#personal work in between commas

[libr-0-cubicularist]

hey, hey. you. mhm. you. This is your sign to go read Stories We Share, Secrets We Keep by @bittirsweeteer

[writingwithfolklore]

Punctuation Rules

Punctuation is like the very last thing I actively think about when writing something (what's the point of fixing the punctuation of a sentence you'll end up taking out or editing anyway?) but it is still an important step!

Having proper punctuation increases your credibility and the overall quality of your work. Also, it’s doubly important in professional work, emails, and resumes. With that, let’s get into it!

Commas

We use them all the time. We get them wrong all the time. There are six rules for where you can use commas:

Use to separate items in a list or series:

The book was long, tedious, and painful.

The comma after tedious is called the Oxford’s comma. Feel free to debate if you need it in the reblogs, but you won’t get in trouble professionally if you use it or leave it out (in most cases.) It always comes before ‘and’ in a list to prevent confusion of the items:

I ran into my mother, my best friend and a scientist. (1 person?)

Is very different from

I ran into my mother, my best friend, and a scientist. (3 people)

2. Use to separate independent clauses, with a coordinating conjunction.

An independent clause is just a sentence that makes sense on its own.

A coordinating conjunction is: and, but, or so.

Miley had a ton of work to do, so she set her alarm early.

3. Use after an introductory statement.

Introductory statements begin with many different words, but typically: Before, after, when, while, as soon as, etc.

Before her first class, Stacy looked up her prof on Rate Your Teacher.

Main point about this, “Before her first class” is not an independent clause, it needs a second part.

4. Use to surround info in a sentence

This info is not essential to the sense-making of the sentence, but it should be relevant.

Parents, no matter how skilled, cannot function at 100% all the time.

5. Addresses and Dates

6. And with direct quotes

Important for essay writing.

Casey said, “I hate this house!”

Colons:

Introduce a list after a complete sentence:

I have three favourite foods: spaghetti, chowder, and garlic bread.

2. Use after ‘the following’ or ‘as follows’

Please provide the following information: your date of birth, full name, and address.

3. Don't use with sentence fragments

A sentence fragment is an unfinished sentence (that doesn’t make sense on its own).

My favourite foods are: spaghetti, chowder, and garlic bread.

This is wrong because, “My favourite foods are.” Isn’t an independent clause.

4. Introduce an explanation

My parents ask one thing of me: that I try my hardest.

5. Introduce a quotation

Mom always quoted the bible: “The truth will set you free.”

6. And times (12:00)

Semi-Colon:

Not super common, but makes you look good if you can use it properly.

Separate two related independent clauses

I never drink Starbucks; it tastes burnt.

2. Similar, but with conjunctions: however, moreover, therefore, nevertheless, etc.

I don’t like Starbucks; however, it does the job.

Agatha didn’t witness anything; nevertheless, she was called in to court.

3. Use to avoid misreading in a series

The invited guests are the club leader; the treasurer; the new member, Jason Tanner; and Wanda Johnson, the investor.

Semicolons clarify the separation between the four people. Had it been, “The club leader, the treasurer, The new member, Jason Tanner…” it would seem that the new member and Jason Tanner are two different people.

Apostrophes – Possessive

‘s shows possession of a singular noun

The girl’s parents were quite rich.

2. S’ shows possession of a plural noun

The students’ books were all over the place. (there are multiple students who have books)

3. ‘s to singular words ending in s, and nouns that are plural

My boss’s office My children’s toys

Apostrophes – Contractions

Use to combine two words (they are, he is, there is, etc.)

It is -> It’s a beautiful park They are -> They’re really good friends You are -> you’re good at this and so on.

[fixyourwritinghabits]

How to Handle Critique

I’ve got to admit, I wish I was one of those beatific saints that could take critique with a grateful smile. Instead, I am constantly suppressing a horrible little gremlin at the back of my head hissing at anything from legit plot critiques to grammar corrections. I’m well aware I used that comma wrong, GOD.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m very good at suppressing that gremlin, but the little bastard is still there. He exists because even though your brain knows critique can help, it also knows you worked damn hard on the thing being critiqued, and goddamnit, isn’t that enough???

Anyway, here are some tips on getting that gremlin to shut the hell up.

It is okay to be upset. You worked really hard on this thing, and now someone’s gone and pointed out all the things that suck about it. You cannot control how you feel about one thing or another, but you can allow yourself to feel that way and let it pass through you. Let your critique partner you’re taking time to reflect on it, and go for a walk. Do something else. Let those feelings pass through you before you get back to the page.

Give yourself time. Don’t feel like you need to correct things right away (unless they are minimal grammar tweaks). Some pieces of feedback might take awhile to sink in, especially when you’ve got a whole novel to wrestle through. Set it aside, think about something else for a week or so, and get back to it when you’ve reset.

Get a second opinion and/or ducky friend. It can be very hard to tell the difference between good and bad feedback sometimes. Someone who means very well could give feedback that just doesn’t work for you, and someone who doesn’t give two shits could have spotted that fatal flaw right away. You can bring in a real third party or just make use of the old rubber duck technique, where you talk through the issue with a friend or a Naruto poster telling you to Believe it. Working it out out-loud is a really effective technique to figure out what needs fixing and what doesn’t.

Guide critique-givers toward the feedback you want. I, a person who prefers straightforward fantasy and sci-fi, cannot give the fine-tooth points on how a romance novel should work. However, I can give feedback on what works for me and what doesn’t story-wise. Giving your beta reader or critique partner a list of questions to look for will help avoid vague feedback based on how they don’t like the genre. There are many ways to do this, but consider using the following as a base to tailor your own questions:

Did you get a good sense of the setting? Did the worldbuilding make sense to you?

Was this story clear? Where there any parts that seemed confusing?

What characters did you like and why? What characters didn’t you like?

Did any parts of the story feel slow or repetitive?

Did the beginning draw you in? Did the middle keep you engaged? Did the ending feel satisfying?

If you were to write [insert plot point here], what would you do differently?

Again, all of the above questions are up for debate depending on your goal, but we are rarely taught how to give good feedback, and a guided feedback session would work better for you than a free-for-all.

Figure out what kind of advice doesn’t work for you. It is really hard to give good feedback sometimes, even with guided questions. It can also be really hard to figure out why some feedback doesn’t click with you, and that’s a matter of digging deep to figure out what you really want. You may lean toward characters who are horrible fuck-ups, but your partner prefers more steady characters who always strive to do the right thing. Your characters, therefore, may never click with this person, no matter how much they want to help you. And that’s okay! Figuring out where your critique partner is coming from can help you figure out what parts of their feedback isn’t working for you. Sometimes the only thing you can do is thank them and move on, but you might also want to guide them to focus more on the plot or the worldbuilding when looking at your work.

And last, don’t focus on grammar. It’s great if they point that out, but if you end up changing everything, trying to fix that first is a waste of your time. Grammar tweaks last, plot points first.

And, I dunno, give yourself a treat to get that horrible little mind gremlin something else to focus on. Sometimes patting those bad feelings on the head and sending them away can help way more than ignoring them.

[togglesbloggle]

In Defense of Bad Things

'Bad' here meaning mostly 'amateur'; stuff made enthusiastically by people at an unprofessional level. Art with visible gaps between what the artist imagined and what they achieved, products of flawed craftsmanship. I suppose everybody can appreciate them to some extent, it's a rare parent that doesn't put up their kid's drawings on the fridge in one way or another. But it turns out to be a fully general skill you can cultivate, and the more I do, the more I'm glad I did.

Partly, it's the teacher thing; finding delight in amateur work is one of the ways to find delight in the process of learning. Cultivating a love of striving-qua-striving can help make you a force for good in the world, as people start to feel safe trying to do things when you're around, even when their efforts are wobbly. You get to participate a little more in the process of atoms spinning themselves into ideas, even when there aren't any illusions about whether you're helping cultivate some revolutionary genius in the field.

And partly it's a fabulous way to build community. By necessity, our professional-level skills tend to be at the service of other people, performed for economic benefit; that's kind of how you get professionally good at something in the first place. When we're acting for our own sake, and among friends, most of what we do with one another is amateurish. I only cook middling-okay, I can't hold a tune that well, I'll never be a speed runner for anything. If you can only enjoy singing from the hundred best singers in the whole world, manufactured and polished by major studios, then you and your friends will sit shoulder-to-shoulder and passively listen to music. But it's so much richer an experience to sit face-to-face, actually singing together, even badly; you expose yourself to so many new ways to appreciate and respect one another, building relationships on what you've accomplished and not just by witty criticism or liking the same things.

And partly it's because some of the most powerful and innovative artistic experiences are in high-churn environments with low expectations and low barriers to entry, if only because those catch the passionate and driven young people that have been otherwise overlooked by our systems. The golden age of webcomics meant that a ton of the actual art involved was pretty lousy, but it also produced work that people still talk about today. D&D began as a profoundly unpolished collection of handmade rulebooks sold at cons in a plastic baggie. By the time these products of enthusiastic amateurs filter themselves through various levels of popularity and absorb mainstream cash influx, they're often risk-averse and missing a lot of the bold spark that inspired their fans in the first place; others will simply never drift towards the mainstream at all. I'm not saying you should be the person who goes out to dig through the slush piles of the internet looking for overlooked art, unless you want to be-- but sometimes a work of actual staggering genius also happens to be a Supernatural fanfic by a first-time author who's a little hazy on commas, and if that's a dealbreaker, you're going to miss out on some profoundly valuable experiences.

And hiding behind all of these things is, like...

Our appreciation of beauty has an odd structure, right? When things are done very skillfully, by brilliant artists with years of training, we can usually appreciate those accomplishments. And when we're looking at nature without human influence, and especially when we think very deeply about natural processes and understand them in context, we often rediscover that sense of beauty. There's just this bizarre hole in the middle where we declare things 'ugly'; as if a little skill is worse than none at all.

I really don't trust that gap. It feels like a trick my brain is playing on me, you know? It has me suspicious that a lot of what I consider 'ugly' or 'bad' is not a very direct experience of the world at all, or an informed judgment. That it is, rather, a declaration of (self-, social-) identity; a desire to be seen as a person of good taste, or as somebody who does things well, or just more primitively as one of the monkeys who is in the good-stuff-tribe and not one of the monkeys who is in the bad-stuff-tribe.

[ovaryacted]

POOLSIDE || Dieter Bravo

PAIRING: Dieter Bravo x lifeguard! afab reader || WC: 1.8k

SYNOPSIS: You take a job as a private lifeguard for a Hollywood actor. Turns out, you got much more than what you bargained for.

CONTENT/WARNINGS: MDNI/18+. NSFW. Smutty. Drug usage - weed via a joint. Lots of banter and cursing. Ambiguous age gap [Dieter is canon age, Reader is 21+]. Allusions to sex (pussy eating). Dieter may be ooc due to unfamiliarity. He is still: horny, unhinged, and loves drugs. Ending leaves much to the imagination. I don't know how Hollywood agents or lifeguarding work, just have fun with it, it's supposed to be funny.

A/N: Hey there, surprise! This is for the Summer Lovin' Challenge hosted by @pedgito! I got "by the water" for Dieter Bravo with the prompt: you can’t keep distracting me while I work, and this is what I came up with. I will admit, I am fairly unfamiliar with Dieter as a whole, though I had to read a bunch of other fics to get a sense of who he is, so this was a challenge. But I hope this is enjoyable to those who like him cause I had a little fun going out of my comfort zone. This is my first time writing for this character and I am rusty, please be nice. Dividers are by @saradika-graphics. Anyway, likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated. <3

NAVIGATION | MASTERLIST | AO3

When you signed up for a lifeguard gig from a Hollywood agent, you expected to watch over some celebrities’ kids by their large private pool, racking up hundreds for babysitting spoiled brats and lounging by the best-filtered chlorine available. Yet what you got was the complete opposite. Instead of watching over little kids, you were burdened to monitor an overgrown child in the body of a man.

Dieter Bravo. You’ve heard of him, some veteran actor you never really paid much attention to. The name sounded distantly familiar, remembering him at some award shows like the Oscars and recalling his name popping up in some of the selections. At the end of the day, you didn’t give much of a fuck who he was, but when you could take a job with a stipend large enough it would give you that guaranteed comma in your bank account, you didn’t object.

When you reached his private home in Santa Monica, it was quaint and modern enough not to bore you. You arrived around 11 am before the sun reached the highest point in the sky, setting up your gear and peeling away your baggy t-shirt and denim shorts to reveal the red cheeky one-piece you wore underneath. It’s better to play the part, right? At least, that’s what the agent mentioned.

Unsurprisingly, Dieter was about to step into the pool when you entered his private yard, isolated from the rest of the neighborhood and with a generous view over the hills. He tilted his head to the side as he looked at you, eyebrows lifting at the sight of a new person in his space, in a bathing suit, no less.

“You must be the lifeguard my agent hired.” It was a matter-of-fact statement, yet you didn’t fail to miss how his warm brown eyes landed on your chest before meeting your gaze again. “I don’t need a babysitter, you know.”

“Apparently, you do. Look, I’m doing this for the pay. You stay on your good behavior, and I’ll be out of your hair. Simple as that.” A straightforward agreement, you think, he’s a grown-ass man. Surely, he can listen to the bare minimum of instructions.

“Deal,” Dieter said, leaving you to your own devices. You watched as he materialized a joint from his pocket and planted it between his plush lips, sparking his lighter to inhale a drag. He exhaled through his nose, pungent smoke filling the distance between you two and making you scrunch your nostrils. You eyed him silently, holding your hand out and shaking your head when he gestured the joint in your direction for a pull.

That’s why he needed a lifeguard. Getting high off of god knows what in the pool must have been his favorite pastime before he did something stupid or endangered himself. Figures.

Propping yourself on one of the lounge chairs lined by the side of the pool, you got comfortable, tinted shades sitting on the bridge of your nose. You could lean back for some time and catch a nice tan for the first two hours, giving you something to do. You don’t think the man in question will bother you too much or do something as stupid as to drown on your watch, but you’ll do your best to ensure that doesn’t happen.

To your amazement, Dieter was quiet, humming to himself and enjoying his high as he swam about and floated in the pool. When he wasn’t looking, you’d take a couple of glances just to be sure he hadn’t sunk to the bottom. Those were also the moments when you’d get a good look at him, sneaking peeks of his face and body over the blue water.

In a way, he was handsome, with a rugged charm that brought a level of interest you didn’t initially notice. He had a head of curly brown hair and a patchy beard adorned his jaw. His soft abdomen had a trail of light hair lining from his belly button to his groin. Selfishly, you took in the way his light blue shorts hugged his hips, thick thighs shifting to keep his body upright.

Leaning back into the chair as if you hadn’t been picking apart his appearance for the past 3 minutes, you pretended like somehow this strange man wasn’t sneaking into the recesses of your mind and the depths of your gut.

It helped he was cute—just a little bit.

After lunch and munching on some catered sandwiches, you moved from lounging in the chair to sitting along the edge of the pool, dipping your feet in the water. All things considered, you thought Dieter’s house was nice, probably better than his apartment in New York, but you’d kill to have either.

Setting your sunglasses on the top of your head, you could practically feel this man watching you from the other end of the pool, taking in your movements with unfocused eyes. You ignored him, thinking it was just a coincidence or an outcome of his high. But as the faux obliviousness of his stares continued, his dramatic sighs and tricks in the water came after, squinting in his direction to gauge what he was up to.

He began to swim towards you until his hand gripped the tiled edge, running the other through his wet hair to pull it back. You caught his stare, dilated pupils hazed with a silent question.

“Can I help you, Dieter?” Speaking to him directly now, this was probably the first thing you’ve said to him since your heady warning earlier in the day.

“I’m bored.”

“Not my problem.” You shrugged again, the man groaning like a toddler on the precipice of throwing a tantrum.

“C’mon. There has to be something else we can do while you sit all pretty and shit.” Dieter said out loud, making you raise an eyebrow at the catch of certain words. It must be the weed. Ignore him.

“You can always pay and leave me alone to do anything else.” You replied, your attention drawn to one of his hands gently touching your ankle as your foot pushed against his wrist.

“You’re telling me you’re not bored too?”

“Oh yeah, bored out of my fucking mind. But you can’t keep distracting me while I work.”

“This isn’t work. It’s a babysitting job, a bad one at that.” His fingers ran over the top of your foot absentmindedly, and you had half a mind to kick his hand away. You relented, thinking it’d be worth your time if you played your cards right. 

“Have you seen yourself, Dieter? You need surveillance 25/8. I’ve been counting down the minutes to see when I will find you face down still as shit in the pool.”

You half expected him to curse you out or even be upset with what you said. Instead, he laughed, hearty and loud, bringing a wide grin across his face and giving you a perfect view of his smile. You couldn’t help but chuckle along with him out of ridiculousness.

“If you want to keep me occupied and alive, I have an idea of what we can do.” Dieter’s tone turned suggestive, something you didn’t miss. His strong arms wrapped around both of your legs and you welcomed the contact, wanting to know what he could mean, for research purposes of course.

“What do you have in mind?” You grew curious, almost taking back the words that tumbled from your mouth before his eyes gleamed with mischief.

“Well…we are alone. Nobody’s out here but us.” His thumb teasingly caressed the side of your thigh, doing nothing to quell the warmth bubbling in your core with every stroke against your skin. Suggesting to fuck a client? That wasn’t in the job description, nor was there an NDA.

“You’re joking, right?”

“Am I laughing?” Dieter was closer now, maybe too close, his chin resting on the top of your legs as he looked up at you. He reminded you of a puppy dog waiting for his treat, except you were dealing with a complete horndog with no sense of self outside of LSD and bad actor accents.

“Consider it a bonus for taking such good care of me.”

“What am I? A prostitute?” Your eyes rolled in defiance, brushing off what you think was his terrible flirting if that’s what you would call it.

“For the fucking record, I pay all of my sex workers generously. But no, this is just me showing my appreciation.” Dieter’s lips came down to kiss the newly tanned skin of your knee, prompting you to release the breath you didn’t know you were holding.

“You barely know me.”

“Hasn’t stopped me before. I’m sure you can say the same for yourself.” He couldn’t wipe the smirk from his face, and you don’t think you’d want him to.

“It’ll be much more fun than just watching me for the rest of the day. Don’t even gotta see my dick, I just want to taste you for a while.” He placed another kiss higher on your thigh as his fingers pressed into your calves under the water. “What do you say?”

In silence, you mentally listed the many reasons why this was a bad idea. What would it look like if you fucked Dieter Bravo the first day you were supposed to look after him? A sex addict and drug fiend who somehow still had an acting career despite a change in reputation. Red Flag was written all over his forehead in bright, bold letters.

Yet, those warnings didn’t push you away farther than you needed to be. You were already here, so you might as well leave with something. Besides, it was only 2 in the afternoon, you had some time to spare.

Dieter watched in hunger as your legs parted in front of him, supporting yourself on your arms and you smiled as you did. He was so close he could practically smell you, the stretchy material of your bathing suit hiding the treat he sought after the moment you stepped into his yard. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine the taste of your pussy in the back of his mouth, coating his tongue with your slick to quench his thirst on this hot summer day.

He tried so hard to conceal the moan that slipped between his lips, suppressed by his teeth digging into his bottom lip.

“You better make this worth it, or you’ll find yourself a new lifeguard.” Dieter laughed, thick fingers wrapping around your thighs and hands on your hips. He gave your body a soft tug, bringing you to the pool’s edge and closer to where he could have his mouth on you.

“Promise baby, you’ll be coming back every day this whole summer.”

©️ ovaryacted 2024. Please don’t repost, copy, translate, or feed into any AI. Support your fellow creators by reblogging, commenting, and liking!

[scarletwinterxx]

every comma, every question mark - mark lee scenario

helloo🥺 it's been a while since I wrote a mark lee scenario, and this one was supposed to be out for his birthday but i only finished now, better than never😅😅hope you like it!

all song credits belong to NIKI btw!!! her songs are amazing and I'm a big fan. true story is when I first heard plot twist, all i can think of is how mark lee coded that song is so here we are🤍

and yes the ending may be a hint that there's a next for this (?) not sure tho hahaha anywayssss

For my other works you can check them out here, and for my other story series’ you can check them out here.

and if you want, u can buy me coffee(totally optional but any donation is very much appreciated!) thank you🥺💛

All works are copyrighted ©scarletwinterxx 2024 . Do not repost, re-write without the permission of author.

(gif not mine, credits to rightful owner)

"You need to let him go, it's 5 in the morning. You've been here since yesterday!"

Your manager's loud voice resonated through the room, breaking you from your train of thoughts.

"You're distracting me, if you do more of that I will never get out of here" you told him, turning back to your laptop trying. The only other person in the room besides you and your manager is your co-producer. These two is your closest companions, like your two older brothers. You spend most of your time with them, and you being the introvert you don't really have that many friends in the industry.

"As your manager, I love this whole creative wave you're going through. But as a concerned citizen, I'm begging you. Go home. It's your birthday, why are you hauled in this dark room" your manager continues to rant but you pay him no mind

"Yo, you're just making this last longer than it already is. I'm just letting her find whatever it is she's even looking for" your producer say, he's been here with you since yesterday ready to help you out when you need it.

Those two guys know you take your craft very seriously, each and every song you put out is like your own child. Each and every word, every tune, every melody all came from your pretty little mind. They are both very in awe of the discography you have created throughout the years and you're still so young.

Your manager exits the room, muttering something about getting breakfast and coffee before closing the door to the studio.

"How about one of the songs in your vault? You have a lot of unreleased demos" your producer suggests

"I don't know if there's one fit for this"

"Girl you have tons, surely there's one for now. Let's have a hear"

The two of you go through unreleased tracks, some finished and some still on the works before landing on a few possible candidates

"What are we looking for anyways?"

"Not sure, but I promised my fans I was going to put something out just in time for my birthday. It's my birthday and here I am" you grumbled, then suddenly you come across a demo you've written a while back

"Uh this one's old" you say before clicking on it, the beat playing through the speakers in the room

Where have you been All of my life? It's all growin' dim, now That you've come to light And who could've known, who would've thought Between the wishbones and dot-dot-dots There was always gonna be you and I

"When did you write that?" he asks

Just like that, the exact memory of when and where you first wrote that verse came flooding in your head.

"Oh"

"Oh what?"

"I feel like this is the one but I don't know if I can release this" you say

"What do you mean? Why?"

"I wrote this like some time a few years back... about a guy.. I had a crush on"

He chuckles at your reasoning, "So? All songs are inspired by something. You gotta start somewhere"

"Yea but what will I say when people ask what's the story behind it? I'm suppose to perform this on my birthday event this month"

"Then say it, what's the worst that could happen?"

Turns out a lot of things could happen. On the day of your birthday event where you're going to release your new song, your manager informed you a few artists are also present to watch you.

"What?? Why???"

"Cause they like you?" your manager asks back

"Who is it?" you ask but then the prod team calls for you

"Hey Y/N, we need you backstage now"

You get on stage, go on with your show and a short interview. The host surprises you with a cake from your fans and the crowd sings you happy birthday.

"I know it's my birthday but I have a gift for you also" the crowd cheers

"So I wrote a song, I actually wrote it a while back. It's about those unexpected moments that happen in my all to normal life. To be honest with you guys, I've always liked plot twists. The good kind" you add, making the crowd laugh

"Yea and uh sometimes there's someone who comes in your life who you didn't expect and suddenly the sky is bluer or the sun shines just a tad brighter" you blush a bit while trying to explain the song

"Anyways here's the new song, I hope you like it. It's called Plot Twist"

Look what we got A thickening plot Just when I started getting used to The thought Of closing the book There you were, in every nook Of every word, every page And now I wanna stay and wait, 'cause Met every comma, every question mark Bored of how all of the chapters start But you feel like a brand new arc That I never knew, oh I'd like to think I know a thing or two Like every day the sky's a different blue And then along came you, oh

The crowd turns their flash on, it's like a sea of stars in front of you. This made you smile while singing the words

Where have you been All of my life? It's all growin' dim, now That you've come to light And who could've known, who would've thought Between the wishbones and dot-dot-dots There was always gonna be you and I

You get to the last part of the song, enjoying watching the crowd have fun. Unbeknownst to you, the one who inspired this song was in the crowd bopping his head as he listens to your melodic voice.

Who could've imagined? Who could've imagined you? Who could've imagined? Who could've imagined you?

You finish the song and say your final ment before bidding goodbye to everyone.

Your team welcomes you backstage. congratulating you on another successful event. You were busy talking with the band when your manager pulls you on the side, "There's a few people here who wanted to greet you"

"Huh? Oh okay" you follow behind him down the halls.

When you get there the first person you saw was Haechan, a member of a group you're a fan of.

Your first thought was, what is he doing here

The second being, if he's here then surely his member is also here and you already have a hunch on who it might be

"Y/N, you already know Haechan and Mark. They came to watch tonight" your manager say

"Uh yea, oh sorry I wasn't expecting this. I'm a big fan" you tell them, bowing your head down as a sign of respecting and greeting. The two boys doing the same

"Me too, Love your songs" Haechan says, then adds a greeting at the end

"Happy birthday, we uh wanted to come and see you play live since we're on a break. Usually our schedules clash so we can't go to your shows" Mark says

Not believing this is actually happening, you give yourself a pinch on the back. It hurt.

"Me too, I mean I'm a fan too and uh thanks for coming"

"It's Mark hyung's birthday too so this was my gift to him" Haechan jokes, earning a jab on the side from Mark

"I invited him" Mark clarifies, you just laugh at that.

"You guys want some snacks? Refreshments? Let's go to the lounge room" your manager leads the three of you to the lounge area. The two guys, Haaechan and your manager, have a conversation between them. Turns out they're neighbors and Haechan's manager are friends with yours.

"I uh like your new song" Mark clears his throat as he tells you this

"Thanks, it's been a while since I wrote that actually" you mumble, feeling shy all of sudden. You definitely did not expect Mark of all people to be here tonight.

The very person who inspired you to write the song.

"I love the way you write your songs. There's always a story to uncover, big fan of your word plays" he tells you with a smiles you know will haunt your dreams for nights to come and until you make another song about him again.

"One of the few songs I've written that isn't about a heartbreak. And this is from my own point of view, usually I write them imagining the scenario in my head"

"What a lucky guy" he says

You chuckle, looking down at your shoes "He's great, but that song was a confession I'd probably never tell him"

"How come? It's a great song, he should feel honored"

You smile at that, finding the situation all too unreal.

"If he does figure it out, then I'll take my chance"

For a moment you gather up the courage to look him in the eye as if confessing the words without saying it. Like you wanted him to know it's about him but you're not sure if you can ever admit that to him.

Maybe not now. Maybe some other time, you do after all think he's the biggest plot twist of your story.

Then he's looking back at you, a glint in his eyes you wanted to know more about before he smiles at you again. His voice already writing the words in your head, ready for the melody and for your creative genius. He tells you,

"He'd be a fool not to take a chance with you"

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Some Editorial Vocabulary

definitions of terms during the writing, editing and publishing process

Acknowledgements: Text in which the author thanks those who’ve supported them.

Action beat: Short description that comes before, between or just after dialogue.

Adjective: A word that describes a noun.

Adverb: A word that describes a verb.

Adverbial phrase: A group of words that describe a verb.

Afterword: A concluding section, often reflecting on the book’s creation or providing additional context.

Anaphora: The deliberate repetition of words or phrases at the beginning of successive clauses for artistic effect.

Antagonist: An adversary. The character who creates obstacles and challenges for the protagonist, or behaves in a hostile fashion towards the protagonist.

Anti-protagonist: A protagonist whose own actions create opposition and conflict, often within themselves or against their own goals.

Apostrophe: A punctuation mark used to indicate possession, omission and, occasionally, a plural.

Appendix: Space in a book for material that doesn’t fit comfortably in the main text.

Asyndeton: Literary device through which a sentence’s structure follows the following pattern: A, B, C.

B-C

Back matter: Also end matter. Elements reserved for the back of a book, including appendix, glossary, endnotes, bibliography and index.

Beta reader: Test-reader who provides feedback on book.

Bibliography: List of all works cited in book, and any other work of interest to the reader.

Chapter drop: The space above and below the chapter title.

Character arc: Narrative that shows how a character changes and develops.

Characterization: The process of revealing a character's personality, traits and motives through actions and dialogue.

Colon: Punctuation mark that introduces additional/qualifying information about the clause it follows.

Comma splice: Two independent clauses joined by a comma rather than a conjunction or an alternative punctuation mark.

Conjunction: A word that connects clauses or sentences (e.g. ‘and’, ‘but’, ‘if’, ‘then’)

Copyediting: A review of grammar, punctuation, and spelling, ensuring consistency and accuracy in the manuscript's language.

Critique: Also manuscript evaluation. Report analysing a book’s strengths and weaknesses.

D

Denouement: The final part of the book in which all the plot strands are brought together and resolved.

Deuteragonist: A sidekick or confidante character who has the most influence on the protagonist, often helping them solve problems and overcome obstacles. Can be critical to driving the plot.

Developmental editing: Also structural editing. The improvement of a manuscript's structure, content, and overall narrative, focusing on big-picture elements. Attends to plot, characterisation, narration and pacing.

Dialogue tag: Also speech tag. Words that indicate which character is speaking (e.g. John said).

Dialogue: The lines characters speak in a book.

Diversity reader: Also sensitivity reader. Test-reader who checks for misrepresentation in books.

Double-page spread: Also DPS. The view of a printed book or PDF when opened so that the left- and right-hand pages are both visible.

Drama: The conflicts, emotional intensity, and impactful events that drive the plot and engage readers emotionally. The focus is on character relationships, motivations, and the consequences of their actions.

Dropped capital: Decorative first letter of the first word on the first line in a chapter. Larger than the rest of the text and drops down two lines or more.

E-F

Ellipsis: Punctuation mark that indicates a trailing-off or a pause.

End matter: Also back matter. Elements reserved for the back of a book, including appendix, glossary, endnotes, bibliography and index.

Endnote: Additional useful information at the end of a chapter or book.

Filter word: Verb that tells rather than shows (e.g. ‘noticed’, ‘seemed’, ‘spotted’, ‘saw’).

Folio: Somewhat old-fashioned term for page number. Also used to refer to a page.

Footnote: Additional useful information at the bottom of a page.

Foreword: A recommendation of the work written by someone other than the author.

Fourth wall: In books, the conceptual space between the characters and the readers.

Free indirect speech: Also free indirect style and free indirect discourse. Third-person narrative that holds the essence of first person thought or dialogue.

Front matter: Also prelims. Includes part title and title pages, foreword, preface and acknowledgements.

Full point: Period or full stop.

Full stop: Period or full point.

G-L

Glossary: Alphabetical list of important terms with explanations or definitions.

Habitual past tense: Uses ‘would’ or ‘used to’ with a verb to indicate events that happened routinely in a time past.

Half-title page: The first page of a book with any text on it; in a printed book, always a right-hand page. Contains only the main title of the book.

Head-hopping: Jumping from one character’s thoughts and internal experiences to another’s. Indicates viewpoint has been dropped.

Imprint: Publisher’s name.

Independent clause: A group of words that contains a subject and a predicate.

Index: Alphabetical list of all topics, themes, key terms and cited author names covered in the book, and the corresponding page numbers.

Information dump: Also word dump. Information that’s necessary to the story but isn’t artfully delivered, or weaved creatively into the narrative and dialogue.

Line editing: Also stylistic editing. The refining of a manuscript's language, focusing on consistency, clarity, flow and style at sentence level.

M-O

Maid-and-butler dialogue: Dialogue in which one character tells another something they already know so the reader can access backstory.

Manuscript evaluation: Also critique. Report analysing a book’s strengths and weaknesses.

Narrative arc: Also story arc. The structure and shape of a story.

Narrative authenticity: The believability and truthfulness of a story so that the characters and events feel real within the framework of the novel’s world.

Narrative distance: Also psychic distance. How close the reader feels to a character’s thoughts, emotions and experiences within a story.

Narrative: Story. The part of the book that’s narrated, excluding the dialogue.

Narrative style: The author's unique manner of storytelling, encompassing language, tone, viewpoint and other structural choices.

Narrative voice: The style, tone, and personality through which a narrator or character tells a story to readers.

Numerals, Arabic: 1, 2, 3 etc.

Numerals, Roman: i, ii, iii etc.

Omniscient: All-knowing. Refers to a viewpoint style in fiction writing.

Overwriting: Using too many words on the page. Often characterized by repetition and redundancy.

P

Page proofs: A file that’s reached a stage in the publishing process where the text and images of a manuscript have been laid out in their final format.

Pantser: A writer who doesn’t outline or plan story structure, but flies by the seat of their pants.

Period: Full stop or full point.

Perspective character: Also viewpoint character. The character through whose eyes the story is primarily told. The narrative lens through which readers experience events, thoughts, and emotions within the story.

Plot: The sequence of events in a novel.

Point of view: Also viewpoint and POV. Describes whose head we’re in when we read a book, or whose perspective we experience the story from.

Polysyndeton: Literary device through which a sentence’s structure follows the following pattern: A and B and C.

Predicate: The part of a sentence that contains a verb and that tells us something about what the subject’s doing or what they are.

Preface: An explanation of the purpose, scope and content of a book, and written by the author.

Prelims: Also front matter. Includes part title and title pages, foreword, preface and acknowledgements.

Pronoun: A word that replaces a noun (e.g. I, you, he, she, we, me, it, this, that, them those, myself, who, whom). Pronouns can act and be acted upon like any noun.

Proofreading: The final pre-publication quality-control stage of editing where any final literal errors and layout problems are flagged up. Comes after developmental editing, stylistic line editing and copyediting.

Proper noun: A named person, place or organization. Always takes an initial capital letter.

Protagonist: The leading character in a novel, often facing central conflicts and driving action.

Psychic distance: Also narrative distance. How close the reader feels to a character’s thoughts, emotions and experiences within a story.

Purple prose: Overblown, poorly structured writing with strings of extraneous and often multisyllabic adjectives and adverbs.

Q-R

Quotation mark: Also speech mark. Punctuation that indicates the spoken word. Singles or doubles are acceptable.

Recto: The right-hand page of a book.

References: List of all the works cited in your book.

Roman typeface: Not italic.

Running head: Text that runs across the top of a page (e.g. title of the book, chapter title, author’s name).

S

Scene: a distinct segment or building block where specific actions and events unfold in a setting.

Scene technique: The use of dialogue, action, setting, and tension to craft compelling moments in the story.

Semi-colon: A punctuation mark that indicates a stronger pause than a comma between two main clauses.

Sensitivity reader: Also diversity reader. Test-reader who checks for misrepresentation in books.

Speech mark: Also quotation mark. Punctuation that indicates the spoken word. Singles or doubles are acceptable.

Speech tag: Also dialogue tag. Words that indicate which character is speaking (e.g. John said).

Story arc: Also narrative arc. The structure and shape of a story.

Structural editing: Also developmental editing. The improvement of a manuscript's structure, content, and overall narrative, focusing on big-picture elements. Attends to plot, characterisation, narration and pacing.

Style sheet: In which an author or editor records stylistic and language preferences, and tracks who’s who, what’s where, and when X, Y and Z happens.

Stylistic editing: Also line editing. The refining of a manuscript's language, focusing on consistency, clarity, flow and style at sentence level.

Subject: The thing in a sentence that’s doing or being something.

Subplot: A secondary storyline that supports and enhances the main plot of a narrative.

Suspense: The tension, uncertainty and anticipation created by withholding information, raising stakes or placing characters in imminent danger. Readers are kept guessing or forced to ask questions.

Syndeton: Literary device through which a sentence’s structure follows the following pattern: A, B and C (or A, B, and C).

T

Talking-heads syndrome: Dialogue that isn’t grounded in the environment or the characters’ responses to that environment.

Tense: The form a verb takes to indicate when an action happened in relation to the telling of it.

Tension: The emotional strain or suspense created by unresolved conflicts, stakes or uncertainties that keep readers engaged.

Tertiary character: A functional character who gives the story realism and depth, but doesn’t significantly impact on or influence the plot or the development of the other characters.

Theme: The novel’s central idea or message about life, society, or human nature.

Title page: Includes full title (and subtitle if there is one), author’s name, publisher’s name, logo, volume number, and edition.

Transgressor: A character who commits morally, socially, or legally questionable acts.

Tritagonist: Third most important character, who often provide regular emotional or physical support, but don’t determine how the story develops.

U-W

Unreliable dialogue: Dialogue that doesn’t match a character’s true voice, mood or intent.

Unreliable narrator: A character whose telling of the story cannot be taken at face value. They may be naïve, confused, or deliberately manipulative.

Verb, intransitive: A verb that doesn’t have a direct object (e.g. ‘I giggled’).

Verb, transitive: A verb that has a direct object (e.g. ‘wrote’ in ‘I wrote a book’).

Verb: A word that describes doing. Can refer to a physical action (e.g. to dig), a mental action (e.g. to wonder) or a state of being (e.g. to be).

Verso: The left-hand page of a book.

Viewpoint: Also point of view or POV. Describes whose head we’re in when we read a book.

Viewpoint character: Also perspective character. The character through whose eyes the story is primarily told, and the narrative lens through which readers experience events, thoughts, and emotions within the story.

Vocative: The form of address for a character directly referred to in dialogue.

Word dump: Also information dump. Information that’s necessary to the story but isn’t artfully delivered, or weaved creatively into the narrative and dialogue.

Source

[cassolotl]

Results of the nonbinary name survey

Hi folks, just thought I'd throw together a quick report about nonbinary names based on the recent survey.

The survey ran from 4th until 13th May, and there were 5,179 usable responses. For this one I won't share the full spreadsheet of all responses, as it contains potentially identifying information. Having said that, you can find a spreadsheet of the information I can share with you here. Every name entered only once has been redacted.

Most popular names

Let's kick it off with the main reason I did this survey, finding the nonbinaryest name:

Alex was #1, with 1.6%, which is 1 in 62 nonbinary people.

Here's the full top 10:

Alex - 1.6% (83)

Jay - 1.2% (64)

Sam - 0.9% (49)

Charlie - 0.7% (36)

Max - 0.7% (36)

Ash - 0.6% (33)

Robin - 0.6% (33)

Rowan - 0.6% (31)

Kit - 0.6% (30)

Eli - 0.6% (29)

Name length

I'm familiar with the stereotype that nonbinary people choose names by taking 3 letters from a bag of Scrabble tiles, or that nonbinary people take letters off their given names until it's one ungenderable syllable, and I would like to take this opportunity to add that these are both excellent ways to create new names. :D

This graph takes a rolling median name length from the whole list, and it shows that generally speaking the most popular names tended to be shorter:

The average name length was 5.1 characters long.

This seems to support the stereotypes, but I feel it's worth mentioning that we can't know for sure whether it actually does, because for all we know, binary people's names might show these kinds of patterns too.

Number of names per person

Participants could enter as many names as they wanted, in a list separated by commas. That made it pretty easy to count them, and it turned out like this:

That's fairly straightforward, most people have only one name.

Problems with survey design

Overall I definitely feel that the survey had some flaws. I knew in advance that there would be some people who have more than one name that they like more or less equally, but for some reason the first question I came up with assumed that you have one name that you like most and then required a single answer from a list stating how that name happened to you - leading the respondent to a different section based on that answer.

What if you've got two or more names that you like equally, and one was given to you by your parents when you were born that you use for work, one is a nickname based on that name that evolved between you and your family and friends as you were growing up, and one is a name you chose yourself and your closest friends call you that? That's pretty much an impossible question, isn't it?

And there were several other questions in the survey that took that approach, making the data from those questions basically useless.

I didn't think it would cause problems for so many people, but it did, and I have learned my lesson there.

However, there was a question asking you to list all your names, and that's what I used to make the ranked list. I don't see how people with more than one name that they prefer completely equally (i.e. those people who would be thrown out of the survey by an impossible required first question) would prefer different names from people with one name only, so I think the ranked list is probably approximately okay, and same for the number of names per person graph and the average name length.

Implications

I haven't decided yet, but I definitely think there's scope for doing this survey annually - but separately from the identity/titles/pronouns survey, for anonymity reasons. It could be fun to track popular nonbinary names over time, similar to the popular name lists for babies that are usually split by boys'/girls' names. It might be a bit meaningless unless I collect country data as well though, which is why the list currently reads very....... American..........

Now that I've learned a lot from a big and not-so-well-designed survey run on my personal account, I'd feel more comfortable designing something a bit more fit for purpose, and running it from the @gendercensus accounts to hopefully get more participants.

~ Fin ~

[tanadrin]

AI and copyright comment:

Look, I absolutely get the argument that there might not be a strict delineation we can make between the human brain experiencing a work of art and using that as inspiration, and a machine intelligence doing linear algebra on a piece of art and experiencing it as inspiration. I am very much of the opinion that what the human brain is doing is linear algebra (albeit with a number of algorithms we have not cracked yet) and that should we be able to replicate that on a machine, it would not be less possessed of creative thought than we are.

But my response to that is simple.

If the nature of input and output of a genuine artificial intelligence is indistinguishable from what the human brain is doing, then it should in fact be indistinguishable from what the human brain is doing under the law. That is, the artificial intelligence should be the person who has legal rights to the for profit use of their work.

If it is intelligent enough and possessed of enough agency to make its own decisions as a sovereign entity, it *and not the people who taught it* has the right to treat what it creates as a function of inspiration comma and not as a transformative action not permitted by intellectual property holders (and not meeting the for profit fair use exemption criterias).

Given that we are definitely not even a little bit close to that, I think we can treat this flavor of linear algebra as more similar to the existing body of linear algebra artistic transformations out there which are very much not protected for-profit fair use transformation under law. And that there is no circumstance under which the creators of a genuinely intelligent creative process should be given rights to the fruit of its intellectual labor rather than the genuinely intelligent creative entity itself.

Right now you are proposing that it should not even be legal for a human being to do by computer something I am pretty sure one would be permitted to do by hand; see my artwork example, in another post.

We don't even have a philosophically coherent definition of a sovereign entity; trying to enshrine such a distinction in law--nevermind one that didn't instantly create full human rights for everything with a nervous system--would be an incredible undertaking.

From where I'm sitting you are making wild demands of law that even the most arcane and ambitious fields of philosophy and cognitive science cannot meet, and somehow envisioning a consistent and fairly administered system will result. I think that's insane. I think the underlying philosophical framework you're operating on is incoherent and bad, but as a matter of actual policy what you want to do is impossible. As I said in another post, I'd be curious to see a proposed statute that would ban scraping the public internet to train MMLs and not create substantial adverse effects in terms of restrictive copyright laws in other domains, because I've never seen such a proposal. If you want to make even a token argument that what you're proposing is possible, point me at an example.

[ghostbeam]

empty til she fills | fuyumi todoroki x reader

You’re beautiful, really. It’s truly no wonder why they chose you for the job, every line and curve and fold. They’ll never be able to capture you the way you really are. Nothing compares to the real thing.

Her eyes gaze over your neck, down your chest, over your stomach, your thighs. That familiar hunger sits in Fuyumi’s stomach, aches in her jaw. She wants to bite you everywhere that she can, really make you bleed. But Fuyumi doesn’t feed from anything but animals, and it’s not like you’d satisfy her hunger anyway. She’s given up on that feeling a long time ago.

Notes: Hiiiii everyone!!! This is the first installment of vampire empire and it’s all about fuyumi!!! It’s much shorter than I thought, but when it was done it was done u know? I love her I think she should be allowed to go apeshit and drink blood and not hold back if she wants to!!!!!!! Let her fuck!!!!!! Anyways yeah thanks for reading!! (title from vampire empire by big thief) u can listen to the playlist for the whole anthology here! Also I made a Pinterest board!

Warnings: 18+, minors dni, f! reader, explicit content, dark content, angst for like the briefest moment, violence, vampires, detailed descriptions of blood and gore (on both reader and another person), murder (u kill someone! It’s offscreen tho), blood kink, biting, drinking blood (fuyumi drinks from reader, u both drink from the dead man), biting and drinking from already open wounds, fingering, oral (reader eats fuyumi out!!! Yay!!!) (bloody), bloody sex, reader is sort of a masochist, soooo many commas, a line completely stolen from fascination (1979) cause I had to ajsjsjsjs, perspective changes between u and fuyumi like a lot idk I’m sorry she spoke to me<3

words: 4.3k

Fuyumi has always been a little unsure of what to do with her hands. When she sits, when she walks, when she kisses, while she waits. Where does she put them? Where do they go?

It’s the same, squeezing porcelain clay through her fingers, molding and shaping and running a wire through the middle and cursing when it doesn’t topple over. She’s bad with her hands, but she loves it, lumpy mugs and all. 

And her mugs are lumpy, most of them break in the kiln, but whatever she’s proud of, she sends to her brothers. 

She’s never been much of an artist, and all the years she’s lived (many, many years), none of it ever interested her. But when you’ve done everything, there’s no harm in trying. And so even though her pots and bowls end up twisted and misshapen on the wheel, she tries and tries until they’re at least a little bit useful.

The truth is that there, in the studio, surrounded by people who do all the same things that she does, mess up and try again, break things when they don’t turn out, or smash fragile wet clay held together by careful hands, Fuyumi feels human. She makes mistakes. She screws up. It’s something she’s never been allowed to do before. 

Plus, you’re there. 

The anatomy class pays you to model. Sometimes, she sees you run around in your long robe, buying snacks from the vending machines or remembering something you left in your car. She’s completely enamored with you, with your humanity, how free you seem. She’s envious, in a way, but really she just likes you, wants you—wants to bite you. Which is dangerous for Fuyumi because she stopped feeding from humans ages ago. 

You collide on a Saturday night, left alone in the studio, separated by one wall. Fuyumi works late because she doesn’t sleep, and one of the owners of the building had given her a set of keys to lock up when she leaves. When she opens the door to the pottery studio, you’re out in the hallway, slapping your palm against the door next door and murmuring soft no’s as you peak through the glass. You have half a mind to just bust the thing down, except now you’re not alone in the hallway. 

Fuyumi. The pretty vampire with streaks of scarlet through her ivory hair, cute glasses perched on her nose, and hands you think about way more often than you should steps out of the pottery studio. You’ve caught her staring at you before, and you can’t tell if it’s because she knows of the similar condition you have in common, or if she’s as interested in you as you are in her. 

You both pause, caught staring at one another. The only thing on Fuyumi’s mind is that you’re probably completely naked under your robe. 

“I—um, got locked out.” You say, finally, blowing air you have no need for out of your throat like a breath. It must be nerves. “My clothes are in there. My everything is in there.”

“Oh!” She shakes her head free of the thoughts of your bare body. Then a realization, “I have a key!”

You move out of her way and let her unlock the door, jiggling the key in the lock and pushing it open. You grin, press your hands into her shoulders and let out a squeal of delight. “Thank you!”

“Yeah, no problem.” She speaks, willing herself not to melt at the feeling of your fingers digging into her flesh for a moment. She turns to leave, satisfied with the interaction, enough to hold her over for a lifetime, maybe. Your hands on her shoulders, your robe against your skin, your neck. 

“Fuyumi!” You call, and she feels like maybe she’s dreaming, or maybe she’s hearing things. But when she turns around, you’re looking at her expectantly. “Would you wait for me? I don’t really wanna walk to my car alone at night.”

It’s a good excuse, you think. Fuyumi’s got that bleeding heart (or lack of one). She won’t leave you alone. 

“‘Course! Yeah, I’ve gotta lock the front, anyways, so—yeah, I’ll wait.” She nods, stepping back into the room and letting the door fall shut behind her. She watches you untie you’re robe at the middle, and she spins on her heel, facing the door again. She hears you chuckle, and it makes her feel a little silly. You’re naked for, like, four hours every day. It’s not like you would care if she watched. 

But Fuyumi cares, because she doesn’t want to see you naked for the first time like that. She doesn’t want to see you naked and know she won’t be able to touch you. 

“Okay, you can turn around, now.” You speak now that you’re dressed. She turns and you walk toward her, locking elbows. She leads you outside, locks the door with your hand against her arm like she’s yours, and walks you to your car. 

“Guess I’ll see you next week.” She tells you, pulling away from you to walk to her bike. You call her name and it’s deja vu.

“Do you want to go get coffee?” You ask, stopping Fuyumi in her tracks yet again. She turns.

“It’s eleven o’clock at night.” Fuyumi says like an idiot. 

“I just—I wanna keep…hanging out.” You say, and well, so does Fuyumi. Of course, she does. “Your bike’ll fit in the trunk. I’ll drive you home after.”

So, she says yes, stuffs her bike into your trunk with the back seats folded down, and ducks into your car. 

You drive like a maniac, and you listen to your music way too loud, and Fuyumi hopes she doesn’t look as terrified as she feels despite knowing she can’t die in a car accident. But you can, she thinks, so yea, she’s terrified. And you drive like this all the time?

But you both make it in one piece, skirting into the parking lot of a diner with a yellowing neon sign out front. Everyone knows you inside, greeting you with happy smiles and asking you questions about your life, details Fuyumi hopes to know after tonight. 

You take her to a booth in the corner, sliding in next to her instead of across, thighs pressed up against each other as a waitress brings you both a mug of hot coffee. You order apple pie with ice cream, and Fuyumi envies the fact that you’re even able to eat it. Since becoming a vampire, she’s lost any appetite for anything that isn’t blood. 

“So, when were you turned?” You speak, licking vanilla ice cream off the back of your spoon, head resting on you fist as you stare at her. If Fuyumi had a working heart it would be beating out of her chest right now. “I don’t think you’re all that old. You actually seem pretty young. Tell me, maybe in the mid nineties, early two-thousands?”

Fuyumi opens then closes her mouth, unsure of what to say. How could you have possibly known (besides the fact that you got the decade way off)?

“I was turned in ’87 by an old boyfriend who couldn’t control himself.” You shrug, revealing the information like you hadn’t just told her that you, the little human she’s been so fascinated by lately, are a vampire. 

“You’re a vampire.” She says—a statement—not a question, because of course, you’re a vampire. 

“You didn’t know?” You ask, softer. She shakes her head, stares at the booth in front of her. She feels your fingers underneath her chin, and she’s not sure how she never noticed it before, but you’re hands are freezing. She lets you guide her to look at you. “Hey, are you okay? Did I freak you out?”

And it’s not that you’re a vampire. It’s not even that you’re a vampire that she was convinced was human. It’s that she wanted to bite you, wanted to feel that pop and gush, drink from you what’s not actually even being pumped through your body anymore, blood that’s lying dormant in your veins. And the thing is, she still wants to. 

“I think I’m just shocked.” She speaks, willing herself to calm down, accept the situation, adapt. “I haven’t met another one of us here in town. It’s new, but it’s…good. I’m actually a little excited about it.”

“You don’t sound excited.” You observe, letting your hand fall to her thigh. 

“I am—no really. I am.” She grins, leaning toward you. “How come you can eat real food?”

You think maybe she still hasn’t processed everything yet, the smile on her face a little unnerving. And there’s something in her eyes, raw, dangerous, hungry. It makes you shiver. “I never lost the appetite.”

“It tastes good to you?” 

“So good.” You nod, unknowingly moving a little closer. Two girls pressed up against each other in a booth in a dark corner. Two vampires. Two monsters. 

You’re there later than either of you expected to be, fingers intertwined, hands brushing away stray hairs, and words whispered against ears, tucking your face into her neck when you laugh at something inappropriate. 

When you leave, Fuyumi tugs on your hand, interlocks two fingers as you walk to your car. You drive just as bad, but she doesn’t think she minds it this time. To die by your side, and all that. 

When you drop her off at home, you scribble your number on her wrist with a green glitter gel pen and resist the urge to do something drastic like kiss her or invite yourself in. 

Fuyumi realizes she’s left her bike in your trunk, her only mode of transportation to the studio besides walking. She eyes the green glitter on her skin and opens her phone. 

left my bike in ur car:/ pick me up to go to the studio tmrrw? Read 2:22am

be there at 10 sent 2:24am

u can sit in on my class sent 2:25am

…

She does sit in on your class the next morning. You hold her hand and show her where to sit, a view of both the artist’s sketches of you and the actual you draped over a couch. It’s probably inappropriate to sit there all horny in the middle of this art class, but you won’t stop looking at her. You know exactly what your doing, mimicking the rise and fall of your chest like you’re breathing when she knows you’re not. 

You’re beautiful, really. It’s truly no wonder why they chose you for the job, every line and curve and fold. They’ll never be able to capture you the way you really are. Nothing compares to the real thing.

Her eyes gaze over your neck, down your chest, over your stomach, your thighs. That familiar hunger sits in Fuyumi’s stomach, aches in her jaw. She wants to bite you everywhere that she can, really make you bleed. But Fuyumi doesn’t feed from anything but animals, and it’s not like you’d satisfy her hunger anyway. She’s given up on that feeling a long time ago.

When the class ends, Fuyumi leaves to make more misshapen mugs, taking a few out of the kiln she thinks she’ll give to you. As the sun sets, both of you get ready to leave, and you’re at the door to the pottery studio by the time Fuyumi is done cleaning her space. You’re a little disappointed you missed watching her on the wheel, her pretty hands shaping the clay like you’ve seen her do many times before. You knock on the door frame, and she looks up at you, grins. Her hair is tied up, pieces of hair falling over her face, her cardigan falling down and exposing her right shoulder. You can’t get over how pretty she is, a little messy.

“Hi.” You speak.

“Hey. You ready?” She asks, throwing her bag over her shoulder and walking towards you. You always want to watch her walk towards you—never away.

“I’m ready.” You nod, intertwining your fingers with hers when she makes her way towards you. You drive Fuyumi to your house, your arm over the console and your hand on her thigh. 

Your place is small, really just big enough for you. The walls are a mauve color that Fuyumi decides she likes, tiny star shaped twinkle lights hang over each window instead of curtains, a bundle of violets stuffed inside a beer bottle sit on your coffee table, books and dvd’s and records all stacked against one another with what seems to be no sense of organization in your bookcases. It’s really not much for a vampire.

She sets her tote bag carefully on the counter, red and white checkered, pulling two of her signature misshapen mugs from inside. One painted blue with tiny yellow stars and the other lined with terribly drawn strawberries. 

“These are for you.” She tells you, turning to face you as you’re bent over your stereo, looking for a station you like. Bits from the past stick with you like a refrigerator magnet. Fuyumi wants to remember the look on your face when you turn around and see her gift for the rest of her life. 

“I love them!” You gush, rushing over to pick both of them up. “They’re perfect. One for me, and one for you. We’ll drink blood from them with our pinkies up and cheers to LeFanu.”

Fuyumi laughs, says nothing about the blood. “I’m glad you like them.”

You turn around, opening one of your cabinets open with a finger, setting the mugs down on the counter and moving two snoopy holiday mugs on one shelf towards the back. You set the gift down in their place and wave a hand over it like your presenting them on a gameshow, “I’ve replaced the snoopy mugs with them. That’s a big deal, you know.”

“I’m honored.” Fuyumi grins, moving around the counter to stand near you. 

“You should be.” You lean a little closer to her, let her hand brush against your hip, hook her fingers in your belt loops. You nudge your nose against hers, and she takes that as a sign to kiss you. 

Chapped lips meet yours, hungrier than you expected, much less soft than the girl before you. There’s a burning in your gut, her hands, those hands you’ve payed so much attention to, pressing into your hips, pulling you flush against her front. You let out a moan when she swipes her tongue against your lip, your bodies pressing closer and closer like you’ll become one person. She moves her leg in between your thighs, pressed up against you, and your mouth falls open in a gasp, one she wastes no time taking advantage of, all tongue and teeth, all her, her, her. 

The two of you end up on your couch, unable to make it to the bed. If you had to wait any longer, you think maybe you’d both explode. She eats you out, there in your living room, makes you come three times in a row, familiar hungry eyes never stray from your own. 

…

She doesn’t talk about the vampire thing. Ever. She goes quiet when you bring it up, busying herself with something else like washing the dishes in your sink or trying to find something to watch on tv. You mostly let it go because you know Fuyumi. You know how fascinated she is by humans, how she envies them, how that envy and fascination is the very reason you’re together now. 

And maybe it should hurt you, the fact that believing you were human was the one reason she’d been so interested. But you know her, bleeding unbeating heart and all, she loves you. She loves you and your monster, she just doesn’t love her’s.

It’s difficult to drag the body through your house alone, vampire strength being something you hadn’t been blessed with once you’d turned all those years ago. Fuyumi sent you a message that she’d be at the studio late and would probably just end up going home instead of coming over. You figure you have time to drain this guy of all he’s worth, pack him up into little tupperwares in your fridge and be done with him by morning. 

You’ve done this a million times before, dragged a body out to your back yard, fed from it until your satisfied before saving the rest. It’s enough to last you a couple of weeks. It’s a good system. 

You don’t hear the sliding door open, you just hear Fuyumi say your name. You look up at her, blood on your mouth, your neck, your hands, fangs poking out underneath your top lip. You’re sure you look terrifying, but it’s the look on her face that scares you. 

It’s disgust, and betrayal, and anger. It’s tears welling up in her pretty, gray eyes and her mouth falling open and closed at the sight of you. 

But Fuyumi, well, Fuyumi wants to join you. It’s taking everything in her not to fall to her knees and sink her teeth into the neck of this possibly innocent man. She wants to drink and kiss you, and drink, and touch you, and then drink some more, this time from your neck. But Fuyumi doesn’t kill for blood, and she thought that neither did you. 

“I can’t believe you.” Her words are quiet. If you both hadn’t been outside on a completely silent night, you don’t think you would have even heard her. 

“Fuyumi…” You begin, standing up from where you’d previously crouched down, blood on your hands falling against the concrete in sticky splatters. She takes a step back like she’s scared of you. 

“You killed him.”

“Fuyumi,” another step.

“Stay there.” You stop. It’s not supposed to be like this. She’s supposed to love you. She does love you. You have to tell yourself that. 

“I’m a vampire. What did you expect? This is who we are.” You try to explain. 

“It’s not—it’s not who I am.” She shakes her head, flashes of red appear behind her eyes, the teeth of her brothers, her hands covered in blood the same way yours are now. Laughing, hollering, arms tangled together, the last time they’d all been with each other, the last time they were happy. 

“It is. It is who you are. Fuyumi, you’re starving.” Your words seem to do something to her, her mouth falls closed. A decision is made, and her feet take her closer and closer to you and the body on the floor. 

She wraps her hand around the back of your neck, thumbs through the blood you’re covered in and kisses you. She licks the blood on your lips, moaning from either your tongue or taste, you’re unsure. You pull her close, blood smearing against her white t-shirt. She pulls away from your lips, kissing your jaw and your neck, poking her tongue out to lick up the mess. You place your hands on her cheeks, pulling her back to look at you. 

“Come here.” You whisper, pulling her down as you crouch to the ground. “I want you to drink—I want to share.”

She lets you pull her down, taking your hand in hers, slippery, slick. You move away from his neck, leaving it open for her, urging her. This is what she wants. There’s something about drinking from your bite in the man’s neck. You’ve been here, you’re bite is her bite is her blood. 

And, god, is it delicious. She drinks, lets it fall down her throat in large gulps, dripping down her chin and neck. A sound escapes her throat, guttural, everything she’s deprived herself of having, here in between her teeth. She watches you while she drinks, eyes looking up through white lashes, reaching a hand out to hold you by the wrist, grounded. She pulls away, heaving, even though she has no need for breath. Her lips, saturated in red, begging to be tasted.

“You’re beautiful like that,” You speak, squeezing her hand, “with his blood on your mouth.”

She kisses you, all tongue, her fangs catching on your bottom lip. She pulls away and pushes you down, lets you bite the other side of the dead man’s neck, pets your hair as you drink. It goes on like this for a while, kissing, drinking, touching, whispers of please and oh, god and both of your names over and over until you’re a jumbled mess of words and sounds and blood and guts. 

You stumble, half naked through the door, Fuyumi’s hands and lips all over you. You don’t make it to the bed, a habit the two of you have seemed to form, falling down on the hardwood, limbs all tangled. With her shirt already discarded outside, you thumb the hooks of her bra open, throwing it to the side. Blood has dripped from her throat down between the valley of her breasts, and you lick it up, feeling her back arch as she hovers above you. 

She kisses your neck, almost frantic. Her fangs brush against your skin like she might sink into you, but she doesn’t, just kisses you so sweetly. 

“Can I bite you, please?” She moans. “I need to—I’ve wanted to—”

“Yes.” You interrupt her, throwing your head back against the floor and baring your neck to her. She wastes no time sinking her fangs into your flesh, blood pouring into her mouth. Coppery and sweet, a hint of licorice and cherry—Fuyumi thinks she can’t get enough. You gasp, hands grabbing at her waist, fingers digging into her sides enough to leave a mark. You’ve never felt pain like this, all agony and bliss. 

She smiles at you, bloody, when she pulls away. A part of you is her’s now, nestled between her ribs, living in her stomach. You taste yourself on her lips, hands pulling at her jeans, your leg moving between her thighs to grind against her cunt. 

You flip her onto her back, sucking on her neck, venturing down her body. You pull her jeans from her legs, along with her underwear, spreading her legs. She’s so wet, thighs sticky with arousal as you run a finger through her folds. A whine escapes her lips as you thumb over her clit. With your eyes on her, you press your tongue to her entrance, watching how her face contorts in pleasure. It reminds you of the way she’d stared at you while drinking from the man, hand clutched to your wrist, not once daring to look away, With one hand, you reach up to do the same, bloody fingers circling her wrist as you devour her. 

She writhes, arching her back and grinding against your face, a mess of slick and blood pooling in your mouth as you bring her closer and closer to orgasm. 

“Please!” She cries, “please! Oh my god!”

Her moans only spur you on as you speed up the movement of your tongue, squeezing her wrist as you let her move her hips against your mouth. She comes with a strangled cry of your name, legs shaking around your head, falling limp against the floor as you lick at her swollen clit. You pull away, rising from your place in between her thighs to hover over her.

“Like that?” You ask her, placing soft kisses against her jaw. She manages a soft mhm before moving her face to kiss you.You run your hands up and down the sides of her body, “so pretty…”

“Let me touch you.” She begs, pushing herself up onto her elbows. You nod, letting her maneuver you so you’re on your back again. She kisses you again, swirling her tongue against yours, tasting herself. In a way, part of her is yours now, too.

She slips her hand into your underwear, gasping at the feeling of how wet you are. You take the opportunity to lick into her mouth, moaning against her lips as she slips two fingers inside of you. She pulls away from your mouth and eyes the open wound on your neck. You lock eyes with her, nodding in approval, allowing her to bite you again. 

She bites and curls her fingers inside you at the same time. A choked scream escapes your throat at both sensations. You move your hips as she pumps her fingers in and out of you, her throat bobbing with each drink she takes from you. It’s overwhelming, and so satisfying, being the consumed for a change. 

Her thumb brushes over your clit and you jolt, gripping her waist as she brings you closer to the edge. 

“Kiss me!” You cry, “Fuyumi!” 

She pulls away from your neck, watching how the blood flows from the wound, continuing her movements against your pussy. You pull her down to kiss you as you come from her fingers. You’re both moaning against each other, passing your blood between your tongues. She pulls her hand from between your legs, stares at the pink-tinted slick and how it webs between her fingers before wrapping her lips around her fingers and sucking them clean off. 

She smiles down at you, hair a mess, glasses-less as they’d fallen off much earlier. You press your palms against her cheeks, admiring her. This Fuyumi is hungry, and bloody, and the furthest thing from human. You love her like this. You’ll be her’s forever, if she’ll have you. 

You pull her into the shower with you, washing the blood from her hair and her back, taking turns and watching the blood swirl down the drain. She cleans the wound on your neck, and places a bandage over it, though you know it’ll be healed by morning. You place her glasses back onto her face. The two of you fall into bed, finally, arms and legs tangled together, huddled closely. She rubs over the bandage on your neck. 

“Next time, I wanna bite you, okay?” You ask, nudging your nose against her. She lets out a laugh you’re excited to hear for the rest of your immortal life and nods. 

“I can’t wait.”

[kevin-ar-tuathal]

"Béarlachas"

I've been meaning to write this post for some time now. As a person from the Galltacht (English-speaking Ireland) living and working in the Gaeltacht (Irish-language Ireland), and operating most of my life through the medium of Irish, I can honestly say that English-language Ireland, Second Language speakers of Irish and Learners of Irish tend to have a really skewered understanding of a) what Béarlachas is, b) the different forms it takes and c) what effects/damage/meaning each of its forms holds.

Contents of this post:

•Perceptions of Béarlachas

•Loanwords Vs Béarlachas

•Different Languages, Different Sounds

•Language Purity Vs Language Planning

•Conclusion

Perceptions of "Béarlachas"

Outside of the Gaeltacht, most people's understanding of "Béarlachas", or "Anglicisation" in Irish (which I am deliberately putting between inverted commas!), is the use of so-called "English-language words" in Irish. The usual list people like to list off include:

• Fón

• Teilifís

• Giotár

• Raideo

• Zú* (see Language Purity Vs Language Planning below)

• Carr*

*The ironic thing about the last item being that 'carr' (the word for a personal vehicle) is older than the English-language word 'Car' 🚗.

Second language learners with a bit more exposure to the language deride native speakers, particularly speakers from Conamara, for "using English words and adding '~áil' at the end to make a verb". Several examples being:

• Gúgláil (Google-áil)

• Sioftáil (Shift-áil)

• Sortáil (Sort-áil)

• Péinteáil (Paint-áil)

• Vótáil (Vote-áil)

• Focáilte (F*ck-áilte)

• Supósáilte (Suppose-áilte)

(⚠️NB: it is HIGHLY SIGNIFICANT that I spelt these words in these specific ways in Irish - to be explained below!⚠️)

Other so-called "English language words" in Irish include:

• Veain • Seit • Onóir • Ospidéal • Aláram • Cóta • Plaisteach • Leictreach, 7rl, 7rl...

And what about: "Halla" or "Hata" ??

Loanwords Vs Béarlachas

Before I explain where I'm going with this, I am going to introduce some words that have their origins in other languages, like:

"Seomra" from the Middle French "chambre".

"Séipéal" from the Middle French "chappelle".

"Eaglais" from the Greek "ekklesiastes".

"Pluid" from the Scots "plaide".

"Píopa" from Vulgar Latin "pipa".

"Corcra" from Latin "Purpura" (from before Irish had the sound /p/!)

"Cnaipe" from the Old Norse "knappr".

"Bád" from Anglo-Saxon "bāt".

ALL of these words, like the ones above, came into Irish via the most natural means a language acquires new words: language contact.

The reason WHY the word gets adopted is usually -and this is very important - the word is for something that the culture of the language Borrowed From already has, which is introduced to the language Borrowed Into.

For clarification, what I am trying to say is that languages NATURALLY oppose cultural appropriation by crediting the culture they got a word from by using their word for it...

I.E. "Constructing" a new "pure" word for an item that has come from another culture, is, in effect, a form of cultural appropriation - which is why institutions such as Alliance Française and Íslensk málstöð are at best puritanical, and at worst xenophobic*.

*There is nuance here - there is a difference between institutional efforts to keep a language "pure" (re: those such right-wing English/British and American opinionists who claim that the English language itself is endangered 🙄), and language planning (which also falls under the remit of Íslensk málstöð).

Furthermore, there is also such thing as "dynamic borrowing". This is where technically a language has adopted a word from another language, but has changed its meaning/adapted it to its own need. Let us take two Irish language words for example: "Iarnród" and "Smúdáil"

Iarnród is made up by two words taken from the English language: Iarann, from English language "iron" and Ród, from English-language "road".

Together, these two words mean the English-language term "Railway" - but English has never had the term "Iron Road" to refer to this object.

Similarly, Smúdáil comes from the English-language word "smooth". Only adapted to Irish, and adding the Irish-language verb suffix creates a word which means "to iron (clothing)". 😱

Different Languages, Different Sounds

Every single language on this planet has its own sound system, or "phonology". It is VERY rare for a new sound to be introduced into a different language, and some languages are MUCH more sensitive to what speakers of another language would consider a "subtle" difference, or not a difference at all.

Now...

IRISH HAS DOUBLE THE AMOUNT OF SOUNDS AS THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE!!!!!!!

(^roughly ~ish) I am making this simplistic statement to DRIVE home the fact that what English-language speakers and Learners of Irish hear as "the same as the English", Irish speakers hear a SIGNIFICANT phonetic difference.

All consonants in Irish [B, bh, c, ch, d, dh, f, fh, g, gh, h, l, ll, m, mh, n, nn, p, ph, r, rr, s, sh, t, th] - and YES, séimhiú-ed consonants and double consonants count as separate consonants - EACH have at least TWO distinct sounds. Ever heard of that old rhyme "Caol le caol, leathan le leathan"? Well, the reason why it exists ISN'T to be a spelling tip - it's to show how to pronounce each consonant in a word - which of the two distinct sounds to say.

What I mean to say by this is that, when we adopt a word into Irish, we aren't just "grabbing the word from English and hopping a few fadas on it"; we are SPECIFICALLY adapting the word to the Irish language phonetic system.

I.E. when an Irish language speaker is saying the word "frid" THEY ARE NOT USING THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE WORD "fridge" !!!

The sounds used in the English-language word belong to the English language, and the sounds used in the Irish-language word belong to the Irish language.

As a linguist I get very passionate about this distinction - the AMOUNT of times I have come across a self-important Irish language "learner" from the East of the country come to a Gaeltacht and tell native speakers that they are not using the "official" or "correct" version of a word in Irish just GRATES me to no end. PARTICULARILY as these so-called "learners" cannot hear, or typically have made NO effort to understand phonetic differences between the two languages. (Though honestly, on that point, I cannot wholely blame them - it is a fault on Irish language education as a whole that the differences in sound are hardly, if ever, mentioned, let alone taught!)

Language Purity Vs Language Planning

Moving on, as I mentioned earlier, it is very rare for a sound to be adapted into a new language. As many Irish language speakers and learners know, there is no /z/ sound in (most of the dialects of) Irish.

And yet, somehow, the official, modern translation given for the Irish language for "Zoo" is ...

Zú

Whenever I think on this given translation, I am always reminded of a good friend of mine, a lady from Carna, who used to always talk about "Súm" meetings she used to go on to talk with friends and family during COVID.

This woman only speaks English as a second language, having only ever learnt it at school and only ever used it in professional environments. She does not have the sound /z/, and as such, pronounces words that HAVE a "z" in them as /s/ sounds, when speaking in Irish OR in English.

As such, I often wonder how An Coiste Téarmaíochta can be so diligent in creating and promoting "Gaelic" words for new things, such as "cuisneoir" instead of "frid"; "guthán" instead of "fón" (which is actually pronounced "pón" in Conamara, as that suits the sound system of that dialect better); or "treochtú" instead of "treindeáil" ... And then turn around and introduce sound and sound combinations such as /z/ in "Zú" and /tv/ and /sv/ in "Tvuít" and "Svaedhpáil" 🤢

It's such this weird combo of being at the same time puritanical with regard to certain words, dismissive in regards to vernacular communities, and ignorant with regards to basic linguistic features of the language.

(Especially when, i mbéal an phobail, there are already such perfectly acceptable terms for these kinda words, like Gairdín na nAinmhithe for "Zú; Tuitéar and Tuít for "twitter" and "tweet"; and Faidhpeáil for "Svaedhpáil".)

Conclusion

This really prescriptivist approach by Irish language institutions needs to end. Not only is it not addressing or engaging with the Irish language as it is spoken by vernacular communities, it is creating this really twisted dynamic between second-language Irish speakers who apparently "know better" than first-language and native speakers of Irish.

This is what "Béarlachas" is. Not the natural adaption of words from a language with which Irish in the present day has most contact with. Not the dynamic inventions of native speakers, and even Second-language-as-vernacular speakers, utilising all the linguistic features available to them, whether that be their own dialects of Irish, English, or whatever OTHER languages/dialects are available to them.

"Béarlachas" is the brute enforcement of English language mentalities and an obsession with "purity" onto Irish, a language that has FOREVER adopted and integrated words, features and people into itself.

Gaeilge, like Éire of old, like the Ireland I want to be part of today, is open, inclusive, non-judgemental - knowing where it is coming from, and knowing that its community is its strength and key to how it has and will survive!

[airplanned]

By popular demand:

Don't get me wrong, I'm really enjoying Tears of the Kingdom.  Parts of it are fun in ways that I never felt during Breath of the Wild.  And I really like the story itself, just not the execution of that story.  And actually the storytelling is fine, but Breath of the Wild did some narrative things that I have been praising for years, so to have less than stellar storytelling in the sequel feels jarring.

I have three points.

Point 1: Amnesia and the Time Skip

In Breath of the Wild, Link begins the game with amnesia.  Therefore, even though this is the country that Link grew up in and has explored, it's still understandable that he has no idea what kind of environment is going to be around the corner.  You the player are able to discover the world along with Link. 

Meanwhile there is also a 100 year time skip, which means most of the characters you meet have never met you before.  (The characters you did meet in the past completely understand that you've been gone a while and have amnesia.) You start knowing no one and are able to build relationships from the beginning.

Tears of the Kingdom has something like a five to six year time skip.  But instead of being in a comma during that time, Link was apparently up and about, helping to rebuild Hyrule.  Link ought to know significant portions of what's going on, but the player does not.  So we have our first disconnect between game play and story.  It's hard to tell what's a new development since the upheaval and what has been an ongoing process that Link ought to know about.

This is muddled even further because Nintendo wants the game to be accessible to people who haven't played Breath of the Wild.  They made the decision that instead of having all the NPCs greet you like an old friend (which all of the Zora do, so this is a thing that is possible), most NPCs will greet you as if you've never met before.  So what am I the player supposed to know?  What is Link supposed to know?  It's unclear.

And as funny as it is to think that Link is like Tony Hawk and no one recognizes the Hero, or that Zelda drew so much attention that no one noticed Link standing behind her, it's strange to me because Link made friends with these people not as the Hero, but on a personal level.  Link introduced couples.  Link attended a wedding.  Link helped a guy move out of his mom's house and start his own business.  Link helped couples in rough times.  These people should greet you with a, "Hey, Link!" even if they don't know that you're over a hundred years old and defeated the Calamity.

The theme of botw was isolation, so it made sense that Link started the game alone.  The theme of Tears of the Kingdom is working together.  So there's a disconnect, because instead of starting the game with a boatload of allies, Link begins the game having apparently lost a lot of the friends he made in the first game.  Once again, he's isolated, which is not what the game play and the co-op fighting is implying.

Point 2: The Stated Objective

The story in botw was straight forward.  At the very beginning of the game, Rhoam’s ghost tells you how that story ends: Zelda is using her powers to hold back the Calamity.  Rhoam also gives you the game's objective: Defeat the Calamity.  The memories that you collect fill in the story of Zelda’s struggles to activate her powers and her changing, growing relationship with Link.  They deepen your understanding of where Link come from and what happened, but none of it is plot essential and none of it affects your objective.  There’s no shocking twist.  There’s nothing that would change the way you play the game (other than maybe not picking the silent princesses).

TotK on the other hand at the very beginning presents you with the objective: Find Zelda and solve the mystery of what happened to her.  Learning what happened is not presented as some deepening of understanding, but as the point of the game.  You don’t get the objective to defeat Ganondorf until much later on.

There are several story threads working at the same time, all of which lead you to where Zelda is. The hyroglyphs tell you what happened and where she is.  One of the sage quests tells you what happened and strongly hints where she is.  The Deku Tree strongly suggests what happened and where she is.  You know where she is.  You know what happened. 

And you cannot tell any of your allies.

There are other characters who are “helping” to solve this mystery.  With the theme of working with other people, it would make sense that I would share my breakthrough findings with them and we would work together towards the next step.  I’m thinking specifically if Purah (who explicitly tells you to search for Zelda by doing X even after you know where she is and that that while it would be nice to get another sage, it won’t solve the "find Zelda" problem) and Paya (who won’t let me into the floating ring even though she’s clearly working with bad information), and to a lesser extent the sages (Looking pointedly at Yunobo, who has apparently usurped my himbo throne???). 

Even if you've done all three of these quests, the game play treats you as if you don’t have this information.  It’s frustrating in a game that advertises itself as open play where you can do anything in any order.  It’s another disconnect when achieving what is expressly stated as the goal of the game is not acknowledged within the game.

Part 3: Lack of if-else statements

Honestly, this is the thing that pushed me over the edge into writing this. 

I went and helped the monster squad with a mission.  We killed some monsters.  It was a great time.  Side adventure achieved!

At the end, the team leader pulled me aside and said that he noticed that I didn't have my legendary sword.  In fact, my equipment looked less than legendary.  Har har.

...My good sir, not only do I have the Master Sword, but I am holding it in my hand, and I used it to defeat the monsters we just fought.  Maybe you don’t recognize it because I have fused a dragon part to it.

Why is there no if-else statement coded into this event to prevent this from happening?  There were if-else statements in the dialogue in botw when people talked about the sword.  They responded differently if I had it. Elsewhere in totk, there are elaborate conditionals about the weather.  Having the Master Sword is kind of a major plot point.  But the game is uninterested in if I have done the plot, even while directly addressing that plot point.

Again, it's fine.  Just disappointing after botw worked so well.

[bonzos-number-1-fan]

Putting the CAT# Back in the Bag: The Flaws With Person/Place/Object

Hi, I’m bonzos-number-1-fan You might know me from such theories as; "Theory of Fears; or, Zur Furchtlehre", "What R# Means: The ABCs of Fear" or, "Padlocks, How Do They Even Work?".

I’m back with another essay about this show. Today’s subject is a little different from previous ones. Rather than explaining what I think something in this show is, I’ll be explaining what I think it isn’t. What I’m going to be talking about is the very popular theory that CAT1/2/3 means the supernatural aspect is a Person/Place/Object.

Because I’m talking about other people’s ideas here I do want to start off by saying I understand why this theory is attractive and I don’t think anyone is stupid or anything for believing it. I just personally think there are angles from which it doesn’t work and that the sum of them makes it fairly certain to be untrue. I could be very wrong about that, and my other theories, or I could be very right. I don’t think either scenario matters much. This essay isn’t about being right but about talking about a big thing in the community. I just happen to not believe this one and people have signalled interest in hearing why.

So with all that out of the way I’m going to start by establishing the terminology being used. Then I’ll break down what this theory is positing and follow it up with the ways I think it does and doesn’t work. That’s basically it but with 16 episodes and supplemental material to cover it’s still not going to be terribly short. 

Huge thanks to @brettanomycroft for proof reading/editing this madness.

Spoilers for The Magnus Protocol up to and including episode 16.

What is a CAT#?

A CAT# is the first 4-5 characters of an OIAR's incident report header. While these are not often referenced in the main body of the show, each incident we hear is accompanied by one in the show's description and transcript. As an example this is the case number for the first incident of episode 1.

CAT1RBC5257-12052022-09012024 Reanimation (Partial) -/- Regret [Email]

The first line is the case number. CAT1 is this incident's CAT#. The RBC (R#/Rank) and 5257 (DPHW) have been topics I've discussed in essays I linked at the start. The second line is the header and is formatted “Section (Subsection) -/- Crosslink [Format]”. CAT#s is all we're concerning ourselves with today but I will be using this terminology going forward.

Now we know what they look like, what is it we know about them? Well, not much at all. From the show itself we know there are CAT1s, CAT2s, CAT3s and CAT23s. From the Klaus excel sheet that was found as part of the ARG (and can be found here) we also know there are CAT12s and CAT13s. With that information we can say with some certainty that CAT1, CAT2, and CAT3 are non-mutually exclusive groupings. It's very likely not a linear scale of some description—i.e CAT23 isn't between CAT2 and CAT3—because CAT13 doesn't fit such a scale. Which means that where there are two numbers in a CAT# that incident likely fits both groups rather than being a new group. This also strongly implies that an incident could be CAT123 although we have yet to see that demonstrated.

We also know that CAT is short for "Category". In the Klaus sheet these numbers are located in the "Kategorie" column. "Kategorie" being German for "category". This unfortunately doesn't tell us anything we didn't already know. CAT#s denote some form of grouping.

There is only one other fact we know about CAT#s and that's this:

ALICE Right, so, after each entry there's four numbers. That’s the DPHW. So, “dolls comma watching” is… 1157. Then you cross reference with the table here, that would be a 2-C, and then you type that into the box here, along with date of incident if there is one and today’s date.

Which is not a lot to go on at all but it does raise an important question. How is a CAT# assigned? There are two major assumptions you could make here. The first is the “objective method” and that it’s a factor of either the section, subject, DPHW or a combination thereof. This means that they are pre-assigned in the same way that DPHWs are. This method has an inherent trait in that it means every header manifests as the same sort of thing. While it’s not a problem to say that every Doll (Watching) is the same— that could just be the rules of the setting—it does make CAT# itself somewhat redundant. The terminology of the headers will often describe something inherent about the CAT#. We have a CAT3 case that’s Dice (Bone) -/- Fate but dice are objects so why would you need to restate that?

The second is the “subjective method” in which the assessor chooses the CAT# based on the incident itself. The subjective method has a larger assumption built into it in that they know what CAT#s are. They don’t know what DPHW is and have shown no indication of knowing what CAT# is either. So I’d say it’s less likely that CAT#s are subjective rather than objective. However, for the purposes of this essay I will assume that both are as likely to be true as each other and will refer to them both. Different cases show different flaws when one of these is true over the other, so both will get discussed.

What is Person/Place/Object?

Person/Place/Object is the theory that the three single digit CAT#s stand for Person, Place, and Object respectively. Combinations of these digits represent that an incident falls into each category. A CAT1 incident indicates that the supernatural element of an incident is a person in some respect, while a CAT23 would indicate both a place and an object.

As I have mentioned this isn’t a theory with a single theorist or origin to point to. As such this theory isn’t a monolith and there is variation in how these categories are presented from theory to theory. Sometimes “Person” is literal and other times it includes any sentient thing, “places” aren’t always strictly physical locations, and the narrative framing of what “objects” are may shift. As such I will be taking the broadest interpretation of these categories as their definitions. 

People will include animals and other sentient beings. Places will include metaphysical locations. Objects won’t need to be physical in nature. This is both the fairest I can be to all theories and also the strongest I can make this theory. The broader I can make these definitions, the more different ideas can be represented and the more wiggle room the CAT#s get.

What I’ll do next is run through all the incidents the show has mentioned and explain them as I see it. We’ll start with the ones that fit this theory well because they require little explanation. Then when that’s established we’ll talk about the places I think this theory falls down.

Which Incidents fit well?

CAT1:

CAT1RBC5257 Reanimation (Partial) -/- Regret: There is something like a zombie in this incident. That’s something like a person and so fits well. 

CAT1RB4824 Injury (Needles) -/- Intimidation: Needles is definitely a person, no question there.

CAT1RB2275 Mascot (Kids) -/- Murder: Bonzo walks, “talks”, and probably thinks. He’s a person.

CAT1B4728 Mascot (Kids) -/- Frenzy: Bonzo is still doing that stuff so is still a person.

CAT1RB4426 Transformation (Snake) -/-Horde: There was a person and they turned into snakes. Snakes count as people here too. Given the amount of snakes this is the most CAT1 CAT1. 

CAT1RB-6451 Hunt (Aristocratic) -/- Compulsion: Lady M is the most person on this list.

CAT1RB1565 Tattoo (Influencer) -/- Cardiac: Definitely involves a person doing something supernatural.

CAT2:

CAT2C8175 Infection (Full Body) -/- Arboreal: This incident takes place in a time and space bending garden. Makes perfect sense for CAT2.

CAT2RB2377 Disappearance (Undetermined) -/- Invitation: A spooky theatre is a location for sure. 

CAT3:

CAT3RBC1567 Transformation (Full) -/- Dysmorphic: In this instance the object in question is the tattoo. Which I think is really stretching the definition of “object” but I’m still going to give it to the theory.

CAT3C7494 Collection (Blood) -/- Musical: A magical violin is definitely an object.

CAT3RB3354 Dice (Bone) -/- Fate: Bone dice are inarguably objects. 

CAT3RB4622 Gambling (Application) -/- Murder: It’s another stretch to call an app an object but, again, happy to give it to the theory.

CAT23:

CAT23RAB2155 Transformation (Eyes) -/- Trespass: In this incident’s case the location is the Magnus Institute and the object is the box RedCanary stole. I think there are some problems with this one but there is enough to get through.

Which Incidents Don't?

CAT1:

CAT1RBC5257 Reanimation (Partial) -/- Regret: You’re not misremembering, I did say this fit well. Because on the surface it really does make sense, but I think if you push just a little it makes very little sense. Why? Because any category you want to place this in is easily justified in the incident itself. There is a zombie-esque thing but also a Frankenstein-esque figure for CAT1. CAT 2 would be the location of the graveyard itself. It was chosen by the presumed creator of this zombie-like creature and is depicted similar to the one in Marked, a CAT23 incident. If this theory is correct and the Marked graveyard is supernatural I can’t see a reason to discount that possibility here. CAT3 fits too because the presumed creation method is that they were Frankenstein-ed which does require some sort of surgical apparatus. But whichever choice you make you’ve not really clarified the incident at all. 

This issue is further seen in the methodology of assigning CAT#s.Objectively it has the same problem all objective assignments do. Reanimation implies there is going to be a reanimated person so restating that doesn’t add much. If we look at the subjective method then this is chosen largely at random. There isn’t enough of an indication in this incident to clearly state which CAT this is. So it’s neither helped in the assessment of the incident and doesn’t provide anything for response because all choices are justifiable. 

CAT1RB4426 Transformation (Snake) -/- Horde:  Not misremembering here either. There is a problem with this one in that it’s demonstrated to be an infection. This makes the source of the affliction basically unknowable. The source could qualify it for other CATs but the larger issue here is that what CAT1 means here and what it means elsewhere are not that comparable. Needles, Bonzo, and Lady M are all sentient and independent. The afflicted we see in this case are normal people until they get very rapidly sick, summon a portal to the snake dimension in their throats, and die. Which leaves CAT1 translating to “something in the rough shape of a person” which is a really wide range of interpretations. Which is something I feel has little practical utility in either assessing or responding to these incidents. 

CAT1RB1565 Tattoo (Influencer) -/- Cardiac: Still not misremembering. While you can say that Ink5oul or Madame E are the person in this instance there is a major conflict here with CAT3RBC1567 Transformation (Full) -/- Dysmorphic. If Daria’s transformation was CAT3 because tattoos are objects then there is no reasonable justification that this isn’t at least CAT13. It’s the same person, doing the same thing, to a very similar result but in a different CAT. The headers are entirely different, and so this/that may be misfiled, but it highlights a problem with Daria’s incident. If the incident with the Tattoo header isn’t an object then tattoos are probably not objects under this scheme. 

If this is objective then this is always a person, or on people, which makes a great deal of sense. However if that’s the case then the objective method for Daria’s case sort of falls apart because there wasn’t really a secondary object there. Additionally, because all incidents with that case’s header being objects is a huge stretch. So if this incident, or that incident, is misfiled it doesn’t really matter. In either case (or even if both of them are misfiled), it largely disproves that tattoos are objects, creating a larger issue with that theory as it affects more than just this case. Subjectively as far as we’re aware Sam filed all three of the Ink5oul incidents. So he chose an object in Daria’s case but then opted against it here despite there being no real reason to that we can see. You could say that now Ink5oul has been in it more, he thinks Ink5oul has some sort of supernatural power themselves which makes them a CAT1; that would still make this CAT13 as episode 11 was CAT23.

CAT2:

CAT2RC1157 Dolls (Watching): This is a big one in my opinion. It’s not only the first incident we’re told about, but it's both Sam’s and our first exposure to an explanation of the OIAR’s filing system. It’s also one I see ignored in most of the posts that posit the Person/Place/Object theory. That is understandable as we don’t hear the incident itself but we do hear enough of it to show that there is a flaw in the theory. 

What we hear about this incident is entirely focused on the doll itself and questions about its nature. It’s a split between Dolls (Watching) and Dolls (Human Skin) with the former being chosen as the latter is only implied. Dolls themselves are objects which would make this CAT3, and if the doll is sentient a CAT1. However, this is placed in CAT2 indicating that it's actually caused by the location in some respect. In order for that to make sense you have to make 3 major assumptions. Assumption 1: despite no indication in the conversation about this incident suggesting anything outside of the doll being strange there was actually a “haunted house”. Assumption 2: despite there being sections far more descriptive of locations—i.e Architecture—Dolls is more suited to this incident. Assumption 3: despite this being Sam’s/the audience’s first exposure to this system it leaves out the real source of the incident when, narratively, this is an explanation of it. Those are some fairly major assumptions to make to justify a theory.

This also has issues with either method of assigning CAT#s. If CAT# is objective then every Dolls (Watching) is actually a location. Unlike with something like Reanimation (Partial) that doesn't make much sense as dolls themselves are objects. In the subjective method, Alice assigned this as a location but their discussion of it centred solely on an object and she didn't explain to Sam why she did it.

CAT2RC3338 Agglomeration (Miscellany) -/- Congregation: This might be my favourite example of issues I have with this theory. To explain it we’ll look at this from both the objective and subjective methods while taking into account outside knowledge of the show from an audience perspective.

Everyone I’ve seen posit this theory attributes CAT2 to Hilltop here.They do this solely because of TMA. There is nothing in this episode that makes Hilltop out to be anything special in any way. But because Hilltop is special in TMA the audience is primed to view this location as special. It may very well be but there is no reason to think that. In fact, I’d argue there's reason to think otherwise based on this episode, but that is a little off topic for this essay. However from an objective perspective it can’t take Hilltop into account because not every header of this sort will take place in Hilltop. They could only manifest at special locations but that seems like a stretch. If it is true, why does this unique combination of words not include a word that describes it as a location? Subjectively it could be a misfile. Celia would be the only person who knows what Hilltop is in TMA— assuming some of the theories on her are correct—but that doesn’t make Hilltop important in and of itself. It also means she ignored large parts of this incident when filing it just to focus on that element. As this case is the one Alice uses to teach Celia the system with, then this also relies on Alice knowing or not correcting Celia. In either scenario this case is full of people of definite supernatural quality, lacks a location of supernatural quality, but has 100s of objects of dubious supernatural quality. Something doesn’t make sense here if this theory is correct. 

CAT2RBC3366 Architecture (Liminal) -/- Hunger: This one is interesting because it shows a flaw not in the theory per se but in the methodology as a whole if the theory is correct. If CAT# is what the theory says it is why is this just CAT2? It being CAT2 at all is redundant when its header describes a location but in this incident we see it’s populated by supernatural creatures. I call them Uncannybals—as should you—and they’re monsters living in the shadow realm. That seems like very important information to include. So it should be CAT12 as there are both people and a place. The OIAR methodology already has the problem that you can’t include multiple headers but CAT#s, if they worked like this, could be used to alleviate that issue. The way it’s implemented here just makes it virtually pointless to include at all.

CAT3:

CAT3RBC1567 Transformation (Full) -/- Dysmorphic: This was largely already covered. So simply put if Transformation (Full) -/- Dysmorphic is an object because of the tattoo, and Tattoo (Corpse) -/- Compulsion is an object because of the tattoo, but Tattoo (Influencer) -/- Cardiac isn’t an object despite being virtually identical to this case then CAT3 doesn't mean object. 

The method problems are the same as above too. Now this case is the one most likely of the three to be misfiled. So you could say that Daria's case is misfiled and would actually be CAT1 if filed correctly. Tattoos aren’t objects, this case is a mistake. Then you could explain that Marked is CAT23 because corpses are objects (so 13 if he was alive). Objectively this header always being CAT3 still poses problems because we know there are Transformations that don’t require objects. Which brings us back to the problem of “why are the headers so bad at describing these things?”. If it’s subjective Sam decided that object instead of person made more sense here. Seemingly based on the fact that there is a tattoo. Later on he changed his mind about this but choosing it in the first place seems like a stretch. If he knew what these things meant in order to choose them, object seems like a very unobvious choice. 

CAT23:

CAT23RC5246 Tattoo (Corpse) -/- Compulsion: This one is fairly clear to me. I’m going to be very generous and suggest that the corpse here is the object based on the above. The reason this one is a problem is that there wasn’t a location here. I’ve seen people say that it must be the graveyard but that’s confirmation bias IMO. It wasn’t a large feature of the episode, didn’t do anything coastal graveyards don’t do, and had no overt supernatural properties to it. I don’t personally think anyone would categorise this as CAT23 based on the incident alone but because CAT23 people will justify it to fit. That’s not inherently a problem because sometimes you have to make assumptions but given all of the above I don’t think that assumption is a reasonable one to make. 

Objectively all compelling corpse tattoos are found in magical graveyards—or morgues, tombs, goth bars, and other corpse hangouts—and I think we can all agree that’s sort of wack. Subjectively Sam decided the graveyard was magic despite there being nothing to suggest that.

Klaus’ CAT#s:

This is a bit of a special section. I briefly mention Klaus in the intro but I didn’t mention that some of the incidents we’ve heard have been found on the Klaus sheet. The canonicity of these aren’t 100% and I would say the show takes precedent so this is supplemental rather than definitive. I think I’ve more than shown that this theory doesn’t hold up. This is more of an academic exercise.

The big thing to know here is that Kluas’ cases lack headers entirely but that some Klaus cases have notes and it’s these notes attached. It’s only one’s with those notes I’m interested in for this because of how they relate to things we’ve heard. One case is CAT3RBC1567 with the note “tinte”. CAT3RBC1567 is Daria’s case and “tinte” is German for “ink”. So this is very likely that case. There are 4 other cases with that note and they’re two CAT1s, a CAT3, and a CAT13. So even if Daria’s case is misfiled not all of those are the correct CAT# for that assumption. There are also two CAT1s and a CAT2 marked “Herr B”, which is “Mr B” in English. These aren’t tied to a Bonzo case we’ve heard yet but one of them does take place in Bland Theme Park, Somerset. That’s not definitively Bonzo but it’s a good hint at it. 

Additionally there are 6 CAT2 cases that have the note “Katzen LOL” or “Cats LOL” which you’d expect to be CAT1s if there are cats involved. In a similar vein there are one CAT1 and five CAT2s marked “Kreigsvolk” which is literally “War People” but more likely “Army” or “Soldiers”. Again, you’d expect more CAT1s if CAT1 is people.

I’m not saying any of the above is the backbone of my reasoning here but these are things that are showing up in the show and they do seem to be pointing the same direction as what I’m saying. Ignoring them entirely I think the theory doesn’t hold up but with them I think it’s very clear.

Conclusion

I don’t have much of a wrap up here. Anyone who’s been reading my posts for a while has known that I’ve never thought this theory worked. It’s not something I ever get too deep into because I’m also obviously happy for people to have ideas I disagree with, as am I happy for them to disagree with my ideas. That’s just healthy theorising. I’d been considering writing this for a while though but was mostly held back by not wanting to come across as some sort of arbiter of what is and isn’t correct, and didn’t want to seem like I was calling anyone out specifically. However a few people now said they wanted to see this and there are enough instances of parallel thought on this theory that it’s impossible for me to really single people out now. So here we are. 

Just to reiterate for people that did/do believe this theory I don’t think anyone was stupid and/or wrong for thinking it. I hope if the above has convinced you that I’m right about it that you’re not dissuaded from making and sharing future theories. I’ve have 3 or 4 terrible CAT# theories and a few R# theories too. My current ideas on DPHW and R# might be awfully wrong in the long run and that’ll be okay.

That’s me anyway, hope this was at the very least an interesting read if it didn’t manage to be a convincing one. Bonzo! Bonzo!! Bonzo!!!

[mylittleredgirl]

i always sing the praises of having a beta reader if you want that sort of thing, but actually there are two separate fic-editor types:

alpha reader: just fucking uncritically loves your work. #1 fan. fully obsessed with the pairing you're writing to the exclusion of all good sense. might correct a comma or two but they are there to tell you that you are amazing and that you have never done anything wrong in your life and you should post that shit immediately. you ask them "does this part work?" and they say yes before the question is fully out of your mouth. the golden retriever of writing friends. every writer 100% needs one of these in their back pocket.

pros: THE best preemptive defense against the gaping chasm of self-doubt between "post work" and the first kudos.

cons: this is the reason why sometimes you see a fic that has eight beta readers thanked in the author's notes and the main character's name spelled wrong.

beta reader™️: these friends also fucking love your work, but the way they want to love it is to stick their fingers in your fic like a fruit bin at the grocery store and gently squeeze your characters (and commas) to see if they're ripe.

a good beta reader will copy edit your fic, notice if you've used the same sentence three times, and let you know if your sex scenes seem to contain the intended number of dicks per person.

a great one will highlight for you what's unique and wonderful about your writing, will help you problem-solve and plot through long fic, and will lovingly bug the shit out of you with how did she get here? and would he really say that? and is this what you meant? and when you say "oh shit no it isn't" their eyes light up and they go OKAY! let's figure this out!!!

more of a border collie kind of situation.

pros: the best way to polish your fic and grow as a fic writer. in my experience, it's also an incredible way to work through impostor syndrome. knowing someone you respect has been all up in your fic's junk and still says "it's great and you're great, now post it!" is a game-changer.

cons: if they show you what's not working, you're probably going to have to take time to fix it :/

caveats: not everyone who wants to give constructive feedback can deliver it in a way that works for everyone, so if the experience ends up making you feel bad, this is not a good match! it's also VERY helpful to tell your beta reader what level of editing you're looking for. if someone asks "can you give this a quick once-over before i post?" i know they want me to look for obvious mistakes and reassure them that it's post-worthy. if you ask me to "rip it apart" i'm going in there with a fine tooth comb.

(the primary motivation of both of these editor breeds is, of course, that they want you to write more and they want to read it before everyone else.)

bonus mode:

specialty reader: sensitivity readers and subject matter experts! if you are lucky enough to find and motivated enough to use one of these, their job is not to look at commas or to tell you that you're great, but to give advice on something specific in your fic.

edit: check the reblogs for a correction! turns out “alpha reader” is a pre-existing term in some circles for someone who helps you during the process, a lot like the great beta-reader i described above. taking suggestions for renaming my version of the alpha reader above. i’m thinking “hype man.”

[bonefall]

Better Bones Profile: Sedgecreek

RiverClan's first Lake deputy, and world famous cutie pie!

[ID: The BB version of Sedgecreek from Warrior Cats. She is a wood-brown tabby with short, comma-shaped stripes of a darker brown. She is short and her body is long, with a chunky tail.]

Clanmew Name: Kyyrakoshu, nickname Kyyko. (Kyyra = Sedge, a type of lido grass + Koshu = Creek, a small, shady river)

Alignment: RiverClan

Relations: Ex-Mate - Greenflower Children - Swallowtail, Beechfur Nyams - Loudbelly (littermate), Duckfur (Sib-in-law) Education - Crookedstar (mentor), Grasswhisker (apprentice)

See Also: The Dragonkin Family, and the RiverClan Family Tree

Mistyfoot realized at the end of BB!TNP that Hawkfrost was not the tiger that lurked within RiverClan. He didn't choose himself as deputy while she was captured, breaking the code in the process. It wasn't his call to defy StarClan's will to delay the Great Journey. It was up to Leopardstar to punish the surviving RiverClan mercenaries who served Mudclaw's insurrection, and overrule the false sign that exiled three cats from her Clan... and she didn't.

Seated atop the stump with the sun setting behind her, Leopardstar's black silhouette invoked Mistyfoot's memory of a powerful cat lording over a pile of bones. Her eyes flashed-- Tigerstar amber, dark forest red. His ideas were an infectious sort of immortal; they will not die unless they are killed.

So with Leopardstar's sudden, 'mysterious' death to a "rogue", Mistystar realized she would need to make a strong, tactical choice of a new deputy. Someone who would be able to help her navigate the tense situation she was in, to balance out the harsh choices she was about to make, to be the honey to her sting.

The choice was obvious. Now, she would have to prepare for the hard work ahead...

[ID: BB!Mistystar and BB!Sedgecreek leaning back to back. Mistystar grimly explains, "someone will die." Sedgecreek interjects, "of fun!!!"]

(Lots more below the cut!)

Personality and Trivia:

She is CHEERFUL! It takes a lot to make Sedgecreek upset!

Always smiling, never loses hope, always tries to see the bright side of every situation.

"A mistake is just a chance to learn what NOT to do!!"

People like her. She's just a super likeable person, the sort of cat who gets along with people you'd never expect.

She has learned that you should listen twice as much as you talk. She's always there to comfort her friends, family, and clanmates. Very approachable personality.

I imagine a lot of RiverClan warriors are "stocky," longer than they are tall, Sedgecreek especially.

She's also got a very thick tail, making her an excellent and sturdy swimmer.

Her favorite food is pike meat, which Greenflower once wooed her with. Not very many RiverClan warriors are bold enough to tangle with pikes.

Imo, Sedge is a super underrated background character. Her apprenticeship under Crookedjaw is super cute and no one ever talks about it!

and BOY OH BOY has her role been expanded in BB!!

Long before the Great Journey was even a consideration, back during TPB…

Sedgecreek was mates with Greenflower. They welcomed their kits, Swallowkit and Beechkit, to the world just before RiverClan and ShadowClan moved to form TigerClan.

Greenflower's sibling, Duckfur, was the honor sire for the couple. Under the Queen's Rights, you don't have to explain where your kittens came from. Sedgecreek gave birth and that's that.

But supporters of Thistle Law do not respect the Queen's Rights.

When Greenflower announced openly that their kittens had been sired by Duckfur, Sedgecreek was uncomfortable, but believed she was keeping their family safe.

But... it turned out to be worse than that.

Greenflower was a true believer. She had been holding a lot of her 'worst' ideas back, but felt emboldened to speak openly with the alliance between Tigerstar and Leopardstar.

Sedgecreek knew Greenflower went to the execution of Stonefur... but she couldn't. She couldn't bring herself to.

She couldn't watch an old friend die like that, or stomach the thought of Greenflower reacting to it.

They stayed together for the children, as Sedgecreek staved off the dawning realization that her mate wasn't the cat she thought she was.

It was easy to put it off a little longer, when their next common enemy was BloodClan and RiverClan "returned to normal."

Though they nearly had a blow-out argument over RiverClan refusing to join in with the trading that WindClan and ThunderClan were doing with BloodClan... Sedgecreek apologized, and held her tongue. Suddenly, their roles had been reversed, with Sedgecreek staying quiet to "keep the peace".

Normally very cheerful and outspoken, with friends in other Clans and open-mindedness to cooperation, Sedgecreek spent almost two years of her life just trying to save her mateship. She thought that maybe Greenflower would return to the bold, loyal cat she used to adore, if she just loved her enough and made her feel heard...

But then, during the Great Journey...

Their baby Swallowtail fell in love with a ThunderClan warrior, Rainwhisker.

Greenflower "warned her" about loving cats from other Clans, "Don't make me do something I don't want to, Swallowtail."

Sedgecreek knew how powerful love can be. Rainwhisker was big, handsome, and sweet. She saw a lot of herself in him, and would have approved of him as her son-in-law in a heartbeat

Even though Swallowtail was trying to hide it after that confrontation, Sedgecreek KNEW that Rainwhisker was perfect for her. She knows her daughter better than anyone-- Swallow would never be able to fight it.

But all journey long, Greenflower was growing more and more critical of Swallowtail. Comparing her to her brother Beechfur, constantly questioning her whereabouts, making up stupid tasks to keep her busy.

Sedge and Green were fighting over it, again, but this time Sedge was starting to care less about making up afterwards.

Then, the worst possible thing happened... during the WindClan Civil War, Rainwhisker was killed in battle.

Swallowtail was inconsolable. That brought them all together, for just a little while longer.

But then, Swallowtail discovered she was pregnant. She didn't say anything about the father, and yet Greenflower LOST it. She flew into a frenzy, shouting their daughter down and threatening to disown her. The line that finally broke their mateship was simply,

"Just when it seemed like the problem was solved--"

Sedgecreek didn't even let her finish. How DARE she?? To treat their baby's painful loss, their coming grandchildren, and Swallowtail's right as a Queen, like the continuation of a problem???

So she told her to get out. Quietly at first. Greenflower refused, so she said it louder. Then she shouted it. And then she SCREAMED it, and when THAT didn't work, she THREW her out of the Cleric's den. For SEASONS she had sacrificed for the sake of her children, only for it to end in a choice between her wife and daughter.

But even then, Sedgecreek felt hot with shame that she'd caused such a scene! The whole camp saw her toss Greenflower like a rotten fish!! Sweet, cheerful Sedgecreek!!! It was mortifying, she'd never lost her temper like that, the entire Clan was surprised!

Mistyfoot saw this just like everyone else in RiverClan... and it stood out in her mind, as she shuffled home considering who her deputy would be.

It had to be someone as uncontroversial as possible... Mistyfoot's reputation had been dragged through the mud by Hawkfrost's constant challenges. A sizable portion of RiverClan did not respect her anymore.

So Swansong, her brother and greatest ally, was out of the question. He didn't have a diplomatic bone in his body.

Mosspelt was her sister-in-law, and she needed a deputy who could ward off accusations of nepotism.

Reedwhisker had Skyheart as his mentor, who kept him in an apprenticeship nightmare for over a year. He was too young on top of being ineligible.

But, she needed someone who would understand the threat they faced, and take it seriously. It, hopefully obviously, couldn't be one of her enemies.

And THAT was when she remembered Sedgecreek standing up to Greenflower. How she's everyone's friend, patient and enthusiastic, and yet how she still snapped at her long-time mate.

While no one knows EXACTLY why she snapped except the little family itself, Mistyfoot had a good hunch it was related to Swallowtail claiming Queen's Rights for her litter.

And that is exactly the sort of principled cat she needs by her side.

So... Sedgecreek was perfect. She was diplomatic, friendly, and yet, able to stand up for herself, ready to fight for the Clan they deserved. Her upbeat personality would be a perfect compliment to Mistystar's dour, serious one. This was the best possible choice.

During BB!OotS, Sedgecreek was targeted for replacement by the Dark Forest demons. While they managed to kill several of their targets and even cause ShadowClan to fall, Sedgecreek managed to escape an attempt on her life. But, before anyone could breathe a sigh of relief, she took it as a sign to step down so that someone younger could take over. By this point, she had become a great-grandmother and was beginning to feel her age.

Reedwhisker takes her place as deputy, and she's able to live out the last of her days in the Elder's Den. She peacefully passes away at some point in AVoS, surrounded by the family she chose to stand beside.

[uyuartik]

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

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

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

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

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

part one | part two | part three | ao3

enjoy!!!

word count: 19.7K

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Strike one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

His smirking, twinkling eyes.

Strike two.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

===

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, apology accepted.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were certainly thinking about it. "Possibly."

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

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

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

"I'll be there." 

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

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

It is still completely the same.

=== 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t think that is safe.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A few minutes pass in the silence of nature.

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My shoes! – and-”

“Don’t worry, I’ll get them.”

He adores the pout you have as he fetches them.

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

“So, we are to sit here and sulk?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I can’t hear you, dear.”

“I said-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Say farewell to your pride.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Only because you asked so nicely.”  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fair. Absolutely fair.”

===

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

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

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

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

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

“Excuse me?”

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

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

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

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

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

“And what is that?”

“The right company.”

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

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

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

Your shaky inhale echoes.

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

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

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

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

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

“But at the lake - You were-” 

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

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

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

Then, it is settled. 

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

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

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

And this is the night Obi Wan admits that fact.

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

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

What is with him and that special request?

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

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

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

“Have you seen Lord Kenobi?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Auntie!”

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

The urge the scream has never been stronger.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Obi Wan- please…”

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

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

“As you wish, love.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

===

“Lord Kenobi?”

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

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

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

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

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

“What are you doing he-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Likewise, Lord Skywalker.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Would that be all, Madame?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How much do I owe you?”

“Please, allow me-“

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

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

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

“Thank you.”  

And you’re gone before Skywalker can catch up.

===

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

But you’re proven wrong so, so badly.

He doesn’t take it off.

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

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

You're ready to help with that, too.

“Do you think I should hire-” 

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

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

And he's still going over it?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh.

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

Didn't he even take care of himself?

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

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

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

“By all means.” 

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

There he is.

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

Well. You really should’ve done this sooner.

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

“Harder.” The only instruction you need.

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

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

“Y-yes. You’re doing- so good.”

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

And you’re determined not to be distracted.

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

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

Like you had any intention to do that.

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

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

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

“Please- darling-“

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

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

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

So cute and so filthy.

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

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

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

Of course not.

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

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

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

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

===

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

Not today, though.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And he didn’t even give you his jacket?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How’s that a bad thing?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

===

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

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

So, he has come to yours.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh my God, it is. 

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

Oh. That makes quite the sense.

“Actually I still feel a little bit exhausted.”

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

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

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

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

“I think you know it already.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Had?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Is there?” 

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

But so will his closeness.

When did he get so close? 

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

“Answer my question, and I will.” 

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

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

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

A very different time. 

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

So, that’s his cue to kiss you.

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

Not til you absolutely have to.

“No, you don’t.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That’s a sentence straight out of his dreams.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Though he has no rush to join you. 

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

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

He'd like to see that. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you gonna let me in, sweetheart?” 

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

Could he ever refuse?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But the morning is anything like the night.

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

You weren't ready for his morning voice.

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

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

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

“Darling?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh. You and your infamous life on the roads. 

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

“What do you mean?”

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

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

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

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

A trial that you fail.

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