#angry breadmaking

[dream-about-dancing]

#what follows is the most aggressive and disastrous breadmaking experiment in the world#like the twins are all eager to help mostly to spend time with obi-wan and make sure he doesen't try to leave or something#but then they get bored#because both daddy and obi aren't doing anything more than politely making conversation#as obi makes a huge mess of the kitchen and anakin refuses to help#meanwhile the adults have entered all out warfare#obi-wan asks anakin where he keeps the flour#and anakin is like it's probably the same place it was when satine lived here in this house with you#(it's not)#(also i know canon kuwsk on tumblr had them married after a few months of being romantically involved)#(but im retconning tht because it's funnier and more dramatic if they aren't)#(and they get married when the twins areeeee 8 or 9 or something)#(so two guesses what anakin is insecure about here)#(yes i'll put this on ao3 and actually have the conclusion of the fight + the angry passive aaggressive snippy breadmaking scene)#(that turns back into quiet arguing when the twins get bored and go back to the living room to play)

I feel like this is a big ask, but 1. welcome back! 2. can you ever see KUWSK going angsty? Not permanently or anything, but what would a KUWSK obikin disagreement look like?

yes thank you for welcoming me back a month and a half ago i'm a bit trash to be so late on this but!! here is about 2k of a more serious fight between anakin and obi-wan.

(2k)

“You’re talking to your ex,” Anakin says. It’s the tone of voice he uses on work calls when he’s absolutely furious but trying to remain professional. Obi-Wan has never heard it directed at him before. He almost doesn’t recognize it. 

“Casually,” he stresses. “We’re…casually speaking.”

“Casually,” Anakin echoes in that same voice. Obi-Wan is starting to think he’s done something incredibly wrong. 

“She messaged me,” he stresses, feeling as if this is an important fact. “I didn’t reach out to her.”

“But you reached back!” Anakin says loudly, putting the spoon on its rest a touch too forcefully. “And then you didn’t even tell me!”

“I thought it was a non-issue!” Obi-Wan protests. “I don’t tell you when I talk to the woman at the supermarket checkout line!”

“Keep Francesca out of this,” Anakin cuts through the air with the side of his hand as he spins around to open their spice cabinet. “You know full well that’s different.”

“She flirts with me at the store, and you’re fine with it!” Obi-Wan quite completely feels like tearing out his hair. He can’t believe they’re having this conversation. He can’t believe his own fortune, that he’d pulled up a picture mid-playful argument with Anakin over what the twins had dressed as for Halloween when they were five, and he’d shown it to his partner at the exact moment that Satine ex-Kenobi had texted him, replying to something he'd sent a week ago.

That had pretty much ended the playful part of their argument.

“Yeah, and it’s not the fucking same, Obi-Wan,” Anakin responds, shaking a bit of salt aggressively into the stew. “You were never fucking married to fucking Francesca.”

“Anakin—”

“And by the way,” Anakin snaps, trading the salt for cayenne pepper and seasoning it liberally. “Implying that your ex-wife is also flirting with you over texts you did not tell me about is not the best strategy, Professor.”

The worst part is that he’s not even looking at him anymore, scowling instead into the contents of the heavy pot.

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan tries, because he’s not listening, he’s just reacting. Of course Obi-Wan knows Francesca and Satine aren’t really the same thing, but they mean the same thing to him. One slips him free red bell peppers sometimes by ringing them up as green ones with a wink and a quirk of her lips. The other is his ex-wife.

But neither of them is Anakin, and so they mean the same thing to him. He doesn’t love them. He can’t even pay them the slightest modicum of his attention, because he’s too wrapped up in and around and going crazy over this man who’s petty enough to have absolutely just ruined Obi-Wan’s dinner on purpose by adding too much spice to the stew Obi-Wan had requested.

“Anakin, I think we need to take a step back from this,” he finally gets out when his partner is distracted by opening and closing the cabinet doors, ostensibly looking for the bowls even though he’d been the one to reorganize the dishes in the first place, years ago, and he’s never not known where something is.

“I think I’m going to sleep in my room tonight,” Anakin replies in an icy voice. “I think you might be right.”

“What? Darling, no—Anakin, love, it’s—casual cannot even come close to describing the texts, you can read them if you want, there’s nothing there—“

“Daddy? Obi?” Luke asks from the kitchen doorway. He’s peering around it, little face looking horrified. Obi-Wan freezes. How loud had they been? Luke and Leia are seven now, they remember these things, they have questions—“Is dinner ready? Obi?”

Leia’s face joins the same pale ghost of her brother’s, and Obi-Wan feels awful. Absolutely terrible, but the sort of terrible he doesn’t know what to do with. The twins heard them arguing, they were practically shouting at each other, Anakin is planning to sleep in a different room, Anakin didn’t even call it a guest room, he called it his room even though they’ve been together for—for a year and a bit now—and isn’t that devastating? My room, Anakin had said. Does he not understand everything Obi-Wan owns is his as well? Does he…does he not want it?

“Almost,” Anakin replies. He sounds so forcefully happy that it’s manic. It comes across much too fake, and Obi-Wan can feel the way Luke immediately distrusts the word, the expression. “I just realized I forgot something at the store though! We need bread! We can’t have the stew without bread.” 

Anakin nods once to himself as he says this, shooting Obi-Wan a very quick glance before his eyes snag on the phone on the counter between them and he looks away as if incredibly pained, hands ghosting down to the pockets of his jeans to check for his keys.

Obi-Wan thinks it would really actually kill a part of him to watch Anakin drive away on his bike right now. Not to mention the twins.

Oh, the twins. 

This had been why they were so hesitant in the first place, to bite the bullet, to kiss and mean it and remember it and lean in again. Their relationship affects the twins, and as much as Obi-Wan loves Anakin, he’d been so worried about even accidentally causing the kids distress. 

He thinks seeing their father leave when they can tell something is wrong would be devastating.

“I’ll go,” Obi-Wan says, putting a hand flat on the counter, pocketing the phone, and fighting the urge to glare at Anakin because the other man should know—should think—but this Anakin is almost a stranger to him, all clenched jaw and shaking hands and it’s just a text—it sort of makes him mad as well, angry that it hurts so much, that Anakin doesn’t trust him. They’ve known each other going on three years, their entire lives were intertwined almost immediately. “Give me the keys.”

“Yeah, right,” Anakin scoffs, shoulders tense and unyielding. “To the bike?”

“No, dumb—” he cuts himself off because he’s too old to be namecalling, especially around little ears. “The keys to the car are behind you. On their hook. Can you hand them to me?”  He doesn’t think he should get within a few feet of Anakin right now. Not for fear of violence–either from him or from his partner—but because it just—it doesn’t seem like a good idea. Not when they need bread.

“Should I leave my phone?” He can’t help but ask acidly. 

“I don’t know,” Anakin shoots back with deadly accuracy, slinging the keys across the countertop hard enough that they spin out of control and Obi-Wan has to stoop to catch them “Should you?”

Obi-Wan turns and gets to the mouth of the kitchen without another word. He debates his actions, his emotions, for a second’s pause before he puts his phone on the countertop and sweeps out into the entryway and then just as quickly out of the house all together.

He can’t go far. The Skywalkers have made him incapable of it. He’ll go to the store. He’ll get Anakin his fucking bread, which really means he’ll give Anakin space to think, and he’ll take his own space to think, and then he’ll come back because it’s Anakin, it’s Anakin and it’s his family, and he thinks this is the stupidest fight in the entire goddamn world because doesn’t Anakin know how much he can’t love anyone else? Doesn’t he know that if Satine were to turn up on his doorstep tomorrow and ask for him to unsign the divorce papers, he wouldn’t even consider it?

Doesn’t he know—

“Obi?” Leia’s voice says at the same time there’s a hesitant tug on the edge of his shirt. He turns around and looks down at the girl. “Where are you going, Obi?”

“Your father wants bread for dinner,” he tells her. “So I’m going out to get bread. For dinner.”

“Oh,” Leia bites her lip before looking back behind her at the open door of the house. “Luke wants to know if you’re gonna come back, Obi.”

Since she turned seven, Leia has had trouble admitting when she wants to know something. She finds it so much easier to pretend she’s her brother’s spokesperson. “Daddy, Luke wants to know if the dog dies in the movie.” “Obi, Luke wants to know if we have to go to the barbecue, only cause Johnny is going to be there, and Luke really doesn’t like him.”

“Leia love,” Obi-Wan crouches down to look at her completely. “Of course I’m coming back. We need bread, darling.”

“I don’t want bread,” she snaps, sounding suddenly so very much like her father. “I want you.”

“Leia,” Obi-Wan pauses, smoothing his hand over the top of her hair carefully. He needs to soothe her, because he and Anakin had been so out of line earlier, fighting where the children could hear and now look what it’s done to them.

“Obi,” Luke trots out of the house before he can figure out what to say to her. “Obi, you should take this,” he holds something up and presses it into unresisting hands. “If daddy needs to keep your phone, you can have mine. Just in case you wanna talk to us while you’re gone.”

It’s the plastic, bulky flip phone that’d come in a kit of kid’s toys a Christmas ago. Smiley faces instead of buttons, but it made sounds when you hit it. Luke had been obsessed with it from the beginning.

Obi-Wan looks down at the phone and feels the very absurd urge to cry. “Loves,” he whispers, pulling Leia into his side. “Oh—”

He remembers thinking once when he’d just been given the Skywalkers, that first time he’d been asked to sit beside Luke’s bed until he fell asleep, that for children, love was about staying.

How can he possibly leave them now? When he loves them so much as well? When his love never grew out of that child’s wish for someone to stroke his hair as he dozed?

“Oh, alright, Luke, Leia,” he says, standing with only a bit of a wince because he’s getting so very old and Leia has thrown her arms around his neck unexpectedly so he rises with the weight of a child attached to him. “If your daddy wants bread, then let’s get him bread.”

“Road trip?” Leia asks with excitement.

“Better,” Obi-Wan promises, letting Luke grab onto his hand. “Science experiment.”

[crystaljins]

Endless

Characters: Yoongi x Reader

Word count: 7.4K

Synopsis: You aren’t the chosen one. You’re not gifted with any special powers, or secret abilities. You’re just a plucky orphan who decided you’d come along for the ride. 

Bringing down an empire is no biggie, right?

Yoongi x reader

Notes: I actually really don’t like this fic, in all honesty. It’s definitely one of my weaker ones, but since I put a lot of effort into writing it, I thought I’d post it anyway! I’m having a real big writer’s block and everything I write just feels.... jilted and inauthentic. IDK. I feel like I’ve lost my ability to tap into what a character feels T.T ANYWAY even if I don’t like it, maybe you will! So please try and enjoy

This is written for @thebtswritersclub​ March prompt, “Adventure”!

Warnings: Poss some fantasy type violence? Sparring, Yoongi is a little mean sometimes but he has RESPONSIBILITIES! Lots of conversations from very not-socially-distanced positions. Mentions of wars and evil empire

Genre: Fantasy, angst-with-a-happy-ish-ending

It’s easy to see that Yoongi is angry. From the heavy thud of his boots against the firmly packed dirt to the furious hunch of his shoulders, everything about him screams that he is livid. Even the way his travelling cloak flutters about his form is ominous, like the dark roil of storm clouds on a distant horizon. 

You follow closely behind, meek and sufficiently scolded. He’s been like this for the better part of the afternoon, ever since you left the previous town behind. 

“Um,” you pipe up, hoping to power through the stormy silence that hangs over you. You’re rewarded with a lethal glare- no one does cold fury quite like Min Yoongi.

Hanging your head, you sigh, continuing following at a dutiful three paces behind the furious man. You find yourself missing Jungkook, sure that he would have the ability to overcome this kind of tension, were he here. Or even Jiyeon, as much as you dislike her- perhaps the “chosen one” wouldn’t trigger such ire in her fated mentor. Really, any sort of third companion would do, if not to pacify Yoongi, then at least to keep you company. Long silences aren’t really your thing, after all. 

You square your shoulders, straightening. At the next town, Jin and Hoseok await your arrival, and then you will have at least two more companions to chat to when Yoongi enters one of his “moods”.

Not that his “moods” happen very often. For a man who is almost infamously gruff and who seems to permanently have a scowl etched upon his face, his actual personality is fairly calm and unbothered. Years of journeying across the realm of Adlentur have resulted in an attitude where there is very little that can truly throw him off. 

Apparently, you possess that unique ability, for the calm mask he often adorns is nowhere to be seen. Even when you’d followed him out of your hometown and demanded to accompany him a lick of ability, magical or not, to warrant your accompaniment, he hadn’t batted an eye. He had merely squinted thoughtfully at you while Seokjin and Hoseok insisted that you would merely be deadweight, before turning around and announcing that if you couldn’t keep up, you’d be left behind. 

He’s doing his best to leave you behind now; you’re struggling to keep up with his rapid pace. It’s so speedy that you feel a twinge in your freshly-healed ankle. With a wince, you stumble a few steps, and the ground comes rapidly rising up to meet your face. Before it can make contact, however, a stabilising hand encircles your elbow and you’re yanked upright. 

Yoongi stares at you, a delicate but angry flush creeping across the high points of his cheek bones and down his neck. 

“Thanks.” You offer sheepishly, before gingerly setting your weight upon your foot once more. The healers had warned you that the fractures were severe enough that even with the extensive healing you’d likely still be a bit tender for the next few days. 

“Does it hurt?” He demands, and you wince. You straighten and shake your head. 

“It’s just a bit weaker than normal.” You rush to assure him. These are the first words he’s said to you since you woke up in the clinic of the village you’d been staying in. Since then, he’s sort of just stormed around in a furious silence. 

The incident that had set him off had been an attack on said village. Of late, the sporadic surges of nightmarish beasts that left few survivors and decimated village populations were becoming more frequent, and this particular village was no exception. This village was lucky in that it had a protector; Yoongi is gifted with special abilities and highly trained in combat. You have no idea where he got the abilities from and why he is so skilled, but it saved your life when he first came to your village, and it didn’t take him long to begin saving lives in this village. 

But Yoongi is only human (you assume), and the beasts were numerous and powerful. People can slip under the radar in times of chaos and he hadn’t noticed the small child in the path of danger. 

You had, though. You had seen the oncoming danger but unlike Yoongi, you are not trained in combat. You aren’t gifted with special abilities. You’re just an orphan who witnessed what he could do. You’re nothing special. 

But you couldn’t just leave the child to die. 

According to the healers that Yoongi had carried your broken, bloody body to, you had gotten off easy. A broken ankle, a shredded arm and deep lacerations across your body. The healers had been skilled and Yoongi had supplied them with some of his own magic to give them the ability to heal your wounds- within just twelve hours the only remnants of your scuffle with the monster was a slightly weakened ankle and some ugly scars from some of the deeper wounds that even the healing magic couldn’t overcome. 

Despite his foul mood, Yoongi’s hands are gentle as he guides you to sit on a nearby rock. He crouches before you and reaches for your ankle- his hands are warm as his thumb slides against the ball of your ankle. He’s so careful as he rotates your ankle upwards, testing the range of motion. Even in his anger, he treats you like you’re made of glass. 

 He hadn’t treated you like this when you first started out. He’d just kind of begrudgingly tolerated all your quirks, watched as you bulldozed your way into his little travelling party. But then, as time went on, he’d become more tentative. More careful. He’d tell you to hide when an attack came on the village so you didn’t get in the way. You’d meet a new person and his arm would come up in front of you, like he’s shielding you from a threat. It’s almost subconscious. But it’s annoying. 

“It’s fine.” You say, tugging your ankle away from his grasp as sitting straighter on the rock. You feel like a haughty child when he raises weary eyes to glare at you. 

“It was shattered yesterday.” He reminds you. “If we’d been in any other village, you’d probably be out of commission for months. And I would’ve left you behind because we have to save-“

He cuts off abruptly but you can fill in the blanks of what he’d say. 

An ugly thought overcomes you; what if I were her? It’s poisonous and burns in your chest. Jealousy is an ugly emotion but you’ve been familiar with it a long time. Ever since Yoongi and his crew arrived at your village in search of the long-awaited “chosen one”. It’s probably a dream every orphan harbours; that they are special and unique and wanted, and the murmurs that followed Yoongi’s arrival had probably triggered a similar feeling of longing across the many orphans that take up residence in your village. 

Alas, that chosen one is not you; you remember your parents very clearly. Warm, kind, loving. They succumbed to the plague that had left the orphanage you grew up in overflowing. In such a full and overwhelmed establishment, it is easy to sneak in an extra child. And that’s what Jiyeon had been. Always on the outskirts, a little special and unique. She could never quite fit in with the other kids and for some reason you’d always resented that. Not only that; the way she never even seemed to try. She possessed some unique spark, some unfathomable dignity. Alone, dirty-cheeked, unwanted even in an orphanage, and yet there was always something special in her. And it never left her even as the two of you grew up and took your leave from the orphanage.

It hadn’t taken Yoongi long to find her- apparently Seokjin had some sort of specialised divination powers and he’d known who she was the instant he’d laid eyes upon her. Agnes, the local breadmaker, had taken her on as an apprentice and you’d even been in the store when they entered, seeking her out. There’d been something mysterious and terribly exciting about them- it had felt like the opening scenes of those adventure novels Jungkook would read out to the other kids in the orphanage. 

And you’d witnessed the disaster that had followed- the attack on the village, your home, by those merciless monsters, the death of people you’d known, and Jiyeon’s ensuing kidnap. Someone apparently didn’t want Jiyeon taking up the mantle of her destiny.

You’re not sure why you insisted you come along on the journey to save her- you never liked Jiyeon. You didn’t know Yoongi or Seokjin or Hoseok. And your closest friend was adamant that he’d stay behind to assist in the rebuilding effort of your village. 

Maybe it was something ugly; a desire for it to have been you instead. The one with special, hidden powers and an endless exciting adventure before you. As Yoongi looks up at you, you could believe that maybe that was your motivation. Maybe you wanted to be the one he was looking for.

“I would have caught up.” You finally say, instead of sharing any of those ugly thoughts. “If you’d left me, I’d have hunted you down and followed.” 

Yoongi gets abruptly to his feet, and you nearly tumble off the rock in surprise. 

“You’re a fool!” He cries. Your eyes widen, but he’s lost to a tirade. Alabaster skin has flushed a furious crimson and the dark points of his eyes have hardened- they glint at you like unyielding steel. “Don’t you understand what we’re doing here? We have to rescue the chosen one or the world as we know it is over. We’re on a time limit! This isn’t some fun whacky adventure with friends- peoples’ lives are at stake! And you’re just throwing yourself around like a thoughtless child!”

You stiffen defensively. 

“I’m not being thoughtless-“ you protest, anger heating your words as you spit them out, but Yoongi cuts you off.

“You are! What powers do you have? What abilities? None! I allowed you to come because I didn’t think you’d get in our way so much!” He snarls at you. You throw yourself to your feet, your eyes blazing and your heart thundering furiously in your heart. “Instead you’re throwing yourself into fights you know you can’t handle! You should have left the kid to me!”

“So I was supposed to just sit and stay where you’d left me? Like a dog?” You cry. “When people are dying around me? When a child was about to lose his life?”

“You were supposed to not get hurt!” Is what Yoongi shouts. 

And then he goes abruptly silent, his mouth closing so violently that you hear his teeth click together. He cups a hand over his mouth and turns abruptly away, shoulders hunched. 

The change in mood is so sudden that you feel like you have whiplash; you almost lose your balance with the about-face. Yoongi keeps his back to you for a long moment, and there’s something hurt about the way he curls himself away from you. Finally, he takes a long, shaky inhale and when he finally turns back to you, his eyes are glazed with emotions you can’t understand. It’s not fair that he gets to stare at you like that, that he gets to make you feel two feet tall. 

“Why did you come?” He finally asks, levelling you with a wary look. 

The air feels heavy. You and Yoongi have had a good relationship from the beginning- he’s a little protective and a little bit gruff, but on the whole he’d looked out for you and if anything, you felt closer to him than you did to Seokjin or Hoseok. So this is likely the first time the two of you have clashed like this. 

It’s probably the question he should have asked when you first demanded you accompany him. He should have questioned your motives. He’d had just enough interaction with Jiyeon to work out that she was a bit of an outcast before she’d been kidnapped; he should have known that she’s not your friend. Maybe that’s why you’re so fond of Yoongi; because he hadn’t asked any of those things. He’d looked at the plucky orphan and given you a chance. 

You’ve questioned your own motives many times; why are you on this journey? Why didn’t you stay in your rightful place with Jungkook back at the village? Why did you insist you help rescue Jiyeon? There are motives you can’t shake; that it was for glory. Recognition. So that you could play at being hero. So that you could catch the attention of the mysterious, handsome stranger who is currently eyeing you like you’re an unfamiliar but dangerous beast. 

But you want to believe the motive in the depths of your heart is true; that are your core, you are good. 

She’d met your eyes, the moment before those beasts grabbed her. She’d stared straight at you and begged you for help.

“Because people need help.” You finally say. You gaze straight at Yoongi, willing him to understand. Willing him to believe. Willing him to see the good in you that you want to believe is there. 

Yoongi offers you a searching gaze; deep, dark eyes seem to pierce through to your very soul. He’s always had sharp eyes- he picks things up faster than anyone you’ve ever met and he notices things that no one else would even think to look for. It’s terrifying and exhilarating to have all the focus directed completely on you, even if it is only for a heartbeat. Like he’s disassembling you, piece by piece. 

And then he turns away, shoulders stiff and posture ready like a well-trained soldier, and he begins to march off. 

“You get two days of recovery. And then we start your training.” He glances over his shoulder at you. “If you’re to accompany the chosen one on her journey, then you must be able to defend yourself. Otherwise, if you continue to burden us like this, I shall chain you to your home at the village personally.”

And you can’t read his expression for the life of you, but there’s just something fond about the way the light glints off his steely eyes. 

++

“Can’t I train her?” Seokjin complains, chewing through a mouthful of dried meat. He looks you up and down like he’s seizing up your weakness and you stick your tongue out him childishly. “I think she needs some work on her defensive skills; perhaps I can come at her with a stick and she can try and fend me off.”

“That just sounds like you want revenge for the mouse she put in your bedding this morning.” Hoseok offers helpfully. 

Yoongi chews through his rations slowly and thoughtfully before levelling a glare a Seokjin. 

“You can train her as soon as you best me in a fight. If you’d like, we can test that out right now and I can give (Y/N) a day off-“ 

“That’s fine.” Seokjin hastily cuts him off. “You know what, actually I think I need to do some meditation this morning, make sure they haven’t shifted Jiyeon’s location and that we’re still heading in the right direction.” He scurries off, not sparing a look behind him and you resist the urge to snort in laughter. Perhaps the mouse had been unnecessary, but some sort of revenge had been required after all Seokjin’s recent comments on the amount of time Yoongi had been taking to train you. 

It had been months now, since Yoongi had decided you needed training; you were still a beginner by all means but Yoongi is a good teacher and with each day that passes you grow more adept. It leaves you a little sad; had he been able to mentor Jiyeon and cultivate her special abilities like he intended, perhaps the world would already be saved and the growing evil sealed permanently. 

“You never did say why you decided to start learning to fight, (Y/N),” Hobi comments conversationally; though he is just as much a coward as Seokjin, he does have some sort of immunity to Yoongi’s withering glare. This leaves him undeterred by Yoongi’s subtle hints that he is unwelcome at your training sessions, for the most part. 

“If she’s coming along on a dangerous journey, she needs to learn to defend herself.” Yoongi cuts in. He finishes the last of his meal, and gets to his feet. He stretches languorously, like a  cat, peering at you through squinted eyes. “I’ll give you an hour and then we’ll get started. We’ll make camp here for tonight and cross the river in the morning.” 

He wanders off, leaving you with Hobi. Hobi watches him go with mild curiosity. 

“What happened between you two when we got separated?” Hobi wonders aloud. He tilts his head and stares at you. “Something just... seems different with you two.” 

You pause to consider; true to his word, Yoongi had given you another couple of days to recover, and then he’d started his training. The two of you would spend the day hiking and in the evenings when you’d made camp for the night, he’d teach you the basics of combat. But despite his rigorous training, there was no denying that Yoongi treated you differently after that day. Not hugely different- his protectiveness hadn’t changed, and he wasn’t any less gruff than usual. He just seemed... a little warmer. Kinder, even. Except when he was training you and then he’d turn into a demon spawned from the depths of hell. 

“Nothing we haven’t already told you; a village got attacked, I got injured, and Yoongi decided I should be trained in combat to stop it happening again.” You recall. Hoseok shakes his head in absolute bafflement. 

“See, those all sounds like standard things for Yoongi, but then he also doesn’t seem like Yoongi. He’s so... different with you.l Hoseok admits. “I’ve known him for years now, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d say he...” he trails away, before looking at you curiously. “Ah.” He makes a little noise of understanding. 

You lean forward eagerly. 

“What?” You ask. Hoseok holds a thumb and forefinger to his chin thoughtfully. 

“Nothing. I just want to try something. Hold still.” And that’s all the warning you get before Hoseok dives at you. Your eyes widen as you lurch back, but you are caught off guard and so Hoseok is able to pin you easily. 

“Hobi!” You cry in protest, but he just grins and leans in close. You can’t help but notice how compromising the position you are in is, pinned beneath Hobi, and when he drops down low enough for his mouth to tickle your ear, you can only imagine what the pair of you look like to a third party. 

“Yoongi’s the jealous type, by the way.” Is what he whispers, and that’s all he manages to tell you before a very loud throat clear interrupts him. 

Hobi leans back, settling on his heals but not bothering to get off you. Yoongi stares down at him, unimpressed. His lips are pressed firmly together, but otherwise his expression is unreadable.

“Ah, Yoongs,” Hoseok says cheerfully. “I was just thinking I’d test (Y/N)’s reflexes. See how your training is going for myself.” 

“Hoseok.” Yoongi says cooly. He smiles but it has no warmth in it. “Surely you’ve seen me fight enough; are you doubting my ability to train her?” 

He offers a hand out to Hoseok, who accept it cheerfully. Freed from Hoseok’s grasp, you sit up, brushing dirt off your tunic and then glaring at Hoseok. 

“Never.” Hoseok says warmly. He’s entirely too cheerful and smug and you don’t know why.

“What the hell, Hobi-“ you snap, but Yoongi cuts you off. 

“I changed my mind, (Y/N),” he says abruptly. He pins you with shimmering dark eyes. “We’ll start our training now; Hoseok has just helpfully pointed out some shortcomings.”

“You’re welcome.” Hoseok offers, before taking his leave to find Jin.

He’s gentle as he helps you to your feet. 

Everything about him is almost overly careful, as he leads you away from the camp site to a small clearing. There’s a tension to his figure that you don’t quite understand- it reminds you of the fight you’d had, where he’d turned away from you, overcome with emotion. 

Yoongi takes a long, deep breath. 

“Are you ok?” He finally asks, when the tension has bled from his posture. You nod cautiously, and Yoongi nods awkwardly to himself, before sighing heavily. He shoves a distressed hand through his hair, and the dishevelled look makes him look younger, somehow. Yoongi hasn’t been very forthcoming with personal details about himself, particularly his age, but normally he looks just a bit older than you. But the look he gives you now is almost boyish, like a confused child lost in the woods. 

“Hoseok’s always been nosey.” He comments. “He likes to do unhelpful things because he thinks he’s helping me.” The almost frazzled way he says the words is so unlike the composed man you know; you feel like you have whiplash and you don’t even know the reason behind his sudden and unexpected fluster. 

“You mean pinning me?” You wonder. Yoongi nods, agitated, before stepping close to you. 

“What did he say to you?” He asks. “When he was... he was... I saw him say something. What’d he say?” 

You pause to recall the cryptic words- that Yoongi is the jealous type. It’s certainly an interesting little tidbit to know; a small part of you wonders if that jealousy would ever be directed at you, but you dismiss it just as quickly. But for the life of you, you can’t think why Hobi might have brought it up in such a context, or why he even thought it appropriate to pull the stunt in the first place. 

“That you’re the jealous type.” You share, wondering if Yoongi will offer any further clarity or insight into the situation or if he will keep his thoughts to himself like he often prefers to do. 

Something sparks in Yoongi’s eyes, and this, at least, is an easy emotion to interpret; irritation. 

“Let’s just get started.” He grumbles. He guides you through your regular warm up. You’re thankful you’d eaten earlier than the others for you’re sure you’d have a nasty cramp if you hadn’t. Yoongi is short and clipped in his delivery and it’s clear the hounding from his peers earlier has left him in a foul mood. 

Finally, after a series of difficult drills that he’s been practicing with you, he allows you a brief reprieve. 

“You’ve come a long way.” He observes, while you take a long drink from a waterskin. When you stare at him questioningly in response, he settles down next to you and offers something close to a smile. It’s a little terser and a little awkward, but there’s a warmth to his eyes that you’ve steadily become acquainted with despite the rarity of its appearances. “Give it another few months and you’ll be able to keep up with even Jin.” 

“I probably won’t.” You remind him. “Jiyeon’s being held at the next town- you’ll probably be too preoccupied training her to have these sessions with me.” 

Yoongi stiffens, just slightly, but you’ve become accustomed with the way he expresses himself throughout the journey and you know the statement throws him. 

“I can manage two pupils. It might even be helpful for her to spar with someone closer to her skill level.” He finally says. You nod, getting up and stretching, bouncing from heel to heel as an indicator that you’re ready to go. 

“I suppose it might.” You offer, but now your mind is preoccupied. In the next few days, the four of you will enter into the territory where Jin can sense Jiyeon is being held, and they will begin her rescue mission. Following that, Yoongi had planned to withdraw to his hometown where he can safely train her in preparation. From there, the campaign begins; they must raise up an army mighty enough to take on the Empire and remove whatever curse upon the land the Shadow Emperor has wrought. It’s a long, arduous path ahead of them, one you definitely hadn’t thought through. But with your meagre, beginner fighting skills, surely you shall be more hindrance than help, as pointed out by Yoongi all those months ago.  

Yoongi picks up on your distraction when he’s able to pin you in a fairly simple maneouvre. He plants a forearm against the base of your throat and pins your legs beneath the weight of his body. His body is warm against yours and the force of the blow that sent you sprawling has you breathless. You bring up your hands, trying to dislodge his arm, but he’s stronger and surer than you and it doesn’t budge.

“Distraction can cost you your life.” He comments, and his voice is a low rumble. His breaths come deep and heavy- warm puffs of air tickle your skin and his torso heaves against yours. 

“Sorry.” You mutter. The pressure against you eases as Yoongi sits back but he doesn’t shift his weight off you. 

“I was distracted too.” He admits. He rolls off you and straightens, dusting off his pants before extending a hand to you. “Let’s leave it here and pick up tomorrow. It might even be our last training session without Jiyeon so I expect you to work hard.” 

You take his hand and the mention of her name has something dark and ugly churning in your stomach. This whole situation has your heart sitting cold in your chest like unyielding stone. You had confessed to Yoongi that you had come along on this journey because someone needed help- what about after? What role did you have to play in all this? Yoongi had just assumed you would continue to accompany them, but is that really what you should do?

“I’m the jealous type too.” The words come out of you softly, unbidden- you almost don’t realise you’ve said them until you see the way Yoongi stiffens. 

“What?” He asks, turning back to face you. His expression is about as readable as a blank page- you’re sure the Emperor’s fortress would be easier to breach. 

You swallow deeply and steel yourself. You’ve already said the words- it’s time you faced these pesky feelings before you make a decision you regret. 

“I’m the jealous type too.” You confess, a little louder. “I don’t want to be your second pupil. I don’t want to be someone along just so Jiyeon’s less lonely and has someone to spar with. I like training with you. I want to keep training with just you. And the thought of sharing this time with her... it makes me feel jealous.” 

Yoongi is silent, staring at you in confusion. It takes him a few baffled blinks before he manages an answer. 

“We don’t have enough time for two separate sessions.” Is what he offers, the words slow and almost slurred in confusion. “And Jiyeon’s training takes priority.” 

It’s a slap in the face, even if Yoongi doesn’t mean it in the way you’re thinking. He doesn’t seem to understand, but you want him to. You want him to comfort you and take away the ugly feelings storming inside you. 

“I’m not talking about training.” You finally say. “I’m talking about us. You and me.” 

Yoongi looks like you’ve just punched him in the stomach- the look of absolute bewilderment on his normally calm face would be funny if your heart didn’t feel like it was about to plummet straight through your body into the ground below you. 

“I have feelings for you.” You blurt. “And I’m scared. Because Jiyeon’s the chosen one. She has to be your priority. The world needs that. But if she’s the priority... if she’s the one that needs to be trained and cared for and raised.... where does that leave me? Less useful than a packing mule.”

Yoongi’s expression is stony, but you can see the emotion shining in his eyes. His normally composed exterior is completely shattered, and for just a brief second you catch a glimpse of fragile, vulnerable longing. 

And then his expression steels and it’s like a door slamming shut. 

“I don’t have time for feelings.” Is what he says. He’s brusque and his words are firm and if you hadn’t caught that glimpse of emotion, it would almost seem cruel the way he delivers them. “And if this is what you are spending your time worrying about, then I think it best you return to your village.” 

And then he leaves you, alone in the clearing to clean up the mess you’ve made of your own heart. 

++

Despite his rough dismissal, you do not go home. You’ve come too far to not at least see Jiyeon safe and rescued. What comes after is something you can worry about when it actually happens. 

Seokjin and Hoseok can tell something happened, but they are awkward and unsure about how to proceed since both you and Yoongi refuse to speak of it. Instead, the two of you arrive at some sort of wordless truce; he won’t send you home and you won’t bring up your feelings again.

The four of you arrive at the town where Jin can sense Jiyeon’s presence. It’s a fairly unremarkable town, just small enough that it’s hard to enter without people noticing your presence but just large enough that they probably can’t guess at your motives. It takes a few days of reconnaissance to discover where Jiyeon may be; this town happens to house a small, undercover faction of the emperor’s top mages, and a days’ hike out of the village holds a secret dungeon. 

The decision is made to leave you behind, and though normally you’d insist you accompany them, a piercing glare from Yoongi has you meekly agreeing to stay overnight in the in . Your instructions are simple; if the four of them do not return by 6am the next morning, you are to cross the country and head to the town of Sabre, Yoongi’s hometown. From there, you should find the aid necessary to rescue the chosen one, and from there it will be up to Yoongi’s friends and family to replace Yoongi’s role as mentor and teacher to the chosen one. 

You’re seeing the them off under the cover of night when Yoongi finally acknowledges you.

You’re about to turn back to the inn and retire to the room that you’d hired out when he calls your name. You turn back in surprise; Jin and Hoseok watch in confusion as Yoongi walks towards you. He shoves a hand through his hair in distress before coming to a halt before you. 

His expression is oddly soft as he casts his gaze over you. 

“I’m sorry.” He murmurs. It’s soft enough that Jin and Hoseok can’t hear,  but you hear the words as loud as day. “I’ll... I’ll see you in the morning.”

Despite everything, despite the ache in your chest, despite the overwhelming worry and concern, despite the fear, you smile at him. He looks surprised for a moment before you notice the slightest curl form at the edge of his mouth in a weak smile. 

“I’ll see you in the morning.” You promise. 

You do attempt to sleep that night; after all the plan is to leave straight away and flee to Sabre as soon as Jiyeon is rescued. You have a long an arduous journey ahead of you and you’re the only one who has the luxurious option of sleep. But you only manage fitful bursts, filled with nightmares. Finally, the dawn rolls around, though you do not feel rested in the slightest. 

You rise with a sigh, readying your scant belongings and changing into appropriate travel gear. 

And then, you wait. Waiting is agony- that’s something you learn as you settle beside the window of your small room and watch the sun peek between imposing stone buildings. The sky warms from a dull grey into a blushing pink, and then a bright blue. And all the while, you catch no glimpse of your friends. Six am comes and goes. No one had warned you how deeply terrifying your role would be. Waiting and uncertain. Are they dead? Captured? You do not know- they didn’t grant you the luxury of any information; just left you behind to deal with the mess, under the guise of “safety”.

Stiffly, you rise from your position. You do not dare check the clock. You do not want to know how long past the meet-up time it is though it must be at least a few hours. Your instructions had been to leave strictly as 6am lest people

come looking for you, but that hour has come and gone.

“You’re a liar.” You mutter to yourself as you step out into the crisp morning air. It had only been last night that he’d promised to see you again; so quickly he broke his promise. 

You kick the dirt aimlessly before beginning a quick stride for the edge of town, your head down. “A coward and a liar.” You assert, though your voice is thick with unshed tears. 

You’ve just stepped into the woods that surround the edge of the town when you hear the crunch of boots in dirt and the clink of armour; soldiers are out and about. Perhaps they’re searching for your friends after a successful mission and Jiyeon is safe; perhaps they’re searching for any backup to exterminate and ensure her continued imprisonment. 

You’re searching for a way to conceal yourself when an arm wraps around your bicep and nearly yanks you off your feet. You stumble back into a firm, warm presence, and one hand covers your mouth while an arm snakes around your waist, stifling your cry. 

You don’t hesitate to utilise the momentum of your fall. You swing your elbow around to where you estimate your attacker’s abdomen is. They release a soft “oof” and you utilise the way that their arm goes slack to swing forward in the same moment you bring the heel of your foot slamming down over theirs. 

They grunt and hunch over in pain.

“It’s me!” A familiar voice hisses, releasing you so that you can whirl around and see your attacker.

“Yoongi?” You say, before remembering the approaching guards and lower your voice. “You’re here?!”

“I am.” He comments softly. “Jin sensed you hadn’t left yet and I.... came to get you.” He confesses. 

A clank of armour and the distant sound of voices has the two of you freezing; now is not the time for reunion. There will be time for catch up and explanation later. For now, you are in imminent danger until the soldiers pass you by. 

Yoongi secures a hand tightly around your wrist and guides you through the undergrowth in a low crouch. He moves in the opposite direction of the voices, brushing branches out of the way. 

“There’s a hollow ahead; we can hide there until they pass by and then we’ll make for town. The others will be waiting for us there.” He glances at you over his shoulder. 

You don’t know what passes through his expression, but you feel his grip tighten just a fraction and his pace quickens. 

The hollow he speaks of is a tree- rain has washed away the soil that the tree clung to. In its place, twist, skeletal roots knot and weave to form a dark space just large enough to hide some if they scrunched themselves up very tightly. You pause to raise an eyebrow at Yoongi. He pointedly ignores your scepticism, pressing pointedly on your shoulders until you obediently crawl into the space. He is not far behind- you feel the warmth of his form as he crowds you in. You’re about to comment that you don’t feel particularly hidden when you feel the brush of his magic; the shadows around the roots thicken. It’s a spell you’ve seen before- people’s eyes seem to just slide over the places that Yoongi’s shadows conceal. 

“So are you going to tell me why you’re still here and not halfway to the next town when we agreed you’d leave three hours ago?” He murmurs from where he is crouched over you. Crushed up against him like this, he is a large, foreboding presence. Were it not for the glint of warmth to his eyes, the relief at seeing you safe, you could almost be afraid of this terrifying man. If he is, indeed, a human at all. 

You could do a lot of things in that moment- pour out the anxiety and worry and misery and anger you feel and watch him boil in it; instead you release the fragile shard of vulnerability you had been trying to keep a tight hold on. 

“I couldn’t accept you’d died.” You confess. 

Yoongi’s eyes soften, and he drops his head so that it rests against your shoulder. His hair tickles the side of your neck and you feel the heavy weight of his breath as he exhales slowly. 

“I’m sorry.” He confesses. You shake your head, attempting to shift back. Some distance would be helpful to the loud racket your heart is currently making. 

“It was out of your control.” You remind him. “It’s hard to be punctual when you’re fighting against an empire.”

His arms tighten- a hand lifts from the soil and fits into the curve of your waist, anchoring you against him. 

“Not about that.” He confesses. “About.... about what you said earlier. About your feelings- I can’t stop thinking about it. About you. I have so much I must do and I can’t afford distractions and yet...... there is so much I want to be distracted by, (Y/N).”

He feels your surprised inhale, the way your ribs hiccup beneath his palm.  

“I’m supposed to be protecting Jiyeon and yet when Jin told me you were in danger...”

He doesn’t have to finish the story. Here he is, holding you desperately against him like at any moment you may crumble. He left the chosen one vulnerable, unprotected and untrained to save you. The plucky orphan who should have never been apart of this tale in the first place. 

Against your volition, you hand comes up to slide against his cheek. His eyes squeeze shut at the gesture- it reminds you of a cat, the way his eyes squint in contentment. 

“I understand.” You admit. “I.... It’s not your fault.”

Those are the only words you can muster. How else can you articulate the way it has clicked in place? The burden Yoongi bears; the long, scary road ahead of him. He cannot afford to be thinking of the things he cannot have; and he cannot have you, as much as you both want it. 

You know he understands what you meant; that your words have lifted a heavy burden from his heart. He did not want to hurt you; but he cannot drag you in. 

You lean up, tilting your head up just slightly so that you can have a brief taste of the life you could have had; if you were born in a time of peace and prosperity. Perhaps you could have wedded. Had children together. Grow old with your hands linked together, smiling with recollections of a life well-lives. His lips are soft but firm, and the kiss is filled with sadness. 

++

You eventually make the decision to go home. It’s not inmediatelt; you persevere for a while. You accompany them on the arduous journey back to Yoongi’s hometown. You assist with Jiyeon’s training as Yoongi intended. But eventually you come to accept the truth; this isn’t your journey to be on.

Jiyeon, who was suspicious of your presence at first given your history, is the one who protests the most, oddly enough. Perhaps you are the small piece of familiarity in a sea of chaos and fear, to her. And oddly, you are sad to say good-bye. Despite never liking her as a child, as an adult you begin to see it. The heart for others, the unwavering compassion and determination. She has the heart of a hero. 

But that’s why you must return home; a hero needs a home to fight for, after all.

Yoongi’s goodbye to you is subdued. He does not voice his sadness- Jiyeon even goes so far as to scold him to his dismissiveness. But you know; you can see it shining in his eyes. If he lets go, he will break down. And you are leaving to prevent that; your goodbye will be for naught if he lets himself crumble here. 

“It’s not forever.” You reassure your friends. Jin nods, tearfully, while Hoseok rests a comforting hand against his shoulder- normalky he would be the one sobbing the loudest, but he is to chaperone you home and then he will rendez-vous with the others in Yoongi’s hometown. “I’ll see you when the war ends. If any of you die, I’ll be very cross with you.”

That does it; the briefest, weakest smile from Yoongi. 

And so ends this chapter of your adventure.

 Epilogue:

The war lasts five years. Villages are ravaged, lives are lost and empires are brought to their knees. Joyous bells ring throughout your town when the news reaches you; the emperor has fallen. 

For you, you don’t think much of it. The war had left countless children orphaned, and to the best of your ability you take as many in as you can handle. Ever since you and Jungkook took over the orphanage, funds have been tight and there have been endless mouths to feed. So the news of the war ending leaves you surprisingly underwhelmed. The end of the war will not mean food appears from nowhere or make these children un-orphaned. If anything, your job gets harder now; as people lick their wounds and the fallen empire recovers, you will have your hands full with your children. 

You’re informing Jungkook of this opinion quite loudly in the tavern one evening. It’s past curfew for the children and old Bertha had offered to keep an eye on things so the two of you could have a night off. 

You’re surprised when a nearby customer snickers. Casting your gaze, you notice four hooded figures seated around the door. That in itself is not suspicious, for many travellers prefer to keep their identities concealed as they pass through. 

What is suspicious is the brief glimpse you catch of one of the hooded strangers, the slight tilt of a smirk that seems almost familiar. 

Having noticed your attention is drawn, one of the travellers lean forward. 

“Do go on.” A familiar voice sounds. You nearly drop your glass as you blink a few times. Suddenly, your heart is racing. 

“Do you know these people?” Jungkook asks curiously, eyeing the group with mild interest. 

You’re too stunned to reply, so the initial traveller, the one who had snickered answers for you. He tugs his hood off to reveal chestnut hair, a heart shaped mouth, bright glittering eyes. 

“I sure hope she does since we came all this way to find her.” Hoseok cries enthusiastically. 

You distantly hear the sound of a chair sliding across wood and then realise the source is you, leaping from your chair. 

“H-hoseok?” You cry. He grins. 

“The one and only!” He caws. He gets to his feet to engulf you in a monstrous bear hug. 

The other travellers take the opportunity to tug their hoods free; first Jiyeon appears, beaming at you, then Seokjin. 

And then Yoongi. Five years has not aged him, though you always had considered the possibility that he is immortal. 

Hoseok seems to realise he’s lost your attention, for he releases you and begins interrogating Jungkook. 

You’re far too preoccupied with the man before you. 

“Yoongi.” You breathe. 

The smile he offers you is surprisingly light and warm. Like a cat blinking contentedly in the rays of the morning sun. And despite it being nearly half a decade since you last saw him, your heart races just the same. 

“You did say it wasn’t forever.” He offers you simply. 

And as your eyes water and fill with tears, you offer him a weak smile. 

And so begins the next chapter of your adventure.

[thrushsong-kvaris]

Current Predicaments

(As of September 26) oof it’s been a while since I updated this one

I say predicaments because—well—you know those authors that can write one story at a time? I am not one of them. The muses are in a constant fight over which fic ideas will get the brain's attention. Think like in sleeping beauty with the fairies constantly going 'pink! no, blue! Pink! BLUE!!' and the third fairy is just trying to keep the cake from collapsing... except instead of just two colors they're fighting over an ever-increasing number of WIPs.

Fandom(s) author is writing fic for:

....so i recently dove headfirst into a new fandom by reading approximately 120 manhwa chapters in about three days, and then proceeded to go back and start reading the novel said manhwa was based off from the beginning. i'm currently stalled at chapter uh,,,200-ish out of 550. This is mostly because the combination of consuming new content and not having writing deadlines apparently sent the muses feral.

i've started eight new WIPs in the past two months (assuming i haven't forgotten anything) and that's not counting the two animatic ideas (which are progressing very slowly because i have no clue what i'm doing but i'm having fun so i might actually finish them someday)

oh! yeah, that new fandom is Omniscient Reader's Viewpoint. I will probably be in ORV-only mode creation-wise until the muses calm down which...probably won't happen until i actually finish the novel.

Recent WIPs that have been worked on:

1) ORV- 4th wall break angst, also fun with 10th scenario drama bc i am the kind of writer who enjoys bending canon to their will

2) ORV- YJH and KDJ ride a motorcycle. KDJ is tired and YJH is having Emotions. that's it that's the fic

3) ORV- epilogue angst (v1): angst here is focused on KDJ not being recognized by the fam

4) ORV- epilogue angst (v2): angst here meaning KDJ wakes up after The End and can't find any of the fam. ...saying he's not doing well in this fic is a severe understatement

yes i have two post- epilogue ideas no i do not know anything about the actual canon epilogue but i'm writing them anyway

5) ORV- YJH gets turned into a raven; chaos ensues

6) ORV- another animal transformation but this time YJH gets transformed in the middle of a battle and suddenly having cat-senses (including balance) is not the kind of thing that goes smoothly when you're suddenly surrounded by too much of everything. this one's mostly focused on hurt/comfort

7) ORV- breadmaker; i had a random idea of an OC who survives the apocalypse by baking bread. they are widely known for being a source of delicious bread and if people try to attack them those attackers tend to get run off by a mob of angry incarnations

8) ORVxKHR- the apocalypse seems like a great cause of lots of people awakening Dying Will Flames; also KDJ and YJH are bonded Skies

...turns out i did forget one oops

9) ORV- loop fic, more fun with 10th scenario angst. how to say this without spoilers.... so The Amulet stuff still happens but i decided to make it worse by creating a reset loop that triggers when a character dies. KDJ is trying to stop the loops but he can only remember the loop immediately prior to the current one

A note: me working on these things does not guarantee that anything will be posted/updated in the near future, it's just a general idea of what I've been focused on.

If you want to make fanart, banners, podfic, translations, etc based on one of my fics: Go For It!!! Please do make sure you @ me or drop an ask (or otherwise let me know) when you post it so i can see it too ٩(^ᴗ^)۶

[raitrolling]

Present Day, Present Time

[Easy Reading Version on Toyhou.se]

-- alluringMisdirection [AM] began trolling autonomousMachinations [AM] --

AM: Oh shlt slnce when was lt your bday??

AM: All g tho, l got a place ln mlnd ;)

AM: Obvlously lt’s gonna be a secret, so don’t even bother asklng! Surprlse partles are the best partles, y’know. And lt’s gotta be good for the blg 1-0!

AM: So you better get hype- or, as hype as whatever’s posslble for you 8)

-- alluringMisdirection [AM] ceased trolling autonomousMachinations [AM] --

Callan stood in the homewares section of one of Block 136’s many low-end department stores, hands on his hips and tapping his foot in mild irritation. Predictably, he’d be caught off-guard by Gerrel’s mentioning of his wriggling day coming up. He didn’t forget, of course, he just- Wait, did Gerrel ever mention it before? They’ve known each other for a while and Callan had definitely made him put his wriggling day into his stupidly busy schedule, but he legitimately cannot recall if the redblood had brought up his own before. Huh. Well, whatever, Callan’s going to say that’s Gerrel’s problem to work out, because right now he’s got his own problem. What the hell kind of present does someone with no hobbies want? Most of the time when it comes to presents, Callan would simply grab whatever silly novelty he could find in the clearance sections - A hat with a funny saying on it, some desktop USB gadget, all those stocking stuffer toys made specifically for office 12th Perigees party gifts, the impulse buy bottle openers and fidget spinners at the registers, - it didn’t matter what the gift was, if it was a gift from him then clearly it was the most important! But this time it’s different. It’s not just a gift for someone’s 10th wriggling day, but the wriggling day of someone who it wouldn’t be inaccurate to call Callan’s best friend (who would’ve thought? Of all people!). A real pro at gift-giving too, the photo book he gave last Quadrants’ Day had touched Callan’s heart far greater than any novelty chocolate or humorous greeting card ever could. So now he’s obligated to be thoughtful. Ugh, thinking.

He acknowledges that the logical gift would be something practical, Gerrel does seem to like things that are useful and would make him more productive. With how much he goes on about ‘healthy eating’ and ‘cooking your own meals’, he’d probably be over the moon if he unwrapped one of those air fryer things people keep talking about. But as Callan stared the boxes of kitchen appliances down, he couldn’t help but think one thing...

An air fryer is fucking boring.

Yes, sure, it’s the perfect gift for someone like him. He’d appreciate it! He’d appreciate it a lot more than the corner store chocolates he received from the greenblood for Quadrants’ Day, or the reindeer antler hat from 12th Perigees. He’d probably get a lot of use out of it too, if what the recipe books conveniently placed next to the display says is true. You can cook chicken, vegetables, brownies and muffins, fish and chips, mozzarella sticks… But, it may be a gift from Callan, but it’s not a gift from Callan. There’s no pizzaz, no style, nothing that screams “This is a gift from the one and only Callan Ranpoe, the best troll you’ve ever known! Accept no substitutes!''. It’s a gift someone would buy for a hivewarming party, or something his rich boss would slip in with the weekly wages just to remind everyone of how much money he has. Not a gift from someone known for their sense of humour and great taste in, well, everything.

Callan’s train of thought is interrupted by an employee asking if he needs a hand. Some tired-looking brownblood who knows that if they don’t ask every customer who has spent more than thirty seconds standing on one spot this question their boss will have them thrown out on the streets. He dismisses the employee with a wave of his hand, who only responds by parroting that the tea towels and oven mitts have a two-for-one deal tonight only.

Two-for-one… That’s it! Cheap and more fun than some boring appliance!

Not wanting to make it seem like he was inspired by the employee’s suggestion, Callan continues to mull about the appliances section pretending to be interested in the breadmakers and slow cookers before stealthily slipping over to the kitchen accessories section. Sure enough, the tea towels and oven mitts are already looking more to the greenblood’s liking. There’s the towels with funny cooking-related puns (Haha, “Let’s give them something to taco ‘bout”! It’s funny because it’s got tacos on it!), towels covered in cute animal prints (and a very un-cute one covered in horses. Sorry Gerrel, but you truly have the worst lusus), and towels covered in sayings one would find on a Facebook Minions group (which unfortunately, would probably appeal to the redblood’s sense of humour more than anything else…). There’s oven mitts shaped like crab claws and dinosaur heads, some pop culture-themed mitts with references that’d definitely fly over his head, and one that just says the word ‘butter’ repeated on every inch of the fabric. Callan starts picking a couple off the rack, already congratulating himself on his head about how genius this gift is.

But… As he stares down at the dinosaur oven mitt and the tea towels with food puns, the gift still didn’t feel right. There should probably be something… More? To this? If the last present idea was thoughtful but lacks ‘Callan vibes’, then this idea is more Him but less thoughtful or really, wanted. Who wants tea towels for their wriggling day? That’s like giving someone socks and underwear. Callan sighs, dumping the chosen items onto the shelf below instead of hanging them back onto the rack. Putting in the effort for a perfect gift sucks.

Why is this so important? Why does a gift need to be thoughtful, personal, and most importantly, something that would make him think of Callan every time? Maybe it’s to make every moment as memorable as possible to combat the reality that all of Callan’s relationships are fleeting at best. Gerrel seems to be able to recognise him through his psiionics, most likely because altering one’s voice, speech patterns, and quirks in their posture and body language are difficult without specific training that Callan doesn’t have. But a friendship cannot be perpetuated on vaguely familiar quirks alone. What if one night Callan decides he wants to cut his hair? Change the way he dresses- hell, just happens to wear a waistcoat with his symbol printed on the opposite side? Doesn’t tie the bow around his neck correctly? Gerrel would fail to recognise him, and they’d be back at square one. And that’s not to mention the major elephant in the room being Callan’s stints as the prolific Phantom Thief. That wouldn’t be something he could just shrug off and accept, especially when his boss has been one of the thief’s major targets. He doesn’t come across as someone who would be angry to find out about this secret, but… He’s very honest and loyal. It would make sense for him to dob Callan into his boss, someone who values working as much as he does would definitely put his own job over anything else.

But then again… He’s selfless, in that way that makes Callan almost feel bad at letting him take over all the chores in his hive when he probably could do them himself if he could be bothered. Almost. Thank god he doesn’t have to wash dishes any more, and the food Gerrel cooks is way better than anything he could ever make even if he put his mind to it. So maybe he wouldn’t do that. Of course he wouldn’t do that! Even if it doesn’t last, he’s Callan’s friend now. And maybe they might continue to be friends, and- If the greenblood’s ego allows it- Gerrel could learn the truth of his psiionics, and try to work with it. Just as he works with every other eccentricity that makes up Callan’s personality.

… Nothing in this long moment of introspection has given him any more ideas for the perfect 10th wriggling day gift. Goddammit. 

The brownblood continues floating around the aisles, keeping an eye on Callan in the way one would monitor a known shoplifter or rowdy group of teenagers. Now’s probably the best chance to get that advice they’re paid to give out.

“Hey,” Callan addresses the employee with a nod, “Got any ideas for a 10th wriggling day gift? I need one for a guy who’s into like, cooking and shit. Practical, but fun, y’know?”

The brownblood silently casts their eyes over to the appliances, and settles on the most expensive item they can spot.

“Air fryer.”

Of course.

Once again, we’re back to square one. This is going to take more than an hour’s worth of thinking, which is well more than Callan has ever done in his life. But, that’s fine. He’s got time, and it’s for someone worth spending time on. And there’s still the entirety of the department store to meander about like what everyone else does at this time of night. Maybe he could look into finding some outfits so Gerrel can be at least half as stylish as him, maybe some instructional books on building projects that would normally bore Callan to death because they lack funny pictures, maybe some crafts to make something (he can paint a mean self-portrait, so a portrait of someone else wouldn’t be that much more difficult)...

Now, if only Gerrel didn’t steal his other non-kitchen appliance idea of putting together a photo book already, that could’ve been perfect. Who wouldn’t want their own collection of Official Callan selfies?

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It took another couple hours and some trips to a few nearby shops, but finally the search for the perfect present was over. Callan stood at the kitchen table, putting together the finishing touches on the now-wrapped gift’s presentation. The homewares idea was thrown out the window in favour of something just as practical, but in a way that feels more personal. A blazer sits folded on the table (Callan made sure to not unfold it after the cashier slipped it into the shopping bag, there’s no way he’d ever be able to get it right), in a similar style to the one usually worn by Gerrel albeit with gold buttons and a green trim on the collar and cuffs. A voucher to get his symbol printed on the jacket has also been slipped into the breast pocket. It felt right to give something with his hue, it’s a common sign of friendship between a higherblood and a lowblood. He may not have a particularly intimidating shade of blue or purple, but it’s still an indication of protecting a friend. And, it’s something picked out by Callan himself so clearly it’s peak fashion.

There was an attempt at tying up the gift in a bow - one of the spare green neckties identical to the one he wore, to be precise - but there was certainly little effort into making it look perfect. The bow was uneven and sat nowhere close to the centre, and Callan couldn’t figure out how to do that fancy criss-cross tie most presents are wrapped in. Not that the presentation mattered to him, and he’s sure that’s the level of effort Gerrel would expect from him. He probably doesn’t expect much from the greenblood, honestly, so perhaps this modicum of effort will make this gift even more special. 

[lesmiserables246015]

Rise of the BreakMaker!

Hello world! Censorship sucks! Judgemental society sucks! Politicians "suck the sweat off of a dead man's balls"!

Aren't you tired of it too? Working day and night just to have enough to get by while all these virtual signallers get what they whatever they want? Yeah, me too.

So I am going to make a place where I can freely express my mind and not give a fly's shit what people think cause you won't know the most important thing. Who I Am!

But you will know what I am like. There are so many angry people who want a mask so they can yell at people. I don't want to yell. Yeah, I am pissed off about a lot of things. I won't be afraid to say it here either. But that isn't what I want this to be about.

I want to be able to speak truth. Like blacks are being racist against asians right now and that isn't cool. They should know better having faced racism most of their lives. Like saying the politicians (on either side of the isle) want nothing but money and don't care about us. So we need to care about each other.

So if that upsets you, just move along. But if you like that idea, continue following me. Feel free to contact me about topics you would like to see spoken unashamedly about. I won't blush. I won't hide.

You might not be able to stay anonymous. But I can. So I will be a voice for those who can't speak freely. Hopefully, I will do a good job. And you will enjoy the ride!

- The BreadMaker

[rainbow-scarab]

It’s fanfiction time!!

A mini crossover between @kuttiesstuff​‘s Human Candy AU and LanternDay AU (but mostly LanternDay).

I found out about LD Sans's story a few days ago looking through Kuttie's art tag (I had seen him in the Twitchy Timeloop comic but didn't really know what he was about). Aaaaaaaaand somehow a fanfiction happened XD

I've taken some liberties with the AUs, especially since there's only so much revealed about LanternDay (as well as some things I didn't notice went against canon until it was too late WHOOPS), but I hope it's fun anyway. ...Pretend everyone speaks German lol I don't want to butcher it with my attempts

(Also....this is the first fanfic I've actually completed since like....2009 o__o;;; I'm not much of a writer. But I still enjoyed myself c: )

Title: Tastes Like Home

-------------------------------

Chance wasn't used to the stares he was getting from monsterkind on his long trip back to Snowdin from the surface. In fact, he wasn't used to any part of the journey--that's what teleporting was for! But today that wasn't an option. Not for a human.

Of course, he had been human all along! But now it was visible to the outside world (even if no one recognized him anymore as "Sans"). Ever since he found that one universe with its unique candy... Well, it had only been a day, but already it was a new chapter in his life--he just knew it! He'd finally be able to go home, whole, in his body... The universe had promised him.

When it would happen, he didn't know. But in the meantime, he explored the surface. This time, where other humans could recognize him as such, and he could fit in! Malls, movies, food........he could be just another human teenager.

But human teens had to sleep eventually, so it was back to his house in Snowdin. A big grin spread across his face as he walked. He couldn't wait to tell Papyrus about his day.

---

Papyrus pounded the bread dough with all his might. And again, and again. It made an odd crunch each time.

It had been two days since Sans came home from another universe, ate some strange magic food, turned into a human, and ran off excited! Leaving the Great Papyrus behind!!

He punched the dough so hard it flew off the counter, joining half a dozen others on the floor. He sighed and started on another. At least one loaf of his surely soon-to-be-famous spaghetti noodle bread had made it to the oven.

Sans had seemed so happy in this human form. But there was no reason he had to go off by himself. He would have gone with him, if he even knew he was going somewhere! It frustrated Papyrus to no end. But most of all, he was worried. Worried at how long Sans had been gone. Worried that he was alone as a squishy human. And worried that....

That...........

Papyrus didn't want to think about it, and he threw himself back into breadmaking. Grillby was out there looking for him anyway. Sans would come home one way or another.

Then came the sound of the front door.

"SANS!?"

---

The moment he opened the door, Chance was swooped up in a huge hug. "papyrus!" He smiled and wrapped his own arms around the taller brother. Before he could get out any more words, Papyrus spoke up at his typical volume.

"SANS!" Papyrus, stern, put him down quickly (but gently) in favor of putting his hands on his hips, and stomped his foot down. "WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?? WHY HAVEN'T YOU BEEN ANSWERING YOUR PHONE?"

"oh, uh..." He should have expected to be taken to task for something like this. "sorry paps, phone ran out of power. i didn't think too much of it since it was only a day--"

"TWO DAYS!"

His good mood was slowly deflating. Had he really lost track of time that badly? No wonder he was so tired. "sorry. i guess i got too excited at the thought of going home."

"H....home?" He realized his mistake immediately. Papyrus's shoulders sagged, and his face looked less angry than....scared.

"i, um, papyrus..." His mind struggled against the twinge of pain in his heart. Of course he'd be going home! That was how it always was gonna be. Papyrus knew of his origins too, so...so....why was this so hard!? Not being able to bear the look on Papyrus's face, he looked to the side. Leaving him staring at the house he'd lived in for so many years now. But...not for much longer, right? He'd have to say goodbye to it.

"Sans?" Papyrus was waiting on him. Looking back at his little brother just made his heart hurt more. For years, he hadn't wanted to think about it, but with the promise of going home closer now than it ever had been, the fact was unavoidable, standing in front of him. If he wanted to go home, he'd have to leave Papyrus behind too.

Tears welled up in his eyes and he shot forward to hug his brother. "don't worry about it, paps..."

Papyrus returned the hug. "I'm going to worry about it if you......" There was a strange pause. "Sans, your body!"

"...huh?"

"YOU'RE BACK TO NORMAL!"

A quick glance at his hands confirmed it. Skeletal, again. Back into the strange magic costume he'd been trapped in for years. "....oh."

He pressed back into his brother, tears flowing in earnest. Somehow this wasn't a shock to him. It made sense. Despite everything, he was too attached to this place and the people who came with it. In this moment, being here, as Papyrus's brother, even in monster form, was more important than going home. That was what what his heart told him. But it still hurt.

---

Papyrus held Sans until he calmed down. There was a lot he didn't understand. Sans's mood had changed so quickly. Was it related to where he went? Did it have to do with being human? Was it all those "mood swings" teens were known for? He didn't know. He was still worried about what Sans said, about going "home"...but it could wait for now.

Sans's breathing finally evened out. "you're the best, paps."

"NYEH??" That brought a smile to his face, and some of his usual attitude. "Well...OF COURSE! I AM THE GREAT PAPYRUS."

A loud beep sounded from the kitchen. "...MY BREAD!"

---

The brothers sat on the couch with a plate in front of them, as Papyrus put on the finishing touches. Bread, full of spaghetti noodles, marinara sauce on top, and a sprinkling of herbs.

"MY CREATION IS COMPLETE!" Papyrus sprang to his feet for dramatic effect. "THE FIRST SPAGHETTI BREAD!" He cut off a slice and held it out for Sans, looking at him expectantly.

Sans took and bit into the slice, bits of dry crunchy noodle crumbling out of it. The bread's contents scraped against the inside of his mouth, and he found out the hard way an entire bay leaf made it into the bite as well. "it sure has a lot of texture, paps."

This pleased Papyrus. "NYEH HEH! BUT OF COURSE! TEXTURE IS ONE OF THE MOST IMPORTANT COMPONENTS OF A DISH."

"yeah you always know what a dish kneads." He took another bite.

"OH MY GOD SANS. DON'T START."

"what? my puns are the yeast of our problems." Another bite.

"SANS!!"

"just roll with it paps." Crumbs and sauce were getting everywhere.

"SANS! NO MORE...HALF-BAKED PUNS OUT OF YOU! NYEH!"

Sans burst out laughing, and kept laughing, until tears streamed down his face. He kept grabbing more bread, and shoving it in his face as best he could through the laughter and tears. Papyrus had to wonder again if he was okay.

Was he okay? Sans really wasn't sure. He so desperately wanted to go home, but it just wasn't happening. He felt like he was given an amazing opportunity, and he missed his chance. He couldn't prove to the universe that he wanted it enough, and so not only could he not go home, he couldn't live life as a human either.

All he could do was laugh, cry, and eat more and more of this bread. It hurt. But somewhere inside him, he didn't want to admit, he couldn't help thinking maybe this was what home was like. A home anyway. The taste of the bread...the old couch...a little brother. And, maybe home hurt sometimes. A reminder that he couldn't have everything to make him whole. Torn between his origins and his current life.

At least this life came with a cool brother.

He curled up against Papyrus, still slowly attempting to munch on bread, and drifted off to much needed sleep.

-------------------------------

The end!

.....Papyrus eventually remembers to call Grillby to tell him Sans is back.

I didn't know how much canonically Papyrus knew about Chance's past as a human, and how Chance expected to go "home" someday. I just kinda made him know here....and be low-key anxious that someday his brother would leave D:

I might have seen too late that Papyrus doesn't make his own bread, but.....it's spaghetti bread??? XD Which I found out after writing IS A REAL DISH!? ...WHY XD I thought for sure I was making it up but no...real life beat me to it. But at least the version in this fic is a true Papyrus original 😉 Also going under the assumption here that these skeletons can taste cuz...why would they love bread so much otherwise?? Well, doesn’t matter so much in the actual fic anyway.

I had Chance stay human for so long, longer than in the Human Candy comic, cuz of the magic that makes up the candy. Using hypnotism to trick the soul into thinking its human. Chance already believed he was human so strongly it enhanced the effect.

In fact I wonder if it could possibly work so well he could be in that form for weeks, or indefinitely, so strong is his conviction. But, well.... Some things are more important to him. (Yeah, this picture was a big inspiration for the direction the fic took).

Because the candy would have naturally run out well before he actually turned back, this wavering in his conviction was enough to end its effects. So...while Sans wasn't correct in thinking the universe had something to do with it, he was a little correct in that his mindset had an effect.

[somekidinacoma]

The Prince and the Raven 4

Chapter 1 here

Chapter 2 here

Chapter 3 here

Big thanks to @imyasart for the beautiful piece of art that inspired this story!*

-Present-day, in the Eastern Kindom of Sanders-

“The sun hasn’t even risen, V, why are we out here?” Roman asked tiredly, having been woken up from his pleasant dreams. He rubbed his eyes, trying to keep up with Virgil’s quick pace, which proved difficult when he could barely see the other.

“Well I can’t very well stretch my wings is broad daylight, can I?” Roman was still getting used to Virgil actually responding to him, something he never thought would actually happen. Getting used to the sarcasm constantly dripping from his voice seemed the biggest challenge of all. “And I figured if I did get caught, you could call the night guards off.”

“Yeah, that does make sense,” Roman spoke as he yawned, trying his best to pay attention to where Virgil was.

Soon enough, the two were outside, standing in the middle of the castle’s grassy courtyard. Virgil’s wings opened and closed in his anticipation for flying normally for the first time in four years. Virgil, too, was tired, but he needed to fly. The air on the ground was almost suffocating.

Just as Roman was going to ask hat as taking so long, he felt a strong gust of wind pushing him backward. He let out a grunt before looking to where Virgil stood, noticing that his friend was missing. The prince then looked towards the sky.

Virgil almost looked like an angel in Roman’s eyes. His wings pulled him higher and higher into the beautiful, starry sky. His skin glowed in the moonlight, giving him a beauty incomparable to anything Roman had ever seen.

Virgil tucked his wings in, leaning forward as to nosedive towards the ground. The air around him bent to his will, letting him fall faster and faster until he sprung his wings outwards, pulling him into a forward-flying position mere inches away from the ground. His hands dragged along the ground, the feeling of cool, dewy grass giving him a feeling of nostalgia, as it reminded him of flying with Patton.

Virgil turns himself around, pulling himself up once more before landing beside Roman, who stood with his mouth agape and eyes wide.

“You’re going to swallow insects,” Virgil commented with a laugh, finally letting himself relax. He watched Roman gulp, not quite letting himself stare at the beautiful man’s face. There were consequences to being in love with him now that he was returned to normal.

“Ah, right,” Roman, too, wouldn't let himself look at the man in front of him. “You seem so... natural when you’re up there. Happy, even. I think that’s the first time I've seen you smile.”

Virgil laughed awkwardly, bring his hand to the back of his neck. “Yeah, I guess you could say I belong up there.”

****

“The two of you look exhausted” Logan commented upon his arrival to the castle gates.

“We are,” Virgil replied, regret and guilt laced in his voice as he looks towards Roman.

“But it’s completely alright,” Roman said way-to-cheerfully. “We should be able to make it to the border before sunset.”

“Then let us begin our journey!”

****

The journey to the border city, called Goldberg (after the famous knight that called the city home) seemed shorter than it had been. There was little talking, though they sang in short bursts of inspiration. Songs of famous bards such as Lady Grande and Lady Gaga, ballads by Sir Drake and King Sanders himself, all stuck themselves inside the travelers’ heads, bringing a light-hearted lull to their journey.

As they walked into the city, they searched for an inn to rest in for the night, and possibly a place to sit down and have a much-needed meal.

“I need a break,” Virgil sighed. “I’m not used to walking again yet. Could we sit for a while?”

“Of course!” Roman smiled at his pale companion before both of them turned away, blushes covering each of their faces.

As the trio sat at a bench, taking in the city’s people and culture, Virgil pulled at his clothes. His wings were smothered and pressed as close to his body as possible, making the too-small clothes far too uncomfortable for his liking. Virgil couldn’t help but think that the red and brown attire didn’t seem to be quite his colors, and the tight shirt and baggy pants didn’t match his skin tone very well.

Roman couldn’t help but notice Virgil’s discomfort and was quick to offer a way to fix it. “We should go shopping!”

Logan responded before Virgil got the chance to. “I agree. I believe we should stock up on food and drink before leaving in the morning.”

“That’s not exactly what I meant, pocket square,” Roman winked towards Virgil as they shared a giggle. “Virgil here doesn’t have any properly fitting clothes. What do you two say we fix that?”

****

-Present-day, in an unknown location-

“Get back here, you thief!” The town’s breadmaker chased the younger man, angry at his loss of profit.

“I’m so sorry!” The man with the light blue hair called back. He held onto the bread tightly, fear of going hungry for yet another day filling him up entirely.

Soon enough, the young man lost the breadmaker and found his way back to the old, abandoned house towards the outskirts of town. Unfortunately, the man called this broken-down shack of a house home. He took his cloak off, letting his hood fall so that his elvish ears poked out from his rats’ nest of blue hair.

“I’m back!” Patton Laith called into the house. Fairly quickly the other occupant of the house, a quick-moving, dark green snake with bright, yellow eyes, slithered up to the elf to grab his piece of the bread. 

Taglist:

@tinkslittlebelle

@icequeenoriginal

[phoenixmakeswords]

The AU Ch.2

Still needs a name :(

TW: Rape, alcohol reference, victim-blaming, CSA mention, anxiety attack, depression, mention of previous suicide attempt and past suicidal thoughts.

make my way carefully through the throng of gyrating drunk people in the living room of the lake house owned by Clare’s girlfriend. Summer’s parents are real estate moguls or something like that. Clare changes girlfriends the way most people change clothes, so I wasn’t paying close attention when she was gushing about Summer.

Clare hugs me the minute I walk into the spacious kitchen. She’s what I wish my sister was like, but Regan’s too busy being his princess.

“Hey, Clarebear,” I murmur, squeezing her carefully. She smells like bubble gum.

“So, what’s up? You were really vague in your text. Did Regan do something again?” She hops easily onto the counter so she’s slightly taller than I am now. It’s disconcerting; Clare’s one person I'm taller than and I got used to that.

“I need a drink. Or four.”

“That bad, huh?” She smiles sympathetically.

“You have no idea. I came out. And I’ve gotten nothing but absolute radio silence since then. Like, I don’t know I'm still considered family or what the fuck is going on. So, yeah.”

“I still think of you as family. See any guys out there you’re into?”

“Thanks. No, I was too busy tryin’ to find you.”

A short, blonde chick should be easy to find. Especially when said blonde chick looks like a mashup of Tinkerbell and Alice Cullen. Like, picture Alice Cullen only blonde, lesbian, and punk/emo. That’s Clare.

“I’ll be your wingwoman if you find anyone.” Her playful grin helps. She helps. Because, yeah, my life is really royally screwed-up right now, but I still have Clare. And booze. Both of those help. My head feels like a heavy metal band has made itself at home when I open my eyes in the morning. I feel like death. Warmed over. Or ran over.

I’ve dealt with hangovers before, but this is the worst. Everything hurts. Why does everything hurt?

I remember doing shots with Clare. And that’s it.

I'm naked. In a strange bed. But I'm alone, which is a huge relief.

Standing makes the world spin violently. Swearing, I grip the nightstand for support. I might’ve felt pretty good last night, but the morning after is a bitch.

My stomach drops when I see the rust stains on the sheets. And I'm thirteen all over again.

It feels like eternity before I can breathe. Before I'm able to convince my lungs I need them to do their job. I can’t move off the floor yet. I don’t remember getting on the floor. This can’t be happening again.

By the time I'm able to get dressed, I'm exhausted. I feel worse than I did yesterday.

The one good thing is the sun isn’t shining. That might be the only good thing, but I’ll take what I can get. It hits me all over again when I get home from getting a rape kit done. And it hurts. I need my family, and I don’t know if they still want me, which hurts more.

The icons on my phone screen are almost impossible to make out through the tears blurring them.

“What’s up?” Ransom asks on the third ring. He sounds so perky and cheerful. Lucky.

“C-ca-can you come over? Please? Not a booty call. I need you.” I hate how obvious it is I'm crying.

“On my way.”

He finds me in a shaking ball on the couch.

“Kris, what happened?” He reaches for me and I duck away from him.

“Don’t touch me. Please.”

“Okay. Okay. No problem. What’s going on?” His gravelly voice is soft. Concerned.

“I was raped.” Saying the word makes it real all over again. Just like when I was a kid. “Again. I don’t remember it. Th-the sheets were bloody.”

“Did he drug you?”

“No, I was wasted. I'm a slut anyway. I mean, I deserved it. I was probably flirtin’ with him and he got a little rough.”

“It’s not your fault. He knew you were drunk and did it anyway.”

“Because I'm easy. Everyone in the freakin’ city knows this. I should’ve killed myself.”

“Kris, that’s not how this works. I mean, yeah, you’re kinda slutty, but that doesn’t justify this. No. Don’t do that.”

“Then why? Why do guys do this shit? Why me? I mean, I wouldn’t wish this on anyone else. I wasn’t meaning you.” I hug myself tightly, trying to not shatter into pieces. It’s been years since I’ve been this ashamed. Felt this dirty.

“Because they’re monsters. Only monsters do this kind of thing to a human being. Do you want a blanket? I'm sorry this happened to you.”

“Blanket. Please. I'm sorry. You’re like the only person who probably cares this happened.”

“Don’t apologize. Which blanket do you want? Where are they?”

“Hall closet. The gray fluffy one. Thank you.” I manage a broken, mangles smile. I feel like a burden. A filthy, broken burden that should be thrown away.

He smiles gently as he gives me the blanket. He’s not looking at me like I'm broken.

“So, what were you meaning about nobody else caring?” he asks carefully as he sits down.

“I’ve gotten nothin’ but absofuckinglutely radio silence from my family since I came out. I don’t know if they still want me. I need my mama right now, and I can’t call her. I mean, I expected this from Regan. She hates me. But not Mama. I was at Clare’s girlfriend’s house. Clare was there. And she probably knows.”

“That’s not cool. They shouldn’t ignore you. Has Clare texted you or anything?”

“No. She’s probably really hungover. That’s definitely not helping. I feel really worthless right now.”

“You’re not. You just went through something horribly traumatic.”

I already have PTSD from him. I already have nightmares about it when I'm stressed. He already screwed me up. I don’t need or want anyone else making it worse. The feel of the dough in my hands helps steady me slightly. Kneading it provides a distraction from the fury coursing through my veins. I nearly threw my phone when I finally heard from Regan. I am not a violent person. If I react violently, that puts me a step closer to becoming a monster like him.

Breathing heavily, I set the dough to the side to rest before moving on to the next batch. My countertops, stove, and table are covered with bowls of bread dough waiting for me to work them. Baking is my passion but breadmaking is cheaper than a punching bag.

This isn’t like when I bake. When I bake, I'm happy. I'm doing something I genuinely love. When I make bread, I'm always on the verge of bursting from fury. And this is how I control it.

It’s too early for me to be so angry. It’s three in the morning. I should be sleeping. I'm exhausted. I slept for maybe an hour before the nightmares kicked in and I saw Regan’s text, which didn’t help.

So I bake bread until I'm too exhausted to be angry.

I collapse into my bed once the last loaf is baked and put on The Empire Strikes Back with the volume on low once I lock my bedroom door. Ransom’s staying the night because I really don’t need to be alone right now. Needing him to stay bothers me. Needing a guy when a guy threw my life into turmoil bothers me.

Why do I smell eggs? I wonder, sitting up carefully. I'm still sore from the Incident.

I wander into the kitchen to find Ransom, clad only in baggy gray pajama bottoms, frying eggs at my stove.

“Good morning. Um, why is your kitchen being taken over by bread?” he remarks when he sees me.

“Because my sister is a giant bitch. And she finally texted me back and it was mostly her telling me I'm not her brother anymore, I'm a liar, an attention whore, and she hates me. She told me I deserved the Incident at the party. Because I'm a slut and I probably wanted it.”

“I really hope they don’t hire both of you. You’ll probably end up stabbing each other to death with tattooing needles or something.” He grins playfully. “You, I like. So, you bake bread when you’re angry?”

“It’s cheaper than a punching bag. I didn’t wake you up, did I? Um, I'm really sorry about all this.”

“Don’t be. I slept through you making a bread castle. How’re you doing?” I don’t miss the way his green eyes and gravely voice soften at the question.

“I'm fabulous.” I roll my eyes. “Isn’t Saturday, like, your Sabbath? I mean, I'm not religious, but I don’t wanna screw you up.”

“Sarcasm aside, that’s really sweet of you. I don’t keep Shabbat. Or go to synagogue. Or keep kosher. Thank you for being considerate and thinking of that.” He looks delighted I took that into consideration. I'm a slut, not a dick. I mean, I can be, but that’s mostly when Regan’s talking to me.

“You’re welcome.” I lean gingerly against the black marble island.

“You’re hurting. Go sit. Do you want coffee?”

“Sitting will be worse. Just—Just let me deal with this.”

“Okay. Is there anything I need to not do? I know you already feel crappy.”

“I still really don’t want touched. I know I'm gonna need help changing the dressing. And I might freak out. Um, don’t come up behind me.”

“How can I make changing it easier?” He places the eggs carefully on paper plates. “Do you want any meat with this? I don’t eat meat, but I’ll fix sausage or bacon or whatever.”

“I don’t know if you can. Eggs are fine.”

The look on his face when I douse my eggs with ketchup is nothing short of comical.

“Why did you do that?” he asks, eyes wide in horror.

“It’s really good. Seriously. I'm sorry if I'm cranky. I didn’t get a lot of sleep on top of my mental health being in the sewer.” I pop the tab on my Mango-Pineapple Rockstar.

“You have a right to be cranky. If that hadn’t happened when it did, I was going to ask you out. I’d still like to, but I completely get if you need to wait.”

It’s my turn to stare. I have a beautiful, shirtless man in my kitchen who not only fixed my breakfast but wants to date me. I'm not sure why he wants to date me exactly, but I'm not complaining.

“Not—Ransom, I can’t. I mean, I'm fucked up enough as it is without the Incident. And we can’t do anything right now. I mean, I don’t even want platonic touchin’, never mind sexy stuff.” And that seems to be all I'm good for. So why are you even botherin’? I add silently.

“Kris. Kris, it’s okay. It’s okay. If you’d said yes to a date, I was gonna wait on sex until you were ready. Until you were okay enough.”

“You’re fuckin’ hilarious. Guys are assholes. And they see me, and they think ‘Oh, he’s gay and he’s easy, so he’ll do what I want’ and I do. What else am I supposed to do?”

“Say no.”

“You should be a comedian. I don’t say no. Ever. You could ask me right now and I’d give in. So what if I'm already torn up and can barely walk and I’d probably go into an anxiety attack? You’d be able to get off. You’d be happy. End of story. I’ve said no. And I’ve been slapped in the face and told to not be a whiny bitch and to just deal. So that’s what I do.” I hate the anger making my voice shake. I'm not angry with him. Not really. I'm angry with the men who taught me this is the way it’s supposed to be.

“Kris, I would never do that. Even if we were strangers.”

“Forget it. Forget I said anything.”

“Have you thought about therapy?”

I glare in response. Of course I’ve thought about therapy. Anyone who gets to know me can see I need it. I'm scared to go.

“And people wonder why I drink so much,” I mumble. I'm early for class, but I'm not the only one here. Clare and I are the only ones here. Great.

“Hey! I haven’t heard from you since the party,” Clare says, coming to hug me. I sidestep her quickly.

“Don’t hug me right now. Please.”

“So, what happened with that guy?”

“What guy?” My blood turns to ice and lead pools in my stomach. I'm not sure if I'm going to throw up or pass out.

“Some blond. James, I think. He was really into you. You didn’t seem that into him. He must’ve been really good, though. We could hear you over the music.”

I stare at her in shock and disbelief. It’s been years since I’ve felt this level of hurt. Of betrayal.

“He raped me, Clare. And you listened to it. The fact you listened to me having sex at all is kinda creepy. Why didn’t you help me?” I spit.

“I thought you’d quit being all mopey and depressed if you got laid.”

“There’s a slight freaking difference between ‘laid’ and ‘raped’. I don’t remember anything. I saw the blood stains on the sheets and went into an anxiety attack.”

“You went into the bedroom willingly.”

“I was blackout drunk, Clare. Willing or not doesn’t matter.”

“Well, if you weren’t such a slut—”

“Shut up. Don’t you dare put this on me, Clare. Don’t. Next you’re gonna say it was my clothes.”

“Everyone knows how easy you are. You practically have ‘Fuck Me’ stamped on your forehead.”

I thought Clare would understand. I thought a woman, of all people, would get it. I thought Clare was my friend. That my loyalty was worth something. That I was worth something to her.

I'm an idiot.

She’s still talking when I walk out of the classroom. I’ll catch up later. Unless I drop out. Why not? It’s not like my life’s anything great right now.

When things went to crap after him, I became severely depressed. I pretty much shut myself in my room and listened to Fall Out Boy songs on repeat. And I wrote a suicide note in my journal. I was thirteen and I was planning on hanging myself. All I did was cause the people I love pain. My parents broke up, my sister—who I had been so close with—became my enemy, and my nana despised me. So why stay? Mama found the note the day before I planned on ending my life. And she got me through it. That was the first time.

I was seventeen the first time it was a stranger. He was my gym coach. When word got out around school, Regan became known as ‘The Slut’s Little Sister’. She cornered me one day after school and screamed at me about how I ruined her reputation. She told me I was selfish and all I cared about was getting laid. She blamed me. The other students did too. I have a phoenix tattoo and a lightsaber tattoo covering the scars on my forearms from that attempt.

I know I'm spiraling now. So, I do the one thing I can think of: I drive to Mama’s house. Worst case scenario is she tells me I'm unwanted. That very well might kill me.

The large white Cape Cod house in the suburbs has never looked so threatening.

I rap anxiously on the red door with one hand and ring the doorbell with the other. I know I'm being annoying but I'm in the middle of a crisis.

Mama looks stunned to see me.

“Kristoff, what’re you doin’ here?” she asks.

[jeanjauthor]

Baking Sourdough Bread at Home | Step by Step Guide

This is one of the clearest explanations of why certain steps are undertaken for certain lengths of time, when to add salt and why not to add it ahead of schedule, etc, when making bread. (Sourdough, btw, is the OLDEST form of leavened bread.)

Writers, your characters might not know these things quite as scientifically (yet layman-accessible) as she explains it, but if you want to put in a mild “uh-oh!” scene in a book where something as “simple” as making bread fails...and the protagonist needs to get help from someone, or steps in to help...or just suffers from a lack of leavened bread...this can help you set up such a scene.

Example 1, romance:  Hero is trying to make bread for his nephews, and fails at breadmaking. Cute gal-next-door hears the laments and offers to show him how & why breadmaking fails versus works well. This gives them more time to bond together during a shared experience.

Example 2: fantasy adventure: Young protagonist is fleeing their destroyed village, paying for their safety and passage in a caravan by promising to cook.  But they only vaguely remember how the baker made bread, and when they try to rush all the steps, the leavening fails, leaving them stuck serving hard, flat, tough lumps to the others in the caravan. This can be used to either set up tension (angry caravan wagoners & guards), or set up a mentorship scenario (guard/wagon driver who actually knows breadmaking pulls the kid aside to teach them how to bake bread properly).

[bockszrs]

I've realized that I've been partaking in the deadly sin of gluttony. I think everyone has an empty hole in their stomach that they try to fill with anything. Meaningless hobbies for instance. My father has recently taken up breadmaking. He works an office job that he loves and comes home to his terrible wife whom he loves and his kids whom he loves and I don't think he quite realizes how mentally ill he is and that ignorance is bliss for him but hell for everyone around him. He makes pretty good bread though. Too salty sometimes.

I try to fill up this hole with food I think. I'm not particularly fat, or as skinny as I would like to be, but I have a problem where I eat and eat and eat and eat because I'm bored or because the thing tastes good so I keep eating with no foresight into what kind of havoc this food could be wreaking on my body. I think I also partake in sloth. If I have nothing to do or I'm angry or sad, I sleep. I take probably a 3-hour nap a day. Maybe this is me continuing to fill this hole. Maybe I'm the only one with a hole. Maybe I'm partaking in the deadly sin of assuming.

Assuming.

Makes an ass out of you and me.

I’ve thought about this phrase a lot and I have used it once or twice because of this excessive thinking about it. Assuming. It makes an ass out of you and me, but really, it's just me.

[newstfionline]

Retooling the workforce

Sara Miller Llana, CS Monitor, June 18, 2017

BILBAO, SPAIN--Koldo Mentxaka was always considered the “brains” in the family. So it was no surprise when he, the oldest of four brothers, completed a university degree--the only one in his family to do so--and then went on to get his master’s in computer engineering. After working at IBM and later as a computer consultant in his hometown of Bilbao, on Spain’s northern coast, he lost his job in 2013 in the wake of the global financial crisis.

“Not you,” he remembers his mother saying to him at the time. “Of the four of you, not you.”

He tried to keep his cool. After all, he’d already had a successful career spanning almost two decades. Yet months of joblessness passed, one after the other. “I was sending out résumés everywhere, doing online courses, but at the end you lose hope. You think, ‘am I so bad that no one wants to hire me?’”

After 2-1/2 years of unemployment--and at age 40--he made a decision. He would forget his elite university degree, his long business lunches. He was going to trade school. “This was my way out, the way to recycle myself,” he says on a recent morning, a few months away from finishing a two-year course that’s positioned him for a job programming machinery at an industrial software company.

Mr. Mentxaka is undergoing the kind of retraining and career reinvention that societies will increasingly face as the world confronts some of the biggest workforce changes in more than a century. Technological change, the decline of manufacturing, the restructuring of “white collar” industries, globalization--all are dramatically changing the nature of work and the types of jobs that will be available in the future.

“Clearly the period of rapid industrialization in the 1800s, the creation of the factory economy, was a big change, but that occurred over a pretty long period,” says Mark Muro, an expert in advanced and inclusive economic development at the Brookings Institution in Washington. “I actually think this is one of the most disruptive moments we’ve seen, because there are more types of occupations facing more challenges.”

Most attention has been paid to blue-collar workers whose industries have been wiped out by dislocation and technological progress. Yet they are not the only laborers suffering. In Europe, the debt crisis has eased, but low-growth economies mean a dearth of job openings--particularly high-quality jobs--has persisted for all types of workers, including midlevel career people such as Mentxaka. And youth unemployment rates of more than 30 percent in some European countries have given rise to a generation of underpaid college graduates surviving on temporary contracts.

Even among those who have jobs, change is the new reality, adding to the importance of retraining. In the United States, for instance, the average person now can expect to change jobs 10 to 15 times over a working lifetime, often with changes of career in the mix. Years ago people pursued a single career path for the majority of their lives.

In Europe, where labor laws make it tougher to hire and fire people and professional reinvention is not as prevalent, the churn is less pronounced but no less significant. One survey in 2015 found that nearly half of all workers in the United Kingdom intended to switch jobs within three years. The average in Europe overall was 34 percent.

To help ease these transitions, Europe is offering some of the most innovative solutions. While its rigid laws and zealous unions make labor reforms difficult, Europe nonetheless far outspends the US on labor market programs, puts more emphasis on apprenticeships and vocational training, and generally places higher value on helping displaced workers.

The US, to be sure, has an economy that is outperforming Europe’s. But many experts say that Americans still have a lot to learn from Europe as workers struggle to find their way in the new economy, not to mention that retraining programs can change the tenor of politics: Some say they could act as a buffer against the more radical elements of populism sweeping the world, fueled in part by angry, unemployed workers.

“We know full well that the proper handling of the [economic] ruptures has to do with proper social safety nets: with education, with training, with the capacity of the labor market to relocate people,” says Pascal Lamy, former director general of the World Trade Organization and now president emeritus of the Paris-based think tank Notre Europe/Jacques Delors Institute.

Globalization has been disrupting jobs for decades. That’s why the US Labor Department enacted the Trade Adjustment Assistance (TAA) program in 1962--to help workers displaced by jobs moving offshore and bolster support for trade liberalization. Europeans were thinking about it even earlier, in 1951, when they formed the bloc that would later turn into the European Union.

Such programs have gotten a new look as automation has added to uncertainties about the future of work, especially after the recent financial crisis. And the pace of change is only likely to pick up. A McKinsey & Co. report in 2015 showed that 60 percent of all occupations could see 30 percent or more of their activities automated in the future. That’s not just low-skilled work but jobs in fields such as mortgage lending and health care.

Brahim Ben Addi could easily have succumbed to the changes sweeping through industrialized economies--especially globalization. He started work right out of high school at the French car manufacturer PSA Group, mounting airbags and brakes at a plant outside Paris. He thought he’d work there until he retired, just as his father had. But PSA closed the factory in 2013, in the face of increased competition from overseas automakers.

“It’s like going 180 kilometers per hour, then braking to 10,” says Mr. Ben Addi, a father of three, who worked at the plant for 13 years.

Entrepreneurial by nature, Ben Addi had already been learning breadmaking on his own time. His generous wage insurance and payout from the company--more than €65,000 ($73,000)--allowed him to trade working on an assembly line for kneading dough. He opened up his own bakery, La Gourman dise, in his neighborhood in a Parisian suburb.

In three years, he has become something of a local phenomenon. His flour-dusted “tradition” baguette was named the best in his community, no small accolade in France. Now he wants to open up a bakery in Paris and win best baguette of the city, an honor that would allow him to serve the Élysée Palace for a year.

“It’s hard,” says Ben Addi of being an entrepreneur, as he stands behind the counter of his bakery in a crisp white smock, catering to a lunchtime crowd. “If you lose your job, you have unemployment [insurance]. Here if I lose my job, I lose a lot of money. You have to have courage.”

Ben Addi received some of the money to start his new venture from the European Globalization Adjustment Fund (EGF), which, like the TAA, is intended to help retrain laid-off workers. The EGF recently expanded its assistance to include workers who lost jobs during the global financial crisis and youths in regions disproportionately affected by foreign competition who are neither working nor studying.

Yet fired European workers get far more help than just EGF grants. According to figures from the Organization for Economic Cooperation and Development (OECD), France and Germany spend much more on labor market adjustment programs than the US does--including on wage insurance, support for starting new companies, and access to training. France and Germany spend 0.99 percent and 0.66 percent of their gross domestic product respectively on such programs, compared with 0.11 percent for the US.

It’s clear that “social protection in Europe is much more developed than in the US,” says Baudouin Baudru, whose portfolio at the European Commission includes the EGF. “It is in the DNA, the history of the development of Europe.”

Some would argue, of course, that too much government help and financial protection are bad for economies: Generous unemployment benefits can discourage people from finding work.

The US, for its part, fosters more of a bootstrap spirit than most countries in Europe. This can be good for workers and creation generally, says Mr. Muro, but not necessarily for those in need. It can aggravate a mismatch between skills and what’s needed for the jobs of the future. “I think that divide is one of the great flaws of the US system,” says Muro.

Many point to Nordic countries as examples of smart collaboration between government, industry, and workers. They have a long history of consensus in labor relations, with unions and employers working together to head off debilitating protests. But the arrangement also serves to prepare workers for the realities of modern economies.

Sweden, for instance, relies on “job security councils”--nonprofits funded by employers that work with employees, employers, and unions to identify where new jobs are and to retrain workers for them. Workers, as a result, are less prone to fight to hang onto jobs that may become obsolete. Eighty-five percent of fired workers in Sweden find new jobs within a year, the highest rate of OECD member countries.

“It makes it possible to push structural change in society,” says Jesper Roine, an associate professor at the Stockholm School of Economics who sat on a Swedish “Future of Work” commission. “You get individual people who are not afraid of change simply because they know, ‘if something happens to me, I’m not totally on my own; there will be some kind of retraining.’”

France and other European countries are currently wrestling with how much government involvement there should be in helping workers cope with the new economy. François Béharel, president of Randstad France, the French branch of the global employment agency, says he’d like to see officials doing more to help college graduates and companies that can’t find workers with the skills they need.

In France, the youth unemployment rate is nearly 22 percent; in Spain it’s close to 40 percent, in Greece more than 45 percent. Mr. Béharel says these numbers could go down if governments took a more active role in spelling out which jobs and salaries are connected to specific degrees. “As it is now, the students have no idea, so when they finish [school], they find themselves unemployed,” he says.

At the same time, 50 percent of employers in France report they have trouble finding workers with the right talents, compared with 40 percent in the EU on average, according to European Commission figures. “Every day we are lacking welders, sheet metal workers, plumbers,” Béharel says. “We should be promoting the blue-collar work that corresponds to the needs of the marketplace.”

To do that requires, first, changing perceptions at home. “Parents need to understand that even if they want their children to become white-collar workers, there are many, many more jobs for blue-collar workers,” he says. It’s an idea best exemplified in Germany--in the form of an apprenticeship program that makes blue-collar work seem “noble.”

The country’s widely lauded vocational-training program has helped keep youth unemployment down to about 6.5 percent, far below the average rates in other European nations and in the US. Its two-pronged approach gives students a chance to learn theories in the classroom while honing their skills as drywallers, insulation installers, carpenters, and boat builders on the job through apprenticeships. According to German government statistics, about two-thirds of trainees get jobs with the companies they’ve apprenticed with. “In some fields [young people] with a vocation qualification are even more sought after than university graduates,” a government website proudly declares.

That’s something that Ander Cabrera knows all too well. He is in his first year of robotics at the Salesianos Deusto professional training school in Bilbao--the same school that Mentxaka attends. Mr. Cabrera already has a degree in electrical engineering from the University of the Basque Country. But when he graduated last spring, he realized the chances of finding a good full-time job with benefits were slim. He watched as friends accepted temporary jobs that eventually left them unemployed. While he considered getting a master’s degree, in the end he decided that trade school was the smartest choice, particularly given that Spain, since 2012, has modeled its programs after the German approach. “I hope vocational school gives me an edge,” he says.

Classmate Sarai Noriega has her own reasons for wanting to get vocational training. Like many others here, she got a university degree, in this case in construction engineering. She even found a job. But she didn’t like the long hours she had to work, which weren’t viable for her as a single mother of two. She watched her blue-collar counterparts clocking in and out for the same salary that she made and decided to change careers. The price of the full-time program she is taking in automation and robotics is relatively cheap, about €80 ($90) a month, which was also an attraction.

“This was the fastest way to get a new job,” she says, struggling to wire a circuit board. “Many single mothers are in this situation. This could be a solution for them.”

A return to blue-collar work is not just a matter of pragmatism. When the American writer Matthew B. Crawford, who has a PhD in political philosophy, penned a book about why he decided to work as a motorcycle mechanic in Richmond, Va., he became a cause célèbre. Published in 2009, “Shop Class as Soulcraft: An Inquiry Into the Value of Work” attested to the contentment that can be derived from working with one’s hands instead of doing “knowledge” work.

“The satisfactions of manifesting oneself concretely in the world through manual competence have been known to make a man quiet and easy,” he writes. “They seem to relieve him of the felt need to offer chattering interpretations of himself to vindicate his worth. He can simply point: the building stands, the car now runs, the lights are on.”

Mentxaka can relate to the gratification. He liked working as a computer consultant. He would have happily continued to do it, but he couldn’t find a way to sustain a career in the industry. Today he says he derives unexpected pleasure from his new vocation. At school they’ve learned how to make electronic switchboards and combine them with programming languages, sensors, motors, and robotic arms--skills he is using at the software company where he’s apprenticing. “It is like a game but for grown-ups,” he says.

While in the depths of joblessness, he says, he started to understand how people can complain about immigrants getting jobs when citizens can’t find work. Then he said he had a revelation: “You wake up--you realize you [can either] stay behind or you can go ahead.”

[tennessoui]

I feel like this is a big ask, but 1. welcome back! 2. can you ever see KUWSK going angsty? Not permanently or anything, but what would a KUWSK obikin disagreement look like?

yes thank you for welcoming me back a month and a half ago i'm a bit trash to be so late on this but!! here is about 2k of a more serious fight between anakin and obi-wan.

(2k)

“You’re talking to your ex,” Anakin says. It’s the tone of voice he uses on work calls when he’s absolutely furious but trying to remain professional. Obi-Wan has never heard it directed at him before. He almost doesn’t recognize it. 

“Casually,” he stresses. “We’re…casually speaking.”

“Casually,” Anakin echoes in that same voice. Obi-Wan is starting to think he’s done something incredibly wrong. 

“She messaged me,” he stresses, feeling as if this is an important fact. “I didn’t reach out to her.”

“But you reached back!” Anakin says loudly, putting the spoon on its rest a touch too forcefully. “And then you didn’t even tell me!”

“I thought it was a non-issue!” Obi-Wan protests. “I don’t tell you when I talk to the woman at the supermarket checkout line!”

“Keep Francesca out of this,” Anakin cuts through the air with the side of his hand as he spins around to open their spice cabinet. “You know full well that’s different.”

“She flirts with me at the store, and you’re fine with it!” Obi-Wan quite completely feels like tearing out his hair. He can’t believe they’re having this conversation. He can’t believe his own fortune, that he’d pulled up a picture mid-playful argument with Anakin over what the twins had dressed as for Halloween when they were five, and he’d shown it to his partner at the exact moment that Satine ex-Kenobi had texted him, replying to something he'd sent a week ago.

That had pretty much ended the playful part of their argument.

“Yeah, and it’s not the fucking same, Obi-Wan,” Anakin responds, shaking a bit of salt aggressively into the stew. “You were never fucking married to fucking Francesca.”

“Anakin—”

“And by the way,” Anakin snaps, trading the salt for cayenne pepper and seasoning it liberally. “Implying that your ex-wife is also flirting with you over texts you did not tell me about is not the best strategy, Professor.”

The worst part is that he’s not even looking at him anymore, scowling instead into the contents of the heavy pot.

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan tries, because he’s not listening, he’s just reacting. Of course Obi-Wan knows Francesca and Satine aren’t really the same thing, but they mean the same thing to him. One slips him free red bell peppers sometimes by ringing them up as green ones with a wink and a quirk of her lips. The other is his ex-wife.

But neither of them is Anakin, and so they mean the same thing to him. He doesn’t love them. He can’t even pay them the slightest modicum of his attention, because he’s too wrapped up in and around and going crazy over this man who’s petty enough to have absolutely just ruined Obi-Wan’s dinner on purpose by adding too much spice to the stew Obi-Wan had requested.

“Anakin, I think we need to take a step back from this,” he finally gets out when his partner is distracted by opening and closing the cabinet doors, ostensibly looking for the bowls even though he’d been the one to reorganize the dishes in the first place, years ago, and he’s never not known where something is.

“I think I’m going to sleep in my room tonight,” Anakin replies in an icy voice. “I think you might be right.”

“What? Darling, no—Anakin, love, it’s—casual cannot even come close to describing the texts, you can read them if you want, there’s nothing there—“

“Daddy? Obi?” Luke asks from the kitchen doorway. He’s peering around it, little face looking horrified. Obi-Wan freezes. How loud had they been? Luke and Leia are seven now, they remember these things, they have questions—“Is dinner ready? Obi?”

Leia’s face joins the same pale ghost of her brother’s, and Obi-Wan feels awful. Absolutely terrible, but the sort of terrible he doesn’t know what to do with. The twins heard them arguing, they were practically shouting at each other, Anakin is planning to sleep in a different room, Anakin didn’t even call it a guest room, he called it his room even though they’ve been together for—for a year and a bit now—and isn’t that devastating? My room, Anakin had said. Does he not understand everything Obi-Wan owns is his as well? Does he…does he not want it?

“Almost,” Anakin replies. He sounds so forcefully happy that it’s manic. It comes across much too fake, and Obi-Wan can feel the way Luke immediately distrusts the word, the expression. “I just realized I forgot something at the store though! We need bread! We can’t have the stew without bread.” 

Anakin nods once to himself as he says this, shooting Obi-Wan a very quick glance before his eyes snag on the phone on the counter between them and he looks away as if incredibly pained, hands ghosting down to the pockets of his jeans to check for his keys.

Obi-Wan thinks it would really actually kill a part of him to watch Anakin drive away on his bike right now. Not to mention the twins.

Oh, the twins. 

This had been why they were so hesitant in the first place, to bite the bullet, to kiss and mean it and remember it and lean in again. Their relationship affects the twins, and as much as Obi-Wan loves Anakin, he’d been so worried about even accidentally causing the kids distress. 

He thinks seeing their father leave when they can tell something is wrong would be devastating.

“I’ll go,” Obi-Wan says, putting a hand flat on the counter, pocketing the phone, and fighting the urge to glare at Anakin because the other man should know—should think—but this Anakin is almost a stranger to him, all clenched jaw and shaking hands and it’s just a text—it sort of makes him mad as well, angry that it hurts so much, that Anakin doesn’t trust him. They’ve known each other going on three years, their entire lives were intertwined almost immediately. “Give me the keys.”

“Yeah, right,” Anakin scoffs, shoulders tense and unyielding. “To the bike?”

“No, dumb—” he cuts himself off because he’s too old to be namecalling, especially around little ears. “The keys to the car are behind you. On their hook. Can you hand them to me?”  He doesn’t think he should get within a few feet of Anakin right now. Not for fear of violence–either from him or from his partner—but because it just—it doesn’t seem like a good idea. Not when they need bread.

“Should I leave my phone?” He can’t help but ask acidly. 

“I don’t know,” Anakin shoots back with deadly accuracy, slinging the keys across the countertop hard enough that they spin out of control and Obi-Wan has to stoop to catch them “Should you?”

Obi-Wan turns and gets to the mouth of the kitchen without another word. He debates his actions, his emotions, for a second’s pause before he puts his phone on the countertop and sweeps out into the entryway and then just as quickly out of the house all together.

He can’t go far. The Skywalkers have made him incapable of it. He’ll go to the store. He’ll get Anakin his fucking bread, which really means he’ll give Anakin space to think, and he’ll take his own space to think, and then he’ll come back because it’s Anakin, it’s Anakin and it’s his family, and he thinks this is the stupidest fight in the entire goddamn world because doesn’t Anakin know how much he can’t love anyone else? Doesn’t he know that if Satine were to turn up on his doorstep tomorrow and ask for him to unsign the divorce papers, he wouldn’t even consider it?

Doesn’t he know—

“Obi?” Leia’s voice says at the same time there’s a hesitant tug on the edge of his shirt. He turns around and looks down at the girl. “Where are you going, Obi?”

“Your father wants bread for dinner,” he tells her. “So I’m going out to get bread. For dinner.”

“Oh,” Leia bites her lip before looking back behind her at the open door of the house. “Luke wants to know if you’re gonna come back, Obi.”

Since she turned seven, Leia has had trouble admitting when she wants to know something. She finds it so much easier to pretend she’s her brother’s spokesperson. “Daddy, Luke wants to know if the dog dies in the movie.” “Obi, Luke wants to know if we have to go to the barbecue, only cause Johnny is going to be there, and Luke really doesn’t like him.”

“Leia love,” Obi-Wan crouches down to look at her completely. “Of course I’m coming back. We need bread, darling.”

“I don’t want bread,” she snaps, sounding suddenly so very much like her father. “I want you.”

“Leia,” Obi-Wan pauses, smoothing his hand over the top of her hair carefully. He needs to soothe her, because he and Anakin had been so out of line earlier, fighting where the children could hear and now look what it’s done to them.

“Obi,” Luke trots out of the house before he can figure out what to say to her. “Obi, you should take this,” he holds something up and presses it into unresisting hands. “If daddy needs to keep your phone, you can have mine. Just in case you wanna talk to us while you’re gone.”

It’s the plastic, bulky flip phone that’d come in a kit of kid’s toys a Christmas ago. Smiley faces instead of buttons, but it made sounds when you hit it. Luke had been obsessed with it from the beginning.

Obi-Wan looks down at the phone and feels the very absurd urge to cry. “Loves,” he whispers, pulling Leia into his side. “Oh—”

He remembers thinking once when he’d just been given the Skywalkers, that first time he’d been asked to sit beside Luke’s bed until he fell asleep, that for children, love was about staying.

How can he possibly leave them now? When he loves them so much as well? When his love never grew out of that child’s wish for someone to stroke his hair as he dozed?

“Oh, alright, Luke, Leia,” he says, standing with only a bit of a wince because he’s getting so very old and Leia has thrown her arms around his neck unexpectedly so he rises with the weight of a child attached to him. “If your daddy wants bread, then let’s get him bread.”

“Road trip?” Leia asks with excitement.

“Better,” Obi-Wan promises, letting Luke grab onto his hand. “Science experiment.”

[phoenixmakeswords]

Another AU Excerpt

The feel of the dough in my hands helps steady me slightly. Kneading it provides a distraction from the fury coursing through my veins. I nearly threw my phone when I finally heard from Regan. I am not a violent person. If I react violently, that puts me a step closer to becoming a monster like him.

Breathing heavily, I set the dough to the side to rest before moving on to the next batch. My countertops, stove, and table are covered with bowls of bread dough waiting for me to work them. Baking is my passion but breadmaking is cheaper than a punching bag.

This isn’t like when I bake. When I bake, I'm happy. I'm doing something I genuinely love. When I make bread, I'm always on the verge of bursting from fury. And this is how I control it.

It’s too early for me to be so angry. It’s three in the morning. I should be sleeping. I'm exhausted. I slept for maybe an hour before the nightmares kicked in and I saw Regan’s text, which didn’t help.

So I bake bread until I'm too exhausted to be angry.