#priority number one

[jeanmoreaue]

Jean’s movie education consists of nothing but every season of Full House and Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen’s entire filmography. He enjoys it in a lukewarm way that is more about the company he’s watching with than the actual merits of the movies and shows. They show him Fuller House when it comes out and he hates it. Where are Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen. Why are they not here

i loove where you’re going with this bc i think Jean deserves to watch movies/shows that are just fun and not traumatizing. i’ve watched like one episode of Fuller House, but i think he doesn’t even notice the quality dip of Fuller House he’s just like “well how can you tell who is a bad actor they seem fine to me, but where are the two blonde children”

also this is not related to the Olsen twins movies, but i think Jean should watch Pirates of the Carribean and he should enjoy it

[visenyaism]

I thought that last comment you got about Ned enabling Robert was really interesting and well-put! I was wondering, do you think after basically painting himself into a corner allowing Roberts behavior for years did Ned have any “good” options to deal with the information that Joffrey was illegitimate? Or like do you think because the “royal bloodline” thing is bullshit anyway Ned would’ve done better to just never tell anybody (since he’s clearly willing to take that kind of secret to the grave anyway)

as the only other person in the whole realm who is hiding a succession-disrupting bastard from robert I really think Ned is kind of talking to himself in a way during his conversation with cersei. it’s why he gets so frustrated at her for not having been a better wife to Robert, because NED was a pretty good wife to Robert, and yet neither of them can stop him from killing their children if he finds out the truth. There’s this direct parallel between being the hands of the king and dealing with an abusive monarch and being the queen and dealing with an abusive husband that I think is pretty interesting to explore.

Ned knows that Robert will just kill Cersei’s kids if he finds out the truth, because Ned knows he would not hesitate to kill Jon. Obviously, he would counsel against it, but Robert would do it, and Ned would disassociate and then go home. He’s trained himself to be a very passive figure in Roberts life while Robert just destroys everything around him so not think there’s anything he can do to stop that act of violence. in his head, he is doing the absolute most that he can by warning her to run. There is no situation in which Ned takes this to his grave. he is too loyal to robert and too society-brained. he copes with the Robert situation by blaming Cersei for Robert’s behavior.

ultimately, I think the commonality between Cersei and Joffrey, and Ned and Jon makes Ned sympathize with Cersei a bit but he’s never empathizing with her at any point. he would sell her out if Robert had lived.

[ahsoka-in-a-hood]

Fuck it. If you're american the best thing you can do for Palestine right now is vote for Harris.

[stargloom]

reclaiming my rightful throne as the chihiro guy

[nat-20s]

Season 14 more than anything else has been getting access to an alternate version of Doctor Who that's really hi res and every episode is about The Doctor putting on minxy outfits

[niidsch]

Angel Cop (エンゼルコップ) ♦ 1989-1994

[messfc]

im sorry you want me to be mad because they were defending their families from drunk fans and security wasn’t stepping in so they had to ?? not gonna happen

[notafanjustpassionate]

"charles can, but lando cannot" 😌

[finncakes]

"Fearne...are you with me?"

"Always."

[juanawilson]

[butteronabun]

kissing diluc to distract yourself from the sadness or negative thoughts, but he’s perceptive so he gently stops you, wanting you to talk to him.

as much as it pains him to pull away from your lips, it pains him even more when you confess to him that you are planning to shed your tears all alone.

(and no. it’s not nothing. don’t bother in changing the subject. he will get upset. he wants you to be honest with him.)

so let yourself be vulnerable, because he will be there to catch you when you fall.

[lot-of-nothing]

Can I Call You Rose? (Ch. 1?)

Chessy x Reader

As the new viticulturist (grape-growing expert) at Nick Parker's vineyard, you fall for a certain nanny. (Post-Parent Trap movie I think)

Warnings: SOFT SMUT (with a little plot and romance)

You wondered if your fingers were going to go numb, or perhaps your heart would just explode first?

You had finally worked up the courage to kiss the auburn-haired beauty mere hours ago and now Chessy’s lips were finally attached to her neck. You had met during your first week as Nick Parker’s head viticulturist. Her warmth was magnetic and you always tried to find reasons to tend to the grapes closest to the house in case you could start a conversation with the nanny. You spent many afternoons together, flirting while she brought you her homemade lemonade or while you walked her around the rows of vines handing her grapes to try. Chessy always seemed to wear a smile when you were near, filling you with butterflies in return. You had been dreaming of this moment since you first met the beautiful woman and now you were filled with pure unfiltered anxiety. 

Chessy’s open mouth kisses to your throat and collarbone were unlike anything you had ever experienced. Were you supposed to crave her as much as you did? There was a fire ignited in the pit of your stomach that hungered for something that felt so forbidden.

As nervous as you were, you wanted more. You needed more. You wanted to feel Chessy’s hands setting every inch of your skin aflame… but the thrum of energy winding through every cell in your being had you wondering if you would have a panic attack or pass out before that could happen. 

“Hon… Hon? Honey!” 

You must have spaced out entirely as Chessy’s voice drew you back to reality. Next thing you knew, Chessy’s hands were now cupping your face, staring intently into your eyes. 

“Hm?” You hummed, your eyes brimming with tears as you felt like you could finally breathe again. You felt incredibly embarrassed that you felt that you couldn’t handle the physical intimacy. It was hard when you were so in love with Chessy and lacked the experience you thought necessary to please her.

“Are you okay, sweetie?” Chessy’s voice was just above a whisper. She was terribly worried that she had pushed the bounds of your relationship too far too soon. Little did she know that it would be your own slip up that would be the culprit of a ‘too much too soon’ relationship. 

“I-I-I…” You quickly stopped herself short, not wanting to make yourself cry.

“It’s okay… Wanna finish our movie, honey?”

You shook your head furiously, determined to push yourself through the anxiety and nerves.

“Honey…” Chessy seemed skeptical, her hands squeezing your cheeks. The extra bit of care Chessy showed was all you needed to lose your head, tears pooling in your eyes and spilling onto your cheeks.

You stared into your hands, trying to explain to Chessy why you were struggling to get through your anxieties. “I just… don’t- I just don’t know how to pleasure a woman…” 

“Tell you what. Come’re…” Chessy cooed, drawing you in so you could sit between the auburn beauty’s legs. From there Chessy gently caressed your arms, speaking in a firm but gentle tone. “I am going to turn on a different show and you are gonna sit right here and enjoy it, okay?”

You sniffled and nodded, reclining back in Chessy’s arms as an attempt at relaxing. A few moments passed of Chessy tapping away on her phone. The audio sounded off before you even comprehended what was playing, “I hope you are nice and wet for me.”

You certainly weren't expecting Chessy to stream a guided masturbation from her phone onto the television. 

Your cheeks flushed a deep red, “Wha-?”

Chessy’s hands fell to your sweatpants, pulling out the band a couple of inches as she spoke, “I want you to just relax. Just do what she tells you to, okay?”

Your hand was shaking as you pushed it into your sweatpants, never having experienced anything like a guided masturbation before. While daunting, it was incredibly hot.

The audio rang over the tv speakers once more, causing butterflies to swirl in your stomach, “Now, why don’t you see how wet you are for me? Slip your fingers in your panties for me.”

As you slipped your fingers in your underwear, you let out a whimper at first contact with your cunt. What else would you be in for with this nanny? What other tricks were hidden up her sleeves to drive you wild? 

Even though all of your building anxiety, you had grown incredibly wet from Chessy’s touch. You rolled your head back onto Chessy’s shoulder, earning a kiss to your temple as you did. Chessy’s voice was gentle in your ear, “You are doing so well, honey.”

The video instructed you once more, telling you to focus on your clit. Considering the pacing of the video, Chessy must have found a video long enough to help you relax, but short enough that she could find more involvement in your pleasure sooner rather than later. 

Doing as you were told, you circled your clit and felt yourself melting back into the auburn beauty’s arms. What you couldn’t see was Chessy’s smile as she felt the tension in your body fade. Her hands wound up your front, working your t-shirt up your torso to access your breasts.

The audio emanated from the tv was filled with the performer's moans, but you were becoming enraptured by the soft, encouraging hums from the woman behind you. Chessy’s hands drifted up and down your stomach, stopping at your breasts to give a gentle squeeze before shifting back down once more. 

“Let me hear you, sweetie…”

You bit your bottom lip and turned your face into Chessy’s neck, unsure if you were ready to be heard. 

Without a response, Chessy hummed disapprovingly, her hand slipping its way into your sweatpants and then underwear in search of your wetness. At the feeling of her fingers mingling with yours in your cunt, you withdrew your hand and dropped it to your side to allow her to take over. You couldn’t keep yourself from softly sighing at the feeling of her gentle fingertips working against your clit. 

“God, you are so wet…” Chessy whined at the way your wetness coated her fingers. 

You bucked your hips up into her hand, desperately wishing for this sensation to last forever. With her arms around you, fingers dancing around your clit, and her hot breath against your neck, your head was spinning. You couldn’t help but moan before blurting your thoughts to Chessy, “You- you’re so beautiful…” 

“Mmm… thank you, honey.” Chessy cooed, her arm winding around your waist to cradle you close as her fingers continued working against you. Your entire being was set aflame by Chessy’s loving embrace and skilled fingers. 

Your breathing rate was growing faster and faster, the coil in your stomach tightening as you grew closer to your orgasm. 

Chessy’s teeth nipped at your earlobe, tenderly nibbling as she added extra pressure as she circled your clit. Her voice came as a soft whisper, forcing warmth to spread across your face. “I can feel you getting close. You are so beautiful when you fall apart like this for me.” 

“Fuck, I love you~” You exhaled, not registering your words while your hands clung to her forearm. 

Sadly, you were too lost in the throes of your eminent orgasm to notice her lack of a response. She only nuzzled you with her cheek and held you tight as your orgasm washed over you.

Your back arched and your hips thrashed, unable to contain yourself. Your eyes squeezed shut and you let out a lengthy moan, trying to enjoy every ounce of the orgasm Chessy guided you through. 

Chessy sighed with a soft smile and withdrew her hand from your pants. She was trying to ignore her own anxiety building from her lack of response to your omission of love. While she felt she loved you as well, it all felt like too much too soon. In years past, she had dove head first into relationships and had only been burned in return. She had no intention of ruining your relationship over the omission of her own feelings. 

“How do you feel?”

“Mmm… good.” With a deep breath, you roll over in her arms, pressing your cheek near the base of her sternum. You tucked your hands under her wide hips and enjoyed the feeling of your bodies pressed together. “How do you feel about me returning the favor?”

Chessy pushed her anxieties deep down, not wanting to ruin a perfect moment. She had been falling for you since you started at the Parker estate. “Maybe in the morning…”

“Are you sure? I would love to-”

There was that word again. It made Chessy’s stomach drop. 

“No. It’s really okay. We could just… finish our movie.”

She seemed curt in her reply. It lacked the typical warmth you always received from her. It made you terribly self conscious until her hands wandered to the skin of your back, drawing loopy circles with one hand while her other turned the tv back to your movie.

“Mmm… you better be careful or I’ll fall asleep.” You murmured, testing the waters of how likely it would be for you to spend the night with the nanny. 

“Whatever shall I do. I would hate for someone so cute to be in my bed when I woke up.” Chessy was being incredibly sarcastic, her hands continuing to scratch your back in lazy loops. 

You allowed your own hands to wander her hips and thighs as a different form of self-soothing. You obsessed over the soft dips of cellulite and the slopes created by the widening of her hips. Her baggy clothing hid the curves you wanted to memorize through all of your senses. 

Chessy’s eyes drifted shut as she pushed herself to enjoy your loving touch. It was hard for her to accept such unadulterated affection, but she desperately wanted to try. It felt so good for her to be wanted and desired, but the vulnerability required for a deep and meaningful relationship lurked in the back of her mind. 

[statementlou]

https://www.tumblr.com/louisupdates/754934426217152513/goodbye-faith-in-the-future-world-tour-272024?source=share

did he or did he not lose fans then?

I will answer this because this anon actually brings a concrete question to the table rather than just "hurhur but you're a larrie??" (tell me you can't actually refute any of our points…). Anyway this post shows the decrease in Louis instagram followers between the screenshots taken directly after the release of Faith in the Future in Nov '22, when he changed his bio to promote that album and the tour tickets, and now, when he changed it again to mention the current release. But I'm putting that response under a cut because I'm tired of the actual POINT of all this nonsense getting lost in a sea of made up things people insist are important:

There is no rational argument you can make to say that Louis has less fans now than he did 2, 4, or 6 years ago. You don't need a spreadsheet of details you need to USE YOUR EYES! He has gone from filling theaters to filling arenas and stadiums. His second album made a higher chart position than his first album. His festival has doubled in size EVERY year of its existence. And for that matter: his insta post engagement numbers remain about the same (despite the fact that older posts should have way MORE likes due to having been there longer, even aside from follower counts.) SO WHO FUCKING CARES ABOUT HIS INSTA FOLLOWER NUMBER???? Serious question: what does the word "fans" mean if these things aren't what matters? ALL of this quibbling about what he should do to make things better and people can't even see that THINGS AREN'T BAD.

Anyway to address the specific question- (con't......)

NO- HE DID NOT LOSE FANS. HE LOST SOME INSTA FOLLOWERS. THESE ARE NOT THE SAME THING. As I said above, literally what does it mean to lose fans if that number change coincides with him having higher sales, more audience members, and higher engagement than ever before? Whatever he lost ISN'T FANS. I wouldn't be surprised if a significant factor was something like a bot purge, but also yes: I'm sure a lot of casuals followed him around the time of his big album release and later unfollowed him. That's extremely normal because that's how casual engagement works, and why the definition of fan really matters. Louis and his team understand this and have referenced it repeatedly, talking about how lucky he is to have *us* specifically, to have the kind of dedicated fanbase he has, to have the KIND of fans he does who will allow him to do what HE wants. @dogsliampaynedoesntinstagram named the issue of depth vs breadth with regard to fans a long time ago, and pointed out why having DEPTH is so much more important. It's like this- artists who are on top 40 radio have more numbers on things like insta follows, and for a time on sales and tickets. But those aren't FANS- they're people with a casual interest. And as soon as that person isn't being forced in their ears 10x a day, those people lose interest and stop supporting them, stop buying stuff and unfollow, and those artists end up doing the 'opener on the jingle ball' circuit rather than their own tours. One Direction as a whole, and Louis maybe most of all or near to at this point, have something MUCH MORE VALUABLE than that- DEPTH FANS. Louis has fans who will support him even if he takes years to release music, or stops parading around with a pretend girlfriend to stay in the headlines at least once a month, or completely changes his image and genre, and that is UNHEARD OF. It's ASTONISHING and worth SO MUCH MORE. And they get that! THAT is why he always bragging about us, why industry people he works with are always so agog about us, why he will do anything for US- not for randos. He is also growing his breadth- and it's OBVIOUSLY WORKING whatever his follower counts are, but that is always going to be secondary to doing things for THE FANDOM because that is his sustainable business model. That is what keeps him onstage and reaching number one. And not coincidentally, the things they do are also working to grow that- much more valuable- commodity. So the fact that that's exactly what these chuckleheads complain about- that he does things that are just fandom facing or serving rather than everything being aimed at recruiting casual fans- does nothing but betray how completely they, unlike Louis and his team, misunderstand the actual drivers of his (actual, existing, happening) success. Luckily for Louis, he and his team rely on their own data harvesting (they do a LOT of it) and growth metrics (they're off the charts) rather than the smug assumptions of random (mostly quite new to this) fans and the few bitter people leading the complaining about everything Louis does.

[themyscirah]

Cassie screaming bc she showed up in a new place wearing a dress

[tennessoui]

18) waking up with amnesia au pretty please! I was delighted with how many of the prompts you've already done, it was a really fun bingo!

Best friends sibling = band au

knocking on the wrong door = actually name of the fic

Nanny/single parent au = Nannykin

Etc etc etc!

hello hello this was sent january 10!! hope you still want some waking up with amnesia au! this just demonstrates how long i can hold onto a prompt i have every intention of completing

(from this prompt list) (& this is the waking up with amnesia au prompt fill i did a few years ago when i first reblogged that prompt list!)

(3.5k)

(warnings: angst but not incredibly sad. more like. here there lies some future manipulation/mind fuckery because of angst established in this ficlet but not resolved in this ficlet but would be in the future)

(also warning: vader)

It is somehow both the hardest and easiest part of the day, every time. 

It is easy to let his feet turn in the direction they beg to go during all his waking seconds. It is easy to allow them to lead the way. It feels as if a great and crushing weight has been lifted from his shoulders the moment that he sees the pillars standing sentry at the entrance of the Halls of Healing. It is so easy to give into his body’s desire to allow it to find its other half.

It is almost harder to stay away, to pretend to be the respectful and poised Jedi master he masquerades as during those long moments of the day that he is not by Anakin’s side.

But what is infinitely harder than journeying there or keeping his distance is arriving. Is what waits for him within the Halls.

“How is he today?” he asks the moment he sees a healer—it does not matter which one these days. They must all know him by now, know the series of questions he demands answers to.

This time, the man he finds is healer Ramak, at least, one of the primary specialists on Anakin’s case. Rarely can Obi-Wan corner him. Ramak is incredibly busy both within the Temple and outside of it. He has numerous priorities. 

Obi-Wan really only has one priority. Often this puts them at odds. 

“Ah,” Ramak says, adjusting his robes. “Master Kenobi, hello.”

“Yes, hello,” Obi-Wan says. And then, “How is he today?” In case Ramak has missed his question.

“He is much the same, Master Kenobi,” Ramak replies. “As he was yesterday.”

Obi-Wan swallows. The words get stuck in his throat for a moment and he has to force them up past his teeth. “What does…what has he remembered?”

Healer Ramak’s face slides from reluctantly indulgent to pitying. It would grate against Obi-Wan’s rather impressive sense of pride if he did not already know exactly how pitiful he is. 

“Memories are not stored within the mind chronologically, Master Kenobi,” Ramak says carefully. Obi-Wan has heard this before. Obi-Wan could recite this speech. 

Obi-Wan listens to it silently anyway. Perhaps this time, Ramak will find the correct combination of words to explain his loss to him in terms he can understand. “Uncovering them again is not simply a matter of starting from the beginning of his life and moving forwards. We cannot simply recover and present him with all of his memories from age nine, from age thirteen, to now.”

Obi-Wan can feel a muscle tick in his jaw and he crosses his arms. Another healer crosses behind him, jostles him in their hurry to get to another patient. Differing priorities. 

But Obi-Wan only has one.

“It is like…” Ramak trails off, thinking. “Picture the rain. What do you think of?” It is much too transparent, what Obi-Wan thinks of when he thinks of the rain. He thinks of Anakin as a youngling. The ashes of Qui-Gon’s body had not fully cooled before the skies of Naboo had broken open in a torrential downpour, and the boy, padawan braid that was both his and Obi-Wan’s newly weighing on his shoulder, had escaped from the palace in Theed, ran outside with arms raised up in wonder.

“When you think of rain, you do not recall your memories chronologically,” Ramak says kindly, as if he understands where Obi-Wan’s mind has gone. “That is to say, you do not immediately think of the first time you experienced it. Our minds store memories based on their significance to us, the meanings they hold for us, which makes mind-healing to this degree incredibly difficult. Not to mention, not only was Knight Skywalker stripped of his memories, tortured, and indoctrinated, he was held for several months. Long enough for new neural pathways to form, new connotations and memories to take the place of the ones he lost.”

“Master, please,” Obi-Wan says. When he holds up his hand to forestall the other man’s words, it is shaking slightly. “Please just tell me.”

Will he recognize me? 

Will he hate me?

Will another day go by where he does not know me?

“He has a long way to go yet,” Ramak says finally, lifting his hand to stroke over his beard. “His time as Vader left scars—”

“His time captured,” Obi-Wan interrupts. “He was a hostage.” Ramak looks at him. Anakin, kidnapped by the sith, without his memories, trained to be deadly and taught to Fall, was more than a hostage. They both know that. Everyone in the galaxy knows the dangers that Darth Vader represented to the Republic.

Very few know that Darth Vader was Anakin Skywalker. It had been a terrible surprise. It had been the sweetest sort of relief too, to find him at all.

“Yes,” Ramak finally allows. “His time as a hostage left innumerable scars, Obi-Wan. Even after he regains all his memories, he will have a long journey ahead of him.”

“How is he?” Obi-Wan repeats, even though it is rather rude to cut the healer off. “How is he today?”

Ramak hesitates for a moment and then another, and his Force signature tenses as if at war with itself. “He requested to see you,” he finally says. “We’re not sure that’s a good idea.”

Obi-Wan’s breath catches in his throat. The Jedi saved Anakin Skywalker from the Sith five weeks ago, and though Obi-Wan has spent each of those days trekking from his quarters to the Halls of Healing and back, accousting various healers and Council members alike, desperate for any information they can give him…he has not yet been able to sit beside Anakin. He has not been allowed to talk with him at all.

It is for the best. That is what he’s been told and that is what he must believe. It is for the best. Anakin does not remember him. He remembers the word master—he does not remember that he used to say the same word with respect. With affection. He does not remember Obi-Wan at all.

He remembers his master, Sidious. He remembers his master on Tatooine. He does not—Obi-Wan doesn’t understand why he cannot remember him. 

Anakin has never once asked to see him. 

“I want to see him,” Obi-Wan says immediately, turning towards the wing where they are keeping Anakin. 

“Master Kenobi, it is not a good idea,” Ramak says, but it does not matter what they think is a good idea. It is what Anakin wants and it has been so long since Obi-Wan has been something Anakin wants.

Something of what he’s feeling must flash across his face, because the healer sighs and rubs at his forehead as if he finds the whole ordeal incredibly trying. 

“I will not hurt him,” Obi-Wan says quickly, and Ramak shakes his head, dropping his arms to his sides. 

“That is not the concern, Master,” he replies, but his shoulders have slumped. His forehead is wrinkled, but his Force signature has relaxed. He has given in. Obi-Wan has won. “I—”

But Obi-Wan has won. And so he has already stepped away, intent now on seeing his padawan. He leaves the healer behind where he stands, pushing through the doors of the wing and finally—finally to Anakin’s room.

He’d been so volatile at first, when he was still Vader. The Jedi rescuing him probably felt more like being captured. Without his memories of the Order, of the Temple, of Obi-Wan, he’d Fallen so quickly as far as anyone knows. Sidious had taken him and twisted him and when he was found again, he’d fully believed in the Sith doctrine. He’d killed two Jedi before he was subdued.

So when he’d been brought into the Temple, into the Halls of Healing, they’d outfitted him with Force suppression cuffs. Given him his own room in order to protect the other patients.

Obi-Wan knows he still wears the Force bracelets and collar, but there’s knowing and then there’s seeing.

The seeing part takes his breath away. It looks so wrong, Anakin, his Anakin, wearing the cuffs and the collar. 

Anakin, his Anakin, with yellow eyes watching him intently from the moment he enters the room.

“Anakin,” he murmurs, a reflex. The sounds are punched out of him.

He is thinner. His hair is greasy. There are dark shadows under his eyes. The skin around the collar is red, rubbed raw. He looks a thousand times older. Guant and hollowed out as if the captivity and the Darkness has leached away all of his youthful energy.

“Master,” Anakin says reproachfully. And it sounds—it sounds so much like him, like Obi-Wan’s Anakin, that he has the rather ridiculous urge to cry. Master, master.

“How are you feeling?” Obi-Wan asks, though it is a useless sort of question. He isn’t sure what to do with his hands. What to do with his tongue. He suddenly cannot remember the last time he asked Anakin how he was feeling. It was never a phrase that was part of their lexicon—for so many years, they shared a training bond. Obi-Wan was able to ascertain his padawan’s emotions with a gentle Force touch across the planes of his mind. More often than not, he was telling Anakin to search his own feelings. He was not asking him to interpret them for Obi-Wan’s sake.

Now though, their bond is severed and Anakin does not recognize him as anything more than another Jedi, another man who he once called master, and Obi-Wan stands across the room from him and does not recognize him either, save for all the ways that he does.

“Surely they have been giving you updates,” Anakin murmurs. “I know you have visited every day.”

“Yes,” Obi-Wan says because he will not lie to Anakin. He doesn’t think he remembers how. It has been—so long. Since he has last seen him. It is all he can do to stay standing now. To keep a respectable distance between them. To not fall to his knees. To not stumble forward and take Anakin’s hand in his own.

“What have they told you?” Anakin asks, and he tilts his head slightly. His golden eyes are as disconcerting as they are beautiful. They’re his. They’re his eyes, set in his face, and Obi-Wan has missed that face for so long. For months. He’d thought he’d never see it again, and he is just now realizing that he has no defenses left against Anakin. None at all. The boy could ask him for anything and he would fight to the death to give it to him.

The Force is in flux in the air around them, bucking up, riled, in a way Obi-Wan usually interprets as danger. But the Force could be screaming a death knell and Obi-Wan, in this moment, would only be able to hear a sweet cry of wild joy.

Anakin, this is Anakin. This is his Anakin and he is here. Back—partially. Back, incompletely. But back. Obi-Wan…he’d stopped hoping he’d ever get him back.

Instead of answering his question, he presses the backs of his fingers against his mouth to try and stop their shaking. Every day he has walked here, accosted the healers, demanded to know the latest. And he has never once realized how incredibly difficult it would be to lay eyes on Anakin. How incredibly difficult it would be to maintain his composure, to hold himself in. 

Anakin’s eyes glow gold, but Obi-Wan’s eyes are that of a starving man. All he can see is honey.

“Come here, master,” Anakin says, reproachful. “Did you not miss me?”

The words move him forward where his own feet could not. “Of course I did, Anakin,” Obi-Wan whispers. Hoarse, too hoarse. Too trembling and old, but it has been so many months. He had thought him lost forever. Dead and gone and one with the Force, and for the first time in his life, that had given him no comfort.

Anakin holds out his mechno hand, palm up, fingers slightly crooked. He’d built them that way on purpose, Obi-Wan remembers. At fourteen, he’d broken his index and middle finger in a duel, bones shattering under the blow of another padawan’s sabor. A lucky hit, an unlucky outcome. Though they’d healed near perfect due to bacta, they’d always remained slightly bent out of place. When he lost his arm to Dooku five years later, he’d fiddled with the replacement until the mech digits tilted the same familiar direction.

Obi-Wan stares at them, caught up in the tide of the memory.

Had Vader ever looked down at his mechno hand and wondered about the imperfection? Had he thought to fix it once he had the time? Had he spared a thought for the black spots in his memory, the cavernous gaps in his past?

His fingers fall to rest against the sensors of the mech tips. They’re sensitive enough that he can see Anakin shiver at the touch. 

“Did you not miss me, master?” Anakin asks again, and his hand closes around Obi-Wan’s tightly, pulling him forward another few steps.

Obi-Wan nods, then shakes his head. Yes, he missed him. No, missing—missing is not a vast enough word. 

“You asked for me,” he hears himself say. “Do you—what do you….”

Do you remember me?

You must. You call me master. And you want me close.

But they pulled the memories of the word master from your mind days ago, and you hated me then. You did not want me near you. What has changed? What have you remembered?

“I wonder if they would treat any patient like this,” Anakin says. He uses his hold on Obi-Wan to pull him even closer, til his thighs brush the edge of the bed. “If it is the war that makes me special, if it’s my own power. Or if it’s you.”

Obi-Wan tenses. Him? He doesn’t—

“They’ve tried everything they can think of to trigger my memories of you, Obi-Wan Kenobi,” Anakin says. When Obi-Wan tries to move back, take a step away, find the air in the room to breathe, Anakin tightens his hold and pulls him forward until the only option is to either topple over onto his padawan’s chest or sit on the bed at his hip.

He sits.

“They debated for many days, you know,” Anakin says. His mech thumb begins to sweep over the inside of Obi-Wan’s wrist. “If they should trigger the connections my mind has made to the word master. It’s a weighted word for Anakin Skywalker. Surely you know that.”

“I do,” Obi-Wan says carefully. When he tries to breathe, he can only do so shallowly as if his entire chest has shrunk to half its capacity.

“He was enslaved before he was a padawan,” Anakin explains as though Obi-Wan has not spoken at all. Maybe he hasn’t. For the past several months he has not been able to speak to Anakin aloud, could only talk with him in his mind—could never hear a reply. Perhaps he has forgotten how. “They were worried that after ten years studying under you, after two years fighting side by side with you, my strongest connotations to the word master would still be to slavery.”

Anakin ducks his head slightly, tilts it to the side to give Obi-Wan a small, private grin, as if the healers’ concerns are so unfounded that they are amusing. As if the concept that something could outweigh Obi-Wan’s importance to Anakin is so foreign and preposterous that it’s funny.

His smile knocks into Obi-Wan’s chest like a punch to the solar plexus.

“But they decided to risk it,” Anakin says. His voice is light as a feather. Airy and unconcerned. “Perhaps they should have started with smaller things. A light saber. A braid. A pear. A planet. But they wanted to re-establish my firmest conneciton to the Light as quickly as possible. And they thought that was you.”

Obi-Wan holds his breath, eyes leaping from their connected hands to the yellow of Anakin’s eyes. He has still fallen. He has not been healed. He is still—he is still—

“So they gave me back my masters,” Anakin pitches his voice low. “All of them, though I suppose I remember Sidious well enough. But they gave me back the Toydarian. And they gave me you.”

“They said you did not want to see me,” Obi-Wan whispers. “Why, Anakin, if you remember, why would you—”

“Because I hate you,” his padawan says as if it’s the easiest thing in the galaxy. “Because they could give me back Master Kenobi, but wherever Anakin Skywalker kept his love for you, it was not in your title. He hated your title.”

Obi-Wan flinches back so violently that his forearm slips from Anakin’s grasp. Before he can move from the bed completely though, his padawan’s hand lashes out and curls around the fabric of his tunics. 

“No,” Obi-Wan says because he must deny this—he cannot stand to hear it and not deny it. No, Anakin—there was love there, in the way he pronounced the word master. The way he looked at Obi-Wan: admiration shining in his eyes when he was younger, cooling off over the years into acceptance and affection. They had their arguments. They had their—misunderstandings, but Anakin did not resent him for his role in his life as his old teacher. His master. “You’re wrong.”

“He hated it more than he hated his actual slave master,” Anakin murmurs. Lightly, airily. As if his words are not landing devastating blows on all of Obi-Wan’s softest spots. “Do you know why?” “I don’t believe you,” Obi-Wan whispers because he doesn’t because he can’t. Because he’d have known. Because this is Anakin, this is his Anakin, but there are still cavernous dark spots and gaps in his mind. This is not entirely his Anakin. He is still missing things. Thousands upon thousands of memories and moments and learned contexts and—

“I think you know why,” Anakin says as if he has not spoken. Funny, as Obi-Wan had thought he was screaming.

“I assure you I do not,” he snaps, spitting the words out as quickly as he can so that his voice cannot break between the syllables.

“Because Anakin Skywalker believed til the day he died that if you had not been his master, you would have allowed him to kiss you. To take you. To be taken by you. Don’t you remember, Master Kenobi?” Obi-Wan tears himself away from the bed, from the boy in it. Just a boy. Not a man. Not when he was seventeen and drunk for the first time, slinging his arms around Obi-Wan’s neck and pressing his face into his chest, whining and begging and pleading—and not when he was eighteen either, bold and staring at Obi-Wan's lips, not when he was nineteen, on the verge of his Knighting ceremony and demanding to be given into.

Just a boy, just his boy. But never—never anything else. 

“Like I said,” Anakin but not Anakin murmurs. Anakin, but Vader too. “Wherever Anakin Skywalker kept his love for you, they have not yet been able to find it in my mind. I can only assume he loved you at all.”

Obi-Wan flicks his eyes over the familiar face, the beloved face. The stranger’s face. If it were anyone else sitting before him, he’d have a retort already on his tongue. He’d have raised his shields, gone on the offensive. There are few people left in the galaxy that can land a blow on him, and many have tried.

But this is not anyone. This is Anakin. This is his Anakin and this is something for which he has no defenses prepared.

“How ashamed did you make him feel for loving you, master?” Vader asks, tilting his head in cruel curiosity. “That he compressed all of it into something so small that a whole Temple of healers have been unable to find it?”

“Don’t call me that,” Obi-Wan snaps and this time he does not get the words off his tongue quick enough. His voice breaks in the middle of the demand, ribs cracking and parting to reveal the heart of him. “Not if—” not if you do not know what it means for him. For me. For us.

“Why not?” Vader says, and he raises his flesh hand to tuck a piece of greasy hair behind his head before allowing his fingers to fall to rest against his collarbone, ghosting against the Force suppression collar around his neck as if it’s a diamond encrusted necklace. “After all, am I not wearing your chains, master?”

[soft-pine]

woke up to these lovely DMs and while I'm of course not going to post this person's account, I am going to respond publicly. (cn discussion of SA)

okay so to preface this, you're somewhat correct. what we are doing - what we are all doing is an interpretive task. objectivity really doesn't exist - on my side or yours. and i'm not claiming it does. i have said and said again and said over again that i'm not trying to exclude or skew things. but sometimes i am simply not going to interpret a scene the way someone else does. and that's okay. please take your own notes! hell copy-paste mine and delete everything you don't like! add whatever you want!

that said, i made these notes with the intention for it to be useful to other people so if it seems like something is categorized wrong or not included, we can talk about it. i've said and said again and said over again that i am open to specific feedback. and where i have received specific feedback, i've made the small changes suggested!

but this is not specific. and honestly is virtually meaningless to me at this point. just because the notes don't sit right with your feelings about the show is not, in and of itself, proof i've missed anything. especially, especially because one of the reasons i made this document is because i saw frequent, unsubstantiated claims get circulated widely and i wanted more information to fall back on. so tell me what i've missed specifically or don't bother.

i'm sorry that you don't like that post. but honestly things can have some fucking layers. do both sam & dean make jokes to each other that make light of SA & demons, yes. are they both men who were raised in a misogynistic culture and have better and worse moments at treating each other and those around them with respect, yes. do i fucking hate meg and wish she would stop assaulting both of them, YES!

was i pointing out that there is a pattern of dean thinking about femininity and women and being embodied as a woman, yeah. it's not like i cannot engage with that comment in multiple ways. it's not like it's not in my notes.

but also like i don't go search up posts about sam's gender by people who are primarily interested in sam and say how their post is shitty to or diminishing of or not fully accounting for everything dean has experienced. that would be a waste of my time and theirs. i'm sorry i didn't talk enough about waffles in my post about pancakes but you're not in an ihop. you're in my kitchen right now. i make pancakes. we are eating pancakes.

but i take issue with again and again. point me to it. show me where dean does this again and again? like i am genuinely asking what am i missing. where is the repeated mocking? tell me what episode, what scene and i will add it to my notes and my understanding. heck! if you don't have that information, i'd take a gifset or a sam-centric meta post and put the puzzle pieces together myself.

i don't know what to tell you. these notes were compiled over the course of over a year and two full supernatural rewatches plus some. i am currently rewatching supernatural. i am never not watching supernatural. i am never not taking notes.

and i fully own my dean-centric POV. that's not gonna change. but that doesn't mean that as i was watching the show, side-by-side with the transcript page open, rewinding and double-checking and adding notes, that i was just leaving things out willy-nilly that didn't fit into my view. honestly, when i started these notes (primarily to record how sam & dean articulated their feelings about john), i didn't expect a lot of these categories to turn out this way. i don't need them to be like this to love dean and i was and am open to corrections that change these numbers. but you have to tell me what they are. and not just claim they simply must exist.

now on to this. honestly if you've been even an ounce as careful looking over my notes as i was making them, you'd find that a lot of the dialogue about possession being like SA comes from dean. that is not to say that i don't think that's how sam experienced it or that he can't feel it without saying it aloud or that fans can't interpret that that is how he is likely feeling.

but don't come here and tell me i need to consider this when i fucking marked down all the times in season 5 that dean compares the prospect of michael possessing him to rape. when i watched the scene in 14.03 when dean undresses the clothes michael dressed him in. when this is like one of the main themes of my main fic. like you don't know me. dont come on my blog and scroll down far enough to find a post you hate and then tell me you can somehow know all my thoughts on a topic that post wasn't even about.

i have never claimed that dean is being victimized by sam. if that's what you get from my notes that honestly says more about you than me.

and that's the real issue isn't it. i simply must be so biased but you all... all the people yelling at me that i've missed so much are, what... not engaged in an interpretive task with inherent imperfections and bias?

i am trying to be as honest, open, correctable, and sincere as i can about this but i don't have to skew my document until the numbers look right to you.