#what is shared is the place

[vaguely-concerned]

huh. you know something I just consciously put together for the first time about caterina and lucanis' relationship is that through the game we get to hear them talk about each other a lot, but we get very few chances to hear them speak with each other at any length at all. contrast it with other companions whose storylines have elements of 'believed lost/long time no see relative returns!' like bellara and davrin, where we get to see both of them have several pretty in-depth conversations with cyrian and eldrin. hell I think even rook talks with varric longer in the regret prison scene than we ever get to see lucanis and caterina interact directly.

(and when we do see them interact, it's mostly one-sided -- it is, perhaps unsurprisingly, caterina who is doing most of the talking and giving all the orders, as he ruefully observes is her wont after murder of crows. including jumpscaring him with 'you're first talon now btw' and the shocked pikachu face in five acts he goes through in response lmao. perhaps it's more accurate to say that she talks at him and he reacts, than that they talk to each other much.)

it has such an interesting effect too, because in deliberately denying us direct insight or experience and only having this mosaic of description from each of them to go on, as well as forcing us to pay attention to the negative space of what is carefully not said, it's evocative along the same principle that you never actually show the monster in a horror film. if you've read the wigmaker job you have a clearer image of the more uh. worrying elements at play here going in, but there is something fascinatingly insidious and naturalistic in the way it's 'hushed up' in the game itself. she has his complete loyalty both as a member of her house and, more importantly, that of an abused child to a parent figure. he readily admits several times that she's a difficult person to live with, an even more difficult person to be loved by ("even for me. and I was her favourite")... but never once does he actively blame her nor truly conceptualize that he has every right to do so (that he can be angry with her and still love her, because whether he should or not he unavoidably does), or that she might have acted differently than she did, that she made a choice every time to hurt him. even affectionately he speaks of her as a force of nature, an act of god -- something that can't be reasoned or pleaded with or resisted, something you can only hope to navigate with as little pain as possible and pray to survive. let yourself get carried away by the riptide, resisting it will only make it worse. you don't compromise with a hurricane, you just try to find the best shelter you can and cross your fingers while you wait for it to pass and be calm again.

love is that hurricane. you do whatever she asks. you earn her continued affection day by day by never letting her down. you only want the things she tells you it's okay to want and cut everything else away preemptively. ("A wyvern tooth dagger?? I loved wyverns as a boy --Caterina would never let me have one of these, though." and as we have all wept and gnashed our teeth over, it never even OCCURS to him that he's a like thirty-five year old adult man who can buy himself any dagger he wants at any time. she said he couldn't have one. so he'll never have one. that's just how it works. and maybe if Illario could just accept that and find his peace with it like I have, this whole thing wouldn't be so difficult. oh lucanis.)

such is the price -- and the cost -- of being loved by her, it's a loan on which the interest will never stop piling up. you have to keep paying it down in perfection every day if you want to keep it. who got the worse deal there: the grandson who has abandoned everything else in life to live up to that and mostly succeeded, until the day he's so burned out and broken it threatens to no longer be an option, or the grandson who can never seem to scrape together enough worth in her eyes no matter how he begs, borrows or steals it, how he hustles and plays dirty?

one of the worst things that can happen to anyone is to be loved by a selfish god. another one of the worst things that can ever happen to anyone is to not be loved by a selfish god. (hope that helps, boys!) even in betraying everything else, Illario can't bring himself to hurt his grandmother, because that would defeat the whole point. who would he defiantly be proving himself worthy to, without her. in love, devotion, submission, hatred, frustration, bitterness, everything is defined in relation to her, you can spot the gravitational force of it through how the dellamorte family move through time and space. she -- her love and regard and attention -- is still the sun both of their worlds orbit around, even as adults. the game might never tell you outright 'she used to beat and starve them growing up. for their own good you see, so they'd be strong (and broken down enough for her to build them up again however she wanted but I'm sure that's incidental)', but if you know even a little bit about how these dynamics can work the writing is on the wall everywhere you look and all the more unsettling for it.

follow lucanis' freeze-logic and fraught interpersonal catch 22 irreconcilable mixed emotions problems back far enough, looong before the ossuary entered the picture, and you start to see caterina's ghost around every fucking corner. she is so proud of him. (well, she would be. she made him. she forged exactly the knife she needed and it rests willingly, devotedly, in her hands, it would return to her every time because it doesn't know love as anything but to be a knife. his tama never taught him how to be anything else. his biggest fear with her is that she won't even want him back, the way he is now.) to the best ability of her soul, whatever parts of it survived a lifetime of crow politics and 'five children, eight grandchildren, only Illario and me left now', I think she really does loves him. he certainly loves her, with all the sincerity and artless desperation of a child, of the little boy he was once. and what she's done to him (and to illario, for all his shitty gremlin scar-ass antics lol) is awful. the harm is real, and the love is real, and trying to find a way for these two truths to exist in the same space is driving all three of them their own individualized forms of insane. you know. the way only family can and so often does lol.

through implications and short glimpses and having to put the pieces together yourself, you can have the feeling that there is very genuine mutual love and attachment in this relationship... and that beneath that there is something so profoundly wrong. and the sneaking '...oh shit it gets worse the longer I think about it' horror of that is more effective for me at least than the stark in-your-face presentation of the facts of the matter could have been. the love is here. the love is here. it only ever makes it worse.

[keferon]

May I ask what were the best transformers media you ever saw/read?

Well Transformers Prime, Transformers 1986 and IDW comics are having the first place that’s for sure

And then the second place is kind of shared by Fall of Cybertron, Exodus, Prime wars trilogy, Robots in disguise(2001) and Transformers One.

The third place goes to G1, Animated, Earthspark, Armada, War for Cybertron Netflix series, Aligned Robots in disguise, Bumblebee, Rise of the Beasts and Cyberverse because I only liked some little parts of them.

And then I also saw some of the Bay movies, Victory and Headmasters and didn’t like them at all.

Separate first place for J-Decker. It is not exactly Transformers but it is a show about giant robots and I loved it

[hoovesandfloorpaws]

"That said, both Styles and his therapist have questioned why he cares quite so much about being likeable. This is one of the things he thought about a lot in his big pandemic reflection. In part, it's a choice, he explained. He recalled moving to London after The X Factor and hearing tales of petulant celebrities screaming because someone got their coffee order wrong and deciding to never be that guy, to never give someone a petty reason to bad-mouth him. But more recently he's come to worry that the drive for approval came from a more complex place, a place of caution, fear, control." "Styles said he often spent interviews terrified about saying the wrong thing until he stopped to question what abhorrent belief or bizarre opinion he was scared he'd accidentally reveal and realized he couldn't think of anything."

"And he thought about the cleanliness clauses in the contracts he used to sign, which would dictate that they would be null and void if he did anything supposedly unsavoury, and about how terrified that used to make him. And about when he signed his solo contract and learned that the ability to make music would not be affected by personal transgressions, he burst into tears, a reaction he still seemed shocked by, retelling it to me now, years later. "I felt free," he explained."

"When Styles began therapy about five years ago [so in 2017], he was reluctant initially, feeling it was a music industry cliché. "I thought it meant that you were broken," he said. "I wanted to be the one who could say I didn't need it." He returned to the home theme that has underpinned our conversation, explaining that therapy has allowed him to "open up rooms in himself" that he didn't know existed, allowed him to feel things more honestly, where before he had tended to"emotionally coast.""

"Recently Styles began to work through issues related to intimacy, dating, love. "For a long time, it felt like the only thing that was mine was my sex life. I felt so ashamed about it, ashamed at the idea of people even knowing that I was having sex, let alone who with," he said."

"You look back, especially now there's all the documentaries, like the Britney documentary, and you watch how people were abused in that way, by that system, especially women. You recall articles from not even five years ago, and you're like, I can't even believe that was written."

He has been thinking a lot recently about autonomy, ownership, privacy. About what he should be able to keep to himself, what he should be able to simply communicate through his music without follow-up questions or prying. Around the time of Fine Line, he faced scrutiny around his sexuality. People became incredulous that he wore dresses, waved Pride flags, and yet hadn't clarified with precision, publicly to a journalist or on social media, the specifics of who he'd slept with, how he defined. This expectation is, to him, bizarre, "outdated." "I've been really open with it with my friends, but that's my personal experience; it's mine," he said.

Despite the acceptance that some things could, should, have been different, he still feels lucky every day, he said, lucky to make music, lucky to do what he loves.

"You can't win music. It's not like Formula One," he said. "I was like, in my lifetime, there will be 10 more people who burst onto the scene in that way, and I'm only going to get further away from being the young thing. So, get comfortable with finding something else that makes you happy. I just found that so liberating."

"I just want to make stuff that is right, that is fun, in terms of the process, that I can be proud of for a long time, that my friends can be proud of, that my family can be proud of, that my kids will be proud of one day," he said.

-- original interview link, Better Homes And Gardens Magazine 26 April 2022 (remake of this post)

[artisnotourstrongsuit]

Hellooooo I too have drawn stupid thingss n doodles

Like and subscribe for more uh. gideon coal (thanks to Lewis aka @pancakesindisguise for drawing the base of the fuckass little Gideon)

[spookygibberish]

Horotmu-Pavam of Solēsne was a Southern Throne born of the union of Unbodied Horotmu of Solēsne and Headless Pavam of Hatab, and was one of the most famous Solēsne Throne, much to the despair of House Solēsne. They are known best for their failure to synchronize, and the resultant death of a House Venvin scion at their hands, or rather teeth. Horotmu-Pavam has become a character of academic interest, a case study on the art of matching Headless and Unbodied, and a dramatic illustration of the consequences should a pair be ill-considered.

[the-original-skipps]

|| Original Wallpaper [Kaiju No. 8 RELAX] || Tsuki Watanabe ||

[bitchthefuck1]

I actually really love that we see Helena's palpable hesitation about going back to the severed floor. We know that this has all been a publicity thing for her and it's about helping Lumon, so she's really invested in the outcome, but like. from her POV, she's literally letting someone who actively hates her and everything she stands for, and also has a proven willingness to hurt herself if it means hurting Helena, who now knows who she is and her significance to Lumon, pilot her body for 8 hours every day in an environment where they've repeatedly failed to control her. If I were her, I'd be genuinely surprised to wake up with my limbs intact.

You already questioned why on earth she'd come back after Helly's suicide attempt, and the identity reveal explains the reasoning, but on a human level that's still a wild thing to have to think about. This person (who is you but also isn't) almost succeeded in killing you, and like a week later you let them pilot your body again like nothing happened. How could you not be terrified?

[luck-of-the-drawings]

JUST ROLL WITH IT: PRIME DEFENDERS - EPISODE 12: FESTIVAL OF FEAR

part of a thumbnail project hosted by the lovely wonderful GREF (that link goes to the twitty post, heres the pdf for ur own viewing tho)

THIS WAS VERY FUN! THANK U FOR ALLOWING ME TO JOIN AND PLAY.

[weekdaysend]

My SentOpLita 1AM relationship chart I did not think I'd be psycho-analyzing this dynamic as much as I thought I would..

[beautysnake]

What is your bluesky? :0

Take a wild guess

[shadesofmauve]

Mass Effect galaxy map

(For the Rhi Shepard universe)

I've been writing, if by 'writing' one means 'making a new galaxy map to use as a reference, because I'm too picky.'

I copied some symbology from Droot1986's excellent galaxy map. I also used Engorn's map as a reference, but ultimately the clusters and connections are based on the wiki. All systems within a cluster are listed, with inhabited planets in parentheses.

(...yeah, I should probably make a legend, but I only made it for my reference, so).

Features/changes

The relay in the Sol system only connects to Arcturus. This is how it's supposed to work in canon lore; Arcturus is important because it's a gateway system, while Sol is a dead end.

(Also, Sol is now in basically the right place compared to the underlying artist's impression of the milky way. Thank you NASA.)

Batarian's now have some space of their own, because lumping all batarian space into the human Systems Alliance was just BEGGING for a war. Like, WTF. Their government is flat out evil but that doesn't mean we just get to say their planets are ours now.

Combined inner and outer council space because idgaf.

There's a new, boringly named relay between Kite's Nest, Petra, and Exodus, because I needed one in chapter 14.

If a cluster had written lore about where it was in the galaxy, I tried to reflect that — so Styx Theta, Hawking Eta, and the Pangea Expanse are all close to the galactic core, Sentry Omega is on a political border, etc. Otherwise, I adjusted location to make the relay routes clearer. (Also I wanted the giant hub that is Omega to be almost opposite the Serpent Nebula and the Citadel)..

I imagine that there are actually a LOT more mapped clusters in Council Space than we see; they were just never relevant to the game. If not, the vaunted 'all relays lead to the Citadel' reaper web is just flat out wrong. Omega has more connections, and quite a few other clusters have as many. If there are more inhabited clusters in Citadel Space it also makes the veritable explosion of humanity look a little less ridiculous. (Seriously, humans have been on the galactic scene for thirty years. LOOK at how far we've gone. Council races are right to be freakin' terrified, the Sol system was like one of those plants with exploding seed pods where you bump it and POOF now they're EVERYWHERE). So let's assume the rest of the galaxy is as cluttered as Systems Alliance space, it's just not been relevant to our anthropocentric bag of dicks worldview.

Anyway. What the fuck is even up with the Attican Traverse?

[squilfmybeloved]

dutch telling arthur "see? you don't kill everything" after arthur releases a fish on that mission is so :( like okay :(( thanks dad :(((

[tennessoui]

freudian slip au: vacation blues (3k)

@promise-from-the-force-itself requested a snippet of the freudian slip au aka be careful not to choke on your admirations on ao3 (the au where anakin is the kenobi nanny and falls in love with his boss, obi-wan kenobi, who refuses to sleep with him until he's no longer his employer) as a fic-for-donation trade on my ko-fi! this is set pre-obikin getting together, so it's mostly just 3k of 19yo anakin being horny, cockblocked, and saying a horny innuendo the wrong thing to his hot boss who is hanging by a thin moral thread trying to resist temptation even when the resort staff messed up your room reservation so temptation has to sleep with you in your bed every night for like two weeks.

“I despise weddings,” Mr. Kenobi says, not for the first time, leaning back in the white plush poolchair next to Anakin and disdainfully pushing his sunglasses further up the bridge of his nose.

“I think that’s a bachelorette party,” Anakin replies as helpfully as he can manage when he’s trying his hardest not to glance sideways at his boss who is also most probably the grand love of his sad little life and who is, most annoyingly, shirtless and sunning himself in the Scarif mid-morning light.

When he’d accepted Mr. Kenobi’s invitation to travel with him and Korkie on their summer vacation to a famous Scarif beachside resort, he’d forgotten to factor in exactly how much time he’d have to spend with Obi-Wan Kenobi, shirtless and muscular and hairy just within his line of vision.

And with Korkie having been enrolled in the week-long child day camp that the resort boasts as being one of the best in Scariff, it’s hard to even remember why Anakin’s here if he’s not even really watching Korkie for Obi-Wan. For free.

Or, technically, he’s getting paid for this.

Paid to suntan and swim in the shallow pools of the resort, in the crystal clear blue waters of the beach just outside the resort’s gates. Paid to eat his weight in fancy oysters and sip frozen cocktails sitting at the underwater bar on one end of the resort’s pool. Paid to shyly offer up his bare back to Mr. Kenobi’s hands so he can slather sunscreen onto his unprotected skin, as if that’s something Anakin’s capable of building up an immunity against.

It’s not fair. At this point, he thinks there’s a good chance he’s going to end up being the first nineteen year old to ever die from sexual frustration.

“Been paying attention to them, have we?” Mr. Kenobi asks archly, sunglasses slipping down his sunscreen-greased nose as he raises an eyebrow at Anakin. 

Anakin stares harder at the group of women on the far end of the pool. It’s either that or give into the urge to count the moles dotting Mr. Kenobi’s shoulders. The one he’d seen yesterday just to the left of his heart and right next to his nipple had been devastating. Any other blow so early in the trip will surely put Anakin at critical levels of system failure.

Especially seeing as how due to a mix-up of rooms and reservations, as well as an inundation of bachelorette parties, Mr. Kenobi and Anakin are sleeping together. 

In the same bed.

Not—like, sleeping together, sleeping together.

Purely professional.

They really have kept it incredibly professional, which is more a miracle on Anakin’s side than probably even a consideration for Mr. Kenobi. 

That first night they’d arrived, jet-lagged out of their minds from the thirteen hour flight from Coruscant, Korkie already grumpily asleep in his father’s arms and Anakin handling his own bags because he’d felt too awkward to let one of the bellhops take them from him, had been a test in his self-control. When they’d entered the rooms—rooms—in the resort only to find that, apparently, the reservation had been improperly recorded and there was only one king-sized bed in the main ensuite for Obi-Wan and a child-sized bed for Korkie, Anakin had been the first to insist that the fancy couch stretching across half the sitting room—because this hotel room had multiple rooms—didn’t look so uncomfortable.

And when it was, because rich people can, apparently, do many things except make a comfortable couch, Anakin had been the first to suggest that he bunk down with the resident seven year old.

“Nonsense, he’s always kicked something awful,” Mr. Kenobi had said, running an exhausted looking hand over his beard while the other one carefully adjusted his sleeping son. “Satine scheduled an early delivery by two weeks. Told the doctors she thought her ribs couldn’t take it anymore.”

Anakin, almost desperate at that point and definitely on the verge of panic, had been about to suggest that, well, one of the sunbathing chairs by their private pond outside looked particularly comfortable. He’d sleep there—

But before he could say anything at all, Mr. Kenobi had said with the sort of finality that Anakin is sure has ended countless board meetings and starred in countless interns’ jerk-off fantasies, “You’ll share with me tonight. We’ll see if we can’t get something sorted tomorrow morning.”

And then they hadn’t. And then the next night, they still hadn’t. And now it’s their fourth day into the vacation, and Anakin is running on very little sleep and a level of fruitless horniness he hasn’t felt since the first few weeks of being employed by Mr. Kenobi.

Except then, there’d been a four year old running about in need of his attention and protection, and Mr. Kenobi had spent a lot more time comparatively not near Anakin. It’s like the exact opposite right now, and it means that Anakin wants to die.

“You’re red,” Mr. Kenobi observes, turning back to look down at the book  in his hand. “Surely not because of the bridesmaids?”

His tone is just cutting enough that Anakin, who is, it has to be said, running on little sleep and a lot of sexual frustration, snaps, “You’re hot.”

His mouth clicks shut a moment later, but the words are already out and, if the way Mr. Kenobi’s hand stills in between flipping pages, being misconstrued. His boss turns his head and peers at him over the rim of his sunglasses. 

It’s devastating, really, because Obi-Wan Kenobi—hand-to-heart—is actually the hottest thing Anakin’s probably ever seen in his entire life. Definitely hotter than any of the other people currently lounging poolside, and really, that’s saying something.

But that doesn’t mean Anakin has permission to just say that. To his boss. Korkie’s dad.

“I meant, like. It’s hot. When you get hot, you get red. Or—one, a person, like—you. You as a person gets red. When they—you get hot. So of course I’m—red. Independent of the bridesmaids.”

Anakin is quite sure if he was red before then he must be scarlet now. He thinks he can really, honestly feel the heat radiating from his face. 

Really, Anakin can probably sue someone. Make a formal complaint or something. About all the—shirtlessness he’s had to put up with over the past few days. Shirtlessness and bedsharing. It’s highly inappropriate behavior. Anakin’s here to do his job, which is minding Korkie. Mr. Kenobi is, at best, a dangerous distraction and at worst, a no-good cocktease. 

Or is it the other way around?

Anakin isn’t sure, and clearly he’s been getting too much sun. Because he’s all red and hot and his skin feels too tight.

“Actually, I’m gonna take a break in the room,” he decides, pushing himself up from the plush poolchair and faking a long, languid stretch to hammer home how very unbothered Anakin is with the whole situation.

When he glances back at Mr. Kenobi, the man’s eyes are once more fixed firmly on his book. 

Of course they are. 

“Alright,” Mr. Kenobi tells him, sounding actually unbothered in a way Anakin is incredibly envious about. His voice is level, cool as a fucking cucumber. “Oh, and Anakin,” he adds when Anakin is five steps away from their chairs and that much closer to the relative safety of Not Right Here Right Now For The Love of God Please, “if you could make sure to pick Korkie up from the Kids Club this afternoon and mind him for the evening. I’ve plans to get drinks with the owner tonight.”

Anakin scratches at the back of his neck. Knowing Mr. Kenobi, his plans could be getting drinks with the owner of a yacht at the marina, the owner of the resort, or the owner of the fucking island. “Well, yeah,” he says. “‘S what you brought me here for, isn’t it?”

Mr. Kenobi looks up at him, sunglasses hiding his expression. Anakin manages, through sheer force of will alone, to keep his eyes appropriately on his boss’s face. Even though his chest is right there. And his thighs, which are barely covered by the swimshorts. And his ankles, which are surprisingly delicate and incredibly endearing which is how Anakin really knows he’s in love. Or, well, obviously he’d known before this week exactly how in love with Obi-Wan Kenobi he is, but it definitely proves just how far gone he is that he finds the man’s ankles fucking…endearing.

“Quite,” Mr. Kenobi says, returning his attention to the book in his hands. He uncrosses his legs and then recrosses them. “I just thought a reminder wouldn’t be…uncalled for. Given potential…distractions posed by the…other resort guests.”

Sometimes Mr. Kenobi says stuff that makes Anakin think maybe he’s not as smart as he looks. Like when he implies that Anakin is going to spend the rest of the afternoon drooling over women in tiny bikinis and plastic penis crowns, when it can’t be more obvious that Anakin’s escaping inside to jerk off for the seventh time so far this week. Probably over something really embarrassing too, like the scent of Obi-Wan’s aftershave on his pillow or the memory of his stupid fucking ankles.

“Roger that, Captain,” he manages to say before he turns tail and flees.

—------------

For being his only support system at the moment, Padmé is being both unsupportive and terribly unsympathetic.

Anakin paces the length of the ensuite room, feet hardly making a sound as they trek the plush rug that the indecently huge bed rests on. His phone is tucked in between his shoulder and ear  so that he can have his hands free to gesticulate. Not that it seems to be helping.

It’s nearly midnight. Obi-Wan isn’t back yet, but Korkie’s been asleep in his room for the last several hours. He’d gone down easy, which makes sense. As far as Anakin can figure, the main point of paying what is surely an exorbitant price to send your kid to the Kid Club at the resort is to exhaust them so much that they’re ready to fall asleep before it’s even dark outside and you have the whole evening to yourself.

But still, just in case, Anakin has the doors cracked so he can hear if the little monster stirs. So far, all he’s heard is a gratuitous amount of kicking.

At first he’d tried to fall asleep when the hours ticked into proper night and he’d read as much of his book as he’s allotted himself for the day, but he’d felt wide awake the moment his head hit the pillow. 

When would Mr. Kenobi return? What was the other man doing? Was drinks with the owner really just a euphemism for something else he was doing with the owner? Who has drinks this late? Isn’t Mr. Kenobi old?

Isn’t it past his bedtime?

“I don’t understand,” Padmé admits, stifling her yawn. “Why can’t you just go to your room and shut the door if you’re afraid of your boss waking you up when he comes in?” 

Anakin turns and paces his line back towards the sliding glass doors leading out to the private patio. “Because we’re sleeping together!”

Padmé, for once, seems stunned into silence. But not for long. “Wha—”

“I mean, professionally,” Anakin says, pinching at the bridge of his nose and fighting the urge to hang up so he can just duct-tape his mouth closed. Forever.

“Alright,” Padmé decides. This is accompanied by shifting on her side of the line as she presumably stands as well to begin pacing through her house. “I think you need to remind me what exactly it is you do for the Kenobis again.”

Anakin splutters. “I’m Korkie’s nanny!”

“And what do you do for his father?”

“Mind Korkie!” Anakin snaps, voice far too loud for the stillness of the night around them. “Get your mind out of the gutter, Padmé, Christ! He’s my boss!”

“Right,” Padmé says. And then, unrepentant, “Look, Ani, darling, I have to go. It’s far too late in the night for me to listen to this kind of delusion. Go sleep with your boss. Tell me about it later.”

“It isn’t like that—” Anakin starts to protest in defense of Obi-Wan Kenobi’s morals more than his own, given that it would absolutely be like that if Anakin had his way. “Whatever,” he says when he realizes she’s already disconnected the call. He falls back into the soft hug of the mattress. It offers little comfort.

But sleep must eventually come to him, because he drifts back into consciousness an indeterminable amount of time later to feel the linen sheets being dragged over his body.

He makes a noise, half questioning and altogether too trusting, even as he refuses to roll onto his back, staying instead on his side. A hand, broad and callused and familiar, falls to rest on his shoulder as the bed shifts. Someone climbs in it, careful not to jostle him too much. 

“Korks?” Anakin mutters, even though he knows that’s not right—can’t be right. The touch is too sure, the hand too big. 

It’s Obi-Wan who replies, because of course it is. Who else would Anakin ever willingly share a bed with? “Mm, I think you’ll find that I kick less.”

The touch on his shoulder does not fall away. The fingers slip further down his arm, tracing along the line of his bicep instead.

Anakin is suddenly, irreversibly awake, as if he’s just injected caffeine straight into his bloodstream. Obi-Wan is touching him. It’s late at night, and the man is at his back. Closer than he ever has been before.

“The way you talk, you’d think you don’t have any bad habits in bed,” Anakin whispers.

The words drag a rough sort of chuckle out of Obi-Wan that Anakin finds devastating. The hand rests on his elbow. Obi-Wan’s forearm is touching Anakin’s naked side. If the heat radiating from just behind him is any sort of indicator, then the man must have discarded the shirt he’s usually worn to bed over the past several nights.

“Mm,” Mr. Kenobi drawls, and Anakin knows he must be drunk. Tipsy at least. He’s only really ever seen him like that a handful of times, but his voice always goes syrupy slow. He likes to touch, trace his fingers over whatever happens to be close by as if the sensation is heightened after several whisky cocktails.

He’s touching Anakin right now.

“I’ve been told I like to bite,” Mr. Kenobi murmurs. His breath hits the back of Anakin’s neck and it makes him shiver. It makes him ache, cock chubbing up at such a fast pace that he’s sort of afraid of passing out.

He grabs onto the distraction that is Obi-Wan’s response with both hands, holding himself carefully still so he doesn’t give into the temptation to roll his hips back. To see just how far away from him Mr. Kenobi has chosen to rest his body. 

“You’ve bitten people in your sleep?” He asks, because that sounds ridiculous.

“In my sleep?” Mr. Kenobi repeats, and his hand moves. His hand drops from his arm, lands on his stomach instead, longer fingers just skirting the dip of his exposed belly button. “No.”

It takes all of Anakin’s concentration to not buck his hips up into the touch. It’d be like taking advantage of the man, if he were to roll over and beg him to touch him more, touch him lower, get him off. He’s drunk. They’re both tired. Korkie’s just in the next room, and Anakin would bet a sizable chunk of Obi-Wan’s fortune that the man hadn’t thought to close any of the doors but the first upon entering their room.

“Mr. Kenobi,” Anakin whispers into the darkness. He doesn’t even know what he wants to say, what he’s planning on doing, how he’s going to finish that sentence. Please more? Please keep talking? Please tell me what you like in bed because apparently we’re not talking about sleeping habits? 

But before he can wet his lips and decide—commit—Mr. Kenobi is letting out a sigh, like Anakin has just reminded him of a pressing meeting that he has on his calendar.

His hand moves again, though this time it falls away from him completely as the mattress shifts once more and Obi-Wan rolls away.

Anakin blinks into nothing, holding himself perfectly still just in case lightning decides to strike twice. Meanwhile, he tries to talk his dick down from spontaneously imploding. It’ll be much too telling to go to the toilets now, and a shower is definitely out of the question.

The best case scenario would be Mr. Kenobi rolling back into his space and finishing what he started, of course.

But a handful of moments later, his boss begins to snore the song of the drunken men who have had the misfortune to fall asleep on their backs.

Like his stupid ankles, Anakin still somehow finds this incredibly endearing.

Though, he decides sometime after the night has ticked over into the very early hours of the morning and Anakin still hasn’t managed to convince his body to unclench and fall asleep, he’s going to riot in the morning if the hotel reception staff can’t find a trundle bed for him to sleep on for the remainder of the trip. 

Hell, he’d put up with Korkie’s knobbly knees instead of…of whatever this is.

He might even risk the bachelorette party.

[slutforpringles]

via: Daniel Ricciardo: Late braker | The Australian Weekend Magazine Nov 12-13 2016 | Trent Dalton

[astraerystarr]

Mothra and Battra have me in my feelings again and I don't know what to do with it so woe; little doodles be upon us all

this was supposed to be a comic but I almost died just coloring this, I'm not finishing that thing >:(