#like its one of those tiny things that when put together basically amount to

[widevibratobitch]

honestly im so fucking tired of the 'slutty waist' hype like just say skinny lmao its ok you can just say skinny everybody knows anyway lol

[tapedeckshoard]

Hello there lovely! I know you said mostly human centered so I'll leave a human alternative beneath this one if you don't feel up to it ^^

But the basic concept goes like this, Decepticon Reader (GN) is captured by the Autobots for intel. They refuse to spill which leads to interrogations, after which Ratchet typically patches them up. I'm thinking good old enemies to lovers, and as a bonus I think its more fun if reader is on the "crazy" side. As in, the smiley-type with a unnerving tiny amount of sadism.

If your not feeling up to it then simple headcanons revolving around a Human Decepticon reader with Kleptomania is also fine. Take your time with these darling <3

-🩹

Oooo, interesting idea! I tried my best! It's more enemies than enemies to lovers but oh well! This was fun to write! I kind of ran out of steam near the end. . .

-

Patching Up

Ratchet x GN!Cybertronian!Reader

SFW

1852 Words

-

You never pegged the Autobots as the sort to do interrogations. Violent ones, at least. But you supposed war brings out the worst in everyone, including those like the bots standing before you. How long had this been going on? You hadn’t bothered to keep track. It’s not like it mattered. You were trapped here until you either managed to escape, died, or by some miracle, Megatron decided to save you. You sincerely doubted the third option was happening. So that left two.

The first option was preferred. Escaping would allow you to get away with your spark still intact. But the Autobots were deceptively good at keeping you contained. When you weren’t getting scolded for information, they kept you locked in a warehouse storage unit of sorts, something you noticed they had a lot of in their base of operations. Normally, you’d be able to bust out with no problems, but they reinforced the thing, making the door nearly impossible to break. Not that your servos were free to break them. Cuffs kept them firmly together. You were just thankful cuffs were all they put on you.

Of course, there was always the second option. Dying wasn’t the ideal solution, but at least it would get you out of this situation. And who knows? Maybe Primus would be a better conversationalist than these Autobots. 

You slumped against the wall, helm clicking against the hard concrete behind you. Above all, being a prisoner was boring. You supposed that was the point. Keeping you locked alone for long periods of time, only to drag you out and interrogate you until they got bored of you. 

They were no strangers to violence, either. They tried to keep up their calm facade. But when push came to shove, they were no different than your faction. You had the gashes to prove it. 

Energon stained your exterior, metal bent and faded, wires shoved out of place.

It was a miracle you hadn’t fully shut down. Well, you supposed you shouldn’t call it a miracle. The Autobot medic kept you well enough to continue the interrogations. He barely spoke to you, optics staring at whatever injury he was working on at the moment.

You tried to get under his skin, tease him a bit, but that only led to him cutting his operations short and leaving you to leak energon. So you learned to keep your mouth shut.

After months of this nonsense, you knew Megatron was never going to save you. He probably thought you had already perished. And you also knew that the Autobots were not going to stop their interrogations, either. And with Ratchet constantly patching you up, you weren’t dying anytime soon. 

All of these thoughts led you to come to one conclusion. You either had to give up the information, or die. 

You stood up, pushing yourself off the wall. You banged your cuffs against the door of your makeshift cell.

“Hey!” you called out, loud enough that you knew they could hear. “I’ll talk! Just let me out of here!”

It didn’t take long for you to be dragged out of your cell, Bulkhead pushing your back any time you paused or lost pace with the others. They kept your cuffs on, all optics on you as you were brought to the main silo.

“You wish to disclose what you know?” Optimus questioned you, optics narrowed skeptically. 

“Do I really have a choice here?” you spat back, leading Bulkhead to nudge your back none-too-gently. You growled, shooting him a glare. “Push me again, and I’ll bite your arm off,” you threatened.

Bulkhead reared his servo back, ready to strike, before Ratchet intervened.

“Can we focus here?” he snapped out, looking between you and Bulkhead angrily. He focused on you. “We’ve been at this for cycles. Why change your mind now?” 

“I’m not allowed to change my mind?” you questioned almost teasingly, barely stifling a smirk.

“I don’t believe you,” Ratchet replied, crossing his arms stubbornly. 

“What? You don’t trust me?” 

“You know I don’t,” Ratchet sneered. 

You faked a frown. “You’ve been patching me up for cycles. And not once have I tried to end your life. And you know I could if I wanted to.” 

“You’re not stupid enough to make an attempt on my life, you’d have nowhere to run.”

“You think I’m smart?” you cooed out. “D’aww, thanks.”

“Enough,” Optimus demanded, and the room fell silent. You weren’t crazy enough to interrupt a Prime. “Will you reveal the information we seek?”

You scoffed. “Fine. What do you want to know?” 

“The location of the Decepticon warship,” Ratchet told you. You shot him a look. 

“The sky, probably,” you snarked out. 

“We know you have the ability to find the Decepticon warship. You’re the best tracker the Decepticons have,” Ratchet pointed out. 

“I used to have the ability,” you replied with a huff. “Now? Who knows. It’s not like I’ve had the time to brush up on my tracking skills.”

“Will you make the attempt or not?” Ratchet snapped at you, clearly growing tired of your snark. 

You rolled your optics. “Fine,” you told him. You looked around, spotting the Autobots’ pathetic excuse for a computer system. “I’ll need access to that piece of scrap. Give me a few cycles, and I’ll have the location pinpointed, at least temporarily.” 

It was hard to work with an Autobot constantly hovering around you. You knew they didn’t trust you. They wanted to make sure you weren’t sending some sort of signal to the Decepticons. Not that you would. At least not now. Maybe back when you first got captured, but you grew to realize that your fellow Decepticons did not care about you. You were another cog in the machine. 

You let your annoyance fuel you, your desire for revenge against those who had led you rot in this silo.

Most of the time, the bot watching you was Ratchet. The others still had duties to attend to. They came and went, but Ratchet stayed. You grew used to his presence. He didn’t talk much, which was a relief. The only time he spoke was if he suspected you were up to something. But that became less and less frequent.

It was quiet, save for the sound of your digits tapping against the digital keyboard. The others were not present, so it left just you and Ratchet. He hovered behind you, as always.

“I’ve found it,” you spoke up, breaking the silence, watching the blinking dot on the screen coast lazily across the sky. 

Ratchet looked past you, optics scanning the information. “Hmph,” he finally said after a moment of silence. “Took you long enough.”

You turned, scowling at him. “I did it, didn’t I?” you snapped.

He looked at you skeptically. “Yes, I suppose you did,” he murmured.

You huffed, walking away from the screens you’d been stationed at for the longest time. “I’ve done my job,” you told him. “Am I free to go?”

“Free to go where?” Ratchet replied. “You’ve betrayed the Decepticons. You’ll be melted down for scrap if you return.”

“Anywhere but here,” you spat.

Ratchet huffed incredulously. “You think we’re going to just let you leave?”

Your steps were hard against the silo floor as you marched up to him, close enough to reach out and strangle him. “Who is going to stop me?” you questioned.

Ratchet didn’t back down, meeting your heated gaze. You watched his servos ball into fists at his sides. “You will remain here until Optimus and the others return.”

Before you realized what you were doing, you raced forward, using your body weight to throw him onto the floor. You stumbled atop him, quickly caging him underneath you. Your weapon activated, and you pointed it directly at his spark.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” you snarled.

Ratchet was stunned for a few moments before attempting to push you off of him. You didn’t budge.

His optics narrowed, and you felt a burning sensation on your side, realizing he’d activated his welder. You could smell burning metal. 

You scurried off of him, clutching your side, feeling the residual heat still lingering. 

He stumbled, regaining his footing, and you two stared at each other, nobody making the next move. You walked slowly around him.

“You’re injured,” he pointed out, making you scowl.

“And whose fault is that?” 

“You attacked me first.”

You scoffed. “I may not be a Decepticon anymore, but I am not an Autobot. And I refuse to stay in this silo any longer.” 

“That decision is not yours to make,” he replied.

You wanted to tackle him again, but you didn’t. This entire fight was stupid. Even if you managed to fight your way outside the silo, you couldn’t get far without the Autobots on your tail. They’d just drag you back here.

You huffed, turning your back. You stormed over to a medical berth, sitting down stubbornly. “Fine.”

He followed behind you, optics trained on the burn he’d given you during your fight. 

You noticed and shot him a dirty look. “Admiring your handiwork?” you spat.

“Let me take a look,” he said.

You kept your servos firmly covering most of the melted metal. “Why?”

“I should make sure you aren’t permanently injured.”

You wanted to tell him to leave you alone, but you also knew that he was a medic, and that you shouldn’t let your anger get in the way of him looking at an injury. You knew he was skilled at patching you up. He’d shown that before.

You begrudgingly moved your servos, optics trained on the burnt and melted metal staining your side.

He crouched down, looking over the injury. “Does it hurt?” 

You fought back a humorless laugh. “Yes, it hurts.”

“It’s still burning, then,” he concludes. “I need to cool down the injury.”

“Then quit talking and do it,” you told him, annoyed. 

He pulls a metal tin from his subspace, opening the cap and pouring some of the clear salve onto his servo. “Are you going to kill me if I apply this?” he asked you.

You huffed, making sure your servos were fully clear of your injury as you shot him a glare. “I’m still deciding,” you hissed.

The paste was cold, but it did get rid of the burning sensation that plagued your exterior. You let out a quiet sigh. “Thanks,” you murmured out, almost inaudible. “I guess.” 

He scoffed. “I’m a medic, it’s my job.” 

“Yeah, well, you’d be surprised at the amount of ‘cons who don’t do their job,” you quipped, rolling your optics. 

“No, I wouldn’t,” he replied. 

You shot him a glare. Just because you weren’t a Decepticon doesn’t mean you’d stand for him slandering your former allies. Even when you brought it up in the first place.

“Anyway,” you said. “Does this mean you’re going to shove me back in that cell now that I’ve pinpointed the warship for you?” 

“I don’t think I could even if I wanted to.”

You hummed, a small smirk appearing on your lips. “You got that right.” 

[inkykeiji]

hello it is i, sprout again, with mindless thoughts (thank you for always being patient with my drawn out rambles).

so ive been browsing more on sd!nat. the last anon question got me curious and now im hell deep. he seems equally secure and insecure in a sense. perhaps in the way where the idea of reader leaving may make him feel vulnerable and reactive. correct me if im wrong!!

what if he found out that the reader was storing away money in a private account? like maybe she has intentions or maybe its just her trying to be financially smart on her end. but im curious about the whirlwind of thoughts that would race through his head upon the discovery :')

sprout babie!!! i am SOOO late on answering this, i apologize!! >.<

no you’re entirely right, he is both secure and insecure. he has confidence in himself and his abilities when it comes to specific things (work being the biggest one), but he is so obsessed with his reader that he’s terrified she’ll leave. it’s kind of one of those situations where you end up loving something so much that it becomes unfathomably important to you, and because it is now so important to you, you are petrified of losing it in some way because you don’t know how you’d survive or function without it. the more important and valuable something/someone is to us, the more scared we are to lose it, basically.

OOOH okay so!! technically, it would be extremely difficult for reader to do such a thing, as natsuo controls and manages all of her banking accounts and funds + personal info etc etc (he holds all of her identification on him at all times, for example). BUT!!! for arguments sake let’s say she was somehow able to stash away some money in a private account, and natsuo found out—he would absolutely go ballistic.

you specifically mentioned the streams of thought that would tangle in his head upon first learning about it, and that’s pretty much exactly what would happen. his thoughts would be so messy and so chaotic that they’d merely knot together into one huge, incomprehensible mass that weighs on his skull with each passing moment.

his mind is running at a mile a minute and he can hardly catch a single idea that races through his head, all of the potential situations morphing into one another, half-finished and hectic, as his brain jumps from one scenario to the next: what if she’s saving up to escape? to leave him and never return? to buy a ticket to some unknown, far-away land and change her name, to become completely untraceable? what if it’s someone else giving her this money? natsuo doesn’t pay much attention to the absurd amounts of money he is consistently dealing with, so he can’t remember if he noticed lump sums missing—what if she’s been stealing money from him and it’s been going undetected because he’s so busy? what if this money is coming from a new partner; someone putting silly and fantastical ideas in her head, someone who might rot her brain, poison her heart, and convince her to leave him? what if she’s gotten herself into some sort of trouble, and has been hiding it from him? what if she’s got some rare illness, and she’s saving up money for treatment without bothering to tell him? what if she’s somehow in some sort of danger? what if she fucking hates him, and is doing all of this just to spite him? what if she’s trying to gaslight him and make him crazy? etc etc etc.

it’s all so much that he ends up drowning in it, paralyzed by the endless number of possibilities, and isn’t able to confront her about this behaviour until he speaks to his beloved touya-nii first, who knows how to snip those knots into tiny pieces and weave them into something sensical again.

[kbmfoods]

How to Make Pani Puri at Home

Imagine this – it’s a warm afternoon, and the craving for something tangy, spicy, and utterly satisfying hits you out of nowhere. What comes to mind? That’s right – Pani Puri! And why run to the street vendors when you can whip up this delicious street food classic right at home? Trust me, with KBM Masala by your side, making the perfect Pani Puri is easier than ever.

What You’ll Need – The Essentials

Let’s start with the basics. Here’s your list of must-have ingredients to get things rolling:

Puris – Those crisp, airy puris are the heart of this snack. You can either make them at home or pick up ready-made ones from the store.

Filling – We’re talking about mashed potatoes, boiled chickpeas, or even sprouts for a twist. Add some chaat masala, and you’re golden!

Tangy Pani (Water) – This is where KBM Masala comes in to work its magic.

Now, here’s where we, KBM Masala, come in to make sure your homemade Pani Puri is as authentic as it gets!

The Magic Ingredient – Pani Puri Masala

Ah, the water! The real star of the show. To make the perfect tangy pani, all you need is water, tamarind paste, a bit of jaggery, and – you guessed it – KBM Pani Puri Masala. Our masala has the perfect blend of tangy, spicy, and refreshing flavours, giving your pani that street-style zing you’re craving.

Here’s how to make that flavorful water:

Take chilled water in a bowl.

Add tamarind pulp and a little bit of jaggery for sweetness.

Mix in a generous amount of KBM Pani Puri Masala. Trust us, this step is the game-changer.

Finally, throw in some fresh mint and coriander leaves for that refreshing aftertaste.

And just like that, you’ve got your pani ready to go!

How to Assemble Your Pani Puri

Here comes the fun part – assembling! It’s like creating tiny, flavour-packed bombs of happiness. Here’s the step-by-step guide to put it all together:

Take your puri – Lightly tap it on the top to make a small hole.

Stuff it with the filling – Be it mashed potatoes, chickpeas, or even a little bit of spicy boondi.

Pour in that delicious pani – Make sure it’s chilled for that refreshing kick.

Pop it in your mouth and enjoy – The explosion of flavours is going to blow your mind!

Pro Tip for Perfect Puris

Want to know a secret? If you’re making puris at home, make sure your dough isn’t too soft or too hard. Roll them thin for that crispiness we all love. Fry them in hot oil until they puff up and turn golden brown. Perfect puris every time!

Variations You Can Try

Once you’ve nailed the basic recipe, don’t be afraid to get creative. Here are some fun variations of Pani Puri to try:

– Meetha Pani Puri: Replace the tangy pani with sweet tamarind chutney.

– Dahi Puri: Add yoghurt and sev for a creamier, tangier version.

– Ragda Puri: Use a spicy white pea curry as the filling instead of the usual potato mixture.

Each of these variations pairs perfectly with our KBM Pani Puri Masala, because hey, you can never have enough flavour, right?

Wrapping It Up

Making Pani Puri at home is not just about food – it’s about the experience. The crisp puri, the spicy water, the savoury filling, all come together to create an explosion of flavours. And with KBM Pani Puri Masala, you can be sure that you’re getting that authentic street-side taste every single time. So, why wait? Grab your ingredients, invite your family, and turn your kitchen into a Pani Puri stall! You won’t regret it.

Time to let KBM Masala help you create magic!

Source : https://www.kbmfoods.com/how-to-make-pani-puri-at-home/

[dinosaurcharcuterie]

My theory as to why it was made, and why there's barely any surviving, is that it's the same reason the original clear fountain pens were made. Clear fountain pens are called, as they always have been, demonstrator pens: you can see the inner workings through the clear plastic. As you show a customer how to use something, they can see that the thing does what you have just been promising, or even why you would tell them to use it with XYZ method when you're used to doing ABC.

On the sewing machine here, you could be demonstrating, e.g. that the entire inside is metal, none of those pesky, new, fragile plastic bits except on the outside; or how the threading system works; or that there's a significant amount of electric doodads on it, but no stray wires to pose a fire hazard with all the lint from sewing.

The reason not to do this can be more than just lint-related reasons, too.

A lot of clear cases that are this big are made of plexiglass, which is strong and cost effective, but not in the least bit scratch resistant. It will look like it was mauled by a cat if you consistently do silly things like sewing with fabric pieces pinned together. You can prevent that relatively easily by adding a layer of sticky backed plastic on the areas that will see this kind of abuse, but that's an extra step and extra costs during production. You could also buff it out, but sewing machine repairs are mostly done by small businesses who would balk at having to buy extra tools just for this one case on this one brand's machines.

There's not much interesting things to be seen here, either, mostly a metal block. Most home sewists regularly have to take the case off for cleaning and basic maintenance, so they already know what is in there.

All that's to say is, you're giving the expensive option for a custom case that doesn't show many new things, and will get a bunch of complaints about its cost, durability and cleanliness from almost everyone who interacts with it.

All that being said, I'm not saying there's no demand for them or that they can't be done. I'm just saying, if you want to introduce them, start with small cases and play the educational angle. I'm saying, put them on these tiny suckers that get advertised as "children's" or "travel" sewing machines, that have the same bare bones tech in them as the first double threaded sewing machine.

They already come in every color you can dream of, so transparent is only one step further. And if you ruin the case... These get sold for 25-40 bucks. No one is gonna be outraged that they don't last as long as any halfway decent full size machine.

hey btw the clear sewing machine is ai :((( was very disappointed to learn that

mannnnn cmon. there must be real transparent sewing machines in the world why do people have to get my hopes up with fakes.

[lilietsblog]

so whenever Russian characters crop up in American/English-speaking media theres a very noticable thing where writers v often dont understand patronymics and full names.

Now, there’s two gradations of “full name” that are in use here. There is the “FIO” full name, or SGP perhaps (surname, given name, patronymic), and there is the full given name.

As an example, let’s take Ivanov Ivan Ivanovich.

Ivanov is the surname. You can tell bc of hte -ov suffix at the end. (Not the only one possible but a pretty decent indication something is a surname when it is there)

Ivan is the given name. You can tell bc Russian has a set (an expansive one) of given names and this is one of them, one of the most historically popular at that.

Ivanovich is the patronymic, it can be translated as “son of Ivan”. You can tell bc of the “ovich” suffix. There is also “evich” and for at least one name just “ich”. Colloquially they will also get shortened into just “ych” making the variation “Ivanych”. (”Y” is the letter used for transliteration of a sound that doesn’t exist in English but is considered fairly close to “i’)

To be clear, “Ivanov Ivan Ivanych” is the exact same person as “Ivanov Ivan Ivanovich”, this is hte exact same name, the only thing that changes is how formal the speaker is being about it.

Female suffixes are “evna” and “ovna”. Anna Petrovna, Anna Fadeevna. There is also “ichna” for at least one name and an antiquated “ishna” which is the colloquial alternative in some cases. Anna Fadeevna = Anna Fadeishna. This IS antiquated tho.

Coming back to our Ivanov Ivan Ivanovich, this is the “FIO” form of his name, the way it will be put on formal documents that require one’s full name. The “Ivan Ivanovich Ivanov” form is also acceptable, its just not the order you write on documents in. The patronymic (Ivanovich) always comes after the full given name (Ivan), the surname can be stuck on either side of that.

The traditional respectful address to someone you know is the full given name + patronymic. Ivan Ivanovich! Could you come over here? It’s used with plural/formal “you”. This form is also becoming obsolete in recent years but if you’re writing mid-20th-century or characters of middle age+ Ivan Ivanovich is the name to go.

(Note the difference from the address + surname form in English: Dr. Smith or Mr Smith etc. In Russian this form does not exist except several centuries back or in very very impersonal century back “citizen Ivanov” that like a policeman would use to address you. Not anyone you actually know personally. Schoolchildren will often not know their teachers’ surnames because they are all Ivan Ivanovich to them.)

Now I keep saying “Ivan” is the FULL given name. The short given name from “Ivan” is “Vanya”. This is a set linguistic fact - the set of given names in Russian is factually two linked sets, a set of full given names and a set of short given names. Some short given names can  be short from several full given names, some full given names can have several short names (a person will usually pick one to use). A short given name doesn’t go anywhere on formal documents. It just follows from your full given name naturally, like conjugation. Some full given names (Gleb, Oleg, Diana, Vera) are short enough to be used as short given names too and so don’t realy have assigned short counterparts. In fact Vera can be both a full name on its own - Ivanova Vera Ivanovna - and short for Veronica - Ivanova Veronica Ivanovna.

Short names are formed through a variety of rules. There are basic requirements for the form they take as a result though. Full given names can have “complicated” consonant pairs together: Dmitriy, Aleksandr, Pavla, Anna. Short names are “simple” will almost always go consonant-vowel. Dmitriy -> Dima, Aleksandr -> Sasha, Alik or Shura (don’t ask how that last one happened, it’s a miracle of absurdity, but it’s one of the traditional shortenings), Pavla -> Pasha (well, Pavla is a rare name, you hear Pasha and you usually assume Pavel, the male name), Anna -> Anya. (”y” is not a consonant here, “ya” is a vowel sound English doesnt really have)

(As an exception to the consonant-vowel rule, when there’s a consonant pair the second of which is “l” it’s usually kept together in the short name - it’s just very simple to the Russian ear / tongue. Vladislav - Vlad or Slava, for example)

Often a name will be formed fully from the syllables / consonants of the full name, give or take changing the last vowel to the gender neutral “a”/”ya” (It will either be “a”/”ya” or a consonant). Vladimir -> Vlad, Ruslana -> Lana, Tatiana -> Tanya, Anna -> Anya, Katerina -> Katya, Dmitriy -> Dima or Mitya, Ivan -> Vanya. And then there’s the “sha” suffix tacked on as the second syllable: Pavel -> Pasha, Natalia -> Natasha or Tasha, Daria -> Dasha, Aleksandr -> Sasha, etc.

So long as they conform to these rules, you can kind of make them up. Though considering the whole of history, you’re not super likely to make up something that hasn’t been made up before you. Anna historically speaking turns into Anya, Nyura, Nyusha... -shudders-

So how are short names actually used?

As an implication of familiarity/subordination, that’s how. For the weebs in the audience, you know the ‘-chan’ suffix in Japanese? Kind of exactly like that. Japanese has more nuances, but generally if you wouldn’t call someone -chan, you shouldn’t call them by their short name. (Unless they specifically asked you to, but I think that’s a thing in Japanese too)

Short names are never paired with patronymics. The steps of formality in address are basically “Ivan Ivanovich” => “Ivan” => “Vanya”.

(There’s also formal you, so to be completely clear: “Ivan Ivanovich” (formal you) => “Ivan” (formal you) => “Vanya” (formal you) => “Vanya” (informal you). If someone is getting called their full given name + informal you, it’s either implying antiquity - pre 20th century - or they’re using their full given name as their short given name.)

You call your children and siblings by short names. You call your friends by short names. You MIGHT call your employees, especially if they are sufficiently young, or if you’ve known them for a long time and the “familiarity” part applies, by short names.

SHORT NAMES ARE NOT FORMAL. This is important. Nobody has “Natasha” written in their passport (unless I guess they were making new documents in America or something from scratch and didn’t use any old ones as basis of establishing idenity so could make up whatever. It’s still weird! It’s like having “Johnny-boy” written in your passport!)

SHORT NAMES ARE OFTEN GENDERED BUT YOU CANNOT TELL HOW WITHOUT KNOWING THE CORRESPONDING FULL NAME. “Pasha” and “Misha” are both male names becaus they are short from “Pavel” and “Mikhail”. Of course you could have a Pavla or a Mikhaila, but the former is very rare and the latter is probably a foreign Mykaila Russianified or something. In these cases it’s usually considered normal to assume gender, even if there’s a tiny chance you could be wrong.

PATRONYMICS ARE NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES INTERCHANGEABLE WITH SURNAMES. You have the same surname as your family members, but if you have the same patronymic, either you’re siblings or there are multiple people with the same given name in your immediate family, which is slightly odd. A patronymic is formed from your father’s name by unambiguous and definite rules. Foreign names can be turned into patronymics easily. (Though kids of foreign citizens can get whatever their parents want on their birth certificate - patronymic by the rules of one of the parents’ home country, no patronymic at all, whatever) Surnames are surnames and work the same way they work anywhere else.

PATRONYMICS AND SURNAMES ARE NOT CONNECTED IN ANY WAY WHATSOEVER. Any surname goes with any patronymic same as it goes with any given name. Except for the obvoius “statistically likely to be from the same culture” part. (Your “Russian” character could have Georgian, Ukrainian, Armenian, Lithuanian, Bielorussian, Kazakh, Tatar descent, descent from any number of indigenous cultures on the territory of Russia that I personally never heard about until I started translating documents in high amounts and stumbling upon them. Russia is an empire!) But even that’s just statistics - you could have a Tsukino Farha Bogdanovna and I’d just go “that’s a fascinating family history right there”.

GOOGLE RUSSIAN GIVEN NAMES, DON’T MAKE THEM UP. And pay attention if something is marked as “diminutive” - that means it’s a short name, and it will not be used on formal documents or in conjunction with a patronymic. Go for the name it’s diminutive for and just have the character ask everyone to use their short name if you want - it’s trendy these days.

There’s all kinds of fuckery going on with name use on the margins - some old people will call their close friends the “patronymic + informal you” construction. (Actually it’s a “Russian babushka” stereotype that actually exists within the culture. And if anyone ever uses the “short name + patronymic” form irl it’s this category of people, though I’d imagine only in third person) Some bosses or even teachers will invite their students to call them by their short name (I am so deeply uncomfortable with this). Age is often the difference between a Vanya and an Ivan Ivanovich in the same situation.

All patronymics and a good share of surnames conjugate by gender! “Ivanov” and “Ivanova” are the exact same surname, but a guy will have the former writen in their documents and a gal would have the latter. If you legally change your gender that letter changes too. (No, there’s no gender neutral form. Some surnames, like those ending in -enko, just don’t do this, but those that do are at all times one or the other) I guess expatriates a couple of generations down could have whatever going on, but if you have an actually-born-in-Russia “Ivanova Ivan Ivanovna” that means “Ivan” is a girl with a male name for some fucking reason. Name gendering is just tradition, patronymic gendering is grammar. (And if you have an “Ivanova Ivan Ivanovich” that’s just someone making a typo) (Maybe our hypothetical Ivanova Ivan Ivanovna transitioned and liked her birth name so much, she decided to not even go for Ivanna or something else plausible, Ivan or bust. Officials would probably just shrug and go with it lmao)

Oh, and in less formal lists and situations, surname + short given name is a classical combination. When I call my grandboss, surname + short given name is how I introduce myself, because I’m much younger and much subordinate so short name it is, but she’s under no obligation to identify me from my given name so surname it is. (To people who I expect to remember my name but who weren’t expecting me to call, just surname is good, but to people who can connect my surname with my identity but probably don’t remember my given name immediately & exactly from that, giving also the form of given name they address me by is the reasonable person thing to do)

If I were introducing myself in the “Hi! I’m Tsukino Usagi!” anime intro format, I’d go for “Short given name + surname”. Short name is usually the one people think of as their personal identity as it’s whatt their close circle will have been calling them for their entire life, and ACTUALLY it’s normal for the surname to come after the given name. In a book citation of “famous doctor X did Y” they will probably be “famous doctor fullgivenname-patronymic-surname”. For a Russian speaker, switching between Japanese name order and English name order is not a difficulty, but we WILL be distressed by not being able to tell which is which and therefore which it is on sight )=

MARVEL COMICS WALL OF SHAME

- Natasha Alianovna Romanova. First, “Romanov” is not a common surname, it’s the surname of the royal family, it’s like a random English guy being called “Tudor”. Well, it’s plausible, it IS formed by the classic “common given name + -ov” rule, but Roman isn’t even that common a name (and not exactly Russian), and... well. It’s just weird. I don’t think there’s good chances for it to have come into existence as such historically WHEN IT WAS THE RULING FAMILY SURNAME. Second! Natasha is a short name! She should be Natalia/Natalya! Third... I mean I will not say Alian is not an existing male name, and I won’t even say it’s not used in any cultures that exist within Russia, but if they were aiming for “common Russian male name” they missed 180 degrees.

- Ilyana Rasputin. First, -in is a suffix that makes this surname adjective-ish, meaning it conjugates by gender, meaning she is RASPUTINA. Her brother is Rasputin. She is Rasputina. Second, again, I have heard of exactly one (1) guy with this surname, and it’s the same guy you’re thinking of right now. It is in no way, shape or form common, or reasonable to give to a character without making it a plot point. Third, Ilyana is not a Russian name that exists. Ilya is a male name, but there’s no female form. FOURTH, I distinctly remember reading a comic where she was calling her brothers “Piotr” and “Mikhail”. That’s their full names! I mean bonus points for actually finding the full names this time, but it’s extremely weird for their LITTLE SIBLING to use them! They should be Petya and Misha as far as her own speech is concerned!

P.S. “All Night Laundry” is a fantastic webcomic, but “Grandimir” is not a real name, “Grand” is not a Russian word root and will not be used in a name this way, you’re looking for “Velimir” or somethng (though that’s, like, a thousand years antiquated). Also while both the uncle and the nephew having the “Petrovich” patronymic is not that odd, Petr is not THAT rare a name and maybe their brother/father was Petr Petrovich... considering we never learn their surname, I seriously suspect the writer just confused a patronymic with a surname. Also, naming their dog the same name crosses the line into slightly weird. Who names a dog after their father? This is actually what prompted this...

[duckit7]

Duck it... I’ll make a Masterlist

Yo my fine feathered friends. I decided to try to put together a masterlist so its easier for peeps to check out my stuff. Don’t worry, tumblr will still be the first place all my new stuff goes up on, but AO3 makes it easier for me to put it together in one place. 

For those of you that don’t know me, I am a part time g/t writer. You can call me Duck, Ducker, Mother Ducker, or really whatever you would like. 

Fair warning my main thing is Giant girls and tiny guys. Definitely not closed off to other possibilities and I might branch out in the future, but that’s what you can expect from most of my writings for now. I like the fluff, angst and sass, but also like a fair amount of kindness shown between giants and tinies. (I’d like to say I’m a positive vibes person) Just a heads up some of my stories have violence and most have profanity.

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Online Dating Can Be Hard.

Meeting a possible romantic interest is never easy. Doing it online can be even harder. Especially if you don’t read the fine print and end up with a little or big surprise... This is the story of Cam and Kate.

Will they be able to build and maintain a friendship? Will it evolve into something more? Or will past trauma and their differences be too vast to overcome...

The world is based on the idea that there is the human race and the parvus race. Parvuses are just humans, but a lot smaller. I’ve made another post on parvuses, but the big overall idea is that they are “equal” to their human counterparts, but are still struggling with fair treatment at times. If anyone else wants to use the parvus universe or a similar idea for their stories go for it! 

(This one is my main story right now and probably gets updated the most. Plus it seems to be the people’s favorite.)

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The Protector

The sacred alliance between humans and giants is held together by the bond the human king or queen holds with their giant protector. When the protector ritual goes wrong the prince ends up with a giant way more terrifying than he intended. Will they be able to over come their fears and differences? Will people accept the giantess? And will she be able to help with the approaching dark days?

(I have the skeleton for this one basically done. Its the fleshing out that takes some time. There might be some rewrites as the story proceeds so please be patient with me.)

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In A Dire Situation

Hans's family is threatened by the wolf mob running town. Will he be able to convince his childhood friend to help him?

This one has the characters as animals because I like to switch up the medium through which that g/t good good is passed. 

(This is similar to The Protector and gets updated on occasion. Its not the favorite amongst the crowds based on feed back but I still like it and want to keep it going.)

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Born Small

Based off the George Shrinks TV show. That’s what first got me into G/t as a kid. Its not a fan fav with the tumbr community so I don’t really post the updates here, but if you want to check it out the link is above. 

[into-crazy]

little something

Just some headcanons where J gifts you Louboutins

Ledger!Joker x Reader

Warnings- Cursing, mentions of criminal activity, brief nsfw points, ages 18+

Disclaimer: I do not own or claim any rights to the products that are mentioned in this post. Copyrights of the mentioned products belong to Christian Louboutin.

This is probably the most random set of headcanons I've done so far. I don't know exactly how this came to me, but it did and I just kinda rolled with it. To be honest, I'm not sure if anyone will like this or not. But if you do, then hey thanks!!

J never criticized your style or choice of clothing. The man found you gorgeous in everything or nothing at all. It wasn't the clothes which made you attractive. No. The fact that you're so unapologetically you, now that he found attractive. You were fearless in expressing yourself in and out of your clothing.

Sure J didn't care much, but he did pay attention. His attentiveness had him noticing when one of your articles was new. Every so often would he even give his attempt at a compliment on them.

"I like that shirt. It's new, right?" // "Those jeans are lookin' real good on ya, doll." // "Oh is that a new little bra ya got there, bunny? Hm, I want nothing more than to tear that off of you right now. But I won't since ya just got it.. although, ya could get another.."

To others, these might have come off as creepy. But you found them pretty endearing.

With a unique taste for various styles, you appreciated going to thrift shops. Those places usually have the cutest clothes which you could mend to your liking. Cheap articles to style and wear as your own. Department stores with moderately priced clothing were a go-to, too.

Without bragging, you had a great talent for wearing cheap clothes and making them look expensive. You knew how to style and accessorize. Put together a $15 pair of jeans, $4 top, a $40 pair of shoes and you've got an amazing outfit to work with.

You avoided high end departments. Even though you had the money to indulge and shop in them, you simply chose not to. You didn't see the appeal for overpriced clothing.

Hundreds, sometimes even thousands, of dollars for something that you'd just wear. Simple attire that was priced as such because they're popular and high end. No way you're going to cough up $150 for a simple brand top with a tiny logo. That should be a crime all in its own for robbery! Plus, often times the department clerks and other shoppers in those shops were snobby, rude, and rather nosey.

Though there was one luxury brand item that struck your fancy- Louboutin red bottoms. The high-end stiletto footwear that incorporates shiny, red-lacquered soles. Now those are a sexy pair of heels. Very elegant and stylish. Also in the hundred/thousand dollar range, but ohh are they so worth it. Although you thought it would be nice to own a pair or two, you wouldn't buy them.

You casually brought it up to J one time as you skimmed through a magazine. On one of the pages, there was an advertisement for the stilettos. You'd shown him the picture. "Now, I'm not one for material things. But these, I'd definitely wear these."

J listened in curiosity, he knew you so well. You didn't buy expensive things for yourself, and you never asked him for them. However, he seen it in your eyes how much you wanted them. If you saved up, you could buy them for yourself. Plus J had a large amount of stolen money to give to you- which you never asked him for any of, either. He could steal them for you. But then again, you never asked. So he engaged. "If ya like 'em so much, why don't you have any?"

"Hell no!" You retort. "Could you imagine if I were to walk around Gotham in those expensive heels? I'd be a walking target!" You remind him that your goal is NOT to draw unwanted attention while you go about your daytime life.

I mean, you both know that you can take care of yourself. You had knowledge of basic self-defense combat and how to handle a various array of weapons. Special thanks to J for helping you spruce up on your tactics and even teaching you new techniques. Also, you always carry a concealed handgun when going out. So to the best of your abilities, you can hold your own. It's just better not to opt for any more problems.

J doesn't say anything after that, he simply hummed. But the thought had started bouncing around in his already busy mind. A new task. He figured since he wore custom high-cost clothing, the best of the best, then why shouldn't you own a nice pair of shoes? After all you're his, and he wanted to give it to you.

A few days later, you came home to a sight that genuinely surprised you- Set up nicely around your living space, there were 8 large Louboutin gift bags arranged on the floor. No question, you already knew they were from J.

You chuckled and shook your head in disbelief. You hadn't thought that J had actually taken that brief comment you made about liking these shoes into consideration.

Each bag contained a brand new pair of the signature stilettos in various colors and styles. Two of them being boots for when the weather's colder.

You were surprised that he'd gotten them in the correct size. He really does pay attention. Or perhaps he rummaged through your closet to find out for himself. Whatever the case was, you didn't care. Since J rarely ever got you any gifts, and never anything as pricey as these. So you savored the precious moment.

He left the receipt in the gift bag containing the classic black pair of stilettos. He'd actually bought them rather than just steal them, which would've been a more ideal and convenient thing for him to do. Come on, he's The Joker. When's the last time he ever paid for something?

He'd even left a note for you to find in one of the boxes. Written in his own scraggly handwriting- No one's gonna mess with you, I will make sure of that xoxo -J

Tears formed beneath your eyes, how much you wanted to thank him. Hug him, squeeze him tight. Kiss his painted lips and face repeatedly while his face scrunched in mock annoyance to your affections. It deeply frustrated you that you couldn't right then. But alas, he had a city to terrorize and a caped crusader to antagonize. So you had to hold on to that energy for a later time.

You don't know what you've done to deserve such a bitterly sweet(but will never fucking own up to it) man as your J.

Pairing the red bottoms along with the articles in your wardrobe was a tricky task. But with your natural talents and a bit of shopping, you've managed to put together some classy and elegant outfits.

You'd even purchased a tasteful, sparkly anklet with a letter J on it. Which undeniably, J surely liked to see on you- THEN coupled with a pair of heels he'd gotten you? Now that's a sight he's very pleased to see.

It was something which J was quite fond of- you expressing your appreciation for his gifts. Just don't expect him to admit that.

It's also no surprise that you'd wear the stilettos with lingerie(or nothing at all) and it leads to some pretty steamy sex sessions.

J especially savors the pleasant sting as they dig into his lower back when he's on top of you. So don't be shy to dig those heels in there!

When you just so happen to wear out your red bottoms, J might consider getting you a new pair or two. Again, as receiving gifts from him are rare occurrences. But at the times which he does surprise you with a gift, no matter what it is, it never fails to take your breath away.

[honeyhenry]

Homeward Bound

A/N: This was NOT meant to be this long...but I was inspired and now we have this... dad!Syverson....you can thank me later :)

Warnings: army-related talk, labour, fluff (because i rue the day I actually write anything other than that)

After an honourable stint, Captain Syverson had finally finished up his active duty in the army, having chosen now to spend his life devoted and committed to you. While every second week he had to make a daily 45 minute commute up the road to train newbies needing a boot up their asses to prepare for the realities of war, Sy was able to come home to you just in time for dinner every evening. He got the best of both worlds, earning a solid pay with training up new recruits, and having the ability to make good on those promises he made you way back before he told you that the next tour would be his last.

He had kept his first promise within a month of him returning for good - giving you a shiny ring that he’d had the deposit down on for as long as he can remember. That was his most nerve-wracking promise to keep, even though you’d assured him no matter what, the answer would always be a “yes”. His second promise was also signed, sealed, and delivered within weeks of his return, most likely conceived in celebration of your engagement.

That promise had stuck with you a little more than the first; “Gonna put a baby in ya, peach. Can promise ya that I’m ready for wantin that with ya.”

Sy had arrived home in October, and there you were, round and ready to pop at the end of the following August.

During your labour on that warm summer’s day, he’d been gritting it out right beside you, clutching your hand and holding your half full cup of ice chips, using his best Captain voice in offering encouragement. Between contractions you had cried, screeched, and panicked. It had seemed Sy had given you the big baby he had been so certain of.

“Your baby’s too big Syv, it hurts so much...”

“Peach believe me, if I could I’d take all this pain for ya I would” he had comforted you, knowing by making eye contact that he meant every word. You had relaxed momentarily at the love you held for him, before the pain hit again leaving you crying and screaming once more.

And then Captain Syverson heard the words that he detests, typically uttered from his soldiers in the base camps or training rounds. 

“I can’t...”

It’s a cowards way of thinking, a poor outlook on life, and it makes the entire side weak because of one weak link. It angers him to no end, and he usually ends up heading off alone to clear his head. But not when it’s you

“I can’t do it, Sy...”

You’re the strongest person he knows, pushing out a brand new Syverson into the world with minimal medication and a steely determination for the past 14 hours. You’re no coward, and you’re by no means weak. He’s had men on his side who haven’t blinked in the face of adversity and terrorism, and yet here you were, stronger than the lot of them in every way.

“Yeah you can, peach. Ya think I’d put my baby in any ol’ fool? No it’s you, ‘cause you’re the strongest woman I know. C’mon now, let’s have us a baby.”

And then you did it, almost an hour later and she’s earth-side. As the sun had set on the last day of a sweltering August, it is as though the room cools to a warm breeze, the world stopping in its tracks as you birth your sweet baby Syverson, born in the first minutes of a new September. She’s all yours, and when the doctor announced above the primal, wild screams that “it’s a girl!” you’d looked to Sy, watching him as he cried. It was just a couple of tears, and he won’t admit that they happened, but it sure as hell doesn’t make him any less proud.

You’ve only been cooped up in the room for 24 hours, and while you and baby Syverson have been cared for and helped with the basics (along with you receiving a substantial amount of pain relief), Sy wanted you and his baby girl home so that he could be the one to take care of you both; plump your pillows, fetch you cups of tea, burp the baby, dote on her endlessly. All within the quiet, cosy home you’d made together over the past years and months. Pictures lined the walls, featuring happy memories including your courthouse wedding that had been planned and occurred within a week of knowing about baby Sy. Your big gruff man just couldn’t take not having you as his wife, especially when you were carrying his child.

There’d also been a picture of the sonogram taped to the fridge in your quaint little kitchen, courtesy of Sy wanting to see the baby each morning before heading to work, or while he cooked you a warm breakfast. It’s as though he didn't keep updated pictures in his wallet and in his truck, right next to a beautiful picture of you. From your first sonogram with “SYVERSON” printed at the top, Sy loved to see his growing family, and always taped the newest scan picture right on top, using the same piece of tape he’d just found laying around one afternoon. Now, after plenty of pictures taken on his phone, he was going to update the fridge once more to feature a picture of the little pink squish with big bug eyes and a smattering of dusty brown hair. Maybe he’ll add some new tape, too.

Now three Syversons would live in this home, where old caps, worn from war and still grimy after a couple of washes, lay around the house, and where a still somewhat-tinged green Aika would roam freely - except on the bed. Sy was adamant that Aika never jumped or slept on the marital bed. That was his place, with his woman. The wooden interior and cosy fireplace that Sy himself had built, made it an even more homely and special place for you both to live. The perfect place out in the country to raise your girl. 45 minutes from Sy’s work, 15 to the local school. It was a dream, and now it had come true, as you watch him lift your princess into the baby carrier, fastening her in and watching her little pouty face as he removes his large, warm hands that you know she must adore being held by already.

He’s so glad that he can now take you both home. He insists on carrying both the baby carrier and the hospital bag from the past few days as you both leave the room where your girl entered the world, now entering the real world and all the opportunities she would have out there to explore. Since you don’t have to lift a thing, you just get to watch the sweet view of the “scary” Captain Sy check things off mentally to make sure you've brought everything.

“As long as we bring the baby home, I think we’ll be okay” you grin, and he blinks out of his organised, battle-ready mindset for a moment, remembering that this wasn’t some covert operation. This was a big deal, but one that is exciting and new and as Sy turns to look at his daughter again, it seems he’s already forgotten how tiny she is. She’s wrapped up, but Sy insists that he wraps the carrier with his flannel top, protecting the baby from both the sun, and any chill that pierces the air. He can’t resist a final little peek into the baby carrier as you sign the final documents to discharge you both from the hospital. You even hear him talk to your sweet girl, having one of their first little talks together.

“i’ll show ya a real home, just wait. Nun’a this bright light and doctors nonsense. Got a crib with your name on it ya can be all cosy in. Built it myself while Momma watched. You are gonna be so loved up with her, she is everything sweet in the world. Just like you princess.”

“I thought i was your princess?” you interrupt him and...is that a blush you see mark his cheeks? If only his men knew the state you could get the great Captain Syverson into, and most likely that your baby girl will be able to as well.

“You’ve been promoted peach, after all that giving birth to her, you’re a queen among peasants. I got two number 1 gals now. Gotta be ya knight in shinin’ armour.”

All the war torn memories, the killing, and the violence from his past, doesn’t mean a thing. It baffles him to this day - he still doesn't know how he’s ended up with two slices of heaven in you and your baby girl, but he’s selfish and he’s keeping you all for himself.

“You can be a Captain to your men but you’re our King, Sy. I know you’ll always protect us, and she’ll grow up knowing that too. Now come on. Let’s get her out of here. Lead the way Daddy?” you grin, watching as he proudly marches through the doors of the ward with a tight grip on the baby carrier, while the bag is slung over his shoulder.

The rest of his life with you and baby Syverson, just waiting on the other side.

taglist: @seriouslygoodlookinggents @ohmygoodie 

[theoriginalcarnivorousmuffin]

One thing that has always bothered me about the magical system in HP is how much it... doesn’t exist? No one questions anything, there’s almost no theoretical exploration, and Hermione Granger (someone I’ve always found to be of average intelligence at best) is the brightest witch of her age.

Some characters seem to be inexplicably more powerful, but I wonder if it isn’t simply a matter of discipline and will-power.

What are your thoughts on magic? We never really see what light vs. dark entails, so fanfic authors tend to make it up as they go along, but do you have any head-canons about how magic works in HP?

I mean, to be fair, it wasn’t really the point of JKR’s series. She just wanted to write about a kid going to a magic boarding school in Scotland with this quirky witch aesthetic. 

No need for her to placate us uber nerds who demand a sensible explanation to the minutia of her magical system. 

Right, but yes, it clearly bothers me too. No one questions anything, there’s no understanding of why wands and spells even work, or why it has to be in this weird pseudo-Latin. No one even bothers to learn Latin, for that matter, and you think they would given the damn spells. 

Hermione Granger is the brightest witch of her age given that “her age” is either around 30 people (the amount of people in her year) or else around 300 (the population of Hogwarts at a given time) which is a pitiful amount. She also is an extremely hard worker and actually reads her textbooks, sadly I think this gets you ahead of 95% of the population.

Part of the reason I think the Wizarding World thinks like this is that they’re this incredibly tiny, cut off, insular society. Generally, when you have a small society cut off like that you tend to lose innovation or even understanding of technology you have.

But that’s not what you asked. Right.

Personally, I think there is no light and dark magic. Magic is just this part of the natural universe that muggles, for whatever reason, are not able to directly access. It’s neither good nor bad, it just is. For that matter, I don’t think spells themselves really exist, or rather, they’re not what magic really is in its purest form but instead a way that humans can easily access and control magic to perform a certain task. Kind of a glorified API if you will. 

So, dark magic and light magic are instead arbitrary labels that wizards apply to their own tool box based on the functions of that tool. If you have a tool that is only designed for/can be used for the murder and torture of sentient beings: well, that’s bad, we’ll call that dark. That said, do I think the spells themselves are inherently evil? No. It’s like if you open up your tool box, pick out a sledgehammer, and go, “This, my child, is an instrument of pure evil and you must never touch it.” Well, that’s a bad comparison, it’d be like taking a handgun out of your tool box and saying “this is a dark weapon”. Now, this gets into a debate I don’t want to get into, but to me dark spells are a lot like handguns (they’re designed for only one purpose and there’s no squirming your way out of what that purpose is).

Now, I think wizards have forgotten this (mostly because they don’t understand what spells or magic is), and so they get very hung up on the labels of spells or even just your odd genetic trait (i.e. parseltongue). So, we have these weird moments where someone uses, say, the severing charm to cut somebody open in the middle of the street. And it’s less bad than if they had used the killing curse to kill them painlessly and easily, because the severing charm’s not dark magic. 

It’s like... If someone were to walk out and bash someone over the head with a sledgehammer until it kills them it’s less evil than if they shot them in the head with a handgun.

Wizards seem to miss the point of this. 

As for what magic is, I believe it’s... direct energy that wizards are able to access in a way that muggles (thus far) cannot. What do I mean by thus far? Well, look at electricity. In ye olden days, I’m sure that if you asked a wizard they would say that making artificial light without flame is a property solely done by magic and muggles are not capable of it. Well, muggles then did it, and suddenly the definition and parameters of magic change. Wizards are kind of like chess grand masters who suddenly lose to your AI du jour, who say that it doesn’t count because the AI didn’t really do it like a human would. It’s not real intelligence.

I don’t believe people have magic in and of themselves, any more than anyone else does at any rate, because we see too little differences between powerful and mediocre wizards. You’re either a squib or you’re not, there doesn’t really seem to be a spectrum, and those who struggle with spells appear to do so for other reasons (Neville has severe confidence issues and is traumatized, Harry’s an idiot, etc.) 

I think what separates the great wizards from the rest is hard work, the ability to read books and learn from them, even an inkling of understanding of how spells really work and how to create them (and this makes you Voldemort level right here), and a good ear to be able to pronounce your ridiculous pseudo Latin.

The wand is a tool specifically designed so that, with repeatable easy to understand steps, you can perform a whole array of tasks and even use them as building blocks to develop a new spell (combine swishes, flicks, and various garbled sentences together in such a way and BAM new spell).

Your wand, in other words, is your API to direct and access untold amounts of energy from the universe.

But people have forgotten that so instead what you memorize are very specific function calls that will prove useful in your daily life.

As for the wand and spells themselves, well, here’s my hokey ridiculous theory on how that came about. A long time ago, a brilliant foreigner enters the Roman Empire with a revolutionary idea that puts him on the level of Einstein/Newton/Feynman Name Your Stupidly Brilliant Physicist. He says, hey, how about instead of doing these time consuming magical rituals we develop a tool that, in a matter of seconds, allows us to perform truly complicated and powerful magic any time we want. No more relying on having the right ingredients about, virgin sacrifices, the full moon, etc.

Everyone probably laughs at him, but then he goes off and designs a rudimentary wand, and through probably some uber ritual that was dangerous as hell implements this system by which by flicking your wand a certain way and saying basic commands like “levitate”, “repair”, etc. you can perform these tasks.

Only, the guy’s foreign and Good Will Hunting (no formal education in the empire), so he doesn’t actually speak Latin. So what you have instead is this weird half-Latin like, “Leviupwards Fly”, “Repair-o”, etc. 

It sounds dumb as hell, but goddammit it works, and more it gives Roman wizards an unheard of advantage against their enemy wizards who are all stuck doing these stupid rituals. They suddenly have a vast military might, so long as they use these wands and spells this guy came up with.

Everybody who’s anybody, who wants to win a fight, is now using wands. Wandcraft becomes a huge deal and people specialize in fine tuning these things exactly so as to get the maximum efficiency for a particular user.

And they probably go up to our guy and say, “Hey, buddy, can you make this in actual Latin? I can barely remember what it is I’m supposed to say to get this to work” and after the hours, and hours, and hours he spent making this thing that nobody helped him with he goes, “DO IT YOURSELF, BITCH”. And they never do because they’re too damn lazy/have no idea how he actually did it and any attempt to recreate it ends up with something that’s pitiful and doesn’t work. 

So, they’re all stuck with it, and thousands of years later they forget this guy even existed and while there’s a recognition that not all magic has to be performed by wands there’s just this feeling that the wand is the magic. And so no one will ever come up with an English/French/Whatever version where when you say “Up” the thing goes up. 

And that’s “The History of Magic” as brought to you by The Carnivorous Muffin.

[thetriggeredhappy]

recently rediscovered your blog and read the fic from your dad spy au where scout starts out as the "guard" and then becomes scout from there and lemme tell you that shit put me on some s-tier brainrot. like a cranial decay type beat.

i had a concept in my head that instead of being hired as a guard, he could have been hired as a right hand man to the administrator like pauling, because i think hed be awesome in that position. like imagine having a personal merc who can get in fast and out even faster. but maybe he would stay in the base like the rest of them, sort of like a secret on call intel gatherer, who also maybe sometimes has to dig a couple graves. and also like, nobody on the team expects anything from him at first because its this 20 year old newbie kid. hes dressed in his formal clothes and he talks like somebody from relatively around boston but not quite. i can just imagine one day he comes back during a team dinner with his shirt half untucked and stained with blood, hair disheveled as he asks soldier if he can borrow his shovel, or him debriefing them for a mission when miss pauling is busy. same vibe as the fic i mentioned before but scout gets to have a job as cool as miss paulings. honestly id write it myself if i didnt have the attention span of a fly

anyways your scout content gives me life thank you

scout teamfortress but 20% more competent standing next to miss pauling teamfortress while she's doing her job and doing like silly quips and otherwise contributing nothing like it's a buddy cop film is literally my fucking ideal

(warnings for some canon-typical violence)

-

“Oh, Pauling, it’s good to see you again,” greeted the chairman, smiling in an imitation of a grandfather and clasping her hands perhaps too-kindly considering she barely knew him. “Young as ever, and still so stylish, I see. And who’s the new fellow?”

“He’s just here to help with transport, Mr. Montgomery, nothing unusual,” Miss Pauling replied, returning his smile and adjusting her glasses. “Heavy cases, you know how it is.”

“Of course, I remember you almost toppling clean over last time we made a trade!” Montgomery agreed, frowning at the memory. “You’ll pull a muscle that way, better to be careful. It’s a pleasure to meet you, young man. And your name?”

“Mr. Normandy, sir,” the new kid replied easily enough despite his slight East Coast accent, giving the man a firm handshake, expression neutral and stony, the picture of professionalism. Internally, Pauling breathed a sigh of relief.

“Firm grip there, young man,” Montgomery praised, nodding approvingly. “Tennis player, perhaps? Or golf?”

“Baseball, sir,” he replied, still evenly. “First baseman.”

“Ah! Of course! Were you any good?” Montgomery joked.

“At everything but playing in front of the crowds, otherwise I’d be in the major leagues,” he replied, tilting his head just slightly to imply that he was joking, his sunglasses glinting at the movement, and Montgomery barked a laugh.

“I like this one, Miss Pauling!” Montgomery said, and Pauling just barely caught herself from physically relaxing at it.

“We do too, Mr. Montgomery,” she agreed. “I was under the impression that you’re very busy today, so we won’t keep you for too long, we just wanted to sort out the final details surrounding the manufacturing rights for the—“

“—Pacific Northwest branch, up into British Columbia and Alberta, of course,” Montgomery agreed, nodding faintly. “Of course, of course.” He turned to regard his own man in a dark suit, the one standing to the right, who appeared to be unsuccessfully trying to stare down Normandy, who was completely ignoring him. “My briefcase, please.”

The man handed over the briefcase, and Montgomery put it on his desk, opening it and pulling out a sheaf of papers. “All our requests are submitted and approved, at this point we just had a few dustbins to take care of regarding initial percentages and making sure everything is wired to the correct accounts, which names are undisclosed, things like that,” Pauling explained as he glanced through the papers.

“Right, right, everything looks good here,” the man murmured, nodding to himself, sending his long-white hair just ever-so-slightly out of place. “I’m assuming these more sensitive documents should be sent some way besides through the mail?”

“If you finish them today I can take them with me, otherwise either me or Mr. Normandy can return to pick them up at your convenience,” she replied, to which Normandy gave a singular nod.

“Oh, it would only take me a short while,” Montgomery said, waving a hand. “We have a lovely lounge just down the hall from here if you’d prefer to wait there, it should only take me ten, fifteen minutes at most. In the meantime, I do believe there’s also the manner of payment for services rendered.”

Miss Pauling tilted her head just slightly to one side, confused.

“I arranged with Helen already,” Montgomery explained, not looking up from where he was initialing a few things. “The payment, rather than being wired, she asked to be made in material investment. A venture of mine from years ago that she’s willing to sit on. Rather than gold or bonds, she agreed to take some old currency of mine that my family collected, from early 18th century New Zealand and Australia. Monetarily it’s worth around the same, and I’m quite a bit attached to it to be entirely frank, but it was at her request to buy the whole collection from me, and after years of the work we’ve been doing together, well, I’d never trust it with anyone else.”

He gestured to the other man, the one on his left, who stepped forward to hand him a manila envelope, which he passed to Pauling.

“Inside is both keys, the door alarm codes, and all other security information for the building where the collection is being stored. They’ll ask for a few codes and confirmation of identity, only because several other art collections and artifacts are being stored there by other affluent individuals such as myself.”

“Thank you, Mr. Montgomery,” Pauling said, taking the envelope gratefully.

“Think nothing of it, my dear. Helen talked me into it all her own,” he said easily enough. “Now, gentlemen, if you would let Miss Pauling and Mr. Normandy into our lounge? I should have these wrapped up before any of us can even think about lunch, eh?”

One of the suits showed the two of them through the doors and down the hallway, through two doors bracketed by similar suits who simply nodded politely at Pauling and ticked their chins at Normandy as they passed them.

Normandy posted up beside the door for all of three seconds before they shut and Pauling pulled her glasses up, rubbing at the bridge of her nose and making a vaguely distressed noise. He then promptly relaxed, instead leaning his hip against an armchair probably worth the same amount as a small car. “So, uh, we’re glad that he’s giving us a bunch of commemorative coins from when dinosaurs still walked the earth?” he asked just below normal speaking volume, eyebrows raised.

“Yes. Very glad. Because unlike about six people total on the planet, he hasn’t figured out yet how valuable those are.”

“What, is a picture of a kangaroo on some copper really gonna make up for a couple hundred thousand American dollars?” Normandy asked, sounding doubtful.

“Not copper. Something else,” she replied. “I can’t tell you much more about it other than that, but these coins are made of something priceless to us. And to the Administrator.”

“…Love? Memories? The magic of family?” he joked, cracking a smile, and she rolled her eyes, moving to open the envelope and start reading the papers inside. “Hey, uh, not to question whether my job should exist, but what the hell am I doing here, exactly? Besides carrying a briefcase. Like, chivalry isn’t dead but I really don’t think you need me carrying your bags and holding the door for you.”

“You’re helping with security, basically,” she replied, adjusting her glasses to squint at tiny handwriting about the collection. “Mr. Montgomery is trustworthy, but he mostly hires out to… well, people like us. His security detail is mostly people we’d rather have screened, freelancers, stuff like that. A lot of people we contract out to are like that. Most of them have heard about me and know better than to try and pull something, since I can hold my own pretty well, but if they haven’t, seeing a second person might persuade them to think it over again.”

“Oh, so I’m like, uh, when it says ‘tow zone’ next to the no parking signs even though nobody checks, or when they’ve got a camera in the corner of the store that isn’t even plugged into anything,” he said, and the looked up at him, confused. “Like, uh, what’s the word… I’m a casual deterrent.”

“Sure,” she said, because it sounded like he knew what he was talking about, shuffling the papers back away and closing the envelope again, making a note to ask the Administrator if she should change their current containment procedures to be closer to Mr. Montgomery’s. “Just… if there’s a fight, you deal with it, otherwise you just stand there and look like you’re paying attention.”

“That’s what the sunglasses are for,” he agreed. “I was blinking morse code at the guy across from me literally the whole time.”

“You know morse code?” Pauling asked, surprised.

“Just the alphabet, ‘S.O.S.’, and ‘ass’.”

She rolled her eyes again, and that’s when the door opened.

She expected Mr. Montgomery, not one of the men in suits. “Excuse me, both of you, if you don’t mind,”the man said, accent having the slightest English tilt to it, a Londoner if Pauling had to guess. “You’re Miss Pauling, the Mann Co. affiliate, yes?”

“That’s me,” she agreed, hesitant, and glanced at Normandy.

“I’m afraid there’s been a mistake. Mr. Montgomery have you the wrong envelope on accident,” the man said apologetically, extending a hand forward. “We apologize for this unfortunate mix-up, it’s really quite embarrassing, but those documents are sensitive and we’ll be needing to see them back now.”

Pauling looked at him, and within a moment, shifted her expression. “Oh, I’m so sorry!” she agreed, nodding. “No, right, of course. These aren’t the papers for the currency collection?”

“I’m afraid not,” the Brit agreed, head tilting just slightly, hand still extended, moving a fraction further forward.

“Well, thank goodness we figured out now and not with us halfway back,” she joked, and moved to hold the folder closer to her body. “I’ll take this right back to Mr. Montgomery, then.”

“He’s sent me to correct the error,” the man explained simply.

“Right,” she said, and saw in her periphery that Normandy had already started sneaking a hand in towards his primary, clearly having pieced together something she was only suspecting. “We can bring this to his office, then, right down the hall.”

“You misunderstand,” the man said, taking a step forward again. “I’ll be taking it to his office myself.”

“That’s funny,” Pauling said. “I didn’t realize you had clearance to be in there. Or to be carrying a semi-automatic instead of a standard handgun.”

The Brit reached for the semi-automatic, and before he could even get it out properly, Normandy hit one clean shot to the side of his head and another to his thigh, sending him crumpling to the ground.

Pauling had only as far as pulling her own handgun free, thumb on the safety, and breathed a sigh of relief, glancing over at Normandy, shifting to more comfortably hold her gun. “Quick reflexes,” she noted.

“Just noticed a lot sooner, maybe,” he shrugged, stepping forward to glance over the body, tucking his gun back away.

“What was your hint?”

“He’s here to give us the right folder, yeah? Well, why were his hands empty, then?”

She was just starting to nod and realize that as well when a second man shouldered through the door, holding a gun at the ready. Normandy scrambled to draw his own, but Pauling fired a shot into his knee, shoulder, and neck to send him dropping before he was even close. “There’s quick on the draw, and then there’s prepared,” she said pointedly. “Gotta think of if there’s more than one, new guy.”

He nodded, and drew his gun again, bending to hit the guy on the ground at the temple hard enough to knock him out if he wasn’t unconscious already. He then glanced up at the sound of a shout from the other side of the door, two men shouldering through, guns drawn but lowered. It was only the firm eye contact they made with both her and Normandy that made her pause the millisecond it took to realize these ones weren’t trying to kill them.

“Pauling, what on earth is going on here?!” Montgomery demanded, entering the room and staring with wide eyes at the bodies on the ground. “What could’ve possessed you to—“

“He was trying to run off with these documents,” she explained quickly, gesturing with the envelope. “He knew whatever was in here was valuable.”

“He drew his gun, sir,” Normandy added, tipping his head down towards the body, and Pauling glanced down as well and found herself a little surprised. He’d rearranged the man just slightly, apparently, adjusting the arm to be holding the gun a bit further outward. “Other one was aiming to kill.”

“My, my,” Montgomery tsk’d, shaking his head as he surveyed the scene. “What a mess. My apologies, Miss Pauling, Mr. Normandy.”

“It’s alright, but you need to start doing more thorough checks on your staff, Mr. Montgomery,” Pauling stressed.

“He’s only been here two weeks, sir, he was one of the men we hired in a hurry after the incident last month,” one of the bodyguards said, and Montgomery shook his head.

“Thank goodness nobody was hurt,” he sighed. “Mutiny, and besides that, they’re bleeding on my carpet. Here are those papers, Miss Pauling—what a day, eh?”

“It’s really alright, we handled it,” Pauling assured him, giving her bravest smile, a little exasperated now.

“Right, right, you and the first baseman,” he agreed, and Normandy fought back an actual smile.

“If you’d like, we can take care of those for you,” Pauling said, gesturing at the bodies. “To pay you back for the carpet and the scare.”

“Sounds fair to me,” Montgomery agreed, clearly relieved.

-

“My dad’s gonna be pissed, by the way,” Normandy was so helpful as to say on the way back up the path to the base. “And you’re fielding that.”

“About the suit, or the fight?” she asked, glancing at his clothes where he was somewhat covered in a fine dusting of mud and grime from the gravedigging, shovel still in his free hand.

“Both. Mostly the fight. Your fault for saying it’d be an easy one to start with,” he said.

“If it was going to be that much of a problem, you wouldn’t have gotten this job. I’d just have made you go do dishes all day or something,” Pauling replied.

“Point taken,” he said, walking ahead to get the door, holding it open for her. “Wait, we’re allowed to mention what we do, right? Just not names?”

“Or locations, even with travel distance. Round up to the hour if it comes up,” she replied.

“Sure, sure,” he agreed, trailing a step behind her as she led the way through the base.

In the common area, there was a bit of a ruckus happening. Soldier, Heavy, and Demo appeared to be having some kind of arm wrestling competition on a rapidly-toppling table, the Engineer was on a stepstool trying to fix the ceiling fan, and Sniper appeared to be half-watching the beginnings of an argument between Pyro and the Spy regarding use of the oven as Medic patched up a burn on his arm.

“Hullo,” Sniper greeted the two of them, sounding a little bored, Medic giving them a brief, polite nod. Normandy’s eyebrows were raised pretty far as he surveyed the room.

“Hi, Sniper,” she greeted in return, then cleared her throat, raised her voice. “Team meeting in five minutes! New mission for next week!”

Groans from the room at large, the eight mercenaries starting to finish up what they were doing and filing out. Spy moved over, glancing over Normandy and starting to talk to him in rapid-fire French, picking smaller bits of gravel off of his suit as they walked.

“Alright,” she addressed the room, Normandy peeling off from getting mother hen’d by Spy to stand next to the blackboard with her. “Monday, you’re all going on a transport mission. Getting the truck from point A to point B with everything in the boxes intact. Already we’ve had to put up with some people trying to get ahold of these things, so bring your guns.”

“Oh, our guns, you said? Lads, this is a serious one, keep your heads on a feckin' swivel, she’s sayin’ we might even need guns, can you believe it?” Demo faux-gasped, and chuckled when Spy bopped him on the arm, rolling his eyes at the Scot's theatrics.

“Yeah, yeah,” she waved off, flipping through the papers a bit. “So Engie, I’ll need the keys to the truck, me and Normandy are going to be loading those tomorrow, all of you need to be at this drop point bright and early.”

“How early?” Heavy rumbled.

“Six. Hour and a half of drive from here.”

Some complaints from the room that she sighed at.

“Hey, hey, calm the hell down,” Normandy cut in, and she glanced over at him where he had his arms crossed and a stern look on his face. “You chuckleheads get to have all eight of you to unload the damn thing, me and Miss P gotta do all the rest of this on our own and probably kill twenty guys on the way there and back. She had to be up at 6 AM, workin’ since 7 AM, lunch break at noon and nothin’ else, and we just got back now at, what, fuckin’, 10, 11 PM? Any of you work her shift and then see if you even got the energy to complain about wakin’ up early, how about that?”

The room went utterly devoid of complaint or backsass. “Thank you, Normandy,” she said politely, and he just nodded once, glancing off to the side. “Anyways, anything new on this end? Spy, how are you adjusting?”

“Very well,” he said simply. “I have nothing pressing to say. Once I’ve been updated from the stock weaponry provided here to my requested preferred weaponry, I believe I should do just fine.”

“I see you already have Herr Normandy digging graves,” Medic chimed in. “Straight into the hard labor, ja?”

“Eh, hey, y’know, it’s why they keep us young people around,” he shrugged, grinning, and there was a brief uproar to drown out Medic’s entirely offended scoffing and Spy’s snort-laughing.

“Get ‘im, lad!” Demo cheered, and Normandy indeed looked fairly proud of himself.

“Monday, transport mission,” Pauling noted over the noise, writing it up on the chalkboard to hide her own smile from the room. “Normandy, you and me are doing the boxes tomorrow. Everyone on the same page? Good. Dismissed. Oh, and Pyro—stop taking the fire alarms down when they beep. They’re beeping because you light things on fire in the base. Do that outside.”

“Oh, hey, uh, helmet guy, All-American Beef,” Normandy called, and Soldier straightened up. “Here’s your shovel back. Gettin’ my own tomorrow.”


Soldier walked directly over to him, clasping a hand on his shoulder. “That’s a high honor, Cadet,” he said, tone grave. “Do not take this responsibility lightly.”

“I, uh, I won’t?” he said hesitantly, and blinked a few times as the shovel was carefully taken from him before it was promptly marched from the room in double-time. Only then did Normandy look over at her. “So he’s always like that?”

“You’ll get used to it,” she assured, dusting chalk from her hands. “You should get to sleep soon, we have to be up early.”

“Sure thing, Miss P.”

[no-droids]

Why is the Girl Here?

Part 1 of 2 of The Locked Door Series

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Obi-Wan Kenobi/fem!Reader

Word Count: 12.8K

Summary: The Clone Wars have launched the galaxy into darkness, and hundreds of Jedi have fallen. With nowhere else to turn, the Order seeks to ally with powerful Force users from the Unknown Regions.  Just a three-cycle trip from Ilum, the planet s’Ziscari is home to the largest army of Force sensitives known to the galaxy, three times the size of the Jedi Order and with no current allegiance to the Republic.  There, Master Obi-Wan Kenobi and his newly ordained Jedi Knight are to negotiate an alliance with the s’Ziscari government on behalf of the Order and the Republic.  As the separatist army grows ever stronger, the fate of trillions rests in their hands…

Warnings: THIS WILL BE A FUCK OR DIE-ESQUE FIC.  Smut will come in the second part.

***

“Why is it,” you ask, the heels of your leather boots clicking in perfect synchronization with the cloaked figure to your left, “that the greatest negotiator in the Jedi Order wields a blue saber, and not a green one?”

While you're unable to see his gentle smile from underneath your dark cowl, you sense a general wave of amusement reverberate through the Force from his direction.  The energy somehow feels like the equivalent of a lift inside the cavity in your chest; transparent, tinted a soft blue in color, comfortable, calm, and familiar.

“Perhaps we should trade,” comes that crisp and precise Coruscanti accent you've ached to hear for the past two years.  “No matter how much you lamented its color as a youngling, you know I have always been rather fond of yours.”

It’s true, you think.  The color green never really… agreed with you, and much less what it represents to the Jedi, but your Master always said he found the pastel hue of the saber currently clipped to your belt to be unique and appealing.  Green—any shade of it, really—is the color of the Jedi Consulars.  The peacekeepers, the diplomats, the healers and seers.  Their—your—inner nature and connection to the Force speaks to concord and harmony, and though you’ve come to accept your place amongst the pacifists and mediators in the Order after years of training and meditation, you still remember what a shock it was to discover the color of your kyber crystal as a youngling.

You always thought you’d have a blue saber.  The mark of the Guardians—the second of the three branches of Jedi.  Their skills are focused in battle, and any saber towards the far end of the color spectrum typically leads to specializing in lightsaber combat and warfare tactics.  That’s what you always thought your soul spoke to most—the warriors of the Order.  The soldiers and the members of the Jedi Core, the battle tacticians, the security of the Republic and law enforcers.  You were always a bit of a brash and emotional child compared to your peers, a bit of a handful as a youngling, and you were certain your saber would be some shade of blue because of that.  At that age, a yellow saber was maybe a possibility.  Though you didn’t really have the amount of friends a sociable, service-oriented Sentinel would have, you still felt that if you didn’t have a blue saber, then yellow was far more likely than green.  Yet, you still remember blinking down at your tiny, open palm deep in a cave on Ilum, stunned, a pale mint kyber crystal held precariously in it and nearly vibrating with how loudly it was calling to you through the Force.

“Did the Council do that on purpose, you think?”  You ask, the both of you taking a sharp right down another unfamiliar marble hallway with no spoken direction.  “Pair their most combative Consular with their most mild-mannered Guardian all those years ago, hoping we’d make a good team?”

“You know as well as I do that I chose you for a Padawan myself, young one,” your Master hums.  “And that… we have always been.”

It’s been two years since you last saw him.  Two years, since you passed your trials and graduated from his tutelage.  Knighthood has been good to you with the exception of your former Master’s extended absence, a consequence of your newfound independence as a bonafide member of the Order.  Though the circumstances surrounding your much anticipated reunion with him certainly aren’t ideal, you’re glad nonetheless that you’re face-to-face again—or, currently, shoulder-to-shoulder.

You hide the ghost of a smile under your hood and maintain a steady, calm signature in the Force, keeping in stride with him and speaking in hushed tones.  “Things must really be desperate if they’re putting us back together again.”

“I do not wish to alarm you,” he drawls, sarcastic in cadence but a hint of affection weaving through his voice all the same, “but we are in the middle of a war.”

“Fair,” you acknowledge with a tilt of your head, though being on a planet so far removed from the chaos currently wreaking havoc on the rest of the galaxy allows you the privilege of pretending for the moment.  “A threat to the very fabric of the Republic is the only reason the Council would sanction the two of us reuniting.”

Though you say it jokingly, there’s something hidden in it.  An unspoken apprehension you’re attempting to mask with the high spirits of seeing him again.  The stakes of the forthcoming interplanetary negotiation are absolutely staggering, and though it remains unsaid, you understand that just as well as he does.  Scared isn’t the right word, and neither is worried, but—

“I sense a mild trepidation in you, young one,” your Master murmurs, and yes, that’s it.  A mild trepidation.

“I am…”  You close your eyes and attempt to find the right words.  “I am… considering the long-term consequences should this endeavor fail,” you eventually settle on, allowing your feet to lead you left as you keep your pace with him.  “While I consider it a great honor to lead this negotiation on behalf of the Galactic Republic, I’m concerned the Council’s faith in me is… ill-placed.”

Your Master turns his head just marginally in your direction, and though you both can't technically see each other, you know the face he's making under the hood of his robe: his eyebrow is raised, his chin is tilted, and there's the faintest hint of an amused grin threatening to morph the slightly sassy expression to one of genuine humor.  “You distrust the Council’s judgement?”

“Failure and any potential repercussions will be mine alone to bear,” you clarify.  “It’s not the Council I lack faith in, but rather my own skills as a mediator.”

At this, the Jedi does chuckle.  “And I'm to assume I'm just the tauntaun next door in this scenario?”

The apprehension clears, almost immediately, and you can’t help but grin gently in return.  He always did have that effect on you.  “Better be,” you toss out, sensing the large congregation of lifeforms gradually burn brighter in the Force as you both continue your quiet approach.  “This is my negotiation, after all; the Council’s instructions were clear.”

“Very well,” he agrees.  “And, since this is your negotiation, I’m sure you’re more than aware of s’Ziscari etiquette and tradition?  Wouldn’t want to offend them by accident.”

“Of course,” you nod.  “But a… a quick refresher certainly wouldn’t hurt.”

Your Master just tsks quietly, but launches into a brief explanation for you all the same.  “It is the Council’s understanding that Queen s’Zerthia is absent from the Palace at the moment.  In lieu of an audience with her, Ambassador Zyther is the only other member of her Royal Majesty’s court who happens to be fluent in Basic, so be sure to address only him when you speak, and to speak slowly and clearly, as it’s crucial they understand our intentions are purely diplomatic in nature.  Do not forget the s’Ziscari are a Force sensitive race; they’ll be able to spot deception the second you think to speak it aloud.  Not that I anticipate the need to mislead them for any reason, of course, but please.  Be mindful.”

Instead of answering him, you direct an affirmative through the Force, and your Master continues.

“They are known to take offense to extended eye contact and they’re not fond of humor or small-talk either, so skip directly to the point: the Jedi are here on behalf of the Republic to garner the support of their planet during these times of war and great unease.  Intel tells us they have amassed an army of Force sensitives three times the size of the Order.  While we’re hoping for a pledge of at least a thousand soldiers to fight in the Clone Wars, we are more than willing to compromise and accept any assistance they’d be gracious enough to provide nonetheless.”

“In exchange for what?”  You ask, the throne room doors now in sight.  You were formally debriefed on mission details during the three day trip to s’Ziscari, but the answer to that specific question was kept purposefully vague, even for the likes of the Council.  Presently, you still have no idea what exactly you’re meant to be bargaining with, not for.

“In exchange for the continued security of having a peaceful and harmonious neighbor with which to share the galaxy,” he replies breezily, the both of you coming to a halt directly in front of two large wooden doors.  “Now.  Are you quite ready?”

“Hang on,” you say, turning to face him, and he carefully ducks his head and removes his hood with two hands as his body rotates to mirror yours.  “You’re telling me that we’re walking into the most important negotiation in the entire galaxy without actually having anything substantial to offer on our behalf?”

Slowly, the dark cowl is lifted from your head as well, and your eyes lock with a pair of calm cerulean blues staring back at you as he gently soothes the fabric down by your collar.  He looks older—ever since the Clone Wars started, Jedi Master General Obi-Wan Kenobi has aged significantly.  Gone are the long, flowing locks he sported for most of your youth—the short hair with a clean part is more refined, the beard fuller and more mature.  More… attractive than you remember him being, even though you always remembered him being… achingly attractive.

Instead of answering your question, however, he simply moves both hands to rest over the curve of your shoulders, lowering his head and lifting his eyebrows at you in a look of genuine sincerity that makes your heart thump painfully in your chest.

“I am so very proud of you, my former Padawan,” he tells you quietly, and you feel yourself nearly swell with warmth.  You’re strong enough in the Force to subdue the sentiment before it bleeds into your signature, but you can’t help the way your face flushes slightly and a girlish little smile pulls tight at your cheeks.  “You’ve grown into a fine Knight and an exemplar for the Order.  No matter the outcome of this mission, nor of this war, please know I’ve been truly blessed by the Maker to have been given the privilege of training you all these years.”

Master Kenobi tilts his head forward just slightly, allowing his Force signature to brush delicately against yours for just a moment, the soft periwinkles and lavenders of his energy swirling gently through your pastel seafoams and teals.

And then he clears his throat, straightens his spine, and claps his hands tight to your upper arms.

“Come now, Jedi,” he winks, turning his head to the double doors and breaking into a brilliant grin, the skin around his eyes crinkling with age but the sparkle in them still lovely and youthful and bright.  “The fate of the galaxy awaits.”

***

Master Obi-Wan Kenobi remembers very clearly the day he chose you as a Padawan.

You were a fiery little thing.  The Sentinels who raised younglings at the Academy would often speak about you at length to the Council, each of them reporting back with the same issues and concerns.  Too emotional, too chaotic, too rebellious for the likes of the Jedi.  You threw tantrums, you had outbursts, and to him, you were very likely the worst possible candidate for a negotiator to take on as an apprentice, if only because by all accounts it appeared that you were nigh impossible to negotiate with.

But then you caught his eye one day when Master Yoda was in the process of introducing him to your class.  You should’ve been paying attention to the wisdom being shared by the oldest Consular in the Order (and, admittedly, so should he) but instead, you were gazing quietly at a dove that made its nest on the transparisteel dome arching across the ceiling.  Obi-Wan remembers feeling your energy cautiously reach out towards it, gentler than anything he could’ve expected from a child of your age and reputation, and the moment stuck with him.

The younglings were each allowed one possession at the Academy, and when it came time for him to choose a Padawan, he swiped yours, if only to see what you’d do.  A stuffed rancor you’d endearingly named Cory—rather hideous looking thing, if you asked him—and he was told you were fiercely protective over it.

Obi-Wan remembers carefully setting the stuffed animal down next to him in one of the old storage rooms in the isolated training area, locking the door manually and then taking a quick second to cloak his Force signature.  You had three options, he figured, if you were able to find its location.  Use the Force to unlock the door, use the brand new saber clipped to your belt to create your own door, or leave without your stuffed rancor.  Based off your reputation as an emotionally volatile little youngling, he was assuming he’d have to replace the frame and wall paneling altogether, but regardless, Obi-Wan figured that if you had the nerve to break into the locked room to retrieve your missing possession, he would train you, and if you didn’t, then he’d find someone else.

He waited patiently, meditating for a few hours on your signature from across the Academy.  He went through the subsequent stages with you.  A bright flare of panic, probably from noticing its absence from your quarters.  Sharp sparks of frustration for the next few minutes, likely in response to nobody knowing where it went.  He was expecting some sort of distraught next as you began making your way through the Academy to search for it yourself, some sort of upset, but then you surprised him for the second time.

All at once… Quiet.  Serenity.  Your signature carefully sweeping out in all directions as you walked through the halls, calmly attempting to locate your missing possession.

Obi-Wan pondered this as you approached, and what it might mean.  Were you just an excellent student when you felt the stakes were high enough?  Were you capable of listening to instructions despite what he’d heard about you in passing?  Were you simply just strong in the Force?  Or was there perhaps more to you than what others had told him?

Soon, he could hear your footsteps come to a halt in front of the locked door.  He waited silently; hidden in the darkness, hidden in the Force, barely breathing while he listened for either the sound of a lightsaber turning on or a lock clicking.  He knew you’d find some way to breach the entrance somehow; he knew you wouldn’t just give up and leave.

Except, then all he heard was a quiet little rap of knuckles against metal.

“Master Kenobi?”  A small voice called through the door, and Obi-Wan froze.

To your credit, he wasn’t focusing on hiding himself the way he should’ve been.  Had you been roughly ten years older, he might’ve taken the time to concentrate a bit harder on it, but truthfully, that’s not what surprised him the most.

You didn’t break in at all.

Instead, you… knocked.

“Master Kenobi?”  You tried again after a moment, your knuckles tapping quietly on the door once more.

“Em…”  He eventually cleared his throat.  “Yes?”

“I think you may have accidentally taken something of mine on accident,” you carefully said after a moment, the overly cautious intent not to offend or intrude suddenly striking him as an invaluable trait in a potential negotiator.  “May I please have him back please?”

You were quite a handful at times, Obi-Wan thinks, but it’s been so long.  So long since he’s had to correct you in any way.  As the years passed, you aged from an emotional Padawan to a refined Knight, a hot-tempered adolescent to a disciplined and capable young Jedi.

Now he looks on as you greet the s’Ziscari Ambassador to the Republic, your head bowed in respect and your eyes focused somewhere near the man’s chest.  It appears the two of you have an audience for your audience—members of the Royal Court are sitting perched in a tiered viewing gallery, speaking quietly amongst themselves as you introduce Obi-Wan and state your purpose to the room.

Your voice rings out sharp and clear, and throughout the entire negotiation, not once does he feel compelled to assist you in any way.  You do everything right—you make fair points without stepping on any toes, you never allow the Ambassador’s booming voice intimidate you or sway your collected composure.

Obi-Wan meant what he said.  He’s proud of you.

Though… though at one point throughout the mediation, something about this starts to not… feel right.

It’s the Royal Court, he realizes.  They’ve stopped talking, they’re… paying attention.  It doesn’t make sense—none of them speak Basic, they must just be reading the energies in the room.  Nothing spectacular has happened—no outburst, nothing to draw their attention any more than when you both first made your entrance.  The Ambassador’s voice continues to echo throughout the vast ceilings and contrast with the pleasant and tranquil alto of your steady responses, but then Obi-Wan suddenly goes rigid and spins around— 

The Royal Count immediately stands in unison as the Ambassador abruptly cuts off, and a familiar signature reveals itself in the Force.

***

The Queen.

The Queen is here.

You keep your head down and follow the intricate laced bodice of her gown as she makes her entrance into the grand throne room, gliding right between you and your Master before climbing the stairs and collapsing down onto the throne with a sigh.  The Council was misinformed concerning her whereabouts, apparently.

The Court finds a seat not long after she does, and you clench your jaw at the unfortunate twist of events.  Her presence means that whatever progress you’ve made with the Ambassador is now, for all intents and purposes, moot.

There’s also just something… odd about her and her energy, you think, something you can’t quite place.  The second she turns her head and looks in your eyes is the second you forget all about avoiding eye contact with her, but if she’s offended by your sudden lack of etiquette, she displays no signs of it.  In fact, you’d almost argue she looks intrigued.

“Your Majesty,” you greet.  “I was just—”

“I got the gist,” she waves a manicured hand at you.  “What was your name again, little girl?”

You tell her, and put a hard emphasis on your full title.  She may be a monarch, but you are a General in the Clone Wars and a Knight of the Republic, and an attempt by the opposing party at intimidation by flippant degradation will not be tolerated.

“Pleasure,” she nods.  “May I ask what your people are willing to offer in exchange for the military assistance you’re seeking?”

You swallow thickly, your stomach sinking.  “Truly, your Majesty, I… I cannot provide you with a specific answer to that at this time.  However, we would gladly be willing to—”

“Perhaps you can answer me this, then, little Knight, since I never was able to obtain anything satisfactory from your High Council,” the Queen interrupts, studying her jeweled manicure and sounding bored with the conversation she just initiated, and you feel your Master stiffen behind you.  “If we s’Ziscari are so incredibly important to the Jedi, as you previously insisted to the Ambassador multiple times, then why in Maker’s name does the Council reject invitations to partake in our people’s most sacred of ceremonies year after year?”

You’re… you’re at a complete loss for words.  The Sentinels have dedicated ambassadors to travel the territories specifically for these reasons, to keep political relations agreeable between outer-rim planets and the Jedi.  There would be no discernible reason as to why the Council would reject attendance to an annual s’Ziscari cultural celebration, especially if their standing military was even half as powerful in the Force as rumors would imply.

Obviously you’re not privy to any of this information, so you subtly reach out to Master Kenobi’s Force signature with a tiny flicker of uncertainty, silently questioning your next move.  However, before you can barely even mentally gauge the calm, sky blue of his aura, your Master’s outer-shields slam into place and even so much as shove against your open question in warning.

“It was—” You trip over your sentence, heart thumping in your chest with panic at his unprecedented response to you, “—It was never our intention to cause any offense, I’m certain—”

“And yet great offense was caused nonetheless,” the Queen returns.  “However.  As it just so happens, you’ve arrived on my planet the day the Sh’inzith Ritual is to commence.  Because of that, I am more than willing to allow the Order to remedy their grave lapse in judgement tonight, in exchange for…”  She tilts her chin at you, considering.  “Ten thousand soldiers to fight in your little war.  What say you, Jedi?”

No, this is wrong.  This is all wrong—an addition of ten thousand trained Force sensitives would put an immediate end to the Clone Wars.  Full stop.  Instead of being tempted by the bait, however, you’re just becoming increasingly wary of it.

Regardless of how on edge you are, you keep an unbothered composure and continue stunting any major change to your signature.  “You cannot expect me to agree to a deal before knowing the finer points of its terms, my Queen.”

“Of course not,” she agrees diplomatically.  “My terms are simple, really.  All you have to do is—”

“If you will pardon the interruption,” Master Kenobi’s voice suddenly rings out from behind you for the first time in what feels like ages, and he takes a few steps forward until he’s standing directly adjacent to you.  “Apologies to the Court, but my companion and I have grown very weary from a long tr—”

“No apologies necessary, Master Kenobi,” the Queen grins, her eyes flicking away from yours.  “Thought I saw you back there.  Shall I elaborate?  I’ll make it quick, so you don’t fall asleep.”

There’s a tense, pregnant silence that fills the throne room as everybody waits for his response, and you’re left wondering how your Master knows this woman.  

He breaks eye contact with the monarch first and stares down at the floor while he considers his answer, before finally settling on a quiet, “Leave us.”

The Queen nods exactly once and everyone in the gallery rises and slowly files out.  You take a moment to glance around at the handful of guards surrounding the throne room, waiting for their perfect statuesque posture to falter.  Only, they remain completely motionless.

You turn back to the Queen, watching you thoughtfully from her elevated throne, and then to your Master, who’s… still looking down at the floor.

It takes you a bit longer than it should, even then.

Obi-Wan says your name in a tight, urging tone, not even bothering to turn his head to address you.  “Please.”

What?

You?  He wants you to leave?  But… the Council said… they said that this is your negotiation.  Clearly they failed to provide you with some very crucial piece of information, so now he’s dismissing you because of it?  Openly?  In front of the other party?

“But… But I was supposed to—”

“Padawan,” he all but snaps at you.  “Please.”

You stand there, holding yourself as still as possible, absolutely stunned.  Your Master has never spoken to you this way.  You’ve never heard him speak to anyone this way.

The Queen just smiles down at you saccharinely from her throne, clearly enjoying your blatant discomfort and embarrassment.

This is humiliating.

You’d never say it out loud.  But as you quietly leave the throne room, two guards on either side accompanying you to your chambers, you practically shove the words at him through the Force, trying your absolute hardest not to let the hurt through.  Though in hindsight, you may have emphasized the last part a bit too harshly.

Of course.  Master.

***

Obi-Wan realizes the grievousness of his mistake the second it comes out of his mouth.  He doesn’t need the extended moment of silence as you work to process the unintentional insult.  He doesn’t need the way your Force signature suddenly seems incredibly small, like it shrank in on itself in mortification.  He most definitely does not need the spiteful remark reverberating around his brain as your footsteps fade into nothingness, the thought so sharp and directed that he’d likely have trouble blocking it out.

“Strange,” the Queen drawls out in his direction, breaking him from the whirlwind of his thoughts.  “Do you really still view her as a Padawan?  But she’s such a pretty girl.  And she was doing so well.”

“I will not speak of this with you,” Obi-Wan replies candidly, abandoning all pleasantries now that they’re alone.

“Oh, but you will,” s’Zerthia tuts, somehow sounding disapproving and gleeful in equal parts.  “If you want your army, that is.”

“Must you be so cruel, Your Majesty?”  Obi-Wan sighs, lowering his head and rubbing the bridge of his nose.  Maker, he’s getting a headache.  “Are the Uncharted Regions truly that dull?”

“Come now, old friend,” she grins, tilting her head at him as she relaxes back in her throne.  “You’ve known of my nature since we were introduced at the Senate all those decades ago.  There is a reason you’re still with the peace-loving wizard monks and I am now the reigning monarch over twenty thousand square parsecs of territories.”

“Yes,” Obi-Wan acknowledges.  “And now we are grown.  Though it appears someone has yet to remind you.”

“Contrary to what you may believe, General Kenobi, this is not about me,” the Queen sighs.  “My people do not look kindly upon the Jedi.  The Ritual is a celebration of our connection with the Force, and denying an invitation, to them, is akin to denying their existence as a Force sensitive people.  I can give you your army at any time, of course—I am Queen.  But I fear that will not be enough.  The s’Ziscari will not willingly fight for you until you pay your due respects to our culture.”

“Queen s’Zerthia,” he exhales, clearly exasperated, “I cannot call myself Jedi and partake in such… proclivities.  The Council will never agree to such measures.  There must be some other way.”

“There isn’t, old friend,” she huffs shortly, her signature beginning to spark with impatience.  “Make your choice.”

“I am not having sex in an arena, s’Zerthia,” he hisses.

“Then the Republic shall fall.”

“You’ll let trillions die—”

“Do not speak to me as if you are not the only person who can change that, Jedi!”  The Queen suddenly barks, her voice echoing throughout the empty throne room and booming with frustration.  “I cannot make them fight!  They love their Queen, but I am thirty-nine years old, for star’s sake!  These traditions have lasted for millennia!  Would you abandon the ways of your religion simply because your leader ordered it so?”

“That is exactly what you’re demanding of me,” he returns sharply.

“Yes,” s’Zerthia acknowledges.  “But you are but one martyr, Obi-Wan Kenobi.  Not an army.”

Obi-Wan sighs.  “I’ve… s’Zerthia, I’ve never…  It’s forbidden.  And now you’re asking me to break my oath in front of an audience… with someone I don’t know?”  He keeps his voice as steady as possible, but he knows it’s useless.  The Queen of the s’Ziscari will see the wavering in his Force signature.  The underlying pulse of fear at the center.

It’s her turn to sigh.  “The Sh’inzith is about celebrating our connection with the Force… consensually.  I… may be able to speak to some of my people about the possibility of you participating in private, due to the,” she clears her throat, “delicate nature of the situation, as well as your particular upbringing.  However.  You will have to project during the… closing ceremonies, if only to prove your direct involvement.  This is the best I can do.  Do we have an agreement?”

Obi-Wan drops his gaze.  “I… I don’t know.  I must confer with the Council first.  But… but with their permission…”  He chooses to leave his sentence unfinished, still so unbelievably uncomfortable with the terms of this nightmare to agree to them aloud.

“Understood,” she nods.  “Then I shall arrange to send someone to your chambers at midnight unless you notify my staff otherwise.  Which would you prefer—a man or a woman?”

He stays silent, his stomach churning in discomfort.  He doesn’t think he’s ever even considered the question before.  He truly doesn’t know how to answer it.

Intuitively, the Queen moves on.  “No matter.  What of the girl, then?  A man would do well for her, I’m assuming?”

He lifts his head, furrowing his eyebrows.  “The girl?  What girl?”

“The girl,” s’Zerthia repeats blankly.  “All Jedi present will need to participate, of course.”

“No,” Obi-Wan says immediately, taking a few steps forward.  “No, that wasn’t the deal.  The girl has been a Knight for barely two years, she’s never even heard of the Ritual.  She has no part in this.”

“And yet she was meant to lead this negotiation, was she not?”  She tsks in disappointment, each staccato click of her tongue echoing throughout the vast ceilings and rafters of the room.  “Is that how you Jedi treat your women?  Throw her headfirst into a mediator’s position with none of the details she needs to be successful, dismiss and humiliate her when she inevitably fails, and subsequently refuse any involvement in a potential solution on her behalf because she ‘has no part in this’?  Perhaps I should be offended that the Jedi thought so little of the s’Ziscari as to assign someone of her standing to lead this negotiation, but as of right now, considering the mere fact that my palace is still intact, I’m actually starting to believe your little Padawan may just be the best of you.”

Obi-Wan says absolutely nothing in response, his heart panging in his chest in shame hearing it put into words that way.  He’s never been one to question the decision-making of the Council, but assigning you to this mission had admittedly been something he himself couldn’t quite puzzle out.  Obi-Wan understands the need to further develop your diplomatic skills, but the terms of this specific negotiation were just far too complex and far too crucial to the survival of the Republic to gamble on one of the youngest Knights in the Order.  By all accounts, you shouldn’t be here, but the Council was very specific in their instructions.  You were to lead negotiations, and Obi-Wan was to act as reinforcement should anything happen to go awry.

The Queen quietly studies the Jedi Master all the while, tilting her head thoughtfully.  “None of this makes any sense, does it?”

Again, Obi-Wan maintains his silence with a furrowed brow and a far-off look on his face.

“What’s so different about this one?”  She asks him, sincere curiosity appearing to overtake her in the moment.  “This girl, specifically, out of everyone—why would they choose her for this negotiation?  There’d be no discernible reason, unless they wanted her to—”

She cuts herself off abruptly as Obi-Wan quickly flicks his gaze over to her.  When she’s silent for too long, he has to prompt her.  “Unless they wanted her to what?”

“Ah,” she whispers at once, her expression immediately clearing in understanding.  “Clever.  Diabolical, manipulative, and entirely unexpected from a group of glorified cultists with brightly colored laser swords.  But oh, so clever.”

Obi-Wan is starting to become very frustrated with this conversation.

“You know,” the Queen continues, back to studying her manicure, “I used to lament my lack of free will as a member of royalty by marriage.  My husband, Maker rest his soul, could never yearn for what he did not know, but as the daughter of a Senator, I was born as low as you.  I was a Miss once,” she laughs airily, as if the thought of her holding that title is absolutely ridiculous now.  “I knew the difference between a life of freedom and that of a puppet.  But.  At least my superiors revoked my autonomy to my face.  Your Council sees fit to pull strings from behind a curtain.”

“You think the Council wanted this?”  He can’t keep the intense skepticism from lacing his tone, despite his best efforts.

The Queen suddenly looks up from her jeweled fingernails and pins him with a hard stare.  “Will you bed a stranger even with the direct permission of your betters?”  She shoots at him, quite unexpectedly and shameless in her phrasing.

Obi-Wan nearly jerks back, the abrupt change in subject and rather personal question startling him.  “I—”

“Would you have asked your Padawan to accompany you here if you’d been put in charge of negotiations instead?”

“I’m not sure I—”

“Do you think it simply a coincidence the two of you were scheduled to arrive on my planet exactly ten hours before a festivity that only happens once every five hundred and some-odd cycles begins?”

“I can assure you I was not privy the t—”

“Why is the girl here?”

He… he doesn’t understand.  It’s like she’s trying to have four conversations with him at once.  He’s getting whiplash.  “s’Zerthia.”

“Obi-Wan.  Come now, don’t be daft.”  She goes back to picking at her fingernails, clearly done with her interrogation for the time being.  “She’s here because she is a thousand times more prepared to participate in the Sh’inzith than you are, of course.”

Obi-Wan blinks.  “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means the Council knew full well what the terms of this negotiation would be,” the Queen shrugs.  “Though you may not be too familiar with Jedi-s’Ziscari interplanetary relations, I can assure you we have openly voiced our offense to their denial of our invitations multiple times.  We still send them, of course, as is tradition.  We have for a few centuries at least.  A formal alliance would obviously require some act of rectification on the Council’s behalf, so therefore the only logical assumption to be made is that the girl was chosen for this mission specifically with that in mind.  She likely didn’t take an oath of celibacy or something of t—”

“All Jedi take oaths of celibacy,” Obi-Wan interjects with a startlingly unfamiliar edge to his voice, clearly warning her not to continue on in this direction.

”Oh, apologies; I misspoke,” she clarifies.  “She probably didn’t take an oath of celibacy seriously, or something of the sort.”

“Mind yourself, s’Zerthia,” he warns her.  “I care not of your position nor our history, you will not speak of my protégé that way—”

“Oh, she’s your protégé now?”  She grins, amusement flashing in her eyes.  “I see.  Because we both have been referring to her as your Padawan up until the moment someone other than you decided to insult her, so I wasn’t sure.  Forgive me.”

Obi-Wan flushes and opens his mouth once, twice.  He is quite honestly speechless at how his… long-time acquaintance is so truly gifted at creating sentences that somehow manage to turn themselves into icy daggers in midair, so instead, he takes a different approach.  “E-Even… even if you were slightly correct with that… a-absolutely baseless accusation, it makes no sense,” he reasons desperately, still trying to find some way out of all this.  “Breaking an oath of celibacy in her youth does not at all mean she’d be any more likely to lie with a s’Ziscari to complete a diplomatic mis—”

“No,” the Queen agrees, “it means she’d be more likely to lie with a Jedi.”

Obi-Wan stops dead.

She laughs, a soft tinkle of a sound, taking in the underlying shock of his demeanor.  “By all their faults, the Council is not stupid.”  She almost sounds… impressed.  “Think, Obi-Wan.  Pair the Greatest Negotiator in the Order with his newly ordained Knight?  The one young enough to not have the strict pillars of your cult of a religion so hopelessly cemented into her mindset?  The one who so very clearly considers you to be far more than a mentor to her?  The Council knew you’d be incredibly reluctant to bed anyone, let alone a stranger from the Uncharted Regions, but they also knew of our history as friends—if anyone in the Order was in a position to make the deal with me, it was you, so if anyone in the Order was in a position to therefore… persuade you to follow through with the conditions of said deal, it was her.  To gain ten thousand more Force sensitives and win a galactic war, all your Council had to do was shove two of their most agreeable Generals into bed with one another.  Beautifully executed, Machiavellian at its core.  Stars.  I knew politics suited the Jedi, but this is just…”

Obi-Wan feels his chest sinking deeper and deeper by the second as she kisses her fingers animatedly.

“…Masterful,” s’Zerthia finishes, turning to smile widely at him, positively delighted in her demeanor.  “I do say, I may have met my match in your superiors, Obi-Wan.  Perhaps they shall make better allies than I’d originally assumed.  If nothing else, this little display of cunning and manipulation gives me faith that perhaps the Republic isn’t so completely doomed after all.”

“Do you truly think they’d be so cruel?”  He finds himself asking quietly after a moment.

“These are times of war, old friend,” she tilts her head with as much solemn comfort in her voice as she can reasonably provide.  “They knew the terms, and they knew you wouldn’t agree if you knew them in advance.  This was the only way.  And honestly, should a… well, let’s face it, a rather attractive coupling be all that stands between the galaxy and total destruction, I’d say that may just be a fair price to pay.  My only lament thus far is your rather timid demeanor.  You two would’ve made for a crowd favorite.”

The Queen’s assertion startles him so much that Obi-Wan outright defaults back to skeptical pragmatism instead of entertaining elaborate and incredibly far-fetched conspiracy theories.  “Yes, yes, s’Zerthia, but—but this whole entire scheme hinges on the completely incorrect assumption that she and I would actually be willing… willing to…”  He can’t even finish the sentence.

“How old are you, Obi-Wan?”  She raises a perfectly arched eyebrow at him, thoroughly unimpressed with his sudden lack of articulation.  “We are of similar age, correct?  Are you outright incapable of saying the word ‘fuck’?”

“Quit being foul,” he snaps.  “It suits your personality, not your tongue.”

“So quick-witted in conversation for someone so incredibly dim-witted in practice,” she muses, as if this entire thing is incredibly entertaining to her.  “Do you really not see the way she looks at you?”

“She respects me,” Obi-Wan declares meaningfully.  “She’s loyal.  She thinks much higher of me than I deserve.  She’d stand alone in the face of an army if it pleased me and she’d stand tall—”

“That’s not the only position she’d assume to please you,” the Queen mutters under her breath, pausing to give him a sweet little smile as Obi-Wan burns a hole through her with his glare.  “The only variable remaining is your willingness to please her.  After all, the offer to lie with a s’Ziscari instead will always be up for the both of your considerations, as is the ability to walk away entirely at any time of course.  I’m assuming the Council was relying on the fact that you’d pitch an absolute fit after being informed her involvement was required—which, naturally, you did.  And then they gambled on the answer to a question you’ve yet to ask yourself.”  She leans forward and tilts her head at him, lacing her manicured fingers together.  “Perhaps it’s not a matter of how willing you are to sleep with your Padawan to save the galaxy from complete and total annihilation, Master Kenobi, but simply a matter of whether or not the clueless little thing will want it bad enough to be able to convince you to do it.  This—this is a real negotiation for her now.”

“s’Zerthia—” Obi-Wan sputters, “—I—She—I’ve traversed her consciousness more than anyone in the entire galaxy, and not once has she ever even hinted at the possibility that she—”

“And can you blame her?  My, the scandal it would cause!”  The Queen presses the back of her hand to her forehead and collapses dramatically back into her throne.  “A Jedi Knight secretly harboring feelings for her Master?  In my good temple?  Shame!  Shame!  Sha—!”

“You think you know more of my successor than I?”  Obi-Wan interrupts sharply, somehow more irritated now at the insinuation than he’d been the entire conversation.  “The youngling I raised?  The one I handpicked to take my place in the Order, you think you know more of her heart than I?”

“Yes.”  s’Zerthia answers him simply, straightening up on her throne and abandoning all theatrics.  “Because you did not see her face when you called her Padawan.  I did.  And I also happen to know far better than most that hiding the truth from nosy Force sensitive authoritarians is most easily accomplished by controlling one’s energy signature.  Jedi, s’Ziscari, it matters not the culture—you lot spend far too much effort reading into the Force than simply looking someone in their eyes to learn the truth.  Look her in the eyes next time, Master Kenobi.  Then you will understand.”

***

You’re furious.

The Jedi are not meant to feel fury.  But you are a Jedi, and by the Maker, do you feel it.

“Padawan?”  You hiss, pacing the length of your bedchamber with clenched fists, trying to control the volume of your voice so desperately that the words come out shaky and slurred.  “Padawan?  Is that what he thinks of me?  That I’m still a youngling?!”

You haven’t been this upset since you were a small child.  And the thought stops you dead in your tracks.

You are a General.  You are a Consular.  You are a Knight.

Regardless of what he may believe.

So you climb up onto your unnecessarily large bed, crawling the incredibly soft fur blanket of an animal you’ve never seen before to sit yourself in the very center of the mattress, crossing your legs.  Though it takes you longer than it has in years, you’re finally able to relax your breathing and clear your mind, slipping into a deep meditative state.

You don’t know how long you stay in that position, nor do you really care to. But when your Force signature feels the slightest brush of your Master’s, likely just looking for your location within the palace, you’re a bit too late in slamming your mental barriers up in response.  You know he still senses the reciprocal shove he gave you earlier, the shocking feeling of being practically hurled out of someone’s mind with unprecedented ferocity.  But he also knows where you are now.

So, like you’re a youngling at the Academy again, you just pretend to meditate.  Like an actual child, you close your eyes and focus on just sitting still.  You shouldn’t be responding this way, you tell yourself.  Restraining your emotional response has been hammered into you for decades—keeping calm when you’re upset is your default, it’s how you’ve lived your entire adult life.  Why can you not seem to accomplish it now?

What… what is this?  This toxic, absolutely dreadful emotion?  It's hard placing them sometimes when you were taught from infancy to just will them away instead of processing them.  It’s not fury, not anymore.  It isn’t sadness, either.  You’ve been sad—you’ve been sad for two years straight, and it feels nothing like this.

You’re throwing a tantrum, you realize.  That’s what this must be.  You’re reverting back to your childhood, back to when you felt discounted and disapproved of by nearly everyone around you.  You haven’t felt this way in years, not since you met Master Kenobi.  This is hurt.  Just pure, irrational, emotional pain, and it’s manifesting itself in truly ugly ways.

You can feel his signature glow just marginally brighter in the Force as your Master steadily approaches.  You take slow breaths, trying to rearrange yourself into something at least mildly composed and tranquil, but it feels almost impossible.  So instead, you just try to ignore the past few hours and think back on all the things your Master used to tell you when you were like this, this raging turmoil of emotions overtaking you and causing you to lash out.  

You are a Consular, child, he’d say, and if you focus, you can practically hear the musical cadence of his calm, comforting voice.  A peacekeeper.  A dove.  When faced with a locked door, what must you always do?

Master Kenobi’s knuckles rap on the entrance to your quarters quietly, and you blink your eyes open, taking another deep breath before replying.  “It’s open.”

The door opens and he takes a few steps inside the room, stopping immediately when he lifts his head up and sees you sitting on your bed.

You both stare at each other in silence for way too long, and you’re not… really sure why.  You’re obviously just waiting for him to say something, take the lead in this conversation since he was clearly a better fit to take the lead on this mission, but he just looks at you.  For an eternity, he looks at you.  Completely blank.

He suddenly jerks his spine straight and breaks eye contact with you, coughing and flicking bright blue eyes around the space as if he’s just noticing it.  “Ah, I… Apologies, this is the wrong room.  I thought… my quarters are—I must confer with the Council.  Please, excuse me.”

And then he turns around and leaves.

You blink a few times, wide-eyed and completely bewildered as the door slides shut behind his billowing cloak.

He… he knocked on the door to his own quarters?  And then… and then he waited for you to call him in?

What in Maker’s name is going on?

***

“This is unbelievable,” Obi-Wan sighs, and the hologram of Master Windu rubs his blue flickering temples in slow circles, looking equally as exasperated as Obi-Wan sounds.  “Did you know the Ritual was to take place tonight?”

“The Council had no idea,” the fellow Guardian murmurs, and something pulls tight in Obi-Wan’s chest, remembering the Queen’s assertion that the s’Ziscari continue to send invitations to the Council every year.  Perhaps… perhaps there was some sort of an oversight, he thinks, due to the Clone Wars taking precedence for the Order.  “Intel told us she’d be off-planet for at least another week.”

Well now, that doesn’t make much sense, not if the Ritual is to begin soon.  None of what Master Windu has said throughout the conversation has made any sense at all regarding the situation.  Obi-Wan… Obi-Wan thought he’d feel better after speaking to another member of the Council, not more uncertain.

“What does Master Yoda think of all this?”  He eventually tries, but the holographic projection of Master Windu sighs and tilts his head regretfully, his upper body flickering and waving with intermittent static.

“Master Yoda is currently dispatched to Rugosa to convince King Katuunko to allow the Republic to build a base in Toydarian territory,” he replies solemnly, and Obi-Wan… needs to meditate.  Yes.  Meditation sounds like a phenomenal idea.  “Are you certain there is no more room for negotiating?”

“An ultimatum was given,” Obi-Wan says shortly.  “These are the terms.”

Master Windu takes quite a while before responding, but when he does, he speaks calmly and with purpose, addressing him with a formal opinion.  “Then the Council will leave this matter up to the discretions of you and your former Padawan, Master Kenobi.  This mission designation has hereby been elevated to the highest level of classified and your subsequent choices need not be reported, nor will they affect either of your places in the Order.  May the Force guide you and be with you both through these uncertain times.”

The transmission is cut and Obi-Wan feels his insides twist.  

He collapses onto his bed and groans quietly, burying his face in his hands and finding it easier to just conceal his Force signature altogether than attempt to mask the anxiety and crushing pressure he feels threatening to overwhelm him.

This is not good.  This is, in fact, very much a disaster.  This is a mess.  This is far worse than anything he could’ve possibly imagined when he was first assigned to this mission.  

Obi-Wan slowly rakes all ten of his fingers down the sides of his beard, lifting his chin and then letting them drag all the way down his throat, and the quiet scratchy sound it makes mixes in with another longer, even more exhausted groan.

Maker.  First things first, he needs to apologize to you and explain the situation.  Neither one of those things will be easy to accomplish, but in the grand scheme, they’ll be far simpler than anything else facing him.

He… he takes a second to think about you, about the awful way he unintentionally disrespected you earlier.  Stars—he handled this terribly.  He was caught off guard and he owes you an explanation, but he’s at a complete loss as to how to go about it.

And why… Why must you have been sitting on your bed?  Staring up at him silently, waiting for him atop the very place he’s just been given permission to… to…

Obi-Wan shakes his head and clamps his eyes shut, rubbing them with a bit too much vigor to be from tiredness and stress alone.  He should meditate.  He should meditate, let his mind break free of the nerves and sudden change of events, but he doesn’t have time to even begin unscrambling the chaos of his thoughts.  It’s getting late, and he has an obligation to tell you about the situation as soon as possible, to give you as much time as he can to process the decision facing you before the clock runs out.

He’s dreading this.  He’s absolutely dreading it, but it needs to be done.

***

After your Master leaves, less than a half hour passes before you hear another knock on the door.

By then, you’re just sitting there.  Sitting there, empty.  This is good, really.  Truly, this is a good thing.  A flat emotional state is what you should always strive for, but… nothing about it feels like peace, really.  No, this just feels… grey.  Desaturated.  Dull.

“It’s open,” you call once again, and Master Kenobi quietly enters your chambers.  This time you don’t look at him, though.  You don’t really… feel the need to, especially from the way his signature is still just barely presenting itself to you, still so guarded and cautious around you when he’s never been this way before.

Your Master comes to a stop right in front of the edge of the mattress, and stands there for a few moments in silence.  You just blink down at the mattress and wait, undisturbed, until you hear him heave a long, heavy sigh, before spinning around and unceremoniously sinking down to the floor at the foot of the bed.

Something about it breaks through your blank, almost dissociative state.  Your eyebrows narrow just slightly where your gaze is pinned to the fur covering the mattress, hearing him sigh heavily once more out of your line of sight, but it’s enough to urge you to crawl forward until you can see him sitting on the floor at the foot of the mattress, bent over on himself, his head buried in his hands.  You’ve never seen your Master look so… vulnerable before.  So small—not in all the years you’ve known each other.  His energy is so concealed that you’re just barely able to sense anything besides the mere presence of his signature, but he’s clearly distraught with just as much emotion you were struggling with earlier, and suddenly…

Suddenly a calmness sweeps through you.  A gentle sort of kindness fills your soul, slowly flooding your energy with color once again at the sight of someone who’s usually so composed struggling so openly in front of you.

Carefully, you lower yourself down until you’re seated on the floor next to him, your back pressed up against the side of the mattress as he continues to hide his face from you.  You stay there, not touching him, not saying anything, but just radiating a steady tranquility through the room from the very center of your being, anchoring him through his storm until it clears.

The sun goes down through the window before either of you speak.  Your Master eventually drops his hands from his face and takes a deep breath, choosing to break the silence first.

“Before I begin,” he finally says, his shoulders still uncharacteristically tight and full of tension, even though his voice is soft.  “I must… I must sincerely apologize to you.  This type of subject matter makes me extraordinarily uncomfortable and I took that out on you, and it was absolutely unacceptable behavior on my behalf.  Unfortunately, I can offer you no explanation that wouldn't count as an excuse for something that was completely inexcusable.”

“I understand,” you reassure him, just as quietly, but then quickly correct yourself.  “Well, no—I don’t.  I don’t understand, but.  Judging from your demeanor, I can only assume things have become… a bit more complicated.”

Your Master takes another full, deep inhale.  “Yes, that’s…” he empties his lungs of air with a huff, amused but in a way that’s not really amused.  “That’s certainly one way of putting it.”

“Do you…”  You blink at the floor, still keeping your voice and energy as gentle as possible.  “Just—before… before you begin… Do you truly think of me as your Padawan still?”

“No,” he answers firmly.  Immediately, and with less hesitation than anything he’s said so far.  “I do not.”

You nod, the finality in his tone leading you to believe that’s the end of his sentence, but then he eventually lowers his voice and continues.

“But sometimes, I…”  Your Master sounds conflicted, like he’s not sure he should be saying this aloud.  He still hasn’t looked at you.  “I find myself… wishing you were.  That we could go back to those days, the days before the war.  Before fighting armies, and leading them… and now recruiting them.  The happiest and most fulfilling days of my life were spent with you by my side, young one.  I am not telling you this in an attempt to justify or defend my actions in any way, I am telling you this simply because I don’t want an egregious misunderstanding of this magnitude to continue to fester between us when it can be addressed right here and now.  In the face of incredible discomfort, I selfishly reverted the terms of our relationship back to what they were two years ago—not because I subconsciously think of you as my Padawan still or that I somehow haven’t recognized your unprecedented list of accomplishments as a Knight—but because you, the former title, and the nature of the relationship it entails were the only things familiar to me when everything else around was so incredibly and uncomfortably foreign.  I humbly beg your forgiveness for ever allowing you to spend a single second of your time thinking differently, never mind hours of it.”

You blink, startled by the sudden articulation and sincerity of the apology.  “I—it’s… it’s okay.”

“It’s not,” Master Kenobi softly counters, “but your forgiveness is greatly appreciated, no matter how undeserved.”

You smile at him.  It’s one of those gentle, sad smiles—the kind of smile that would feel fake if it wasn’t for the comfort you’re trying to provide with it.  Carefully, you place a hand on the bend of his knee.  “Do you have a place you’d like to start, or would it be easier for you if I asked specific questions?”

He looks at you.  Finally.  For the first time, his clear blue eyes rise to meet yours and he looks… grateful.  “Ask.  Please.  That would be so much better.”

“A ritual begins tonight,” you say after a moment, studying his handsome facial features for some kind of confirmation of the information you’ve managed to piece together, but then your Master abruptly breaks eye contact with you and lowers his gaze once more.  “Yet the Sentinels historically choose not to partake.  Why?”

“Because… the Ritual… contains proceedings that stand in direct opposition to the values and teachings of the Jedi,” he explains to the floor.  “It goes against the core pillars of our religion to even spectate.  The Uncharted Regions are… different.  They follow neither the laws nor the customs of the Republic.  It was decided long ago to politely decline their invitations, though we offered many times to meet during another time of the year.  The Council had no idea the Queen would take this much offense.”

You have to ask.  It’s important for you to know, but his rather vague explanation serves to peak your trepidation just as much as it does your curiosity.  “…What is…”  Maker, you’ve gone unbelievably quiet.  “What is the Ritual, Master?”

Obi-Wan goes just as quiet, looking down at his hands as they fiddle idly in his lap.  “Ah.  Yes.  That.  Well, the—th-the Ritual is, uh.  Uh—”

You blink softly at him and his abrupt loss of articulation, trying to rearrange your expression to be encouraging without appearing too eager.

He suddenly cuts himself off and looks up at you, pinning you with an ocean-deep blue gaze once more.  “It’s a celebration of fertility.”

You blink once more at him, this time quite stupidly.

“People are encouraged to be intimate with each other.  Openly.  Shameless displays of fornication between two consenting adults are commonplace in almost every conceivable forum, said to permanently connect the s’Ziscari to one another through the Force—which is why they usually project throughout the act.  In fact, they even have a gathering here at the palace capital, an ‘opening ceremony’ of sorts where people… perform.  It’s debauchery disguised as a holiday.”

You… for some reason, the fact that he stares so intently at you while he says it makes your reaction marginally subtler.  He gives away no emotion as he takes in how your mouth has formed a soft O shape, how a solemn understanding seems to flood through you.  Of course he’d have incredible trouble with something like this.  And somehow it’s only then that you fully forgive him for his previous mishaps and mistakes on this mission.  You understand now, you get it.

“Ah.  Okay.  And… and in exchange for the s’Ziscari’s assistance in the Clone Wars, they want us to… what, exactly?”  Maker, why is your throat so dry?

“They’ve presented the ultimatum of either walking away from the deal entirely or partaking from the privacy of these chambers,” he answers.  “Together.”

Okay, so your reaction is a bit more pronounced this time.

Your eyes widen for a fraction of a second, all the breath in your lungs whooshing out at once.  Maker, it’s like he punched you in the chest.  Muscle memory alone allows you to almost completely muffle the burst of shock that radiates through the Force, but your face is still a dead giveaway.

Is this… is this a trial?  Are you hallucinating?  Perhaps a vision, if it wasn’t so beyond ludicrous or had any basis in reality whatsoever.  How many vaguely similar scenarios have you imagined throughout the duration of Obi-Wan’s tutelage?  And yet never has one been so incredibly creative.  Or elaborate.

And then, the thought suddenly hits you.

Oh.  Oh, no, this is dangerous.

It’s one thing to harbor a dark, hidden crush on your Master for years, something you refuse to even let yourself think about most of the time.  It’s one thing to learn how to bury your needs deep down and refuse to let them see the light of day, to learn how to build a mental fortress around a dirty, terrible secret from your youth and guard it with a saber and matching ferocity.  This is the way of the Jedi.

It’s another thing entirely to have it offered to you on a silver platter.  To be given just a sample of Darkness, knowing you’ll never have anything close to it ever again.

***

Obi-Wan doesn’t think he’s studied your face this closely in his entire life.

It feels almost… unnatural, how meticulously he’s trying to read your expressions.  Outwardly, you don’t appear to be anything more than surprised, really.  Not horrified at the idea, just… stunned.

“What did you tell them?”  You eventually ask him.

“That I’d need to discuss it with the Council first,” Obi-Wan answers carefully, “and then that I’d need to discuss it with you.  And I’d make a decision by midnight, when the Ritual is to begin.”

And—there.  He sees it.  Your Force signature continues to radiate a gentle calmness outwards, unwavering and unbothered in its beautiful gradient of pale greens and chartreuses and golds, brilliantly contrasting with the cool blues and periwinkles of Obi-Wan’s own signature, but there’s a flash of… something in your eyes, and he sees it for maybe a split second before it’s gone completely.

What did he say?  What did he say?  He tries quickly to remember.  That he’d need to discuss it with the Council first, and then that he’d need to… 

Obi-Wan sighs, instantly realizing his mistake.  He both openly admitted and proved to valuing the opinion of the Council over yours.  He valued the collective opinion of a group of Jedi tens of thousands of light years away who put you in the middle of this ghastly situation more than your opinion.  You.  The only other person directly involved with this absolute shipwreck of a negotiation, even though you never asked to be.  The person whose opinion on such a delicate situation should’ve mattered the most.

Stars, s’Zerthia was right.  Has he always been this blind?

“Though… though now I realize that was incredibly dismissive of me.”  Obi-Wan’s head drops and his hand comes up to cover and rub at his eyes, feeling halfway stuck between amused at his endless list of mistakes and miserable at how they’ve affected you.  “I’ve done absolutely nothing right on this mission so far, young one.  And you’ve done absolutely nothing wrong.  The Queen of the s’Ziscari said you’re likely the best the Order has to offer and I’m very quickly beginning to see her point.”

You jerk back comically.  “She said that?”

He peeks an eye open at you through his fingers, watching you look at him like he’s grown two heads.  “…Yes?”

“And not as an insult to the rest of the Jedi?”

Obi-Wan drags his hand down his beard, trying to hold the corners of his mouth down, but it does nothing to stop the small smile that begins to peek through.  So he doesn’t try to hide it.  He just smiles at you, exasperated but so incredibly fond, shaking his head meaningfully.  You sit there and stare at him with your mouth hanging open, completely discombobulated, and Obi-Wan actually begins to chuckle quietly to himself, marveling at how your reaction to the praise practically doubles its sentiment.

You’re the only one who’s been able to make him truly laugh in the past two years.  You did it despite his wild discomfort concerning the unfortunate situation the two of you have found yourselves in.  You did it despite the foreign territory, the foreign government, the foreign planet, the foreign customs, and the foreign subject matter.  And you did it all entirely unprompted, despite everything he’s done to wrong you.

“The lady in the big chair?  The one with the fingernails?”  You lift your hand up and wiggle your fingers, both looking and sounding like a droid in need of a hard reboot.  “The fingernail lady, she said this?”

“Why is that so surprising to you?”  Obi-Wan asks with a gentle grin, leaning back to rest his shoulder blades against the bed, his muscles considerably less tense than they were even just two minutes ago.

“Because I don’t—?  People don’t—??”  You wave your hands around uselessly.  “I’m not used to… that.”

“To what?”  He prompts, still not removing his attention from your face.

“High praise?  I mean—I spent years being told that I was quite possibly the worst of the Jedi,”  you laugh awkwardly, and then you change the subject too quickly, like you’re attempting to fill the silence before it can be read into too much.  “Not to mention she looked positively delighted when I was dismissed.”

There it is again, he thinks, your eyes once more betraying your signature, tone, and countenance.  He only allows himself a beat to silently vow to himself to consciously voice his recognition of your dedication and achievements more often.  It’s just… with the right ratio of patience and prompting, he always thought you were such a brilliant student.  Obi-Wan is unable to recall the exact moment as a teacher he began to recognize any positive trait you exhibited in his presence as simply part of your hidden, untapped given character instead of a very purposeful mindset you had to actively work to embody.  Perhaps the true reason he’s so skeptical about s’Zerthia’s assertion that you care more for him than you let on is because he cannot possibly fathom why.  Not when it feels like he’s spent years by your side and is only somehow only just now seeing you.

“Ah, yes, well,” Obi-Wan says, easily glossing over his quiet moment of contemplation without arousing any suspicion, “the Queen is arguably obsessed with seeing how much torture a person can endure without actually having any physical pain inflicted upon them.  She gets bored, see.  Not many visitors to the Uncharted Regions.  She likes to play games with her guests whenever they do arrive.”

You quirk a brow at him.  “Then shouldn’t she have revelled in my suffering instead of defending me because of it?”

“I’d say she’s entirely capable of doing both, especially considering just how torturous it was for me to sit there and be reminded of all the many different ways this has been so terribly unfair to you,” he admits softly.  “She paid you the compliment as a direct commendation for enduring such mistreatment and still leaving the walls of her palace standing.”

Your expression goes blank again, and Maker, this is more difficult than he thought it’d be.  It’s a legitimate challenge to gauge your emotional state when you’ve so clearly mastered your control over your energy signature, to a degree of which Obi-Wan was almost entirely unaware before today.

“You’re sure this is the only way?”  You eventually ask.  “We either do this together or we go back empty-handed?  That’s it?  No other options?”

Obi-Wan takes exactly zero seconds to consider the implication behind his answer before confirming your assertion with a solemn nod.  “No other options.  I’m sorry, young one.”

Later, he’ll reason he refused to present the Queen’s first suggestion to you because he couldn’t agree to the terms, even if you could.  It would be of no use for you to share your bed with a s’Ziscari when he was incapable or unwilling to do the same.  Yes, that makes… logical sense, he supposes.  Right now he just has far too many things on his mind to contemplate it, and the sudden reminder of the situation he’s in causes his heart to start beating faster in his chest.

“Okay.  Well…” You look uncertain, your eyebrows furrowing slightly even as your energy continues to glow soft and undisturbed from the center of your being.  “Well, what are—what are your… concerns?  Is there anything I could do to make this easier for you?”

Because Obi-Wan has absolutely no clue how to answer that question, he just keeps quiet.  He supposes it shouldn’t be so surprising that the Uncharted Regions feature so much… uncharted territory.  He truly doesn’t know how to go about this; upon explanation of the situation, he had hoped you’d supply a firm no so that the burden of choice was taken away from him.  He doesn’t want to offend you, but at the same time, the more you’re not directly protesting against the idea, the faster his heart begins to pound in terror at the realization that… breaking a sacred vow he’s honored his entire life is quickly becoming a very likely probability.

And also… why?  Why are you able to be so… calm about this?  Why are you not panicking and struggling with this decision the same way he is?  When s’Zerthia first suggested you’ve already broken your oath of celibacy, Obi-Wan didn’t want to believe it, yet here you are—asking him if there’s anything you can do to make this easier for him when both of you should be having a crisis about this hypothetical.  Are virgins typically so considerate?  Is he just being over-dramatic about this?  Is this just a manifestation of the serene hue of your saber reaffirming itself?  Is this just your cool head prevailing when the one person you’ve spent years looking to for guidance is clearly on the verge of spiraling?

Why?  Why aren’t you protesting more?

“Are we actually going to do this?”  You ask after a moment, and Obi-Wan unintentionally cringes.  Good Maker above, he truly doesn’t mean to.  It has almost nothing to do with you—in fact, he can only assume you're genuinely trying your best to adapt to the unfortunate twist of events, and you’re actually managing to be somewhat successful where Obi-Wan is just hopelessly, miserably failing.  You must be just trying to maintain some sort of base foundation for his turbulent mental state, but—but then he sees another flash of emotion in your eyes at the way he flinches away from the question.

He opens his mouth to respond—to apologize, or… stars, something, but then you supply a quick reassurance instead.  “I won’t—I won’t take offense, if you need me to, you know,” you shrug, very much avoiding his gaze and your voice suddenly sounding incredibly small.  “I don’t know.  Not make any sounds?  Or hide my face?  Or… something?”

“You’re…”  Obi-Wan’s mind, previously struggling with far too many chaotic, rapid-fire thoughts, suddenly can’t seem to conjure a single one of them.  “You’re… serious?”

“It’s not a big deal—” you quickly tell him, “—either way, we don’t have to make it a big deal.  I mean, I wouldn’t want it to be… It doesn’t have to be… terrible for you, or anything.”

Maker, is that what you think?  That this isn’t a ‘big deal’?  He stares at you, the word you used resonating with him.  Terrible.  On one hand, of course it’s terrible—the whole thing is terrible, it’s something out of an ancient Jedi parable he was told as a youngling, about the sins of passion leading to the Dark Side.  On the other hand, he knows you can’t possibly mean it like that, and… you’re somehow managing to interpret this conflict all wrong.  Asking him if he needs you to hide your face?

He eventually shakes his head just slightly.  “I… No.  No, young one, I will not…” he clears his throat, “I will not… require such a thing.”

Though neither of you say anything for quite a long time after that, the loud knock on the door still feels like it’s interrupting a crucial moment.

You quickly call that it’s open, and Obi-Wan turns his head to see the door swing forward and two s’Ziscari in thin black robes, standing in the hallway.  A man and a woman.

His heart suddenly thunders against his ribcage and he scrambles to remember the hour.  It can’t be midnight yet, no, he needs more time—

The male s’Ziscari says something in his native tongue, and the woman calmly translates to Basic.  “Her Majesty the Queen formally requests your presence in the great hall for dinner and the start of the festivities.”

“Respectfully,” you nod at the guard while Obi-Wan struggles to regain himself, “if it pleases her Majesty, Master Kenobi and I would prefer to eat in our quarters tonight, as we are still discussing the nature of our potential involvement in the festivities.”

The woman repeats back your polite and much appreciated response to the guard, and he looks between you two, before clearing his throat and saying something that sounds remarkably similar to his first sentence.  The translator turns back to you both.  “Her Majesty formally and… firmly requests your presence in the great hall for dinner and the start of the festivities.”

When you don’t respond, Obi-Wan suddenly realizes you’re waiting for him to speak.

“Very well,” he eventually sighs, reminding himself that you both are still guests on this planet.  “We shall be there momentarily.”

Regardless of the language barrier, the guard appears to understand the sentiment of his response through the Force, not needing a translation.  He says something and then turns to leave as the woman walks into the room, revealing a black bundle of fabric from behind her back to drape along one of the side tables.  “Zashir is currently placing your ceremonial robes in your quarters, General Kenobi.  If there will be nothing else?”

Maker, his what?  Obi-Wan’s pulse stutters.  “I’m sure that—that won’t be necessary, my lady—”

“It will be,” she nods shortly.  “If there will be nothing else.”

And then she spins around and walks out without bothering to wait for an answer.  You blink at the closed door as Obi-Wan drops his head and pinches the bridge of his nose once more, so far beyond stressed concerning how tragically the events of this cursed mission are unfolding that he almost wants to laugh.

“Something tells me the s’Ziscari don’t like the Jedi too much,” you offer after a moment of silence.

“Nonsense,” he counters, lifting his head and sighing helplessly, apparently reverting to sarcasm when everything else he knows is all but ripped away from him.  “Wherever could you have gathered that?”

Obi-Wan eventually moves to struggle up to his feet—struggle, being the key word, if only to maintain some essence of behavioral uniformity throughout these past  few hours—when he suddenly feels your hand on his elbow.

He glances down at you, your soft features and gentle eyes blinking up at him in his half-standing position next to you.

“We don’t have to do this, you know,” you remind him quietly.  “Either way.  Not a big deal.”

It’s strange.  He knows your primary intent is to put his mind at ease, but everything you’ve been saying just seems… too disconnected.  Good people are dying as you speak—civilians, children, innocents, you both know this, and yet… 

Perhaps… perhaps Obi-Wan is simply just too emotional right now, too chaotic.  He’s certainly not being fair to you.  He realizes he’s responding negatively no matter how you’re attempting to go about reassuring him, and though he recognizes it, it’s more difficult than it’s ever been to reign in his mental state.

He clears his throat.  “The Queen has assured us that we are free to decline her offer and walk away at any time.  Her only stipulation is that we’ll have until midnight to… i-initiate the…”

Stars.  Initiate the what?  Is this a self-destruct sequence?  It may as well be, Obi-Wan thinks, but you nod your understanding and rise to your feet nonetheless, far more gracefully than he does.

“Well,” you sigh, walking over to the side table and pulling the black robe off of it, turning to face him and balling the silky fabric in your hands awkwardly.  “Uh.  I guess.  Fate of the galaxy awaits, and all.”

And then he sees you wince, your subtle call-back to the beginning of this mission landing flat and clearly not contrasting well with your previous assertion to him that this is no big deal, but… for some reason the mistake and subsequent display of self-consciousness makes Obi-Wan relax just marginally.  Even if you’re not necessarily panicking, at least you’re still clearly nervous, and that fact alone is more reassuring than anything anyone has said to him since this disaster first started.

“Yes,” he murmurs with a companionable, albeit hesitant smile, patting your shoulder just once before moving to leave.  “The… the fate of the galaxy.”

Stars.  He’s… well.

Fucked, isn’t he?

[natromanxoff]

Record Mirror (July 14, 1979): 119/?

THE QUEEN BACKLASH ENDS HERE

WITHOUT DOUBT Queen are among that elite number of bands universally hated by the rock press.

The rancour is, make no mistake, mutual which is understandable. If you find yourself on the receiving end of an inveterate dislike at the outset of your career and watch it being nurtured and carefully cultivated over the next six years you’re bound to retaliate.

Queen’s hatred manifests itself by their continued habit of ignoring the music press i.e. refusing to give interviews. There is the occasional token “chat”, pointless as it is innocuous, but in the main it amounts to a blanket “No.”

One of the last interviews Freddie Mercury gave was the last nail in the perspex coffin. Under a headline which boldly asked ‘Is This Man A Prat?’ the king of the leotards was demolished by one of the old school Queen haters and Freddie obviously came to the conclusion, in its wake, that interviews in future would be both superfluous (he was popular enough) and detrimental.

The curtain, velvet naturally, closed.

Roger Taylor, a little wary, a little weary, sits stiffly in an armchair. The juggernauts rattling the Chelsea Street outside create a sonorous buzz bomb hum in the room.

You expect a member of Queen to look elegant. In fact Roger is only wearing a wine colour mohair jacket, black shirt and blue jeans.

He apologises for being a little late and explains how he went to the wrong address. Roger seems to be the only member of Queen left who is prepared, albeit rarely, to open his mouth in the presence of a hack. A question springs to mind . . . why?

“We all sat around a table before I flew over from Munich to discuss the press situation and we agreed I should be the one to represent the band. Freddie is very uncompromising and refuses to have much to do with journalists.

“Obviously, he’s had a few raw deals with them in the past,” observes Taylor.

Roger himself has a rather low view of the music press.

“Most of it is rubbish. There was something I liked recently, a piece on Malcolm McLaren, but in the main I think I’m the only one of Queen to actually read the music papers.”

Why does he think the band are systemically slagged?

“I think it’s because Queen have always come across as being a rather confident band. We seemed, to other people at least, to be very sure of ourselves. I think the press may have misconstrued the confidence, mistaking it for a form of arrogance. Hence they became wary of our motives which bred a dislike for our music.”

Now that’s what I call a neat conclusion.

At the risk of being sent to Coventry by my colleagues I’d like, if I may, to come clean. I love Queen (you’re fired, Ed).

I think it all began with a simple pre-packed but indisposable line – “Dynamite with a laser beam” and has continued uninterrupted (despite the occasional flaw) right through to ‘Queen Live Killers’.

A combination of reasons, Freddie Mercury’s lascivious lisp – the most attractive intonation known to man . . . Brian May’s reel ‘em off rococo riffs that would, in his capable hands, transform the theme music for ‘Waggoners’ Walk’ into a meisterwork . . . John Deacon’s almost stoic stance, incongruous yet integral . . . Roger Taylor’s intense power, so unexpected from one so slight . . . the ability to go over the top without failing into the trap of caricature . . . a desire to give the punters what they want without pandering . . . that cast iron confidence . . . those nine glorious winter weeks of ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ which kept the cold away from my soul . . .

Yes, I love Queen.

Roger explains the story behind ‘Killers’ which features just about every Queen classic which ever found its way into a silk lined memory bank.

“We always knew that one day we would make a live album. I think it was well planned. About 90 per cent of our last European tour was recorded on a mobile unit and we then spent weeks sitting through the songs in the studio.

“The result is a 100 per cent LIVE album. Nothing has been touched up in the process of selection, I think that’s pretty rare these days. Many ‘live’ albums are tampered with.”

The choice of single is unusual – ‘Love Of My Life’. “It’s not so unusual when you hear the way it came out. The song seems to have such a wide appeal. Everywhere we go the reaction to it is the same. The audience are just bursting to sing along.”

The result is Queen’s best single since ‘Don’t Stop Me Now’ (that was their LAST one crawler, ED)

As I mentioned earlier the band are currently residing in Munich where they are “experimenting” in the studio.

“We are recording in a totally different way for us,” says Roger who speaks with a delicate London accent only typical of cockneys with dramatic training and David Essex.

“Every time we entered a studio in the past we had a good idea of what we were going to do. This time we started from scratch and the result is amazing. The music is nothing like anything we’ve done before, I guess you could say it’s much simpler.”

And this novel approach to their music also extends to their shows. On their next British tour – in the late Autumn – the band will be playing much smaller venues than they are accustomed to.

“In London for example we went to play to audiences of about two or three thousand in different areas. I think it’s much fairer to the fans.”

But won’t this affect their stage show which is after all a crucial factor for any powerpomp outfit?

“Not really. We will just scale down the show accordingly. Besides,” he says taking another bite out of the biscuit, “we haven’t used dry ice in years.”

The monkey on Queen’s back, as corpulent and cantankerous as ever, has been put there by those who firmly believe the band can never emulate past achievements. Roger is cognizant of its presence but refuses to unpeel its bananas.

“That all began after ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’. When it stayed at number one all those weeks we were kindly informed that we would never be able to make another single to rival it both artistically and from the point of view of sales.

“Yet ‘We Are The Champions’ sold a great deal more and has since become the biggest selling single in the entire history of Elektra Asylum – our label in the States.

“We don’t do the amazingly complex things any more because we’ve moved on from that. We concentrate on the music we are doing now and we intend to do it the best we can, it’s ridiculous looking behind and and what you’ve done.

“There’s nothing like going back on the road to re-unite the bond between the four personalities and strengthening our belief in the band. We are a real working unit and, in my experience of the music business, one of the most democratic bands around today.”

A statement like that cries out to be expounded.

“People think every member of all the bands, not naming any names, are treated equally that is get the same money as their colleagues. That’s rubbish. In many bands there are a couple of guys that get all the money. The rest are on wages. Queen share the profits equally.”

And they don’t have a manager taking his cut either, John Reid departed a couple of years back and now the band themselves make all the major policy decisions. Why did they decide to dispense with the services of a manager?

“Basically because we were fed up with giving other people money. Y’know it never ceases to amaze me how naive those guys are in bands who have just had their first hit. After all this time I’ve forgotten just how naive we must have been at the beginning.

“I mean, everything seems so great when you get into the charts for the first time. You’re living on cloud nine and nothing else matters. But in truth that hit means absolutely nothing. So few people achieve any amount of financial success in this business.

“Oh, you think, you’re really living . . . for a while. Somebody gets you a flat in Chelsea and it’s all free. But one day the rent stops being paid for you and you realise you’re skint.

“Since John Reid has gone the four of us have always made a point of discussing everything together. We have various people working for us but all the important decisions are made by us alone. That way we get freedom of choice – and financial independence.”

My attention is suddenly diverted.

“FORTY-LOVE!” Wimbledon, the Persil White opiate for the hoi polloi squashed in a strawberry crush wrings out its perspiring petticoats on the TV in the next room.  Roger’s girlfriend, an extremely attractive French girl called Dominique, is engrossed. The couple have lived together for two years. Crippled old marriage questions permeate the air.

“I don’t believe in marriage,” says Roger. “It’s simply a contract and the fewer contracts I enter into the better. If you get on well with someone then there isn’t any harm in living with that person – but marriage is something else again.”

They live in a six bedroomed Victorian house just outside London, which is set in 20 acres. Roger has a “tiny” town house in Barnes as well. What’s it like having a bank full of money at the age of 29?

“I don’t hide away from life. Queen have never been one of those ‘being grabbed in the street’ type bands. It may happen when the four of us are together – but when we are out alone we are seldom bothered. That gives me the opportunity to enjoy myself. I go to clubs a lot. I like having a good time. I don’t think you could describe any of the band as leading sheltered lives.

“But I have completely lost touch with how much things cost. When you find yourself living in hotels for so long you never really deal in money as such. Everything is available whenever you want it – but you never see the cash actually being handed over.

“I’ve forgotten what it was like to be penniless which Queen were for years. I guess that must happen to many successful rock bands.”

Another thing that happens to many successful rock bands – they quit the country. But not Queen it appears.

“We have always based ourselves in England and I see no reason why we shouldn’t continue to do so. We could leave at any time but we choose to stay. People believe we are tax exiles because we spend a lot of the time out of the country recording in studios all over Europe and touring.”

And what will happen when the band finally trudge wearily down the road leading to that  ivory strewn elephants’ graveyard . . . ?

“I know it’s bound to happen one day. I suppose I’d take a long, long holiday . . . and then make a solo album.”

[whump-a-la-mode]

Um hi, I don't normally send prompts but I had an idea, so…anyway, basically the prompt is a villain's young sidekick who shows up at the villain's doorstep in the middle of the night (villain is a nice person; more unlawful than evil, idk) really injured, and when the villain patches them up, they end up accidentally revealing that they live with an abusive family? Idk, sorry if this is a weird idea.

With ideas as good as this one, you should send prompts more often ^^ It's not weird at all, I absolutely love this. I tried really hard on this one, so I really hope you enjoy!

Please note that this work contains descriptions of the aftermath of physical child abuse. If this would upset or distress you, please avoid reading this work.

CW//Child abuse, physical child abuse, verbal child abuse, being called a 'freak', death of a spouse, blood, bacteria (in a scientific setting)

Villain had never been much of a fan of children.

They wouldn't exactly describe it as a dislike. Kids were... fine. Annoying on occasion, and endlessly confusing with their new trends and habits, but fine. Those who brought them into the world and raised them provided a precious service, but their talents were far more useful elsewhere.

They squinted their eye, the eye pressed up against the lens of their microscope. With a tiny twist of a knob, the image below focused, displaying in full detail a million squirming lifeforms.

The culture was developing as expected. They removed the slide and returned the bacterial colony to its petri dish.

They'd thought about having a family, when they were young. A juvenile, clueless thought, but a thought nonetheless. There was something that warmed them about the concept of a home that was never empty.

Nowadays, they shared their home with no one but the bacteria, and they weren't exactly the best conversationalists.

Villain moved across their lab, soft socks muffling the thudding of their feet on the tile. With practiced accuracy, they returned the petri dish back to its tray, where it belonged.

They couldn't help but glancing just to the right. To the rabbit cage, sitting empty as it was. The light above it was still glowing bright, illuminating the stale hay below, and the toilet paper roll where the cage's inhabitant's teeth had once gnawed.

Now, the habitat sat empty.

They couldn't bring themself to clean it out. That was Spouse-

That was Spouse's job.

Villain bit their lip, taking another petri dish from the tray and returning to their microscope.

They growled and swatted at the thoughts that fought to enter their brain, but it was no use. No weapon could have fended them off.

Because... Because...

Because Spouse had loved kids.

They had always talked about the concept in dreamy, wistful tones. The idea of having a family, of creating something together that wasn't borne of chemicals in a lab. And Villain had agreed. But it was always simply a plan. Something that would be done sometime in the future. When the world wasn't so hectic. When there wasn't work to be done. When...

Villain bit their tongue hard enough to draw blood, gazing as intensely through the microscope's lens as they could manage.

Now that Spouse was gone, the laughter of children would never light the dreary home. There would always be a spare bedroom.

Their home would always be empty.

Maybe that was why they had taken Sidekick in.

It was something they'd wondered so often, not that they'd ever admit it to the teen they had taken under their wing. The relationship had started so uneventfully-- a powered kid with just enough spunk and reckless abandon to find their way into the world of heroes and villains.

At first, Villain hadn't even thought of them as a sidekick. They were just a kid that they trained in their free time. A future ally who needed someone to show them the ropes.

Then, they'd started coming with them on missions.

And fighting at their side.

And now, Villain couldn't help wondering, whenever they laid in their large, empty bed, what Spouse would have thought of their protege. If they were still around, then Sidekick's 16th birthday cake wouldn't have been so shitty. But, hey, no one could say that Villain hadn't tried.

Damn, did they miss that kid. Even when they called them a dinosaur and laughed when they didn't know what Tock-Tic was, or whatever they'd said. They'd been gone almost a whole week, now.

It wasn't the first time, of course. No teen had the time to be a full-time sidekick. They had their own life. They needed to go to school and hang out with their friends and be a kid. And do whatever kids did on Tock-Tik. Villain was certain that they would come back when they were able.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

By the time the knock on the door came, Villain was almost done with their inspection of the bacteria colonies. Their tired eyes flitted to the clock on the wall: Three in the morning. Had it been that long?

And who the hell was at their door at three in the morning?

The knock sounded again, yet, this time, it was distinct. Three sharp taps, then a fourth two seconds later.

Sidekick's knock. The one they'd practiced, to notify Villain when they arrived. But... They looked at the clock again. Their eyes had not deceived them. It was the dead of night. The kid should have been asleep hours ago!

Without care, they tossed down the petri dish in their hands on the nearest countertop, not so much as bothering to shrug off their lab coat as they hurried to the front door. They expected to hear the knock again-- the kid was always so impatient-- but there was no such noise. Only heavy, shallow breathing.

Other villains would have bemoaned their recklessness, but that didn't matter. What mattered was that their kid was here.

Villain flung open the window. Sidekick leapt back.

Sidekick...

They stood in the doorway a moment, liquid shock and terror battling for dominance within their bones. When they finally recovered, they spoke no words, only bustled their protege through the door and locked it behind. The kid stumbled all the way to the lab's exam table, which Villain practically threw them upon.

The terror in their bones had settled firmly in their stomach.

"What in the world happened to you?"

It was with the gaze of a parent rather than a doctor that they scanned the kid from head to toe.

The sheer volume of blood made it difficult to pinpoint their wounds. Yet, it was clear to see that the side of their head was still pumping scarlet, and the crimson dribbling down their leg was already dripping onto the pristine lab floor.

Villain gulped. The idea of taking their eyes of the kid for a split second was petrifying, but they relented, rushing off to returning a moment later with handfuls of rags. They shoved one into the kids hands.

"Hold this to the wound on your head, as tight as you can. I'll clean off your leg."

Even with trembling hands, the kid obliged as Villain knelt down , drenching rag after rag in blood until the leg was finally clear. At the very least, the wound upon their knee seemed to have stopped weeping scarlet. It was a messy thing, blunt trauma with enough force behind it to tear straight through the skin. The villain's practiced fingers tied a tight wrapping of gauze around the joint, standing to their feet.

Blood had seeped between Sidekick's fingers, but it seemed to have begun to dry. The head wound had stopped bleeding.

"Good." Villain pried the soaked rag from the kid's hands, tossing it aside. They could clean up later. "Where else?"

Sidekick averted their gaze, shoulders winding up taut.

"You need to tell me where you were hurt. Please."

After a few moments of trembling like a leaf, the kid gestured to their side.

"Okay. Can you take your shirt off for me, please? I need to get that cleaned."

"Okay..." The kid whimpered, obliging. Villain tossed aside the bloodied garment with little care, adding it to the pile of dirtied fabric.

Their torso...

The wound on their side, just above the hip, did not bleed nearly as bad as the other two. But...

With the sheer amount of bruises littering their flesh, Sidekick's skin may as well have been blue.

Villain took a clean rag, pressing it to their side.

"Who." They spat. "Who did this?"

Their mind began to run with such speed that, had it been a computer, its fans would have been on overdrive. What heroes were active around Sidekick's neighborhood? A few came to mind, at least one or two that were far enough outside the law that they wouldn't have put much thought into doing this to a kid.

But Sidekick did not speak, instead staring at their own shoes, dangling off the exam table.

When the hip wound was dried and wrapped, Villain whirled around, grabbing their phone and flicking to the contacts page. Which of their fellow villains was near the kid's home? They could think of at least a couple. Even if they were little more than acquaintances, someone who would hurt a kid was the common enemy of all.

"I need a name, kiddo. A name. Was it Viper? Sunstorm? The Twilight Reaper? I have friends, lots of friends. We can make them regret this."

No reply. Villain bit their lip, selecting a contact, moving their finger towards the call button-

"Wait!"

The kid at last cried.

"It wasn't a hero. My dad's not a-"

Villain whirled around.

"Your dad?"

Sidekick flushed.

"U- um, no, I, um-"

"Did your father do this?" They stormed to the exam room where the kid sat. "All of this?"

"I- I-" Their voice was choked by tears, carving down their scarlet-stained face.

Villain placed their hands on the kid's shoulders, turning their gaze towards them.

"Please. Please, kid."

The falling tears turned to full-on sobs.

"H- He said I was a- a freak!" They wailed. "I was training, I- You said I needed to practice my flying, in bird form. And I was practicing, and I didn't think anyone else was home, and then he walked in and-"

A sob broke their voice.

"They told me never to use my powers. He doesn't know that I- I stopped taking the pills. The ones that suppress them. And he got m- mad, and, and-"

"It's okay, it's okay."

Villain threw their arms around their child, embracing them while taking care not to disturb their wounds.

"I didn't know where else to go." Sidekick's words were strangled. "I'm sorry, but I didn't want to go back home and..."

"No, no." They tightened the embrace. "No. You don't have to go back, never. Not if you don't want to."

They broke off the hug, picking their phone up again once more.

"Talon has kids your age, she would take you in. Alya, too. Swan Dancer is a teacher..."

"Um." Sidekick seemed to have run out of tears, leaving them with only a broken, low voice. "I... That's all fine. But, um, I thought you mentioned having a spare room?"

Despite their parental terror, Villain let their face break into the smallest smile.

Spouse's room.

In a way, maybe they would get to meet Sidekick, after all.

[hetalia-has-a-secretary]

Axis and Allies when they run in to their s/o who just dipped out one day 7 years ago with no warning or explanation, except she’s a mom now! And hey that kid looks... uh... kinda familiar... and they’re how old now?

(Basically Axis and Allies find their ex and meet their child who is a dead ringer for their country parent)

Mmmm angst *slurps the spilled angst off the floor*

Ffff- I need to come up with reasons as to why their S/O do this~ (• J •;)

Oh and C/N means Child's Name.

Allies and Axis see their S/O with their kid of 7 years.

Allies:

America:

His S/O ran into him on their way home, and the store they were in had something extremely specific they couldn't find anywhere.

So they took their chances, not really expecting to see America again.

But they did, and it was a long pause in silence.

S/O could physically how hurt he was, but the sight of a child, even if it was obviously his, made him turn around to walk off.

His S/O didn't know what to expect, but him walking away was not one of them. They picked their kid up and went after him.

"Alfie- He's yours..."

He stopped in his tracks, eyes already red, but scrunched in confused anger.

"Why didn't you tell me? After all this time... Why?"

His S/O walked closer to him, not wanting to stir up unwanted attention.

They explained that they were scared their lives wouldn't work out. They were worried he'd be so busy traveling and enjoying life, a new family would weigh him down.

Giving another hard swallow he went to walk away, only for the kid to be eyeing him from his S/O's shoulder.

Neither of them meant to act like this in front of the kid, but none the less America found a way to console them, promising to do what it takes to show how much he cared. About both them, and their child.

Even if it took a few akward phone calls.

England:

His heart shattered. Standing right across the road was his S/O.

And in a spur of the moment he ran across beeping traffic, and stopped barely 10 steps away as he notices the kid.

Part of him hated the fact they ran off, and was happy they crossed paths again. The other part of him wondered if running across a busy road was worth it.

He looked at his S/O, then at the kid, silently asking if it was really his.

A quick nod from his S/O and he immediately knelt down to talk to the kid, making his S/O tear up.

"Hey kiddo. I'm... You must be S/O kid right? I'm an old friend of theirs... My name's Arthur..."

The kid looked up at S/O for approval to interact with this 'stranger', to which they agreed.

"Hi... I'm C/N... How are you?"

England had to fight back tears at this point.

"I'm doing good... Very good. It seems S/I taught you well, you're very polite..."

The kid nodded, saying thank you.

Only later did he find out that his S/O left, thinking he wouldn't want a kid, and it was going to ruin the relationship.

From them on he did everything he could to make up all the lost time, silently worrying over why they'd think he'd wouldn't want a family with them.

France:

He was brutality heartbroken the day they left. Like, this is a HUGE no, no to do to him.

At first he thought they were missing, but when it finally became clear they just left him, he got really cold.

Right up to the point of seeing them in public, on the streets.

Eyes locked, and his S/O expected him to be romantic about, fully preparing to reconnect.

Not what happened. He walked up to them, a crunched up face, obviously smitten with them.

"Why are you showing your face around my home?"

Pain on both sides of the party. His S/I wouldn't be able to get a word in as he assaulted them with questions and accusations as to if they even loved him.

Only when the sound of a small kid calling out for S/O did France freeze.

He was shocked, and looked at his S/O wise eyed.

His S/O gave a vague explanation.

"I'm sorry... But I wanted to raise them outside of a busy city. I told you were I was going to be, didn't you get my letter?"

He shook his head no. Watching his S/O silently cry in front of them.

And in one forgiving swoop he held them close, tears falling from his own eyes as he gave apologies.

After he was done with his S/O, his child was next, he spun them around, immediately repeating the fact he was their father, making the child giggle as well.

China:

Even though he felt close to his S/O he got over it quickly, also being use to people leaving him for whatever reason.

He never expects relationships to last.

But seeing a familiar face, I should say familiar faces, standing at his door made his heart pond, and ache all at once.

He wanted so badly to hold them, but he needed answers.

S/O ride broke down near by, and they needed a place to stay. This was the only place they could think of.

Once the kid was put to sleep, both adults doing an amazing job of keeping their cool, things started to unravel.

He asked about the kid, and why they left. Being told his S/O was simply a bit overwhelmed finding out they were pregnant, so they decided to leave made him almost laugh.

To him it was a ridiculous reason to leave, so he was the one to ask them to stay.

Russia:

He did not do well when he realized his S/O wasn't coming back anytime soon.

He felt their relationship was at its peak, only for them to disappear? Yeah, not going to happen.

His S/O might think they were better off but Ivan, had other plans. He wanted to know why. Was there someone else involved, more specifically.

He hired people to watch them, and when he learned there was a kid involved it angered him. He had to fight every nerve to not go find his S/O himself.

Only when he saw the kids eyes, a brilliant purple, did it click for him.

The reason why they left didn't matter, and he gave them time to change there mind.

When those 7 years past (if even) he went straight to where they were, demanding answers.

His S/O had to explain they were scared having a child around could complicate things. Especially when Ivan himself was trying to change as a person.

That news turned his anger into hurt. He wanted nothing more than to be family with his S/O, and having a kid as well? He already made vows to change, so he became a little more self aware after this event.

He went great lengths to learn about parenting, to the amusement of his S/O.

Though he won't admit it, he is kind of bummed out over the fact he was never able to hold his own kid as a baby.

Axis:

Germany:

Heartbroken wasn't the word to use.

He got a bit more, pig headed for a month or so, but got over it. Assuming it just wasn't meant to be.

However, after seeing a child that looked like a splitting image of him hanging on his S/O's hips said it all.

He literally walked up and straight up asked if the pregnancy was the reason they left.

His S/O sheepishly agreeing.

He gave a sigh, asking them if they'd still be interested in being together.

From there the next few months were spent patching up their relationship.

Japan:

He had to be convinced several times, to leave his room.

Eventually he moved on, but still missed them

So the look on his face when he finds them at an old restaurant they use to meet at, was quite the look.

He cursed himself for the sensation of meeting for the first time.

It was like his body moved on it's own. Up until he spots the kid. Then he tried to backpedal.

Not Because he wasn't happy about being a father (possibly), but he wasn't ready for the news.

He only got so far before his S/O called out his human name. To which he froze and turned around with a bright red face. Obviously understanding the situation.

Surprisingly enough the three of them seemed to connect and get along like it wasn't a super akward moment.

He almost all forgot to ask about why, but saved that question when C/N wasn't around.

He was glad to hear it was just because they were scared. Now he's more than happy to try again, and actually kind of excited to teach this small being about anime... And life things but mostly anime.

Italy:

He's the kind of guy to never get over it.

Even though he's fine on the outside, literally everything I'm his home reminded him of S/O

The amount of whiplash he experienced when finding them in his home town made his skin crawl

To him, it was like seeing a ghost, and it was honestly a bit much. Especially with the tiny clone of him.

Naturally he fainted on the spot.

Later on, in the hands of a medical staff, he and his S/O had a long conversation about the why's, and how's.

His heart still sunk hearing the reason they ran away, was because they didn't want to take away his freedom.

Thing is, his S/O was his freedom. So he listed all the reasons why. Freedom to be him, freedom to admit his fears when others would laugh at him.

They were his source of strength, and safety net. So yeah, he wanted them back. Kid was an added bonus.

[thgreatestblue]

hoax

➜ pairing: kaigaku x gn!reader ➜ warnings: manga spoilers, outdoor sex, toxic relationship, dubious consent, mention of death and blood. ➜ words: 4k ➜ a/n: i always loved kaigaku’s design and i would’ve loved to see more of him, but well. i had a lot of fun writing this and i hope you like it as well! (also, i highly recommend the fic breath of reincarnation) ➜ ao3

summary: Never in a million years you thought you would let him break your heart again. But here you were; not only with the broken pieces but with the one who smashed it. 

I.

When the sky turned into a greyish shade, everything lost its colors. It brings a melancholy feeling to the landscape; twisting every single tone in an ocean of nothingness besides the tinted red of your cheeks, still hot from the burning of your tears which had long disappeared, but the trail was still there. If you could, you would still be crying, but there were no tears left. 

Crestfallen, you wipe your face again with the sleeve of your kimono, it was damp and gross against your skin — a cold memory of the past few hours that you wanted to wake up from. If this was a nightmare, it was the worst you’ve ever had; and you had had a quite few ugly ones. But this one takes the spot, nothing could compare to the tragedy that was unfounded right in front of you.

You could still feel the phantom sensation of Kuwajima’s blood on your hands, cold and thick, staining your skin, running down your arms and dripping from your elbows. Even after hours scrubbing, until everything was so red you didn't know where the spots of blood ended and where your skin began. The endless stream of tears fogging your vision didn't help either. 

Fogged, that’s how it felt. A dense mist filled your mind, putting you in a mechanical state where you couldn't remember half of the day, half the things you had said and done - you nod to something, you hug someone, the water came out red. Although the haze clogged your mind, the image of the dead body of Kuwajima burns bright and vivid; even when you closed your eyes. 

You can’t think straight; can’t bring yourself to feel anything other than sadness. As you look at his grave, the dull turquoise color of the flowers make you sick, it reminds you of eyes that you wish you had never met; that you wish you had kept closer. Does it matter anyway? If fate was this cruel, then he would’ve slipped through your fingers nevertheless. 

Your head hurts just thinking about how you are going to tell Zenitsu about this — if the blow was fatal to you, it would be deadly to him. 

Although Kuwajima didn't take you under his wing, he always took care of you, making sure you knew the basics and was talented enough to enter the Demon Slayer Corps. Sometimes you would even train besides Kaigaku and Zenitsu, always coming out bruised but with a content smile on your face. 

However, those memories of better and easier days now sat wrong in your mind; they lost their colors, scenery becoming sinister as the faces twisted into something demonic. The shadows fell into those memories just like when clouds cover the sun, and you suspect it was going to be an endless rain, soaking every single frame until there's nothing left to save.

The necklace on your neck still has the yellow Magatama that Kaigaku gave you on your birthday, and it’s heavy — carrying the weight of treason and deception on its tiny form. Like habit, you grasp the pendant on your hand, holding it so tight it might break. It won't though. No matter how many times you threw it on the ground, step on it; it was still intact — it would always come back to your neck as well, no matter how many times you tried to let it go. 

The sound of a thunder startles you, and you laugh sadly at the irony. You look up to the sky which was painted a dark grey, casting darkness upon the living — you could say it was fitting for the day. After that, It only takes a few seconds for the first drop of rain to fall on your face, cold and violent — if there were no tears left, then the raindrops would do the job. 

“Y/N.” 

The voice comes from a spot next to you, but you don’t look. Not yet. You can’t bring yourself to turn your head, to see what Kaigaku had become — what monster he had turned into. You had wondered for hours, for days, the whys and the reasons. It corroded your heart, eating by the borders until it reached the center. 

Never in a million years you thought this was even possible. Not after everything he went through to become a Demon Slayer. Not after all the training, the scolding, the bruises and the cries - the joys and the pride. Never in a million years you thought you would let him break your heart again. 

But here you were; not only with the broken pieces but with the one who smashed it. 

Your lips tremble before you can bring yourself to speak, “What are you doing here?” It comes out tiny and fragile, your throat closes with the amount of grief you’re trying to hold. 

The rain starts to pour more heavily, soaking you to your feet. The sound of it would’ve been soothing if you were at home, but here in the open it’s disturbing, frightening. The fat raindrops hit your skin like bullets, they run down on your cheeks, damping your clothes and leaving you shivering. 

“Aren't you going to look at me, coward?” Kaigaku mocks, his voice closer now. 

His words stings, injecting poison on your veins. You should be used by now, to have your insides burning with humiliation. However, it was always a back and forth with him; one day he was arrogant, enraged, almost bitter. Then, on rare days —  the ones that you used to treasured the most — he would be eager, intense, almost romantic. The switch of emotion kept you on your toes; it was a lost battle though, he has always been unpredictable. 

You press your lips together, taking a deep breath before slowly turning your head to the side, but nothing could prepare you for what was right before you.

“So, what do you think about my new look?” Kaigaku spins on his heels; the rain doesn't stop him from opening his arms, showing off his new clothes, baring his new sharp teeth, a devilish smile dripping from his mouth, “Much better, right?” 

It is, in fact, much worse than you thought; eyes widening in disbelief. His skin that you had once touched with tender fingers was now pale and dull; the milk shade of it turned him into a ghost, and you'd have believed if you didn't know better. The dark stripes around his face were aggressive, twisting his face to a sharper and more dangerous look; and you hated seeing his beautiful face corrupted like that.

And then there was his eyes. Once a charming hue of turquoise that you had lost yourself so many times; due to anger, due to love. Now, a hideous shade of greenish blue, surrounded by black sclera. A perfect portrait of a corruption of nature, a Demon. It makes you want to puke.

Instead, you say, "You look terrible." 

Kaigaku laughs, throwing his head back as if you had told the funniest joke, and you notice the many blue Magatamas he’s carrying with him, around his neck and wrist. Once yellow, now it was corrupted with evil. He still carries his katana on his back, which you thought was an outrage; an insult to the Demon Slayer Corps. You clench your hands in fists, but still don't reach for your own katana.

"Oh, Y/N. You wound me." He mocks, running a hand through his wet hair, so casually you can’t register the moment as real. 

Rage sets down in your bones, even with him right in front of you, you couldn't believe it. Not a single word of apology, he doesn't show remorse, nor guilty. He looks satisfied with the turn of events, as if he had planned this all along. It’s disgusting, his pointy ears and long black nails; for once, you are glad that Kuwajima isn't here to see what he had become — you wish you weren't either. 

"Do you know who found him?" You shout, eyes burning with fury and sorrow, you approach him with heavy steps, your lips tremble as you continue to scream, "When I arrived there was blood all over the room, his death was slow and agonizing because no one was there to cut his head! All because of you!" 

You hit his chest as hard as you can; but you are weak — nothing was able to stay on your stomach and you couldn't even think about sleeping. He doesn't move an inch. “I keep seeing that scene every fucking day, even when my eyes are open!” 

Your voice sounds shaky, but your hands clench his clothes in a tight grip. The sound of thunder is loud in your ears as the rain falls heavy between you two. He’s not laughing anymore, the grin on his face fading into a scowl. 

"You're a disgrace." 

Kaigaku’s eyes darken, almost pit black. Your senses scream for you to prepare to fight, but before you could even think about making a movement, he grabs you by the collar and throws you against the first wall he could find. The air is knocked out of your lungs, head spinning with the pain spreading throughout your body.

He holds your clothes in a tight grip, pressing against your frame so you wouldn't be able to move. Your hands reach to grab his; a failed attempt to loosen the grasp around your throat that is starting to suffocate you. Head still fogg with pain, the only thing you can see between dark spots are his eyes. Your eyes widen in shock as you see the indentation of a kanji in his iries, Upper Moon Six. 

"I wouldn't say that ever again if I were you." Kaigaku warns, the pointed nail of his index finger digging in the flesh of your throat.

You swallow down, feeling the nail cutting just a tiny bit of your skin, but not enough to draw blood. The rain still pours unforgiven, but at least there’s a roof over your head now. You’re completely soaked and yet, you can feel his strong body against yours, his breath on your face makes you shudder. 

“Why?” You cry out, not knowing exactly for what you were asking.

Kaigaku was a taker, and even though you gave everything you could and more, it was never enough. You gave him your soul, let him consume your body and break your heart as many times as he liked — And still wasn't enough. You don’t know what he wants from you anymore; there was nothing left to play with, he had shattered all your pieces.

Yet, here he was. There wasn't a single reasonable reason that he could give to you that would explain all this, that would justify the catastrophe of his choices. Though, deep down you knew it was for his own amusement, seeing you suffer for him yet again. He wouldn't let you go, eternally pulling the strings of your life.

“I’m stronger,” He hums, “More powerful than I would ever be if I continued to be just a a mediocre demon slayer.” 

You shook your head in disbelief, after everything that’s all he has to say? For years you wished; no, you actually believed that underneath the tough facade he was a good man, that he in fact was just prideful and wanted to be the best Demon Slayer out there.

You saw when he would train until his body couldn't take anymore. You saw when he would let a tiny smile spread across his face when Kuwajima praised him. You saw when he was gentle when you two were intimate. You saw so many things and yet, those black eyes staring at you said the very contrary. 

“I'm on the winning side.” Kaigaku whispers, licking a trail from your neck to your chin. You shiver from the feeling of his tongue dragging across your flesh.

"Let me go.” You hiss between gritted teeth. You hold his forearms in a weak grip, trying to push him away. 

Kaigaku’s laugh vibrates through your body — it’s cruel and cold — leaving you trembling on the spot. He tilts his head, one hand grips your waist while the other reaches down for the pendant on your chest. He plays with the Magatama between his fingers, a vicious grin spreading through his face. Your face heats up, caught in the act.

"I don’t know why you bother to try. We both know it never works."

Kaigaku’s lips come crashing into yours, hungry and eager. You fight back, pressing your lips together — miserably trying to stop him from invading your mouth. His teeth sinks in your skin, his nails dug on your waist. Your clothes are damp from the rain, but rather than feel cold, there’s a warm heat emanating from Kaigaku’s body that you can’t ignore how familiar it feels. 

You don’t want him. 

Out in the open, you felt over exposed. More than that, you were just a few meters away from Kuwajima’s grave. It was a dishonor, not only for him, but for everyone Kaigaku killed to be this high in the rank. How many lives were destroyed by his treason. You try to push him away, weakly forcing him to step away. Instead, Kaigaku presses closer, making your head hit the wall. 

You didn't want him — not like this, at least. 

His hands travel down your body as he slides his tongue along the seam of your lips, and even though your body screams for you to open your mouth, you don't. It was a never ending battle that you fought almost everyday; wanting him, needing him more than you should. Kaigaku has always been a constant in your life, for better or for worse — you can’t see him out of it, at the same time that you need desperately to let him go.

Noticing that you won’t budge, Kaigaku moves down to violently kiss your neck, sucking dark spots without mercy; his touch clouds your head and you don't notice when his hand disappears inside your pants. It’s only when he touches your sex that your eyes snatch open.

“Don’t—” As you open your mouth to protest, he shoves his tongue inside.

And you know it’s a lost battle then. Your hands grips his shoulders as you let him kiss you, suck your tongue, run the tip of it across the routh of your mouth. It has always been like that, once he touched you, it was over. Like a drug, you could never withdraw completely. No matter what. No matter the situation. 

His fingers play with you, knowing exactly how to touch you to drive you crazy. You have to grit your teeth to not make a sound, jaw stiffening as a moan threatens to escape. Kaigaku traps your bottom lip between his, sucking hard enough to bruise. 

“Don’t forget, you’re mine.” Kaigaku growls, his breath is hot against your neck, “And I can do whatever I want with you.”

Shivering, you grip his shoulder as the first finger enters you. His pointed nails hurt a little,  however, the feeling of his finger dragging and scratching you open is enough to make you gasp. You feel overwhelmed by his touch. It has been some time since he touched you like this — each thrust of his finger making you pulse and throb for more. He devours you, swallowing each tiny whimper you make as another finger enters you. 

Kaigaku's cruel, unforgiving fingers thrust deeper, curling in the right places that makes you see stars. You bury your head on his neck, letting a shameful moan escape your lips as he hits the right stop inside you. 

"That's better.” He hums in your ear. The heat on your belly is starting to burn, your body betrays you as your hips start move, fucking into his hand.

You finally give in, completely by kissing him. It’s desperate, raw with emotions you can bring yourself to say, holding into him as your life depends on it. It’s useless now, but you can’t help it. He kisses you back with the same intensity, lips crushing on another, sucking and devouring each other — and for a moment you wonder if there’s something between the lines you’re failing to see. 

You feel Kaigaku groaning when you brush your thigh against his crotch; he’s already fully hard and you know what’s coming next. He sucks down your neck, and you shudder between moans — your mind starting to lose track of your surroundings, thinking only about him and his touch, how you shamelessly want to go all the way.

Kaigaku abruptly pulls his fingers out of you, and you whimper from the loss. He teases you a little, dragging his fingers over your sex, making you squirm in his arms. When he pulls his hand out of your pants, there’s a bit of your fluid on his fingers, and he doesn't hesitate putting it on his mouth. You suck in a sharp breath, watching him suck his fingers. 

"Now, I don’t know if i want to fuck or eat you."

A strong shiver goes down your spine, paralyzing you in place. Suddenly, the reality of the situation hits you like a train — that what’s happening right now is wrong on so many levels — you open your mouth to put an end to whatever this is, heart beating so fast you might faint, but he stops you with a finger over your mouth.

“Hush now, we don’t want to ruin the moment, do we?” Kaigaku grins, his eyes are a shade darker now that the night took over the day, but those disgusting indentations are still there, the black sclera is haunting in this light; you can’t bring yourself to look him in the eye.

You feel trapped, the same way you felt a long time ago. And even though this time the reality is a lot worse, it was the same feeling. Before, when things were easy, it was still hard to make him hear you — it worked once or twice — but it all came down to what Kaigaku wanted in the end. Oh, you were so blind, so stupidly blind. 

And even now that you can see clearly as the day; acting on it is a completely different thing.  

You stay frozen in place — hands still clutching his shoulders, eyes heavy-lidded — while Kaigaku reaches past his kimono, pulling his cock out of his pants. You feel one of his hands pulling down yours just enough so he could position his cock at your entrance. He hooks his hands under your thighs, lifting you from the ground. And you wrap your legs around his waist like you did so many times before. 

If your mind isn't working, frozen in a dilemma you couldn't bring yourself to come to a conclusion — your body on the other hand, knew exactly how to proceed.

Kaigaku nose bumps into yours, drawing circles around your cheek, and it’s so gentle it makes you want to cry. There was always a bipolarity to his actions, it would jump between extremely violent to insufferable gentle and you didn't know which one was worse — his true self or the shadow of what could’ve been. 

He enters you quite easily, cursing under his breath. Your walls throbs around his cock as he pushes deeper and deeper. Moan muffled by his shoulder; your entire body is consumed by his fire, each nerve lighting up as he hits the deepest part of you — the fog on your mind comes back, intoxicating you for once and for all. 

Kaigaku starts with smoother strokes, making you feel all of him; every inch of his cock. It’s cruel, how slow and deep he goes, almost painful how much force he puts on his thrusts, staying buried inside you for longer than necessary — as if he hasn't already left enough marks on your body, on your soul.

Slamming your body against the wall, you hold onto his shoulders for dear life, each thrust making the bumping noise of your body against the wood louder and louder; if it wasn't for the rain, you are sure that someone would have heard you two by now — the thought makes you blush even harder. 

However, today the night is darker, the shadows are peach black as his eyes. Kaigaku changes the pace as he changes emotions; and since you were already stretched, he picks a roughless pace, fucking you against the wall. You moan louder when he hits you just right, you clench around him; the space below your belly asking for release.

“Ah,” You gasp as he continues to fuck you, “Fuck—Ka—ahh—” He shuts you up with his mouth, kissing you hard enough to suck all the air of your lungs.

And you desperately kiss him back, hanging into something unreal. To a feeling that would never be the same, stained by the blood he shed. To someone who would never be the same, twisted by the blood he chose to drink. This isn't him, but it looks so much like it that you would indulge yourself as much as you could — even if these mere minutes are going to leave you broken beyond repair.

Kaigaku moans in your mouth, and you drink every single one of them. Those sounds never failed to make your stomach flutter — at least he was enjoying this as much as you were, getting lost in your flesh as you always got lost on him. You kiss his neck, sucking the spot right below his ear, it wouldn't bruise but you could try.

Your hips move to meet his thrusts, not bothering how hard his nails dug into your thighs — wrongly enough you want his marks, as many as you could get, since you didn't know when you would be seeing him again, or if ever. 

“Kaigaku!” You cry, surprised when tears start to form in the corners of your eyes. You thought you had drained all of them, but of course he would be an exception.

"That's right, scream my name." Kaigaku growls, sucking in a sharp breath. The sound of skin on skin muffled by the rain.

"Fu—mmph—” A white-hot pleasure shoots through your body, the first tear runs down your cheek as Kaigaku continues to thrust into you with no mercy.

"So everyone will know that I fucked you," He whispers, biting at the lobe of one of your ears. "That a Demon fucked you." 

His words are harsh, making you shudder harder against him, trying to come up with something but your mouth only hangs open, breathy moans escaping as his hips snap forward, sinking so deep you cry out again. Then, his mouth finds its way to your neck, lips sealed over the flesh, he bites down, drawing blood to the surface and drinking. 

On a broken moan, you terribly realize you came from that.

It pulses through you, feeling the rush reach the tip of your toes. Kaigaku continues to slam into you, thrusts starting to feel erratic and desperate as he chases his orgasm. You hold onto his shoulders, gripping his clothes so tight your knuckles go white. He growls, spilling inside you. 

Kaigaku slowly stops his movements, pulling out of you with a filthy sound. Your head is still clouded with the aftertaste of your orgams — so that must be the reason why you seek for his mouth, kissing him so gently you can’t recognize what’s real or what’s not anymore. 

“Now I just need to eat you for real.” His grin is twisted with something evil and cruel underneath; you can’t take it anymore.

You push him, this time he steps away and you fall to your knees. You try to cover yourself, pulling your kimono over your chest, but the damage is already done. His come drips down between your thights — you shudder from the feeling, shame settling down your bones so heavy you can’t breathe. 

He squats down, gripping your chin, you try to look away but his grip tightens and you have to look at his demonic eyes, “Don’t worry, you are better alive for me, darling.”

He laughs as another tear runs down your cheek. 

If he was a disgrace, so were you.