#The Dogma of Function

[nylloth]

I'm playing this game extremely wrong

[goldieclaws]

Not to be rude but what is this poll lmao

Nice to see most have voted yes but also Every Single Game has some form of AI in it. Enemies may have a more complex AI bc they need to understand when to attack the player and how to do so. Some will have a radius of aggro, others have a magnet AI. Archer enemies are coded to stand a distance away, melee enemies are coded to get up close and personal. I’ve also seen enemy AI that understand when to switch to swords after using a bow when you get close enough. NPCs meanwhile can have different responses to how you treat them and will have flags attached to them when you complete a quest for them. They can also have routines, times they go to bed or start their job.

Every enemy or NPC needs an AI attached to them or they will just Stand There doing absolutely nothing. Ragebait looking post.

[finalexpenses]

oh my god wait shes literally a sphinx LMAO

[nooneherebutaghost]

so anyways I'm fighting havoc. $1 to watch.

I saw you're up for taking more kiss prompts... Would it be okay to request Tup/Dogma with 24. A Sleepy Kiss? 🥺👉👈 - Ghost.

aah thank you @nooneherebutaghost!!

this request inspired me to do evil, but i felt bad so i did a nice one too 💖

collateral damage and a little closer are both up on ao3!

[toskarin]

if you've ever played the dragon's dogma pc port and tried using kbam, the first thing you notice is either that the controls feel extremely weird if you didn't play it on console, or, if you did play it on console, that the controls are borderline miraculously functional for how much that game was designed around using the triggers to rotate the face buttons

and also that the controls feel extremely weird. but that's more of a "designed for controllers" thing

in any case, this is mostly because dragon's dogma on pc was a bit of an above-and-beyond port for a bunch of different reasons, one of which was "itsuno really really really wanted to cash in all of his good faith on making dragon's dogma 2"

[literaryvein-reblogs]

hey, do you have anything on writing about cults you could share, please?

Writing Notes: Cults

Cult - A religious or quasi-religious group characterized by unusual or atypical beliefs, seclusion from the outside world, and an authoritarian structure.

They tend to be highly cohesive, well organized, secretive, and hostile to nonmembers.

Also: The system of beliefs and rituals specific to a particular religious group.

Cult of Personality - exaggerated devotion to a charismatic political, religious, or other leader, often fomented by authoritarian figures or regimes as a means of maintaining their power. Also called personality cult.

Characteristics of a Cult

Each cult has its own distinctive focus, but almost all of these groups share at least some elements in common, such as:

Authoritarian control: Cultism hinges on encouraging maximum dependency. People in the cult must feel incapable of living an individual life outside the norms of the group. These beliefs often go hand in hand with a worshipful attitude toward the group’s authoritarian leader.

Extremist beliefs: Cult members hold to very dogmatic and extreme beliefs. They also are unable to question these belief systems without fear of reprisal or punishment from the leader or other group members.

Isolation from society: As soon as new members join a cult, other adherents work hard to isolate them from family members and friends. This helps fulfill the mind control aspirations of the leader. It also creates a hive mind of sorts between the new person and the other members.

Veneration of a single individual: Charismatic leaders are often at the center of most cults. Consider the Manson family of the late 1960s. As their name suggests, they adopted the beliefs of their leader, Charles Manson, and fulfilled his requests. The same pattern repeats in almost all other cults, albeit to less violent ends in many cases.

Types of Cults

There are many different types of cults focusing on different end goals or beliefs. Here are just a few general groupings:

Doomsday cults: Certain cults come together to prepare for the allegedly imminent end of the world. For instance, the Branch Davidians stockpiled firearms and explosives in a Waco, Texas, compound over the 1980s and ’90s to prepare for the apocalypse. This led to an infamous standoff with the federal government.

Political cults: Political groups on both the left and right can morph into cults. Janja Lalich wrote an entire account of her own experience in such an environment.

Religious cults: Spiritual beliefs serve as the bedrock for many cults. Some cults are offshoots of mainline religions while others offer brand-new dogmas and theology.

Sex cults: All types of cults might have a component of sexual abuse, but some focus on sex as one of their primary functions. For instance, New York–based NXIVM encouraged rampant sexual behavior between its group members before dissolving.

Examples of Cults

Cults have made headlines over the years due to their outrageous and sometimes tragic behavior. Some notorious cultic groups:

Heaven’s Gate: Inspired by the Book of Revelation, Bonnie Nettles and Marshall Applewhite formed Heaven’s Gate as a doomsday cult with a focus on UFOs. In 1997, all the members died by mass suicide in an effort to ride a comet passing by the Earth.

The Peoples Temple: Jim Jones, a charismatic preacher from the United States, formed the Peoples Temple to spread his own flavor of Christianity before moving to Guyana. There, he founded Jonestown, a compound for his religious group of followers. They died by mass suicide in 1978.

The Unification Church: A new religious movement that began in South Korea, The Unification Church spread to the rest of the world. All adherents follow the teachings of Sun Myung Moon, hence their colloquial nickname (the Moonies).

Why People Join Cults. People join cult movements for various reasons, most of which revolve around a desire for meaning and community. Many who become part of such organizations have troubled backgrounds and difficulty fitting into society. They might also feel mainstream culture has no place for them and nothing of spiritual value to offer either.

Former cult members often describe the long-lasting sense of loneliness and nihilism they felt prior to becoming part of something bigger than themselves.

This encourages them to put down their defenses and accept the stranger elements of their new communities.

Of course, this has sometimes led to horrific and even deadly outcomes in extreme circumstances.

No one joins a cult voluntarily; they are recruited into it.

There is lack of informed consent.

Everyone has vulnerabilities.

Possible situational vulnerabilities include:

illness,

the death of a loved one,

breakup of an important relationship,

loss of a job, or

moving to another city, state or country.

Individual vulnerabilities may include:

high hypnotizability,

strong ability for concentration and vivid imagination,

learning disorders, or 

autism spectrum disorders.

Excessive use of hypnosis, meditation, and other activities can induce an altered state of consciousness. These, in turn, increase susceptibility to being recruited by a cult unless there are strong critical thinking, media literacy and good supportive network, which can help a person stay grounded.

Other risks consist of:

Learning and communication disorders

Drug or alcohol problems

Trauma

Unresolved sexual issues

Phobias (fear of heights, drowning, sharks, aliens, terrorists, crime, etc.)

There are even recent 21st century contributors:

COVID-19/pandemic

Severe economic disruption

Isolation, lack of touch, social distancing

Social/political polarization

Increased time online

Internet addiction

Recruitment into extreme conspiracy theories and cults/scams

"Cult" as a Word

In recent years the word cult has been most commonly used as a pejorative term for a religious group that falls outside the mainstream and, by implication, engages in questionable activities. Many new religions are controversially labeled as cults.

In historiography, there are no negative connotations to the term cult.

It is especially common in works on Classical history, as the ancient Mediterranean world was home to a large variety of mystery cults.

These were small groups whose elite members were initiated into secret rituals for a particular deity.

Far from existing at tension with the society at large, many Roman cults were heavily integrated into the surrounding society.

In Pompeii one of the most lavishly decorated temples was of the cult of Isis.

An inscription records that the individual who paid for the temple’s refurbishment was rewarded with a position as town councilor, indicating a strong interconnection between this mystery cult and the civic order of the city.

Furthermore, one of the most prominent Roman cults was the imperial cult, which was dedicated to the worship of deceased and deified Roman emperors and their deified family members.

Imperial cult worship reinforced the power of the dominant political system, and most or all of pre-Christian Roman society had some degree of membership in it.

Other groups referred to as cults can also reinforce the dominance of a religious and social order.

Within the Roman Catholic Church, the cult of the Virgin Mary and cults of other saints have gained many adherents and a high degree of influence, especially artistically.

Even today, people who intensely worship particular saints are sometimes identified as being members of that saint’s cult.

In more recent decades, groups designated cults have been those at tension with the rest of society.

However, beyond this feature, there is no general consensus about what differentiates a cult from any other religious group.

Some scholars have argued that, by the simplest definition, many, if not all, religious sects originated as cults.

Over time, some cults became culturally accepted and the tension between them and society resolved, leading to the cult being recognized as a sect or church.

Recent examples of this transition from so-called cult to religious group are Seventh-day Adventists and the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

Other scholars have advanced a more narrow definition of the term cult as a religious group with some or all of the following characteristics:

a charismatic leader who exercises total control;

an apocalyptic vision (doomsday cult);

isolation from society;

an emphasis on a transcendent spiritual experience;

rigid rules governing group members’ behaviour; and

the exploitation of members, including sexually and financially.

In popular use, the term cult has accumulated a strong negative connotation and is often used to cast aspersions on a religious group’s validity as a form of religious practice.

From the 1960s onward, a number of new cults developed in the United States and attracted large numbers of worshippers.

The actions of these cultists, who sometimes isolated themselves from their families and oriented their lives fully around the cult, triggered widespread alarm.

So, too, did the actions of violent cults such as the Peoples Temple, headed by Jim Jones, and the Manson Family, which was led by Charles Manson.

The anti-cult movement reached its peak in the 1970s, when the idea emerged that cult members were being “brainwashed,” having their free will systematically taken away.

The trial of Patty Hearst—an heiress kidnapped by leftist radicals in 1974 and allegedly brainwashed into committing crimes—played a key role in the growth of this belief.

According to the brainwashing theory, cult members are not choosing an alternative way of life but are instead victims of exploitative and dangerous fanatics.

This justified the rise of forcible deprogramming, which involves the kidnapping and holding of cult members until the deprogrammer judges that they are no longer in the thrall of the cult.

Many deprogrammed former cult members went on to launch challenges in court.

Some sued the cults that they had been members of, accusing them of brainwashing. A few psychologists and psychiatrists testified in support of the deprogrammed cultists at those trials.

However, other former cult members sued their deprogrammers, claiming to have been kidnapped and abusively coerced into giving up their “brainwashing.”

With brainwashing accusations at the heart of these cases, a variety of medical researchers as well as such organizations as the American Psychological Association researched cults and cult members during the 1980s and ’90s. Their conclusion was that accusations of brainwashing and coercive persuasion against cults lacked a factual basis.

Studies which suggested proof of brainwashing were methodologically flawed or based on insufficient data.

After a cult member won a lawsuit against his deprogrammer (Jason Scott v. Rick Ross) in 1995, the practice of forcible deprogramming was largely discontinued.

Academic research has revealed a more fluid and varied reality than the one advanced by the anti-cult movement.

In fact, many people who join a cult choose to leave it.

Other members of cults do not become entirely isolated from society, maintaining jobs and relationships outside the cult.

In addition, some studies have suggested that those who leave a cult and experience psychological damage are more likely to have left involuntarily.

A wide range of religious groups fall under the definition of cult, and the vast majority are benign or even have a positive impact on society.

Given the continued negative associations with the term cult, many sociologists and researchers now prefer to use the term new religious movement (NRM).

It is used to describe groups previously called cults.

This term is meant to dissociate NRMs from the connotation that their forms of religious expression lack legitimacy, an idea which is now perhaps permanently ingrained in the term cult.

Lasting Effects of Cults. Prolonged and intense coercive persuasion can cause identity disturbance. Commonly, there are many additional after-effects:

Extreme identity confusion

Panic and anxiety attacks

Depression

Psychosomatic symptoms (headaches, backaches, asthma, skin problems)

Anger, guilt and shame

Decision-making dependency

Fear and phobias

Sleep disorders/nightmares

Eating disorders

Fear of intimacy and commitment

Distrust of self and others

Grieving loss of friends and family

Delusions and paranoia

Loss of life meaning or purpose

Post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD)

In an era when cult mind control is ever present and growing, it is essential to better understand the basics of cults, in order to combat their influence.

The first goal in educating yourself is prevention, for yourself and others. But, if you have been affected, recovery is possible.

And if your friends or family are involved in a destructive group, you can help rescue them from harm.

Sources: 1 2 3 4 ⚜ More: References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

Choose which of these references would be most appropriate to incorporate in your story. Hope this helps!

[fitnessadvicethatfitsinyourlife]

Our society has created this whole dogma around exercise where you're just supposed to hate it. It's supposed to feel like a painful chore to the point where it's frequently used as a punishment even for grade school kids.

And honestly what fucking garbage is that? Movement serves two purposes: function & joy

It should never be a punishment. Movement should fulfill a need or physically feel good. Preferably both, but that's not always feasible.

Therefore exercise should either: facilitate function or increase joy. That's it.

Doing burpees until you throw up does neither. Grueling exercise promotes injury and a hatred of exercise, and there's simply no reason for that kind of exertion to be considered normal fitness.

[former-leftist-jew]

Of course I'm upset. I'm sick to death of Christians trying to take our shit and make it theirs, while giving us shit for not abandoning our shit for yours.

It's a Jewish movie, based on a Jewish story. Judaism exists just fine without Christianity, while Christianity can't exist without Judaism.

If you find meaning and fulfillment in a Jewish story it because Judaism preludes your Christianity: good for you. But stop trying to take our shit and make it yours.

Get your own shit.

Need this site to understand that "The Prince of Egypt" is BOTH a Jewish and Christian movie. Let no one rob it from the Jews, but us christians literally owe our faith to the same God who saw to and led the Exodus. The Ten Commandments are still in effect, Jesus did not abolish the law but fulfilled it, and to get to Jesus we needed Moses.

[covid-safer-hotties]

Also preserved in our archive

Further proof that the often parroted truism that "a covid vaccination is your best defense against long covid" is dogma and not medical science. Your vaccine can keep you out of the hospital and perhaps lessen some of the physical symptoms of certain PASC symptoms, by the numbers, it's not stopping the mechanisms that make long covid happen and has no effect on some of the most disabling neural symptoms of long covid. The best and only way to assure you don't get long covid is to avoid covid infection by masking, improving ventilation, meeting remotely when possible, and other physical means of viral prevention.

[shrinkrants]

...so embedded that even modest proposals—like canceling student loans or medical debt—are met with moral outrage. What about personal responsibility? What about fairness? But no one asks whether it’s fair that Wall Street got a bailout while working families got foreclosure. Or that tax cuts for the wealthy are “investments,” while relief for the poor is a “handout.”

Debt functions like religion: enforced by ritual, defended by dogma. The high priests wear suits, not robes. And the heresy they fear most is not inflation or default—it’s forgiveness.

But even the most deeply rooted beliefs can be questioned. Even the most rigid structures can fall. History tells us that jubilees were not utopian fantasies but practical resets—ancient acknowledgments that too much debt leads not to productivity, but to bondage and collapse. The cancellation of debts wasn’t charity. It was survival.

[ireadwithmyears]

Hey, Shay! Congrats again on 300! Thanks for writing us stories! It's such a sweet idea to make personal ones.

I'm not picky. I'm currently writing for Dogma, Fox, Hardcase, Tech, Echo, and Crosshair, but really any clone is fine even if you want to make up an OC clone.

Could I get a fic where the reader feels she doesn't matter? She feels taken for granted by her family and forgotten by her friends—an afterthought. She doesn't think she's anyone's priority, and that's where the clone comes in.

Female reader please, but it can be SFW or NSFW, whichever way your imagination goes.

If You Love Me for Me

Pairing: Echo/Fem Reader

Word count: 3 K

For my 300 follower milestone event (Now closed) 

Tags/warnings: Angst, mentions of familial issues, anxiety and insecurity, friends to lovers, getting together, kissing, brief mention of very minor injury.

Summary: In a world where your family has made you believe that you are everyone’s last priority, Echo makes sure that to him, you will always be his first.

Authors note: So I named a fic after a Barbie movie song, to which, I say, what about it 🤷‍♀️ I really hope that I could capture all of those feelings that you were experiencing when you sent me that ask, Amber, and I really hope you enjoy this story.

No one notices when you quietly slip out the back entrance of your parents’ house and leave. 

And maybe, you think, shimmying yourself up to hop the low garden fence, not wanting to risk unlatching it so that someone might hear the indignant, rusted whine the gate makes as it opens, that’s the part that stings the most.

They don’t notice, and a sharp, bitter and intrusive part of you can’t help but think it’s because they don’t care.

That, you concede, is definitely an oversimplification. They care enough, you try to tell yourself. Enough to make sure that there will always be food in your fridge and that you’ll always have a roof over your head. They care enough to, mostly, support your career endeavours even if they don’t totally understand them. They care enough to love you, or at least say that they do, even though sometimes, the sentiment rings hollow in your ears coming from them.

Maybe it’s because you’re selfish, your traitorous mind whispers as you wander the walkways beneath Pabu’s setting sun. Isn’t that what your mom had called you, in a fit of anger when you had gotten into some stupid argument about something or other that you couldn’t remember now long ago when you were still a teenager. Selfish, ungrateful, overly sensitive and, apparently, still needs to fucking grow up. 

All they are is words, you try to remind yourself, words from a long, long time ago. Words that, if you brought them up to her now, she’d probably claim she never actually said. 

Again, you think, hearing your mother’s voice in your head. Grow up, get over it.

Your eyes smart, and you frustratedly kick out at a loose pebble that’s gotten caught beneath your shoe on the pavement, listening as it bounces and quietly skitters away.

You had tried to stay for family dinner tonight, because that’s what normal, functional and supportive families were supposed to do. You had stayed, even as they passed you over in conversation. You had stayed even as they had celebrated your recent achievements in your career as an art vendor with the most cursory of congratulations. You had stayed even when, with difficulty, they had chatted and gushed at length about your brother's new shiny career as a lawyer, you had still stayed because you were a good, supportive daughter and sister.

You’re not sure what, exactly, was the thing that pushed you over the edge and had you quietly sneaking out the back door. All you know is that you feel taken for granted, forgotten and alone. And worst of all, like your family doesn’t even know you, or care to know you and your interests, your passions, the things that make you smile, the facets of yourself that make you, well, you.

And that, most of all, is the thing that twists like a knife in the pit of your stomach now, the tears openly sliding down your cheeks in a slow, silent stream as you let your feet carry you up and around the island’s spiralling staircases, unsure of where you’re going until you find yourself quietly mounting the steps to his porch.

You shouldn’t be here right now. 

You snap back into reality with a jolt so hard that you have to reach out a fumbling hand to grasp onto the wooden railing, lest you should stumble backwards off the steps of the porch and fall into the dirt directly on your butt.

He shouldn’t have to see you when you’re like this. 

Not Echo, who you’re convinced might be the one person in the world who looks at you with something more than a bland, passing interest  or indifference. He can’t see you when you’re unhappy, tears rolling down your face, because what if that makes him step away? What if, like your family, he finds the sight of your tears discomforting. What if, when you explain yourself, he thinks you’re just as ungrateful, just as selfish, as they all think you are.

A sob claws its way up your throat and you stumble, thankfully forward this time as you turn around to leave, to disappear into the night without him ever knowing that you’re here, and then creak…

The sound of the door opening in the quiet of the night scares you so bad that you trip, and your hands flail uselessly as you cry out, biting down on your lip hard enough to draw blood as you feel the rough and uneven pavement bite into the skin of your knees when you hit the ground.

“I thought I saw you sneaking around outside,” says Echo, and his voice is warm, jovial, even as he moves to help you up from the ground. “I didn’t mean to scare you,” he continues, looping your arm through his. “But seeing as I did, and it looks like you’ve banged up your knees as a result, the least I can do is help you patch them up.”

You let him pull you to your feet, suddenly lacking the energy to protest, blinking as you look down and catch a glimpse of torn jeans, a small collection of scrapes decorating the skin beneath. Great, you think, both exasperated and subdued. Now you’re burdening him.

“It’s cold out there,” he hums, steering you over to an armchair. “Did you forget your jacket?”

The fireplace is blazing, and only now that the heat of the flames is lightly caressing your skin from where you sit, do you realize how cold you are. Your arms prickle with goosebumps, and you belatedly realize that you must have left your jacket on the hook at the front door of your parents’ house. Mutely, you nod your head, and Echo clucks with disapproval.

Nonetheless, moments later, he’s quietly instructing you to lift your arms and when you do, he slides one of his, much larger, sweaters over your head, helping you gather your hair to gently pull it free of where it’s caught inside the hoodie almost without conscious thought.

“What would I do without you?” you ask, burying your hands within the baggy sleeves and holding your arms close to yourself as you look up at him.

“Probably forget your own head, if it wasn’t already attached,” he says wryly, giving you a playful tap on the nose, his scomp resting on his hip..

He settles on the floor, carefully lifting up one of your feet so that your leg is propped on an ottoman in front of you, letting out a low whistle as he moves carefully to snip away at the already ripped fabric at the knee of your jeans. 

“Am I gonna live?” you ask sarcastically, and have the satisfaction of watching as Echo tries to restrain his lips from pulling upward into a small smile.

“It’s bleeding a bit, and there’s also some debris,” he says, rising to his feet and moving towards the kitchen sink so that he can wet a washcloth. “But yeah, you’ll live. Shouldn’t even have to amputate,” he adds, not bothering to hide his grin this time.

You snort, even as you instinctively flinch when he starts cleaning the scrapes. He gives you an apologetic smile, even as he shifts to rest his scomp over your leg to keep you still. For a while, it’s quiet, the only sounds in the room your combined breathing, the gentle dabbing of the damp cloth against your skin, and the occasional chink of tweezers as Echo carefully removes small rock fragments from the wounds.

So,” he ventures, after the silence has stretched out for too long. “Family dinner really that bad?”

“How could you tell?” you ask with an exhausted sigh, leaning back as your eyes roll up towards the ceiling.

“I know you,” he states simply, and you startle a bit when you feel his thumb against your cheek, until he pulls back and holds up his hand, the tip of his finger smudged with something dark. Your mascara, you realize, your cheeks going pink with embarrassment. The lingering evidence of your tears.

“And I know that they’re the only ones who can make you cry like that.”

You sniff and his eyes, when you dare to turn yours away from the ceiling to actually look at him properly, are two pools of soft, amber warmth and compassion that nearly push you to dissolve into a fresh wave of tears all over again. Gritting your teeth, you force it back, straightening and trying to recover any shred of dignity that remains within you.

Still, the treacherous voice that lurks in the back of your mind still whispers. 

He doesn’t want you here. 

He’ll listen to what you say with passive interest, he’ll be nice to you because he feels obligated and still, all the while, he’s secretly waiting for you to leave. Because you’re unremarkable, you go quiet and make awkward pauses in conversation because you want, so much, to be liked, loved, valued, and at the same time you have no idea what you have to do to make people look at you with anything other than a detached apathy for your presence.

And here he is, fresh off a long stretch of missions working for the burgeoning underground rebellion, returned home, eager for a rest, and probably some quiet, and time where, for once, he doesn’t have to worry about other people, and can set aside his deep-rooted sense of duty to focus on himself.

Instead, you’re here, showing up unannounced because you’re too clingy, too sensitive, too reliant on others to deal with your emotions, because you can’t just be normal and take it all on the chin like everyone else does. And he’s here, he’s listening, but probably not because he wants to, but more because you, selfish, needy as you are, have taken advantage of his kindness, and he’s listening because he feels obligated to.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt out, abruptly rushing to get to your feet and hastening to get to the door. “I’ve intruded on your night long enough already. I know you have much higher priorities that you probably need to sort out so I’ll just.”

“Hey,” his voice, quiet but stern, brings your rambling attempt to make excuses straight to a halt, his hand catching your wrist insistent as he turns you around to face him, looking down at you, his expression almost inscrutable.

“I,” you blink, looking up at him, confused. It’s then that you notice the sleeves of his sweater have fallen down over your hands and you blink, startled, then realize that this must be what he wants before you go. “Oh, your sweater, sorry. Here, let me just.”

“Stop.”

All of a sudden his hand falls away and his arms hang limply at his sides. He takes a step back, letting out a breath, exhaling softly in the quiet of the room. You freeze, looking up at him with widened eyes. His eyes keenly take you in, seeming to search for something that he doesn’t appear to find before he next speaks.

“Do you want to leave?” he asks, his voice carrying an underlying tension that you struggle to place the origin of.

“What?” you ask, bewildered, slightly taken aback and confused at the seemingly abrupt shift. “No, I, I just.” You shake your head from side to side, as if the action might help shake free the words that are quickly becoming lodged in your throat.

He once again steps closer, moving towards you in a similar fashion to how he might approach a wounded animal. Only once he’s there, he stops being timid. He steps into your space, lightly pushing until you’re pressed up against the door. Observing no further resistance or protest on your part, he then reaches down, lightly taking your chin between his fingers and guiding it upward so that you’re looking into his warm, honey brown eyes, his expression still unreadable.

“Whatever you’ve been thinking,” he says, his voice so quiet that it’s barely above a whisper. “Whatever I have done to make you feel like you are anything less than the first thing I think about every time I return home to Pabu... then I must apologize for not making my intentions clear.”

He strokes your cheek, and you absently saver in the feeling of his fingers trailing along your skin, your mind struggling to follow the thread of his words.

“Echo...I,” you stammer, because apparently those are the only words that your brain is capable of coming up with. You swallow, and, mortified, you feel your eyes beginning to burn with the sting of unshed tears. One drops, glistening on your eyelash a moment before falling to the tips of Echo’s fingers. He blinks, eyes widening as he looks down at it. Then, shaking his head, he pulls you into his arms, tucking your head beneath his chin as he lightly sways the two of you back and forth.

“Listen to me,” he speaks after a long moment, your silent tears dampening the material of his shirt as you bite down hard on your bottom lip to contain the sounds that are fighting to escape. 

You’re not even sure why you’re crying at this point. All you know is that he’s here, steady, solid muscles combined with the cool, foreign press of metal and steel as he holds you gently.

“You are my first priority,” he says, his voice low and soft, but almost firm in its promise. “My first, you hear me?”

You nod your head, not trusting yourself to speak and his arms tighten, pulling you closer just a fraction, so that you can feel his heartbeat, thumping steadily against your ear.

“And I am so sorry,” he continues, his voice falling into almost a saddened whisper. “That so many people have made you feel like you’re their last.”

A quiet sniffle forces its way from your throat and you tremble, struggling to hold the dam together as it breaks. Echo holds onto you, metal arm carefully tucked around your waist, his free hand slowly gliding up and down your back. He doesn’t speak, knowing that words would most likely be meaningless at best, and at worst, force you back into your shell of trying to keep yourself together purely for his comfort. He certainly doesn’t want that, and so, he holds you, simply allowing you to cry into the material of his shirt as he shifts on the balls of his feet, rocking the two of you back-and-forth until you calm.

“E-echo?” you ask after your tears have mostly subsided, looking up at him with still watery eyes as you blink.

“Hm?” he asks, reaching to wipe your tears away with his thumb. 

His eyes are soft, filled with an adoration that you feel is out of place, considering the state of you. But his fingers remain gentle, his hand still warm and soft, as he slowly brushes it over the crown of your head, smoothing back your hair. You can’t help the way you find yourself blushing, unable to explain it beyond the way he’s touching you, the way that he is looking at you right now feels almost... reverent? Which doesn’t make any sense to you at all.

“I’ve messed up your shirt,” is all that you can think to come up with, glancing down at the evident tear stain on the centre of his chest.

“That’s alright,” he says, giving you a small shrug before his eyes turn mischievous. “What, you looking for an invitation for me to take it off, meshla?”

“You’re ridiculous,” you groan, your eyes rolling towards the ceiling even as you feel your cheeks turning to a shade of bright red.

“And you’re blushing,” he says, sounding smug as he grabs your chin, tilting your head to look at him as his fingers brush against your heated cheek. “Now isn’t that sweet.” 

You look up at him, feeling lost, because he still has that look on his face. The one that says that he very well might want to kiss you right now and, startled, you realize that in the same breath, you very much want him to do just that. A part of you still hesitates though, always waiting, always cautious, always wondering when the other shoe might drop. Echo notices the changed expression on your face and he stills, sobering immediately.

“A-are you sure you want me to stay?” you ask, your voice soft, breathless and nervous with restrained want, with held-back hopes and longing that pulls at all of the strings within his heart.

“Do I want you to stay?” he asks, his voice sounding incredulous as his eyebrows raise. 

He leans forward, his forehead lightly bumping against yours as his fingers gently thread into your hair. There’s a breath, a warm brush of air against your lips as he pauses, watching you for any signs of discomfort or objection. Finding none, he brings his lips to yours, kissing you softly, but wanting, eager and by no means delicate, pressing his lips against yours in a manner that suggests that he’s been wanting, needing to do that for a long, long time prior.

When he pulls away, you’re breathless, and he smirks, pleased and, probably, also a little bit smug, the corners of his lips twitching as he attempts to contain it as he looks down at you, blushing and unable to form words. He leans in, brushing his thumb against your parted lips, his voice a soft, low rumble of amusement as he asks you.

“I think that probably answers your question, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah,” you say, stepping forward and rising up on your toes.

You press a kiss to his cheek, and then another one to his lips, unable to resist your own pulling upward into a broad smile. You’re surprised, filled with an almost overwhelming sense of giddiness that feels foreign, but it makes you want to dance or jump up and down or start flying. 

You can’t, though, so instead, you settle on kissing him again.

“Yeah,” you say again, gazing up into his warm, softened eyes. “I definitely think it does.”

Thank you  @saradika-graphics for these dividers.

If you enjoyed, please consider reblogging and/or leaving a comment. I would really appreciate it :-)

[serpentface]

SEVEN FACES OF GOD: AN OVERVIEW

In the dogma of the Wardi faith, God is regarded as one being whose spirit occupies and flows through the world in seven aspects, referred to as its Faces. This is reckoned to be much in the same capacity that blood carries the living spirit throughout parts of the body, sustaining it and allowing for its continued function.

These Faces are not always wholly distinct, nor are their spheres entirely separated, nor wholly representative of God's totality. From a theological perspective, they are means of translating aspects of the totality of God in ways most vital to right practice, imperfectly categorizing how God's spirit interacts with the world. In common practice, the Faces are often effectively treated as seven gods (or more, given that each has dozens of additional epithets describing more specific roles).

Orthopraxy is FAR more important than orthodoxy to this religion, so it matters little if the everyday person sees God as one, or one-as-seven, or seven, or a hundred, or among many gods. What matters most (and VERY critically), is that people perform right practices and necessary rites to sustain the connection of Its spirit throughout the world and the spiritual health of the individual.

Each Face is almost always represented in animal form (in large part an echo of indigenous Wardi religious practices prior to the first Burri colonization, many of which involved animal worship within a broader animistic worldview). These animals all have representation in major constellations along the ecliptic and form the most auspicious signs in the Wardi zodiac.

The Seven Faces of God, as commonly depicted in iconography:

Mitlamache, the Lunar Face of God

Almost always depicted as a bull aurochs (occasionally as a buffalo or other wild bovid), with three pairs of crescent shaped horns cupping a moon motif, usually having a prominent erection (not shown here due to tumblr not letting me post it). It is sometimes depicted with dual-sexed traits and the addition of an udder (or sometimes humanoid breasts upon the chest).

Though several faces have integral fertility connections, Mitlamache is chief in this respect, a holistic representation of fertility of the land, plants, animals, and people. This is the face that looks upon fertility, the moons, cosmic cycles, blood, the act of sacrifice, and divine cycle of death/sacrifice and rebirth. The temples of Mitlamache are the only ones in which people can enter while menstruating (seen as a spiritually impure state), as It encourages the cycle to continue onward and Its blessings can remove the associated impurities.

This is most akin to the form God took in the act of creation, where it lifted the foundations of the world from the sea and inseminated the waters to create the first humans. After Its sacrifice at the hands of Its children, this is the body that was divided to give shape to the world. Its horns were thrown up into the sky to become the three moons.

Inyamache, the Solar Face of God

Usually depicted as a bull khait in mid-stride. Varies between hornless or horned, but almost always has the motif of the solar halo around its head.

This is the Face that looks upon the sun, lightning and wildfires, the dry seasons, the desert and other wild places, khait, mounted warriors, sporting and war games, male fertility, sexuality and libido. It has connections to agriculture as the solar Face and as the balancing opposite of Anaemache (the Face of the rains).

Ganmache, the Ox Face of God

Depicted as a native domestic cattle (with a fatty hump and dewlap, lyrate horns), usually as a castrated oxen bearing a yoke, though sometimes as a cow with udders. Sometimes depicted as a plow khait instead.

This is the face that looks upon year-round agriculture, laborers, herdsmen and their livestock, grain, the home, the hearth, the family and the domestic sphere.

Kusomache, the Serpent Face of God.

Depicted as a two headed serpent, usually a cobra (regarded as sacred) or a viper (when representing Kusomache as the royal emblem).

This is the Face that looks upon the outer cosmos, stars, magic, the deep mysteries, protection from evil spirits, death, and the passage into the afterlife. It has additional associations as the emblem of royalty, evoked for the protection of the Usoma (a king, or emperor in the contemporary) and the royal family.

Anaemache, the River Face of God.

Usually depicted as the reed duck in flight, returning in its seasonal migration alongside the rains. It often is depicted carrying a water lily in its beak, or a tail resembling the lily motif.

This is the Face that looks upon rain, the wet seaon, freshwater, rivers, seasonal flooding, seasonal agriculture, fertility of plants and earth, and female fertility.

Pelennaumache, the Ocean Face of God.

It is usually depicted as a composite animal, combining traits of a skimmer gull and an albatross, as seen passing overhead in flight. It is a rare example of a Face that is given human attributes on a more than occasional basis, sometimes depicted with the head of a woman (or represented with the skimmer-woman motif).

This is the face that looks upon the ocean, the sea trade, mercantilism, storms, winds, luck and fortune, the infliction and deflection of curses, natural disasters. It is often associated with foreigners.

Odomache, the lion face of God.

Always depicted as a lion, most often a maned lioness. The inclusion of teats has a dual function of practically identifying the lion as female, and evoking an impression of maternal nurturing (both as a divine mother to the people, and in its more niche role as a protective spirit of children).

This is the face that looks upon war and military might, rightful bloodshed and destruction of enemies, humankind, and in the contemporary is identified as uniquely representative of and sustaining to the Wardi Empire. It is the only Face known to incarnate into a human, a vital part of the greater flow of God's spirit that ensures the wellbeing of Its lands and people. Odomache is also regarded as a protector of children.

[kanaevamon]

Tabris/17th Angel/Angelworu reference sheet 2024

Ref sheet for the current design of my take on Kaworu's Angel form

height chart alt / backview - Wings of Light alt

(infodump about his biology and design under the cut)

Disclaimer: all the information in this post applies only to my AU version of Kaworu, don't take this as canon info about his biology as an Angel.

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　

Feel free to take inspiration from the design or any other supplementary info in this post (⁠◍⁠•⁠ᴗ⁠•⁠◍⁠)

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　

Introduction: Kaworu Nagisa is a genetic hybrid of human and the 1st Angel - Adam, born as a result of the Contact Experiment. He has lived and looked like a regular human up until entering the Central Dogma. The proximity of another Angel (Lilith) has resulted in a sudden change in gene expression, activating dormant Angel genes. The result was some kind of a rapid transformation/metamorphosis from an almost fully human body to that of an Angel. It has been referred to as Tabris, the 17th Angel, with this particular form being described as the High Angel Gene Expression form.

Anatomy and physiology: Standing at over 3 meters tall, Tabris is the second smallest Angel after microscopic Ireul. Its limited growth compared to other Angels is a result of constraints put on its body by the human part of the DNA. In general proportions, Tabris resembles Adam and subsequently - the Evas, with the exception of its overtly elongated limbs. Like Adam, it emits light, though not nearly as bright, and sprouts Wings of Light, spanning over 18 meters in width with an additional tail-like structure

During the metamorphosis, its core has resurfaced to the center of the chest, changing its position from the one more akin to that of the human heart. The central core containing S² Engine is very tough and resistant to damage but very sensitive to touch. It can become malleable and flesh-like if the AT Field is lowered enough. Instead of beating, it produces a soft humming sound similar to that of the Sun. Two smaller cores underneath it seem to help redirect generated energy to the lower parts of the body.

Additional core situated inside the neck area works as a transmiter, condensing energy from the S² engine before relaying it to the head. Such adaptation is a result of a much higher and centralised brain function compared to other Angels, which requires more energy to work properly.

Excess energy manifests itself in a form of three halos - two vertical ones with spike-like extrusions above the head and a horizontal one around the neck core.

As a member of asexually reproducing species, post-metamorphosis Tabris lacks any sexual characteristics, both internal and external.

Due to the volatile state of its DNA, there is a possibility of further mutations occurring if not killed or removed from the Central Dogma in time.

With enough damage delt to the central core, the transformation can be reverted, though not completely. The resulting form known as the Low Angel Gene Expression form (sketch of this form) is almost identical to pre-metamorphosis Kaworu, with the exception of visible main core and red markings adorning his body (basically looking exactly like the draft sketch) It is a result of the damaged core not being able to provide enough energy to sustain its fully changed form.

Thanks to the extremely powerful AT Field, Tabris' main core can be completely destroyed only by either him voluntary lowering the AT Field or being pierced by the Spear of Longinus. Destruction of the S² Engine results in Angel’s death.

Design notes: It is by no means a wholly new design, just a mere evolution of the ones that came before it. Two main inspirations for the design (like always) have been draft sketches and Adam. With Kaworu’s body being that of a human and Adam being a humanoid entity, I've decided to stick with a clearly humanoid design for Tabris. As much as I love more abstract Angels, I feel like this Angel/human duality is essential to Kaworu's character.

The most drastic change in this instance of the design is its shoulder area. I think these pylon-like structures work much better than spikes as it likens Tabris more to Adam (from what I gathered, these serve as restraints for Adam and Evas but I don't really care :v). Same goes for the change in proportions. Lengthy limbs add to the uncanniness and distance the silhouette from that of a regular human.

Here you can check out my design inspo board I went for with this iteration of Tabris

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　

Bonus info:

Here are some design explorations for Tabris that haven't been posted before + bonus Kawoshin :3

A few years back I've made sort of a rough storyboard for a short transformation animation, check it out here

At one point I had plans for a comic for this AU, which plot has been - I kid you not - revealed to me in a dream xD It has never come to a fruition because I suck at writing compelling stories

When it comes to its identity, Tabris would identify as agender and use it/its and he/him pronouns

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　

That's it for this long-ass post, if you're still here thanks for reading :D If you have any questions and/or suggestions, feel free to shoot me a DM or an ask (I'll probably come up with some shit on the spot because there's no rhyme or reason to any of this lore, it's just a bunch of random ideas rattling around in my head xD)

[jazlynriddle-starwars]

Your Only Master Ch 1:

Summary:

“I can't watch any more.” Obi-Wan mutters under his breath, trembling fingers reach for the console. He knows what is coming and he knows he can't hear it, if he hears it– He's too slow. “Yes, my Master.” Anakin's hologram says and Obi-Wan's pain ignites into rage.

In the ruins of the Jedi Temple, Obi-Wan finds the security recordings and discovers the truth. All of it. That Anakin didn’t Fall to anger or for power, but onto his knees in fear and exhaustion, begging for Padme's life.

Having witnessed Sidious twist Anakin’s love into a weapon, Obi-Wan abandons the only path he's ever known, choosing to save Anakin. Not for the Jedi, not for the Republic, not even for the galaxy.

But for himself.

To reclaim Anakin, Obi-Wan surrenders to the Will of the Force, stepping into the ashes of everything he once believed in and discovering his own destiny in the wake of Anakin's.

What begins in righteous fury becomes more as Obi-Wan helps Anakin raise his children, wrestles with the past, and carves a bloody new path. If all else must burn so that Anakin never has to, so be it.

They will become something the galaxy has never seen before.

Warnings/Tags: Sith Obi-Wan, good dad Anakin, big happy family ending! Smut, philosophy, politics, world building, Force Dyad obikin!

You can also read on AO3! (chapter specific warnings below)

Notes:

Warnings: Canon typical violence and smut. Yes, you read that right, sex in the first chapter, near the end. Look, these idiots need to get their horny out of the way before we can get to the philosophy and world building that makes up 80% of this story. Post-nut clarity is necessary for brain cells to be functioning enough for philosophy. I know it's unconventional, but what, 14 years of slow burn not slow enough for you? You want me to make it last even longer? Geez. Just kidding, I do have an Obikin slow burn that is about as dark, way grosser and more angsty than this one. Go check it out if you want slow xP So, enjoy this chapter's smut while it lasts because it's gonna be several chapters before we get more. This first chapter puts the philosophy on the back burner in lieu of practicalities and story, before we get deep into world building and character introspection in the following chapters. Next chapter will be up in a week! Most of this fic is a result of the excessive time I've spent thinking about the philosophies and practices of the Jedi and the Sith, the ways in which both failed, the opportunities wasted, and the absurdity of the Jedi literally having the ability to feel each others’ emotions yet somehow decided to cultivate a culture that encourages solitary emotional suppression, rather than communal emotional growth and mutual support. Anyway, here's the abstract for this thesis fic: No code, creed, or philosophy exists in a vacuum. Interpretation is its lifeblood, its danger, and its potential. What we draw from a code is shaped by who we are—and what we need it to mean. Give anyone ten random words and time, and they’ll find a way to make it prophecy, dogma, or damnation. That’s not the words’ fault. That’s ours.

“Wait, Master.” Obi-Wan calls out to Yoda, unable to resist the pull towards the brightly lit consoles. “There is something I must know.”

“If into the security recordings you go, only pain will you find.” Yoda cautions him and Obi-Wan swallows, but presses on, striding past his elder.

“I must know the truth, Master.” Obi-Wan insists, his heart swirling with grief, loss, and fear.

He's lost everyone, his family. His brothers, his sisters, his fathers and mothers, even the clones that he'd thought of as friends. He doesn't know what he's hoping to see. They hadn't found Anakin's body amongst the fallen. Perhaps his brilliant boy had fled successfully. He hadn't felt Anakin nearby and for all his disobedience, the young man has always been so resourceful. Perhaps he’d gone in pursuit of the traitor or Sith that killed their brethren.

Or maybe Anakin had been kidnapped by the murderer, his courageous reckless boy was the Chosen One after all. The Sith have always been interested in him, stalking him, baiting him. What nefarious things Obi-Wan could imagine them doing to the young man he'd trained. If Anakin had been kidnapped, he would need to find his former Padawan. There was a high chance that Yoda and himself are the last surviving Jedi, there would be nobody else who could go to Anakin's aid.

It worries Obi-Wan that he can't say for certain that he wouldn't defy Yoda's orders if necessary. Seek out and rescue the boy that he had practically raised as his child no matter the cost. He shouldn't, shouldn't let his emotions guide his actions, but the thought of letting Anakin die, of losing him alongside his brothers and sisters, is beyond agonising.

Anakin is all he has left.

He knows he's attached. He's tried so desperately to hold it back, to hide it and bury it. But he is. Terribly so. And the pain from losing his brethren is making it impossible to suppress or ignore. Impossible to pretend it doesn't exist. Hope isn't meant to be this painful.

Obi-Wan knows a part of him would do anything for Anakin. Even help the boy hide his relationship with Senator Amidala, no matter how much pain their love causes him. Obi-Wan knows what it feels like to be parted from the woman you love, as he had in his youth, a scar that he's carried since then. And if the person Anakin wants is not him, but loves Anakin back just as fiercely as Obi-Wan does, he will not come between them.

He needs Anakin to be both safe and happy.

Well, as happy as he can be, Obi-Wan isn't even sure that's truly possible.

Then he turns on the holo... and his heart stops. Anakin? My Anakin? The Sith, the traitor. The murderer of our younglings, our brethren.

“It can't be.” Obi-Wan breathes, horror now mingled with grief and fear. He chokes on the bile rising in the back of his throat. “It can't be.”

He watches in a daze, as what must surely be Darth Sidious enters, and his Anakin—his beautiful, kind, proud boy—kneels before the man.

“You have done well, my new apprentice.” The hologram of the Sith Lord says, and Obi-Wan feels his horror begin to melt into something dark and ugly. Slimy coils undulating in his insides. “Now, Lord Vader, go and bring peace to the Empire.”

“I can't watch any more.” Obi-Wan mutters under his breath, trembling fingers reach for the console. He knows what is coming and he knows he can't hear it, if he hears it–

He's too slow.

“Yes, my Master.” Anakin's hologram says and Obi-Wan's pain ignites into rage.

After everything he's done for Anakin. Clothed him. Bathed him. Fed him. Suffered for him. Worried after him. Taken Anakin's sorrow, fear, and anger, carried as much of it with the boy as the Code would allow. Endured every time Anakin hurt him. Been there for Anakin. Tried to teach him. Tried to guide him. Tried to do good by him. Protected him. Loved him.

How long? How long has his boy been another's? How long has Anakin been under the thrall of another man? What else has he done in service of the Sith? How much of the boy that he loves is real?

Anger and an almost masochistic need to know—his blasted insatiable curiosity—drives Obi-Wan now. He rewinds the footage, hacks into the Central Surveillance Grid, and tracks Anakin's steps all the way back to Chancellor Palpatine's office. Watches Master Windu confront the evil man, watches Anakin seal Master Windu's fate. The revelation that the Chancellor had been Darth Sidious all along.

Through it all, even if Anakin ended up saving the Sith Lord, Obi-Wan is relieved to see that Anakin had turned Palpatine in at first. Wanted the man arrested at least, showed horror at his own actions, collapsed to his knees after Sidious threw Windu out the window.

Comforted beyond belief that his boy hadn't secretly been Sidious’ apprentice for years. Hadn't been lying to Obi-Wan, faking his love and compassion.

“I will do whatever you ask. Just help me save Padme's life. I can't live without her.” Anakin begs in the hologram and Obi-Wan's heart aches as he gazes at Anakin's tear-stricken face. Oh, my boy, my poor, sweet, loving, beautiful boy.

His anger towards Anakin dissipates, evaporating back into sorrowful love, as it often does. Is this his fault? Obi-Wan feels regret bite at his heart. Perhaps he should have stopped Anakin from being with Senator Amidala, but he'd loved Anakin too much to hurt him that way. Was not the war enough pain for his Padawan? He'd resolved to allow Anakin as much choice and agency as he could, but if his boy would choose this...

“Good. To cheat death is a power only one has achieved, but if we work together, I know we can discover the secret.” Palpatine says, and for the first time in his life, Obi-Wan feels true hate. Pure unadulterated hate.

He'd thought he knew what hate felt like, when Maul murdered Satine, cast her down at his feet, made him watch helplessly. But Obi-Wan now knows that it had merely been anger and sorrow, grief for the loss of a noble soul, fallen in battle against evil. His pain tempered by the knowledge that she would not want him to lose himself in it.

This man, however, isn’t taking Anakin’s life, but his soul. This scum had corrupted Anakin’s heart...

Obi-Wan had always felt uncomfortable about Palpatine's friendship with Anakin, always felt like the man was trying to steal Anakin from him. Trying to undermine his authority over Anakin's upbringing. Obi-Wan had thought it was just his own attachment talking. Jealousy. Possessiveness. Attachment. The path to the Dark Side. He'd suppressed it in terror. Acting on strong emotions was not the Jedi way. It was wrong, dangerous. Anakin was not his.

But now...

Now, to see that man using Anakin's goodness and love to manipulate him. That it hadn't been all in his head, that it hadn't just been Obi-Wan's own emotions getting the better of him. How much of Anakin's troubled Padawan years could be laid at the feet of this man? Obi-Wan's jaw tightens, he should have stopped Palpatine, Chancellor or not.

This was all his fault. He should have acted on his feelings and stood between his child and that man. That monster.

Palpatine, no, Sidious will pay.

For corrupting and breaking his Padawan, his apprentice, his boy.

The anger seething in his chest is like nothing he's ever felt before. Less like burning anger and more like acid, corrosive, sour and bitter. The sight of Anakin kneeling before the Sith Lord, pledging himself to Sidious burns itself into his retinas.

The Sith Lord is no doubt banking on Obi-Wan's own concession. Convinced that Obi-Wan would let Anakin go as he should, leave Anakin to face the consequences of his own decisions, as he had so many times. Simply rolling over and allowing Sidious to take his child from him.

Well, not this time.

Never again.

Anakin has only one Master and that is Obi-Wan. His Master Qui-Gon had bestowed the most strong, passionate, loving, brilliant child on Obi-Wan, and he isn't about to let the boy go without a fight. Anakin is his .

Only his.

Obi-Wan turns off the footage as Sidious gives Anakin his new name, before he is forced to hear his boy call the man his Master again, and turns to face Yoda. His body aching with the effort it has taken to remain outwardly calm and hold his turbulent emotions behind his mental shields.

The elder eyes him warily, saying. “Destroy the Sith we must.”

Yes. Yes. I must.

“Send me to kill the emperor.” Obi-Wan asks—no demands. “I will not kill Anakin.”

“To fight this Lord Sidious, strong enough you are not.” Yoda rejects him flatly and Obi-Wan has to force himself to calm, lest the Master sense his fury at being denied.

“He is like my brother. I cannot do it.” Obi-Wan states, and before Yoda can respond, he cuts in. “Master Yoda, please. With all due respect. If I face Ana– Darth Vader, he will live. I might not be able to kill the emperor, but if you go, at least Sidious will be robbed of his most powerful apprentice.”

Yoda hesitates and Obi-Wan presses further. “Sidious is weakened, we saw what Master Windu did to the man. I will buy you time to handle Vader, track the Sith's movements. And when you have taken his apprentice, you can join me, and we can face the emperor together.”

Yoda closes his eyes for a moment, and then gazes into his own. “Certain you are, that kill him you cannot?”

“I cannot. I’m sorry, Master.” Obi-Wan lowers his eyes, hoping the Master will agree to this. If not, he is ready to fight the elder if necessary. To rush to Anakin's side and warn him.

But after several long seconds, Master Yoda sighs, heavy and tired. “Very well. To the Dark Side, I do not wish to lose you. Go I will, to find Darth Vader.”

“Thank you, Master.” Obi-Wan bows his head to hide his relief. “Senator Amidala should be able to lead you to Anakin. Here, take this.”

Obi-Wan hands Yoda a copy of the security footage, and attaches a tracker to it so he can follow them later. He feels bad for sending Yoda to her, but he hopes Senator Amidala will understand, he needs the Master to leave his side as soon as possible. With any luck, she will be able to resist and delay Master Yoda as well, buying Obi-Wan time to do what needs to be done.

The elder hesitates for a moment more, before he accepts it with a nod, eyeing Obi-Wan carefully. “Find the Senator, I will. Monitor Darth Sidious, you must.”

“Yes, Master.” Obi-Wan bows his head again and then watches as the small Jedi hobbles off down the hall.

Obi-Wan swallows. He must act swiftly, otherwise Yoda will actually kill Anakin before he manages to kill the Emperor.

This is a risky gambit, Obi-Wan knows. He might not be able to kill the Emperor, but as foolish as this is, he has to face the man. Has to right his failures. He has faith, at least, in Anakin's powers. The boy is strong enough to hold out against Yoda and Obi-Wan will do whatever it takes to protect him.

Even risk his own life and the galaxy.

He makes haste to Palpatine's chambers, and with every step, Obi-Wan feels his anger become increasingly unbearable. Feels the darkness that he'd held back for so long begin to creep in around the corners of his heart, gnawing at the edges of his mind.

A part of Obi-Wan knows what is happening, the teachings of the Jedi warn of this, and he's quietly struggled against it for so long. From the day he'd woken up to find Anakin, his small boy, curled up beside him on the bed. When he didn't scold the child and shoo him back to his room, but simply wrapped his arms around that tiny body, holding Anakin to his chest. Even as he pushed a drunk teenager away, sticky lips peeling from his own, he'd known.

He was doomed.

The way his heart ached as Anakin grew into a man, the forbidden feelings that also grew in his chest, fighting so hard to stamp them down and force them away. To hold Anakin at a distance even while pulling on his leash, to push the boy away from him, so that both of them might not fall into depravity.

Now, look where that had gotten him. He'd failed to curb his own feelings. And pushing Anakin away had only pushed the boy into the arms of a vile man who plainly wanted nothing more than to use his wonderful child. If Anakin would fall anyway, then what was the point of holding back anymore?

He should have taken Anakin from the Order, out of Palpatine's reach. All the suffering he'd put them both through, it was all for nought. All in vain.

Regret tastes bitter on the back of his tongue, souring and calcifying into toxins that burn through his veins as he approaches the Chancellor's room.

Even if he should die here today, if the poison infecting his soul is enough to take Sidious with him, Obi-Wan will be satisfied. He lights his saber, fingers itching for violence.

A flick of his blade past the walls is enough to cut down the Red Guards by the Chancellor's doors. Obi-Wan has no mercy to spare for anyone who serves the new Emperor.

He steps inside and sets his baleful gaze on the wretched face of the Sith Lord. Truly, this man is a monster, a demon. It is fitting that he wear the hideous visage of one, as justice is done.

“Master Kenobi, you survived.” Darth Sidious drawls and then pauses, a wide grin spreading across the man's grotesque face. “And what's this I feel?”

“You will die today.” Obi-Wan says, raising his saber towards the filth that dared take what is his.

“I sense darkness in you, young Master Kenobi.” Darth Sidious’ smirk widens. “Who would have thought that the most virtuous paragon of the Jedi could harbour such a well-hidden affinity for the Dark Side.”

“Silence.” Obi-Wan hisses through clenched teeth.

The pounding in his head makes it ache. There's something dark clawing its way into his insides, nestling in its new home with a purr. Or is it clawing its way out of him? He isn't sure. All Obi-Wan knows is that he wants to hurt this man, wants to make him suffer. Anakin is mine.

The Sith Lord laughs and cackles, it grates on his ears. “Perhaps I should have tried to seduce you to the Dark Side too. I can feel a great power sleeping inside you now. If you join me, I can help you cultivate it.”

“I don't care.” Obi-Wan snaps, he really doesn't. He just wants Anakin.

“Come now, if you join me, you can stand beside your old Padawan.” The Emperor coos and Obi-Wan's patience hits its limit.

“I think I'd much rather just kill you.” With that, Obi-Wan darts forward and swings his saber at the man.

Time passes in a blur, Obi-Wan feels only his anger and hate welling up within him. This man had taken everything he'd ever loved from him. Started the war that killed Satine, the woman he'd loved as a boy, before he met Anakin. Turned his own clones—his loyal men, Cody even—against him, forced Anakin to betray him, killed all of Obi-Wan's fellow Jedi, his family.

Die.

That single thought drives his swings, and their sabers hiss when they meet. Red against blue. His anger and righteous fury lend strength to every blow, forcing the Sith back relentlessly, unwilling to cede ground when so much is at stake. When Anakin is at stake.

He barely even feels the pain from Sidious’ dark lightning. It can't compare to the pain he felt when he thought Anakin lost. That he still feels at the thought that he yet might. Searing hot fire courses through his body and the Sith looks legitimately shocked when Obi-Wan gathers it up, adds his own hate to it, and throws it right back at the man with twice the intensity.

The Emperor's agonised screams are music, the stench of burning skin fills the room, and his panicked scramble for the door is the most amusing sight Obi-Wan has seen in years.

“Wait! Wait!” The Sith screams, but he doesn't.

Obi-Wan swings his saber and the man's head rolls across the floor.

It is done.

He feels a satisfaction he's never felt before. It's intoxicating, powerful. He thinks he might even have laughed as he staggers back from the headless body.

Sadly however, he doesn't get the time to savour this victory, because in the next moment, he feels something slam into his mental shields, cracking them with brute force and burrowing inside.

Obi-Wan releases a shout of pain and collapses, clutching at his head. It hurts. Searing pain everywhere, like a thousand needles digging into every inch of his skin. A foreign presence, a hostile mind trying to break his own and gain a foothold in his body. He struggles against it, feels it tighten around him, choking the life from him.

He can feel Sidious’ glee, the Sith's eagerness to take his body and then eventually Anakin's, and Obi-Wan realises that he’d fallen into a trap.

In desperation—bereft of the Code and betrayed by his own Dark emotions that had allowed Sidious entrance into his body—Obi-Wan abandons all else and reaches for the Living Force. The pillar of his existence, the Will that Master Qui-Gon had always told him to rely on.

Then, he touches something he's never felt before, something just past the Living Force, and it feels like the entire cosmos has opened itself to him. Unfurling like a blossoming bloom.

Obi-Wan tumbles into its warm embrace, drawn in by the Cosmic Force, and as he does, he sees a vision of his Anakin.

He looks older, worn from decades lived in solitude, bereft of loving touch. Broken and alone, his body clad in a suit of black. Bald and scarred, covered in welts and burn marks. He feels his boy dying slowly, pain with every breath, heart full of fear for the life of his child. Loneliness, regret and sorrow. He feels his boy fade into the netherworld of the Force, heart aching with longing and a single thought in his mind, Obi-Wan, Master...

Sheer anger and horror rips through Obi-Wan. He has seen many futures in the Force, but this one. This one, he will not allow to come true.

Obi-Wan feels the Force whisper to him, urging him forward, feeding him its strength. He has turned his back on the Jedi Code, and it is only now that he feels it, the mandate that he has been ignoring this whole time. As blinded by his adherence to the Code and the will of the Jedi Council, as a Sith was by their negative emotions.

Years wasted feeling uncertain if he was the right man to raise Anakin, if Master Qui-Gon would have done better with his boy. A decade spent denying his own attachment to Anakin, fretting about being unworthy and incompetent. Terrified of embracing his feelings for the boy he'd raised. Ashamed and fearful that he would fail Anakin by doing so.

Now he sees the truth, sees why the Living Force has always seemed just slightly out of reach. Its power denied to him, because Obi-Wan was too busy trying to be a good Jedi to follow his destiny.

He had been chosen by the Force.

Chosen to protect its child.

And he will, by any means necessary, even if he must embrace the ways of the Sith to do so.

He draws up all his strength, bolstered by the might of the Force, and tears into the invading mind, shredding it with precision. He uses his will and skill in Mindform to sink his teeth into the invader, crunches down viciously, and swallows. Consumes. He digs into the intruding mind—Darth Sidious’ mind—gnaws at its insides and drains every drop of blood he can find. He feels the Sith Lord's pain as his weakened mind finds, not an escape in Obi-Wan's body, but a predator waiting to subsume him.

He devours every morsel of the Sith's soul, his knowledge and his power. It is all his now. Like Anakin will be. Like Anakin was always meant to be.

The last dregs of Darth Sidious’ mind fades into oblivion and Obi-Wan opens his eyes, disoriented.

He is still himself, still Obi-Wan Kenobi.

He pushes himself to his feet slowly, wobbling slightly on the spot. His throat is raw from screaming, his head is aching, but he feels stronger now. His mind is still sorting through the wealth of knowledge he'd gained from the Sith Lord, it's an absolute mess inside him. It will probably be a while before he can access the bulk of them properly, perhaps through meditation.

A brief skim of the surface is enlightening however, the discovery that Sidious himself was not even properly following the Sith Code. Perhaps that was why the Jedi struggled to gain any ground against him. They'd been training to fight an enemy that had long mutated into something far more insidious. Perhaps much of what he'd long believed true about the Sith, were meaningless.

How much of the evil that he'd seen merely been Sidious’ evil, and not inherent to the Dark Side itself? The Sith Code reverberates through his mind, along with the disdain Sidious had borne for it, despite calling himself a Sith. It is because of that, that Obi-Wan finds a new appreciation for it.

Peace is a lie. There is only Passion.Through Passion, I gain Strength.Through Strength, I gain Power.Through Victory my chains are Broken.The Force shall free me.

Obi-One takes a deep breath. The air tastes different as he draws it in. Sweeter, lighter, the heavy cloud of the Dark Side no longer feels oppressive. Truly, he has never felt like this before. Blissful power and freedom. Yes, the Force has freed him indeed. Everything feels right now. He's free, free of doubt. Free to love Anakin the way he's always wanted to. The way he was always supposed to.

In contrast, the Jedi Code that he'd clung to now feels stifling.

There is no emotion, there is peace.There is no ignorance, there is knowledge.There is no passion, there is serenity.There is no chaos, there is harmony.There is no death, there is the Force.

His fellow Jedi's deaths were unfortunate, but perhaps also necessary. Necessary for him to be free. Obi-Wan has sworn to serve the Will of the Force. If this is its Will, perhaps he should not linger in grief, perhaps he should let his sorrow go, make peace with his destiny, as the Jedi Code urges. After all, it is by the will of the Force that he is free. Now, he can be with his beloved boy. There is nothing holding him back anymore.

He catches a glimpse of his reflection in the silver on the walls.

His eyes are yellow, and the Force is silent, waiting.

He looks away.

He can pursue this train of thought later. Regardless of which philosophy is better suited to following the Will of the Force—Jedi or Sith—Obi-Wan has one objective, one duty as assigned by the Cosmic Force itself, and that is Anakin. He needs to find Anakin.

He has to stop Yoda, before the Master kills Anakin or turns him into a lonely broken man clad in black. Nothing else matters.

He runs through the halls, the senate is in an uproar over the newly crowned Emperor's death. He cuts down Mas Amedda and the Red Guards that the Senator leads to stop Obi-Wan's escape, and manages to steal a ship to leave, following the tracker he'd given Master Yoda.

Mustafar.

He prays he will make it there in time.

The air is dry. Arid and hot. Obi-Wan follows the tracking signal, and finds the closest landing platform of a large facility. There's already another ship there, Senator Amidala's star skiff, and on the floor near it lies the Senator herself, unconscious.

Obi-Wan rushes to her side and checks her pulse. She's still breathing. Thank the Force. She's carrying Anakin's child, and whether Amidala retains her loyalty to Anakin or not, he doesn't want any harm to come to the baby. He carries her inside the ship quickly, and has 3PO and R2-D2 stand guard over her while he races to save Anakin. He feels his boy nearby, follows their bond to him. Runs through the halls with fear snapping at his heels.

Is this what Anakin felt on a daily basis? Like his entire universe is on the line? Like insanity is one slight misstep away? No wonder his boy is always a mess.

He finds them fighting by the side of a pit of lava. A fear like no other lances through him when Yoda throws Anakin into a fixture and the boy crumples to the floor. Obi-Wan raises his saber and dives into Yoda's path, catching the falling green blade with his own.

Yoda's gaze is sad as he meets Obi-Wan's eyes through the sabers’ light. “A mistake I have made, leaving you alone with the Sith.”

“I'm sorry, Master.” Obi-Wan murmurs, pushing back against the small Jedi and Yoda flies backwards, landing on his feet and putting space between them. “But I cannot let you kill Anakin.”

“The boy you raised, gone he is.” Yoda shakes his head mournfully, his little ears lowered. “And now, so too are you.”

“Yes.” Obi-Wan nods slowly. “I suppose to you, we are.”

Gone is the weak man who was too afraid of Falling, of losing his home, his place in the Order, his honour and piousness to the Jedi Code. There is no longer anything left to lose. Except Anakin. He will take Anakin back. Whatever he has to do. He will.

His eyes are open now, he can see that the Sith and Jedi are merely two sides of the same coin. Two interpretations of the same Force. That it is how it is used that determines good or evil. Why should he not use both to serve the will of the Force?

“Master?” He hears the sweetest sound from behind him and Obi-Wan glances back to see Anakin staring at him with wide and dazed eyes. They are yellow too.

Both their eyes had once been crystal clear blue, now they bear the same gold glow. Of course they are. Affection is gentle in his breast. The truth that Obi-Wan has long denied. That they were two halves of a whole, where one goes the other follows. That has been the case for more than a decade, and so it will always be.

“Anakin, I'm glad you're alright.” Obi-Wan smiles softly at him, before it lifts into a playful smirk. “Now then, are you just going to lie there and make me do all the work?”

A disbelieving grin spreads across Anakin's face, his eyes soft with wonder. For a moment, the boy looks as he once had, before the war. Bright and beautiful, the way he should always be.

Anakin calls his lightsaber to him and they fight together. While Master Yoda is powerful, he is not strong enough to defeat the two of them, not when they fight as one. Not when the Force sings with their unity. Not when they draw on emotions both Light and Dark in balance, both the joy and relief of reunion and the vengeful fury that rejects anything seeking to tear them apart.

The war has only made them stronger when in sync, the Hero With No Fear and the Negotiator. And together, they drive Yoda all the way back to the ship and the small green Jedi steals Obi-Wan's vessel to flee.

Exhausted from fighting Yoda till Obi-Wan's arrival, Anakin collapses to the floor, and Obi-Wan rushes to his side, taking the young man into his arms. “Anakin!”

“I'm– I'm alright.” Anakin murmurs faintly, stares at Obi-Wan through heavy-lidded and unfocused eyes, and reaches out to him with his left hand. The tips of his fingers brush Obi-Wan's chin and his voice is thick with disbelief. “Master you... you didn't betray me.”

“Never. I'm always on your side. I'm sorry, I should never have pushed you away. I was just–” Obi-Wan mutters, takes Anakin's hand, feels the warm flesh beneath his glove and places a kiss to the back of it. “I would never betray you.”

Anakin's glazed blue eyes search his own for several moments, disorientation and confusion ripples from him through the Force. Before he seems to find whatever he's looking for and he clutches Obi-Wan's hand tightly.

“Thank you, Master...” Anakin's eyes well with tears. “But– but she did, Padme... she brought Yoda here. She brought him here to kill me.”

Anakin sobs with agony, and Obi-Wan cradles his boy to his chest, cooing to him softly. Obi-Wan's jaw is tight, and his eyes burn with rage. He'd given way to her, let the Senator have Anakin, and that woman had failed to love Anakin as much as he did. He knew it, politicians were never to be trusted. If she weren't round with Anakin's child, he would kill her for this treachery.

The thought gives him pause, kill... he supposes this came with falling to the Dark Side. He no longer instinctively baulks at the thought of killing for a personal slight. He feels like he should be more concerned about that than he is. Instead, any discomfort is buried under the joy of having Anakin safe in his arms.

Obi-Wan is still unsure where he stands, a Sith or a Jedi or neither. He shakes his head, such matters should perhaps be left for later thought, they have more pressing concerns to worry about at the moment.

For starters, where will he go now? He has Anakin, and Senator Amidala. What next? For once, he hadn't planned very far ahead. Anakin had consumed all his thoughts.

He feels Anakin go limp in his arms and Obi-Wan places a soft kiss on his forehead. Gently, he scoops the boy into his arms, cradles his precious cargo against his chest, and carries him into the Nabooian transport.

“Oh, Master Kenobi!” 3PO calls out with some relief as Obi-Wan sets Anakin down on one of the seats. “Miss Padme seems to be going into labour!”

Obi-Wan sighs tiredly, shoulders sagging and body aching, there's always something.

He glances at R2-D2, the shorter droid whirring at Anakin's unconscious body with concern, it's always been more emotional than any droid he's ever known. Perhaps Anakin's power extended to granting sentience on top of creating love and devotion in everything he touched.

“He'll be alright.” He pats the droid on the head comfortingly and it beeps at him. “R2-D2, chart a course for Tatooine and prepare the Hyperdrive. 3PO, take the controls while I check on Amidala.”

For now, the outer rim was probably the safest place to go, what with the clones still out for Obi-Wan's blood. Perhaps they could seek aid for Amidala's labour from Anakin's stepbrother.

Leaving the droids to it, Obi-Wan goes to see Amidala. She lies on the small bed, covered in sweat, and her tired face lightens with relief when she sees Obi-Wan.

“Obi-Wan.” She reaches a hand out to him, and he takes it gently. “You're alive, I was so worried...”

“I'm sure you were.” Obi-Wan smiles thinly and brushes a hand over her damp forehead, it wouldn't do to endanger the child by putting her under any further stress. “Don't worry, you're safe. Just focus on the baby.”

She doesn't even manage a smile, closing her eyes as he returns to the cockpit.

It takes some time to get to Tatooine, and Obi-Wan collapses into a pilot seat, taking the opportunity to recover his strength. Fortunately, when they arrive, Owen, and his wife Beru, recognise Amidala and agree to help. Obi-Wan assists them as much as he can, asks Owen for materials and cobbles together a makeshift crib with R2-D2's help, welding metal strips together. Takes rubber and a pair of bottles and fashions two rudimentary baby bottles in preparation for the child.

It's strange, he notes—somewhere in the back of his mind—that after war, betrayal and treason, he's ended up here. On Anakin's home planet, the place where his destiny was born. Cutting rubber with the edge of a vibroblade in a stranger's home. The house that Anakin might have become a free man in, if Obi-Wan and Master Qui-Gon hadn't spirited him away.

He wonders if Shmi regretted allowing his Master to take Anakin. But even if she had, Obi-Wan would never have given her son back. Anakin is his.

When the preparations for the child are complete, Obi-Wan leaves Amidala in the care of the couple and goes to attend to Anakin, carrying the boy to the small side building that Owen had offered the men to stay in. He gathers several stacks of cloth together, and a blanket, into a makeshift bed on the floor, and tends to Anakin's burns. To his relief and pride, Anakin's injuries are relatively minor, considering that he had been fighting Master Yoda for hours.

When he's done treating his own injuries as well, Obi-Wan returns to Amidala's side to find that she is having twins and that she is dying. He still can't quite work up any grief or bring himself to care very much about the latter, but he takes the time to assure her that her children will be taken care of.

He supposes she does still love Anakin, because she says that there's still good in him as she breathes her last. As though Obi-Wan would need any convincing of that. Perhaps he had been hasty when assuming that she had indeed betrayed Anakin? Maybe Master Yoda had given her the impression that he was planning to arrest Anakin rather than murder him?

Either way, Obi-Wan is grudgingly grateful to her for making Anakin happy for the last four years—he caresses the cheek of a chubby baby girl—and for giving Anakin these beautiful children. He knows Anakin will need something to cultivate after her death, and his children would be solace to his beloved.

Though he does hope that Anakin will cling to him too for comfort, and from the boy's behaviour before passing out, Obi-Wan is optimistic.

Obi-Wan insists that Beru allow him to feed the children, holding one in each arm as he uses the Force to lift the bottles—of nutrient powder from the star kriff, hastily mixed in water—for them to suckle from. He's now glad that he'd made two bottles, in anticipation of rotating between them for one child.

As he rocks the twins gently to sleep, he feels Anakin begin to stir from his fitful rest. So, Obi-Wan leaves the twins to sleep in the crib, swaddled in cloth. Sets 3PO and R2-D2 to stand guard and ensure that they come to no harm, and quickly returns to Anakin's side.

He finds the boy sitting up on the floor bed, his inner robe pooled around his hips and bandages wrapped around his arms and side, anxiety thrumming through the Force. Their bond has always been stronger than the average Master and Padawan's—one normally born of familiarity—and he'd thought this was thanks to Anakin's immense power. But somehow, it feels like it has actually grown stronger since Obi-Wan accepted his attachment to the boy.

“Master, where is Padme?” Anakin asks, sounding quite disoriented. “Is she safe? Is she alright?”

“Anakin...” Obi-Wan sighs as he sits on the edge of the bed. Even after she broke his heart, the boy still loves her so deeply, and as little as Obi-Wan now cares for the woman, he hates to break his beloved's heart. “I am so sorry, dear one. But she passed away in childbirth.”

Anakin's face crumbles, despair floods their bond, painful enough to bring tears to Obi-Wan's own eyes. The boy reaches out to clutch at his sleeve, pleading. “No, that can't be–”

“Your children are safe and well.” Obi-Wan interrupts, hoping to stem the flow and halt his spiral.

“Children?” It works, Anakin stops momentarily in confusion.

“Yes, you have twins, my dear.” Obi-Wan brushes back the long curly locks that hang over Anakin's face. “A boy and a girl, they are beautiful.”

“Twins...” For a moment, Anakin's eyes are wide with wonder, but then distress returns. “They– they'll need their mother. Please, we have to go find my Maste–”

Obi-Wan snarls at that, and his hand shoots forward to grip Anakin's chin sharply. The boy freezes, and his cold voice feels foreign to even his own ears. “You have only one Master, Anakin. And that is me. You were my Padawan, my apprentice. Nobody else's.”

It's so much worse to hear Anakin call Sidious his Master in person. Obi-Wan almost wishes he could bring the audacious filth back to life just to kill him again.

Anakin shivers at his tone, and he stares into Obi-Wan's eyes as though seeing him for the first time. “Master, you also? Your eyes–”

Had they gone yellow? Curious.

“Yes.” Obi-Wan murmurs, loosens his grip, traces his thumb over Anakin's jaw, feeling the beginnings of stubble peeking out of his soft skin. “If you must have a Sith for a Master, that will still be me. Always me.”

Anakin's eyes go hazy at the possessive desire that must be creeping along their bond, his boyish cheeks flush and his lips part to release a hot breath. To his pleasure, Obi-Wan can feel Anakin's shock, his confusion, his delight, and... his arousal.

“But– but Master, Palpatine is the only one who knows how to create life.” Anakin protests weakly, blinking as though to dispel the effects of whatever he was feeling.

“What do you think you did with your children?” Obi-Wan snorts.

Anakin rolls his eyes. “You know what I mea–”

“If you think he can bring the dead back to life, then I haven't taught you well enough.” Obi-Wan chuckles darkly. “I see I must find a way to work that naïveté out of you.”

Anakin's neck goes red with indignation, and he jerks his chin from Obi-Wan's grip. “I don't need another lecture.”

The boy bites his lip—and Obi-Wan wants to do that for him—saying, “He knows things, Master. He knew about my visions of Padme's death.”

“And I didn't lend enough stock to your visions, does that mean I can never be correct?” Obi-Wan cocks an eyebrow. “Just because he was able to peer into your mind, doesn't mean he wasn't lying about everything else. He didn't even claim to have the ability to save her yet, do you really think he would have been able to figure it out with you before she gave birth?”

“It's worth trying!” Anakin exclaims desperately. “Please, Obi-Wan, I can't raise my children alone. I need her, they need her!”

“Oh, my dear. You wouldn't be alone. I would gladly raise your children with you.” Obi-Wan murmurs and is delighted when the receding flush returns to Anakin's cheeks again. “And I'm afraid that isn't an option regardless. Darth Sidious is dead.”

Anakin's eyes go wide. “Wha– how!? Who?”

“Who do you think, my dear?” Obi-Wan askes with some amusement, places his hands on Anakin's shoulders and presses the boy back onto the bed, sliding a knee between his legs.

“You? Master, you defeated the Sith Lord, alone? And his guard? Even four of the Council Masters weren't enough to–” Anakin gapes, and the awe radiating from him is intoxicating, heady and delicious.

“I assure you, Anakin. I am stronger now, strong enough to protect you. To protect our children.” Obi-Wan purrs, braces his hands by Anakin's head and leans close enough to feel his heated breath against his lips. “I consumed the Chancellor's mind. Took for myself, his knowledge and his power. You don't need him or Senator Amidala, and neither do our children. I will provide everything you need.”

Anakin knots his fingers in his clothing as Obi-Wan nuzzles his nose against the boy's cheek, murmuring softly. “You can be their loving mother, and I will be the guiding father. You were raised by a loving mother, you can do it too, dearest. I believe in you. I've always believed in you.”

A soft keen escapes Anakin's throat, and when Obi-Wan lifts his head to gaze into deep blue, he sees that they are damp with tears. “Even– even after everything I've done? Fail– failed to be a great Jedi– failed you...”

“You could never fail me, my dear.” Obi-Wan breathes, catches with his thumb, a shining drop from the corner of his eye. “My love for you has never been conditional. I would follow you down any path, no matter what.”

He feels something inside Anakin shatter, a swell of emotions too powerful to name pours through their bond like a torrent, a raging river, as though the entire galaxy had changed inside the boy's heart. As though a vast weight, an expectation of himself that he's been carrying for years, has finally been cast down.

���Obi-Wan–” Anakin whines, need and longing, desire and hope, all condensed into that one word.

It makes his heart ache, and he finally gives in to the urge to claim the beautiful boy's lips. They are sweet against his own, delicious and soft. Everything he's craved for the last six years. He slips his tongue inside to caress Anakin's, feels the boy moan into his mouth, and his burning desire becomes an inferno.

He licks into that hot cavern with relish, savouring the forbidden fruit he has long abstained from, taking his time and stealing Anakin's breath, before parting to grant him air. Obi-Wan trails his lips down the boy's jaw as he pants and tears at Obi-Wan's robes.

“Master...” Anakin moans breathlessly, ruts against his knee, desperately grinding his hardness against him. “I thought– I thought you didn't want me–”

“Of course I do. How could I not?” Obi-Wan murmurs against that slender throat, mouthing at the boy's voice box. “Shouldn't have pushed you away when you kissed me.”

“Thought you were disgusted–” Anakin gasps as Obi-Wan presses a finger into a bruise on his ribs.

“Only with myself. For wanting to hold you. You were fifteen, my dear.” Obi-Wan nibbles lightly, runs a hand over that wonderfully muscled chest. “And drunk. I was trying to be a good Master.”

“Didn't want you to be good–” Anakin swallows thickly, and his throat flexes deliciously under Obi-Wan's lips. “Wanted you so bad–”

“I did too.” He breathes, and digs his teeth into the golden skin on Anakin's bare shoulder, enjoying the way the boy bucks and moans against him. So perfect. “Dreamt of you every night since then, dreamt of touching you. Making you cry out for me. Force knows how guilty I felt, how frustrated I was at you for being so gorgeous. A siren sent by the Dark Side to seduce me.”

Anakin's breath catches when Obi-Wan takes a nipple into his mouth. Chokes out a moan when Obi-Wan laves his tongue over the hard pebble and suckles on it, like he thinks he can get the young man to lactate for his children.

“Then– then what–” Anakin whimpers when Obi-Wan's teeth clamp down around his areola. “What are you waiting for–”

“Patience, my dear.” Obi-Wan coos, taking the other nipple between his lips. His beard rubs against Anakin's chest as he gives it equal attention, he wants to leave abrasion burns all over his boy.

“Obi-Wan–” Anakin groans, his voice choked with pleasure and frustration, and then the young man is grabbing him firmly by the shoulders and pushing him back. Obi-Wan's lips make a wet pop as they are peeled off his lovely tits and Anakin glares at him. “For Force's sake, you've made me wait for years. Made me settle for the love of a woman I barely knew.”

He yanks hard at Obi-Wan's robes, loosening them enough to reach into his undergarments, and Anakin grasps Obi-Wan's aching cock with a growl. “So, stop teasing and start kriffing me, right now.”

Arousal pulses through Obi-Wan's body, and he bites back a moan, feeling the boy's thumb rub over his swollen tip. So much for foreplay, he should have known his boy wouldn't have the patience to be unwrapped slowly and worshipped, showered with love. Anakin really would be the death of him. Or at least his restraint.

Obi-Wan stands to remove his clothing, enjoying the way Anakin's eyes scrape down his skin as it's revealed. Watching with equal intensity as the young man removes his pants, tosses his robes aside, and spreads his legs in clear invitation.

What a glorious sight, his Anakin laid out like an offering on an altar. Obi-Wan thinks this is what a God feels like.

Such a vision was surely not something Jedi Master Kenobi would have ever gotten to see. No, this is perhaps something that only a Sith could look upon without shuddering in horror at such depravity. Without recoiling at the knowledge that this was the boy he'd raised, the child Master Qui-Gon had entrusted to him. The little boy who'd clung to him in the night, desperately afraid of losing him.

He kneels between Anakin's knees, runs his fingers along his inner thighs. He's beautiful. Kiss reddened lips, covered in his bites and bruises, a flush on his cheeks and nape, eyes filled with desire. Long gangly limbs that had filled out over the years, cock hard and swollen, pretty pink head peeking out from his foreskin, leaking little pearls of fluid from the tip. Obi-Wan collects that precious dew on the tip of his finger and places it on his tongue, delighted when Anakin keens.

Then he uses the Force to call a sachet of bacta from his waist pouch as he dips his head to take Anakin's cock into his mouth, the sounds the boy makes are music to his ears. The most lavish orchestra, unparalleled by the greatest artists money could buy. The heat and hunger in Anakin’s eyes as his boy watches him is unbearable. He pauses only to rip open the packet and squeeze some bacta onto his fingers, before returning his attention to Anakin.

The length in his mouth twitches when he sinks a finger into Anakin's puckered entrance, who groans as Obi-Wan searches the tight and hot channel. A moment later, Anakin jolts and his back arches, bucking deep into Obi-Wan's throat with a gasp. His head is thrown back and moans of pleasure fall from his lips, his hips stuttering as though unable to decide if he wants to kriff Obi-Wan's throat or press back against his finger more.

Obi-Wan adds another, strokes his fingers in and out, thinks of how he's going to be doing this with his cock in a few minutes, drags the tips of his fingers over the sensitive strip along Anakin's inner walls.

“Master–” Anakin claws at the blankets beneath him, sweat pools in the dips of his smooth chest when a third finger is added, and he shakes his head with a whine. “I can't– I'm going to–”

Obi-Wan doesn't stop, doesn't slow down, just keeps kriffing the beautiful boy with his fingers, watching intently, the mounting ecstasy on Anakin's face. He wants to see his proud boy come apart at his hand.

As though in response to his desire, Anakin moans, loud and shameless, his neck tightens, his toes curl and Obi-Wan's throat fills with fluid. He swallows quickly around the pulsing cock and with a last shudder, Anakin goes limp on the bedding, panting and gasping for air.

Obi-Wan allows the softening length to slip from his mouth, brushes away the wetness from his lips and beard, and admires the view. His child is gorgeous, broad shoulders trembling as he heaves for air, blue eyes hazy with pleasure. Had Amidala seen his boy like this? Obi-Wan pushes the thought away with a growl. This is his now, his reward for years of caregiving, patience, and frustration. He's never needed a reward for loving Anakin, but now he craves it desperately, hungers for it. Unbearable. It's unbearable.

He withdraws his fingers from the boy's body, calls the bacta sachet back to him and coats his aching erection with the oily liquid. He's waited for so long, he can't wait any longer, so he presses the head of it against Anakin's relaxed opening and hooks those long muscular legs over his shoulders. He groans low and deep as his cock is enveloped in wet heat, shuddering at the tightness, and the boy's insides spasm around him.

“Wait, Master–” Anakin rewards him with a strangled moan, shaking his head. “Too much– I can't–”

Obi-Wan leans down, practically folds the boy in half and sinks even deeper, making Anakin choke on air as he's filled. The boy is trembling when they're fully joined. He places a kiss on the corner of that gasping mouth and hisses lovingly into his ear. “You can, and you will.”

Anakin moans loudly and clings to his shoulders, eyes glazing over with heat and desire. Releasing a needy whine as Obi-Wan draws back out, pleased to see that there is no blood or signs of injury, as he thrusts back inside again. The boy wails at the overstimulation, his limp cock gradually hardening again as Obi-Wan pumps his hips relentlessly into him.

He can still barely believe that he's finally taking what has been his all this time. Could almost believe that he is simply dreaming, if not for how incredible it feels, nothing like his fumbling clumsy trysts with Satine as a fifteen-year-old Padawan. Anakin's body feels like it was made for him, that tight hole suckling on him as he ruts in, wanting to embed himself inside forever.

It's perfect, he's perfect. Obi-Wan groans as he lowers his gaze from Anakin's panting mouth, takes in the obscene sight of his cock ramming into his opening, the bacta oozing out around his reddening rim. “Look at you. Such a good boy, taking me so well. My dearest, Anakin.”

“Master–” Anakin wails and rakes his nails down Obi-Wan's shoulders. He can feel how much his words have affected his beloved, Anakin's side of their bond is a chaotic avalanche of sensation and emotion. Perfect.

His Anakin was always meant to be like this, wasn't he? Obi-Wan had spent years trying to train it out of him, but Anakin has always been a storm of passion and love. Something that had both inspired admiration and fear within Obi-Wan. Fear of losing his wonderful child to darkness. Fear that Anakin becoming a Sith—as he was always so clearly meant to be—would take Anakin from his side.

But, now that Obi-Wan no longer fears the Dark Side, sees that passion is only dangerous when warped and twisted, by someone like Sidious. Now that he no longer believes that these powerful emotions will cost him the person he loves most, Obi-Wan is free to admire Anakin's beauty. To watch with adoration and desire as Anakin writhes beneath him, firm muscles tight and unrestrained ecstasy pouring from his presence in the Force.

To behold his perfect child lost in the throes of bliss.

Drool trickles from the corner of Anakin's slack mouth, his deep blue eyes, dilated and glassy, gasping desperately for air as though he's drowning. Anakin looks like he's losing his mind, and Obi-Wan feels like he is not far behind. Force, he loves this boy, has wanted him more than anything, and now that he has him, Obi-Wan will do anything to keep him.

“My Padawan, my boy, my apprentice, my love.” Obi-Wan breathes in awe, in reverence and adoration. “My little Sithling.”

Anakin only moans weakly in response, sweat covers his brow, and his watery blue eyes struggle to focus on him as Obi-Wan rocks into him ruthlessly, finally indulging in his desires, taking everything he's ever coveted.

With a wave of his hand, he takes the boy by his ankles and raises them into the air with the Force, holding them in place. The new angle allows him to sink even deeper, forcing a punched out sound from the boy as he reaches between their bodies to grasp Anakin's bouncing cock.

“You are mine, Anakin. As I am yours.” Obi-Wan smiles down at him, stroking that swollen and sensitive length slowly, lovingly, contrasting with the pace at which his cock continues to drive into Anakin's body. “You will only ever attain this pleasure from me now. Understood?”

Anakin nods drunkenly, tears at the blankets beneath him, his tongue hangs out like he's trying to swallow the air, his words slur together like he's forgotten how to use it properly. “Y– yes, Mast– Master... please–”

Obi-Wan's grin widens and quickens his strokes to match his thrusts. Within seconds, Anakin releases another wail, his spend spurts onto his own abdomen in thick globs and his insides clamp down on Obi-Wan's cock.

He kriffs Anakin through it, savouring the sensation, the echoing explosion of pleasure through their bond. It takes everything in his power not to come from it. Obi-Wan doesn't want to stop. He can only have Anakin for the first time once and it feels too good to just end like this.

But then Anakin gives him an exhausted smile, a beautiful, pure smile—like the ones he'd worn as a child, before his obsession with Amidala, before the war, before all his smiles became permanently shadowed by weariness, bitterness, and pain—and whispers faintly. “L– love you, Obi-Wan...”

That's all it takes.

Obi-Wan buries himself inside and his control slips, dropping Anakin's ankles back onto his shoulders as his entire being becomes doused—absolutely drenched—in ecstasy. It seers through his body. He paints Anakin's insides white and gasps for air, kriffing his seed deeper with stuttering thrusts. Such a good boy, granting him so perfect a first claiming.

The pulses of pleasure ripple through him for a blissful eternity, before they begin to calm, as all good things that must sadly come to an end. Obi-Wan heaves for air as he lowers Anakin's legs to the blanket and braces his hands by the boy's head for a moment to collect himself. Anakin's eyes are closed, and Obi-Wan presses a sweet kiss to his damp forehead.

Then he leans back and lets his softening cock slip out, a trickle of pale fluid oozes out with it and something in him purrs with satisfaction at the depraved sight.

Once he has caught his breath, Obi-Wan uses his undergarments to clean the mess from Anakin's stomach and bottom. Then he lies down beside him and holds his boy close, pleased when Anakin stirs shortly and eagerly wraps himself around Obi-Wan. The young man hooks a leg over his, and nuzzles his flushed cheek into the light auburn strands covering Obi-Wan's chest with a contented sigh.

The moment is quiet and peaceful, basking in the warm afterglow while he, and presumably Anakin, sort through their thoughts.

Obi-Wan runs his fingers idly through soft brown curls. He'd meant it when he said he would take care of Anakin and his children. But in all honesty, he still isn't certain what their next move should be.

The Senate is likely a warzone now. Palpatine had just consolidated all the power in the Republic under himself, and now he's dead. The power vacuum would likely incite the most powerful members of the senate to attempt to seize control of the newly created—and vacated—Emperor's throne. Would the clone troopers follow whomever won?

He thinks of Cody, his men. He knows what they are. Slaves. He always tried not to think of it, like his fellow Jedi. They hadn't had much choice, the best they could do was be good slavers. Treat their men as well as they could. What would happen to them under other Masters? Does he care? They'd betrayed him, Cody tried to kill him. Anger simmers in his heart.

“I'm sorry, Master.” Anakin murmurs softly, interrupting his thoughts. “For giving in to Palpatine. For killing the younglings.”

It gives him pause, perhaps his boy had felt his sense of betrayal and thought it was of Anakin's deeds. Which it wasn't, but it did make Obi-Wan reconsider his anger. Perhaps Cody hadn't had much choice, perhaps he had been manipulated into it, like Anakin had been.

Even if he would be regarded as a Sith now, Obi-Wan still sees little sense in acting impulsively without first seeking the necessary information to make objective decisions. After all, Padme had been more loyal to Anakin than he'd first assumed based on Anakin's words. If he had allowed himself to hurt her because he thought her treacherous…

Perhaps being guided by strong emotions may not be as bad as he'd been taught to believe. But the Jedi's preference for caution and reason had won him victory enough times that he feels it foolish to simply discard everything he had learnt from them and jump to the other extreme. As tempting as that may be.

So, though he feels Anakin's fear, Obi-Wan resists both the ingrained reflex of offering up a quote of ancient wisdom, and the instinctual protective urge to grant immediate comfort and absolution.

Instead, he takes the time to consider his response, what he personally feels, what he knows, and what Anakin needs. He takes a quick glance through some of the memories—and thoughts of Anakin—that he'd acquired from Sidious’ mind. He doesn't want to say the wrong thing, not here, not now, not when it matters so. There will be a time for casual light-heartedness to return to their relationship.

“Good. You should be.” Obi-Wan eventually answers, and he can feel Anakin flinch, before he presses a kiss to the boy's hair. “But I do not blame you for falling to his manipulation. You are young and Darth Sidious used your kindness against you from start to finish, systematically breaking down your mind until the easiest option was to obey. To let someone else do the thinking for you.”

He can feel Anakin's confusion and smiles sadly. “First, he used your need for the affection that I was too afraid to give you. Then your love for Padme and your proximity to him to isolate you from the Jedi. Then he made himself look helpless in front of you, used your instinct to protect the weak to get you to attack Master Windu in his defence. That was the first break.”

Anakin nods slowly, clutches at him like he would as a child after a nightmare.

“I was tired, so tired. Trying to decide what to do. Then being forced to wait in the Council chambers for hours. When he killed Master Windu because I–” He swallows and takes a shuddering breath. “...I just wanted it to all stop. To stop thinking. Stop feeling. To rest.”

“You shouldn't have been left alone, I'm so sorry, my love.” Obi-Wan caresses his face gently, is pleased to see Anakin's eyes soften at the term of endearment. “That's why he revealed his identity to you then, while I was away. When I couldn't be there for you. I shouldn't have left.”

“I wish you'd been there.” Anakin murmurs. “Even if we had been arguing, it would have been less painful and exhausting than arguing in circles with myself.”

“Exactly. And then while you were tired, he had you do something that you could never forgive yourself for. Something to break your self-image.” Obi-Wan closes his eyes for a moment, even now, this is something he too must come to accept. “We both know he could easily have killed a handful of children on his own or with the clones. He did it to make you feel unredeemable. Unforgivable. To the point where being offered forgiveness would cause you pain.”

Anakin smiles wryly. “Is that why you're not offering forgiveness for the younglings?”

“Correct, clever one.” Obi-Wan taps him lightly on the nose. “I will offer you forgiveness for breaking my heart and taking my younger brothers and sisters from me. But for the act itself, the ones you need forgiveness from... are the dead, and they cannot give it. So, it is you who must forgive yourself. That is a pain I have not the ability to relieve you of.”

Anakin remains silent. And Obi-Wan allows him the space to think. He knows the boy has never enjoyed his lectures, but he feels a curious new willingness to listen. Is it because he stopped pushing Anakin away? Obi-Wan swallows a snort, what irony. That his boy would only listen to him after he lost the need to lecture him quite so harshly.

After the burden of being the Master of the Chosen One, of being a member of the Council, of being a good Jedi while honouring Master Qui-Gon's wishes. After everything he's carried for more than a decade has been laid down to rest. When he is free to be kind and indulgent towards his former Padawan simply for the sake of it. Because he loves Anakin.

“What will we do now, Master?” Anakin finally asks and Obi-Wan hums, accepting the change of topic. There was no need to rush his emotional recovery.

“I'm not sure.” Obi-Wan admits, stroking a hand over his beard. “We could stay here, hide from whomever takes power in the senate. A new war could start.”

Anakin bites his lip and shakes his head. “I don't want my children to grow up here. Tatooine is... this place... The desert only takes.”

Obi-Wan's eyes narrow, there's something that Anakin is hiding from him. He can feel it through their bond, simmering under the surface, a cautious hope that Anakin can share this secret with Obi-Wan, now that they are Sith. Is this something his boy had shared with Sidious? Envy coils in Obi-Wan's stomach, he could look, could search Sidious’ memories for it.

But he doesn't. That wouldn't be real. He wants to hear this secret from Anakin, as a show of trust.

“What is it?” Obi-Wan asks, tracing a thumb over Anakin's lower lip. “What are you keeping from me?”

Anakin swallows and shakes his head. “I'll– I'll tell you later. When we have time. It's... it's not important right now.”

He's not particularly pleased with the response, but he can feel Anakin's pain and that the boy is being honest, so Obi-Wan lets it go. For now.

“I think we should go back to the Repub– Empire.” Anakin says instead.

“I should hope you recall that the clone troopers have orders to kill me on sight.” Obi-Wan drawls dryly.

“Palpatine made me his apprentice, his second in command.” Anakin states. “Now that he's dead, the clones should obey my orders. If we return quickly enough, before they crown a new Emperor, we can take over and rule the galaxy. Make things the way we want them to be.”

“Now why would we want to do that?” Obi-Wan asks, raising a sceptical eyebrow. “Are you not tired of war?”

“I am.” Anakin admits. “But I want my children to grow up in a peaceful galaxy. I want to give them everything.”

“Being the children of the Emperors will take freedom from them.” Obi-Wan warns. “They will need constant protection, they will never have equal peers or a regular childhood.”

“And they would here?” The boy scoffs, an ugly sneer darkening his face. “On a backwater planet with no water. With slavery, raiders, gangs and crime? Under Hutt control. Where the sick creature could seek to make a pleasure slave of my daughter and nobody would lift a finger to stop it.”

Obi-Wan sighs and strokes his beard, Anakin had a point. Tatooine isn't a good place to raise children either. They would still be isolated and in constant danger of dying to something banal like the weather. At least as political hostages, their children would be valuable and have the chance of ransom or negotiation.

“Besides, they will likely be Force Sensitive. We both know this.” Anakin shakes his head. “I'd rather we be able to give them every material luxury they may need. A stable planet like Coruscant, with the Jedi Archives, schools, parks, and all the karking water they need.”

Obi-Wan gazes at Anakin's worn face and sighs again. “If we go back, we will never be free. We will spend the rest of our days at war.”

“They're worth it.” Anakin declares, before hesitating and giving him an uncertain look. “I– I hope we are... to you.”

The furrow between Obi-Wan's brows eases and he strokes a hand over Anakin's hair comfortingly. “Of course. You are worth everything to me. My life, my morals. Everything.”

Relief is plain on Anakin's face and joy sings through their bond as Obi-Wan lifts his hand from his chest and presses a kiss to the warm skin of his bare knuckles. “You are mine, which makes your children mine as well.”

“Are you proposing, Master?” Anakin asks with some amusement.

“If you wish.” Obi-Wan chuckles. “We are not Jedi any longer, not that that stopped you.”

Anakin gives him a sheepish grin, before asking tentatively. “Why did you let me be with Padme, when you felt this way about me?”

“Because she made you happy. I foolishly thought at the time that it was better for you to love her. That it was alcohol and fear of abandonment that made you desire me.” Obi-Wan explains with some irony.

Anakin snorts, his voice dry and bitter. “Could've just asked me what I thought.”

“There were many things I could have done.” Obi-Wan murmurs, brushing his fingers through the boy's damp brown strands.

“Like kriff my fifteen-year-old ass?” Anakin offers him a boyish grin.

“Anakin.” Obi-Wan rolls his eyes, but can't help smiling fondly when his boy nuzzles happily against him.

He's lost so much in the last few rotations. His brethren and his friends. Fought and killed the Sith Lord, acquired both new power and Anakin, lost the respect of Master Yoda, gained a pair of children. Obi-Wan knows he'll feel the true brunt of all this in time, but for now, he's just grateful that he has a new meaning and purpose. That he hasn't lost everything there is to live for.

He holds Anakin close, covers them with a blanket, and allows the exhaustion of this whole ordeal to carry him into rest.

Notes:

On the logistics of this fic's premise, I definitely cranked Obi-Wan's possessiveness over Anakin up, and did the impossible—making the security footage in the Chancellor office not only exist but also viewable from the Jedi Temple. But that's about it. I hope you can suspend disbelief for these unrealistic elements just so I can explore all the shit I wanna in this story OTL

Hear me out, if Obi-Wan wasn't the one who told Padme about the killed younglings, she wouldn't have already primed all of Anakin's insecurity and made him anticipate Obi-Wan's disapproval.

Padme also didn't know Obi-Wan was alive, so her first response to seeing him isn't to ask after Anakin's health, which makes Obi-Wan think she doesn't care about Anakin that much. He also misses how Anakin's anger can make him harm the very person he was so desperate to protect, so he doesn't get the impression that Anakin is lost. He doesn't see Anakin let his emotions control him or say "I understand" when Palpy's all "Obi-Wan's an enemy too", only sees Palpy manipulate him.

I like the theory that Sidious had wanted to use Essence Transfer to possess Anakin's body, but didn't in Canon because of Anakin's injuries. So, with an unexpected confrontation by an Obi-Wan leaking Darkness, and the idea that Obi-Wan's strength of will wouldn't be strong enough since he was such a stalwart Jedi yet he fell anyway (plus he's pretty powerful in the Force and would deteriorate slower) that makes his body an attractive candidate to Sidious.

Let's just say Sidious made a bad snap decision here, just like Yoda haha

Then the scene where Padme and Obi-Wan confront Anakin occurs, but with Yoda in Obi-Wan's place, and the scene where Anakin strangles Padme for "betraying him and bringing Yoda here to kill him" follows similarly. Anakin's fight with Yoda would not be as emotionally charged, so he'd be less reckless and, through pure Force power, be able to hold his ground against Yoda in a stalemate till Obi-Wan's arrival.

And thanks to all of that, butterfly effect, bam.

And, on the more character study side, I think Anakin's main source of fear and insecurity has always been that he'll make a mistake that causes him to lose those he loves. Whether it be them taken unwillingly from him through death or them discarding and abandoning him, leaving him to walk a lonely path. He fears having nobody to blame but himself, and ironically, that fear is a self-fulfilling prophecy.

It comes true when Padme says she cannot follow him down this path (and Obi-Wan in canon tries to kill him). A path he feels trapped on, unworthy of any other path, as Anakin says when bleeding his Kyber Crystal, all he can be is a Sith after everything he's done.

However, here Obi-Wan promises, and has in fact proven just by retaining loyalty to Anakin despite his actions, that he can and will follow Anakin down any path. This affords Anakin the security to risk changing his path. To endure the pain that comes with acknowledging a grave mistake he has made.

Ironically, it is when one is secure in the ones they love, that they can boldly face the prospect of self-improvement and progress despite the fear of failure.

Also, I think it's important to remember that in Anakin's experience, the systems he's seen have done jack shit to protect him or the ones he loves. Tatooine's hutts are a violent gang, the Republic didn't save him or his mother from slavery, it was Padme who later managed to liberate some slaves from Tatooine, but that was her own political efforts. The war showed him first-hand how fragile and limited the reach of the Republic is.

For someone who doesn't trust the system, who has been hurt by the failures of the system, there's a lot of paranoia and anxiety. That's why Anakin wants power and to be the one at the top, not out of hate or desire to subjugate others, but for the safety of his loved ones. Wanting one's family to be safe, is honestly just human and should not be treated as a bad thing. It's the system's fault for creating such paranoia. The solution is to improve the system.

Unfortunately for Anakin, he's attached to a politician, a Jedi and is the Chosen One. He can't just leave like Ahsoka.

Honestly, the people who say to Anakin, “with great power comes great responsibility, you got born with the Force, suck it up” are no different than the Nazis who said, “well, you're disabled and a waste of resources, so we are killing you, suck it up” or the slavers who say, “you're born a slave so suck it up”.

If someone (Jedi or otherwise) is ready to sacrifice their personal happiness for others that should be respected, I would admire and grieve for anyone strong enough in their beliefs to make that choice. But nobody should ever force or impose such expectations on someone who is unable to do so (like Anakin), any more than one should expect the blind to see.

Next Chapter

[multifunctionalnitroglycerin]

The Radiant Dawn, Leona of the Solari – an analysis

Leona, Leona, what to do with you, oh Radiant Dawn, daughter of the Sun-forgers? You who scorn love so, in the face of duty?

What with the latest season of Arcane having fully come out, and many of us still grasping to comprehend the ending of that wonderful series (I will maintain that it’s probably one of the best pieces of media I have ever had the joy of consuming), I got to thinking about another military dictator that leads a scourge against her lover’s people. So, strap in and grab your drinks, cause this is going to be a long one.

I have seen some funny posts juxtapositioning Violyn/ Caitvi and Leodia, and while one cannot deny the first glance similarities in the stories, especially with the new route Piltover’s finest took, the premise of their stories is at its core different.  BUT today we will not explore the similarities and differences in the premise of the broader systems that both stories take place in, but rather take a deeper look into our beloved obstacle of a Targonian “cult leader”, Leona.

            Now Leona’s character in league is rather…unremarkable at first glance. More of an obstacle than a worthy adversary, a mindless cultist that perpetuates the oppression against her peoples’ sister tribe, too blind to see past that, even when her lover begs her to. Personally, I prefer to think of Leona as an unremarkable character with remarkable potential, should Riot decide to ever do anything with it. The roots of a good story have already been planted. Because yes, in Arcane we also talked about oppression, class stratification, abuse of power, and a twisted corrupt judicial system, but now, in Targon, we’ll talk about cults.

I am no expert, but cultism and totalitarian regimes do have a few common points in the way they function, thus the perceived similarities between the two storylines. However, I feel in the hands of capable writers the Targonian storyline can become a beautiful story about religious fanatism, and cultism, the struggle of individuality, and how challenging it is to escape from them, if at all… (I do like some tragic lesbians, sue me. A happy ending that does justice to the inherent tragedy of those two will have to be earned, and if a tragic ending is what does them justice, I will accept it.)

It’s high time we got this party started though, isn’t it?

Leona is born in the Solari tribe of Targon, a tribe that venerated the Sun more than any other upon the mountain. Which at first glance seems innocent enough, right?

Cults in principle, and to my limited understanding, are authoritarian systems that revolve around a particular belief, that have rules and dogma and encourage their members to isolate themselves from would-be questioners of their faith. By taking a look at what we know about the Solari, most of these terms seem to be fulfilled. An authoritarian system based around the worship of the Sun, with strict rules, rigid principles, and rituals, led not by one charismatic leader, as many cults are, but by a council of elders, that determine what is acceptable and what not in Her worship. While they also take care to mindfully curate the available information in the temple and discourage or silence those that oppose their teachings.

Leona is a child born to the Sun-forgers Melia and Iasur, and takes to her parents’ faith with a stride, comfortable in its rigidity and its unrelenting structures. She is reportedly as seen both through her bio and the letter to her parents in “Rise with me”, a near perfect acolyte, her devotion, and excellence in seemingly everything but that one oration class, inspiring envy in her peers, and admiration in her elders, all of them certain that she would one day become a Ra’Horak, a holy warrior of the Solari.

The thing is, that children growing up in cults are a tricky thing to write despite its supposed straightforwardness. Especially if you want to create a character as complicated as I hope Leona will turn out to be. The basics of it are things we already know; children are extremely vulnerable to adult influence; their minds are sponges and their parents’ world is their world. They listen, observe and absorb the behavior, the views and opinions of the people around them, and accept them as reality, because they are children and do not know any better. As one might imagine, the extent of fanatism that Leona grew up with is variable, depending on how her own parents acted and how deep in they were themselves. Now I am a bit rusty on Rakori and Targonian lore, but if we take the short story “Rise with me” into account, I think it is safe to say that Melia and Iasur were in pretty deep.

Another thing to note about children that grow up in cults is that the cult leader and the cult’s needs come first. Which means that the child rarely enjoys their parents’ attention, much less love and affection. Something that in my humble opinion would drive some of them to strive for perfection and trying to satisfy their parents’ every wish and every whim, in hope of getting even a hint of affection. That is something we can see rather clearly in the story if we want to examine a bit Leona’s relationship with her Dayblessed parents.

Before we dive into that, however, what we can summarize from all of the above is that Leona is, in principle, a person that likes rules. Someone that grew up heeding them. That thrives in hierarchical systems, and well-structured environments, with clear denominations for right and wrong, for what one should and should not do. According to the bio this rigidity brings her comfort, and solace. Because it is familiar and comfortable. It’s what in all probability she grew up with. Moreover, Leona is a perfectionist. Something we are told, through her bio, and her own letters and diary, but we can also see when looking at her through the lens of Diana’s eyes.

To continue with my previous point, though, when looking at her relationship with her parents…well, I’ll let you figure this out on your own. We only have her diary entries and letters sent and unsent to garner information from, but that is enough to paint a detailed enough picture of what her relationship with her parents entails. Even without looking at it from the “child that grew up in a cult” angle, we can see there is little affection between them. Even from her first letter, we can feel the clean-cut, prim and proper courteousness of their communication, accompanied by the hints of affection every child holds for their parents. It is, however, far from warm, or heartfelt. It seems more like kind interest, than any real investment, in her parents’ or siblings’ wellbeing and then proceeds to become a report on her achievements and perceived weaknesses. Even the title of the section, the opening of the letter, “Letter from a devoted daughter” holds no personality, as if Leona’s entire being can be compressed and described by those two words.

We do get a similar impression from the letter Polymnius sent to Melia and Iasur. The letter itself contains the priest’s thanks for the new lanternglass crafted by the sun-forger, and also devolves to a report of Leona’s progress after his communication with all of her instructors, and his observation of her skills in battle. Now on the one hand, Polymnius could be just a family friend or the priest responsible for communicating with the acolytes’ families. On the other hand however, one might start questioning just how much control Leona’s parents can exert over her life, even in their absence. Do they hold sway with the priesthood? Are their immense expectations passed on through priests and teachers, adding more and more to the pressure Leona faces every day? To be strong, devout, worthy and good? And again, the letter ends with  “I know you would be proud.” I am sure they would Polymnius, I am sure they would.

            At this point I’d like to point out that he is probably the only person that worries that Leona is taking her duties far too seriously and needs to take a few steps back to relax and delight in the Sun’s gifts. (And honestly, same.)

Moving forward we have the Letter from Sunsworn Priestess Nemyah to a shining pupil, that once more applauds Leona for her achievements, with little to no fanfare. And again we note that sense of depersonalization, of Leona being defined by those characterizations, by her achievements, her rights and wrongs. 

            And then of course we get into the fight between Leona and Diana and the disciplinary letter sent to her by her parents. Which honestly goes about as well as you would expect,

We know that you are capable of better and expect you to rise to the occasion. Leaders in Her Light do not run into impediments that they cannot overcome, nor do they get hindered by such earthly mischief as “a shouting match at school.”

And of course

…will speak with you about how better to secure your future then.

So much for parental love… If anything, it’s a declaration of disappointment, with clear expectations and measures to be met, We know you are better than this, we expect you to be better than this, leaders do not fumble. Sounds particularly loving, doesn’t it? Definitely not like they worry about their reputation, and their image in the community more than their daughter’s wellbeing and most certainly not like they have her future already decided for her. A future they can benefit from, of course.

I will try to keep this at a reasonable length and will not overly analyze Leona’s own unsent replies, for they are pretty straightforward. They are characterized by Leona’s anxiety, fear and guilt for disappointing her parents and failing to reach the tremendous expectations they have set for her.

            So to sum this part up, Leona was raised by overly strict parents, in an environment in which she received little to no affection and positive reinforcement, even for her achievements that far exceeded those of her peers. She has also been burdened with a set of rather impossible expectations, that she strives to reach no matter what. We saw that Iasur and Melia are quick to discipline her and voice their disappointment, rather rancidly might I say, and yet made little to no mention of Leona’s multiple achievements that have been noted by multiple instructors as well as Polymnius. As for Leona herself, one might say she is afraid to be herself and express her own thoughts. Even when she writes a letter that truly encompasses her thoughts and feelings, in that same letter she resolutely states that she will not send it.

So insofar we have an affection-starved, rule-loving perfectionist, that probably hasn’t had any positive reinforcement since she was like 5 and has her parents and everyone around her connect and define her worth as a person though her personal achievements and services in Her light. It would be safe to assume that from a point on, Leona herself starts putting herself in those boxes, limiting her sense of self and worth to the glass ceiling of their expectations, adding more and more expectations on herself, back bending further and further back, until inevitably reaching her breaking point. And of course, this is all she has ever known. The rules, the hierarchy, the expectations, the dogma, is what she grew up with, is what feels familiar, and in a twisted sense, “right”.  We could thus somewhat explain why Leona holds her duty in such high regard. She has come to define herself and her worth as a person, through it. It’s all she has ever really known.

            Not to say that things are as bleak as they seem at first glance. For there is one shining light in Leona’s life, one guiding beacon that tries to break her out of the glass cage, at least at the point in time when Rise With Me takes place, and it is none other than Diana.

            Now, according to Leona’s bio, she saw in Diana an ever-curious spirit devoted to the search for meaning, and the truth, and that’s sth that holds up in the short story as well. Diana’s ingenuity and unique perspective of things, her being the one dissonant voice in the harmonious chorus of the elders’ teachings, intrigue young Leona.

When looking into the respective missives that Leona sends to Diana in respects of their shared oration class, starting from the first one even, we can see that despite all the greatness she has achieved, all her triumphs, and graces, she remains shy, and humble. Even knowing that she is amongst the best of her peers, and the priests’ favorites, she does not brag, does not demand, does not exert any power or control. Instead, she approaches her faults humbly and asks for Diana’s – the outcast’s - help in a respectful manner. She does not let her shortcomings define her or hinder her. She recognizes them as something to improve, and humbly asks for help from someone she believes she can benefit from, someone that will help, and not just shower her with mindless praise.  She recognizes Diana’s ingenuity and applauds her argument construction; while pledging to help her in return should Diana need assistance herself.

Leona is humble and kind. Though to a certain degree we might even consider her having a bit of a people pleasing attitude accompanied by a slight lack of confidence. Perfectionists as a rule hate making mistakes or seeming inadequate. It’s a big blow in their confidence and the sense of self they have constructed around the concept of said perfection. After living for so long in an environment of such heavy expectations, it’s no wonder one might start second-guessing themselves, no matter how good they are, even for the smallest of mistakes.

            Back to Leona though, she is humble, kind and considerate, perhaps even to a fault. There is this sense of her not wanting to impose on Diana’s schedule, on which she rather insists. She doesn’t want to be trouble, she does not want to be a burden, and of course she then offers her own help in return should it be needed, which is the decent and honorable thing to do.

            Leona’s diary entry where she considers asking Diana to the festival is what also gives us a glimpse of the person behind the armor, behind the rule abiding student, behind the mask of achievements and perfection. To no surprise, we get a more in depth perspective of Leona’s own thoughts and feelings, as long as her take on “how to ask the girl I like out without coming across like a total fool, or indoctrinating asshole?” She is anxious, thoughtful and tender, considerate and sweet in her approach, and a little bit hopeless, but I think we can forgive her. She is downright smitten and hasn’t realized how much just yet. She even goes through with one of her plans to ask Diana to practice with the shields, and well, forgive me if I say it is adorable.

            Diana’s presence in Leona’s life and story, however, is not important because the will-be Aspect of the Sun is absolutely smitten with her, or even because she encompasses the total opposite of what Leona is (which let’s be honest, she doesn’t. They are complimentary to one another, not opposites), but because Diana makes Leona think.

            That’s the reason Leona approached her in the first place, her ability to think and construct cohesive and compelling arguments. Something that Leona herself is lacking in, because alongside most of the other Solari acolytes, she lacks critical thinking. An essential component of trying to construct an argument of any sort - if you do not want to parrot something you learned in a book once.

            Diana’s arguments, thoughts and criticisms on their given materials have Leona thinking, examining what she is taught, and what she says in oration class herself. Diana teaches Leona how to think, she teaches her how to construct arguments, how to reinforce them, to find fallacies in arguments and counteract them. In her quest to learn how to defend her point, Leona starts learning how to look deeper into things, to examine their essence, and construct counterpoints. And we can see that she starts thinking about it, if only superficially. She doesn’t go full out critical thinking, or questioning everything she has ever known, it doesn’t work like that, but the seed has been planted.  “Why do you think I need to go deeper than that when it’s widely known already?” It’s not much but it is a start to the path of critical thinking.

And then after an undetermined amount of time, comes their shared ascension. And that’s where the discrepancies in the story start. Mind you the bio was written a few years before the short story came out, so the characterization obviously is not entirely in line with what we know.

            This Leona is one that debates with Diana still, but wants to persuade her not to look further into their faith, and just accept it as it is. At Diana’s sharing the secret of the alcove, Leona is a stone wall of resistance urging her friend away from the climb, afraid for her wellbeing should she inspire further ire from the Solari. When Diana inevitably climbs the mountain, and while her first instinct is to alert the elders, Leona resolves to help and protect her friend instead and follows after her into the night. Against all odds they manage to reach the peak, and she is wreathed in golden light, fighting tooth and nail to keep her sense of self intact. And she wins.

            At this point, I think we can all see the difference between bio-Leona and the Leona that the short story sets the foundations of. Obviously for the sake of storytelling and with some tweaking these two could co-exist as canon versions of Leona in different times of her life. We could potentially be talking about a tragic story about how religion and blind adherence to duty and tradition drive a wedge between two people that very much love each other. Or the bio could be a bit of a “historical account” of what happened, and Leona having had to care for Diana after her punishments one too many times puts up a wall of resistance, an ultimatum of the “I don’t want to lose you” kind.

            No matter the case, and despite of what Riot might decide to do to expand on their story, and either give us a critical thinking Leona, or a very good reason for not having a critical thinking Leona, the point is that Leona is incredibly loyal to those she cares about.

            And now comes the point of the ascension. The critical point in their story, where instead of going with Diana, and living their happily ever after away from the system that tortured them both, albeit in completely different manners, Leona chooses to stay.

            And I think sometimes when thinking about Leona, we do not always recognize that this is the point where everything is going down. This is the point where everything we have so far discussed comes into play. Because their ascension is a traumatic experience. One that upends everything Leona has ever known. The process of their ascension is traumatic, the very essence of it, bloody terrifying. Because it is a jump into the unknown. It challenges the truths that she has constructed her whole sense of self around, demolishes the very principles that she grew up enforcing.

            There is this interaction in Legends of Runeterra, where Diana urges Leona to understand that Day needs Night, referencing the visions they both saw upon Targon’s peak. And what does Leona reply? “Visions from memories not my own.”

            Full-blown denial. Not that I particularly blame her initial reaction. Because what is it that we have here? We have that affection-starved perfectionist that grew up in a cult, that wounded inner child that has come to tie her worth as a person to the degree of her personal achievements. We have that honorable, rule abiding, and duty loving person, a person that finds solace in strict structures and hierarchies, that thrives in them, thrown into absolute CHAOS.

You have Leona, that rule abiding idiot, that transcends her own limits that takes that one calculated risk to follow Diana and save her from the mountain’s clutches and ends up with watching a blast of divine light slamming into Diana. She goes to help, and before she can help a blast of divine light slams into her, filling her head with a second divine conscience, with visions and memories of other Sun Aspects, of times when truly the people of the mountain were united. And then the onslaught ends, and she faces a Diana different from the one she knows, a Diana dressed in the colors of the enemy.

            So Leona, bearing all of the characteristics we mentioned above, is bloody terrified out of her wits. She is faced with such terrifyingly foreign notions, with such stress, that what is she going to do? She regresses back to what she already knows. And what she knows are the elders and the Solari, and the priests, the rules, the scriptures, the dogma. In face of that terrifying truth she regresses back to the perceived safety of that toxic and unhealthy system -that on top of everything is a cult- that she grew up in.

            Now this brings forth this thought about ignorance. Because Leona is ignorant of the truth. She is, however, intimately familiar with the narrative she has grown up with. People are familiar with their ignorance, and oftentimes they choose to bear the ills of what they know than to fly to others that they know not of. And thus, they are cowards. (Hamlet anyone?)

Leona is a prime example of that. Instead of sitting down and considering the new information, the truth revealed, the unknown future ahead, she clings to her ignorance, to her half-knowledge of the story, because it is familiar, and safe. And she is bloody terrified of the new unknown that Diana proposes they follow.

Now that is not to say that everything we have discussed boils down to Leona is a coward. Though that is partly true. But she is also a kid that grew up in a system that fostered that kind of cowardice. She is someone that grew up in an environment of cultism and religious fanatism, and she grew up ingrained to it. Contrary to Diana as one might point out. And these are all things we need to take into account when handling a character like Leona, and care that we do not flatten such immense complexity of conditions and circumstances, such depth of thought and emotion to “brainless genocidal cultist”. 

(Now if you ask, why does Diana have critical thinking, why did she not get ingrained and lost in that system despite growing up in it for as long if not longer than Leona, what is it that makes her different from the other cult kids, I have absolutely no idea, but that’s not the point of this particular post.)

To finish this off, the point of this post is not to excuse Leona of all the horrible things she has done, or even to argue that she is not a genocidal cultist- she very much is, and the point is definitely not to say that it is not her fault and she was just a product of her circumstances. We all are products of the circumstances that surround us, but we are not passive participants in those conditions. No, the point is to try and understand where Leona might be coming from, and to demonstrate that even the simplest and most obtuse of character concepts can have an intricate and complicated story behind them.

If you did manage to reach the end of this, congratulations! Have a cookie and don’t forget to hydrate!

[lifeafterpsychiatry]

can I ask for like, a spark notes on what anti psych is?

like. I'm very aware of and agree with the fact that psych as a structure is based in control and capitalism and such, and the structures of normal and such are all based around ability to perform in a white abled capitalist etc society.

But im also like, Dependant on psych meds to function even a little, and I think the way I have interacted w psych meds is the way everyone should have access to if thats needed. all med changes, starts, and stops have been because I went to my docs and said "I'd like to try this", and they told me abt options and what they thought might work well, but left the end decision up to me. and ik thats far from universal, but I do think that in an ideal world that would be more or less how psych meds worked. ive also had shit experiences with CBT, but had great success with DBT and more or less like the idea its built on (a lot of ppl w chronic mh issues didn't have the opportunity to build certain skills growing up, and helping them build those later can be super helpful to make their brain less stressful to live in)

are these views which have a place in anti psych? is there anything youd reccomend I read to get a better idea of anti psych's view on meds for ppl who benefit from them and/or less standard therapies like dbt?

When I say I'm antipsych, I mean that I am against psychiatry as a carceral institution with the power to deny people basic bodily autonomy in the name of coerced and forced treatment.

I'm not against the concept of deciding to take psych meds or go to therapy, and there would still be space to do so in a world without psychiatry as an institution of carceral power. I still think there could be relevant use of many individual tools associated with psychiatry for some people, and I fully respect your right to pursue both psych meds and therapy.

I just want it to happen in a context of full transparency and autonomy, where you are actually guaranteed the final say in what treatment you want and if and when to stop it, without the risk of someone forcibly treating you (or denying you treatment you do want) if they think you're making the "wrong" decision.

I do have many criticisms of psych meds and the (lack of) scientific evidence behind them, but I don't want to deny mentally ill people the right to decide for themselves what they want to try and what works for them. I am in favor of full autonomy for mentally ill people, not a new dogma for how we're allowed to live our lives.