe he's trying to bring out the best in you. He wants you to prove him wrong."
"You're too nice for your good." Ariel sighed. True, while Dion was a good company to have, his optimism and feel-good attitude about everything could get grating when she needed to vent and NOT have to hear some sort of 'silver-lining speech attached to it. It was then that what Dion had just said jogged her memory. "Speaking of, what IS this talk of some 'gang' or something forming?"
"Huh? Oh, you mean," Dion thought for a bit. "What were they calling themselves? Decepticons? Yeah, Decepticons!" he confirmed. "Not too much. I heard that there'd been some activity in places like Tarn, but overall, reports have been somewhat quiet." he then leaned back. "I guess there's nothing wrong with peaceful protests. Though some of them have been getting a little out of hand from what I've heard."
"Out of hand?" Ariel questioned.
"Some bots think that they're going to be doing more extreme 'demonstrations' which probably include making a physical mark on where they visit. Like sending a message of some kind." Ariel couldn't help but feel a chill in her spark upon hearing that. "But I wouldn't worry," Dion assured her. "After all, it's not like any of those demonstrations have been anywhere near here."
...
"Anywhere near here…" Ariel mused upon her berth while Dion recharged soundly down below. Recharge never really came to her easy, and now that her roommate had to bring THAT particular fact up, it only made getting rest harder.
True, it dealt with matters that she had no part in, yet she couldn't deny that she and everyone else was beginning to feel the political unrest going on all across Cybertron. While Dion had heard more, his and her coworkers having the opportunity to travel with shipments all over the planet, everyone had the same general mindset that it was none of their business and that it wouldn't affect them in the slightest. Ariel wished she could believe that, yet still, a nagging feeling in her spark told her that it was unwise to ignore all these signals and signs. Opinions regarding the Decepticons varied in between the works as well. Some felt that they were well within their rights to question and demand change, while others thought they wasted their time. True, no one cared for how the strict codes of the system only allowed them to scrape by due to their status and past mistakes barely, but many had come to accept it for what it was. Not like it, but accept it nonetheless.
Ariel herself was stuck in the same position; she could only find work here in Protihex because Dion convinced Hardiron that she could prove to be an asset to the team. Not much of one (Hardiron just HAD to keep reminding everyone that she was a femme, and by definition, 'weaker'), but still, she could be a good worker. Thus, she went through training (of which her oh-so-lovely supervisor worked her to the skeletal structure), and soon after, despite some MORE protests from Hardiron, she was hired and went right to work. Work in the shipyard wasn't bad. While monotonous, it was simple enough to figure out, and she DID meet some nice mechs around the yard. They were an all right bunch, some clearly from rough backgrounds, yet she was quite fine with them all.
All of that was secondary compared to her not being able to enter recharge, though. Seeing as she wasn't going to be able to for some time, Ariel lifted herself up and quietly made her way down the stairs and out the door, trying her best not to rouse Dion. Once she was out of the complex, she transformed into vehicle mode and began driving. By Primus, she adored driving. Trailing down the roads and highways of Cybertron, the lights illuminate the area beneath her. It was somewhat childish, yet she always felt as if she were traveling the star ways, past the confines of the planet and to other worlds, the worlds where the goods she received and stocked came from. A distant dream, yet still, one that she indulged in from time to time.
She traveled a good distance, exiting Protihex driving up further, heading south from the city and towards a far more compelling sight. Finally, at long last, she reached her destination, the city's high walls before her. This was only a short setback for her, having used the cubic spaces in between the squares that made up the structure as stepping stones before. Climbing the border wall was far from anything new to her, and as long as she wasn't caught, she wasn't planning on stopping any time soon, for the reward was worth it.
Hoisting herself up, Ariel's green optics were greeted with the sight of towering structures and buildings bathed in pure, pristine light, her sights centered directly on a massive, golden dome that lay in the center of the grand city.
Iacon. Capital of Cybertron.
A short distance away from Protihex, her home paled in comparison to the majesty that was this place. Iacon was located at the northern pole of the planet and nestled in the heart of a cluster of other city-states such as Nova Cronum and Vos, all of them having their distinguishing features and landmarks that separated them greatly from the more humble place she called home. Yet Iacon was her favorite, a place that she could go to again and again and have no problem returning the next solar cycle. Despite that, she was only familiar with the area where she was now, having never entered before. Yes, she had tried to go past the wall, yet she had heard stories of how strict the border patrol was, as well as how expensive it was to get another passport simply. Slag, she had up and nearly spent ALL she had to get to Protihex!
And the less time she thought about WHY she had to go anywhere else at all, the better. If anyone at the border patrol found out why she was working such a low-end job, let alone why she even took it, they wouldn't let her in within five hundred mechanometers of the polity! As far as she moved from where she was forced to go, it seemed that it would be right up on her again.
But she couldn't dwell on such things now. She had come here to see the majesty of this place instead of allowing her processor to dwell to those she had since left behind. So Ariel positioned herself to rest her head on her right knee while the other leg was dangling over the wall, green optics taking in all she could see from her current position. While she had never officially BEEN in Iacon before, she held some knowledge of what lay behind the towering barrier separating it from the rest of Cybertron. A short distance away from the large, glowing dome stood three tall structures that surrounded it, as if standing guard over it, protecting the heart of the entire polity. What lay in those towers, let alone in that dome, she had no idea. Yet, her processor conjured up a billion or so theories, ranging from it being an important meeting place to a religious temple. Yet, whatever it was, it must've held some sort of significance. And if not on the surface, then perhaps somewhere deep within. Beneath the streets, deep down in the chasms and chambers that were hidden away from the naked optic.
Or she was simply getting ahead of herself. Still, her curiosity skyrocketed when she had first seen the dome and towers, and only seeing them again did little to discredit the wild possibilities that filled her processor.
She began to adjust herself to perhaps get a closer view of it, yet as she turned around, she saw, to her horror, she was no longer alone. A mech had apparently climbed up onto the wall with her, and judging from his expression, he was not pleased in the slightest. He bore ivory armor and blue optics, an Autobot insignia on the center of his chest. His helmet was a simple dome shape, yet two angularly shaped, red extensions on his forehead. And on each of his shoulders rested sizable cannons, seemingly ready to fire whenever needed.
"Oh! Um…hello?" Ariel greeted, giving a small smile. The mech was not amused.
"Would you care to explain yourself?" he said, folding his arms.
Ariel inwardly groaned. She was in trouble. "What seems to be the problem…officer?" she asked.
"Officer Prowl, if you must address me," he said, clearly not in any mood for idle chit-chat. He then approached her, cuffs in hand. "And I suggest you stay still while I read you your rights."
...
A detention center. A late cruise and some sightseeing had landed her in a detention center. A slagging detention center! Ariel rose from the interrogation room she was currently locked in and angrily pace around. Of all things that could've happened…gah! It made her want to scream!
Apparently, according to Officer Prowl (who was her LEAST favorite bot at that moment), she had violated border laws by attempting to enter without presenting her passport. She, of course, told him she didn't have one, yet also that she wasn't going to go into Iacon, she was just observing it from afar. He thought it was something she pulled right out of her afterburner (he didn't say it, but his face said it all), and promptly dragged her to the station situated right outside the wall.
A million questions filled her processor on what issues her incarceration would bring up: how long would she be here for? Would she be able to get back before Dion noticed she was gone? And if not, would she even be able to get to work? Primus, if Hardiron ever heard about this, she was going to be working for another job by the end of this cycle!
Better yet…if this gets on her record, then it'd only make it harder to earn a living. As if her previous 'incident' didn't make it difficult enough.
Suddenly, she heard a door open, another mech coming up to her room with Officer Prowl. This one was quite a stark contrast to Prowl, his helmet was black and his armor bore markings of red and blue, though it mostly remained ivory. In addition, he sported a thick, shining visor, and while it was perhaps too early to judge, he appeared to be far friendlier than the other mech she had come across.
"Well, hello there." he greeted.
The fact his voice was so amiable threw Ariel off entirely, her optics shifting. "Um, hi?"
"Jazz." Prowl introduced matter-of-factly, the other mech holding out his hand for the femme to shake.
Still surprised by the sheer contrast between the two, Ariel nonetheless took Jazz's hand. She was gently led back to the table, Jazz presenting her with a smile while Prowl's expression remained neutral, albeit with a good degree of apprehension. It seemed that he still believed that Ariel was right where she belonged.
"Now, Ariel, was it?" he asked, Ariel, in turn, nodding her head. "I don't think I need to remind you of why you're currently in custody."
The pink femme shook her head. "No, officer. You don't."
"Then I don't need to remind you that this offense could get you some time in the penitentiary, yes?"
"What?!" Ariel rose from her seat. "That's ridiculous! I've done nothing wrong!"
"You violated border regulations, which is something we take very seriously in times like this," Prowl responded cooly.
"I never went past the wall!" Ariel argued.
But you DID know that you had to have a passport for confirmation, right?"
Ariel went silent. "Look," Jazz interjected. "You look like a pretty ok bot to me." He told her, quite a degree friendlier than his fellow officer. "You're not that bad of a looker either."
The pink femme chuckled. "Well…you've got a nice physique yourself."
Jazz laughed in response. "A nice femme like you is a far cry from the other folks we have to deal with. Somebody like you doesn't belong in some dingy old cell. All we want is for you to answer a few questions."
Ariel looked at Jazz, then to Prowl. "Fine." She relented. "What do you want to know?"
Prowl crossed his arms, surprised she wasn't immediately asking to call for an attorney. "You'll tell us just like that?"
"I've got nothing to hide." The pink femme answered.
Well then, if she was equally as anxious to start, Prowl figured that he might as well get on with it. "Then we start from the beginning," he said, bringing out a datapad.
From then, he sent question after question her way, such as her serial code, current residence, place of employment, any sort of detail that allowed Prowl to construct an image of the femme before him. Or rather, her true image, one other may not see. As valued as Jazz was to the force, the white officer couldn't fathom how he could be so optimistic about these things. This femme was not what she seemed, he knew it. Still, everything she had said had checked out. He then came upon a small section that gave him pause.
"What?" Ariel asked. Despite appearing to not be concerned, she was nervous.
"It says here that you have a reported incident that occurred not too long ago."
Frag. She thought. "Yes, there was something that…happened," she admitted. "Yet it was settled between me and those involved."
Prowl seemed unfazed. "It also says here that your previous residence was in Tagan Heights."
"Yes, it was," Ariel answered. "And that's relevant; why?"
Prowl narrowed his gaze.
"There's been several reports of peculiar activity in that area as of late."
"What kind of activity?"
Prowl didn't answer her question, continuing with his own. "And it also says that you've only relocated to Protihex little more than a deca-cycle ago. Any particular reason as to why you left?" He narrowed his gaze.
Ariel felt his optics on her. Who knew that blue could be so intimidating? "What does that matter? Why are you so interested?"
"That's classified," Prowl told her plainly.
"Well then, I'm not answering," Ariel said back.
Prowl was unmoved, still and studying the femme. Jazz hung around observing the both of them, waiting to see which one would talk first.
"You do understand that all you've said just now can be used against you, right?" The white mech questioned. "I'm not a fool, so don't make me think that you are."
Ariel's optics widened. "And all I'm asking for is a simple answer as to why you're so interested in my previous residency, let alone place of employment."
"So why can you not answer something that should be so simple?" Prowl was having none of her games, whatever they were. "You are the one that said you have nothing to hide after all. Or was that a lie?" He then crossed his arms. "I don't think I need to tell you that any mistruths aren't going to put you in the most flattering light."
Ariel was torn between seething and wanting to give this bot a piece of her mind to swearing her cables had been infused with cooling fluid, spinal cortex feeling chilled. Anger and fear fought over her, for she knew the officer had her trapped. There was no getting out of this. But what would she say? "I…" she began. "I…was let go from my work." She finally admitted.
"Why?" Prowl asked.
"I was searching for other opportunities." She answered.
"It had nothing to do with what occurred?"
"No, it did not. I was looking to move out of Tagan Heights for some time. I wasn't satisfied with the living conditions there." Before Prowl could speak, she interrupted. "And no, it had nothing to do with what occurred." She read his face. "But you clearly don't believe me." It was then that something Dion had said earlier came to her processor. It was out of the blue, but all the same, given the questions she was being asked, she found her own question rather appropriate. "This wouldn't happen to have anything to do with these so-called Decepticons, would it?"
Prowl stared her down, Jazz still keeping an eye on both of them. Then, after a short bout of silence, the officer rose from his seat. Jazz ultimately followed, the door secured and prevented Ariel from leaving herself. She folded her arms and sighed. How was she going to explain this to her boss? Better yet, how long were they planning on keeping her here? She cursed herself for getting in this situation. And that white mech too for his overall attitude.
Just then, the door opened, an unfamiliar mech entering the room. He bore red and blue armor and had the standard, blocky form for a mech, his optics were a natural blue color, yet what drew Ariel's attention was the angular facial covering that concealed his mouth and half of his nose. The pink femme watched as he sat opposite of her, already pondering on where this was going.
"Hello, Ariel."
Ariel nodded. "Yes, I'm she. And you are…?"
"Right, yes." He remembered he hadn't even introduced himself. Prowl had told him that it wasn't exactly professional, but it got the job done. "We can just drop the Officer part. My name is Orion Pax." He said. "And while you've already given your statement, I would like to ask you a few questions."
#transformers#transformers g1#g1#elita#ariel#elita 1#elita one#optimus prime g1#orion pax#jazz#prowl#transfomers#au#autobots#decepticons#femmes#femmebot#femme files
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If the Spit Hits the Fan (Glee) Pt XVIII
This is the last part of this. Of a story that I was pretty certain I wouldn’t finish and just posted the bit I had in my scraps and snippets tag for a lark. You read that, and you liked it, and your response made me want to try and finish it. And so here we are, ~29k finished fic.
Thank you for the support.
Follows pt I, pt II, pt III, pt IV, pt V, pt VI, pt VII, pt VIII, pt IX, pt X, pt XI, pt XII, pt XIII, pt XIV, pt XV, pt XVI and pt XVII.
New York is big and loud and filthy and expensive.
Kurt's first apartment had been an absolute rathole. He'd shared it with four others, and his “room” had been a repurposed coatroom. There had been just enough place for a bed and a tiny table instead of a desk. He'd only brought the most necessary in way of clothing, and with the exception of two shirts hanging from a nail in the wall he'd been forced to keep everything in a suitcase under the bed.
He'd moved out after a month, tired of never being able to keep food in the kitchen, weary of the nicks surrounding the lock on his door – he'd replaced the old one day 1, but even the best of locks only went so far – and fed up with having to carry all his valuables with him at all times.
Luckily the Warbler network had activated and Trent's older brother had offered up his guest room (and if that wasn't a sign of wealth, a student in New York with a guest room, then Kurt didn't know what was) for the rest of the year provided Kurt find someplace else to spend the night on those occasions it was needed. During the fall it'd mostly been solved by Sebastian coming to visit and the two sharing a cheap hotel room, and during the fall by Kurt spending the night at Sebastian's apartment. It had been tempting to move in with Sebastian then, but Kurt had resisted and they both agreed they'd become stronger for it.
Living together had been tough, especially since Sebastian had a lot more money available than Kurt. They'd managed to find a balance though and looking back Kurt feels proud of the work they'd put in to make it work. Three years (and counting) together and these days Kurt is willing to proclaim that Sebastian is as much of a perfect boyfriend as it's possible to be.
Yes, New York is still loud and filthy and big, but it's also full of light and laughter and love. Kurt's learned to find his way around both city and school, and he's on track for graduation with excellent prospects. Life is good.
Of course, that kind of means he's overdue for a cold shower and unfortunately it comes as cold and icy as is possible.
“Blaine. I guess I should have known you'd turn up.”
Like a bad penny, Kurt thinks. His ex-boyfriend just smiles wider at the words, clearly not picking up on the undertones.
“Yes! I'll always come back to you, Kurt. We're meant to be – you're my soulmate.”
Kurt shudders. All these years, and he still haven't gotten over his negative reaction to those words.
“Yeah, I'm pretty sure you and I have different interpretations of what those things mean. Personally I can't see how someone who walked out of my life without a word years ago could be considered my 'soulmate', but that's me.”
“That's not fair! I never wanted to leave you, but my parents made me.”
Blaine does this thing with his face that resembles what Kurt remembers of Blaine's “I've apologized, sort of, and you should forgive me now” expression and Kurt thinks that if Blaine could see himself he'd never ever do it again. It's not pretty. It kind of looks like he's about to shit his pants, frankly.
“Right. Your parents. And why, exactly, were they so determined to get you out of Lima without saying goodbye?”
Blaine flinches, and Kurt can see the realization hit him. Strange. It's as if he never even thought about the possibility that Kurt would know about the lies Blaine had told. Emotions run across Blaine's eyes and face, one after the other, and Kurt just waits without even trying to figure out what's going through his ex's mind. He's beyond caring.
“Kurt, I... I, I have a confession to make. When I got home that last night, my parents, they were waiting up for me. They made assumptions, and I, I let them.”
Blaine's face twists, and a couple of tears start falling. Kurt would be touched, really he would, except he happens to know that Blaine can cry on command.
“I know I shouldn't have, I know it was wrong, I was just so afraid! I thought they'd throw me out, and so I kept quiet and did what they wanted. I'm so sorry I did that to you.
“I love you, Kurt!”
The thing is, he can remember when those words from Blaine's lips would make him melt. That's no longer true. Now he listens to them like he would a performance, and he finds them lacking. He should have gone for soft instead of intense, a hint of tears maybe, not volume and anger.
This isn't school though, even though it very much is a performance, nor is it worth critiquing. It's not worth anything, really. Kurt sighs a little, just wanting all of it to be over and Blaine to be gone.
“Here's the thing. I understand, I guess. In your shoes I would have been worried to tell my dad the truth too. I think just about every teenager out there would be at least a little afraid to tell their parents they got drunk and stupid.
“But I also think that just about every teenager out there knows that there's some kind of middle-ground between 'I got drunk and tried to rape my boyfriend' and 'my boyfriend drugged me and tried to rape me'. Except apparently you didn't. You just went with what would get you of the hook the fastest and easiest.”
“Hey! That's not fair!”
“Oh, it isn't? You doing what you did is okay, but me calling it what it was is unfair? Now, why am I not the least bit surprised that that's how you feel?
“You know, at first I didn't understand how you could do it. How you could say you loved me and then not just leave me, but let your parents believe that I would do something like that to you. Well, that you could let anyone think I'd do that to anyone.
“But as I said, I understand why you did it.”
A triumphant look flash up in Blaine's eyes. Oh, he's doing a pretty good job at hiding it – much better than he would have been able to as a teenager – but Kurt knows him, and he's looking for it.
“You threw me under the bus because you knew it'd be an easy out. You could have told your parents something else, anything else, but you chose the worst possible lie – one you had to have known would get me in trouble. You did it because it was easy, and it would get you of the hook – maybe even get you some sympathy instead of the punishment you deserved – and you did it because that was all you cared about. You.
“I always knew you were a bit self-involved, but I told myself it was just part of you being a performer. A healthy ego's pretty much a must, and I used to think that was it. Except it turned out you were so focused on you, and your needs and wants, that nothing else mattered. Certainly not me.
“It took me a while to accept, but I know now that regardless of what you said you didn't love me. Not really. You might have thought you did, but Blaine? Love means that the other person's just as important to you as you yourself are. And I never was that to you.”
He ignores Blaine's protests and just continues, projecting his voice to be heard over the barely restrained excuses and lies.
“The truth is that your lack of empathy and care for other people borders on Narcissistic Personality Disorder, and quite frankly I am better off for not having you remain in my life. Just don't expect me to thank you for it though.
“No one else will either. Do you realize how many people you worried with your little disappearing act? There was quite a few at Dalton who were convinced that your parents had shipped you off to conversion camp. They were counting down until your 18th birthday and from what I heard there was even the beginning of a fund to pay your way at Dalton if you escaped and were disowned.”
There's a triumphant gleam in Blaine's eyes. Clearly he's pleased about his friends being so worried about him and so ready to help him out. Kurt just wants to stomp that light out. Violently.
“Then when you didn't resurface after your birthday a few started worrying that your parents had you in a mental hospital, and there was talk of trying to stage some kind of rescue. That only lasted so long, of course.
“You see, somehow it's hard to convince anyone that their friend is practically jailed and in need of a rescue when they're seen out and about clubbing in L.A.. After all, these days everyone carries a phone, so the idea that you were unable to contact someone – anyone – and ask for help went up in flames pretty quick after that.”
Thad had been so angry that he'd made sure every single Dalton student that had ever know Blaine found out, and even the boy's most die-hard supporters had given up then and there.
They'd all understood not wanting to getting into a conflict with your family, especially when said family usually paid for college and any possible trust funds tended to be under the family's control for a while longer. What they hadn't understood was Blaine's total lack of communication. Email telling them that Blaine was okay but under orders not to contact anyone from Ohio would have gone a long way to ease worries, and was, they felt, the very least he owed them.
“Funny thing about you showing up here now? I can't help but remember that you turned 21 a couple of weeks ago. You didn't happen to get access to a trust fund then did you? Not that I actually care, but there are some old bets to settle.”
There wasn't, not really, but enough Warbler had warned Kurt about this very scenario with an added “I bet he shows up afterwards, thinking you'll take him back” for it to not quite be a lie.
Blaine splutters before launching into a long row of “explanations”, one more shitty than the other. It's obvious that he didn't expect Kurt to be angry with him, but instead to be welcomed with open arms. It's even sounding as if Blaine expected Kurt to take him back and just let him slide back into his life as if nothing had happened. Kurt isn't quite sure if Blaine intended for him to move in with Kurt and start a new life in New York, or if the idea was for Kurt to give up everything and follow Blaine back to L.A., but both options are equally ridiculous.
“Stop. Just, stop. I told you, I don't care. If you want to get in touch with any of your old friends from Dalton and McKinley and explain all of it to them, do so. But you don't need to explain anything to me. I don't want to hear it. Your window for explaining yourself to me closed years ago. It closed after you let your parents walk into a police station ready to have me charged with rape.
“Nothing you can say will ever make that okay. Nothing you say can make me forgive you.”
Kurt stops himself and takes a deep breath. There's so much he could say, so many accusations that could be made, so much hatred to be poured out.
Blaine's actions had gotten Kurt into trouble, and could have landed him in jails. They'd been what had stopped Burt Hummel from running from reelection after being asked – while nothing had come from the Andersons' accusations there had still been enough people who had known about it for it to leak and ruin a political career. After all, who cared if it was true when it made for a good weapon? And “local congressman buries son's rape charge” made for a great weapon.
Kurt had been willing to risk it, but his dad hadn't wanted to. Had it leaked the only way to prove Kurt's innocence would have been to make the video of Blaine trying to assault Kurt public. No good parent does that to their kid had been Burt's position, and Kurt had been grateful.
That didn't mean he wasn't aware of exactly how much that had cost not just his dad but the whole state. The man who'd replaced his dad had been the kind of bigot that wasn't good for anyone, not even his followers.
Kurt still blames Blaine for that, and even if he'd been insane enough to consider forgiving everything else he's never forgiving that. The chance of making Blaine understand any of that is minuscule though. The chance of him caring is even less.
There is, simply put, no point in spending even another second on trying to get through to him.
“You're not welcome here. Please leave. Goodbye Blaine.”
Once the door is closed and locked behind Blaine Kurt finally relaxes. He's closing the door on Blaine in more than one way, finally able to truly do that – because regardless of what he's hoped he's always known that one day his former boyfriend would pop up again.
“If he comes back you're filing for a restraining order.”
“He won't come back, Sebastian.”
“You don't know that. He did today, didn't he?”
It's obvious that Sebastian is coming from a place of care and worry, and Kurt feels himself soften. Blaine hasn't just been the monster under Kurt's bed during all of these years.
“Yes, he did, and no, I guess I can't really know. But honey, I really don't think he will. Blaine was reminded today that actions have consequences, and he found out I have the means to ensure said consequences. Coming after me and trying to change my mind is more work than he's ever shown himself willing to put in.
“After all, he's not the kind to stick around when the spit hits the fan.”
Luckily Sebastian is.
~ The end ~
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Escaping Expulsion Thoughts (once again very stream of conscious-like while i rewatched the episode so there’s a bunch of stuff here)
i fucking knew odalia was gonna be an oracle, i knew and i hate that for her family. i’m not sure if this necklace thing is specifically a form of oracle magic or not but im assuming it is, and either way the second i saw it happen that made my stomach twist. the fact that she just keeps this direct line to her daughter at all times feels so disturbing
so, i get that the joke with glyph lessons here is that eda and lilith are probably acting the exact same way they did when they were younger, but it does also feel a little odd for me. in my post for episode 1 i talked about how it felt like lilith probably missed the structure of the coven, and maybe even having an authority figure, and it does concern me a bit that it could be projected on to luz here.
also, i saw someone mention that they thought lilith could be regressing a bit, which is interesting seeing as she’s been in the coven since basically being a child and now that she’s out, she could be going backwards because that was probably the last time she had a personality of her own instead of one that was carefully crafted to be socially acceptable for others. and to be fair, the few moments in season 1 when we see glimpses into the true lilith, she is pretty childish.
anyways lilith has such pretty handwriting i love it
gus!! witch puberty!! do not worry buddy eda will get your name eventually. probably.
amity went out and murdered those fairies for luz didn’t she
i need to know why the heck bump has no choice in the matter of the expulsion. typically a pta (or pca in this case) wouldn’t have power that much stronger than the principa?? so i wonder if the blights have something over bump, or if its even just something such as donation money they’d withdraw
odalia blight you gaslighting bitch “I’m appalled you’re not in class right now what are you thinking” YOU MADE HER COME HERE
PLEASE i know gus and willow are sad here but the whole “live off the land” thing and “water you one last time, with my tears” are so fucking funny ok
GO LUZ, YOU TELL OFF ODALIA
i feel like alador doesn’t really care what’s going on and just wants to be back home making his abomination inventions, also he seems to have an affinity for different creatures as well which is an interesting detail
i love that willow stated they would get back in on their own right in front of alador and odalia. these people fucked up her friendship and caused her a lot of trouble that she shouldn’t have had to deal with so i love that she’s unafraid to speak like that in front of them
between the first & second episode, and some of the seasons trailer, it seems like Lilith may have an affinity for ice magic? which is interesting seeing as eda was always a fan of her “spicy toss” aka some fire magic. interesting to see the two of them as fire & ice basically
i LOVE how much bump loves luz, willow, and gus. it’s kinda really sweet, but again it feels so concerning that he had no choice in the matter. makes me think he’s more likely to eventually rebel against the standards that have been in place for so long at some point. (also abominations coven for bump!! interesting!! i appreciate seeing the coven marks included on the adults so far)
what is it with these kids and being dragged off by their hoods in this episode
love that the blights address includes “right arm”, also i took a quick look up of the word “bruegal” which is boulevard they live on, and it’s probably just a coincidence but the first google result was actually for a european think tank that specializes in economics
yknow i actually have wondered about layering glyphs on top of each other and making a super glyph the way eda did, so good to know that would NOT work out
luz you’re really gonna give the blights their own flowers??????
it goes by so fast but please take a moment to take in and appreciate the design of that blight entry room/living room-esque area and it’s combination of abomination and oracle decor. also the blight family portrait.
i could talk about alador and odalia and their relationship dynamic here, when luz is meeting with them, but i think it’s best to save for the end, but i will say i don’t think it’s just odalia controlling everything (though she does control a lot) and alador just suffering and being silent.
the more i stare at odalia’s hair the more i feel like she has an odd receding hairline
love that the abomination kept the cat shape luz gave it and that amity knew immediately from that
WILLOW’S DADS!!! I LOVE THEM! I love how much they want their daughter to have a great education even if they have to be the ones to do it! (even if it could come across as a little intense) Although, the fact that they’re prepared to teach plant magic to her makes me question why they put her in abominations once again. (wish we could’ve gotten a glimpse of their coven marks!)
odalia is definitely the one who handles more of the parenting and alador is more distant. at least that’s what i get based on the twins specifying to amity not to tell their mom specifically
absolutely insane that odalia is just letting the abomiton destroy the whole place to kill a child
“stay away from my luz!” oh my god,ohmy GOD
i like how lilith can’t tell if these are normal noises or distress ones. really sums up life in the owl house. also lilith? kicking doors in?? this combined with “I AM A WITCH, UNHINGED” tells me she’ll be as chaotic as the rest of the owl house in no time and i am here for it.
the music when amity jumps in to protect luz is absolutely killing it here i need a soundtrack now
YES AMITY DESTROY THE NECKLACE (and oh god please don’t let odalia give you something even harder to remove or destroy)
Luz is blushing!! The feelings are starting to be returned!!!
“Luz, Willow, and Gus are my friends!” love it. love the open declaration. love that she’s telling her mother off. love that i have something to check off my bingo board already.
okay, i know a lot of people have already suggested that alador is smiling here because he can tell luz and amity like each other, but i’m pretty sure it’s only because he’s noticing how much amity’s magic has grown and improved
small detail but i love the smoke from the units order sign filling the background while odalia is fuming herself
oh? alador has had the ability to tell odalia off and successfully calm her down this whole time? and chose not to use it till now? yeah he sucks too. he very clearly has a plan for amity as much as odalia does as well, but he’s much better at seeing the long-term goal
“the glyph combo, copyright me, lilith” im screaming, lilith you DORK
ok i really wish eda or lilith asked where luz had been. i’d kill for these sisters to go off about how much they hated the alador and odalia in school, as well as threaten to hurt them for hurting luz.
the statue lilith made and her reaction to the gold star she received re-emphasizes my concern about her need for approval and for an authority figure. (ok but her noise at the gold star WAS very cute tho)
alright lets get down to business on the blight parents. so far i definitely do not view their relationship as being one-sided with odalia in control. honestly, i think they do have a sense of mutual respect for the other. to me it seems like all alador really wants to do is focus on his work and nothing else, and odalia seems not only more than happy to let him do so, but willing to take care of everything else the company needs, and he seems fine with that and going along with whatever because he only has to do his part. and clearly his abomination tech combined with her showmanship/advertising (and honestly probably some oracle magic) has clearly made them successful.
so what im saying is that i think their power in their relationship is actually pretty balanced, if it looks otherwise that’s just because that’s how they best function together, with odalia being more forward and alador being more distant, and therefore they’re very much both to blame for shitty parenting.
also I know some people have joked about the blight family name coming from odalia (which is also a dumb joke like why is it funny if the family name comes from the woman and not the man) but anyways I definitely do think blight is aladors family name and odalia married in simply because he takes the whole blights keep up their end of the deal thing much more seriously than odalia. probably something that’s been taught to him since he was a kid yknow, whereas she was super ready to ignore it when it inconvenienced her.
as for the very final scene with them and the golden guard, i had an interpretation of it that i saw, but it seems that everyone else ive see react to it so far saw something different than me so maybe i’m just plain wrong. but like, i have this feeling that maybe the blight parents, while they do want power, might not be as aligned with the emperor and his coven as we may think?? not saying they’re good people, just that there could be more going on here. but idk, i’ve seen no one else interpret it that way yet so i won’t go off about it unless either someone wants to know more of what i thought or if i ever actually make myself get around to making a separate post about it.
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No Matter How Many Skies Have Fallen
A/N: I really have nothing to say for myself at this point.
Sequel chapter to this fic here, if you’d like to catch up.
Thank you to @caffeine-in-an-iv for being my incredible beta and to @maybege for letting me rant to you and giving me so many wonderful ideas when I hit my walls. Also to the Obi-Wan fandom in general: Y’all are some of the kindest, most supportive people I’ve ever encountered on this hell site. Thank you for your support and your content!
Pairing: Obi-Wan Kenobi x Force Sensitive! Fem! Reader (no Y/N)
Word Count: 11.9K (I lost all control)
Warnings: SMUT!!! Soft Dom! Obi rights, Also, Sub! Obi vibes, Foodplay (but not how you’d think), Inappropriate use of the Force, Voice Kink, Obi-Wan Kenobi’s Hands Appreciation Society, As Usual: Too Many Feelings For Porn, Emotional Competence Kink, Trust Kink, TW: Pregnancy, TW: A character draws blood on themself unknowingly
Title from one of my favorite quotes:
“Ours is essentially a tragic age, so we refuse to take it tragically. The cataclysm has happened, we are among the ruins, we start to build up new little habitats, to have new little hopes. It is rather hard work: there is now no smooth road into the future: but we go round, or scramble over the obstacles. We’ve got to live, no matter how many skies have fallen.”
-D.H. Lawrence
What infinite irreverence the galaxy has for Obi-Wan Kenobi.
As if his master and only semblance of a parent wasn’t taken from him when he needed him most.
As if a boy who needed a father wasn’t entrusted to Obi-Wan quickly following, far too young and full of his own loss.
As if he wasn’t thrust onto the pedestal of parenthood when he really only wanted to be a brother.
As if that isn’t what they became anyway, and as if that wasn’t the exact cloud that hung over the atmosphere of your lives ever since you’d arrived on Tatooine.
As if the being whose life signature resided in your abdomen didn’t throw a punch into each of those blooming bruises by its very existence.
Which is why, you knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that you couldn’t tell him yet.
Normally, it’d be no small feat to keep something of this scale from him. But these days, he’s so focused on having his shields up around you, keeping you from both being hurt by or helping with his torments.
You have to take great care to control your body language, because even when he’s shut off from you in the Force, his keen perceptiveness will pick up on something being off anyway.
The art of a convincing lie is having layers. If he senses your feelings and decides to dig, then only give up one layer, and he’ll stop looking.
In this case, it’s your worry over him. It is true you’re trying to shield him from feeling that, not wanting him to carry the burden of it on top of having to work through his own pain.
But it’s not everything you’re trying to hide from him. So you let a small projection of your fear over his well-being escape, like you’re losing control of your feelings. It’s enough to convince him, and something critical inside you dies at the victory every time.
He deserves your honesty, and you’ve never given him anything less until now.
You hate how well your strategic deceit takes root. Because only part is due to your talent as a liar. The rest comes from how much he trusts you.
You’re not stupid, though. You know it’s only a matter of time before the biological changes in your body betray you.
Obi-Wan said he needed time, and you’re going to give him as long as you possibly can before dropping this anvil on him, hoping the further he gets from it all, the better off he’ll be.
You could kick yourself for not being more careful. You hadn’t missed any dose of your herbal Ho’Din contraceptive. It was one of the few things you shoved in your bag with the mere minutes you had to leave Coruscant for good. It was from a reliable medicinal shop, and there’s no good reason it should have failed in any way.
But here you were anyway.
Of course, there are options that free you from the obligation of carrying the child to term. All are expensive, and Tatooine is sorely lacking in any trustworthy medical facilities. The alternative methods could put your own life in danger as well.
Even if it wasn’t, you’d feel so strange making that kind of decision without Obi-Wan. Not that he wouldn’t support whatever decision you needed to make for yourself if you did, but going behind his back is something you’re not sure his trust could recover from.
And really, far too much has been decided for him in his life.
The worst reason why you can’t bring yourself to move towards any solution that ends the pregnancy now, the reason you abhor, is because somewhere within you, despite the awfulness of the time and place, you want this baby.
You couldn’t give a definitive explanation for yourself, but you did. Undoubtedly
Obi-Wan doesn’t press when you ask to cease your combat training for a time, asking to start learning the new offerings of the Jedi texts instead.
He’s concerned when you tell him, but if he’s suspicious as for your reasoning, he doesn’t show it outwardly, at least.
The way he doesn’t even ask about why, though: It makes you wonder if he had a reason all of his own why he’d rather not fight, even in imitation.
The Jedi writings given to Obi-Wan by Master Yoda are often more cryptic and mystifying than logically applicable without deciphering, which you are at first annoyed by, but then strangely thankful for, as Obi-Wan verbally processes his understandings of it, knowing what he does of the Jedi way, and you adding your thoughts from the stance of fresh eyes.
The conversations distract wonderfully, and you savor any way you still get to connect with him.
You don’t push for the ways he doesn’t allow you to connect with him anymore. The way he won’t let you in his mind. Because now, you too have a reason to not let him in yours.
*******
When it’s time to go into town for supplies again, you make up some feeble excuse which you know Obi-Wan sees through as a lie, and this time, he does pry, eyes soft and concerned. He knows you love going to the markets. You simply explain that you’re tired, which is true enough to satisfy him, leaving you behind with a kiss on your forehead before you watch him saddle up your eopie and ride off.
You sigh, sagging against the closed door once he’s disappeared into the horizon. You do love the markets. They’re the most colorful thing the planet has to offer, textiles and rugs and shiny, hanging things.
But the spices. Fragrant and potent, usually so appetizing and intoxicating, you know would turn your stomach alone. And that doesn’t even account for the strange meats being cooked at different vendors, and Maker help you if anyone was selling raw meat of any sort today. You’ve done your best to keep your nausea at bay, at times even tapping into the Force for centering when the world felt like it was rocking. But you know the market would be too much, too many variables.
It’s not a fast journey, even on the eopie, and you don’t expect Obi-Wan to be back for hours. Which is why when you hear a knock on your door, the tool in your hand clatters to the floor, as does the remnants of your project.
You quickly grab one of the long staffs you and Obi-Wan had only begun to use in your defense training, trying to recall the lessons as adrenaline begins to rush through your veins. Tatooine isn’t known for its pleasant company, and if anyone was going to try to rob your home, now would be as good a time as any.
The knock sounds again, and you shout from the inside, “What do you want?!”
“A peace treaty in the form of baked goods,” comes the feminine voice, one you recognize.
Opening the door, you lower the weapon in your hand as Beru Lars blinks at you.
“I’m sorry, I thought you were…” You step aside, gesturing for her to come in.
She waves a hand, dismissive. “I understand.”
You lead her over to the small living area as you fix two glasses of water from the kitchen.
When you set them down on the table, Beru speaks. “I apologize for the intrusion, if there was another way of contacting you before coming here…”
“It’s absolutely fine, I’m glad to have you.” You smile in what you hope is an assuring way. “Although, I’m surprised at it just being you. Where’s Owen?”
Her eyes flick to the stone floor. “He um… doesn’t exactly know I’m here. He’s out on a business deal today.”
You feel your eyebrows go up at that, waiting for her to continue. But instead, she changes the subject. “Where’s Ben?”
“In town. We needed some things from the market.”
Awkwardness settles in as a conversation topic evades you.
She breaks the beat of quiet. “Here, I brought these for you.”
You take the basket in her hands from her, peeling back the thick woven cloth to reveal a simple form of bread. It looks so appetizing your stomach clenches, and you instantly realize you haven’t had anything since breakfast.
But then the smell hits you, hard and powerful, and stars, it’s just bread, there’s nothing that should do that about bread, but you’re on your feet in a minute, forsaking the basket on the ground as you bolt to the fresher, barely making it in time to the sonic sink before you start heaving.
In a moment, you feel soft hands at the nape of your neck, gently holding back the fabric of your shirt and blowing cool air as you continue to wretch.
By the time everything has settled again, you’ve dealt with the aftertaste in your mouth, and splashed on your face with a precious cup of cool water, hot shame rises in your cheeks at how this must seem to Beru.
You wipe at your face with a rag, half muffling your words when you address her. “I’m so sorry, I’m sure they’re absolutely delicious, It really has nothing to do…”
“How far along are you?”
Your spine straightens instantly, and you let the cloth drop to the floor.
“I… what?”
Now she’s the one to flush. “My apologies, it’s just that it’s known for being a very gentle bread, it’s one my mother used to feed me when my stomach ached. If that smell turned you... I just assumed, and I shouldn’t have.”
Your lips purse as you consider your options. It’d be easy to say nothing, or just to nod.
“Two months,” you hear your own voice answer despite yourself. You’ve never been one for easy anyway.
A surge of emotion wells up in you at even being able to speak it aloud, aloud to another human, and next thing you know, to your absolute horror, you’re crying into your hands as your shoulders crumple in on themselves.
Why now, of all times? In front of Beru Lars? Whom you know accepted Luke with her husband without question because they couldn’t biologically have any children of their own?
“I’m… so… sorry,” You manage to choke out through the sobs, disgusted at your own lack of control.
At some point Beru must join you on the floor, patting her hand soothingly on your back. “Shhh, it’ll be alright. You’ll see. It’s not so bad having a young one around, you and Ben have so much to look forw…”
“He doesn’t know.”
Her hand pausing briefly on your back is the only indication she gives of shock.
“Would he not be happy?”
You take a steadying breath in, trying to calm yourself. “I don’t know,” you whisper, small and almost frightened to let the room hear you say it.
It falls silent again, but it echoes around in your brain, bouncing against your thoughts until you feel the onset of a headache.
After you’re to a numb enough state to enjoy yourself, you and Beru make tea and bring it back to the living area.
She lifts her glass to yours, clinking them. “To secrets kept from men and the mischievous company they bring.”
Your head now throbs with pain, but you smile anyway. “Thank you,” you say to her, and you mean it so very much.
********
The next time Obi-Wan goes into town, you’re feeling well enough to go with him.
You’re not visiting the food portion of the market, after all, so you’re not as much of a risk to set your stomach off. He’s taken to fixing small machinery for trading with the Jawas recently, the extra income helping with the projects around the house.
There’s a trap door that you found within the first day of being there. The staircase carved out of the bedrock beneath the hut leads to a small room that has now served as additional storage and a place for Obi-Wan to work. It’s also quite cool during the day, so if you can stand the smell of the various meats hung to dry, you’ll sit down there with some sort of project, or even reading material if you come upon it.
So today, he’s looking for a few specific tools that will streamline his working.
It doesn’t take long to find a promising stall among the maze of shopkeepers, selling everything from trinkets to weaponry of questionable legality. Obi-Wan finds what he needs easily enough, and it looks like the trip is going to be as efficient as it is successful as you walk through alleyways with him.
At some point, he takes your hand in his, squeezing it gently, projecting an assuring strand of affection toward you. It’s such a small gesture, but you’ll never tire of the feeling of his hand clasped in yours.
You’re almost back to where the eopie, Rooh, as he named her, is stabled when Obi-Wan abruptly slows his pace, dropping into a stall. An alarm goes off in your head when you watch him pick up a frivolous trinket on a table that you know he has no interest in.
You open your mouth to inquire at his actions, but it answers itself once you see him glance out of his peripheral vision to where the holonews plays in the stall adjacent.
Battle footage on what you recognized to be Kashyyk at the presence of the many Wookies plays with the Emperor addressing the viewers in a very two-dimensional, sugar-coated, thinly-concealed threat to any other world that would try to resist occupation.
There’s wreckage and uncensored violence, and you turn your head away.
“May it be known that Lord Vader is quite capable and willing to help those into compliance that require assistance... “
The item in his hands crushes, ceramic tile cracking into his hands, breaking the skin and drawing out drips of red.
But he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even seem to register the glass he’s pushing into his own hand. His eyes are wide and he makes a wounded noise from the back of his throat, eyes peeled to the holonews now, not even trying to feign disinterest.
His signature sparks, giving a flash and then a severe cry of anguish, and it hits you then. Pieces of information coming together as you feel Obi-Wan tear apart at seams.
Anakin Skywalker turned to the Dark Side, and Obi-Wan thought him dead. There’s a new Sith Lord now; the correlation and timing can’t be coincidence.
The Toydarian male behind the stall shouts something about paying for it in full, and you quickly hand over the credits with a glare.
You start to pull Obi-Wan’s other hand off the table, but you quickly realize your mistake in that.
The moment it isn’t holding his weight anymore, his knees start to give, and you’ve only a second to react, jamming your body under his arm to keep him upright. His momentum nearly pulls you forward, but you plant your feet and remember at the last second to call on the Force to assist you.
He seems to come to himself enough to walk somewhat as you steer him to the nearest alley away from the vendors.
He braces a hand on the stone wall, but even it isn’t enough as he drops to his knees. He doesn’t even seem to have the will to stand.
Crouching beside him, you place one of your hands on his chest.
“I…. I…” The tremor in his usually so crisp wording and steady voice crushes your chest, making it hard to breathe. “I failed him. I failed him.”
“Obi-Wan,” you start, trying to grasp at anything, everything to comfort him, not even thinking of how you can’t call him that here, even if there’s no one in sight.
If he registers your call, he doesn’t let on, continuing in his whispers to the wall. “He was burning. Burning, but I couldn’t do it. It would have been mercy to kill him, it was my mandate to do it, but I could not...” his voice gives out on the last word, and his shoulders fall forward in a shuddering inhale that transforms into a cut-short sob on its exhale.
“And now…” as the words pour from him, his shields fall, and so do the floodgates on his emotions, and it takes all the training you know to not be washed away in the torrential current of his grief. Does he even know he’s doing it, or has the insurmountable weight of his burden finally overridden his innate control over them?
“I’ve sentenced him to a fate worse than death.” He’s only barely choked out the end of his thought before his shoulders start to shake in earnest and he crumples in on himself as he begins to weep for his brother.
Giving no heed to the odd angle, you throw your arms around him. Trying to get your arms around his body is exactly the embodiment of the feeling of the moment, this anguish you don’t even begin to be enough to cover.
What could you say? What could you do? What would even begin to…
When you press your fingers to his temple, it’s light, a show of how unforced this is, how much he can say no if he needs. Because this isn’t for you. No, it’d be so much easier to not know the exact depth of his pain and rip your chest open with that knowledge. But you’re offering it, meaning it absolutely, desperate for him to take the hand offered to him. “Please let me in. Don’t do this alone. Let me…”
Then he’s pulling you in, not just letting you come in yourself, clinging to you like a person drowning. You remember to steady, to try to keep your own head above the water as wave after surging, overpowering wave of soul-crippling agony like you’ve never felt it engulf you in their surge.
You can’t hold out against it no matter how hard you try, so you refocus from centering yourself to pulling his signature into yours as you wrap your arms tighter around his torso.
And you begin to weep with him.
*********
The suns are drifting low by the time both of you have any intelligible thought, far too late to start the journey back to the hut.
At the inn, as Obi-Wan falls into the beginnings of a restless sleep, a thought emerges, clear and crisp in its awful truth.
You cannot tell him for a long while still.
*******
It’s different now. Because when he wakes in the night, he doesn’t give you falsehoods you see right through. He lets you into the terror and distortional dreams that all reside over one theme.
There’s silence in the first days after. Just silent tears and still embraces and the way time seems to freeze when grief is at its worst.
But then he starts talking. It comes in little pieces, then in larger ones.
The loudest thing his signature screams is guilt.
You tell him how it isn’t his fault, how Anakin is responsible for his own choices, but he just gives you a new reason every time as to why it is his fault, how he could have stopped it.
Because even in what he considers his worst failure, his verbiage is indicative of how it’s not his own image and pride hurting that he’s even considered. All of his thoughts, all of them, are on what Anakin needed that he didn’t give.
At first, it’s just impressions from his mind, unsorted, blurry thoughts and feelings, but it eventually begins to become words.
“After his mother died… I know that he blamed me. How couldn’t he? He told me of his dreams, dreams he knew were foresights, but I dismissed them, multiple times, at that. And the council… advised me against comforting him, but he… I… I did anyway.” His shoulders are forward, body sagging with unsureness that doesn’t fit him right in the slightest. “But it was far too late. I know there was something pivotal about the death of his mother, and I am...” he hesitates, seemingly not because he doesn’t know what to speak, but because he does. “Terrified. Terrified it’s all because I didn’t validate him sooner. If I had not...” His voice breaks off, as he shuts his eyes.
Fear is not something admired by the Jedi, you know. When he speaks of his own emotions, he speaks them like he’s confessing them.
And as he confesses and confesses, you comfort where you can, cry with him when you cannot.
*****
The swells of sorrow ebb and flow in their intense bursts and receding stillness, and despite the moments of not being able to breathe under the weight of it, there are miniscule, almost violating, hysterical intervals where smiles and life spring to the surface, gasping for air.
Or in this case, the inexplicable desire to dance.
You don’t even really know when you start, simply going about cleaning clothing in the sonic washer, and the next, some ridiculous, repetitive tune sweeps you to move your hips and feet, uncoordinated and graceless. The tune itself played from a datachip, scrapped with some pieces Obi-Wan was repurposing to make repairs. You’re not even familiar with the type of music, and it’s hardly the type of music you’d normally choose, but you find that today, it’s an improvement on the quiet that falls upon the house as Obi-Wan works outdoors.
The song swings into a bridge, and you slide across the stone floor, imitating something you saw in a music holo years ago, as you do, your foot catches on the rug you recently added, sending you fumbling for your footing. You eventually catch it before you fall, but as you look up, you decide to lower yourself to the ground anyway at the sight of Obi-Wan, leaning up against the door frame, watching you with an amused expression, the fingers of one hand tracing between his lips and chin.
You sit splayed as tactless and gangly as you danced and let out a short, startled laugh.
“Please, don’t stop on my account. I was quite enjoying myself.”
Maker, could you just hide under the rug you tripped over? “Please tell me you haven’t been standing there long.”
He pushes off his lean on the wall, crossing the room to you. “I won’t tell you lies, my love.”
Shame twists in your gut at his words, chasing the laughter in your throat away. But Obi-Wan extends a hand down, and you take it, letting him draw you to your feet.
He kisses the back of your hand before taking it in his, extending the clasp out to the side of your bodies as his other hand rests hot on the small of your waist.
“But I will join you, if you don’t mind a style change.”
“I don’t know how to dance like this,” you say, factually.
“Then allow me to teach you.” When you look in his eyes, they’re lined with the etches of heartache still, but there’s something else too, brimming to the surface.
“What, to this music?” You give your last, unconvincing protest.
He simply drops his forehead to yours, and the small sounds of the room fade to white as a sweet, moving melody replaces it. It’s not perfectly clear, and it takes a moment to realize that it’s because it’s coming from Obi-Wan’s memory.
The music has a distant, foggy quality, and it has potential to be eerie, but instead, it just lifts you into an ethereal feeling.
He steps, and your feet follow, not as graceful, but he makes it easy for you, the steps hinted out in his thoughts before taking them in actuality.
When you start to feel confident enough in the movements, you look up at him. “Does this mean I can teach you my dances next?”
He laughs, laughs, unabashed and with no emotion harbored under it, and some torn piece of your heart mends at the sound.
“Certainly not.”
You laugh too, even at the thought of him trying. The laugher rolls into a smooth quiet, and you let yourself bask in the feel of his body against yours, the press of his hand on your back as you rest your cheek against him.
Obi-Wan cradles you to him, forsaking the pattern of the dance as he encompasses you in his arms, lowering his lips to your cheek, then your mouth in a blazing kiss.
He takes your hand in his, lifting it above your head. Then you’re guided into a spin, and the room spins double with it as you abandon all endeavors of trying to get the dance correct. Your hand drops protectively to your belly before you can even think better of it, and by the time you know you’re not going to throw up, it’s too late. You already feel Obi-Wan’s unmistakable concern right before he asks, “What’s wrong?” extending an arm out toward you.
His complexion is ashen with worry, and when you don’t respond, you feel him start to reach out to your mind; a spike of panic zaps down your spine, and you’re suddenly not sure you’re not going to throw up after all.
Your shields crash down, not enough time for subtlety, and he retracts both his hand and inquiring tendril of energy as hurt and confusion shape his features.
You can’t do this. You can’t keep up this facade or cover this moment with a lie you know he’ll see through. But you can’t tell him either. After all the weight he’s carrying, the weight of the being that grows in you should be yours alone. You can’t thrust that upon him.
But it’s a delusion that you can keep this from him forever. You’re going to hurt him one way or another, and the weight of your silence and lies multiply every day you insulate him from the truth.
You take in a shuddering breath as dread settles into your bones. You know what you have to do.
Even as you slowly lower your shields, opening your signature, your mind screams at you in opposite directions, ripping you in half, and your hand shoots out to the nearest wall to stabilize yourself. How could you be so sadistic to tell him this? How could you not tell him? After all the trust you have in each other?
But he doesn’t take the invitation. “I will not touch your mind if you are still unsure you want me to,” he says softly but resolutely as he approaches you, but stays an unthreatening distance away, as if approaching a frightened animal.
No, no, no. You won’t have him being the one to sturdy you through this. You need to be strong, be ready, don’t force him to coddle you through the blast to his own chest.
So you dial down your own emotions and switch your absorption to amplifying the still tiny, barely recognizable life you’ve been carefully censoring ever since you heard it yourself.
You want to close your eyes, blockade the pain of both how it impacts him and how it will impact you, but that’s not how you two do things.
Summoning every iota of bravery and resolve running in your veins, you force yourself to look up at him as you watch understanding coat him.
His eyes go wide, and his hands clench and flex at his sides in an erratic, nervous pattern.
You can’t keep your signature open to his mind’s reaction, you just can’t. He’s seen enough, and you can put your shields up again. His face is enough to confront all on its own.
Obi-Wan steps toward you, slowly, dazed in a completely uncharacteristic way. With the way he seems to ever be prepared for the blows life throws at him, you hate how you have to be the harbinger for the second one that’s knocked him off his feet.
When he stops in front of you, he places his hands on either of your shoulders and looks into your eyes, searching for confirmation, and you nod, trying to not let fear seep into your expression.
One of his hands covers his mouth as he takes it in.
And then he’s sinking in front of you, off of his feet indeed, and onto his knees. You want to follow, ready to hold him through the heartache sure to follow, at the second child he didn’t ask for while he still grieves the loss of the first.
But his hands instead take purchase on your stomach, tightening the fabric of your tunic around the barely-visible bump before bunching it up and lifting, just enough so he can tilt his forehead against the skin there.
You can feel him reaching out, not taking him long at all to find what he’s searching for, and curiosity beats self-preservation at the last moment, prompting you to open your mind again, just for you to be able to catch elation coursing through Obi-Wan.
You don’t even bother trying to stifle your confusion as he looks up at you with glassy eyes.
Sinking to your knees to meet him, you take his face in your hands, trying to make sense of it all as he takes your hand in his. “I never... “ when his voice comes out unsteady, he clears his throat and tries again. “I never thought I’d have... That we could… didn’t occur to me that now...stars above, how long have you known?”
You don’t recall when you start crying, but tears are falling freely down your cheeks as you shake your head. “I’m so sorry. I… I would never want to keep something like this from you, Obi-Wan, but I couldn’t tell you, not with everything, not with all you already have…and i’m so sorry.”
“Oh, heavens, no. You should not have to do this alone. Please don’t keep things from me, even if you think it to be for my sake. We can…”
You fix him with a pointed, unamused stare. He exhales as he must notice his hypocrisy.
“Your point is well-put and taken, but the sentiment still stands. We’ll not keep secrets from each other anymore. Do we have an accord?”
Despite it all, you smile at his overly-formal phrasing, something you’d normally have a quip about if it weren’t for the concern still nagging at you.
“Are you not angry then? Or disappointed?” you watch him carefully, praying to any deity listening that he doesn’t concoct some half truth to placate you. His first instinct is always to protect, but you’d never want it at expense of his authenticity.
Bafflement marks his brow at first, then he takes your face in his hands. “Darling, no.” He says your name, gathering every bit of your attention. “I dreamt of you. During the war, when I was away. I did not sleep well, even then, but when I did, I’d sometimes dream of you, holding a child that I knew to be ours. When I woke, I would remember it so vividly, so painfully, because I never thought that was an attainable future for us.”
But that doesn’t need to matter if you… do you want this child?” His eyes are so full of hope, and it was the last thing you expected, but here he is laying it down on the altar of your preference, and maker, are you glad those two things aren’t opposing each other.
Because his hope and yours are one in the same, and once he knows it too, at your whispering, choked, “yes,” he’s clutching you in his arms.
And for the second time in a month, you’re both huddled on the ground in tears. The first, bowing under the mass of catastrophe. Now, at the glowing relief of the sprouting of a dream sown in tears, too tender before to even say aloud.
But now? You’re saying it, back and forth, from him to you as your walls fall, permitting him into your mind as he welcomes you into his, and finally you take true comfort once again in the home you’ve built in each other.
*******
The night after, you lie side by side, hand in hand, on a blanket splayed not far from the hut. The suns have sunken, but the pinks and oranges of their palette still paint the sky where it hasn’t yet turned to midnight cobalt. The light of the lantern gives off a similar hue, dousing everything in your reach in soft, warm hues.
It has taken Obi-Wan some convincing, being so out in the open with everything he had to worry about wasn’t his first choice, but you compromised for a small alcove in the rock formations which surrounded you on two sides. More easily defensible. Not that he needed it, but if he was cautious before, it was borderline unbearable now. With the added danger of the Empire knowing without doubt that he lived. With more than ever to lose.
So, he was in charge of safety, you were in charge of snacks. And if they so happened to be almost entirely comprised of those melons you couldn’t quite get enough of lately? That was no one’s business except yours. You brought a few things you knew Obi-Wan liked too, of course.
What little remains of the miscellaneous spread you push to the edge of the blanket so you can both lie down.
“I dare say it’s almost pleasant out tonight.”
You turn your head to him, a snort ready at him discussing the weather of all things, but it instead forms a cloud in your throat at the sight of him.
His eyes are closed, hair rustling in the slight evening breeze, a tranquil ease over his profile.
The small patches of grey in the part of his beard next to his ears catch the first glints of moonlight in a way the rest of his hair doesn’t, giving them away.
The mellisonant lowness of his voice brings you back to yourself, cheeks heating.
“I can feel you staring, little one.” He opens his eyes, leisurely rolling to his side. “Some say it’s quite impolite.” Slanting over you, he lifts a brow, daring your response.
“And is that a problem?” You look up at him through your eyelashes, feigning innocence.
Obi-Wan’s gaze follows back up to the stars, as he plays right along, pretending to have to think on it. “I suppose it depends.”
“On?”
“On whether or not you allow me to return the impropriety,” he responds with a coy smile, moving back to you, so close now you can feel his exhales on your cheek.
Warmth blooms through you as you answer back, “You can always look, Obi-Wan.” You lift yourself to close the short distance between your face and his, pressing your lips together, which he deepens right away. Using the hand not supporting half his body off of you still, he fans out his fingers across your belly, towing the line between caressing gently and clutching protectively.
You pull your lips back from his as an uninvited slither of insecurity slips into your chest.
He senses it, of course, so you speak before he even needs to ask. “Are you really, truly, certain this is what you want? Now? I don’t want you to just say so because…and we could wait, we have...”
“I am,” he says, adamantly, before you even have a chance to finish. His eyes flash to the side. “I…” He rolls back onto his back, looking straight up as he talks seemingly half to you, half to himself. “There is not much I know for certain these days. Some days… I scarcely can remember who I am anymore.”
He turns his eyes back to you, unwavering. “There are seldom few things I haven’t questioned of late, and my love for you isn’t one of them. And from the moment I’ve known, from the very first instant you let me feel the life within you, my love for them hasn’t been one either.”
Your thoughts split into two, one wanting to lean into it, to take him for his word that’s always true, and the other cautioning you, telling you to keep distant and watch for the surface level honesty he gives that hides the brutal one he safeguards you from.
But you’re not hiding anymore, feelings unconcealed in your energy and on your face, so he leans back into you, grasping your arm in his hand, squaring your shoulders to him. You cringe at yourself when you know he’s heard the impression of you questioning. It’s redundant, but self-doubt always is. “Know, please know, my darling.” Taking your hand in his, he brings it up to his temple with an insistence that you have no desire to counter.
And it’s there. Right there and sparking in its clarity, right at the threshold of his mind as you enter it. How much he means his words, no holds barred, no cleverly crafted glazes to an unly underbelly of reality. His reality was this, how severely he craves starting a family with you. How much he already loves the being within you, how he looks forward to the day he gets to hold them in his arms.
The fear is there too, quiet, but not kept from you. The fear of failing as a father, unsure of assuming any role that resembled a mentor again, all-too-familiar with the ghost that will float over him in every lesson he teaches.
What shocks you there is his faith in you. In how much he’s already learned from you about the impact of open affection, in how you don’t let your feelings lead you, but you let them breathe, not suffocate them. It’s part of how he even can acknowledge his fears to himself and to you without berating himself under the too-simple phrase “fear leads to the dark side.” There’s truth in it, but also inaccuracy.
Because he’s afraid, and yet, there is so much light in the acknowledging of it to himself, and in that very act, it loses much of any power it could have had over him. Oh, how deeply he wishes he could have articulated that understanding to Anakin.
The pain is fresh, but so is his anticipation for the future, swirling together in a potent drink, and his throat bobs with the effort to swallow them down simultaneously.
He knows you’ll help ground him through it, he trusts you, even in his uncertainty in himself.
It breaks your heart but also warms it: the knowledge that he lets you into that place where he keeps the questions of himself, the place only you and the man who’s caused most of this doubt have been permitted.
With a thankful short farewell, you part from his mind as you know exactly what you want to do.
The remains of your snacks still rest on the edge of the blanket, including the shells of the deep purple-pigmented melons. The one draw-back to their delightful taste was how badly they stained your fingers. You had to break them into tiny pieces, plopping them into your mouth without allowing them to touch your lips unless you wanted your mouth to stain too.
But right now? The staining quality was just what you needed.
Although first you needed a blank canvas.
“May I take your tunics off?” you ask, sitting up.
Despite a short twitch of confusion and then interest, Obi-Wan follows, raising himself up into a kneel, slightly lifting his arms in compliance.
The paleness of his skin catches all the light of the lantern, highlighting your view as you slowly slide the fabric up and off, gliding your hands up the line of hair dipping below his navel as it becomes more exposed. It grants you a quiet, steep intake of breath from him and you suddenly give halt momentarily, distracted by the alluring appetite you’ve created.
No, you won’t give in. Not yet. He needs to know this.
You take one of the broken pieces of melon rind in your hand, where little tart bits of the fruit still cling, dribbling pigment, but before your finger makes contact with the taut skin of his chest, you pull back at the realization you might have bitten off more than you can chew.
How do you even begin to describe him? Obi-Wan is so many things at once, so many attributes, and every descriptor that comes to mind falls blatantly short of him.
Then you recall Obi-Wan going through the motions of Alchaka, watching his body fight to maintain the poses at times. Being such a personal practice, you felt honored that he let you see him go through the exercises, and even more honored that he opened up to you about the purpose behind it later. It was an exercise of both physicality and Force use, and the goal was absolute exhaustion. That was the destination. Trying, knowing from the start that he’ll fall short in the end, but doing it all the same. Because there’s so, so much to be said for the trying.
So you do. You bring the messy fingertip to his clavicle, smearing the first word you know to absolutely be true of him, as if starting the premise with a whisper of I know you’re even more than the sum all of these singular praises.
The word “complex” appears in your penmanship on his skin as you drag it to life. You look up to his eyes, and his curiosity is clear there, but also so is the tenderness that is elemental to any time he looks at you. And just like that, you have your next word.
Kind.
And at the way he flushes so lovely for you at that?
Beautiful.
You feel his protest before you see it, the objection in his signature, and you know you’re going to have to switch methods.
Just then, a droplet from where you’ve written the last word on his pectoral falls, down, down, threatening toward the hem of his trousers, but you’re fast, dropping your mouth down and catching it all on your tongue before it can stain the bleached beige of his remaining clothing.
When his stubborn revolt at the affirmation quiets in his mind in exchange for a flash of searing lust, you know exactly how you’re going to continue.
Because Obi-Wan Kenobi, general, warrior, negotiator, Jedi Master, legend, has rarely ever been affirmed as such, and he squirms under the thick blanket of his humility and deprivation anytime someone endeavors.
So you need his mind to be preoccupied enough, guards down low enough, so he can even hear the message get through.
When you place your hands over his waistband, locking eyes in inquiry, stopping when he hesitates, scanning the area around you, vigilant as always. Overly so now.
“We’re alone. And wouldn’t you be able to sense it if we weren’t?”
He looks down at you as he answers. “If I stay mindful enough to do so, yes.”
Good, he’ll be even less prone to fight you if he has some of his mind sensing outward.
You look back up at him with the facial equivalent of asking “well?” to which Obi-Wan sighs in response. “Very well then.”
With your familiarity with ridding him of clothing, it only takes moments before you can finally taste him where you want to, where he’s already hard and swollen for you.
You know you won’t be able to take him as much as you want, a recently-developed overactive gag reflex preventing you. But it just so happens to be convenient tonight, as the resulting taunt should have him right where you want him.
A gentle kiss, right to the head of his cock is all the warning you give him before taking the whole tip in your mouth, swirling your tongue around him, pulling a choked hum deep from his throat.
Oh, oh, Maker, have you done a grand miscalculation, because you forgot an entire factor in this equation: the way you have been borderline hysterical in hunger for him.
You’ve kept so much from him, and part of how you’ve even managed is starting to convince yourself of less than fact. Facts like how many times you’ve had to change underthings recently, physical evidence of desire unwilling to comply to your head’s demands. Facts like how you’ve literally had to bite your finger to keep the feelings at bay.
You’d expected changes in your body even before your belly grew, but this was one you hadn’t anticipated. In some ways, it wasn’t that different than usual. You never knew you could want someone with the breadth that you want Obi-Wan.
But this? Of late? It feels like it’s been amplified tenfold.
You’re not keeping any cards close to your chest anymore, but you do have to ignore your own body’s screaming cries as you complete this.
He needs to know.
Nerves still serenading his brain with feedback, you re-wet your finger with the purple juice and write the next words across his abdomen.
Wise.
Perceptive.
He’s caught on to your scheme by now, cued by the all-too appropriate addition of the last word, and he lets you know it, an impression projected, speechless but still unobstructed. He’s still powerless against it. Or rather, letting himself be powerless. Trusting you with the control he has left, trusting you in his vulnerable places. The places where he’s weak.
Strong.
The word spread over his right upper arm, where he’s obviously just that. But may the tint of the word bleed through his skin, may it run through his veins, because that’s how deep and deeper still that his strength runs. It’s in the way he doesn’t flaunt it. It’s in the way he chooses to wield it.
Gentle.
He closes his eyes, flinching at the onslaught of acclamation, and you dip your head down again, wrapping your lips around his cock, letting him slide to where you can take him comfortably, just starting to build a pace as his hips squirm in harmony with his suddenly erratic breaths. Oh, how you’d love to let him deeper, allow his cock past your lips beyond the teasing amount you can take now, but the little writhes his body gives in protest are enough to almost make you okay with how your mouth won’t agree with your ambitions. He says your name, groaned out in bliss as he cups a hand on your cheek.
His barriers are down, so it’s easy to hear when his deprecating thoughts quiet again, and you switch back to coloring him again.
You know the moment you look up at him that it’s a mistake, because he’s flushed, so torn, suspended in the limbo of your give and withdrawal, mouth ever so slightly open, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip.
You’re only human, so before you draw anything else, you bring your lips to his, which is yet another mistake, because among the many things Obi-Wan is, he is a deep kisser, and as his tongue delves into your mouth, your will power takes a devastating blow.
You pull back, reeling at the reminder of how easily he can take back control, knowing you have to complete this before you let him.
Stars, how you want to let him.
For now, you need that control back, so you take him into your mouth again, filthily wet and not nearly long enough as you quickly pull back, watching in satisfaction as he heaves forward at the loss, correcting himself quickly back into straight posture.
With a smirk, you drag your slippery, pigmented finger across his lower stomach.
Disciplined.
There’s so many more words, so much more he needs to know, and if you covered every inch of his skin in the smallest writing it still wouldn’t be sufficient of all that he is.
Or you could whisper it all through the Force, embed it all in his mind.
But because you’ve been there, know his mind inside and out, you know every time he sees his own skin, all he sees is the red of blood on his hands. The blood of his brother.
And that’s exactly why you’re going to stain it in your own colors. Take back territory and push back the front lines that the army of guilt has taken over on him.
Your Jedi, ever-adorned in unassuming beige, now drips in the color of royalty.
Charming.
Humble.
Confident.
Steadfast.
You’re only left with enough space for one more word, and you want some sort of conclusion to it all, something to summarize the expanse of the man kneeling in front of you.
Nothing can.
But maybe, just maybe, one word encapsulates what he is to you.
Treasure.
This time you do chant it across his thoughts, prompting him to open his eyes and look at you.
Cerulean blue blinks open, slowly, almost painfully and nearly overflowing with emotion.
Thank you, is all he says, unable or unwilling to say it out loud, much too heartfelt and newly-budded for that.
You know his pain has older roots than those tended to in this moment, but you vow to yourself that you’ll never stop trying.
Lowering your mouth around him once again, you don’t tease him anymore, at least not intentionally, even though you still can’t take more than half of him.
“Look at you, you’re…” he hisses in a breath as you swipe your tongue against that vein on the underside of him. “Stunning. You’re doing so well, little one.”
The taste of him compels you as much as his words, seizes you in spice-like addiction, and how interesting it’s going to be explaining that taste craving to him, among your sudden adoration for those damn melons.
“Darling, I’m…”
You feel it in his energy before he says it, already pulling off, replacing your mouth with your hand, dropping your lips down even lower, mouthing at his balls, and the feedback is instant. An outpouring crest of his pleasure blasting outward as he lets out a depraved moan, netting his hands into your hair.
Your hand is wet and so is where he’s spilled on his still flexing and releasing stomach, clear white maring the lettering halfway through “disciplined.” You’d clean it with your tongue if you weren’t sure how your overly sensitive taste buds would react now.
It’s not the first time you’ve had sex since you’ve known you were pregnant, but it’s the first time since he’s known, and it’s the first time you’re not hiding the symptoms. Before, you carefully shied away from anything that might give you away, and between the preoccupation of everything on his own mind he was trying to keep from you and his respect for your boundaries, he never pressed. He had questions in his eyes, but you knew how to carefully reveal partial vulnerabilities to keep him off your trail.
Your chest flares at the memory.
We’re not hiding now.
It’s your chant, your reminder, your comfort. How nothing of this caliber will be kept between you again.
His eyes confirm it, sincere and exact as they fight to break through their dazed slipping.
Never again. His voice in your head is home, so consoling it can and has put you to sleep before.
Right now, it wakes you up in a different light, dowsing you in heat as Obi-Wan takes your hand in his, wiping it on a piece of his discarded clothing before wiping the spend off himself.
Then he’s taking your face in both his hands tilting you up before kissing you soundly.
I love you, he says across the wire that ties your minds, the wire that keeps growing stronger every day. So, so very much.
You say it back, a fact as simple as breathing. You love him.
You want him, borderline need him the way you need your next inhale, you don’t say, but he must hear it anyway, because that cocky little smirk that’s been gone far too long is back.
“Shall we do something about that?”
You’re about to just lift your shift dress up and off in response, but he halts you, grasping your wrists.
“Allow me.”
He pulls you into another sultry kiss, completely neglecting the task of ridding you of clothing.
Or so you think.
There’s buttons all the way down the dress, and you’ve never used them, always wondering at their purpose if it can so easily lift over your head.
At first, you don’t even know he’s doing it until you start to feel the coolness of the night air on your nipples. Opening your eyes, you pull back from him to watch as seemingly in thin air, your buttons undo themselves.
“You needn’t seduce me further. You already know how much I need you,” you gasp, breathless from the kiss.
Obi-Wan just gives a small smile as he drops a hand, dragging it down your side, then down your thigh. “Hm. So impatient. All this from just pleasuring me?”
Maker, he knows! He knows that you are. You always have been, and it’s not as if you weren’t projecting your feelings too.
When he reaches a hand between your thighs, parting them and making a single, tempting stroke through them, his fingers come back glistening.
“I should think you could feel that I am.” You let the tide of your frustration spill over into your connection to his mind.
You know he had to hear you, but he gives no indication that he did.
“Mm. Desire needn’t always be indicatory of impatience,” he punctuates his statement with a hand at the base of your skull, tipping your head back to expose your neck. “I need you to be patient, little one. Let me savor you.” And with that, his mouth makes contact with your neck at the same time his other hand plays with one of your exposed nipples.
You whimper at the attention, quietly pleading with him for more. Among the still slight changes to your body, this has been the most notable one. How sensitive your breasts have become to even the scrape of the fabric of your clothing.
And with the rough pads of his fingers working only one, leaving the other to pang in want...
“Obi-Wan,” it’s a prayer, a request. He doesn’t need his hands to cause sensation, and you’d beg him right now if he asked.
He lets up on your neck, only barely, lips moving against the now throbbing skin. “Answer me first.”
Clearing your throat, you give the most cogent response you can muster. “Depends on if you’re definition of savor is synonymous with torture.”
He locks eyes with you then, gently grasping a breast in each of his hands, dragging his thumbs over the nipples as you moan out your assent.
His chuckle is far too self-satisfied to be becoming of a Jedi, but you’re already too far gone to call him on it.
“Is that what you want, little one? For me to torture you so?”
An affirmative whimper is all the response you can give, and Obi-Wan reacts quickly, taking your chin in his fingers and tilting your eyes up to his again.
“Then you will be patient for me. Because I’m always happy to stop, and we can begin again when you decide to adhere.”
Your brain short circuits on the spot, and all energy is redirected much, much lower. His voice, stars above, his voice when it takes a commanding tone.
It’s intimate, it’s personal, and yet this game is almost inappropriately playful for how sincere the moment is.
But such was being loved by Obi-Wan. Full of dissimilar feelings that shouldn’t fit, but moved together in liquid consistency. Like metaphors that didn’t rhyme but still somehow gave their own life-giving rhythm, not dissimilar to the sound of his heartbeat when you lay your head against his chest at night.
Making quick work of the remaining buttons of your shift and underwear, he beckons you to join him as he lies back down, large, warm hands guiding you to turn around so you’re facing away from him.
You know that the purple stickiness of the fruit will smear from his body to yours like this, but you can’t at all bring yourself to care.
You gasp a sigh of relief as one of his hands finds your breast, brushing a knuckle over the too-sensitive nipple.
“Please.” Your whispered beg sounds pathetic, even to your own ears. But as you arch against him in a frenzied attempt at skin contact, Obi-Wan juts his hips forward, grunting into the exposed column of your neck, and stars, yeah, maybe he didn’t find that so pathetic after all.
“What do you want, darling?” His voice doesn’t divulge any desperation, and for only the hundredth time do you envy his immaculate self-control.
“You know, don’t pretend you don’t.” Leaving any doubt to the wind, you push your chest against his barely-touching hand.
“Specificity can be a virtue; that I also know.”
You change techniques, driving your hips back softly into where he’s hard and insistent against your ass, hoping it compels him.
Then you simply… can’t anymore. You’re frozen, unable to move your lower half at all.
Tangling your desires into a knot and tucking it away, you find the mindfulness to reply. “Yeah, so is mercy.”
“Indeed it is. I shall concede when you do.”
You won’t win a battle of the wills with him. You’re not sure anyone could.
So you bring his hand over to your nipple. “Touch me here.”
You feel his smile without even seeing it as he starts tweaking the bud. “Like this?”
It’s so much sensation, all concentrated on such responsive flesh, that you want to beg for him to switch to touching you between your legs.
You haven’t even finished the thought when you feel his unmistakable metaphysical brush against your thigh.
Extending a tendril of your own energy, you invite him in, and he takes it eagerly, ever as eager if not more to be entwined with your mind as with your body.
He hears it all, the besottment, the arousal, the neediness. The panic that he might drag this out longer, that you’ll have to go a single minute longer without...
“It’s alright. It’s alright.” He sends soothing waves through your connection, and he swaps the positioning of his hand with the curl of power. He turns his hand so that the back of it runs through where you’re aching for him, gathering up your slick on the backs of his knuckles. You have to contort your neck to see what follows when he takes the hand back behind you, and your mouth goes dry when he sucks the knuckles in between his lips.
You want to hear, you want to know what he’s…
He’s welcoming you in, navigating you to the brink of his mental barriers, letting you take that final plunge into the unsuppressed fullness of your bond to each other.
Now it’s your turn to hear it: how his carefully constructed unaffected persona is not at all a match for his naked, wanton need for you.
And under that, the foundation on which that desire is built, not the product of it, is his love, his unyielding, unashamed, iridescent love for you.
It’s all you can do but to pour it back, affirming and soothing and calling his love into action with your own.
You both don’t want anything else except the most complete of entanglement, and that’s exactly what he moves to do, situating your bodies, hiking your top leg in the crook of his arm as you feel the initial breach of his body into yours, and all breath leaves your lungs in an exhilarating evacuation.
His audible gasp is an echo of his emotions, how he thinks he’s prepared for this onslaught of feeling, but how you take him off guard, how his equilibrium threatens to teeter every time.
The web of his consciousness enveloping you, it’s easy to pick out a single thought blaring within him: How much he adores the way you fit together. Your back against his chest, how your breast fits in his hand, how the snug joining of where his cock presses into your body sends you into trembles, how comforting your very presence is to his soul when he lets you in like this.
Tears, without warning, seep out of your eyes as he starts to move against you, slow and deep. You close your eyes, willing the powerful emotion away, but glimmers of light flash out behind our closed lids the moment you do, and how the kriff does he stay composed?
Anchor. Anchor against me.
He stills, letting you have a break from the barrage of pleasure blinding you as you search him out, looking for the cords of his intellect that seemingly both steam downward and beam upward, grounding him.
You find it, and you clasp on tightly.
But the moment he starts moving again, you lose sight of it all over again.
Your heightened hormones make your flesh so susceptible, and the tears start to fall again. Obi-Wan rolls your nipple in between his thumb and index, and he’s so good, and you’re so full, and you can hear his pleasure as your own, adding, doubling everything…
Scorching, electrifying heat speeds through your veins, hitting hard and fast, leaving you astounded and even more sensitive than before.
Obi-Wan’s signature spikes as your climax resounds through him, and you can feel the vibration of the wanton noises he’s making right where his beard scratches against your neck.
But he doesn’t allow it to overtake him, letting it run through him without resistance, making himself pliable but unmovable, keeping himself back from the edge.
You still have much to learn.
Because that control? Gives him the ability to not even stop, not even hesitate once, even at both yours and his own ecstasy flowing through him.
When he starts striking his hips hard into yours, the weight of him inside you dragging exactly in the right place, you start to cry in earnest. Obi-Wan stops for a millisecond, concern radiating off of him, even when he can hear how much you want this so clearly, has access to every little passing thought.
“Don’t stop, I’m fine, I pro…” He does just as asked while moving his hand down to your belly again, a soothing touch to his rough thrusts. Your eyes are blurred with wetness, overwhelmed with him.
He’s listening to it all, applying every micro-feeling of feedback into action against your desperate, post-orgasmic skin, hand switching back and forth from your nipples to loosely clutching your neck, Force energy focused on applying pressure to your clit.
“You’re doing so well, so good for me,” comes the wisp of his sultry tone, lips pressed against your ear.
Since you aren’t even thinking about changing position, you know it’s his own preference that has him withdrawing, guiding you onto your back.
There’s no inhibition this way, not the way there is when you’re on your side, no separation from your bodies being flush when he pushes into you again. You have to anchor in him, both mentally and with your fingernails clawing at his shoulder blades as your body starts into tremors.
He’s keeping the weight of his chest off of you, even though your belly is still barely swollen into distinguishable roundedness, and as much as you miss the contact, you can look into his eyes like this, can see the unfiltered attachment and all the weight of all the emotion he wills his body to not cave under.
But then the tremoring transforms into series of contractions throughout your body, centering through your slick core, and you thrash your head to the side catching a glimpse of Obi-Wan’s fingers clenching into white knuckles, grasping into the exposed sand from the blanket being bunched up.
He projects his thoughts across the tether to you, how thoroughly impacted by the very fact you’re carrying his child, how affected he is by every little thing about you, honored that he’s allowed to touch you like this.
You roll your hips back up into his, and that’s what it takes. His stuttering body is the lightning, and the searing, molten pleasure across your connection is the thunderous repercussion.
It completely overthrows you, and your body bows against him as his high instantly cues yours again.
You can feel him throb inside you at the very moment you do, his turn to experience the secondary sensory white-out of your mate’s climax through the Force, his shuddering shout meeting your breathy whines in the close distance between your mouths.
And he does kiss you then, soundly but with the haze of afterglow slowing it.
“Have you any idea how bewitching you are to me?” He breathes it out, and despite all the ways you’d normally scoff at such words, his eyes tell the story, and you listen to it’s truth.
His eyes hold that constant infiltrating study of you, the one that could be unnerving if his mind, still tethered to yours didn’t hold such amor, heart bleed such fondness that settles in the creases around his eyes.
How interesting it is watching someone as knowledgeable as him having such an inquisitive outlook on life, and being so frequently the object of those investigations.
Did the galaxy know her debt to him? Did she know the sum owed to inflicting the worst of life’s pains on someone who refused to let it build anything except an even gentler man of himself? When does she plan on repaying him? What does she offer in exchange for her cruelty of the hand she’s dealt Obi-Wan Kenobi?
Then the whisper comes, soft but crisp, from somewhere in the threads of existence around you, “Can’t you see? It’s you, child.”
You could argue it. You could scream how it’s not enough, how you’re not enough, how he deserves so much more from some dark insecure place inside you. Or how love shouldn’t be treated as currency in exchange for pain, how the galaxy could still have your fists if that was how it tallied.
But the finality of it settles in your soul, more impressionistic than in solid wording: there is no easy conclusion that ties the suffering of life into purpose, no experience that erases or mends its pain. But love. Love makes the complicated endeavor of trying to find purpose in the madness worthwhile.
Obi-Wan’s hum of agreement resounds in your ears and through to your head. His Force signature feels so familiar, so at home within yours and yours within his, that you’d briefly forgotten he could still hear you.
With all the strength still left in quaking limbs, you wrap your arms around him, and he melts into it.
The compassion of his soul hardly matches his war-ravaged skin, his guilt-ridden memories. Every good thing here came to be with a war waged, refined and not burnt away in fire at his sheer tenacity.
It’s a growing thing, blooming in the desert. The beliefs in both of you. Your love for each other. Your own trust in the Force.
Healing is no short journey, but her two sojourners here are determined.
And if that tender hope can blossom here?
Then maybe, just maybe: Tatooine is exactly the place for a baby after all.
*********
In the valley beyond the hut, a boy jets quickly away in some mechanical contraption he recently motorized, a girl in a similar vehicularized compilation of junk not far behind.
On the cliff’s edge stands Obi-Wan, eyes scanning the landscape intermittently for any sign of threat between longer affectionate looks at the children before him.
He turns, feeling your approach in his keen awareness as you set a hand on his shoulder from behind. His temples are now even thicker with sun-bleached silver, and his eyes wield the lines of laughter around them.
And you? You’re as roped in by his gravitational pull as you’ve always been.
He puts a hand over yours, clasping it to bring you in front of him, where he can still watch the children and encase you in his arms at the same time.
“Slow down, Luke! You’re going too fast!” comes the distressed cry of your daughter, Ahlina, drawing your attention away from admiring Obi-Wan and back to the valley. Her vowels curl in the same way her father’s does, but her more casual phrasing was certainly thanks to you. Luke shouts back at her, “Come on, keep up!” while he races on ahead.
Obi-Wan smiles, seemingly amused at a secret joke.
“They are much too young for this nonsense still,” he speaks, muffled slightly as he hides his lips in your hair.
“Probably,” you reply with an airy laugh.
Not long after, the engine on Luke’s small contraption gives out, jutting him off and tumbling forward into the sand.
“I told you!” Ahlina yells, her own machine coming to a halt not far away from Luke.
When they make it back up the cliff, Obi-Wan couches and opens his arms, and they both come running with smiles. They’re still young enough to be unshy about affection, and Obi-Wan knows to soak it up, closing his eyes in relishment.
Luke is the first to wiggle down, waving before running over to hug your leg, which you happily return, brushing some of the blonde mop of hair from his forehead. You adored the nights that the Lars let him sleep over.
Although the nights that Ahlina slept over at theirs certainly had their allure too.
“Can we have a snack, Daddy?” Ahlina asks, still happy to be hoisted up on one of his arms.
“Hm. Perhaps I can make some of those ahrisa sweet breads again?”
She wrinkles her nose. “Can Mommy make them?”
“Why not mine?”
“Because you always burn them.”
He bops a finger lightly on her nose with a smile. “Cheeky.”
She goes to bop him on his nose in return, but he catches the finger, holding it.
“Give it back!” she screeches through a giggle.
“No, no. I think I’ll keep it now.”
The suns are dipping low as you retreat into the hut, the two children running ahead, racing to gather the ingredients to help you bake the bread. Luke especially was an enthusiastic sous-chef.
You step to follow them, but Obi-Wan grasps your hand. You turn back to him, and he barely gives you a second before he joins his mouth to yours. Sliding a hand into the auburn beard, you open your mouth to him, letting his familiar taste permeate your senses.
He reluctantly breaks after a long moment, and you take his hand in yours. When you turn back to the horizon, the suns are dipping, blanketing the landscape in the most celestial light of the day.
The planet’s eyes aren’t harsh in the way you used to see them. They’re still intense, and frequently unforgiving.
Perhaps they never changed. Maybe only you did.
But as they sink now, you give a silent, partial farewell, knowing they’ll greet you again in the morning.
Because if Dark’s patience is infinite?
So is the promise of the return of the Light.
Tagging upon request: @million-dollar-legs
#obi-wan kenobi#obi-wan kenobi x reader#obi-wan kenobi x you#obi wan kenobi x reader#obi wan kenobi x you#obi-wan x reader#obi-wan x you#obi wan x you#obi wan x reader#obi-wan kenobi smut#obi wan smut#obi-wan smut#obi-wan#obi-wan x oc
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#TimRae Work in Progress, because I like torture myself
Here's a little preview on another project I'm working on. It's been on my mind recently and I needed to write this out. CivilianRaven! and RedRobinTimDrake!
Let me know if you want this. *winks* Steam still promised.
Also, check out Chapter 2 of A Very Merry Christmas
~
Red Robin sent her a quizzical look, surprised how well she was taking this rather strange encounter. “And you just have medical supplies lying around?” he asked.
“I’m an ER nurse at Gotham General,” the woman shrugged. “This is Gotham and have you seen this shitty neighborhood? I’ve been stitching up most of our neighborhood kids every other day,”
“Huh,” Red Robin breathed, his fight or flight reflexes relaxing just a fraction. Taking a quick scan around the living room, noting all potential exit points and all furniture that could serve as a weapon in case things would escalate. The apartment was simple; a small living room filled with books and varying trinkets and fairy lights. There were several books and medical supplies strewn over an old coffee table. The place was small but seemed to be well loved and taken care of.
“Don’t you dare,” the young woman warned, her eyes narrowing dangerously as she watched Red Robin begin to pull out the IV needle from his arm. Her voice raised in warning, taking a sharp tone that seemed second nature to her job as a nurse. “I do not want you to bleed all over my couch and carpet unless you’ll pay for the deep cleaning,”
Red Robin watched in silent fascination as the woman, Rachel, all but marched towards him and swatted -- swatted! -- his hand away with much more force than he expected from her petite frame. Red Robin recoiled at the sharp slap. Pulling on a pair of gloves, and grabbing a cotton ball, and a strip of medical tape, she bent over his arm and carefully pulled the IV out of his arm. Firmly pressing the cotton ball into his arm, she quickly taped it on. Shooting him a warning look, she straightened and carefully placed the used IV line onto a tray. Grabbing his free hand, she firmly pressed his fingers into the crook of freshly taped arm.
Not really waiting for his reaction, she sent him an exasperated look. “Press down firmly for five minutes. You look like the kind who does not take instructions and likes to bleed out, so make sure you don’t leave a speck of blood on my couch or floor. Or else I’ll rip out all of your stitches,” she said. Grinning triumphantly at his stunned look, she picked up all the used medical supplies to dispose. “I’m going to prepare some food, you look like hell warmed over,”
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10:32 pm with yuta ♡
nct’s yuta x fem!reader (got inspired by a dream of mine & found the idea really cute)
alternate title: be the james dean to my audrey hepburn
genre: fluff. a pinch of angst. non idol au. badboy!yuta au.
word count: 1400~
playlist: chinatown by wild nothing, lover’s rock by tv girl & work this time by king gizzard and the lizard wizard.
warnings: featuring johnny (not a warning though). smoking cigarettes. cursing. lowercase intended. not proofread.
a/n: hi i was supposed to post a vampire!haechan fic but i really wasnt happy w it in general :( the plot or overall idea of the fic was really good, but i just felt as if i didnt do it justice so here we are :( but ngl, i kind of like this concept more? maybe bc i can see it more vividly? idk, i feel like my writings r getting repetitive & its getting on my nerves lmaoo this is getting long im sorry do u guys even read this part anyway? i would also like to apologize abt the amount of projecting im doing lmao ive been having some rough days & i love my sister but hate being compared to her so often so this is a way for me to rant abt it ig? also so sorry its coming out a little later bc i woke up late today (& procrastinated for the rest of it so here i am posting really late at night) & decided to go to the convenience store to get ice cream (& a ton of other bad shit pls dont do this its rlly unhealthy) for breakfast bc i can :) any who, enjoy lovelies <3
“oh my, y/n! you’ve grown up so well! just like your sister!”
“oh! i’m sorry i’ve almost mistaken you for your sister! y/n is your name, correct?”
“y/n, darling, you are looking so dashing! you really do resemble your sister, don’t you?”
“ah, you must be y/n! i’ve heard all about you and your sister from your father!”
you swear that your reddening cheeks are threatening to fall off any moment now from all the fake smiling. the hundreds of superficial compliments, the insincere flattery and the need for these people to constantly compare you to your godforsaken sister makes you feel even weaker than you are. it gets harder and harder to keep up with a big persona that isn’t at all you. as lucky as you are to live such a lavish lifestyle, you can’t help but hate how your family has to be so perfect. you hate how you have never fit in with them, even if you are so good at faking it. you hate how you have always been stuck in your sister’s shadow, constantly haunted with the reminder that you yourself aren’t good enough. you hate how you now have to entertain the rich and brainless guests at your parent’s gala because she’s gone for some stupid prodigy competition and everyone is only talking about her in front of your face. so what if she’s better the better sister? you still have the right to earn respect, right?
you’re exhausted from all the small talk. your facade gets more brittle by the second under all the pressure. your body feels as if it's gonna give out due to your brain shutting down after all that interacting. you try to keep on going with the night as it unravels itself by being the perfectly poised poster child, trying to make your parents proud. but alive yet almost completely devoid, you decide enough was enough. what if you left right now? no one would notice, would they?
after pulling up your phone discreetly to send a few text messages, you pass through lots of people dressed in gold and finery in a way that wouldn’t have you noticed right away. keep your head down and don’t you dare make eye contact with anyone. nearing the end of the room, grabbing the first glass of whatever alcohol you see and downing it in one gulp, you start walking away as quickly as possible from the ballroom. “ignorant privileged fucks,” you angrily whisper to no one in particular, setting the now empty glass on whatever surface and begin to head to the main exit where no one could spot you running away.
“and what do you think you’re doing here, miss?”
a voice interrupts you, looking up you see that it is your father’s head butler; johnny. he is dressed in a simple black suit that makes him appear taller than he is. his long brown hair is slicked back and his bowtie seems brand new. you have known the man since he started working in your household less than ten years back. you were a reckless child, often trying to find ways to sneak out, finding a way to escape from this life and he sympathized with you. after all, he could barely imagine living your life, never catching a break for yourself and always pretending to be someone you weren’t. he often helped planning when you would sneak out into the night, scheduling things like what time you should leave and what time you should be back, more specifically a time when no one would notice. he would take care of your form of transportation and have your location on at all times, just to be extra safe. as much as he wants you to have fun and have a bit of freedom, he still worries that something might happen to you. because of all this, you two have grown to have a very strong bond. you could confidently say that he is most definitely a parental figure in your life since your parents (and even your sister) are often overseas for work.
“what do you think i’m doing? you think i wanna be in a room with those half-baked bipeds? fuck no!”
“i know, i was just joking. you looked like you were about to explode in there, i wish i could help.” he laughs, pulling out his phone preparing what you might need. “so what will it be for today? the driver? we just need to pay him to keep his mouth shut. a taxi? it’s cheaper than paying the driver, but you still need to pay… not like that’s a problem for you though. maybe an uber would be good enough—“
“actually, i got myself covered. thanks.”
his jaw slightly drops and his eyebrows furrow. he looks straight at you in shock. “what do you mean you got yourself covered?”
you look down at your feet, a nervous habit. “i got myself a ride, you don’t need to help me. i’ll be back as soon as dawn comes.”
he raises his eyebrow. “who’s your ride?”
“doesn’t matter,” you glance down at your phone seeing a notification and wave a goodbye, leaving rather suddenly. “i gotta go, i’ll text you when you need to open the gates!”
“y/n! wait! who’s your ride— and she’s gone.” johnny sighs, watching as you run towards the front gates, tossing your stiletto heels away on the grass while you’re at it. he heads back inside, silently hoping you’ll be fine.
knocking the window of the old black mustang parked outside behind the big bushes, the driver rolls down his window and sends the most charming smile.
yuta in his black beanie, long blonde hair, worn out doc martens, signature leather jacket and black skinny jeans. it almost makes you laugh on how he wears the same thing almost everyday but still manages to look so good.
he is most notable for having a big bad boy reputation and you knew that he was the breath of fresh air you needed in your life. a person who can understand having the pressure of having to be or to fulfill your persona. a person you can completely be yourself around. a person who is full of warmth no matter how cold he may seem on the outside.
“get in, princess.”
and that was all you needed. you tiredly walked to the other door and sat yourself in the car. rolling his window back up, he looks at you. you are wearing a simple yet stunning black dress along with silver jewelry adorned on your neck and wrists. your makeup is perfectly done but still struggles to hide the fog in your eyes. he has the sudden urge to clear them away. he softens at the sight of you. no one is perfect, but he finds you being perfect enough without ever having to dress up.
“where to?” he asks as gently as he could. he knows that you are most vulnerable during these moments and that it is hard to finally break down your walls after a day full of stress, so he doesn’t pry immediately. all he wants to do is to keep you here, safe and away from your burdens and for you to stay comfortable with him, even if it couldn't be for long. but is that too selfish of him to ask? he hates how you hate your life and it is taking every bone in his body to not run away with you. but who is he to tell you what to do or what to change anyway? all he can do for now is try to find a way to make you genuinely smile.
“take me anywhere,” you whisper to the latter. “i just want to be as far from myself and my life as possible. miles away or the nearest convenience store, just take the long way home before dawn.”
you look down at the cup holders, spotting an open cigarette box. you tug one out of the nineteen and light it with the lighter you kept in your pocket. you lean back and close your eyes. he only admires as you bring the cigarette to your lips, exhaling a cloud of smoke afterwards. letting the radio play quietly, he starts the car and begins to drive away from the mansion. he can’t help but wonder how you (an elegant daughter) and him (a bad boy) are millions of worlds apart, but more similar than you think.
© perhapsthanatos (efa)
#efa writes!#im on my bathroom floor LOSING IT#its 3 am & the more i read it the more i hate it#yuta#nakamoto yuta#nct yuta#nct#nct 127#nct imagines#nct 127 imagines#yuta imagines#yuta timestamp#yuta drabble#yuta blub#nct imagine#nct drabble#nct blurb#nct 127 blurb#nct timestamp#nct 127 drabble#nct 127 timestamp#nct fluff#nct 127 fluff#nct angst#nct 127 angst#badboy!yuta
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Strange (CH)
{Part 2}
Pair: Calum Hood & Jude Armenta (fictional character)
Summary: this chapter is based on the song “Holding out for you” by Pond. A year has passed since the pair have broken up. Calum runs into Jude and they catch up on life.
Warning: mention of anxiety and therapy.
Character Preface: Jude Armenia is a Grammy award winning producer (sound engineer, mixer, songwriter, composer). She’s very well known and respected among musicians.
https://harlowsage.tumblr.com/post/660386524153675776/strange-ch
{Above is the link to Part 1👆🏼}
https://harlowsage.tumblr.com/post/660922684542238720/strange-ch-chapter-3
{Link to Part 3 of strange👆🏼}
{This is part 2 of Strange👇🏼}
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The sight of her made him freeze, causing him to stop in the middle of the road. The walking signal turned off and it was time for the oncoming traffic to proceed, the sound of cars honking woke him out of his still state catching the attention of Jude who was now looking up from her journal.
“Huh?”, her head tilted to the side as she watched him jog over to the sidewalk on her side of the road.
“Calum? Cal!”, she jumped up from her seat and waved him over with delight.
Whether they haven’t spoken in a year or the fact that he’s her ex, none of it mattered since at the end of the day she loved him.
Calum walked up to her, his hand scratching the back of his neck as a lopsided boyish grin plagued his sun kissed face.
“I almost didn’t recognize you, sheesh you’ve gotten buff. What are you lifting, like 250?” She laughed while reaching her arms out to him, pulling him into a warm hug.
Calum instinctively wrapped his arms around her shoulders hugging her back, as if 365 days haven’t passed with zero contact.
“295 actually”, he chuckled as they pulled apart.
“Jesus Christ, you cave man. The buff look suits you”, she grinned while gesturing him to join her and take a seat, which he did without a second thought.
“Your hair, it looks really nice on you”, he complimented her, making sure to not step over any boundaries.
“That’s good considering I didn’t have a choice but to chop it, I visited my brother a few months back and just my luck my niece and nephew had gotten lice from school”, she laughed with a slight groan, her nose scrunched in that cute way calum loved.
“Ah shit, not the little groms giving miss entomophobia the crawlees”, he chuckled, leaning back into his seat feeling more relaxed than nervous.
“It was a brutal week. Nonetheless it was nice having Layla be all motherly, washing my hair and picking the nasties off me”, she smiled at the fond memory.
Since Judes mother passed when she was a little girl, she never really got to experience what it’s like to have that motherly touch.
“As long as you had a good time, I know how little you get to visit them”, he hummed acknowledged her busy schedule.
“Much to your surprise, I’ve been setting aside work so I can become one with reality. Just like how you always used to tell me” she smiled coyly, her hands fidgeting with the pages of her journal.
“Seriously? What made you finally take a step back?” He asked, now sitting up straight, intrigued by this new Jude.
“You, actually. A few months after we broke up, my health was seriously declining. I never noticed that the only reason I was staying up and running was because you would remind me to take care of myself. With you absent in my life, my body couldn’t keep up with my brain. The amount of times I’ve had to get a liquid IV stuck into my arm began to become tedious”, Jude explained not meeting Calums eyes.
Admitting this information to him, embarrassed her. She never wanted Calum to know how bad things had gotten for her, but she’s never been able to not tell Calum everything. Talking to him came so naturally to her.
“Fucking hell, Jude I hate to hear that was happening to you. You’re ok now, right? You’re taking care of yourself?” He asked, now noticing just how thin she’s gotten.
“Of course! I have a nutritionist and I’m seeing a therapist twice every two weeks. Apparently I have anxiety, which explains a hell of a lot. The reason I worked so hard before was because, whenever I wasn’t working, my brain would be running a mile a minute”, she sighed, exasperated at the memories of her feeling off and not knowing why.
“That does explain a lot. I thought I caused it, then again I never knew the Jude before I entered her life” he hummed, taking in the new information she just gave him.
“You thought you caused my problem with overworking myself?” She asked, voice laced with shock.
“Well of course Jude, you stoped talking to me and I hardly got any time with you anymore. You were always taking on new projects when it came time for us to spend time together. I thought I had pushed you away”, Calum explained, his hands moving in big gestures showing her just how freaked out he was about the whole situation.
“Cal, no, you never pushed me away. I hate that you blamed yourself. It’s just really chaotic up in the noggin. But not anymore, I’m doing great. You’ll be happy to know I’m on a very long break from work. Made my manager turn down a fuck ton of projects so I can have a breather”, Jude laughed, excited at the thought of what she’ll be filling up her time doing on her hiatus.
“It’s like I’m talking to a whole new person. You’ve never turned down projects, even when you were working on 3 other ones”, he shook his head, eyes slightly wide, with a happy smile planted on his plump lips.
“Enough about me, what have you been up to!?” She asked leaning towards with her chin propped on her fist, giving him her full undivided attention.
“Well, the boys and I finished recording our next album. Now we’re just laying on some finishing touches before we send it in. On my free time, I’ve been taking Duke on morning hikes and learning how to surf. Aside from that, nothing much. Just living that slow paced life”, he chuckled at the current sight of her, staring up at him with her big doe eyes and wide toothy smile.
“Sounds like you’re living the life”, Jude hummed.
“More or less”, he shrugged.
“Say, you wanna grab dinner with me tonight? I discovered this super low key and authentic Italian restaurant near Cattle,” she asked him, her left hand in her lap secretly crossing her fingers.
“Why the hell not, I’ll break my carb diet for you”, he smiled as a soft laugh escaped his lips.
“I missed this”, she sighed happily.
“Me too”, Calum shyly smiled, hoping she’s feeling the same thing that he is.
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Lemme know what you think :) feed back is appreciated. Where would you like to see these two go?
#calum hood fic#calum hood smut#calum hood blurbs#calum hood fluff#calum hood fanfic#calum hood imagine#calum 5sos#calum 5sauce#calum fic#calum hood#5 seconds of smut#5sos imagine#5sos smut#5sos blurbs#5sosedit#5sos
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would you class percy as a morally grey character? i’m really interested to hear your input
Anon 2: Would u class percy as an Morally Gray character?
Hey there! Let me write that essay for you about morally gray Percy ^^
It’s not about whether Percy is a morally gray character or not, it’s about he has to be otherwise the story doesn’t make any sense. At least for me it wouldn’t.
Ashley (@gr33kg0ds) said in the tags of my dark!Percy post something along the line of people diminishing Percy’s character because they need him to be pure and fluffy and I wholeheartedly agree with that!
Just because Percy’s twelve doesn’t mean he’s pure and didn’t do unproblematic things. I’ll mostly refer to The Lightning Thief because that book is the Magnus Opus for Riordan and perfectly stands for Percy as a morally gray character from the very beginning of the saga. (Also the only book I’ve recently re-read)
As much as I love fanon with all the amazing artworks, debates, memes and jokes, analysis, cool edits and wonderful fanfics, projecting your version of Percy doesn’t make the image in your head real. Percy in canon is not the fun and fluffy boy you imagine him to be or which social media sites (Reddit, Twitter, Instagram and yes, also Tumblr) tend to make him to be. He’s a scrawny little sarcastic twerp that was the unpopular kid. He isn’t that cringy dude Tony Lopez doing that fucking weird TikTok dance (side note: I don’t even know who this person is and I don't care, I saw the video and immediately wanted to delete every social media app on my phone, so thanks Tony?), kissing his Yeezys goodnight, vibing to our lord and gay icon Taylord “T. Swizzle” Swift song and flexing them iPhone 11 Max Pros. Percy literally said that going to Burger King with his mother once in a while would be considered a luxury. He’s a poor bastard in literal sense.
Part of the problem with the distinction of Percy’s character and his motives stem from the fact that Percy is a sneaky unreliable narrator and we as the audience (especially if you’re younger) don’t question most of his behavior if you even question some (pretty sure that most of us only picked up weird stuff as adults). Everything seems plausible to you. But does it mean that his behavior is necessarily good? Something that would paint his character as good?
Like I’ve said, let’s take a look at TLT. The very beginning of everything and the wonderful line that gets quoted everywhere: “Look, I didn't want to be a half-blood”.
The very first line that quoted everywhere or used as in moodboard and edits but its meaning and significance get brushed off for the most part. It immediately sets the tone and the atmosphere for the book and for Percy as a character. A(n in my opinion) morally gray character. The very first thing we hear from Percy is that he doesn’t want to be in this world. He’s an involuntary participant who has been (upon further reading) blackmailed and forced into this world and is only cooperating to get his mother back and said in regards to his father (who also stands for the Greek pantheon) ”well yeah, would be nice to know about my dad but I’ve survived without him the past twelve years so I don’t know, he wouldn’t be missed necessarily I guess?“ That pretty much tells you, it foreshadows, that we will be dealing with someone with grit, someone that fights back, someone that went through shit, someone that isn’t a goody two-shoed character. Does it mean he’s a terrible (in the sense of evil or bad) character from the get go? Not really, but it tells you in nuances that he won’t be the white shining knight you might expect from a fairy tale.
There is so much that little Perseus Jackson has to offer you directly in the first book. So much that paints him as a morally gray character. From the illegal candy stash all the way to tricking Procrustes into his own trap. He knows right from wrong and isn’t innocent by any means. He wants you to think he’s innocent. Yes, he hunts monsters and the book also tells you that some adults (Gabe) can also be monsters, but Percy’s personality is so interesting and full of facets which I love! He’s misleading you on purpose. Deflects, plays events down. He lies in front of you to others but you don’t really doubt it. Instead of questioning it, you understand it.
What distinguishes Percy from other male protagonists in that notion that the author doesn’t try to paint him as particularly good (the reader connects the dots, in reality) is pretty much that. Percy is neither inherently good or bad. He’s in the middle. He does lots of questionable things and his personality adds to it. Something that immediately comes to my mind is his lack of fear of consequences. He thinks in the short term and not in the long term. Of course, he’s caring about those that are close and important to him (Grover, Annabeth and his mother of course. And well. The world not getting destroyed by his weird father and fucking crazy uncle would be a plus). But Percy isn’t really a strategist (yet). Look at the Medusa head thingy. Annabeth and Grover warn him, that he’s gonna get his ass beat and he doesn’t care. That these gods could squish him in the end didn’t matter to him.
The Olympian gods are painted as these unpenetrable huge mighty force and some fuzzy annoyed twelve year old dipshit sends them the severed head of a monster - but not any monster, the monster his father had a role in creating (well, Athena for the most part, but you know what I mean). (Also, I know this kinda reckless behavior gets sorta rewarded but at first, everyone was like ‘NO, NO, NO!’ before Percy was glorious with his attempt). Percy essentially tells these ancient forces that drive the way of his new cosmos how shit‘s gonna work from now on.
Percy isn’t fear riddled and doesn’t think about the possible outcome. He manipulates, he lies, he persuades and all of this as soon as he hits twelve. But probably earlier. Pretty sure he had to become a believable lier in order to trick (survive being around) Gabe. Perseus is angry, he’s agitated. Had Riordan written Percy as a soft spoken, frightened, goody two-shoed kid, almost nothing in TLT and the follow-ups would have made sense. He’s the outcast, but slowly blossoms into the strength and muscles of the group. Of the entire camp. Someone that outsmarts opponents and wins battles. But he didn’t do that by playing nice and being a bootlicker.
TLT would’ve been a perfect standalone book that would have emphasized that Percy is an involuntary person sive) if you skip Kronos, leave a little bit foreshadowing with the prophecy out, tweak the talks with the gods and Annabeth’s first meeting and skip Luke and the scorpion at the end. The ending would’ve been “and so Percy had a first awesome summer vacation and found a group of friends for life” or so (aka PJO movie 1 in less shitty and more cohesive).
The morally gray character shrinks a little bit in the SOM because there lie straighter dangers ahead which dive more into the bigger picture and Percy grows more into the character who takes care of friends and but he does come back with TTC, and definitely BOTL and the St. Helens explosion.
Consequences of Percy’s interactions had people partially dying. There is doubt, there is guilt. But the show must go on. There are battles that have to be won. There is no big giving up, no big overturn for the bad guys.
Also... isn’t it interesting that we start with Percy saying ”look, I don’t want to be in this world“ in TLT and it ends with TLO where he says ”for once I didn’t look back“? The full circle? The way that accepting his fate took five books? To change Percy from being an involuntary participant to becoming voluntary? He didn’t want to be a half-blood, he didn’t want to be the kid in the prophecy, but he actively chose to be in the end. He went from a darker shade of gray to a mayhaps lighter, if you want to say so.
To conclude, I repeat myself again: it’s not about whether Percy is a morally gray character or not, it’s that he has to be.
Thanks for asking me about some meta stuff I really do like diving into these things here and there. Tumblr’s sorta glitchy, I do get notifications but I really don’t see asks, so I’m sorry if my response is mad late ^^
#mel answers#pjo#Percy Jackson#percy jackson and the olympians#the lightning thief#rick riordan#the last olympian
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~homeowner things~
lol this week has been so nuts in terms of house stuff.
Ever since Ida passed through my sump pump has been alarming like every 15 minutes nonstop and I have spent over 2 hours trying to troubleshoot and no success. Ended up turning it off on the breaker just so it would stop alarming and thankfully have a plumber coming over to look at it Friday
I took out a wasps nest!! actually physically removed it today was super proud of myself for handling it by myself even though its not really a big deal probably.
also set up a hose/sprinkler for my back lawn today and when i tried to turn it on water came pouring out of the faucet like not actually coming through the hose?? don’t have it in me to figure that out today with all the stuff i’ve been doing lol but i sense another 2 hour project coming up soon.....and then probably calling a plumber anyways
between yesterday and today have spent >1 hour going back and forth between the county tax bureau and my mortgage company over this tax bill that i got and no one can give me a clear answer about it and it is sooooo freaking frustrating. still unsure where i stand with it
did pay some other taxes/bills today
and FINALLY this afternoon went though this HUGE folder that i have where i shove all my important-looking mail and other important documents (e.g. the deed to my house, my mortgage ID number and info, my gas/electric account info, etc.) and I organized it all into a big binder with folders and stuff.
also FINALLY finished breaking down the last of the boxes to be recycled. it’s been like 4 weeks that ive filled up my recycling with broken down boxes from moving/ordering furniture etc. and as of this afternoon it’s finally all out of my basement!
also cleared out my office room and the desk space, organized all my stuff and made drawers for different categories of things lol.
and we might end up cancelling the couch order (that was placed 2 months ago and will still allegedly take another 6 weeks to be delivered) and just get one from costco instead that will be delivered in like a week soooo that would be cool if that worked out!
i’m super wiped and dying for a nap but i might just go with more coffee and continuing to power through. still gotta meal prep for the rest of the week, do laundry, finish vacuuming, take care of some stuff for the cats, unpack from the weekend, etc. Although this can all get really stressful and overwhelming I feel pretty damn accomplished and want to acknowledge myself for that
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