#Vox experiences the consequences of his actions

[aro-in-danyl]

Alastor's Furby Organ - Fic Prompt

Vox is attempting to sell the benefits of advancing technology to Alastor for the umpteenth time, either genuinely or patronizingly, when Alastor sees it.

The second greatest piece of technology he's ever laid eyes on.

He interrupts Vox in the middle of his tirade and zips up to it and is absolutely tickled pink by its creepiness and charming exterior.

Alastor, trying not to sound excited: And what's this delightful little thing?

Vox: Oh that's a Furby, a creepy kids toy up top, we're thinking of scrapping it actually-

Alastor: Oh? Then maybe I can take them off your hands.

Time skip to a few months later, Alastor and Vox are having another battle (duet) when Alastor manifests a new instrument Vox has never seen him play before made up of-

Oh no. no. no. nononono. NO.

A fucking Furby Organ!?

[tswhiisftteedr]

hi!!!! could I please request general nsfw headcannons for vox, val, and velvette (or just your favorite of the 3!)? maybe especially with a slightly bratty partner? thank you! :)

Behave Bitch! ☆ Headcanon + Oneshot

☆ Valentino x Bratty!Gn!Reader, Vox x Bratty!Gn!Reader, Velvette x Bratty!Gn!Reader, and Valentino x Bratty!Gn!Reader x Vox:

You go out of your way to fuck with them and test their patience, and this is how their repercussion would be.

Warnings: Mature Content, Explicit/Graphic Language, Praise & Degradation(Lots of of degradation), Oral Sex(Male Receiving), Penetrative Sex, Bad Spanish, Creampie, Possessiveness, Spanking, Choking, Dacryphilia, Bondage, Handcuffs, Blood, Biting, Electricity NOT PROOFREAD.

Words: Total — 13 806, Valentino(Hc + Oneshot) — 2419, Vox(Hc + Oneshot) — 2365, Velvette(Hc + Oneshot) — 3463, Vox & Valentino(Hc + Oneshot) — 5539

Note: So I may or may not be a total slut for the three of them, and especially a sucker for Val x reader x Vox action. Like how should I say it? Oh, yeah, I need them inside m— Hehsjsnsnjwns Awooga lol. *Bitch is used gender neutrally if you couldn’t tell. So 4 things, number one this Headcanons + Drabbles/Slight Short One shots, note that the example in the headcanons are just examples of scenario, and are unrelated to the drabble part, so don’t get confused when they mention one situation and then you read about another. Number 2, the type of reader was not precise so I went with gender neutral, so I’m sorry if the smut part isn’t the best as I am still lacking in writing experience to make something great with the lack of precise genitalia mention. But if you find it good, we’ll good for you! Also I used Google and translation apps when it came to the Spanish that Valentino employs, so I’m sorry to my Hispanic readers of the display of language is not to your liking. And lastly, I didn’t know how to write a slightly bratty reader, so I’m sorry anon if the reader is either not enough or too bratty. Personally I love a full on bratty, attention whore, whiny reader because that’s how I am.(If I was hot and got over my fear of being rejected, anyways-) That’s it for info about the fic!!

Author Note: As I am writing this, I am halfway way done with a lute one shot, but I must say, please stop requesting works. I put my request on pause, and I indicated that one both my Masterlist and rules, but seems that people are still confused because some of my older fics have ‘Request are open’ at the bottom. So please don’t request anything more, I have 34 request to start working on after I finish the lute one, plus I still haven’t started to work on chapter 3 for my Idia series. (12 of those request are actually Adam related, and one of them is a zestial one, where the requester offered to pay me for it, so it’s at the top of my list after this 💸💰. Though I still haven’t reach them because I want to finish my lute work first.) Also I am fucking pissed as I am written this, cuz I keep seeing clips of episodes 7&8 of Hazbin on tumblr, but I don’t have prime so I have to wait for stupid illegal websites to repost them. Like I am genuinely mad at the wait time, since my boys(Val and vox, my loves, my husbands, my #1 turn ones-) are in it. Worst part of it all I saw the clips of Vox literally thrusting into the air saying his hard and that the sight of Alastor bloody was better than sex. Like shit, did that make me horny. Like Vox, sweaty, you can take out that pent up energy from the build up excitement, I don’t mind if the other Vees are watching, Valentino can even join~ Hehsjjsjsjnsks. Update: I just watch the two episodes, and fuck were they good. Anyways I’m done, enjoy the fic cunts!

☆ more under the cut. ☆

ఌ︎ Valentino ఌ︎

Oh, you have no idea ‘what kind of gift you gave him with your behavior, Cariño~’

He takes pleasure in ‘putting bitches in their place,’ so feel free to be yourself, use that sharp tongue, but be prepared for the consequences without too much complaints. And he relishes in being the one to mete out repercussions.

Valentino's approach is straightforward; he often lets you play and act as bratty as you want while casually keeping an eye on you. ‘No need to worry; he's merely observing.’

He'd allow you to talk back, tolerating insults, while seated in the VIP section of one of his clubs, surrounded by smoke and flirting demons. All that set up to provoke you into further incriminate yourself.

Despite the condescending expression on his face, you didn’t have anything to about him, everything appearing ordinary, considering he was Val. Nothing seemed suspicious for a while... and then, ¡Bam!

You find yourself dragged into the club's private bedroom, now in a position where you're either tied up or bent over his lap/desk, enduring a session of intense spanking for being a 'good-for-nothing slut,' with degrading comments throughout.

Valentino opts for a paddle, well aware of the sharp sting it leaves on your skin.

Eventually, he transitions to using his hands, relishing in the visible aftermath of his touch—handprints and bite marks adorning your body.

As tears stream down your face, you apologize and plead to him ‘that you would be better, so please stop’ and that’s ‘ ‘s to much!’. He makes no effort to conceal his satisfaction, openly grinning at your vulnerable state.

Today unfolded like any other typical day in hell, as you paid a visit to your boyfriend on the set. Entering his studio, you hung back for a moment, observing Valentino directing the actors, his voice sexy as always but this time yet again fill with frustration.

Amidst the chaos, there were whispers among the staff about the planned star for the movie being decapitated and having to fill their role in with a newbie due to the lack of time ro wait for the actors regeneration, this bringing light upon the source of Val's frustration.

You pondered how much worse his temper would escalate if you followed through with your planned actions. However, that thought didn't weigh heavily on your mind, as you were determined from the get go to mess with him.

Emerging from the shadows and skillfully navigating the set while evading the cameras' gaze, you approached Valentino. Grinning, he remarked, "You came to entertain papi, how sweet of you, amorcito~" standing up and expecting you to jump into his arms.

Surprisingly, you kept walking, engaging in conversation with a crew member, casually flirting. Val struggled to process the fact that ‘not only did you ignore him, but you did so to chat with some nobody!’

Oh boy, was he pissed, yet instead of his typical inclination to abandon work for a tantrum. He had remained seated, continuing to provide screen direction to his actors.

Now that he was well aware of your actions, he had no intention of losing the little game you were playing. Throughout the shoot, he feigned indifference, though his teeth subtly gritted each time he caught a glimpse of you so close to that random sinner.

Despite Valentino's own lack of shamelessness when it came to sleeping around, he was still the ever so possessive and obsessive man. And having so hands-on with someone else, especially in his presence, drove him to the walls.

After 45 minutes of takes and retakes, Valentino directed his staff to wrap up for the day. Immediately afterward, he approached you, gripping your wrist forcefully enough to surely leave a bruise. He then ushered you into the elevator, ascending to his shared luxurious living quarters and, ultimately, his room.

Once inside, he roughly threw you onto the bed, using one arm to pin both of yours above your head, another around your neck, while the remaining two swiftly removed your clothes.

As he approached your ear, his breath on your face, he scornfully remarked, “You wretched whore, think you go and flounce around, letting some fucker feel you up! ¿You’re so desperate to get fuck, verdad, puta?“ His voice carried disdain for your actions, yet beneath it, pent-up sexual frustration lingered.

Now having you completely undressed, Valentino briefly pulled away to retrieve something from his nightstand. It turned out to be a pair of long, dangling cuffs, ideal for securing you to his headboard. And that's precisely what he did.

Bound to the bedpost, you tested your restraints with a subtle tug, ensuring they securely held you in place. You wanted to confirm if there was any potential escape route, making sure you were aware of all possibilities.

In an instant, you felt Valentino's hands on you once more, grabbing your chest roughly, squeezing them hard enough to cause some pain but not enough to leave marks. His fingers then dug into your sensitive flesh, leaving bruises visible through the thin layer of sweat forming on your skin.

His touch was cold and calloused, contrasting sharply with the warmth emanating from his body.

"You little slut," he growled, his accented words dripping with contempt. "You think you can just throw yourself at anyone, disrespect me like this?" With each harsh word, his grip tightened further, pinching your nipples cruelly between his rough fingers.

Despite the pain, a shiver ran down your spine at the prospect of what was to come. You knew exactly how much control he had over you now, and it was exhilarating.

"No, Val," you managed to croak out between gasps for air. "I didn't mean anything by it, really."

But your words fell on deaf ears; instead, Valentino's hand moved lower, cupping your hips roughly before squeezing them forcefully. "You fucking liar," he snarled, his voice low and menacing. "You’re lucky your body is good at satisfying my needs, otherwise I would have already shot your ungrateful bitch ass!”

With that, you observed as he let his tongue swirl around his fingers, that action was followed by him teasing at your hole. “Wait Val, are you not gonna use lube—“

“Lube? Are y’a kidding me? ¡Shut the fuck up, puta! You should be crying tears of joy that I’m even prepping your undeserving ass.” Was all he said, before his fingers divulged into your tight hole, letting his other hand paw at your bits teasingly before pushing in a third finger inside you. The sensation was both pleasurable due to his aphrodisiac like spit and painful as it was all so sudden, it also felt as if he was claiming ownership over your body once more. Tears begging to role down your face at the stretch.

"You’re such a fucking slut, getting off on this, aren’t you?" he asked, his voice husky with desire yet stern. "You like acting like a desperate bitch in heat and piss me just so I can punish you, isn't that right, mariposa~"

As he spoke, he began to thrust his fingers in and out of your heat, pounding into you relentlessly. Each thrust caused your hips to rock forward, meeting his rhythm eagerly. Slightly letting reach down further, just close enough for his tongue to scoop your tears.

You could feel your body responding to the invasion, your hole tightening around his fingers, begging for more. Despite the pain, it was becoming increasingly difficult to resist the pleasure building inside you.

"No! Stop, please, Val!" you pleaded, but it fell on deaf ears. Instead, he added another finger, stretching you wider. The sensation was both terrifying and arousing, pushing you closer to the edge of ecstasy.

"Eso es," he growled, his voice laced with lust. "tómalo todo, you filthy whore."

Just as you thought you couldn't handle anymore, he removed his fingers, leaving your hole gaping open and vulnerable. With a cruel chuckle, he stood up and unfastened his pants, revealing his massive harden cock, thick and veiny, throbbing with desire.

"Time to teach really you a lesson," he said, his eyes burning with hunger. "Get ready to scream, puta."

Without further ado, he positioned himself at your entrance, aligning his tip with it.

"N-no, please, Val—" you managed to utter out before he slammed into you without mercy, filling you up completely.

The sudden intrusion caused you to cry out even harder in both pain and pleasure. Your body shook violently as he started to thrust in and out of you.

Each powerful thrust pushed deeper than before, stretching you further than and further. Your moans turned into high-pitched squeals of mixed agony and pleasure, and your juices coated his member as he pounded into you relentlessly.

The bed creaked under the combined weight of their bodies, adding to the primal rhythm of your session. Your body bounced wildly with each thrust, nipples hardening further under the harsh treatment.

Your legs were spread wide apart, while your hands were still bound tightly to the headboard, rendering you helpless against his onslaught. You couldn't move, couldn't escape the intense pleasure building up inside you.

As he continued his brutal assault, your body adjusted to the his dick, becoming slightly accustomed to the stretching. Your walls tightened around him, milking him eagerly.

He groaned, his hips slamming harder against yours, his cock pounding deeper than ever. His hand reached up to grab a fistful of your hair, yanking your head forward forcefully, exposing your neck and throat.

"Open that filthy mouth," he growled, his breath hot against your neck.

You obeyed, parting your lips, and Valentino pulled back to spit directly into your mouth. The saliva was thick with frustration, a stark contrast to the usual sweet yet dominant taste of his kisses.

"Swallow it, bitch," he demanded, his voice full of desire. Your throat still constricted by one of his hands, yet you managed to swallow the bitter saliva, feeling it coat your tongue and throat.

The humiliation and degradation only served to heighten your arousal, your body quivering as his thrusts grew more frenzied. Your walls clenched around his shaft, urging him to go faster, harder.

"You like that, don't you? Of course you do!" he snarled, his grip tightening in your hair. "You love being treated like the worthless slut you are."

His words only served to fuel the fire inside you, your body shaking and writhing under his control. You couldn't help but whimper in response, your body betraying you with every moan.

Valentino continued to thrust into you, his pace relentless. Your eyes rolled back in ecstasy, ‘almost there’ you though.

Suddenly, Valentino pulled out, leaving you gasping for air, feeling empty and needy.

He quickly untied you from the headboard, dragging you onto your hands and knees, positioning you on all fours. His grip tightened around your neck, choking you just enough to make your vision blur.

"Don’t think I didn’t feel you clench around my cock, you ain’t cumming that easily," he hissed, his voice full of lust.

You nodded, trying to catch your breath, your eyes watering from the lack of air. He wasted no time, thrusting back into you, filling you up once more. This time, his thrusts were even more brutal, the angle hitting your g-spot with each plunge.

The choking intensified, making it even harder to breathe, yet you found yourself moaning louder, your body desperate for release. Your legs shook, struggling to hold you up as he continued to pound into you.

"You're mine, not any other overlord’s or fucking prince of hell, and certainly not that pathetic fucker from earlier, you hear me, Y/N?" he growled, his grip on your neck tightening.

You managed a nod, your voice strangled by his chokehold.

Valentino keeps his hold on your neck, as he brings one of his hand down onto your ass, leaving a stinging impact. The pain was a welcome distraction from the choking, making your moans turn into cries of pleasure.

He spanked you repeatedly, alternating between cheeks, leaving handprints on your flesh. The stinging sensation only served to heighten your senses, your body trembling with every smack.

"You're going to cum for me, slut," he promised, his voice low and menacing. "And you're going to beg for it." Following his words, the hand that was then on your neck was now grabbing at your hair.

Your body tensed, the pleasure building to an unbearable level. Your inner walls clenched around his shaft, milking him relentlessly as he continued to spank and thrust into you.

You couldn't help but comply, your voice hoarse from the choking. "P-please, Val, I need to cum!"

He chuckled darkly, his thrusts becoming even more frenzied. "I said beg for it, you filthy little slut!"

"Please, papi, I need to cum, please! I need so, so bad, ‘can’t think! I just need to come, please, please, please Val!" you begged,

Your voice breaking with the intensity of the moment. Valentino smirked, his thrusts growing even harder, slamming into you with all his might.

Your body was at his mercy, your orgasm building to a crescendo. You could feel the wave crashing over you, your insides clenching around him, milking his cock as he continued to pound into you. One of his hands playing with your front.

"Cum for me, you worthless bitch," he growled, his own release nearing.

You cried out, your orgasm overwhelming you, your body convulsing as waves of pleasure washed over you. Valentino followed suit, groaning loudly as he filled you with his seed, your body trembling as he came inside you.

He pulled out, leaving you panting and shaking, the aftershocks of your orgasm still rippling through your body. Valentino stood up, wiping the sweat from his forehead before lighting a smoke.

After taking some puffs at he grabbed your body once more, “V-Val??” You question in confusion, and the look he gives was so demeaning.

“Bitch, are y’a dumb? Don’t tell me you thought this was over already.” Was all he said before resuming….

Here you were, on the verge of passing out, body full of cuts, hand, teeth, and whip prints all over your body.

"You're lucky I love you," he muttered, his voice laced with a hint of affection. "But don't you ever fucking test my patience again, amorcito."

You nodded, with the both of you knowing that it was a lie, you would definitely act out again.

Finally, your body lulled to dreamland.

⌁ Vox ⌁

Listen, despite his constant complaints about everyone's incompetence and having to clean up after their mess, he finds himself unable to do the same when it comes to you.

But, ‘fuck, did he adores your brattiness.’ It's not that he particularly enjoys dealing with your attitude; rather, it's the journey to the aftermath of your actions that captivates him. Overall, the right to fuck all of his day’s frustration into you!

Take, for instance, a meeting—perhaps not the most crucial, but still relevant, especially as it is concerning one of his latest products on the market.

Suddenly, you would barge into the meeting room, whining about him not giving you enough attention and accusing him of being all about work.

He would sweet talk you into silence until the meeting concluded, but that didn't imply you felt obligated to completely behave. As the meeting continued, you ended up seated on his lap, grinding yourself on his crotch.

Immediately after the meeting concluded and the conference room was emptied, he would lock the door. Then bend you over the spacious table, he pressed your head against the cold wood and proceeded to unleash a waterfall of insults, flowing from his mouth kin to water from a faucet.

He would fuck you so intensely that the both of you would almost lost sight of the initial cause. Almost, though you might have blurred the memory, he certainly hadn't. So as soon as his workday concluded, he would take you once again in his private quarters.

Forcing you to ‘repent for being such impudent slut,' reducing you to tears with his rough handling and verbal abuse.

Today was an incredibly dull day in hell. Wandering around the pentagram on the Vees' turf, you had an escort by your side as per Vox's requirement for taking a stroll outside.

There seemed to be nothing to do, or at least it felt that way. You managed to grab a cup of coffee, but beyond that, nothing fun was available, entering clubs required asking Vox's for his permission first. This ensured that he could assemble a larger entourage to guarantee your safety when you wanted to partake in the activity.

Despite your inclination to fuck with him, you refrained, recognizing that would be too much on his already overworked heart – he'd be more worried than irritated.

Opting for a tamer approach, you aimed to provoke him and get under his skin. Your goal was to distract Vox from his work, shifting his focus to entertain you. Making him jealous seemed the most effective strategy in your eyes, and that's where your escort, a tall and attractive hellhound, entered the scene.

Aware that Vox had eyes throughout the pentagram, particularly in this area, you initiated your plan with this knowledge in mind.

You strolled with your arm around the hellhound, falsely fawning over his looks and intellect, toying with his hair and even embracing him—all visible to Vox. Despite his busy schedule, Vox always kept an eye on you through the multitude of screens around pentagram city. And the sight of you so cozied up with the hellhound, left him seething.

What intensified the situation was your final gesture. As you bid farewell in front of the Vees' tower, you made the hellhound lean down for a thank-you kiss on the cheek, this fuelling your boyfriend's rage and insecurities. After that, you simply entered the building, mentally preparing for the upcoming interaction with Vox.

As you exited the elevator, Vox stood right in front, evidently having anticipated your return. As you locked eyes with him, the flames of anger and jealousy practically radiated from his gaze. It seemed your somewhat sadistic display had made a number on him.

"Hey, Vox, baby. How's it going? I thought you were too busy to step out of your office," you nonchalantly remarked, playing the coy card. Before you knew it, one of his clawed hands circled your waist, while the other firmly grasped your chin.

"Yeah, I was one incredibly busy man this morning, busting my ass to keep this shit show afloat. However, my partner seems to be utterly indifferent to it all. It looked as if they couldn't care less, with the way they were all over that hellhound-nobody," he remarks, his hand at your waist pressing into your skin.

"Oh, what on sweet hell could you be referring to?" you playfully feign innocence, this only aggravating your boyfriend's frustration.

"Do play games with me, whore. You know exactly what you were up to, the fact have eyes everywhere, and despite today's incident, I won't fire that guy because he's loyal." His face inches closer to yours, "If you were so desperate for my cock that you went out of your way to mess with me, you could’ve said so baby~ And I would’ve had you sucking me off as I work. But noooo, you just had to be be a a fucking slut and piss me off. Now let's see where that misbehaviour gets you, bitch.”

Now, bent over his lap, bottoms off, you endure the consequences as he delivers hits to your behind, while he casually sipped on a glass of whiskey;

You flinched slightly at each slap, but didn't dare to yell or struggle. Instead, you bit your lower lip and whimpered softly, your body trembling with each impact.

Your mind raced with thoughts of how much you deserved this punishment, how much you craved it.

"Please, sir, stop, it hurt ��so much!" you whimpered between each strike, your voice cracking with each word. "I'll be a good, I promise."

"You’ll be good? Ha! What a fucking joke. You're lucky I don't break your pretty little neck right here and now. But since you asked nicely, maybe I'll i won’t hurt you as bad, this once. Now stand up straight and face me like the disobedient whore you are."

Slowly, you stood up straight, your legs trembling slightly as you awaited his next move. "Thank you, sir."

"That's better," he said putting his drink down on the nightstand, his voice laced with distain yet also a hint of satisfaction. "Now, strip for me."

You hesitated for a moment, debating whether to push your luck or not. But then again, you knew better than to defy him twice in a row. Slowly, you took off your sweater, removing a layer of heat.

Next came the your top, you began to undo the buttons of your shirt, revealing your chest.

You stood there, naked and ass completely bare, feeling exposed and vulnerable yet somehow aroused by the power he held over you.

"Turn around," he commanded coldly. Reluctantly, you turned around, your ass wiggling seductively as you did so. "Now, get on the bed, all fours, and face the mirror."

You complied reluctantly, feeling your heart race with anticipation mixed with fear. You knew what was coming next, but it didn't make it any easier to endure. You could feel his presence looming over you, his heat radiating off his body.

"That’s it bitch," he praised, his voice dripping with false reassurance. "Now, spread your legs."

You widened your stance, exposing your parts to him, the scent of arousal filling the air around you. "That's a good whore," he complimented, his hand reaching out to grab your hair and pull your head back forcefully, so you would be looking straight at the mirror.

"Look at me," he growled, his eyes boring into yours through the reflection. "Do you understand what happens to misbehaving sluts like you?"

"No," you managed to croak out, your voice barely above the sound of your pounding heart. "I-I don't know."

"Then let me educate you," he said coldly, his hand reaching out to slap your ass hard enough to leave a mark. "This is what happens to disobedient whores like you." Meanwhile he had removed his other hand from your hair, using it it to play with your front, ‘how kind of him~’

With each slap, his hand left a stinging mark on your ass, making it throb with each impact. The pain mixed with the humiliation and arousal, making it difficult for you to think straight. You squirmed and whimpered, trying to escape the torment but knowing it was futile.

"Please, sir," you begged between slaps, tears streaming down your cheeks. "I'm sorry. I'll be good. Just give me something more, please."

"You're sorry now? Too late for apologies, greedy bitch," he spits. But after a moment of consideration, he seems to have a change of perspective. With a wide grin on his face, “Okay then,” he says, releasing you and getting himself confortable on the bed. “Crawl over here and worship my cock, and I’ll consider forgiving you."

With shaking legs, you crawled towards him, your eyes locked on his hardened member, throbbing with desire through the fabric of his expensive pants. You reached out and undid them, pulling down his boxers and wrapped your lips around the head. Taking as much of his cock into your mouth as you could.

"Fuck," he says a bit breathless, this followed by his hand roughly grabbing your hair and pulling your head back and forth, face-fucking you.

"That’s right, show me how much you want me, how much you need my cock inside you."

You moaned around his cock, sucking and slurping greedily, your tongue swirling around the head, trying to please him. Your hands reached up, grasping his thighs, leaving wrinkles on the fabric as you held on tightly.

"Good," he praised, his voice becoming more husky with desire. "Now, let’s go back to the previous position." He tells you, forcefully pulling you off his dick.

With that you had his hand at your hole, rubbing and teasing your entrance "Spread your legs wider, and besides that, don't move a muscle."

You obeyed, spreading your legs wider, exposing yourself fully to him. He continued to tease and torment you, spiting on his fingers, he then digs into your sensitive spot, making you moan and writhe in pleasure mixed with pain.

"Tell me you're mine, bitch, that you belong to me," he demanded, his voice low and commanding. "Tell me you'll do whatever I want, whenever I want."

"I'm yours, Vox," you managed to choke out, your voice cracking with each word. "I'll do anything you want!"

"That's better," he purred, his fingers leaving your hole and moving to your nipples instead. He pinched and twisted them mercilessly, causing you to arch your back and cry out at the painfully mix of sensation.

"Now, beg me to claim you as my own, not anyone else,"

"Please, Vox, claim me as yours," you begged, tears streaming down your cheeks. "I'm yours, I belong to you. Take me however you want, whenever you want."

"Seems like your not completely braindead after all," he sorta praises, his voice laced with satisfaction. "Keep your legs open like that."

"Yes, Vox," you managed to mumble out, your voice trembling with fear and arousal.

“That’s it," his voice dripping with false affection. "You better be ready, because I’m still pissed."

Without warning, he grabbed your hair again, pulling your head back forcefully, exposing your neck to him. "This is for disobeying me earlier today," he growled, his sharp teeth shining in the light as he bit down hard on your neck. His teeth sank deep into your skin, sure to leave a mark.

As he moved to bite another spot, you writhed and squirmed beneath him, unable to escape his hold. His tongue darted out to clean up the blood that trickled down your throat. Meanwhile, his other hand reached between your legs one more, finding your front and playing with it vigorously, driving you wild with desire.

"You taste so fucking good, slut," he growled as his mouth was now at your lips, his voice hoarse with desire. "Don’t fucking play with me again like that what you did today, understand?"

"Yes, Vox," you managed to choke out between gasps, your body trembling with the combination of pain and pleasure. "I won’t.” A lie you were both aware of.

"That's a good bitch," he praised, releasing your neck and licking the mark he had left on your neck clean. His hands now solely focused on making you climax, in addition he would let out some electricity coarse through his and consequently your body.

Your body still trembling with the aftermath of his earlier assault, and his current touches weren’t helping you to stabilize. Your eyes rolled back as you felt close, ‘close to finally cumming.’

"Look at yourself, Y/N," he tells, his voice low and demeaning, well aware you couldn’t look at your self with the way we’re rolled back. "So fucking pathetic and needy for release… Beg for it.”

And so you did, "P-please, Vox... I need it so bad," you begged, your voice cracking with desire. "Please, let me cum."

His laughter reverberated in your ears as he continued to tease you mercilessly. "You want it so badly, don't you?" he asked, his fingers working faster and harder between your legs, more and more shocks divulging from him.

Your mind drifted away from reality as you felt the edge of orgasm getting closer and closer, your body tensing up in anticipation. "Please, Vox!" you cried out, unable to resist any longer.

"Do you understand now?" he asked, his voice laced with satisfaction. "Do you understand your place in this world and how you belong by my side only?"

"Yes, Vox," you managed to choke out, your voice barely audible over the sound of your heavy breathing.

And a simple, “Cum.” was all it took for you to completely let go and the waves of pleasure take your body over….

You winced in pain while observing your reflection in the mirror. Bruises and bite marks adorned your body, and your swollen ass bore the aftermath of his restless assault. Dried tears stained your cheeks.

Then, Vox tenderly stroked your head, followed by a gentle kiss on your forehead. "Love you, babes, but don’t fuck with me like that again"

An ‘okay’ was all you had said before falling asleep.

✮ Velvette ✮

Despite possessing a sharp tongue herself, she has zero tolerance for sassiness or misbehavior. It's strictly 'her way or the highway, bitch!'

A single word out of place, and she'd swiftly grab your face, calling you out and issuing a stern warning to behave, unless you wanted to witness her truly angry.

Naturally, her warnings failed to deter you from persisting in your bratty behaviors; 'it didn't before, so why should it now?'

Turns out getting on Velvette bad side, wasn't as smooth sailing as your moment of unwarranted confidence led you to believe.

You might have casually stroll through her studio, engaging in conversation with her employees, consequently diverting their attention from work.

All this, despite their already tight schedule that you were acutely aware of, thanks to Velvette's hours-long bitching about it.

Nonetheless, you proceeded with your plan. In all honesty, given the hectic schedule leading up to the fashion show, Velvette had minimal time for you. Despite her efforts to squeeze out a few moments, the occasional 30 minutes a day left you unsatisfied.

If she wasn't going to provide the attention you craved, ‘you were determined to seek it elsewhere, easy peezy—‘ or so you believed.

Spotting you getting overly friendly with one of her models, she would forcefully pull you into a changing room, securing your wrist against the wall with one hand while using the other around your throat.

Insult would escape her lips as she vowed to in-still proper discipline in you in a more physical manner if simple phrases like 'I'm busy right now' failed to do the trick.

After leaving distinctive bite marks on your neck and collar, and leaving you with panting breath and puffy lips from an intense make-out session, she would resume her work. However, she would promise to teach you a lesson later that night as she exited the dressing room.

Honestly, among all three of the Vees, she was the only one with the decency not to do you in public.

"Today is already a mess, but you had to make it worse, you ungrateful bitch," Velvette exclaimed before storming out of her office, leaving you alone, bound, with vibrators attached to stimulate your body.

Now, how did it come to this? Let's rewind to 10:30 a.m.;

Velvette had overslept by an hour, throwing her entire schedule off, and in the world of fashion and social media, an hour is practically an eternity.

Despite consistently projecting an image of superiority, she was visibly rattled by being late. Knowing she couldn't control or turn back time, she relied on meticulous planning to leash the day. She's a bit of a control freak, if you hadn't noticed.

After a challenging morning of tackling voicemails and addressing urgent missed calls, Velvette managed to regain her momentum. Things were sailing smoothly until Valentino made an appearance.

Apparently, one of his employees had been shot in the face the previous night, resulting in a disfigurement that rendered them unable to participate in the planned movie.

Clearly frustrated, Valentino stormed into Velvette's studio to bitch about the situation, throwing things around and even ripping apart one of Velvette’s workers. This compelled her to call in a backup model, with rates that would disrupt her budget.

Not only did Velvette find this model too expensive, but she also disapproved of their overly flirtatious attitude.

And that's where you entered the picture, making her already lousy day even more exasperating. You had awakened about 10 minutes after Velvette, disturbed by her loud conversations on the phone.

However, it didn't bother you too much since your morning routine wasn't significantly affected by the late wake-up call. As Velvette's sugar baby and partner, she paid you to prepare home-cooked meals, be there to listen to her vent, and look good. As long as you weren’t the one who’s oversleep, you were in the clear.

In contrast to her hectic morning, yours unfolded at a slow and leisurely pace. You took your time with skincare and haircare, even savoring the breakfast you had prepared while Velvette rushed through hers to catch the elevator to her studio.

Despite disliking seeing her frowning and rushed in the mornings, you had held your tongue, aware that she wasn't in the mood to be told so. Besides, you couldn't help but smile when you noticed she had still laid out your outfit of the day despite her hurried state.

As half past noon approached, you descended in the elevator to her studio, carrying a warm lunch. Knowing she needed some persuasion to take a break from work and eat, even though she paid you to prepare her meals.

When she initially dismissed you upon your approach, it wasn't surprising. That was the usual routine. However, typically, after 15-25 minutes, she'd relent. Well, that was the norm. This time, an hour had passed, and she still adamantly refused to pause.

Bored and hungry, the usual scene of you two enjoying a shared meal and exchanging affectionate words was absent. Normally, you'd be showering her with praise, boosting her pride and motivation with each word. ‘This was how things were supposed to be,’ you thought, yet here you were, seated on a plush satin-covered chair in a corner of the spacious room.

Contemplating leaving altogether, considering nobody in the studio cared about your presence except Velvette, and she was currently too busy to notice. As you prepared to depart, a manicured hand rested on your shoulder.

"Well, hello there, sweetheart. What's a pretty thing like you doing all alone?" inquired the attractive woman with whom you soon found yourself engaging in conversation with. Unbeknownst to you, she was the backup model Velvette disliked but had to call in.

What you did know was that from her flirty attitude, to the fact she was feeling you up and the eye fucking she was giving you, that woman was definitely hitting on you.

You also knew you should have told her that you were with Vel, but after feeling ignored and abandoned since this morning, it felt refreshing to have someone finally pay attention to you.

Around 2:25 p.m., Velvette finally took a break from work, envisioning a moment to share lunch with you and perhaps find comfort in your embrace.

However, that dreamy scenario shattered when she looked your way and spotted 'that bitch Bridgette Bastia' not only flirting with you, her hand around your waist, but also eating away at HER LUNCH.

To make matters worse, Bridgette whispered things in your ear, leading to giggles.

Unlike Valentino, Velvette wasn't one to tear employees apart; she preferred the more elegant approach of firing them.

However, witnessing the girl cozying up to you fueled a desire in her to do something far less refined. She wanted nothing more than stab the chick to death(well, second death).

When Velvette confronted you about the proximity between you and the model, you had the audacity to respond with a cheeky "What's wrong, babes? Thought you were busy," accompanied by a sly expression and tone.

In a fit of rage, Velvette pushed Bridgette away and seized your wrist, forcefully ushering you into her office and slamming the door shut behind you;

"Today is already a mess, but you had to make it worse, you ungrateful bitch. Allowing that cunt to touch you so freely! Are you that much of a whore that you can't stand to not have someone laying their hands on you for a moment?" Velvette spat at you, accentuating her anger with a furious fist slam.

She yearned to make you suffer for intensifying her frustration, but hitting wasn't her style, and mere verbal assaults wouldn't suffice. That's when what she considered a brilliant idea struck her.

Utilizing her clothing transformation ability, she effortlessly rendered you completely exposed and bound with a mere swipe of her finger. Your once classy outfit morphed into an intricate arrangement of tied ropes, forming a captivating star-shaped pattern across your chest, in addition to a blindfold obscuring your vision, leaving you helpless in both movement and sight.

To escalate matters, she procured a vibrator from her office drawer and a ball gag she had used for a recent BDSM-themed shoot.

"You want to play the part of a needy slut, so I'll treat you as such," she whispered into your ear.

Following that, she attached the vibrator to your parts, setting it to medium vibration. It was intense enough to make your body react, but not strong enough to get you off.

"Behave until I return," she stated before departing, leaving you alone and exposed in the secluded offices.

Feeling the sensation of the vibrations consuming you, you clung to the hope that she was merely bluffing and would return soon.

Yet, you were well aware not to rely on that expectation. Once Velvette made up her mind, nothing you could say or do would alter her decision. ‘Knowing her, it wouldn't be surprising if she left you in that room until the end of her workday.’

As time passed the vibrations continued to pulse through your body, you couldn't help but feel a mix of anxiety and arousal. Velvette's actions were surprising but far from unpredictable. She had always been domineering and controlling, but this was on a whole new level.

You couldn't help but wonder how long you would be left like this, 3 hours had already passed by now, 2 more and the day would be over. ‘Did she forget you were in there, or was she intentionally keep you bound and stimulated to teach you a lesson?’

Your mind began to race with thoughts of escape. With your hands tied, it wouldn't be easy, but surely you could find a way to free yourself. The sensation of vibrator was becoming more intense with each passing minute, making it harder to concentrate on your predicament.

As you wriggled and squirmed, trying to find a way to release yourself, the door to the office creaked open. You tensed up, hoping it was Velvette, ready to release you from your captive state.

But instead, it was none other than Valentino, a cloud of red smoke surrounding him, and a smirk appearing on his face as he took in the sight before him.

"Well, well, look who we have here," Valentino drawled with his condescending smirk, his eyes inspecting your bound and stimulated form. "I guess you've managed to piss off our dear Velvette, huh? Serves you right. I've always known you were spoiled little bitch that didn’t know their place."

He sauntered over to you, his black heel boots clicking against the hardwood floor. "Thought you could get away with flirting with another woman right in her studio? You're a dumber than I if you thought she'd let that slide."

He leaned in close, his breath hot and rank against your ear. "She's got a mean streak, you know. You should have just waited patiently instead of pulling that kind of stunt. I’d keep my eyes peeled and my mouth shut from then on if I were you."

With that, Valentino turned on his heel and left the room, the door slamming shut behind him, leaving you alone in the room now filled with smoke with your humiliation and aching body…

About 10 minutes later Velvette stormed into the office, her face twisted in anger. She had received a text message from Valentino, no doubt gloating about the situation he had just witnessed.

Her eyes scanned the room, taking in the scene before her: you, bound and stimulated, with a look of both embarrassment and arousal on your face.

Velvette's lips curled into a sneer as she stepped into the room, a mixture of anger and amusement playing across her features. "What a fucking mess," she muttered under her breath, crossing the room to stand before you.

"I told you to behave, and this is what happens? Valentino gets a peek at your pathetic state," she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. She reached down and flicked the vibrators, making you flinch and moan softly around your gag.

"Oh, look at that, you're already soaking wet," she teased, her fingers tracing the contours of the vibrator attached to you. "I can't believe I have to deal with this. And here I thought you were smarter than that.”

Velvette couldn't resist the urge to taunt you further, her fingers gently probing your slick, throbbing intimates. She knew full well the effect it would have on you, and the way you squirmed only fueled her desire to humiliate you.

"You're so wet, darling. It's almost as if you enjoyed having Valentino see you like this," she said, her voice low and dangerous. "I'll make sure to tell him how wet you got from the embarrassment. Bet that moth fucker would love that, and so would you."

Obviously you weren’t into Valentino, and seeing like that you was the last you had wanted. So of course you violently shook your head in didn’t disagreement at the mention of her telling him more about your current interactions.

Thought being rendered Velvette’s pathetic bitch was hot, and an observer only reaffirmed the situation. ‘So maybe him walking in wasn’t ‘that’ unpleasant—‘

Her fingers danced against your most sensitive spots, eliciting strangled moans from you. "You're such a terrible liar, you know that? I can always see right through you," she continued, her voice a mixture of anger and arousal.

Despite your frustration and embarrassment, you couldn't deny the pleasure coursing through you with each touch from Velvette's skilled fingers. Her words and actions were cruel, yet they only seemed to heighten your arousal. As some sort of grace, she had removed the gag from you.

"It's not my fault he came in here," you whimpered . "I didn't invite him."

"Oh, please," Velvette scoffed, her fingers continuing their dance. "You're always looking for attention, always seeking validation from others. It's disgusting." Obviously she knew what she was saying was bullshit but it was fun taunt.

She increased the pressure, your body arching in response. "You should be grateful I haven't given you to him yet. He'd probably enjoy watching you squirm even more than I do."

Her words stung, but they also fueled your arousal. You knew she was right; you did crave attention, and Velvette's treatment of you only made it worse.

"Please, Velvette," you pleaded, your voice barely audible. "I'm sorry. Just let me cum please." Hours of stimulation plus the added stimulation had become to much for you, if you didn’t cum soon you would go crazy.

Velvette smirked at your plea, her fingers slowing down for a moment. "Oh, you want to cum, is that so?" she purred, stepping closer to you. "And what makes you thing you deserve it, huh? After your behaviour today, you’re gonna have to earn it."

She reached down and untying the vibration, removing it from your body altogether. "Now, you're going to eat me out and beg for me to make you cum. If you do a good job, I might just let you."

You felt a mixture of relief and panic as the vibrators were removed. While your body ached for release, the idea of pleasuring Velvette made you both nervous and excited, especially because your climax depended on it.

"Don't disappoint me," she warned, her eyes locked on yours. "I'm not in the mood for any more disobedience."

With a final glare, she stepped back, giving you room to kneel before her. Your heart raced as you watched her unzip her pants, revealing pretty pussy.

You hesitated for a moment, your eyes flicking between Velvette's smirking face and the task ahead of you. You could feel the tension in your body, the need to cum be touched overwhelming. But you knew you had no choice but to obey.

Mustering your courage, you lowered your head, your tongue darting out to trace the edge of Velvette's lace panties. The fabric was slick with arousal, and you knew she was already wet for you. She removed the arrival clothing herself as you were still bound.

With a deep breath, you began to lick and suck, your hands in fist to bring yourself some security. Velvette's hands threaded through your hair, guiding you as you tasted her.

"That's it, slut," she hissed, her voice low and dark. "Show me how sorry you are."

You redoubled your efforts, licking and nibbling at her skin, flicking your tongue against her clit. Velvette's breath hitched, her fingers tightening in your hair.

"Fuck, that feels good," she growled, her body arching into your mouth. "But you still haven't earned your orgasm."

You knew she was right, and you concentrated on pleasing her, your tongue working in tandem. Velvette's moans grew louder, her thighs shaking.

"You're doing well, Y/N," she said, her voice a ragged whisper. "But you still have a long way to go."

Velvette's voice was sharp, her fingers tangling in your hair as she pulled your head back. "Apologize for talking to that model," she demanded, her eyes like ice. "Admit that you were in the wrong,”

You hesitated, your heart pounding in your chest. Saying the words would be humiliating, but you needed relief.

"I'm sorry," you whispered, your voice breathy. "I shouldn't have talked to her. I was wrong."

Velvette's fingers loosened, her eyes narrowing. “Better,” she said, her voice still icy. "Now finish making me come, and maybe, just maybe, I'll let you cum."

You augmented your efforts, your tongue working with renewed vigor. Velvette's moans grew louder, her body trembling.

"You're close," you murmured against her folds, your own arousal reaching new heights, despite being the one getting dominated it was still hot to see her all shaky.

Velvette's body tensed, her moans growing louder as you brought her to orgasm. Her release washed over you, her juices coating your tongue and face.

"Good bitch," she panted, her body shuddering.

With that, Velvette pulled you to your feet, your bodies pressed together. Her fingers found your front once more, teasing you before starting to jerk you.

"Spread your legs," she ordered, her voice harsh. "I want a good view of your pretty body."

You complied, your heart racing. Velvette's hands played you like a fiddle, her gaze locked on your face.

"You're so wet," she said, her voice a mix of satisfaction and anger. "No wonder Valentino was so fucking smug about it."

Your body throbbed, the need for release growing stronger. Velvette's hands moved faster, her gaze never leaving your face.

"Beg me for it," she said, her voice low and dangerous. "Beg me to make you cum."

You hesitated, your breath hitching. Asking for her permission felt like a betrayal of yourself, but you needed relief.

"Please, Velvette," you whispered, your voice shaking. "I need to cum. Please let me cum."

Her fingers paused for a moment, her eyes locked on yours. "You're so desperate, aren't you?" she purred, her fingers resuming their pace.

She increased her pace, her hands toying with you with expert precision. Your body ached, your moans growing louder.

"Tell me how much you want it," she commanded, her voice a low growl. "Tell me how much you need to cum."

You hesitated, your face flushing, but you needed her permission.

"I need it, Velvette," you whispered, your voice trembling. "I need to cum so bad."

Her fingers slowed, her eyes never leaving your face. "You better make a good show, slut," she said, her voice tight. "Or I'll make you wait even longer next time."

Velvette's hands going faster, your body arching in response. You could feel the orgasm building, your breath coming in short bursts.

"That's it, Y/N," she growled, her voice low and dangerous. "Come for me."

With a final surge, you came, your body trembling as waves of pleasure washed over you. Velvette's hnads never stopped, her thumb brushing against your most sensitive part.

"That’s my good bitch," she said, her voice satisfied. "Now, I think it's time for a reward."

She pulled her fingers from your body, her eyes locked on your face. She leaned in, her lips brushing against yours. The kiss was rough, her tongue probing your mouth.

Velvette pulled away, her eyes still locked on yours. "You'll learn to behave next time, won't you?" she asked, her voice soft but firm.

You nodded, your body still trembling from your orgasm. As much as the experience had been humiliating and degrading, there was something thrilling about it, too.

"Yes, Velvette," you whispered, feeling both exhausted and satisfied.

With that she untied you, dressed you back up and sent you on your merry way to your shared room…

𝐕 Valentino & Vox 𝐕

Is one cock truly not enough for you, greedy whore~

Firstly, what possessed you to believe that engaging in any kind of relationship with both of them was an intelligent idea? Dealing with one is bad enough, but two? Are y’a crazy bitch?! (By the way, the bitch is me, I need these motherfucker to tag team me. Now that this is said, no more interruptions.)

Initially, this situation would be chaotic, not only due to the on and off relationship these two shared but now, you're also giving them attitude? ‘Who the fuck do you think you are?!’

The atmosphere would swiftly shift, with Val embodying his short-tempered self, and Vox grappling with frustration, both using you as some sort of stress reliever as they would fuck you until they were relaxed.

Picture this: Val once again enraged at an employee, Vox desperately attempting to pacify him. You entering the room, trying to innocently retrieving your charger left there this morning—‘nothing too troublesome, nothing to escalate their moods, right?’

Well, not quite. The catch is that your attire was entirely off the mark. Despite it being a Wednesday, the designated day for pink attire as Val had explicitly stated, your outfit missed the mark.

And it wasn't just Val overseeing your wardrobe; Vox had explicitly forbidden overly revealing clothing, especially when walking through the Vees' tower where anyone could catch an eyeful of you.

The burning question on both of their minds, as you discreetly attempted to grab your belongings and make your exit, was: 'Why the fuck were you in that skimpy red outfit?!' (It’s also that fucking radio demon’s color! — Vox)

It wouldn't take long for the situation to escalate into a heated argument. You asserting your independence, claiming the right to wear whatever you pleased, and their response insisting you belonged to them, hence you would dress as instructed. In addition, you would also insults their masculinity and critiques of their chosen attire for the day, as some sort of pay back.

Controlling your clothing marked an expression of their intense possessiveness. Despite its occasional annoyance, you found it fucking thrilling to be both their lover and plaything.

And as you would flip them off and attempting to leave the room, you'd feel a pair of clawed arms wrapping around you, digging into your flesh and forcefully pulling you back in. With that you would end up all tied up, and edge by those two shitheads. Malicious grins plastered on their faces.

If 'dressing like a depraved bitch in heat and act out,' was what you whole heartedly desired, then they would just have to mold you into a well-behaved little thing, one way or another.

Eventually, you'd be so thoroughly overwhelmed and overstimulated that the thought of defying them, or anything thought for that matter, would be far from your mind. But ‘hey, a win is a win!’

The day kicked off on a hot, particularly for your two Overlord boyfriends….

Valentino tenderly woke you with a kiss on your hair, while Vox used tender words to bring you back to reality.

"Y/N, sweetheart, time to wake up," Vox said, your body jerking awake. As you rubbed your eyes, Valentino left a trail of kisses from your shoulder to jaw. "We wouldn't want our sweet Y/N eating breakfast alone," he whispered into your ear.

You pulled away the covers, stood up, and let out a satisfied groan as you stretched. Continuing with your morning routine, you decided to spice things up when having taken a glance at your fully laid out outfit of the day.

Facing your fully clothed boyfriends on the heart-shaped bed, you sensually removed your pajamas, earning a whistle from Valentino and an open-mouthed stare from Vox.

Fully nude, you executed a reverse striptease, putting on your fresh clothes with the same sexed up attitude you just had when shedding yourself of your pyjama.

Once dressed, you completed your look, including jewelry, hair, skincare, and makeup. Slipping away to the kitchen, you avoided the customary morning kiss, leaving your lovers slightly irked.

Your deliberate avoidance continued at the breakfast table, and although they were busy, your actions left them with a slightly sour mood due to the absence of the usual morning ritual.

Meanwhile, you reveled in the small power trip of influencing the moods of these powerful men with such little actions.

Several hours had elapsed, and it was now lunchtime. Knowing Val, he was likely already enjoying his meal, while your TV-headed boyfriend, Vox, was likely too absorbed in his usual surveillance to remember the existence of food.

Being the thoughtful partner you were, you whipped up something delicious and nutritious, heading to the underground watching room before Vox could realize his hunger and order his usual unhealthy fast food.

Despite his argument that the food he consumed you considered ‘shitty’ was quicker and simpler to get a hold of, you knew the toll it took on his energy, sleep, and mood swings. So once you became close enough to speak your mind, you had 'aggressively kindly' nudged him toward a better diet;

As the lift platform halted, holding a picnic basket, you walked the catwalk towards Vox's chair. Catching him fixated on the screens with no food in sight, you leaned in and playfully said, "boo!" prompting a high-pitched scream from Vox, earning a smirk from you and a groggy reaction from him.

However, his demeanor swiftly changed as he received the first kiss of the day from you and noticed the basket in your hand, realizing it was likely a meal you had prepared to share.

Grabbing the basket, he placed it on his desk and pulled you onto his lap by the hips. You both began eating, with you feeding him – a domestic sight only accessible to you and the other Vees.

As you continued to feed Vox, you couldn't resist the opportunity to tease him. You started grinding your hips against his lap, feeling his growing erection beneath you. Your hand slid up and down his thigh, sending electric shocks through his body. He groaned into his food, clearly enjoying the attention.

After you finished our meal, you stood up, playfully caressing the edge of his screen and smirking at the eager expression on Vox's face. "You know what, Voxy? You seem mighty stressed to me, and I feel it’s only right for me to do something about it, right?"

His eyes widened in anticipation, and you could see the hint of a blush on his TV screen. you leaned in close to his ear, your lips grazing the monitor as you whispered, "You wanted that, don’t you?. emphasizing your words by grinding against him once more.

Vox couldn't help but moan softly at the thought of what you had planned for him. His eyes darted around the screens, trying to find a way to distract himself from the tempting proposition, but that did nothing to help his heighten arousal.

As you began to unbuckle his belt and unzip his pants, he bit his lip to stifle another moan. "I can't believe you're doing this right after lunch," he murmured, his voice trembling with desire. "You're going to be the death of me, you know that, right?"

You chuckled softly, a wicked glint in your eyes as you lowered yourself to your knees in front of him. Your fingers deftly undid the final buttons and pulled his pants down, revealing his already hard member. A smirk graced your lips as you teased him by trailing your fingertips along the length of his cock.

Vox's breath hitched, his eyes closing tightly as he tried to maintain control. You leaned in closer, the warmth of your breath causing him to shiver. "You're so hard for me, Vox," you taunted, but soon got to the task ahead.

You eagerly took Vox's length into your mouth, you tongue tracing the vein that ran down the underside of his member. You sucked him diligently, your cheeks hollowing as you bobbed your head up and down, your eyes locked on his. Vox's fingers threaded through your hair, his breath coming in sharp gasps as the pleasure washed over him.

As the sensations built, his hips began to buck, his moans growing louder and more urgent. Just as he was about to reach his peak, you pulled back, a wicked grin on your face. Causing Vox to let out a dissatisfied whine.

So with a giggle, you stood up, you kissed the side of his monitor and quickly took your leave before he could fully register that you had left him panting and desperate.

As he regained his senses, his mood was certainly not the best,— let’s just say he was pissed when he was force to take care of the erection you had caused.

Continuing with your day, it was now a quarter past four, and you knew Valentino was still shooting. With the same mischievous spirit you had when you visited Vox, you headed to Valentino’s studio.

Luck was on your side as they were on a 10-minute break, so Val wouldn’t be bothered by your sudden arrival. In fact, he seemed delighted to see you, welcoming you with a hug that involved all four of his arms.

In return for his affection, you gave him some of yours, expressing it with a soft, sweet, and brief kiss. But of course, the overlord of lust and depravity wasn’t satisfied with such a short gesture, especially considering the state you’d put him in since that morning with your little stunt.

With two arms propping you up and the others encircling you, he pulled you in closer, one hand lifting your chin to bring your lips together. And oh, what a kiss it was.

Your kiss was far from gentle; it was a collision of desire and intensity, fueled by primal instincts and raw passion. He drew you closer, if that was even possible, his hands gripping you fiercely as your lips met with a hunger that bordered on desperation. There was an urgency to your embrace, a need to consume each other completely. Your mouths moved hungrily against each other, teeth clashing and tongues dueling in a fierce battle for dominance—a battle that Valentino obviously won.

His touch was possessive, leaving trails of fire in its wake as he explored every inch of your skin with a roughness that sent shivers down your spine. You responded in kind, your nails digging into his back.

Your kiss was a whirlwind of passion and desire, leaving you both breathless and panting when you finally parted.

As he lowered you down, you felt slightly dizzy, ‘must be Val’s toxins’. It was then that you noticed some staff members had stopped their work just to watch you, and you couldn't help but shoot Valentino a glare after assessing the situation as ‘that bastard knew you were being watch but didn’t say shit so that his employee stopped, even a simple wave from him would’ve have done the trick’. However, he only chuckled in response.

Taking his place in his director's chair, he stared at you intently before patting his lap. “Won’t you stay with papi and watch? After all, you did spend lunch with Voxxy. Won’t you do this for me, cariño?” he asked, his request momentarily distracting you from your thoughts.

It took you a moment to comply, your mind still processing the mention of lunch with Vox. ‘Had Vox told him what you’d done? Probably not, knowing Vox wouldn’t admit to being played like a fiddle by you. Then how—oh yeah, Vox took a selfie while you were feeding him, and he likely sent it to Val.’

With that revelation out of your mind, you settled into Valentino’s lap, one of his arms around your waist while the other had already started traced patterns on your thigh.

As the shoot began, you decided that Valentino should also get some of your ‘special attention’. With that in mind, you started to roll your hips. However, Valentino was quick to stop you in your tracks, his hand on your waist drawing you closer while the one on your throat and another on your thigh roughly squeezed the flesh as a way to say ‘stop’.

You listened to his warning, for a moment... stopping for 5 minutes or so before starting again, earning a hitched breath from the tall moth. His hold became more aggressive, slightly bending forward to whisper in your ear, “You’re really testing my patience, mi amor, and I’d suggest you stop unless you want me to fuck you right here and there in front of everyone.”

But you replied coyly with, “I don’t know what you're talking about,” emphasizing your words with another roll of your hips.

Despite Valentino being a sex maniac, just like Vox, he had grown too possessive to let others see you in such an intimate position, not even as punishment. So his current threat was all bark and no bite, and you both knew it.

He quickly realized that you knew, which caused him to ‘tsk’ and sit back. The man was too prideful to admit you were affecting him to the point where he couldn’t focus on his work properly. So his plan was to wait it out, to wait until the end of the shoot so he could put you in your place.

But by now, you knew him and his work too well. So, 30 minutes before it was over, you got up, informing Val that you had to go on a ‘bathroom break’. Of course, he allowed it, playing the role of the unaffected and non-retaliating.

But the catch that Valentino hadn’t anticipated was, this wasn’t a bathroom break; you had just run away without him noticing, leaving him to take care of his hard one just like you had done with Vox.

You giggled as you sat on your bed, thinking about how he would react when the shoot finally ended and everything clicked. And since you were already long gone, for time efficiency, he would just move on to the next shoot instead of chasing after you.

After all, he was on a time crunch; he probably only had 20 minutes or so of a break to take care of himself, definitely not enough time to find you and fuck you.

It was now 6 p.m., and you were out and about with Velvette, having grown close through your relationships with the two boys. She found you fun, and you could say the same about her. So it wasn’t out of the ordinary when she sent a text to each of them that she was taking ‘their bitch out to party’. As usual, she didn’t listen when they told her not to; she wanted to party with her bestie, and their boyfriends definitely weren’t going to stop her.

So there you were, clubbing hard, singing along loudly, dancing your ass off, and drinking in a manner that was definitely overindulgent, but who cared? You weren’t going to die from it.

As you were chatting it up with Velvette, you felt a tap on your shoulder. Turning around, you were met with quite the good-looking hellhound. He introduced himself as Marco and thought you were cute. He wanted to see if you could get drinks together, maybe exchange numbers. He was sweet and wasn’t forcing himself on you or anything, so you spoke honestly to him.

“I’m going to level with you, Marco,” you said. “Okay,” he replied.

“You seem like a very sweet hound, but I’m currently in a wonderful relationship with the loves of my life, or is it afterlife?—anyways, what I mean to say is thanks for the offer, but I can’t accept.” You rambled due to the alcohol already in your system, and Marco expressed that he understood and was happy for you.

But then an idea came to mind. “But could I actually ask you a favour, Marco?” you inquired.

“Sure, as long as it’s not too extravagant of an ask,” he replied.

“Never. Anywho, I was wondering if you’d be down to take a selfie with me, nothing too intimate, but you’d be holding me in it, like a really close hug. I want to tease my boyfriends, and that’ll definitely do the trick,” you told him.

He pondered for a second, then a “Sure, why not?” came out.

And so the selfie-taking proceeded. You followed through on your words, nothing but his hands around your waist. You knew that would get another rise from your ‘tv head and moth man’ when they saw your new Sinstagram post.

Were they going to do anything to Marco? No. You’d say something along the lines of ‘I’ll never forgive you’ and give them the cold shoulder if they did. Plus, they’d know this was just teasing, nothing more. If you had intended to make them furious, you would have kissed the guy.

Putting your phone down after posting the selfie with a couple of different pictures from the night, you soon felt it buzz. Looking at the notifications, they were texts from Vox and Valentino. But in your drunk and teasing mindset, you decided to ignore them, just shooting a glance at Velvette, which she understood meant ‘you can text them if they ask about me, but I won’t be doing it.’

She only rolled her eyes at that look but then chuckled at the thought of the state you probably had Valentino and Vox in, because those guys had some serious jealousy issues.

9 p.m. had hit, and you and Velvette had decided you were good for the night. So, calling your driver, you waited by the curb.

“You know they’re going to fuck the shit out of you for that little picture,” she said before taking a hit of her vape.

“Oh, I’m counting on it. That’s why I already left both of them high and dry separately today,” you replied. She looked at you, surprised for a second, then burst out laughing.

“Bitch, you’re crazy! That’s why I like you, though.” With that said, the car had finally arrived, and in about 15 minutes, you were back at the tower.

Velvette had shot you a teasing ‘good luck’ once you both had stepped out of the elevator on the last floor.

You took off your shoes before entering your room. Pushing the door open, you were met with your two boyfriends sitting on your bed, staring straight at you. They must have been waiting for your return.

"Well, well, well, look who decided to grace us with their presence, Val. It’s our little professional photographer," Vox remarks, his tone laced with amusement and spite.

"Oh, indeed, Vox. It seems that truly adore the art, don't they? So much so that they’ll snap a pic at any given opportunity, regardless of who they're doing it with." Val adds, his words carrying a subtle innuendo.

"Oh please, it was just a hug," you retorted dismissively as you turned away from them, starting to change out of your outing clothes.

"Just a hug? JUST A HUG?!!" Valentino's voice rose with indignation. "That mutt was practically fucking you!" he exclaimed. Despite Valentino's tendency to exaggerate, he was jumping to the guns, Marco hadn’t even been groping you, but you refrained from pointing that out.

"That hellhound shouldn’t have been in your vicinity, point blank," Vox added, neither agreeing nor disagreeing with Valentino's statement.

"You two are such babies, you should stop fussing over a little selfie already," you scoffed, turning your head to look at them as you removed your last article of clothing.

Retrieving a towel from your drawer, you mentally decided it was time for a shower. In their minds, however, they were planning to make you pay for that picture and for teasing them earlier in the day.

In your mind, you were now going to take a shower, seeking solace in the calming embrace of warm water. However, in their minds, they had already made a silent pact to exact retribution for the audaciousness you had when snapping that picture and your teasing behavior throughout the day.

As you reached for the bathroom door handle, on of Valentino's hand shot out and grabbed your wrist, pulling you back towards the bed. His grip was firm but not painful, leaving no doubt that you were not going anywhere until they had made their point clear. Vox stood up and joined him, a predatory gleam in his eyes as he towered over you.

"We'll show you what happens when you play with fire, brat," Valentino growled, his voice low and threatening. Vox nodded in agreement, his expression mirroring Valentino's anger.

Before you could protest or plead, they had you pinned down on the bed, your struggles met with their iron grip. Their faces hovered over yours, their anger palpable in the way their eyes burned with intensity.

Vox and Valentino started discussing strategies on how best to punish you for your transgressions, right in front of you.

"We need to teach them a lesson," Vox declared,"Something... memorable."

"Agreed," Valentino chimed in, tightening his grip on you as you tried to shuffle around "Something... painful."

"Yes, yes, something painful," Vox echoed, rubbing his temples in frustration. "We need to make sure they knows who the boss is here."

In unison, they nodded ominously, their plans solidifying rapidly.

"This is what happens when you toy with us, bébé~" Valentino hissed, his free hand reaching for a belt that he kept nearby. The sound of leather hitting flesh echoed through the room as he brought it down on your thighs, the sting of each blow making you yelp in pain and surprise.

Vox watched with approval, his own arousal growing as he saw the marks forming on your skin. He moved closer, his fingers tracing the lines that Valentino was creating.

"You see this, doll," Vox purred, his voice low and seductive, "you see what you make us do when you behave like a brat. We don’t like hurting you,” a lie. “but can’t just let you do whatever, we do not tolerate petty disobedience, I thought you’d knew that by now."

His fingers trailed down to your chest, playing your now perked nipples. You squirmed beneath their touch, a mix of fear and arousal coursing through your veins.

Valentino paused momentarily, the belt falling limply to the side. He leaned in close, his breath hot against your ear as he whispered "Remember this, cariño. We may love you, but that doesn’t mean you got free reins to be a bratty ass bitch."

With that, he released you, stepping back to allow Vox his turn. The television-headed demon's gaze never left your face as he took the belt from Valentino, his eyes flickering with anticipation.

Vox cracked the belt across your ass, the sharp sting catching you off guard. You cried out, your body arching involuntarily as the pain seared into your skin. But then, an unexpected warmth spread through you, a strange mixture of pain and pleasure that you couldn't quite comprehend.

Valentino watched from the corner of the room, his eyes locked onto your reactions. As you writhed beneath Vox's hand, he began undressing, slowly revealing his muscular form. He wore nothing but a pair of black silk boxers that did little to hide his arousal.

Once naked, he walked over to you, his steps confident and assured. He picked up a pair of handcuffs from the nightstand and began to tie your hands behind your back, securing your mouvement firmly. As the cuffs tightened, a jolt of arousal was sent through you.

Vox continued spanking you, alternating between the belt and his open palm. Your skin turned a darker shade, a testament to your punishment. Yet, despite the pain, you couldn't deny the rush of lust pulsating through your veins.

Finally, Vox stopped spanking you, satisfied with the sight of your reddened cheeks. He stepped back, admiring his work, before whispering softly, "Such a bad little thing, aren't you? But don't worry, we won't leave you like this. We're going to give you what you deserve."

Valentino knelt beside you, his eyes glinting with desire. He gently stroked your hair, whispering soothing words into your ear, "It's okay, amorcito. It's all going to be okay. Just let go."

Their words, combined with the physical pain, pushed you further into a state of heightened arousal. You felt your body responding to their dominance, your core throbbing in anticipation.

Valentino stood up, motioning for Vox to join him. They exchanged a heated glance, their shared desire evident. With a nod, they moved towards you, Vox taking your legs while Valentino held your torso. Together, they positioned you on your knees, your ass lifted invitingly.

Valentino reached for a bottle of lubricant from the nightstand, pouring a generous amount into his hand. He rubbed it on your entrance, preparing you for what was to come. Your breathing hitched as his cool touch met your heated core, sending shivers down your spine.

Quickly after, Vox moved behind you, his erection hard and ready. He positioned himself at your entrance, pausing briefly to grab your hair and look into your eyes. There was a mix of fear and lust in your gaze, and he smirked, knowing he had you exactly where he wanted you.

With a swift thrust, he entered you, filling you completely. You gasped, your body adjusting to the invasion. His movements were slow and deliberate, each thrust pushing deeper inside you.

Valentino watched intently, his cock equally hard and ready. He practically couldn't wait for his turn, but first, he wanted to see the full effect of their domination on you.

Vox increased his pace, his thrusts becoming faster and harder. His grip on your hair tightened, his other hand holding onto your hip for support. Each time he slammed into you, your breasts bounced enticingly, drawing Valentino's attention.

"Look at them, Vox," Valentino said, his voice thick with desire. "See how much they wants this. How much they needs this."

Vox grunted in response, his movements becoming more erratic. He pulled you back, using your hair to lift your head, and you found yourself looking straight into his cyan-colored eyes.

"That's it, whore," he hissed, his voice low and menacing. "Take it like a good little slut."

Valentino joined in, running his hands over your body, pinching your nipples roughly. His touch was both tender and cruel, eliciting moans from you.

"You like this, don't you?" he taunted, his voice a soft purr. "You love when we’re mean to you, bitch~"

Vox then pulled you up into a chokehold, applying pressure to your throat. You struggled slightly, but the combination of pain and pleasure was overwhelming. Your body arched involuntarily, your climax approaching rapidly.

The pressure on your throat intensified, your breaths coming in short, ragged gasps. Your vision blurred, your world narrowing down to the sensations coursing through you. Everywhere Vox touched felt electrified, every thrust of his hips driving you higher.

"Cum for me, bitch," Vox snarled, his voice hoarse with desire. Valentino continued to play with your nipples with his top hands, as his bottom ones took care your front.

Your release was imminent, the pressure building within you threatening to burst. You mewled, your muscles clenching around Vox, your orgasm washing over you like a tidal wave.

As you climaxed, Vox continued to choke you, his movements becoming wilder. You felt him swell inside you, his soon reached his climax.

Finally, he came, roaring your name as he filled you completely. He held you in the chokehold for a few more seconds before releasing you, allowing you to catch your breath.

Your breathing was hieratic as you felt your body plot down against the mattress. But to bass for you they didn’t intend on letting you rest.

Valentino stepped up behind you, his erection still throbbing. Without warning, he entered you from behind, his movements slow and deep. The sensation of being filled so so only after your first climax was quite the overstimulating one.

Without warning, Valentino pushed your head into the mattress, your face buried in the soft fabric. You gasped, feeling the sudden loss of control. He spanked you again, the sting mixing with the lingering ache from earlier.

"That's right, bitch," he growled, his voice rough. "Stay quiet. Take what I give you."

His thrusts became faster, his hips slamming into you with each movement. You could feel Vox's semen leaking out slightly, only to be replaced by Valentino's relentless pursuit.

Each strike of his hand echoed through the room, punctuating the sounds of your moans and their grunts. The pain and pleasure merged, creating a symphony of submission.

Valentino's fingers dug into your hips, gripping tightly as he pounded into you. Your body responded, moving with his rhythm, your inner walls milking him with each thrust.

Despite the pain, you couldn't help but enjoy the feeling of being owned, of being taken by these powerful beings. Their dominance over you was absolute, and it excited you beyond measure.

As Valentino neared his own climax, he tightened his grip on your hips, his thrusts becoming more frantic. Your body shook beneath him, your second orgasm building quickly.

"Come for me, slut," he demanded, his voice thick with desire. "Let me hear you scream!" He said as he pulled your hair, contradicting his previous statement about wanting you to be quite.

You complied, your orgasm hitting you like a freight train. Your entire body convulsed, your nails digging into the mattress as you screamed his name.

Valentino roared, his release pulsing inside you. He stayed still for a moment, catching his breath before withdrawing slowly.

As he stepped away, you collapsed onto the bed, panting heavily. The room was silent, save for your labored breaths.

Before you could recover, Valentino had wrapped his arms around you, his chin resting on your shoulder. He entered you from behind, his size stretching you wide. Your body trembled, your nerves overwhelmed by the dual invasion.

Following suit, Vox positioned himself in front of you, his erection already hard once more. Without warning, he slid back into you, his length filling you from the front. You cried out, your body protesting the overstimulation.

"Shhh, calm down ‘bébé’," Valentino whispered in your ear, his voice husky with desire. "We're not done with you yet."

Vox started thrusting, his movements slow and measured. Valentino followed his lead, their rhythms meshing perfectly. Your body bounced between them, caught in a vice of pleasure and pain.

They didn't care about your limits, your protests falling on deaf ears. Instead, they reveled in your discomfort, their own desires guiding their actions.

Their faces were etched with concentration, their eyes locked onto yours. They seemed almost hypnotized, lost in the act of taking you.

As they continued to thrust into you, their movements became more synchronized. Their bodies moved as one, their hips slapping against each other. In sync, they leaned in, capturing each other's lips in a fierce kiss.

Tongues tangling, their passion was palpable. It was a display of obsession and possession, leaving you breathless.

But their focus wasn't solely on each other. With one hand, Valentino gripped your hair, twisting it gently. Vox reached around, caressing your chest roughly.

Their kiss broke, Vox shifting his gaze to you. He leaned in, capturing your lips in a bruising kiss. His tongue delved deep, claiming you as his own.

When he pulled away, Valentino took over, his lips crushing against yours in a brutal kiss. His hands wandered, cupping your face, and then moving down to your neck.

Between kisses, they continued to fuck you, their bodies merging with yours. Their actions spoke volumes - you belonged to them, and you should know better than to fuck with them.

With each kiss, your body grew more sensitive, your mind clouded with lust. Vox and Valentino fed off your reactions, their desire escalating.

"That's it, baby," Valentino murmured against your lips, his breath hot and heavy. "Let go for us." He said as he let his hands wonder down to your front to increased the sensation.

Vox nodded, his thrusts growing more forceful. "Yes, cum for us."

Between kisses, they increased their pace, their movements relentless. Your climax built quickly, your body shaking beneath them.

Finally, you came, screaming into Vox's mouth. Their thrust not relenting as they chased their own orgasm.

As Vox and Valentino neared their climaxes, their thrusts grew more desperate. Sweat dripped from their bodies, mingling with yours. Their gazes locked, a silent agreement passed between them.

With a roar, Valentino thrust deep inside you, his release spilling within you. At the same time, Vox claimed you once more, his cum joining lover’s.

You all panted heavily as they remained inside you, enjoying the aftermath of their conquest.

In the silence that followed, you lay between them, exhausted and spent.

Some ‘I love you’s were shared as you all drifted off, it looks like showering will a ‘tomorrow’ type of task…

Thanks anon for requesting!

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[hiemaldesirae]

The Hazbin Graduate's Guide to Homicide [4]

ENCLOSED IS AN EXCERPT FROM THE JOURNAL OF ALASTOR HARTFELT. IF YOU ARE NOT THE INTENDED RECIPIENT, DISPOSE OF THIS LETTER IMMEDIATELY LEST YOU BEFALL SEVERE CONSEQUENCES INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO, LOSS OF FINGERS, LIMBS, AND LIFE. THANK YOU FOR YOUR DISCRETION. SIGNED, DEAN LUCIFER MORNINGSTAR.

To my generous patron X, I'm still not quite sure how I feel about this... impromptu academic journey. Though I thank you dearly (and cannot ever fully repay you) for giving me the opportunity to study such unique and diverse methods of... disposal, shall we say, it is a double edged sword of sorts. I have made a few friends- two of whom I would consider close, though I doubt I have much experience in the lane of 'close' friends- and yet more enemies, one of which is particularly aggravated by me for reasons I simply cannot fathom. I'm choosing to believe right now that it is because she is immune to any form of good comedy (a politer way of saying that the girl simply has no sense of humor whatsoever and should possibly schedule an appointment with Professor Beelzebub to see if there's something to be done in regards to her vehement refusal to let any joy in life into her heart). In any case, X, I will take this chance to reassure you that I am learning more than I ever thought I would have in the hands-on and rigorous academic processes of Hazbin Institute, and that the people I have met during my stay all total to a very enjoyable stay thus far. I will, of course, keep you updated on the various comings-and-goings of my studies and how my thesis is being planned out, as well as the various roadblocks I have no doubt I'll be facing. Once more, thank you for your thoughtful sponsorship. I do hope that my results are to your liking.

Yours sincerely, A.H.

P.S. A note to all the lovely readers, I've made a few updates in the previous installments of this series. Alastor is now rooming with Charlie and throwaway lines have been corrected to not mention the names of plot-relevant characters. Also, as a content warning, there is some slightly transphobic rhetoric used (I tried to limit it as much as I could but there really wasn't a way for me to word it properly while trying to express the idea.) If you don't want to see that, then feel free to skip to the end of Vox and Alastor's conversation in the Jade Forest. Please enjoy this new upload of the Hazbin Institute for Homicide Practitioners!

[ 1 ] / [ 2 ] / [ 3 ] <- more murder academy radiostatic

Though it may come as a surprise to those who knew him in a broader sense, Alastor wouldn't consider himself particularly well versed in the art of cooking (though he knew several people who would immediately jump to say otherwise). In his mind, cooking had always been more of a pasttime for him: a hobby to spend time bonding with his mother during and hide from his father's harsh words and harsher actions.

That was why Alastor's impromptu (not actually impromptu, he simply referred to it as such because he hadn't spent days agonizing over it like he would on other choices) decision to take up work in the Institution's kitchen was so out of character for him.

However- however out of character it seemed on the surface, Alastor was also quite the frugal spender. Though the funds entrusted to him by his sponsor were more than enough to supply him with everything he needed through the academic year and then some, Alastor was a man who had lived his childhood and early pre-teenaged years through the desolation of the Great Depression and the Dust Bowl, barely managing to scrape by thanks to his mother's innovation and resilience.

This upbringing, in turn, translated to a refusal to spend more than what was needed for a modest life, and a need to save every last penny that came his way. Plus, given the current path his thesis looked to be taking, Alastor had decided some weeks ago that it was much better to have excess funds left over than to have to struggle his way through the bayou once more.

Besides, this way, he got to learn more recipes to show to his Maman once he got back home.

The main chef of the kitchen was named Vortex, and from the interactions Alastor had witnessed while coming in and out of the back kitchen, he was involved with Professor Beelzebub in some sort of way. Whether they were courting or married or perhaps engaging in some sort of extra-marital affairs was a question completely beyond him, but either way, they both seemed happy and Alastor didn't quite care enough to ask further.

This was not to say that didn't mean he didn't speak to Vortex at all, of course- in fact, when he found out that the man spoke French (though it wasn't Creole French, he'd take it), the two had started talking on and off during shifts.

He'd also started to play piano at the local on-campus bar, a place that was surprisingly affordable given their one-drink only rule (a precaution to make sure that the undergraduates of Hazbin's didn't turn to alcohol to cope with whatever poor decisions they had made to land themselves here, no doubt).

This was a decision that had led to him making friendly small talk with the bartender, Husk (another student working odd jobs around campus to make up for the money that wasn't going into tuition) and adding another acquaintance to the motley crew of fellows he'd gotten to know in his weeks spent at Hazbin's.

There was his roommate, Charlie- who he'd never actually seen, save for hearing the occasional quiet sobbing from the bathroom at ungodly hours in the night while he was trying to concentrate on studying- a short young woman who introduced herself as Niffty and proudly proclaimed that her major was 'Murdering Your Spouse!', Husk, Rosie; the woman that Vox had told him about, and-

Well. Vox himself, obviously.

When Alastor had figured out why it was that Vox had sounded so familiar, he'd spent days agonizing over how to confront the man.

There was no way in any of Dante's infernos that he would be going straight up to Vox and saying something along the lines of 'I know your true identity and how you're dressing as a man when you were born as a woman' because if Alastor had learnt nothing from his father at all he had at least been engrained with a sense of subtlety and chivlary. And if his intuition served him right, he had a feeling that Vox wouldn't quite appreciate being referred to as a woman anyhow, given how he'd gone to such painstaking lengths to conceal his identity.

In the end, he hadn't even had to broach the topic himself. Vox had brought it up one day, completely out of nowhere while they were sitting under the shade of bamboo stalks in the Jade Forest, a place on campus grounds meant to imitate the serenity of real Chinese bamboo forests. "You know you're not the best at hiding your feelings, right?"

Alastor had immediately shot back with an offended, "And you are?"

This had come after a night spent at the bar, where Vox had somehow managed to get himself drunk after exactly three quarters of a glass of whiskey and ended the night sobbing into Husk's hat. He realized only after the words came out of the mouth that he was doing nothing but proving Vox right, but to the other man's credit, the only reaction he showed was the small upwards tilt of his mouth, a smile that said, I got you.

"Have you seen any of my movies before, or was it something else that gave me away?" Vox asks casually.

So casually, in fact, that the almost flies over Alastor's head, and he has to do a double take at the other man, who throws his head back and laughs, long and hard, howling like a hyena.

When he finally calms down, Alastor is staring at him unimpressed, which just sets him off again.

"Oh- oh my God, your face- oh, dear God, that's the best. If I knew that wasn't genuine I'd try and have you nominated for an award. Jesus, Al, I'm not an idiot, you were looking at me like I'd grown two heads in that one seminar from Professor Beelzebub when I said I had personal experience with chopping off someone's breasts." Vox finally got out, wiping a tear from his eye as he gasped for breath. It was oddly endearing as much as it was absolutely exasperating.

"Can you really blame me?" Alastor frowned. "I mean, even past... your own proclivities- or, I mean, your- ah-"

"Taking matters into my own hands?"

"Right. That. Even past that, it feels like a bit of an odd comment to make in the middle of a lecture."

"She was asking for examples. What was I supposed to do, not say anything?" Vox rolled his eyes, then flopped back onto the picnic blanket he'd brought out.

Neither of them had actually brought out any foods that day- it was clam chowder soup day in the dining hall, and Alastor had simply elected to skip out and bake a loave of bread for himself later, whereas Vox... honestly, given what he knew about the man, probably didn't eat anything at all. It was almost concerning how skinny the other was, considering between the two of them it had been Alastor who'd lived through the worst economic decline of the century.

In any case, the picnic blanket had mostly been decoration, but Vox had also cited not wanting to get his uniform dirty when he laid down.

Now, looking at the other man lying down on the picnic blanket, Alastor was reminded of a motion picture that Mimzy had dragged him to after several hours of painstaking bargaining- one that had featured Vox (well, the name he'd went by outside of Hazbin, anyway. Alastor still had no idea which of the names Vox considered his 'real' name and he frankly had no intentions of asking) in the same position, but in a great deal less clothes (thankfully, not none or else he wagers he would've picked up a rock and started bashing his skull in), and he looked away once more, willing himself to stop the flush spreading over his face.

"So..." Vox spoke again, breaking the relative peace of their silence. "Have you wrapped your head around the whole thing?"

Alastor paused, then nodded, still resolutely not looking in Vox's direction. "I assume this is... who you would rather be?"

"Well, obviously," Vox confirmed, though not without a bit of snark that Alastor had come to know was standard for the man over the weeks they'd spent together. "Being Vox Vanhal is... a great deal better than being Aussen Vesper, I'll tell you that much."

"Okay," Alastor said. And then, "That's quite the relief, then, because I was not prepared to start treating you like a lady."

Thankfully, despite Alastor's un-characteristic slip of the tongue, Vox only barked out another hyena-like laugh at that comment, and they spent the rest of the day trading murder tactics.

So that was one of Alastor's problems resolved. Another one, though, happened to lie with another one of his housemates in Pride House, a woman who had been there for a year or so by the time of his arrival. For whatever reason, Vaggie Mariposa had taken it upon herself to try and upstage Alastor in every class they'd shared together- which was a lot, considering they were both undertaking the same major of Murder Your Enemies.

It wasn't as though she was succeeding very well, though, besides a prank she had pulled on his radio that had- embarrassingly- caught him off guard and ended up earning him a demerit. Of course, not even a week later, he'd gotten her back with much the same setup, and earned her that same demerit. So in all, it wasn't as much a concern to him as it was a very petty move done by a woman who really should know better, considering she was taking a course to murder her enemies.

(Of course, there was also the times he'd caught her waiting outside the hallway to his room, but that was of as much concern as a stray mouse would be to an eagle.)

In truth, the only real thing that actually concerned him was the girl he shared a room with. He had confided in the matter with Rosie, who, as Vox had told him before, was really quite the counselor when it came to giving advice. He was glad to have met her here- the woman, of course, being a student taking the major of 'Murder Your Spouse' had nothing but an endless patience for Alastor's troubles, the same way he imagined that she had had to have cultivated for dealing with the absolutely useless man she was married to.

"...anyway, I don't understand there is to do about her. She's weeping every night and keeping me up, but it's not as if I can breach the topic with her when she's someone I hardly know," Alastor shrugged. "I'm no good with weepy overgrown children. Whatever it is she's discovered about herself, I wish she'd simply keep it to herself."

"Alastor," Rosie chided him. "That's no way to speak about your roommate. She's likely under a lot of pressure, poor girl- some students are on the verge of flunking out, you know, and as I'm sure the Dean has told you, there are very severe rules for failing at Hazbin's. At least show her some sympathy. Talk to the girl, lecture her if you must, but don't disparage her."

Vox had said much the same thing when Alastor had gone to him to complain instead, so, in the end, he'd given in. The next time he'd found himself poring over one of the large textbooks Professor Mammon had insisted on them buying and heard the stifled sobbing coming from the bathroom, Alastor sucked in a sigh and left his seat.

He knocked on the door hesitantly. "Hello? Are you alright in there, dear?"

The sobbing stopped near instantly, though Alastor could still hear quiet sniffling. "I'll need an answer, if you don't mind. I'd rather not have it on my conscience for causing you to hit your head on the bathtub edge and drown- though I suppose that may earn me a few more points."

"I'm fine," came the firm but quiet response on the other side. "I just- I need a bit."

"I'll be here, then, if you wish to talk," Alastor said. With that hand of invitation extended, Alastor went back to sit down at his desk, feeling a little prouder of himself for managing a show of compassion instead of harming the girl's esteem further.

What he didn't expect, though, was for that hand to be taken- weeks later, during a pre-Track warmup.

"Is... Is this a good time?"

Charlie Magne, the girl who Alastor had been roomed with stares at him with eyes so wide she looks like a caricature more than a person, and when Vox and Rosie let out twin gasps, Alastor feels a part of him shrivel up inside, knowing both of them will make him talk to her.

"I... I'm sorry, but I think... I might need your help."

[the-big-boss-of-hell]

"As much as I love Alastor" So you do still love him? Then why are you giving up on him? "I can’t help him anymore. He needs punishment." Wasn't everything he's been through punishment enough? The miscarriages, the abuse by Vox, the traumatic birth/surgery experience, and everything else he's been through, and on top of it all his husband gives up on him as soon as things get tough... I wonder why he doesn't get better while being locked up and isolated and the only lights of his life taken away from him... I don't care how bad what he did was. Because maybe he is not the one to blame for what happened... After all his actions were only the result of his suffering. You already knew he was in a bad mental state, you shouldn't have left him alone in the first place. If you truly love him you help him by being there for him. Show him that you care and believe in him and don't just turn your back on him now.

Lucifer: *sits at his desk, his crimson eyes heavy with exhaustion* As much as I love Alastor *pausing as if testing the words on his tongue* I also understand that love is not always enough to fix someone—or to fix the damage they’ve caused. *He exhales deeply* You think I’ve given up on him? You’re wrong. I haven’t. But I can’t excuse what he’s done, either. Love doesn’t mean turning a blind eye to harm. It means holding each other accountable, even when it’s painful. *He leans forward now, resting his elbows on the desk as his gaze sharpens* You bring up his suffering—and yes, you’re right. Alastor has endured more than most. The miscarriages… I know they haunted him. I know Vox broke him in ways no one should ever have to experience. And I was there through all of it. I tried to be his anchor, to shoulder those burdens with him. But... *He pauses, his voice dropping into something softer, almost vulnerable* ...there’s only so much I can do if he doesn’t let me in. If he chooses to act out in ways that harm not only himself but everyone around him. Do you think I wanted this? To isolate him? To take Lumi and Calliope away? That I take joy in seeing the person I love suffer? Of course not!

Lucifer’s fingers tighten slightly against the desk, a rare crack in his demeanor.

Lucifer: I wanted him to heal. I wanted to be there for him. But every time I tried, he pushed me away. And then... when his actions endangered others—innocents, even our children—I had to make a choice. A choice no one should ever have to make* he leans back in his chair, the weight of the conversation visibly pulling at him* I haven’t turned my back on him. But sometimes helping someone doesn’t mean standing beside them through everything without consequences. Sometimes it means stepping back. Letting them see what their actions have done. It’s not about punishment—it’s about giving him the chance to rebuild himself, to grow. It’s about showing him a mirror and saying, This isn’t who you’re meant to be."

For a moment, his expression is a mixture of resolve and pain, a glimpse of the deep love he still holds for Alastor.

Lucifer: I do still love him. I always will. But love isn’t always soft. Sometimes it has to be hard. Sometimes it has to hurt, so that it can heal.

[machinespirited]

From the log of Dominus Caprella of Mars:

Caprella stopped, suddenly aware of an absence in his noospheric net. It was as if-- no, it was exactly that. Othala had abruptly terminated her connection to him. The Magos turned to ask the Skitarii Marshall why she had done so only to find her standing stock-still with a blank expression.

"Marshall Othala?" Caprella asked, and he felt a charge run through the air as the Skitarii's porcelain-like face twitched into a small smile.

"Not quite."

It was her voice, certainly. The vox code hadn't changed at all, but Caprella was suddenly aware of an overwhelming presence in the room. One he had felt many times before in the forges on the moon below.

The fact she could reach all the way into orbit...

"What do you want, Verthandi." Caprella asked, his voice completely flat. He sent a silent ping to one of his servo-skulls to start recording. Any time Verthandi spoke, Caprella felt the need to keep track of what she said and did... and another angle was always helpful. "Need I remind you that you assigned Othala to me. She is my responsibility, and I do not appreciate this intrusion."

"Noted." Verthandi said, still using Othala as a speaker. "You turned off her pain receptors last combat. Why?"

"She was about to be impaled. I wanted to give her the same thing I give all of my Skitarii when I am able to." Caprella gestured as he spoke, tapping his staff against the ground. "One last kindness: a painless death."

"She has enough necrodermis for the reanimation protocol. She lived regardless."

"Well, I didn't know that, did I?" It was rare for Caprella to let his anger show like this, but Verthandi was being... dismissive. "I acted in the way I felt was best regarding the information I had. I do not need to explain myself to you further."

"If she does not experience the consequences of her actions, she will never learn."

"Respectfully, Forgemaster.' Caprella glared at Verthandi, making it as clear as he could that this was as respectful as he could get at the moment. "The mistake was mine. Othala was impaled in service of watching my back. She used her body to protect me. I am the one who needs to learn from this. Not her."

"Hm." Was all Verthandi said in reply before Othala's face twitched, and the Forgemaster's presence was gone.

"Marshall?" Caprella asked, feeling Othala re-establish their connection as she looked around. "... How much do you remember?"

"Almost nothing. Forgemaster Verthandi... tends to take the memories with her."

So he had been right to record.

[thegreatwicked]

Masterlist

I finally have enough content to justify having a master list! Thank you guys for all of your support; it's made continuing these stories that much more enjoyable knowing you're there enjoying them with me!

Unbreakable Bonds: In a galaxy where Anakin Skywalker successfully resisted the pull of darkness, fulfilling his destiny as the Chosen One to bring balance to the Force, the Jedi Temple is abuzz with discussions about the traditionally forbidden nature of attachments. As Anakin assumes the role of a Jedi Master, his decision to ensure Palpatine's arrest rather than execution sets the tone for a new era.

On the way to an impromptu council meeting, where Anakin now holds a seat as a respected master, Obi-Wan Kenobi experiences an unusual sensation. A mysterious connection tugs at him when he encounters a young boy patiently waiting outside the council chambers. Unbeknownst to Obi-Wan, the spotlight is about to shift from Anakin to himself.

As the secrets of Obi-Wan's past unravel, the Jedi Council finds itself thrust into action much sooner than anticipated. The delicate balance of the Force, once maintained by Anakin's choices, now hinges on the unforeseen revelations from Obi-Wan's history. The galaxy is on the brink of change, and the consequences of long-held secrets may reshape the destiny of the Jedi and the Force itself.

Obi-wan/OFC Cressida Vox; Slow burn, friends to lovers, eventual romance, SMUT.

One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten, Eleven, Twelve, Thirteen

After the Storm: An emergency crash landing on an isolated island on an alien planet leaves Hux, and a rebel spy stranded and trying to reach an emergency beacon before the local flora kill them. Hux/OFC Sola Vex; sex pollen, forced proximity, survival, alternate universe, Hux survives, Two shot

Part One, Part Two

Meditations: Amid the summer heat on Dathomir, Maul finds himself unable to sleep, restless thoughts stirring within him. Seeking solace, he attempts meditation, only to be joined by his companion Zeala. As they navigate the challenges of finding inner calm, their connection deepens, and unspoken emotions come to the surface. Together, in the quiet moments of the night, they discover a shared intimacy that transcends words and the boundaries of their world. Maul/OFC Zeala; Alternate universe, Maul and his mate, rebuilding Dathomir, soft lover Maul, but he possessive tho. One shot, SMUT

Bet You Wish You Had Me Back: Some romances burn hot and hard and threaten everyone around them, some burn fast and others smolder perfectly. This isn’t a smoldering story, nor is it a quick fire. They both knew their fire wouldn’t burn long and that the closer they got to it the hotter it would be. Because when fire is at it’s hottest the flame burns white, but the burn was too tempting for it to only happen once. Shane Walsh/OFC Austin Walker; one shot, SMUT, SMUT, SMUT

Mending Feathers: Warren, having escaped the cagefighting underground, seeks refuge in a broken church, feeling crippled and directionless with his damaged wings. During a stormy night, he discovers an unexpected visitor seeking sanctuary in his church. Initially resistant, Warren is taken aback when the visitor reveals the ability to heal and restore his wings. With his ability to fly restored, Warren is free again, but questions arise about the mysterious girl and what lies ahead for him. Grappling with gratitude, Warren contemplates the next chapter of his life and wonders how he can express his thanks. Warren Worthington III/FOC Ivy; one shot, SMUT

Thunderstorms: General Hux takes some rarely used, yet long-accrued personal leave to visit his homeworld, Arkanis, and visit his wife. He arrives amidst one of the famous downpours to find his wife has never experienced a thunderstorm. Shocked, he helps her forget the storm. Hux/OFC Selene Hux; one shot, SMUT! Inspired by Lady in Writing of Tiktok!

Padawan: After disappearing from your Master for thirteen years, the Clone Wars has brought you back to the same planet and a brush with death back into each other's lives. But you’re not his Padawan anymore, you’re a knight, right? No, you’ll always be his Padawan, and he, your Master. My first reader insert, I wrote this for all you lovelies who follow/like/reblog/comment on my stuff. This is for you! Obi-Wan/You/Reader Insert. Master/Padawan, SMUT. SMUT. SMUT. That is all.

Chapter Two, Three

50 Shades of Obi-Wan: A collection of spicy and sweet reader insert one-shots between Obi-Wan and his Jedi lover (that's you) Requests are open.

One, Two

Memories of Chocolate-Laced Kisses: Obi-Wan grapples with the challenges of his new role as a father and navigates the complex and confusing relationship he shares with Cressida. As he confronts the stormy past between them, he finds himself revisiting the night that sparked it all. In the midst of swirling memories, he remembers a time when it was just him and Cressida, finding solace, pleasure, and relief in each other's company. These moments from the past haunt him like dancing ghosts, a reminder of their shared history. Obi-wan/OFC Cressid Vox; one shot, SMUT, SMUT, SMUT.

50 NSFW Character Questions: Not a story but a series of fun, kinky interview-like questions about some of my favorite fictional men/women. Feel free to copy said questions and conduct your own character interviews just tag me so I can read along!

Roman Sionis, Obi-Wan Kenobi, Sith Obi-Wan/Darth Solitus, Bucky Barnes

We Were Cursed: Coming soon! Even the perfect fairy tale couple has an indiscretion or two under the influence of a curse, Snow White had a one-night stand with Doctor Frankenstein and Charming was married to another woman. Strange things happen under a curse, which makes you wonder what other Storybrooke residents may have done as well. Jefferson/OFC(Alice) Alice Liddell ; One shot, SMUT

Healing Hands: Coming Soon! Grappling with demons is lonely and dirty work that Jason Todd often does alone, but tonight he needs backup, and in the absence of Batman or his bat siblings he turns to the one person he knows will understand his pain. A kindred spirit, his girlfriend, the Omen. Jason Todd/OFC Wrenna AKA The Omen; One shot, SMUT.

In Service to the Night Sisters: Coming soon! Just a series of one-shots following the life of force-sensitive Zabracks on Dathomir and the purpose they serve; breeding stock. Maul/OC, Feral/OC, Savage/OC; one shot series, SMUT, SMUT, SMUT

50 NSFW Character Questions Pending Characters: Darth Maul, General Armitage Hux, Jason Todd, Quinlan Voss, Victor Zsasz, the Winter Soldier, Soldier Boy

As of right now Unbreakable Bonds and my other Stat Wars content are my priorities but comments and encouragement do help me to know what one shot to work on next, so please let me know what you all think! Thanks my Macabrlings!

[randomly--accessed--memories]

@storm-ismyusername

Depends on how long he'd be stuck at the hotel, constantly being confronted by The Consequences of His Actions. Relying on the kindness of others (or just Charlie) is a new experience for him and it really doesn't help him in his quest to ignore how this is how Vox and Niffty have been living for the past seven/sixty years. He'd be fighting it every step of the way and making plans for how he can still fix everything and escape this situation, but if anything is going to force Alastor to self-reflect, it'd be this.

I actually find this concept super compelling and am now vaguely considering whether this should actually be a canon plot point. Not sure though. It'd end in Al getting his powers back, but choosing to flee into the ether instead of trying to force Vox, Husk, and Niffty to come with him.

I personally believe that Alastor is just naturally a very strong sinner who’s managed to augment his abilities over the years as he’s amassed more power, but there’s something really compelling about the theory that when Alastor first arrived in Hell, he was a full-on prey animal— no powers to speak of until he made his deal with whoever his patron is. In the context of this AU, it becomes even more interesting given the way power, control, and domination are such important themes here.

[gay-dorito-dust]

Tavern Tendencies

A/n: ngl this was kinda crappy but I tried.

Taverns. There was no place where chaos thrived more then a tavern; Even if there were anyone who disputed this would be forced to cough up every bit of money they possessed within their pockets, just so you could shove it back in their mouths as a massive fuck you. The likelihood of a fight breaking out was near enough inevitable as the catalysts could range from an misunderstood staring to an muttered insult under one’s breath as anyone who was anyone joined in on the fight of their own volition. Not to mention the end result of being kicked out for destruction of property or refusing to cough up funds for reparations. Which is exactly how this story will go from start to finish.

Scanlan one day suggested venturing out to a local tavern to celebrate a mission well done -for once- you immediately stiffened at the inevitability of how your night will most likely end as it has done for the several taverns you’ve been prior to now. Everyone else, minus you, agreed wholeheartedly while you touched the scar that laid beneath your clothed forearm absentmindedly as you slumped behind Vax, Vex, Keyleth, Pike, Scanlan, Grog and Percy by a couple of feet remembering as clear as though it was mere seconds ago of how a mishap between Vax and some tavern sleaze had broken out a fight between his friends and yours which -thanks to a broken bottle- gave you your scar. You were no stranger to tavern fights, having gotten into some before you’ve even met the chaotic bunch and had no need for assistance from others from how good you were at keeping yourself away from fights you couldn’t finish.

So as you sat next to Percy a table or two away from the like of Vax,Vex,Pike,Keyleth and Grog, with Scanlan nowhere to be found, who were already looking for a fight against some tavern sleazes across from them when one of them called a vomiting Keyleth a bitch whilst passing by and proceeding to insult them more, “they couldn’t even save a cow from a flaming barn.” One of them cackled which rubbed your friends the wrong way and the next thing you knew Vax was being held by his collar asking the muscled man holding him up if he was going to give him a hand after a remark about how the half elf couldn’t…tickle his pickle. Which left the man a little flustered and a tad embarrassed before getting his hand chopped off by Grog causing him to cry in pain as blood poured from his wound. You sighed getting up from your chair to draw your weapon to cut a goon down from attacking Pike in a cowardly act as she dealt with some other mercenary with ease, ignoring their cries of pain.

“I thought you refrained from tavern fights.” Percy quipped, shooting some foolish men over your shoulder with point blank precision. You shrugged “while that may be true a little fun couldn’t hurt anybody now could it.” Your shot him a cheeky smile as you ventured further into the fight, mentally saying a big fuck you to everything you’ve said prior about tavern fights because while they maybe chaotic they sure as hell were a great bonding experience as you aided Vax and Vex on rare occasions as they aid you with swiftness and fatality. All the while bodies dropped and tavern completely wrecked to shit. The consequences of your actions were nonexistent because as long as you had Vox Machina you could count on the fact that everyday was going to be an adventure no matter where you went whether you were looking for danger or not.

[vestigesofperversion]

Me, arguing with myself over whether it was right for M9 to split the party.
I still feel like the HFB is the danger you know vs. the one they didn’t, and is really designed as more of a threat to jealous mages than to sneaky halfling children. It’s hard for me to believe any parent in their right mind would teleport their 4-year old to an unknown plane of existence, where there is a non-zero chance they could be killed instantly upon arrival, no matter what they were trying to run from. Trent may be a powerful threat, but I think they were incorrect in assuming that he would have brought harm to the Brenatto’s or Marion just to get to Bren. Trent is an abuser and manipulator, not an outright murderer, and he doesn’t want to burn bridges with Bren by pulling dirty shit like that. He literally asked Bren during a dinner party to kill him and take his place, and he consistently tries to foster an (albeit creepy) dialogue, even after what happened in the Sanatorium. The only reason the Volstruckers came to The Lavish Chateau is because the M9 keep telling baddies who their family members are and leading them directly to them when pursued. They’ve been super careless when it comes to collateral damage. Veth said it herself, she has deliberately put her family in danger in order to protect her found-family, and while that’s a sweet indication of how close they are, it’s not sustainable. Something Very Bad™ will inevitably come out of prioritizing the well-being of one’s highly-capable party members over some 10 HP max NPCs, and now it has.
This is all par for the course narratively for the M9, but usually they get served a healthy dose of consequences for their questionable decisions. This was supposed to be consequences for their actions in Rexxentrum catching up to them. Vox Machina also had plenty of fuckups around this high stakes point of Campaign 1, which had them blaming themselves constantly, but that echoes the overwhelming responsibility and loss a hero faces along their journey. That’s good storytelling. I don’t seriously criticize Matt’s choices as a DM, so like, don’t @ me about how you like your fandoms wholesome, uncomplicated and unconditionally loving, but I am admittedly scratching my head at how your young child can burn to death in front of you because of your own risky choices, and your spouse is just like, instantly supportive and forgiving, and not at all traumatized or upset? Or your agoraphobe mom, who hasn’t left her safe space in 20 years, gets rushed out in a panic and then teleported to a literal hellscape, where she then has to watch her beloved daughter get her feet nearly seared off in lava while screaming in agonizing pain, and then without a tinge of frustration over the whole thing, just turns into the wisened sage doling out soothing advice, cool as a cucumber? Yeza made a fair point about his involvement with the Assembly, but his ever-doting attitude, and Marion’s Caduceus-like chill after such a traumatic experience, felt very flat to me. I hope that even with the grace being extended to them by their families, this experience taught the M9 a lesson about not shitting where they eat, or else it will be a repeat of Vax and Vex’s little sister in the final boss fight all over again.

[elahogn]

Just finished ep113 which ended with Vecna's twisted tactics and at this final stretch of CR1, I realized why it's so hard for me to get into Vox machina: they're so confident that they're "experienced adventurers", they act like they know what they are doing but in fact they don't and they keep doing so. I have no complaints about the cast, i love M9 and Bell's Hells, the characters are what I'm not into. Cuz Mighty Nein is total opposite, M9 don't know anything about anything they have the perfect "fuck around and find out" vibe for the whole campaign! And Bell's Hells, they don't even know shit about themselves, where their power come from and why they are the ones dealing with shits way above their heads. They don't know anything but try their best to maintain the reality that they know they want to continue to live in.

Got to say my favourite VM member is actually Taryon Darrington! His run was short, and he's still kinda a snobby idealist at the end of his arc, but at least he learned to grow and change for the better! And you know what, Taryon made Vex actually tolerable to me after their year-long friendship.

And please don't come after me, but I really don't even feel for how tragic Vax's story was played. I feel for the Raven Queen more than for Vax at this point. Yes, it's sad to see a younger one leaves too early in their life with so much in the future that they don't get to experience, its sad to lose a friend, a family. But Vax's deal is what he put himself into and Matt played it as such - this was the consequence of his action. Of course there's the weight of losing someone you love and making a deal with a deity to take you instead in this make believe game, but the constant calling "that Raven bitch" that Vax and VM throw around everytime they talk about the Raven Queen is just meh. My only thought is, dude, you put yourself in her hand and it would be stupid of her to let a nice useful thing like yourself slip through, she was smart enough to ascend herself to the pantheon, there's no way she let you go, especially at this point you and your friends have been curving around her domain way too often.

Watching about 1/3 of CR1 (this is my 3rd attempt to watch VM) and I realize why I didn't like Vox Machina as much as I love Mighty Nein and Bell's Hells: they hold too much of an important position within the political scene of the story! Personally I just don't enjoy watching them bargaining with political NPCs, as well as watching them agueing among themselves over loots and gold.

I understand the appeal when characters are powerful and taken seriously in their own story but it's so much more fun watching a ragtag group like The Mighty Nein doing odd jobs to build trust in the Kryn Danasty or Bell's Hells being oddly charming enough to get trusted by NPCs for anything.

[ckret2]

I'm probably a little bit late for the hype, but for your radiosnake fic, was sir pentious being behind on current technology because he was just really heartbroken or bc he was somehow cursed? Sorry, sometimes i'm bad at understanding, so i wasn't sure if the karma bit meant that there really was some kind of supernatural intervention or not

It is never, ever too late to talk to me about one of my fics! People talk to me about stuff I was writing over a decade ago and I love it, you're good.

It's neither one, actually. He isn't too heartbroken to keep up, and he isn't cursed. He just lost so many resources that he can't keep up with new technological developments any more.

Long explanation below the cut!!

... god I think tumblr just, fucking deleted the cut. If there isn't a cut below this line I APOLOGIZE I tried to edit it back in, tumblr sucks.

Like, say in '64 someone comes into hell with knowledge of how to make a new weapon that's gonna change the game. Sir P's got a web of like a hundred informants who know they're gonna be rewarded when he has power, so he finds out about the weapon in three days and can snatch up the soul that knows how to make it in under a week. He's got a dozen mines from which he can extract the raw materials needed to make the weapon, so that takes a week; dozens of engineers working under him to figure out how to replicate the weapon based on the newly dead dude's half-remembered math, so that takes a week; and Sir Pent himself, the mastermind of this operation, has no more pressing needs to attend to--his airships are defending his turf without any need to call him in for help, he doesn't have to worry about collecting supplies because they have control of all the materials they need, nothing's disrupting their supply train in the sky, etc--so he can turn his whole attention to improving on this weapon, and he's done so in a week. So only a month has passed between this weapon entering hell and Sir Pent becoming not only the only person that has it, but the only person with the next generation version of it.

Compare: a new weapon enters hell in '76. After getting his ass stomped by the Radio Demon a decade ago, Sir P's lost most of his allies because they no longer have faith he can conquer hell (and even if they do, they don't want to risk getting on the Radio Demon's bad side—they don't know why he attacked Sir P, how do they know he won't attack his allies?) so he's got like, five informants. It takes him a month to find out about this weapon. If another overlord finds out about the weapon first and snatched up the weapon-maker, then Sir P has lost all opportunity to replicate it until the other overlord has made and started using it and he can get his hands on a copy to reverse-engineer, by which point this weapon's probably already on the way to being obsolete.

But say he DOES somehow get to this soul before anyone else: he's got like, maybe one or two mines under his control, so it takes a lot longer to extract the necessary raw materials, and that's assuming those mines have the materials this weapon needs. He might need to attack other factories or warehouses to steal the supplies he needs—and these factories & warehouses are probably being guarded by people armed with weapons he hasn't had a chance to replicate because a different overlord snatched up the weapon-maker before he ever heard about them, so they might overpower him, might even take out one of his airships. But say his raids succeed; they could take a couple of months, between planning and carefully executing the needed attacks.

It could take a couple more months for his heavily reduced number of engineers to figure out how to replicate the weapon, especially if it's outside their fields of expertise and he needs to find and recruit someone new to help—and what if he can't recruit anyone, because Sir P is no longer a top overlord that people will want to work for?

Meanwhile, Sir P is busy viciously defending his now very small turf with only a couple of airships at his disposal, AND he's got to plan and lead the raids for supplies, AND he's got to find and recruit new followers, AND he's got to organize repairs and do damage control if another overlord takes an airship out... so it might take him ANOTHER month to get around to looking at the designs himself and seeing if he can improve them. And maybe he's so stressed and overworked and tired he can't think of a way to improve the weapon.

So six months have passed and they have a rushed weapon that they might have had to make with shoddy stolen materials... and in that time, maybe someone with a weapon designed to overpower this one has died, and Vox has already snatched them up and made that weapon in a month, and so Sir P's new weapon is worthless before he uses it. Now he's six months behind.

Except he's not JUST six months behind. All his airships—which are his main bases, his main weapons, his main defenses, and his main transportation all in one—got blown up in '66, so he probably spent all of '66 and probably the next few years airshipless while he tried to rebuild them. Except while he tried to rebuild them, other overlords were stealing his turf because he had no airships to defend it—if he hears a facility of his is being attacked fifty miles away, he's powerless to go defend it. He's got no airships he can send to fight off the attackers. He's got no choice but to lose it. And that happened over and over, and he lost the very facilities he needed to rebuild his airships. So now it's gonna take twice as long to build half as many airships. And during all those YEARS he's trying to rebuild his airships, he's NOT going to be able to expend resources on keeping up with the latest weapons tech.

So in '76, he's not actually struggling to snatch up the newest weapon maker; in '76, he's finally built five airships, and they're all running on '66 technology. How is he going to even BEGIN replicating '76 technology if he completely missed out on learning about the '70 technology it's based on? By the time he's learned about '70 technology and is ready to face '76 technology, it's now '78.

Oh except another overlord who knows he's currently weak and fears what a threat he'll pose when he's strong again goes and crushes all his airships and now he falls behind five years again as he rebuilds AGAIN. And at this point Sir Pent is getting desperate, so he starts making stupid rushed mistakes in a scramble to gain some ground. (Stupid rushed mistakes like charging into Cherri Bomb's turf right after an extermination, or stupid rushed mistakes like aiming a giant cannon at Alastor just because he happens to be there.) And those stupid mistakes lose him more airships and set him back AGAIN.

It's an endless cycle. He lacks the resources to catch up with the latest developments; without the latest developments, he can't get the resources he needs.

History lesson! The fact that Sir Pent was a top overlord for so long was part luck and part momentum. When he died in 1888, he was THE first supervillain. In life he had no peers, and in death he had no peers. He was THE ONLY ONE who knew how to make the weapons of mass destruction he made. He was the ONLY human soul that could make a machine that could slaughter hundreds. The only ones stronger than him were fallen angels and proper demons (not souls who had died, but entities like Lucifer or Stolas) who had proper borderline-godly powers.

In 1933, the Radio Demon took out the power of a vast majority of those proper demons, and that's what buoyed Sir Pent up to being in a position where he could start conquering hell properly. Again, in '33, he was THE ONLY human soul who could do that. (Except, perhaps, Alastor himself, but he has no interest in claiming turf.) Other human souls began gaining power the way he had—both in the living world and in hell, there were people specifically following his example as a supervillain—but he was doing it first, and he was doing it with a lifetime (and afterlifetime) of experience. By the 60s, there were other human overlords around who'd gained some experience and were now just as good at him... but they didn't have his resources. He had a head start on them of decades. So all of them were the ones taking six months to make a weapon because he held all the supplies and personnel they needed to make the weapons. That's the primary reason he was ahead of them. Yeah, he's brilliant... but his overlord opponents are all brilliant too in different ways. The difference was, he's brilliant AND he had ten factories already.

(And it's worth remembering that he also had the Radio Demon, who's basically a walking tornado, on his side for fifteen years; so every once in a while one of Sir Pent's enemies would just have an entire facility mutilated by this dude. Not only is that a powerful weapon to be wielding, but who's gonna wanna go work for one of the guys that might be targeted by the Radio Demon?)

So! That's why Sir Pent fell behind and stayed behind. No heartbreak, and no curse. Just mathematics. Just resources. He stayed ahead because he came into hell with more resources than anyone else and stayed behind after Alastor reduced him to less resources than everyone else.

As for the "karma" section in the fic—not one single word of that scene reflects what's happening in hell in the slightest. Every single word of that scene reflects what's happening in Alastor's head. Fifty years after screwing over Sir P, he feels so miserable that he feels like he's being specifically punished. After seeing how massive and unintended the consequences of his actions are, he feels like he must be some kind of walking curse designed to torture Sir Pent.

On the one hand, seeing everything that's happened to himself and Sir P in the last fifty years and describing it as "karmic punishment/our assigned tortures in hell" is a reflection of how cataclysmically sublimely unhappy they both are. He's like, I'm so damn miserable it's GOTTA be divine punishment because nothing else could be this awful. On the other hand, it lets Alastor push some of the blame off of himself (because this REALLY IS all his fault!) and onto fate instead, like, oh, I couldn't have avoided this, it's our divine punishment. And if it's divine punishment, then there's nothing he can do to change it, is there? There's no point in trying. There's no need for him to say "I'm sorry" and try to make up for his mistakes. Because they aren't really his mistakes. He's just acting out some sort of karmic role. Right?

(And remember that a chapter earlier he was waxing poetic about how hell's not actually a bad place, really, he and Sir Pent deserve to be in hell together because it's the place they'll be happiest. :) :) :) Like, that's a direct contradiction to his "karma" theory. In both cases, neither scene is saying true things about the nature of hell—it's just Alastor's speculation based on how he currently feels.)

The logic fueling his "Sir Pent and I are each other's assigned punishments and there's nothing I can do about that but grin and bear it" is the same logic fueling his "dead sinners can't be redeemed, they had their chance in life and wasted it, now they're in hell forever" to Charlie in the pilot. The message behind both is the same: we can't and shouldn't be forgiven for our past mistakes; why bother trying to make up for them?

[melnchly-a]

i was debating posting this but here are a range of things to think about re: police and reform. 

i’m seeing a lot of “abolish the police” posts, and while i know exactly where that’s coming from, it’s also a simple-seeming answer to a deep and complex problem, and one that’s likely to cause more problems than you’re likely thinking. (in the absence of police, it’s likely - - though certainly not guaranteed - - that those who can afford it will invest more heavily in private security for businesses/personal protection/etc, whether that need is warranted or not. in the event of situations occurring that would have required police presence, you would likely see more federal law enforcement/military presence. worst-case, imagine a country led by someone like our current president where the only option is to send in federal agents and believe me, you don’t want that.) neither do you probably actually want to call for a mass exodus of police of their own volition. i can tell you right now the ones you want out wouldn’t be leaving. you’d be left with departments entirely composed of people with no qualms about excessive force. you WANT those people staying on the force, and you WANT them to have the resources they need to report on fellow officers when needed. 

it’s also just not likely to happen in any widespead way. not in our current society. if you want to create real change, there are other things that need to be addressed, campaigned for, and fixed. things which will not be fixed if we’re trying to focus on overly simple answers for deeply complex problems.

this isn’t to disagree with the notion of reallocating funding to benefit schools/public services/etc. i think that’s entirely necessary. but there’s more to the story than simply cutting funding. 

police need to address and apologize for excessive use of force and abuse over the history of policing. if not for individual officers who may or may not have participated, than for the historical precedent as a whole. pretending there isn’t a problem isn’t a help to anyone. 

as i’ve said multiple times in the past, police unions and those who negotiate with them make it notoriously difficult for departments to get rid of officers with complaints against them. the department in minneapolis is headed by a black chief of police who had sued his own department based on issues of race in the past. he should have been able to get rid of officers like c.hauvin with no issues and yet....obviously, that man was still on the force. there need to be ways for a.) departments to fire problem officers without someone over their heads reinstating them and b.) ways for officers to report on their fellow officers without repercussions. i can tell you right now that those methods don’t currently exist in any wide-spread or efficient/effective form.

body cams, dash cams, and other oversight tools need to a.) be “sold” more effectively to the police as measures of protecting BOTH themselves AND the citizens they serve. there ALSO need to be real consequences for tampering with these, turning them off, etc.

police need more training and they need higher-quality recruits. understaffed departments lead to issues you’ll see in places like flint, where it can take three hours or more for police to respond to a call. not because they’re (most of the time) doing anything wrong, but because there aren’t enough of them in comparison to the total population. this could include decisions like requiring college or college-like degrees, but that would also mean higher pay for police officers. which i realize isn’t a popular idea at the moment, but is a fact of those requirements. (furthermore, many city police in small to mid size cities, not to mention suburban police, don’t have adequate crowd-control training. this is not an excuse for the way police have been handling crowds in recent days, but it is something that has come up in discussions. many of them are reacting with excessive crowd-control measures where lesser measures were needed.) this training should absolutely include recognizing police brutality in the past, the racism in the system as a whole, recognition and response to explicit and implicit bias, recognizing mental health issues, etc. training is a problem every law-enforcement officer i’ve spoken to in the last few weeks, in an attempt to understand what’s happening, has brought up. the people i’ve spoken to have dedicated their lives to establishing mental health education for police, who have actively removed aggressive or racist officers in the past, etc. they’re just as frustrated and angry with the reactions police are displaying as you and i are. and they’re actively doing things to try to help. unions, government, etc make that more difficult than it should be. 

many police, particularly in large cities, don’t live in the cities/neighborhoods they’re policing. (many smaller, particularly suburban, departments require that their officers live in the town they work in.) sometimes this is because they can’t afford to (nypd officers start at around  $42,500/year - about $3,541/month or  $885/week BEFORE tax -  in a city where the median rent for a studio apartment sits at about  $2,700/month. these officers can obviously make more as they spend more time on the force, but that’s the stated starting salary according to their website. the salary after 5 1/2 years is $85,292). this means they don’t know the areas/people/etc they’re policing, are more likely to make snap judgments based on false information, etc. it wouldn’t solve everything, but rules for employment regarding residency could mean better policing in cities and their neighborhoods. 

for a profession that includes seeing things like scenes of murders, assaults, suicides, and wellness checks that lead to decomposing bodies, mental health care for police is abysmal. i mean it’s....bad in the u.s. in general, but it’s notoriously bad for active-duty military, veterans, and first responders...including police. this isn’t to mention that officers who self-report mental health problems are often put on leave rather than given the resources they need. this means compounded stress, trauma, etc, going unaddressed in a highly dangerous and stressful profession.

police DO handle more than they likely SHOULD be handling, including things like wellness checks, nonviolent domestic disputes, etc. more often than not, they’re doing so without specialized training for those situations. these should absolutely be divided out into unarmed (or lightly armed, i.e. with pepper spray etc), specially trained units. you’re still going to want armed police units to exist in the u.s. - - i can tell you for a fact that in my fairly quiet suburban hometown ALONE there have been active shooter/barricade/hostage situations that could not be deescalated without use of force, despite attempts to do so.

qualified immunity needs reform. you can read more about that here. this allows not only for officers to get away with police brutality, but for all public officials to get away with a wide range of crimes. 

we need to campaign for citizens to be integrated into police oversight. police are paid by taxpayer dollars, and they are meant to serve and protect the people. again, this is an issue for your local government and police unions. when you’re communicating with gov’t officials, make it clear that you want something like this implemented. 

and, yes, there need to be strong and immediate consequences for excessive use of force. 

i’m not saying any of this to make it seem like police brutality or the racism inherent in the law enforcement and justice systems doesn’t exist. it does, and it needs to be addressed. what i am saying is that addressing that is a more complex problem that requires deeper thought for successful reform. Black people, particularly men, are at leas 3x more likely to experience police brutality, and that needs to end. 

tl;dr, some things to be aware of, petition for, etc: 

charging and convicting police brutality as a crime (with the understanding that this means it should be treated as any crime in a court of law)

holding all first responders accountable for their actions.

allowing and enabling officers to respond to police brutality they’re witnessing, including training on how to intervene, better reporting methods, policies that would not punish them for reporting, etc 

reform in police unions

better police training in general

national standards for police training (believe it or not, these don’t currently exist)

better mental health care and mental health policies for police and other first responders 

citizen involvement, including in oversight

voting in state and local elections for officials who have plans to respond to these issues, and who are actively listening to their constituents 

reallocation of funding so that the funding is more equally spread to education and community support

Some Sources/ Further Reading: 

“How to reform American police, according to experts” from Vox

Police officer salary and benefits, NY Gov

“Adopt minimum national police use-of-force standards and train cops for interaction” USA Today

“‘An Impossible Situation’: How Chief Arradondo Has Struggled To Change The Minneapolis Police Department” CBS Minnesota

“What We Should Expect of the Police: Experts Weigh In On Recent Police Violence,” Center for American Progress

Police Reform, The Flip Side

The Center for Policing Equity

[enfpguy]

BioShock Infinite MBTI and Enneagram — Cornelius Slate Cornelius Slate is a side character within BioShock Infinite, he’s a disturbed man with an interesting backstory who stands in the way of our protagonists because he wants a worthy death. We’ll be taking a deep look into his history and the history of the battles he took part in. Dominant Function: Extroverted Thinking Outspoken, organized, efficient, practical, rigid, stubborn, aggressive, and a leader, Slate bleeds TE dominant traits. To start our analysis on him, we’ll first need to know some of his backstory. Captain Cornelius Slate served in the United States Armed Forces. He participated in several battles but most notably the Battle of Wounded Knee where he became acquainted with Booker DeWitt, The Battle of San Juan Hill which is not mentioned with the game and The Battle of Peking during the Boxer Rebellion on behalf of Columbia who was allied with the U.S. After the battles Slate questioned Comstock’s systematic whitewashing of history. Slate wanted the truth and confronted Comstock. This defiance against the prophet stripped Slate of his rank, publicly branded him a liar, and forced him to work at Finkton. Slate immediately vowed to destroy Comstock. This prompted him to join the Vox populi and united they waged war on Comstock, this action was inspired by a TE-NE loop. His first action was to take over the Hall of Heroes and vandalize it, calling it the Hall of Whores. Comstock is a sellout who changed history. This action was meant to enrage Comstock and make him face a real soldier aka Slate. He believes practical action always trumps political subterfuge and strongly dislikes when anyone isn’t honest or direct. We can identify Slate’s TE-SI traits through his beliefs, and actions he takes against Zachery Hale Comstock. Such as organizing an army who willingly joined him to fight Comstock. Slate also tests Booker DeWitt to see if he can meet his expectations to consider him a worthy soldier by sending hoards of soldiers at him. This impresses Slate since Booker provides his men with the glorious death they seek. Slate only cares for the feelings of his men and can see Booker has no interest in harming him or them. Apparently, this is how Slate has always been he’s been disregarding others and always making enemies as Booker claims.  Auxiliary Function: Introverted Sensing Before we venture into Cornelius Slate’s SI function, we’ll be looking into the battles Slate was a part of so we can better understand his experiences. (If you have no interest in history, you can skip this segment) The Battle Of Wounded Knee or better known as the Wounded Knee Massacre which took place on December 29, 1890, near Wounded Knee Creek in Pine Ridge Indian Reservation in southwestern South Dakota. Tensions were high before this battle took place because the U.S. government was seizing Lakota Sioux lands and refused to stop. There was great unrest. Later, a prophet named Wovoka founded the Ghost Dance religion. This caused a movement. The Ghost Dance movement was associated with Wovoka’s prophecy of an end to white expansion while preaching goals of clean living, an honest life, cross-cultural cooperation, and peace. This united the Lakota Sioux peoples, and in 1889 they gathered at Wounded Knee to participle in the Ghost Dance. Fearing large numbers of armed Lakota Sioux peoples, the U.S. military surrounded Wounded Knee and attempted to ban the Ghost Dance ceremony. This failed, and the government sent Indian agency police to arrest Sitting Bull, a Hunkpapa Lakota leader whom they suspected in joining the Ghost Dance Movement. This ended in bloodshed and resulted in the death of Sitting Bull. Tensions drastically increased and on the morning of December 28, the U.S. Army’s 7th Cavalry surrounded a band of Ghost Dancers under Spotted Elk, a Miniconjou Lakota chief. They demanded Spotted Elk to surrender his peoples weapons, they complied since they did not want violence, they were escorted to Wounded Knee and asked to set up camp there so 7th Calvary could slowly remove their weapons. It’s now December 29 and this is when the massacre would start. No one truly knows who fired the first shot, but some claims mention a misunderstanding broke out between a solider and a Lakota warrior. Thus the bloody massacre had begun. Historians estimate 150—300 Lakota peoples perished in that battle. Half of the casualties were unarmed women and children. While 25 U.S. soldiers died and 39 were wounded. This battle was the last major battle of the American Indian wars. Our next battle is the Battle of Peking, which took place during the Boxer Rebellion on August 14th to 15th 1900 in Beijing. Before we get into the battle, we need to understand how it started. In the mid-1880s a secret society called the Yìhéquán or the Fists of Harmony and Justice started to gain power within the Qing Dynasty. By 1899 their numbers increased drastically. Their numbers swelled to 50 000 to 100 0000 members, they were now known as the “Boxers” to the rest of the world. They oppressed the Westernization of China and Christian missionary activities being practiced by foreigners. Eventually, the Boxers became violent. They torched Western churches, murder Chinese citizens who practiced Christianity, and attacked foreigners. This kicked off the Boxer Rebellion and lead to the Battle of Peking. The battle was massive over 18 000 soldiers from the British Empire, Russia, France, Japan, Germany, the United States, Italy, Austria-Hungary joined forces with the Mutual Protection of Southeast China against the Boxers and the Qing Dynasty. The objective of this battle was to fight their way into the city of “Peking” to rescue 900 foreigners who were captured by the Chinese Army since the 20th of June. Peking had formidable defenses. The city was surrounded by walls that spanned 21 miles with 16 gates. The wall around the inner city was 40 feet tall and 40 feet wide. On the dreadful night of August 13, The Eight-Nation Alliance thought they failed their rescue mission because the sounds of heavy artillery and machine-gun fire could be heard within the city. Within those walls, another battle was taking place. The Pei-Tang cathedral was being sieged by the Boxers and the Chinese army. 28 foreign priests and nuns, 42 French and Italian soldiers, and 3400 Chinese Catholic citizens defended that church. Inside that church 2800 Chinese Christians took shelter. Several hundred people died from starvation and disease, while 66 of the 900 foreigners died and 150 were wounded during that battle. Sadly, the casualties among the Chinese Christians were not recorded. But that’s not all the battle still rages on! It’s now 3:00 am on August 14 that assault from the allies has started, each nation attacks a different gate. First to attack was the Russians who broke formation and took the Americans designated gate. This resulted in the Russian army getting pinned by opposing forces, 26 of their soldiers die and 102 are wounded. The Americans arrive at their gate at 11:03 am to find the Russians pinned down both join forces and scale the walls. By 4:30 pm the siege has ended. There were 60 recorded deaths and 205 wounded within the Eight-Nation Alliance. As a consequence, the city was looted and burned. Many of the nations committed atrocities and even the captured civilians, missionaries and Chinese citizens pillaged the city for all it’s worth. At the end of it all, China had to pay $335 million (over $4 billion in current dollars) plus interest for 39 years, exile the government supporters of the Boxers, and destroy Chinese forts within northern China. The Qing Dynasty would end in 1911 as a consequence of the Boxer Rebellion. Alright, the history lesson is over, we’ll be returning to the analysis. Slate took part in both battles. He massacred the Lakota Sioux peoples and set fire to Peking. During that battle, he lost 30 men and his left eye. He’s so obsessed about these battles that he forces Booker and Elizabeth to combat his soldiers through “replicas” of them. These battles also have shaped his personality and identity. Therefore Comstock changing history hurt Slate since he was part of that chaos and he’s the one who suffered. To Slate, you should never change history, especially if you didn't fight within it. Most of the time Slate's SI function is used interchangeably with his TE function. However, his SI function is overdeveloped and refuses to let go of the past. Instead, he’ll drag others into like Booker and Elizabeth. Here are 2 examples influenced by SI usage that involve protagonists. As Booker DeWitt and Elizabeth enter the Hall of Heroes, they spot a grand statue of Zachery Comstock. Slate immediately contacts Booker and remembers him being a true soldier and demands Booker to kill his men. “All my men have left is a choice: die at the hands of a tin soldier, or a real one!” This forces Booker's hand who has no interest in harming Slate or his men. We can see another example after Booker kills Slate’s men, Slate calls Booker a hero and Booker disagrees. Slate then explains to Booker that if he takes away all parts of Booker DeWitt that Booker tries to erase, then what’s left? Slate is suggesting that our past is exactly what makes us. By deleting your past, you delete yourself. The last example of his SI function can be seen within his attire. To further prove he’s still living in the past and denial, Slate still wears his uniform but with a twist, he has an American flag on his right shoulder and a Pinkerton badge on his eye. It’s possible Slate views the Pinkerton detective agency as an organization that deserves his respect thus uses it to cover his left eye to fill what he’s missing with justice and law. Tertiary Function: Extroverted Intuition Slate often ignores the NE function for his dominant TE and auxiliary SI functions but will use it effectively when he feels threatened or wants to prove a point. Slate has a problem with Comstock altering history other than his strong personal feelings towards the subject. Changing history means Comstock is becoming a tyrant and will silence anyone who opposes him, including Slate himself who is a known war hero. Slate proves his point by having Elizabeth and Booker walk-through Comstock’s false history. Slate also ends being correct about Comstock silencing him. His disagreements with the prophet got him arrested and sent to work in Finkton. Slate isn’t dumb though and saw this situation as an opportunity and joined the Vox populi. He knew that after he’d defeat Comstock he’d be labelled as an assassin and would trade Comstock’s lie for another. This suggests that thinks the Vox populi would change history to indoctrinated younger generations as Comstock did. His analysis is completely based on inductive logic and patterns that have occurred in our history. This type of thinking can be seen within individuals who use both TE and NE. TI users rely on deductive and situational logic. Inferior Function: Introverted Feeling The FI function is pretty tricky with Slate, since most of his feelings are driven by his past and how he refuses to let go of it. Oh, and he’s also gone completely mad. Naturally, this causes him to become trapped in an FI grip. For Slate, he must remain as true to himself as possible, and he projects this idea onto his soldiers. Slate believes he’s still a soldier, therefore he must do his duty as one, and if that fails he must die as one. Slate and his men believe to die in battle is honorable, but they don’t want to die to fake “Tin men” but rather a real soldier such as Booker DeWitt who’s proven his worth time and time again. This belief is so extreme that if Booker refuses to kill Slate at the end of the Hall of Heroes battle, he will equate Booker to a heartless “Tin Man” and will allow himself to get captured by Comstock to be tortured into submission. To Slate, if a real soldier like Booker doesn’t kill him then he is not worthy of an honorable death. Here’s a bonus fact. Ken Levine’s inspiration to create Slate was driven by the pathologizing of soldiers in war. In the end, Cornelius Slate was a victim of his own inner war. An unwavering soldier to the end. https://youtu.be/jJMc0ishwbs

[thequeenofmyownscreen]

“You can't get this on network television, ladies and gentlemen !”

Under the cut, a few notes and comments on my continuation of my voyage into Critical Role, Campaign 1, concerning episodes 22 “Aramente to Pyrah” to 32 “Against the Tide of Bone”.

The previous post on the beginning of Campaign 1 can be found here.

I chose to stop at episode 32 to make my notes because it was intense, but there was still quite a few episodes before the end of the Briarwood arc (I’m guessing, based on the episodes titles).

There were quite a few developpements in these 10 episodes : Keyleth’s journey, Grog’s strength, Percy’s backstory, Pike leaving, Vax’s relationships... It starts in Vasselheim, and then we go back to Emon, and then to Whitestone. Obviously the players know of Emon since it’s their characters’ homebase, but for first time viewers like me, it’s a discovery : Gilmore’s shop, the palace and entourage of King Uriel, etc.

I like the fact that we’re learning Percy’s backstory very progressively. He’s not forthcoming, but he has to deliver information just to keep his friends aware of the facts and safe (ok, that part didn’t work).

The battle against the Briarwoods and then the Broker are really violent. Vax'ildan goes uncounscious very quickly and the others are far away. Vex’ahlia takes 66 points of damage from Lady Briarwood’s spell. I would even go to say they were changed by the violence of this encounter and the fact that King Uriel believes they attacked the Briarwoods without provocation : Percy shoots the driver's hand off, they do a massacre when the band of bandits show up to kidnap Lillith. And I think Percy's weird shout "Your soul is forfeit !", even if they don't understand it, encourages them to do more violence than necessary.

Matthew Mercer is really good at selling the gloomy atmosphere of Whitestone !  From the first moments, with the creepy visual of the town controlled by the zombie giants, the Sun Tree and the 8 hanged bodies (I gasped), the rainy sound effects, it was brillant.

I love that Vox Machina went ahead and started a revolution. It could very well have been a quick infiltration into the castle and battle with Briarwoods but no, they really took their time to explore the town, meet the people, burn houses down. This really settles Whitestone as a "real" place.

Quotes :

“These are the worst people we ever faced.” Keyleth, about the Briarwoods. Yup !

“Your soul is forfeit !” Percy is scary sometimes.

The whole cow episode was very quotable : “It's cow-mouflage” (Scanlan), “Vox Moo-china” (Keyleth).

Same with Scanlan’s diversion at the Duke’s house : “I should get out of there... But it's so fun !” (Sam Riegel) ; “I'm so in love with you right now” (Travis Willingham to Sam Riegel) ; this exchange : Keyleth “Don't you have a torch ?” Scanlan “No” Keyleth “HOW DID THIS PLAN HAPPEN, THEN ?!”

Things that are just really cool :

Doors are the nemesis (nemeses ?) of Vox Machina.

The Halloween episode where they're all dressed up !

Critmas, just a delightful concept. I was dying laughing when they said that Trinket the bear was sent via mail and they first thought it was a corpse.

Scanlan as a triceratops.

Marisha Ray’s hair.

Ashley Johnson is a goddamn treasure. When she returns for an episode, everyone is so happy around the table !

Things that are not as cool :

Why does everyone hates Keyleth ? That’s the feeling I get when I glance at the chat room screen... I don’t like that, by the way, it’s kind of distracting, and it adds nothing to the experience now. Anyway, the hate on Keyleth is completely unjustified. When they brutally killed that old mage who was fleeing, she was the one to start reflecting on their behaviour, and she was immediately proven right when the King announced that they were not to be trusted (ok he was mind-controlled, but still) ; actions have consequences. She was empathetic with the giant bird, and the people of Whitestone. If they hadn't helped the town against the horde of zombies, it would have been a massacre. Marisha Ray plays her extremely well. I just don’t get it.

The disapperance of Orion Acaba/his character Tiberius. I didn't really mind because since the beginning he wasn't my favorite character/actor. And he acted really weird the last episodes where he was there : killing an old lady just to see if his weapon is functional ; not really engaging into Percy's problems ; forcing the story on him when he invokes his ambassador's rights and demands soldiers to his father to go to Whitestone. The actor himself isn't always listening to what's going on and and at times it becomes frustrating both in battles and in RP moments (hey I learned the langage of D&D !). The shopping episode with his numerous errands is the epitome of that... where you could FEEL that all the others players were frustrated. In-game they kind don't adress the fact that Tiberius abanfonned them, even though it's weird since Vox Machina is fighting powerful people. So that plus the fact that he’s gone rather quickly : I don't know what the deal is there... but kinda don’t wanna know. And I’m not sad about it.

Onwards to the next episodes. Since I’m currently, like everyone, stuck at home, but still working, I think I will advance rather quickly. It’s just so good ! I want to see what happens !!

[dropintomanga]

Do Call Out, But Call Out Responsibly

For a while now, I’ve been trying not to say anything regarding things that happened within the anime community over in my part of the world.

But there’s a few things I want to get off my chest. I was reading a new Otaku Journalist post that made me think about the rise of call out culture. We’ve made a lot of progress in enabling people who’ve gone through horrific experiences (i.e. sexual harassment) to speak out against the perpetrators of those experiences. I think it’s fine as I was a victim of physical harassment at an old workplace a few years ago. I now know what it’s like to have people at the top treat you like you don’t matter if you’re not making bank for them.

It’s just that there’s such a limit to being angry at things.

The post linked above goes into what it means to call someone out. It also says that while it’s noble to do so, the person who committed bad acts will still be around. Do we want them punished for life? When can we accept sincere apologies when the time comes? I left a long comment on the post, which I’ll display it here in full.

“I was reading about moral outrage recently (http://nautil.us/blog/the-c... and the case to to be skeptical of it at times because our biases/subjective morality can lead us to think more about the actions of the person, rather than the consequences. Because it's not like everyone is supposedly dying if the person being called out isn't in a place of power, right? 

Because while the person being called out is a bad person to a certain community, to others, they are good people. No one is truly one-sided. Everyone's both good and bad. I hate how there are forces that try to paint people as if one label defines everything about them (even though there are notable exceptions).

I'm not going to lie and say I'm a good, wholesome person. I've hurt other people in the past. I've said terrible things/comments to people intentionally and unintentionally. I'm just very human. I will admit that being stressed out from so many things in life leads to judgments that may or may not be warranted. But I've been able to be self-compassionate with myself and use that to take reasonable action towards improvement.

Are we calling someone out because we want to be right? Or are we calling them out because there's a greater harm to other people (not just ourselves)? I think about this because I know some people get angry just for the sake of getting angry.

I also feel this kind of debate should be better held offline than on social media. Social media is a nightmare for topics like this because it robs so much nuance & context when we need both more than ever. I think about a Vox article I read about that Asian lady (I apologize for forgetting her name) who writes/edits for NYT and her past making insensitive jokes on Twitter. People called NYT out for the hiring and the article mentions how Twitter only rewards snark more than anything else, which only serves to generate terrible conversations online.

The only thing I can suggest is just stay away from a lot of online noise because most of it is indeed noise that serves to harm users with misinformation. I think you're one of the very few good journalists I know I can trust.

Also, take a listen to this podcast about call-out culture because it has a very nuanced view: https://www.npr.org/2018/04...”

Earlier today, I was reading a Twitter thread from a figure who works in the American manga industry and talked about a moment in the past where they subtly called out a scanlator who wanted to work for them. They showed some moral disgust over the fact that the scanlator worked on stuff that was already licensed and listed it on their resume. 

The figure admitted that they had the sense of power to “whitelist/blacklist” them if they could. Thankfully, that didn’t happen. They realized that because of the inner desire to deliver Twitter snark, they ended up creating a unwelcoming feeling for a scanlator who really wanted to do legit work in an industry they both love.

While I really don’t approve of listing fan translated stuff on resumes for industries that disapprove of that, I know it’s often innocent on the part of those who do that. 

It’s just that I wish more people realized how social media platforms like Twitter aren’t anyone’s friends. They don’t care about you. All they want you to do is make snarky comments and make money from people fighting each other online due to those comments.  I think about what Ursula K. Le Guin said about anger once.

“I know that anger can’t be suppressed indefinitely without crippling or corroding the soul. But I don’t know how useful anger is in the long run. Is private anger to be encouraged?

Considered a virtue, given free expression at all times, as we wanted women’s anger against injustice to be, what would it do? Certainly an outburst of anger can cleanse the soul and clear the air. But anger nursed and nourished begins to act like anger suppressed: it begins to poison the air with vengefulness, spitefulness, distrust, breeding grudge and resentment, brooding endlessly over the causes of the grudge, the righteousness of the resentment. A brief, open expression of anger in the right moment, aimed at its true target, is effective — anger is a good weapon. But a weapon is appropriate to, justified only by, a situation of danger.”

If we become angry enough to become racists, harassers, and bullies ourselves by stooping to the level of those we dislike, then what exactly are we fighting for? If you call someone out, but feel that you don’t deserve to be called out if you’ve actually done something terrible (and the proof’s right then and there), you’re not better than those you called out.  That’s why I always say that I’m both a good and bad person. I think I’m right about most things, but I know I’m full of shit about some things. And you know what? That’s okay. Being aware of my own faults (without self-hatred) gives me the opportunity to learn and make much-needed changes.

Call out culture is going to be more prominent, whether anyone likes it or not. The only things I can tell anyone who feels compelled to call someone out are (with additional help from therapy or counseling).

1.) Forgive the person/people who hurt you. Here’s why - if you let them have a presence in your mind, it will be a big distraction in your life. You will be filled with nothing but hate. We all know hate does when you just keep reinforcing it. There’s also a big misconception in that forgiveness means letting that person off the hook. It doesn’t mean you forget what they did. Forgiveness means “You know what? You did some terrible things to me, but you’re a person like I am. I’m just not gonna let the thought of you ruin my state of mind and take over the joy I want to get in my life.”

2.) Slow down. Everyone wants to jump to conclusions ASAP. I wonder what happened to stopping and thinking about the actions of others and how they come about. There was a scene I remember from the game Persona 4, where the heroes were trying to deliver justice to a proposed suspect in a serial murder case (which was the major plot point). Everyone was acting on edge due to a close associate of theirs on the verge of death. The leader of the gang knew something seemed off, slowly voiced his concerns, and then yelled at his friends to calm down. One of my favorite lines from this sequence is something I’ll always remember.

“Failing to understand and failing to listen are rather different things.”

Listening with the sense of understanding is a soft skill that’s lacking these days. The thing is our minds are not built to handle the fast nature of culture. The rapid spread of ideas have outpaced our ability to process things. That’s a big reason why you see so much conflict.

If you still feel the need to call someone out, do it for anyone who’s been hurt by that person, not just you. Don’t be the only one who benefits. Share the wealth. Do not be tempted by profit over purpose.

I think that’s all I have to say other than if you’re angry about every single thing/person that’s hurt you, there’s nothing worth being angry about at all.

[thegreatwicked]

Unbreakable Bonds: Chapter Eleven

Unbreakable Bonds 

A novella in the ‘How it Should Have Ended’ Universe. 

TheGreatWicked

Summary: In a galaxy where Anakin Skywalker successfully resisted the pull of darkness, fulfilling his destiny as the Chosen One to bring balance to the Force, the Jedi Temple is abuzz with discussions about the traditionally forbidden nature of attachments. As Anakin assumes the role of a Jedi Master, his decision to ensure Palpatine's arrest rather than execution sets the tone for a new era.

On the way to an impromptu council meeting, where Anakin now holds a seat as a respected master, Obi-Wan Kenobi experiences an unusual sensation. A mysterious connection tugs at him when he encounters a young boy patiently waiting outside the council chambers. Unbeknownst to Obi-Wan, the spotlight is about to shift from Anakin to himself.

As the secrets of Obi-Wan's past unravel, the Jedi Council finds itself thrust into action much sooner than anticipated. The delicate balance of the Force, once maintained by Anakin's choices, now hinges on the unforeseen revelations from Obi-Wan's history. The galaxy is on the brink of change, and the consequences of long-held secrets may reshape the destiny of the Jedi and the Force itself.

Pairing: Obi-wan/OFC (Cressida Vox)

Rating: Explicit, depictions of violence and sexual encounters between consenting adults.

Chapter Eleven

Something was different. As the remnants of sleep faded further she became acutely aware of the plush cocoon of blankets swaddled around her. The fabric's gentle touch caressed her skin, in a comforting embrace that lulled her deeper into tranquility.

Safe. 

That was how she felt when the first rays of sunlight streamed through the window, casting a golden strip across Cressida's closed eyes, making sleeping in later an impossibility. And whereas she used to greet the day with a minor grumble and a desire to send her timepiece flying into the wall, she found it was oddly silent. In fact, she wasn’t tired, true she was comfortable and cozy, and getting up wasn’t something she wanted to do but she didn’t crave more sleep like she usually did.

She rolled over, into the sunlight which was now spilling across her entire face, a sleepy smile playing on her lips as she stretched out her limbs, savoring the sensation of being well-rested for the first time in what felt like an eternity. Then confusion took hold. 

This morning, there was no chill seeping through the hard ground beneath her; instead, she found herself nestled snugly within her bed, wrapped in blankets that enveloped her with a tenderness akin to a lover's embrace. 

It struck her as profoundly odd, to find such comfort in the soft give of a mattress, after a decade of sleeping on solid ground. The subtle plushness of a mattress, even one as firm as the Jedi Temple provided, made it impossible for her to find proper rest. It felt too soft, too unfamiliar, leaving her strangely unsettled by the comfort it offered.

There were far stranger things than waking up in a bed and being well rested, but it was still downright strange for Cressida, given her years of accustomed slumber on the hard ground. Inherently she wanted to temper her skepticism with optimism and gratuity as for the first time in a long time her sleep was uninterrupted by the specter of nightmares, she was well-rested and for once felt completely ready to greet the day, but she would still have her cup of caf, of course.

Had she maybe crawled into the bed in her sleep? It seemed unlikely, though not improbable, that maybe she was finally growing accustomed to being back at the temple and finally feeling safe enough to let her guard down. She rolled away from the sunlight to look at the timepiece, curious as to just how long she could stay in this comfortable loaf of blankets, but her eyes widened in shock at the sight before her– she wasn't alone.

There, lying peacefully beside her, was none other than Obi-Wan Kenobi.

His usually tidy hair was mussed from the pillow's embrace, the morning light casting a more ginger hue over the sandy strands. In sleep, the lines of strain that often furrowed his brow were smoothed away, revealing an unguarded handsomeness, completely free from the burdens of stress and responsibility that weighed heavily on him while awake. 

With no one to catch her staring, she allowed herself to stare a little longer at the sleeping Jedi Master, the way his bare chest rose and fell with each steady breath; a picture of pure tranquility. He was close enough to touch and every bit as beautiful to look at in sleep as he was when he was awake. She nearly reached out to touch him. Maybe just push his hair out of his eyes, as it was getting a bit longer, he’d probably be cutting it soon. Shame, the longer length of hair looked good on him. 

Her gaze lingered on his long, thick eyelashes – a feature envied by many, not just her, but one she was grateful their son, Solan, had inherited. As an infant, it had been difficult to tell who Solan favored, as she had no idea what she looked like as a child. But as he grew older, it became clear that he was taking after his father and the thought made her smile. If her son continued to resemble his father he’d become a very handsome young man, no doubt following in his father’s footsteps of leaving broken hearts across the galaxy. 

Her smile faded when she was a breath away from stroking the warmth of his cheek, it felt so real.

The momentary warmth that bloomed within her at the sight, withered as quickly as it came and her fingers recoiled. Sorrow seeped into the hollow space it left behind, as she realized that this was nothing more than a dream. 

She didn’t crawl into her own bed last night any more than Obi-Wan had, and he wasn’t really there sleeping beside her. 

As she lay on the too-soft mattress, misery swelled inside her, and she turned away, seeking refuge from her heartache. Even in sleep, she couldn't escape it. With a resigned sigh, she braced herself for the inevitable awakening. The bed would be empty and cold, and she would find herself stiff and a bit sore, just as she had been for the last ten years, still exhausted and still on the floor.

And even worse than the physical discomfort, she would return to the strained coexistence she shared with the father of her son. Hating every moment of it. Hating herself.

Despair hung heavy around her, like a palpable shroud that rippled through the air, touching everything in its path. Reaching beyond, until Obi-Wan's arm found its way around her waist, drawing her back against the solid plane of his chest. His breath danced warmly on her skin, as he gently nuzzled into the back of her neck, stirring strands of her auburn hair with each exhale.

"Good morning, darling," 

She remained still and silent, his voice and the affection in it only making her experience more painful. She stayed stiff in his arms, tightly squeezing her eyes shut to prevent any tears from escaping.

"Are you planning to avoid me here too?" he asked softly when she remained silent.

Her silence stretched for a moment before she replied, "Avoidance implies intention, Obi-Wan. One can’t avoid what's not real."

He chuckled softly, the sound melodious and comforting. "You're the only Jedi I know who wouldn't take advantage of a pleasant dream, my dear." he teased, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "Such a wet blanket, you are."

She breathed deeply, committing his scent, and his warmth, to memory. 

Obi-Wan's voice, sleep-roughened but playful, teased her. "Are you truly so entrenched with your own sorrow that you won’t allow yourself to enjoy this while you can?" 

“This is a dream,”

“Then there’s no harm in a little bit of indulgence, is there?” His fingers danced a lighthearted path up her arm, it was so soft it almost tickled and Cressida hated being tickled. But she couldn’t bring herself to move. "Is it such a bad dream, this one? Worse than the ones where you wake up screaming?" 

“No,” She replied quietly, her voice sounding so fragile.

“Then what’s wrong?”

“You’ve never called me ‘darling’ before.”

“Is that it?” He chuckled again, “Well, perhaps that’s true, but you want me to.” His hand stroked the length of her arm, a tender touch that felt profoundly real.  “After all, this is your dream, not mine, darling.” His lips gently brushed against her skin, sending tingles down her spine. "You know, I believe I've figured out why you've been sleeping poorly," he said after a momentary pause. "You're resting where you shouldn't be. I'm in my bed, and you're on the floor. One of us is undoubtedly in the wrong place."

"Always the clever one," she remarked, unable to keep the scoff out of her voice before finally turning her head to look at him, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth despite herself. 

When she pinched his arm, he raised an eyebrow questioningly as if wondering why she would do that.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, my dear, but I believe you’re supposed to pinch yourself if you wish to wake up.” He suggested with a grin, gently pinching her arm in return, which she, of course, didn’t feel. “Seems to me like you don't really want to leave this place." 

It was true, painfully so.

“I’m not sure what’s worse, the reality that’s waiting for me when I wake up or this,” Her voice was soft as her fingers lightly grazed against his, while he continued to gently stroke her arm. 

"Reality can be shaped by will, my love," he countered, pressing another more firm kiss to her neck. "If you truly desire this, all you need to do is pursue it," he responded, his grip around her a little more secure, his voice tender and affectionate, it was lovely but it wasn’t right.

“You make it sound so simple,”

Her words seemed to roll off him like water off a pelikki’s back, his expression remaining unphased. In fact, he wore a sly smirk and his hand reached up to gently caress her cheek, repositioning her in his embrace so that she faced him directly. His eyes were still heavy with sleep but still held an inviting warmth and tenderness towards her.

“And you think in such two-dimensional terms,” 

He gently tilted her chin upwards, his warm hand cradling her jaw as he drew her closer. His lips met hers in a deep, all-consuming kiss. With a teasing flick of his tongue, he deepened the kiss and her heart began to race in her chest. Every nerve electrified by his touch, so close to the real thing.

"Imagine," he murmured softly, releasing her mouth from his. "This is how we wake up every day, safely wrapped in each other's arms." He paused, a mischievous grin playing on his lips. "Though preferably with fewer clothes." She smirked softly, feeling the vibrations of his words against her skin. For a man who was all propriety and rules and discipline, it was easy to forget that he had something of a naughty sense of humor.

"No blasted timepieces to rouse us from sleep, only the sunlight of noon or Solan telling us he's hungry for waffles. The three of us exploring the galaxy together as a family, our attachments making us stronger, not weaker. Training our son to be the Jedi he's meant to be, as the Force deems, no pesky High Council to shake their heads disapprovingly at us, or tell us what we’re feeling is wrong or dangerous." 

Her smirk turned to a smile, her heart swelling at the thought. Obi-Wan had never boasted any particularly artistic abilities, but the portrait he was creating was undoubtedly breathtaking. 

"And our nights..." he trailed off, tilting his head down to nuzzle his nose against hers. "Our nights are filled with staying up late, entwined in passionate love-making until we can no longer keep our eyes open, blissfully drained of all energy. And yet, every day it starts all over again."

She let her fingers intertwine with his, feeling the rough calluses on his palm and fingers born of years of lightsaber use. She observed him with fascination wishing all her dreams could be as peaceful as this moment. A somber smile formed on her lips. 

“Growing stronger, as a family,” His hand cradling her hip, his lips leaving a trail of fire along her jaw and up to her ear. “Perhaps, we might even add to it,” She turned her head sharply, expecting to see a playful smirk but finding only honest sincerity in his gaze.

"Can you see it?" Obi-Wan whispered between gentle kisses.

She couldn't believe what she was hearing and she did a double take. Was he actually serious? He couldn’t be. She felt foolish even considering the thoughts as being his in the first place, knowing that this was all just a dream concocted by her own mind to ease her loneliness. But as Obi-wan had suggested; what was the harm in a little dream-like indulgence?

"It does sound nice,"

"Nice? Darling, it could be ours," His voice was dripping with longing and desire as he spoke, his hand moving to gently caress her stomach. His thumb traced over faint lines that were barely visible that she often covered up, she instinctively reached to cover the perceived vulnerability, but Obi-Wan’s hands encased her own in a firm grasp. 

“Now, now, none of that.” His possessive tone sent shivers down her spine as his lips grazed her knuckles. "I missed so much of Solan's life.” His voice was filled with remorse and longing. “I never got to see your body swell with my child, never held him as a newborn, heard his first words, or watched him take his first steps. But it can be different this time. And Solan wants brothers and sisters, you know."

“How could you possibly know that?" she asked, curiosity piqued.

Obi-Wan’s smile widened. 

"I've seen the way he looks at other younglings, and he told me so himself," he confessed. "And I promise you, this time, I'll be by your side for every single one of them, supporting you and loving you as a true partner should."

She pulled back slightly, her eyes blinking in surprise. Did she hear him correctly?

"Every single one?" She repeated, trying to control the warmth spreading through her chest. She looked down, pretending not to notice the blush creeping up her cheeks. "Just how many children are you expecting in this imagined scenario?"

"As many as the Force sees fit," he answered mischievously, his playful side finally breaking through and wrapping around her like the blankets they lay under. 

Her mind began spinning with visions of a life entwined with Obi-Wan and their children. Children. Plural. She could see them under the golden hue of the setting sun, filled with laughter and unrestrained love. Solan, with eyes sparkling with pride, demonstrated his growing mastery of the Force, while his younger siblings gazed up at him in wonder.

Obi-Wan's presence and determination slowly chipped away at the walls she had built around herself. He spoke of a future where they could share the weight of their burdens and she could finally let go of the loneliness she had carried for so long. He promised to care for her deeply with every fiber of his being. 

Yet, one last shred of resistance remained.

"It’s not that simple, I need to protect you," She whispered, her voice barely audible, her eyes downcast to avoid his gaze.

"Protect me from what, darling?" 

"From me," she replied, her voice barely audible.

He laughed, a sound not mocking but filled with gentle understanding, and then his mouth claimed hers in a kiss that spoke volumes, asserting that his attachment to her was irrevocable.

"Obi-Wan," she breathed, her voice cracking with emotion. "I-" 

She tried to continue, to tell him how perfectly serious she was being and maybe scold him, but her words were cut off by more passionate kisses from him. Each one deeper than the last, and to further prove his point and silence any protest, he rolled them over, pinning her beneath him. Her words were muffled against his lips.

The words rolled off his tongue in a low, rumbling murmur as he reluctantly pulled their lips apart. 

It was clear he was hesitant to end the kiss.

"My dear, it is far too late for that realization. My heart has been hopelessly entwined with yours since the first moment I saw your face in the council chamber. And when I learned of our son, you became my fate." His warm breath mingled with hers as he spoke, the crackle of electricity still pulsing between them. 

She had been about to bring up the Jedi Order's strict stance on attachments, but before she could even form the words, he stopped her with another soul-scorching kiss. The heat of his touch branded her skin and the power of their connection seemed to surge through them both.

"The Force is not the Jedi Order; it has no owner,” he said solemnly, his hand gently caressing her cheek. “It is not bound by any rules. It has existed since time immemorial and will continue to exist long after the Jedi are dust and less than memories." He paused, a seriousness settling over him. 

The idea of leaving the Order was both thrilling and terrifying to her, causing her breath to catch in her throat. 

"Never again will you walk alone," he vowed. "No more running. I'll protect you, always." 

It seemed such a big thing, too big a decision to let him make and she shook her head in uncertainty.

“Cress,” he whispered gently with a soft touch, brushing away a strand of hair from her face as he stroked her cheek. “I see how tired you are, and I know you've carried far too much alone for too long.” Her eyes welled up with tears, unable to resist the truth in his words and she tried to look away but she couldn’t. 

“I know about the nightmares and the sickness, and I know why they plague you. It's time for you to let someone take care of you."

She blinked back a tear. "And that someone is you?"

"Absolutely," Obi-Wan declared with unwavering conviction. "It's my duty to take care of you now, and I swear I'll protect you and treat you like my queen if you'll only let me."

She hesitated, torn between the dreamlike world he painted and the reality they lived in. 

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew this was insane. But in this moment, as his arms enveloped her and she felt the comforting warmth of his body, the idea of a life together consumed her. And though it was going to hurt later, she allowed herself to indulge in the dream, savoring every second of it. 

What was the harm in enjoying a dream, if only a little bit?

The wounds from her time in the healing chambers may have healed physically, but nothing could ease the ache in her heart like these stolen moments with him. His lips were so close to hers that she could feel their gentle warmth, and all she had to do was lean in to make contact. So she did.

Without hesitation, she met his lips with her own, losing herself in his kisses that grew more passionate by the second

"Let's pretend," he whispered breathlessly between kisses, his touch tracing a delicate path along her collarbone. "Just for now... let's pretend that this is ours," his voice thick and husky with emotion. 

“That nothing exists outside this room, it’s been far too long since I’ve touched you, darling,”

Drawing her closer, he captured her lips in another kiss, and as their mouths melded together, all thoughts of the outside world faded away and she gave in, leaving only the two of them, wrapped in each other's arms.

Her longing for him, built up over countless nights of loneliness, surged within her and drowned out any remaining doubts. With an urgency she couldn't contain, she pulled him closer, desperate to fill the void that had grown insatiable in the ten years since she last felt his touch.

"See?" Obi-Wan murmured, his breath mingling with hers as their kisses grew more frantic and hurried. "We deserve this, Cressida. A moment of peace amidst the chaos we've faced."

Cressida nodded silently in agreement. His voice was a soothing balm to her, and she could listen to him speak for hours, but right now she had other plans for his quick-witted mouth.

"Just until my timepiece wakes me." She breathed against his lips before kissing him again, teasingly licking at his mouth.

"That's all I ask, darling," Obi-Wan replied, his smile evident in his voice.

Her hands traveled up his chest and tangled in his tousled hair, gently pulling at the locks she remembered he enjoyed, he’d positively melted at the sensation. She felt his approval reverberate through his body in a low moan, the hum of satisfaction warming her from the inside out. 

Memories of the last time she had felt him unravel at her touch surged forward, emboldening her to take more from this dream-like moment and fully indulge in its pleasures, savoring each sensation as if it were a rare delicacy.

"Was that so difficult?" he teased with a playful smirk. The warmth of his hand cradling her jaw sent shivers down her spine as his lips left hers and planted kisses along her neck.

Every touch sent a flurry of sparks through her body, igniting a fire that burned hotter with each passing moment and hungry kiss.

But then something changed. 

The hand that had been caressing her jaw gently, suddenly clamped down on her neck with a vicious hold, cutting off her oxygen supply. A blackness crept over him like a shroud, shadowy tendrils wrapped around him obscuring his handsome face until he became an unrecognizable mass of darkness and malice. Her breathing became labored, each gasp a desperate struggle for air. Panic surged through her body as she gasped for air, each breath a frantic struggle against the tightening grip. 

She was unable to take a breath, let alone speak. Her words trapped in her throat, and all that came out was a garbled response.

She clawed at his hand, trying to pry it away, but he only squeezed harder, sending sharp waves of pain through her throat. No longer recognizable, he was consumed by the darkness, a vessel for its insidious influence. Her heart clenched with impending doom, a crushing weight bearing down on her as she fought for every precious breath and she grew weaker.

Just as suddenly as it had come, the pressure on her neck vanished and she was left gasping and choking in the darkness. Clutching her neck and coughing, her head whipped around searching for him, but he was nowhere to be found.

"Obi-Wan?" Her raspy voice echoed into the endless void, but there was no response.

The warmth of the bed was replaced with a chilling emptiness, and the sunlight that once filled the room had faded to a distant memory. She was alone and vulnerable in this pitch-black world. Where had he gone? What had happened?

But there were no answers—only a suffocating darkness that threatened to consume her completely.

The eerie emptiness swallowed the warmth of the dream, leaving Cressida adrift in an endless void.

"Obi-Wan!" Her voice quavered, reaching out into the abyss for the man who had been by her side moments before. She fought against the panic in her heart. That wasn’t her Obi-Wan, it was something else. He was here somewhere, she had to find him.

A distorted echo of his voice responded, but she couldn’t understand his words, only the fear in his voice. The chilling sound sent shivers down her spine, her skin prickling with goosebumps. Desperate to find him, she stumbled through the nightmare landscape until she kicked something, she looked down to see her lightsaber at her feet. She breathed a sigh of relief and ignited the blade, feeling a bit more secure in its radiant orange glow.

"It's just a dream," she repeated, her voice trembling as she clung to the reassurance that none of it was real. "Only a dream." She could control this dream, she was the master of her subconscious. 

"Obi-Wan!" she called out, her desperation evident as she sought the familiar presence that could anchor her amidst the chaos. "Where are you?"

In the nightmare's depths, she scanned the shadowy expanse, but there was no sign of Obi-Wan.

"Obi-Wan!" she cried again, her voice tinged with desperation. Each breath formed icy clouds in the cold air, dissipating into nothingness.

A sudden movement caught her eye, and she turned slipping into the Guard pose of form three, Soresu, to face a spectral figure emerging from the shadows. Her blood went cold in her veins. It bore the likeness of her Master, Deva L'rue, his eyes ablaze with an otherworldly intensity that accused and condemned her without a single word spoken. Cressida recoiled in horror, unable to tear her gaze away from the haunting visage before her.

“Master?" she whispered, her voice trembling with fear and uncertainty. 

She reached out tentatively with her senses, trying to determine if this was just another trick of her mind or a genuine message from beyond. She felt small once more, like the terrified padawan she had been all those years ago.

The phantom's form began to shift and warp, changing shape until it resembled Obi-Wan himself, but his eyes continued to burn with that same corrupted stare – a dark shadow of the man she cared for. 

“It’s not real," Cressida muttered, shaking her head and taking a step back.

The menacing voice of the twisted apparition echoed through the darkness.

"Oh, but I am, Cressida, and you've led me here, to the darkness, just as you led your master." 

He drew his lightsaber and ignited a red blade, adopting a stance she knew anywhere; form seven – Juyo. The same form her master had favored. 

Phantom Stance. 

Obi-Wan sank into a crouched position, resembling a feral beast more than a man; his lightsaber held high, poised for a strike, while the other hand was raised in a claw-like gesture toward Cressida as if beckoning her into the darkness.

"Tell me, darling," he sneered, venom dripping from the word 'darling', "Will you murder me too?"

As her heart pounded in her chest, Cressida gripped her lightsaber tightly, her body coiled with tension as she assumed Ataru's Gale Strike Pose. Her feet planted firmly, one leg slightly forward, and her lightsaber held high above her head, poised for a swift and aggressive strike.

With a guttural snarl, Obi-Wan lunged forward and their blades clashed in a whirlwind of searing hatred and fear. The crimson and burnt orange light danced around them, their weapons moved too fast for the eye to track, creating an otherworldly aura of fury and despair.

Obi-Wan's skills were unparalleled, parrying her strikes with alarming ease, he wielded this dark form of combat with a prowess that seemed to mock his serene mastery of Soresu. His eyes blazed with an intensity that deviated starkly from the calm focus usually associated with his fighting style. Every aggressive strike of his current form was somehow taunting the disciplined and centered approach he typically embraced.

Every strike of her blade against his felt weak and fragile, each movement she made felt slower and less effective than his. As if she didn’t have the decade of experience as a battle-proven sentinel, nor the skill to match it. Panic began to gnaw at her as she struggled to understand why she couldn't gain the upper hand, why this battle felt eerily familiar in a way that sent shivers down her spine.

It was as if some unseen force guided their movements, leading them down a path of destruction that they couldn't deviate from. Every strike felt preordained and filled her with dread and a sense of deja vu as if she had fought this battle before in another life.

Because she had.

A terrible feeling of foreboding crept up her spine

Her instincts screamed at her to end this nightmare, but she was powerless to stop it, she couldn’t lower her blade, couldn’t disarm him, couldn’t even allow him to strike her down. As though someone else was controlling her actions like a horrific marionette, she could offer no deviation. Trapped by the shadows of the past.

In an instant, their movements stilled, and the world around them froze. 

Time seemed to grind to a halt as Obi-Wan loomed over Cressida, his lightsaber poised to strike. Every second stretched out in agonizing detail, etching itself into her mind with razor-sharp clarity.

With a surge of adrenaline, Cressida lunged forward, her senses heightened to an almost painful degree. 

In a deafening cacophony, the sound of her lightsaber sizzling and then reigniting reverberated through the chamber, drowning out all other noise. The once pure and harmonic hum had twisted into a menacing growl, mirroring the corrupted state of Obi-Wan's blade. 

The unmistakable scent of burning kyber crystals filled the air, assaulting her senses with an acrid tang. It was as if the very fabric of the Force recoiled in agony at the clash of their lightsabers, the tortured cries of the crystals reverberating through the chamber. 

The metallic stench of blood flooded her senses, overpowering all other senses until it was the only thing she could taste. There should have been no smell of blood, lightsabers cauterized wounds in an instant, burning hotter than the surface of suns and stars. And yet, there she was, surrounded by the coppery scent of death.

At best it should have been the smell of burning flesh but that too was horrific sensory input. 

She looked down in horror at the glowing blade protruding from Obi-Wan's chest, his once vibrant blue eyes now dull and lifeless. His lightsaber clattered to the ground and he slumped to his knees before falling back with a dull horrible thud.

Waves of guilt and despair crashed over her as she trembled uncontrollably, memories flooding back of a similar scene long ago.

"Obi-Wan, no," she begged, her voice cracking with desperation. “Not again,” 

The invisible force that held sway over her movements released her from its grip finally allowing her lightsaber to fall from her grasp. And a deafening tinnitus screamed in her ears, piercing through her skull like shards of broken glass, growing louder and more shrill until it was almost unbearable. She fell to her knees, hands pressed tightly over her ears as the relentless ringing threatened to shatter her eardrums. Even her screams were drowned out by the agony of the never-ending sound.

Suddenly, she jolted to wakefulness with a waterlogged scream.

Her body thrashed and flailed, violently in the bacta tank's healing waters, desperate to escape the torturous nightmare that had gripped her mind. 

The tank now felt like a watery prison, determined to hold her captive within her mind. 

And although the respirator provided her oxygen beneath the waters, in her panic it felt like she couldn’t breathe with it on and she clawed at the mask attached to her face, ripping it free in a frenzy as she broke the surface of the tank. 

Gasping for air, she clambered out frantically, landing with a thud on the hard floor, convulsing and heaving as if trying to expel the memory from her being. Retching violently, the once peaceful Halls of Healing now echoing with her screams and cries for mercy.

Obi-Wan sat across from his son, observing him with a sort of morbid fascination as he devoured his breakfast. The boy's enthusiasm for the stack of waffles before him was reminiscent of a snake unhinging its jaw to accommodate larger prey. In contrast, Obi-Wan's meal was far simpler: Tythonian yogurt and honey, a bowl of fruit, spiced eggs, and a steaming cup of sapir tea.

Solan shoveled another absurdly large forkful of waffles into his mouth with no signs of slowing and Obi-Wan couldn't help but wonder if his master, Qui-Gon, had ever regarded a young Obi-Wan with similar awe and slight horror. His once steaming breakfast was quickly growing cold, forgotten in the face of this bizarrely captivating sight.

"What?" Solan mumbled through a mouthful of waffles, catching Obi-Wan's gaze.

"Nothing," Obi-Wan replied, shaking his head with a small smile. He took a sip of his sapir tea, savoring its calming warmth. The foul mood that had greeted him upon waking was long gone, replaced by a sense of wonder and curiosity at the sight of his son, seated alone in the refectory.

He could feel the weight of their connection, both through blood and through the Force. Solan's blue and gray eyes, mirroring his parents, held an inquisitiveness that reminded him so much of himself at that age. The boy was eager to learn, ready to further his Jedi training, yet Obi-Wan sensed an underlying awareness of the implications of his heritage.

Obi-Wan's eyes flickered around the refectory, noting the empty chairs and half-eaten meals on the tables. The murmur of quiet conversations filled the air, but there was an undercurrent of tension that seemed to thrum through the room, as though a storm was brewing just beyond the walls. He turned his attention back to Solan, who remained oblivious to it all.

"Solan, you never said where your mother was. Do you think she’ll be joining us soon?" 

Obi-Wan asked, not missing the way Solan's eyes darted away from his for a few moments, avoiding the question. Taking a bite of his eggs and chewing thoughtfully and slowly, Obi-Wan studied his son, trying to read the emotions that danced across the boy's expressive face. 

"She went to the halls of healing late last night," Solan finally admitted, his voice barely audible over the din of the room. 

Obi-Wan paused, a bite of eggs halfway to his mouth but the pause was brief, and he quickly finished the gesture. A shadow of uncertainty clouded his eyes as he looked up at Obi-Wan, clearly unsure if he should be sharing this information. It came as no surprise to Obi-Wan that his son offered up the answer so reluctantly; Solan carried his own wealth of secrets, and at times the psychological burden of such made him physically shrink. This was one of those times.

Obi-Wan chose his next words very carefully, he could see the worry in Solan’s eyes, and he didn’t want to give Solan any reason to feel as though he shared what was meant to be kept secret. He considered reaching out with the Force, trying to sense any disturbances or hidden truths in Solan's mind, but thought it too invasive. 

"Is she not feeling well?" Obi-Wan pressed gently, trying to mask his concern with curiosity.

Solan hesitated, picking at the remnants of his waffles and looking down to avoid his father's gaze and Obi-Wan recognized the subtle tug-of-war within Solan – the desire to share what was happening with his mother, but also the fear of betraying her trust.

He could sense the weight of this information pressing down on Solan's young shoulders. Obi-Wan's heart tightened as he observed Solan's downcast eyes, the boy's small hands clenching and unclenching in his lap. 

“I’m not sure,” Uncertainty colored his words and his eyes darted around the room before finally settling back on his father. 

Obi-Wan understood he was holding a tool in his hands far more powerful than any lightsaber, the ability to ease his sons fears. With a sip of his tea and a nod of his head, he smiled softly. The warmth of the tea spread through him, granting him a momentary sense of calm. He tried to project this serenity onto Solan, knowing how important it was to keep his son's trust.

"Well, it's coming upon that time of year; colds and illness tend to spike a bit with the changing of seasons, and your mother's been off-world for some time. It could be that she's getting used to it again." He gave a soft chuckle, “It does tend to kick one in the backside though,”

Solan's eyes widened in surprise, the green pools reflecting the overhead lights as he looked up from his tea, its surface rippling with each tiny movement. "Really?" he asked.

"Oh yes," Obi-Wan replied, allowing himself a small smile as he watched the petals dance around his son. "The halls of healing will be a busy place soon, younglings, padawans, knights, and even masters tend to come down with a little something, I wouldn't worry though. But you'd do best to watch your own health as well, Solan, if you feel unwell, we need to make sure you're well-rested."

“A tired mind doesn’t learn,” Obi-Wan said gently, brushing away the unease coiling inside him. "I'm sure your mother will be fine."

He watched Solan's expression soften, the lines of tension easing from his brow. Relief flooded Obi-Wan, knowing that he had reassured his son, even if only for a moment. His concerns remained, however, burrowed deep within his thoughts, like a shadowy whisper he couldn't quite silence. 

Why was she in the Halls of Healing?

"Did she say anything else before she left?" Obi-Wan probed, hoping to glean more information without pushing Solan too far. “Maybe any symptoms she was experiencing?” 

Solan shook his head, his gaze skittering away once more. "N-no, just that she needed to go."

He hoped the words would bring comfort, and they appeared to as Solan offered a weak smile but a seemingly genuine one. The kind of smile given when the worry remains but the doubt is gone and he picked up his fork again. 

But it was all a lie.

Obi-Wan didn’t like the way falsehoods tasted in his mouth - he had always prided himself on honesty, as any Jedi would. But at times a little misdirection to allay greater fears was the better option. Yes, the seasons were changing but not in any way that saw colds and illnesses the way Obi-Wan had described. There were an abundance of allergies, and casualties of the pollen in the air, and as someone who was often afflicted, Obi-Wan knew the difference all too well.

He glanced at Solan, who was staring down at his plate, breaking off another smaller bite of waffles. The morning light filtering through the windows cast a gentle glow on his son's face, emphasizing the resemblance to his own features. He knew Solan was hiding something about Cressida's condition, but pressing for more information would only make the boy withdraw further. 

He had to be smart about this and form a strategy. So he opted for a change of subject that would ease Solan’s mind.

"Let’s talk about your training, are you ready to continue?" 

“Are we going back to the archives?” Solan's eyes lit up with excitement, the topic of training after two days of rest did the job rather splendidly.

“Not yet, Solan, we need to discuss what happened.”

Solan's voracious appetite diminished almost instantly, and he paused, a hint of uncertainty flickering in his eyes as he swallowed his food. Despite his youthful optimism, there was a noticeable change in his demeanor, a subtle acknowledgment of the seriousness of the situation.

"Am I in trouble?" 

Before Obi-Wan could answer with a thought-out response, a delicate hand found its way into Solan’s hair, ruffling it playfully.

“Why? Did you do something or did you simply get caught?”

Cressida appeared giving them both a warm smile, a steaming cup of caf cradled in her other hand, as she took a seat next to Obi-Wan as though she had been right behind them the whole time. 

With her arrival came a wave of pure relief, Solan smiled and fixed his hair, notably parting it back the way it had been which seemed to mirror how Obi-Wan styled his. Making Solan look like a smaller cleaner cleaner-shaven Obi-Wan. 

Obi-Wan too felt relief but it was short-lived as his keen eye began to take notice of small things, the tips of her hair were slightly damp, her olive pallor was a bit diffused giving her a slightly paler countenance and the almost indiscernible scent of bacta clung to her. He’d spent more than his fair share of time inside the damn tanks and he personally hated them, he didn’t like how trapped he felt, nor did he like the sterile smell, especially after the Clone Wars.

"Curiosity is no sin, Solan," she said softly, her voice carrying an underlying note of exhaustion. "But your father is right, we need to talk about what happened."

Her words seemed steadfast and certain, but there was a frailty to how she looked. His mind raced, trying to connect the dots between her appearance and the overwhelming sense of dread he'd experienced earlier that morning. The sudden chill he’d felt, had been all-encompassing like a bucket of icey water had been dumped on his and he’d felt every hair on his body standing on end.

Something was wrong, and it felt like it was lurking just beneath the surface, ready to emerge when least expected.

"Mom, are you okay?" Solan asked. “Dad said you might be getting sick from the change of seasons, are you feeling better?” 

She didn’t miss a beat and nodded, “Well, your father would certainly know, and yes, it seems being back on world has finally caught up with me.” Cressida offered a weak smile. "I’m fine, just a little tired. Now, let's talk about your training, sounds like your father has quite the morning planned."

As they discussed Solan's progress and areas for improvement, Obi-Wan couldn't shake the feeling that they were dancing around a hidden truth. His instincts screamed at him to delve deeper, but it would have to wait until later, he made a mental note to investigate the matter.

"Solan, there’s someone I- your mother, and I want you to meet.” He corrected himself, remembering how this was meant to be a unified decision between them despite the disparity they felt. “There's a Jedi Master who shares your ability to touch objects and read their histories," Obi-Wan explained, noting the shift in Solan's expression from worry to wonder. 

"Really?" Solan's eyes widened in amazement until Cressida gently nudged his open mouth closed, again. "I thought no one else could do it."

Obi-Wan chuckled and shook his head, “Not at all, psychometry is indeed a rare skill and few Jedi have the aptitude for it, but I know of one who does. His name is Quinlan Voss and I’ve known him for many years.”

Solan’s waffles sat forgotten and he blinked in disbelief and awe. “Now? When can I meet him? Can I meet him today? Is he here?” His questions came off as rapid fire and he began to practically vibrate in his seat.

“He’s currently off-world but he will be back in two cycles. I've reached out to him and asked for some of his time, he’s agreed to meet with us, all of us. That we might better be able to help understand and help you in learning to master your ability.”

Solan nodded, not to a question but merely as an excited gesture, his appetite returned to full force and he began shoveling waffles back into his mouth.

“Until then we’ll work on your training and when we all have a better understanding of how to help you, then we’ll return to the archives.”

"If we're not going to the archives, then what’re we doing today?"

"How about some lightsaber training?" Solan's excitement radiated boundlessly as he bounced in his seat.

"Really!" Solan exclaimed eagerly.

Obi-Wan nodded, "And some meditation of course,”

"I think I'm ready to try the shielding exercise again," Solan declared confidently, earning a surprised smile from Obi-Wan.

"That's wonderful. Your enthusiasm is commendable, if you feel ready we will try it again." Obi-Wan praised, his satisfaction evident. "After our training, your mother has something planned, doesn't she?”

“Since your father seems to have the more physical aspect of training for the day, I think we’ll focus on force sensitivity and control as well as a discussion on ethics and morality and maybe we’ll talk about the Jedi Initiate Trials and what that entails of, they’re a few months away. I think if you focus, we could see you ready to take the trials this year.”

Her goals were lofty and Solan looked a bit worried and overwhelmed but Obiwan seemed pleased and he also seemed to agree with her assessment.

“Your mother’s right, if we focus and you tackle your training there’s no stopping you. A master could be right around the corner for you, and maybe a padawan braid along with it.”

With the vote of confidence from his parents and the mention of a braid possibly in his near future, he nodded and sat a little straighter before taking a large bite of his waffles.

"Solan, as delicious as those waffles may be, there's no need to make a spectacle of it," Cressida gently scolded, reaching to cover his mouth with a napkin. "You eat like your father," She remarked with a smile, and Solan grinned back, his face adorned with a crumb-filled smile.

"Meaning what, exactly?" Obi-Wan quipped a hint of indignation in his gaze, he looked to Solan who was stifling a laugh, and then back to Cressida. "If you mean a healthy appetite, then yes, it appears he takes after me," 

"Hollow leg and all," 

However, as she smirked and sipped her caf, it dawned on him that she was teasing him. The subtle curve of her lips betrayed her amusement, catching him off guard, especially considering their previous encounters. He was relieved to see it and a bit of the worry he was carrying slipped from his shoulders.

"Mom, aren’t you hungry?” 

The relief he'd just felt vanished, replaced by a renewed heaviness in his chest.

She shook off Solan's concern with a dismissive wave of her hand. "I'll eat later," she assured them, a subtle resignation creeping into her voice, leaving Obi-Wan unsettled. 

His eyes darted between them, catching the tension in Cressida's stance and her reluctance to look at him, in fact, she hadn’t really looked at him at all. Yet, it struck him that she wasn't even looking at Solan either.

Carefully tracking her line of sight, he had a strong hunch she was staring at a nondescript spot on the opposite wall, her expression vacant, as if only half there, hiding something.

The tension from their earlier talk resurfaced, and he felt disappointed to suspect her initial playfulness might have just been a trick to divert Solan's attention. Yet, Obi-Wan stayed quiet, sensing it wasn't the right time for a confrontation. Luckily, Solan seemed oblivious to the subtle tension, happily focused on his breakfast. Although Obi-Wan wished to address the underlying issue, he couldn't quite figure out how to bridge the gap.

She glanced back at him, giving a brief nod that seemed almost rehearsed, her emotional walls still firmly in place. It puzzled him, like trying to solve an unsolvable riddle. Despite the tension between them, she appeared outwardly composed. Never had he felt so bewildered by a relationship. She wasn't his wife, nor were they involved romantically, though they once had been very intimately connected—she was the mother of his son. His mind raced with questions. What did he expect from her? A warm smile, a hug, maybe even a kiss?

Despite the invisible divide between them, it amazed him how quickly he had grown accustomed to enjoying their presence, how effortless it felt. Guiding Solan with a hand on his shoulder felt natural, as did sitting beside Cressida, whether as a partner or a parental figure. Uncertain of his own desires, he simply wished to understand Cressida's thoughts about him, whether there was something more between them—romantic or not. Or if there ever could be.

Those thoughts were vexing, everything about his relationship with Cressida was. He turned back to his tea, it was growing cold. 

Obi-Wan handed Solan a training saber, then took a few steps away putting a distance of maybe two meters between them, igniting his own lightsaber, its weight was vastly different compared to a proper lightsaber though it still emitted a soft glow that cast shadows across the room. Solan hesitated for a moment, his fingers tracing the hilt of the saber before he looked up at Obi-Wan.

"Are you going to ignite your saber, Solan?" Obi-Wan asked, curiously.

Solan shook his head. "No, Master.”

“Why not?” 

There was a genuine confusion in his question. Solan had been so excited to train with lightsabers, had he somehow misread his son?

“There's no need for it. A lightsaber should only be drawn when de-escalation, retreat, or negotiation isn't an option," he replied calmly, catching Obi-Wan by surprise with the eloquent and diplomatic answer. 

He nodded in agreement, impressed by Solan's understanding of the importance of exhausting all other alternatives before embracing combat.

"Very well said, Solan," Obi-Wan commended. "You have a keen grasp of the Jedi way."

Solan smiled modestly, but then Obi-Wan stepped towards him and Solan retreated the same distance. 

“But, noble as your logic is, I still have a weapon drawn on you and there is nowhere for you to run to, what will you do now?”

“Is negotiation not an option?” Obi-Wan chuckled heartily at his son. 

“I’m afraid not, my boy. And I won’t be swayed away from combat either, what will you do now?”

Solan heaved out a breath and ignited the training blade, slipping into the Guard pose of form three; Soresu. His blade held horizontally across his body, parallel to the ground, weight balanced on his back right foot. Obi-Wan smiled at the familiar pose and Solan’s impeccable posture.

"Now, let's begin with lightsaber forms," Obi-Wan continued, readying himself for the training. He raised his training saber in preparation to strike. "Why form three, Solan?" Obi-Wan inquired, observing Solan's stance with interest and a bit of pride.

Solan met Obi-Wan's gaze, his expression determined. 

"I need to be defensive, Master. I don't know what form you're using, and I don't know my opponent. Form three allows me to adapt quickly and defend against any attack," he explained confidently, his words laced with tactical insight.

"Impressive, Solan. Your tactical thinking will serve you well in your Jedi training." Obi-Wan nods approvingly, a sense of pride swelling within him. “Tell me, by what other name is form three known by?”

“The Way of the Mynock. It was developed in the Old Republic in response to the growing use of blasters by Sith and enemies of the Jedi, by Jedi Master Cin Drallig during the Jedi Order's study of lightsaber combat.” 

Solan's in-depth and concise answer was surprising and Obi-Wan nodded approvingly, he took another step toward Solan. The hum of lightsabers filled the room as Obi-Wan's lightsaber clashed against Solan's in an overhead parry.

Sensing Solan's struggle as he attempted to maintain his defensive block, Obi-Wan advised, "You can't maintain a block forever, Solan. Eventually, you'll need to counter or find another way to defend yourself."

Solan considered Obi-Wan's words carefully, realizing the truth in his father’s advice. With a quick nod and a subtle shift in his position, Solan disengaged from the block with a push and took several steps back, creating distance between himself and Obi-Wan. 

“A tactical retreat? Very well,” Obi-Wan watched Solan's movement with keen interest, noting the shift in forms. "Form four or five, Solan?" he mused aloud, recognizing the deliberate choice to create distance. “Aggression or balance?”

Solan gave a coy little shrug and a smirk. 

"Why the switch from form three, Solan? Form three was working well for you. You had a solid defense." Obi-Wan inquired, curiosity evident in his tone.

Solan met Obi-Wan's gaze, determination shining in his eyes. "I know you're a master of form three, Master Obi-Wan. I didn't want you to predict my next move," Solan explained calmly, his words reflecting a practical mindset beyond his years.

Obi-Wan nodded in acknowledgment, impressed by Solan's strategic thinking. "Your logic is sound, Solan. But be mindful—constantly switching forms can be tiring and may appear unfocused to your opponent," he advised.

“That would be their mistake,” Solan replied, bringing a smile to Obi-Wan’s face, Solan slipped back into a defensive posture. 

Obi-Wan offers a small smile of approval. "Indeed it would be, Solan," he agrees. "But you must also remember that victory in combat often requires a balance between defense and offense. Sometimes, you need to seize the initiative and take the fight to your opponent."

Obi-Wan raised his blade and lunged to strike.

In a chamber of the Northwestern Tower, Cressida stood surrounded by holographic displays, each revealing a different aspect of Anakin Skywalker's life. Her deft fingers navigated the many displays, allowing her to pull focus, pause, or zoom in on any particular bit of information at any time.

From the dusty plains of Tatooine where Master Qui-Gon Jinn first discovered him, to the recent HoloNet broadcast of his somewhat scandalous marriage to Senator Padmé Amidala, no detail escaped her scrutiny.

Anakin's mysterious birth and the absence of any biological father shrouded in mystery, yet underscored by Qui-Gon Jinn's steadfast belief in the prophecy of the Chosen One. 

Medical reports detailed his remarkable midichlorian count, sparking speculation and debate among the Jedi. His history unfolded as a tale of resilience, intertwined with the story of his enslavement alongside his mother, Shmi, and her tragic fate. Details of his family on Tatooine provided insight into his past. Records also highlighted Qui-Gon Jinn's involvement until his death on Naboo, at the hands of the re-emerging Sith. Obi-Wan Kenobi's pivotal role as Anakin's mentor, including archival footage of his impassioned plea to the council to honor Qui-Gon's dying wish, and the Jedi High Council's decision to allow Skywalker's Jedi training.

After becoming a knight, reports detailed General Skywalker's achievements in the Clone Wars. His bravery in battle made his name famous, but there were also controversial moments, such as his execution of Count Dooku. His relationship with his former Padawan, Ahsoka Tano, was rocky, from her trial and expulsion to her eventual exoneration and departure. Despite the fact, he had been vocal in his belief in her innocence. Skywalker's appointment to the Jedi High Council by Chancellor Palpatine raised eyebrows, and there was controversy when he was denied the rank of Jedi Master. However, his recent arrest of Senator Palpatine led to him finally being promoted to Master.

She’d read over it all many times, yet despite the work ahead of her and the vast amount of information available at her fingertips, her thoughts on her investigation stagnated and her mind wandered elsewhere. Her encounter with Yoda after she’d left Solan and Obi-Wan to train was still fresh in her mind, and it had left her pondering the extent of his knowledge regarding her personal situation. Yoda's ability to discern more than he let on didn't surprise her; he had always seemed to possess insights beyond the obvious. But it did worry her, she’d thought she was guarding her secrets well, yet after their discussion on the way to the Tower of First Knowledge, she was doubting herself as Yoda's words echoed in her thoughts, each line carrying a weight that she couldn't shake.

"Strength from burdens can be gained, yes. But weariness, they also bring. And weariness over time, erodes strength, it does."

"All Jedi are your family, including Obi-Wan. Do not forget."

"Over you, tiredness hangs, and only caf for breakfast, no breakfast at all is. Closely, the smell of bacta follows you. Neglecting one's well-being in favor of stubbornness, it does not do well."

Her contemplations were interrupted by the mechanical hiss of the heavy blast doors opening, for a brief moment the barrier that sequestered her from the rest of the Tower waivered announcing the intrusion into her solitude. Noxella’s shadowy figure seamlessly melded into the room's dimly lit corners. A practiced nod acknowledged her presence, unfazed by Noxella's otherworldly entrances; they had become routine. Yet, this was different. A solemn aura clung to Noxella, the uncharacteristic shift in her demeanor unsettled Cressida. It was as if the usually detached figure had been touched by an unfamiliar sorrow, casting an unexpected shadow over the chamber and stirring unease.

"Cressida," Noxella greeted quietly wearing a soft smile that looked so unnaturally forced, her hands clasped behind her back.

Cressida's apprehensive smile faltered at the sight of Noxella's unusual expression. It wasn’t to say that Noxella was often the bearer of bad news but rather if she was smiling in any capacity, it was usually to cushion the incoming blow. 

"Noxella, what brings you here?"

"I have news," Noxella replied, her tone grave. "About Obi-Wan."

Cressida's interest piqued at the mention of Obi-Wan, "What news? Is he alright?"

Noxella paused for a moment, steeling herself before delivering her message. "You were aware of Obi-Wan's formal request to be briefed on your off-world mission, were you not?"

A glimmer of hope ignited within Cressida's heart. "I was. Did the council reach a decision?"

The darkness in Noxella's expression told a story all its own. "Yes, but the council's decision requires unanimity.” Noxella hesitated before delivering the crushing blow. “And I regret to inform you that it wasn't achieved."

Her hope plummeted like a falling star, replaced by a sense of disappointment and frustration. 

“So, they denied his request?"

Noxella nodded solemnly, her eyes betraying her own disappointment in the council's decision. "I'm afraid so."

"I see," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. With a wave of her hand over the holo displays all traces of the investigation went black and the room darkened briefly before the lights shifted the illumination to a more acceptable lever.

Noxella's gaze softened, her expression sympathetic. "It wasn't my decision, you must know that," she reassured, her tone tinged with regret. "I share your belief that Obi-Wan deserves to know everything."

Despite her disappointment, Cressida nodded, her resolve unyielding. "I trust in the council's judgment, even if I don't understand it," she admitted, a hint of resignation in her voice. "Thank you for informing me, Noxella."

The news delivered, though it could have been communicated over a com, there was no reason for Noxella to remain, yet she didn’t leave, she took a step closer standing opposite Cressida. Her expression softened, her concern deepening 

"How is your investigation proceeding?"

Cressida exhaled wearily, her posture drooping as she pondered the inquiry. "I've thoroughly reviewed all available information, and although there have been a few minor missteps, there's no evidence to indicate that Anakin Skywalker was aware of Palpatine's ulterior motives. Considering recent developments, his connection to the Force appears stronger than ever, and he remains steadfastly aligned with the light side. Anakin Skywalker poses no danger, in my estimation."

Noxella's brow furrowed in concern, "But you suspect Palpatine did have plans for him?" she asked, seeking clarification.

Cressida's nod was solemn, her demeanor grave. "Indeed, strategically speaking, Anakin would have been a prime candidate for an apprentice," she began, her tone measured. "His midichlorian count, the highest ever documented, coupled with his remarkable achievements at such a young age, would have undoubtedly caught Palpatine's attention." She paused, her expression thoughtful. "It's likely that Palpatine would have manipulated circumstances to lure Anakin, putting his friends, allies, and loved ones at risk. While the immediate threat has subsided, it's imperative that we remain vigilant, keeping a close watch on anyone in Master Skywalker's circle for any signs of danger."

Noxella's relief was palpable, though tempered by lingering worry. "I see," she murmured, her tone thoughtful. 

Curiosity flickered in Cressida's eyes as she observed her friend's reaction. "Is something wrong, Noxella?" she inquired, sensing there was more to her mentor’s unease.

Noxella hesitated, "Extended stays in the bacta can cause one to lose their appetite," she began carefully, her words measured. “You look a little thin,”

Cressida looked weak and apprehensive, but didn’t bother to hide it, hiding things from Noxella would go over about as well as hiding things from Yoda. They simply couldn’t be done. Cressida's discomfort was palpable as she shifted uneasily in her seat, her gaze dropping to the floor. 

With a gentle yet probing tone, Noxella ventured, "Another nightmare?" Cressida's response was a terse nod. “They are growing worse, aren’t they?”

This time Cressida didn’t answer, maybe too afraid of what she might say.

Noxella regarded her with a mix of concern and hesitation. "It’s been my greatest desire to protect you from the time you came into my mentorship as a teen girl after the loss of your master, as such I've been hesitant to send you off-world since your return," she admitted, her voice soft but firm. "I am well aware of the pressures you are under."

Cressida's brows furrowed in confusion, her mind racing to piece together Noxella's concern. "What do you mean?" she asked, her voice laced with uncertainty.

"I worry that sitting here, surrounded by holos, may be doing more harm than good." Noxella's expression softened, her concern evident in her gaze. "And with each nightmare, every dip into the bacta’s waters I realize that perhaps my concern for your well-being, is in fact, hampering it," she admitted gently. "But, perhaps it's time for a change of scenery, a new focus now that it seems your investigation is running its course."

"An assignment?" Interest sparked in Cressida's gaze, a faint curiosity that rose like the first star at twilight, her guarded demeanor relaxing ever so slightly.

Noxella nodded, her lips curving into a small smile. "Yes," she confirmed. "Low risk, just information gathering. And you wouldn't be alone; you'd have a partner. No thrilling heroics, I’m afraid."

Cressida's lips parted, then closed, as if she weighed her words against the weeks of isolation and convalescence that had become her world. Then, with a lift of her chin that echoed the lineage of countless warriors before her, she met Noxella's gaze squarely.

"I'm ready."

Solan had started mimicking his father’s mannerisms not long after the nature of their relationship became known to him, both his parents had seen it and at first, Obi-wan wasn’t sure what to think of it but it quickly became a source of amusement for him. It was quite entertaining to see a ten-year-old boy stroking his chin in the same absent-minded way that Obi-Wan often did when lost in thought. 

He even had Obi-Wan’s controlled and graceful gait nailed as well; confidently, head held high, shoulders back, hand clasped behind him, taking slow measured strides, though admittedly Solan had to keep to a quicker gait due to his father’s longer legs. He looked very much like a much smaller Obi-Wan, minus the facial hair. 

Obi-Wan couldn't help but be flattered by this imitation; after all, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. 

It reminded him of his days as a young Jedi Knight, trying so hard to mimic the perfect poise and stoicism of the Jedi Masters whom he looked up to and admired. But ultimately found himself carrying himself more like his late master, Qui-Gon. Qui-Gon, who had very much so, always moved to the beat of his own drum. 

But even that too felt a bit forced, and eventually, he developed his own unique way of carrying himself, which his son more often than not mimicked.

Solan wore a wide grin on his face that outshone even the brightest stars in the galaxy as they strolled through the halls after their busy morning of lightsaber instruction, a meditation session, and finishing off their time with a shared afternoon meal. 

Their discussion of combat forms and principles had invigorated him in a way he hadn't felt in ages. Solan was always full of surprises when it came to his knowledge and insights. Not like Anakin, who used to butt heads with him over the proper techniques, and an endless barrage of questions that often felt combative. But Solan soaked it all up like a sponge, hungry to learn more, hanging off every word his father said.

Solan's true self began to emerge. His steps took on a lighter and more carefree cadence, with a hint of excitement in each bounce. 

Obi-Wan couldn't help but smile as he watched his son, it was contagious, so much that he found himself smiling brightly too. And with Solan by his side, Obi-Wan found himself walking with a newfound casualness reminiscent of his early days mentoring Anakin.

No need to be so formal all the time, he mused. 

"You did exceptionally well today, Solan," Obi-Wan remarked, his voice filled with genuine pride. "Your understanding of the forms is remarkable for one so young." 

Solan beamed with pride, his chest swelling a little with each word of his father’s praise. "Thanks, Obi-wan," 

Obi-Wan studied his son carefully as they walked, questions brimming in his eyes, "I'm curious, though. How did you become so proficient with the forms, given the... unconventional nature of your upbringing?"

Solan's expression softened, a faraway look on his face as he recalled fond memories. 

“Well, mom couldn't teach me like other younglings, but she said it was important and that we had to be sneaky about it." 

He smiled slightly, reminiscing. "And we had to hide what we were doing, so no one would find out who we were or what she was really teaching me, so she taught me like she was teaching me a dance."

Obi-Wan's eyebrows raised in surprise at the revelation. "A dance?" 

Solan nodded happily, “She started with form one when I was four, it was just before she had to leave me for a mission, and she told me to practice while she was gone and we would work on them together when she got back. She said I had to learn the footwork perfectly first. And while she was gone I would practice all day and all night until I fell asleep, when she came home, I’d show her what I learned, we would practice together and then she’d teach me more."

It was such a simple solution and it wasn’t unheard of for combat to be compared to a dance. In fact, the two boasted many similarities. What a delightful way to teach an excitable child! 

"That's quite clever indeed."

“The tricky part was learning how to do the forms without being able to use a lightsaber,”

Obi-Wan paused, he hadn’t considered that, Solan’s form with even the training saber seemed as natural as breathing, like he’d been doing it for years.

“What did your mother use in place of a lightsaber?”

“She stole a scarf from a merchant!” Obi-Wan’s eyebrow shot up in surprise.

“Your mother did what?”

Solan laughed loudly and nodded, “Yup! She went to the market at night, snuck in, stole a bright blue scarf from a merchant, and told me to pretend it was a lightsaber.” 

His voice grew more animated as he explained. "It felt really silly doing it at first,” Obi-Wan nodded, that he could certainly understand, and the more he thought about it, the more it made sense. “But then she told me it would make learning look more like it was really a dance and not lightsaber forms. She said it was all about precision and control, and when the time came all I would need to adjust to was the weight of a lightsaber."

Obi-Wan nodded thoughtfully, a newfound appreciation for Cressida's methods dawning on him. Solan's movements did have a certain grace and fluidity to them. A scarf as a training tool? Obi-Wan chuckled at the simplicity of the solution, meant to keep Solan accustomed to something in his hand and be mindful of how his movements dictated the movement of something as simple as a scarf. And indeed, the more he thought of it, the more it did seem like the graceful forms of combat might look like an elegant dance to an untrained eye. Who looks for a Jedi with a lightsaber when all they can see is a boy with a colored scarf, dancing?

Obi-Wan stopped and crossed his arms over his chest, “Do you still have the scarf?” Solan nodded and reached into his robes pulling out a slightly faded blue scarf that looked like it had been his most treasured possession. 

Obi-Wan smiled “Show me.”

Solan stood at the center of the large empty hall and began with his feet shoulder-width apart, holding the scarf in both hands. The pose was Whirwinds Embrace; he spun swiftly, using the momentum to propel himself forward in a lunging motion. As he extended his arms outward, the scarf flew forward as a lightsaber might deflect an incoming attack, creating a protective barrier around him. He moved seamlessly into Cascade of Serenity; beginning with a series of quick, evasive steps, weaving between imaginary opponents, the azure scarf fluttering in a way reminiscent of the blurred light of a lightsaber. He lowered his arms as if striking down adversaries with precise, flowing movements, the scarf acting as an extension of his will. Despite the intensity of his actions, his demeanor remained calm and composed, reflecting his mastery of the Force.

Obi-Wan watched transfixed at his son, as he executed these very same movements just hours earlier with a training saber but this was somehow different and it did, indeed look like a stunning piece of performance art. Who would have thought a mere scarf could be an effective training tool? Yet here was living proof of Cressida's resourcefulness as an unorthodox teacher.

The series of quick and agile spins of Zephyrs Dance flowed as beautifully as a ballet, evading imaginary attacks from all directions. Each whirl of the scarf disarmed imaginary opponents and created openings for counterattacks, his movements still graceful yet unpredictable to a degree, it would surely keep adversaries off balance and unable to predict his next move. It would be a perfect form for a craft assassin to get close to a target.

Obi-Wan watched attentively as Solan moved through the elegant motions of Form I, admiring the boy's natural talent and dedication to the art of lightsaber combat. Despite his unconventional upbringing, it was clear he had a natural aptitude for the art of combat. 

His final pose was Cresting Wave; Solan exploded into motion surging forward with a spriteful leap, the scarf trailing behind him like a comet’s tail. As he moved, the scar flew before him creating an artful barrier that mimicked a flurry of attacks, each strike of the scarf delivered with precision. His movements like a force of nature, unstoppable and relentless as a wave crashing on the shore, embodying the strength and ferocity of a Jedi in battle.

The scarf fluttered to his side as he came to rest in a ready pose completing the motions and looking to his father who simply watched in fascination before offering applause, clapping at his son who beamed brightly. To the casual observer, it may have looked like dancing, but Obi-Wan recognized the solid foundations of Form One. 

"Remarkable," mused Obi-Wan. "Your graceful style is a testament to your mother’s wisdom."

Solan tucked the scarf back into his robes, and suddenly looked around and shrunk back slightly as a few Jedi passed through the halls, his voice was soft and he looked uncertain. 

"That's ok, right Obi-Wan?” he asked, brow furrowing. “That Mom taught me with a scarf instead of a real lightsaber? It’s not, disrespectful or anything, right?"

Obi-Wan squeezed his shoulder reassuringly. "Not at all, my boy. In fact, I believe your training has prepared you remarkably well. You show a grace and fluidity in your movements that surpass many trainees your age.”

​​Obi-Wan's hand rested reassuringly on Solan's shoulder as they continued walking, a simple gesture that spoke volumes to the boy. Though Solan tried to exude confidence, there was an unmistakable spring in his step now, a lightness that came from his father's praise. 

“Solan, your understanding of Shii-Cho is well-rounded, few grasp the form so quickly. You're going to make a fine duelist someday."

Solan beamed, relief washing over his face, his cheeks reddened at the praise. "You really think so?" He had spent his young life concealing his abilities, but to have them recognized and encouraged lit a fire in him. 

"I do," Obi-Wan affirmed. He was certain the boy would grow to be a skilled warrior.

And yet, glimpses of playfulness peeked through Solan's studious exterior - the bounce in his step. He was still a child at heart. 

"The unconventional nature of your instruction is a testament to your mother's wisdom and creativity, the fundamentals are all there" Obi-Wan continued. "She did well to start you on the right path." As they continued on, Obi-Wan made a mental note to thank Cressida for instilling such a solid foundation in the boy. Her ingenious methods had served Solan well.

Obi-Wan gave his shoulder a paternal squeeze.

"You have nothing to worry about," the Jedi Master said warmly. "Now come, your mother awaits us. And I am certain she will be most pleased to hear of your progress today."

“When can I go to Illum and make my lightsaber?”

His enthusiasm was infectious and Obi-Wan chuckled. "All in due time, young one. For now, let's continue honing your skills."

As they stepped off the turbolift and neared Solan and Cressida’s quarters an idea struck him.

"You know, Solan," he began, a playful glint in his eyes, "I suppose I'll have to make sure you know how to dance properly as well." 

Solan looked up quizzically. "Dance? Like, real dancing?”

Obi-Wan nodded. "Indeed. Combat and dance have much in common - precision, fluidity, reading your partner." 

Solan arched an eyebrow, curiosity evident in his expression, a hint of skepticism in his voice. "Why would I need to learn that?"

Obi-Wan chuckled softly, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "You never know when it might come in handy," he replied cryptically. "Charm and poise can be as great a tool as a lightsaber sometimes." 

Solan looked unconvinced, nose still wrinkled in distaste. Obi-Wan suppressed another laugh. The boy had his mother's stubborn streak, that much was clear. 

"Come now, dancing isn't so dreadful," Obi-Wan cajoled. "It can even be fun, with the right partner."

Solan made a face. "Do I have to dance with girls?"

The thought seemed to disturb him greatly. Now Obi-Wan did laugh out loud at the boy's reaction, as it reminded him so much of himself at that age. He too had found the idea of dancing with girls thoroughly unappealing, long ago. 

"Perhaps someday you won't mind so much," he said, eyes dancing with mirth. "After all, your mother is a girl, and you love her, don't you?"

"That's different," Solan insisted, though his expression had softened a bit. "She's my mom."

Obi-Wan nodded in understanding, an amused smile still playing about his lips. "Yes, I suppose you're right about that, “Regardless, a gentleman should know the basics. No lightsabers on the dance floor." 

He added with a smile. “Manners matter, Solan, I should need to make sure you at least can grasp the fundaments of actual dancing. Perhaps we’ll get your mother to help teach you, no doubt she could probably use a lesson too, she was about as keen as you are when she was young.”

Solan didn’t seem interested, "Well, you can dance with Mom, and I'll stick to lightsabers." Obi-wan smiled at the thought. What would Solan do when he saw a girl he found pretty?

The doors to their quarters slid open and Solan strode on in, Obi-Wan braced himself for a conversation that he knew might not go as he would have liked but he wanted to continue to be present for Solan's training. Yes, that was it, he would simply ask if she minded if he stayed put for whatever lesson she had to teach. It wasn’t such a difficult thing, they were both mature adults and could certainly behave as such, couldn’t they? 

He followed Solan inside and immediately sensed something was wrong. The boy's shoulders were slumped, his footsteps lacking their usual lively bounce. Obi-Wan noticed the somber expression on his young companion's face as he stared at the table in the living space. Following Solan's gaze, Obi-Wan spotted the objects that had given the boy pause - a data stick and a lightsaber. 

Obi-Wan's heart sank, though he tried not to outwardly react. He had a dreadful feeling he knew what Solan had realized. The data stick and lightsaber could only mean one thing - Cressida had left unexpectedly. Though Obi-Wan was surprised by this development, he remained calm, not wanting to upset Solan further.

"Solan," he began gently. "Is everything alright?" 

He did not respond right away, still processing this discovery. After a long moment, he finally spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. "She's gone." 

Obi-Wan's heart ached at the quiver in Solan's voice. 

Solan's face fell as he lifted the cylindrical hilt, running his fingers over the ridged metal grip of his mother's lightsaber. Though unlit, he could almost see the brilliant orange blade humming before him. With reverent care, he looped the data stick's cord around his neck, tucking the precious drive out of sight beneath his robes. 

"Even if," he murmured, gaze distant. 

Obi-Wan's brows knitted together, perplexed by the odd remark. But the Jedi Master held his tongue, unwilling to pry into such an intimate, vulnerable moment. Whatever Solan's whispered words had meant, some sorrows were too tender to be touched so soon.

Solan's eyes refocused, meeting his father's concerned stare. "You can go, father. I think I'll meditate and eat, then I'll go to bed. I'll see you in the morning at breakfast." Though his words were polite, his tone was flat and lifeless.

Obi-Wan frowned. The complete lack of emotion in the boy's voice bothered him deeply. This was not the Solan he knew - usually so quick to laughter and enthusiasm. 

"No," he said firmly, a decision made in an instant. 

Solan looked up, confusion flickering across his features.

"Solan, go and gather your things. You'll stay with me in my quarters until your mother returns." 

For a minute the boy didn't move, uncertainty plain on his face. Then, with a gentle nudge through the Force from Obi-Wan, he stepped towards his bedroom, movements slow and hesitant. Still, there was a spark of excitement in his aura at the prospect of spending this time with his father. 

As Solan busied himself packing, Obi-Wan turned his gaze to the window. The sun was setting over Coruscant, staining the sky crimson and gold. 

"May the Force be with you, Cressida," he whispered into the fading light, hoping with all his heart for her safe return.

A few moments later Solan emerged from his bedroom, a small bag clutched in one hand. He hovered in the doorway, shoulders hunched, as if reluctant to leave the familiar comfort of his room. 

Obi-Wan gave him an encouraging smile and held out an encouraging arm to beckon him. "Come, let's be off."

Together they left the quarters Solan had shared with his mother, Solan walked slowly, dragging his feet. He kept glancing back over his shoulder, eyes troubled.

Obi-Wan set a gentle hand on his son's shoulder. 

"I know you're worried for your mother. But have faith, my boy. She is resourceful and strong in the Force. No harm will come to her, that much I am certain of" 

Solan bit his lip but nodded, some of the tension easing from his slender frame. 

They continued on in silence through the maze of corridors that made up the Jedi Temple as they entered into parts that Solan had never been to before. Up a turbolift into one of the rising towers that often houses masters. Solan seemed deep in thought, though Obi-Wan could sense his curiosity about visiting his father's living space for the first time.

When they arrived at Obi-Wan's modest quarters, the door opened with the same mechanical hiss as all others did. 

"Come in, make yourself at home."

Solan stepped cautiously into the inviting space, his gaze wandering over the sparse yet cozy furnishings. The room exuded warmth, with soft lighting casting gentle shadows across the walls adorned with rows of holobooks. Among the few artifacts carefully displayed were a couple of holocrons, their ancient wisdom quietly beckoning from their resting places.

"I know it's not much to look at, but I hope you'll be comfortable here," Obi-Wan said, suddenly self-conscious about his humble abode.

Solan set his bag down and turned to Obi-Wan with a shy smile. "It's nice. Thank you, Father."

Obi-Wan's heart swelled. Perhaps this arrangement would be good for both of them, a chance to truly get to know one another.

"You're quite welcome, my son."

Twelve

Hopefully, the length of this chapter makes up for my lack of posting on this story! What do you guys think? Do we have more answers or only more questions??? Well, hopefully, I'm over this writer's slump and I hope you guys enjoyed the latest chapter installment of my story. If you liked it then feel free to reblog and give me a comment on what your thoughts are, you guys make my day with your hilarious tags! Here's hoping Cressida's dream (at least the good part of it) turns to reality sooner rather than later! If you'd like to join my small but lovely taglist reblog or leave me a fun comment and let me know what you thought of it!

And for all of you who liked my Padawan one-shot Obi-Wan/reader insert/Master/Padawan story I am currently working on a second chapter! So stay tuned! Alright! Enough pandering, back to work, these stories don't write themselves!

@burnthecheshirewitch. @heyhawtdawgs. @pickleprickle. @split-spectrum(I know I've never tagged you in this story before but I thought you'd appreciate the Obi-Cress fluff in the beginning!) @bad4amficideasYo asked to be tagged in future Obi-Wan works and this is a longer story but I thought I'd throw it out there anyway and if it's not your thing no hard feelings at all and I will be posting a second chapter to Padawan soon! Gotta sere that smut nice and hot! ;)