#but it's AMUSING either way

[akanemnon]

Wow, not even 5 seconds in and they're already starting a fight.

FIRST - PREVIOUS - NEXT

MASTERPOST (for the full series / FAQ / reference sheets)

[hazel2468]

At this point, “OP is a Zionist” means “OP is a Jew who has spoken about the rampant and violent antisemitism in leftists spaces and it makes me feel icky that a kike dares to express their opinion because I’m a racist bigot, so I’ll call them a Zio and that means I can get away with being outright racist about Jews because it’s acceptable to hate ‘Zionists’- and if any other Jews call me out, I’ll just say they’re Zionists, too!”

You absolute fucking ghouls couldn’t be more transparent if you tried. You’re not allies. You’re not good people. You do not care about human rights. Your “activism” is the smokescreen you put up to hide the fact that you get off on hating Jews. Your “activism” is about nothing more than making you feel good and getting your little brownie points from other antisemites online.

We see you. We know the deal. At least the fucking Nazis had the guts to say outright that they want every Jew dead. You’re so cowardly that you have to couch it in social justice language and beat around the bush.

[azure-clockwork]

I love three houses discourse because I'm pretty sure everyone just picks their route based on which house leader they're the most gay for and then tries to defend their pick by pointing out the other sides's war crimes via twitter memes. Reader, all four of them do substantial quantities of war crimes. So many. We're just here because the woman with Issues and a big fuck-off axe said so, and then we gotta justify everything she did in the name of dismantling the class system. I mean, I'm here for that, but you could also try justifying Charm Man uses poison and perfidy to try to stop racism, A Sad Little Meow Meow gives no quarter instead of doing therapy, or the Thicc Pope tries to bring back her mom via human experimentation, depending on your tastes

[statementlives]

thinking about secrets. about sarcasm. about gertrude "there's a network of secret tunnels under the archive that contain my deepest secrets" robinson and alice "i was born here and i'll die here and the universe communicates through me" dyer.

[marlynnofmany]

Some things you can never see the same after reading the beginning of Dracula

My only thought about paprika used to be "oh that is a spice."

(source)

[angelpuns]

Catholic Guilt will really get to you about the stupidest shit ever why is this so stressful

[grooviestguru]

do we think neil kept the FBI hoodie?

[tennessoui]

For the prompt list, nanny/single parent obikin would be amazing!!

(from this prompt list)

(the first time I answered this prompt two years ago, the nanny anakin au was born)

so to do something different, here's some gffa widowed anakin, nanny (sort of) obi-wan!

(2.5k)

It is hard to find time to grieve. There are too many things to do. Too many appointments to make, too many decisions Anakin isn’t sure he’s qualified for. Some decisions are easier than others. For example, the funeral will be on Naboo. There will be two services: a public one to honor Padmé’s public service, and a private one to honor who she was as a person. The casket will be closed, because his wife died when her cruiser exploded. There isn’t much left to bury anyway.

But some decisions are harder. Which flowers should go on her casket. What songs would she want sung and who should sing them? Would she prefer her grave closer to her ancestral home or the home she created in her adulthood?

If she told anyone the answers to these questions, it wasn’t Anakin. But then, the people who knew her best, who loved her most, died with her. Sabé, Rabé, Saché, Yané, all of her handmaidens—an assassination such broad strokes that it was impossible for it to fail.

So Anakin chooses Yali lilies, because Leia’s eyes linger on them the longest. He chooses a small Nabooian folk band to play after her service because their music is the first thing to make Luke lift his head from his coloring books in days. He formally requests that her body be buried among her ancestors, and the Nabierres agree immediately.

And he keeps telling himself that he will grieve, but there is so much to do. 

And then—then there’s after the funeral. Then there’s the rest of his life, sprawling out before him in a long, hazy road. 

There are more decisions to be made.

There are people who have opinions on them now, people who sat back and let Anakin muddle through flower arrangements and kriffing seating charts, who now step in to peer over his shoulder, monitor his every breath.

Should he really move the children back to Coruscant? Does he truly plan to continue to work as a mechanic in the Mid-Levels? Should he not think of the children, their needs? How can he support them on the thin amount of credits he makes? Would it not be better for the children to live on Naboo in the care of their grandparents and their extended family?

It would be what Padmé would have wanted.

Anakin cannot care about what Padmé would have wanted, because she isn’t here. Not to argue with him, not to make her wants known. She is dead. She doesn’t get to haunt him in the waking world too.

“What do you want?” he asks plainly, sitting down across the table from his two children. The twins blink back at him. Leia has finished her cereal. Luke has barely touched his.

“Bacon,” Luke says.

Anakin hadn’t meant for breakfast, but he figures it’s as good of a start as any. “Alright,” he agrees.

He stands once more and goes to the kitchen. It’s not exactly his domain. It was never Padmé’s either. The way Padmé grew up, food was made once you requested it—by droid, by cooking staff. Not by the hand of a Nabierre.

The way Anakin grew up, food was cobbled together carefully, sparingly no matter how much you requested it. And no matter how you cooked it, it always tasted a little like dust, which took the joy out of experimentation.

But the serving staff have been dismissed for the past two weeks to give the family time and space to grieve in private. 

(Padmé’s parents have been given a schedule for visiting hours for that exact reason.)

Anakin locates the pan; then, he locates the package of bacon strips.

When he glances up, both twins are watching him over the edge of their barstools, tiny faces showing both skepticism and incredulity.

“I want to know what you want to do,” Anakin says, raising his voice as he places the pot over the heating plate, the meat in a moment later. “Do you want to stay here with your grandmother and grandfather? Do you want to go back to Coruscant?”

The twins are quiet. Anakin twists his neck to look at them again, and they’re looking at each other, silently communicating the way only twins can.

“Where will you be?” Leia finally asks, looking at him with narrowed, suspicious eyes, bottom lip already jutting out.

Anakin blinks. “Wherever you are,” he answers.

“You won’t leave too?” Luke asks rather tremulously.

Anakin takes the pan off the heated plate and turns it off with a decisive flick of his wrist. “Of course not,” he says. “Come here.” He crouches down and barely has enough time to open his arms before the twins are there, pressing in as close as they can get to him. He holds them back just as tightly in return.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he promises into Leia’s hair. “Not without you two.”

—-----------------

It becomes apparent fairly quickly that this is, by necessity, a lie.

The twins don’t want to stay on Naboo, which Anakin is secretly incredibly grateful for. He doesn’t want to either, but he knows he’d just be called selfish should he express the opinion.

But the twins don’t want to go back to Coruscant either. This makes sense as well. It would be incredibly jarring for them to go back to living in the quarters they shared with their mother, her Upper Coruscanti apartments in the nicest district of the planet, without her there.

Anakin wishes it were as simple as sticking a pin on a planet and deciding to uproot the entirety of his family to live there. 

But it’s not.

Perhaps if he were still young, nineteen, newly free and in love with the taste of that freedom, it would be.

But he’s a widower now. He has his children to think about, their futures. Any planet he chooses must have what they need as well. 

And they are four year olds who have just lost their mother. Their needs are numerous.

What makes the decision for him in the end is that his boss knows a man from Stewjon, who is willing to hire him. Who is willing to pay a premium for his expertise with mechanics.

Anakin doesn’t know the first thing about Stewjon, other than that it’s an ocean planet in the Inner Core and his dead wife always said the Senators from Stewjon were so frigid and tight-lipped because they spent the first few days of each visit trying not to be seasick on the Senate floor.

Anakin isn’t sure why this is the very first thing he tells the man—his potential boss—he meets behind the counter in the mech-shop on Stewjon.

He’s left the children with their grandparents for the week—long enough to fly from Naboo to Stewjon, meet with his potential employer, interview, apply his work practically, and fly back out.

He’d explained to both twins why they had to stay on Naboo. He’d explained many times. That hadn’t changed the betrayed look Leia had worn as she saw him off. It hadn’t wiped the tears from Luke’s eyes.

“Ah, well, I can’t say I’ve heard that one before,” the mechanic says. He sounds amused, and Anakin is incredibly shocked to hear a Coruscanti accent. Everyone he’s spoken to since arriving planetside has had such a heavy brogue that he’d honestly struggled to understand their directions to the shop—Kenobi & Sons.

Anakin lets himself look again at the man behind the counter. He’s rather clean for a mechanic, he decides. His beard is red, a common factor around these parts apparently, but his beard is short and neat, trimmed to accentuate the strong lines of his jaw. His eyes are a stormy blue, the kind of blue that matches the Stewjoni ocean.

“Between you and me though,” the man smirks and leans onto the counter with his elbow. His tunic is dark gray, white starchy fabric peeking out beneath the v-necked collar. “I’ve never been a fan of Stewjoni politicians anyway.”

“Oh?” Anakin asks, sidling a step closer to the counter. The man has the beginnings of gray at his temples, and his eyes are lined with wrinkles. They don’t make him look old though, Anakin decides. They make him look…well-lived.

“I’ve not a head for politics much at all,” his future employer shakes his head slightly with a small smile. His eyes flick up and down Anakin’s face, lingering on his lips and then lingering longer on the scar over his brow. Anakin feels rather flushed under the inspection, and he shifts his weight forward until he’s leaning up against the counter too.

There’s something about this man that’s rather…magnetic. It pulls him in. It makes him want to linger.

Good characteristic for a shopkeeper to have, though Anakin privately decides that the man before him has a face that’s wasted on mechanics, buried under some ship’s underbelly in a backroom.

“Me neither,” he admits, a moment too late to sound anything but highly distracted. It makes the man smile again though, a flash of straight white teeth.

“Is there anything you do have a head for then?” he asks. His tone is light, airy, rather teasing.

This is the strangest interview Anakin has ever had.

“Um,” he says. “Well. There’s mechanics.”

“Oh?” The man’s eyebrow lifts at an elegant angle. He props his chin on the palm of his hand and looks up at Anakin through his eyelashes. “Then why come here to us then?”

“Um,” Anakin says, and not because the man looks rather unfairly flattering like this, amber eyelashes in sharp relief against the blue of his eyes.

They’re interrupted by the sounds of clattering in the backroom, stomping and cursing. The man before him straightens with a slight sigh and picks up the closest flimsipad. “And what brings you in here today, sir?” he asks rather loudly, pitching his voice back to the other room of the shop pointedly. “Problem with your speeder? Serving droid? Cruiser? If it’s your astromech droid, I regret to inform you that I’ll have to refuse you service on account of the fact that I don’t particularly care for them.”

Anakin thinks he splutters, but whatever noise he makes is definitely drowned out by the rather irritated shout of Obi-Wan! that comes from the back.

A moment later, a man storms through the door, looking annoyed. "We will service an astomech if that's what's broken, Obi-Wan."

Now this is a man that Anakin can believe is a mechanic. His nails are blackened with oil, and his bare, burly arms carry smudges of the stuff. He’s much broader than the man—Obi-Wan—that Anakin had been talking to. He’s bald with a reddened scalp and a rather large red beard that’s the antithesis of the other man’s in every way. His clothes are dirty, loose, and the color of ash. He looks older too—whereas Obi-Wan could easily be in his thirties, this man must be pushing fifty.

He snaps at Obi-Wan in a language that Anakin doesn’t understand. Obi-Wan shrugs and hands over the flimsi pad without argument.

“Um, actually,” Anakin says, feeling incredibly wrong-footed. “Which one of you is Kenobi?”

“I am,” both of them say. Obi-Wan’s smirking slightly. The other man’s voice is louder, carrying that Stewjoni accent so obviously lacking in Obi-Wan’s speech.

The older man closes his eyes as if he’s praying for patience. “We both are,” he says. “Though if your ship’s malfunctioned, sir, I’m the Kenobi you want to see. This one’s good for naught but magic tricks.”

“I have been told I’m rather good at other things,” Obi-Wan turns his smirk full-force at Anakin, dropping his eyes to Anakin’s lips once more.

“My name is Anakin Skywalker,” he says very quickly in a very normal tone of voice that is most definitely not a squeak. “I’m here to interview for a position. As another mechanic.”

“Oh,” the older Kenobi says.

“Oh,” the younger Kenobi says in a much different tone.

The older Kenobi pinches at his nose for a moment before turning around the counter and offering his hand. “Ben,” he says. “Ben Kenobi.”

Anakin takes his hand and shakes it, eyes traveling back to Obi-Wan. Is he supposed to shake his hand too?

“I’m the Son in the sign,” Ben says gruffly as if that answers his question.

“I’m the reason it’s plural,” Obi-Wan adds, busying himself with the contents of the counter. From what Anakin can tell, the man is just messing up the carefully organized piles of receipts. 

He decides that he would rather not get the job than point this out to Ben.

Ben huffs out something in Stewjoni that sounds downright insulting, but that doesn’t stop Obi-Wan from smiling sunnily up at Anakin. “My brother enjoys bitching and moaning that I came back home when I was seventeen, but he’s awfully quick to foist his children off on me when he’s called to shift at the rig offshore and Marci’s off-planet too.”

Anakin blinks. He feels like that’s the safest answer.

“Only thing good that blasted Jedi Order ever taught you was how to handle younglings,” Ben says, and then spits on the ground as if the words themselves have left a bad taste in his mouth.

Anakin blinks and wonders if he should say something to remind the brothers that he’s here. For an interview. “And my magic tricks,” Obi-Wan rolls his eyes slightly before catching Anakin’s eye and winking. With a wave of his hand, a flimsi-sheet flies over the counter and into Anakin’s chest. He catches it unthinkingly. “Would you like to sign in, sir?” “Get out of here,” Ben barks, snatching the flimsi from Anakin’s hand and pushing it back to the counter. “Like I said, the only one’s impressed with that is the younglings.”

“I don’t know, your man looks impressed,” Obi-Wan says slyly, even as he pushes himself away from the counter and around the edge of it.

Anakin isn’t sure what he looks like. He doesn’t think impressed is the word he’d use though.

When Obi-Wan brushes past him, the static electricity in the air jumps between their shoulders. Anakin feels as if he’s been shocked.

Obi-Wan must feel it too because he stops only a few inches away and looks at Anakin. For the first time, his expression is open. Curious. Considering.

“Get!” His brother insists, and Obi-Wan obeys, throwing one last look over his shoulder at Anakin before he slips out the door.

The shop feels somehow much bigger now that the other man has left. Ben sighs and rubs a hand down his face. He looks older now. More worn. “So that was my brother,” he tells Anakin wearily. “Who you would most likely see frequently if you were to take this job. I would understand completely if you would like to start by talking compensation.”

[maximura]

[asjjohnson]

Immortality

(a ficlet written for Dannymay 2024 prompt 6: Immortal AU: What if Danny/Halfas couldn’t die?) Also on AO3.

---

He actually didn’t know whether halfas were immortal or just lived longer than humans.

Now at around age 140, give or take a few years (what year was it now? he could calculate it), Danny was an old man in his human form—wrinkled skin hanging from his arms and face like unironed fabric; hunched over to half his original height, bones grated down as though left exposed outside over the past decades; eyes milked over; ears inadequate despite their larger size; mind fogged.

He had no one to look to. A few years ago, or maybe a decade or two ago, he’d searched the Zone for any sign or rumor of the existence of other halfas. He wasn’t sure how long he’d searched, talking to distant ghosts, visiting places he never could have imagined existed, the Ghost Zone stretching on and on, toward infinity, before he’d given it up as a lost cause.

Vlad (though only a few years older than Danny and thus wouldn’t have been of much help anyhow) never returns to his human form. Had stopped living as a human altogether once he’d realized he was ‘growing old’.

Of course, this had been before Vlad was anywhere near an old man. Back when he’d only been about 60 years old. A few wrinkles and thinning hair, and his vanity and pride had had him abandoning his human half completely.

Not to the extreme of extracting that part of himself, of course—he had known better by that age—but of denying its existence; living solely as a ghost.

Danny had grown fond of humanity, however. The light touch of gravity, an embrace that kept him tethered to reality; the life found everywhere he looked, in the grass at his feet, in the air around him, or even just walking by him—so unlike the void of the Ghost Zone, the vast empty space with small pockets of ecto-life scattered across its depths; even the ache in his bones, the proof that he was alive, still belonging to this planet. It was all fondness.

Even as his senses continued to fade—the details of leaves and faces blurring even with thick glasses, the chittering of birds growing silent even with hearing aids, the difficulty of holding objects (connecting with the world around him) with pain and trembling hands—he clung ever more to the human world and its small wonders.

And though all his human friends from over a hundred years ago might be lost, he wasn’t alone.

They were still here.

Alive and well, living echoes seen in their grandchildren, great-grandchildren, great-great-grandchildren, and teenaged great-great-great-grandchildren. A town composed of familiar faces. And sometimes those echoes were so strong, he called someone by the wrong name.

Matilda wears a black shirt one day and, even with the pink floral patterns, Sam is so strong within her.

Derek tries out for football, and the way his smile pulls across his face is all Dash, even through the freckles and shaggy brown hair.

Nicky’s righteous glare is Valerie shining straight from his heart. Although the light in his eyes as he talks about psychology is all Jazz.

Danny was trying. Trying so hard to stay with them all, as they continued to live, fully alive, forever onward.

He didn’t know whether halfas were immortal.

[loadinghellsing]

@madderbatter

[catflowerqueen]

Was working more on Siffrin Scales a Wall today and... the plot bunnies got me. So I probably will end up writing a one-shot about what, exactly, caused the Island to disappear.

Which will hopefully get rid of some of the writer's block I'm having with the next chapter of the fic.

[baesooraya]

Haven't properly gotten into Durge yet but bare with me:

from what we've seen, Durge's opinion of Orin wasn't too great; complaining that she is playing with her pray and the aftermath of them as with toys, taking her damn time and not really understanding the point of their Lord Bhaal - it is not the spectacle of mxrder but the act itself that is valued - destruction of all life - and in his name.

So imagine the rage, envy and animosity Orin had felt when her (in my case) 'big sister' - the favourite in the family who starts to get an even more important role in the grand scheme - starts to get entangled with Gortash and his manipulative ways of domination - and not destruction how Bhaal wills it.

As she herself says: '…the little lordling has been whispering in your ears? He always knew how to tumble and twist your mind matter, leave you knotted in his cords.'

Now, ignoring how absolutely deranged that line makes me (lmao) I can fully understand Orin, no matter how messed up she is: besides being the preferred spawn, Durge would also be getting away with meandering or straying from the course of their goal as well- no wonder she decides that she had enough of it and if she can't make herself the favourite, she can make herself the only…

How that pans out for her depends on the Durge, but can't say all too well hah.

[help-is-on-the-way]

i love that lego gave kenji his hair back lmao

[fromtheseventhhell]

You definitely don’t need to answer if you’d prefer not to, but I love your Asoiaf analysis and was eager to get your take on the Arya/Tyrion/Jon love triangle from the 1993 outline. I’m not sure if this something you’ve already touched on but I was curious what your thoughts on it are, especially at it relates to Tyrion. Often when I’ve seen this aspect of the outline mentioned, many are quick to dismiss/scoff at the very idea of it…which is truly such a shame because if nothing else, it’s certainly a springboard for many interesting discussions. Though I do think George has scrapped the triangle from the story, I’m curious what, if any, impact it’ll have on how he writes the initial meeting/subsequent “friendship” between Arya and Tyrion. Arya has been established as a character who makes friends easily and is not at all judgmental of others based on appearances and I imagine that would be very appealing to Tyrion. Given his recent cynicism, I don’t think they would “hit it off” right away but I can definitely see them developing an admiration for one another. I recently reread the Mercy chapter and was struck by Arya’s mention of how apt she found one of “Tyrion’s” lines from The Bloody Hand.

I'm a "the original outline still has relevance" truther until I'm proven wrong, so I do still think Tyrion and Arya's relationship will have some significance. If nothing else them being two of George's favorite characters is enough for me to believe we'll get some interesting on-page interactions between them. How relevant will their relationship be? That I don't know but I can definitely see them getting along. They'd play off each other very well and I'm personally really looking forward to them meeting. Arya's interaction with Bobono and, like you said, her memorizing "Tyrion's" lines could be a hint toward the dynamic they'll have in the future. Her Mercy chapter also hints at a relationship between her and Daenerys, so we might see that trio interacting sooner than expected. With the love triangle angle being scrapped, it is possible he has some other subplot planned for them. We don't really know enough to speculate so we'll just have to wait and see though.

[moeblob]

So it occurs to me that I posted most of their lore on my OC blog (though a few posts on here have the story info) and honestly I think it's very important to note that the entire reason a guy from Florida is recruited to help defeat the demon lord isn't him as the hero. His younger brother (by about ten years younger) is the Chosen Hero and... not very good at it. So the goddess (Solei) who had selected the hero has to begrudgingly go back to earth and convince his older brother to help save her world.

(Also Reynold admits to Solei that "Sascha could never be a bad influence. He's the best impulse control I've ever had" and she really doesn't like to hear it. That's terrifying.)