#might be writing these all week

[sceletaflores]

slippery when wet!

pairing: patrick zweig x fem!reader

summary: “so who fucks better?” he asks bluntly, a bead of sweat dripping down the column of his throat and into the neck of his tank. a shocked laugh bursts from your lips. “what?” you ask, crossing your arms over your chest. “who fucks better?” he repeats slowly, leaning down to meet your eye. “me or art? don’t fucking lie to me and tell me that prissy farmer boy makes you come harder than i do.”

—or: patrick puts you in your place three months later.

word count: 4.3k

contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, p in v, fighting as foreplay, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it y’all!), rough sex, semi-public sex, oral sex (m!receiving), fingering...kinda (fem!receiving), very light spanking, choking, degradation, creampie, throat fucking, mean!reader my beloved, art donaldson is there in spirit, patrick is gay for art, porn with a little plot, no use of y/n.

author’s note: no one can stop me from writing rough sex patrick fics. it's all i think about 24/7, and you guys are no help but like i love it so it's fine. i'm here to serve you and this is clearly what you want so who am i to deny you that? thank you to the beautiful anon who requested this, i hope you don't mind that i changed it from a locker room scene to a bathroom scene but that was just calling to me hehe. okay bye! hope you love it! xoxo mwah.

psst! tftw series masterlist!

You’ve been on the court for at least an hour and a half, running drills and trying to sweat out all of your stress. You were the only one in the building, but it was always less busy during finals week. Most people were camped out in their dorms cramming for fifty question tests or four part lab practicals. 

Art politely declined your invite, too busy studying for his business final on Monday. So you rented a tennis machine and worked on your backhand that way. It was a nice distraction, emptying your head enough that all the anxiety of finals started to melt away as you slid into a steady rhythm with the machine.

The door bangs open with a loud creak behind you, bursting the little bubble of tranquility surrounding you. The back of your head burns with the unmistakable feeling of someone glaring at you.

You hear him before you see him, a loud call of your name followed by heavy footsteps quickly coming towards you. The sound of his voice immediately grates on your nerves, all angry and shouty. You choose to ignore it, focusing on hitting each new ball the machine spits out.

It may have been a couple months since you’ve seen Patrick, but you’d always recognize the familiar way his voice wraps around each syllable in your name.

Three months, to be exact. It’s been three months since your big fight over the phone with Patrick. You blocked his number right after you hung up, so you haven’t spoken to him in just as long. He never tried to reach out, never messaged you on AOL or Facebook. The petty fuck actually went out of his way to unfriend you on both, so you knew he wasn’t exactly torn up about your abrupt split. 

“Hey! I’m talking to you,” Patrick shouts over the loud humming, sounding closer to you than he was before. You pointedly keep ignoring him, eyes fixed stubbornly on the machine. “You deaf or something?” he mocks, stepping up so you can see him in your peripheral vision. You say nothing, swinging your racket harder with each hit.

Patrick scoffs, stomping over to the machine and slamming his hand over the stop button. It makes a loud beeping sound, before shutting off completely. “Jesus Christ, you’re such a fucking baby.” you groan, throwing your head back in annoyance. When you finally turn to glare at him, you’re shocked at the state he’s in.

Patrick’s dressed in a tank and the almost too short shorts he’d usually wear to a match, and he’s dripping sweat. Curly black hair plastered to his forehead with it, his cheeks red and blotchy like he’d been in the sun. You raise your brow, looking at him with a confused expression on your face. “Where the hell did you even come from? How did you know I was here?” 

He walks back over to you, hands balled into fists by his side. “I was at a tournament in Mountain View,” he explains, jerking his head in the vague direction he came from, ”it was so close I thought it’d be wrong of me to not stop by and check up on you.”

You laugh, nodding your head lightly. “Okay, so you flunked out of another tournament and hunted me down like a creepy stalker to what? Yell at me some more? Call me a cunt again?” you step closer, lightly swishing your racket through the air dismissively. “I’m not fucking interested in whatever it is you have to say Patrick, we’re over.”

He smirks but you can see the way his jaw clenches, ticking in anger. “But you’re interested in what Art has to say?”

There it is. You really should have known it would all come back to this eventually.

You sigh, casting your eyes to the ceiling in exasperation. “What’s your point?”

Patrick takes a step closer. “My point is that you’re not fucking stupid, and Art can’t lie to save his goddamn life. You knew exactly what he was doing.” His tone is accusatory, his brows pinched together hard enough to crease his skin. 

Your heart beat picks up in your chest, anger beginning to bubble up inside you. “I didn’t need Art’s help to realize that you’re an arrogant piece of shit and a gigantic waste of my time, you made it easy enough to pick up on all by yourself.”

Patrick laughs, loud and abrasive. “No, you just didn’t care.” he states darkly, shaking his head back and forth a few times. You can feel a few drops of sweat fling from his hair to land on the bare skin of your shoulders as he does. “You’re so easy that you’d spread your legs from him to stroke your own ego. You’re only playing into his whole kicked puppy charade to justify acting like a fucking whore, ‘Poor Art, he’s so sad and pathetic, I’ll let him fuck my slutty pussy to help his raise his self esteem!’.” He mocks, voice pitched up in an exaggerated impression of you.

Your grip tightens on the handle of your racket, knuckles turning white with it. You feel hot all over, anger simmering under your sweaty skin. “You’re seriously trying to lecture me about egos? This has nothing to do with Art! This is about you being a bratty little rich boy who’s never been told ‘no’ before so you can’t handle rejection. It’s fucking embarrassing.”

Patrick nostrils flare, brows pinching together in anger. “Art has nothing to do with this, really? You’re delusional if you actually think that he’s just this saint among men or some shit. He’s not, he’s a fucking snake.”

“Trust me, Art doesn’t have to be a saint to be better than you.” you sneer, voice sharp and unwavering. Your hands are shaking, blind rage racking through your body like thunder. “The only redeeming quality you’ll ever have is dangling between your legs so you better get used to this, because sooner or later everyone will leave you once they see past all your bullshit and realize that you’re nothing more than a worthless loser.”

Patrick’s jaw works furiously, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. You think something like hurt flashes through his eyes, but only for a second. It's gone just as fast, replaced by a mocking smirk that stretches over his lips slowly. He crosses his arms in front of him, shamelessly raking his eyes over your body. You can practically see the gears turning in his head. 

“So who fucks better?” he asks bluntly, a bead of sweat dripping down the column of his throat and into the neck of his tank.

A shocked laugh bursts from your lips before you can stop it. “What?” you ask, arms dropping to your sides limply. The completely one-eighty of his mood sends your head reeling. 

Patrick takes another step closer, invading your personal space. “Who fucks better?” he repeats slowly, leaning down to meet your eye. “Me or Art? Don’t fucking lie to me and tell me that prissy farmer boy makes you come harder than I do.”

You laugh again, shaking your head in disbelief. “God, everything is always a dick measuring contest with you. It’s so pathetic like, seriously–”

“Answer the question.” Patrick demands, cutting you off sharply. He’s practically looming over you now, so close that you can smell him. That natural, manly, musky scent he always has after a game that drives you fucking crazy. 

It reminds you of when he’d come back to your dorm fresh off a match, still in the same clothes and not showered. Pumped full of adrenaline and so pent up, needing something to take his energy out on. You were always that something. He’d fuck your mouth like he’d fuck your pussy, like it was just another hole for him drain his balls into. You’d be face down in his crotch for what seemed like hours, right where his smell was the strongest. Forced to breathe it in so deeply you’d feel high off it, your brain turned to mush every time.

Heat swirls deep in your stomach, you haven’t been this close to Patrick in what seems like forever. You kind of forgot how much he affects you, especially like this. The sex was always better when you’d fight before.

“You’re a child.”

“You still haven’t answered the question.”

You huff, narrowing your eyes at him. There’s a sort of crazed look on his face, his pupils blown out and dark. It makes you pause, it’s the look you’d get right before he’d pounce on you. You’ve seen it enough times to know that something is different about it. He looks needier, more hungry. 

It has some of your anger subsiding, twisted amusement swiftly taking its place. If Patrick wants to ambush you like this, after weeks of radio silence, you might as well use it as a chance to fuck with him.

You smirk, cocking your head to the side slightly. “Art,” you say slowly, taking a small step towards Patrick, “is a better fuck than you ever were.”

Patrick pouts like an honest to God child, sticking out his bottom lip in indignation. “I told you not to lie–”

“I’m not lying,” you say innocently, voice dropping down to a whisper as you lean in even closer. You can see the freckles sprinkled across his nose and cheeks, darker than usual thanks to all the sun he’s been getting. “Last night he ate me out for hours, made me squirt all over his fucking tongue.” 

For the first time since you’ve met him, Patrick Zweig is shocked into silence. His eyes darken, you can’t even see the green anymore, the solid black of his pupils swallowing it entirely. “Bullshit,” he says quietly, clipped and skeptical. His breath fans hotly over your lips, it makes your spine start to tingle.

You smile sweetly, giving a small shrug of your shoulders. “I’ll send you the video.”

Patrick physically reels back, blinking slowly with the realization of what you just said. His lips barely part in surprise, pink and enticing. You revel in it, smirking at him smugly. His eyes flit across your face like he’s trying to figure out if you’re lying or not. You stare back at him unrelenting, all the proof you need is sitting in the video gallery of your pink motorola razr. 

Patrick swallows hard, you watch the way his adam’s apple bobs with it. He shifts his lower body subtly, but you’re too close to not notice it. Your eyes immediately dart down, and you’re almost giddy at what you find. 

He’s hard, the fabric of his shorts stretched over the length of his dick obscenely. You can see the faint outline of the tip pressing against the seam, a wet patch seeping through the gray material around it.

“Oh my god, you’re actually getting off on this!” you laugh wickedly, eyes glued to the lewd tent of his dick. “You’re calling me a whore when you’re the one getting wet just thinking about your best friend's mouth on my pussy. That’s fucking pathetic even for you, Ricky.”

Patrick is silent, breathing heavily through his nose as he stares you down so intensely you can almost feel the heavy weight of his eyes as they bore into you. 

It happens in less than a second, Patrick closing the distance between you and taking your arm in his strong hand so he can force you in the direction of the showers. His grip is tight on your bicep, fingers meanly digging into your skin and forcing you to walk with him. You put up a fight, kicking and scratching but he’s stronger than you. Not letting your slaps to his chest or nails sinking into his arm deter him from dragging you across the court. 

“Let me go asshole!” you snap, trying in vain to yank your arm out of his grip while you stumble over your own feet. “You’re such a fucking psycho!” Patrick ignores you, bursting into the men's showers and marching you into the first stall. He drags you inside, whirling you around to shove your back against the door of it roughly. It knocks the wind out of you for a second, the lock digs into your back hard enough to hurt.

“Art doesn’t have any fucking idea how to deal with a bitch like you.” he grates, fisting a handful of your harshly. “He’s too soft. Too busy letting you lead him around by his dick to try putting you in your fucking place.”

The sting of your scalp only adds to the warmth pulsing in your pussy, sticky arousal dripping wet in your panties. You meet his eyes, all the fire and want swirling in them mirror your own. “Art has a bigger dick than you bitch.” You spit, standing on your tiptoes to lessen the distance of him tugging on your hair. It’s a low blow, immature and basic but you don’t care.

Patrick just hum noncommittally, roughly hooking his fingers into your cheeks and dragging you forward until the tip of your nose is touching his. “Then your throat is still nice and stretched out for me.”

He drops his hands to your shoulders, forcing you onto your knees. You hit the ground with a heavy thud, a dull ache blooms in your knees at the force of it. “Fuck,” you hiss, pulling back instinctively but the hard plastic of the shower door pressing onto the back of your head keeps you pinned in place. Your hands fly up to his legs to try and push him away.

Patrick grips your hair tight, tipping your face up to look at him. You have a perfect view of him pushing his shorts down, letting his hard dick slip out as the fabric stretches taught across his thick thighs. “Open your mouth,” he demands, yanking your head to the side meanly.

“Fuck you,” you snarl, teeth bared in anger as you fight to stand up. Patrick’s strong hand on your shoulder keeps you down while the other starts to idly stroke his dick. He’s just as big as you remember, thick and hard only a few inches away from your face.

The tip all red and weepy when he pulls his foreskin back on each tug, a thick vein running up the side that you want to trace with your tongue.

“Don’t be like that, baby,” he coos softly, rubbing his leaking tip across your bottom lip a couple times, smearing his pre-come around your mouth like lip gloss. “We both know you love it.”

He’s so cocky, so sure of himself that you want to keep denying him. But he’s also right, you can feel your resolve slowly start to crack when he pushes the head between your parted lips. The familiar heady taste of him oozing onto your tongue has you sighing contently, jaw relaxing the tiniest bit almost like a reflex.

The second you give Patrick an inch and he’ll take a mile. 

“There we go,” he mutters sweetly, pulling back slightly and then thrusting forward until your nose is buried in the short curls at the base. 

Your whole body tenses, throat constricting over the length of his dick as your fist his shorts in your hands. As quickly as he thrust in, he pulls out, letting you sharply gasp for air before it’s back and pressing insistently on your tongue. You let him in, forcing your throat to relax as he slides forward to press his hips into your face.

“You’re such a fucking brat,” he bites out, thrusting down your throat roughly. “Pussy’s so greedy it jumped on the next dick that perked up around it.”

You could only whine around Patrick’s dick, mouth too full to do anything but try and work your tongue over the throbbing length of him.

Your throat burns, spit flowing down your chin messily along with his pre-come still steadily leaking from the hot tip of his dick.

His big hands have an iron grip on either side of your head, his balls slap against your chin as he thrusts over and over and over. The back of your skull throbs, knocking into the stall with each pump of his hips.

“Fuck,” he groans, dropping his forehead down to the stall with a small thunk. “You look so good like this,” he breathes, looking down at you through half-lidded eyes, “so fucking pretty with my dick down your throat to shut you up.”

Your pussy aches, so empty that you want to shove your hand down your shorts and stuff yourself full of your own fingers to dull the need. Your thighs glide together slickly, the wetness of your arousal soaking through your clothes.

It gets harder to breathe. Your choked off, spluttering gags start loudly echoing off the tile walls. Your hand slaps Patrick’s thigh a few times, he thrusts hard once more before he finally pulls back, smearing spit all over your tongue and out of your mouth.

“God, that was good baby.” he praises, slapping his dick against your right cheek lewdly. “As much as I want to pump this load down your throat,” he says casually, stroking his spit slick dick lazily, ”I want it in your pussy more.”

“I fucking hate you,” you growl weakly, voice absolutley wrecked. The tears sitting in your waterline blur your vision, you blink them away to see Patrick’s smug smile beaming down at you. 

“Then tell me to stop,” he shrugs, tilting his head to the side condescendingly. You glare up at him, but you don’t say anything. He snorts, brow raising in amusement. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” 

He shoves his shorts the rest of the way down, stepping out of them and hauling you up to your feet. You’re still desperately trying to catch your breath, chest heaving as you cough and gasp.

Patrick rips your shirt over your head, flinging it over the stall along with his own. He turns you by your shoulder, pushing you against the wall as he yanks the shower handle to start the stream.

Water rains down around you, shockingly cold for a few seconds before it finally starts to warm up. Patrick makes quick work of your shorts and panties, yanking them down your legs and off your feet, tossing them in the corner of the stall with a wet thwack.

He kicks your feet further apart, one hand on your shoulder and the other lining his hard dick up with your tight hole, letting the leaking tip press into you with the smallest amount of pressure.

“I know you missed my dick, slut,” he says, bringing his hand down on your ass quickly, kneading the stinging skin roughly. “Art could be the best fuck in the world, he still can’t give it to you like I can.” He pops the head in, groaning quietly before he bullies his thick dick the rest of the way into you.

Your hole shakes around him. Patick is right. Patrick is always right, but you’d never tell him that. You wanted this. You missed this. The burn of Patrick’s dick forcing you open, stretching you so wide your toes curl. Him not giving you even a second to react before he’s pulling back and pounding into you brutally.

You cry out, eyes screwing shut at the sharp sting. You can tell through the haze of you brain that this won’t take long at all, the both of you already so worked up from Patrick fucking your throat. His right hand drops from your shoulder to your hip while his left slides up your torso, sliding along your skin to wrap around the column of your throat firmly. You keen loudly, throwing your head back to give him more room.

“I taught him how to use that fucking dick,” he goads into your ear, grip tightening on your throat. “Did he tell you about that? Huh?” He takes your earlobe between your teeth, biting hard enough to make you squeal into the wall.

The tile digs into your cheek, roughly scraping against your skin every time Patrick fucks back into you. 

You’re hovering over the edge, pussy throbbing with the burning need to come. Your clit pulses, swollen and sensitive but you can’t find the strength to drop your down hand between your thighs.

They’re too busy scrambling for any kind of purchase on the slippery wall of the shower, manicured nails scratching against the tile uselessly.

You gasp for air, fighting to speak up under the intense pressure of his hand, “I could tell,” you choke out, barely audible, “you both fuck like you have something to prove.”

“You think?” he sneers, thrusting harder, your ass stinging each time he slams his hips into you. “Maybe that’s because we do. Maybe that’s because we both like seeing you fucking fall apart like this, seeing you beg for it after you finally stop being a little pissy bitch.” 

Your breath hitches as his other hand drops from your hip, delving between your thighs to slide the calloused pads of his fingertips over your swollen clit.

You moan, thighs clenching together as he rubs fast circles over you. “You like that, don’t you? Being used like a fucking toy.” His hand squeezes just a bit tighter. “Say it. Tell me you love being our little slut.”

The words spill out of your mouth before you can stop them, a mix of desperation and raw honesty, “I love it,” you cry out as loud as you can, “I love being your slut.”

“God, you sound just like him,” Patrick chuckles into your ear, low and sinister. His hold on your throat tightens, cutting off your air entirely. You sputter, hand coming up to clutch his wrist like a vice. Your pulse thunders, hard enough that he can probably feel it against his palm. “Who do you think made him come harder?”

The image alone of Patrick and Art like that sends you flying to the edge. “Ah— Patrick! ” you moan, voice hoarse and strained, “Pat, I’m gonna— fuck—“

“Do it,” he goads, sliding his hand from your clit down to where your pussy is spread open on him. He pushes his thick index finger right up next to his pulsing dick, hooking it inside or you and stretching you that much wider. “Come on my fucking dick like the greedy whore you are.”

You let out a sharp cry as your forehead hits the wall, thighs shaking violently as Patrick’s hips become relentless. Your whole body tensing up as you come so hard your vision blacks out.

You think you’re screaming, but it’s hard to hear anything over the white noise buzzing in your ears. Patrick’s hips don’t stop, fucking your abused pussy into overstimulation as he chases his own orgasm.

His hand drops from your throat to dig into your hip to put more power behind his thrusts. You’re immediately gasping for air, taking in greedy lungfuls of it.

Patrick’s chest is plastered to your back, face buried in your neck as he rambles out more nonsensical obscenities. His dick pulses and twitches in your pussy, so close to filling you up.

An idea pierces through the fog of your brain, an idea so fucking filthy it has your pussy clenching weakly.

You think back to the first night Art fucked you, how he almost came all over Patrick’s pants just because they were his, just because you said his name. How worked up and hard Patrick got when you started talking about Art. 

“When he fucked me for the first time, I was wearing your sweats, the green ones,” your voice is scratchy and quiet, barely audible over the shower’s spray, “he noticed.”

“Fuck– fuck you,” he grates out, hips faltering ever so slightly. “God, gonna come,” his hold on your hip tightens, strong enough that it’ll be sure to bruise.

You keep talking, spurred on by his reaction. “He almost came right there, he wasn’t even inside me yet, just rubbed his dick all over them like he could fucking feel you.”

Patrick gives one final slam of his hips, burying himself as deep as he can in your pussy. His low groans and curses fill the room as he unloads into you, pumping you so full of his come that you can feel each hot splash of it painting the walls of your pussy. 

He slumps down against you, hips twitching as he works through the aftershocks. You can feel his breath puff over the shell of your ear. 

You and Patrick say nothing for a long few minutes, running water the only thing to keep the room from being completely silent. Patrick is still pressed to your back, his chest heaves against your shoulders. You think you’d collapse if his hands weren’t still on your hips, practically holding you up.

You’re the one to break the silence, voice low and wrecked, “Art lasts so much longer than that…”

Patrick snorts against your back. “Fuck you.” he says, biting your shoulder hard and pulling his dick out of you in one swift move. You gasp sharply as his come floods from your puffy, wrecked hole. Thick streams of it dripping down your thighs until the water washes it away to swirl down the drain. 

You turn on unsteady legs, hair plastered to your face with water. Patrick is right there, knees knocking against yours as he shifts the two of you closer to the spray. He looks like a marble statue, water dripping down the tip of his nose and between the hard planes of his abs.

He grins smugly down at you, “I’m staying at a hotel close to campus, unblock my number and I’ll send you my room number,” he wagers, hands sliding up and down the wet skin of your back. “I think you, Art, and I have something we need to work out.”

“Yeah,” you agree, nodding your head with a small grin. “I think we do”

tags are now in the comments! if you want to get tagged for any of my works just fill out this form!

[benevolenterrancy]

Scholarly peak is catching up on recent literature

[floccinaucinihilipilificationa]

Hey hey hey may 31th anon! How's 2024 going? ☆ヾ(*´▽｀)ﾉ This year I have for you a leaked Sherlock season 5 image. Thinking of you!! And everyone!!

[newttxt]

and thats a wrapppppppp!!

from the 10th and final chapter of utilities included

masterpost

[soaps-mohawk]

I'm so sorry to everyone that I freaked out with the last post, I was trying so hard not to 😭 I have that like instant fear as soon as I see "we need to talk" or something in the same vein. I always think it's something bad.

This isn't bad, at least depending on how your perspective I guess.

So...I'm having thoughts about CRCB in October. I planned out posting schedules for Kyletober and CRCB and my Patreon stuff and it's going to basically be a post every day, sometimes multiple in multiple places.

That's a lot.

So, I am set on doing Kyletober since all of the fics are already written, but I was planning on continuing CRCB during October as well. But...I think I need a little break from CRCB. It's been about eight months of posting almost every single week and it's been a lot. I'm struggling with chapters right now and with work it's vastly limiting the time I have to write and focus on things and I'm kind of burning out right now.

So, what I wanted to discuss was potentially putting CRCB on hold for October while I focus on Kyletober and everything involved with that. Trying to do both is a lot and I'm not sure I can handle all of it, plus life, plus work.

I was planning on not necessarily putting CRCB on hold, but doing more of a "whenever I can/am inspired" random posting chapters kind of like I did in the beginning when I first started writing the fic, in November/December because those are very busy months and I will be dead tired from work and just general life.

I think I might still do that for November/December and possibly into the new year since there's no way the fic will be finished even if I posted every week until the end of December.

BUT

That's something I'll think about and make a decision on later.

Right now, my thought is...would you hate me if I put CRCB on pause in October? IF I do, I promise I won't end Chapter 39 on a cliffhanger. I wasn't planning on it anyway, but I promise I won't end it on a cliffhanger if I decide not to post any chapters in October.

That way if I do put it on pause, then I can not focus on it for a bit and give my brain a refresh, and I can also focus all my energy on Kyletober.

So yeah, it's going to be a lot doing both at the same time, and honestly I'm ready for a little break from CRCB. It's been going for a long time and it's a lot of words to get out in a week. I've been super stressed lately and I'm just struggling a lot trying to get through chapters.

So yeah. That's basically the dilemma here and the discussion to be had. I know y'all will tell me it's my blog and I can do whatever I want, but I would like opinions on it. Are y'all okay with me putting CRCB on hold to focus on Kyletober? Then pick it back up for probably just whenever I can chapter updates for the rest of the year? In January things will calm down and I'll have more time to relax and write and maybe get close to finishing the story. Plus I know a lot of my readers will be busy the next three months with the holidays and vacations and family and school and all of that, so you won't have to worry about getting behind and having to catch up with a bunch of chapters.

So...let me know...

[becca-e-barnes]

thinking about mating press with beefy!bucky. all that weight on top of you, knowing for certain he’s about to breed you?? ughhh

Oh God yes, the thought of this makes me fucking purr 🤤

Just the thought of his thick, slightly curved cock sliding as deep inside as you can take. The feeling of his tip rubbing against your cervix before he withdraws, pulling almost entirely out of you before he glides back in again.

"Good girl, 'm so proud of you. Cum nice and hard for me, I've got you. You're safe." He holds you so close, letting you sob your pleasure against his neck while he works you through another orgasm. It's tender and romantic and loving and you're beyond aware that this man makes you insanely wet.

Your thighs are still trembling as you come down from your high. Each thrust now feels like it's almost too much but with the way Bucky's groaning, he might not be able to keep it up for much longer.

"Fuck, you feel like Heaven. This pretty little pussy was made for me. Made to be mine." His thrusts are punishing but it's an addictive feeling. "I'm going to fill you. I'm not going to pull out. Going to give you a baby."

You're almost surprised how badly you want that but it's very hard to find the words to tell him; not when his thrusts are beginning to stutter and his high seems to get closer and closer.

"I'm going to fuck a baby into you." His hand holds your chin, making sure he can see your eyes. The evidence of pleasure written all over his face might've been enough to convince you that you could handle another orgasm but you'll still not quite sure that's a good idea.

Within a few more seconds, his cock is throbbing inside you, shooting stripes of hot, thick cum right against your cervix. He looks entirely content with his decision, pressing as deep as he can so you can feel him pulse and twitch.

There's not much you need to say to each other for a few seconds. Instead, it's nice to just listen to you both trying to catch your breath while your partner floods your waiting, fluttering sex with his cum.

[hurt-over-comfort]

When the story goes so wild that you literally have to make a reference for all the damage your blorbo has sustained. Im sorry Albert I swear that I love you

[reddamselette]

valgrace except leo schemes with everyone and their mother to throw jason a bonfire party with close friends and family. they sit snuggled close to each other, curled into one another’s side as everyone shares stories about and first impressions about the son of jupiter.

annabeth mentioned how she threatened him with her dagger at first, piper and their mist filled memories, thalia with baby jason antics that had her hair turn gray at a young age.

after the night ended and they all go their separate ways, leo and jason snuck out somewhere else to share a kiss under the stars.

leo's first impression of jason was how beautiful he really is and seeing him made him believe in love at first sight.

[trans-axolotl]

content note: discussion of suicide.

this next monday will be the six year anniversary of losing one of my friends to suicide.

when he died, my high school barely mentioned his death, even though for other students who died by things like car crashes or illness, there were so many public expressions of grief. they believed that having any memorials for a student who died by suicide would encourage other people to die the same way. in their rush to erase the circumstances of his death, they erased the memory of his life.

there are so many things i am angry at that high school about in terms of how they treated mental health (mandatory reporting and collaborating with cops, their refusal to recognize the ways in which that system led to peer-to-peer crisis support, their refusal to recognize the ways that trying to keep each other alive through trial and error was scary and exhausting, carceral disciplinary policies, etc etc etc). but i think one of the things i am still angriest about is the way they enforced shame around his death. it felt like they were retroactively blaming him for the constellation of circumstances that made suicide an option in his life. it felt like they were blaming those of us who missed him and cared about him and wanted to grieve him. it made those of us still there who were actively suicidal feel even more scared about the reaction if we did reach out for help from one of those mythical safe adults.

as an adult now involved in psych abolition/mad liberation work, it makes me so fucking mad to see the ways in which he was discarded by people in authority positions. and the older i get, the more options i have found in my life for making sense of the world and finding healing and community and support which were never available to him because he died when he was 16 and the only things offered to him were a carceral psychiatric system that blamed him for his own fucking death. it feels so incredibly unfair.

i miss him and i think i always will; i can't remember his laugh or the sound of his voice or his favorite color any more and that aches. this grief is so heavy and it feels harder in a new way each year, when i become older than he will ever be. sometimes meeting new comrades or seeing new anticarceral suicide support models hurts because i wish so fucking bad that we had that back then. i remember how close we came to losing even more people that year and i know it is simple fucking luck that i'm still here when he's not.

i remember another letter (never sent) that i wrote to a friend while they were in an ICU bed after a suicide attempt when i didn't know if they would live or not. i have spent so much time in the past 10 years begging for anything to keep me and my friends alive, but even in that letter i knew that there is so much fucking violence that is hidden beneath psychiatric logics of cure and safety that promise a "solution" to suicide. I knew that institutionalization, coercion, and shame would not have helped build a life more liveable for him or **** or any of the people i've loved and lost since.

there needs to be more fucking options for care and support that aren't so incredibly cruel to suicidal people. i know so many people doing incredible work in alternatives, peer respite, a million different frameworks for healing and liberation. but it makes me so mad every day i have to live in a world where there are still people restrained, locked up in psych wards, having all autonomy and personhood taken away from them. knowing there are dozens of people every day getting blamed for their deaths the same way he was blamed for his.

i miss him. i cared so fucking much for him. and he died by suicide, and all of those things are true. he has been dead for 6 years and he lived before that and the people who loved him want to remember all of him; our celebrations of his life should not require hiding the way that he died.

Image description: [1000 origami cranes in all different colors and patterns that are tied together in strings of 25]

(these were the 1000 cranes we made to give to his parents, in memorial and recognition of how much he meant to us.)

[dovalore]

sharing literature

first panel: (left and right evbo designs by @cowboyskeletons)

second panel: rightmost evbo by conn1e_ on twt, every other (except the one holding book) by me

[jetii]

Event Horizon

Chapter Twenty-One: Cascade

Chapter WC: 10,188

Chapter Warnings: um? general emotional turmoil

A/N: This one kicked my ass. Like genuinely probably the hardest chapter I've ever written, and I'm not sure why. But I'm very much looking forward to next week's chapter!

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Coruscant, 21 BBY

Yaddle's lightsaber hovers in the air before you, the blade humming softly. It's been a week since the Council's decision, and you've yet to leave your rooms. The lightsaber has become a focal point, a symbol, a reminder of what was taken from you. It's also a comfort.

Your connection to her.

Your eyes narrow, and you focus, the energy gathering in the pit of your stomach, the power building. The saber spins, the green blade rotating slowly. A bead of sweat drips down your forehead, and your hands begin to shake, the exertion taking its toll. 

You're not even sure what you're doing. You're not practicing. Not really. You're just...playing. Trying to distract yourself. Trying not to think.

You've been doing a lot of that lately.

The hilt tilts, and the blade nicks the side of the chair, slicing through the metal. You curse and lower your hands, and the lightsaber clatters to the ground, its light extinguishing. The sound echoes in your rooms, and you grimace, running a hand over your face.

"Kriffing hell," you hiss. You sigh and cross the room, kneeling to pick up the lightsaber. 

You're getting worse. You're barely sleeping, the stress taking its toll, and your emotions are all over the place. You can't seem to focus. It's as if everything you touch, everything you try, is doomed to fail.

You've never felt more useless.

You run a hand through your hair and slump, dropping onto the couch, your head falling into your hands. The tears sting, but they won't come. They haven't for days. There's a hollow ache in your chest, a dull pain that refuses to fade. Your throat is tight, and the guilt is threatening to swallow you whole.

You don't know what else to do. For so long, all you've wanted was to bring justice for Yaddle. To find the truth. But now that the truth has been uncovered, and justice has been denied, there's nothing left. Nothing except this hollow, empty ache. And a lingering feeling of betrayal.

You know you were out of line, but you can't bring yourself to regret it. Obi-Wan shouldn't have kept quiet. He shouldn't have just stood there and watched, his eyes averted, his face impassive. He could have said something. He should have said something. Anything. Instead, he did what he always does. He went along with the Council, playing the dutiful Jedi. Never challenging, never questioning, never speaking his mind. Always keeping his mouth shut. Always toeing the line.

The line of thinking that had been torturing you for days doesn't bring with it the usual anger or frustration now. There's nothing left. No emotion, no energy. Nothing. Just the cold, numbing pain.

You've never felt more alone.

Obi-Wan had tried to reach out, had tried to contact you, had even come to your door. But you hadn't answered, and you know the lack of communication is hurting him. You can sense it. It's a constant nagging at the back of your mind, a tugging in the Force.

The bond between the two of you is frayed, the threads pulled taught, the strain threatening to snap. But still, you can't bring yourself to speak with him. He's reached out to you countless times, and you've refused him. Each time, he's recoiled, the pain and confusion radiating through the bond. It's a physical blow, and each time it hits you, it knocks the wind out of you.

You know it's hurting him, and that hurts you, but you can't bring yourself to end the silence.

Rex has called, too. You haven’t answered. Not once. He doesn’t know what happened, doesn’t know what went wrong. He hasn’t stopped trying, though. 

Every day, multiple times, calls and messages coming in over and over, the light of the screen flickering in the dark of your rooms. After the second day, you buried your comm underneath a pile of dirty laundry. By the third day, the battery had died from its constant use, and the room was cast into silence. You've heard nothing since then. Still, the guilt lingers. And the longing. And the regret. You miss him. You miss him, and you want him here. You want him next to you.

You know what you’re doing. It’s a reflex at this point, as easy as the basic combat forms drilled into you, as mindless as running. Pushing people away. Drowning your feelings. Hiding.

Running away.

Your eyes flick to the saber in your hand, and you run a finger over the hilt, tracing the intricate design, the ridges and curves, the dips and angles. It's familiar. It's comforting.

A part of you is still clinging to the hope that the Council will change their minds, that they'll realize their mistake, that they'll come to their senses and seek justice. It's a foolish hope. A childish hope. But, it's the only thing keeping you from giving up completely.

The truth is, you don't know what else to do. You're at a loss.

Your gaze moves past the saber, your eyes focusing on the viewport, on Coruscant's skyline. The buildings are a blur, a mass of lights and colors, a sea of endless noise. It's beautiful, in a way. An ever-moving, ever-changing kaleidoscope of life. But it's overwhelming, too. A reminder of what's out there, of what you're missing.

You've been cooped up in your rooms for too long. The walls are starting to close in on you, and you can feel your anxiety building, a low thrum in your chest. You need to get out, to go somewhere, to do something. Anything.

You stand, and a wave of dizziness washes over you, forcing you to grab hold of the back of the couch, steadying yourself. You're weak, and lightheaded, and exhausted. You've barely eaten, and you haven't slept, not really.

Not since.

Since.

The images flash through your mind, unbidden, unwanted, and your stomach lurches, bile rising in your throat. You swallow, forcing down the nausea, and the tears well up, hot and burning.

You can't stop it, can't control it.

"Fuck," you hiss. You throw the lightsaber across the room, the hilt bouncing off the wall with a satisfying thud. It clatters to the floor, and you stare at it, breathing heavily, the anger and frustration boiling over. "Fuck. Fuck."

It's not enough. Nothing is.

Your hands ball into fists, and you clench your jaw, a surge of fury coursing through you. It's like a drug, and it's an instant rush, a brief respite from the pain, but it brings with it a shift in the Force. A tremor, a vibration, a change in pressure that's too intense to ignore.

You close your eyes, and you focus, reaching for the energy, letting it flow through you. But the more you focus, the more you grasp, the stronger the energy becomes. You're not controlling it. It's controlling you.

It's too much.

Your eyes fly open, and you cry out, your hands moving of their own accord to the sides of your head. The pain is intense, white-hot, blinding. It's as if someone has pressed an iron spike through your skull, and you scream, unable to hold it back. You can't move, can't think, can't breathe, can't see. All you can feel is the pain, the agony, the torture. And it's everywhere, consuming you, tearing you apart.

One of your hands pulls away from your head, and you watch it happen as if in slow motion, as if through a fog, as if through the eyes of another. The criss-crossing pattern of scars on your palm seem to pulse and glow, the flesh reddening, the skin rippling and bubbling. You stare, mesmerized, transfixed.

And then you turn and release it all. Directed outwards, away from yourself, the Force is a violent blast, a burst of raw energy. It rips through the room, shifting furniture, shattering a lamp, and knocking a shelf clean off the wall. The items go flying, and a vase explodes on impact, sending shards of glass scattering across the floor. You don't notice. You're too focused on the destruction, the release, the relief. It's like a high, and the euphoria is overwhelming, a heady rush of adrenaline and endorphins and power.

"Fuck," you gasp, the word coming out a strangled hiss. You take a step back and stumble, the pain finally subsiding, leaving a dull ache in its wake. Your knees hit the couch, and you slump, falling onto the cushions, breathing heavily. The anger has ebbed, and the adrenaline is fading, leaving behind the familiar emptiness, the bone-deep exhaustion, and a new wave of guilt. 

You've haven't lost control like that in years, and it frightens you. This…whatever it is, this thing that’s been building inside of you since Dooku attacked you a decade ago, it's getting worse. And you have no idea how to stop it. No idea how to contain it. If this is what's going to happen every time the pain becomes too much...you can't keep doing this.

You need to get out. You need fresh air.

You need help.

The thought makes your skin crawl, and you grimace, pushing it away, refusing to acknowledge it. You don't need help. You don't want help. You just want this all to stop. To go away. To be gone. But, the Force isn't listening.

"Get ahold of yourself," you mutter. "You're better than this."

But, you're not. Not anymore.

The words are a familiar mantra, something you've repeated over and over, day after day, since you were a child. Since you first began training. It's not enough. You're spiraling, and you know it, but there's no one to pull you back, to ground you, to keep you from falling.

You grit your teeth and dig your nails into your palms, forcing yourself to breathe. In, out. In, out. You will yourself to picture a serene place, a calm place. Somewhere peaceful. A forest. A lake. A field. None of them work. The images are hazy and distorted, and the pain is still there, a low throbbing ache. You can't make it go away. Can't make any of it go away.

The golden field from your dreams is suddenly thrust to the forefront of your mind, and a strange warmth settles in the pit of your stomach, the pressure slowly easing, the tension ebbing away. You haven't had the dream since Saleucami, and you haven't thought about it since. Until now.

The sun is warm on your skin, and there's a breeze, and you can smell grass and flowers and dirt. The scent is familiar and calming, and it fills your senses. It's real. More real than it's ever been. There's the murmur of voices, children laughing, someone calling your name. You look around, searching for the source, but no one's there. Only the field, the sun, the breeze. And the sense that, somewhere, something is waiting. Someone who needs you.

You feel a hand settle on your shoulder, warm and gentle and strong, and you turn to face the figure beside you. But, the moment you do, the sun fades, and the warmth is gone, and the voices are muffled, the laughter muted. And, then, everything goes black.

You open your eyes, and you're met with chaos.

Your rooms are a mess. The broken lamp is lying on its side, the cord dangling. The shattered remains of the vase are strewn across the floor, the water from the flowers spreading, soaking into the carpet. The shelf is in pieces, and a datapad has joined the mess of objects that were previously displayed. There's a dent in the wall where the hilt of Yaddle's lightsaber struck it, and the door to the refresher is open, the lights on and flickering.

It's a disaster.

You slump, the exhaustion setting in. You're not even sure how long you've been cooped up here, alone. It's been days, at least. Maybe a week, maybe longer. It's hard to keep track. Time seems to lose all meaning when you're locked away like this.

Your gaze lands on Yaddle's lightsaber, and you wince, guilt gnawing at your stomach. She'd be disappointed. She'd tell you to pick yourself up, to get back out there, to move forward. She'd remind you of the Jedi teachings, of the Code, and she'd tell you to embrace the Light.

But she'd also tried to leave. She'd tried to get away from the Order, from the Code, from the war. She'd wanted something else, something more.

Something better.

Your eyes narrow, and the decision settles in the pit of your stomach, sinking deep into your bones. Maybe it's time to do the same.

It's not like you have anything to lose. Obi-Wan will survive. He has Ahsoka and Anakin. And Rex...Rex will be okay. He'll be fine. He’ll be better off without you, anyway. He doesn't need the drama. He deserves better. You'll miss him. A part of you will always long for him. But, he's not yours. And he never will be.

It's a coward's move, and you know it. It's selfish. But, maybe that's what you are. Maybe that's all you've ever been. Maybe that's all you'll ever be.

Maybe it's time to accept it.

You've just finished packing when a knock sounds on the door. You frown, and your eyes narrow as the sound echoes in the room. You weren't expecting anyone. There's no way Rex could get inside the Temple without clearance, and you would've sensed Obi-Wan before he got close enough, even in your state. But the person behind the door is radiating concern, worry, fear. You know that signature, know the energy. It's one you'd recognize anywhere.

The door slides open without your prompting, and the light from the hall filters in, blinding you. You wince and squint as a figure appears in the doorway, a shadow against the light. 

"I locked the door," you say flatly. 

Anakin snorts. "And?"

He steps inside, the door sliding closed behind him. His gaze travels across your room, and his eyes widen, taking in the destruction. You've done what you could to right everything, but there's still evidence of your tantrum. There's water on the floor, a few pieces of glass, a dent in the wall, clothes discarded on the table. You grimace and run a hand through your hair, pulling at it.

Anakin’s eyes fall on Yaddle's lightsaber on the floor, and you quickly summon the weapon, the hilt flying into your palm. It clatters onto the desk in front of you, and you turn, avoiding his gaze.

"And, what are you doing here?" you mutter.

"What am I doing here?" Anakin repeats, and he walks forward, his eyes wide, his voice incredulous. "What are you doing here? You weren't answering my calls. Or Obi-Wan's. Or Ahsoka's. Or anyone's. I thought something might've happened."

"I'm fine," you say stiffly. "Nothing happened."

"Clearly," he deadpans. He reaches down and picks up a piece of glass, and you watch as he tosses it into a small trash bin. "Other than a complete breakdown."

"I didn't have a breakdown," you snap. You wince, and your voice softens, dropping to a whisper. "I didn't."

He raises an eyebrow, and his eyes scan the room again, pausing on the dent in the wall, before moving back to you. The judgement is obvious, and you glare at him, daring him to speak. He doesn't. He just stares at you, his eyes boring into yours, the worry evident. After a moment, he sighs, and his shoulders sag, the concern radiating through the Force.

"I didn't," you repeat. You cross your arms over your chest, hugging yourself.

"Then, what happened? And why is Rex, of all people, asking me if you're okay?" Anakin asks. He gestures around him, his gaze landing on a pile of dirty dishes, an overflowing laundry basket, an open duffel bag on your bed. "Or, better yet, why are you packing a bag?"

The mention of Rex's name sends a sharp pang through your chest, and you flinch, trying to hide it.

"I'm not," you lie, and his expression turns to exasperation.

"Right," he says slowly. Anakin leans against your desk, his arms folded, his gaze never leaving yours. "Because we both know you're just standing here, in front of a packed bag, for fun."

"Shut up," you mutter as you return to packing. You shove a shirt into your bag, not bothering to fold it, and you turn away from him, heading for the refresher.

Anakin's eyes widen, a strangled sound escaping his throat as follows after you. He rushes to block the door before you can get any further, and his arms cross, his body a wall.

"Oh, no, no, no. You're not getting out of this," he says.

"Anakin, move," you order.

"Not until you tell me what's going on."

"Move," you repeat, and you raise a hand, shoving him aside with the Force. He stumbles, and he lets out a noise of surprise, his eyes wide, his mouth dropping open. You step into the refresher, and you grab the rest of your toiletries, tossing them onto the counter, your movements sharp and jerky.

"Okay," Anakin breathes. His eyes narrow, his gaze darting around the room, taking in the mess. He spots a broken perfume bottle on the floor, the contents dripping down the wall, and he winces. "That bad, huh?"

You're silent, ignore him and returning to packing. The bag is almost full, and you curse, realizing you'll have to take a second. You didn't think this through. You should've started packing yesterday. Or last week. Maybe last month.

"Where are you going?" Anakin asks. He's leaning against the door frame, watching you with an intensity that's unnerving. "Are you going somewhere? Where?"

"Leave me alone," you snap, and you turn, shoving him away, but he catches your arm, stopping you. His grip is firm, but gentle, and he holds you there, his brows knit together.

"Look, I'm not here to fight. I'm not here to yell at you, or lecture you, or whatever it is you think I'm here to do," he says softly, his expression sincere. "I'm here because I care. I'm here because Ahsoka cares. And Obi-Wan—"

"Stop."

"—is worried sick about you," he finishes, ignoring your interruption. "Whatever's going on, whatever's happened, we can help. Just talk to us. Tell me what's going on. Please."

You look away toward your desk, your eyes falling on Yaddle's lightsaber. The sight makes your chest tighten, and you swallow, fighting back the tears.

"Come on," he urges. His hand moves, squeezing your shoulder, his thumb brushing against your skin.

You let out a shaky breath as your defenses crumble. You're tired of holding everything in, tired of hiding, tired of pretending. The fight drains out of you, and you deflate, your shoulders slumping, your eyes falling to the ground.

"What happened?" he asks, his voice low. "You're not usually...this. At least, not lately."

"No," you agree.

"So, what is it? Did you have a fight with Obi-Wan?"

"No," you say, and you wince. "Yes. Not exactly."

"Then, what is it? You can tell me," he says. "I'm not going anywhere. No matter how much of a pain in the ass you are."

You scoff, the noise muffled by your sleeve as you wipe your eyes, and a smile tugs at your lips. "Asshole."

"Brat," he replies, and his hand drops from your shoulder. "Now, talk."

"It's not that easy," you mumble. You sniff, and your gaze flickers to him, taking in his expectant expression. "There's just...a lot. I don't know where to start."

"Start at the beginning," he says. "Just tell me. Whatever it is, I'll listen."

You walk away and settle back on the couch, and Anakin follows, sitting next to you. He watches you and waits, his silence urging you to speak.

You take a deep breath, and you begin.

You tell him everything. Starting from the moment you met him on Naboo, ending with the Council's decision, the entire story tumbling out of your mouth, the words flowing freely. The only thing you leave out is Rex. Your friendship with him, the attraction, the connection. It's too personal, too private, too intimate. That secret will stay between the two of you.

Anakin listens. He doesn't interrupt. He doesn't speak. He doesn't offer advice or suggestions. He doesn't say anything. He just sits there, letting you speak, listening to every word, hearing every syllable.

Somewhere along the way, you start to feel it again. The anger and the frustration rising up, threatening to break free. It's only when it's nearly pouring out that you realize it's not just your own feelings. Anakin's anger is mingling with yours, and his face is dark, his jaw clenched. The shadows in the room seem to lengthen the longer you talk, and he's breathing faster, his hands curling into fists, his muscles tensing.

By the time you're finished, you're both fuming. The energy in the room is thick, the anger almost tangible. You feel your skin crawl, the hairs on the back of your neck standing on end, and you shift, trying to alleviate the discomfort. Anakin's gaze is fixed on the floor, and he's staring, his eyes hard.

"This isn't the first time the Council's done this," he says quietly. "Taken credit. Made decisions behind our backs. Put their agenda ahead of ours."

"I know," you murmur, and you run a hand through your hair, a bitter laugh escaping. "It's not just me. They're always like this. Always."

"That's not how it's supposed to work," Anakin growls. His eyes are narrowed, and he shakes his head, his frustration seeping through the Force. “This is bullshit. All of it. I can't believe they did this to you."

"I shouldn't have expected any less," you sigh, and you shake your head, the tears starting again. You scrub at your face, and your hands fall to your lap, fingers twisting together. "I don't know what's wrong with me. I knew better. I know better.”

"Don't," he snaps. His head turns, his gaze finding yours, the intensity of his eyes almost startling. "Don't do that. This isn't your fault."

"I just...I thought that bringing evidence would make a difference. That it would mean something. That it would actually count," you mutter, and you look away, staring out at nothing. "I didn't want to give up. I didn't want to quit. But it's not my place. It's never been. I'm not..."

Your voice trails off, and Anakin scoffs. 

"If you're about to say you're not good enough, I'm going to punch you," he threatens. "Hard."

You snort, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye. "You're so violent."

"I'm serious," he says, and his eyes narrow, his face turning solemn. "Don't let them do this. Don't let them push you around, or guilt trip you, or whatever it is they're doing. You're a Jedi. Just because they're not willing to fight for justice doesn't mean you can't."

"They're not going to change their minds," you say. You rub your eyes, and a shuddering breath escapes. "They won't."

"So what?" Anakin argues. He turns toward you and leans forward, his hands braced on his knees. "So what if they don't? Who cares? You said it yourself. She was a mentor to you. And now, her killer is out there. Free. And you're not going to do anything about it?"

"It's not my place," you repeat, avoiding his gaze. "She's dead. She's gone. Nothing I do is going to change that. What's the point?"

"The point is she was your Master, and she was murdered," he says sharply. "You can't let this go. You can't just walk away. You can't leave it like this."

"Why not?" you mutter. Your fingers twitch, and you clench your fists, trying to calm yourself. "It's not as if there's anything I can do."

"There's plenty you can do," he argues. He sits forward, his hands braced on his knees. His face is flushed, and his voice rises, his words growing more and more passionate. "They gave you a whole legion of troopers, ships, unlimited resources. They gave you everything. So, use it. Do something. Anything."

"They did it because they thought I needed a distraction," you say. You can't look at him, can't meet his eyes. It's too much. "Because they were worried I'd do something stupid."

"Or, maybe they just finally realized that you're more than capable," Anakin counters as he sits back, his tone softening slightly. "They wouldn't have given you a position of power if they didn't think you were worthy of it."

"Worthy?" You scoff, and you shake your head, a humorless smile forming. "That's a first."

Anakin lets out a frustrated noise, and he slams his hand on the table, the noise reverberating through the room. You flinch, startled, and he sighs, running a hand over his hair.

"You're being difficult," he complains.

"Yeah, well, that's me," you say. "Difficult."

"This is serious," he says firmly. His expression is grave, and his eyes find yours, holding your gaze. "Look, I'm not going to force you to do anything. But, I think it's a mistake if you don't."

"I know," you admit. "But, it's not as easy as you think. I can't just go after him. I have no idea where he is, or where to even start looking. Besides, I have a job to do. I'm a general. I'm supposed to be leading my troops into battle, not hunting down one man.”

"And, who said you can't do both?" Anakin asks. He arches an eyebrow, and a smirk spreads across his lips. "It's not like you haven't done it before. Besides, he's made it pretty clear that he wants to get your attention. You might not have to look very far."

You frown, and you bite your lip, mulling over his words. It's true, and you both know it. Dooku's not trying to hide. He's practically taunting you, his presence lingering in the background of every encounter. It's only a matter of time before he crosses your path again, whether you like it or not.

"I can't," you say, but your voice lacks conviction.

"You can," he insists. He's leaning forward again, his elbows on his knees, his face close to yours. "You can, and you should. You have a choice. You can do something, or you can run away. Which is it going to be?"

"Anakin," you say, but you can't manage more than his name, and it falls flat.

"I'm serious," he says. "Make a decision. Right now. Stop sitting here, wallowing in self-pity, and do something."

Your hands ball into fists, your nails digging into your palms. You stare at him, your gaze darting over his face, taking in his determined expression. He's right. He's absolutely right.

"Do something that matters. If not for you, then for her," Anakin presses, his voice quiet, his eyes fixed on yours. "She deserves that much."

"Anakin—"

"What would she want?" he asks, cutting you off. "If she were here, right now, what would she tell you to do?"

You're silent, your mouth opening and closing. Your eyes fall back to Yaddle's lightsaber, and a knot forms in your stomach. You don't have to think about it. You already know. You've known for years. She would've done whatever she could, no matter what. 

As much as you'd like to believe she would've walked away from this, you know that's not true. She wouldn't have turned a blind eye, wouldn't have ignored her duty. She would've fought, tooth and nail, until she couldn't fight anymore. Until she couldn't draw another breath.

And she did. She died fighting. You know that much.

Anakin is watching you, waiting for your answer, and your throat tightens, your eyes burning. You swallow hard take a deep breath, steadying yourself. You're still angry, still hurt, but you can't deny his words. Can't ignore them.

"You're right," you whisper. You close your eyes, and you take a deep breath, centering yourself. "I want to help. I have to."

"Then, do it," he says, his tone resolute.

You open your eyes and find him smiling, a gleam in his eyes. You can't help but grin, a spark of hope igniting in your chest. He's right. You can do this. You have to try. You owe it to her to keep going.

"Thank you," you murmur, throwing your arms around him and pulling him into a hug. Anakin stiffens, and he awkwardly pats your shoulder, clearly uncomfortable. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

"Probably go crazy," he jokes, and he pauses, adding, "Crazier. If that's possible."

You laugh and pull back, shaking your head. "I'm serious."

"I know," he chuckles. He slaps his hands on his knees and stands, a grin lighting up his face. "So, do you need a ride to Kamino?”

"Yeah,” you sigh. “I'd appreciate that."

"Consider it done.” He looks around the room and nods. "We're heading back out tomorrow anyway. Gotta pick up some more men before we head out to Bothawui. You can come, meet your troops." He smirks, his gaze dropping to the saber. "See how they measure up to the 501st."

"Oh, I'm sure they'll do just fine," you say dryly. "Thank you."

"Anytime." 

Anakin gives a nod and heads towards the door, his movements smooth and quick. He reaches for the pad, but the door slides open before he can touch it. You sense him at the same time Anakin does, and both of your heads snap to the left, toward the hall.

Obi-Wan freezes, and he takes a step back, his eyes widening as his gaze falls on the two of you. You hold your breath as he scans the room, taking in the bags on your bed, your disheveled appearance, and the broken pieces of glass scattered on the floor. 

His face turns white, his expression stricken, and the bond between the two of you begins to hum, the energy buzzing. It's overwhelming, and it makes your stomach lurch, a lump forming in your throat.

"Ah," he says, his voice tight. "Am I interrupting something?"

Anakin glances at you, and his eyebrows raise.

"No, no. Just leaving," he says quickly, his voice bright and cheerful. He moves forward and claps Obi-Wan on the shoulder, and he glances back at you, giving you a quick nod. "See you tomorrow, Goldie. Bright and early. And, uh, sorry about the lock. I...I'll pay for it."

"Uh-huh," you mumble. Your gaze never leaves Obi-Wan, and his doesn't move from yours. You can feel his anxiety, his tension, and it's a weight in your chest, a physical pressure. Anakin's voice filters through, but his words are lost, and you don't bother to listen. He's moving past Obi-Wan, heading down the hall, and the sound of his footsteps fades until all that's left is silence.

You stand, and Obi-Wan inhales sharply, his eyes flickering around the room, finally landing on Yaddle's lightsaber. You're suddenly hyperaware of the mess, the state of your clothes, the darkness under your eyes, and you cringe, wrapping your arms around yourself.

He walks into your rooms, his steps slow and cautious, and he stops, a few feet away.

"I..." Obi-Wan starts, and his voice trails off, his mouth open. He closes his eyes, his brows furrowing, and he takes a deep breath, collecting himself. "I've been trying to get a hold of you. For a week."

"I noticed," you mutter.

"I came by, a few times," he continues. His hand reaches up to rub the back of his neck, and his eyes flicker around the room, looking anywhere but at you. "I wanted to talk. About...about what happened. What I said."

"Nothing to talk about," you say, and his eyes meet yours, a flicker of anger in them.

"Nothing?" he asks, and his tone is incredulous. "We haven't spoken since—since it happened. The Council's decision, everything, and now, I find you packing a bag? I would think there's plenty to discuss."

"I'm not—" you start, and you bite your lip, stopping yourself.

"You're not what?" he snaps. He gestures around him, his hand waving at your bags, his gaze darting from your desk, to your bed, to your wardrobe, and back. "Packing? Leaving? Running away? Which one is it?"

"I'm not running away," you say, and you can't hide your annoyance. Your shoulders straighten, and you square off, facing him, your hands falling to your sides. "Not that it's any of your business."

"Not my business?" he repeats. Obi-Wan's eyebrows rise, and he scoffs, shaking his head. "Of course, it's my business. You're my friend. You're my—" He cuts himself off, and he winces, his mouth twisting. "I have a right to know what's going on. What happened."

"Why? So you can run and tell everyone else?" you shoot back, and his eyes widen. "So, you can report back to the Council and let them know how unstable I am?"

"Don't put words in my mouth," he hisses.

"Then, stop making it so easy," you snap.

The two of you stare at each other, neither of you saying anything, and the anger builds, the tension rising. You can't tell who's more upset, him or you, and the bond between the two of you is humming, a steady vibration, the energy almost tangible. It's making your head hurt, and you wince, rubbing your temple. His gaze softens, and he takes a step toward you, but stops.

"What's wrong with you?" he asks, his tone low and concerned. "What are you doing? Packing a bag, shutting yourself in here, not answering my calls, not speaking to anyone? Have you lost your mind?"

"Maybe I have," you growl, and his eyes narrow, his mouth falling open, as if to argue. You cut him off before he can. "But, maybe it's none of your business. Maybe I can take care of myself."

"Clearly," he says, and his eyes move over the room, his lips pressing into a thin line. "Yes, you seem to be doing quite well on your own."

"Obi-Wan," you groan. Your fingers press into the side of your head, and you close your eyes, breathing deeply. You can't do this. You can't. You don't have the strength, the energy. You're exhausted, and you just want him to go away. To leave you alone. "Just leave."

"Not until you explain yourself," he argues. Obi-Wan moves closer, his arm reaching out, his fingers brushing against yours. "This isn't like you. I know things haven't been easy, and I'm sorry, I really am. But, this isn't you. I thought you were getting better."

"Better?" you scoff, and his jaw tightens, a muscle twitching.

"You know what I mean," he says stiffly. "The nightmares have been less frequent, the visions. You've seemed more stable. Less volatile. Or, at least, not as bad. You haven't had an episode in months." He pauses, his gaze searching yours, and his fingers tighten around yours, squeezing. "What happened? Tell me."

"Maybe I'm not getting better," you say quietly. You shrug, and your gaze moves past him, staring out the viewport. "Maybe I was just hiding it. Pretending."

"You're not," he says firmly. His voice is steady and sure. "I would've noticed."

"You've noticed a lot of things lately," you mutter, and your eyes find his again, the pain flaring. He winces, his shoulders sagging. "And you've done a great job keeping them to yourself."

"That's not fair," he says quietly.

"Isn't it?"

"It wasn't my decision to give you your own command," he replies, shaking his head. “I know you think it was, but it wasn't." His eyes move over your face, and his voice lowers, a note of regret coloring his tone. “For months, I tried to change their minds. For months, I argued, pleaded, fought, everything. But, nothing I said or did worked. The decision was made. I’d only succeeded in delaying the inevitable.”

"Why didn't you tell me?" you ask, your voice breaking, a tear slipping down your cheek. "Why didn't you just talk to me?"

"I was trying to protect you," he says softly, and his eyes close, his face turning away from you. "You'd just started feeling better, and I didn't want to upset you, or set you back." His jaw clenches, and his eyes open, his gaze finding yours, the pain visible in his expression. "And, I was worried you'd do exactly this."

You let out a humorless laugh, and you step away, his hand dropping from yours.

"So, what? You thought ignoring the issue would fix it?" you say, your voice rising, and his eyes widen, his brows furrowing, confusion written across his features. "Keeping me in the dark was going to help? What did you think was going to happen?"

"I don't know," he sighs. He runs a hand over his hair, and his hand falls, gesturing weakly. "I was hoping...that maybe if I could stall long enough...maybe they'd change their minds. Maybe the war would end, or you would find the closure you needed." 

His eyes meet yours again, and the regret is plain on his face, his words coming out a whisper. "I was trying to give you a chance."

"And look how well that turned out," you mutter bitterly, and you can't hold his gaze, your eyes dropping to the floor. You turn and walk toward the window, and you wrap your arms around yourself, trying to shield yourself from the cold.

“It was a mistake," Obi-Wan admits quietly. He lets out a frustrated noise, and the room falls silent. After a moment, his footsteps approach, and he appears next to you. “But you can’t leave. Not now. There's a war going on, in case you haven't noticed. There's too much at stake."

"I'm not leaving," you insist, and his expression turns skeptical, his eyes narrowing. You roll your eyes, a bitter laugh escaping you. "Not that I hadn’t thought about it."

"You can't," he says firmly. "Whatever it is, we can work through it. We'll figure something out. I promise."

"There's nothing to work through," you say. You run a hand over your hair and glance at him, avoiding his gaze. "Anakin talked some sense into me. He...he helped."

"What do you mean?" he asks, and his brow furrows. He looks confused, his expression bewildered, and he shifts, crossing his arms. "What did he say?"

"Just...that I can't leave it like this," you mumble. You look away from him and out the viewport. You can see the sun beginning to set, and the sky is painted with hues of orange and red. "I have to do something."

"Something," Obi-Wan repeats, his tone wary, and you nod, avoiding his eyes. "Like what?"

"I'm not sure yet," you admit. “But for now, I’m going to Kamino. I’m picking up my troops. I’m doing what you wanted. I'm getting back out there. Back in the field. That's something."

"Is it?"

"Yes," you say, and the word comes out sharper than intended.

Obi-Wan opens his mouth to reply, but his voice catches, and he shakes his head. His gaze drifts to the floor, and his eyes narrow, his forehead creasing, his expression conflicted. You wait, watching him, and you can feel his emotions warring with each other, the battle playing out on his face. It's a whirlwind, and you can't tell which one is winning. Anger. Frustration. Worry. Fear. Guilt.

After a long moment, his face falls, and he nods, his shoulders slumping, his muscles relaxing.

"Fine," he relents, and his voice is low, resigned. "Fine."

“Is that what you wanted to hear?" you ask sarcastically, and his jaw tightens, a flash of anger flickering in his eyes.

"What I want is for you to be safe," he snaps, and he turns, glaring at you. "What I want is for you to be okay."

"Well, tough," you mutter. You move away from the window and cross your arms over your chest, your fingers digging into your arms. "Because neither of those things is likely to happen."

"You have no idea how much I wish things were different," he says quietly, and his face falls, his expression solemn. "That none of this had ever happened. Despite what you might think, I do care about you. Very much. I want what's best for you."

"What's best for me?" you repeat. Your lips twist into a sneer, and a harsh laugh escapes. "I'm not sure that exists anymore."

"You don't believe that," Obi-Wan chides gently. He's staring at you, and his voice is calm and even. "You know better than anyone that the Light is always there, no matter how far you fall."

"I used to," you say bitterly. Your throat tightens, and a lump forms, tears burning your eyes. You can't look at him, can't stand the concern in his gaze. "It's not like it matters, anyway. The Council's made its decision. Yaddle's killer is still out there, and we're just going to pretend like nothing happened. Just like we've been doing for years."

"That's not true," he says softly.

"Isn't it?"

"It doesn't have to be like this," he argues. His voice is quiet, and he steps forward, closing some of the distance between the two of you. His hand reaches out, and he gently touches your arm, his thumb brushing against your skin. You stiffen at the contact, but you don’t pull away, and his fingers move, trailing up to your shoulder, coming to rest there.

"The Senate is building a case," he murmurs. "They're gathering testimony, evidence, anything they can find. Once Dooku is captured, they'll bring him before a tribunal. There will be no denying what he's done. No escaping justice. It may take time, but it will happen. And, when it does, Dooku will pay for his crimes."

Your eyes narrow, and a part of you knows that he's telling the truth. But, it's not enough. You can't just sit back and do nothing, and a dark, selfish part of you wants him to suffer. To pay for what he's done. To hurt as much as he's hurt you. And, a larger, angrier, more violent part of you wants him dead. It doesn't matter if it's justice. Doesn't matter if he's brought to trial. Doesn't matter if he confesses. You want him dead. And if that makes you a bad person, so be it.

"He's a traitor," Obi-Wan adds. His expression hardens, his mouth thinning, his grip tightening. "He betrayed everything we stand for, and he deserves whatever punishment they deem fit. He'll pay."

"Will he?" you ask. You shrug off his touch, stepping back, and his hand falls to his side.

"You don't believe me," he states.

“I believe that it's what you want to happen," you respond, your voice quiet. You move around him, going to your desk and grabbing your lightsaber. You hook it onto your belt, and you reach for Yaddle's saber, your fingers curling around the hilt. The cool metal is comforting, and a feeling of calm washes over you. You take a deep breath, centering yourself, and turn, finding Obi-Wan staring at you.

"You want justice," you continue, and you pause, swallowing, pushing down your doubts. "So, do I. But, we both know how these things end. We've seen it happen, again and again. Dooku will escape, or he'll be released, or he'll plead innocent, or he'll disappear, or—" You cut yourself off, shaking your head. "It doesn't matter. The result will always be the same. He'll walk free. It's how these things work."

"You're wrong," he says, his voice hard. "Things are changing. The Separatists are growing bolder. The Senate is more unified than ever before. Even the Chancellor has taken a stronger stand against them."

"Forgive me if I'm not reassured," you snort, and his mouth twitches, irritation flashing across his face. "Chancellor Palpatine is a politician. A career politician. And politicians aren't known for their honesty or their integrity. Or their ability to put others first."

"Master Yoda believes it," he points out.

"Well, then, I suppose that settles it," you deadpan, and you can't hide your sarcasm. "If Master Yoda believes in it, then, it must be true. Because he's never been wrong about anything. Ever. In his entire life. Certainly not his Padawan. Right?"

Obi-Wan's expression hardens, and he crosses his arms, his eyes narrowing. "Now, you're just being difficult."

"Maybe," you concede. "Or, maybe I'm being realistic. Maybe, just this once, I'm seeing things for how they are, instead of how I wish they were. Is that such a crime?"

"No, it's not," he says. His stance relaxes, and his arms fall to his sides, his shoulders slumping. "It's not. I understand why you're frustrated. You're allowed to be. But, this isn't like you. You're not usually this...this..."

"This what?" you ask, and his brows draw together, a crease forming on his forehead. "Say it. You'll feel better."

"Selfish," he snaps, and his gaze holds yours, his eyes searching yours, trying to understand. "Is that what this is? Are you angry because the Council decided not to pursue the killer of your Master? Because you didn't get to hunt down and kill him yourself?"

"What if I am?"

"Then, it's a good thing we stopped you from running away," he mutters, and you scoff, turning away from him. You pace around the room, trying to quell your anger, and his eyes follow, watching as you move, his mouth pressing into a thin line. "It's a good thing Anakin was able to talk sense into you."

"Sense?" you snort, and you stop, facing him. Your hands fall to your hips, and you lean forward, your gaze hardening. "How is this making any sense? How is letting a murderer go free make sense? How is sitting around and waiting for justice make any sense? How is any of this making any sense?"

"It's not," he agrees. "None of this is making sense. None of this is right. But we're doing the best we can with what we have."

"And, what if that's not good enough?"

"It's going to have to be," he says softly, and his head shakes, his gaze drifting to the ground, his expression weary. "That's all we have. All any of us has. It's the best we can do.

"I know," you mutter.

"Do you?"

"Yes," you sigh. You rub a hand over your face and run a hand through your hair, tugging on the strands. "I'm just...frustrated."

"I can see that," he says dryly.

"I want him dead," you confess. You can't look at him, can't meet his eyes, can't face his judgment. "I know that's not right. I know that's not how it should be. I know that I should want him brought to justice. But, I don't. I just want him gone."

"I know," he murmurs.

"But it's not going to happen," you continue. Your eyes find his, and his face softens, his gaze gentle. "Is it?"

"No," he admits. "It's not."

You nod and avert your gaze, your eyes falling to the floor. You can't keep looking at him. Can't stand the disappointment, the sorrow, the guilt. You’re exhausted, the conversation draining what little energy you have left, and your shoulders slump.

“You should go," you whisper. "I'm not good company right now. And I have a long day tomorrow."

"You need to eat," Obi-Wan says softly. His footsteps echo on the floor as he walks towards you. His hand brushes against your cheek, his palm cupping the side of your face, and he tilts your head, forcing you to look at him. "And sleep. Please."

"Not hungry," you mumble, and you step back, breaking the contact. "Not tired either."

"That's not the point," he argues, and he takes a step toward you, reaching for your hand. "You need to take care of yourself."

"Don't," you snap. You move away, and his hand drops, his expression stricken. "Don't try to pretend like you care. Don't try to act like you know what's best for me. Because you don't."

"I..." Obi-Wan trails off, and he frowns, his jaw clenching, his eyes narrowing, his gaze darkening. He takes a step closer, closing the distance between the two of you, and he stares down at you, his face inches from yours.

"I do know," he hisses. "You're the most important person in my life. I've cared about you since the day I met you. I've fought for you. Loved you. Supported you."

"Obi-Wan," you start, but he cuts you off, his eyes blazing, his face turning red, his tone sharp.

"No. You don't get to pretend like I haven't been here, every step of the way. You don't get to act like this is all on me," he says fiercely. "Because it's not. This is both of us. This is our fault."

"I never said—"

"You didn't have to," he snaps. He's shaking his head, his voice rising, and his hand lifts, gesturing wildly. "You've made your opinion quite clear. You blame me. Fine. I can take the blame. But, you have to admit, this is partly your fault."

"What are you talking about?"

"You know what I'm talking about," he says. He's moving, pacing, his voice rising with each step. "We've been doing this dance for years. Going in circles. You and I. We've been playing this game since we were kids. Since the day we met."

"I don't—"

"Yes, you do," he cuts you off, and he stops, turning toward you, his eyes flashing. "You've been doing this, using me, for as long as I've known you. You know that."

"Using you?" you repeat incredulously. "I'm not the one who used our friendship as a tool."

"I never—"

“You mean you haven’t kept tabs on me? Or monitored my activities? Or reported them to the Council?" you snap. "Or tried to control every aspect of my life?"

"I have only ever wanted to help you," he insists.

"And, that's all this is, isn't it?" you mutter. Your hands fall to your hips, and your eyes narrow, your gaze fixed on his. "You're trying to fix me. You've always been trying to fix me."

"Of course I am!" Obi-Wan snaps, and his eyebrows rise, his expression incredulous, as if you've said something ridiculous. "Why wouldn't I?"

"Because it's not your responsibility," you say through gritted teeth. "You can't fix me. And you certainly can't save me. No matter how much you might want to."

"Maybe not," he agrees quietly. His eyes find yours, and his shoulders sag, the anger fading from his expression. "But, that doesn't change the fact that I care about you."

"You say that," you mumble.

"And, I mean it," he replies. “You're one of my closest friends. My only friend, really. And if you're hurting, I want to be there for you. I want to help. I can't do that if you won't let me."

"You can't help me," you say, and his expression shifts, hurt and confusion crossing his face. You shake your head, trying to gather your thoughts. "It's not your fault alone. I know that. And you’re right. We’ve been playing this game for years. I've relied on you too much. But that has to stop. I can't let myself depend on you anymore. I have to...to fix myself. If I don't...if I don't..."

"What?" he presses.

"I'm going to lose myself," you finish. You take a deep breath and close your eyes. When you open them again, he's staring at you, a sad look in his eyes. “I think you know that already. That's what scares you."

"Of course it does," he sighs. He closes his eyes and runs a hand through his hair. He takes a deep breath and opens his eyes, fixing you with a firm stare. "I've seen what you're capable of. What you can become. What you're still capable of. I've felt it, and I'm not going to lie, it’s frightening. The things I've felt...from you...from within you."

"You're scared of me," you state, and it's not a question.

"Aren't you?"

"Yes," you answer honestly.

"And, yet, here we are," Obi-Wan says softly. His eyes are locked on yours, and he shakes his head, a wry smile twisting his lips. "Neither of us can walk away."

"I tried," you murmur. "You can't imagine how much."

"I have a fair idea." His hands fall to his sides, and his shoulders sag. He lets out a weary sigh and shakes his head, his mouth turning down, his brows drawing together, a troubled look on his face. "This isn't...what I wanted. It's not what either of us wanted."

"What did you want?" you ask. Your voice is soft and low. "When we were kids. When we first met. What did you want?"

"You know the answer to that," he says.

"Tell me," you press.

"I wanted...more," he answers, his tone careful, measured. "I wanted us to be more than friends. More than...this."

"So did I," you admit.

"I know."

"Do you?"

"I hoped," he confesses. His eyes meet yours, and his mouth twitches, his lips pulling into a grim smile. "I hoped for a lot of things."

"Me too," you whisper.

"Things have changed," he continues. "I know that. I understand that. You're not the same person. And neither am I."

"No, we're not," you agree, and a part of you is sad, a bittersweet ache forming in your chest. "We're not the same. And I think it’s time we stopped pretending otherwise."

"I suppose it is," he concedes quietly.

The two of you are silent, neither of you speaking, neither of you wanting to break the spell, the fragile moment. The bond between the two of you hums, the energy vibrating, and you can feel his emotions, the conflicting feelings, the war raging within him. You wonder if he can sense yours. If he can feel the pain and sorrow and longing that's swirling through you.

After a moment, Obi-Wan clears his throat and runs a hand over his hair, straightening himself. He steps back, putting some space between the two of you, and he crosses his arms, his eyes meeting yours.

"You'll be careful," he states.

"I will," you promise.

"And if anything happens—"

"You'll be the first person I call," you finish.

He nods and looks away from you, his eyes finding the ground. His gaze falls to Yaddle's saber, his forehead creasing, a hint of worry flitting across his face. He stares at it for a long moment, lost in thought, and when he looks up again, his expression is resigned.

“Have you heard from Rex?" he asks, and his voice is light, his tone casual. It does nothing to assuage the sudden spike of anxiety in your chest.

"What?"

"Rex," Obi-Wan repeats. He turns slightly, facing you. "He cornered me after a briefing yesterday. Asked if I'd heard from you. He seemed very concerned. About you.”

"Oh," you mumble, and you glance down, your cheeks burning. You fiddle with your lightsaber, avoiding his gaze. "Yeah, um, no. I haven't talked to him. Not since the diner."

"Really?" he asks, his voice deceptively calm, and your stomach flips, a lump forming in your throat. "That's surprising. You seemed quite...cozy, when I called on you."

"We were just talking," you say, and it's not a lie, not really, but the words sound weak, even to your own ears. "He...he knows about Yaddle.”

"I'm not surprised," he murmurs. "He was quite upset. It was almost amusing, watching him try to act professional and hide his concern." He pauses and gives you a pointed look, his eyebrow arching, his tone teasing. "You're lucky I didn't tell him about your propensity for running away."

"Lucky," you repeat weakly. "What did you tell him? About me. About what happened."

"Nothing," he replies. His eyebrows rise, and he shrugs, letting out a small laugh. “I told him you would speak with him when you were ready. Why? Did you want me to say something else?"

"No," you say quickly, and his smile widens, a knowing glint in his eye. You bite your lip, a sigh escaping you. "I mean, it's not that I don't...it's not that I wouldn't want..." You trail off, frustrated, and your shoulders slump. “He's worried about me. I get it. It's just...not necessary. That's all."

Obi-Wan stares at you for a long moment, studying you, his eyes narrowed. After a minute, his face softens, and he gives you a wry smile and shakes his head.

"You're an idiot," he declares, and you scowl, your mouth opening to argue, but he waves a hand, cutting you off before you can start. "Don't even bother. It's pointless. You know I'm right."

"I'm not—"

"If there's anything I've learned in all the years I've known you, it's that you are the most stubborn, single-minded, foolish individual I've ever had the displeasure of meeting," he says flatly. "It's exhausting, being around you sometimes."

"Gee, thanks," you mumble.

"And, yet, despite your many, many flaws, you have the uncanny ability to draw people to you," he continues. His gaze meets yours, his expression serious, and his tone turns thoughtful. "You've always had that. Even as a youngling, before the incident, you were charismatic, charming, and people gravitated toward you. You could make anyone like you. And I think it's the reason you have so many people that care about you. Including me."

"Obi-Wan—"

"What I'm trying to say," he interrupts, his voice rising, "is that I know Rex cares about you. Very much. That man is completely enamored by you, and has been for a long time. Anyone can see it. Anyone except you."

"That's not true," you argue weakly, but it's a lie, and the both of you know it.

"It is," Obi-Wan retorts. He shrugs, and he glances over his shoulder, checking the hall. When he speaks again, his voice is lowered. "You should talk to him. Before you leave. You might not get another chance."

"Why would I...I don't..." you stammer, and your hands fidget, twisting in front of you. “You know why I can’t—why it can't...why I can't do that. You know."

"I do. But, maybe that doesn't matter," he says. His eyes meet yours, and a sad smile forms. "Don't forget, we're in a war. Anything could happen. You should be happy while you can."

"Obi-Wan," you mutter, your tone scolding.

"You should talk to him," he repeats. His gaze moves, scanning your rooms, and he nods toward your bags, his voice becoming softer. "While you still have a chance. Take it. While you can."

"You're a romantic," you joke, and he laughs.

"So, they say," he replies. He sighs, and his expression shifts, growing serious. "Do you have everything you need?"

"Yeah, I'm set," you nod.

"Then, may the Force be with you," he murmurs. He looks at you one last time, and then turns, heading for the door.

You watch him walk away, a heavy feeling settling in your chest, and you open your mouth, about to call after him. To tell him that you'll miss him. That he's been the best friend you've ever had. That you don't know what you'll do without him. That you wish things could be different.

But, you don't.

The door opens, and he walks through it, disappearing down the hall. The bond between the two of you flickers, and a dull ache forms in your stomach, spreading outward. It feels strange, like an emptiness. A hollowness. You take a deep breath and exhale, pushing the feelings aside, and the ache dissipates, the pain fading.

You're not sure what you expected. This is how things are between the two of you. Maybe this is how it should be. Maybe this is what's best.

You're not sure. But, a part of you knows it's better this way. That, as much as you care about him, as much as he cares about you, the two of you have come to an impasse. He can't help you. You can't help him. And trying is only going to hurt the both of you.

You take a deep breath and let out a long sigh. Your eyes fall on Yaddle’s lightsaber, the metal glinting in the dim light.

Tomorrow, you'll pick it up, and you'll leave. You'll go back out into the field. Into battle. To save lives. To win the war. It's a noble goal. Something worth fighting for.

Maybe the Council was right. Maybe this is what's best. What's right. Maybe this is what's needed. What the Republic needs.

Maybe.

You can only hope.

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[airenyah]

A LOOK AT STYLE'S JOURNEY | Ep 3

(Overview | Ep1+2 | Ep4 | Ep5 | Ep6)

I really wanted to drop this before Episode 4, but the thing is I really really really struggled with this episode. The first two episode were very clear to me, so clear even that I managed binge-write my first post within a single night after having spent the previous night rewatching the episodes and taking notes. I kept asking myself the question "Style does this and acts like this, but why?" and quickly found my answers. But looking at episode 3? I really struggled with the "but why".

But let's get into it anyway. Not that I finish this post only when the final episode drops lol.

~~~ Spoiler warning for episode 4 ~~~

To recap: when we last saw Fadel and Style together in episode 2 Fadel ambushed Style in the locker room and basically declared war on Style. Style launched counterattacks. They did not part on the best of terms.

Pronoun situation: In my first meta post I kept up with their pronoun use on a scene by scene basis. This time I won't do that, because they consistently use the rude guu/mueng pronouns for each other throughout the entire episode without any significant pronoun changes.

No. 1: RAWR

The very first sequence at the heavy metal bar is where my first problem already arises: I am undecided on whether Style went there on purpose to find Fadel or if he went there of his own accord to have fun and just happened to run into Fadel completely by chance. Because you could make arguments both FOR and AGAINST Style showing up specifically for Fadel.

AGAINST: Style does look kinda surprised when walks up to Fadel. When they're chatting by the counter Style says he's here all the time (which is something he doesn't say about the running track or the gym – two spots that we know he only went to for Fadel). We also don't get to see Style looking at the notebook like we do before he bugs Fadel at the running track for the first time or later in the episode when he shows up at the support group meeting. What's more, Style doesn't really attempt to stick to Fadel no matter what until Fadel either physically gets rid of him or just walks away. Instead Style leaves of his own accord to have fun with people who aren't Fadel and also seems perfectly content to do so.

FOR: When Kant looks through the notebook in ep2 after Bison hands it to him we can see that the bar is in there. So Style should know this bar is one of Fadel's go-to spots. Style could be feigning surprise when he walks up to Fadel to make it look like a chance meeting and he could also be lying about being there all the time.

Whether or not Style came to the bar in order to seek out Fadel specifically or not, when he walks up to Fadel and sits down next to him it's all in a friendly manner. His behavior has an air of Oh hey there person that I know, let me say hello! to it.

Style is once again trying to involve Fadel in an amiable conversation despite their confrontation last time they saw each other. Or maybe he's trying to involve Fadel in an amiable conversation because of the confrontation last time they saw each other. Style's friendly approach makes it clear that he's not holding any grudges about it. Fadel is not up for a friendly conversation, though. In the scene by the counter he says a total amount of two sentences to Style (or even just one, if you don't count the "no" as a single sentence). Style tries to get Fadel to socialize, to get Fadel to come out of his grumpy shell and go dance with him a little bit, to loosen up and scream a little bit. Fadel won't budge. So Style gives him his space and walks off, but not without inviting Fadel to follow him just in case Fadel miraculously changes his mind. After Style clinks bottles with his (new?) friends he looks back at Fadel and nods at him before getting busy with his friends.

I want to talk about that nod for a quick moment. Because as an introvert who tends to be quiet and shy in a crowd (especially a crowd of strangers or people I don't know well) I have my fair share of experience of being alone in a crowd. And I adore that Style is making contact with Fadel again, even though he already walked away and their conversation is actually over. As I've mentioned in some tags before, some of Style's core personality traits really remind me of a dear old friend of mine. We had a time in our late (ish) teens where we'd hang out at our youth leader's flat every day. My friend and my youth leader would often play Magic: The Gathering, which is something that's really not my thing and so I'd be "left out" that is I'd be chilling next to them doing my own thing or just watching them, not understanding shit. They'd be in the middle of a game and my friend would sometimes randomly look up and nod at me like that or he would pull faces at me or do some other random shit to communicate with me for a second before focusing back on the game. These small gestures were something I always really appreciated because they made me feel included, even though I had no interest in the game and couldn't really be part of it. The way Style nods at Fadel reminds me of that. He's making contact with Fadel across the room, involving him, including him. It's a nod kind of like Hey, I see you. And yeah, Fadel doesn't really want to be seen, except deep down maybe he does.

Which brings me to the choking scene. Style is having fun with his friends (or random people he just met??). He spots Fadel, excuses himself and walks over. Almost as if he saw Fadel standing there all on his own and decided to talk to him because "You're supposed to have fun with your friends at a place like this". As if he doesn't want Fadel be all alone. So he walks up to him and starts another conversation. We get another confirmation that Style isn't holding any grudges about their confrontation in the locker room, because he actively teases Fadel about it. I'm not even sure Style is purposefully being flirty here, I think he really is going more for a playful callback to the locker room confrontation, mixed with a challenge of "So? Are you gonna go rough on me again? I dare you to do it again!"

What's more, I think at this point his brain is set to I must hit on him, so I must drop flirty shit whenever possible. So when he says Fadel looks sexy, while there sure is some truth to it and he certainly finds Fadel sexy in general, I don't think he really 100% means it in that specific moment. It's almost more as if he's saying it out of habit, just for the sake of dropping flirty shit and compliments at any given opportunity.

All in all, that night at the bar Style isn't really being annoying or flirting with Fadel on purpose. He spends the night trying to make friends with Fadel again, trying to make amiable conversation, trying to involve him in friendly banter, trying to genuinely connect with him. As if to get Fadel to open up and come out of the shell that he has deeply buried himself in. And I think what this interaction also shows is that Style is starting to have positive feelings towards Fadel. It's the beginning of Style genuinely liking Fadel more than he dislikes him. Style is slowly starting to worry and to care about him.

No. 2: The Best Way to Burn Calories

Now for this scene we know for a fact Style is here for Fadel specifically. Once again, Style blurts out flirty shit and once again it doesn't sound entirely genuine as if he actually means what he says. Kant has sent him on a mission to hit on Fadel, but Style still hasn't quite figured out how to get through to him. Fadel continuously ignores or even blocks Style's attempts to make friends with him or to genuinely connect to him and the flirting also doesn't seem to be working. (Oh, Style. If only you knew just how well your genuine flirting at the gym worked on Fadel 🤭)

Style knows very well that Fadel is annoyed by him (Fadel even explicitly tells him that it's a bad morning if he sees Style). And I think at this point Style has decided that if he can't be a positive presence in Fadel's life he'll simply just be a negative presence then. Since that will still bring him closer to his goal than being no presence in Fadel's life at all would bring him. So he just shows up, bugs Fadel to remind him of Style's existence and also drops flirty shit at any given opportunity while he's at it regardless of whether he genuinely means what he says in that moment or not. And while I'm sure there is some truth behind Style's words, I think a lot of the flirting really is more of a routine now, a habit. Since that is what he was hired to do after all.

Side quest: Body and Heart

One thing this scene touches on is that Style definitely isn't in it just for sex alone but that he desires an emotional component as well: he explicitly says he wants Fadel's body AND his heart. As I said, I don't think Style really meant the flirting here, but I do think there is some truth to his words, namely his desire to not just have meaningless sex but to also be in love.

I think, unlike Kant, Style actually isn't too big on casual one-night stands. I think he enjoys flirting around, because Style is an attention hoe, but if I had to guess I would say most of the time he doesn't end up actually sleeping with anyone. Style is charming and I think he has a lot of fun with flirty banter. And he definitely loves the attention: in episode 1 he clearly enjoys it when the girls are admiring his waist that he proudly shows off at the bowling alley, in episode 2 he gives Fadel permission to look at his naked body, and then later in episode 3 he also looks very happy and satisfied after those girls call him "hot" when he's dropping of the car keys at the host club.

Style loves the attention, he enjoys the flirty banter, but I think sleeping around no strings attached isn't truly his kind of thing. We get another hint of this in episode 1 when Kant claims "[Y]ou’re in no position to call me out when you’ve been playing around just the same". Style replies "I don’t know what you’re talking about" in a disapproving tone and with a skeptical face.

In fact, in Thai he says:

อะไรของมึงว่ะ [àrai - kŏng - mueng - wâ] what - of - you - [rude particle]

I haven't checked this phrase back with a native speaker yet, but I've often heard it in the sense of Wtf is your problem? or Wtf is up with you? or Wtf are you talking about? To me, the English subs sound almost more like Style is deflecting Kant's statement while in Thai to me it feels like Style is actively disagreeing with Kant's words (feel free to correct me on this if I'm wrong @happypotato48 🙏).

Like, Style clearly doesn't approve of Kant's accusations and immediately goes attention seeking to highlight that that is what he's all about:

Going with the crop top shot specifically because I'm SURE some of you will really appreciate it lol

The literal translation of what he says here is actually more like "I'm just checking my rating":

กูก็แค่เช็คเรตติ้งกูเฉยๆว่ะวะ [guu - gôr kâe - chék - ret-dting - guu - chŏiie chŏiie - wâ wá] I - only - check - rating - I/my - just - [rude particle]

Style wants eyes on him, not hands, and he wants to be rated the hottest person in town by everyone who takes just one single look at him, thank you very much.

What's more, right before this exchange he also tells Kant to quit his one-night stands and get a real lover, so we know Style is very much team "having a boyfriend is a good thing". Style not being too big on meaningless one-night stands will also be reflected later in episode 3 when Style tells Fadel " What kind of man do you take me for? I might look like I play around, but I’m damn devoted to love. I want to date*" when he complains about Fadel ditching him right after their hook-up as well as in episode 4 when Style tells him "I'm not just anyone. I need clarity" when Fadel points out "Some people [have sex] countless times and never called it anything" after Style asks what their relationship is now that they've hooked up twice. We see it also in the way how enraged and genuinely hurt Style is in episode 4 after the stunt Fadel pulls in the kitchen. For Style, sex isn't just sex and I think as impulsive as he can be he still makes very deliberate decisions about who he actually sleeps with.

Kant may claim Style plays around just like Kant does, but the thing is that night at the bowling alley? It's Kant who finds himself someone to spend a fun night with while we see Style leaving the bowling alley all by himself without his own hook-up. You could even make arguments about how Style doesn't actually like doing the pursuing and much rather prefers to be pursued. But more on that later.

*(Actually, literally he doesn't say "I want to date" but "I want a faen" -> confirming once again Style is Team Steady Boyfriend)

No. 3: Sweet Meat

Just like in the scene at the sports field right beforehand, Style continues to be an annoying presence in Fadel's life, if he can't manage to be a positive presence. For this scene he even turns up his annoyingness level a little more than at the running track. What's very interesting here compared to the meat stall scene from episode 2 is that here in episode 3? Style doesn't give a shit that Fadel turns away and walks off without buying anything. In episode 2 he was very quick to yield in order to keep Fadel from running away, but this time Style doesn't care that Fadel just ditches him. When Fadel has gone, Style immediately hurries after him. He's already got his next move planned.

No. 4: Burger Burger Burger Burger

I think Style tries out a different strategy here: maybe if he helps Fadel, Fadel will finally soften up to him. What's also interesting is that every word out of Style's mouth suddenly sounds a lot more genuine now compared to what he was spouting at the running track or at the market earlier that day. And I think it's because he (thinks he) is helping Fadel.

Style likes to help. We see this in the way he agrees to help his best friend by hitting on some weirdo guy (yes, of course he's also getting a car out of this deal, but I think part of the reason why he agrees to the deal is also because he genuinely wants to help Kant find love), we see this in the way he immediately takes orders from customers no questions asked in episode 2 right before he meets Bison, and we'll see this even later this episode when he throws himself into the fight despite having no fighting skills whatsoever, just because he thinks three against one is unfair and wants to help.

And if we go back to the thought that maybe, just maybe, Style actually doesn't like to pursue others then it's no surprise that his words here suddenly sound a lot more genuine now that he (thinks he) is helping Fadel compared to his half-assed attempts at flirting earlier that day on the sports field and at the market. Helping people is Style's thing. He's back in his comfort zone which means now he can be much more sincere in his words and his actions again, because there is less of a need to pretend to be a type of person that he just simply is not.

Which also results in Style being much more playful again rather than annoying. For example, when he calls Fadel a "good-looking chef" and shoves him with his his gigantic burger bun. Or when he teases Fadel about being shy. Or when he asks Fadel "You hungry?" after they end up on the ground. This time I actually believe Style's words. Where the flirting at the running track and the teasing at the market felt more like a task where Style was mostly just saying words to get the job done, now that he's back in his comfort zone it sounds like he actually means everything he says again.

There is also some sort of sincerity to Style's desire to help. Fadel, however, does not want Style's help and tries to send him away. Style reminds him that Fadel should probably be making burgers instead of wasting time arguing with him and also points out that Fadel's own brother, who is supposed to be here helping him, is nowhere to be found and that he, Style, is in fact right here by Fadel's side helping him, supporting him. I think Style is being a little overly dramatic when he says "All I ask from you is a little decency" in order to get Fadel to soften up at least a little bit and to get him to accept Style's help, but I also think Style does genuinely desire at least some form of recognition for his support as well. But Fadel won't budge and once again just abandons him.

No. 5: This Is A... kitchen

Trouble arises at the diner and once again we see that Style likes being helpful, because he rushes into the kitchen, immediately ready to help serve the customers. And this time his desire to help is real. It might also stem a little from his desire to fix things, because it is his own fault that the restaurant is overrun and so part of him might want to make up for that, too. What matters, though, is that it's not just another attempt at getting close to Fadel like earlier when he was promoting the restaurant. Fadel blocks him once again, but Style insists. And I think he really hits the nail on the head with this:

I haven't yet looked at Fadel as closely as I have at Style (oh how I wish I had the time, though *cries in university student*) but I do think that this is ultimately something Fadel will be forced to learn over the course of the series.

Anyway, Fadel tries to send Style away again, but Style refuses to go and lists a number of arguments as to why he should in fact go serve tables instead of going home. He ends his arguments by telling Fadel to learn to accept help and then then determinedly tells him that he'll go wait the tables himself. Once those words are out of his mouth he looks at Fadel almost with a bit of a defiant expression on his face as if he's waiting for Fadel to object again.

But this time Fadel says "Fine, you can wait the tables" and Style nods and raises an eyebrow in surprise and happiness, like Wait?? I can?? For real?? You're actually letting me?? I don't have to fight you some more?? You're not throwing me out again??

When Style goes to change into the uniform right there in the kitchen, I don't think he's doing it to be flirty or anything like that at first. I think in the heat of the moment he genuinely forgot that changing rooms (or in this case, bathrooms) exist. I think he wanted to follow Fadel's order as quickly as possible so that he could start helping as quickly as possible. That is, until Fadel tells him off and sends him to the bathroom. Style responds by playfully teasing Fadel about being shy. Style is in an excellent mood now because it's one of those rare occasions where Fadel accepts Style's presence rather than trying to get rid of him. And while I do think Style changes in the kitchen anyway in order to tease Fadel, I don't think he's necessarily doing it to tease Fadel for sexy reasons but rather for playfully petty reasons. Because Fadel keeps scolding him and yelling at him and when Fadel tells him off for changing clothes in the kitchen, Style does it out of spite. Like Oh, you don't want me to change in the kitchen? Well, in this case i DEFINITELY have to change in the kitchen, then. I will say, though, that there is definitely a little bit of an Oh, you're NOT shy? Well, prove it, then! in there as well. But I don't think that this thought is Style's main focus here, because apart from this one look that Style throws Fadel right after he's pulled his shirt over his head...

...from what the camera shows us he seems more focused on the clothes and the action of changing them rather than on Fadel's reaction to him getting naked:

We, the audience, were shown Fadel's reactions to Style getting undressed and I think if Style had taken note of these reactions, the series would have made a point in showing us that Style notices Fadel's crisis. And our chatty cat here would have 100000% teased Fadel about it. What's more, Style has no idea just how much of an effect his naked body had on Fadel back at the sauna. Style has absolutely no idea that Fadel went and fantasized about him afterwards. So Style does not (yet) know that his naked body is one of the strongest weapons he currently has in the fight for Fadel. So Style does not (yet) realize that he could be using his body in a much more deliberate manner. And I don't think he realized it in this scene either, because as I said we would have been shown his discovery. So Style leaves the scene none the wiser, but eager to help and absolutely stoked that Fadel actually lets him for once.

No. 6: Death by Spatula?

Unexpectedly, Fadel drops lore of himself and I think that piques Style's interest because Fadel almost NEVER drops lore of himself. Pretty much all the things Style knows about Fadel are things he got from other people (like all the information in the notebook) or things he found out by himself (either because he's picked up on them in all their interactions so far or because he actively did some research like when he looked up Fadel's name). There are only two other instances where Fadel himself revealed something about himself to Style:

When Style finds him at the gym, Fadel drops that he doesn't like it when it's crowded and that this is why he likes going to the gym at night.

When Fadel tells Style that he runs a burger joint in the "sensitive nipples" scene and also mentions that he does everything by himself. Although this incident barely counts, because Fadel didn't really give this information voluntarily but was instead kind of forced to since Style had found the pin of his restaurant.

Usually, Fadel refuses to reveal anything about himself. But now Fadel is overwhelmed by the many customers and in his stress he lets slip that he doesn't need money and that he only runs the restaurant for fun. When Fadel then also claims not to be rich, Style immediately finds it sus. Lucky for him, though, he won't make the right guess until later in the episode and so he manages to escape being prematurely murdered with a spatula. But Style doesn't know that.

Instead, Style just got a lot more intrigued by Fadel. This is one of those incidents that make Style want to get to know Fadel out of his own curiosity and not because he wants to help his friend and is getting his dream car as a reward. Style is starting to take a genuine interest in Fadel as a person and his positive feelings towards Fadel grow.

No. 7: First Bites

When Fadel wordlessly hands Style the burger it's the first time that Fadel is actively reaching out to him. Reaching out to him in a friendly manner that is, not to ambush him in a dark locker room and start a fight. And Style is absolutely delighted that Fadel is finally taking a step towards him instead of walking away from him like he usually does. And Style being Style, he of course has to immediately make a big deal out of it: "Are you finally folding? Was it because of how hard working I am? You like me now, don’t you?"

Actually, I wanna take a little detour to the language side of things again. The English translation has a question tag only on the last sentence, but in Thai Style actually uses question words that give a sense of "right?" or "isn't that so?" at the end of every single one of these questions.

นี่มึงเปิดใจให้กูแล้วใช่ป่ะ [nêe - mueng - bpèrt - jai - hâi - guu - láew - châi bpà] [interjection] - you - open - heart, mind - to, for - I/me - already - right?

I actually really like the expression he uses in Thai: he says เปิดใจ [bpèrt jai] which consists of the words "(to) open" (เปิด) and "heart, mind" (ใจ). To me, that gives me the feeling of Style not just asking Did I manage to win you over? but more of a feeling of You are finally opening (your heart) up to me, right? You are finally letting me in? which I think is a much nicer image in regard to Fadel's character and Fadel and Style's relationship.

มึงเห็นความขยันความตั้งใจกูแล้วใช่ไหมล่ะ [mueng - hĕn - kwaam kà-yăn - kwaam dtâng jai - guu - láew - châi măi - lâ] you - see - diligence - intention, determination - I/my - already - right? - [particle]

I don't know if others feel the same way, but in the English translation the "hard working" part mostly makes me think of Style working hard with helping at the restaurant before this conversation. A more literal translation of what he says in Thai would be "You've seen my diligence and determination, haven't you?" and I'm sure he's actually more referring to his determination and relentless efforts in getting close to Fadel.

I just really like the way Style phrases all his questions here in Thai. Fadel has enclosed his heart deep within him in very thick and high walls and no one gets access to it. And Style's task isn't that he has to get Fadel to simply just fold to him, surrender to him, but what he actually needs to do is to search for a way to reach Fadel's heart. His options are either to tear down Fadel's walls by sheer force or to somehow get Fadel to trust him so much that Fadel will willingly unlock and open up the doors leading to the depths of his heart. And it's like Style is asking You're finally letting me in, right? You're finally recognizing my diligent efforts to reach you, right? You no longer hate me, right? You like me now, don't you?

And I don't think Style is necessarily flirting here and means to ask if Fadel likes him romantically. On the surface, yes, he is definitely also asking if the flirting (attempts) have worked and if Fadel is starting to fall for him. But I think a lot of this is also about how he has on multiple occasion now tried to form a genuine connection with Fadel. Just in this episode alone we can see it in the way he asks Fadel if he likes heavy metal at the heavy metal bar and then tries to get him to socialize, tries to include him. We can see it the entire time at the restaurant just now where he's voluntarily helping because he genuinely cares. There are even more instances in the first two episodes, which I talk about in my first meta post of this meta series. Style has tried to bond with Fadel multiple times now but Fadel has always blocked his attempts and I think a big part of Style also wants to know if Fadel is finally starting to have at least friendly feelings towards Style. That Style is finally going from being an annoying presence in Fadel's life to being a pleasant presence in his life.

But Fadel shoots him down. "Don't get your hopes up. This is your wage." (Fun fact: in Thai Fadel actually tells Style not to เวอร์ [wer], which is a slang word coming from the English word "over" and, if I remember my Thai friend's explanation from a month ago correctly, is used to indicate that what someone is doing/saying is "too much", so what Fadel says here could be taken as "don't exaggerate" or "don't be so overly dramatic" or "don't be so hyped")

Style immediately complains that the burger is too little of a wage, but also won't let Fadel take it away from him again, insisting on eating it anyway. It might not be much of a wage, but that burger is important to Style. When Fadel sends him home, Style dramatically laments being exploited and thrown away. I think this is yet another one of Style's attempt to get some friendly banter out of Fadel. But Fadel isn't having it. Fadel makes it clear that he wants Style gone asap and Style is annoyed that Fadel keeps making him leave. I think Style is genuinely enjoying hanging out with Fadel at the burger joint and also genuinely wants to stay. His positive feelings continue to develop.

Special shout-out also to the way Style loudly goes "Mmh! Mmmh!!" while chomping down on the burger to make sure Fadel knows exactly how much he's enjoying Fadel's food. Which isn't just food in this instance, no, the burger also stands for an unspoken thank you for helping me and symbolizes the first time Fadel has actively reached out to Style on his own and done a nice thing for him. Style is making sure Fadel won't miss just how much he appreciates this gesture.

No. 8: A Fly on the Wall

Oh, how desperately I wish we knew at which point of the conversation between the brothers Style came in exactly! This is going to drive me insane, because I have no idea just how much of the conversation Style overheard, which unfortunately is important information for the interpretation of his interactions with Fadel from this point on. Most of all I really NEED to know if Style happened to hear this specific line:

Fun fact: in Thai he doesn't actually say "you wanted to rely on" but he says (ที่)มึงจะไปอยู่ด้วย [(thêe) - mueng - jà - bpai - yòo - dûuay] which should translate to something like "(that) you were gonna be with" or "were gonna live with" (disclaimer: I didn't double-check this with a native speaker) which sounds much more like a serious relationship to me rather than when phrased as "dude you wanted to rely on". And we'll get the confirmation of an ex-boyfriend later in the episode.

Now the question is: DOES STYLE KNOW ABOUT THE EX-BOYFRIEND NOW?? DOES HE KNOW FADEL WAS IN LOVE BEFORE?? PLEASEEE I NEED TO KNOW 😭😭😭

In my quest to find an answer to these questions I did come across a strange background noise that comes right after this line, though. A background noise that could very well be interpreted as Style sliding open the door. So for the sake of my own sanity I'll go with Style only having heard this part of the conversation for sure:

F: Why did you bring this up? K: I just want you to tell your brother how pipe dreams always end. In this line of profession, no one waits for you.

This is yet another incident that gets Style genuinely curious about Fadel, about who he is exactly. Style will certainly be wondering about what that profession is from now on. And he will certainly be wondering about what that profession could be after he watches Fadel beat up three grown men like it's nothing. And he won't know that he will have hit jackpot with his guess.

No. 9: Private Show

Where the masturbation scene from episode 2 confirms that Fadel feels genuine physical/sexual attraction to Style, this scene confirms that the feeling is mutual on Style's side of things as well. Style, too, finds Fadel's body hot. What's more, he never stops looking at Fadel. And not just at his body, but throughout his fantasy, Style is always searching for Fadel's eyes. In fact, he rarely takes his own eyes off of Fadel's face, and when Style does direct his eyes somewhere else it's always only for a very short moment. I think this once again shows that Style desires an emotional connection next to a physical one as well. Sex isn't just sex to Style, he wants more with it.

It is said that eyes are the windows to the soul, so another reason for the intense eye contact could be that Style also wants to stare deep into Fadel's soul to get to know him better in a quest to find answers to who this mysterious person really is. Because by now Style is genuinely curious. He has genuinely started to care.

Remember how I mentioned that arguments could be made for Style actually liking being pursued more than doing the pursuing and that I would get into this later? Later is now.

At this point I want to plug @clemelntine's extremely interesting perspective on the two sexual fantasies that we've gotten so far and what that means for the storage room hook-up. I'm not gonna reiterate everything, but I do want to pick up on what she says about Style specifically:

No matter how much he annoys Fadel in the day to day and how much he seems to take the upperhand in those interactions, when it comes to sex he likes in the idea of letting Fadel do what he does/wants.

In Style's own fantasy, Style is sitting back, he's letting Fadel take the reins, do the work. This is also in line with @secriden's excellent meta on Style's true desire being to be pursued, which I also really encourage you to read. Again, I won't repeat the entire post, but she highlights how Style will downright create opportunities for Fadel to lay his hands on him and how "every single time Fadel even shows a HINT of wanting Style, he immediately falls pliant, like he can't wait to let Fadel take the reins" (quoted from @secriden). And we see this desire in the fantasy too. Style imagines Fadel being the active one while Style gets to sit there and enjoy. Our little attention hoe here likes it when people are actively after him.

I was struggling to really make sense of Style this episode. In the first two episodes, whenever Style was being annoying there would be some sort of trigger for it. I was confused especially in the beginning of this episode, because I didn't understand how and why Style would go from trying to genuinely bond with Fadel at the heavy metal bar to being annoying at the running track and at the market when nothing seemed to have triggered it. I could tell Style was being annoying on the sports field and at the market, but I really couldn't figure out the "but why?" of it all. But if we look at his behavior through the lens of "Style actually prefers being pursued over doing the pursuing", I think it makes more sense. Style prefers for others to put in the effort of pursuing and now that he's forced to do the pursuing himself he doesn't really know how to go about it, especially when the person he's trying to woo has walls high up to the sky and continuously shoots him down. Style shows up and drops flirty lines but he doesn't even really mean them because he doesn't actually want to do the pursuing. The inauthenticity in his insistent approach is what makes him annoying in those scenes. And it's also not what works on Fadel – it's when Style is being genuine that he actually reaches Fadel, like when he was helping him wait tables (which Fadel recognizes by rewarding him with a burger) or when Style was being playfully flirty in the sauna (which results in Fadel fantasizing about him at night).

No. 10: Mark Style Down As Scared AND Horny

We will later learn that Style doesn't believe Fadel about needing more money for the restaurant and was just acting stupid to gain Fadel's trust, but when I first sat down to take notes for my meta I wasn't sure if Style was being entirely accurate/truthful when he said this, since he witnessed Fadel taking on three grown men only after that whole conversation about the restaurant. So why would he feel a need to gain Fadel's trust before that? At first I thought that maybe Style did believe Fadel for a moment there, especially also because he presented Fadel with an excuse as to why he was working there right away and then also sounded a bit too sincere when he offered support to Fadel. However, on second thought I'm now thinking that maybe he really does distrust Fadel's claims from the start.

Outside the host club Style approaches Fadel and I don't think it's with the motivation to flirt with him but rather to find out why exactly Fadel would be here stripping for some ladies. It's a bit odd that he immediately offers Fadel an out of "You need the money for your restaurant, right?" when he's trying to get answers, but maybe this clumsy approach at digging for answer is already part of Style playing dumb on purpose to gain Fadel's trust. But why would he need to gain Fadel's trust when he hasn't even seen yet what Fadel is really capable of?

While it is true that up until the "why are you working as a stripper" conversation Style hasn't witnessed the real danger that Fadel poses, there've still been enough incidents to make him suspicious of Fadel. It already starts right during their first meeting when Fadel won't let Style get near his car. That's weird, Style finds it weird. Next thing Style knows is that Fadel also doesn't have any papers for said car which is very odd again. In episode 2 Style gets a little hint of Fadel's dangerous side when Fadel ambushes him in the locker room. In episode 3 he learns that Fadel opened the burger place just for fun rather than to earn money and that apparently Fadel isn't rich and yet somehow still has the resources and the time to run a whole restaurant for fun. Shortly after that he (likely) overhears something about a "profession" which clearly can't refer to the profession of being a burger joint owner. Style has enough reasons to be suspicious of Fadel, even before he witnesses Fadel's badass fighting skills. Style has reasons to gain Fadel's trust and to stay on his good side, especially since Style himself is hiding ulterior motives and can't risk Fadel getting suspicious of his own true intentions. So Style plays dumb, offers Fadel an out, and when Fadel takes that out Style raises his eyebrows and hesitates for a moment like Oh, okay. We're going with the lie, then, before he offers Fadel support.

The conversation gets interrupted by those three men looking for a fight and for the first time Style gets to see just how dangerous Fadel can get when he wants to. This is where Style truly realizes that something really is very, very OFF about Fadel. It's no longer a joke or a gut feeling, no, this is confirmation that something here is incredibly shady. And Style wants to get to the bottom of it.

No. 11: Hit by Apollo's Ball of Prophecy

There've been a few incidents that got Style curious about who Fadel really is behind his thick walls and his tough exterior, a few incidents that got Style curious about Fadel's lore. But watching Fadel take on three grown man without any major problems and having them run away in fear was the last straw. Style's motivations officially change. Getting Kant's car is less important now than finding out the truth about Fadel. Style definitely exaggerates a bit when he says that Fadel must be some kind of hitman, is being dramatic as usual. It won't be much longer until Style finds out that Apollo has actually hit him with the gift of prophecy.

No. 12: Rise Up

Style is determined to find out more about Fadel's life and promptly shows up at yet another location he knows Fadel will be at. I'm not sure Style was aware this meeting was gonna be about grief and loss before he arrived and saw the sign. At least from the notebook it's hard to tell because the drawing only shows a group of people sitting in a circle of chairs with the caption "rise up". That could really be about anything. For me personally, my first association (especially in combination with the words "rise up") would be a Christian bible study group, although I doubt that Style, having been raised in a predominantly Buddhist country, would necessarily have this specific association with that image and those words, too. Point still stands that nothing about this image strictly points to loss specifically. (Technically we could say that since there's no address in the notebook, Style might have googled "rise up" in order to figure out where to go and seen on the website that it was a meeting for grief and loss. However, as we didn't actually get to see Style do any research and find this information, I'm just gonna run on the assumption that he genuinely didn't know and that maybe he got the address via Bison or something. Or maybe he actively stalked and followed Fadel, idk.)

Style stops in front of the sign, double-checks that he's at the right place, and then nods in determination, kinda like alright, let's do this, then, before he enters.

Another reason why I don't think Style was aware what this group meeting was gonna be about before he arrived is the way he's kinda confused when the group leader asks him to tell his story. The group leader elaborates ("Something you’ve lost, or the changing point in your life.") and Style, who was looking at the group leader while listening to his explanation, turns his head to look at Fadel right after the group leader says the word จุดเปลี่ยน [jùt bplìian] (= changing point). He stares at Fadel as if he's wondering Did he lose something? Was there a changing point in his life?

Style can't dwell on it for too long, though, because he has just been asked a question and now needs to come up with a cover story.

And this is where Style really starts to get out of line. He dishes out a story about some dog, which I don't really want to get into right now since at the point of me writing this we're only 4 episodes into the series and who knows, something might as well happen later down the line that could recontextualize Style's story (looking at you, Boonterm mention! 👀), but I think it's safe to say that Style isn't too involved in his story emotionally. When he cries, the crying is cringe and it's NOT because Dunk is a bad actor (far from it!!) but rather it's because Style the character isn't taking himself seriously here. This is also highlighted in the smug look and nod he shoots Fadel in the middle of his crying performance:

His behavior is very disrespectful, but I don't think he's being disrespectful on purpose. I think this is another one of his idiot boy moments where he is just really fucking stupid. Style is impulsive and doesn't think things through a lot and I think in this scene he is also so absorbed in his goal of getting to the bottom of Fadel and his mysteries that his tunnel vision on his goal prevents him from realizing the effect his actions can have on those around him, the consequences his behavior could bring. We saw it before that Style sometimes doesn't see things as much of a big deal as they actually are when he doesn't think much of texting while driving (as elaborated in my ep1 meta). Besides, his behavior has worked out pretty well for him all episode, with the worst consequence being Fadel simply just walking away from him, and Style even got to celebrate small victories like when Fadel made him a burger. So why would Style be changing his behavior now? There is no reason for Style to act differently, and so he continues to bug Fadel as usual and it genuinely doesn't occur to him that his behavior could be disrespectful or out of line.

Maybe if Style had had more time to dwell on the thought of Is Fadel here because he's lost someone? he might have realized that the situation was a lot more serious than he had originally thought and that his words/actions were gonna be out of line and that he shouldn't have been doing this, but alas that is not what happened. He didn't have the time and so he immediately gets distracted fabricating an elaborate story to answer the group leader's question and doesn't spend a single one of his brain cells thinking about his behavior and its consequences. He will soon learn about the consequences, though, because Fadel is seriously pissed now.

No. 13: Giving You What You Want (But Is It?)

Fadel is pissed and goes to confront Style in the privacy of a random storage room. Style is obviously lying to Fadel through his teeth. I do think there's some truth to it when Style says "I have my own problems. You’re not the only one" but whatever problems in life Style currently has (especially if there's anything connected to loss and grief), these problem's really aren't at the forefront of his mind right now. We know for a fact that Style is lying when he explains that he found the support group via the internet, that meeting Fadel was a coincidence and Fadel doesn't buy it either. What we, the audience, also know but what Fadel doesn't necessarily guess is that Style is also lying about how he is hitting on Fadel because he likes him and because he wants him. "Nothing more than that" he says, but as the audience we know that this is also bullshit because we know he was specifically sent by Kant and that a car is waiting for Style when he succeeds. What we also know, though, is that Style is definitely physically/sexually attracted to Fadel, so when Fadel offers to hook up with him, who is Style to say no?

I think this nc scene surprised a lot of us because it didn't go the way most of us were expecting it to go. As has already been pointed out in various posts by various people, Style is surprisingly passive during the entire act (at least, that we get to see). They have next to no eye contact, Style doesn't initiate a single kiss and barely touches Fadel except to hold him and to run his hand through Fadel's hair. But why is that?

Many a thing has already been said about this scene and about the characters' motivations and I don't think there is one specific interpretation that is the One Truth. I think many truths exist in this scene at the same time and there are many factors as to why the characters were acting the way they were acting. Emotions are complicated and sometimes you can have many of them simultaneously.

An interpretation that I haven't seen floating around yet is that part of Style's passiveness could also stem from the fact that he was caught off-guard. I don't think he was expecting Fadel to go Alright fine, have me, then. In fact, I think when Style told Fadel "I like you" and "I want you" those were mainly empty words again. Because this time he didn't seek out one of Fadel's usual places in order to to hit on him, but because he wants to find out the truth about Fadel, wants to figure out the reason why Fadel is so shady. But then he ended up pissing Fadel off who then promptly started a fight with him and Style needed to cover up his own intentions when he threw those words into Fadel's face. Style says "I want you", but he doesn't actually mean it in that moment and his actions do not reflect the I want to bang you sentiment at all either. We've all seen the sauna scene, we know how Style behaves when he actually wants to get into Fadel's towel pants. And this isn't it. So when Fadel suddenly and uncharacteristically does let Style get into his pants gets into Style's pants, I think that throws Style off and he momentarily doesn't know how to respond to the situation.

Plus, as @nnnn99999 writes in her meta, there is also the emotional disconnect. At this point of the story, neither of them is in love with the other just yet. Yes, there is mutual physical attraction and yes, by now Style has taken an interest in Fadel beyond the car, has started to develop positive feelings for Fadel and has at times actively enjoyed interacting with Fadel, but they still have their own motives and intentions and emotionally they simply just aren't quite on the same page yet. Style desires both body and heart, but both of their hearts simply aren't properly in it just yet. I don't think Style minds hooking up, he's definitely consenting to it and also enjoying it, but it's just not quite what Style dreams of, not like this. In a way, yes, it actually is what Style has dreamed of because his fantasies of Fadel doing things to him rather than him doing things to Fadel are now becoming reality, as @clemelntine beautifully explained in her meta, but in the real situation there's one important detail missing from Style's fantasy: the intense eye contact. In addition to Fadel's body, Style also wants that emotional connection. We've seen this times and times again whenever Style has tried to make friends as well as to genuinely bond with Fadel, and this desire extends also to the sex.

And lastly I want to leave you with @braceletofteeth's excellent tags on this post, which is something that I think also factors into why Style goes from being proactive to being passive in the blink of an eye:

#Fadel said he would give himself to Style #and Style let him do that #he barely touched Fadel except to hold him and caress his hair #he reciprocated the kisses but did not initiate them #he didn't try to take any more of Fadel than what Fadel willingly gave him #[head in hands]

During the entire nc part I kind of get the sense like Style is waiting. Waiting to see with a certain curiosity what Fadel will be doing next, what Fadel wants to do next, ready to happily take up whatever Fadel offers. Style is letting Fadel control the situation completely and doesn't push him once.

No. 14: Kiss or Slap?

Once again we see that Style isn't too much of a fan of casual hook-ups. And while I do think part of his motivations for saying the things he says and for trying to stop Fadel from abandoning him again is because making Fadel his boyfriend specifically rather than just hooking up with him is his goal here after all, but I do think that Style isn't lying this time. He's just a bit too annoyed when he asks "What kind of man do you take me for?" for it to be an act. I think he is genuinely offended that Fadel would think of him this way. And I think he's genuinely a little upset and hurt that Fadel is perfectly happy to sleep with him and to ditch him immediately after. We get foreshadowing to Style being very much Team Anti Hit-and-Run in episode 1 when he tells Fadel "It ain’t like me to hit and run" in the context of an actual car crash and earlier this episode when he laments "Oh, the nature of man. He will exploit you and then throw you away". Style is very much not happy with this turn of events and it's not purely because he hasn't yet completed the mission Kant has sent him on. We also get another hint of Style looking for a connection in his hook-ups in the way Style is looking at Fadel when they're getting dressed while in contrast Fadel has turned his back to Style completely, avoiding eye contact and avoiding any interaction:

Another thing that I want to point out is that Fadel says "I gave you what you wanted" and "We agreed on it" when Style tries to stop him from leaving. However, they didn't exactly agree on anything? Fadel started kissing Style before they could even come up with any terms and conditions and the thing is when Style said he wanted Fadel, he never said he wanted Fadel only once. And he also never said he wanted Fadel to run away immediately afterwards.

So Style puts up a fight. He firmly stands between Fadel and the door, blocking Fadel's way. Fadel threatens to punch Style if he doesn't move but Style refuses to stand down even though he knows very well from personally witnessing it that Fadel is perfectly capable of punching him if he wished to. Despite that, Style is not scared of Fadel. I think Style takes Fadel's sudden willingness to sleep with him as a sign that Fadel has finally developed some sort of positive feelings towards Style after all, too. And Style is confident enough about it that he trusts that Fadel wouldn't hurt him. When Style says "You like me" I don't think he necessarily means it in the sense of you're in love with me or you're crushing on me. I think he's calling out Fadel's change of heart (that is negative feelings turning into positive feelings) and is making it very clear just how confident he is about Fadel not hurting him. I'm not scared of you. I've become a positive presence in your life now. You wouldn't dare to injure me. It's a counterattack to Fadel's threat. But Fadel's trauma runs deep. And so he punches Style because giving him a bit of a beating is still better than risking to face the consequences of what might happen if he lets anyone get behind those thick high walls. And he punches Style also a little bit to put him in line for his cockiness.

And also, I may be a Style apologist and a Style enabler, but after that shit Style pulled at the group meeting that punch was totally deserved.

Please don't expect me to write a proper conclusion bc my brain is absolutely fried now bye <3

[rebouks]

Previous // Next

[Brodie flicked through the mail, instantly recognising the scrawling handwriting of a certain redheaded little boy. Scaring a few birds in the process, he bellowed up the stairs: ALEEEEX!] Alex: [breathless] Is it for me?! Brodie: Nah, but I could do with some help carrying this super heavy envelope upstairs. Alex: Who do you think you are, Johnny Zest? Brodie: I’m better than that guy, c’mon…

… Hi Alex! Sorry it’s taken me so long to reply to you, I promise I didn’t forget! I guess I just didn’t really know what to say cos I’ve sorta not felt like myself recently. My mom says I disappear into my own world sometimes so I sorta did that again and found it hard to think of anything fun to say. I don’t think I’d mind if you wrote to me about the less fun parts of your life though n’ my dad says you shouldn’t really keep everything to yourself all the time cos it ends up hurting so I thought I’d write anyway n’ just force myself not to worry about being boring or whatever. Your letters and your life always sound so exciting compared to mine though so sometimes it’s hard not to!!

I got in a fight at school which sounds like it should be an exciting story, but it wasn’t really. There’s this kid called Levi in my class that always picks on me (don’t worry though, I don’t care about that) and I couldn’t be bothered listening to him anymore so I hit him a couple times, I thought he’d hit me back but he just freaked out so I sorta felt bad about it afterward. He still makes fun of me but he doesn’t get up in my face as much so that’s a plus. Who says violence doesn’t solve anything? Hahaha I’m kidding! It wasn’t nice of me but maybe he should know better than to push people around so much.

I’m looking forward to summer so I can wander off a bit more and maybe it won’t rain so much! My mom doesn’t really like it when I go too far but as long as I’m back before curfew she tries not to freak out about it which is nice of her cos she knows I like to explore n’ stuff. I shouldn’t complain about my family cos I love them n’ stuff but I like being on my own sometimes and it’d be nice to have a bit of peace now n’ then. I’ve got SUPER good hearing so it’s hard to find anywhere quiet in my house, especially cos there’s always something crazy going on. My aunt Alma is sorta similar to me so she’s been helping me block out the noise with this meditation sorta thing, I guess it’s hard to explain but it’s not as lame as it sounds, it’s kinda fun to see how long you can stay in your own brain without people interrupting you. That probably sounds really weird but maybe you sorta get what I mean?

I finally have a treehouse now too!! It reminds me of your watchtower in some ways, but I guess it’s no way cooler than that, even though I know you’re bored of it by now. I wish we could hang out in it together cos it’s super awesome! Mom n’ dad don’t really bother me when I’m up there n’ my brother n’ sisters can’t manage the ladder yet so it’s all mine! It’s right at the bottom of the garden and looks out over the whole Bay too! Mom said she might let me sleep in it once it gets a bit warmer! It’d be cool falling asleep to the sound of the waves.. I hope it doesn’t end up making me need to pee all night though haha!!

Wren’s been obsessed with watching me play on the computer recently and I keep tryna teach her how to play herself but her little fingers can’t really reach all the buttons on the keyboard too well and she gets stupid mad when she dies so she just makes me play instead. She’d kick me if I told anyone but she’s a bit scared of some of the monsters too lol!! Mom told me I shouldn’t let her watch those ones but they’re the only ones she WANTS to watch and she jumps all over me until I give in so idk what they expect me to do other than lock her in the pantry, but I got told off for that so I guess I shouldn’t do that again haha (Wren thought it was funny though so it’s all good!) It’s a shame you don’t have a computer in the tower otherwise we could play together! Jude n’ Jacob aren’t really into that sorta thing so I usually just play on my own. Do you have a computer back home??

Oh! I got another badge for my swimming lessons too! I’ve almost got em all now which is neat but I sorta wanna avoid getting the last ones cos anyone that gets them all or has good attendance n’ whatever get an award at the end of the school year. They save em all up to give out at some stupid last year disco thing they put on before summer for the last year kids n’ it’d be so cringe to get called out in front of everyone like that. Some people think it’s gonna be amazing like my friend Jude, but I’d rather not go at all. Mom n’ dad keep saying it’ll be fun n’ everyone else is excited about it too but how fun could something be if you’re technically at SCHOOL? Bleh! I know you said you hate it sometimes, but being homeschooled sounds awesome to me lol.

I keep tryna bug my parents to go camping again so we could maybe see each other but they won’t take me out of school for a holiday n’ dad’s too busy with some work project so I guess we’ll have to keep writing to each other instead! Maybe if I keep annoying them about it we can come back in the summer! I hope so anyway but I guess I don’t wanna piss em off TOO much just in case my plan backfires or something.

I still feel really bad about not writing sooner but my dad said better late than never so hopefully you’re not too upset with me! I’ll try my best to write faster next time so you don’t have to wait as long. I’m looking forward to hearing about everything you’ve been up to!! Love Robin c: ps. my dad’s friend finally helped me fix that old polaroid so I’ve sent you some random pictures I took to test it out! I’m still getting used to it but the next ones will be better, I swear!

… the treehouse! it even has cool lights on it!! the back of our house! it’s so big it’s hard to fit in a picture.. it sorta looks fancy but it’s not really n’ dad said it was cheap cos it was a shithole a rare Byrd! (grumpy too – dad tried to take his dummy off him lol) he’s not supposed to be on my bed… the Bay! Jude says I sound girly for saying it’s so pretty here but I don’t care I could take a million pictures of this place n’ never get bored (I’ll stop now though cos mom says these polaroid things aren’t cheap for this model.. oops lol!!)

[crazy-pe3p]

rate the copperright swap au

inspiration from pinterest- specifically a comment that complained about the aus never going further than just art of a concept of the swap!!

notes are mixed in with headcanons

some doodles

and screenshot redraws with the au

[emi-the-gremlin]

Controversial take (maybe?)

I think we need more of mr. Payne being the good parent, like don’t get me wrong I adore all the good Mrs. Payne fics (definitely check out that tag) but she’s the only one who’s actually been described negatively, parenting wise.

Not to mention it also just balances out the group, Charles has daddy issues, Crystal has parental issues, so therefore it stands to reason that Edwin has mommy issues, right?

[veggiecorner]

Food for thought but what if the house in Hateno was just Zeldas at first? Link wanted to give Zelda a place to stay where she can rest without being reminded of her duty every 5 seconds (which was why staying in Kakariko didn't work) and he knew he's not the type to sit around and rest. He does want to stay by Zelda's side however, but also felt awkward about living with her. So he does this thing where he just checks in with her every few weeks/months but travels around doing tasks for the people. Whenever Zelda wants to travel he's immediately by her side, but once she's back in Hateno he's just "...okay see you later......" and leaves. Zelda wants to tell him to stay a bit longer, but is too uncertain to break that boundary between them. Also she doesn't really want him to feel like he has to stay by her side. She wants him to have his freedom.

But suddenly him being gone for 2 months becomes 6 weeks...then it becomes 1 month...then 2 weeks....then a week...and one day he walks up to Zelda and just says "...can I stay over for the night?"

And so the house in Hateno starts to feel a little less lonely from then on.