#more prompt fill

[fandomfuntimem]

Dp x dc prompt

Redhood didn't like people who took advantage of children. Fucking hated them.

So when he heard of a new crime lord employing children in there area, he had to put a bullet between that fucker's eyes. Apperently, the guy ran the original gang out of town and set the kids off on petty crime. Stealing money. Food, clothes, in some cases, even drugs.

Redhood stood outside an abandoned building, gun at the ready. There was no security, no goons. Did this guy know he was coming? Is this a trap? Redhood shook off his worries. No matter. He's just gotta get this bastard before it could get any worse.

He crept through raftors and boxes. He listened for footsteps. Step step step. The footsteps were heavy and dragging, sluggish. According to eye witnesses, the crime lord tended to drag his feet, maybe limp even.

Redhood slid out of hiding, pressed his gun up to the back of the man's head, and-

It was a kid. The kid turned around, so irely calm. His long black air hung down, obscuring his face, but Redhood could clearly see the way his pale sickly skin sank into his bones. How his dull blue eyes seamed to gloss over and stare into his soul. Almost daring him to pull the trigger. Yet, despite the dark of the warehouse, he almost seemed to glow.

"So?" He asked.

"Wha- so what?" Redhood asked. He was shaking. He hasn't put the gun down.

"Are you going to pull the trigger or not? I mean, you've got a clear shot. I just ask you to clean up after. The kids don't need to see that," The teen slowly blinked at him. Redhood slowly lowered the gun. Just a gang of kids run rampant, yeah. That's what this is.

The kid hummed and began to walk off. Redhood couldn't really call it walking or even limping. It looked more like dragging a nearly dead leg. Now that he was close, he could see it. The dragging leg, the dead arm in a sling. The lichtenberg scars crawled up his face, reaching his eye, blinded and half shut. How did this kid run a whole gang out of town?

Red Hood followed him. The kid only gave his a brief glance before shrugging. Redhood followed him to the back of the warehouse, where a group of kids slept. Redhood recognised them, street kids. All either homeless or too scared to go home.

"They helped me," the kid whispered, "I got rid of those people because I hated the way they hurt the people around them, and when I fell sick, those kids stepped up to help. The least I can do is give them a place to stay."

"You fell sick? You weren't always like this?"

"No. I used to be a lot stronger, braver," The kid gave a heavy sigh before slowly lowering himself to the ground. Crossing his legs and resting his head on his hand, "Now I can barely move without aching, I feel like an old man trapped in a teenager's body."

Redhood glanced between him and the sleeping kids. He was helping them, housing them. In return, they were stealing food and medicine for their sick friend, and Rehood almost shot him.

"My name is Danny, by the way," The kid- Danny grumbled.

Redhood sighed and sat down next to him, "Nice to meet you, Danny. I'm Redhood."

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

A whole new meaning to Gay Chicken.

(For: Anonymous raffle winner!)

[nibbelraz]

Modern Cumplane as BESTIES! and what do best friends do? Edit harem novels during a hang out! (And maybe one of us takes a nap on the floor...)

Prompt is for @yuujispinkhair for SvsssAction!

Thank you so much for your donation, and I hope you like it 🫶

[stars-obsession-pit]

The Ghosts of Gotham City

Danny shuddered involuntarily as he stepped out of the plane and onto the soil of Gotham City.

Mentally, he was already crossing Gotham University off his list of potential colleges. He wasn’t even into the city proper, and he could already feel that there was something wrong with this place.

But he had promised to check the place out, so he couldn’t turn around just yet. ‘Plus,’ he thought sardonically, ‘It’s not like my ticket leaves yet anyway.’

Exiting the airport, the feelings only strengthened. His breath caught in his throat, his ghost sense almost but not quite going off. Or maybe that was just the air pollution he’d heard rumors about.

If it was the air, getting into a cab didn’t make the feeling subside in the slightest. Though luckily it didn’t make it worse either.

After he told the driver the address of his hotel, the ride began to pass in silence. Danny was thankful for the driver’s choice not to attempt to strike up a conversation, though the absence of music was a bit more awkward.

And then he started to hear whispers.

“What was that?”

“Huh?” The driver glanced back at him. “Didn’t say anythin’.”

“Never mind.” Danny replied, then mentally added, ‘Guess I’m just going nuts, then.’

He turned to look out the window, and nearly jerked back in surprise. He hadn’t been paying attention to their surroundings, but at some point they’d entered an area almost filled with pale, translucent figures.

Yet no one else seemed to react to them, or even to notice their presence at all. Cars and pedestrians alike passed through them as if they weren’t even there.

Were they ghosts? But if so, why were they so… lifeless? The ones he’d fought in Amity were all so animated, absolutely filled with the emotions that drove them. Yet these figures barely seemed to move at all, their voices speaking only in whispers. He couldn’t quite make out what any of them were saying, but it their words seemed almost rhythmic, like they were repeating the same phrases over and over again.

Maybe he really should have turned around and left immediately, promises and plane tickets be damned. But he knew he wouldn’t be able to get these memories out of his head.

What the hell was happening in Gotham City?

[spectral-musette]

The last day of obitine week was a free day which I interpreted as “time for kissing”

[alltimecharlo]

Fic prompt masterlist! ☆

↳ a way to keep track of all the ficlets i’ve posted here on tumblr! sorted by trope/theme :)

⋆ a/b/o

⋆ alternate universe

⋆ angst

⋆ feminisation

⋆ fluff

⋆ future fics

⋆ hurt/comfort

⋆ jealousy

⋆ outsider pov

⋆ willmacktoff

⋆ worlds 2025

(-> willmack lore masterlist here!)

[coline7373]

« We should have grown old together… »

[luxaofhesperides]

Danny accidentally appearing out of Duke's shadow. And doing it purposely every time after that. ; requested by @kyrianclawraith! (deviated from your original prompt a bit, sorry! the ghostlights brainworms got away from me)

Traveling through shadows has become second nature for Duke after using them so extensively over the years. He even uses them as a civilian, hopping between shadows when he’s running late to class so he doesn’t have to stress out over traffic. 

Not even Batman’s scoldings can stop him from making it on time to his classes. Risks need to be taken for the sake of his education!

The shadows are comforting. They hide him from sight, get him to where he needs to go, and gives him the alone time he needs when he’s been around people for too long and desperately needs some quiet to recharge. Duke would say that he’s well versed in the shadows at this point, no longer stumbling out into the light.

Even with all his practice and confidence, he still can’t prepare himself for tripping over someone in the shadows while he’s trying to escape some of The Riddler’s goons. 

They both go tumbling out of the shadows, landing in a corner hidden by storage shelves. The poor tripping hazard of a person is under him, groaning lightly as he reaches up to press a hand to the back of his head, where he hit the concrete floor. 

“Oh, shit,” Duke whispers, “I’m so sorry. What are you doing here? How are you here?”

“I was hiding,” the guy hisses back at him. “I wanted to get out of the rain and dozed off and when I woke up, guns were being shot! I was up in the rafters, so excuse me for thinking no one would find me up there!”

Another gunshot rings out, alarmingly close to where they are.

Duke curses under his breath, then picks up the guy and hauls him over his shoulder. “Time to go!” And then he’s disappearing into the shadows again, following the line of them outside the warehouse and down the street. 

As soon as they’re safely away from the goons, Duke steps out of the shadows and carefully sets the civilian back onto his feet.

“So sorry about that,” he says, “But I need to get back and deal with them. Stay safe!”

He’s gone before the civilian can say anything else, and though it’s embarrassing that he tripped over someone while shadow hopping, at least it ended relatively well. It’s not like it’ll happen again.

Duke, sweet, naive Duke, doesn’t think much of the civilian again. He’s a busy guy with a busy life! Lots of things to do! Lots of embarrassing moments to keep secret from the other Bats! No one has mentioned it at all, so he thinks he’s safe from being teased about it.

That is, up until he’s training with Dick and a hand pops up out of his shadow.

“Um,” Dick says, backflipping away from Duke’s punch. He lowers his escrima sticks and squints at the space behind Duke. “Are you… trying something new with your powers?”

“...No? I’m not using my powers right now.”

Dick looks more and more alarmed. He won’t look away from the space behind Duke, and it’s making him nervous. He doesn't want to look, but he knows he has to. 

Steeling himself, Duke takes a deep breath, then turns slightly to see what’s behind him.

Nothing. 

His gaze goes down, and he sees a pale hand sticking out of his shadow, moving back and forth. It then comes out some more, up to the elbow, and the hand pats the ground Duke’s shadow lays on, a stiff mat perfect for sparring.

Behind him, Dick turns on his escrima sticks, the electricity crackling through the air.

The hand disappears for a moment. 

Then two hands appear and grab the ground, hauling up a body from Duke’s shadow.

Duke is very well versed in shadows. He travels through them almost daily. He thinks he would know if there was some strange netherworld hidden in the shadows where other beings could pop out of shadows like portals. This is alarming, to say the least.

“Don’t move, Duke,” Dick warns, creeping closer, ready to attack.

A head pops out of his shadow. Whatever it is glows and their white hair moves softly as if underwater. They’re facing away from him, so he can’t see their face, but he can see the black, skin-tight suit their wearing as they float up from his shadow, no longer needing their hands to pull themself out. 

“Huh,” they say, looking up at the ceiling.

Dick grabs Duke’s arm and pulls him back, shielding him with his body. “Who are you?” he demands, voice cold. 

The creature/person startles and whips around to stare at them with wide green eyes. His gaze darts down to the electrified escrima sticks, then back up again, visibly nervous.

“Um, hi! Sorry, I didn’t know anyone would be here. Wherever this is.”

“How did you get here?”

“I was practicing a new portalling method. I found a ghost to teach me how to move through shadows, since my usual portals are very bright and noticeable. Not great when you’re trying to be stealthy! I did not mean to end up here.”

Duke stares at him. “You came out of my shadow.”

“Sorry,” the guy repeats. Then he squints at Duke. “Hey, didn’t you save me the other day? From the warehouse?”

It’s been a while since Duke’s saved anyone from a warehouse. Criminals and goons have moved on to condemned apartment complexes and the back rooms of bars. The only person he’s saved is the tripping hazard…

“Man, what is up with you and getting caught in my shadows?”

“This is your fault!” the guy insists. “I associate shadows too strongly with you! That’s why I’m here! Probably. I don’t actually know how this works.”

“You don’t know how it works but you did it anyways.”

“It sounds bad when you say it like that.” The guy floats down to the ground and offers Duke a hand. “I’m Phantom, by the way! Figured I should introduce myself because this will happen again.”

Duke considers introducing himself as the Signal, but Danny is looking directly at his bare face, so it’s lost cause. Talk about an unexpected security breach. “Duke. You looked a little different when we first met.”

“Yeah, that was my human form. This is my ghost form.” A watch on his wrist, some clunky looking thing that looks like it came from the early 2000s, beeps and Phantom frowns at it. “Shoot, I need to go. I’ll see you later!” And he dives right back into Duke’s shadow, disappearing.

Duke blinks at the empty space where Phantom used to be, still reeling from the shock of it. He’s so busy processing the last few minutes that he doesn’t hear the escrima sticks turn off until Dick is dropping a heavy arm around his shoulders, holding him in place. There’s a smile on his face, but it’s not happy; it’s a warning that he’s at his limit and is barely hanging on to niceties.

“So,” he says as Duke cringes, “Looks like we need to have a talk about the things you’ve been hiding from us, Duke.”

He can’t do anything but resign himself to his fate.

After that conversation, he’s instructed to let them know when Phantom pops up. Which is fine until he realizes that Phantom really did mean it when he said that it’ll happen again. 

Phantom pops up constantly. Most of the time, Duke is lucky enough to be at home, or in the Manor, or in the Batcave away from the public where no one will freak out about a glowing boy popping out of his shadow. Sometimes, he’s in the middle of the street as a civilian and has to sprint away, ducking into the first empty alley he can find in order to climb up onto the rooftop where no one will see him.

It’s stressful and confusing and he wishes he could be more upset about it, but Phantom is fun. He’s funny and charming and tells the craziest stories about ghost fights that Duke can’t help but hang onto every word.

He dutifully updates his Phantom Log, noting each time he’s portaled through Duke’s shadow, any information he’s revealed, and an injury count after Duke noticed a concerning pattern of Phantom often showing up after he’s been in a fight.

Duke begins to get a feel for when Phantom is about to show up. A shiver runs down his spine and his awareness of the shadows around him grows. Sometimes, he could swear he could feel something tear apart in his shadow. He feels it then, a tear that stitches itself up almost instantly, a ripple in the shadow, before that familiar hand pops up again and Duke grabs hold of it to haul Phantom out into his bedroom. 

He is, once again injured. There’s a large gash running down the length of his other arm, bleeding a toxic, glowing green. 

“Dude,” Duke says, unable to keep the judgment out of his voice.

“You should see the other guy,” Phantom snorts. “I slammed him through five streets, then ripped his limbs off.

“Dude…”

“Just to be clear, they weren’t his real limbs. He has a robot suit he uses like a body because he’s like a tiny little bean.”

“Yeah, I don’t know how to take that. Anyways, have you still not figured out how to open portals that aren’t connected to my shadow?”

Phantom shrugs. “Nope. And I’m not really trying to figure it out. I like hanging out with you. Plus, it’s nice to see a friendly face after a fight.”

“Can’t you like, go home and have your family take care of you first.”

“Uh, better not,” Phantom laughs nervously. “They’d probably kill me for real if they saw me like this.”

Duke quietly notes to himself to add that statement to the Alarming Things Phantom Says list. 

“Does it… bother you? Me always coming to you?” There’s a smallness to his voice, a fragility that makes Duke want to beat himself up for making Phantom feel like that.

“No! No, I just wanted to make sure I wasn’t keeping you from anyone else.”

Phantom brightens. “Oh! Well, no need to worry about that. No one’s worried, back home. They know I disappear sometimes.”

…Another concerning thing. Duke is considering bribing Phantom into staying in Gotham forever, living in his shadow, just so he can take care of him. Just to be sure Phantom’s safe. “Is there anything I can do for you?” he asks, eyes flickering down to Phantom’s bleeding wound.

Phantom futilely tries to hide the wound with a hand. The green blood leaks out from between his fingers, and he applies more pressure to the wound with a faint wince. “Nope! All good here. I’ll heal in no time, honest.”

“Then, do you want to just hang out? I really don’t know why you’d chose to keep coming to me.”

“You’re good company, dude. Very chill. Very fun. And you’re a hero! That’s so cool. Why wouldn’t I keep coming back?”

Duke shrugs, not sure how to put his insecurities into words. He’s already starting to get the Bat-specific inability to communicate emotions, which is definitely a problem. He’ll need to spend time with other people to be normal again. 

As if sensing that Duke’s mood is falling, Phantom launches into another tale, complaining about people who bother him, teachers who are terrible at teaching, having snark-fights with the embodiment of Time itself, and so on. He always has the craziest stories, and he tells them so casually that Duke has to second guess himself, wondering if he’s overreacting when he’s shocked by what Phantom tells him. 

He starts telling his own stories as well, mostly fun civilian interactions he’s had since they last spoke, villain fights, the ever changing theories on the ‘Who is Batman Sleeping With Now?’ shared document all the other Bats have. By the time an hour passes, Phantom’s arm is fully healed and he’s flying in lazy circles above Duke.

His watch beeps again in the middle of him recounting the insane drama happening at his school. Phantom sighs and sinks back to the floor, hovering just above Duke’s shadow.

“Thanks for letting me stay,” he says, voice warm.

Duke shrugs. “You’re good company. I like when you visit.”

A slow, soft smile spreads across Phantom’s cheeks, making him glow even brighter. “Sweet talker,” he accuses fondly, then flies in for a quick, tight hug. He pulls back before Duke can reciprocate, and salutes him with a cheeky, “See you soon!” and is gone, flying into Duke’s shadow before he can respond.

Shaking his head fondly, Duke falls back against his bed.

Despite how unconventional their friendship is, he is glad Phantom keeps coming back. He hopes he’ll get to see Phantom’s human form again.

…And get more used to the horror movie scene that is Phantom clawing his way out of his shadow. No matter how many times he sees it, the sight still makes him jump.

Not that he’s ever going to admit that.

If Phantom thinks he’s cool, he’s going to do whatever he can to keep that impression from changing. It’s only reasonable, really.

(“Shut up, Dick,” he says later when he recounts this encounter with Phantom. Dick just keeps laughing, endlessly amused that Duke got ‘jumpscared into a crush’ as he phrased it. That’s definitely not what happened.

Next time, he’s definitely convincing Phantom to scare Dick with him. 

Revenge will be his.) . . .

[send me ghostlights prompts! one day left before they close on 11/17]

[kit-screams-into-the-future]

please draw werewolf doc when u have the chance

stick to physics, doc

transcript, bc my handwriting is shoddy but i'm too lazy to fix it:

DOC: duhuhhhh- Marty! MARTY: Yeah Doc what's up? DOC: You know that thing I was working on with Einstein? MARTY: Yeah, what about it? DOC: Well, uhhhh. How do I put this- MARTY: Oh my god, Einstein! MARTY: He's not- DOC: No, no, Einstein's perfectly alright, don't worry. It's just- DOC: There's been a... recent development. As you can see. MARTY: MARTY: (the floor calls to him.) DOC: Marty-

bonus doodles:

[pinkytoothlesso11]

Hello to all Stricklake fans again!

Once more, as last year, I am hosting Stricklake month! And similar to last year I've decided to release the prompts a month in advance to give new people time to decide if they want to take part and people from last year time to prepare their prompts. The event will run for the entire duration of August and the prompts are as follows:

Week one: Hero/Villain (August 1-6)

Week two: Fae/Mundane (August 7-13)

Week three: Crossover/Time-travel (August 14-20)

Week four: Curse/Blessing (August 21-27)

Final roundup: (August 31st)

For those new to Stricklake month: all Mediums are welcome, be it art, edits, fanfic or anything in between, as long as the main focus is on the relationship between Barbara Lake/Walter Strickler.

As a new added bonus for this year, other than Stricklake, you can also opt to have some focus on knife family, the familyship between Strickler and Jim, with or without the inclusion of Barbara. So it doesn't have to have romance as the complete focus if that's not particularly your cup of tea.

You're welcome to fill as little or many prompts as you would like from any of the weeks. Don't feel under pressure to participate!

For all fills, make sure to tag with #keenswimmers2025. This makes it easier to find Stricklake month 2025 content for other keen swimmers, as well as making it easier for me to make the roundup posts at the end of each week. So look out for those!

Make sure to spread the word during July about the event, before August comes we have plenty of time to promote and get people excited! So reblog and share this post, and support fellow Stricklake fans. 💙💚

Special thanks to @rexnanorum and @seekerofblades for another round of fantastic visuals, as shown above and also in the headers for each week. Really super grateful for your help.

Thanks also go to @kathrahender , @megan0013 , and @whitherwanderyouspirit for helping me brainstorm ideas, I was really stumped for weeks three and four! 😅

Tagging some people who I think will be interested in participating: @joethehoeee , @ollie-alooffloof , @crheayons , @moonybird , @littleaipom , @lexel05 , @andraedevane , @theblessingofnimue as well as anyone else who wants to join!

Any questions, my DMs and asks are always open.

[blackkatdraws2]

The Main Character.

[Blank Scripts AU]

[cursoulla]

the urge to spill all my headcanons for Noir/Nier(Original) aka Shadowlord,, but holding myself back… actually what inspired this was- oh god. just a lot of body horror and… worship, reassurance… *vibrating at inhuman frequencies*

let’s just say. i’m in my feelings about them very OFTEN. i shan’t gush further and will let the emotion I tried to convey in this piece do it for me,

[stars-obsession-pit]

Hello! Can do a chapter fic off this fic prompt Danny phantom x dc: https://www.tumblr.com/corkinavoid/767516270934556672/dpxdc-legal-power?source=share

This isn’t a one-to-one recreation of that dialogue but it’s based on that as a framework/premise

Batman dropped down into the room behind a pair of figures—a teenage boy and a slumped adult—letting his landing create an audible thump to alert them of his presence.

If the teen noticed, he didn’t react. Even as Bruce approached, he continued to stare impassively at the wheezing figure on the ground, an old wooden bat with flaking green paint on its side loosely held in his right hand. Bruce had already suspected who the figure would be since he arrived, but seeing the Joker so broken was still bizarre. No laughing, no schemes. He didn’t even seem to be attempting to escape his binds, just… lying there, almost as if pinned in place.

Bruce paused a step behind the teen. “I don’t know what the Joker did to you, but this isn’t the right way to go about this.”

The teen scoffed, and Bruce felt a painful lurch in his chest as he was reminded oh so strongly of his son Jason. “And what, let him go kill more people?”

“I know he deserves to face justice, but not like this. Everyone deserves a right to fair trial. No one person should be judge, jury, and executioner.”

The teen turned to look at him with glowing green eyes, and Batman felt himself freeze. He had faced gods before, yet even using that as a comparison felt like an understatement. The boy’s eyes belonged to someone far older than his teenage form implied, and they radiated power. Inevitability.

When the teen—no, the entity—spoke again, his words carried an unearthly echo. “Perhaps, but I’m not acting for just myself.” He paused, glanced down at the Joker, then asked almost conversationally, “Do you know how many people he’s killed?”

Another pause, but before Bruce could even try to answer, the entity continued, “Eight hundred and fifty-six. He’s ended the lives of eight hundred and fifty-six human souls. I can tell you about every single one, if you want. About who they were, what their dreams were before he killed them. About the pain they felt at his hands.”

He punctuated the word ‘pain’ by raising up the wooden bat in his hands and ramming its end down onto the Joker’s arm. He let out a wheeze, muffled by the gag in his mouth.

“I have a duty to my people. I am the King of the In-Between and of all the souls that pass through it—even ones whose stays were as brief as his. I am the rightful arbiter of his fate. And with that power, I sentence him to death.”

He raised the bat again, adjusting his grip so he’d hit with the side rather than the end this time, then paused and let out a chuckle. “Of course, just because it’s based on some justice doesn’t mean I can’t have a bit of fun with it too.” He swung the bat down, slamming it into the Joker’s side, then hooked it under the clown’s torso and flicked him up through the air to slam into the wall. “We all really hate this guy.”

With the entity’s attention fully turned away from him as he sauntered towards the Joker’s slumped figure, Bruce could finally unfreeze himself.

Even if the Ghost King did have the right to pass judgement on Joker, Bruce still couldn’t let torture go on like this. He wouldn’t win a direct fight, but he could hopefully at least grab the Joker and bring him over to the police. Carefully, he reached for some of the smoke bombs and batarangs on his belt and readied his grapple. He’d have to do this very, very fast.

But before he could move, another figure entered the scene. Red Hood, emerging from the shadows on the far side of the room, an unexpected bit of a pep to his step.

“Nice to see someone else who gets that that bastard needs to die. But if I may make a suggestion, how ‘bout you use a crowbar instead of that old bat? It’d be a bit more… fitting.”

[purplesoup-lad-le]

redraw of my old trans girl fitz piece for euphoria day! old version under cut

here she is... still very proud of her

@loveution @myfairkatiecat @radicaltorque @camelspit @sophiefostersno1stan @bleu-d-encre-poudre-d-etoiles @florida-preposterously @aurenflare

[tennessoui]

prompt --- meeting in prison au (maybe Anakin is serving a few years for crossing the line in defense of his mom and Obi-Wan is a volunteer teacher/lawyer?)

[this is in response to a prompt game i reblogged a year ago, but hey! wanted some dark obi-wan this evening so i'm finally getting around to it!] [warnings for hints of non-con typical for a prison trope fic where one is a pretty boy, also for dub-con and power imbalance] [obi-wan is another prisoner here] [supposedly] [2k]

It’s not actually something one asks here, which comes as a surprise to Anakin. He’d thought—well, he’d always assumed that was just something you traded in prison, like deathsticks and dirty holos maybe. Information, what are you in for.

Anakin had been worried that first night in his cell, mind shuffling through a cascade of concerns and memories and landing on one that seemed inconsequential, stacked as it was against the other contents of his life, but gripped him with a fear he hadn’t felt since he was small. What would he say, when they asked him what he was in for? 

Massacre is what’s written on the record. It’s some variation of the truth as well, though Anakin can’t even remember his own crime. Just the sting of the sand, the heat of the dying day, the blood on his hands. Mostly true, though Anakin thinks of it still as justice. Vengeance. The reality of bartering on Tatooine. A life for a life. A village for a mother. 

He could say massacre. As far as crimes go, it’s one that carries weight, could earn him a certain amount of respect among his fellow criminals. 

But then they would ask him how he did it. He isn’t necessarily small, but he’s hardly a man. Nineteen years old and lanky with it. His master used to assure him that he would grow sturdier with age, grow into his frame. 

His master hadn’t even looked at him once during the trial. It had been the security guards on Coruscant who had cut his braid.

So his fellow criminals would ask how he did it, how he killed an entire village of Tuskens when he is nothing but a nineteen year old boy.

And he would have nothing to say. Because being a Jedi…even just a Jedi padawan, even just a failed, ex-Jedi…it would attract too much attention. Too much of the wrong sort of attention. After all, the Jedi Order was probably responsible for half the prison sentences of the criminals here, and Anakin doesn’t think that any criminal would be able to just set that aside. Even if Anakin had barely had a hand in any sort of galactic-wide justice.

Even if the Jedi Order and Anakin don’t exactly agree on what justice is.

So he’d been afraid, that first night in his cell. Afraid and made powerless by the Force suppression cuffs locked tight around each wrist. Afraid that they would ask, that others would find out that he used to be a Jedi and punish him for it. Beat him as if they could beat their captors through him.

But no one asked.

Apparently, information like that isn’t shared or bartered. No one actually seemed that interested. And no one asked that first day. Not that first week. Oh, Anakin was told sometimes what other people did, how they came to be here, the length of their sentence. But only by the criminal themselves. There were rumors he heard about others, sometimes. That was all.

It eases some of the fear he feels that first week, that no one calls him as a Jedi, that no one seems to care about his past.

And with that fear taken care of, he has room to realize something else.

He’s pretty—and those in his cellblock have taken to noticing.

It’s nothing much at first. Lingering stares on his face, his lips, during mealtime. Lingering stares during the communal sonics. Out in the rec rooms. In the yards. He has no cellmate, at least, an empty bunk on top of him at night.

Thank the Force for small mercies.

Lingering stares turn into loud whispers that make Anakin want to scream. Perhaps the Force suppression bracelets smother his connection with the Force, but they do little to dim his Force-gifted hearing. It’s indecent. It’s skin crawling, what they say.

It’s also incredibly useful. Surprisingly so.

“Don’t know why I gotta respect some sleemo’s claim,” he hears from across the yards as he bends down to put the weights he’d been using back on their rack. “Man’s not even in the block and the boy’s mouth’s made for it.”

“You don’t have to,” someone else says in response as Anakin forces himself to keep his shoulders relaxed and low. He feels like prey. A piece of meat, ready for the taking. “That’s your grave dug though. It’s not just any sleemo. It’s fucking Sol who’s got his name on him.” 

“Fucking Sol,” the guy repeats with angry passion. “Been here two months and he thinks he owns the place.”

Two months. Where was Anakin two months ago? On Coruscant. At the beginning of his trial. Realizing too late that he’d done something he would not be able to undo. 

“--cut off a guy’s arm with a sharpened piece of plastoid,” the other man is saying when Anakin tunes back in. “Cause he was fucking bored. He can own this shithole all he wants. I’m not getting on the wrong side of him. Even for a round at Skywalker’s ass.”

Anakin beats a hasty retreat from the yards after that, though he can’t help but turn the new information over in his head.

He’d been wondering when the heated stares from the other prisoners would turn into attempts to—touch him. It’d been growing as a fear in the back of his mind. Without the Force, his defenses were shot. He was strong and well-muscled, but some of his fellow prisoners could almost certainly hold him down.

But apparently—they won’t.

Because someone else—some mysterious prisoner, Sol—already has first dibs.

The thought makes Anakin shiver, and it keeps him up for half the night. 

“You’re up rather late,” a voice murmurs through the cell wall a few hours into his restless pacing. The sound jolts Anakin into sudden stillness. “Oh, no, please don’t stop on my account, darling,” the voice says.

Anakin blinks. That’s a Coruscanti accent, though the prison is located in the middle of nowhere on the edge of the mid-rim. “What do you want?” he snaps automatically, arms crossing as he stares at the wall in front of him. On edge. Prey. Powerless.

“To talk,” the man says. “Obviously.”

Anakin’s eyes narrow of their own accord and he steps closer. “No one’s been in that cell before,” he states. “You’re new.”

“Oh, well done, you,” the man replies in a tone Anakin can’t decide is grating or pleasing. “You’re an observant one, aren’t you, Anakin?”

“How did you know my name?”

“Darling, the whole prison knows your name, I’m sure,” the man says with a chuckle that makes Anakin’s skin dimple. Fear? “Though I would hazard to say I know a little bit more than they do.”

“What do you mean.”

“Your past, darling. Your Jedi roots.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Anakin snaps, even as his heart rate picks up. Jedi. He hasn’t heard that word in ages. He never wanted to hear it again. This man knows. This man knows.

Danger. Danger.

“I can hear your pulse from here, Anakin,” the man says, sounding calm. Sounding amused. Anakin blinks at the wall in front of him. Danger. Danger.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says again.

“Hm,” the man says. “You’re afraid, I take it. Of others finding out.”

Anakin pinches his lips together, quiet. Silent.

“No need for that though,” the man says, as if this is a conversation between two friends—not one of Anakin’s worst nightmares brought to life. “You are under my protection.”

The words make Anakin’s stomach drop. “Sol.”

“To some,” the man—Sol—agrees. “I’d rather like it if you called me Obi-Wan though. Obi-Wan Kenobi. For now at least.”

Anakin sneers though the other man can’t see it. His heart races even faster now. Sol—one of the most dangerous men in the prison, if not the most dangerous one. Sol—the man whose name carries enough weight that he was able to claim Anakin as his own—what, bitch? What, plaything?---even from another block of the prison.

Sol, who somehow managed to get transferred between blocks, to the cell right next to Anakin’s own.

Who wants Anakin. 

For what?

“What do you want from me?” Anakin whispers. He clears his throat, tries again, louder this time and more insistent. “What do you want from me?” “I do think that is for me to know, darling, and for you to find out,” Sol—Kenobi—replies, tone light. Amused still. “But we can start with the simplest thing. Tomorrow morning, during our recreational hour in the yard, I would like you to come to me.”

“No kriffing way—”

“So you would like them to know of your past, darling? I’m sure I could forget myself. I’m sure I could…renege my claim rather easily. If you would prefer a more…brutal touch. Touches.”

Anakin’s skin crawls. The meaning and the threat in Kenobi’s words is clear. Either Anakin does as he is told or the other man will take away the protection currently keeping Anakin unmolested. And he’ll tell the others that Anakin was a Jedi. How many would jump at the chance to fuck a Jedi?

It’s not an option. It’s not a future Anakin would survive. He knows this.

But can he really—submit himself to another man, to this man? This dangerous, cruel man?  

“I don’t know anything about you,” he says roughly. “I don’t…”

“You will learn,” Kenobi says, dark promise coloring his words. “I will be beneath the chromometer. Tomorrow in the yard. You will come to me then.”

“Do you wish for me to crawl?” Anakin snarls, anger and powerlessness raging through him. His fist hits the wall between him and his executioner. It changes nothing. 

“Did I ask you to?” Kenobi snaps back, voice sharp as a blade. A moment passes. Another. The man lets out a breath and then says, “I do not want a dog, Anakin.”

“Then what do you want?” Anakin asks again, voice breaking under the weight of it all. He has always hated traps. He has always hated being powerless. Imprisoned.

Kenobi is silent as he appears to mull over the question. “I want an apprentice.”

Anakin has no idea what to say to that, and so he says nothing. Kenobi too is quiet. He remains so for the rest of the night.

In the morning, when Anakin is released from his cell after a sleepless night, he looks automatically to his left, but the door to Kenobi’s cell stays shut with no indication that there’s anyone in there.

He comforts himself with the thought that perhaps he imagined the whole affair up until the moment he is led into the yards during the morning rec hour.

It is immediately and painfully obvious which of the prisoners is Obi-Wan Kenobi. Sol. Even without the instructions that he’d been given, Anakin thinks he would be able to pick out the other man, just from how the others treat him.

Sol stands alone, back against the far side’s prison wall, ankles crossed and a deathstick in his hand. No one gets within several meters of him, giving him a wide berth. Out of respect? Fear? Both?

Anakin swallows.

This is not the man he thought he’d be when he was younger. This is not who he wanted to become.

But somehow he is here. Somehow this is the man he has become. Somehow, after a decade of freedom, he has been found by a new master.

Sol’s eyes flash golden in the weak sunlight as he watches Anakin approach him slowly. He tilts his face to examine him, to look at Anakin examining him in turn. His beard is neat and well-kept, as red as his rather long coppery hair. His smile is crooked when Anakin stops in front of him. He’s shorter than Anakin. It feels like a hollow victory, especially when the man plucks his death stick from his mouth and places it between Anakin’s lips.

“Good boy,” Obi-Wan purrs and Anakin feels a roar of emotions roar up in him at the words. Sickness. Hatred. Anger. 

And strangely, out of place and unexpected, a thrill of excitement.

[maelancoli]

i feel like 'who talks like that' mentality has harmed unique dialogue in books ngl?? like we need to let our characters have their own way of talking, let them be a little melodramatic. the written word often requires flowery speech and sharing sentiments in a way real people don't because we cannot convey the micro expressions, the atmosphere, the little visual cues—all that modern media allows. you have to be willing to be a little cringe if you want your characters to stand out and feel earnest and real