#* filed under — ( fashion ) ( like a second skin )
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𝒇𝒂𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒂𝒆𝒔: unknown designer.
#...i've tried to find who the designer of this dress is so many times i give up#but the belly / midriff panel? the shell detail? the flow? yum#* filed under — ( verse ) ( galaxie )#* filed under — ( verse ) ( inspo ) ( galaxie )#* filed under — ( verse ) ( fairytale )#* filed under — ( verse ) ( inspo ) ( fairytale )#* filed under — ( fashion ) ( like a second skin )
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"Everyone at Harbor was... very concerned."
"Attention, all channels: Please be advised, a team from the coroner's office and biohazard removal specialists have been dispatched to LAFD Station 118 for the removal of human remains."
It takes a second for the words "Station 118" to penetrate the thick atmosphere of concentration and rage that Tommy's been floating on while he tries fruitlessly to sweet talk the Bell 505 into accepting the new safety wires he's been trying to install for the last half hour, but the second they do, he tosses down the needle-nosed pliers in his hand and makes a bee-line for the radio sitting between Dana, Nico, and the unpeeled tangerine Nico's eating like an apple.
"Did they say human remains?" Tommy's already reaching into his pocket for his phone, then curses under his breath when he remembers it's sitting in the cockpit of the Bell. He glances across the hangar and gauges the distance. He can probably get to it in ten seconds if he sprints.
"Shut up," Dana says as she turns the volume dial up.
"Be aware that crowd control has also been sent to clear the area. If you are called to an emergency scene in the general vicinity of Station 118, you are advised to avoid Gale Avenue and the surrounding streets until further notice."
"A kid was probably trick-or-treating and found someone's grandma who'd kicked it like a week ago." Nico takes an unconcerned bite of his tangerine, because there's something severely wrong with him as a person. "It's probably nothing."
"That's not nothing?" Tommy looks at Dana for help, but she just heaves a sigh and gives a long-suffering flick of her fingers in Nico's general direction. Which, honestly? Fair.
"They said the remains were at the 118," she muses, pulling out her phone and scrolling through with her thumb, not a single movement wasted. "No one there ever gave off a serial killer vibe—I'm not counting that little blond shithead from a few years ago—so I'm chalking it up to a good old-fashioned misunderstanding."
Nico coughs around a bite of tangerine, rind and all, and Dana doesn't so much as glance his way while she slams a fist into his back. To the casual observer, it probably looks like they're rehearsing some slapstick routine, but every member of the 217 knows that the second Nico gets his hands on any kind of foodstuff, he's immediately seven or eight seconds away from death.
They've had to perform the Heimlich nine times this week alone, and it's only Thursday. He keeps meaning to ask Howie if it's possible to survive solely on IV fluids, but he has a sneaking suspicion that Nico would just manage to choke himself out with the tubing.
Tommy shakes his head in disbelief. "Nico, I'm begging you: chew your food. Or, like, peel the rind off first."
"Every part of the animal, my man," Nico trills cheerfully, wiping his mouth. There are orange bits stuck in his teeth.
Holding up a hand, Dana taps her phone with her thumb, her neon green nail—filed to a point so sharp it might actually violate the contract they all signed about not bringing weapons into the workplace—clacking against the screen. The sound of a calling dialing out filters through the speakers and it only takes two rings before someone picks up.
"You good, Dana?"
"Hey Mohini, I'm fine," Dana says with a small uptick to the corners of her mouth that could be almost be described as kind, and just seeing it makes Tommy's skin crawl a little. He glances at Nico, who has stopped trying to kill himself via citrus fruit and looks every bit as disturbed as Tommy feels. The last time Dana smiled, it was right before she launched herself at the asshole who told them to take their time rescuing his stepkid from the fire that was consuming the cabin his family had rented for the weekend.
They saved the kid, and the guy was too shit-scared of Dana to even consider suing her or the department for his broken jaw. He was also dealing with a sudden divorce.
The ex-stepkid writes to Dana every month. Tommy can't prove it, but he thinks he once saw her throw an envelope with the kid's name and address into the outgoing mail pile, and he's also too shit-scared of Dana to bring it up.
Dana catches his gaze and he mouths, who even are you?
She flips him off, which honestly does wonders to assuage his fears of her being possibly possessed.
"What's up, girl?"
"We heard the APB just now. What's going on with the 118?"
"What isn't going on with the 118?" Mohini laughs a little, crackling over the line. "From what I've heard, Firefighter Buckley bought a mummy for the Trunk or Treat thing they put on every year. A real one."
Startled, Tommy looks at the phone in Dana's hand and asks, very slowly, "He bought a corpse?"
Tommy can feel Dana's pointed stare on the side of his face, mostly because his skin is starting to sear, but Tommy can't do anything but stare at the phone and try to process that one. And he just can't. Every time he tries, the smell of burnt toast gets stronger.
"Honestly, I'm not even surprised. We've been overdue for a Buckley-related call. I mean, it's been two months since the last one. Remember the thing with the HVAC unit on Sunset?"
He barely remembers that Buckley-related call, but he does remember the one from three nights ago in great detail, which ended with him rimming Evan until he cried and then fucking his brains out. Apparently Evan forgot to put them back in before he bought a dead body to use as a Halloween decoration.
Blowing out a breath, Tommy turns on his heel, jogs over to the Bell, and grabs his phone from the pilot's seat.
Evan, are you okay? Dispatch said something about an incident at the 118, he texts, deliberately vague. He's been told once or twice that his texting tone can sometimes border on an interrogation, which is bullshit, because texting doesn't have a tone, but he doesn't want to be an asshole when he knows Evan's probably beyond humiliated about this.
Plus, Evan doesn't necessarily know that Tommy knows about the mummy. It'll be much better if he has the opportunity to tell Tommy on his own terms.
<< omw 2 the hospital. im ok!
Or he could just be incredibly Evan about it.
>> What happened?! Do you want me to meet you there? I can leave right now.
<< Awwww <3 Eddie going 2 meet me there. Come by l8r?
>> As soon as my shift ends, I promise. Are you sure you're okay?
<< disloc8ed shoulder
Evan literally had to go to a different keyboard to find the 8. Tommy hates how hard he's falling for this ridiculous person.
>> I'll fly there if I have to. Text or call me anytime, okay?
<< :-) :-) :-)
It's three smiley faces. It's nothing, and yet something inside him eases, turns three times, and curls up with a pleased purr.
Since he left the 118 and decided to finally live the life he'd spent his life refusing to allow himself to have, he's dated four people, Evan included. What he feels when he looks at those smiley faces is more than what he felt about the other three people combined. It's both terrifying and exhilarating. He never put stock in the whole 'there's someone for everyone' thing Sal's wife likes to throw around, but then he threw caution to the wind and kissed a beautiful, babbling man silent, and in the weeks that have followed his life seems so much more than he ever imagined it could be.
He has no idea how any of this is going to shake out, and chances are he's going to screw this up spectacularly, but he taps his finger gently to the middle smiley face and hopes Sal's wife is onto something. Maybe there really could be someone for him. Maybe that someone texts like a twelve-year old.
Rolling his eyes at himself, Tommy sends back a single smiley face and pockets his phone. And then immediately takes it back out and sends like five more, because he's pathetic.
Dana and Nico are right where he left them, and as soon as he gets close, Nico sits up and levels him with an expectant look.
"Are they gonna shitcan him? You know the LAFD will shitcan anyone no matter what the circumstances are," he says gravely.
Primly, Dana touches the points of each of her nails to the pad of her thumb. "Nico, if you didn't get shitcanned for tricking Chief Bailey into shrooming at the Backdraft Ball last year, I think Buckley's in the clear."
"That was a complete misunderstanding," Nico swears for the thousandth time.
Dana gives him a slow blink. "It was not. You pulled a jar of mushrooms out of your jacket and said, 'I'm gonna send Chief Bailey to Jupiter.' I have no idea why you're not in jail."
Smug as anything, Nico preens a little. "Chief B was going through some stuff and we went on a very good trip together."
Tommy and Dana share a dubious glance, because that could mean anything from impromptu therapy to having sex in the bathroom where the two of them were found. And Tommy's not one to judge anyone's sexual proclivities, but Chief Bailey is in his early eighties and has very well-documented hip problems.
"How's the human terrier doing? Did he dig anyone else up?" Dana asks. Her expression gives nothing away, but he knows she's laughing at him deep down in whatever black hole her body uses to siphon off emotion.
"Har har," Tommy deadpans, then pauses. "I actually don't know the answer to that. I'm really hoping it's just the one corpse. He did manage to dislocate his arm, though."
"I bet they're gonna shitcan him," Nico says.
"I bet Donato's gonna kill you in cold blood for eating her tangerine when she gets back," Tommy says brightly.
"Probably. I couldn't help it. Stolen food tastes better; it's a law of nature." Nico makes a thoughtful sound and gets to his feet, stretching languidly. "Since I'm already marked for death, I might as well eat her potato salad while I'm at it."
He and Dana watch him amble away in search of Lucy's motive, and Dana asks, genuinely curious, "You ever wonder if the LAFD will go against the grain and hire someone normal?"
"Only every day of my life," Tommy admits. "Speaking of which, did your friend have anything else to say about Evan's, uh, taste in Halloween decorations?"
She shakes her head. "It's with the police now. You off to see your grave robber?"
Huffing a laugh, he lightly kicks her foot. He doesn't know what it says about him that hearing Evan be referred to as a felon fills him with such fondness, but he decides to shove it out of sight until he can study it in greater detail when he's alone.
"My shift ends in a couple of hours. He can keep himself out of trouble until then." Tommy thinks about it for a second and amends, "Probably."
Two hours should be plenty of time to finish fighting with the safety wires, shower real quick, and then break a handful of traffic laws on his way to First Presbyterian. He can only hope Evan doesn't dislocate his other arm or lock himself in the morgue in the meantime.
"Hey." Dana kicks his foot and he lifts his gaze to hers. She stares at him for a moment and, terrifyingly, her mouth quirks again. "Happiness looks good on you, Kinard."
He ducks his head, smiling helplessly. "It's early days, D."
"So what? Doesn't mean you can't be happy about it." Dana shrugs. "I'm thrilled, frankly. Now we've got someone on the inside who can give us firsthand intel about what the fuck goes on over there."
"I'm not a spy," Tommy says flatly.
Dana nods. "True. But it won't be long before you're an accomplice."
Like it's a foregone conclusion that he's going to throw in with Evan and Evan's family. The hurricane could be written off as an outlier, but Tommy knows the second they come to him again for help—the very instant Evan asks—it's going to be an immediate yes.
"If it comes to that, will you bail me out?" he asks, half-jokingly. He won't do her the disrespect of trying to deny it. She's always had his number.
"Nah." Dana gets to her feet and reaches up to pat him on the arm. "I'll let Donato do the honors."
He'd rather stay in jail.
#bucktommy#911 8x05#interstitial fic#yes i'm bringing back my harbor ocs for this#one more unserious story before the episode drops!#rc's 911 fics
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Hey, teacher! Part. 7 (Catwin motorcycle au)
Warning: Esther Finch :'')
Getting dressed for a church picnic he does not want to attend, is easily the most depressing thing Edwin's done in a while. It feels like he's preparing for some sort of public execution.
20 minutes into feeling sorry for himself, he resolves to snap out of it. There's nothing to say he even has to stay that long. He's a grown man, he can come up with an excuse to leave if he so chooses. Yes, he’s a grown man, so he needs to stop nodding at himself in the bathroom mirror.
His nerves are getting the best of him, as they so often do, he massages his temples to expel the stress headache that's forming. He can feel his mood darkening with each passing moment, if he doesn't get it under control, he'll be miserable company for the entire day.
The weather’s predicted to stay a bit chilly, so he dresses in charcoal slacks, paired with a deep navy dress shirt. No (bow)tie today, 5 days a week for school is enough. He matches a black pair of shoes with a grey overcoat, inspects the outfit in the mirror. Dark, yes. More suited for winter. But he really only owns muted colors. Oranges, bright reds and light browns don't really make an appearance in his wardrobe, which probably contributes to his reputation as a cranky recluse. Besides being reclusive and cranky, of course.
He splashes a bit of hair treatment around to shape his hair, running a comb through it until he looks presentable. Well, he thinks, with a final nod. Now, or never.
The Port Townsend Church is only two miles from his house, so Edwin opts for the method of getting there that will take the longest; walking. He barely remembers at the last second, to give a wave goodbye to Thomas in the driveway, the short motion of his hand as absent as the stray thought of how near domestic the quick action was. Edwin strides just a bit more briskly until he rounds the corner of the street. He walks more leisurely after, until he sees the church looming in the distance, tall, traditional, cold. It was built when the town was first settled all those years ago, has remained a major landmark ever since. With every excuse they can feasibly come up with, the social and political elite file in and around, to see and more importantly be seen by others. Esther Finch is very much recognized as holding a seat at the top of the hierarchy, though she has no official title to speak of.
The church sits right in the center of town, in front of it a sprawling, meticulously maintained lawn, big enough to fit two whole soccer fields, or one extravagant picnic. Esther wasn't lying, the whole town has turned out for this event, en masse. The streets are lined with parked cars, the sidewalks crowded with those still arriving, the air smells of barbecued food, grease, and sugar from the cotton candy machine.
Immediately, Edwin spots a few of his students, their parents. They greet him with warm smiles, some of them are even genuine.
The picnic is quite loud and crowded, Edwin can feel a general unease settling in his gut. He was never extremely fond of crowds, in a town like this, a crowd tends to mean no escape: you just have to grin and bear it.
In his peripheral vision, he spots a large, immaculate picnic table, clearly the one Esther has claimed for herself, surrounded by her group of disciples. They're all there, with cocktails, no food in sight, expensive handbags laid out on the table, in sight. They are all wearing the latest fashions, perfectly tailored, made up to an exquisite degree. Wax statues couldn’t peer with their skin. Esther perches in the middle of the nest, her blonde hair done up high, her makeup startling, violent. They all look to her with adoration, laughing when she laughs, leaning in close when she speaks, casting wary, judging eyes on all other attendants at the picnic.
Oh God, she's spotted him. Edwin sees her faux-whisper to the table, and they all grin, eyeing him like a piece of meat, taking a synchronized sip from their respective drinks.
“Edwin, darling!" Esther approaches, arms out, and he's forced into a half-hug, while she plants a kiss on each of his cheeks. "I'm so glad you could come, you really must join me at my table, the girls are just dying to talk to you." She insinuates an arm around his elbow, and begins to escort him across the green.
"Mr. Payne, sir!"
Oh thank God.
Edwin stops in his tracks, probably too forcefully, because Esther stumbles a bit, though she manages to turn her sharp anger into a mildly perturbed look, all in a disturbing dangerously quick flash. Dashing across the field towards them, is none other than her own son, Monty Finch, so Edwin figures she’s hard pressed to show any real emotion, other than the perfectly palatable mix of proud and doting mother, beset by her beloved child, imploring her attention.
"Mr. Payne, hello!" Monty practically chirps, a smile on his face. Edwin notes he barely glances at his mother. As such, the young man misses his mother’s exaggerated eye-roll, while he pulls out a familiar tome, but Edwin doesn’t need to be watching her face to know she’s displeased, with the way her nails dig into his elbow like talons. Undeterred, or simply used to surviving under extreme atmospheric pressure, Monty chatters on, his enthusiasm a very welcome distraction. Edwin leans over the boy’s shoulders, engages him, the most open interest he’s ever shown, as the teen asks him if he’s had a good day yesterday, while flipping through the pages of charts and notes, and did he notice any positive effect from Saturn’s position? When Edwin asks if Monty’d been so kind as to look up his horoscope, for the day, as he’s quite curious, the young man beams at him over his shoulder, nails prick deeper in Esther’s clenching grip, and Edwin ignores her prim tutting, waits for Monty to flip through to the prepared page with an encouraging smile.
Things should go extremely well for you today, Capricorn, so don't shy away from anything. In fact, take this opportunity to shine as brightly as you can! Crank up your battery and project yourself into the world. You'll find that your smile is contagious, so feel free to use it often. There's a great deal of power behind your self-confidence, enabling you to tackle just about every job with energy.
“Well, that’s a rather good one, isn’t it? Thank you, Monty, I appreciate it.” Edwin offers, bringing his free hand down on the teen’s shoulders in a gentle squeeze. "You’re welcome, sir! Oh! Have you heard? Jenny got a C+ on her last lit test, she showed me her flash cards, the ones you proposed she make, and it was just so clever, I even learned a little myself!"
"Imagine that." Esther coos, patience obviously run out, with a barely veiled tone of condescension. She has never approved of Ms. Green, probably because of the rumored divorce she slapped her husband with. It was a well-known fact that Esther did not approve of divorce; it personally offended her on some deep, emotional level, no matter the cause. "I pity that girl, growing up without a real fatherly influence." She turns as she speaks, none too gently tugging on Edwin’s arm. “At least she doesn’t have any brothers, imagine.”
"They seem to be doing well enough," Edwin offers, struggling to keep the disgust out of his voice. He directs a parting smile and wave to Monty as Esther drags his feet over the grass.
"Oh yes, they seem fine now, but when they grow up… Again, for the best it’s a girl, at least. Well, you know what happens to boys raised without a strong, masculine influence." She raises her eyebrows. "It's just a natural fact, they grow up funny. You know." She pats his arm, sighs.
The queasy feeling in his stomach has increased ten-fold by now. This is far worse than he thought it would be. By God, this woman is like a cartoon: how can one person be so wrong about so many things, so quickly? She makes it look effortless, to be filled with this much casual contempt for good people. And Edwin's about to sit with her, at her table, pretend to be satisfied by her company. He's a coward. He hates himself.
At first, he thinks he's imagining the drone of an engine. But as it gets louder, Edwin realizes with a jerk that he recognizes the particular pitch, and isn’t that a revelation. Yes, it's Thomas's motorcycle, over there in the road. Pulling up to the curb, parking.
His cheek-wide smile is barely roped back into a more appropriate expression of mild amusement.
He can't believe Thomas is here.
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Klaroline WIP Wed - fake sexy lamp au
Okay so like the basic premise of this fic is that Klaus finds out about Elena and in order to keep an eye on his doppelgänger, comes to town before Stefan and fake woos her in the guise of a college student. He just doesn't count on her extremely opinionated best friend Caroline butting her nose into everything and messing with all his plans and getting under his skin.
--------------------------------------------
It was astonishing what a thousand years could do to a place. The last time he’d seen the village that would become Mystic Falls, it had been a half burned wreck, a testament to the sins of fathers coming to roost on the sons. Now?
Well, it was no longer on fire, Klaus thought blandly, looking around the town square from where he sat on an out-of-the-way park bench. One could term that an improvement. It was disgustingly picturesque in that true Southern Americana way.
As he flipped through the file folder he’d had liberated from the Sheriff’s file folder drawers by a convenient deputy, he rubbed at his jaw absently, fingers missing the usually present stubble. Going undercover, at his age. The temptation to burn this town to the ground—again—and take his doppelgänger and go simmered pleasantly in his veins, except for that one pesky loophole: the ceremony had to be completed in the birthplace of the doppelgänger. From all accounts, that was Mystic Falls, VA. So here he was, blending in.
Was this how the average American youth wore their clothes, so ill-fitting? He hadn’t worn anything that hadn’t been tailored for him in the past several centuries that he hadn’t taken in desperation on the run from Mikael. It seemed rather ridiculous to complain of one’s trousers being too tight when your own father figure was trying to stake you through the heart.
Kol had managed it, both the too tight trousers and the complaining. Probably he should have spent the majority of the 80s daggered instead of doing enough cocaine to keep El Padrino in business, but his little brother’s terrible fashion decisions aside, he didn’t think they had ever stooped so low as to buy off the rack.
The jeans and t-shirt Klaus wore, along with the thin zip-up hoodie, and converse sneakers were designed to make him appear younger. Those, and the addition of a paint smeared backpack slung over one shoulder, seemed to be performing the desired result: before he’d compelled him, the deputy had asked Klaus if he was taking classes at Whitmore.
Which brought him back to the contents of the folder: the drowning deaths of Grayson and Miranda Gilbert, and the mysterious rescue of Elena Gilbert. It was clear the car accident was just that, an accident, but what flummoxed the good members of the Mystic Falls Police Department was how his Doppelgänger got out of that vehicle. Indeed, she had no memory of having done so.
Where in town, he mused to himself, would I locate the one person who could rip open a car door with their bare hands? Closing the folder, he slid it under a second folder, flipped it open to see a paper clipped photo of a square-faced young-looking man with green eyes and light brown hair. An odd little brush of memory hit him as the man laughed, an arm around his shoulders, the sound of jazz in his ears, blood and gin mingling in his throat. Blink, and it was just a photo again.
A shadow fell across the page. “Nik, I’m bored.”
#klaroline wip wed#klaroline#please enjoy sulky moody Klaus#in which Kiry writes Klaus POV and shakes like a wet chihuahua#It will be going back and forth for this fic so y'all will be getting both 'HE'S A SERIAL KILLER' and 'You got me i'm a serial killer'#It's 2am i don't have the energy for tags please just take this fic so i'm not cursed
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How is it possible for me to be so autistic and miss 90% of social cues, yet so consistently romance repulsed? A slight expression around the eyes or change in the tone of voice is all it takes to make me wanna hurl and have my skin crawling. I stg it triggers adrenaline every time and I feel like I’m on red alert for hours after it happens. And no matter how I explain it to a partner, they almost always inevitably “forget” or decide they must be different, or we’ve been together long enough that SURELY I must have romantic feelings by now. How to explain that I am only really comfortable with physical touch from my cats? Some people I can hug, but even if my mom touches me when I’m not expecting it/we aren’t mutually initiating a touch, even that makes me feel gross. I just don’t want to be touched or looked at by any humans almost ever, and I want romance from NO ONE under ANY CIRCUMSTANCES. I can extract oxytocin from my cats thank you very much. I have stuffed animals to hold at night. And I have no need for sex because god invented porn for a reason. What’s wrong with some good old fashioned loyal lifelong friendships. I don’t hate people but I don’t want to pay the blow job tax for the rest of my life just to have a companion that I can share bills with and rely on and hang out with. I don’t want to cuddle, and if you try to gaze into my fucking eyes I might just gouge them out. But I’ll yell at your health insurance company for you and help you write a stern email to HR. I’ll do your taxes and we can travel together and hang out. God why is everyone else so fucking weird. Always making it fucking weird. Bleh!
Even when I explain this upfront, and clearly state that I’m polyamorous and I encourage them to find romance and physical affection from someone else, they never do. They’re like “you’re enough I just don’t want anyone else”. Ok well first off gross. Second, I’m not actually enough. The fake version of me that lives in your head is, but in reality, I am being pressured to regularly go way outside my comfort zone just to keep you minimally happy. And for what? So I can grow to resent you and you can constantly feel lonely and touch starved?
Holy shit please someone just make me the admin of their polycule. I will do all your budgeting and filing and boring shit in exchange for companionship, stability, and loyalty, with the stipulation that you DO NOT TOUCH ME, minimize eye contact, and do NOT make a romantic expression or voice at me. Also I need my own room because I need 5 waking hours per day minimum where I am alone in a room and cannot be seen by other people. I can be in the discord server and hanging out but there has to be a closed door between us. I am not a starter pet. I am perhaps a chameleon or parrot level difficulty polycule member but I really believe there has got to be a niche for me. I mean come on. I have a lot of love in my heart and I’m very loyal and I’m just so frustrated that that keeps getting me in these unbelievably uncomfortable situations. Just because I would carry you up mount doom to deliver the ring into the volcano does NOT mean I want to cuddle afterwards. A “wow thanks man that was really cool of you, I’ll buy you a beer” is enough. Jesus Christ.
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RED | L.TN
Pairing : ten lee × afab reader
Genre : romance
Warning : graphic description of sex, consensual sex, use of safe word so please proceed with caution, minors dni, etc.
Song : Animals - Maroon 5
Your fingers type out your resignation letter with your eyes trained on it, when your assistant arrives with someone who you'd hate to deal with, ❝Y/N, Mr.Lee is here to see you❞ you audibly scoff, rolling your eyes, ❝Tell him to come in and you can leave, Yeon. Ask my driver to drop you home❞
The door clicks open, and Ten walks in with his black hair messy and wet, and his white shirt clinging to his skin, ❝Ever heard of welcoming guests, Y/N?❞ you shouldn't notice the way. He pulls off the cloth, sticking to his skin or the tattoos visible through his shirt. You shouldn't notice the way he smiles, his iconic annoyingly beautiful smile that irritates you to the core. You shouldn't notice water droplets trickling down his Adam's apple and fading into his wet, transparent shirt, but you do, it's very much clear to your eyes, and you internally cuss yourself for it, before hissing out a reply, ❝What even made you think that I'll consider you as a guest?❞ you slam the files shut that are open around you and minimize the mail.
The rain must have been heavy, you think to yourself. If not, Ten would never come to your mansion willingly since you hated him with a burning passion, and you have your reasons. He's your boyfriend, well ex-boyfriend. Things didn't work out when both of you had to compete for the CEO position at Lush Fashion House. It was a battle for power that crumbled your relationship, causing the break-up. Harsh words had enough damage to both of you. Both of your families weren't aware of it, and you wanted to keep it like that, acting like you are so in love (you are, actually but so blinded by the power to admit it) for their peace of mind, but all that happened didn't mean you didn't love him. You did, you do, and you always will, but it's just not meant to be. It's not happily ever after, and you hated that.
Your socks clad feet curls up when they touch the freezing cold floor, making you curse. Ten chuckles, as he follows you out of your built-in office, ❝Come on, Y/N. We are co-CEOs, and we share a very special bond❞ he licks his lips, not hiding the fact he's staring at your exposed legs. You could feel his eyes on you and even his hand when he grabs you by your waist. You try not to melt under his touches, but it's hard, too hard to resist him when you love him yet hate him.
❝Stop with your bullshit, Lee. That was a one time thing❞ you push him away, hissing at him again, ❝But it wasn't one time, kitten❞ he whispers, arms curling around you again, cold fingers settling under your beige shirt. You flick his forehead and shoving him away from you, ❝It should have been! So the second time is a mistake, and so is the third, fourth, and every single time❞ you laugh coldly, pulling out a pair of his sweatpants and your oversized black shirt. You throw the towel at him, placing the clothes in your bed, and you walk out, trying to ignore him, as he strips off his shirt.
You go back to your office, falling into your soft blankets piled up in your spare cot. You can hear soft steps entering the room, you scowl, not bothering to look at his irritatingly handsome face. For a minute or so, the room is quiet, and you get chills when he starts speaking in his sultry voice, ❝If us fucking was a mistake, I'd do it again and again❞ you roll onto your back, shivering either from the coldness of the rain or his way with words. He joins you without even bothering to ask because he knows that you'd give in. You're weak for him, like that. He knows the right switches to flick on, and he does it all the time. He curls against you, his bare torso rubs against your back and arms circle you, ❝Put on fucking shirt, Lee❞ you weakly hiss, masking your gasp, and squirming out of his arms, but you can't and you didn't want to when he's too comfortable, to snuggle in, to bury your face into his chest like you always loved. You're letting him in, letting to be in control, submitting to him, and you know that he knows with the way he grins mischievously, ❝Why kitten? Do I still affect you? Thought you hated me. Thought you'd never let me touch you after we broke up❞ his silky smooth voice is teasing, as his fingers toy with the hem of your shirt, slipping underneath and caressing your burning skin.
❝T-Ten, peo-ple, there are peo-ple he-re❞ you gasp out, your skin turns red, a darker shade and droplets of sweat starts forming on your skin, and Ten chuckles breathily, his fingers wandering further in, tracing the skin gently, ❝We aren't doing anything, kitten. Why are you so concerned about people in the house?❞ he smirks, pressing his lips to your neck, trailing wet kisses. ❝Or do you want me to do something?❞ he nibbles at the skin under your jawline. You quietly moan, arching your back lightly, moist palms crunching the blanket.
❝N-No❞ you stutter, when you feel his erection through his boxers, you curl into a ball, red in the face embarrassed with how wet you are for him, just from his voice and not-so-innocent touches, ❝The truth, Kitten. I don't like my kitten lying to me❞ he husks, turning you to face him. You don't even try to resist, becoming like a puppet in his arms.
❝Answer, Kitten. Don't keep me waiting❞ he chuckles, placing your hand over his tattoo, since you always loved it. You moan, as he drags your hand down but he isn't leading it, it's you who traces his flawless skin, and now you see it, his boxers do nothing to hide his painfully semi-hard member, ❝Touch me, Ten❞ you mutter quietly, ❝Fuck me till I pass out. Fuck me till I forget my name- just fuck me❞ you know the more that you beg, the more he loses control. You don't even why you are doing this anyway, but it's amusing to watch his cool, laid-back attitude dissolving in front of you, crumbling at your words.
❝You shouldn't give me so much power, Kitten❞ he growls, the few buttons holding your shirt together hits the ground, but you are too distracted to care, when he hovers over and joins his lips to yours in a steamy kiss, ripping of the remaining clothes from your body. The air in the room is alarmingly hot than earlier and Ten looks like a predator cornering his prey, and you are his prey, his carnal hunger hasn't been satiated without you and there's only very little he can do with his hands.
❝Kitten, you have two choices❞ he eases his middle finger into your core with a cruel grin, you choke out a moan, clenching around his finger, ❝Fuck you to the point you can't walk straight for weeks❞ he pecks your lips, with that same grin, and pushes two fingers together, ❝or eat you out till you writhe around and beg me to stop❞ you hiss, adjusting to his fingers without complaining like you used to do, because even three fingers won't help you adjust to his size.
❝Bo-th. I wa-nt both❞ you whimper, your palms going over your face, but he stops you with a devilish grin, thrusting his fingers to brush your prostrate. You scream out his name, twisting and turning in his hold but he doesn't mind it, ❝Don't be greedy, Kitten. You can't handle it❞ he whispers with his damned smile, sending chills throughout your body, ❝I-I ca-n❞ you fight back, but you don't know if you can.
Now you regret after a few seconds, seeing his signature smirk, stripping off his boxers, ❝In proper words, then, Kitten. What do you want me to do?❞ he demands, his voice strict laced with lust, eyes dark and sinful, and lips, luscious red lips sucking her neck, you whine but you do, because dom Ten is scary if disobeyed, ❝Eat m-me out a-nd the-n fu-ck me till I can't wa-lk❞
His hold on your plush thighs is strong enough to leave marks, you couldn't give a damn about it with the way he licks between your folds, igniting your insides on fire, you moan out, cheeks already tear-stricken and red, pink lips quivering, begging but you don't know what you're begging for, you clench your thighs together but he keeps them in place, and sucking even more when you clench. He sucks on your clit, tasting the precum dripping out of your core, ❝Sweet❞ he mutters, pushing his tongue inside you as you come, falling apart for the fourth time, moaning pitifully and eyes filled with hot tears, whimpering every second.
Everything is sensitive. Every touch of his is like burning your skin with pain and pleasure. He wipes his lips, licking the white liquid, and gets ready to go down on you again with a sadistic glint in his eyes, ❝No mo-re, Ten no. Can't. Ple-ase no. I can't han-dle any-more❞ he groans, as his fully hard member twitches visibly when you beg.
❝Kitten, one last time. Let me fuck you senseless to finish your request❞ he rolls on a condom, and pushes himself inside, thrusting roughly into your core. You hiss, pleasure is blinding with your wet core, red and sensitive. His pace is slow and gentle at the start, but he turns ruthless at some point, almost to the point of breaking you.
Your screams of pleasure and the sound of skin slapping against skin creates the perfect music he loves, ❝Ah-too mu-ch Ten, too mu-ch❞ you scream, tears falling endlessly wetting your cheeks again, when he keeps brushing your prostrate, over-stimulating you. He doesn't even bother about the tears, like he said he fucks you senseless. You come with a choked scream, crumbling under him, barely conscious yet he keeps going, railing you without a pause.
❝Red! Te-n, no more! Red! 'm sorry. Too mu-ch ❞ you scream, heaving out choked out breaths. The stinging pain is coursing through your lower body. Ten freezes on hearing the safeword, and he realizes how much he had been careless with you, he presses his lips all over your face, kissing the tears off, and he slowly pulls out, ❝ca-n't, no mo-re❞ you hiss in pain, scrunching up your face with tears falling down. It's takes a second for him to get his mind together, ❝Baby, don't be sorry. You shouldn't be. I should've been careful❞ he kisses you full on lips, distracting you from the numbing pain, ❝I'm sorry, baby. I should've been gentle❞ he whispers, lifting you up in his arms, ❝Shh. Just clean me up and put me to sleep❞ you mutter voice hoarse, and your eyes droop as you fall asleep in his arms.
❝Lee Y/N, you did not just resign!❞ Ten barges into your room, door slamming to the wall. You knew this is the reaction you would get, and you answer nonchalantly, closing your laptop with a grin, ❝Oops, but I just did❞
❝You always wanted to be the CEO!❞ he whines, making you chuckle sweetly, and corner him to the wall, ❝I wanted control, Lee. And I control the CEO❞ you whisper, pressing your lips to his.
: MYST
#Spotify#nct dream#nct u#spotify#nct#nct hard thoughts#ten lee#nct ten#chittaphon#chittapon leechaiyapornkul#nct chittapon#nct hard hours#nct scenarios#nct suggestive#nct smut#lee ten#wayv scenarios#wayv ten#superm#superm ten#nct blurbs#nct 127
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Sooooooooooooooooooo…
What sorcery grade would Nanako, Mimiko, and Junpei would be?
Grade 2? Semi Grade 1?
And while we at it, what grade would your OCs be at?
Like, what grade are Sigma and Detla? Ito Rei? Michi?
I know Ito Rei is new to the curse stuff, but do you think she would be a pretty good sorcerer? I would think so since her curse technique is pretty darn strong. Being able to cut anything is really useful.
Iirc you mentioned how Michikatsu is a Grade one Sorcerer, correct? I could be misremembering, but I think it’s very fitting of Michi if that’s the case.
Oh! And what grade would Li be in too?
Sure, let's give some character stats.
Name: Junpei Yoshino
Birthday: August 1st Gender: Male Hair Color: Dark Brown Eye Color: Dark Green Afilliation: Curse Family. Likes: The Scary Movie Franchise Dislikes: Cigarettes. Current Stress: Lost too much weight, recently. Innate Technique: Junpei has had his brain and body modified by Mahito to bring out his potential as a Jujutsu Sorcerer, his most basic technique is conjuring shikigami, by using strands of his hair as a medium. His innate technique is poison, his cursed energy is a poison flowing all through his body, and the shikigrami he creates by chanelling that body as a medium carry the same poison.
Moon Dregs: A large jelly-fish like shikigrami capable of paralyzing targets with a unique posion that covers the skin and black spots and burns the skin as if they were being stung, and has a raige of spiked stingers that can pierce through flesh. He has also learned the ability to summon jellyfish of other species with varying abilities, by watching lots of specials on the nature channel.
Apoptosis: Junpei can create much smaller jellyfish-bombs, that basically explode and spread a thicker poison that eats through flesh like acid. He can create multiples of these at once to effectively make a mine field.
Domain Expansion 20,000 Leagues under the Sea: Junpei's potent cursed energy transforms into water which floods the domain he inhabits, the cursed energy has the same pressure of being at the bottom of the sea where absolutely no light penetrates, leaving the victim unable to move, and crushed by the pressure.
Grade: He is semi-grade one, and has trained to be about Yuji's current level in strength.
Name: Nanako Hasaba Birthday: May 12th Gender: Female Hair Color: Bleach Blonde Eye Color: Hazel Afilliation: Curse Family. Likes: Gyaru Fashion Dislikes: Yoshino Junpei Current Stress: Being a K-Pop Stan
Innate Technique - Fatal Frame Nanako's cursed technique is a modern version of cursed photography, or spirit photography, born from the trend of sharing blurry cell phone pictures of urban legends / ghosts online and posting them to web forums in japan. She inflicts massive curses on whoever she manages to take a picture of with her cell phone camera, which inflicts a massive cursed energy debuff, actual curses are even more vulnerable to it.
Domain Expansion - Nanako's domain expansion is a simple and convenient one incredibly useful outside of combat. She is basically able to enter temprorily into the world of a photograph and can at times take people with her. She can enter digital photographs as well, and text herself between two phones though the second she exits the file will be corrupted. The second she exits a photograph it will be destroyed as well.
Grade: Nanako is a gradetwo, but when she uses her powers in conjunction with Mimiko they can take on grade one opponents.
Name: Mimiko Hasaba Birthday: May 12th. Gender: Female Hair Color: Brown Eye Color: Brown Likes: Sewing Dislikes: Loud People. Current Stress: Getting into arguments on internet forums. Innate Technique: Anabelle - Mimiko uses a series of cursed dolls as mediums to inflict curses on her opponents. She essentially uses those dolls as voodoo dolls, she pokes them with needles, lights them on fire, twists their neck, pulls off their limbs to damage similiar areas of their body as soon as she's collected hair or nail clippings. Mimiko's cursed energy is however naturally weak and can be fought off with proper body reinforcement which is why she works so well with Nanako as a debuffer. Mimiko can also heal people's bodies by sewing her dolls back together though she rarely uses this technique.
Domain Expansion - No Longer Human Mimiko has a partial domain expansion right now, when cast she makes her opponent hallucinate they are seeing a noose which beckons them to tie their neck, kick out the chair and hang themselves. She essentially gives them the rope to hang themselves with and often what is left is a corpse hanging from a tree or a pole when the domain's finished casting.
Grade: Mimiko is about Grade two alone, Grade one together with Nanako, she is roughly equivalent to Nobara in power level, but Nobara is more brute strength, Mimiko is more creative.
Name: Michikatsu Gojo Birthday: December 21st Gender: X-Gender Hair Color: Dark Brown Eye Color: Dark Brown Afilliation: Curse Family. Likes: Cooking, Cleaning, Sewing, Mathematics Dislikes: Sweets. Current Stress: Finding someone to take care of his pet tarantulas.
Innate Technique - Spider's Thread: Michikatsu can insert a needle into a target, which leads to invisible puppet strings made of his cursed energy which can exercise complete control of them. They can not only move it, but also make it speak, and even use their cursed techinque. The orders of each puppet are set by Michikatsu beforehand so it is able to move automatically. The number of bodies Michi can control at the same time are unknown. He can also resurrect corpses temporarily to serve as puppets. Still living targets refer to him as mother. The puppet strings are invisible to everyone except a six-eyes user. He can also change smaller animals into puppets. He demonstrates some basic level of communication with them, as his small spiders are able to scout areas ahead for him.
Maximum Technique: Doctor blythe, is a technique where Michikatsu uses his cursed energy strings to medically treat an injury. A mortal wound to the stomach can be treated in less than an hour, a severed arm can be reattached and fully healed in two or three hours, and destroyed corpses can be later manipulated. Michi has used this ability to modify his body in the past. He attempted to give himself more eyes to use a bastardized version of the "Limitless" technique passed down in the Gojo clan, but it had mixed results.
Domain Expansion - Dark Matter A domain expansion learned only after he was blinded, Michi removes the rings from his fingers, and creates a circle around him. The circle grows bigger and bigger until it's large enough to surround his body. The circles then fly outwards and create a perimeter over a long area. The rings generate a black void which grows in size to a full dome. The dome creates a vaccuum that nullifies cursed energy, sight, sound and scent. The only sense the victim retains is touch.
Grade - Michikatsu is considered a grade one curse user, he would be considered special grade one but he doesn't have super powers that negate his blindness so he can't face people in direct fights and instead uses his wits and creativity.
Name: Shigema Kamo Birthday: April 4th, Gender: Male Hair Color: Dyed Red Eye Color: Heterchromia, Red / Brown Afilliation: Yuki Tsukumo Likes: Feeding Pidgeons, taking care of a pidgeon stoop Dislikes: Math Current Stress: Money.
Innate Technique: Dyslexia, Dyscalculia - Sigma is able to reverse up and down, left and right, as well as forwards and backwards. For example, if he is falling he can float in air simply by changing the direction he is falling from down to up. If he swings his sword left, he can at the last moment change it to right. Sigma claims that coutnering the damage from inverting diretions simply by processing it within the mind isn't possible. No matter how powerful the oppoent, especially if one is accustomed to fighting, their body will not be able to adapt due to their reflexes preventing the proper reaction.
Heavenly Restricted Body - Sigma cannot channel or use any of his cursed energy, and in exchange he has immense physical prowess. Sigma, unlike Maki, and Toji can used a curse technique despite being locked out of cursed energy because he shares a connection with his sister where they share the same cursed energy. Therefore, he is able to use hers in order to fuel his own technique.
Grade - Sigma is considered Special Grade one. If he is able to use his cursed technique he's especially tricky to deal with, but without his sister he can only fight with cursed tools.
Name: Demma Kamo Birthday: April 4th Gender: Female Hair Color: Dyed Blue Eye Color: Heterchromia, Blue / Grey Afilliation: Yuki Tsukumo Likes: Purchasing haunted dolls of of Ebay Dislikes: Talking to Cashiers Current Stress: Wastes too much money in internet auctions
Cursed Energy Manipulation - Immense Cursed Energy. As a result of her heavily restriction, Delta's cursed energy is vast enough to cover the entire nation of japan. She can project her cursed energy into living people from long distance. As a result however she is terminally sick, to the point of being bedridden and her organs are slowly failing requiring her to be constantly hooked up to IVs.
Cursed Corpses - Demma was considered a prodigy at cursed corpse creation, and was hand picked to study the creation of cursed corpses directly under Yaga Masamchi. If she had not died young she may have surpassed him. She had a dream of creating a cursed corpse that would be a perfect replica of her body to go on living in her place. She was close to figuring out Yaga's secret of how to create a mutated cursed corpse like panda, shortly before her death.
Innate Technique - Dollhouse the way that Kokichi manipulates mechanical puppets from long distance, Demma is able to supply people with cursed energy, see through their eyes, and even influence their minds. She does this willingly to Sigma, but she could also force a connection on someone else which resembles demonic possession and could cause them to hallucinate.
Grade - Demma would be considered a semi-grade one, she is basically on par with Kokichi Muta.
Name: Zenin Lio Birthday: August 16th, 1999 Gender: X-gender Hair Color: Black Eye Color: Black Afilliation: Culling Games Participant Likes: Napping Dislikes: Scars Current Stress: Sisters Favorite Type of Woman: A girl who can kill me.
Innate Technique: All You Need is Kill This ability allows Lio to tamper with the realm of probability; They can cast out nine different choices at once, then select which becomes reality. For example, if they were playing Rock-Paper-Scissors, they could throw a rock, paper, and scissors at the same tie. Should he settle on a rock, then reality acts as if he never chose paper of scissors. If time is like a flowchart, he can test out nine forked paths, then select whichever route he likes the best. Most courses end up being mostly similar, and simultaneously experiencing nine potential realities comes with a massive mental burden - in other words, it’s exhausting. Which is why Lio naps all day long. They have to live out each path, and if they die they experience and remember the death. When he cats his ability he creates a territory in which his curse is active and takes effect. Time within the territory will automatically reset back to a point in time.
They can only see nine possible futures at once from the moment they choose a checkpoint and cast a territory. There are some things that even with nine redos will never change. He once asked a girl out nine times and got turned down every time. During the Zenin clan massacre Maki killed them eight times, they barely survived the ninth, and in none of the possible futures that they envisioned did they win.
Grade: Lio is ranked at Grade Four by clan interference, no one not even Lio knows what their special ability is until after they die. He would be a special grade though if knowledge of his ability spread.
AND FINALLY...!
Name: Ito Rie Birthday: Unknown Gender: Female Hair Color: Brown Eye Color: Brown Afilliation: Homeless Likes: Building Models, True Crime Dislikes: Men Current Stress: Food
Innate Technique - Cut Ito's innate technique is extraordinaly simple, she can make cursed energy flow through an object and sharpen that object's edge to cut through anything. She could make a wooden sword cut through flesh and bone. She could make a kitchen knife have the cutting power of a chainsaw. She could even cut a curse away from her soul after it had possessed her, something through to be impossible to do without killing someone. However, Ito has no idea how to use this cursed technique, how to flow cursed energy through her body, so she only ever uses it by mistake.
Grade - Ito Rie would be considered a grade four. She can't utilize her technique effectively at all.
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New Storm Hawks Fanfiction Preview
A sneak preview of my upcoming 'Storm Hawks' fic, 'A Raven Under the Starlight,' which will be set after the show's ending and look at what happened to Master Cyclonis on the Far Side of Atmos. Although this fic technically doesn't share any continuity with my 'Storm Hawk and the Dragon' series, I do intend for it to give an idea of what probably happened to TSHatD's Cyclonis in the years before she met the Storm Hawks again that made her change.
I was originally going to release 'it 'A Raven Under the Starlight' by the end of 2022, but I didn't get that far with tidying and I want to invest more time in ironing this fic's chapters out first, so now the first chapter will firmly be released by the 10 January 2023.
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A certain raven-haired and pale-skinned human’s current business meant she was currently on the former terra, a vibrant purple-and-red cloak and hood preventing her from standing out and potentially being recognised amidst the crowds of multicoloured passers-by dressing in all variety of fashions and with all variety of implants, device garments or other pieces of machinery on their person as they went about their varying businesses bellow the many neon-like lights and holograms of the buildings. A year ago, the teenager would’ve loathed being in such a colourful and fandom-devoted environment as this for being that way and not more like the ordered and low-coloured environment of her empire’s heart, and there was no denying she still felt a bit wary of it because of old habits but she was no longer so resentful. As it stood, she only intended to scan the holo-file she needed to that was only found in a Poppukatoch archive, perhaps retrieve a takeaway sample of the terra’s unique cuisine for herself and Phoenix, and they could promptly begone.
Her curse passing through a crowded street with exterior shopping stalls just happened to bring her brushing by a Kitanen refugee who was walking several purple-and-pink furry beasts on signal-leashes, and a couple of them started sniffing and trying to run their tongues along Cyclonis’ half-cloaked legs – she in turn swerved to try and keep the distance between her and them, her hood’s shadow hiding the way she curled her lip at them coming near. Cyclonis had never liked animals, and she’d prefer to be able to keep as wide a berth between her and the things as possible.
Cyclonis was only two blocks away from where the holo-arcade she was aiming to reach was located, when something caught her ear which she almost mentally dismissed – sounds of an argument that had evidently been escalating in the few moments since it had recently started, two raptor-like Mikonosuinesh (a tall elder and a short teenager) were being confronted by two whom Cyclonis could practically smell to be rogues, just by the way they held themselves if not by their moderately-colourful jumpsuits; a Bokyunshit and a marsupial-like Oesaon-Bang.
“I told you; I don’t have any chrysoberyl bars on me!” the elder Mikonosuinesh was shouting, holding the younger one behind herself protectively from the rogues. Cyclonis noted they were near an opening to a lane, a good place for the rogues to drag their oblivious quarry if they wanted to get violent without being stopped, and no pedestrians passing as close as Cyclonis were slowing or stopping to indicate they’d taken notice or cared.
“Oh, I think you do, princess,” snarled the Bokyunshit. Cyclonis slowed her pace to practically loitering on the spot, although she made sure a pedestrian was passing between her and the scene every few seconds and she still voluntarily shuffled around on the spot to avoid being conspicuous.
“Folks like yourself are always rich, sweet-beak,” the Oesaon-Bang said lecherously, rubbery mouth grinning as he looked the adult Bokyunshit up and down – Cyclonis knew exactly what he was thinking, and she had an urge to curl her lip in a scowl. “You got plenty o’ that on you.”
“We did the bust on Monsunos like you wanted, but we think you’re trying to rip us off,” the Bokyunshit rogue purred, both of them slowly advancing closer on the Mikonosuinesh adult and her cowering child who backed away in tandem – towards the lane without even noticing. Cyclonis just shuffled and watched the scene calmly, not feeling all that sympathetic to whatever mess this woman had gotten herself into – Cyclonis’ father always had said that lack of empathy was a strength.
“Stop right there!” the adult tried to shout commandingly, pointing a finger, seemingly unconscious that she and her child were backing away from the two well-built rogues.
“Or what?”
“Or I’ll scream, and someone will hear!” she said.
“You go ahead, pretty bird,” rasped the Oesaon-Bang, grinning lecherously and getting right into her space. “I’m not normally into birds, but I like a princess who struggles.” A pause passed. Then the Mikonosuinesh opened her beak to shriek – not one second after she’d started, the two rogues lunged at her, pushing both the physically-weak Mikonosuinesh into the lane. Within a few movements, the Oesaon-Bang had shoved the adult against the dull-red wall and was violently clamping her beak shut as she writhed and struggled against him-
“AUNTIE! LET HER GO!”
Whilst the child writhed and struggled against the Bokyunshit restraining her from behind.
“It’s time you gave us what we’re due, Lady Barvossa…” the Oesaon-Bang breathed in the elder’s space…
“On the contrary, that’s not going to happen.”
…before a silky, almost sibilant voice drew the Oesaon-Bang’s gaze away and past his shoulder. The figures in the alley saw the figure in the cloak and hood standing a little past the alley’s mouth, almost cloaked in shadow, though the piercing eyes with purple irises were still visible. “Not today nor any day,” the figure added, and despite the wording, the criminals didn’t hear any righteous fury that they were accustomed to in the threat. The Oesaon-Bang and the Bokyunshit just glared, whilst the Lady Barvossa and her niece looked both surprised and pleading at the stranger. The figure didn’t give any further warning before, with a yell, she spun and shot her leg out.
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Di Petsa, Pink Venus Wetlook Dress.
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Happy Blorbo Blursday!
Today I want to hear about the inspiration behind your OCs. How did they come to be? You can answer for as many or as few as you like!
~ @tabswrites
Thank you for the ask! 🖤 Many apologies for getting to it so late.
I am sure everyone is tired of hearing about mi hijo maldito by now, and he can either learn to share the limelight or give me prose, so I think I shall ramble about my older OCs instead.
This feels long to me and… personal? So I will toss it behind a cut. It seems the polite thing to do, but perhaps i am old-fashioned.
Firstly, the reason I picked up my pen at all on this side of Being An Adult: the glass cannon with many aliases of varying levels of creativity, Brynrinkeris — or Keris for short.
She was created first under a different name as an avatar on a hardcore roleplaying server in an MMORPG many years ago. I joined the server in a last-ditch effort to actually play and enjoy the game I was given - my then-partner and their guild out-leveled me on my poor frankencomputer very quickly and their FFXI play-styles were more intense, aggressive, and numbers-heavy than I prefer in my games. So I wandered among the storytellers to see what their world was like.
My therapist at the time made a wild suggestion on my second week “playing the same game but alone” - since I struggled with journaling for various reasons we won’t get into here, she was curious if that would also translate to imaginary journals. You know, a kind of running memoir for this character I’m playing with in a setting that’s so full of stories and choices. What if she were a real person? What would she think and feel about this broken world she’s moving in? What would she notice about the people around her, living their stories out in the open where anyone could see them, hear them? What would she - not me! - do if someone said Hi? What would she write about it later?
An interesting experiment.
For Science.
So naturally I did what anyone would do in the era of the early high-speed internet and I made a blog for an imaginary person in an imaginary world.
And then I handed off my gear to an alt and re-rolled her, thinking differently about the character choices this time. Not a cute swashbuckler because of pretty swords and tattoos, but a mage with elemental leanings (a preference which would get stronger as we went along together). I wanted to get to know the world of the game and the world the players had created within it, but I was so conscious of my outsider status, my fragile justification to be there, my ignorance of The Rules. I chose the female, dark-skinned elf avatar specifically because I was giving her a warrior backstory, the “good” city made my skin crawl in a way I couldn’t yet explain, elf because long ears pretty, and… well… I was already tired of crackerjacks back then. I built as opposite as the game and my own personality allowed. Then I took her memory away so that I the writer would not need to know anything we couldn’t learn from just playing the game.
I expected it to be a short and lonely experiment, running out the subscription clock and failing at yet another popular video game.
Ha.
Within a year she was the leader of a large neutral merc guild, had a very full friends list both in and out of character, and had forged alliances with several other guilds for regular raiding parties.
Frankencomputer The First died under the weight of the game files and chatlogs and the Shuttlebox was built to take its place. I didn’t realize how much writing with my friends had become part of - or perhaps the heart of - the game for me, until one night a stranger randomly tipped me money for a story we were telling in the tavern. I wrote a macro to scrape game command junk from the chatlogs and ran a few nights’ files through.
For Science.
Once I finished the scrape and manual deletion of stuff i couldn’t macro, I learned apparently Keris had taken us to a place where writing 30k words on an average weekend was normal. Without me ever noticing. Because you see - the journaling was still hard, but not as hard, and it hit in a different way. I thought I was struggling to manage three pages of fictional journal every week, but actually I was writing thousands of words of improv every night. No wonder my hands hurt. (Yes, my then-therapist laughed at me. I am not very smart.)
Anyway, I set aside some time in about… 2006? to answer the question of how much of this accidental mountain of story was beholden to the original game content that helped me find my voice again. Turned out that most of the direct references to the game could be swapped with a dozen other fantasy IPs with very little impact to the actual stories I and my closest collaborators were telling. While the game was very much high fantasy, high-stakes, binary heroes and villains… these stories were not. Even the proud leader of this mercenary company was a million shades of gray and far more concerned with the lives and happiness of her soldiers than the rise and fall of the citystates and factions they worked for.
I asked the (dangerous) what if question of what might become if I built a new world for these stories? A world that addressed issues I had with the source material and others like it? What elements would I need to keep and were they unique to that source or were they just… archetypes and tropes? What would happen if I freed my little cast from the confines of that borrowed world and dependence on other storytellers with time and spoons and a yearning for stories in compatible veins? Could I build something that big and sprawling and take any satisfaction in the result?
Thus, Dark Tapestry was born.
After Keris came all the people around her. Rokoval and Merezin, Fahlanin and Urg’Tak, Chryso and Serevhin and Airold and Cir and Pietor and Jaelle. Anyone and everyone Keris needed to interact with was (perhaps still is) in danger of Becoming Part Of The Cast the moment the narrative forced us to learn their Name and The Place And People They Come From.
Fahlanin il Rex the young and headstrong moonborn commoner is a great example of this: I really just needed someone to pole the gondola. Keris however, being an idiot(affectionate), tried to bribe the civil servant driving said gondola to drop her at a different location and pretend they’d never met. Fahl had opinions about this and within a few chapters she was pushing the plot around.
Davri came about because he had a stoneborn proverb to share in a council meeting where I was showing the Amicae guided by representatives from every culture in the then-known world. Keris made an offhand comment about relying on his advice and personal loyalty, so I pressed on that until she revealed why.
When I pressed her for where her little penchant for picking up oggish came from, given her otherwise fastidious behavior in personal connections, I discovered a delightfully bawdy and probably unprintable story in her distant past and the origin story for Hrrg’tk (moves-stone) The First Oggish Mage.
Not everyone in the stable descends from a tangle of what-if-and-why though.
A call for themed submissions from a small fantasy romance press led to me building Maleta, the protagonist and narrator of 9th Division. I actually worked up a proper character outline for her - mostly inspired by the submission requirements and research into the publisher’s range - a rough plot, and deliberately outlined with narrative roles instead of actual characters for the first pass. I went back into those bare bones with my worldbuilding notes open to flesh out the two Love Interests, the Surface Antagonist, the Red Herrings, the Unlikely Ally, the Mentor, the Expert, the Big Bad, the Victims, and so on. I chose a promising spot in the world timeline, a few Important Political Figures to mention in the city, and by the time I finished the manuscript I’d also brought in a couple of supporting characters from Keris’ stories (including a brief cameo by Keris herself).
And so you see some of OCs really are only inspired but such boring details as The Plot Requires A Farmer, where other OCs — especially in the fic I’ve written — are inspired by the equally boring but far more self-serving grounds of I want to read a story with a character like that.
Or both.
Prime example: Nialet. I needed a farmer very far from the center of power whom our favorite disaster king would trust with a delicate political situation, and based on what he values in the people close him, and a throwaway (ha) name and vague profile from another piece, voila. The longer I kept her around though, the more I liked her and wanted to know about her. I found i was interested in reading the kind if story that would center a narrative like hers, and thus Day Arising was begun. (Outline is done, and more prose than is posted, but life rather interrupted the fleshing-it-out-process. Hopefully I will get back to it soon…)
#ask the studiorat#blorbo blursday#studiorat rambles#writeblr#ficblr#writing asks#blorbo asks#dark tapestry
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Blood of the Basilisk Chapter 17
The repetition of "A gift, freely given, with no expectation of return" was fucking sending me. Which on the one hand, fantastic, exactly as it should, fuck yeah. On the other I decided to read this chapter while waiting for the file with my exam in it to upload so I could spend an hour in hell that I was utterly unprepared for. So instead of last minute panic studying I read this. I stand by my choice.
You can tell how worried Kota was about how the gift would be received by how many variations of the artifacts name that she used. I think its a super cute and practical detail that she added a segment for Pyter as well.
I had a little chuckle when the necklace gave direction and then said Kota was twenty seven feet away, because like I can see that decision having come about 1 of 2 ways. Either Molly painstakingly mapped the entire house, or she sat there staring in the direction of a random room in her own home for a second and went "yeah that sounds right" and moved on with an intimidating lack of fucks.
I desperately want to know what the fuck is up with the pendulum. He picked it unexpectedly, he didn't play with it in his normal fashion, and Kota was vaguely surprised that he wanted to put it in his special lock box.
Also it's so cute that Pyter has his own personal lock box of treasures and that Kota lets him sleep with it even if it means a restless night for her.
Whatever story is behind Kota and Pyter not liking prisons must be pretty intense, because Pyter stayed home and these guys are just a touch codependent.
At this rate (because I doubt that asshole Alborin is gonna be able to be nearly as helpful as he's trying to make out that he can be) they're just gonna have to narrow down what cult leader is targeting Kota (Nadani) by the contents of their more inventive threats and the ravings about what consequences/rewards they'll face. For example Assassin Number 2 thinks he's gonna get reborn in ash and flame. So we're definitely not dealing with an Old One or Kraken style entity. Honestly the fact that a semidaem was important to their leader probably means some kinda fiend/devil involvement rather than draconic fire elemental type stuff.
Kota kinda lost her shit a little at this guy in a way that I doubt Nadani would have been entirely happy about even if it was Alborin just because it had some strong "He Hurt What is Mine" energy rather than "I'm Gonna Make this Bitch Talk" energy.
Kudos to Yanna for maintaining her professional and moral integrity by not condoning violence against her prisoners without coming across like she's some shady fucker secretly on the prisoners side. Just an honest form of government lacky/law enforcement agent, which feels more fantastical than any of the magic and fantasy races we've seen so far, and we started the novel on an out on a dragon and a sorceress fighting off pirates in space.
I hold Kota finds a way to get under Alborin's skin without getting her sent to the top of Yanna's shit list.
#chirping wren#blood of the basilisk#kota botb#pyter botb#nadani botb#alborin botb#fantasy#queer fiction#lgbt fiction#sapphic fiction
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tefi waved her hand dismissively. “oh, don’t worry about it! i’m the public transportation queen.” she had a driver’s license she earned by the skin of her teeth, just one point off from failing, but had never owned a car. not legally, anyway. if she drove herself somewhere, it was either a boyfriend or friend’s car that they misguidedly let her borrow, or a piece of junk she bought with cash off of craigslist or an old coworker. the latter was never registered with the state of california, and usually ended up in an impound lot within the next year or so. taking the bus (or subway, back in l.a.) sucked majorly, the complete opposite of glamorous, but it was cheaper than uber or old-fashioned taxis. either that, or she relied on rides from friends. “i love you for the offer, though.” and she mentally filed it away under: friends willing to drive her somewhere. a precious, finite resource, especially in a town where she barely knew anyone and somehow already burnt bridges.
she nodded along as phoebe explained foster’s whereabouts for the evening, giving a little appropriate laugh when she shot a wink her way. it was moments like these that made her feel bad again. the weight of a secret was crushing, but the weight of a secret she was dying to scream along the streets of blue harbor was nigh unbearable. grand schemes of revenge had to be slow and meticulous, tefi had come to find out. the agony, though, of wanting to tell phoebe so badly! to warn her of what was coming. of how foster could easily dispose of his fucking legally wedded wife. of how easily foster could disappear into the night, almost if he never existed at all. did he really need to wonder why she was so angry, so hurt? that was the ultimate goal, tefi thought, to get foster to feel just like she had. she needed phoebe to leave foster just as high and dry, as foster had done to tefi. he needed to feel the pain that she felt! he needed to know what it was like to have the person that loved you throw you away without a second thought. phoebe would get over it eventually, tefi assumed. she’d find someone better, so it was okay to betray her. to use her in such a way. maybe phoebe would still want to be her friend, too, in order to enjoy girls’ night regularly in the future!
“okay, perfect! i mean, no disrespect to your boy or anything, but sometimes male energy is just… not optimal.” tefi shrugged one shoulder, punctuating with a large gulp of her wine. she took stock of the snacks and started grabbing some more favored items into her arms, then cocking her head towards the living room. “shall we start our night of debauchery?” she asked giddily, already walking out of the kitchen.
If becoming friends with girls had always been this easy, Phoebe would have tried it a long time ago. She hated the toxic way of thinking her mom conditioned her into, hated that she waited until the end of her twenties to really try and do something about it. Maybe it was just the excitement running in her veins about having a proper girls night, but it really seemed like Tefi was a kindred spirit. They only had discussed mostly surface-level interests as of late, but anyone willing to do face masks, eat pizza and binge watch movies was someone who could become a fast friend of Phoebe Yates.
"I didn't know you got the bus here, I'd have totally picked you up!" She exclaimed, feeling bad Tefi had to lug a bunch of stuff over on the the less than reliable public transport of Blue Harbor, something she unfortunately could heavily relate to. "I mean, Earl is a bit jerky but at least you'd have the trunk to put your things in!" She opened her food delivery app on her phone, typing in Pie Numbers' name and smiling as she saw the little badge indicating they did in fact deliver, showing it off to Tefi. "Perfect, like the stars have alligned in our favor!" She teased.
Phoebe reached for the bag of gummy worms, taking one and chewing on it thoughtfully, letting out a soft hum at Tefi's question about Foster. Tapping her phone again to see the time, she smiled back up at her friend. "Work. If I knew how long the hours of a chef were, I would never have bothered." And she threw a wink at Tefi to show she was fully teasing. "Um, he'll probably head out with some friends afterwards, and well, he has his own place I can always force him to crash at if we're having too much fun, y'know? Last thing he'll want after a long day at work is to be met with two giggling wine drunk ladies deep in a Twilight re-watch."
#* narrative / thread.#* narrative / phoebe.#* phoebe / 002.#we can end here or on your reply my darling#also yes i stole the optimal male energy line from the show 'you' but i'm rewatching it rn for a specific reason#just try and sue me netflix
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Overly Sarcastic Productions - sentence starters
1. “Please note: ______ does not condone violence. Or at least not murder. And usually not violence.”
2. “I’ve been turned into a robot! Send help! My emotions are fading away!”
3. “What ho, fellow humans. Are you enjoying having skin today?”
4. “I got it! Just give me an ax and a pot lid, I don’t even needs pants!”
5. “I keep trying to shoot people in the head, and they keep not getting shot in the head by me, and it’s very frustrating.”
6. “So are there, like, animals that aren’t bears, or do you just have really bad luck with bears specifically?”
7. “I’m a sleeve-hater with very high standards, alright? If I’m going to be displaying these deadly weapons, I want to do it in a nice case, you know.”
8. “Dear _____, eat shit. Signed, ______.”
9. “It’s a danger noodle! It’s the most dangerous noodle!”
10. “That was the worst thing I’ve experienced in a long-ass time, and I just got shot in the face seventeen times!”
11. “Why can I only sprint for two seconds before running out of breath? This is too much like real life.”
12. “In a post-apocalypse, fashion faux pas are acceptable as long as you have a distinct personal style.”
13. “All I see is that we got to _____ so much faster because of that. Think of how much time we saved rolling down the hill.”
14. “Given a choice between boyfriends and the moon, girls pick the moon every time.”
15. “The 70s called. They want to know if they can borrow some of your stash.”
16. “Let’s file that under ‘things you should probably never say, ever, just to be safe’.”
17. “I don’t think we appreciate the sun enough. And I say this as someone who gets sunburns from Hubble pics and people with unusually shiny teeth.”
18. “No more joking: if you do this, I will hunt you down and slap you.”
19. “See, stuff like this? It’s why you weren’t invited in the first place.”
20. “You warned me that you were going to do the voice, and I still wasn’t prepared.”
21. “Luckily, there is another, much more efficient option: murder.”
22. “I’m sorry, I must have misheard you. I was told there was murdering to be done around here, not arts and crafts.”
23. “Remind me to never pick a fight with a magpie. Apparently, those little scamps are stronger than they look.”
24. “Ugh, that was dumb! But not untrue.”
25. “You’d think people tend to sit still once they die, but sometimes corpses and bones become prolific travelers.”
26. “I like this one because it has many domes, each somehow dome-ier than the last.”
27. “And I am way too hopped up on cold meds to have any capacity for new research, self-awareness, or remorse.”
28. “That is too many horses. Put those back.”
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Gene... My baby mama... I need... More alt!dream... Whatever you got fr. I just need more I'm.. I love him (probs not as much as you) but I love him
You're in luck bc I'm running on rip fuel for him. [ALSO I WROTE THIS BEFORE EVERYONE DID THE TECHWEAR STUFF FOR HIM I'M SORRY. I'LL GET IT IN NEXT TIME. I PINKY SWEAR.]
𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐄𝐃. ♘ 𝐚𝐥𝐭!𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦 (𝟏𝟖+)
pairing: alt!Dreamwastaken x fm!reader
warnings: smut (18+), language, semi-public sex, light mentions of needles, domination
previous part ♘ fanart that i can't stop crying over
recommended listening: Hi Frequency by Vague002
The bus swayed slightly, your grip on the cool bar tightening to keep you from knocking into Clay as it turned. The dark city outside the windows bustled with sparkling lights, catching your eye every few seconds. As more people filed into the cramped space, Clay grabbed your hand, looping your arms around his waist and smugly grinning as you fought not to blush. He brushed a strand of hair behind your ear. “Will this be your first time in a parlor?” He asked, voice low and raspy as he whispered to you, not wanting to disturb the other members of society who just wanted to get home after a long day of work.
You nodded your head, making him chuckle. You knew it would be a different experience, mainly because it was taking place during the tattoo shops “after hours,” which Clay had only briefly explained the benefits of attending. “What are you getting done again?” You asked, moving so your hands were holding onto his arm instead, fingers brushing against the exposed skin peeking from beneath the cut-up shirt under his dark jacket.
He shrugged. “I couldn’t decide. Why don’t you pick?” He joshed, smirking at the way your eyebrows raised.
“I don’t want to be responsible for a mark on you,” you murmured, making him snort.
He hooked his fingers into the neckline of his shirt, stretching it down enough to reveal the litter of hickeys peppering his skin that you had left the night before. Your eyes widened as you swatted away his hand, looking around carefully in hopes that no one had seen them. He looped an arm around your shoulders, loving the fact that you were so worried about the crowd when all he wanted to do was fluster you.
He pressed his lips to your cheek, the warmth of his body encompassing you. “I love it when you get all blushy,” he teased. “Seriously though, you should pick. I won’t look at it if I don’t like it,” he snarked.
You groaned lightly. “Clay, come on.” He brushed his lips against yours.
“I trust you, sweetheart,” he cooed almost mockingly, his nose moving to press into your hair.
You chewed on the inside of your cheek, trying your best to remember what was already on his body. You thought about the impending reality that whenever he saw the new tattoo, his mind would linger on you, and for some reason, heat traveled to your ears at that thought. “Um… what about a bird?” You asked, voice uneasy as if on eggshells.
His face twisted into a pleased smile. “A bird?” He repeated. You shrugged beneath his arm, making him chuckle. “I like that. George likes doing bird tattoos too, so you might just make his night,” he added, his praise and approval making your stomach fill with confidence. He pulled you closer, his lips brushing against your shoulder. Your mind began to forget what the two of you probably looked like to the other people as his scent invaded your senses. “Will you hold my hand while I’m in the chair?” He joked.
You scoffed. “Are you gonna cry?” You teased, making him chuckle.
“No, I’m just clingy,” he answered without skipping a beat. Your grin was hidden in the soft corduroy of his jacket.
The tattoo parlor was nothing like you had expected. The door was locked behind you after a bouncer let the two of you in, the man leading you two up a staircase and into a dimly lit room. The sound of heavy metal music and the buzz of tattoo guns swirled together, echoing off the dark brick walls. You slipped your hand into Clay’s as he talked to the receptionist, your eyes attempting to focus on one detail instead of letting the atmosphere overwhelm you.
The thick layer of smoke above your heads made you scoff, realizing it was coming from the opposite corner of the shop, a hookah lamp sitting on a coffee table like an outstretched octopus. The people around it seemed to be discussing something rather intense, their haircuts sharp and defining almost as if they stepped out of some kind of alternative fashion magazine. There were three tattoo artists, each with a white lamp focusing on their work as they carried on to the beat of the music.
Clay’s description of the place flashed into your mind, making you realize just how off the cards the parlor actually was. Clay took a toothpick from the receptionist’s desk, taking it between his white teeth before being waved down by a shorter man with dark hair across the floor. You followed closely behind him as Clay greeted the man; you quickly realizing that this was the famous George.
As Clay shrugged out of his jacket, George pulled out a binder, standing beside you as he flipped to a page with scattered drawings of different flight poses of birds. Your eyes drifted away from the page as Clay’s arms came into view. His old t-shirt with the sleeves ripped off was doing wonders for his biceps. Before you knew it, the two of you agreed on a mix of a few designs resembling a crow and Clay was laying on his back with his hand tucked behind his head. The spot he was filling was in the dead center of the flesh of his upper arm; a spot that George had grumbled about being awkward to reach, especially on someone as large as Clay.
You watched closely with curious eyes as George began to tattoo the design on Clay’s arm. Clay’s other hand was wrapped around the back of your elbow as you leaned on the chair at Clay’s side. His finger pads drew circles into your skin as you asked George about how he got into tattooing, making small talk here and there.
You liked George, mainly because he was quiet until he conjured up some kind of relentless backhanded comment. His tattoos revolved around a giant tree stretching from his back and down his arms. You wondered how long he had to sit for it and what the healing process was like. As he worked, his teeth played at his snake bite piercings, his dark eyes focused intently on the work in front of him.
Clay switched his toothpick to the other side of his mouth, his hand tightening around your arm with a small groan as George reached a sensitive spot. “Don’t be such a pussy,” he grumbled, continuing his work. He stopped, cleaning off some of the sprayed ink and filling a new cap with grey. “You have any work, pretty girl?” He asked you, voice low and charming.
You shook your head, earning a small tsk from him. “This is the closest she’s been to a tattoo gun,” Clay prided, making George sarcastically raise his eyes.
“A total virgin, huh?” He joked, winking at you. “Dream’s not corrupting you, is he?”
You chewed the inside of your cheek trying not to blush. “I’m trying,” Clay leered, smirking at you with his smug ego hinting at his lips.
George bit back a laugh. “Don’t get horny in my chair,” he muttered, eyes trained on the lines he was scaring into Clay. “Speaking of, I heard you got busted up by Punz, and by the looks of it… seems right,” he commented, gesturing to Clay’s eye that seemed to have started fading finally.
Clay let out a dry laugh. “His ribs are still healing,” you added, making George smirk with a shake of his head.
“You know what all that’s about right?” George asked you, taking his foot off the pedal to grab more paper towels from his desk. You looked up at Clay whose jaw tense as he chewed on the toothpick. After you shook your head, George continued. “Punz’s sister is stupidly in love with Dream,” he plopped back in his seat, swiveling his chair, and drawing a hand through his locks, revealing the bleached undersection. You had the fleeting mental image of him tying his hair back to reveal it.
He pulled on a new glove. “Madly in love, huh?” You pried, twisting your chair closer to Clay’s shoulder. Clay rolled his eyes at the fact as if he had been bugged about it for years. “You didn’t tell me you had a girlfriend, Clay,” you teased, and he looked up at you with a tired expression, making you bite back a giggle.
After George finished, you followed Clay through the door, breathing in the fresh air; or as fresh as it could be in the midst of the city’s industrial square. Clay’s fingers knitted together with yours as he led you down an alleyway, flicking aside the toothpick. You chewed on your lip in anticipation before he pinned you against one of the walls. His devious grin sent shivers down your spine as you looked up at him.
You swallowed. “Shouldn’t you take it easy? Let your arm heal a bit?” You asked, voice coming out in a soft whisper as his lips pressed against your neck. “Won’t it hurt a bit with your ribs, too?” Your heart hammered in your chest at the fact that someone could turn the corner and catch the two of you.
He chuckled against your skin, slipping his hands beneath your skirt to grip your ass. “I like the pain,” he mused, tongue grazing against your skin as he pulled your hips against his. He kissed you hungrily as if not being able to press his body against yours for that hour was too much for him. His hand dropped to wrap around the back of your knee, moving his own leg to prop your thigh up against his hip as your hands dug into his hair.
The friction from his jeans made you moan into his mouth as his hand moved beneath your shirt, fingers fitting beneath your bra to palm your breast. He mumbled praises against your lips at how good you made him feel and how beautiful you were.
He turned you, your hands planting against the coarse brick as he ground his hips against you. You bit your lip, trying not to be loud enough to draw attention to the two of you, which seemed to be the last thing on Clay’s mind as you heard him unbuckle his belt behind you. You could practically picture his cocky grin, controlling eyes set as his hand gripped onto your hips, shoving your underwear to the side. “You were so much fun to show off tonight,” he chided darkly, lips brushing against your shoulder. “Such a good girl.”
As he pushed into you, one of his hands moved to knot into your hair. He moaned at the feeling of you clenching around him, tugging on your hair as he pulled your hips back against his. A low grunt tumbled from his lips as he set his rhythm, basking in the fact that you were secretly ready for him to ruin you as soon as you stepped into the parlor.
His fingers moved to wrap around your neck, the thought of his tattooed hand tightening around your pristine skin sent shivers through your body and heat flushing your cheeks, the tension in your body tightening. As he pressed you closer against the wall, you thought about the power he had over you; his height and build would make it easy for him to break you if he wanted, yet even as he pounded into you like he wanted you to forget your own name, the restraint he showed was enough to send you over the edge if you let yourself divulge in the thought.
Clay pulled out of you, only to turn you, your shoulders hitting the wall again with a soft thump as he hoisted you up ever so slightly, thrusting up into you as his hand dig into your thigh, the other resting against the brick beside your head. Your arms looped beneath his jacket, raking down his skin as you held onto him.
He groaned as your thighs tightened around him, making his hips stutter as if he were trying not to let himself finish too early. He dug is face into the crook of your neck, burying his teeth in your neck to stifle his grunts of your name. Your head tilted back against the brick, hand moving to tighten around the wrist that was beside your head for some kind of anchor.
His hand wrapped around your waist, driving himself deeper into you, brushing the part of you that needed him the most. You moaned, carding your fingers into his hair as he pressed his lips to yours roughly, wanting to taste your pleasure as it washed over you from his movements.
You tugged on his hair, making his cock throb inside of you, him finishing inside you with a low groan, his hips snapping against yours to stimulate a reaction from you. The feeling of his sloppy pleasure as his movements lost their rhythm sent your hips grinding against his, his teeth marking your shoulders as a reminder of his work on you.
Your toes curled, finally reaching your orgasm as he murmured dirty expressions of him ruining your pretty clothes against the wall. As he pulled out of you, your knees felt weak, threatening to buckle beneath you. You tried not to give off how much he had trashed you, but the warmth snaking down your thighs and your bliss-ridden mind proved otherwise.
Long story short, the bus ride home was rather interesting.
Dream Taglist: (follow this link to be added :))
@karlkitten @pluto-dizzz @more-like-reyna @honk-izzie-was-taken @marrymetheonott @froggyy06 @ghoulandghost @savingpluto @marshmallow-babe @drunkpumpkincake @unstableye @tinyegg @behzzyboo @darphobic @twist3dtinkerbell @sparkletash @lindsayhunz @shroomieissmall @mintmochiii @clubfairy @aroyaldarknessblr @camerondiaz48104 @madsbbg @victory-is-here @rat-poisin
#dream x fem!reader#dream x reader#alt!dream#alt!dreamwastaken#dreamwastaken imagine#dreamwastaken smut#dreamwastaken fanfic#dream smut#dream imagine#dream x you#mcyt fanfiction#mcyt x y/n#mcyt x reader#mcyt smut
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Obi-Wan’s a teen dad and Anakin DESPERATELY wants to do crime
A week after Obi-Wan formally took Anakin as his padawan, he left his quarters.
It hadn’t been Obi-Wan’s intention to spend a week lying in bed - or, at times, lying on the living room floor. Or staring blankly at the stove, or holding a toothbrush as he forgot what he was supposed to do with it. It had been his intention to handle the new...arrangements. Put on a brave face. Take care of business. There was so much to do, and Obi-Wan really did want to do it. But he stood in front of the stove staring at its knobs instead, lost.
Anakin had been a good sport about it, at least. He figured out alarmingly quickly how to work the stove and fry up the sliced fruit in their cupboards. Anakin didn’t understand that you didn’t fry fruit, but Obi-Wan ate it with little complaint. He put food in front of Obi-Wan, and Obi-Wan ate it. When Anakin asked him, somewhat fearfully, how to use the shower, Obi-Wan showed him and then took one himself. After the third day he left the living quarters semi-frequently, which would have been worrying if Obi-Wan cared.
Obi-Wan’s depressed, grieving, and has an inferiority complex the size of an Alderaanian mountain. Anakin doesn’t know what’s happening, but he does know that the power grid failure was not his fault. Can Obi-Wan ever be a true Jedi and a competent master? Or is his backstory, as told by the Jedi Apprentice novels, too fucking weird?
Rest under the cut.
A week after Obi-Wan formally took Anakin as his padawan, he left his quarters.
It hadn’t been Obi-Wan’s intention to spend a week lying in bed - or, at times, lying on the living room floor. Or staring blankly at the stove, or holding a toothbrush as he forgot what he was supposed to do with it. It had been his intention to handle the new...arrangements. Put on a brave face. Take care of business. There was so much to do, and Obi-Wan really did want to do it. But he stood in front of the stove staring at its knobs instead, lost.
Anakin had been a good sport about it, at least. He figured out alarmingly quickly how to work the stove and fry up the sliced fruit in their cupboards. Anakin didn’t understand that you didn’t fry fruit, but Obi-Wan ate it with little complaint. He put food in front of Obi-Wan, and Obi-Wan ate it. When Anakin asked him, somewhat fearfully, how to use the shower, Obi-Wan showed him and then took one himself. After the third day he left the living quarters semi-frequently, which would have been worrying if Obi-Wan cared.
On day six, Obi-Wan worked up the energy to turn on his datapad, and was promptly bombarded with messages. They scrolled down the screen, a new one popping up every second.
A lot of them were from his automated specialized education classes. Obi-Wan had finished the required padawan courses when he was sixteen, breezing through each course at his own pace virtually during downtime in transit and on missions. He had signed up for some Knight-level specialized education courses afterwards, loading as many on his plate as he could and managing special permission to complete them all virtually too. Apparently, he had a great deal of assignments due.
Many messages from the Temple administration. Notification for mandatory forms to complete for requisitions, medical care...reports on the Naboo mission...a mountain of forms to complete for the promotion...a mountain of forms for the new padawan...a mountain of forms for processing Qui-gon’s death.
Messages from his friends. How are you doing, Obi-Wan? Are you okay, Obi-Wan? Can we come over and talk, Obi-Wan? Obi-Wan, you stupid bastard, how dare you fight a Sith without me?
Disturbingly, even the master of mission assignments had messaged him. Xe wanted to know if Obi-Wan was going to file for extended reprieve from missions to train his underage padawan in the Temple, or if he wanted to continue taking missions. Decide quickly, Knight Kenobi. Xe are willing to grant three years of light to no missions to help ‘facilitate Padawan Skywalker’s integration into the Jedi’.
The thought made Obi-Wan dizzy. No missions for years? He and Qui-Gon had barely gone weeks without a mission. But Obi-Wan had been thirteen, and Qui-Gon had a particular talent of taking an assignment to mediate standard legislative disputes and turn it into a three month embroilment in an endangered animal trafficking scheme. Staying stuck in the Temple for that amount of time made his skin crawl. Staying at home in the Temple so Anakin could integrate into the Jedi, become the Jedi he dreamed of...
Obi-Wan turned off the pad and tossed it across the room, letting it land on Qui-gon’s private meditation mat. Somehow, he couldn’t really bring himself to care.
Five hours later, Obi-Wan dragged himself out of Qui-gon’s room to find Anakin lying on the floor with what looked like an entire droid disassembled over the carpet. He was kicking his feet in the air, lying on his stomach, stripping some frayed wire.
Obi-Wan stared at him blankly, forms dancing behind his eyes. Anakin needed clothing. They had already processed him through his vaccinations - thank hell - and prescribed him some antibiotics for his multitude of intestinal parasites, but there was no way he was taking the pills. He needed to teach him how to braid the padawan braid. He needed to get them some food for the cabinets. He needed to…
“Are you hungry?” Obi-Wan rasped. His hair felt disgusting.
Anakin’s head snapped up, eyes widening. He scrambled off the rug, brushing a suspicious amount of dirt off his knees. “Yeah! I’ll make us that green thing!”
He shouldn’t let the nine year old work the stove. But Obi-Wan let him anyway, as he managed to somehow dump water in the kettle and place it on the stove, standing beside Anakin and waiting for it to whistle.
I must be doing very well, Obi-Wan thought hysterically, as he stared at the old-fashioned durasteel kettle that Qui-gon had favored. He was releasing his emotions into the Force with perfection. He wasn’t feeling anything at all. He wasn’t thinking about Qui-gon. He wasn’t thinking about anything at all. His mind was clear and empty, and he was perfectly at peace.
Obi-Wan tried to pour his tea, but he just couldn’t move. He stood and stared at the kettle for so long that Anakin eventually walked in and, straining on his tiptoes, sloshed the steaming water into the plastic white cup.
***
On day seven, Obi-Wan managed to wrangle both himself and Anakin into some semblance of hygiene and clean clothes. Anakin needed a lot of help, which clearly embarrassed him, but Obi-Wan was too dead inside to be frustrated about it.
He ended up tying his obi for him, as Anakin wriggled and tried to turn around to see it on the back. He’d have to show him how to do it himself later, but that was for later.
“Why do I have to wear this?” Anakin whined. “It’s so heavy.”
“I’ll see if I can requisition you an outfit with less layers,” Obi-Wan said. A lighter outfit wouldn’t cut it, as Anakin had ramped up the temperature controls in their quarters a week ago and the rooms haven’t dipped below boiling ever since. “Hold still. Hold - hold still, please.”
“What does requisition mean?”
Anakin held still eventually. He managed to untie the obi in the first ten minutes, but Obi-Wan really couldn’t bring himself to care too much. Then they had to worry about brushing their teeth, and Obi-Wan had to teach him how to do that, and why was this so hard, why was everything so hard -
But when Obi-Wan eventually got them both out the door, he found no relief.The Temple felt different. Obi-Wan didn’t know how; just that it did. It was identical in every worldly way, yet mismatched in the Force. As if it was a different Temple, a pale echo from another dimension, that was the home of a different Obi-Wan. Or maybe Obi-Wan was different: maybe his Force signature was so warped and polluted that he tainted everywhere he went.
They were all parts of the great whole of the Force. The Force was composed of every Jedi, every sentient being and eddy of wind. There were tens of thousands of Jedi in this Temple - how could the death of one man change it so thoroughly? Or had it just changed Obi-Wan?
Somewhat suspiciously, Anakin seemed to know the way out of the dormitories and into the main thoroughfare of the building. Obi-Wan kept a death grip on his little hand the entire time, slowing his steps so Anakin could keep up without having to jog. It didn’t stop him from trying to run forward every few steps, only for Obi-Wan to gently tug him back.
“You weren’t supposed to run around the Temple by yourself,” Obi-Wan said flatly. Anakin grinned sheepishly, in what Obi-Wan was already beginning to recognize as his ‘Busted!’ face.
“Why not?”
“You could have gotten lost.”
“I did get lost,” Anakin said proudly. “But then I found a secret service tunnel for the droids and I crawled through it and I found a server room and -” He stopped abruptly. “But that was way after the power outage yesterday. That I had nothing to do with.”
Obi-Wan...should probably care about this.
He didn’t. He was too busy releasing his emotions into the Force, and returning his dark thoughts to the Force, and maintaining complete control over his body and spirit. There was no room in that for caring about Anakin, maybe, destroying the Temple.
Wasn’t he a teacher? Shouldn’t he be teaching?
“First rule of being a Jedi,” Obi-Wan said, exhausted, “learn to lie.”
There. That was a lesson. Qui-gon had said the same thing to him when he was fourteen. Obi-Wan was doing great at this. Anakin beamed and made a weird motion with his hand, clenching it into a fist and sticking his thumb out. Obi-Wan stared blankly at him until he put his hand down.
Maybe it was because Obi-Wan was releasing all of his feelings and thoughts into the Force so well, but he couldn’t help but feel a constant prickling at the back of his neck. It felt like everybody was looking at them. A group of gossiping knights downright stopped talking when they saw Obi-Wan and Anakin approaching, and they broke out into whispers when they left. Padawans and initiates openly stared. Masters were too polite to stare, but their interest clearly peaked in the Force.
By the time they got to the quartermaster’s and slid in line, Anakin was practically hiding behind Obi-Wan. Anakin had likely gone his entire life without anybody noticing him, blending into the background. Obi-Wan had learned almost a decade ago that it was a useful survival tactic for slaves. Although how he had ever done it, Obi-Wan would never know. The boy was a sun in the Force. Blinding and burnt, as broiling as the temperature he kept their quarters at.
“Oh my. Padawan Kenobi, is that you?” Meela, the Quartermaster’s knight assistant, stopped and stared at both of them. She was carrying a large box of fabrics, and all of the other Jedi waiting in line stopped talking to crane their heads and stare too. “Oh! It’s knight now, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Obi-Wan said, before coughing. He hadn’t realized his voice was so hoarse - he hadn’t spoken to anybody but a nine year old in a week. “It is a pleasure to see you again, Meela.”
“Of course,” Meela said quickly. She was looking openly at Anakin, who was pointedly looking at Obi-Wan’s belt. “And you must be Anakin Skywalker! I had no idea you were so young. Is he even old enough to be a padawan, Knight Kenobi?”
“We determined that the creche wasn’t the best place for him.” Obi-Wan quickly grabbed his datapad, brought up the catalogue of items to requisition, and shoved it Anakin. “Pick out what we’re going to get. I’m certain you must be very busy, Knight Meela, so -”
“My, Padawan Kenobi?”
Obi-Wan refrained from gritting his teeth, before rotating on his heel. He stuck his hands in his sleeves, bowing to the aged Togrutan Jedi behind him. “It is a pleasure to see you again, Master Hashi.”
“My condolences for your master’s death,” Master Hashi said sympathetically. His watery old blue eyes were large and perfectly pitying. “It must be so difficult for you. And taking on a padawan so soon after your knighthood, as well.”
“He’s with the Force now,” Obi-Wan said. Smiling. He was smiling. Turn it down. Just a gentle smile. Remember Rishi. “But I appreciate your condolences.”
As it turns out, half the line just needed to express condolences for Master Jinn’s death, how sad, how tragic, how avoidable. He was so young. Obi-Wan was practically sweating by the time they got to the quartermaster’s desk, at which point he was promptly told that he was missing three forms.
Obi-Wan stood in front of the quartermaster’s desk, gripping Anakin’s hand in his, trying not to unwind. “But I filled out the application on the portal -”
“Yes, but you need your knight’s identification code,” the Quartermaster said briskly. “You input your padawan code.”
“How do I find out my knight’s identification code?”
“It should be on your identification card, son.”
“I was only knighted a week ago.” They were staring. They were all staring - “They haven’t issued me a card yet.”
“I’ll refer you to my assistant, Knight Kenobi.”
Anakin tugged on Obi-Wan’s sleeve. “Are we not getting my new clothing?”
A horrible tremor rose in Obi-Wan’s chest: a choking, sinking feeling. It crawled up his throat, making his trachea burn and his head pound. It felt like a balloon expanding, splintering his chest cavity and threatening to crack him apart.
Everybody was watching. They could not see it. Think about Rishi. Do not let them see it.
After fifteen humiliating minutes sitting at a sympathetic Meela’s desk, Obi-Wan finally managed to secure them some clothes. Anakin also received the standard pack of Jedi personal items, including his own toiletries and datapad. They secured an identification code for Anakin and input him into the database, and gave him his own lanyard and set of cards. Older Jedi tended to keep them in a hidden pocket in their robes, but for obvious reasons they affixed them to the neck of younger children.
But, without the identification code and five hundred more hoops, Obi-Wan couldn’t request a new living quarters and new furniture. He thanked Meela for her time anyway, stopped Anakin from attempting to requisition a B900-A40 droid with HyperFlex specs, and escaped something as simple as the Quartermaster’s trying to avoid rattling apart.
Obi-Wan only exhaled when they were outside, looking at his datapad and marking off the first line. The to-do list scrolled down the screen, and onto another page. Anakin was already shifting from foot to foot, bored.
“One down,” Obi-Wan said. “Three more.”
“Do we have to?” Anakin whined. “Why were the other Jedi so mean?”
Obi-Wan stopped short. He looked down at Anakin, who was fiddling with his obi again. “Stop messing with that. And they weren’t being mean, Anakin, they were just concerned.”
But Anakin just wrinkled his nose. “They were being mean. They were making you feel bad.”
How had he even - “If you keep quiet through the errands, you can have some fruit for lunch at the commissary.”
“Wizard!”
****
It quickly became obvious that nobody approved of Obi-Wan and Anakin.
Whispers followed them everywhere. Masters, old friends of Qui-gon, subtly disapproved of his choices. Which was nothing new - Obi-Wan had silently suffered almost everybody in the Temple disapproving of Qui-gon to him for years - but somehow it made Obi-Wan want to tear his hair out. The knights - the other knights - expressed incredulity that somebody knighted that morning received a padawan that afternoon. The padawans refused to even talk to Anakin, and he very quickly stopped trying.
Obi-Wan’s own friends...he did not have many. He was never in the Temple long enough to significantly interact or make connections with any other padawans or knights. He was never home for longer than a few weeks, and if he was planetside for longer than a month then it was because Qui-gon was recuperating from getting blown up when Obi-Wan hijacked a pirate ship and crash landed it on a small moon.
He used to have friends. Bant and Garen and Reeft and Siri...but a small and horrible part of Obi-Wan hated talking to them. A conversation with them always felt like they were trying to communicate with an Obi-Wan who hadn’t existed for a very long time, crying out over an impassable canyon. Meanwhile, Obi-Wan had begun resenting people who saw through him.
Anakin was a stubborn and implacable kid, but he was very perceptive. He clung tighter and tighter to Obi-Wan’s robes the further they walked into the temple, and eventually Obi-Wan had to disentangle him and give him a quick talk about appropriate behavior. It was his tenth talk to Anakin about appropriate behavior - about everything from using utensils to washing his hair - but this was the first time he seemed to understand why.
“So they don’t like you if you don’t do all the dumb stuff they do?”
“It’s not dumb,” Obi-Wan hissed. “And keep your voice down, this is a library.”
Judging from Anakin’s impressed gawking, this was his first time in a library. He clearly didn’t understand why they were supposed to be quiet either, and Obi-Wan was beginning to understand that Anakin refused to do anything unless you gave him a reason.
Obi-Wan carefully placed him in a small chair in the children’s section, in front of a brightly colored plastic table. Some other initiates were sitting around coloring, or working their way through children’s books. Anakin squinted up at him judgmentally as Obi-Wan frantically grabbed the clunky and friendly library datapad and scrolled through the catalogue until he found a likely suspect. Bugs of Rainforest Planets, light on the words, perfect.
“Just stay here until I come back,” Obi-Wan whispered, after a hurried explanation of why they were quiet in libraries. “Don’t leave this chair. Please.”
“I want more fruit,” Anakin warned.
“You will have more fruit. Now please don’t move.”
This was not how you Jedi masters taught padawans. This was not how it was supposed to work. Obi-Wan was not doing this right. He was doing this terribly. And everybody knew, and everybody was judging him.
The children’s librarian was a kind, plump older Twi’lek with long silver lekku down to her waist. Madame Hallan had been a personal favorite of Obi-Wan’s when he was a youngling, and he knew that she still had a soft spot for him. She was probably the only librarian who didn’t explicitly distrust him.
He easily kidnapped her for a meeting - or, maybe, she took one look at his face and kidnapped him - and she shepherded him into her office. He had never been inside, and Obi-Wan felt weirdly on the other end of the fence of his childhood. It was bright and cheerful and had datapads scattered everywhere with tax forms.
“I understand you have a new padawan,” Madame Hallan said kindly. “I saw him reading. He seems like a wonderful boy.”
She and half the temple understood that he had a new padawan. “I need your help,” Obi-Wan said, excruciatingly impolitely. Since when was Obi-Wan impolite? Since when was he lost? “It’s Anakin - I need to enroll him for lessons and I need some introductory literature for him and -”
“Dear, you’ll want to talk to Master Ravenholme for that.” Master Ravenholme was the Master of Education, and personal blight of many. “He’ll likely ask Anakin to take a placement test to determine which classes he joins.”
“Anakin can’t take a placement test,” Obi-Wan said. “He can’t read.”
To Madame Hallan’s credit, and raising a lot of questions about what exactly the other Jedi knew about Anakin, she accepted the information with a thoughtful look and a nod. “Does he know his letters and some words, or is it total illiteracy?”
Obi-Wan scrubbed his face. He was perched in the uncomfortable metal chair across from her desk, elbows propped on his knees. “It’s sporadic. He’s not totally illiterate, and I think he can read mechanical instruction manuals and labels and signs and that sort of thing...if it has to do with starfighters, he can write the instruction manual...I don’t know, I haven’t checked, but I can’t send him to class like this…”
“Calm yourself, Obi-Wan. Release that tension into the Force. Let’s take this one step at a time,” Madame Hallan said firmly, as Obi-Wan carefully breathed. “I will schedule a reading and writing assessment appointment for Anakin for an assessment. Knight Fu and Knight Kili are available to administer personal tutoring until we get him up to speed.” Fu and Kili were two teachers in the special education department, which was somewhat lean for children over the age of ten or so. Most of the ‘delayed’ children were quickly assigned to the Jedi Corp. Obi-Wan was highly educated on this, and shamefully bitter. “Now, doesn’t that sound like a plan?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good.” Madame Hallen typed something out on her computer, making Obi-Wan’s datapad ping. “I’ve sent you a few of the handbooks that we give new knights and first-time teachers. Hopefully they’ll be of some use to you.” She smiled reassuringly at him, oozing serenity. “I think you will make a wonderful teacher, Obi-Wan. Our Temple’s never seen a young Jedi as dedicated and hardworking as you.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And I’m certain that once you and Anakin get settled in, no matter where he came from, he will make an excellent student. We’re all Jedi here, after all.”
Betting was not Jedi-like behavior, despite the fact that Obi-Wan was a world-class betting champion on three Outer Rim worlds (there had been a diamond heist), but Obi-Wan would bet five hundred credits right now that Anakin was not in the chair where he had left him.
In the end, Obi-Wan was pleasantly surprised. Anakin, obviously, was not in the chair where Obi-Wan had left him, but he was within easy searching distance and hadn’t destroyed any droids yet. Instead, he had just meandered to the large picture encyclopedia propped up on a wooden stand, flipping through the flimsi with wide eyes.
Obi-Wan stood next to him, unable to smile but amused all the same. “Do you know what that is?”
Anakin nodded fervently. “It’s an encyclopedia! The padawan guy said it has pictures of every smart species in the galaxy.”
There were, of course, digital databases for these things, but kids loved flipping through things. “Sentient species. Did you learn anything?”
“Yeah!” Anakin lingered on a picture of a Togruta before flipping further at light speed. “The padawan guy said that Qui-gon was a ‘rogue Jedi’ and that he taught you how to do crime and conquer planets and backflip and stuff.”
Obi-Wan pinched the bridge of his nose. Hard. “Please don’t listen to Temple gossip, Anakin. It’ll jump down Coruscant while the truth takes an airlift.”
“But you can do backflips, I saw it.” Anakin turned to look at him - eyes wide, unjudging. “What does ‘rogue Jedi’ mean?”
What did it mean? Obi-Wan had spent half his life wondering. “It means that Qui-gon and I had a lot of adventures,” Obi-Wan said tactfully. “My training was somewhat unconventional in comparison with many other Jedi.”
But Anakin just beamed. “That’s so cool! Is my training going to be uncon - unconvectional?”
“Unconventional.” Obi-Wan sighed. “And at this point, I’m afraid so.”
Was Anakin going to resent him for this once he grew older? He must. Anakin would never be a real Jedi, a proper one. Just like Obi-Wan wasn’t. And Obi-Wan had spent almost a decade now frantically, fervently, desperately trying. He had done everything: mastered the art of saber-fighting, excelled in as many topics as he could. He was an expert in diplomacy, politics, ecology, and tactics. Everybody who met Obi-Wan found him charming, graceful, and handsome - and nobody who ever met Obi-Wan liked him. He topped his classes, was better at saberplay than most knights, and had personally saved the lives of three princesses and a memorable duchess, and he couldn’t figure out how to be a Jedi.
Obi-Wan couldn’t teach what he didn’t have. And he would never be able to give -
“Cool! I want to backflip and conquer planets too.” Anakin grinned up at him, yellow teeth flashing in the soft library lights. “I already know how to do crime, I’m really good at it!”
“Jedi have diplomatic immunity, so technically I’ve never done a crime,” Obi-Wan said, somewhat testily.
“What’s diplomatic immunity?”
“Lesson number two, padawan, is that it means we can do whatever we want so long as we can justify it in the mission report.”
“Wizard!”
Maybe Obi-Wan should just never repeat anything Qui-gon had ever said to him. Ever.
In a roundabout act of bribery, Obi-Wan finally led Anakin towards the cafeteria. It wasn’t lunchtime, but few Jedi strictly followed the guidelines of breakfast, lunchtime, and dinnertime. This was mostly because the creche and Initiates did, and nobody wanted to be in the cafeteria while children were everywhere. Obi-Wan was somewhat infamous in certain circles for braving the cafeteria at 0500 hours, when the space was completely overtaken by retired and venerated Masters sipping tea and playing intense grudge matches of shogi. Obi-Wan had been forced into the matter by his habit of waking up at 0430, but the shogi skills he learned had once settled a trade negotiation between two tribal groups with an ancestral grudge on a Mid-Rim planet, so he had no regrets.
Anakin was practically crushing his hand in excitement. His head whipped around everywhere, eyes wide and drinking in the sublimely banal and boring sight. There was the salad bar, there was the meat bar, there was the drink fountain...but to Anakin, it was the most amazing thing on Coruscant. It almost made Obi-Wan smile. When was the last time he had that expression on his face? Even the beautiful spires of Naboo were commonplace to him.
“And they just -”
“Yes, they just give you the food.” Obi-Wan stopped in the center of the crowded thoroughfare - where, thankfully, everybody was far too focused on their meal or their friends to care about the Temple’s newest spectacle. “I’m sorry, Anakin. What do you...eat, again?”
Anakin suffered this atrocious act of caretaking patiently. What had he been eating until now? Just the self-stable noodles? Had he been handling boiling water?! “At home we ate jinjaraak and ekijun. People with money had fruit and stuff.” He looked around hopefully. “And they just give you fruit -”
“Right,” Obi-Wan said. He struggled to remember the food Shmi had served them. It had been mostly gruel. Obi-Wan had been around the block enough to see that she had been an adept cook of terrible ingredients. “Could you give me an idea of what those are?”
“Uh…” Anakin made little slapping motions with his hands. “Jinjaraak is from clay and lard and spices. I help Mom make little cakes. Like this, see?” At Obi-Wan’s dubious expression, he quickly clarified, “From the good clay. Near the dried up rivers. Not the bad clay. That stuff makes you sick. O’la’rek ate some of that and she got super sick and she barfed up blue -”
“Let’s get you some fruit,” Obi-Wan said.
Anakin got as much fruit as he wanted. Obi-Wan was too busy thinking about what ‘good clay’ could possibly mean to stop him. He could take the extra back to their quarters, anyway.
There was a line for medical diets, and Obi-Wan eventually shuffled an ecstatic fruit-chomping Anakin into that line. He had to present the script the Halls of Healing gave him to the friendly yet belaboured Padawan working the booth that day, and waited patiently as the Padawan squinted at it and ran off to go get his supervisor. Anakin was in Rylothian Heaven, complete with the trees of plenty.
Eventually the supervisor shuffled out, and when Obi-Wan recognized Master Law he bowed. The gruff Patitite squinted at Obi-Wan, then down at the effervescent Anakin with jogan juice staining his sleeve. It was a good thing Obi-Wan thought ahead and ordered extra robes.
“Kenobi,” Master Law finally said, with an air of crisp memory. “Iron deficiency.”
“Yes, Master.” Please don’t remind him. “I’m here with a prescription for my -”
“And the Vitamin D deficiency. And malnutrition?” Master Law squinted further at Obi-Wan, as if half-convinced that he couldn’t possibly be remembering correctly. “I had you eating Lo’rok paste for a month.”
“Yes, Master. After I was stationed on Neskar.”
“How the blazes was a Padawan stationed on -” Master Law cut himself off abruptly, staring down at Anakin instead. He looked him up and down with sharp eyes, seemingly picking out a dozen things that Obi-Wan just couldn’t see. “I’ll get you the nutrient shakes. See that he has one with every meal, three meals a day. I’m prescribing extra vitamin gummies, he’s a bit yellow. Those dietician hacks at the Halls of Healing don’t know anything about real food.”
Obi-Wan really didn’t want to get in the middle of that, so he just nodded. But Anakin blinked up at the man, flecks of seeds caught on the corner of his mouth. “What’s a gummy?”
“A very sweet, tasty candy,” Master Law said gravely. “Which young Padawans only receive when they are very brave.”
Anakin brightened. “What’s candy?”
“The best food in the galaxy.” Master Law’s stern countenance split into a sharp smile. “Seems like that’s just what the doctor ordered. If you’ve never had any, then that means I have to prescribe you a double dose.”
Anakin grinned to match, bright and wide, with yellow teeth and crinkled eyes. “That means I’m brave! I’m super brave! Padme said so, and you said so, so it’s like I’m extra brave!”
For some reason that he just couldn’t parse, Obi-Wan found himself anxiously saying, “I think you’re brave too, Anakin.”
“Triple brave!”
The cafeteria was quickly proving to be Anakin’s favorite place in the Temple. Obi-Wan was reasonably certain that this was a good thing, because it made Anakin happy and happiness was good. That was a reliable fact of the universe: when happiness was scarce, sweet food could usually supply it. Sometimes you took what you could get.
Obi-Wan made an uncharacteristic move and placed a great deal of sugar on his oatmeal. Dumping sugar on oatmeal was crazy. This was probably what going insane felt like. Obi-Wan felt like a criminal.
“You’re very boring, Obi-Wan,” Anakin said judgmentally.
“I’m afraid so,” the ten time war veteran agreed.
It could be worse. Nobody was around to see his shame but Anakin, and the small child wouldn't squeal. All he had to do was ply Anakin with nutrition shakes and fruit, take him back to their quarters, not leave their quarters again for another two weeks in order to recover from this experience, and -
“Obi-Wan! Goodness, Obi-Wan!”
Both Obi-Wan and Anakin jumped a foot in the air, Anakin fighting to keep his food balanced on his child-sized tray. But Obi-Wan recognized the voice, the smooth familiarity soothing his panicking heart and calming down his padawan by connection.
Despite the fact that the voice was the last person he wanted to see.
Bant didn’t run, because she was a respectable Knight, but she did speedwalk in a dignified waddle towards Obi-Wan and Anakin. Anakin subtly slid closer to Obi-Wan, which he should really discourage.
“Obi-Wan! Oh, goodness, you - you jerk, you big jerk!” Bant wrung her flippers, jowls shaking with the clear uge to wrap up Obi-Wan in her patented tight hug and foiled only by the tray that Obi-Wan was holding in front of him like a shield. “You’re an absolute bantha’s - oh!”
She had just noticed Anakin, who held his tray tightly. He was frowning at Bant, and Obi-Wan could feel a twinge of childish bad emotion across their still nascent bond. Wait. What bond?
Bant was oblivious, or put on a good show of it. “You must be Padawan Skywalker,” she said warmly. She bent down a little, and Obi-Wan was struck by nostalgia for her glimmering eyes and bright smile. Bant loved kids. Obi-Wan never had. “It’s so good to meet you! Have you been taking care of your silly master for me?”
Anakin pursed his lips judgmentally. “My teacher’s not silly,” Anakin said, a bit loudly. “He’s great and smart and does backflips. It’s not his fault he’s a jerk!”
Never mind. Obi-Wan was never taking Anakin out in public again. He carefully destroyed the urge to wince, settling for smiling weakly at Anakin. Bant looked a little taken back - shocked by the idea that Anakin could have taken her friendly teasing seriously. Or maybe that he would openly call Obi-Wan a jerk. Obi-Wan wasn’t going to contest it. It was fair.
“Bant’s my best friend, Anakin,” Obi-Wan said, with as much warmth as he could muster. His smile was looking more pathetic than anything, so he dropped it. “She knows how good my backflips are.”
“The best in the Temple!” Bant immediately swore up and down. “I’m awfully sorry, Anakin. I think your master’s the coolest guy here. Come on, why don’t you two come eat lunch with me and the rest of Obi-Wan’s friends? We’ve all been dying to meet the newest member of the family!”
A stone sank in Obi-Wan’s gut. He looked over the crowd, effortlessly picking out the familiar table in the back center. Sure enough, he saw the telltale gawks of Siri and Quinlan.
Joy. The two people he wanted to talk to the least. Those two ate Obi-Wan for breakfast on a good day. They would devour him now. They could smell weakness on him. He couldn’t get anything past them. They would take one look at him and know, just know -
“Obi-Wan has friends?” Anakin asked dubiously. “But he just stays in his room all day.” Went tactfully unsaid: and nobody likes him.
Somehow, the emotional obstacle course his friends were going to put him through was more appealing than the cold judgement of the nine year old. “I have plenty of friends,” Obi-Wan lied through his teeth. “Let’s go say hi.”
It felt like walking to the guillotine. Actually, Obi-Wan had walked to a guillotine before, and this was - no, it wasn’t worse. Hadn’t he done it twice? The first time was stressful, because he wasn’t sure if Qui-Gon had seduced the prison guard yet. The second time was fine, since he had hidden his lightsaber in the loose floorboard under the guillotine before he set up his own capture. So - better than the first time, worse than the second time.
Bizarrely, Siri and Quinlan grinned when they saw them. Obi-Wan was actively fighting the urge to hide behind the nine year old. The nine year old who he couldn’t possibly have formed a training bond with - he had been his padawan all of a week, it was impossible - but who had undoubtedly sensed his anxiety anyway.
“Obi-Wan, I can’t fucking believe it,” Quinlan shouted, far too loudly. He and Bant’s trays were empty, while the slow eater Siri’s bowl of grains were half-eaten. They had been there for a while, probably hours, talking about life. He had always left after thirty minutes. He had stuff to do. “I must have left you ten damn voicemails -”
“You son of a varnaak.” Siri had a death grip on her spoon, wielding it like a lightsaber. “I’m strangling you with your intestine. Not inviting me to your own knighting -”
“If you’re going to be mean, we’re leaving!” Anakin interrupted, voice high and reedy. “I already said so! I will stomp your feet!”
“You’re not allowed to stomp their feet, Anakin,” Obi-Wan said, exhausted beyond measure. “Hello, all. Save the interrogation for after we’ve eaten, please.”
And maybe it was the sheer power of Anakin and his mighty feet, but his friends quieted enough for Obi-Wan to shove sugary oats into his mouth and for Anakin to polish off his fruit before starting in on his nutrient shake. Obi-Wan had to stop and take a napkin and wipe the seeds off the corner of his mouth, and help him to insert the straw in the protein shake, but the act of sucking on a straw amused Anakin and he didn’t hate the taste. There were friendly animal species on the cup. Special nutrient shake for chronically malnourished children - now with bright colors!
His friends just watched them, without even food to make the environment faux-casual. Their dark eyes seemed to follow him, and Obi-Wan felt his skin crawl. He didn’t want to deal with this. He could barely deal with Quinlan on a good day, much less...today. Any day, lately.
Finally, his grace period seemed to tick down to zero, and Quinlan broke the ice with a fishing spear and an excess of exuberance. “Is this the famous little guy we’ve heard so much about? I hear you’re a good pilot, kid!”
And, just like that, Quinlan was Anakin’s favorite person on Coruscant. “I’m the best pilot,” Anakin asserted arrogantly. Obi-Wan mentally noted the tendency for arrogance and pride down in the ‘Goal Setting!’ part of his brain that was half-heartedly drafting a training curriculum. “I can blow up anything and anyone.”
“Sounds like Quinlan,” Siri snickered. Unlike Bant, she was terrified of children, but she hid it well. “He and your master are Joballian twins that way. Those two could start a fire in deep space.”
“So who are you people?” Anakin asked. Obi-Wan put ‘unbelievably blunt’ in his mental training curriculum. “Are you really Obi-Wan’s friends? He doesn’t like you.”
“I like them very much,” Obi-Wan said rotely. Quinlan pantomimed a shot to the heart.
But Bant just smiled down at Anakin, unflappable. “You’re a padawan, young one. You should call Obi-Wan your master. It’s good to be polite.”
“Why should I have to do that?” Anakin’s voice tinged a little louder, and at a pointed look from Obi-Wan he toned it down. Siri’s eyebrows rose. “He’s my teacher, not a master of no one.”
Bant winced a bit, and all three of them rippled discomfort in the Force. So they knew, even though it wasn’t totally public knowledge. Quinlan had undoubtedly used his ridiculous clearance as a Shadow to access the Naboo mission records and spilled the details to them. Keeping it professional, as always.
“Master means something very different to Jedi,” Bant said gently. “It’s a special relationship between two people. Every Jedi teaches and learns from each other, but your master is the person who guides you and makes sure you go to bed on time. It’s just the same word for a very different thing than you’re used to.”
“What do you mean by that?” Anakin gnawed on his straw suspiciously. “I thought Obi-Wan was the one who taught me.”
Quinlan, who had far more experience with the wider world than Siri and Bant, caught on first. He propped his elbows on the table, and Obi-Wan saw him visibly struggle for the ‘wise teacher’ tone before giving up. “The Jedi have different relationships than you’re used to, kid. Who took care of you and watched you all day back home?”
This was heading into dangerous territory, and Obi-Wan frowned dangerously at Quinlan, but Anakin just hummed. “Mom took care of me and we moved around together. But Old Lady Hun watches me and the other kids in the gathering space when Mom’s busy. And when Jipol was sick, Mom and I took care of her two daughters. And Old Man Wa taught me how to fix things. And -”
“Right. So the Jedi are like that. Instead of a very small number of people raising kids, every adult raises every kid. So, for example, any Jedi would tell you to stop running in the halls or stop you from misbehaving -”
“And every Jedi did, with this one,” Siri added.
“ - but any Knight or Master would help you with your homework, too,” Quinlan finished, elbowing Siri. “We all help each other here. We share food, stuff, school, and teachings. That’s why we practice nonattachment - everything’s everybody’s, not just yours. Make sense?”
Anakin’s brow was furrowed. He paid close attention to everything - chewing everything over again and again until it made sense. Obi-Wan shoveled oatmeal in his mouth, glad Quinlan was doing this. “Why does nonattachment mean you don’t get moms or dads?”
Dangerous territory. Bant opened her mouth to say something soothing, but Quinlan beat her to the punch. “Well, to Jedi, we think the idea of just putting two or three people in charge of kids is pretty crazy. Kids are loud and bouncy. One or two people would get totally stressed out and make mistakes. And imagine just a few people teaching you about life. They could believe all this crazy stuff, and then so would you.”
“And what if the parent’s being a total jerk?” Siri pointed out. “Then the kid’s stuck with that. But when there’s other people around, they can stop and tell the parent that they’re being a total jerk. Then they have to cut it out.”
Anakin narrowed his eyes. “So nobody beats their kids here because the other Jedi would get mad?”
Awkward silence loomed. Finally, Quinlan said, “Yeah, totally. Anyway, that’s why our way rocks and makes sense. Boom. Teaching moment.” Quinlan slapped the table in victory. “We are so good at this. We’re going to be the greatest teachers ever, Anakin. Forget lame old Obi-Wan, he’s going to lead you down the path of boring. Stick with Knight Vos, I’m gonna lead you down the path that rocks.”
At Anakin’s deeply confused expression, Bant put a hand on his back. But when she spoke she spoke to Obi-Wan, gleaming eyes boring into his. “We’re Obi-Wan’s best friends. We’re going to be here for you almost as much as Obi-Wan is. None of us have padawans yet, so we’re all really excited to help you! Did you know I’m a doctor?”
Anakin perked up. He respected doctors highly - apparently it was a very prestigious position on Tatooine. “Wow! Obi-Wan’s friends with a doctor?”
“And I’m a superspy action hero, kid!” Quinlan flexed, tossing his dreads. “I can teach you how to hack into anything!”
“I’m a better pilot than anyone at this table.” Siri awkwardly waved her fist in the air in a pantomime of excitement. “I’ll help you...fly things. Which you can apparently already do. But I’ll teach you how to do it better.”
The idea was heady to Anakin. His eyes widened, filled with possibility and excitement. Of smiling adult faces, wanting to help. But he looked at Obi-Wan instead, fear sneaking in through the gap bored by long experience with misery. “So what does a master do, then?”
Obi-Wan smiled wanly at Anakin. Experimentally, he tried sending him as much warmth as possible. He didn’t have much to spare, but Anakin seemed to appreciate the sentiment. “I’ll protect you, Anakin. And I’d like it if you continued calling me Obi-Wan.”
And he knew that meant more to Anakin than all the rest. At least Obi-Wan won there.
Although Obi-Wan had gone his entire life despairing for Quinlan’s future padawan, he somehow handled Anakin wonderfully. Even Siri awkwardly asked a question about Anakin’s favorite kind of ship - clearly expecting an answer along the lines of ‘a big one!’ or ‘one that shoots lasers!’ - and sat through Anakin’s ten minute scientific dissertations on the difference in engine ports between Genoshian Special X100 and Genoshian Special X200.
When’s the last time Obi-Wan had a long conversation with Anakin, where they just talked about nothing? He’d been so selfish, focusing entirely on himself and not even thinking about Anakin. His friends were doing this a thousand times better than he was. They should be the one with a padawan, not him. Qui-Gon hadn’t thought he was ready for knighthood until - well, until it was convenient, but if it took him this long to be knighted he ought to be forty before he got a padawan.
In a characteristically deft maneuver, Quinlan had flagged down a friend of his - Ku Lun, a friendly face and teacher to the Initiates - and gave Anakin a real world lesson in Jedi togetherness by asking him to walk Anakin back to their quarters. Anakin shot a panicked look at Obi-Wan, and Obi-Wan deeply wished to send a panicked look back, but he just nodded supportively.
“Don’t you want to ask Knight Lun about lessons?” Obi-Wan said. “You can work together to design your school.”
The concept of school, and the power to choose it, was obviously heady to Anakin, and he jumped off the bench with only a tinge of reluctance. “Come back to the room in thirty minutes or you’re fired,” Anakin told Obi-Wan gravely, yet nonsensically, before running off with Knight Lun.
It wasn’t until the sounds of Anakin’s chattering faded, then disappeared completely, that Obi-Wan turned back to his friends with a sigh. Their plot had worked. Quinlan and Siri’s perfect score in tactics - second only to his more than perfect score - had won again. He was subject to the masses, and the masses were stressed over his wellbeing.
Better make the pre-emptive strike. “Greetings, my honored friends,” Obi-Wan said dully. “My very best friends in the galaxy, whom I have not spoken to in months.”
“And whose fault is that, you asshole!” Quinlan thumped the table, making the plasteelware rattle, and cuing a withering look from Bant. “You drop out of contact. You leave on a routine diplomatic mission. You get wrapped up in an interplanetary war, obviously, because that’s how your routine missions always go. And you come back with a kid and the head of a Sith?”
“You have the situation well in hand, Quinlan. There’s nothing more I can teach you.”
“Idiot! I’m not asking for a mission report, here.” Quinlan set his mouth, as tempestuous as ever. “Are you okay?”
Was he okay?
Maybe Bant caught something on his expression, because she placed a reassuring flipper on his arm. “We’re sorry about Qui-Gon, Obi-Wan. We know how much he meant to you. You don’t have to go through this alone.”
“You can’t get rid of us just because you don’t talk to us.” Siri scooped the rest of her oats in her mouth, clearly regretful that she no longer had something to hide behind. “Reeft and Garen feel the same way. You’re lucky Garen’s on a mission, or he would have staked out your door.” He would have. Garen was insane. “I know they waived the two weeks in solitude considering your circumstances, but that doesn’t mean you don’t need it. Anakin needs -”
“As his master, I have the best idea of what Anakin needs.” Obi-Wan kept his voice flat, dispassionate. He wasn’t a child anymore, not that impetuous Initiate who yelled and stomped and screamed. Obi-Wan had drowned that anger under thick layers of Jedi robe years ago. “I appreciate and understand your concern. However, I ask for faith in my abilities to handle my padawan.”
“Oh, no. Not the ‘I Am A Perfect Jedi And You Are The Irresponsible Bugs Beneath My Feet’ voice.” Siri didn’t sound amused, as she normally would be while making fun of him. What was funny about speaking properly? “Don’t shut down on us.”
“I’ve never understood where you got the impression that Jedi don’t have feelings, Obi-Wan,” Bant scolded, “but you know it’s not true. Jedi feel their feelings. They feel them and release them. This is you repressing them. They’re just going to fester and get worse if you do that.”
“Yes, Bant. I recieved top marks in Philosophy 101, same as you.” Obi-Wan picked at his sealed up, the rims of thick juice sloshing in the corners, before forcing himself to stop. He forced his hands still on the table, pressing them down hard on the linoleum. “I don’t know what you want me to say. I don’t know what good a confession would do to all of you. Obviously I miss my master. Obviously I’m all…very sad about it.” Obi-Wan jerked his shoulders in a half-shrug, ignoring everyone’s unimpressed looks. “What good will talking about it do? I have to remain focused. In the real world, you don’t get the luxury of hermitage.”
“Luckily, you’re not in the real world.” Bant’s wry tone imparted the air quotes around ‘real world’. “You’re home. You and Anakin are safe here.” Obi-Wan snorted. “Knight Kenobi, what was that?”
Uh oh. But Siri unknowingly came to his rescue, leaning forward with as intent and sympathetic expression as she could wring from her usually severe countenance. “Don’t give me that dung, Obi-Wan. I cried for a month after Master Tahl died. You were there for me every second of it. What, are you so special that you don’t need help? Are you so much better than us that you don’t feel what every sentient feels? Your ‘better than you’ attitude doesn’t make you better than yourself.”
Bant made a warbling sound of frustration. “Siri, let’s not insult the person we are trying to help.”
“It’s not my fault he’s so - look, this is about Anakin -”
A tightly wound rope of...of something bad snapped in Obi-Wan’s gut. “You don’t think I can handle him.”
“Nobody’s saying that, brother,” Quinlan said, placating for the first time in his life, “but it’s like I was just telling the little guy, right? Nobody can do this by themselves. Cultures that try to do it are - they’re just crazy!”
“None of you think I can do this,” Obi-Wan whispered harshly, trying to keep the - the bad thing locked tight inside, incapable. It wouldn’t stop overflowing, a cup that runneth over. “Nobody in this Temple thinks I’m capable of taking care of him. They don’t think he can be a Jedi. It’s my fault. It’s because he has such a fuck-up for a master.”
Everybody around him suddenly radiated extreme alarm in the Force in unison. Was it really that unusual for him to say the words that swirled around in his head every hour of the day?
“Obi-Wan, we’re the fuck-ups. I mean, me and Siri and Garen. You and Bant are the Rylothian angels here.”
“That’s not what everybody else thinks,” Obi-Wan said lowly. “I’ve always been tainted because of Qui-Gon. Now just being around me is going to taint Anakin. Everybody knows it.”
“Tainted?” Bant asked with alarm. What was alarming? “What are you talking about -”
But Obi-Wan barrelled through her, unwilling to hear whatever sweet and placating words she had for him today. He stood up, carefully stepping off the bench and fussily fixing his robes with hands that did not shake. “We are going to prove it to them. Anakin will become a Jedi. I will make Anakin a Jedi, if it’s the last thing I do.”
He swept off, feeling a little bit dramatic, feeling as if he had expelled the smallest amount of emotion he could. That was the least he could give, portioning out bits of himself to the hungry and braying crowd.
Why did they want these pieces of him so desperately? What was valuable about these hideous parts of Obi-Wan - the fear, the insecurity, the nightmares shaking him awake each night? People like Bant and Quinlan dug and dug and dug until they found what they were looking for, as if they wanted to prove something to themselves, to him, to the Jedi.
Prove that he was inferior. Prove that he was just as wild and angry as everybody always said. Prove that his flimsy mask of ‘A Perfect Jedi’ was nothing more than a stage actor placing a pulp-mache bantha’s head mask over his face and strutting about as if he was a king. Prove what Qui-Gon had always thought of him: that any love for him could only be held at arm's length, that a kid who needed to prove himself never required support or a helping hand, that there was no such thing as ‘good enough’ when you lived in competition with ghosts and shadows.
Prove what everybody knew, and what Obi-Wan could not hide.
***
When Obi-Wan got home, Anakin was lying on the ground committing atrocities upon the ravaged corpse of a pilfered library droid.
“Please start putting down a tarp when you do that,” Obi-Wan said. “You’ve been getting oil into the carpet.” He paused a beat. “And please stop sneaking away from chaperones.”
“But I need to practice sneaking away from good guys so I can be good at sneaking away from bad guys! And it’s not like I was caught.” Anakin didn’t look up at him, absorbed in his work. “That’s Jedi lesson three, right? ‘Do whatever you want, just don’t get caught’?”
“When had - why do -” Obi-Wan pinched the bridge of his nose, already regretting the one day exposure to Qui-Gon. But..in the face of that logic, Obi-Wan was forced to concede. It was objectively true. “Yes. But make an exception for me. Just don’t get caught by others.”
“You got it! Hey, pinch this wire for me.”
So Obi-Wan lay down on his stomach across from Anakin, staring at him from over a sea of rusty machinery. His round little face, somehow still clinging onto baby fat, was smooth as only a child’s could be. It was flaky and rough from the blistering heat of twin suns, but he had ointment now. His featherly light blonde hair would darken without its sunshine bleach, and it would grow long in limp brown shags. He would look like his mother - if, apparently, there was no father to speak of.
His expression was screwed up in concentration, tongue poking out of his teeth as he carefully screwed in a bolt where it likely was not intended to go. There was something strangely beautiful about him in that moment - an intelligence at work, a powerful focus rarely applied. He glowed in the Force like a sun, overwhelming and breath-taking.
But when Obi-Wan’s breath caught, he wasn’t sure if it was the Force. Maybe it was just Anakin. Could you fall in love like this? Just by looking at somebody, just by feeling how great they could be? Stronger than Obi-Wan, more righteous than Qui-Gon? Kinder than Master Dooku, more vibrant than Grandmaster Yoda?
Could he be better? Or would Obi-Wan only make him worse?
“Do you like my friends?” Obi-Wan whispered.
“Gimmie a min’.” Anakin finished screwing the bolt, huffing at the piece. “Bad. Gotta redo...what didya say?”
“Do you like my friends?”
“Oh!” Anakin brightened. “They’re super cool and awesome Jedi! They’re just like I thought Jedi would be. Bant’s a doctor! Did you know that?”
“I did.” A pang shot through Obi-Wan’s heart. “They’d be better teachers than I. I’m sorry, Anakin. I’m sorry you’re stuck with…”
“No way! I’m sorry you’re stuck with me, Obi-Wan.” Anakin’s expression crumpled a little, although he bravely tried to keep it straight. He was already picking that up from Obi-Wan. “I’m why everybody keeps looking at us weird...it’s all my fault. All the Jedi hate us.”
“Anakin, no. The Jedi love all sentient beings.” Judging from Anakin’s expression, Obi-Wan was speaking straight bantha poodoo and acting as if the Corellian moons were made of cheese. “It’s true. They’d - they’d all help you. You don’t need to rely on me.”
Wires hissed and sparked. Anakin was quiet for a moment, stripping some wires with a deft, chubby hand and tying them together. He reached out to grab a blowtorch, but at Obi-Wan’s dangerous expression he carefully retreated his hand. It was a matter of time until he was using his lightsaber to solder metal. Incorrigible. Finally, Anakin said, “What Mr. Quinlan -”
“Knight Quinlan.”
“Knight Quinlan was talking about how you’re just there to guide me and teach me the Jedi way for a few years. And they all acted like the master and padawan thing is so special and great, but…” His face crumpled a little, overcome by an emotion he couldn’t name. “When we had to leave Mom behind...I thought that meant that you were going to be Mom now. But they aren’t going to let us. They’re going to make other people teach me because they don’t like you, and - and - and!”
Fat tears were rolling down Anakin’s cheeks, no matter how hard he scrubbed at his eyes with his sleeve. Obi-Wan quickly sat up and moved closer to Anakin, wrapping him in a hug and letting Anakin press his head into Obi-Wan’s tunic. He would probably have to get this one cleaned with Anakin’s robe. He didn’t know why he was focusing on that instead of Anakin’s hitched breaths as he tried to control his tears.
“Nobody’s going to take you away from me, Anakin.” That wasn’t what he meant to say. That was far too possessive. That hadn’t come out right. But what had Obi-Wan meant to say? “We all just want what’s best for you. You might be happier with the others.” Obi-Wan faltered. “You could be a normal child here. Take lessons. Play with the other children. Learn and grow and be happy. My padawanship, Anakin...it was dangerous and isolated. That’s the kind of life I’ve always lived. I don’t want to expose you to that.”
Anakin separated from him, eyes red-rimmed but dry. “They aren’t strong! All the kids and the old people here - they’re weak! Nothing bad’s ever happened to them, so they think sad people like us are freaks. But you’re strong, Obi-Wan. I want to be strong and just like you. I’m not embarrassed to be your padawan.” He faltered a little, rubbing at his eyes. “It’s okay that you’re sad and that I had to make food for a little bit. Mom would get sad sometimes too. She couldn’t leave bed and stuff. I would take care of Mom and make her food. I don’t mind making you food. The slaves all had each other, we did, but...Mom and I took care of each other. We can take care of each other. It’s just you and me. Right?”
Obi-Wan embraced Anakin tightly, fighting to control his breathing. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t the correct way to do this. He had to be more like Qui-Gon - professional and strong and affectionate. Qui-Gon would have never let Obi-Wan cling to him like this, swearing an oath that neither of them should ever make.
Nobody was going to help them. None of them had ever forgotten how Obi-Wan had been a failure as a child, and none of them were ever going to forget where Anakin came from. No matter what they all said, their bright smiles and helping hands - none of them understood what it was like. It was just Obi-Wan and Anakin from now on.
In some strange way, it felt as if it had always been. As if Obi-Wan had only been alone, because he had not met or loved Anakin yet.
This wasn’t the kind of master Obi-Wan should be. He should be discouraging this desperation and neediness. But he couldn’t discourage it in himself, and he had no idea how to quench it in either of them.
As the Rylothians would say - if this was a sin, then hell had greater need of him than heaven.
He would put in the request for active mission duty. If Anakin grew up like he did - in the midst of adventure and hardship - then he could attain the strength he so desired. That was all Obi-Wan knew how to offer, and that was Qui-Gon’s legacy.
“It’s just you and me, Anakin,” Obi-Wan swore, and damned himself. “It’s just you and me…”
#star wars#sw#star wars fanfic#obi-wan kenobi#anakin skywalker#bant eerin#siri tachi#quinlan vos#this is the first and last star wars thing you will ever get from me#please don't ask the rationale i have secrets#i like to think that nothing bad happens in this universe#(it's not an AU but it's not NOT an AU? up to interpretation)#because Obiwan in canon is on anakin's ass about everything#and here he's just one of those single parents who's like 'ok so long as you're fed and not on fire i don't have energy to care#about anything else'#I think this was written from joking about how comedically and weirdly terrible obiwan's childhood was#and from my own personal feelings about the weird way the sw fandom understands communal childcare#and nonattachment#It Does Not Mean What You Think It Means (Because George Lucas Is A White Guy Buddhist!)#if you're wondering if the behavior by the jedi here is realistic or nomal or if it's positive or negative#I have lived in a monastery and it is the most accurate thing you will ever see in a SW fic#my writing
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[Image ID: A digital drawing of Martin and Jon in season 1 of the Magnus Archives. Martin is seen out in the archives hallway, through the doorway to Jon’s office. Martin a fat Black man with short coily hair, round glasses, and snake bite lip piercings. He wears a blue sweater over a white collared shirt, and carries a brown satchel with him. Martin is looking over his shoulder with interest as he walks into work, and in a smaller panel to the side, we see Jon watching him with wide eyes. Jon is a thin Persian person with long greying hair tied back in a low bun, and rectangular glasses. He wears a red button down underneath a brown jacket, and is seated at the desk in his office. He stares out at Martin, looking flustered. There are small lines by Martin’s mouth indicating the piercings, and there are exclamation marks by Jon’s head indicating his reaction. End ID.]
I found an old fic in my notes about Martin dressing alt/punk outside of work and accidentally leaving on a small indicator of his usual fashion when he comes into the archives and I just. had to bring it back. Also, because I am still fond of it, please enjoy the aforementioned fic🥰:
Jon is having a difficult morning, to say the least. He had believed that coming into work an entire hour early would provide him with ample time to get a head start on today’s organizing, but that has decidedly not been case. He’s already had to take the statements of two utterly ridiculous liars who could barely keep the grins off of their faces as they recounted their ludicrous tale, and then listen to Elias subsequently dress down his so-called ‘attitude towards patrons’ for nearly half an hour, and suffice it to say, he would really like to get started on something that is actually worth his time.
He dislikes settling down with the more... difficult statements before all of his colleagues arrive, an attempt to keep them from interrupting his recordings to greet him, so once he’s finished his other menial tasks, he finds himself simply sitting and waiting for the ensemble of his assistants to arrive.
Tim and Sasha are the first - entering together as usual after having stopped for coffee on the way in - but Martin is slow to follow, taking nearly another fifteen minutes to arrive. It’s nearly ten past seven at that point, and once Jon hears Martin’s steps coming towards his office, he has half a mind to give the man yet another lecture on punctuality and work ethic. He gets as far enough as bracing his hands on the table to stand up, and then Martin appears in the doorway to his office, and he realizes something strikingly different about his appearance.
That is to say, Jon’s whole world narrows down very suddenly to the little black studs decorating the space underneath his bottom lip.
He’s staring, he knows he is, but Martin is busy looking down the hall for the moment, so Jon doesn’t force himself to tear his eyes away just yet. How long has he had his lip pierced, Jon wonders? Has it been there the whole time he’s known him? Has he only recently gotten it done? How? Why?
It’s hard to imagine Martin - soft, unassuming Martin who is far too large for the amount of space he crams himself into, always slouching, always pulling himself inwards as if he can make himself disappear - dressing in any way other than soft sweaters and slacks, but if Jon’s honest, he’s never actually seen the man outside of work. He has no idea how Martin chooses to dress himself when out from under the Institute’s rigid dress code, and this tiny window he’s been provided with is making him maddeningly curious.
He’s not... he doesn’t have feelings for Martin, aside from a general annoyance, occasionally marked with curiosity. He’s a professional, for God’s sake, not to mention that Martin’s very existence as a given is like a grain of sand in his eye, rubbing and irritating. Now he cuts clean through without even noticing. Jon itches to know more.
“Jon?” Martin’s voice tears him from his thoughts. “Is something wrong?”
Oh, shit. Jon can feel his gaze heat up as if he’s done something horribly wrong - how embarrassing that he can’t even keep a blush off of his face - but he still forces himself to open his mouth and stutter out an excuse. He means to remark on one of Martin’s missing reports, or the fact that he’s coming in nine minutes late, but what ends up leaving his mouth is; “Your lip is pierced.”
Just a sentence, not a question. He thinks he’s positively beet red. Martin freezes, the tips of his ears darkening visibly against his brown skin as his hand shoots to his mouth and his eyes widen.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry, I must have forgotten to take them out,” the poor man looks like he’s about to panic as he whips his gaze around as if to see if anyone else has noticed. “Don’t tell Elias, please, I’ve seen how he gets after Tim for the dress code, and there is no way, I mean no way—”
“Oh, n-no, it’s- I- it’s fine, really,” Jon raises his hands in defense as Martin rambles, for some reason inclined to reassure the man. “I won’t- I’m not- I’m not going to tell him.”
Martin hesitates, wringing his hands, apologies visible on every pore of his face. “I- Thank you. I’ll- I’ll go take it off. Christ, that’s embarrassing.”
“Only if you want,” Jon shrugs, which is definitely not the correct thing for him to say as a boss, and it definitely comes out a little gentler than he intends it to, and Jon is three seconds from screaming if he can’t figure out how to make himself react normally to this. It’s a non-traditional piercing in an academic institute of research; it’s against the rules, however dated they may be, and further than that, there is no reason for it to completely undo his composure the way that it has. He tries to get a hold of himself. “I-I mean, that’s likely for the best.”
Martin is giving him a funny look - probably a response to seeing the whole spectrum of human emotions flash across Jon’s face in a millisecond - but he still nods and says: “Sorry again. Thank you,” and then disappears down the corridor.
Jon immediately buries his face in his hands and sighs.
What is wrong with him? For God’s sake, he’s just seen Martin with a lip piercing, it’s not like he’s witnessed the man undressed. Besides, he works in an archive where he has to read statements about the intricacies of monsters that rip off people’s skin and suchlike every day, he should know how to keep his composure better than this. He should just move on with his day and focus without a problem, just like he does every morning.
Except, his mind keeps wandering back to it; the way the little studs had followed the shape of his mouth, the way they had quirked up when he flashed one of his nervous smiles, the way Jon is still desperately curious about what brought him to get them done, and also what it might feel like to brush a thumb, or perhaps even his lips over them.
Jon sits up so fast his head actually smacks against an open filing cabinet behind him. His mind is too busy reeling to notice the ache that fills his head, and he stares straight ahead with wide eyes and utterly scorching cheeks. Absolutely not. He absolutely did not just think about kissing Martin Blackwood. that was- that would be...
He blinks hard, clears his throat. It doesn’t matter what that was. He’s decidedly not interested in Martin Blackwood romantically, or in any other capacity given his truly ridiculous academic competence and his obnoxious habit of interrupting seemingly every stable thing Jon has in his life. He crushes the feeling down hard, locks it up in a box, stuffs it down under his lowest two ribs, and resolves himself never to open it again.
He is not going to keep thinking about this all day. He has work to do, and if something as simple as a pair of metal studs can distract him this badly, then he needs to make absolutely certain it doesn’t happen again.
He tells himself he’s not disappointed when he sees Martin without the piercings later that day.
#the magnus archives#jonathan sims#martin blackwood#jonmartin#tma s1#tma season one#martin with piercings my beloved#tma fic#tma fan art#mossy art#man i wrote this concept back in december but ohg i'm still so fond of it#alt/punk martin my angel my sweetheart my light and love#if you read this fic MWAH i love you
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