#the trick is he spends his time with his descendants who kind of think of him like a household spirit at this point

[dramatic-dolphin]

that prev post about immortality really makes me wish i could write like ANYTHING about my vampire ocs because one of them is just the funniest thing.

like there's whispers and rumors among zhe vampires that say "immortality is a curse, not a blessing...... you may seem alright in the short term, but after a certain age everyone goes insane...... the human brain is not equipped to handle eternity....." and as we meet older and older vampires it's correct. they're strange and not quite right in the head, and the older they get the more so, until they are nearly incapable of change or lose their identity altogether. and then we meet The Eldest, a legend among vampires. five thousand years old, they say, he was there when Egypt was unified, they say.

...and he's just sitting there wearing jeans and playing candy crush on his smartphone while asking his great-great-great[...]-grandkids what they want for lunch. no, you had mcdonalds yesterday, choose something normal.

[clanwarrior-tumbly]

I CAME AND I SAW THAT U WERE ALSO INFECTED WITH THE SILLY PUPPET THING,WELCOME..TO THE COMMUNITY! (Get it?)

May I request some headcanons of Barnaby,Sally and Wally meeting a Very Old Goose Puppet Y/n? Just this worn out,Raggedy and Intimidating Goose Grandparent who then absolutely babies them and teaches them self defense tricks,making them soup,maybe they worked as some sort of guard or security! Just pepaw/granny goose caring over these silly puppets.also like they could be going round the forest and a feral bear pops up,Pepaw Goose just turns around and hiss at it and the bear scampers off while Pepaw is like “Anyways-“ (Thoight would be funny because Geese are used as Guard animals)

Have a nice day! ^^ or night if it’s late!

Yeah!! I was genuinely surprised at the amount of Wally x Reader stuff here but I'm all for it!

Also ngl I've been playing a lot of Untitled Goose Game recently so,,, this ask couldn't have come at a better time /pos

........

Barnaby

Honestly, when this lad first saw you emerge from the woods...he was about to run back home with his tail tucked between his legs. You gave him quite a fright!

You were a goose who was about Poppy's height--if not taller--with ragged greyed feathers and [e/c] eyes that look nearly bloodshot, your legs and bill having stitches, and some loose stuffing falling out of your main body.

All in all...you had a very intimidating disposition.

But when you approach Barnaby, it turns out you're just returning one of his juggling pins that he accidentally flung out into the forest.

"You best keep an eye on your juggling kits, dear." You speak in a gentle, raspy voice.

"Th-Thanks...are you from the barn too?"

"A different one. I used to be a guard for the little gooselings and other farm animals in my prime years but---oh..how about we walk and talk, hm? Do you live close by?"

And that's how Barnaby got to know you! He felt bad for judging you by your appearance, as while you look scary..you're just a sweet ol' geeser (yes he's made that pun a few times and you love it) whose kind heart and soul haven't gone anywhere.

You've come to care for everybody in the neighborhood, especially the big blue dog who sometimes gets into accidents while performing stunts.

In those cases, you always know how to nurse him back to health.

At some point, he and everybody else start to see you as a grandparent, calling you [Pa/Ma]...which makes you especially happy.

Sally

When you were younger, you saw her descend to earth, thinking it was just an ordinary shooting star.

You made a wish that you'll be able to find some good friends to spend the rest of your days with. Being a geese guard was a lonely job sometimes..

Many years later, you see that same star--now one who walked and talked--strolling through the forest near your barn. And you were ecstatic, wanting to introduce yourself!

Even though Sally's never met you till now, she's flattered to learn you wished upon her....and even happier to know she made that wish come true!

Your initial appearance surprised her, but she's eager to run back to town and introduce you to everyone!

So that's where you two head to, though as you're both talking (which is mostly her rambling about the next play she's performing tonight), an aggressive bear suddenly leaps out and roars, frightening her-

Until you hiss at it, extending your wings in a threatening manner, which immediately drove the beast back into the woods.

Then you turn back to the gawking star with the sweetest, most apologetic smile. "I'm sorry about that, dearie..do continue."

And she does for a little while, but you end up using that bear encounter as a teaching moment, showing her (and the others once you meet them) how to best defend themselves against possible bear attacks (or any wild animal attack in general). You made it your mission to keep these young folks safe.

Sally would definitely incorporate these lessons into her plays, which you grew to adore, refusing to miss a single one.

Wally

It was actually Poppy who introduced you to the gang, since you've watched over the barn she's lived in since she was a little baby bird. She basically considers you her parent.

You helped her out with her anxiety issues and baking mishaps over the years, so everybody warms up to you quick after learning your ties to each other.

Wally's no different. He's not too intimidated by your height nor raggedy feathers (man knows to respect his elders).

If anything, he's impressed that your felt and stuffing are still keeping you together, but offers to help you get patched up.

"Oh thank you, sweetie!" You croon. "You know..this town is blessed to have such a kind and handsome gentleman like yourself here."

Hearing that instantly melted his heart.

Soon enough, you get acquainted with the others and take care of them if they need help with anything.

Within the neighborhood, you ensure no wildlife breaks into the grocery store and makes off with any food (especially apples), always keeping watch.

Wally admires your nurturing and protective nature, knowing you're a very wise bird who offers the best advice..

Whenever he's lost on inspiration for art projects or just...feeling stressed over whatever, you're there to help him how ever you can.

When he got caught out in a rainstorm and got sick one day, you made him some delicious soup that helped him feel better within hours.

And of course, Home's happy to see you taking care of their owner. So you're always welcomed inside.

[uyuartik]

bad idea, right? (obi wan kenobi x f!reader) part ii

tags: same as before except more unhinged, (slightly sith coded obi wan, no use of y/n, my unhinged take on regency era, (blaming bridgerton and pride and prejudice), probably historical inaccuracies, SMUT), idiots in love, friends with benefits though it is more than that, oral sex (fem and male receiving), fingering, piv sex, overstimulation, thigh riding, dom!obi?, ANGST AT SOME POINT(S), tension so high that they should be on medication, me shortening every uncle-in-law phrase to uncle bcs english sucks in family terms, overuse of commas because editing 42 pages is hard

a/n: HELLO AGAIN, thank you all so much for all the love you've shown, i couldn't be more grateful. sorry for the *long* wait, i just thought the story needed a little longer than a week to do its trick, and frankly i am a busy person so 7 day gap wouldn't work for me. but i hope you can forgive me with this beast of a chapter, it is my first time writing such a long one. hope you enjoy it, and see you all again soon!

also not so fun fact: i totally misunderstood the "season", thinking it should be around summer- early autumn but it was the other way around, sorry, all the historical babes (i can no longer call myself that) for the frustration. but this timetable suits this story much better, does it not?

likes and reblogs are very much appreciated, and i can't wait to hear your opinions! i am also crossposting on ao3, feel free to interact there as well.

part one | part two | part three | ao3

enjoy!!!

word count: 19.7K

chapter two: it's a bad idea, right?

The morning or to be exact, the noon, is when you finally feel refreshed, ready for the challenges of the day. Lucky, because your relatives are more than understanding, has always been. They would scold you for going about your day as a ghost rather than miss breakfast or join only halfway to their other activities. You always try to honor their kindness, not to take advantage of the privileges as a guest, and do your best to spend time with your cousin Carolina, (The young girl has all the benefits of her young age, full of energy and excitement, fascinated by the stories she hears (from you, mostly)), and also avoid bringing a man into your room under their roof and absolutely ravaging each other-

The last one is an exception, which you are not proud of, yet not a single drop of guilt muddies your soul. None, considering the enjoyment or strengthened bonds.

Speaking of it, something tells you that you'd have been late anyways if you woke up early, thanks to him. There's indeed a mark on the side of your neck, just where it meets your shoulder. Also, your thighs share the same fate, though lightly, a few small bruises and red, irritated areas thanks to his neat beard. Thankfully, they're quite hidden except the one that's not that has you cursing at him. For how good it felt, and for his daredevil nature. 

You're scared to admit your fear for your future with him, not in the romantic expectations aspect, you would never, but for the simpler stuff like how are you going to look at his face and not be reminded of its presence between your legs. Or the unending tease he’ll become, even more so than usual, rightfully so. Make no mistake, you had pretty high expectations, and an overall picture of your relationships past it. Yet, last night was its own entity, reducing you to a mess in the most beautiful way, plucking every thought from your mind, yet dropping seeds of doubt like this.

Still, there’s a foolish smile on your face, and some soreness in between your legs, a welcomed ache.

Nonetheless, you’re not sure how to react when you descend the stairs, and he’s there, sharing tea with your aunt and uncle.

Obi Wan stands up in a blink, even before your aunt has the chance to react to your entry.

“Oh, here you are, sweetie! Just in time to join us in the gardens, and look, who’s here!”

“Hello, auntie. Uncle.” For what’s worth, you like being here, with them, and nothing changes that. You can feel the adamantine warm cloud of love in your chest. The reason you never doubted coming here.

“Lord Kenobi.” You greet him as well, though not with that big smile and sincerity you’ve just shown.

“My Lady.” His indifferent tone is interesting. Indifferent, yet indifferent as any other time, respectful and overly sympathetic. Maybe the situation isn’t as bad as you think? Yet, he’s here, isn’t he? His very presence is questionable enough.

“How good of the young man to join us, don’t you think? Though I fear it’s only due to work issues, and not out of courtesy.”

Yes, how good! And definitely not out of courtesy.

“You hurt me, Madam.” He objects, frowning his brows. “I must say this house, with its amiable hosts, has always had a great place in my heart. Last night once again proved it right, it was the best ball I’ve ever been to all summer. In fact, I was thinking of learning your contacts for the band and the cook, you inspired me to throw my own.”

You really, really try to not roll your eyes, and drop the tea that’s being offered to you now.

“Oh, no problem at all! I’ll write them down when we finish the paperwork in my study.” Your uncle says, and the absolute charmed look and excitation in his eyes have your stomach sinking. “And how are you, my dear? Haven’t you shaken out the morning chill yet?” He points to your shawl, wrapped tightly around your neck. You powdered the marks, and put on a big necklace, but then decided you couldn’t be too careful, and put on the fabric too.

“Yes, I think the weather change wasn’t quite easy on me this time.” You reach for the honey, making a show of it so they don’t put you in the center of attention.

“Did you sleep well last night?”So, it doesn’t work. And that’s about the one question you hoped to avoid.

“Despite the exertion taking place-“ Kenobi’s eyes widen, exaggerated by the teacup basically covering other parts of his face, and for a second you think he may choke on his tea. “downstairs, I say it was the best sleep I could’ve ever had.”

You hope your acting inspires the same in him too. He suppresses that little cough well, and the blush settling in his cheeks is faint, easily blamed on the warmth of the drink.

Strike one.

Irritation grows in you, rather than anxiety. Does he really think you’re that crude? That dumb? You make a point of not looking his way after that, an attitude clearly noticed by him in no time. It’s not like he has any chance of talking about it, but the alarm bell in his head rings continuously, busying his mind ‘til the opportune moment comes to talk about it.

Then, a gleeful screech of your name fills the room. In a blink, your cousin is right next to you, wrapping her arms tightly around your shoulder that you can’t properly stand up and hug her back in a normal way.

“I’ve been waiting for you to wake up all day long!” She says, hands reaching to hold yours, almost causing you to lose control of the fabric covering your neck. “We’ve got so much to do! And you were going to tell me all about Naboo! Did you really get to see the lions?”

“Sweetie-“ Despite the wildness of the affection you are given, there’s a huge smile on your face, and you almost make her sit on your lap- an old habit from her younger years.

“Come now- you promised to go riding with me. I want to show you how much I improved.”

“Well-“ your poor, poor legs are in no condition for that kind of activity. “I think it’s best if we do that tomorrow. You see, I had enough of it yesterday, I’ve been in a carriage all day.”

His smirking, twinkling eyes.

Strike two.

Your furious gaze kills that gleam quickly though. The faint smirk disappears, and he straightens his back, clearing his throat.

“Carolina, can’t you see we have a guest? Where are your manners? And give your poor cousin some space, for God’s sake!” Your aunt exaggerates like any mother of her generation, that high pitched voice screeching every ear in the room.

You should be glad to see the subject changed, but the condition of it is bitter. She bows her head down, taking a few steps away from you, but you hold onto her hand, keeping her near.

“Hello, young lady. I am Obi Wan Kenobi.” He sounds- sympathetic, though not overly. It is this sweet balance between respecting their being without the prejudices of age, but compassionate enough not to crush them under expectations they are yet to achieve. Interpreting this from just a couple of words seems a bit of a stretch, you know, still, his whole attitude screams he’s got some experience talking to kids, or considerable knowledge about the human psyche.

“He’s a friend of mine.” You explain further, trying to ease her.

“Welcome, Lord Kenobi.” She curtsies, yeah, she’s perfected that, you observe with proud eyes.

“I didn’t see you at the ball last night, I’m afraid.” Like he was there longer than an hour.

“It was past my bedtime.” The look she gives her parents tells him all he needs to know about her character, or precisely who influences her. He wonders if it was any similar to yours.  “I hope you had a wonderful time. You must’ve, because she’s an excellent dancer.” She turns at you, smiling so innocently that you can’t blame her for complicating things. “She taught me all about it, even better than my tutors.”

“Oh, no, we didn’t-“ The sentence synchronically rolls from both of your tongues, but you stop as you realize. There’s an abrupt silence in the room for a few seconds, causing anger to bubble up in you once more, and forcing you to make up an excuse to break free from this atmosphere.

“Hey,” You tug on her arm, “I’ve brought candy.” And just like that, she’s jumping all over you, bouncing with joy, “Sshh,” You warn. “First we need to go somewhere unseen.”

===

You see him again, days after, when he’s clearly learned his lesson, and gave you a window to breathe, calm your fury. The worst thing? It works. You can imagine (or in other words daydream) the next time you two see each other, which you desperately wish for it to be soon, and picture keeping yourself from stepping onto his feet, or shoving your finger into his chest. It all could not be forgotten but worked out through little warnings and explanations. Communication, basically.

And it turns out, you don't have to imagine any longer, and have the perfect opportunity to test your temper.

In a cafe. Where you sit alone. Blissfully ignorant of the couples (or to-be-couples) surrounding you. But most importantly, unchaperoned. (You had your tongue to defy any unwanted presence, and it's not like people came here alone like yourself. They came here for dates. And if anything, your presence was a litmus paper. What was to happen in marriage, if one couldn’t even keep their eyes from others in those little flirtatious rendezvous?)

(Though you knew some didn’t see it that way. A temptress, their choice of word to describe you.)

Obi Wan walks up to your table in quick, big steps that somehow don’t capture the attention of anyone but you. A further proof of that magic dust he sprinkles.  He’s dressed in browns today. It is a welcomed change. The smile on his face is unbeatably prominent, even as he follows the guide of manners, bowing his head and removing his hat before he sits in front of you. There’s no indication of his previous whereabouts in his looks and you wonder how he found you. Was he simply passing by the establishment before noticing your presence, or did he inquire about your engagements today, asking around?

"You shouldn't be here." It’s that sweet tone of yours, an alarm said in the softest of inclinations. “I have no company.” While it is redundant to both of your mindsets, the need of a chaperone for every conversation you have with strangers, you like to be cautious.

Then let me be it, he would’ve said, if it wasn’t literally the first time after your distasteful encounter. He’s not going to throw away that lesson for a shot of comedy. Or the fact that it’s hardly a request, but again- It’s not worth it. “I just wanted to say how sorry I was for the last time. It was- unadvisable to say the least.”

That- feels so good to hear, somehow. Far better than expected. You lean back in your chair, a sly smile on your face that you can’t help, and a subtle blush, a total contrast to your attitude.

“What can I say though? I don’t know if it’s still possible to be unsatisfied, but I sure felt like that if I didn’t see you again.”

Your fingers grasp the fork far too tightly, considering you have no appetite left for the desert in front of you. It’s the flashbacks from that night, and the undeniable effects it had on both of you.  

“Well, apology accepted.” 

He releases a breath after your words, visibly relaxed, amusing you further. You focus your gaze on the plate, in hopes of blending this conversation into the atmosphere around. 

You add. “Then again, don’t take my forgiveness for granted. None of my partners were this careless, and I seriously expected better from you.” 

(You're quite aware this is not the sort of conversation fit here.)

The interruption of “Oh, that will never even cross my mind.”, turns into “Partners?”, thankfully in a whisper, but sharp enough that it holds the same value as a shriek. He plays it off like it’s a frivolous question, a part of your ongoing banter, a mere thread to spin the conversation.

As if you gave the perfect impression of a blushing virgin that night. You flutter your lashes, as you take a bite. The silence is absolutely deafening, before you can continue. “There’s a reason I like traveling that much. Naboo. Correlia. Alderaan. God, even Hoth.” The discomfort in his face grows, and you fight it with an explanation, hoping that’s the reason. “Never at the same time, though, if it wasn’t obvious. It was just about having good company if I was to spend months in a city.”

“Yes, yes of course.” He shakes his head, an act of his nonjudgemental nature. “So, am I the Coruscant part of your little play?”

“No. You're the exception.” You laugh. “I haven’t- not here. I wouldn’t dare. Too little privacy. No trust. Above all, not a single soul that felt like a match of my own. Til I met you.” He deserves to hear that, right? “However I must say, the rules would be a little different here. Requires more caution. Fine work. For example, you couldn’t come and see me like this whenever you desire."

"Fair enough." He agrees, though makes little effort to follow the lesson. Actually, not even little, none. He just sits there, moulding into his chair further, a pleasant grin as he takes the world in, entertaining himself with the surrounding people. And you, of course. His piercing gaze travels back to you, every time.

Well, right. Not like you wanted him off of your table. "What do you want, Lord Kenobi?" And how did you know I would be here anyway? 

"Are you coming to the picnic on Saturday, in the Perlemian Park?"

You were certainly thinking about it. "Possibly."

"I'm only going if you are joining too." He wets his lips, an action you don't miss, and you continue to watch it long after he's done and see the next words coming out, before your brain can comprehend their meaning. "So, I'll need a better answer." 

The same lips that mapped out your entire body, whispered all those dirty things, tasted your hidden corners, drinking in the pleasure it provided…

He clears his throat, and you break out of the trance. He looks at you with a brow lifted, but the twinkles behind his blue eyes tell you it's not out of boredom. More like the exact opposite. 

"I'll be there." 

This is his cue to leave, with excitement for the said event, and a tinge of sadness for this interaction ending. You mirror his manners as he bids you a good day. 

Then, you're left alone, exactly as merely half an hour ago. Yet, the dessert in front of you is unsavory, nowhere near enough to satisfy your sweet tooth.  

It is still completely the same.

=== 

Comes Saturday, and does it come slower than possible… The weather seems like it's making one last show before the summer ends and scorches the earth, leaving everyone a sweating mess, little to no words coming out of their mouth, sprawled on the nearest surface. You seriously debate whether calling the offer off, the choice of fanning yourself to a lazy nap sounding better and better. It is in these extensive relaxations that you uncover the horrid truth- your fingers fell short in bringing you pleasure now, making you an even more sweaty, frustrated mess rather than the relaxed, drowsy mess you want to be. It is an awful revelation, bringing along many questions that haunt your every waking hour. You fear it's got something to do with him- and the best prescription for you is to stay away.

Alas, you keep true to your promise and show up. 

Thankfully the air has calmed down on said day, and sorbets are refreshing, making it more than a bearable experience. Bearable is actually an insult in this case, for it is more than that. These people are some of your oldest friends, close to your age, and share your opinions. It is hard not having fun when you are allowed to be free (just a little more than normal, though it is enough). None cares about the obscene gossip, or juices of fruit staining faces, dripping onto the expensive fabrics you all are adorned in. Laughs are loud and constant, never letting three minutes go without them. Hands are all flying around, hitting each other as a joke, reaching for the last piece of cake, taking the very dangerous road back without spilling a drop of the drink (which is, once again, a target of pranks).

Obi Wan enjoys it as much as you do, despite the fact that he doesn’t know them like you do. His life doesn’t allow much leisure time, and his choice of friends is mostly unfitting to these kinds of events, but he doesn’t have a problem finding joy in these kinds of events. Maybe it is mostly due to you, watching you in your nature, admiring the way you handle yourself among the crossfire of jokes, or what foods you prefer the most, making silly expressions as the taste of them hits just right. With every little thing he learns about you, he’s drawn closer to you. Once, he would name you a mystery, yet that would indicate the thrill was all in revelation. Now, it is the exact opposite. He gets more excited with each new question, like what is the actual story behind the “donkey joke” you are hinting at, or why do you pick some of the seemingly perfectly looking strawberries aside and pick others- or why you blush when you catch him looking at you, only to do the same yourself?

It is only in the afternoon that the buzz leaves its place for something serene. Conversations diminish, replies take longer, bodies sag and lean on the nearest surface, be the tree trunks or picnic baskets or their loved ones.

C’mon then, let’s take a walk. One proposes, and others follow, albeit slowly and with protests. You are among the latter, every cell in your body refusing to produce or use energy.

Maybe that’s one of the reasons you end up at the very back of the group with Lord Kenobi, and while you manage to stick with him unlike your friends, the distance between you and them grows and now, you can safely say that you’ve lost the sight of them. Twenty minutes ago.

So yes, you’ve been walking alongside him in silence. Far away that you don’t brush hands, yet so close that it would raise questions if someone were to see.

“I don’t think this is doing much for my somnolence.” He basically yawns.

"Should I take that as an insult, my Lord?" 

"Why would you- what did I say to make you think so?" He shakes his head, as stubborn as he's apologetic, ready to accept the accusation if your reasons are firm. Still, his heart is already pacing up, distressed. That must be the wine taking over.

"Well, am I not the only reason for your presence? And I must be boring you, if you are still feeling drowsy." 

"No- Absolutely untrue- “ He stutters, a panic to find the right words, not to be buried under your claims, he is not going to lose his chance to be by your side- only to realize the grin on your face too late.

"You little minx." He breathes out, and is rewarded by the sound of your tempting giggle. 

"Seems like I successfully rid you of your problem." You take pride. "And now, I suggest walking by the lake, to ensure its permeance."

"You mean to dip my feet in the water?" Again, he shakes his head, already rejecting the proposition.

"If you don't do it I shall." You skip, prancing like a nymph before he grabs you by the arm. 

“I don’t think that is safe.”

“It perfectly is.” You state, bewildered by his anxious urge. One look into his hand, and he remembers to let you go. The said hand flies to his hair, with an exasperated sigh.

“Okay, but – let me be by your side. And make it quick.”

The fact that he thinks you need his approval is downright funny, though you’d take issue with it any other time. Now, you are amused by his good intended worries and don’t have it in your conscience to break his heart over it, or bring up a quarrel.

So, you start undressing. Only your socks and shoes.

Still, the blush settles on his cheeks, and the light behind his eyes burns brighter as he sees the skin just above your knees naked. Not for the first time- still, he feels like turning his back on you, but does no such thing. And that is not because it defeats the purpose of his presence.

God, how could you even make you believe he wasn’t planning on having these impure thoughts?

You feel your temperature rising, and it has nothing to do with the sun. You meet his hypnotized eyes, and can still feel it focused on you. After days of dissatisfaction, its effect is multiplied by ten, making your heart race. You pray none of it is visible on your face. the last thing you need is for him to know.

He laughs when you lay the white fabric in the old woods of the docks, like the spoiled child you are. It is more than likely to stain, but more importantly, it is definitely old, creacking under every step, hence his aversion to sit beside you with a head shake. You shrug in return, and pull your skirt slightly above your knees, swinging your legs back and forth.

“Oh, this is lovely!” You say, sprawling your toes in the water. “Truly, you are missing out.”

“I believe you, my Lady.” His tone is joyful, just the right combination of trust and mockery.

You turn to look at him, a big mistake. The excess part of your dress brushes the surface, wetting the fabric, though it is the last thing you care. He is looking at you, with that charming grin, and subtle hunger etched into his gaze, screaming worship, in complete awe of the scene he's beholding, the prettiest girl he’s ever seen, holding his hand, her dress bunched up like in those ancient paintings of fairies, and endless passion for the leading role of it. It swirls the emotions deep inside your belly, the only reaction you want to avoid. Yet, you’re not immune to it. your heart skips a beat, the tingles overtaking your skin.

“Look- I see fishes!” You whip your head, the one thing you can do in hopes of breaking the tension. You lean forward, trying to get a clear view, or try to do so because you are stopped by his grip.

“That’s enough.” The command sends a shiver down your spine. “You shouldn’t go any further.”

“Fine.” You huff, the simplest protest you can manage. His touch softens as he realizes you’re going to follow his words, though takes long to let go.

A few minutes pass in the silence of nature.

“How long are you going to stand like this?” You ask, exasperated that this isn’t going anything like you imagined.

“What?”

“I feel like I’m also standing, this is hardly fun.”

“That is only the result of your own choice.”

Narrowing your eyes, you huff and climb back on your feet, disregarding the objections of the offended dock. Then, you push past him- 

He suddenly pulls you back, promptly disrupting your balance, a tactic he uses to pick you up into his arms. You scream as your feet meet the air, hands grabbing anything they can reach which ends up being his clothes.

“What are you doing?!” You yell, burying your fingers into him. With how strong your grip is, you can feel every muscle tensing under your touch. 

“I’m not gonna let you walk in that mud, after all.” He explains like it was the problem you were referring to.”

“My shoes! – and-”

“Don’t worry, I’ll get them.”

He adores the pout you have as he fetches them.

He leans his back on the tree, and you rest your arms on your knees, propped up.

“So, we are to sit here and sulk?”

“If you name it so.” His smile is borderline insulting, ear to ear. With one look, he points at the reason- your wet feet. There’s literally no choice but to wait for them to dry up. But by proposing the only solution, he infuriates you further.

“Very interesting.” You snark. “I would’ve just stood back if I knew this was what we would be doing.”

“And now it is I who might take those words as an insult. Have I somehow proven my companionship to be loathsome in the times we spent together?”

Times you spent together… The flashbacks are, as implied in their name, flash before your eyes at such great speed that by the time you realize it is not something you should ponder upon now, your heart rate is already up, the flame deep in your belly ignited once again, and even the sounds of the past are echoing in your ears. You turn your head away from him, cursing at the color blooming on your cheeks.

Oh, but the action is enough to let him know exactly what you are feeling, a song of “I thought so” on his tongue- yet he doesn’t sing it yet, realizing the underestimation of his own emotions. He brings it upon himself- a glance at you, taking in your red face (as much as possible) and bare legs, let out to the sun to dry up.

“Well, I’ll think that’s the case if you don’t say anything.” He opts to say this instead, loving to taunt you further. 

“It’s not.” You mumble, still turned to the other side, fingernails digging at your palm.

“I can’t hear you, dear.”

“I said-“

The moment you move your head, you are met with his face, so close to yours, a distance he promptly closes by placing a hand at your neck, and tugging at it, ‘til your lips crash. You lose your balance once more, gripping his collars to not fully crush him with your weight. You gasp, the only protest you have in yourself, because for all your resolve to stay away, here you are, falling right into his arms. And it feels so damn good.

You gasp, pushing him. He laughs as his back hits the tree, never once breaking eye contact.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” You whisper-scream, suddenly aware of the fact that while you are all alone on this field, your friends are still very much around.

“Oh, what am I doing? It is you, darling, don’t think I haven’t noticed the way you were looking at me.”

You direct your gaze to the ground, embarrassment getting the better of you.

“What is it?” He questions your lack of defiance. “You had no problem before. Don’t tell me you’re scared of being seen. They should at least be like, a mile away.”

Yeah. That’s absolutely correct. Besides, you’re shielded from any unwanted visitors by the thick line of trees, and the sheer distance between there and the path. It is a secluded corner of the lakeside.

“Or is there something else that’s bothering you?” This, is said in a more suggestive tone, and its effect is only amplified by the way he holds your chin to refocus your attention. You burn under his grasp and insistent watch.

Say farewell to your pride.

You let yourself fall over him once more, kissing him with a whimper you can’t quite suppress. You feel his smirk at that, but neither of you dwells on it, for he too lets out a sound of desperation, panting as he pulls you close, placing you on his thigh. (You hear your dress positively rubbing against the grass, and dare not to imagine the green blotch that may appear.) You don’t know whether to celebrate your newfound closeness or chastise your weak will, for it creates a new wave of desire in you as you delve your fingers into his beard. Your skin lights up against his coarse hair, so familiar yet so unyielding under your touch, and to be holding his face in your hands like this only blinds you more. So blind that you only realize the movement of your hips, seeking pleasure, when he holds them.

“See? That’s what I’m talking about.” A kiss right on the left corner of your lips. “Are you haunted by that night so deeply that you are unable to satisfy your needs on your own, like me? Or hell, with another?” Even in the midst of haze, you don’t miss the way his eyes darken at the mention of a third party.

“No- only you.” You whisper, too afraid of things ending.

“Fuck.” He can’t help but burst at your surrender. “That’s my girl. Lift your hips a little for me, darling.”

You oblige without question, raising yourself on your trembling thighs. Holding your breath, imagining all the things he can do to you… He is bewitched by your neediness, the way you moan at the first contact his hand makes with your skin after lifting your skirt just above your knees so you have more freedom to move, and can directly sit on his thigh.  

Speaking of it, why? Your eyebrows scrunch as he pushes you down like that, though the actual questioning part comes a second after your clit rubs against the fabric, not his cock, the first jolt of true ecstasy you experienced in a while, but that can’t be the case for him, right? “What are you-?”

“Trust me.” He takes his sweet time to relish the expense of your neck, so close for his taking, partly to ease your nerves, and frankly it is too much fun for his own good to feel you twitch in anticipation, and your breath getting stolen away at his open-mouthed kisses, panting when he lingers on a spot for too long at the fear of him leaving a bruise. “No marks, I perfectly remember.” He has to confess after a point, and only after that point, you begin to truly relax, and have your heart beating so fast at the same time, noticing your wetness is positively seeping into his clothes.

Your jaw hangs open with a silent pant as he decides it’s enough, and guides your body, rocking onto his. It’s not something you haven’t done before, but there’s something so unique about now, maybe the scandalous location, or your depraved state, or simply everything regarding him, that you are convinced it looks like your first time. Shit, it may even be your first time, considering the previous examples are nowhere close to this, the stakes, the desperation, the payoff… You’re holding onto his shoulders like a fucking virgin, pressed so close to receive every bit of affection he's giving. It’s the damn heat, the greatest excuse on your lips for the last couple of weeks, invalidated by the nonexistence of space between you and him. It only causes sweat to pour out of both of you, like the constant drip out of your cunt, sabotaging all your attempts to gain control, and create the slightest of frustration. 

“Obi Wan.” You chant his name, unable to form any other word, and he drinks it all in, valiantly ignoring the ache in his cock. It is a hard task, a growing challenge as your knee brushes against it from time to time, especially when you try to take initiative and escape the rhythm he’s trying to create.

“Ah-ah-ah- Let me take over. You know we’re short on time, darling.”

Then, he does justice to his words as he bounces his leg, the added pressure claiming a gasp from you.

“Do that again.” What your efforts can't get you, maybe your pleads can. After all, you're just as stubborn as him, giving up easily is not on your book.

“Only because you asked so nicely.”  

You roll your eyes, though it is totally due to annoyance, and let out a moan, throwing your head back. The fresh air does nothing for your lungs anymore, just an outlet for your scandalous noises. Which, he has no complaints too, your erratic breaths warmed his neck enough, and blessed him with those sweet sounds, right under his ear. Oh, but in any other case, this was anywhere else, and he had to silence you, also which he has no complaints too. Perhaps the sole problem is missing the blissed out expressions of your pretty face, and the light in your eyes, burning for him.

“Are you close?” Like he even needs to ask, like he’s not aware of your moans turned whimpers.

“Hmmh.” Is all the answer he gets, and that’s enough for him, laughing quietly, as you feel the vibrations of his chest.

When you cum, it is indeed an earth-shattering moment, and an end to your misery, the first drop of water after thirst- so much so that you don’t care about it happening in such a short time. Your legs squeeze his firm thigh, shaking over them like the rest of you. His one hand travels to your waist, holding you steady and pressed against him. You swear you can feel every aspect of his hand over three layers of fabric, yet he’s not actually exerting that much power, treating you like a delicate flower, afraid to crush the silky petals.

You sigh as the trembles die down, your senses coming back to you one by one- the first and foremost the tension in the body beneath you. Your fingers loosen from his collars, and travel the expanse of his torso slowly, a kiss to his throat in the meantime.

“Don’t you worry about me.” His voice is slightly shaky, though it may very well be due to his exertion.

“I think I should.” Its trueness is further proven when you palm him, and he groans. Though he is insistent.

“Look at you, you sweet thing, concerned with me walking around with a hard-on.”

That has you rolling your eyes, and removing your hand. Removing your entire body, even. You settle on the grass, leaning on your elbows. Your dress is already ruined, so you’re past the point of worrying.

“On the other hand, you may want to think about this.” He points to his wet trousers, the dark stain visible even though the fabric is black.

Uh oh. That is indeed a problem, if you are to return soon. Unfortunately, your brain can’t grasp the danger, coming up with solutions like soaking him entirely in the lake… 

So, it’s no wonder that your next words are a joke.“You marked me, I marked you. We're even.”

To your surprise, it works. His laughter fills the entire forest, yours a whisper in comparison. The idea that maybe, just maybe this can be repeated every now and then, that it wouldn't harm anyone fills your chest with a different kind of cheer, a hopeful sensation that suits the summer. He's proven his carefulness, making the best of the situation without risking either of you. The rising hope in you should scare you, but it doesn't. It only makes you sprawl under the sun like a cat enjoying the heat, and join his laughter with a big grin.

“Fair. Absolutely fair.”

===

The next time you see each other again, things seem to cool down a bit. It is entirely a civil dinner, always at a respectable distance, the number of times you lock eyes are countable on one hand (though some border the edge of being a little too long), and it is all not so surprisingly, plain. Maybe it is about both of you trying to contain one’s self, so much so that the other core aspect of both of you, the humorous side is buried that night and no other person can live up to its ghost. Perhaps it is due to the upcoming end of summer, bringing out a tinge of melancholy, already mourning the past, thus your impulses dwindle down, the sparkles absent.

That is, ‘til, you are the only occupants in the saloon, after the other guests have left, and your aunts retreated to their rooms. You are reading a book, barely aware of the fact when he, sitting next to you in that single armchair drops whatever pen he’s holding, just by your feet. You’re pulled out of your trance by the sound it creates, raising your gaze from the page just in time to see him bending over to retrieve it or- ending up completely kneeling in front of your legs.

He raises his head, and you watch the way his face softly being illuminated by the candlelight, a smile you can’t decide whether charming or devilish, long abandoning his mission.

That’s the moment the air shifts, and the room feels hotter like the cheminee is lit, the heat wave has returned, and taken both of you to that lakeside, and the week before it, the frustration and despair that came with being unable to take care of yourself. You haven’t felt such a thing after, perhaps, it’s due to your fulfilled state and therefore lack of trial, but now, the need returns, like adding more to an already full cup, realization only hitting after the drops spill from the sides. The cup demands to be emptied, - translation: your soul demands whatever pleasure you can get your hands on- and the image of him causing it is certainly a preference.

(Again, it is your soul that’s demanding it- your brain would very much like to lock you away in the furthest corner of this house, or kick him, if that’s all you can manage.)

“Excuse me?”

“I just remembered how I failed to say how beautiful you look tonight.” 

“Thank you.” Your mouth speaks before you can protest the improperness of your situation. Color settles on your cheeks for accepting his compliment first. “What are you doing?”

“Collecting my pen.” He shrugs, and demonstratively takes it to his hand, yet it is once more left to the ground instead of the nearest table, with the rest of his papers. He adds, “I admire how you are an expert in navigating every social situation, whether it's a boring dinner like this, or a ball.

Your eyebrows raise at the boring part, after all, it's hosted by your relatives, and it wasn't exactly boring, maybe a little uneventful. “Not every occasion has to be full of adventure, Lord Kenobi. Slow nights like this are beneficial for the soul. Gives the mind some rest.” 

He purses his lips, like he’s been told on his bluff, the one part he emphasized to sound strong. Because, he is. He had fun tonight, the type that fills one’s heart with sweet lethargy. “I suppose you’re correct. But you’re missing out on an important detail.”

“And what is that?”

“The right company.”

You’re glad that your hands were pressing against the book, holding the page, because if they weren’t, they would be visibly shaking.

“I have underestimated how much I missed you, that much is clear to me now.” Barely speaking, or barely speaking anything important with you throughout the evening, yet he feels rejuvenated, the ache in his chest becoming prominent as it starts the heal. He doesn’t say the last part, but the sentiment is reflected in the soft sparkle behind his eyes, the hypnotic storm, pulling you towards unknown chaos, but beautiful, and promising safety in its center. That’s why you don’t protest as his hand reaches for yours, brushing your knee (he wanted to do that for some time, to feel the soft fabric that basically decorates your body), interlocking fingers, and reluctantly retreating them in favor of taking the book that sits in your lap, setting it aside. You don’t protest, despite the screams in your head, saying he’s right there why is he still there-

 “And the other thing I missed terribly, the sight of your legs.”

Your shaky inhale echoes.

His fingers gently close over your ankles, and travel upwards slowly, lifting your dress alongside. “Though I’ve only seen them twice, they might be my favorite view, ever.”

“Is that so?” You are perplexed by the confession, with a lazy grin, very much enjoying the seduction. His way with words seems like a constant threat to your sanity, but damn do you adore it dearly, a voluntary victim to its spell.

“Why would I ever lie to you?” He whispers, hands tightening. “I like them very much. But I think I would like them better around my shoulders.” He pulls your knees slightly, causing you to yelp as your back caves in, and grasps your ankles once more, proceeding to demonstrate exactly his words.

“What are you doing?” You ask, like you don’t know the answer. It is a statement, an acknowledgment, the last chance to bring some sense into any of you. You’re in the living room, in a house that is not your own, filled with people who are still very well awake, and can just decide to come in.

“Having a second dessert, if I may?” And how can you refuse, after the image is served to you on a golden plate?

“But at the lake - You were-” 

“You think I'm doing this for recompensation?”

“No, I didn't mean to imply that.” God, this is embarrassing. “I just wanted to say I might miss having my way with you.”

“I’ll be glad to take that as a promise.”

Then, it is settled. 

Still, he waits for your small nod and takes in the way you bite your lip, wishing he was the one to do so, but- priorities. Time is a valuable asset, especially now, and he has to honor his offer. That’s why he opts for a few small, open mouthed kisses to your inner thighs, actively fighting the desire to leave bruises, evidence, a memory. Judging by the rapidness of your breath, it seems he has reached his goal in some way. It’s the beard- scratching your skin even when his mouth is not doing something, sensitizing the flesh and making it all too susceptible to the incoming assault. Your hand flies up, absentmindedly reaching for his hair, yet stopping a second before, landing on the couch instead- if you messed up his hair, there’s no coming back from it. He chuckles at your struggle, the warm breath making you squirm. Even if you don’t, he’s maddened by action, despite the laugh. He has you- but not really. He’s enveloped in your heat, taking in your scent, and seconds away from tasting you, but is not able to be blessed with the slight pain he'd felt if you tugged on his strands, or the untamed sounds you’d have sung in a more private setting.

So yes, he’s as torn and desperate as you. Slow nights, you said? 

Truth be told, it doesn’t matter what adjective comes before the word; slow or fast, boring or exciting as hell, freezing or hellishly hot; if it is with you, it is a good night. Otherwise, it is lacking. The world may be painted gray forever, considering you two mostly don’t get the chance to spend more than two occasions together in a week, but there can be no comparison to colorful scene of those moments.

And this is the night Obi Wan admits that fact.

You both moan, when his tongue finally meets your cunt, licking a messy stripe. It is more of a vibration than a noise- possibly for the best. It makes you jolt, and his hold tightens, and again, it is for the best, because when he decides to pay attention to your clit after his time exploring your folds is done, your limbs start to shake, threatening to fall. Your eyes roll back when things settle, and pleasure starts to build up, your juices flowing, and he drinks it all in before they have the chance to make a mess of your dress.

That is the first time he takes a break. “Eyes on me, darling.”

What is with him and that special request?

Your whine doesn’t mean anything to him, except make his cock twitch in his now tight trousers- but that has other reasons too. He waits ‘til your eyelids open once more, and you meet his gaze, and a second longer, unable to resist the urge to get lost in your hazy expression. Then, he dives back in, swirling the muscle around your bundle of nerves. In any other circumstance, you’d have thought this would be too indelicate, so straight to the point, no fun or respect, yet his way to do so is anything but those qualities. His movements are precisely designed for you, slow enough to not cause discomfort, fast enough to make the best of your unknown time limit. You’re afraid to deduce that one time was enough for him to learn you, one time to turn your world upside down, and leave you to deal with the memory of it. 

“Sweetie?” That’s the first time your eye contact is broken. The world freezes for a second before it does, and your head whips to the direction the sound has come from, to find your aunt by the door. Miraculously, she continues to stand there, unbothered by the long and protective distance which compromises of the dining table and the back of your couch, a perfect cover for the scandal that is taking place. Obi Wan stills, perhaps even stops breathing, yet he’s the one to snap you out of your shock with his grip around your skin. It is ridiculously encouraging, knowing he's not abandoning you on your own, even at the expense of getting caught, and the dread it would surely follow.

“Yes, auntie?” You gulp. Trying not to sound breathless is a clear effort.

“Have you seen Lord Kenobi?”

Your reputable smartness lags, the answer of yeah, he’s right here IN BETWEEN MY LEGS, occupying your mind.  “I think he went out to get some air, I haven’t seen him for some time.”

“How odd.” She comments, “And what are you doing there on your own?”

“Reading my book.” You smile, and hope your cheeks’ tremble isn’t too noticeable. “It’s quite good- couldn’t tell the time.”

She scorns. “Oh, now I see- he must’ve gotten bored as you were buried in your book. You truly should work on your guest etiquette, dear. And Lord Kenobi, of all people!”

“Auntie!” Your eyes widen, and you squeal a little, and feel Obi Wan giggling quietly.

“I’m just saying, that you should treat him better- he’s a good person, and obviously fancies you.”

“Auntie!”

“I mean, I like him? Don’t you like him?”

The urge the scream has never been stronger.

To escape the subsequent questions should you answer otherwise, you give in, and sag.” I do.” And the worst thing is, you actually do. Objectively, you like him, all his little jokes and sweet tongue (no pun intended), the elegant form he carries himself in, and the kind nature he never fails to live up to. Except for the dangerous extent your relationship is getting into, there’s nothing about him that you don’t like. And truthfully, even that is barely a matter you care about, proven by your current situation. 

You can feel him smile, the coarse facial hair biting into your skin, rubbing like a cat, and the sensation is followed by a kiss on your thigh. 

“Then you know what I am saying is the truth.” She raises her eyebrows in a motherly manner, a loving attempt of intervention. “Don’t stay up too late, no matter how absorbing that book is. We are invited for breakfast to the Mon’s Estate.”

Thankfully, she’s gone like that, saving you the act.

When you turn to your front again you find the need to come up with a warning to make him shut up unnecessary for he kisses you, silencing both of you. The action brings color to your cheeks more than ever in this entire evening. The fact that you can taste yourself on his tongue aside, he’s so gentle about it, like congratulating your success, or admiring your talent, pouring out his affection for you. You can’t help but wrap your legs around his wide torso, it is how good it feels. When you two part, the lack of breath gets the best of you, only then do the swarming butterflies in your stomach begin to disturb you again.

But you’re not so quick to forget the last couple of minutes. Perhaps you've spoken too soon back then at the lake, thinking this could be continued. You’d imagined the rest of this scene a little differently, letting him follow you to your room, returning the favor, but that scare has only helped you to brew a storm inside you.

“Obi Wan…” You whisper, brows cinched in concentration as he towers over you, claiming all your senses. “We can’t- we have to stop…”

“Sshh, calm down.” His thumb draws circles on your skin, trying to soothe you in one aspect, if not every. He’s not going to let you go to your bed shaken like this, for starters. “Take a deep breath.”

You try, twice before you can manage to fill your lungs in their entirety, and your achievement is rewarded with a peck to your neck. Some of the air leaves you in an abrupt exhale because of it, and he curses himself for it.

“Follow my lead.” He tries again, reclining on his knees, giving you space. It is another challenge to look into his ocean eyes, and match his pattern, but you manage, your heart beat semi-regular after a minute or so.

Semi, for said eyes and your bare pussy are face to face, and all common sense loses its importance, burned by the fire inside you.

“Obi Wan- please…”

“You sure?” He will be very disappointed if you change your mind, but he has to ask, play the sensible part. And ignore the constant throb in his trousers that has become even more unbearable after you confessed your feelings.

“Just… make it quick.” Oh, are you seriously requesting an orgasm like ordering a cake in a café?

“As you wish, love.”

He starts out the same, just playing his game a little faster, and he holds your hand as he does so, the small detail as efficient as his moves. But, the final blow is his other hand, prodding against your entrance. The flood of memories doesn’t help either, as you remember that night. A loud moan threatens to leave you, and you slap your palm against your mouth. He stops ‘til you are secured, praise in his eyes, and pushes the two digits in, stretching you out in the way. Your fingers are nothing in comparison, and he notices it immediately, the way your walls hug him. 

Though, he’s an expert, and can absolutely manage to take care of you properly, so there’s nothing but pleasure, your slick channel welcoming the intrusion. It is not long before he feels the resistance fading and returning in a new form, as your climax approaches, and your muscles begin to quiver.

With your noises secured in your throat, the only form of communication is your connected hands, squeezing each other sometimes enough to risk breaking fingers. He understands what you mean perfectly, reaching up to a certain speed, then keeping it the same ‘til you start trashing, legs violently shaking around his body, and juices dripping, this time more than he can clean up. If any other time, he wouldn’t stop ‘til he feasted on every drop of it, but he withholds himself, respecting the clouds of danger. He’s glad to have helped with your anxiety, yet he doesn’t want to carry the ease to dangerous level and make you susceptible to be swayed in whatever direction.

Well, the image of his messy, wet beard certainly sends you through the wrong one, but already your nerves are not able to take more risks tonight, so you just bite your lip hard enough to draw blood, and lower your legs to the ground as he starts by cleaning out his fingers. It is hard to believe any man would try this much to indulge in your every aspect, but here he is, careful about even the smallest part.

Damn, you want to take him to your room and let him have his way with you so bad- but this is enough adventure for a night.

“Good night, Lord Kenobi.” You say, fixing your skirt, and standing up on shaky legs with your book clutched in the tightest grip against your belly.

“Good night, darling.” He nods, a content smile. “Send my compliments to the chef. “

===

“Lord Kenobi?”

You’re justified in your shock, enough to express it out loud in the middle of the jewelry shop, the last place you’d expect to run into him. Of course, he’s a neat and subtle man, and his appearance reflects his statue, though in a very calculated yet effortless manner. His pocketwatch is a family heirloom, so you’ve been told, a chic piece he takes great care of, and while his cufflinks are always elegant, it is never that eye-catching. It only compliments its wearer, you dare say, a final addition to an already completed painting.

(You never denied his handsomeness, and this is an objective opinion. Don’t read much into it.)

His supposed loneliness coupled with the fact that he looks utterly lost and bored, your curiosity is aggravated further.

Also, bumping into each other? What is this, a trick of fate?

“Madame.” He bows, and moves to press a kiss to your hand, the tradition not forgotten. His shock is easily ridden, unlike yours. The small blush on his cheeks and the wide grin on his lips tell contradictory stories, not that you’re judging, but the evident thing is his excitement.

“What are you doing he-”

“What a coincidence-“ His interruption is most unexpected, along with the high pitch in his voice.

You tilt your head, further dazed, but before the suspicion creeps in (you would be terrified to turn your gaze and find women’s accessories laid out for his picking on the table, for somebody else or for you; the latter being the lesser evil, but still disturbing), another joins, though he doesn’t seem to notice you at first.

“How helpful you are being, Obi Wan!” The tall young man with light brown hair calls out, necklaces hanging from both hands. You have a feeling that if he wasn’t busy, there would’ve been a physical reaction as well, a friendly pat on his shoulder, perhaps. “Don’t you know this is important? I need-“

His sentence is broken when he catches your attentive gaze, and realizes you are a part of this conversation as well. You’re amused by how glass-like he is, full of emotions and not afraid to show them. He looks at you, and back to Obi Wan, who finally decides it’s time for an introduction. The expression of recognition flashes through his face in a second as your name is revealed, but you can’t reflect it back fully. You have heard of Kenobi’s best friend or as some call it, brother, although barely from the man himself. You've witnessed how Kenobi's eyes lighten up with pride whenever Skywalker was mentioned, and stories- summaries of their adventures together that he told. The shortness of them wasn't a result of his unwillingness to tell them, but the circumstances of your company, never long or alone enough to visit them in their deserved entirety. 

To be honest, Anakin doesn't know much about you either. He and Padme prefer the countryside by the sea, especially during the summer, thus he and Obi Wan hadn't had the means to talk often lately. He senses the situation, by the slight tension in the older man's voice; this strong, confident man crumbling into pieces for some unknown reason. 

“Pleased to meet you, my Lady.” He makes a small cursty, which you mirror.  

“Likewise, Lord Skywalker.” 

“I’m afraid I’ll need my friend back to keep his promise.” The chains in his hands shake as he speaks, reminding the absurdity of it all. You’re not disturbed by it though, for all is concealed under his charismatic voice and mimics. He’s pretty and he knows it, which gives him all the tools to captivate others. Now you understand why people speak about him like that, moved by hearing his name alone.

“Oh, not a problem at all. We were just saying hello.” Entertained by the interaction, your anxiety is somewhat diminished, enough to let him go without an explanation. Also, the way that he rolls his eyes, and clenches his jaw is very cute, you dare say.

“Promise? I never promised anything.” He murmurs, but it is still audible for you as he follows his friend. And the rest, which makes you laugh whenever you remember it. “Anakin- she's your wife, you know her better than me. How exactly do you expect me to help you?”

“You always had a vision when it comes to beautiful things. Not like my eyes, which are only accustomed to the dirt and grease of machinery.”

You have to bite the inside of your cheeks to stop grinning, while you start talking with the salesman about the bracelet you’ve given them to restore. They make you sit and wait for a couple of minutes, all of which you spend trying to not spy on them. Fortunately, the shop is quite crowded, and their conversation is a part of the low grumble. A cup of tea is placed in front of you, as well as some new pieces they think you might like.

The one that catches your attention is not among them, however. It is a ring with a blue stone, the tone too similar to something you can’t put your finger on. It is too big to be for a woman, clearly designed for the other sex, but you admire its elegance nonetheless.

“Here is your piece, Madame.” The young salesman returns with a package, just in time to stop you from reaching it.

“Thank you.” You take the precious item back into your hands and inspect the handwork. It is shining once again, polished, and the place you accidentally broke it is now attached, the handwork barely visible.

You release a deep breath, praying graces. You would’ve never forgiven yourself if the family heirloom was forever damaged from the incident. You almost cried when it happened, a stupid game you were playing with Carolina before a ball, when you had already gotten ready and she was counting the minutes to her bedtime.  

“That is beautiful.” Obi Wan joins you once more, now looking more relaxed. Your eyes search for Anakin and find him waiting for a package, reaching for his wallet. Mission accomplished. “May I?”

The chain slides into his hands, and wraps around your wrist under the watch of the young boy with a wholesome smile. He must think you two are engaged in some way, and there’s no turning back from it.

“Would that be all, Madame?”

“Actaully I-“ You remember about the ring, and even if you just want to unravel the mystery around it, the words have already left your mouth, and the entire tray is placed on the table.

Oh. Oh. With him next to you, suddenly it all makes sense. You’re holding the color of his eyes on your palm.

“That is beautiful too.” He remarks, embracing his role a little too much.

“I think it would suit you.” Now it is your turn to accessorize him. He is silent while you do so, taken aback by the unorthodoxty of it all.

“I’m not sure-“ Is all he manages to say, though can’t stop looking at it. It is ridiculously so well fitted around his finger, the fate pulling all strings to give a message.

“It compliments your eyes.” You defend yourself, perhaps a little too lively but you have no shame. It is the truth.

“The Lady is correct.” The boy joins your side, or does his job. “It is a most excellent match.”

“I might think about it.” Is how far he budges, returning it, and checking up on Anakin from where he’s standing. 

“How much do I owe you?”

“Please, allow me-“

The audacity? The though is reflected in your face, which makes him blush at his unnecessary offer.

“With the ring.” You add, and it is all said and done ‘til he has time to get rid of his embarrassment and intervene.

Then, you make him take the package from you, your fingers wrapping around his. “You’re allowed to have nice things, you know?” There’s not an ounce of sarcasm in your tone, only gentle suggestion. “You don’t have to wear it, but I want you to have it.”

“Thank you.”  

And you’re gone before Skywalker can catch up.

===

You truly don’t expect to see him wearing it, you really don’t.

But you’re proven wrong so, so badly.

He doesn’t take it off.

When he takes on his promise, and actually starts working on the ball he’s supposed to throw, the first thing he does is request for your uncle’s help. Then your uncle entrusts the job on you, and you’re spending hours with him like that, securing the musicians, bargaining for the food supplies, preparing invitation lists… Truly, that’s it. You too are surprised to accompany him that much and engage in nothing outside of the mission. Truthfully, a little concerning in the grand scheme of things, the inevitable result of your relationship improving, real sincerity. Although you have zero problems with the fact, enjoying it far too much. You don't care about how your contributions are secret, for your efforts surpass the limits of help that are considered friendly, and fully acknowledge that it is gonna be a damn good ball. 

Also, while you hate to see him distressed, it is a look on him that you are guilty of adoring. The nervousness is like a little crack in his shell, a way to see a part of him that rarely sees the daylight. And it is for something so feeble? Only half of his effort would be enough for a wonderful ball, and he still tries to do more, and gets agitated over that? You are cruel for laughing at that, you confess. But it is more of a balancing act, rather than a mock. Somebody's gotta play the sane part, lower the tension. 

You're ready to help with that, too.

“Do you think I should hire-” 

You're at his study, the place you've been sitting since the morning. Time flies with every cup of tea, and plates of biscuits, but after a while, things inevitably get boring. For you, at least. He's quite focused, brows scrunched, tie slightly loosened. You see him looking at the list that you've put together in the beginning, the possible ways to entertain his guest. 

You've already arranged the services of more than half of them. Twice the amount that would be considered enough.

And he's still going over it?

“That's enough!” Your open palm lands on the surface. 

Obi Wan doesn't expect your outburst. He doesn't flinch, but his mimics change in an equivalent way. His lips part, causing him to relax that clenched jaw -oh, you might have a point. 

“You. Need. To. Relax.” You’re now less frantic, due to his irresistibly clueless expression, though still firm in your cause. Fuck, how can he look at you with those doe eyes and expect you to… do anything! 

You get up, and reach for the papers, sending them in a far corner of the desk. While you do so, you are basically halfway in between him and the table. Putting the teacups and the pot back on the tray (it has grown cold a long time ago), you turn to him, almost sitting at the desk in order to fit that narrow space. The bashful smile on his face (as if he wasn’t enjoying the perfect view of your ass seconds before) breaks your heart once more.

Putting your hand on his shoulder, you mirror his emotion. “It’s gonna be a splendid night. The kind that people will talk about it for years. And I’m not exaggerating on that one. I would’ve said the same thing days ago, all before the last additions, too.”

It is a challenge to feel the warmth of your skin, and not lean against it. “You’re right.” He tugs on his collar, taking a deep breath. “But you know- I’ve never planned a ball in my life, and- I just need it to be perfect.”

You giggle, and replace your hand on his cheek that is colored with the confession of his little perfection obsession. You welcome the slight sting of his beard, like a habit, and caress his cheekbone. He dares not move, or even take a breath, only watching your pretty face focused on his, and relish the feeling of your thumb across his features.

“It’s going to be just that.”  You might’ve said, or a joke about his troubles, but words scurry off of your mind as you stay like that, squished in place as you try your best to comfort him.

“Can you kiss me?” The thought seems lunatic when uttered on a whim, but it has crossed your mind too, you must admit. 

“Only because you asked so nicely.” There's an undeniable urge to use his words back at him. 

Your back has to bend in an uncomfortable way for your lips to touch, but you have no complaints about it. The touch is so soft, laden with affection in the purest kind. It is obvious in every way, the movement of your mouths, determined to preserve the sweetness and sweetness alone, and the itch in your palms, mapping each other out over and over again, and the determination of your lungs, using every last drop of oxygen before demanding an exchange. 

“T-thank you for that, dear.” His eyes open after a few seconds, with a sheepish smile that causes him to speak in whispers.

It’s about to get real dangerous for you, if he keeps being this cute. 

“I’m not about to say we should've done it sooner, for it is a complete waste of our time repeating a truth well known, and I've already used that trick before, but maybe we should do it again.” 

Okay, but how does that kind of sass sound cute from your perspective?

“Don't push your luck.” You say, fingers smoothing his hair, and his complaint dies on his throat visibly. He purrs, eyelids closing. That's the moment you decide to press a small peck to his lips for all his troubles. It lasts longer than intended, and while it's definitely different than the previous one, him gripping your waist telling a different story. The weight of them is welcome nonetheless, and it serves as an anchor, like you two could be molded into a statue if he held it long enough.

However, he is the one to break the stillness, shifting in his chair- first of all, how dare he, you're doing the acrobatics here-

Oh.

He notices that you've noticed it. Clearing his throat, Obi Wan lets his hands slide to the table, just a centimeter away from your body. “It’s been some time.” His face remains focused on the floor.

Didn't he even take care of himself?

You push his shoulder back, and he takes it a step further without a blink, sliding away with his chair. 

What he doesn't expect, is for you to stay exactly where you are, only this time on your knees. He has to gulp once, then twice, because he finally looks at your face, smiling back at him. 

“May I help?” Admittedly, your fluttering gaze was unnecessary, and tips him even more. You don't miss the way he stabilizes his hands.

“By all means.” 

You start by unfastening the buttons of his tan trousers, letting your forearms rest on his thighs. He aids your quests by lifting his hips a little, being freed from the constraints of the fabric-

There he is.

You bite your lip at the sight, and the sight is not just his huge cock, already hard and weeping for you. It is about him, and the redness that creeps up his neck, the way he hisses and bites his knuckles at the cool air hitting his sensitive skin, how he claws at the armrest waiting for your touch. His head nearly hits the back of the chair when you finally do, a small moan leaving his exposed throat.

Well. You really should’ve done this sooner.

Your thumb swirls around his head, more fluid leaking out as you do so. Thus your fingers slide down his shaft easily, and he is coated in his slick in no time, along with your palm. It twists around him without rush, leaving him to wander in that dream like state without mentioning a finish line. You want to ask him, ask him how he likes it, or make him cover your hand with his, guiding you, but you also want him to stay just like this, eyes fixed with that heavy lidded gaze, partially obscured by that infamous strand of hair that refuses to be tamed like others. His mouth hangs open with loud breaths and sometimes graces you with sounds of his pleasure.  

“Harder.” The only instruction you need.

You clasp tighter and shudder like him, taking pride in your work. He can feel the strain in his muscles fading second by second, the problems in his mind are plucked out one after the other, replaced by your soothing words you repeated constantly for days at this point, and expert hands, creating the same effect on his body.

“Like this, Lord Kenobi?” You require you still acquire his opinion, a feedback, and his title rolls off of your tongue unintentionally. Honestly, there’s no explanation you can make even to yourself, but you are already over it as his cock twitches under your palm, and his groan fills the room.

“Y-yes. You’re doing- so good.”

That must be some sort of karma, for he is above the concept of revenge, but you’re left with an itch to grind your legs together at his praise. If you do that, you’ll probably feel your wetness smearing all over your skin, you’re sure of it.

And you’re determined not to be distracted.

Your other hand joins the game too, starting to massage his balls. That makes him tense under you for a moment, but the tension dissolves quickly, leaving him dizzier.

“Fuck-“ Even the simplest swear word sounds hypnotizing on his lips, “you’re perfect. Don’t stop.”

Like you had any intention to do that.

On the contrary, your intentions evolve in the direction after his words, perhaps even a little bit further. You lean in and lick a stripe up his length, the tip of your tongue dancing around his head, fully tasting him, before you take him to your mouth fully.

His hand flies up, shaking as it comes down, held back by the strongest of wills from delving into your hair. Instead, it inches closer to your cheek, and returns to the position before (because he may have just lost five years of his life feeling the way you swallow him), half-stabilized over the armrest. His head rolls back once more, unashamed to release his moans with your every move. The most sinful one comes out when you use your throat, gagging around his thickness. You repeat it, and he whimpers, earning an equal sound from you too.

This time, you don’t have to ask him anything. The eye contact as you recover your breath, and continue to stroke him tells you everything you need to know, tells how much he enjoys it.

“Please- darling-“

You don’t try to choke on him again, but keep a rhythm with your tongue and your palm. He reaches climax quickly nonetheless, throbbing in your mouth and coating it white. Obi Wan feels sorry for not warning you, a sense of guilt rising alongside that pleasure, but it once again came over with lust as you gulp it down without a blink. He even fears he might go hard in a second, against all the rules of nature. You provoke that in all ways possible, pressing small kisses to his shaft, occasionally licking it, and letting your head rest on his thigh.

“Thank you.” It is so out of place to say that for this kind of act, but it is the sentence that is spoken, breaking the silence.

“You’re welcome, my Lord.” Thankfully, you raise your gaze just in time to miss the way his cock moves. You straighten your back and throw your shoulders back, stretching like you’ve just woken up.

So cute and so filthy.

“I’d like to return the favor.” He says, the action fueled only by his kind and generous soul.

“Some other time.” Your smile reflects the acknowledgment, not mocking his advances. “I am expected from home.”

“Ah, pity. Send my regards to your family.” He can’t help but feel envious of them. Do they know to treasure your company, not take a second of it for granted? Do they know what you did to him, before joining them? Would they be as accepting as ever, aware of your scandalous affairs?

Of course not.

But even then, you’d deserve much better than what they would treat you like. Your courage alone is enough to make the world bow down to you.

And what if your family means something other than your blood, your relatives? What if it was a stranger, a man undeserving, but had you to himself every night, when you returned home from your daily activities? A lucky fool who had the blessing of knowing you’d be by his side soon, every damn day.

His fingers turn into fists as you clean yourself up, so pretty in your ignorance to his gaze, brows slightly furrowed as you smooth out the wrinkles on your dress.

“Shall do.” And with your cheery voice, he doesn’t even notice his grip is unclenched.

===

Red isn’t his color. Some say it suits him well, that the stark contrast is eye-catching, but he doesn’t like to carry it. At this point of his life, it’s not even about his clothing choices, he prefers anything over that pigment in every possible scenario; the sheets, the carpets, the flowers… He makes a point of avoiding that powerful color.

Not today, though.

He has no word over how you dress and for once, tries very hard to stay neutral, not verbalize his choices when you mention the outfit you’ll be wearing in his ball, and it is a successful endeavor. (Knowing you and your stubbornness, it would probably only damage the bond between the two of you, something you’ll quip for years, or God forbid, keep you from attending at all.)

In the end, you wear it, and he ends up where he doesn’t want to be. Drowning in that bloody cloud. Without remorse, for the first time in his life.

For once, he finds himself chasing after it, taking joy in its liveliness, surrendering to the dangerous promises it makes. Your presence brings energy to every room you enter. The candles seem to burn brighter, and the warmth in his chest is not solely a result of both of your accomplishment of the spectacle. Obi Wan smiles ear to ear, eyes almost closed because of it, and he wants nothing more than to dance with you all night long, bury his hands in that expensive fabric and feel the burn in your cheeks, painted with the same color. He doesn’t even mean it in a perverse way. He wants to celebrate the payoff of your efforts, let the pride be felt, and enjoy the treats like all the guests, or even more than them (it would be more than fair to do so), together.

Alas, the society you both live in isn’t the type to accept such things. In order to not taint the event with the bitterness reserved for that principle, he doesn’t ask for more than six dances, or follow you around the saloon like a lost puppy. While it is never enough, he counts and cherishes the accidental eye contacts, and your hands holding his in dances, or the different circles you ran into each other and have snippets of various conversations. He accepts every compliment with your name tied behind his tongue and feels relieved with each passing hour, realizing how perfect everything is going, thanks to your pieces of advice and restrictions. He is light as a feather underneath all those layers he had to put on for the evening, without the pressing intention of taking it all off as soon as possible.

But, there are two sides to every coin, and here comes the other side, halfway through the night, the prejudice he had returning sinisterly.

He does a decent job of suppressing his jealousy, for all the purposes he’s thought of before. He can glance over when you dance with a stranger, or two, ricocheting on the stage and putting on a show for everyone. He chooses to admire the beauty you’re radiating, shining like a rose after the rain. It keeps him occupied for a while. But when an hour passes and you’re not even looking at his general direction, way too engulfed in your conversation with them, he feels a distaste rising in him. The red bleeds into his heart, poisoning him. It slowly takes over, and by the time you throw your head back with a burst of laughter that echoes in the room, he’s entirely filled with it. His hands twitch with every dream of ripping the source of that poison from your skin in a cove meant for just the two of you, away from all the vultures that eat and drink and savor his doings and yet ready to crucify him at his slightest flaw.

Obi Wan is one step away from sending everyone to their homes when you escort that man to the garden. Honestly, the only reason he doesn’t is because you return in a minute or two, the tip of your nose giving away all he needs to know- it’s chilly.

And he didn’t even give you his jacket?

On the second thought, it’s best that he didn’t, because then Obi Wan wouldn’t even bother to get rid of the crowd to have his way with him.

“Lord Kenobi.” You manage to catch him alone, on the balcony. He’s up there to calm his nerves, over you, unbeknownst to you. Unfortunately, his progress is lost the second he hears your voice, and it is truly an effort to act otherwise.

The night is on the brink of ruin for him, and it doesn’t have to be that way for you. This is why he tries so hard.

“I must congratulate you on this beautiful ball. It is a night to remember.”

“Don't say it like the honor doesn't belong to us both.”

You shrug, as if whisking all the credit away. But your eyes twinkle with pride. 

“I haven't had this much fun in ages,” You chirp,  “I would've begged for another one already, if I hadn't witnessed the toll it took on you.” He covers his face at the mention of the state he has been in for the last couple of weeks. “Oh God, don't.” 

“Oh God, you just didn't expose yourself like that! When will you start enjoying this?” Your laugh is a hidden giveaway of how many glasses you had tonight. “Don’t worry, my lips are sealed for those who may inquire.” Your lips. Wrapped around his cock. Mapping out his neck. Keeping his secrets.  “Remember that every word that comes out of my mouth is said by a person who attended all types of feasts all over the continent for a decade now. I grew up around these circles.” Shrugging, you add. “Perhaps that was my undoing.”

“Undoing? I could never call you “undone”.” Ironic, how you make him forget about before and continue to concern him with totally different subjects.

“You’re right.” Thoughts come out a little slow, but your effort is evident on your face. “I just had too many opportunities to start over in new places, experience everything that I was curious about, and that all led me to discover exactly what I liked, what I wanted from life.”

“How’s that a bad thing?” 

“I’m not willing to let that go anytime soon.” You can’t help but notice that it sounds like some sort of prison of your will, but that’s not a discussion you can have tonight. “Anyways, Obi Wan. I must be going now, just wanted to pay my compliments and wish you good night.” 

“I thought you’d stay the night-“Well, that’s definitely not the case, “But it is so early?”

“You know our houses are not so close, any later than this and I’m going to fall asleep on the road out of habit.”

Yeah, that’s why he thought it would be perfectly reasonable for you to stay over. 

“I see.” And he wishes he had gone blind and deaf. “Then, allow me to bid you good night, my Lady.” 

He takes your hand, placing a kiss you can very much feel despite the fabric. What he doesn’t expect, is for you to press your palm against his chest in return, because he doesn’t know of the urge you have to not leave. It is a split second of override, before you can command your feet to move again, blissfully unaware how tender that moment was.

===

A day. A full day. That’s how long he can refrain from seeing you. Funny, the meetings have become a habit for him, and although he needed you back then, he needs you more now, for completely different reasons, and you’re not there that morning- and why would you be? There’s no arrangement that demands your assistance anymore. Your praises are all said and done, and if to be repeated, it wouldn’t certainly be a matter that required urgency for you to show up at his door.

And maybe, you have other places to be, other doors to knock. Perhaps you’d enjoy a change of air.

So, he has come to yours.

Naboo. Aldreaan. Correlia. The cities churn in his mind, alongside your image in every one of them. The flowers in your hand as you roam the fields of Naboo, the coat that doesn’t do much for the redness on the tip of your nose while you lodge in the mountains of Alderaan. The exquisite jewelry you wear to a Correlian masquerade, outshining every debutante in the room. He imagines the people hypnotized by your presence (what can they be, other than blessed), or you gliding among them (after all, discretion was your powerful suit). And the worst of all, he thinks of the man escorting you, claiming their dances, bringing you a glass of their rare wines, walking with you in the natural scene, their savage arms around you, their hands groping your curves, pulling sweet sounds from you.

(No, the purpose of his visit was not that. )

He invites himself in from your open balcony, catching you as you start your nightly routine. You’re taking off your hairpins, when he does the courtesy of knocking on the glass, startling you just a little. You jump, but thankfully do not scream, the reflex somehow suppressed. Truth be told, it’s not because your shock actually dwindles. If anything, it is redirected into a different question, going from “What the fuck was that?” to “Why the fuck is he here?”

“Good night, darling.” He gestures for you to sit again, and you do, returning to your chair in front of the vanity. Your head has to crane in a strange way for you to see him, but thankfully, he comes closer and solves the problem, eyes meeting through the mirror. And his face lights up as he sets foot in the room, like he too has forgotten everything but this moment, his jealousy and desperation left behind the walls. That’s how the question of “What are you doing here?” is not immediately articulated.

 Instead, you say, “Good night, Obi Wan.”

“I see I managed to visit you just in time.” Look at him, fixing his beard, laughing nervously. He just climbed to the second floor, and his heart only got racing now.

“Lucky you.” Honestly, you don't think there's a “wrong time” in his perspective, at least when it comes to you. A few minutes later, and he'd see you in your nightgown. Would that deter him from setting his foot in here? Most, most, most likely, no. Don't dwell on that thought, though. “And what do I owe the pleasure?” You try not to focus too much on the fact that you have him and your bed in the same frame, through the reflection. 

“I thought I would see you today.” Is that sarcasm in his tone, or a little bit of self-humiliation?

This must be some sort of a Shakespeare play, right? 

Oh my God, it is. 

“Ah.” You fiddle with your hairbrush, the eye contact broken, your attempt to stop any matter from escalating this night. Any matter. Not that you had any questions when it came to his morals, he probably was the one person you’d never doubt, but in terms of his intentions to be here tonight startled you in a much different light. “I slept in late today. Didn’t even leave the house.”

Oh. That makes quite the sense.

“Actually I still feel a little bit exhausted.”

“That’s because you had too much fun without me last night.” A treacherous scoff falls from his lips as he shakes his head. The moment that the tides turn. The one that brings back all the crude questions.

“What? No? What do you mean?” For all your effort to remain calm, you look alarmed, that tired face with doe eyes showing it all, and he feels sorry for a second, troubling you over his overthinking ass.

Then, he spots the bracelet you wore last night, lying haphazardly over a piece of paper on the corner of the table. It looks very much like a letter.

It’s not hard for him to advance his speculations.

“I think you know it already.”

“Obi Wan.” You twist to actually face him, your arm on the back of the chair. “Why are you here?”

He takes a few steps back, as if the air is stolen from the short distance between the two of you. He runs a hand through his hair, undisturbed by its messy result. You can see him biting into his cheeks, trying to select the right words. In the end, all that effort seems unnecessary, because when he speaks, the sentence can’t be any simpler. “Who was the man you spent an hour with last night?”

Wincing, you take a few seconds to process. It’s not about the answer, but his motive, his audacity that irks you. You stand up and speak. This time, your voice is sharp as ice. “That’s none of your business.”

He blinks a few times, so sure of his righteousness, and determined. “You were in my house, at our ball, dancing and talking with strangers and not even glancing in my direction for the better half of the night. I think it’s some of my business.”

“I was by your side for much longer than it is acceptable, Kenobi, do I need to remind you? We danced six times and greeted the majority of guests together.” You’ll not let the truth be ignored. “Any longer than that and there would be rumors all over the society today, and even I would’ve heard about it despite staying here all day. I didn’t come this much by pushing boundaries at every fucking chance I get. I picked my battles, the thing you seem incapable of.”

“So, am I to understand, this thing between us,” The look on his face dares you to deny the existence of it, “is not worth picking?”

This is the possibility that scared you. And for good reason, it seems. You close your eyes, in order to not roll them, and purse your lips. He uses the moment to reach for your arms, like he could appeal for an answer from you. “Don’t you love what we have?”

You couldn’t feel any worse under the warmth of his hands, affection pouring out of them despite the rage in him. “I love what we had.”

“Had?”

“It’s obvious that we can’t keep doing this, is it not?”

Confusion leaves its place to anger once more, for all the wrong reasons and his face darkens. “Oh, I see. You secured yourself a new entertainment, and now you have to get rid of the old one.”

You shrug out of his hold, distancing yourself from him. The source of the problem is not what he claims it to be, and it infuriates you, along with the accusations he taints you with.  “Don't you dare reflect your own degeneration on me like that! It’s not about my damn cousin’s damn friend, it’s about you!” It is nearly a scream, the highest pitch that wouldn’t grab attention. Still, reflectively, you turn your head to the door, which you had luckily locked. “Leave now, you bastard!”

Honoring the part he was assigned in that theatre play, he focuses on the wrong part of the words, the crumbles of information giving him hope, and dim his doubts. “So there's nothing between you and him?”

Seething, you are red with fury, taking a sharp breath, pointing your finger at him like a gun. “Get. Out.” 

“Is there?” 

Your tongue is determined not to let him hear your words, despite the truth in them. It will not lead to any good. 

But so will his closeness.

When did he get so close? 

The moment you look into his ocean eyes, the decision to say anything is deemed impossible. The decision to do anything, actually. His arms cage you against the cluttered table, and yours end up on his chest, though without any intention of pushing him away.

“Answer my question, and I will.” 

How could you? How can you be able to resist his utmost sincerity, the desperation in his behaviors and the brutality of his words contrasted in the way he looks at you, the caging without actually touching you. Your suffocation is only a result of your inner turmoil, the desire to spit out the truths, clear his heart and give in to the love he's handing out, but terrified of the places it will take the two of you.  

“I’m waiting, darling.”  You can’t help but watch his perfect lips move, his voice licking your skin. 

You gulp, an action he doesn’t miss, and dares to laugh at it. Obi Wan can see the exact moment your gaze returns to being that of an eris, though the flames remind him of a different time.

A very different time. 

“I hate you.” It is perhaps the most childish thing you’ve ever said in years, and it shows. 

So, that’s his cue to kiss you.

For all your claims, still, he doesn’t miss the small moan you let out, swallowing it with pride. Your soft lips move against his like a habit, anticipating every move and the next, a choreography you both know all too well  albeit in a much swifter tempo. Your hands wrap around his neck, pulling him closer but his stay in the same spot, afraid to disturb you, though gripping the edges hard enough to turn his knuckles white. Though, when he tugs at your bottom lip, asking for more, you grant him that, your tongues joining the dance. You whimper, the action triggering your inhibitions to loosen up, like each second wipes the doubts away. It is a sugared water, only serving to increase the thirst instead of quenching it. So you don't stop drinking it.

Not til you absolutely have to.

“No, you don’t.” 

Two seconds have to pass for you to understand his response. With his breath still warming your cheeks, even brushing them with his nose, yes he dares now, the statement is the undeniable truth.

However, not that you're ready to admit it. He already knows too much, all the things you like, all your weak spots, all of your soul.

“Yes, I- oh” And he's not the one to endure your lies. His fingers delve into your scalp, putting traction into your hair ‘til you have to tilt your head back to release the tension, forcing you to look at him through your lashes. Still, eye contact is not what he seeks, for he has as much a chance of getting lost in it as you. He uses the expanse of skin you offer, and dives in for that specific spot that has your legs going limp. It has two consequences: Firstly, you are stuck between him and the table, the latter supporting you too little that the weight rests almost entirely on his body, every plane of him touching yours. Secondly, the angle puts the mirror in the corner of your sight, and you have a maddening view of what’s happening. It is enough to make old ladies screech and faint, and artists to slave to immortalize the scene.  

“You’re a bastard.” You murmur the last bit of objection, solely for the object of throwing it out of the tip of your tongue. He hears, though quite unbothered, the retort to break you further leaves his mouth readily.

“Call me whatever you want, dear, you’re the one begging for it.”

Of course, you only pant in return. Even when he threatens to nip and bite at the sensitive nerves, you don’t stop him. Furthermore, your calf twists around his as much as it is able in that impossible posture. An invitation.

“And what else would you let me do to you? Would you let me take you to your bed?”

You nod, frantically. “Yes, please Obi Wan- take me”

That’s a sentence straight out of his dreams.

The second your feet touch the ground, both of you gather the ends of your dress, yanking it out to throw it haphazardly on the floor. Your stays and chemise follow the same fate, then it is his jacket and shirt. He taps on your thigh, like he would let you walk the five meter distance between there and the bed, you jump, a little shakily (not that you ever had questions about his strength). Fuck, it excites you how easily and softly he lands you on the edge of it. You reach for his trousers, but he stops you and urges for you to scoot back, and lay down.

Because that’s the best way he can rid you of your shoes and stockings.

Your knees stick together as he works on one foot, and the other. The shoes drop with a loud thud, making you bite your lip, close your eyes for a moment and pray nobody investigates. It’s no wonder that after that small break, your pupils meet once more. How ironic that it is the cause of your concern, and the only solution.

You can feel his fingertips skimming the top of the only clothing left on you. While the touch is stimulating enough, it is the fact that you have to spread your legs a little to allow him to undress you, giving him a view of your wet pussy.

Nothing that he hasn’t seen before, but that doesn’t affect the way you tremble.

Throwing your head back, you let him slide the stretchy fabric down. Slowly. Like his piercing gaze isn’t enough. You’re squirming by the end of it, all thoughts of getting him out of his outfit gone (-or delayed, should you still believe yourself.)

Thankfully, he takes care of it, the sounds of his buttons unfastened echo in the room. 

Though he has no rush to join you. 

You turn your face to search for what's taking him so long, a whine in your throat when he kneels. That's unlike him. 

You feel cold without his body looming over yours. And he has a hard time not to do that, not falling for the flush of red and your hard nipples. Especially when you're so gone that you may come undone just from that.

He'd like to see that. 

But he has to make you understand how you keep him in that state, ignorant of his troubles, even as the solution is obvious and wanted by both sides, however the other can't accept it out of simple stubbornness.

Thus, he plays the deaf now, as he grips the supple flesh of your thighs, squeeze and move as he pleases, exposing your core to air while he busies himself with other parts. He claims you with his lips, mapping out, pushing you down to the mattress every time you jolt because he’s so close just a little to the left- But perhaps the worst is his vulgar taunts, whispered, to himself mostly, a way to speak out the anger.

“Are you this wet for all the men you hate?”

“No.” You cry, not able to stand the accusations. “It’s you.”  And it is the truth. There are no other men on the planet that you would bear being treated like this by, or attempt to change their opinion of you. But now, you need him to know that. You can’t imagine a future with his back always turned to you, or be subject to his very much forced small talk with empty, or worse, hatred filled eyes. It is a reveal of a side of you that you had to keep hidden and downplay, to be free at the end of the day, give both of you an opportunity to walk out, but it doesn’t matter if the said fallout leaves his judgment of you sour. You care about his perception, and would do your best to change it should it be mixed with lies. Truth, and nothing less, is what he deserves.

A wave of relief floods his heart, that simple answer is all he wishes to hear. There’s also a bit of rage, for knowing you’d never admit it in any other circumstance. Alas, the smile appearing on his face is unstoppable. Even as he finally begins to eat you out.

A moan leaves your mouth at the first contact, which is nothing more than a small kiss. That bad, uh? As he licks everything he can reach, it turns into a whine, because it is evident he has no concern about making you cum quickly, or in a normal amount of time. He just continues to do whatever he was doing before, exploring every nook and cranny, and marking, like he intends to commit this moment to his memory. It may not have been his first time, (or the second), but he’s doing it for himself now, your desperation sadly not a priority. You also suspect he’s doing it to drive you mad, using his previous experience and remembering how sensitive you got when his beard rubbed against your skin.

“Obi Wan-“ Your back arches, a hand reaching for his hair. He stops it all by jostling your legs with a hold that could leave imprints. It takes half of your willpower to stay in the place he put you in, and that means you only have the other half to process the indescribable pleasure he’s giving. It is gonna be fast, whether he plans it or not.

“Could you actually throw this away? How can you pick anything else over this?” You knew it would be a hard transition. The magic he created is haunting and ready to jump on you in those dark corners, even after many years. There is no cure for ghosts, after all. The thought now seems impossible, the last thing that could cross your mind. Simply impossible. He emphasizes by nudging your clit, every single movement forcing a sound out of you. “That's right. I’m going to remind you how good we are together, make you feel so good that you'll forget anything but us.” 

The passion in his words scares you, but it would be a lie to say they don't excite you in some way, making your heart flutter in your chest at his devotion and to be able to still feel safe only supported by the honest bond you two have. You chant his name as he smothers himself in your folds, sucking and flicking your raw bundle of nerves. He loves to feel you twitch when you are overwhelmed, but not enough to climax. 

Then, he scrapes your clit with his teeth, and you're gushing, head thrown back, a silent scream in your mouth. The hot lava inside you doesn't cool down, paying its visit to every part of you, making stars explode behind your eyes and body trash against the sheets. To be perfectly honest, he didn't expect this much either, his strong muscles tightened to keep you from closing your legs, a string of curses muttered at the obscenity of it all. As always, your bliss only augments his own, especially at the sight of your essence flowing out of you. He has to drink it all in. Thus, he doesn’t stop, unbothered by the subtle sway of your hips, or the slight tug at his strands. He has no objection to them, on the contrary, he would encourage them if he didn't have to abandon his task to say the words. The slow movements of his tongue create constant stimulation in your already delicate nerves. Your second orgasm crashes you like a clap of thunder, leaves you sobbing and shaking. It uses all the energy in your already spent muscles, wipes every argument from your mind and removes those troubling emotions from your soul. The interesting thing, is that you have no oppositions to the matter. Why would there be? Could there be a sweeter arrangement? Isn’t it better than a dream? You speak the truths, and he worships you. You pay him the respect he deserves, and he tries to honor it in every chance. You don't complete his personality, you enhance it, and in return, he uses everything in his power to make your day better. 

It is not that simple, a voice speaks from the back of your head, but it's too silent to have an importance. 

Likewise, some of his ideas are dismayed just as easily. Pity. He had every intention of taking you from behind, not letting you get away before painting your ass red, and watch you crawl back to him still even when he teased you that badly, but you seem too gone, too weak to lift your hips up. And it is not a big deal anymore, because he's equally excited to have you like this, lying on your back, legs hugging his torso. Like your first time. The parallel is unintentional, but more than welcomed. How much and how little has changed since then? He leans in for a kiss, and fuck, your mouth is greets him too purely, like he's not covered in your slick. There's something more than lust that drives you, evident in the way you move, like you’re carving out a promise on his lips. The sounds that you produce are not in desperation, but gratitude, not weary of the periods of suspense but glad that it is over. His fingers travel the length of your abdomen, all blame on him for the coldness of your skin and the way you shiver. When he circles your nipples with his thumb, you sigh, and press yourself to him. 

“You take care of me like no other, Obi Wan.” You whisper as you cup his cheek. You should’ve told him sooner. It was the least you could do. 

He has no answer, and he doesn’t need one. Holding your wrist at the sides of your head angrily and meeting with your tongue is more than enough of an explanation, just like the one you made a little too late, beautiful controversies. You both are unaware of how your hips rub against each other, without hurry, ‘til his cock catches your entrance. Your breathing becomes erratic, considering you didn’t get a prep or had any in some while, and he’s big. 

“Are you gonna let me in, sweetheart?” 

“I need you.” You almost wail, despite knowing it will be too much. It’s not about pleasing him, either, for these things are not given up as sacrifices, ever. What matters is that you’re together, and that is always good. “Please, I want you.”

Could he ever refuse?

He takes his time, relishing the surrender of your tight walls, and brave noises, replied with his own moans. Your pants are guiding as much as they are troubling, making him even harder. He swears he’s about to burst when you outright sob while he brushes your areolas. Your back raises, an attempt to get his fingers a little higher, and your eyelids flutter close with the movement.

Make no mistake, your face scrunched up in delight is a sight to behold, but he can’t compromise having your eyes closed, sparing him from that glossy, burning gaze you have when he tears you apart. He needs to see them lose all coherent thought, see those doubts fly away and light up with pleasure.

“Look at me, dearest.” Right, aren’t you more than acquainted with his most important wish? He pleads, the softest tone that spilled from his lips tonight. Your heart skips a beat although you’re not exactly capable of processing that information. Needless to say, you don’t oblige to his wish, not when you are so spent. 

Obi Wan groans, his hand flying up to turn your chin. At that moment, all fall silent. You get lost in his stormy eyes, and so does he. Though his cock twitches in your quivering channel, that’s not the point.

“I can’t get enough of you.” He blurts. Then, the other truths demand to be told too.  “I don't like the way they look at you. I don't like how they don't know how blessed they are by your presence. Shit, I hate it when they know it too. I hate to think those who got to memorize you this closely, even those you knew before me.” 

Even those you knew before me. “Obi Wan, you're-” 

“Crazy? I'll admit, I am crazy when it comes to you.” 

“I never-” You have to drown a whimper as he continues his deep, slow strokes, “asked for any of it.”

“Of course, dear. I know, I know it's not you, but them. But I can hardly stop myself from reaching out and pulling you out from their sigh. Or wrap my hands around you, let them see what we share. They wouldn't dare anymore, if they knew the lines you left on my back.” It takes an incredible amount of will not to thrust into you faster, with where his ideas lead him to. “Would you let me mark you from the inside?”

Fuck, why does his words make their way into your heart without ringing those alarm bells you have ready at all times? How does he move past them so easily? 

Or do you let him, and take those rings as a cheery tune of his nearing presence, and not a warning as they must be?

“Yes!” The feeling of him finishing anywhere but in you suddenly sounds so disgusting. You want his warmth, even though you're burning already. 

His lips find yours, kissing you so hard that you'd thought he wanted to silence you. But surely, you know better, that's definitely not the case. You get to drink his sweet moans as his hands envelope you further (like it's possible). In return, he's right there to swallow your gasps, the proof of how you push yourself for him. The rest of the world stops, the urge to fill your lungs no longer necessary, nothing but the rhythm you've created, and clouds you've climbed on. 

He senses your peak before you do and gives you a brief space to breathe, praises falling from his lips that you can't hear, as you shake and let out whimpers, quite loud, for you've grown used to him muffling them. He follows suit, not able to resist your walls clamping down on him, painting your insides with a heavenly moan. 

It takes a second for both of your bearings to return, for the night to evolve into a chilly summer night it was simply meant to be. The coldness is especially remarkable as sweat cools down. A towel wipes them rather quickly, but it's never as warm as having the other around. Your usual remedy, a nightgown, is no use either, even if he helps you put it on. It is such a whiplash that makes you question everything about the last hour. You're left with burning cheeks as he collects your clothes from the floor, hanging them on the divider, then his- but he does the same to them?

“What are you doing?” You croak, a minute of silence for your vocal cords. “I don't cuddle.” That's a harsh sentence, but it's the truth.

“And I don't leave the person I love in the middle of the night to freeze.” He's holding a candle, the only lit candle in the room, and his face is illuminated beyond anything else and it could be said that he is the source of light. 

The person I love. His words break down the last resolve you have, and you're left to figure out how you feel about it as he kills the flame, and slides  into the sheets behind you. You'd think the sensation of his chest pressed to your back would keep you wide awake, but no, it's weirdly new yet familiar, enough to lull to sleep. Also, his scent is mesmerizing, and you never had it this close and constant. 

And for him, he had no trouble whatsoever from the start, but this is far better than expected, that he is sure he is living the best moment of his fate. The softness of you, in his arms, drifting into heavy dreams. It is a treasure for him to see that you can relax beside him, allow him to feel the regularity of breaths, showing your most natural self. 

But the morning is anything like the night.

You wake up from the orange lights of the rising sun, when he gently combs your hair out of your face. There's a fatigue in your muscles, alongside that sweet tinge of pleasure still lingering, making it all bearable. Your skin runs hot where he holds you, your back, your waist, your intertwined legs… The slight prickle of his beard is not pronounced when it's rolling on your shoulder, especially as it's followed by small pecks. He's unable to resist, your intoxicating smell pronounced in the cove of your neck, right under his nose. Only when he feels somewhat satisfied, and you seem a little more conscious, the tonus of your body increasing, he talks. 

You weren't ready for his morning voice.

“Good morning, love.” His hand rises to soothe the redness rising where his chin was pressed. Delicate all over. “I’m afraid I must get going, for both of us’ sake.” 

You give an affirming hum, and swiftly roll out. Your body betrays you without delay, a shiver seizing you, protesting the lack of his heat. You shake your shoulders, not so subtly but it's not like you can cringe. It is your band aid, and you're ripping it out. 

You reach for a robe and put it on rather easily for your questionable nerves and state of mind. 

“Darling?” 

“Yes, you should really get going, Obi Wan.” Fuck, that sounds still more aggressive than you are, or you ever intended, a mirror of the storms in your mind. 

“What's the matter?” He's awfully quick to put on his trousers and come near you once again. He looks into your eyes, unobscured by your hair, and then there's that look of reveal on his face, the point of no return. He says your name, a final plead and a warning.

“You must leave soon.” This time, you’re a little softer, but it is nowhere near normal, considering what you shared.

“You think last night was a mistake.” He’s never sounded colder, and you have to focus not to bite your lip. The stern expression on his face is unbecoming of him, but it’s also a great reflection of his fidelity. Now, the other side of the coin shows itself, with his icy eyes and clenched jaw.

“I never-“ said that. Though, is there any possibility of you explaining what you feel? The doubts, the unfamiliarity of these feelings. Could you say, I’m not sure about this thing in between us, without creating the same effect of his claimed words?

There’s a second of silence, as he’s giving you one last chance to speak up. You know, you know that the moment you try, he’s going to break that heartless look, and put his loving hand out.

“For someone who thinks it was a mistake, you don't seem regretful at all.”

“Because it's not, and I don’t!” The confession is for him, but it is hard on you. But that doesn’t mean you’re willing to repeat it. “But it can become one. This has to stop. We can’t go further than this.”

“Why?” He’s trying his best not to raise his voice in this quiet, quiet hour.

“Because this is just- just an infatuation. It will go away. And to remember this time as a good one, we have to be careful, and we’re starting to lose that sense.”

An infatuation. That is the strangest insult he’s ever heard, but the worst nonetheless. An infatuation. The more he repeats the word in his mind, the more his anger grows, with a goal to show you otherwise.

“This is not what happened last night, and you know it.” He was as clear as day, and you honored that likewise. There was no lie. “If this is about you getting pregnant, I swear -”

“No, that's not it.” For once, you show something about the bond you have. “I have no concerns about you, or the whole society, should that happen. I’d even happily move away somewhere nobody knows my name and raise them.” 

Why is that option uttered, when there are far easier choices to make? “You’d rather build a new life than marry me?”

You remain silent once more, owning the coward you are. This is exactly why this wouldn’t work, anyways. He shakes his head, catching himself still thinking of ways to convince you, to work through the problem. He even thinks of walking out of the main door, and running into your father's study, forcing your hand in marriage.

You can see that thought play in his head as his gaze becomes fixated on the door.

"See. That's why.” You beg. “This is just an obsession, and you are maddened with it. You can't see reason, or listen to the sound of it, and I can't watch you make decisions like this. Is this how you actually want to treat me? Blackmail your way into marrying me?”

“So, this is what you think of me.” Blackmail. 

“No, Obi Wan, are you even listening to me?” You cover your face with your hands, a moment to recollect yourself. “Do you know when my next trip is scheduled?” 

Oh. You and your infamous life on the roads. 

“In three days. And do you know I already postponed it once?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean we have very different lifestyles, and they are not compatible.”

“Or maybe, you are running from something so long that it has become a habit.”

“I do it because I like it. Because I promised people that I would see them before the end of autumn.” The latter part of your answer is not in your favor, but his, a product of overthinking. You discover that a little too late. He sees it too, along with the fragile curl of your lips, but doesn’t use it against you. Not anymore.

“I wish you a safe trip, then.” That’s the closest you’ve ever gotten to regret your preferences, as he takes a step back, and dresses himself in a blink with perfection. It causes you to feel vulnerable, like his stoic face and impeccable outfit which somehow looks even more put together than yesterday, when he was helped to put it on, paints him like a statue of a Greek god who is putting you on trial.

A trial that you fail.

Yet, by not punishing you, he gives you the worst sentence: Incarceration with your conscience.

[sage-nebula]

I'm thinking about Knuckles, and how little we know of him, and how what little we know of him informs what we do know of him, and how that makes some of the writing around him (in various canon materials and adaptations) feel . . . kind of disrespectful, at times?

What we know of Knuckles' backstory is this: he is the last of the echidnas, and specifically a descendant of the Knuckles clan. The Knuckles clan was an empire under the rule of Chief Pachacamac, and when they tried to take the Master Emerald and Chaos Emeralds for the sake of their nation's power, Chaos went on a rampage and wiped most of them out. Pachacamac's daughter, Tikal, sealed Chaos into the Master Emerald along with her own spirit (sacrificing her body in the process), and those that remained enshrined the Master Emerald on a chunk of land that they hefted into the sky to become Angel Island. It's there that they vowed to protect the Master Emerald, but because there were so few of them already, now Knuckles himself is the only one who remains.

What we don't know is: how the remaining echidnas on Angel Island died out, and whether Knuckles' parents were around when he was born or not.

We don't know this, because echidnas hatch from eggs at least in real life, and we don't know that they don't in the Sonic universe. And we also don't know how long it would take for those eggs to hatch . . . essentially, we don't know if Knuckles was born alone on Angel Island, with only the little animals and the Chao there to keep him company. We don't know if perhaps he named himself Knuckles, after a clan he never knew, to try to feel some connection to his heritage. We do know that he doesn't know all there is to know about Angel Island, that he doesn't know the meanings behind a lot of the murals (which is how Eggman was able to trick him back when they first met), which would lead me to believe that if his parents were around, they weren't around for long enough to teach him about his culture or their sacred duty. That perhaps they weren't around long enough to give him a name of his own, rather than just taking the clan name.

All of this is to say, if Knuckles was born alone (or if his parents died when he was too young to remember them), and he's just had to piece together what little he knows about his people and his culture from what there is on his island . . .

. . . then it kind of makes moments in canon when Sonic or others pester him to leave the island or to stop taking it all so seriously feel kind of . . . insensitive at best.

Like, I do get it. Sonic himself doesn't care about his own past, he has no ties to any family (besides Tails) or culture, that's all fine for him. But it's clearly not fine for Knuckles, who very obviously wants that connection, especially if he's the one who named himself after his clan. And while I get it from a character standpoint for Sonic, part of me also feels like writers have validated Sonic's view in things like having Knuckles decide to go on a journey away from Angel Island after Frontiers, after his conversations with Sonic goaded him into it a little. Which again, as a writer I understand, because it's hard to do things with Knuckles if he never leaves Angel Island. You have to bring the plot to him, or else you can't include him. But at the same time, he's literally the last of his people. And the only connection he has to those people, those people who are lost and that he can never get back, are there on Angel Island, in ancient murals and ruins he's not sure he fully understands no matter how many years he spends studying them . . . I don't know, I just feel like some more understanding or compassion could be given to him for this. Like the way his eyes lit up in that IDW issue when Amy returned the echidna artifact to him -- that was something made by his people! That's a part of his history! He may not (probably doesn't) understand its significance, but now that's another lost connection that he has. And while Sonic might not care about things like that, Knuckles does. That's important to him, and that should be respected.

I don't know, that post about how Knuckles is not just a warrior (or, imo, a warrior at all, but a protector instead) has just had me thinking about him the past couple of days. I'm not saying that he should stay locked to Angel Island forever, I do think it does him good to socialize with his friends as well . . . but I also wish that the writing respected a bit more often the fact that he is the last of his kind, that the island and the ruins there and the Master Emerald are all he has left of it, the only way he has any connection to his culture at all. And honestly, much as I love Sonic, and as much as this is an E for Everyone series, I do think that, at times, Knuckles should get to tell Sonic to fuck off when Sonic starts going on one of his "don't be so stuck on your dusty old island" spiels he sometimes goes on. Because it's not really about the island, and Knuckles' feelings are just as valid as Sonic's. Perhaps even more so, on this topic.

But that's just what I've been thinking about.

[fair-city-reporter]

I won't be giving this an official caption/title because I literally don't know what to call it, but uh- I'm a participant for Whumptober this year! For anyone who doesn't have the slightest clue what I'm talking about, whump is defined as a genre within fandoms involved in physically and mentally "whumping" (or rather angst'ing) a character. Whumptober's meant to be this October event where creators (artists, writers, etc) create whump for characters - both fandom and original.

I'm really wanting to be a completionist this year, meaning I'll be able to finish and post all 31 prompts but here's the thing: I have finally come up with an idea for what I'm doing in regard to the second prompt. I'm writing here since I decided it would be for Wordgirl; I was originally going to seek help on how to make it whumpy before I remembered I'm allowed to combine themes and prompts however I like. After giving it another glance-around, I came up with a neat little trick on how to make it work!

I'll cover the main idea I had for the incoming whump prompt, but I will not be talking about the full scope of the plot - just to make things a little more interesting! Essentially, it's a role reversal ft. ToBecky which is quite self explanatory; years have passed since Tobey's debut as Fair City's hero and has been at odd ends with Becky's villainous persona but following one of their latest encounters - something brings them closer than ever before... and it's about to get dangerous.

Read below the cut for general information about the role reversal au!

The role reversal originally began as a joke between one of my mutuals; after having seen fanart - I decided why not make my own and thus began this silly project of hero Tobey and villain Becky. Wordgirl obviously doesn't exist in the context of this universe as I wanted her villain name to be different.

How I envisioned it working out;

Instead of Becky being taken in by the Botsford's, she's found by Steven Boxleitner, before he was ever fused with Squeaky, and he decides to adopt her - not wanting to leave Becky and her 'pet' monkey alone in the forest. Things are fine for a while, but she doesn't become Wordgirl; wanting to follow in her adoptive parent's footsteps, she spends a lot of time in his lab and helps with his projects where need be among other small things. Unfortunately, at some point - Steven has his accident and he becomes Dr. Two Brains, beginning his spiraling descend into villainy.

As for Becky, she originally starts as being this sort of not-quite henchmen to Dr. Two Brains; assisting in some of the heists, as well as helping with plans and such. All things normal, but what's a bored alien to do? Well, she decides to create her own villainous persona (only something goes wrong, but we'll get to that later-). Sometimes she'll work alongside Dr. Two Brains, and other times she focuses on her own mischief. Becky has never once harmed a civilian but she's kind of a menace and at one point meets Tobey. (Granted, they also go to the same schools, but still-)

I also feel like Tobey's still the one crushing on Becky/[REDACTED] but Becky is currently treating it all as if it's all a fun, little game of cat and mouse. Tobey also does not have powers per se and is more like a mini Tony Stark, is currently my vision. I thought it would be fitting that way.

If anyone's curious, I'll be covering more later while avoiding spoilers! I need to turn on asks, I think but grrr - for now, I'll leave at this!

[casinotrio1965]

Disney Descendants : Fabiana x Sir Kay hc part 8

Fabiana and Kay like to have tea when he's around. It's a tradition that actually does make certain parts of their lives easier, because the kids can have a snack, they can have different kinds depending on what they're doing (about to nap or whatever) and just chill

While Kay doesn't like most modern things, he is weirdly fascinated by stamps. They're not as secure as the royal seals used to seal messages in wax, but they have detailed little pictures! They're great. Fabiana buys him some when she can

They like to tease each other by pretending (very obviously pretending) to be angry or pouty. They keep going until the other one will kiss them or teases them back. It's one of their many games

They have a few inns they like to stop in around Camelot when they're going somewhere. They're always so warm and comfy and it's really nice to not have to cook for themselves or eat rations for once on the road

They love riding horses together. They'll laugh and race all day. Kay likes to show off the tricks his horse knows and Fabiana will laugh at her horse being silly. They take care of them when they're done and bask in a good day

Fabiana gets invited to tea with the ladies of the court almost every day. She's the wife of a knight of the round table, so she has the right. It's just an excuse to get together and eat a bunch of little snacks and gossip. Kay's just glad she fit in.

They have an apartment in the castle and it's really cool. They have the kids set up in bedrooms (though the boys have to share) and they have their own sitting room and can have the kitchen bring food up. It's a nice little home away from home

They'd like to see more of outside Camelot but frankly? It's a huge adjustment. Fabiana really likes seeing what's out there but Kay would really rather not. Stuff like magic carpets makes more sense to him than a car

He's well educated to Fabiana. Kay speaks a few languages and knows a lot about fighting. He's good at riding and he knows his way around Camelot. He's also spent an annoying amount of time getting to know who's who in the Camelot court.

They like to meet their friends for drinks. It always involves lots of singing, dancing and music and it's a great way to reconnect since Kay's always out on work. They usually end up with sleeping friends on their floor when that happens

Fabiana and Kay are both very frugal. Fabiana had to be growing up because of her financial situation and Kay just doesn't like to spend money on something stupid. So they're very careful on what they spend money on

They still kind of have a hard time remembering things aren't quite the way they used to be. When they think of China they either think of the 1800s (Fabiana) or anywhere between 400s to 1400s depending on when Sword and the Stone is set for example.

They're still not sure how stable their lives are. After all, Artie very clearly wants to change the way Camelot works and have a lot more modern technology. Will that mean no more knights? And of course Stromboli is free (and Kay already plans to sock him in the jaw)

Fabiana is a little worried about Stromboli being out now. She doesn't think he'll come to Camelot but it still worries her to think he'd find her one day. It doesn't help that Kay's on high alert for Mad Madame Mim for Wart right now. She caused enough problems while she was ON the Isle, they didn't need her off it! Needless to say, Kay disapproves of the barrier coming down.

Kay loves to show off cool stuff he found while on campaign or while he was working to Fabiana. He tells her some really cool story about where and how he got it and she's always impressed by how far he goes just to find stuff for her to see.

With Help from @askauradonprep

[looptroupe]

since goe and lup have the ancestors they do i wonder how they would approach the prospect of having kids? Fuji doesnt seem like the kinda person whod want kids of her own but i wouldnt be surprised if lups been with other women. Goe doesn't seem interested in romance at all for the most part but maybe thatd change once hes a bit older. How would they manage kids while being thieves I wonder 🤔

Oooh… this is a good one!

I can’t see Lupin ever settling down for long enough to ever actively parent a kid. Of course, his legacy is important to him, as it has been to his father and grandfather, but he’s never been one to do things by-the-book.

Goemon, I thjnk, would be more inclined to live a slower, easier life. He knows he can’t pretend to be young forever, even if that doesn’t necessarily mean having kids.

Lupin is great with kids from a merely entertainment-centric standpoint. He’s animated and wacky and constantly in-motion; and most kids love that! His natural charm makes him a wonderful candidate for children’s birthday parties, but not so much for babysitting. He is, of course, level-headed enough to safeguard a child. He cannot, however, be trusted not to let them get away with murder.

In fact, he… actually actively encourages bad behaviour. In his experience, breaking rules is great, and it’s exactly what he did as a kid. And who wouldn’t want to turn out like him?

On second thought, maybe don’t leave your kids around him at all. Just to be safe.

When it comes to kids of his own, Lupin is pretty indifferent. He loves the idea of having someone to carry his family name into the future, but he knows he could never be a reliable father figure. He recognises first-hand how messed up it is when your dad is some daredevil big-name thief, and he knows that he couldn’t possibly give up his lifestyle for long enough to break that cycle.

Over time, maybe he starts to recognise that there’s potential for an adopted heir of some kind further down the line? I can see him taking an older kid under his wing and teaching them the tricks of the trade, and I think that would be a much better fit for him and his nature and the level of responsibility he can reliably be trusted with. We know that he’s more than comfortable sharing his life with his found family, and I think having an heir who isn’t necessarily a blood descendent wouldn’t be any kind of issue for him.

The Lupin name itself is important to him, however, and he’d make a huge deal of passing it down to someone else. You don’t get to wear the Lupin name and not live up to the legend. He’ll make it his mission to haunt you otherwise.

In short: they’ll have to be one badass kid.

Goemon isn’t planning on settling down any time soon, either. Though he toys with the idea, he knows that he isn’t satisfied with his own abilities yet. Training is rigorous and the hours he spends away are long. He can’t in good conscience have a child when he’s so busy bettering himself.

With that said, he is well aware of the slow passage of time. He recognises that they’re all going to get old one day, and when he can no longer work, he will need other things to keep him busy and fulfilled. While he has no active interest in children, he doesn’t totally write off the idea. It’s just… there, in the back of his mind. A situational ‘maybe’, if you will.

After all, Goemon… struggles, shall we say, with children. He finds it a little grating to constantly have to explain himself and the world around him, especially in simple terms. While he’s kind and generous in his own way, it’s clear that the distance he keeps socially might not always gel with raising a kid; especially when it comes to teaching societal norms and expectations.

To Goemon, in opposition to Lupin, his name is less about passing it on and much more about making sure that he himself does it justice. He is going to be the best he can be, because that’s what his name implies. The weight of his family’s history is on his shoulders: THAT is what’s important to him.

With that said, I think out of the two of them, Goemon is most likely to have children of his own. While Lupin may have a protégée, Goemon would likely take a much more active role in parenting a potential child. I think he’d secretly enjoy all of the baby babbles and firsts he’d get to experience. As long as he had a helping hand, so he could slip away for a break every now and then.

The secret third answer to this prompt is Zenigata, by the way. Again, not the most… devoted or present father, that’s for sure, but certainly the best father figure out of the whole gang. Probably the most likely to have children, too, considering he’s been there, done that, left to get the milk.

Also definitely the most intent on passing down his name. If he wasn’t insanely obsessed with Lupin, I reckon he’d be living a stereotypical nuclear family lifestyle. Definitely deep in the closet, but you know what? At least he’s great with kids.

[aquicat]

The Trials of Mathurine (Les Essais de Mathurine Modern English Translation)

For more information of Mathurine de vallois please check the wiki.

In short, Mathurine was a court jester of France in the 1600s, she foiled an assassin, gave no fucks, and spend her free time writing hilarious political satire, apparently. So, without further ado, this is my translation of (what is thought to be) her writing:

When I consider my life, I find it seasoned with many useful moments. Albeit, the little children squark: “Aga! Mad Mathurine!” at me as I pass through the streets. They are right: It is true that I’m tainted by this disease: my senses can be rancid and my imagination becomes mouldy and dislocated. This came to me from a rifle shot I received to the head at a ballet of Caresme-prenant. Baste! 

Even if I am mad, there is one occasion I was able to seize so bravely that I am reminded of it more every year in the form of twenty and thirteen jacobus of rent, without counting the trick of the stick.

There are those who believe they are made of cloth, and there are also ‘clever people’ who are more foolish than I am a beast by half past seven. Consider (if you please) that I spend my time with cheer and without melancholy. If something turns me to boredom, I simply visit my good friend, who makes me eat his hissope [fragrant] soup - that’s as fat and bacon yellow as golden thread; and in the end I can fall back on my lecherous shield: “Until goodbye, Mathurine.” However, I am always ready for commands in the service of gallant men, whether in peace or war, at all hours. The armour of my costume is always in good condition as I often have it polished. This is with a whimple made for the occasion, as there are furred parts at the front.

By Jove! Tabarin makes more profit from two or three buffoonish questions, shitty riddles, or silly jokes than his master does with his holy, disease curing remedies because the world wants nothing more than to banter. [Quack doctors often had clowns travel with them, Tabarin is one such, and a famous one, I believe] So he ends with slapstick, so that people will remember him and want to return. 

The wisdom of this world is madness before God, which makes me hopeful that (in this country) I will be rewarded for double food, for I am doubly mad! If all the madmen and madwomen in Paris  wore cruppers, many would be walking around with their ass skinned, for there are all sorts of madmen, of all ages, qualities and sexes. But they are mad in the fashion that trots, and, as Master Guillame says:

Some are mad and others strange

As marvellous as beautiful angels

Brand new descended from heaven

And those are glorious madmen

There are qualities which are farce and serious; they carry proud arrogance. You would think, by the air pursing their lips like a new bride, that they were Socrates himself! Therefore, about this kind of madmen, Master Guillaume says: According to our good devout doctors, we call them wise fools.

And of course, they find nothing well done if they have not done it themselves. Lord give me faith if they noticed someone on someone. They’d set us to leaf through all the approaches of Aretinus father than find fault with theirs; perhaps they would like to inform against them, claiming that this one is not in fashion yet this one is. I am weary for this list of reproaches! Good people, we create in all fashions, and we have already achieved this quite well as there are more than fourteen jubilees. You other readers, have you heard of a certain jumble of pamphlets called ‘the Caquet de l’Accouchee? Doubtlessly you have, for more copies have been sold than of the familiar epistles, or oration of the saints.

A certain person presented me with a copy the other day, and reading it greatly heated me. Judging by the temper in its words, I immediately saw that it was written by another malcontent, who was above plundering no lip. These people have no wit to conduct themselves, and would wish to be given the world in their palm. It is pure ambition to envision oneself as one day canonized by Master Pierre du Coignet. But the chapter on Notre-Dame is full of the reformation of the priests who sing about the defeat of the Huguenots and death of the Grand Turk in the taverns. I’m sure you know well that the narrator of the Caquet is a fashionable fool. He says that he has been ill at the beginning of his litany - no doctor can tell, but he is in grave danger of death as he no longer knows what he is saying.

Whoever plays the chatterbox did not have a good influence on him, and he boasts about his heritage just as he does his mind. I think he may have gnawed, like a viper, at his mother’s stomach to get out had he not found the plughole at the base of the womb. Maybe she made him kiss her ass as he passed (which he found dirty at the time) and this is the reason he wants to take the whole female sex in his pocket? I heard Pierre Dupuy claim he is the bastard son of a Pasquin, yet I know nothing of him other than that he is known for his caquet and that he is considered the brother of Merlin of England. Notice, ladies, how he flirts about the street women, old young, puny, qualified, public and of all conditions who have not thought on his flirting any more than I have of being a soldier of Babylon.

Do you notice that he is like the monkey who pulls chestnuts out of the fire with the paw of the greyhound? I perceive that he would like all woman to be an echo of his stupidity, and charlantary the subject of his state reforms. For less than a hundred crowns, I will tell you some reasons.

For the first item, let us begin with the Isle du Palais [a prison on an island]. His curiosity made him approach Tabarin: “Are you ill?” Tabarin said. “Yes,” replied the chatterbox, “but my illness is not contagious, it is but of the mind.”

“I addressed myself to you with credit from your master, who is thought to know marvellous, marvellous things. And he was never stingy with his knowledge. You can look about whatever you want. But I will provide what you desire, I am no less a scholar than he,” he said boldly. “I would like, honest lord,” he said bravely, “if your benevolence obliges, to learn your means of telling the virginity, or lack of, of a girl. Because, besides avoiding being a cuckold, it would benefit me among company.”

Then Tabarin replied, “is that all? I will satisfy that desire - one must know these things before loving. Go to Cormier’s and have dinner prepared, and we will get better acquainted. In the mean time, I will ponder my most exquisite secrets, and will return to you in an hour.”

“I will wait for you there,” said the chatterbox.

“I will go and find you,” said Tabarin, “have the wine put to cool.” Both made it to the place, and dined deeply.

After dinner, Tabarin said, “sir, these are not day to day questions of the chaffaut. Moreover, all work requires pay, as I’m sure you know.”

“I know it well,” said the curious one, “so I beg you to put this couple of pistoles in your pocket.”

“Good,” said Tabarin, “listen… when you wish to know the virginity of a girl, put one of your hands on her cunt - do you hear me well? Then, at the same time, blow into her ass. If you feel the wind on your hand, she is undoubtedly pierced. And there, that’s for your money. Farewell, sir.”

It is one of Tabarin’s old tricks, which turned the man green again. And so the laughter remained refined. Nevertheless, he vowed to have revenge on the jester and affronter. That is one reason he is angry at women. 

The second reason is that (by Saint Barbara!) no one has cared to listen to him, or to make a point of his flirting except for an old picardy woman, who was going to shout the mustard. Still he could not enjoy it.

Also, it is a very empty defence. Jan Vouaire, though they say I am ugly and mad, I would not have lent him my ass to kiss. [some joke about Saint Fiacre that is beyond my translation capabilities]. Necessity has dragged him so low that he has made a profession of lending money, and was forced to approach all sorts of women of a fine sort, which he has now exchanged in the office of a pimp. You should have seen him going door to door like the pig of saint anthony! He asked the ladies authority, the damsels for courtesy, the presidents and mistresses of requests, counsellors, favours; to the lawyers council, to the clerks coppies, to the procurators care, to the clergywomen writing, to the solicitors diligence, to the financiers money, to the bourgeois lodging, to the merchants estoffs, to the bakers foüace, to the roasters flesh, to the tavern keepers wine, to the chambermaids service, to the artisans credit: on which was founded the strongest of all his hopes. But knowing himself doomed, he drank as if he were castrated…

Further, having introduced himself to an old woodswoman who’s got the reputation of having experience and knowing deep secrets of nature, who can tell you a good story property and finely draws the coin from the hands of the daft ones like him. Now he found himself lovesick to the third degree and resolved to seek help in this old woman and a pitiful place full of mortal sins, where he fell for almost the same trick that Tabarin had played on him. Upon entering, he greeted this nymph of Pluto, “my gossip, is it not obvious, from my face, that I am ill?”

“Yes,” she said, “I have a remedy for everything, except death. What is your illness? There are several. It’s not the plague, at least?"

“No,” he said.

“Well!” she said, “is there not a problem with the head, stomach, arms legs and all else?”

“No, my illness is worse than all that,” he said.

“I wish to withdraw from you,” she said.

“Don’t worry,” he said, “it is not contagious. How to say… it is a woman’s illness.”

“Is it,” she said, “an illness of the womb?”

“No,” he said, “I mean the illness is caused by women.”

“I see, so be it,” she said, “well, there are chancres, colts, pisse-chaude, pox, crystaline and other types too. What kind is your disease?”

“None of those, none of those,” he said, “no, the evil that works on me is love-sickness.”

“Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!” cried the Adade, “have courage! You will not die from it, and I’m the expert on that. Why, you have found the shoes to fit your foot: there is no one in the world quite like me; ready for anything, like a minister’s chambermaid, expert in the woman’s trade. I know how to erase freckles and wrinkles from the face; I make talcum oil to perfection, I know how to make a joint tighten so that a runner might be taken for a virgin.” In short, she showed him a multi tiered box full of ointments, on the lid of which was written:

The medicine here

Is good for curing urine

And for taming thrushes,

Mares cure farcin;

It makes many thefts,

It makes rebirths sing,

It makes young ladies crave love.

“Now… what you seek is another item. Let us speak softly… I have brought a certain little root from Egypt which will make you loved by the virgins. Is that not what you seek?”

“That is it,” said the man, “it would bring me great happiness if, by your means, I could experience this science and achieve my dreams!”

“You want to know, don’t you sir?” replied the woman, “I honour the archbishops; I do not walk in front of the cross.”

“So I understand, my friend,” said the chatterbox.

 Now, here is something to laugh at. “Yawn, sir: which one do you want? Tell me her name, and I will just force her to come and sleep with you.”

Our man, half ecstatic and rubbing his arms, names the woman to her. She begins to plot to take one of her comrades, hideous, deformed and capable of killing a delicate person, to his bed. He had his way with her, then, the next day (wanting to look upon his beautiful subject in the daylight) he was overcome with fear and shame, believing that it was Prosperpine.

He wanted to flee, but she followed him saying, “Pay me! Dear Lord! Is this how you thank the world after you’ve used it?”

And three!

Also, near the same time, the doctor promised him a certain drug to make him robust in the game of love. In effect, his prescription was sent to an apothecary, who made a grave mistake; for instead of giving him the correct medicine, he was given one ordered for one Franciscan for the purpose of releasing his belly. This was also given to his father-in-law, and they both found themself very astonished when the time of the medicine came. And, not knowing who to blame for his misfortune, our man raised his shield.

My mind turns when I think of this business, and I will go completely mad if he is not chastised like a true villain. Sus! Sus! Let every woman smear his face with cow dung! Let every girl spit on his moustache! And let them all curse him so many times that he can only defecate which whips and run from a beast the rest of his life! He is a villain, and knows not one secret of women: we are too wise as to babble in the way he says we do, not one of us is so foolish (if she had let the cat go to the cheese) to speak of it to even her closest confidant. Together, we keep this oath quiet; there is no young girl who would not rather do it twenty times than speak of it once. 

It would satisfy you to know that I have discovered the subject of the Chatterbox’s discontent: It was consulting and old Sibyl, whose tripod now serves to support my piss pot.

This makes me seem, when I want to, wiser than thirty-five Diogenes’ [philosopher]. Until goodbye! I cannot talk any longer on this; especially as Count Mansfeld [commander in reformation war] makes me lose my chatter. We must disperse all this chatter and leisure that influence this drunkard to hoax the women he drags around, for fear he will come to prevent the continuation of work in the hostel of my good friend - eat our melons and drink our wine. I will find out if he hasn’t returned from his trip to Notre Dame, and I will send you word by this same messenger.

Sanita et Guadaigne.

Read french the original here.

This was done with the help of google translate, though almost every sentence had to be re written, as (shocker) shoving middle french into a modern french translator does not tend to go very well!

[deicidis]

Withered In The Heavens

Morpheus x Noble!Reader, Edwardian Era

status: Completed One-shot

wordcount: 3.6k

warnings: Blood and Injury, health disease

18+ only, your media consumption is your own responsibilities. Warnings have been given. Do not proceed if these matters upset you.  

  Thus all doth fall. This hand of mine must fall

And lo! the other one:—it is the law.

But there is One who holds this falling

Infinitely softly in His hands.

 —

 The shadow pooling underneath his boots is a thing that brushes on the threshold of something unnatural.  

It is not something entirely garish, your father sitting beside you doesn’t seem to notice it. He is still talking with Lord Morpheus who sits opposite him. But the occlusion underneath his feet is darker than where the foot of the chesterfield sofa meets the carpet, the one where he sits on the brown leather.  

You think you need a nap and your eyes are playing silly tricks. Though naps are getting rather dull on your frail body lately. It’s all you do most afternoons, what the doctor suggests. 

Only soft duvets, no taxing activities. No sports or the likes.

You’d much prefer to spend time with Oscar and your Hemlocks in the yard. Some books, maybe tea. 

On a rare occasion like this, your father insisted on going against what the doctor suggested. That you acquainted yourself with lord Morpheus. You think you know where your father’s inclination comes from, a potential match for a suitor. 

Before Lord Morpheus came your father explained that the lord is not an English noble like you, but a descendant of kings from distant ancient lands. You believed that because he bears a disposition of one, holds a beauty in that archetypal way of being. Addressed with a title of one. A different kind of noble unrecognisable by the state, his wealth speaks louder than the station of his birth. 

Your father tries to entice you with fairy tale like qualities in hopes you would take a fancy.

Still, the purpose of his stay in London remains unknown to you.

With all that entails, his wealth, his beauty, the smooth polish of his boots and the shine of his slicked back short hair, is not so much intriguing as the shadow he bears. You almost don’t want to realise it because nothing should be able to do that.

It erupts you with palm—sweating anxiety, a little dread. A singular demonstration that he is something of an other.

And when you pulled yourself away from it, you caught the flick of his gaze, his silent acknowledgement in those taut shapely lips of his. His eyes gnawing into you. You avert your eyes from him to the windows as you sip your tea, hiding behind the cup. You feel like a child, her hands caught in a cookie jar. 

  —

  The second thing is his hair. It absorbs light in a different way. 

When the sunlight from the window behind him lands upon his back, it does not show the illuminated strands of brown even people with black hair usually do. It is a shade darker than normal. A shade lighter than abnormal. 

And it unsettles you.

Your parents seem unperturbed by it, still talking animatedly with him. Still enjoying the lunch they put together for him. Oysters, Lobsters, Veal cutlets en Papilotte, roasted calf’s heart and beef tongue. Pigeon pie and lamb chops. Trifle, Cherry tart, Blancmange, Apple pie Marmalade with Madeira and Port. 

And he barely touches any of it. 

That very act of deliberate inaction irritates you. And you want to strike this other with the palm of your hand, even if the act would surely harm your frail skin instead of harming him.

"Isn’t that right, (y/n)?" Your mother suddenly ropes you in.

"Pardon?" 

"Oh this girl, lost in her head again. Please forgive her Lord Morpheus."

He merely gives you a polite smile. 

"I’m sorry. What were you saying, mother?" Blush blooms on your cheeks. 

"The Soirée Marquess Cavendish holds is the most extravagant in all of London, isn’t that right, (y/n)?"

The Soirée is extravagant, lavish. But it grows trite very quickly. Lord Cavendish prides himself on his 80 course meal for every event to stuff yourself fat, 30 musicians for the orchestra to dance the night away. Bouquets and bouquets of fresh flowers at every corner of his manor, the gaudiest chandelier high society has ever seen. But there are only so many trends and innovations he can keep up with that it dwindles as time goes by. The same pattern would resurface.

"Yes, mother. The best."

"Come with us, Lord Morpheus. I’ll introduce you to the peerage." your father, proud as always of his noble blood, of his title as Earl, almost preens under his own words. 

"It will be my pleasure." he said, his bright, beguiling eyes finding yours. Your heart races underneath your corset. You feel the blood rushing to your ears, to your neck. A coiling Python. 

A cough rips through your lungs, quickly your plate is layered in blood. Your blood. falling from your nose to your ivory dress and laces. Abrupt, carmine and garish. Rose petals drip richly. 

There’s a commotion you hear, your father apologising profusely to Lord Morpheus as he hurries to your side, the hysteria in your mother’s voice, the coming of her trembling hands. The servants' footsteps rushes to the dining room. 

You must’ve looked dreadful in front of the guest, leaking your blood like that, your hands hanging mid air unsure where to put, your mother grasping one gently. 

You find Lord Morpheus merely watches you, a pair of silver eyes like the necklace dangling on your throat, wringing like the jewellery. Turns you inside out. He’s not supposed to see this vulnerable side of you. 

You can’t stand the pressure of his gaze. His inhuman, beautiful eyes. Addled with something you can’t recognise. Pity? Disdain? fascination?

Your head is too muddled by pain to discern it. 

  —

  Your joints are throbbing annoyingly. Bruises blossom on your skin in a matter of hours. When you look into the mirror, you are met with a familiar sight. Your body in patches of red and blue. You don’t remember when it doesn’t. Your childhood memories are woven from the very same patchwork. 

Your mother would’ve scolded you if you so much as left the bed. But your bedroom with its canopy bed and silk drapes are starting to lose its colour, bleeding grey in your eyes. Dull and monotonous. You feel a little disoriented, restless. The silence of your bedroom and your vehement thoughts would only make you cry. With great effort you slowly course through the hallway of your mansion.

No paintings or plants are out of place, the candles on the golden sconces have been put out by the servants. The moonlight pierces through the windowpanes, lighting your path as usual. 

But the marble floor is unexpectedly colder, pinching your soles like little needles. A peculiar stillness hangs in the air. Deafens your ears with its silence. The painted eyes of your ancestors follow you disapprovingly, taunting you back to the comforts of your bed. The hairs on your neck stretches on end, as if your body is under the watchful gaze of the shadows residing in the ceiling, under the panelling of the walls, behind the tall vases. Waiting to strike you in your state of debility. 

To swallow you whole—your bruises and perpetually unclotted blood. 

Your hand moves to your throat on its own, a phantom of your silver necklace still dangling there. 

You swivel behind you, looking for a sign of life, only to be met with silence and dark vacancy.

  —

  It’s your rows of Hemlocks. Your head tilts to the side when you realise they are slightly—imperceptibly—leaning towards you. But not you precisely, someone behind you. Of course, when you turn, you find him silently standing nearby.

Other people would never be able to notice the change. But these are your Hemlocks. You tend to them almost every single day, children of your own.

And the way they behave is alarming. Plants shouldn’t be able to do that. Or at least that’s what you have always known.

What the fuck is happening?

"Evening my lady." he greets as he stands to your side. A pair of bright eyes searching for your face.

"My lord." you returned. Looking upon him, unmoving from where you sit on the ground. Your gloved hands are drenched in soil. Your dress stained by the dirt. Your tabby cat—Oscar—is by your side, stretching languidly under the cool afternoon sun. 

"I’m afraid my parents are away for the day." you continue. The servants must have let him in.

"I come for you, Lady (y/n)." he clarifies.

"Whatever for, Lord Morpheus?" you pluck the gardening gloves from your hands. 

"It was only yesterday that you were bleeding all over yourself. I think that warrants a visit for your wellbeing."

You swallow thickly. 

"You came for nothing, sir. It is a frequent occurrence of minor nosebleeds. I am perfectly fine."

"It's not Hemophilia then?" he stares pointedly at the bruise on your wrist. You turn it down in response. Opt to fondle Oscar on his stomach instead, as you realise you’re not the only one who notices things. 

If he's always been able to see the bruises peeking from your dresses, you don’t want to dwell upon it. 

Your silence is an answer in it on itself. 

He walks towards your Hemlocks, your plants standing tall towering over him. The shades of the flowers almost match his perfect, unmarred skin. Glows even under the setting sun. A shiver of jealousy washes over you. Yours looks more like the mottled stem. What you would give to—

"Do you tend to them?"  his eyes never leave the flowers shading him. Interrupting your thoughts.

"Every day when i could."

"Your cat could die from these." 

"Oscar is smarter than most cats." did he take you for a fool?

"My apologies. I did not mean to offend." his concession leaves something indescribable within you. 

"You did not." you say as you watch that pooling darkness beneath his soles, slowly entices you. Your heartbeat paces faster by the second as the dusk starts to swallow the light in the sky.

He fingered the white petals of your flower. Sampling its textures between his fingers. The plants are drooping lower, as if his mere presence is a windstorm. Pulling in everything in his path, and you and your flowers are merely the moorlands he would ravage. 

You don’t want to be his victim.

"It’s getting dark, Lord Morpheus." he understands your cue. He helps you to stand as he bids his farewell. 

"I hope we can see each other again soon, my lady." he kisses the back of your hand, his fingers linger briefly on your tender—bruised wrist. You almost wince from the pressure. 

  —

  You’re watching him conversing with your father and his peers from behind your Brise fan. Lord Morpheus looks immaculate in his formal attire. His short hair neatly slicked back, his coat tail hangs elegantly behind him. The white vest, white tie and white gloves complement his skin without flaw. He appears as if he belongs with the English peerage. He could be the king himself. 

The young women are restless. You can see it in their eyes, in the way they hold their fans as if they could fan the temptation away. The giggles they share. Lord Morpheus is someone new to the scene, rich, young, painfully beautiful and desirable. But the older women scorn his presence, along with the older men. You overheard their whispers, that Morpheus only uses your father’s kind nature to climb the upper class. As if he’s merely a parvenu.

The notion is entirely ridiculous.

You barely know the man, but you don’t think it is in his nature to be deceitful. It has always been your father’s way of being kind and welcoming. Naively trustful of others. 

What his nature is… that you don’t know of. 

Hours passed and the boredom is quick to settle in your stifled yawns. Week after week, no matter how grand a ball is, no matter if the lord cavendish is dishing 80 course meal or some other Marchioness or Earls or Viscountess are trying to outdo the other, everything is the same. The ingredients are always the same. The crystal chandelier, the fabrics of dresses the women wore. The same conversation of class and politics, you’ve seen everything. Tasted it all.  Heard all of it. 

And when you return to the comforts of your home after this, it will always be filled with bruises and the same books with the same blood leaking out of your nose. 

The women and men have taken to the dancing floor. You are content by watching the shiny fabrics of the women’s dresses twirl under the chandelier. On your periphery you realise Lord Morpheus is coming your way. 

"My lady, may i have a dance?" he offers his pristine gloved hand. 

"You may." 

You did not know what came over you. You’re not much of a dancer. But his hands beckoned, beguiling. The warmth of his palm that settles on your waist pierces through your corset, flares your skin alive.

The crowd watching is lost to you, the room spins in a blur until there are only his eyes, swallowing you whole. Marbling under the light, lifelike tendrils. You are lost in it for long, His irises seem to grow alive, and it convinces you that you have grown mad. For you can see the stars and moon and the night sky with billions of uncontainable stars within. 

Dazed, you stumbled back. But his grip is strong on your waist and it keeps you upright. 

"Are you alright?" his concern seems that of a farce. Though unfounded it is your irrational suspicion that he knows of your discovery. In which you remove yourself from his grasp and try to put some distance between you. Found solace in one of the dark hallways of Lord Cavendish’s mansion, lit only by moonlight from the rows of windows. 

A solace far from solitude. You feel his presence in the dark ceiling. The shadow settled in the corner. The hairs on your neck stretch upwards. Litters your arms with shivers.

"Come out." you whisper to him, he splits himself from the shadows soundlessly. 

"Are you a vampire?" you finally ask the inevitable. Amused smirk curled his lips.

"A ghost?" you continue, and he merely circles you. Drinking you in. 

"The devil?" you hold your chin high. You try not to show him the traces of fear boiling in your gut. 

He is silent still. His bright eyes pierce you whole. 

From his hand, a stem of Hemlock blossomed. He holds it between you.

"i am a part of you."

You feel impatient over his cryptic words, but you still ponder them.

"You are fear?"

"Not quite."

"Love?" 

"sometimes."

"desire?"

Something flickers in his eyes, but he is silent.

"Are you my dreams?"

His smile confirms your words. 

"The god of Dreams…" it stuns you. His name should have tipped it away. 

"Clever," he said with admiration and a hint of contempt at the same time.

You take the stem from his hand. Twirl the flower between your fingers. It looked so much like yours back home. Smells like one. Mottled with purple and blue. You wonder if you rub the sap on your eyes will it kill you too.

"You’re hounding me." You mutter. 

"You did it first." 

"Only because your human form is fractured at the seams." 

He tilts his head upwards. His smile reaching for the brink of something sinister. 

"Do you want to know what the seams would unfurl?"

Your heart races. You don’t know how to exactly answer that question. All this time what use are your inquisitive eyes if not for this very moment. To know his true nature? 

"I can show you everything." He offers you his gloved hand. Pristine, like the forbidden fruit, tempting you to the core. 

But you swallow your desire deep, deep down to your stomach. You hope it will never resurface again. You turn your heel and leave him in the dark hallway. Crush the flower in your palm until it disintegrates into golden sand.

 —

  A sudden vertigo strikes from the base of your neck, and you lose your footing because of it. You cut yourself with a shard of glass on the pavement after you fell from the carriage, digging through your arm. Cover your fingers with black and blue spots. 

The cut lasted for half an hour, your doctor came and treated your wound at the behest of your father. But the internal bleeding is another matter. Your knee is swollen and painful, hot to the touch. You cry yourself to sleep that night, with your mother’s cool hands gently caressing your feverish forehead. Her eyes are misty. She tries so hard to not let it fall. 

You sigh in relief when morning comes, the swelling has receded, and you smell sickly sweet from the sweat of the fever. The servants help you into the clawfoot tub, and you ask them to leave you alone after they scrubbed you clean and lathered you in citrus scents.

You rest your head on the edge of the tub. Your bruised fingers grip the porcelain as you contemplate the broken capillaries. What you would give for another skin, another body. Hale, beautiful. Perfect and unblemished. Perhaps one like him. 

What drives you to call his name is more an impulse of desire than need, ripping through your lungs after suppressing him all night, ripe fruit bursting. 

It is as if he waits for you to call him that he appears before you even finished mouthing all the syllables of his name. His short black hair neatly pushed back from his beautiful face. Dressed in a black coat with black shirt, the tip of his polished shoes shines bright from the sunlight filtering through the window. The silver pin on his black Ascot winking at you. The very picture of an Edwardian man. 

"Lady (y/n)." he takes a step and perches himself at the edge of the tub. Takes his fill of your skin. 

You ponder his face for a moment. And he seems content to be scrutinised under your watchful gaze. He counts the bruises littering your skin. You see it in the way his eyes ricochet from one to the other. For the first time in a long while you don’t feel self-conscious about your bruises.

"Tell me, is this your doing for rejecting your offer?" your tone is more accusatory than you would have liked.

Even as he looms over you, even if he wields every power in the universe, you’re still unsure whether it is in his nature to desire harm upon you. There is a flash of wounded pride. And his mouth pulls down a little steeper.

"Wounding an ailing woman, what do you take me for?" 

"I don’t know what i should take you for." you feel a little tired. A feeling of tightness in your chest labours your breathing just a little. 

"Take me as i am, as what you found me out."

You snort a laugh.

"Lord Morpheus, what i found out of you is more questions than answers." 

"Then come with me, and you’ll have all the time in the world for the answer." he dips his hand in the tub to find your hand resting on your stomach submerged in the tepid water. 

Your tears gather in your eyes, leaking down your cheeks. The porcelain on which your head rests becomes more uncomfortable, and you find yourself holding tight to his fingers with your bruised ones. 

"I don’t have much time. I am sick and i am very, very tired. I'd die from hemorrhaging the next time I fall from the carriage. What little time I have would be of no use to a god such as you." 

You almost choked over your own words. The words that were merely a fraction of how you truly feel; how utterly terrified you are meeting your end in a premature way, not laying soft from old age on your deathbed. How this illness defines you as a human being for as long as you could remember. How much contempt burrows at home within you every time you see your mother’s misty eyes and your father’s voice struck with paranoia at the slightest mishap falling upon you. 

But if he is truly a god, an embodiment of a dream, he would know of this nightmare.

He tightened his grasp just a little bit more. 

He knows 

"The sun could swallow the earth, the universe could exhale its last breath, but I can make sure Death would pose no problem to you."

He says it with a conviction that could only belong to a god, as if he knows Death so thoroughly he would know how to prevent one. It gives no room for doubt to plant its seed within you. His other hand brushes away your tears.

He helps you on your feet, helps you dry your body and hair with the towel on the shelf. Helps you loop your Chemise over your body. Smooth the fabric with his fingertips. His touch light and gentle. Feathers over your bruises. Soothes your throbbing unclotted blood. Achingly comforting you want to sleep on the palm of his hands. 

"Until you are ready, i will wait. Say it whenever you desire and i shall unfold myself to you." 

He takes your wrist and kisses the back of your hand. Disappear silently in the blink of your eye. Left a single baby Hemlock with its roots at the base of the marble tub. 

The evening after that day, you plant the baby into the soil of your garden with Oscar. Its darker shadow sets it apart from the other Hemlock. But you hope it will grow as tall.

[blazehedgehog]

Hey there Hotdog Laserhouse, what do you think of Ken Penders?

Controversial opinion: early Ken Penders is fine. When all he's doing is writing generic, simple SatAM-esque cartoon stories, they're okay. Not the greatest things ever written, but fine. I assume a lot of these stories were written when he was still treating the Archie books as "a job." He has openly bragged about not being familiar with the Sonic franchise, about having a certain detachment from the source material, and that's where these stories fall. When Ken Penders is writing just to cash a paycheck, it's passable.

It's when he starts to care. When he starts to take ownership. When he starts to write bigger, more complex stories, and it kind of gets too big for him to keep track of all at once. That's when we got story arcs that he started but forgot to finish. And when he started getting protective of his narrative and refused to let other writers play in his sandbox. He spent a lot of time undoing other writers work just to preserve the sanctity of his own plans (which would then stall out and become forgotten).

Unfortunately, there's more of that then there are the simple stories. And more of Ken Penders looking selfish and egotistical. More of Ken Penders trying to command a kind of attention he didn't deserve or earn.

In short, I don't like Ken Penders, and I haven't liked Ken Penders for a long, long time. And it isn't just from his lawsuits, either. He dramatically overstayed his welcome at Archie, something he once outright admitted himself. His books were canceled and he got fired for a reason. The fact that he continues to maintain the facade of his Lara-Su Chronicles "expanded universe" or whatever is frankly embarrassing.

The "Mobius: 25 Years Later" stuff that introduced his Lara-Su character was one of the most sluggish, bloated, slow, overwrought things Ken ever did while writing for the Archie Sonic book. It was very clearly an excuse to give him his own self-contained playground totally divorced from what any of the other writers were doing. While everyone else could write their silly little adventures about the present-day versions of the characters, Ken wanted to give himself the satisfaction of holding the keys to these characters futures. To be the one that wrote how Sonic the Hedgehog ends. To always literally be ten steps ahead of everyone else, in a place where nobody would be allowed to change his plans. And it would be something that would always be set in stone even after he left Archie. For as long as the Sonic book ran, he would always have the last word. His ultimate, egotistical legacy.

If you ask me, that's the trick behind his Lara-Su Chronicles book and why he fought so hard for ownership*. He still wants to be the one to say "I hold the ultimate power over the future and ending of this universe and nobody can take that from me." He gets to invent and own all the descendants of all your favorite licensed characters and play in his special quarantined sandbox forever, rather than accept the reality that he was fired for a reason and using that to experience growth as a creator. He's still living like it's going to be 2004 forever.

I think that's also why the book isn't out yet, after years and years and years. If he spends forever tweaking and perfecting it, it will always remain a piece of iconography for him. A symbol of what he once was, not who he currently is. He can always point at it in his own mind and say, "This will be my magnum opus some day." If that day never comes, he never has to reckon with what it might actually be. And so he can say that Lara-Su Chronicles could become a movie franchise, or a video game, or whatever. He can pretend forever and ever to still be relevant. All he has to do is drop some off-the-cuff tidbit on Twitter about Princess Sally's lost virginity and suddenly all the hornets in their nests start buzzing his name again, just like old times.

And as long as he can still do that, it will always be 2004 for him, this will always be his magnum opus, and he will always control the future of that universe.

And that's depressing.

*This might also be why Ian Flynn has become public enemy number one to Ken. When Ian introduced himself as a writer for Archie Sonic, one of the first stories he did was messing with "25 Years Later." He later compounded the problem by introducing his own offshoot, called "30 Years Later." Suddenly, Ken's legacy wasn't his anymore, and Ian had literally scooped him by writing from a slightly-more-futuristic date. No surprise that all of Ken's "Sonic was just a job to me, I know I'm writing on a licensed book and I own nothing, and it was definitely time overdue for me to leave" sentimentality went out the window. In fact, Ken quietly began his war for ownership in January of 2009 -- the same time the first "30 Years Later" story was mostly likely starting production. Ain't that something?

[legguk]

Hi!! So,

it's my ( literal ) first time writing fanfiction, so I'm pretty new at this stuff, but Lady Dimitrescu is all I was able to think about for weeks and I >needed< to do something about it.

( If you want some context, I wrote this thinking “what if Alcina survived?” - Alcina's pov )

———

The fall,

The end of everything you once loved

Ethan Winters.

You woke up... somehow, you woke up. The frigid air hitting your fresh wounds felt like a jolt send by reality, as if one says "you're still alive" -

- and oh how you were starting to hate that feeling.

Laying on the demolished floor of your castle, muscles twitching in pain, mouth open gasping for air... that's how you are, how you will remember yourself from now on. A defeated dragon, a crushed woman, a dead mother.

You should get up, you should let go of your carcass and crawl your way back into the warmth of your home, you should—

—you should be dead, actually. Resting on death's cold embrace along with your daughters.

Daughters.

God, your daughters.

The memories flood your mind with a painful, unbearable reminder; they're gone, dead, crystalized - gone. They're gone. Your lovely daughters, your pride and joy, the main reason you'd open up your eyes in the morning...

...Bela,

Cassandra,

Daniela....

Their names are long cold, not yet forgotten - no, never forgotten - but somewhere else, as they don't belong here anymore; not on your arms, tucking them to bed. Not on your hands, caressing their faces. Not on your lips, kissing their foreheads. Not on your tongue, as you say them.

A raspy scream leaves your throat, it sounds disturbing.

You sob, hot tears trailing down your cheeks and neck, small cries for help find their way into the wind, disappearing with less importance then when they materialized.

You cannot recall for how long you stayed at that very same position, perhaps some hours, perhaps a day, but you are certain that at some point you were overcame by tiredness and collapsed - probably the best to do for now.

xxx

And so, rises the moon and the stars watch upon your limp body, the night howling a merciful wind and singing a melodic song. Grunting, you push yourself up with your elbows, sitting up and facing the sky through the hole you've made on the roof... and the levels above...

A huge carcass sits besides you, it's wings bended on itself and it's big mouth open to whoever would like to have a peek; you probably changed back into your normal body while unconscious... Now that you can see it clearly, you notice the damage that man-thing did to you... by heavens, how were you still alive and...

Oh. The castle. You look forward, taking in the horizon - the stars look exclusively shiny tonight - you breath in, the dusty air causes you to chough a few times. Stretching your neck a bit to see your whole house, you tell yourself it looks.. fine, actually, ignoring the broken windows. The broken windows.

It's cold. You shiver harshly, panting as the air meets your bare back and rumbles through your lungs, making you hug yourself, - you're naked, you just realized - the winter in Romania is truly kind to no one.

Your legs tremble with just the thought of trying to stand on your feet. You don't rush to do it either, let the wintry breeze take in your wounds, make it sting, burn it, freeze it; freeze your body along.

“To die. To die is to live. To live without them, that's torture. To live without their presence, absent of their scents, to not hear them, nor see their faces again, that's worse than death; far, far worse. How could I ever walk into that damned house without the heavenly sounds of their laughs, the tapping of their feet as they walk free, the steadiness of their heartbeats, reminding me that my own still beats.

Beats for them. For them only.

And they're gone.

So who shall my heart beat for? Myself? No, that wouldn't do. I will rip it out from my chest if I must, sacrifice it to any god who may hear me, all so I could spend five more minutes with them. Then I'd die in peace and find them at my arms again at whatever comes after this poor life.

But I'm here.”

You still hold yourself as you stare at a castle's - broken - window, new warm tears hanging the same trail the old and now dry ones did, a silent cry.

Your intrusive thoughts were abruptly cut by a loud noise from the inside of the castle, making you jump up, gathering all your last strengths to stand and walk a few shaky steps closer to home. The more you walked, the louder the noises got; a little rustle became a bang, and your tiptoing became a sprint, you hold yourself as tight as you can, ignoring the bleeding, the cold air spiking your lungs, how insanely fast you heartbeat was. You need to get there, protect the last remnant of them you still have.

The gates felt heavy now, even for you, who would open them with one hand. Where is your strength now? The fearless dragon who'd do anything to protect her house? Perhaps she died on that fall, and now all there's left is a shadow of what you were one day.

With much pain, you open the big doors, leading to the comfort of your house; you don't get in, you throw yourself in. The warm atmosphere engulfed you like a summer kiss on a winter storm, all you needed to ground yourself to reality for now. Grabbing some sheets laying over an old counter, you wrap yourself in it – oh, that's gonna get soaked in blood, but that's not of your concern now – moving incredibly fast for someone as hurt as yourself, you follow the continuous sounds that could not mean something good. The main doors are open, the cellar is unlocked as well, that idiotic man-thing couldn't even close the doors once he finished slaughtering your home? Imbecile.

You stand at the library's door now, suddenly frozen; you know what happened in there... do you really want to get in? Are you truly ready to face it again? Maybe you should take a step back and walk away, it would be the most logical decision to take now.

But what is logic when the heart screams? What is the brain for once your emotions take the best of you? You can't walk away. Put some honor on your name. Save the last bit of your daughter that fate is still conceiving you. Your chest rises and falls completely out of coordination, your fists close around the fabric involving your body; get ready, you're going in; gather the last bit of courage you have inside yourself and blast these doors.

And so you do.

You bring those pieces of wood to the ground, the only barrier between you and the reality you couldn't accept; a guttural growl forms in your chest as you see a lycan approach your child's crystalized body; you're blind with ire, sorrow, protectorship - you name it - and it makes you shout at the top of your lungs as you dilacerate the filthy beasts you'd bat your eye at. A bloody trail of corpses marks your way through the castle grounds, your claws dripping with fresh sanguine fluid - which you can't tell if it's from the creatures or from yourself - the crimson path follows you all the way to the other wing of mansion like a spirit who must haunt you for eternity.

You scream like a feral animal, blood soaking the once white cloth around your form; the scream becomes a shriek, which descends to a yelp, ending as a furious cry. You can feel the anger leaving you, like the waters of a waterfall; explosive, big portions of water falling into a numb, deaden lake. Hopefully those waters will carry you with them, you shall fall and sink at a anesthetizing lagoon.

You kneel, eyes closed, eyebrows frowned; a loud sigh fills the deafening silence in the air, your mind is blank – better, your mind is red, scarlet red mixed with black, ire and grief. Slowly, your head lower itself so you're facing the floor.

The big Lady Dimitrescu,

kneeling on a pool of blood, defeated.

•

“Lady Dimitrescu!”

Who..? The voice was so far yet so close, you try your best to focus on the direction of the calls but your nerves just won't cooperate.

“Lady!”

Who would be calling for you? Is your mind playing tricks on you now? And since when you were laying on the floor? Too many questions for too little answers. You try to stand up, but a sharp pain on your side made you cry out and fall on your back, face knotted in pain – perhaps your adrenaline rush was keeping you from feeling what was really happening with your body, and now you feel like you're betraying yourself for that.

A small figure approaches you in a fast pace, causing you to unleash your claws one more time and snarl at the not-so-possible threat; you were hurt. Vulnerable. Letting someone close was the last thing you wanted now. The humanoid thing backs away a few steps with your aggressive reaction, hands on their chest, visibly afraid – even though your vision is quite blurry, you identify their expression: scared, desperate, sorrowful – they call out once more, almost shouting.

“Please, Lady Dimitrescu, let me help!”

Ah... Help... The now clearer feminine voice washes over you - a wave of compassion - as if hope has found its way to your house again. Well, it better go away again, or you'll drag it out yourself.

“Out.” was all that left your lips, your intense gaze locking with hers, a silent yet not so discrete warning; although you had only said one word, it was well understood by the woman, who stepped away, eyes still meeting yours, a dreadful cast hang on her face.

Still, she didn't left.

Is that girl testing her luck? It can only be. Once again you warn her: “Leave. I will not repeat myself.”

Her posture stiffens, after a moment of silence she looks at the door, truly wondering about leaving or not; her body turns around, her knuckles going white from how hard she was grabbing the fabric on her chest – she's conflicted. But why? Who is she, after all? – A long, defeated sigh leaves her, as if she knows there is no choice left.

“Allow me to help.” A failed effort on trying to sound confident; her voice is full of tears and her tone is oscillating – it makes you wonder if she has been crying – The human walks towards you, trying not to make any eye contact; you can't stand on your feet, you left hand is pressed on your injured side, the other is open and directing your now extended nails towards her.

Oh how funny it is, no?

The predator being cornered by the prey. The dragon being trapped by the rabbit. How ridiculous it is.

Her extremely shaky hands hang in front of her, trying to say she won't hurt you – oh if she only knew it's going to be the other way round. – One step closer.. Her lips and chin tremble; Another. Your claws grow bigger, eyes peering through her soul; another step, your eyebrows frown, her eyes are teary. The last step - your blood is boiling hot, your nerves on edge; you are still the predator. - a slicing sound and a half-scream saturate the air for a millisecond, just for silence to overfill it once more. Red splashes over the room again, on your face, on your chest, but mostly on the floor, where the girl was thrown at.

An agonizing scream leaves her throat - what a miracle, she remains alive - both of her hands cover her face, blood spilling all over her; what a sight, you would most definitely enjoy this very much on another situation. She cries out in despair, making you face the ceiling and close your eyes, a tired look on your face – you just want all this to end, you don't have any more patience for this. You want to crawl back into your bed and starve, you want to destroy this place, make it abandoned ruins of what one day was a home; you want to kill that damned sickening man-thing, kill this foolish girl for perturbing your grieving, and then yourself.

The woman captures your attention once again, she is kneeling, her body facing yours, her right hand presses her ripped face, the other makes its slow way up to you, although she is trembling, she manages to keep her hand steady enough to hand you a little green flask with a yellow-y label; You look closer, 'treatment disinfectant' it says... Oh you can only be joking. You feel like slaughtering the girl right this instant, but takes in a deep breath and holds the flask, her hand immediately falling along with her body. Is she dead? No, her slow yet consistent breathing exclaims that she is still alive – you honestly find it a bit offensive – You should, but you cannot bring yourself to finish the human; you should end her suffering, but now she caught your attention; and besides, she wants to help, doesn't she? then the price she'll pay is staying alive.

———

hahaaa I'm so nervous about posting this,,, ,

and yes! It is a alcina x maiden fic! I do plan it to be slow burn, and if some you liked it and read it till here, please like and/or reblog and I'll post chapter 2!

( posted on Ao3! Name: “The woman in your castle” )

( chapter 2 posted!! )

[absolutepokemontrash]

MC’s Half Demon and They Look Awfully Familiar Lesson 17

Series Masterlist

So, the aftermath’s here! This took significantly longer than I thought it would, but oh well. Enjoy everyone!

So, to recap where everyone’s favourite dysfunctional demon family are at right now: Belphie’s still guilt spiralling but he wants to make amends, MC is having a self worth crisis because of what happened, Lucifer was homicidal less than a day ago, and the rest of the brothers are very mad at Belphie.

So, a good little while passes, MC moves back into their room and doesn’t really come out or try to talk to anyone, Lucifer practically lives in his study, and Belphie holes himself up in whichever room that no one else is in.

Keep in mind, no one knows the truth about Lilith’s death yet because it never came up because MC isn’t a descendent of the human version of Lilith.

The brothers (sans Belphie) went and visited MC, who was very happy to see all of them, but everything felt kind of off, everyone was slightly on edge. But nobody brought it up because no one wanted to be the catalyst for the next big family fight, especially so soon after MC got hurt.

It had been almost a week and MC could barely cobble together the desire to leave their room. They had made themselves a prisoner in their own house right after freeing Belphie from his house arrest, how ironic is that?

Stupid…

How naive could they get? To think that just because they were family that everyone would welcome them with open arms? And how stupid would they have to be to believe that they were a proper demon like the rest of them? Demons were manipulative tricksters at their nicest, if MC didn’t understand that than they were a shit excuse for a demon.

Spending time lying in bed staring up at the ceiling wasn’t the best way to pass the time, but MC had grown tired of flicking through the same five apps on their DDD and had contemplated chucking it at the wall. With nothing to distract them, MC was alone with their thoughts.

Of course they couldn’t fend off Belphegor, of course they lost… they barely had any better a hold on their magic than they did when the year started. They weren’t a full demon, but they weren’t some weak little human either, but maybe things would have been better if they were human. If they were human, they wouldn’t have had magic, they wouldn’t have had a fighting chance at all. There would have been no shame in losing. But MC wasn’t a full human, they had their fighting chance and lost anyway.

“MC?”

Their head snapped towards the source of the voice. Through a bright gold glow, they saw an unfamiliar woman, her eyebrows were knit with concern. Not being able to muster up the energy to really be openly panicked, MC sat up and rested their head on their chin, then raised an eyebrow.

“What?”

“Oh! Um…” the ghostly woman puffed out her cheek and twiddled her fingers as her eyes darted around the room. “I didn’t exactly think this introduction through, my bad…”

It was MC’s turn to be confused, standing in front of her was a woman who didn’t look like an angel or a demon, yet somehow was able to cobble together the magical strength necessary to actually make herself visible to MC. And now, she was stressing about an awkward introduction.

“I’m Lilith!” The woman finally blurted out, she clamped her eyes shut and quickly stuck her hand out.

MC blinked at the outstretched hand like it was a completely foreign gesture. “…what?”

“Yeah! Um… I uh…” Lilith withdrew her hand and facepalmed. “I’m really sorry…”

“I-uh… Lilith? Like… Lilith, my father’s sister Lilith?”

“…yes?”

“…please explain.”

And Lilith did explain, she explained the ghost bit, how she can’t technically go up to the Celestial Realm nor does she want to, and how she’s kind of been playing guardian Fallen Angel to the entire family.

MC finally got to learn the reason the Grimoire was in the tomb, and why their father was so damn loyal to Diavolo.

Lilith also explains that she’s kind of the reason MC is down in the Devildom in the first place. Lucifer picked an entirely different totally normal human, but Lilith switched the files and MC was brought down instead.

MC still obviously had questions.

“So…” MC mumbled. “That’s why he tried to kill me.”

Lilith pursed her lips and looked away. “Yeah…”

MC let out an explosive sigh as their hand unconsciously creeped to their neck. MC’s fingers brushed over raised skin from barely healed over scratches.

“He wants to apologize.”

“What?”

“Belphie, he wants to apologize to you.”

MC snorted and rolled their eyes, they shifted over so Lilith couldn’t see their face. “Hmph… maybe if he grovels enough I won’t sic Cerberus on him…”

“You’re under no obligation to forgive him-”

“I know!” MC snapped, grinding the base of their palm against their eye to stop the tears that threatened to burst. “And I won’t!”

The problem was, Lilith’s story actually ended up making MC feel bad for him, which made them feel angry at themselves, which made them feel more upset than before.

On one hand, Belphie was motivated by the loss of someone incredibly close to him and never received closure because Lucifer kept Lilith’s “survival” a secret.

On the other hand, Belphie tricked, manipulated, and then tried to kill MC. That couldn’t just be waved off with an “oh he was just grieving”

After some deliberation, MC decided they were going to do one more thing to help Belphie.

“Father.” MC hit their knuckles against the door to their father’s room. The door opened almost immediately and Lucifer stood in the doorway.

“Yes MC? Do you need anything, are you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, I just need to talk to you.”

“Come in then,” Lucifer stepped aside and MC walked into the room, he closed the door behind them. “What is it?”

“I know about what happened with Lilith.”

Lucifer froze, MC did their best to hold his gaze and not waver.

“You need to tell everyone.”

“…how did you find out?”

“She um… told me. Lilith, I mean… she’s still around.” MC awkwardly twirled their finger in the air as they explained. “You’ve kept this hidden for too long, the secret has to be told so this can end.”

Lucifer wasn’t on board immediately, but eventually, he was convinced.

Everyone was gathered, including Belphie, and Lucifer explained what had really happened the day Lilith had died.

Of course there were shouts of shock and outrage that slowly melted into a melancholy silence. Lilith was still around, but her presence was so limited, but she was still there with them! Their sister was still there!

When everyone dispersed to go process the news, Belphie approached MC.

“H-hey.”

MC almost outwardly shuddered at the sound of the Avatar of Sloth’s voice, but they held firm and turned to face him.

Anything they wanted to say died in their throat as MC got a good look at Belphie for the first time in over a week. He looked like complete and utter garbage. His hair was a mess, bags lined the underside of his eyes, and his entire posture seemed to just droop like a wilting flower. Though, it wasn’t like MC had much of a platform to stand on when it came to critiquing appearance at that point in time, they looked just as awful.

“What do you want?” MC asked quietly, they had meant to put more force behind their words, but most if not all of their focus had gone towards not allowing their voice to break or waver.

“To apologize.”

So, Lilith was right, he was sorry. Rage bubbled in MC’s gut as they clenched their fist. How dare he think he could just, apologize and think everything could turn out okay?! MC opened their mouth to scream, cry, hurl every insult they had spent the previous week thinking about, but nothing came out. The anger subsided and MC deflated, they crossed their arms and gestured for Belphie to go ahead.

“Go on.” They mumbled.

Belphie’s gaze drifted to the wall, he clenched his pillow tighter to his chest, then looked back to MC. At least he had the decency to look them in the eye.

“I’m sorry for what I did, MC. I messed up and I hurt you. I blamed you for something you had nothing to do with, even though you were nothing but nice to me. No excuse would make what I did any better, so I’m… I’m sorry…”

MC gnawed on their lower lip and knitted their eyebrows. He sounded sincere enough, but MC wasn’t just going to roll over and forgive him just like that. They were still so angry and betrayed, but they didn’t want to be. Stupid feelings…

They took a deep breath and squared their shoulders, looking Belphie directly in the eyes.

“Okay.”

“…okay?”

“Okay.” MC repeated. “I’m not going to forgive you just to absolve your guilt, but I’m done with this. It’s over and I’m moving on. If you’re really sorry, don’t ever do something like that again.”

The tiniest glimmer of hope sparkled in Belphie’s eyes as he nodded. “I swear on my life I’ll never do anything like that again.”

MC stiffly nodded. “Good. Now, I’m going to my room. I have school tomorrow.”

When Belphie turned to go back to his room, Lucifer melted out of the shadows and stood next to MC.

“That was very big of you.”

“Thanks father.” MC mumbled.

“Are you sure you want to go to school tomorrow? I can ask Lord Diavolo to extend your time off.”

“No,” MC shook their head. “I’m ready. Besides,” They stifled a giggle. “I don’t want to miss everyone’s reactions to Human History.”

Wanting to watch demons freak out about weird parts of human history is a very valid reason to want to go to school.

Anyway, all eight residents of the HOL goes back to school, and MC’s cover story was that they had gotten the flu and was too sick to go to school, and Belphie had been brought back from the human world early. No one had the balls to question the seven rulers of hell, so no one asked any questions.

Luke was very excited to see his friend again, so excited that he got in trouble for talking in class. No big deal, lunchtime was still free for them to talk!

The day was perfectly normal, which was a blessing for everyone.

Diavolo officially deemed that Belphie was no longer a threat to the exchange program, so Belphie was allowed to return to his student council duties without issue.

Things between Diavolo and Barbatos and MC were quite… confusing.

For one thing, Diavolo was the crown prince and MC had really liked him before the stuff in the previous timeline and learning about exactly how he had secured their father’s loyalty.

And for Barbatos… he was just fucking terrifying.

“MC!”

The sound of Diavolo jovially calling their name jolted MC out of their thoughts. Thinking about the upcoming Demonology midterm would have to wait.

“Hello, Lord Diavolo.” MC knew better than to be openly pissed at the soon to be monarch, especially after everything that had transpired.

“Are you doing alright, MC? How has school been treating you?” Diavolo continued to pepper MC with questions with barely any gaps for MC to actually reply. Barbatos stood on the sidelines with a soft neutral smile on his face, which only served to unnerve MC more.

“I’m doing fine, Lord Diavolo. There’s no need for concern.”

Diavolo’s rampant questioning came to a stop, and MC swore they could see his expression fall ever so slightly.

“I’m glad to hear that, MC. If you need anything, just ask!”

He ended the interaction with a hesitant pat on MC’s head before walking off to his next class. Though, the presence of the butler still loomed behind MC.

“While I’m very glad you’re well, MC,” Barbatos said icily calm. “I must ask that you refrain from going into my room again.”

“Y-yes sir.” MC mumbled.

“Have a lovely day.”

Reason why everyone should be at least a little afraid of Barbatos #473

The relationship between MC and the Royals does end up getting repaired eventually, it’s just… really awkward for the time being.

Home was still awkward as all hell, the murder attempt definitely weakened the brotherly bonds MC had spent months repairing, and the hostility wasn’t doing MC’s emotional recovery much good.

“This is ridiculous.” Lilith’s voice popped into MC’s head while they sat at the dining table finishing up their homework. MC jumped slightly in their seat and frantically looked around for their aunt’s apparition.

“What’s got you spooked?” Satan asked from his place across the table.

“N-nothing. Just a chill.” MC quickly replied, trying to go back to their work.

“Nice recovery, MC. Very smooth.”

“Shut up!” MC thought. “What are you doing in my head?”

“If you want me to leave, just say so.” Lilith’s nasally childlike huff nearly caused MC to openly roll their eyes.

“No, what is it? What do you need?”

“I don’t really need anything, but look at this fractured house!” Lilith cried. “This is worse than the time Mammon stole everyone’s pocket watches!”

“Pocket…watches?”

“It was 1803, get with the program, MC.”

“Lilith, what are we talking about here?”

“Oh! Right! Well, this house is insanely divided and sucky right now, it’s terrible!” Lilith whined, as much as MC hated to submit to their ghostly aunt’s whining, she did have a point.

Just that morning Asmo just happened to neglect to paint Belphie’s nails when he went out of his way just minutes earlier to track down Lucifer to make sure his nails were painted. Later when Belphie walked into the library with Beel, Satan ended up picking up the cat and walking straight out. Satan walking out of a library was like a fish walking out of water.

That wasn’t the only thing either, Mammon had taken it upon himself to be a human (or demon to be more precise) barrier between Belphie and MC at almost all times. The only times when Mammon couldn’t do that was when the witches decided to summon him.

Levi continued to be a recluse, but on the rare occasion he did come out, there was no friendly hellos between him and Belphie.

Lucifer… well, he did a good job hiding his contempt. He had respected MC’s decision to let Belphie try and fix things and he himself seemed eager for everything to be fixed, but he wasn’t exactly aiding in the repairs. Every time he had to look at Belphie it was so expressionless that MC swore that Mammon could swipe someone’s wallet right in front of him and Lucifer wouldn’t even frown.

Even Beel, he bounced back the quickest in terms of being ready to be around Belphie again, but the even psychically linked twins couldn’t fully shake the feeling of distance between the two.

“Well, what do you want me to do? Last time I tried to fix this family’s problems I almost died.”

“H-hey, I don’t think you should joke about that just yet…”

“Bite me. I wasn’t joking.”

“Well… okay. But I can’t really manifest any power right now! Smacking some sense into Belphie really took a toll on my ability to do much.”

“Hmph…” MC thought long and hard, well, two minutes long. “We could hold a movie night.”

Lilith gasped and MC swore they could hear the sound of her clapping her hands together. “Yes! Everyone can hang out and eat popcorn! Oh it’ll be great! Build a Fort! Forts bring people closer together!”

The movie night was the first of many little get togethers that MC quietly orchestrated to get everyone back on speaking terms with each other. They weren’t a direct part of all of them, but they could see the good they were doing.

A small video game tournament, going out to eat together, just relaxing in the same room, all of it added up, and sooner rather than later everyone was back to… not hating each other.

The brothers are still brothers after all, there’s always that tiny instinct that tells siblings to try and ruin the other’s day

As for Belphie and MC’s relationship…

Things slowly but surely moved back to the way they were before. MC came out of their room to sit with everyone and hang out, everyone progressively let Belphie back into their lives, and the nightmares gradually lessened.

For the first time in a little over a month and a half, MC felt truly safe again, which was odd considering they were in their planetarium with someone who they declared they’d never forgive. They still hadn’t, but things had gotten better.

Belphie was doing his damndest to show that he was truly sorry about everything. It started off with small things; helping MC clean the house, giving them pencils when they didn’t have any, covering for them when they had dinner duty,

The little victories may not have seemed very noteworthy, but to Belphie and MC, they were everything.

“That’s Orion, that’s Orion’s Belt,” Belphie pointed up at the shifting ceiling of the planetarium, tracing each and every constellation that he saw and pointing them out to MC and Beel. The latter had seen these stars and heard Belphie’s explanations a thousand times over, but never tired of them. MC was staring up at the gorgeous sight of the human world night sky they had left behind with a small smile on their face.

“That’s Ursa Major,” Beel pointed up as he offered MC the bag of chips he was eating.

“Mhm,” Belphie quietly chirped, he then pointed to a nearby constellation. “And that’s Ursa Minor.”

“Huh, if you connect these stars, it looks like a pair of pants.” MC piped up, tracing the set of stars.

Belphie snickered and nodded. “Yeah, it kind of does.”

“Look, that one’s a spatula!” Beel pointed at a constellation, Belphie snorted and facepalmed.

“Beel, Buddy, that’s the Little Dipper.”

After a little while longer Belphie let out an explosive yawn and stretched out like a cat. MC and Beel yawned in response.

“I’m goin’ to sleep.”

“Belphie wait,” MC giggled. “You can’t sleep here!”

“Watch me.”

“You’ll get a sore back, Belphie.” Beel picked up Belphie and slung him over his shoulder as the Avatar of sloth began to snore, he then turned and sat MC on his other shoulder. “Bedtime for everyone.”

MC let out another yawn and rubbed their eyes. Maybe Belphie had the right idea, it was late as hell…

——————

Author’s Note: You ever know how you want something to turn out in your head, but the moment you go to write it down you kind of want to yeet yourself into oblivion? Yeah that’s what happened here.

The game itself didn’t give me much to work with in terms of how everyone would react if MC didn’t shrug off their near death, so… 🤷‍♀️ oh well! What’s done is done!

[goron-king-darunia]

Annon-Guy: Richter - 1. In DotNW, do you think Emil would rather have both Marta and Richter on the same side with him (which was ironically achieved in Rays.)? 2. Not that I don't find anything wrong (aside the murder attempt), but why do you think Emil sided with Marta over Richter? 3. Why do you think Emil tries to reach out to Richter in his sidequest (apart from finding out what he intends to do to Ratatosk and why he tries to kill Marta) despite their conflicting goals?

I think Emil's life would have been made dramatically easier (and then dramatically more complicated) if he and Richter and Marta could all have been on the same side. If he'd gotten his wish and become part of the Vanguard at the very beginning, he might have had that happen. Or, if Richter had never been against Ratatosk, Emil's life could have gone... so much more smoothly. But then, you know, that dissolves the major conflict. Emil cares a lot for both of them, especially since they both appeared at a point in his life where he needed support most. So I'm sure having to pick one over the other really hurts him.

Honestly, I think the murder attempt was the big issue for Emil since Richter kind of refused to explain. "Yeah, so she has this gem on her head and the gem is the core of a Summon Spirit who murdered someone in cold blood and I need that gem so I can kill that spirit once and for all." Instead of "Ratatosk is a Demon Lord." "No, he's a Summon Spirit and he helped me by sending Emil to be my knight." "Shut up and die." Words can help change things, Richter. Other than the whole murder attempt, I'm not sure there's much else to it other than Emil thinking Marta is cute and they're both technically the same age bracket. Now Emil continuing to side with Marta is, again, probably Richter refusing to explain things and also just... by virtue of Emil spending more time with Marta and also not really seeing Ratatosk as a bad person since Ratatosk "helps him" fight. Though now I'm thinking. How deliciously tragic would it be if Marta went around collecting all these cores and hatching them while Emil works with Richter on trying to capture her and Emil slowly growing to despise Ratatosk after hearing Richter's story so that when the time comes and Marta is captured, he's ready to help Richter take the core. Only... destroying it doesn't do anything. They go to the Otherworldly Gate and descend to the Ginnungagap and discover that the demons say the pact is not fulfilled. And then discovering that... not only did they kill Marta for nothing... but Emil, who has made fast friends with Richter at this point, is Ratatosk. And for Richter to get his wish, Emil needs to die. But in doing so he would doom the world and Richter with it, because to preserve whatever he can, Richter would need to stay behind in the Ginnungagap and burn his mana to seal it. I'm not saying it's a better story, but it's an extra layer of tragedy, no? I don't think enough games trick you into being the bad guy by making the bad guy's goals so delightfully enticing. In any other story, avenging someone who died trying to save the world is noble, right? But in this story, trying to do that is a doomed and selfish venture from the beginning. I'm just saying, they totally could have let you choose who to side with and still had virtually the same climax and both stories would be excellent.

I think Emil, being all the parts of Ratatosk that the Spirit sees as weakness, is by his nature trusting, kind, and vulnerable. Richter was the first person to show him kindness, and to someone like Emil, that was important. Even after everything Richter did, Emil always had that first spark, that first impression, of a guy who went out of his way to help him. And that was important to Emil. Being seen and heard and valued and helped. So he sort of held onto that. Because no one had treated him like that before. Everyone in Luin treated him like shit. So Richter, and then Marta, both trying to be nice to him without knowing him, well, Emil latched onto that affection. As much as I interpret romance, the game pretty clearly wants Richter to be a sort of mentor figure to Emil. He teaches Emil to fight, how to be courageous, how to stand up for himself. And Emil see's Richter's confidence as something to emulate. Richter's a sort of role model for him. So I think it's some combination of wanting to repay Richter for his kindness and wanting to spend more time with the man he wants to be more like. Though with those few skits... I dunno. The romance angle is tantalizingly palpable...

[kazewhara]

YA KNOW WHAT ABYSS AETHER HAS BEEN CAMPING IN MY MIND, SO MIGHT AS WELL: so, my personal headcanon for the twins is that aether is the closed off twin — he wore layers and layers of masks that he carefully crafted to perfectly hide the real him; he's cunning, he's smart, he never shows his real emotion for he need not do that for people that he will only meet once, after all, why would he let himself be attached to a fruitless tree?

meanwhile lumine is actually the more expressive twin — she wore her heart on her sleeves, her emotions flow smoothly like a river. that doesn't mean she's oblivious, no, it just means that she shows what she feels more freely than her brother; she get angry, she laughed when she's happy, but most importantly, she let's herself form attachment to people that she met — and that's where aether comes in to swoop her from what's going to be a shackles later on in their journey.

aether is the mind and lumine is the heart of the two of them.

that's why, when you saw them playing a different role in game; as the abyss ruler, you'd see that they're different from one another — lumine is more cold, as she had learned how to put on a mask during the hundred of years where she witnessed the calamity that descended over this world, tevyat. she had hardned herself, finally realizing what her brother meant all this time. and aether seems more relaxed; after all, he knows that sometimes, things that should have been praised could be seen as a sin when a higher power deemed it as so — he seems as if he's not serious about his position, but he does. it just that he doesn't need to look like it for his eyes are coldly piercing into you.

that's why; abyss prince aether who finally found a safe heaven in you seems very soft, gentle and kind. he doesn't treat you as if you're just a place where he can rest, no, he treats you like you're his home. a place where he can go back to when the day is done.

he loves you, more than what you even think — it's expressed in the way he looks at you, the way he speaks with you — the way none of his masks stayed on him when he's with you. aether loves you so much that the mere thought of tricking you with a masked version of him, sickened him. he only wants the best for you and he knows you'll be able to comfort his sister with his absence; he trusts you enough to let you inside the unbreakable bond between him and his little sister. he knows that it's a risky choice, but for you, he'll do anything. anything that he could do in his power, he'd do it with no second thought.

his favorite time of the day would undoubtedly when the two of you would meet during the dead of the night, where nobody could see you — this time is spend with him pouring all of his love into you; soft whisperes of confessions, stories of his journey, genuine compliments of things he found out about you — he becomes nothing more than a loving lover when it's just the two of you.

sometimes, the thought of bringing you into the abyss crossed his mind — but he can't do that, not to you, he can't. he knows how the abyss is actually like; how heartbreaking it actually is. he could not stomach the thought of you having to endure all of this just because of his desire. but all of his turmoil was immediately stopped when you hold him in your arms, kiss him like a long lost lover, and reassure him that you'd stay right beside him, no matter where he goes, no matter where the universe lead him.

he'd share his thoughts and feelings with you, he'd hide nothing from you. all you ever deserve is the best and that means the best version of him; the real him.

loving you felt like something he chose to do before he was born; it's not a staged destiny, it is simply a choice he made and he has never been so happier with his decision.

prince aether lived with the comforting thought of you loving and supporting him — and that's all he ever need.

and in turn, he'll give you the world; the one he will accomplish after his war with destiny.

YESAHAGWGAVWHSAHDGD$*@&@*#;#,÷;

I LOVE HIM SO FUCKING MUCH PLEAKAKWWJSJSBHSHSBD IM GONNA CHERISH THIS

[1dmonthlyficroundup]

1D Monthly Fic Roundup 

Hi, and welcome to the 1D Monthly Fic Roundup for April 2021! Below the cut you’ll find 17 One Direction fics that were all published this month in the order they were submitted to the blog. We hope you’ll check out these new fics! If you would like to submit your own fic, please check this post on how to submit or visit our blog @1dmonthlyficroundup​. 

To Begin Again by @chloehl10​ / lovelarry10 

[Harry/Louis, 23k, Teen and Up, tumblr post] 

“I, uh, I’m really sorry for yelling at you like I did.”

“Hey, I deserved it and more. I’m lucky you didn’t come and deck me on the nose,” Louis said, holding his hands up as if to surrender. “Seriously, you went lightly on me. If a crazy dog was leaping around me and my kids, I’d have lost my shit long before you did, and it would have been a lot more sweary than yours as well.”

Harry laughed at that, quite liking the man now he was getting to know him. This Louis seemed to have a good sense of humour, and his dog was fairly likeable too, laying there sound asleep, sunbathing.

“Well, I don’t usually lose my temper, so I just wanted to apologise.”

“It’s me who needs to say sorry. My stupid dog ate their bloody eggs, and on Easter Sunday at that. It’s a good job we don’t go to church, Cliff, or we’d both be going straight to hell. Nice ears, by the way. I meant to say earlier.”

*＊✿❀○❀✿＊*

Harry’s ready to spend a fun Easter morning with his two children at the park, but it’s thrown into chaos when an over-excited dog and his owner come barrelling into their lives…

A Small Matter (A Matter of Trust) by @kingsofeverything​ 

[Harry/Louis, 18k, Explicit, tumblr post] 

Harry knows he and his Grindr hookup would be perfect together, if only he could convince him to give a relationship a chance. 

Or Harry has a thing for jock straps. Louis likes to wear them. 

Are you proud of me? by @sadaveniren​ 

[Harry/Louis, 2k, Explicit, tumblr post] 

Louis was completely naked, except for a silk scarf that Harry had never seen before. It was tied around his neck like a bow. His lithe body was cast in dramatic shadows as he descended the stairs and all Harry could think was holy shit, mine, mine, mine.

“Well this is a shame. I was hoping you’d keep the boa.”

Harry blinked in surprise at his voice. He was too caught up in his perfection. “What?”

“I guess the leather will do. I do love you dressed in leather.”

aka I show up 2 weeks late with Grammy Fic

Right Back Home to You by @behindmeday​

 [Harry/Nick Grimshaw, 4k, Teen & Up, tumblr post] 

It wasn’t the first time Harry and Nick were cut off before they really got started talking. In fact, it seemed to be happening more often than not. Nick had an insane schedule that no rational person would choose, but Harry’s was even worse. Between the early mornings on The Breakfast Show and the never-ending time zone changes of tour, it seemed that Harry and Nick weren’t really meant to have any real conversations these days. 

Or, Harry writes Nick a song. 

take my hand (my whole life too) by @beckydoesthings​ / beckywritesthings

 [Harry/Louis, 44k, Explicit, tumblr post] 

“You’re famous?” he asks, deciding to dive straight into the heart of the issue.

Harry winces, dropping his gaze to the table. “Erm… famous is one word for it.”

Well, that’s reassuring. Louis raises an eyebrow until Harry heaves a sigh and continues.

“How much do you know about the British monarchy?”

His stomach drops to the floor in a heartbeat, jaw following suit. There’s no way that what Harry’s insinuating is possible. But as the time ticks by, there’s no change in the deadly serious expression on Harry’s face, fingers twitching steadily on the table as he waits for Louis’ answer.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Or a Crazy Rich Asians AU with a royal twist where Harry is a prince, Louis is most definitely not, and there’s a royal wedding to attend.

Forever Is In Your Eyes by @so-why-let-your-voice-be-tamed​ / we_are_the_same 

[Harry/Louis, 126k, Teen & Up, tumblr post] 

Harry looks fragile in the moonlight, and Louis stands there, pondering, not even sure what it is that he’s thinking of. It’s all just noise in his head, a mix of melancholy and desire, of longing for something that he doesn’t even have a name for.

He wants-

He wants love. He wants to be held and cherished and have a home. Not just a place to lay his head down at night. He wants to be loved the way that Louis had loved creating Harry. He wants his perfect man, but he wants him to be real. He wants Harry to be real-

His lips press against marble, against something cold and unforgiving, and it’s not until his hand comes up to rest against a sculpted neck that his eyes fly open and he stumbles backwards, nearly falling off the stepladder that he’d stood on.

“Jesus Christ.” He whispers, shaking his head and resisting the urge to brush the back of his hand against his lips, erase evidence that isn’t even visible to the naked eye. Harry stands there, as though nothing’s changed, and of course he does, because he’s a statue.

A statue that Louis has just kissed.

Stuck in an eternal spring by @chrysopon​ / flamboyo 

[Louis/Zayn, 4k, Teen & Up, tumblr post] 

Louis is about to go crazy in the silent solitude of London’s lockdown. The only breach into the grey monotony of his days is the hope of catching a glimpse of the dark-haired guy who lives in the building across the street. One night they have their night cigarette together while both in their flats, twenty meters and an empty, quiet street between them. It becomes a habit, but maybe there’s hope for it to become something more. 

It’s Been So Long by @elsi-bee​ / elsi_bee 

[Harry/Louis, 31k, Teen & Up, tumblr post] 

Harry Styles’ first crush was one of his sister’s best friends, a certain someone named Louis Tomlinson. And Louis? He just vaguely remembers Gemma’s younger brother from back in the day. 

A lot can change in ten years. 

Featuring Niall and Liam as Harry’s friends, flirting, fluff, and flashbacks to the awkward days of high school. 

This Dream Lost by @zanniscaramouche​ / zanni_scaramouche

[Liam/Louis/Harry, 5k, Mature, tumblr post] 

It’s a dangerous game to play his Alpha like this, and it gives Harry a thrill through his spine he’s not sure he likes. It’ll be worth it, but he doubts he’ll be pulling any surprises on Louis for a while after this. He can’t fucking stand it as is and it’s not even really for Louis, it’s for Liam. 

Mercy by @zanniscaramouche​ / zanni_scaramouche 

[Niall/Shawn Mendes, 5k, Explicit, tumblr post] 

“I-” Shawn licks his lips, eyes bright and wide with the shock. 

Balls in his court now. He could refuse, step away from the line they’re toeing and laugh it off. But he doesn’t, just like Niall knew he wouldn’t. Because Shawn wants this. They both do, and that’s what makes it so fucking insane. 

Blind Faith by @2tiedships2​ 

[Harry/Louis, 18k, Mature, tumblr post] 

“Harry?” Liam prompted.

“I’m blind,” Harry eventually said, trying his best to keep himself from crying.

Liam was silent for a few moments, before responding, “That’s not exactly news, H. You were blind when I met you a year and a half ago. Have you been in denial this whole time or something?”

“No, Liam,” Harry cut in. “This is different. I’m not legally blind like I used to say. It’s not just my night vision. The tunnel from my tunnel vision has closed. I’m fucking blind! I moved halfway around the world in the hope of finding my soulmate and it’s obviously not happening now. Not even a soulmate is going to want to put up with a blind alpha.“

The Journal by @wait4ever​ / RecycledStardust & @evilovesyou​ / 4ureyesonly28 

[Louis/Harry, 14k, General, tumblr post] 

When Harry finds himself purchasing an antique journal in the ancient bookshop of a town he’s never heard of, he doesn’t exactly want to admit that he has no idea how he got there. A myriad of odd coincidences and a few kind smiles from the shopkeeper have the two of them working hard to solve the mystery of this strange journal that seems to have been waiting for Harry for almost a hundred and thirty years. 

But I’m the Quarterback by @evilovesyou​ / 4ureyesonly28 

[Harry/Louis, 52k, Explicit, tumblr post] 

Harry Styles is the quarterback of Sunny High’s football team, dating the beautiful head cheerleader, and determined to enter his senior year with focus and discipline. That is, until a strange man shows up at his home, makes his girlfriend break up with him, and convinces his parents to send him off to a “reparative therapy camp” over the summer. 

At True Directions, Harry meets four other boys and five girls, all there to be cured of their homosexuality. He has to find a way out of this place as soon as possible—Christ, he isn’t even gay! 

Know a Trick or Two by @sadaveniren​ 

[Harry/Louis, 45k, Explicit, tumblr post] 

The night before Louis is scheduled for a Portkey to begin training with the Vratsa Vultures in Bulgaria he heads into Muggle London for one last night of fun. A few months later he finds out he’s having a child. 

Eleven years ago Harry had a one night stand and now there’s a strange man on his doorstep telling him his daughter is something called a wizard and she’s got a place at the British wizarding school Hogwarts. 

Aka the one where Muggle Harry and Wizard Louis have a one night stand and get more than they bargained out of it. 

Until That Day by @kingsofeverything​ 

[Harry/Louis, 44k, Explicit, tumblr post] 

Harry Styles is days away from walking down the aisle when his previous failed weddings are turned into a public spectacle by jaded London journalist Louis Tomlinson. Hoping to witness Harry leave another groom at the altar, Louis heads to Holmes Chapel, where nothing goes as planned, and he finds himself falling for the serial heartbreaker. 

A Runaway Bride movie AU 

Caught In Your Gravity by @lululawrence​ 

[Harry/Louis, 63k, Not Rated, tumblr post] 

It felt like the blood froze in Harry’s veins even as he got a bit lightheaded. He hadn’t even made it two practices, only one of which he was remotely in charge of, without giving it all away and now he and Liam were both absolutely fucked.

“Shit,” Harry breathed out. “Who all have you told? Does everyone know? I thought I covered it better than that…”

“No, no,” Louis said quickly. “They’ll figure it out soon enough, though, because they’ll get used to you changing things up, but you’re only going to trip over your so called Americanisms for so long before they realize it’s because you don’t actually know fuck all about football.”

Harry sighed. “Yeah. I figured. I just need to bullshit for long enough to allow Liam to get the situation figured out from his end.”

“Right, which brings me to my entire point. I think we can find a mutually beneficial arrangement with all of this.” Louis leaned forward. “You need to learn the ins and outs of the sport incredibly fast. I can help you with that.”

“What do you want in exchange?”

Or, an AU inspired by a 30 second trailer of Ted Lasso that doesn’t actually have much in common with the show at all.

Passing By by @larryyouknow​

[Harry/Louis, 48k, Explicit, tumblr post]

Sometimes, people are in each other’s lives just for the briefest of moments. They meet and then go their separate ways because being vulnerable is scary and it might be easier to not let anybody else in. But some people aren’t meant to be just passing by. Maybe when they open their eyes, they can learn things about themselves they haven’t known before. If they let their hearts speak they will find a way to be together.

Or the one where Harry doesn’t even know he’s into guys until he meets Louis on a boat trip. There’s something more to their friendship but it ain’t gonna be smooth sailing.

[canary3d-obsessed]

Restless Rewatch: The Untamed Episode 06 part two

(Masterpost)

Warning: Spoilers for All 50 Episodes!

Bathing Boy Beauties

So, now we and Wei Wuxian get to see Lan Wangji with his shirt off. Eventually Lan Wangji will realize that his brother set this up, and will think of some way to get back at him, possibly by spending three years being stubborn in a cave or maybe by chopping an arm off of someone his brother cares about. 

This is A+ Yibo fanservice but it's also a male-male version of a trope that's ubiquitous in c-drama, in which the male lead takes a bath and the female lead sees him. The purpose of the scene is almost always so a woman can look a man’s body over and decide, not to put too fine a point on it, whether she wants to fuck him. 

Examples:

The Pillow Book - “Which part of Shen Ye is better than me?”

Women’s sexual agency is not often at the forefront in c-dramas, but the bathtub scenes are an acknowledgement of the female gaze, and of male objects of desire being subject to evaluation & approval.

Tientsin Mystic is a show with a lot of muscley swimming in it, In case you’re looking for your next Netflix show. 

As a CGI artist I have to mention that water does not reflect or refract 100% of light. If you look at a naked dingle-having person in a bathtub full of clear water you will definitely be able to see their dingle. But C-drama water is magic and nothing is visible below the waterline, to the point that Bai Yu is modestly covering his thoracic surgery scar chest in Detective L while leaving his lower half uncovered.

Note: that caption isn’t fake; she is really saying this on her way out the door, after having a long chat with him in the bathroom. You can find the whole series on YouTube.

Seen in this context, The Untamed’s two bathing scenes are saying quite a lot. Wei Wuxian, being a boy, doesn’t display any female-encoded shyness or modesty, but he and his sword pause for a moment of admiration.

(more after the cut!)

16 years later, Lan Wangji will sit quietly in this pool and let Wei Wuxian examine his wet body thoroughly from multiple angles, in a more prolonged invocation of this C-drama mating ritual.

Carrying on - was Xiao Zhan supposed to kick his boot in the water like that? Because if not, he rolls with it like a champ.

Wei Wuxian starts trying to be direct with Lan Wangji, giving him the worst, most neg-filled compliment ever, bless his heart.  

Then he says that there are benefits to being his friend, and starts taking off his clothes.

Wei Wuxian here takes his first step into the bold new world of respecting Lan Wangji’s boundaries, asking Lan Wangji to stay and saying he will keep his clothes on. 

Lan Wangji actually does stay, so he's apparently not too angry with Wei Wuxian about the drinking. Wei Wuxian invites him to visit Lotus Pier sometime (see my gifset here), but the promise of lotus pods doesn’t impress him. Then Wei Wuxian tries to tell him that the Yunmeng chicks really knock me out, they leave the rest behind. This also doesn’t impress him. 

You could read this macking-on-ladies talk as a sign that Wei Wuxian is oblivious to LWJ's feelings for him. But I read it as a bisexual boy being horny on main with a boy he likes, not  understanding yet that some boys don’t share all of his turn-ons.

Lan Wangji is sort of mildly startled when Wei Wuxian disappears under the water. His eye makeup is good here, isn’t it?.

Ice Cave

They end up in an ice cave and both spend the rest of the episode showing how good they look with wet hair. 

When the guqin starts attacking, Lan Wangji is only mildly perturbed about Wei Wuxian getting his shit rocked over and over.

Eventually he sends Bichen to protect his very bedraggled date. Lan Wangji’s sword is faster than the speed of a very slow sound wave.

Beauty's where you find it not just where you bump and grind it 

Gusuship Down

I feel like there are a couple of things in this show that are so problematic the fandom has silently agreed to never discuss them. Well, I’m here to talk about this one:

There are rabbits in this ice cave and they are wearing headbands. HEADbands. On RABBits.  

EXCELLENT FUCKING QUESTION, LAN WANGJI

*deep breath*

Are these rabbits lineal Lan descendants? Who makes the headbands? How do they stay on because “headband” here means “glowing cloud on forehead” without any actual band.  When rabbit babies are born, how do they stay safe while they’re waiting for someone to make them baby-sized headbands? Do these rabbits adhere to the other 3499 Lan Clan principles or just the headband one? Is any ol' rabbit allowed to touch a rabbit’s headband or is it limited to parents and significant others and is that even relevant when presumably these bunnies are all fucking each other like...bunnies?

The characters are like “oh, the rabbits are wearing headbands; killer guqin problem solved.” And then they move right the fuck along with their lives and the rabbit headbands are never seen or discussed again and I just want a hit of whatever the author or creative team was smoking when they came up with this whole idea.

Headband Sharing

When Wei Wuxian tells Lan Wangji to hand over his headband, Lan Wangji understands his entire rabbit-based thought process without asking

Gen-X Joke Alert

Wei Wuxian is awfully impressed by this sword-recall trick, considering that he did it himself when they went to the lake.

I see you know your way around a sheath

Killer Guqin

When they approach the guqin I hope that the subtitles are mistranslated, because Wei Wuxian keeps promising not to touch it and then says he can't look at it without touching it. I'm not going to touch it, I just need to touch it. 

Lan Wangji is going to teach Wei Wuxian some goddamn boundaries no matter how many times he has to make him fondle his sword.

Nothing suggestive here

Lan Wangji sits down to play the guqin and immediately goes off into the ether where there are seagull noises and plenty of fans. This is either a state of pure bliss, or he just really likes seagulls.

Did Lan Wangji just have a stealth orgasm?

Speaking of getting off, get your ass off of my desk

The Yin Iron

Lan Wangji does some spirit whispering, and suddenly the cave starts yelling at them. A bunch of clans are chanting in unison about a plan, which is the cultivator version of a battle cry.

Lancestor Lan Yi shows up. She is elegant and has a combination of sweetness and gravity that is similar to Lan Xichen’s. And none of Lan Qiren’s douchiness.

Search Party

Lan Qiren is worried and Lan Xichen is worried and they have sent people to look for the boys. It's really too bad nobody around here knows magic.

All these powerful cultivators search for missing people by running around outdoors yelling for them. 

Yanli is excused from PE class because she’s not feeling well, so she sits on a rock in the woods instead of, you know, staying home in the first place. She gets bored sitting down and unwisely decides to walk two or three steps. Xuan Lu, seen here competing in a gymnastics event, gamely pretends she can’t climb a small rock. 

Yanli falls into Jin Zixuan's arms and they gaze at each other for a long heterosexual moment. 

No homosexual explanation possible

This means two things: 1. he isn't looking very hard for her brother if he's hanging out here catching wobbly girls 2. soulful longing looks from him ain't shit, because he's going to dump her in the next episode.

Lanny Granny

Lan Wangji intros himself to Lan Yi and does a full prostrate bow. Wei Wuxian does a standing bow since he's not a descendant, just a future in-law.

No I mean come on, HEADBANDS

Lan Gran explains the entire history of the yin iron. It's bad, it's full of resentful energy, no-one should use it. She’s going to dump it on a couple of 16 year old boys, one of whom has a woody for using resentful energy, because it’s destiny and her battery is about to run out. 

Props to the Prop Department; this thing does look pretty cool

Xue Chonghai was the most problematic cultivator back in the old days. He killed a lot of dudes and fed their resentment to...a turtle? To the disk? I don’t know; I literally am unable to pay attention when anyone is explaining the intricacies of the unobtanium Yin Iron. 

Anyway there’s a disk and it’s soaked up a lot of resentment.  

Using it makes people evil. Well except..clearly this dude started off evil, yeah? If he was feeding people to his turtle.

Side effects may include: being fucking crazy

Here Wei Wuxian brings out his "resentful energy is awesome" theory and has an experienced grown-up grand master tell him that she also thought this, and has spent 100 years locked in a cave with headband-wearing rabbits because she was super fucking wrong. Does this deter him? ...nope

Baoshan Sanren

Now she name checks Baoshan Sanren, and Wei Wuxian has a big reaction and Lan Wangji has a big noticing of Wei Wuxian’s reaction. He’s very attuned to Wei Wuxian’s emotional state, in the moments where WWX lets his actual feelings show through the sass and swagger.  

Lan Gran talks about her search for the Yin iron, and Lan Wangji wisely says, if you can't neutralize it, why look for it? And she says, I was filled with hubris just like ya boi Wei Wuxian.  Lan Wangji points out the exact same shit he will later point out to Wei Wuxian.

So now we have a parallel in which Lan Yi is just like Wei Wuxian and Baoshan Sanren is just like Lan Wangji, yeah? Which is kind of sweet; it shows how these types are drawn together and how your clan doesn't determine your personality. Also it shows how the Lan clan has room for an unorthodox clan leader. Also it shows how the Yin Iron causes some really bad breakups. 

These boys are standing on snow barefoot which has got to take a pretty high cultivation level. Look how short Lan Wangji is without his stilettos, aww.

Flashback to Baoshan Sanren, just long enough to appreciate how beautiful she is.

Did OP give up on recoloring that flashback-blue-hazed image and just start fucking around with random filters? Yes she did. 

We also get to see that Lan Yi and Lan Wangji have more common than just guqin, because they both like to solve problems by kicking them.  

So after breaking up with her girlfriend, Lan Gran became invisible in this cave for 100 years while trying to contain the Yin iron and put headbands on rabbits. 

Soundtrack: Vogue by Madonna Writing prompt: Watership Down rabbits meet Lan rabbits

Bonus extended bath clip:

Bai Yu, Detective L