kneamet

[kneamet]

i probably shouldnt have left so abruptly. but hello everyone and this is my little last post.

im not going to write any more, or rather, post something here or on ao3. i dont longer interested in this; now i write only for myself.

my interests have changed somewhat now, im busy with else. plus, many problems in the world, cuz of which the desire to post something also disappeared, also affected this. and my personal problems.

thanks to everyone who reposted, wrote comms and supported me. maybe ill come back. im not sure. but you can always write to me in the dm, and i will answer you.

sorry.

and it is unlikely that anyone will be interested.

[kneamet]

Ewan McGregor’s characters in yandere (3 part)

and I finally deigned to release the third part, which i promised you fur more than two months! i hope you liked it very much and partly dedicated (because it was written because of this person) to @compulsivewriter111​. thank you!

Brendan Lynch — possessive, aggressive, obsessive and controlling yandere.

In his work — if there was such a name — there was an unspoken rule: either you stop thinking with a penis, or you get the fuck out of the team; a person of the first type deserved to die, because he can easily betray a friend and substitute the team. Brendan couldn't stand traitors; his eyes glowed like steel, his hands clenched tightly, ready to stab, and his body tensed. He killed traitors, abandoned them and destroyed them; who knew that after serving a long term, he would still take pity on you. In prison, Brendan had all the time in the world, and he was thinking during chess games about you, your betrayal and betrayal; he was thinking about how he would get even with you, burn his own name on his body.

The first meeting was sudden and very meager, just glances were enough; the second, when Sam already informed him about your participation in the robbery, Brendan could not stand it, he accumulated hatred for a long time, but everything turned out more or less peacefully, apart from a couple of bruises on wrists, neck and stomach. Brendan, teeth clenched, will take you with him and will not let you go a step, will always be near, like a demon, a ghost, a devil. He threatens you when he sees disobedience, and beats you for running away. Control is his middle name.

Don't make Brendan angry — every dog in Australia knows about it. And it doesn't matter if you are his friend or his beloved, he will not stand it and take out his anger on you, make you beg for forgiveness on his knees. The scenes of betrayal remain fresh; Lynch literally makes you walk around the house on tiptoe, and when he takes a shower, he demands that you sit next to him so that he can see you. He hates screams, he hates pathetic people with their «don't hurt me»; he shuts your mouth and no matter how much you try to escape, Brendan won't let you go. For too long his fate has been controlled by you, his time has come.

“Do what you're fucking told.”

***

Elmont — protective, possessive, controlling and obsessive yandere.

Elmont knew about the rules from childhood, adjusted to others and always respected future responsibilities, had an idea of honor and was ready for anything. What he was not ready for was friend Isabelle — it was their youth and Elmont looking after them noblely when they, in an attempt to escape from the palace, stole things and food from the maids. When he was once again assigned to guard a newly arrived princess from another kingdom, he was not happy; when he found out that this princess was you, his heartbeat seemed to be audible even through his armor.

This time your stay has become a long one. He seems to already know you by heart — he has long since learned your habits, the way you walk and hold a sword, since he taught it himself, — the charming voice and even the seductive smell of your hair; Elmont could recognize your top slightly, even surrounded by men alone; and beside you — Isabelle, just like you, wearing long hoods. With your escapes, you only complicate his life, but sometimes it seems as if he is fascinated by it, as if he likes to chase you.

You will never be able to hear a confession from his mouth, but full control is provided for you; even Isabelle Elmont treats more favorably than he treats you, constantly saying that this is just your safety. He often reminds you of your dead mother, and when he holds you in a warm embrace, he caresses your head and says that he will protect you; that he is always there, and you have him. And he has you.

"Princess, you don't know about obligations and laws any better than I do, but does that stop me from loving you?”

***

Alistair Martland — jealous, obsessive, soft and dependent yandere.

An old love, a university love, his very real love. No matter how much time passed, no matter what adventures she got involved in (and he with her), no matter how many refusals he heard, Alistair knew: he was doomed to be with you, to be under your seductive power. The written poems from the university, which he is still afraid to read to you, were still kept in his house, but he never had the courage. The boss of M-5, a promising employee, locked in a kennel of his own emotions, too sensitive and knowing you from cover to cover. You've been saving him, helping him, dragging him along all these long years.

Alistair endures — endures for a long time: five-minute dates when you can't wait to leave him; stroking on the head that he loves when you need something; tolerates your ridiculous antics and covers up before the government. He will always forgive you; he will shake his head and try to kiss you, but he will get permission with the condition not to touch. Alistair watches over you, does everything for you — helps out with money when you're broke, and asks you to move in with him; helps out when you get to the police on charges of theft.

His knowledge of art is the most famous artists and writers; he asks you to tell him about them; he closes his eyes in delight and leans against your shoulder, listening in peace with a wonderful voice. Alistair loves you, but he knows in his heart that his feelings are not mutual, wrong, and he has no right to cover for you. When you are alone, he opens a bottle of red Chardonnay, lies down next to you and is about to confess... how the bell rings and you leave. Alistair remains at a loss to watch you for the rest of her life.

"Do you remember I wrote poems about Johanna at university? I wrote about you...”

***

Dave Braden — protective, manipulative and obsessive yandere.

“It was just a job," Dave continued to assure himself, "just an article, first — hand information.” After all, he did not collect every record of yours and went to every concert in the city, he did not cut out photos from magazines, he did not store newspapers with your interviews and dreamed of taking his own. When Rolling Stone reported that they should write an article about such a famous singer, Dave could not miss such a good opportunity, so armed with dictaphones, a pen and a notebook, he went to your house.

To be honest, you weren't particularly happy about his appearance — or any journalists — but he managed to break into the house; and your home excited him, he immediately drew attention to scattered things, records in a chaotic order, a bunch of books and a couple of musical instruments. In his head, Dave immediately stressed that he would definitely look here a second time, but for more important things. He will try to ingratiate himself with you: he will say nice words, pretend to be a victim, remembering his ex-wife, and repeat that you are doing everything right.

It's not worth abandoning him, it's not worth doubting his devotion to you — he will run after you, get in the way and constantly drag from the studio to the house, watch by car and send letters. Dave will always find a trick during a quarrel, smile gently and have forgiveness in his pocket. He knows that you can't stay mad at him for a long time, such a charming man and always uses it. Dave will do anything for you, even if he turns mountains, it's just worth loving him, reciprocating.

"I'll write an article about you, make you even more famous!”

***

Julien Sorel — obsessive, possessive and manipulative yandere.

Everyone at home despised him, and he hated his brothers and father. Brainless, wooden and boring creatures, Julien did not find understanding from the family, did not find the joy of communicating with them, and did not see the future that his father wanted for him. Being young, ambitious, with bright eyes and Napoleonic dreams, Julien wanted only one thing — to rise above and show his family, show the whole of France, the whole world that they were wrong; his mind, his pure-loving heart deserved more. He wanted to live his ideal life, but he was sensibly aware that first he would have to get his hands dirty: to appear before the world as a gouverneur.

The days of work flew by slowly and painfully — constant displays of knowledge, Bible readings and unbearable patience of harassment from Madame de Renal. Julien, clasping his hands, continuing to look at the small portrait of Napoleon, was preparing for the worst until he met you; since then, with the picture of the emperor, he has also held your letters. After all, that meeting was completely accidental — a walk of children in the park, a meeting of old friends, and now he no longer takes his eyes off you, completely forgetting about dogmas and rules, goals and ideas about the future. At that moment Julien didn't care about the church, didn't care about the situation. He only cared about you.

Endless letters, endless pretenses, and all in order to get you, to get recognition. Julien does not hesitate to use evil methods, sinful for holy people, deception and manipulation. He looks like a fool to you, a pretender, even if he is deprived of an extraordinary mind. Julien begins to live differently — because you appear in his life — and he changes all his plans again; now he is building a career next to you, with you and for you.

"I am all love for you, but perhaps the word «love» does not really play a role here. Your cold heart beats only for me, and mine only for you.”

***

Michael — possessive, manipulative, protective and obsessive yandere.

The virus was infecting the world, capturing the terrible clutches of the disease. People stopped appearing on the streets — open restaurants and cafes were empty, shops were filled with products, work became remote. But they did not stop feeling — laughing, rejoicing, crying, grieving. Michael was disappointed, at the same time very annoyed by the spread of an unknown virus. The last evenings he lies on the bed, looks at the ceiling, thinks about you, regrets that he can't hug you.

The old client, whose tastes he remembered, considered himself your personal chef, the girl he liked, the one with whom he slept in the same bed - Michael was truly in love and unhappy. His heart was fluttering, and there was a grin on his face when you came to an empty restaurant and he, the only one, seemed to be able to offer you the whole menu (and all of himself); how timely, he thought, he went out for a smoke break. Since then, he considers this meeting the first real date.

Michael knows how to soothe, gently strokes your back in circular movements when you lose your sense of smell. He is disappointed when he realizes that he is infected — understands that he will no longer be able to feel your soft smell: hair, body, all of you... He's angry, angry at himself, but he'll never be able to take it out on you. Ah, a dessert dear to his heart, a tasty morsel, abandoned by everyone and clinging to him, a brave defender! He does not let you go during the virus, does not let you go outside for groceries — all by himself! he says, —  and you should rest, take care of yourself.

"You like being with me, don't lie, you need me.”

***

Joe — possessive, risky, obsessive and jealous yandere.

Scotland was depressing for him, the barge was dragging boredom and monotony with it. Would like to sail away from here—to Montevideo, Macau, anywhere. What was he even doing here, in this damn damn North? Joe did not find a home for himself, often connected his life with the lives of other people, but as soon as he did, he was pulled out again. Leslie's primitive jokes and his pink toy face, Ella's sarcasm and her full body, Jim's restlessness—all this irritated, exasperated. Joe thought about giving it all up, leaving, forcing himself to forget about the barge; he indulged in constant memories of Katie, looked at himself in her mirror. But in your gentle hands, he forgot about the boring reality.

That meeting happened by chance, Joe will always remember it: that evening, when their barge was passing by a small town, he decided to go to a bar, where he met you among fat, sweaty and working men. He was indecisive, didn't want to get acquainted, but the next time, Joe was sure that fate, in which he didn't believe, brought you together for a reason — he didn't know that a woman like you could do business with people like Ella. In your apartment he will be the owner, it is better not to leave him alone in the rooms: he will immediately start touching the bed linen, sniffing clothes.

Every day his behavior will become more and more possessive — since then he keeps a small photo of you in his wallet, talks about the future, without questioning your presence in it. Joe cleverly penetrates into your life with a charming smile, quick sex and risky actions. His clothes are smelled of cigarettes, and his speech is beautifully laid out before you. Yes, just don't make him angry — his voice immediately transforms into a serious, threatening one.

"Isn't it for my fearless rebel eyes that you fell in love with me, honey?”

***

Stephen Wilson — stalking, obsessive, dependent, jealous, delusional and protective yandere.

Lost, crippled by fate and a wife who took away the most valuable thing he had — a daughter, Stephen did not believe in love, did not believe in people, did not believe in himself. Why did he exist if he was a weak-willed doll and only followed the instructions of his superiors? Why did he live if absolutely nothing kept him in this black world? Neither work, nor family, nor own mind. Eternally sad misty eyes, calm anxious face and self-loathing, constant regrets that he did not save his daughter, did not take her away. Stephen really didn't make sense, he was a lifeless robot until he met you — the person who supported him in a difficult moment.

That meeting in the cafe was sudden and since then he goes there every day, watches you, takes pictures, practically lives in the institution. Stephen watches you with a slight smile, watching your gentle and quick movements, soft gait and conversations about everything and nothing. It's like an electric shock goes through him, and time stops when he touches your hand in an attempt to pick up a mug — which inevitably spills on the floor, and immediately runs to help. He is afraid to talk to you, forces himself through force and does not regret when he manages to find out your phone number.

You are his angel, his guardian, his savior. You have no idea, you don't know anything about him, but he knows everything about you; Stephen sets up hidden cameras, stays up at night and looks at you, protects you; you seem like an ideal mother to him and he won't let strangers touch you. He gets jealous when you talk to unknown guys in a cafe, club — in anger, he squeezes your photos hung on the walls of the house, and, pressing the pedal to the floor, goes to guys; Stephen will kill anyone who dares to try to take you away from him. During sleep, on a dark night, he will put a ring on your finger as a sign, a symbol — now you are one, as husband and wife, and nothing will be able to convince him.

"I almost went crazy after my wife left... You're the only thing I have.”

***

Perry MacKendrick — protective, jealous, loyal and dependent yandere.

He told everyone that he had no imagination, had no interest — this affected his profession, his teaching of poetics, when he carefully, almost under a microscope, studied art. Perry tried to find beauty in the simple, in ordinary recreation, museums, theaters, but almost did not experience feelings. Easily succumbing to adventures, he did not expect that he would succumb to the charms of his own student — you. He made his heart fall asleep, stop beating, be comforted, but it continued to roar in his ears, roaring like the sea.

Since you started attending his lectures, Perry's world has been painted in bright colors again, children's colors. He began to smile fervently at lectures, joking. A gentleman, a noble man, a professor —whatever you called him, with whom you compared him; he also had the imprudence to compare you with Fofanov's poems, constantly saying: a great poet, an impressionist who conveyed the moment.

Sometimes wilfully cheerful, sometimes sullen, absent-minded, wild or full of secret thoughts — he saw through the poet. Perry awkwardly approaches you, awkwardly starts conversations, and quickly realizes that the real meaning of life is in front of him. Poetics is not his destiny, was love real? She saved, she wrapped in sweet dreams and soft blankets, helped. Perry painfully understands the age difference, thinks to himself with hatred that you will not love him; does anyone need a lonely man abandoned by his wife? He humbles himself, but deep down in his soul he continues to wish, to reflect — is this really the ending?

"And there, love, will we go for many a choir is singing now where Love did sometime go.”

***

Andy — jealous, dependent and soft yandere.

There was nothing good in his life for many years, funny moments were erased by sad and harsh ones. Every day Andy woke up hoping for luck, but it never happened; she turned face to everyone, but not to him. Everything was just beginning with the mine, failures were already waiting for him on the way, when that day she entered the rehearsal room, slamming the door loudly. You spoke clearly, you said that you would be able to stand up, break through on top, defend the mine, and it seemed to Andy that perhaps all was not lost — for the mine, for the city, for the fucking workers and for him.

Andy didn't understand why he hadn't noticed you before; why were you perceived only as a loyal friend and nothing more? After all, it was as if you did everything for him — went to a performance with him, played the baritone since childhood, shared nights with walks around the city and memories of a carefree past; for God's sake, you even had a tattoo on your arm in common! And the guys from the orchestra, and even Danny himself was constantly teasing Andy about your relationship.

Since then, Andy has been staring at you more and more often when you play, carefully look at the notes. He invites you to a cafe, this time meaning not just a friendly get — together, but a date - he smiles fervently like a child, pays for you and you walk again at night. Andy dreams of confessing to you, but accustomed to hiding feelings, he can't; despite the fact that it doesn't work to ignore flirting from guys, and he snaps at them, screams, gets jealous. He likes it when you stroke his hair, lie on the made-up bed for a long time and look at the ceiling. He dreams of you and is sure that his wish will come true: after a successful performance in London, he makes you an offer — an offer right in front of the whole orchestra. And you, he is sure, will not dare to refuse him.

"I didn't notice you, didn't appreciate your support and didn't see the good, so will you let me improve?”

[kneamet]

to be honest, i almost finished the third part for the characters of ewan.. it seems to me (there is a possibility) that i will have to write a fourth one as well. because so many characters...

[kneamet]

could you please do jealous/possessive roman sionis???

blood moon ball

Trigger Warning: angst, obsession, drabble, yandere

Word Count: 613

Character: roman sionis/reader

blood moon ball

A mad night under a cold moon, the scarlet sky of flesh waved love in a haze. Stars were scrawled on the ceiling — so far away, almost real! the constellation of the monster pointed the way, dragged back into a deep, cruel and pathetic embrace; an embrace full of darkness and depravity, death and blood. It was the blood moon ball — Roman was the main guest, and angering him was like an execution. This is a one— actor theater for a single spectator — you. A spectator doomed to eternal imprisonment, contemplating the whole horror of life with faded eyes.

Lost to yourself, the whole world, but not to Roman, you were connected with strangers by a thread. They were sitting on chairs —coquettes with fake eyebrows, shiny earrings and mocking pupils, gentlemen with bloody hearts, greasy smiles and tasteless clothes. A row of flickering chandeliers poured abundant rays on the joyful faces of famous thieves, murderers who were going to shed a bloody sweat. And only you, like a small white flower sprouted in dirt and gloom, looked around the club in confusion, unable to move. Not being able to say a word against Roman that squeezed you in an insatiable embrace.

He kissed your neck, breathed hotly on your bare shoulders and ran his gloved hands along your waist. You shuddered, trembled and thoughtlessly looked into the distance, envied the crowd of harlots that were overcome with passion, madly rejoiced, traded in lost beauty and honor; they are carefree, who decided that life belongs to them; they are the same as you were a few months ago. Roman, not paying attention and ordering Zsasz to guard the most remote chairs, whispered in ear:

"Mine, mine, mine…"

The skin was covered with goosebumps, the heart beat faster. Your gaze was poisoned by endless longing. Forgotten dreams rise again with royal towers, block, help to live in the male world of the Novel. Roman protects you, protects you and pleases before you, ready to get the enemy's heart and present it on a platter. His control knows no bounds, but you feel — or should feel — safe. You're not in danger, but I'm worried, baby! he keeps saying, once again closing you at home. He says he has to protect.

Roman is a fragrant, luxurious fruit, a tombstone urn asking for tears; it is an evil spirit chasing from all sides, burning your chest with an unclean flame; you are forced to breathe it, inhale and swallow. Roman is a spider, he weaves webs and entangles victims, lives several lives that are nothing to him. His nets envelop the whole Gotham and it is not possible to get out, and why would you do that? Every girl in the city dreams of being in the bed of Roman Sionis, so why do you refuse?

Prohibitions multiply like bacteria, ordinary relationships will turn into continuous obligations and services — don't do this, don't do that. You sigh, trying to say something, but you are silent, afraid, remembering the bruises left on your neck. Suddenly you twitch when you feel the touch of tongue on the skin and the wet trail left. Roman, like a cat, makes this gesture, as if trying to ask for forgiveness, to lick wounds. Paying attention to a man walking with a drunken gait to your table, you don't even have time to say a word, as he, leaning against, demands something:

"Pretty, you want…"

He is interrupted by a dull bullet fired in the forehead. He falls with a thud, softly, almost inaudible thanks to the loud music. Your eyes widen and you swallow; Roman runs a gun through your hair.

"Mine."

im sorry if this isnt exactly what u wanted, i can always write something different fur u, anon! also, please indicate which type u would like to read - a drabble (500~ words) or a fic (2000+ words), since they are very different in content. drabble is more of a rest than a full-fledged job, so they may not be very interesting, perhaps boring and clumsy in terms of the plot. but if you liked it, then im very glad!

[kneamet]

i just finished watching our kind of traitor. i didnt really like the movie - mostly cuz of the plot, some stereotypes and the fact that im not a fan of le carre - but i still mastered it. and, frankly, im in a complete misunderstanding aboot how i should write about perry (despite the fact that i will add him to the third part). hes not a very well-revealed character, and i cant afford to buy a book yet, and i dont really want to, even if i understand what i need.

in short, im desperate aboot what kind of plot to prescribe for fic with him, etc :(

but still, i will probably post the third part of ewans characters tomorrow

more u can suggest any other character that i can add

[kneamet]

❗im not sure that i will be active in the near future, cuz there are too many sudden changes in my life. despite the fact that everything went well last time, i still have to warn u.

in fact, ive never notified u of my absence before, but i think i have to do it now.

i think ill publish something next week, maybe a drabble. but in parallel with the main content, im now writing an original work. and i would also really like to pay her due attention. (i would like to see this work in the form of a book someday, but for now its just a dream, ah)

in addition to feeling unwell - both moral and physical, there are a number of other reasons but i prefer to keep silent about them (and after that, ill need a rest) if u dont mind.

in general, i ask u not to worry about me and everything will be fine

/if u have any questions, requests, then u can send them to me, i will answer everything if possible/

[kneamet]

ok, the last fic with obi-wan has exhausted me terribly

[kneamet]

Hi hi hi :D I loved my beautiful madness, by the way <3 I'm not sure if i could request again but can i put in another request but this time it's for Obi-Wan Kenobi or Patrick Mckenna? I had this idea from listening to the song Meant to be yours and it made me think of two ideas: a. Sith!Obi-Wan hunting down Jedi Knight!Reader as she hides during order 66, but then Obi-Wan starts professing his feelings for the reader in a very very twisted way (The lyric i based this idea from was "You were meant to be mine, i am all that you need! You cut open my heart, [you] can't just leave me to bleed!") There could be two endings to it (it's up to you if you want to add this part in hihi) 1. Reader comes out of hiding and willingly surrenders to Obi-Wan, something happens that makes the reader give in to the dark side (can be the obsessive joy that comes from Obi-Wan, or can be a short kiss) 2. Reader manages to make Obi-Wan snap and he accidentally *ahem* kills the reader; Obi-Wan has to live with the guilt of losing his love for the rest of his life AND b, Patrick and reader are dating (well, in Patrick's perspective he and the reader are dating), but then the Reader says she wants to separate herself from him, which angers Patrick and scares the reader into staying with him (Based on the lyric "You toss me out like i was trash, for that, you should be dead) and then it ends with Patrick just trying to calm the reader down from his outburst Hehe thanks so much!

The stars all belong to the Gods

Trigger Warning: angst, fear, yandere, obsession

Word Count: 2345

Character: sith!obi-wan kenobi/reader

Summary: Death could not be denied, death could not be avoided; Obi-Wan was death. Frightened by his own power, turned to the dark side, fell under the power of Darth Sidious, he was lost. Obi-Wan was mired in darkness, wrapped in the thinnest threads of madness, but he never forgot about you. The distant stars fell under his tears when he, unable to touch, watched you.

When Obi-Wan rose, the stars lit up in the sky. A great Jedi who lost a master at a young age, fought a Sith, did not succumb to the dark side — there were legends about Obi-Wan in the temple. And while the adult Jedi were whispering about him, the younglings were inspired by his story until they learned the terrible news — their revered symbol turned to the dark side, betrayed the codex and thrust a lightsaber into a student on a fiery Mustafar. When Obi-Wan fell, the only thing you felt was emptiness. An all-consuming, all-encompassing, dreary emptiness. The words struck you like thunder, and while the master was leaving, you looked at the floor in an eclipse, did not believe.

Old acquaintances, padawans with a forbidden connection, you did not hide secrets from each other, trusted each other, supported each other. Even when Obi-Wan had a student, even when there were moments of sadness and separation, you always knew: you have him, he has you — and your forbidden bond is one. Bitter nights, as soon as the walls were cold, pressed, and the dream was the worst nightmare, he came to you, saved you from a fictional villain and hugged, kissed the top of your head with weathered lips. His big rough hands stroked back, and his head lay on his shoulder — and the rest of the dream passed.

You swear when the sand of Tatooine winds in your squinting eyes, leaving grains of sand in the folds of your nondescript clothes. Boots tread on hard sand. The house — the cave, to tell the truth — in which you live was far from the city and all thanks to Order 66; an order that changed your entire former life. Sighing, you look down. There is very little time left before home and your day repeats itself from time to time: dawn is the beginning of wakefulness, day is work, sunset is sleep.

You had the fate of a martyr, and it was unclear why you continue to exist — to create or destroy? How many deaths were on your hands — and it doesn't matter, Sith, civilians — how many destroyed houses, broken destinies. How many children... Victims of your stupidity, naivety! disbelief that Obi-Wan could betray the rules, the Council, and you. His ashen body — which was in peacetime, your time, glowing, freckled — burned to scars.

Deprived of all the benefits, ruined by your own aspirations, stopped by the masters, you exiled yourself, hid in the darkness of darkness, having no light. The Jedi are gone, life is over. Reproaching yourself, eating your soul and heart with memories of poor children, you had to hide on Tatooine, in a world of sand and sadness, forgotten ideas and people. The sun was your eternal companion, withstood all the aching pain, absorbed doubts and worries, disturbed the heart.

The Sith became the lords of thoughts; seized power, possessed minds, exterminated former Jedi. There were quite a few rumors about one of the most formidable Sith — Darth Lant, famous for his elegant cruelty, exhaustion and seductive voice. He was a fallen Jedi, General Kenobi, Obi-Wan Kenobi, your Obi. He forgot everything, burned fiercely and left half-ruined cities in ashes behind him, but succumbed to the influence of your charms, gently and menacingly, to the point of trembling, whispering words of love and gently caressing.

His straw-colored hair has become stiff, long, and his hands are always wearing gloves. Obi-Wan came to you in your dreams, talked with the intonation of approaching danger and continued to talk about meeting soon. He, like the white knight, saved you from terrible monsters — which he was — and began to attack you with special pleasure. It was a shame to admit it, but the old, such familiar movements brought back the lost dignity and excitement, brought out of the terrifying confusion and pain in which the heart had been fully immersed for the last two years, and you again recalled those carefree days with little Kenobi.

He directed dreams, created them for you and built castles in the air. He came up to you with a grin, took advantage of confusion and defenselessness: he walked around from the side of the leading hand and put a sword to his throat. He enjoyed, he rejoiced, played like a child. He is your death, your time, your space, your pain. And he will be your executioner.

Your door creaks, and you immediately feel something wrong. Straining your gut, connecting with the Force — I am one with the Force — you inspect a familiar house: a bed, a carpet, wooden cabinets and a wardrobe. Your hands sweat, breathing slows down when you forcefully hear the world you know, a familiar personality, a favorite whisper. Clenching your teeth, you squeeze your lips and want to rush to the closet, but you stood there, as if chained... or someone else's the Force.

"Oh, darling, you have no idea what it's like to see you alive and completely at my mercy," a voice murmured from behind. There was a rustling, incomprehensible sounds. Obi-Wan was coming out of the second room, smiling and playfully shaking his head. "I've been dreaming about meeting you for a long time... You've changed so much in the last two years... You look different in holograms. I keep every one of them."

Long, matted hair covered an overgrown face, on which there were several scars; one healed scar crossed an eye. The light eyes turned yellow — dangerous, possessed and vindictive, such as only Sith have. The eyes of an animal, not a human. His clothes were dark, malicious, worn, and there were scars on the exposed parts of his body. Having lost his beauty, he remembered the annoying words of the code. It was driven into the head, securely fixed in it.

"I can touch you!" Obi-Wan said with childish delight, touching your face distorted in anger. His hand was shaking, but you could see the broken, bitten nails on his fingers. He barely touched you, as his face immediately transformed: he licked his lips, opened his mouth and looked at you with an incomprehensible shade of sadness. His palm continued to stroke cheek, gently and weightlessly, as if he was afraid to touch you. "You're so real..."

"Let me go, Obi-Wan," you said through the pain in your throat, through Kenobi's the Force, but he only frowned. The fingers pressed lightly on the skin. "Please..."

"Darling, don't, you won't run away. You know perfectly well that I am stronger than you. All the masters talked about it. Or should I remind you of our sparring sessions?"

"I remember them well, Obi-Wan, and I remember that you lost in the last."

"Obi-Wan lost, darling, but Darth Lant didn't lose. I could fight you now," he ran his hand over your shoulder, slowly descending lower and lower, "but I don't see any fun in it. You're weak, but you're so adorable!

It was getting painful to stand. Obi-Wan kept saying something, turning away from you, but his words flew by, didn't seem true. He stood slouched, his shoulders were heavy, his posture tense. Kenobi looked like a king surrounded by disappointed subjects; even now, no matter how much he tried to appear mocking, goofy, menacing, there was universal fatigue in him. Fatigue from the world, fatigue from the laws, fatigue from misunderstanding. Obi-Wan was promised freedom, but he continued to feel the shackles on ankles.

There was a sweet lie in the words of Darth Sidious, which he fell for. The Dark Lord looked solid, scary and creepy; Obi-Wan was kneeling in front of him, humbly lowering his head and whispering words of forgiveness with his lips, he did everything right, he did it for you! it seemed to him few years ago. But death had no love, she was a vile, mocking creature, whose wounds he successfully mashed.

In the dark, where only red and gold existed, Obi-Wan was the hero of the ashes; he emerged from the heat and pain as a champion, but continued to dream of happiness. His life was hectic and not alive, and death remained adamant. For death life was a scar — people don't live, but heal; life is a sore, a burr, a blister or a pimple. Obi-Wan had all the time in the world to retire and subdue his thoughts, but they continued to remain intrusive, free.

In moments of sadness, in moments of pain and despair, the only thing he thought about was you — your face and a sweet smile, a brisk temper and a sharp laugh, warm hugs and eternal criticism of the objectionable. Obi-Wan couldn't do anything with himself; during the fights, the murders, in the midst of the corpses of adults and children, the screams of men and the crying of women, while his trembling hand clutched a lightsaber and his face was sweaty, he thought about you. Tossing and turning on hard beds, getting lost and connecting with you in dreams; and while Darth Lant was conquering the world, Obi-Wan couldn't conquer you. His heart sank every time you turned away from him.

His palate had its throat cut long ago.

The silence was deafening. Obi-Wan, lost in thought to the core, suddenly turned to you with a confused face. His eyes seemed bright again for a couple of seconds, mired in blue and calm, and his face seemed transformed — he seemed young, handsome and yours again. The former Obi, who was not afraid to show love, who overcame madness and doubts; the former Obi-Wan, who loved you, and you loved him. What has changed?

"You... Do you want to come with me?" he was naive, he came up again and touched you. His the Force was weakening, but you continued to stay in place and not move. "I can give you the whole world!" his gaze is soulless and cold, but there is beauty in it; beauty is different, unknown. Frightening beauty. "I'll give you everything you want, I'll give you everything that's left! Just let me love you up close again... Just be mine again, please..."

He was different from what he was in dreams. You looked at him carefully and, like a second, he will fall to his knees in front of you. The rumors that spread from mouth to mouth in the city were not confirmed: in the stories of your friends, sellers in the market, ordinary workers, he appeared in the form of a terrible figure, carrying thousands of deaths, cold and torture. An evil Sith who abandoned the Codex and the Jedi; a big, scary and ironic man for whom life is just entertainment, and demise is a snap of two fingers.

"Obi-Wan, please..."

"No! Why don't you want to listen to me?! What did I do wrong?" he exclaimed, and his eyes watered for a second from the sunlight from the window. There's a damn empty desert there, no souls and only peace. Did he really want this outcome? Why did he serve the Sith? "You were meant to be mine, I am all that you need!"

A second — and something squeezes the neck, something tightens. The body rises up, you try unsuccessfully to grab air with your mouth. The breath disappears, the nose lays, the words are lost and useless. The lower jaw and stomach are shaking, the body is numb. Thousands of moments and memories flash before eyes, millions of images from a past life flash by; a life so happy, serene... That life when you were naive, because you thought you could save a fallen warrior, heal wounds.

The second second — the two of you are lying in his apartment, wrapped in a warm blanket and looking at the dark ceiling. Your hands are tightly clasped, and while Obi-Wan whispers to you sweet passions, stupidities and promises stars, you purse your lips, looking at his face — in his eyes, giving off blue, like water in the purest sea, you selflessly drown. His voice — his alluring, forbidden and such a charming voice —  extraordinary.

"You cut my heart! Left me!"

The third second — and Obi-Wan's face is distorted in anger. You take your last breath, it gets dark in your eyes, and your body falls to the dirty floor. You forget yourself, you die, you don't see how Obi-Wan's eyes turn blue again, yours. He runs up to you with an invisible expression, says something, begs for help, tries to lift you up, staggers and wraps his rough hands around you. No, no, no! The thought of death pierces through the heart, empties and almost stops beating; there is a deafening ringing in the ears.

His head bends down, and Obi-Wan touches your body with it — soulless, inanimate... He wants to scream, turn off in the languor of self-immolation, turn back time and change everything. A shaking hand ran through your tangled, clean hair, Obi-Wan hoped that you could feel him, forgive him. He hugged you, throwing the sword far away, and cried.

He kissed your back, and now he inflicted thousands of wounds there. He whispered words of tenderness to you, and now he muttered threats. Beauty remained with you even now, at the moment lost for him, when it is unknown where to move now? and will he be able to forgive himself for this nightmare? Obi-Wan returns to the house and everything is the end of life: he, absorbed and brought up by the darkness, dies, only Darth Lant remains.

Obi-Wan looked at your exhausted body and tried to preserve it. A person had a choice — a choice to love, a choice to die, a choice to be or to be, a choice to keep cold or to burn, but Obi-Wan had no choice. There was no free will. Devoid of love, devoid of emotions, devoid of home and sleep, he gets up by force, grabbing a sword, and looks at you for the last time. Darth Lant pressed his lips together and, looking away, left the cave, leaving behind his fears, his beloved and his choice.

When Obi-Wan fell, the stars cried, died.

and here im back, hooray! @jjeresano-euler, im sorry if there was something wrong and u can always ask for something else and ill write (including your second idea with patrick). i hope you enjoyed it!

[kneamet]

YOUR BACKKKK

i was starting to worry about my bae, but i'm glad that your doing good, besides feeling unwell which i hope you get better soon, but i've missed you so very much this past week

so exicted tho for that obi-wan fic, you don't even knowww

i will be patiently waiting for your beautiful writing, that i pray you will post tomorrow, but super excited that you're back from the dead and will be posting again!!!

oh, honey, i really missed u too, u have no idea how much! i think that i will get better very soon and i will release drabbles/works/more often and the third part finally.

damn, im already editing the text, making a gif and ill post it very soon, but dont wait for something wow. i focused more on the form, characters and text than on the plot. love u!♡

[kneamet]

forgive me, guys, for being absent and not particularly active. i have a lot of things to do and im currently writing a small work on obi-wan (i think ill publish it tomorrow) :_)

also my favorite bands album came out and favor artist, so i spent the whole day analyzing their texts. and then i read a book.

so i apologize again, dont lose me too much. and im a little unwell, i have a runny nose, but that wont stop me from posting what i promised. (and i so want u to ask me about something, send requests... yes, this is a hint)

[kneamet]

hmmm, i just reviewed halston (instead of finishing the fic with obi-wan, yes) and i have just one question... and why the hell is there absolutely no fics with him? this is such an interesting character with a prescribed character, moments, etc. but there is absolutely nothing about him. of course, i will write about him - perhaps a little later - but i absolutely do not understand it :/

[kneamet]

so i just watched Young Adam with every intention of requesting a fic with Joe but i just finished it and what. the. fuck? that movie is something else entirely and i am conflicted with how to feel about our man whore Joe Taylor

that movie has so many layers to it i don't know were to even start and some of those scenes??? i don't know if i should be relived or not at the lack of fics for him 😟

anyways that was my night 😍🤞

ive already written joe for the third part! and yes, i totally agree with you, it was the strangest movie possible... so i had to buy a book because the character was not completely clear to me. (it turns out, for example, that taylor is not his real last name and he did not tell anyone at all). after all, the lines are obtained there - the future and the past.

in general, i really liked the book, im silent about the movie, it's fucking awesome. it's a pity, of course, that there is no fic at all for him, but I think i will fix it soon.

joe is an interesting character in general, and although i analyzed him, i still don't understand some points; those moments that you look at and are like: what.

(i promise that if you ask joe with a certain plot, then i will write about him).

[kneamet]

i officially declare — @compulsivewriter111 is the best. i love you very much.

[kneamet]

amore amore

Trigger Warning: angst, obsession, drabble

Word Count: 608

Character: curt wild/reader

amore amore

The dirty club — the name of which hardly anyone would have remembered — greeted visitors with a loud sound from rattling speakers, dancing people sprinkled with sequins, vomit on the floor in the corners of the room, bright lighting. The green walls are covered with numerous low-quality posters of rock stars — sticking out their tongues and showing guitars — in black leather jackets, as well as strange red drawings that seemed to be drawn by stoned drug addicts.

Sweat was pouring down from Curt's hot body — it was stuffy. Being stripped to the waist, still wearing blue worn jeans, Curt closes the dressing room door and there is a click — the light turns on and the latch rattles. He takes off the strange collar that hung around his neck for a couple of hours and throws it somewhere to the side — now Curt is not interested in how he performed. In his mind, drugged with highs and screams of visitors, there is only one thing — you.

With a light sigh, still unable to calm the increased heartbeat, he steps with his bare feet to his beloved star, not paying attention to the fact that he stepped on something sharp and hugs you. Pulling closer, he kisses on the lips, but does not feel the answer. He looks at her, hears all the charm with his eyes even at this moment; Curt could not stop enjoying his beautiful star. She is incredible, she saved him at the moment when his hands dropped and his veins were filled with only heroin.

He walked the paths of psychotropics, was about to go crazy; the walls of the house, brothel and alienation of people pressed, as if in the mouth of a dragon.

Brian opened the way for him to his Emerald City — glasses were beating after midnight, he celebrated a successful performance with Slade — it  make a splash, the manager told them. Curt was surrounded by beautiful girls, but no one attracted his attention; in the middle of namelessness and strangers (what was he doing here anyway?) — she became close to him, his star... Sneakers continued to wear off on the floor, a pack of Rothmans stuck out in the pockets of her jeans, she was pretentiously smoking a cigarette, standing in the corner of a huge room. He did not dare to approach her, watched from afar.

He was ordered to love, but to love is disgusting. Brian was empty, but behaved like an prince. He clapped his hands when Curt slammed the door, mocked and laughed — "go to your junkies!” he said after him. Curt studied to live alone in the dark, but he never managed. Was weak, doubted. At the moment when the bottom swallowed him, she appeared. The smoke was dissipating before his eyes, he would never fix what he had done during his lifetime, but now she is his salvation, his love, his asterisk, his death, his addiction.

“My star...”

He called her, but got no answer. His cold heart was warmed, and now he was kneeling in front of her. Curt spoke with naive phrases, the songs continued to play, and he smeared the green antiseptic chickenpox — an infection from first love, but the wound did not hurt anymore. Eternity had no love, love had no taste.

They were like Paolo and Francesco, Othello, Desdemona and everything like that, — his star said. Сurt could be a monster, but he sincerely tried to be good. His life with Brian was tedious tales, but only with a cute star he felt love.

There was no love without illness.

Curt continued to live in castles in the air.

i remember that i have been promising the third part of ewan mcgregor's characters for a long time and writing a fic on mark renton, but i still cant find the strength, only on drabbles. sorry to disappoint, but so far only so, im sorry

[kneamet]

im really sorry that i didnt post anything for this weekend. this is all due to lack of free time but i promise to publish something by next sunday/saturday

[kneamet]

will you ever do seasonal stories i.e. Valentine’s edition, Halloween, Xmas, etc.?

to be honest, i would like to do something like this. but i havent really figured out how to do it yet. (although i would write something themed for christmas)

[kneamet]

your yandere stories are awesome!

thank you so much for such a compliment! ^^ i try very hard to write well, even if it doesn't always work out