#the return: revised

[bayofwolves]

The Return: Revised — King

You guys know about Path of the Heroes. (Probably. it's the name of an original fourth Spirit Animals arc I'm writing.) But what you might not know is that another part of the project is to take the existing three arcs and rewrite them. Not entirely, but tweaking and modifying for continuity's sake. There are some pretty big canonical divergences in Path of the Heroes (Shane is alive, for one), and since my writing starts after canon has ended, I have some explaining to do.

This may take ages, but that's okay. Since the original course of events stays mostly the same, I can easily just do rewrites of pivotal chapters for now.

Such as this one.

I completed this a while back in the summer. I guess I just never posted it, despite being so proud! This is the last chapter of The Return, where we get the long-awaited reveal of who the mysterious Redcloak is. Personally, I wish the author had given this chapter to Abeke instead of Rollan. I needed to see what was going on in her head! That was really what motivated me to redo this one.

This sets things up for the next development of Abeke and Shane's relationship. From the moment the Greencloaks get on the ship at the end of The Return to the climax of the final battle in The Burning Tide, the two inadvertently end up in the same vicinity, leading to some talks and growth in their relationship. They're healing. Abeke hasn't forgiven him yet, but she's noticing more and more how he's changed for the better.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. For now, here's the rewritten final chapter of The Return!

Content warning for suicidal ideation and dissociation.

Quick notes:

The title of this chapter has been changed from 'Redcloaks' to 'King'.

Shane and Tasha are cousins, which is mentioned here. Shane's mother, Queen Gwyneth, had two siblings; Tasha is the daughter of her brother. Thus, with Drina deceased, Shane missing and Gar leaving no children, Tasha is set to take the throne of Stetriol. There's a lot more to this, but I'll go into it some other time.

This is not the final cut -- this chapter will receive some more edits before being fully published as part of the project. Think of it as a sneak peek.

Okay, enough preamble. Read it under the cut!

Spirit Animals: Fall of the Beasts

Book 3: The Return

Chapter X — King

.𖥔 ݁ ˖☾𖤓☽.𖥔 ݁ ˖

The chill wind that rose from the sea seeped into Abeke's bones. She shivered and pulled her cloak more tightly around her shoulders, but made no move to leave her spot at the ship's rail. Her gaze, fixed on the fading shape of Zourtzi in the distance, remained unbroken.

She felt hollow. She had no desire to move, to speak, even to think. She doubted she would be able to if she tried. It took all that remained of her willpower to draw in shallow breath after shallow breath. All the life had been drained out of her, the very moment Zerif's black spiral had begun to pulse on Uraza's brow. So there she stood, watching the conquered fortress grow smaller.

Perhaps the tears would come later. So far, she didn't have it in her to cry.

The absence of Uraza was like a wound, the ugliest wound she'd ever been dealt, throbbing with every dismal beat of her heart.

She was so lost.

So alone.

Abeke brought shaking hands up to her eyes and pushed until she saw stars. She willed her heart to simply stop. What life was worth living without her spirit animal?

Soft footsteps sounded behind her. Abeke didn't need to look up to tell that it was Rollan. She knew his footfalls, his voice, his face, even better than she knew her own.

She didn't turn as her friend walked over to her, his steps measured and unsure. It was unlike him to move so carefully around her, Abeke thought. She could feel the pity radiating from him without even seeing his face. It all made Abeke want to jump over the side of the ship.

Rollan made no sound when he reached her side, only wrapped an arm around her shoulder. At the contact, a little warmth bloomed through Abeke's body. It almost brought tears to her eyes.

"How are you doing?" Rollan spoke. Concern was etched into the familiar curves of his face. Abeke wanted to lose herself there, in the steadying weight of his brown eyes, but she couldn't hold his gaze. She glanced away.

"Empty." The sun-tipped waves of the sea rolled below them. Abeke found strange solace in their neverending flow. "Lost. Alone." Her voice didn't sound like her own. It was as if someone else was commanding her body, as the real Abeke hovered above and watched everything play out. Like a ghost.

Rollan was silent for a moment, before he spun her towards him and pulled her into a tight hug. Abeke let herself be pulled and positioned in his arms, like a doll. But as the hug stretched out, she felt the sheet of ice that covered her heart begin to melt away.

"You're not alone," Rollan mumbled into her neck. Abeke dropped her head to his shoulder and hugged him back with all the strength she had left.

When they finally pulled back, Rollan's eyes were wet. Abeke's own throat had started to close, so much so that she didn't trust herself with words. She returned to leaning over the rail, but this time, her arm brushed Rollan's.

"She was there, and then in the space of a heartbeat, she was gone," Abeke recounted. She lifted her eyes to the smoke rising from Zourtzi – the last place she had seen Uraza. "She looked at me like I was a stranger. It was as if our bond had never existed." Abeke forced herself to keep her eyes on the horizon. She knew that as soon as she closed them, she'd see nothing but the moment Uraza leaped for her throat, replaying over and over.

"We'll get her back," Rollan said fiercely. "I promise."

Turning her head, Abeke regarded her friend through a film of tears. The love and worry in his expression was almost overwhelming.

Abeke sniffed and swiped at her face before the tears could fall. She didn't know how to respond – couldn't – but Rollan seemed to understand, like he always did. They stood side by side in the silence Abeke needed.

Awkward footfalls met her ears not long after, and Abeke felt Rollan turn through their connected arms. "Hey," came Tasha's voice. Her dark hair and green cloak came into Abeke's peripheral vision as the younger girl stopped at her other side.

"How's Kirat?" Rollan asked softly over Abeke's head.

"Fine," Tasha murmured back. "The Redcloak medic is tending to him." The exchange fizzled out, and Abeke soon felt the weight of both her friends' gazes.

Abeke blinked down at Tasha's brown hand, covering her own on the rail. When had that gotten there? "Abeke," the Stetriolan girl was saying. Unlike Rollan, who was always in sharp focus, her voice seemed to come from a long way off. "We're here for you."

Abeke pulled her head to the side. It was all too much.

A third set of footfalls sounded on the deck behind the three. Two short steps, strong and curt.

Curiosity compelled Abeke to look. As one, the three Greencloaks turned to take in the newcomer.

It was the Redcloak.

Abeke's eyes flicked over his sweeping scarlet cloak, his black leathers, the smooth wood of his mask. She had seen plenty of Redcloaks, even on this ship, but only one wore a mask so strange. Only one of them had no face.

Some of the fog that had settled over her body since Uraza was taken seemed to lift. Who really was this mysterious warrior that had saved them time and time again?

Something deep in her heart told her she already knew.

"Is everyone in your party all right?" the Redcloak asked. His voice was deep and raspy, almost reptilian in quality. Abeke tried to compare it to the voice she remembered from her past, the voice that still sometimes spoke in her dreams, but recognized nothing.

She realized after a moment that his gaze hadn't strayed from her.

"We'll survive," Rollan said for all of them. His voice rang clear in her ears. She glanced to either side of her, noticing the wariness in Rollan's face and the way Tasha nervously clung to her wrist. "Now, how about explaining what's going on here? I think it's about time for some answers."

The Redcloak tipped his head to one side as he considered Rollan, his oddly pale eyes glinting under his mask. "Soon," he said simply. "Be patient. We're taking you somewhere safe."

"Yeah, and where is that?" Rollan countered, bitterness lacing his words. "If you haven't noticed, nowhere is safe anymore. Zerif can get to us anywhere. In Zourtzi, in Stetriol and even at Greenhaven."

Tasha drooped beside her. A distant part of Abeke wanted to comfort her, but what comfort could she give?

Strangely, the Redcloak seemed to droop as well. "So the rumours are true," he said with a sigh. "Greenhaven has fallen as well."

There was something so intrinsically familiar about his stance, his speech, his whole bearing. Abeke had mulled this over for many nights, but now, with him standing a mere ten feet away, she felt everything in her threaten to spill out. Her heart ached, and she had the strangest urge to reach for him. Could it really be him? After so long?

The masked figure stared out to sea for a brief moment. "You should rest. There are more battles to come."

Then he turned and made to stride away. With her heart in her throat, Abeke pushed away from her friends and staggered forward. "Wait," she called hoarsely. "At least tell us your name."

The Redcloak turned around and fixed Abeke with his uncanny eyes.

"You've saved our lives again and again." The pounding of her heart was deafening. She could barely hear herself over it. She stepped forward again, then gripped onto Rollan's shoulder for support; he had hurried to her side. "Tell us who you are," she repeated, "so that we might thank you properly."

The Redcloak hesitated. "I'm called King," he said at last. Was it her imagination, or had his posture softened a touch? "I am the leader of the Redcloaks."

King. A hush fell over Abeke's mind. King.

As he watched her with wide eyes, Abeke heard Tasha speak from behind her. "Thank you," she said quietly. "We are forever in your debt."

King only spared a glance to acknowledge her. He tilted his chin again, then moved to walk away once more.

Abeke watched as he stopped still, his back to them. She watched him slowly turn back around. And with her heart thundering in her ears, she watched him fix his eyes on her.

His next words came soft, low. "I used to be known by another name."

Not of her own volition, Abeke found herself shaking her head from side to side. No. No.

The Redcloak drew back his hood, revealing light blond hair. Then he reached behind his head and unfastened his mask. "You knew me as Shane."

The mask fell away.

Abeke couldn't breathe. Couldn't move. She didn't react to Rollan's gasp of shock and Tasha's startled cry of "Cousin?" Her surroundings melted into waxy darkness. All she saw before her was Shane.

Though it was unmistakably him, the boy she used to know was barely recognizable. His normally tanned skin was pale, like he hadn't seen the sun in months. Knobbly green ridges had replaced his eyebrows, giving him a fearsome, monstrous look. Worst of all were his eyes. Gone was the keen blue stare that Abeke remembered so well. Instead, she was met with glowing, reptilian yellow-green. They were twice as large as they should have been, and bordered by pebbled scales. Slitted pupils stood out at their centres, holding her captive. A shudder of revulsion rolled over her.

"What happened to you?" Rollan's voice came in a horrified whisper.

Abeke hardly registered the words. Her breathing was coming in ragged gasps, and she felt the prickle of sweat all over her body. Her hands were already slick with it. She clenched them into tight fists, ignoring the way they trembled.

Of course.

It was him all along.

He and his Redcloaks had fought for them in their every hour of need – but now they were at their mercy. They were still in the dark about their motives, and now they were surrounded by them. Abeke's heart seized with panic. Her thoughts flew to Tasha, Shane's rival for the throne, and Kirat, belowdecks with the rest of the Redcloaks. Would they be safe with Shane? What if his only reason for helping them was a twisted desire to collect the newly reborn Great Beasts for himself?

The memory of the mysterious red-cloaked figure coming to her defense in Amaya sprang into her mind. He had saved her life from Arax. In Zourtzi, too, he had protected her from Zerif. Was it possible he still cared for her?

Abeke swiftly banished those thoughts from her mind. Shane was the enemy. He would always be the enemy. And this reveal was proof he would never stop lying.

I'm called King. Abeke shook with barely repressed tension as she remembered his words. An image of Shane with the Devourer's crown atop his head and a wicked smile on his face flashed through her memory. I am the leader of the Redcloaks. She saw him at the head of the Conqueror army at Muttering Rock, almost obscured by their black masses, seated astride his giant crocodile. How did she not see it before? How could she be so foolish?

She knew who the Redcloaks were.

They were enemies.

Shane's eerie eyes bored into her. Abeke recognized them now as crocodilian. How could she believe, even for a moment, that he might have wanted to change for the better? The symbol of his betrayal was branded over his once-handsome face.

But Shane wasn't the only one who was different now.

Abeke was done taking chances.

And she had nothing more to lose.

Whipping the bow off her back in one swift motion, Abeke brought an arrow to the string and pointed it straight at her former friend's heart.

The world came back into startling clarity the moment she did so. She heard a scream from Tasha, heard Rollan clap his hand around the girl’s wrist to hold her at bay. Abeke kept her eyes locked with Shane's. Was it the rocking of the ship that was causing her aim to waver?

"I had hoped it wasn't you," she rasped. "I had hoped you weren't tricking me again."

Shane was silent, slowly bringing his clawed hands up.

"Abeke, he just saved our lives," Tasha said urgently. "Maybe we should –"

Abeke stared at her in blind fury. "Do you know the last time Shane saved my life?" she snapped. "He used it as a way to sneak into Greenhaven and betray us. He used me. I was nothing but a tool to him." Tasha recoiled in the face of her anger, eyes wide with shock. Guilt flickered through Abeke, but she had no time to apologize. Resolutely, she turned her attention back to Shane and tightened her hand around her bow. "It'll be no different now."

"That's not true," Shane protested, with such force behind his words that it surprised her. "You were never a tool to me." His raised hands lowered and spread in a pleading gesture. "Much has changed since we last spoke openly… as I'm sure is obvious. Everything I've done with this mask, this cloak, this name, was not to deceive you, but to start anew and atone for my mistakes."

Abeke tilted her head to the side, steeling herself. She wouldn't let Shane's honeyed words ensnare her again. She was past this. She was stronger than this.

Her sweaty hands were making it hard to keep a firm grip on her bow. Could she shoot him, here and now? Did she have it in her?

With every passing second, she was less and less sure.

Behind her, she heard the worried voices of Rollan and Tasha. They were calling her name, trying to summon her out of her trance. It reminded her painfully of the last time she'd confronted Shane – the duel they'd fought in front of Kovo's empty prison. That time, too, she hadn't been able to finish him off. Something almost like instinct wouldn't allow her to.

She felt it now, some deep force within her, causing her arrowhead to tremble as she looked into the haunting face of her former friend. She let out a short scream, hoping to dispel some of her rage and pain. Sudden tears obscured her vision. "Give me one good reason why I should trust you," she challenged. Her voice came out raw and broken.

Shane stared at her for a long moment, and though it was impossible to read any emotion in those slitted eyes, Abeke thought she sensed immense sadness from him. "Let me speak plainly. The end is near."

Abeke gave a wry, husky laugh. Indeed, Erdas must be in her final days for the two of them to reforge an alliance.

"I know this is difficult, but I need you to trust me. To trust us," the boy said gravely. "There's something you need to see. It may be the key to saving Erdas, and perhaps the key to saving Uraza as well."

Abeke's eyes widened in shock. Hesitantly, she lowered her bow a few inches.

Shane wanted to help Uraza?

His slitted yellow-green eyes tracked her movement, unreadable, before they returned to hers. Something almost like hope lit his face. "Give me this chance, and I promise you, I won't let you down."

Abeke considered him for a long moment. Once, Shane had been a friend to her, a steady comfort even across opposite sides of the war. He had traded that all away for victory, using her as a pawn in his schemes before tossing her aside. He had made promises, and he had broken them. But now he stood before her, after saving her and her friends so many times, with a vow to save her spirit animal as well. Abeke looked at his changed appearance and felt horror. But now, she wondered if a better change was brimming below the surface.

Her bow fell to her side as the fight suddenly went out of her. She stared blankly at it for a moment, then took the arrow from the string and slipped it back into her quiver. She had thought about shooting it across the waves to release some of her tension, but decided against it. No need to waste an arrow. After all, she thought, turning dark eyes up at Shane, there are more battles to come.

She would place her trust in him for now. But for the sake of her friends, for Rollan, for the children they were tasked with protecting, she would be on her guard.

Slinging her bow over one shoulder, Abeke glanced over to Rollan and Tasha. Rollan, who knew her so well, must have read something in her hollow gaze that she herself was oblivious to. He was at her side in a heartbeat, touching her hand with his. Tasha followed in his wake, putting a hand on Abeke’s shoulder with more uncertainty. Abeke stood still with them for a moment, surrendering the worst of her pain and anger to the ocean wind. Surrounded by the best things she had left in her life, she could breathe.

Abeke looked down at her friends, giving them a weighty nod. Tasha returned it, then Rollan. They were with her. They would face this together. The thought renewed her strength.

With a deep breath, Abeke locked determined eyes with Shane. "Where to?" she asked.

Shane took a step forward and looked out across the water. "We sail for the Place of Desolation."

.𖥔 ݁ ˖☾𖤓☽.𖥔 ݁ ˖

[mayhemspreadingguy]

@magnusbae, not expecting I'd follow through, suggested to sketch Anakin but with cat fangs... Things got out of hand.

Also, look! Magnusbae gifted me with a most lovely fic inspired by my art (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶) (fic under the cut, 3,800+ words).

That’s it. Anakin had resisted long enough. 

All through morning, noon and even dinner. He had done his Katas, had finished his chores, even went through his studies, all without so much as a single comment. He deserves to be commended personally by Master Yoda for being an exemplary Jedi. He deserves to be knighted right this moment seeing how he never even mentioned just how force karked awful his Master’s hair looked like for the past week. Sticking in all directions, it grows in uneven patches, the addition of a beard is somehow making his elegant Master look like a beggar from the streets and that, that is intolerable. 

Anakin growls quietly, muscles tense. He knows his Master most likely can feel him staring holes through him, and yet he simply continues reading his datapad, not asking nor looking, radiating calm in the force. Anakin wonders if he could tidy that mess with the power of thought alone. Would that be considered a frivolous use of the force? Even if done in the service of the republic? After all, his Master’s good looks are the cornerstone of the… 

Obi-Wan scratches at the back of his head, clearly bothered and Anakin can’t tolerate this anymore, cannot accept this anymore. His tongue is itching something fierce, his hands are sweating, he cannot sit still like there’s fire ants filling his pants and crawling up his spine. He cannot tolerate this. If not for himself, he must do this for his Master. If not for his Master, then for the order. If not for the order, then for the Galaxy. If not for the Galaxy, then for the Force itself. For he can swear by all that he holds dear that the Force itself is embarrassed by his Master being so unkempt, so ungroomed. 

Unacceptable. This is absolutely unacceptable. His Master has to always look neat and nice and put together, smelling fresh and looking proper. That’s the only right way for his Master to be. Anakin will not stand for it being any other way. He will not. He will make it right. 

His Master ignores the first lick. He often does that, pretends to not notice in the hopes of Anakin stopping after catching himself at his instincts. Oftentimes it works. Oftentimes it is an accident. But not this time. This time it’s very much on purpose and very much intended to continue until Anakin is satisfied with the results. All Anakin needs is for his Master to continue pretending to not notice long enough for him to fix this mess. 

Two more licks, lower neck up the scratchy beard and—

“Anakin—” his Master stops pretending so suddenly that Anakin’s tongue moves over his jawline and across the beard in a way that tickles funny. Anakin likes how it feels, rough and interesting, makes him curious about how it’ll feel like to lick across the jawline, where the beard is the thickest.

Knowing he does not have much time before his Master attempts to stop him altogether, Anakin leans in with renewed urgency, tongue ready, mouth starting to water— “Anakin, stop!” a strong hand pushes against his shoulder, moving him a distance away without being as rough as to push. 

“Mrrphh!” Anakin protests, pushing against the hand but not fighting it actively. His Master can be so bossy when he gets like this, so unreasonable. The only way to win is to use his words, otherwise his Master might just walk off and hide in his rooms instead. Or worse, go meditate in the halls, where everyone will see this shameful disaster.

“You need the grooming, Master!” Anakin starts with the foundation and heart of his objection. His Master always teaches that it’s important to be able to pinpoint the problem early on and address it quickly so as to not let it fester and become bigger than it must be. Granted his Master spoke of interpersonal disputes however it absolutely does apply here. His Master simply cannot deny this reasoning, ergo, will not be able to dispute it as untrue. “So just let me!” Anakin adds, before his Master could somehow find a way to object.

Can’t his Master see that Anakin is offering him a service? Out of the kindness of his heart, no less. Him enjoying the way his Master’s flavor sits on his tongue, the way it makes all the small hairs on his body stand on end, how it fills him with excitement— His Master’s scent, rich and spiced and safe— how he favors it above all else even when the exotic teas make him sneeze and sneeze— the way a single point of contact would narrow his senses into a single point of focus, clear his mind of all worries— the way his vision relaxes, the way his nostrils flare and he inhales and inhales and inhales— the way his heartbeat peaks and then slows, the way his mouth goes dry and he feels thirsty, hungry even— all that, all that has nothing to do with his altruistic motivations. He’s just looking out for his Master. Obviously, duh. 

“Master.” He can hear his own voice, can hear how it takes a whiny note his Master often teases him for. It’s hard to care when he has a goal bigger than his own ego. “Just let me.” He demands, he can hear it and he still doesn’t stop himself from reaching for his Master’s flowing robes, claws catching on the material and making him shudder. Maybe he does need trimming just like his Master insists each time they spar. Maybe Anakin will allow it, if his Master is good and allows him this. Maybe he’d even let his Master groom him too.

The bewilderment in the force clues Anakin on the fact that yes, maybe he did forget to shield, again. He huffs through his nose, wrinkling it. He really doesn’t know what the big deal with this is, doesn’t understand the obsession everyone and especially his Master, has with hiding every single urge and instinct and thought they have. It’s not like he thinks anything he wouldn’t also say out loud. Maybe if the Jedi used less of those shields, it would have been much easier to communicate with them, to bond with them, and maybe then he’d feel less like an outsider, like an odd bird out of its cage.

“Oh Anakin..” Obi-Wan sighs, the tension loosening from his hold against his shoulder, rather than scolding, there’s the hints of the sadness his Master expresses each time Anakin feels alienated in this place. It is not his fault no one understands him, it is not his fault he is different than everyone. 

“Master.” Anakin chirps back, rolling his eyes. His Master has the oddest of tendencies to get hung up on the most particular of topics. Anakin not having enough friends, per his Master’s opinion, is one such topic. Nevermind the fact that Anakin had never seen his Master ever share a true conversation with a single person. Other than himself. Of course. His Master does talk to him.

His Master will get fixated on him instead of thinking about himself and nag him to half death. ‘Anakin get more friends’ and ‘Anakin don’t spread the droid parts all across the quarters’ and ‘Anakin I’m a grown man I can groom myself.’ And while some of those things might be true, obviously, the last one is not. “You look like a mess.” Anakin says it to his face, because he and his Master are real friends.

“Thank you Padawan.” His Master answer, no longer sounding sad, instead his voice is dripping with sarcasm. Anakin doesn’t like it, but he supposes it’s better than sadness. “I do not recall asking for your no doubt impeccable sense of— Ahnakin—!” his ranting stops mid warming up when Anakin uses the opening to dart forward and lick him again, from the lowest exposed spot of his neck, up the smooth skin, his rough tongue making a satisfying ‘shh’ sound as it catches at the hair of the beard and smooths it up with his lick. The flavor is… is… 

Obi-Wan had used some sort of balm… some sort of synthetic musk that makes Anakin’s brain swim funny and eyes to close and mouth to water even more. He has to swallow down the saliva lest he drool like a hungry Tooka. It’s hard not to, when his Master is so, so, so karkin yummy. He slams his shields up with a clumsy thud in the force, but maybe just a moment too late to cover up that last thought.

“Anakin!” his Master sounds properly scandalized, voice raising to a tone that always makes Anakin’s ears ring uncomfortably and the following lecturing tone is no better. “Cease this nonsense immediately, you must not—" 

Anakin licks again. The side of his neck and up to the point where skin meets ear. “Master.” He says there, voice dropping into a purr that morphs into a warning growl he didn’t even think of making, there’s no aggression, only the frustrated warning to not stop him in the middle of something so damn important. Grooming, is important. More than Katas or studies or meditations. Maybe even more than sparring. And Anakin loves sparring. 

All Anakin wants is for his Master to sit quietly and let him take care of him. The way he ought to, the way he was meant to do. It’s his job, after all, is it not? He is Obi-Wan’s Padawan, it’s only natural he would tend to his Master, that he would care for him, that he would help him. That just makes sense. That rings true in the force and that’s all Anakin needs to know.

"I will.” He declares, it is no longer a request nor a plea, it is a declaration of intentions. A declaration of intent. He presses his nose at the soft skin under his Master’s ear and inhales, deeply, the scent making him Master-stupid so he says what’s on his mind with no filters, with no thought. “Unless you hate me.” His voice drops softer, he can’t breath, having inhaled too much of the strongest drug known to him. “Then I won’t” he trembles, he waits, if his Master rejects him, if he does hate him for his care, he will, he

“Anakin, this is hardly related, I do not think that—”

The force between them sparks and Obi-Wan’s mouth snaps closed with an audible click of the jaw. There’s a tension and a heating of an eruption that is halted with the calming breeze of spring air, Obi-Wan’s Force Signature covering his own, soothing, embracing, calming. “Very well, Padawan.” Obi-Wan speaks with a voice of a man who’s been worn in battle, sighing out in exhaustion.b “Since you cannot resist your nature, I’ll allow it.“ He pauses, sounding not a little doubtful as he adds the obligatory “Just this once, Anakin.” A final form of giving in, one Anakin is familiar with. 

There’s an ‘You should be old enough to know better’ goes unsaid and so Anakin ignores it. It wouldn’t have mattered even if Obi-Wan did say it. He had before, many times, and it never mattered. Anakin somehow doubts it’ll matter even when he grows taller than Obi-Wan. And he will, he just knows it. He will grow tall and strong, and he will always take care of his Master, and Obi-Wan would not be able to argue with that. Because it’ll all make sense. It always does. Everything about them does. 

If only his Master understood him better, he’d know that one doesn’t just grow out of wishing to groom those he cares and…loves. This is something that is forever and always. That is something that only grows and deepens, something to be shared and relished. Something he will always give to his Master freely, even if his Master maybe doesn’t…. Really share it in the same way as him. Which is fine. He had decided a long time ago. It is fine. 

It is enough that he gets to care for his Master. So he smiles instead and purrs out a sweet “Thank you, Master.” In that respectful manner he knows his Master enjoys hearing. He giggles when he feels his Master’s breath hitching, giggles more when nuzzling against the neck tickles his nose. “This is so horrible.” He complains, wanting his Master to know how strongly he objects to this change, and yet he cannot stop giggling. “Master!” he doesn’t even try to hide his joy from his voice, nevermind from the Force.

His Force Signature is a slow pulse of contentment, securely tucked beneath Obi-Wan’s still. When he licks small licks under Obi-Wan’s ear, he can feel his Master’s breath catching, can feel the way he stops breathing entirely and the soft gasp when Anakin licks at his ear directly, once, twice, a few more times just to test how committed his Master is to this session. Very, it seems. His Master doesn’t object even when Anakin grows bold and nibbles at his earlobe, tugging ever so gently. His Master is always so sensitive around this area, always so jumpy if Anakin stays too long at this spot. It always makes Anakin want to lick there until Obi-Wan loses his composure entirely.

He never does. 

At least not too much.

He does want to groom Obi-Wan after all, not only bully him into squirming because he is so damn ticklish there. That is not to say that he is above wanting to see his pristine Master squirming a little. So he licks there again, and when his tongue dips only a little into the ear, his Master finally jumps and moves away, breathing harshly and looking redder than his hair.

“Anakin I do believe that my hair is not located in that particular spot and—” his hands close on Anakin’s shoulders when he makes it to the ear again, wanting to nibble just one more time, just one last time… “Anakin.” His Master’s firm voice snaps him back into focus, tells him gently through the force to not overdo it. Fine, fine. He will not overdo it. This time.

"Just relax, Mastah.” Anakin pouts, the word slurring in the way his Master always corrects. Always, but not now. Anakin reaches for his Master’s wide shoulders and waits a moment until his Master’s grip loosens enough for him to actually move. It’s easy enough to shift to his Master’s lap. One knee over and sitting down in one smooth motion that has a practiced finesse to it. You either get to Obi-Wan’s lap swiftly, or you don’t at all. There is no room for hesitation for his Master will do enough hesitating for the both of them. So he sits down and nudges closer, right away. Inhaling, inhaling deeper.

Oh how he wants their scent to become one. They’re already nearly inseparable, living as closely as they do, using the same soaps, eating the same foods. Anakin wants more. Anakin wishes that they could smell and feel like one. United. Clearly bonded. Even more than they are through the force. He wants it so much that his fangs itch, itch, itch to bite and bite and bite. But no. No he is here to groom, to care. Not to bite, not to… mark. His cheeks are warm with it, knowing that he has, and is, constantly considering this. Wondering about this, curious about this. About marking his Master in a way that will be known, in a way that will be understood. He thinks about it, always. Luckily his Master has no clue. Luckily, Obi-Wan does not know. Or he wouldn’t let him sit here so carelessly, surely, he wouldn’t. 

“It’s part of it, duh.” Anakin says without truly knowing what he speaks of. The grooming, the licking, the biting, the sitting on the lap? He doesn’t know. He only knows of the happy, loud purr that fills his lungs when Obi-Wan doesn’t stop him from leaning back in, back to his neck, nuzzling, smelling, licking up that rough, funny tasting beard and to his hair, spiky and significantly softer than the beard. He giggles again, and purrs. It’s an odd combination of sounds he does try to stop but doesn’t manage. He is too preoccupied for dignity, or decorum, or class. He’s too karking pleased. 

When he licks at his Master’s neck again, the man tilts his head up and away, exposing his throat for him. Good. Good. Good, great, awesome.

His Master couldn’t have displayed his trust more plainly than this. No words could have conveyed the same level of commitment, of confidence and belief. Exposing one’s throat, Anakin thinks, is a universal sign. Even if his Master is less inclined to instincts as Anakin is, it still counts, it still matters a whole lot that he does it for him. His Master does it because he knows it matters to him and that— that matters more than all else.

His own purring is deafening, drumming in his eardrums and filling his chest with sound, he used to try to hide this in the past when he realized that most Padawans did not purr at every one of their Master’s compliments or gestures of kindness. He no longer bothers. He pulls and licks and purrs some more. He takes his time, licking small, measured licks, taking care to put that awful messy beard into something much neater, dignified.

“Maste-rrr.” He draws the ‘R’, nuzzling again under the ear and grinning when his Master shudders but doesn’t pull away, he always gives him a chance to be good. So he will be good. He does not nibble, instead he wraps his lips carefully around the bit of skin where no hair touches. Oh he wants to suck, to mark, to taste. Oh he does, so much. But he doesn’t. He will be good, because his Master believes him to be good, and proper, and nice. So he will be. 

His cheeks are fire hot when he thinks about what else he would have liked to be doing instead of the promised grooming. That is not something he should be thinking of, nor something his Master would ever permit, but…

Thinking is not illegal and he is not good at not thinking. 

So he imagines it. Imagines how his Master’s hands would feel on his hips, imagines his Master yanking him down to sit properly on his lap, Imagines his Master wanting him to lick elsewhere and—

“Ahnakin—” Obi-Wan protests, so strongly it rings in the force with his words. He feels and looks scandalized, even more so than before. He looks like he is considering all his choices and decisions. He looks like he’s about to call quits. He looks like he’d push Anakin away, he— places his hands on Anakin’s hips and pulls him down, to sit properly. 

The whine that escapes Anakin’s lips is nothing short of mortifying. It’s a needy, surprised thing, he feels like a proper youngling, confused and shy. He seeks the refuge of his Master’s neck and hides there, nuzzling while whining again, complaining, scandalized too by his Master’s audacity to follow his dreams up like this. He can’t mean it, he simply can’t! It is a mere coincidence, his Master would never follow his fantasies, he didn’t even hear it, his shields are up and proper, he’s sure of it, he’s sure of it, he’s… 

“Sorry…” Anakin murmurs out, because if he’s honest, he is not sure if his shields are worth anything with how excited he had gotten. Maybe his Master did hear, maybe his Master did feel something. Maybe he did push a little too hard. He doesn’t want to push too hard, he knows that sometimes his Master gets nervous because of his thoughts. Not angry, never angry.

He doesn’t want to make his Master nervous, he can feel the tell-tales of it in the force. Despite his Master’s secure hold on him, despite his Master’s unmoving frame. He can feel the building up hesitation. He does not want his Master to feel that way with him. 

“I’ll stop.” He promises his Master, assures him. He’ll try to, anyway. For his Master he’d try to go against his nature, even if his nature does tell him to think and do all sorts of things. Sometimes, in the quiet of the night when he can’t sleep and he thinks of his Master and every word they had ever passed, he does wonder about this. Is this truly his nature, his instincts that drive him to act as he does, or is it simply how he is with his Master? He suspects he knows the answer to that, but it’s easier for the both of them to call it instincts and be over with it, so he never disputes it. “Really.”

There’s a charged silence and then, blessedly, his Master says the two words Anakin loves more than anything else in the world, the two words for which he, not jokingly, thinks he might be willing to die for. 

“Good boy.”

The Coruscanti accent is thick and rolling, he sounds almost distracted, he sounds… 

Anakin shuts his eyes and bites his tongue, fangs digging into the soft flesh. He must not think of exactly how he imagines his Master sounding. He should not think about how his hands feel warm and human on his hips. He should not think about the lingering flavor on his tongue nor how his lungs are full of Obi-Wan, of his Master. He should not, is not allowed to. Promised not to. Instead he wraps his arms around his Master’s neck and hugs him, pulling the larger man to himself, having his head against his chest for a few long moments in which he is sure Obi-Wan hears just how fast his heart goes. He surely can feel it through the bond, it’s going crazy, ba-dum, ba-dum. 

He can feel a distant echo of his own heartbeat, almost imperceptible to his senses, and yet there. An answer. Thoomp-thoomp.

When he leans back, he moves his hands to cup his Master’s cheeks and makes him tilt his head up, to face him. “You look good now,” His fangs stretch at his lips as he grins wide enough to hurt. “Master!” he adds, cheekily.

His Master’s eyes are a bright blue, the deepest, calmest pond. He rolls them shortly, then looks directly into Anakin’s own eyes and smiles at him, sarcasm dripping with fondness as he says “Thank you. Ah-nah-kin.” With the most accented tone Anakin had ever heard. There’s so much black in his Master’s eyes, a beautiful, wondrous thing that makes him itch all over and want to see more of that soft darkness no one else gets to see. 

No one else, but him. 

[mcaelius]

really unimaginably fucked for my exam tomorrow. but it's fine i'm going to dress up cool and pretend i feel confident and it will be Fine

[b4kuch1n]

wizard of both ways

[eltheabberation]

tokyo ghoul theory

Okay, so we all know that Shuu’s hair somehow changed colour sometime between tg and tg:re. and after YEARS of meticulous study, I have finally determined why

It was a retcon.

NO WAIT THERES MORE I SWEAR

So, Shuu’s hair went from purple to blue right? so let’s think about this.

Shuu (now) has blue hair, likes food, and speaks french. And you know who ELSE has blue hair, likes food, and speaks french?

That’s right, Saiko Yonebayashi.

So, as Ishida would never change a character’s design without reason, this change MUST be to showcase his connection to Saiko. and think about it, we never see Saiko’s father, and Saiko has a naturally higher affinity with her kagune than the other Quinxes. So, it would make sense that she was part ghoul, or in this case, part Tsukiyama.

So, anyway, that’s my theory. Saiko is a Tsukiyama :>

EXCEPT IM NOT DONE

You see, whenever we see Saiko speaking french, it’s to one person in particular.

Haise Sasaki. And look at what she’s calling him. “Maman” is actually the French word for “mother.” Now, why would Saiko be calling Haise her mother?

Well, as close readers will notice, Haise Sasaki is actually Ken Kaneki, aka the object of Shuu Tsukiyama’s affections. and remember what I said earlier about Saiko’s father?

So, I propose that Saiko is not just a Tsukiyama, but ACTUALLY the lovechild of Kaneki and Tsukiyama. But how could she exist? Kaneki and Tsukiyama only met 2 years prior, and Saiko is 20 years old. Well, I have a theory for that as well.

So, let’s go back to the start. Tsukiyama’s hair changed colour sometime between tg and tg:re. Well, I retract my earlier statement that this was retcon. Because I believe that it was ACTUALLY caused by an anomaly in the spacetime continuum. An anomaly named Saiko Yonebayashi. Saiko was transported to the main timeline from an alternate universe, shuffling things around in the process, INCLUDING Tsukiyama’s hair colour.

But how, you may ask? Well, this panel reveals it all

You see, while to most viewers, it would simply look like she is being unhelpful, she is actually attempting to convey who she is and her origins to her father. This "Saiko power" is likely what allowed her the ability to cross through dimensions, and its limitations are still unknown. Further research on this topic is required.

Now, why she came to the main timeline, I do not know. As Wegener spent his life trying to find the mechanisms for continental drift, I may never be able to truly discover the motivations of the elusive Saiko Yonebayashi. Which is why I'm going to clone myself so, unlike Wegener, when my theory is proven correct, I'll actually be around to see it

[queenlucythevaliant]

under the wings

1. Polly would always always always remember the feeling of falling asleep beneath Fledge's feathered wings.

2. She'd been curled up close to his side with his coverts over her shoulders like a shawl. His pinions had stretched past her to break the night winds. She'd leaned into the crook of his wing, feeling softness on her cheek. When she turned over in the night, feathers brushed her from all sides, whispering against her skin.

3. If Polly could have wished for one thing, at twelve, at twenty, at sixty, it would have been the same: to live in that memory. If she might, she never would have emerged from her place beneath Fledge's tawny wings.

4. She loved her smuggler's cave because it was safe and small and hers. She loved all kinds of nooks and closets, window seats and beds with curtains and covers she could crawl under.

5. Digory never understood it. He himself liked wide open space and covering skies. "It's the same concept though, I think," Polly remarked once. "There's something lovely about the feeling of being underneath."

6. Polly was even, unfathomably, rather partial to certain bomb shelters, though she'd never have admitted it. How pleasant it was to fall asleep underground, curled up in a corner wrapped in a blanket, safe in the knowledge that she was too far down for anything to hurt her.

7. (And when she wasn't in a shelter and the bombs fell anyway, she squeezed her eyes shut and pictured tawny feathers all round her.)

8. Digory wrote her letters and she wrote back. His were full of ditches in the ground and hers of shelters, but they both liked to write about lions and the sky.

9. After the first war, it was easy for a pretty lady to talk her way into flying lessons with one of the hundred wayward pilots left over from the fighting.

10. He was a mechanic by trade, and he didn't mind unconventional women; but he told Polly she had no business in a cockpit if she didn't know her way around an engine. So, two summers after the war ended, she spent her mornings smearing oil across her ruffled blouses and learning how to make things fly.

11. (She would have married him, if ever he'd asked her- but he never did, and maybe it was for the best.)

12. As the years wore past, Polly met other little girls with ribbons in their hair. She told them stories and she taught them her magic, and when they cried she brought them into her hiding places the same way she'd once done with Digory Kirke.

13. They called her Aunt Polly - both those children that she cared for interbellum, and the ones that came after.

14. Once, Polly dreamed that it had been her instead. Aslan told her, you will be the grandmother of all the angels, and feathered wings sprang from her back. Once, Polly dreamed that it had been her instead of Fledge.

15. (She woke with the feeling of feathers still clinging to her shoulders, itching.)

16. During the second war, she worked at an aerodrome. Occasionally she flew with the training crews, but mostly she'd go out onto the tarmac after the sirens were done and stand in the shadows of airplane wings.

17. When Digory told her about the wardrobe, Polly went to his estate, pulled out all the coats, and shut herself in. She didn't have any notions of getting back to Narnia that way-- but she did it all the same.

18. Jill and Eustace made her laugh: Eustace, who hated heights, and Jill, who panicked in small spaces. Oh Lord, thought Polly, save me from the irony. She loved them anyway.

19. In the end, she died in a train crash and opened her eyes to something like fragrant, golden feathers.

20. And suddeny, Polly understood. They're weren't really Fledge's wings at all, were they?

[brackenferns]

looking like that, you’ll open some wounds

Taryn’s traitorous heart is still quite fond of fairytales. She thinks, fleetingly, of a hero rescuing a maiden from a tower. Of a maiden rescuing a hero from a tyrant. Fairytale protagonists are always so pure of heart. She exhales a frustrated breath through her nose and shifts her feet. The Ghost shifts, too, and his cunning eyes glint up at her through the gloom. Her heart turns over. They are neither maiden nor hero, and what they had was no love story.

the promised taryn/ghost get-worse oneshot is up - read here 🖤

[daughterofzeus-the-novel]

finally getting through this goddamn chapter . . . also I forgot Penelope. oops.

[piningpercussionist]

I feel like Kim and Roxie would have a cat that's an absolute fucking bitch to everyone but them and I felt like you needed to know this

(I should be revising rn and I'm thinking about this bitchass roxipine cat the brainrot is real)

Oh my god... just like my cat for real.....

(The bastard herself; I tried to find photos where she looked upset/angry but there are. So fucking many photos of her to parse through I cannot understate.)

Anyway. Y e s. I am ascribing to this.

[studentbyday]

uuuggggghhhhnnnggghhhuhuhuhuhuhhhhhhhhh

[cappycodeart]

Fwoggy 🐸💕

[mybeautifulchristianjourney]

Woe to Tyrants

1 Woe to those who decree iniquitous decrees, and the writers who keep writing oppression, 2 to turn aside the needy from justice and to rob the poor of my people of their right, that widows may be their spoil, and that they may make the fatherless their prey! 3 What will you do on the day of punishment, in the storm which will come from afar? To whom will you flee for help, and where will you leave your wealth? 4 Nothing remains but to crouch among the prisoners or fall among the slain. For all this his anger is not turned away and his hand is stretched out still.

Arrogant Assyria Also Judged 5 Ah, Assyria, the rod of my anger, the staff of my fury! 6 Against a godless nation I send him, and against the people of my wrath I command him, to take spoil and seize plunder, and to tread them down like the mire of the streets. 7 But he does not so intend, and his mind does not so think; but it is in his mind to destroy, and to cut off nations not a few; 8 for he says: “Are not my commanders all kings? 9 Is not Calno like Car′chemish? Is not Hamath like Arpad? Is not Samar′ia like Damascus? 10 As my hand has reached to the kingdoms of the idols whose graven images were greater than those of Jerusalem and Samar′ia, 11 shall I not do to Jerusalem and her idols as I have done to Samar′ia and her images?”

12 When the Lord has finished all his work on Mount Zion and on Jerusalem he will punish the arrogant boasting of the king of Assyria and his haughty pride. 13 For he says:

“By the strength of my hand I have done it, and by my wisdom, for I have understanding; I have removed the boundaries of peoples, and have plundered their treasures; like a bull I have brought down those who sat on thrones. 14 My hand has found like a nest the wealth of the peoples; and as men gather eggs that have been forsaken so I have gathered all the earth; and there was none that moved a wing, or opened the mouth, or chirped.”

15 Shall the axe vaunt itself over him who hews with it, or the saw magnify itself against him who wields it? As if a rod should wield him who lifts it, or as if a staff should lift him who is not wood! 16 Therefore the Lord, the Lord of hosts, will send wasting sickness among his stout warriors, and under his glory a burning will be kindled, like the burning of fire. 17 The light of Israel will become a fire, and his Holy One a flame; and it will burn and devour his thorns and briers in one day. 18 The glory of his forest and of his fruitful land the Lord will destroy, both soul and body, and it will be as when a sick man wastes away. 19 The remnant of the trees of his forest will be so few that a child can write them down.

The Repentant Remnant of Israel

20 In that day the remnant of Israel and the survivors of the house of Jacob will no more lean upon him that smote them, but will lean upon the Lord, the Holy One of Israel, in truth. 21 A remnant will return, the remnant of Jacob, to the mighty God. 22 For though your people Israel be as the sand of the sea, only a remnant of them will return. Destruction is decreed, overflowing with righteousness. 23 For the Lord, the Lord of hosts, will make a full end, as decreed, in the midst of all the earth.

24 Therefore thus says the Lord, the Lord of hosts: “O my people, who dwell in Zion, be not afraid of the Assyrians when they smite with the rod and lift up their staff against you as the Egyptians did. 25 For in a very little while my indignation will come to an end, and my anger will be directed to their destruction. 26 And the Lord of hosts will wield against them a scourge, as when he smote Mid′ian at the rock of Oreb; and his rod will be over the sea, and he will lift it as he did in Egypt. 27 And in that day his burden will depart from your shoulder, and his yoke will be destroyed from your neck.”

He has gone up from Rimmon, 28 he has come to Ai′ath; he has passed through Migron, at Michmash he stores his baggage; 29 they have crossed over the pass, at Geba they lodge for the night; Ramah trembles, Gib′e-ah of Saul has fled. 30 Cry aloud, O daughter of Gallim! Hearken, O La′ishah! Answer her, O An′athoth! 31 Madme′nah is in flight, the inhabitants of Gebim flee for safety. 32 This very day he will halt at Nob, he will shake his fist at the mount of the daughter of Zion, the hill of Jerusalem.

33 Behold, the Lord, the Lord of hosts will lop the boughs with terrifying power; the great in height will be hewn down, and the lofty will be brought low. 34 He will cut down the thickets of the forest with an axe, and Lebanon with its majestic trees will fall. — Isaiah 10 | Revised Standard Version (RSV) Revised Standard Version of the Bible, copyright © 1946, 1952, and 1971 the Division of Christian Education of the National Council of the Churches of Christ in the United States of America. All rights reserved. Cross References: Genesis 10:10; Exodus 5:14; Exodus 14:16; Numbers 11:1; Joshua 18:24-25; Joshua 21:18; Judges 18:21; 1 Samuel 21:1; 2 Kings 18:33; 2 Kings 19:22-23; 2 Kings 19:25; 2 Kings 19:31; 2 Chronicles 14:11; Psalm 58:2; Psalm 78:31; Psalm 81:6; Psalm 94:6; Isaiah 2:8; Isaiah 5:4; Isaiah 5:15; Isaiah 5:25; Isaiah 7:3; Isaiah 10:5; Isaiah 10:30; Isaiah 14:6; Isaiah 21:17; Isaiah 28:22; Isaiah 32:19; Jeremiah 9:23; Jeremiah 22:7; Luke 19:44; Acts 2:23-24; Romans 9:20; Romans 9:27-28

[ghostzzy]

✨🗡🌱 KW!!!!!

oo good questions river!! thank you!!!!

⚡ - Does this oc have any unusual or “irrational” fears? tons. kw is extremely fearful In General. she's got lots of the usual phobias -- small spaces, spiders, heights, dogs, the ocean -- but she's also scared of like. anything that moves too fast. anything that's too loud. she's a feral animal and anything unfamiliar raises her hackles. the only thing that Doesn't scare her is people. she's not afraid of AnyOne.

🗡️ - Does this oc have a signature object, accessory, or weapon? the 'k' literally stands for knife. <3 you will not find them without several knives on their person or within reach at all times. they specifically carry a black pocket knife with a black blade, usually clipped onto the front of their jeans.

🌱 - Share one of this oc’s early memories. most of kw's earliest memories are from when she first came into the care of her aunt. she was 4ish/5ish at the time and everything before that was such trauma-smeared chaos that she can really only recall how jarring it was to be taken into a calm, stable environment. so like, the first time she slept in a room that was hers, in a bed by herself. or the first time she got to open a full-sized fridge and eat whatever she wanted out of it. or being taken to the store and bought clothes that actually fit her. that kind of thing.

ask me about the cursedwip kids pls <3

[theflyingfeeling]

oh for fuck's saaaaaaake 😐

[rawliverandgoronspice]

NOOOO I just replayed OoT for 20mn to check something and I just realized I had my mental plan about which shortcut leads where completely messed up, which destroys my entire military strategy plans for Thralls noooooooooo

[brackenferns]

looking like that, you'll open some wounds

the promised taryn/ghost get-worse oneshot will go live this weekend 🖤 a tease:

Off balance, the two of them. She has come to rely upon the push and pull of their encounters. There's an equilibrium there—circling this thing hand-in-hand like revelers around a bonfire, tugging one another toward the heat of the flames and yet always inexorably on, around, away. But they've both fallen out of step. She once read the tale of a brave girl who had to dance through fire to thaw the ice-heart of her beloved. Every moment of the dance was agony, but when she emerged, she was unharmed. That's how love works in fairytales. This is not love, pure and generous, but she feels the lick of flames regardless.