#we're all having a terrible time

[donnerpartyofone]

Due to my various disorders I often feel like I am living the same day over and over and over again. This effect is created by any combination of A) my inability to learn something, B) my inability to form new habits, C) my lack of awareness/memory of something I did, and D) my failure to execute on something I keep meaning to do--along with my basic inability to just fucking pick my battles and let some shit go--but lately the Groundhog Day experience has been dialed up to 11 and this exacerbation is definitely compounded by problems of enshitification.

Like a few times a week for the last several weeks, I remembered something--a fact, a piece of media, an excerpt from a book, something I personally wrote, etc--that I wanted to reference or revisit. In most instances Item X is something that I gave a lot of thought to, and perhaps something that I actively researched or workshopped; it's almost never just something that I passively absorbed then half-forgot. I may remember everything about it, and everything about the time when I was working on it, and I just need the citation...and now there is no evidence of it at all, anywhere. I look for traces of Item X everywhere I can think of: I'm sure I talked to Person Y about it, I'm sure I took a screencap and sent it to Person Z, I posted about it. My phone won't find it, it's not in my email; am I using the wrong search term? Or misspelling something? Or did I delete it by accident? Or is the actual search function I'm using just finicky? Or did I send the screencap without verbalizing what it was and just saying like "Dude check this out!"? Even though I know what's going to happen, I search for Item X on my Tumblr. What usually happens is that Tumblr gives me like 3-5 results it has deigned to index that are NOT the one I want; you'd think that this is a "numbers game" and that eventually the thing I want would be in the indexed set just by coincidence, but it NEVER IS. Like how am I so strangely lucky to have this perfect consistency? It seems impossible! Then I try using the syntax I learned to search my blog via Google, and this also never works. It doesn't work on Duck Duck Go either, although it's interesting to me that each search engines gives me different undesirable output. I search my computer and my external drives, but Windows 11 makes it very hard for my dumb ass to distinguish between searches of my local machinery and searches of OneDrive which is incomplete and which I prefer to never use because I hate the feeling that I'm renting my own files from somebody else and I just like to know where the fuck my shit is--I don't even like to use the coat rack in an office, I want all my shit where I can see it--so when my computer says "No Results" I have absolutely no confidence that I'm getting a full account of the facts.

........................................so now I'm back at square one, repeating the same agonizing detective work I slogged through the last time I referenced Item X, only now it's worse, because Tumblr is worse, and Google is worse, and possibly I have been subconsciously sabotaging myself between last time and this time to make all my own systems and tools worse. And I HATE that I'm wasting this amount of time and energy--two things I don't have a lot of!--but if I don't do it my broken mind is going to torture me more and more with each passing second of inaction, so I am FORCED to do this by reason of insanity.

The thing I'm trying to look up now, PLEASE TELL ME IF THIS SOUNDS FAMILIAR, is what I THINK is an excerpt from a piece by Rainer Maria Rilke in which he says SOMETHING LIKE:

"Jesus is pointing to God, but like dogs, we look only at the finger."

I remember what a hard time I had finding this before. After a long drawn-out process of testing different search terms, I found it in a Google Books preview of a page from I THOUGHT BUT APPARENTLY AM WRONG?! Letters to a Young Poet. Now I'm trying that again and finding No Results for "jesus" or "finger". So maybe like, Letters was the last thing I looked up before I found the correct volume OR the correct author, and that's the last thing my brain recorded on this topic. Or maybe I'm looking at the wrong edition with incomplete previews on Google Books. I don't fucking know. But the reason I want so badly to cite this now is that it has relevance to the Aaron Bushnell conversation.

I'm feeling really bad about the fact that Aaron Bushnell's desire to underline the Palestinian genocide has had the almost exclusive result of underlining the actions of Aaron Bushnell. And before you get excited to talk to me about that, I must be very clear that this is exactly what I don't want to talk about. I understand the discourse. I have my own strong opinions about his suicide and what it means, and what are the right and wrong ways to talk about it. Whatever aspect of this you are itching to bring up, including the buried reports of previous self-immolations, I promise I am aware of them. I'm not saying that these conversations don't matter. I am just deeply concerned that energy that was once fully devoted to protest is now being shoaled into this ideological cul-de-sac about Aaron Bushnell specifically. This happens on the left all the fucking time and it's exhausting and disheartening. The right seems to stay congealed in a big blob of generalized solidarity, furthering its broad-strokes agendas persistently, while the left gets mired in theory and semantics and purity testing and academics and all this stuff that, while it is very stimulating, has no measurable effect on our rights, our safety, or our efficacy. Or rather, if it does have an effect, it's to drain our resources and destroy our focus and, at worst, "help the enemy".

So while it may be easier and more immediately satisfying to bicker with each other about Aaron Bushnell than it is to wrap one's mind around the enormity of genocide and the incredible imbalance of power that perpetuates it, I really don't think this particular bit of discourse is actually helping anyone. If you're one of the people who is trying to think of this in terms of "what Aaron Bushnell would have wanted", I think it's a good bet that he didn't want people to stop talking about Palestine and start talking about him alone. Don't look at the finger, look where it's pointing.

And for God's sake if you recognize the approximate quote I'm struggling to fully recall PLEASE DM ME.

[lenreli]

Hob Gadling & Anger

Hob may have an overwhelming lust for life, but in my opinion that zest itself started with anger. As shown here while talking with the lovely @chaosheadspace!

Anger, that Death took his family, his town. Anger that helped him as a bandit or mercenary.

Anger that easily makes him take two men out with a teacup, in defense of him and his stranger.

And this sort of anger doesn't go away easily. Especially when you're an immortal, who's had 600+ years of fighting instinct by the 2000s, who can be ready to flee or attack at a moment's notice if he's in danger.

This sort of anger never goes away, not even in modern times. It'd be all about controlling it, managing it. Maybe Hob, in the modern times, goes to a gym or boxing ring. A rage room. Underground fight clubs! Martial arts! The possibilities are endless!

Because yes, he has changed in some ways, but this anger won't change, just where it's directed, the day to day use of it. And anger itself isn't a bad thing. It's a neutral emotion, like all others.

This is a man used to violence and anger, and getting rid of that is just a disservice to him.

[ratatatastic]

lmaoooo maffhew wanting the knot immediately and having to wait for sasha to catch up with that is so deeply funny like. this omega is not subtle and you’re not a stupid alpha babe! can only imagine what benny has to say to maffhew about it once he catches on and stops banging his head against a wall

idiots to lovers is always great but especially when its two people who would be hitched with 10 kids by now if they stopped being dumb for a single second like its that easy and yet...

to me they very much fall around the same time (infatuation at first scent if you will) just that sasha takes some time to get there not because he's dumb (okay he's a little dumb) but in the sense that its like "this person is very interested in me, i can see and recognise that but theres so much cognitive dissonance in my brain right now between knowing that intrinsically and finding that hard to believe so i unintentionally play dumb because obviously i'm reading too much into things it cant be me they're interested in haha that'd crazy but they're being awfully touchy and flirty with me wow"

but also it takes two to tango and we have to acknowledge that and this is when i would love to bring up the ways in which this man decides is the best way to go about that because he is a catholic school girlie... there's so much hilarity to be had here especially because his flirting is very uh how you say... a little ass backwards if you will especially considering dynamics

"I make it a point to keep the door closed when we're alone in a room together! That's basically a clear invitation that I'm down to fuck!!! Im basically asking to be ragdolled on his knot!!!"

and Benny just pinches the bridge of his nose like "I don't know how to explain to you in a way you'll understand that not everyone went to Catholic school."

But saying that Sasha does side-eye the door knob heavily when Maffhew goes over to close it the first time and he starts sweating like he just got dragged into a game of 7 Minutes in Heaven he did not sign up for and he's 13 again and oh god he got paired with a really cute girl, and he hasn't even had his first real kiss yet and-

And then absolutely nothing happens because Maffhew is just waiting with a polite expectant smile (because his work here is done, he did the heavy lifting know it's Sasha's turn) and this is when Sasha's dynamic classes training kicks in and he basically scolds himself for even assuming in the first place because this is clearly a show of trust (correct) not an invitation for extra circular activities (incorrect buzzer noise) and it basically becomes "This Omega really trusts me, I'm honoured especially as Pack Leader that I'm able to be so accepted into such a private space with the inherent knowledge that I will not encroach their boundaries whatsoever because consent is verbal, this is not in any way an invitation to take advantage of them this is deep platonic trust I will guard with my life :]"

and if you listen closely you can hear the lovely sounds of Maffhew bashing his head into a wall about how much of a gentleman Sasha is but also COME ONNNNNN... you know... once Maffhew realises what's happening which (looks at my watch) is not due for another few months really

Battle of wills: unstoppable force (maffhews catholic school understanding of dynamic interactions) vs immovable object (overseas alpha cotillion classes)

And if you think it's an Oh! An overseas dynamic thing! It's not. The Euros are watching the horrible car crash in front of them and doing absolutely nothing about it because it's none of their business, but they will stare at it... maybe judge it a bit but definitely are observing from the tall grass.

and I'm also not saying that luosty lundy forsy and bobby have a current running bet of how long it'll take for maffhew to break sasha in but i'm also not not saying that... luosty goaded lundy in the midst of a gossip session ("It has to be 3 months, right?) forsy happened to be around so lundy turned to him for advice ("7 months.") and maybeeee bobby overheard from all the way over from his stall and puts in his two cents for what it's worth ("6. Captain nice but not that nice. Very impatient." "So 3!" "No. Impatience makes him double the time, and wait longer. 6 months.") (lundy finally settles on a good 5 months because he's indecisive)

And Sasha does eventually pick up everything maffhew is throwing down... eventually... and when he does it becomes more so I want to court this omega the way they deserve I will take this slow and romance them sweetly :) *smash cut to maffhew caterwauling like a cat in heat*

but also once again its not like maffhew is helping sasha in any way this is idiot4idiot and benny would like to enjoy the car crash with the euros but unfortunately that's his soulmate, thats his bestie, his littermate from birth who has been weaned on the same teat as they climbed over each other to get to it, the first girl you kissed in your childhood bedroom because somehow you started play fighting on the bed because she was like i could totally pin you down easy and then she does and you always noticed how beautiful she was but shes even more gorgeous when she's pinning your wrists to your hannnah montana duvet you promised yourself youd changed out before she came over but you forget and well she teased you about it and you cant help but giggle about how perfect this all is and it seems that the natural conclusion to this is to taste the strawberry lipgloss of her lips because whats a kiss between besties huh its tacky and sticky and it tastes like summer and just other apt metaphors to put here about the inherent -isms of their relationship that i nearly cant put to words properly other than girls having fun (they are fucking)

and well anyways benny is watching and he has a lot of things to say about how its been proceeding so far

"You should really use your words."

"I am!"

"Right because smelling like a fucking perfume shop in the middle of October is using your words."

"This usually works with most Alphas okay!"

"Sasha isn't most Alphas."

"Tell me about it." Matthew grouses before he peeks over to Sam, looking up from beneath his eyelashes—the exact way he knows both endears him to Sam but also absolutely miffs him all the same, "Worked on you, didn't it?"

"Oh, is that what we're doing right now? We're calling getting a lapful of a preening O in preheat in the middle of a roadie a normal way to go about these things."

"It worked didn't it?" Matthew reiterates.

"It would work better if you use—"

"Okay! Alright!! I get it!!!" He does not.

like benny here is unfortunately an active listening participant in the going ons of the fuckery if not because hes involved by proxy because of maffhew because who else will hold his hair back as he calls him a dumb bitch you know

[fromtheseventhhell]

I've noticed that Stansas take criticisms towards themselves as "hate" towards Sansa, they're really never beating the self-insert allegations 😭

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

The lights out au is the first au in a while to peak my interest : O

I gotta know, why is Sally evil and what does she do?

Also how's Barnaby doing? <: (

im Delighted to hear that!! (also hi! your laughingstock art is adorable!)

Sally isn't really evil per se... she's just sleepwalking! while having mild to intense nightmares! most of the time she just sleeps in her house, but once per day she takes a walk - a "patrol" - around the neighborhood before going back to sleep. every so often she wakes up Extra agitated, and needs to be soothed to sleep or she'll get destructive. in general, though, Nightlight!Sally just patrols and attacks anything that makes noise until it goes Quiet again

and Barnaby! well! he's having the most wonderful dreams <3

[tippifunandprose]

If you're new to the platform, you may not remember that the year Trump was elected, there were a ton of Russian bots here on Tumblr specifically working to get him elected that were, to quote Tumblr, "engaged in state-sponsored disinformation and propaganda campaigns" and pushing a variety of fake ads and disinformation to help Trump win.

You also may not remember that these Russian sockpuppet accounts specifically encouraged people not to vote or to vote for Jill Stein or another third party because they knew it would lead to a Trump victory.

But, of course, for some mysterious (😒) reason Tumblr couldn't tell anyone they were following or had reblogged one of these disinformation accounts until after the election, when they sent a notice to each person individually letting them know they'd fallen for propaganda. So people didn't realize they'd been duped or that their "friend" was a Russian asset until it was too late.

And no one likes to admit they've been tricked. I get it. Sunk costs are a real jerk.

But when you notice how many of the people pushing a message not to vote or to vote third party are blue checks or how the algorithm on pro-Trump Twitter is favoring them by showing them even when you block the users. How these accounts are always using the same phrases every time. How quickly certain accounts pop up to comment the same things on every post with election keywords. Or how sometimes they don't even bother to switch between their pro-Trump account or their "leftist" account... please just take a moment to remember that this has all happened before and be critical about who, on these platforms owned by conservatives, it benefits most to convince you to vote third party or not vote.

In the words of super grainy Garfield...

[todayisafridaynight]

tattoo truth prequel lmao

[philosophiums]

to everyone who is complaining about the rapid ending of jjk and the decisions being made on how it's finishing i would like to say:

A. in order for these decisions to be different and also not feel cheesy as shit, there would have had to have been vastly different story decisions made wayyyy earlier in the manga. i'm talking culling games or before. a lot of the things that people want to see happen have no backing in the prior story. we all just spent an entire arc (rightfully imo) criticizing like... "oh of course sukuna has the perfect, previously unmentioned, incredibly niche skill to counteract this specific ct," but now you want more impossible things to happen that have not been foreshadowed or set up in-universe and you super pinky promise that this one won't make you upset? get real

B. one of the reasons the manga is being wrapped up so quickly is bc the fanbase is full of disrespectful vengeful assholes who sent gege death threats bc of his decisions to kill "their husbands." i wouldn't want to keep putting effort and energy into a story if that was the fan response either. gege is better than me bc my ass would have just stopped writing

C. one of the other reasons the manga is being wrapped up so quickly is bc of gege's health issues

D. all of the decisions make perfect sense for a plot-driven story. the plot that was laid out is coming to an end. and this has been, as gege has stated, a plot-focused story. he hasn't focused on character, so things that are happening now are not going to focus on character

now do i think that the story would have been better if it was character-driven yes. do i think it's good and smart and healthy for fans to criticize their favorite media yes. have fans been criticizing and complaining about their favorite media since the dawn of time obviously. but i also firmly believe that every criticism should come from a place of understanding and realization and not just "this is what i thought would/should happen and now im fucking pissed bc it didn't"

[megumi-fm]

.

[mlobsters]

supernatural s1e1 pilot (w. eric kripke) part 1 (part 2)

I can't do this alone. Yes, you can. Yeah. Well, I don't want to.

will he stay or will he go part 6 of ?

[moe-broey]

HEARTBREAKING

Worst Dad You Know Has an Extremely Endearing (Now) Reoccurring Character Trait

For further context: this whole FB involved Sharena and Henriette seeking out lockpickers in the Order of Heroes to open this VERY SECURELY locked box from Gustav's room that took Tina's special staff to finally crack open (or rather -- "steal" the contents out of. No one could actually break the lock!)

And the first instance of this!

It makes me wonder if he saved anything related to Sharena..........

[ratatatastic]

i just personally think its so funny how maffhew is just worming his way between every little group on this episode of finns + him! maffhew!

[wickerwax]

Stars Out (Haunted armour Bad Ending)

Quinlan grumbled under his breath as he scooped another armful of ‘padds to reshelve. Helping out in the Archives wasn’t the worst punishment but oh, Force, was it tedious, and all for a harmless little prank! Almost none of the Masters had been caught up in the laundry mishap, which usually meant some level of lenience as then they could freely laugh at the Knights, and the Initiates had really enjoyed their sugar-fueled colouring quest, and Tholme had absolutely been laughing on the inside, Quin knew it. And anyway, boring tasks just gave him more time to plan more dramatic messes, so the joke would be on them eventually. He would have to bring out the heavy blasters next time – he would need to source glitter.

“Ahem.”

He froze and checked his shields, but they were in place so he must have been making faces. Quin turned to Master Nu. She had on her least amused face. Which was still better than any of the actively disappointed ones. Quinlan had a scale.

“Are you having trouble with your task, Padawan Vos?” she asked, looking at the unsteady pile he was clutching. “You may borrow one of the small trolleys, if you would like.”

It had the cadence of a recommendation he should take. He didn’t think he ought to refuse despite the usual contrary urge rising in him, so he nodded and thanked her when she pointed out where the nearest free one was tucked away. He escaped with an awkward bow and scuttled to the trolley, doing his best to tip the ‘padds in gently while he could still feel Master Nu’s attention on him.

He knew Tholme wasn’t actually worried about the pranking, and Quinlan had a very deliberate image to maintain so it was more likely that his Master was simply hoping he would find something to research that would keep his mind busy during their current off-time. Or he was being pranked back in a very staid, stereotypical Jedi Master sort of way, which actually was sort of diabolical because Quin could hardly say that without his agemates looking at him like he was insane and his Master doing that blink-and-miss-it smirk he did only when no one else was looking – oh stars, he was being trained by an evil genius.

This was reinforced when he picked up the next datapadd to shelve and found himself holding a copy of “Spiritual Intimacy and You: A Guide to Exploring the Unseeable With the Untouchable”, which was either nonsense or absolutely something he wanted to get the checking history of, directly below which was “Worms. Do You Have Them?” and “A Treatise on Alderaanian Alpine Flora and Their Adaptations Against Cell Wall Damage in the Upper Climes”.

Actually he wanted to know nothing and no one.

*

It took so long to reshelve all the day’s ‘padds. He was going to be dreaming about classification numbers for weeks from all of the walking back and forth, hunting.

He had abandoned the trolley once he’d gotten down to the last five or so, and now he was on the last one, only it wasn’t from a popular up-front section. No, he was well into the shelves, deep into the more esoteric sections, past several different sets of little seating areas with their own displayed artifacts, and rapidly approaching another with no luck.

Groaning as he reached another useless, cosy nook, he stopped and glared down at “Amorous Armory” which, first? Awful. Terrible name. It had a cultural tag he didn’t recognise, and since the title didn’t specify, that was absolutely no use either. He couldn’t quite tell if it was fictional or instructional, and wasn’t sure which would be worse. (Would an instructional come with diagrams? How literal was the amorous? Why armory instead of armour? How comprehensive was this? No. No, he didn’t want to think about it.)

The current reading area had a few little clusters of cosy seating, and one upright display stand – but, to his surprise, this one was not transparisteeled in.

It was, notably and regrettably, given the situation, a suit of armour.

Frowning, he stepped closer. It was sort of pretty, he guessed, with the white and gold colour scheme with touches of brilliant blue, but mostly it looked cool. He didn’t feel any inclination to get horny at it though.

It was standing, or well, he guessed, “standing”, proud and tall (though actually, it was only as tall as he was and that was because of the stand), with the gauntlet-bits tucked against the forearm whatevers like a lot of Jedi would do to hide their hands in their sleeves. Whatever material the tabards and hood and whatnot were, they didn’t seem to have deteriorated terribly, and he found himself squinting at the way the metal pieces were segmented. There were a lot of segments and scaling, and generally adaptations for range of movement (he thought).

The mask – or perhaps whatever was holding the hood up? - was tilted slightly, giving it a sort of quizzical air despite the blankness of the molding. He leaned in slightly, peering at the gold detailing at sort of reminded him of the current Guard masks, and caught a flash of that bright blue through the eye holes.

Without really thinking about it, he reached out to touch the mask.

It was cool under his fingertips –

and then he was sprinting through blasterfire, his blue ‘sabre spinning bolts away, choking on the smell of battle with his filters overwhelmed and shunting that away to focus on the red-bladed foe racing to meet him through the smoke – he was laughing in a much younger Room of a Thousand Fountains with his mask in his belt and green things growing and jubilant all around – he was drowning on his own lungs and desperately pushing that aside to try and save the children – he was alive but everything was ashes and sand and heat that burned well before it warmed – his master was dying and he wasn’t going to make it – his blue blade was locked with a red one and the children were behind him so he would not fall, he could not-

Quinlan’s knees hit the floor and the last thing he knew before he blacked out was a very careful voice saying, Hello there? And then, much more panicked, No! Star’s sake, how far are the healing halls from this Forceforsaken nest?

*

Waking sucked. The flashes he’d seen upon touching the armour seemed blurry and distant – like they’d been a billion years ago, which jolted him into opening his eyes.

Luckily, it seemed like he hadn’t been out for long, maybe not even multiple minutes, since he was in the middle of being hauled up into a carry. Quin squawked and flailed and a voice he didn’t recognise was cursing and his stomach swooped as he fell-but-didn’t. He found himself hauled firmly against a metal chest as the armoured being balanced with one knee down and said waspishly, “Are you quite finished?”

“Finished?” Quin croaked, staring up into the faceplate of the display armour. “Mate, I think I’m dead.”

The mask tilted sideways but, unlike when it was on the stand, this tilt somehow communicated deep disdain. “A joke in very poor taste, padawan.”

Quinlan gaped at it. And then slapped at a gauntlet, which sparked grief-love, and scrambled to his feet, staggering at the blood rush. He ignored the headache sharpening a particularly rusty blade on his left eye socket. The armour let its gauntlets rest on its raised knee but otherwise remained in place, mask lifting to follow him. It seemed expectant.

Jokes on it, Quin had nothing useful for this situation. Hey, Master Nu, one of your display pieces has a prissy accent and no sense of humour – yeah, just up and started talking – no, no, of course I didn’t do anything!

Time to be less than useful then.

“That’s the name of my sex holovid.”

Ooh, maybe that was too not-useful.

The armour rocked back slightly. It slowly regained its...boots, he supposed. He needed to know more armour terms, this was the worst.

“Well,” it said, thoughtful, “I suppose they can’t all be winners. My condolences to your partner. Or partners.”

“Oi!”Quin snapped, feeling his face heat terribly, “My partners have no complaints, thank you! I was making a joke, I suppose you haven’t heard of those.”

“This may come as a dreadful shock, my dear, but not only have I heard of them, I have made them. Recently, even.” It sighed, surprisingly audible, and the shoulder bits slumped. “I- Are we in the Temple?”

The situation suddenly reasserted itself. Manners did not. “How are you even moving? Who are you? Are you secretly a droid installed in the armour?” Why had a tiny little touch made it move? Surely he wasn’t the first person to touch it – Jedi typically weren’t that cautious, not when it probably wasn’t a darkside trap, and gravity was a suggestion. And anyone could be down here poking at things! Like him! ...unless it was a darkside trap. Quin backed up a few steps.

The armour didn’t move but it did seem. Sadder.

“I am Senior Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi, of the-” it paused, broke off entirely. Shuddered slightly. “Or...I suppose I may have been Knighted at – at the end. I don’t entirely remember.”

It waved a hand as if dispelling mist, and he caught that blue gleam through the eye holes again. “I don’t know how long I’ve been...gone. But I suspect the time span is significant. If only because-”It “looked” about. “-the Archives appear to have grown immensely.”

*

Quinlan was dreaming.

He was in some sort of very basic watercraft, with a wooden pole loosely held in one hand, propped against his thigh. The sun poured down until he felt like he was baking in the very best way, and the river lapped against the hull of the boat gently.

It felt like meditation to sprawl there, sunbathed and idle, all the galaxy far away with any worries. The water gleamed brilliant and blue and sparkling. He pillowed his head on a strong shoulder and let his eyes close.

There was no hurry, no rush.

The boat rocked, and Quinlan slept.

*

Obi-Wan, the weird moving armour, had been convinced to keep his new walking status on the downlow once Quin had realised how uncomfortable it was talking about itself -and realised how much help it could be in pranking. It almost seemed relieved, honestly.

He found himself slipping into the Archives nearly daily. The armour – Obi-Wan – who eventually muttered something about being a man, death aside – always perked up when Quin appeared. He started getting good at reading the various small shifts in body language that the armour managed to emote, managed to open himself up to that faint, fuzzy Force presence enough to get an idea of Obi-Wan’s moods.

Although, often he didn’t really need to, Obi-Wan was fantastic at talking.

“I cannot believe none of you wear anything armoured at all. It simply isn’t tenable – how are any of you surviving?”

“Well, the Temple Guard has armour-���

“But they guard the Temple, yes? What of you that must needs travel the galaxy? Unprotected?”

“We have the Force, Obi.”

“Obi-Wan. And the Force is a wonderful ally – but that does not mean you cannot help it along with a well-smithed cuirass!”

Obi-Wan’s gauntlets were in motion at lot when he was speaking, and he gestured widely enough to knock his armour stand. They both lunged to stabilise it before it could crash and cause a noise that Master Nu wouldn’t be able to ignore. (She was already suspicious of Quinlan’s far more regular visits, although he’d managed to avoid seeing her at all today.)

“Be mindful of your surroundings, padawan.” Quin snarked as they settled the stand back in place.

“But Quinlan, my dear, you’re such an effective distraction.” The mask angled coquettishly at him and made to rest his chin on his gauntlet in the manner of tooka-eyed ingenues everywhere. It should not have been effective. (It was.) He didn’t even really have eyes. (The blue gleam winked at him, bright and flashing.)

He wasn’t phased by a set of armour and a ghost flirting with him. Ridiculous. It was all a joke anyway – he could literally feel Obi-Wan’s amusement. (It was a nice voice though. Quin wasn’t stupid.)

(He should really mention the haunted armour to someone. Probably. Quin was maybe a little stupid, very occasionally. It was fine – Obi-Wan wasn’t hurting anyone.)

*

Quinlan was dreaming, again.

The boat rocked. The sun lay warm over his skin. There was the perfect amount of breeze, brushing coolness past just when the sun was on the verge of too-warm, and nudging the boat into that gentle rock and sway... rock and sway... the quiet susurrus of the water lapping against wood made his eyes hard to open.

An arm settled around his shoulders as the next cool swirl of air wound past and he snuggled into a warm body. The sun seemed a little lower, a little less intense, and made the warmth next to him that much more inviting.

“All is well, darling, all is well.” a familiar voice murmured. “You deserve some peace and quiet yet.”

He cracked an eye and saw a tumble of bright copper blazing against pale skin, saw the curling smile of the young man he was tucked up against, saw that the brilliant blue flash of the water had taken up residence in his eyes.

The rest of the galaxy was so far away. It was just the two of them in the boat, on the river, water lapping.

The boat rocked, and Quinlan slept.

*

Quinlan lounged in his favourite nook-seat, despite it being extraordinarily unsuited for such things, being a high-sided sort of scoop. “Look, Obi, just because you made a wild guess about numbers that turned out to be correct, doesn’t mean-”

“Obi-Wan, and a wild guess? Quinlan, don’t insult me, my education is centuries old and yet it was sufficient for the math here.” Obi-Wan was sprawled across the floor, back pressed to another of the nook-seats. “It just goes to show that unarmoured-”

“Oh- no, no, no! You can’t claim armour is the sole reason, you single-minded-”

“I have to be single-minded, it’s rather all I have left of me-”

“Don't-! Don’t fucking tilt your head at me like that – you can’t keep playing the dead card to win arguments!”

“My dear Quin, if you’re losing arguments you need to improve your tactics, not blame the other player.”

“There’s tons of other reasons the Order is so much smaller, you karking metal menace.” Quinlan jabbed a finger at his friend. “I’m gonna prove it. You’ll have to eat your words.”

“Oh?” Obi-Wan purred, “Do you promise?”

Quinlan snarled and threw “Amorous Armory”(still unshelved, in the process of making a permanent home jammed between the side and seat of a chair) at the gleaming painted mask. The armour caught the ‘padd and wheezed a laugh. “I’m getting mixed signals here, are you annoyed or should I be worried about this text and your intentions?”

Grappling a suit of armour was for sure not a version of hand to hand that he was practised in but he was improving quickly. His notice-me-nots were also bloody stellar by now. They had to be for their constant bickering to avoid notice. It was a good workout.

He didn’t lose but he was pretty sure Obi-Wan let him win.

*

Quinlan was dreaming, again.

How many times had he dreamed this?

The sun was slowly shifting lower, the sky starting to turn vibrant oranges and pinks at the horizon. He basked still in the fading rays, tucked in his gently swaying craft. The water shimmered and hushed against the wood.

Obi-Wan shifted beside him, running his fingers gently through Quinlan’s hair so that he couldn’t help but sigh into the crook of his neck and press close. “Feels nice.”

He could hear Obi-Wan smiling. “I’m glad, Quin. You should always feel nice.”

Quinlan nuzzled at his throat, sleepily pleased with the sudden bob of it. “Can’t always. But here. With you.”

Fingers tightened slightly in his hair, then resumed the stroking. “Here, yes. We’ll watch the sun go down together.”

For a moment, the air was clammy and frigid. The water was slushy with frost.

Quin shuddered and started to lift his head but Obi-Wan turned his face and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead – and the sun glowed warm, warm, warm. It was always warm here, always just right. The breeze was never too chilly, never too strong.

Obi-Wan drew away and Quin stopped him with a hand on his jaw. Nudged him back down.

The galaxy didn’t even exist here. Obi-Wan’s mouth was so warm and soft and Quinlan rolled into him, trading kisses and nuzzles. The light tinted orange and he didn’t notice, too caught up in the push-pull of exploring this new privilege. He tucked his hands along his shoulders, and grinned up at smiling blue eyes, and let Obi-Wan kiss him quiet and drowsy.

The boat rocked, and Quinlan slept.

*

The Temple seemed quieter now that Obi-Wan had made his hypothesis and Quin’s researching had -very unfortunately – backed up at least the numbers. Or maybe there were just a lot of missions happening at the moment. It seemed like a lot of classes had been cancelled too – or maybe he was timing it right to miss the padawan horde at switchover. He didn’t have very many in his courseload right now and it was all electives anyway since he would be Knighted soon.

He couldn’t quite remember if he’d seen Master Tholme yesterday or the day before. His Master didn’t need to check in on him every day at this stage, of course. It probably hadn’t been that long.

He hurried down to the Archives. The couple of Knights he did pass seemed tense and their Force signatures were coiled around them protectively. He did not envy them for whatever mission they’d picked up.

When he reached their nook, Obi-Wan was already sitting on the floor. His legs were splayed out and he had a hand resting on his abdomen like he was too exhausted to move. He lolled his head back to look at Quinlan and Quin found his hands fluttering anxiously. After that first - unpleasant – wake-up, he’d made sure to keep his gloves on. But the lethargic way the armour was regarding him made him want to pull his gloves off and check for whatever had him so floppy.

He managed to stop himself, as Obi-Wan fluttered his fingers at him in a wave, and the dim Force presence coiled inside lit up pleased to see him.

“Napping on the job, I see.” he tossed out instead.

“Mmm.” The sound was low and satisfied, and something tensed low in his gut.

“You look like an overfed tooka.” Obi-Wan was mad on dignity, except when he wasn’t, and Quinlan had a number of sticks to try poking with. This one earned him a rumbling sort of chuckle, and a languid come-here gesture.

Quinlan frowned at him, but strolled forwards and flopped onto the floor beside his hip. “Happy?”

“Incandescently.” Obi-Wan murmured, pulling himself slightly more upright. “You are such a wonder to me, Quin.”

His faceplate was very close. He felt that tension curl tighter, felt his pulse jump. “I am wondrous, it’s true. Possibly the eight wonder of the galaxy, really.”

“Hmm.” Now Obi-Wan sounded considering. “I could make an argument for that, yes.”

He tried to swallow and his throat clicked. Dry. Obi-Wan raised the hand from his stomach and gently ran the backs of his knuckles down Quin’s cheek. He leaned into the coolness of the metal without thinking.

“Could you, darling?” the armour said, painfully gentle. “Could you make that argument? How brilliant you are, but all tucked away, hiding in the shadows. Spending all this time down here with me, and I’ve nothing to offer but dusty old stories, when you’re perfect.”

“No,” he croaked, wrapping his hand around Obi-Wan’s, glove to metal. He hardly knew what he was saying, so keyed up by proximity that he could smell the sharpness of metal and ozone. “No, you’re – You make everything better. You understand. You’re helping. I’m going to do all this research and figure out the problems and save the Order.”

He ducked his head closer and pressed his forehead to the mask. The cold was hardly a shock. Blue glowed through his eye holes and Quinlan closed his eyes against the brilliance, against the cool red undertone of a light somewhere throwing strange shadows.

His other gauntlet curled around the back of his neck, holding them together. “I believe you, Quin. You’re doing so well, and you’re so close on the trail. I know it.”

The faith in his voice, the touch of his hands, the low buzz of his Force presence, it all made Quinlan dizzy. “You’ll help me research?”

“Of course.” his voice was so low. “Of course, I will. Anything for you, darling.”

*

Quinlan is dreaming. He feels like he’s been dreaming for awhile now. Has he always dreamed this?

The boat rocks. The water laps. The sun is burning orange on the very edge of the horizon.

Darkness is creeping across the sky, and the stars have yet to show their faces.

He clings to Obi-Wan as the wind kicks up, and the other man wraps him up close, pressing kisses to his cheeks, his forehead, his nose, his eyelids. “Stay with me, dearest. It’s not too long now.”

“What’s happening?” he begs like a child, hands fisted in Obi-Wan’s tunic – and that’s not right, he shouldn’t be barehanded. “Where did the sun go?”

The river surface is choppy now, reflecting red light from the sky. The shadows darken.

There are no stars.

“I’m sorry, darling, really I am.” Obi-Wan cups his face in warm hands and tips his chin up. His eyes are soft, soft, soft, the blue glimmering. Red light plays over his face. “Or, whoever I was would be very sorry, I’m sure.”

Quinlan’s heart is beating much too fast, and he’s dreaming, he’s dreaming, he’s waiting for Obi-Wan’s face to melt into something horrible. The man just looks beautiful and sad and Quin can’t quite seem to force his hands to unwrap from his shirt. “Obi-Wan- What-”

When Obi-Wan tugs gently at his face, he goes. He lets him kiss him, claws frantic at him when he pulls back. “What does this mean?” he demands, and his voice cracks. He sounds desperate.

He is desperate.

“Obi-Wan would have loved you.” the man whispers against his mouth. It feels deliberate. It feels like a wound. “But I’m afraid I only wear his face.”

The boat rocks wildly in the bloody sunset.

Quinlan wakes.

*

He runs through the empty halls.

He cannot feel his master through their bond, cannot feel his crechmates, cannot feel other Force presences at all.

Just one. Dim and fuzzy and flickering weakly several levels down, where he’s visited. Constantly.

The lights flicker and for a moment everything is cast in red, his shadow thrown huge and violent against the wall beside him. It’s so quiet. It’s too quiet.

Quinlan is sick, sick, sick.

He doesn’t stop running.

*

The Archives are just as empty of life as everywhere else. There are dropped datapadds in several places and, horrifyingly, some of them are dusty. How long has he been- How long -

He finds a cart overturned and he knows that he came past here yesterday and didn’t see it. He wishes that gave him any kind of hope. He doesn’t know when he last ate or drank because he’s shaking too much to make sense for this level of activity running and he can’t be sure – he can’t remember the last time he spoke to anyone else. Master Nu had given him a look as he slipped by – how long ago was that?

How long has the Temple been too-quiet?

*

Obi-Wan – the armour – is sitting in Quinlan’s favourite chair.

Quin skids to a halt, shaking, panting, stabbing a finger at him while words refuse to come. The head tilts, curious.

Quinlan curls his hands into fists, synthleather creaking. “What have you done?”

“What have I done?” the armour sounds amused. It gestures playfully at itself like, who, me?“What have you done, my dear? My precious eighth wonder of the galaxy, single-handedly opening the door to destroying his Order, and not even a token effort to close the thing, let alone anything effective. You were perfect, Quinlan.”

He stumbles back a step, mouth opening and nothing coming out.

The armour stands and swaggers forward. “Now, to be fair to you, that psychometry of yours does leave you terribly vulnerable, my darling. It would be dreadfully remiss of me not to give you that, and haven’t I been good to you, Quin?” It croons at him and he staggers backwards, slams into a shelf.

It steps into his space and he can feel the wrongness now, warping around that fraying presence that was so pleased to see him. He can smell the rot.

“Haven’t I, Quin?” it says, and that blue gleam is nearly all bloody now. “Don’t you want to be good back for me, Quinlan?”

He bares his teeth. There are no lights left here, only him, only the mud under this thing’s carapace, and he doesn’t even have his ‘sabre -isn’t, actually, sure where that is, hasn’t seen it in days – but he’s Quinlan fucking Vos. Even stupid and deceived, he’s not going down with a fight.

A gauntlet touches his cheek, and Quinlan braces himself and slams his fist up into the armour’s jaw.

He’s hoping to knock it back, enough to slip out sideways.

What he does is knock the mask off.

It does snarl and back off slightly, but he doesn’t move to escape, too shocked by the space revealed – by the kyber weakly glowing in a circle of bleeding runes at the back of the neckguard. Protected by so little. Force, he’s so karking stupid.

The armour’s laugh is so much worse with the faceplate gone.

“You’re too late, Quinlan Vos.” It rasps at him. “Your Order is gone and soon forgotten and you are the cause .”

And it makes him hollow because it’s right, and he has no excuses. He is drowning in emptiness where there should be light. “I can still try and take you out.”

“Revenge is not the Jedi way, padawan.” it sneers, and spreads its arms wide. “Batter yourself to death all you desire.”

Quin lunges.

He bruises his knuckles on the cuirass to make it laugh, then shoves his hand into the maw of it and rips the kyber free with everything he has. Blue flashes.

It screams, the armour screams, he screams.

It bubbles corrosive black ooze all over his glove as he throws himself away, as the armour crackles with red light and comes apart in a shrieking wind, as he trips over ‘padds tumbling everywhere from broken shelves, as it burns-

it burns, it burns, it burns-

He drops the thing and rips his glove off, strips away skin and flesh with it, catches a glimpse of white amidst the red and his throat is raw, it burns-

He grips his wrist with his good hand and weeps with the pain, blind with it and shaking apart like the armour did – he thinks it did – he might be dreaming still except for how much this hurts.

He finds himself folded in half on the stone floor, choking on tears and snot and dust. He can’t make himself look at his hand, or the mess that used to be a glove. He can see scattered chunks of white and gold and -

He bows his head. His eyes stream and he can’t seem to stop. There’s a blue haze over his eyes, flickering and fragile, and he gulps for air and shakes his head to try and clear his vision. He can’t use his hands. He can’t use his hands.

The kyber has rolled free and is lying in front of him. The ooze is all gone, busy eating through what he can’t think about. It is only very faintly blue, and not at all red. He can see the cracks in it.

He slumps further, and his forehead makes contact.

That pale colour blooms.

Obi-Wan kneels with him. He looks almost like he did in the dreams – more lines around the eyes, the scruffy beginnings of a beard. I am so sorry.

Quin wheezes at him.

The ghost smiles. It is very, very sad. It makes Quinlan’s teeth ache, and he’s kind of already at a premium for pain.

A translucent hand reaches tentatively forward, and when Quin doesn’t do anything more than stare glassily at him, settles over his hands.

He’s not looking. He can’t look.

I am sorry for what was done to you and yours. I am sorry for being used to do it.

He can’t.

Be strong, Quinlan. The Force is with you. They are with you.

He can’t look and the pain is easing and his fingers are spasming and it hurts but less but different and he - When he forces himself to glance down, the white of bone and tendon are no longer visible – he’s just clutching a hand at a normal level of horrifically mangled. He’s too afraid to try and bend it.

I promise.

He hears the tiny chime of the kyber as it cracks completely. It echoes. The Archives are cavernous empty.

I promise you.

Obi-Wan vanishes.

[sentimentalmachine]

It's wild to me that people can be out in the sun, especially warm or hot sun, and not only enjoy it but also not feel sick and in horrible pain from it. Like people just go outside when it's 80f+ and don't instantly feel like they will perish!? What do you mean sunlight makes you feel happy when it hits your skin? You don't experience searing pain that feels like you set your exposed skin onto a hot grill?! It must be really nice for all the people who can get happiness from the sun. It could never be me, but I'm happy for the rest of you.

[scarecrowgolem]

There is a very specific sort of antisemitism that is seemingly common in mental health facilities and its fucking terrifying

[boyapologist]

lmao are All members of big time rush terrible people irl