#also was essentially a tool but he's like 'this is fine I love art'

[bi-animated]

The Patakis Week Day 2!

I’m honestly so proud of this one, I just finished it today so I can post it in time. (I really don’t wanna fall behind like Inktober ☠️)

Following the prompts, here is the scenario:

Arnold and Helga are volunteering at PS 118 for their summer program that is essentially just a glorified baby sitting gig, which is why they’re letting high schoolers do it in the first place. We all know why Helga took the job, and it has nothing to do with kids. So when a young student in her cluster, Daisy May*, becomes overly attached, Helga exploits Daisy’s love of pudding. Arnold has been watching Helga too, and notices that she’s up to her old tricks. “You can’t just sit the kid in a corner with a pudding cup, how is she going to learn?”

“That’s how Bob did it and I turned out fine”

“Okay Helga, just be big enough to clean the mess”

*Fun fact: Daisy May is the name of the love interest in Lil Abner, where Arnold’s pet pig gets his namesake. Daisy May pursues the main character even though he shows no interest. It’s a Helga-ception.(credit to my bf for that)

One thing that I LOVE about Helga is her tenacity to break the rules (law😝) for the sake of her personal mission. Since it’s just a blurb for a picture, I didn’t get too detailed with the plot but I’d like to think that Helga was getting up to something Football related 😏

I wanted her face to look frustrated for being caught out, but also totally elated that Arnold was paying attention to her 😍

@opthepatakis

————————

Since I’m using my Tumblr as more of an “art diary”, I’d like to include some more info behind what went into this piece:

Much like Inktober, I’m using this challenge to learn more about Procreate, experiment with brushes and figure out what’s “right” for me.

To be frank, it has been a mildly frustrating experience internally because I already know that my weakness is color. Digital painting and traditional are just not the same, they don’t work the same (to me anyway). The interface of Procreate is so different from Photoshop too, finding and remembering to use tools isn’t a simple transition, either. It makes me self conscious of my art, even though I’ve gone to art school, and it throws me off to have to stop and Google stuff. But! I think with this piece, I’m FINALLY in a good groove of how I want my art to look and how to get there.

TLDR; I cry bc the lesson I refuse to learn is that you never stop learning 🙃

PS - skipping Patakis Week Day 3 to put the amount of effort and time that I want to put into Day 4’s prompt, however, I’ll still post something fun! 💜

#shortaki #procreate #thepatakisweek #commissions open #fanart #fan art #nicktoons #nickelodeon #hey arnold #hey arnold! #helga pataki #the patakis week #90s #90s cartoons #cartoon #romcom #school #fan fic #teen #comic art

[robinsceramics]

@catkin-morgs yeah, I've got tips! <3

First, it definitely does take time. Especially when you're just starting. It's not great to have a time limit while making sculptures, especially since one of the essential materials in ceramics is time. See, (I'm about to geek out for a minute feel free to skip this paragraph), clay is made of tiny flat particles ("plates") with water between them, and the water allows the plates to slide around over and under each other. That's why clay is moldable! But when the water dries out of the clay, the plates stick close to each other and are no longer moveable. So, while working with clay, time and wetness counteract each other. But you have to take time to make a sculpture look like what you're envisioning and less like blobs of matter. You have to get the main shapes into place and then smooth them out and refine them, and that takes time, man. In ceramics, you learn to make time your friend while it tries its best to be your enemy.

All of that to say, yeah, if you're rushed, it just won't work out that well. I'm glad you're thinking of trying again in a less regimented environment!! That takes some real bravery, to try again at something you weren't good at the first time.

Also, on a personal note, I know you have an eye for good Shapes and pretty Animals. That sense of physical proportion, posture, cuteness, color, and so on, will pay off in ceramics even if it takes a while to get your physical skills to match your eye for beauty.

If ceramics turns out not to be for you, that's fine. It took me years to get to where I'm at now skill-wise, and it's not worth the investment for everyone. And I have been extremely lucky. My dad had all the materials necessary for ceramics just. hanging around the house. when I was growing up. And he helps me fill the kiln, which he owns, which is not a cheap or easy investment. So: I acknowledge that I have been privileged in getting into clay. Please don't feel insufficient if you just Can't because the resources you'd need aren't worth the price of laying your hands on them. Ceramics as a hobby is Expensive :|

But there ARE resources! Community centers, public studios, and even private studios (on request) often have studio classes, studio hours, and kiln sharing available. You'll typically have to pay for that, of course, but I mean. it's way cheaper than buying your own $2000+ kiln and equipment and stuff. As a college 3rd year, I'm facing down what it'll look like for me to get my own studio equipment in the future, and man... at least until I've saved some more money, I think that getting membership in a public studio is the way to go for me. It might be the same for you.

Oh, and don't worry about buying your own materials if you go that route. A studio, whether public or private or university-owned, will typically provide all of the raw materials necessary to ceramics making out of the fee you pay to use the studio. You won't need your own clay, glazes, or maybe even your own sculpting tools depending on the studio.

Another resource is https://www.kilnshare.com, which is a worldwide network for potters to share kiln space! Oh, and if there are no studios in your area, depending on how much you want to invest and what your schedule is like, if there's a college with an art program, there's always the possibility that you could audit a college ceramics class. *shrug* just throwing anything out there that might help!

As for how to do the sculpting itself—you'll figure it out! I promise! Doing sculpture because you want to is way different from doing it for school. Put love into what you make, and it will be lovable.

#not ceramics #my process #ceramics asks #sorta

[mariacallous]

On January 1, Mike Neville gave Midjourney the following prompt: “Steamboat Willie drawn in a vintage Disney style, black and white. He is dripping all over with white gel.”

There’s no polite way to describe what this prompt conjured from the AI image generator. It looks, very much, like Mickey Mouse is drenched in ejaculate.

At the start of every year, a crop of cultural works enters the public domain in the United States. When copyright expires on particularly beloved characters, people get excited. This is an especially eagerly anticipated year. An early version of Mickey Mouse, colloquially known as Steamboat Willie, entered public domain in 2024 after nearly a century of rigorously enforced copyright protection. Within days, an explosion of homebrewed Steamboat Willie art hit the internet, including a horror movie trailer, a meme coin—and, of course, a glut of AI-generated Willies. Some are G-rated. Others, like “Creamboat Willie,” are decidedly not. (Willie doing drugs is another popular theme.)

While a contingent of the people sharing naughty Willie images are simply goofing around, others had surprisingly sober-minded intentions. Neville, an art director who posted his image on social media using the handle “Olivia Mutant-John,” has a lively sense of humor, but his experiment wasn’t solely a scatalogical joke. “My interest in generating the assets was to explore copyright thresholds and where the tools are currently,” he says. He’d noticed that it was easy to find examples of copyrighted characters on popular image-generating tools (a point also recently made by AI scientist Gary Marcus, who posted AI-generated depictions of SpongeBob SquarePants as an example) and wanted to see how far he could push an image generator now that Steamboat Willie was in the public domain.

Neville isn’t the only person conducting AI Willie experiments with copyright on his mind. Pierre-Carl Langlais, head of research at the AI data research firm OpSci, created a fine-tuned version of Stable Diffusion he called “Mickey-1928” based on 96 public domain stills of Mickey Mouse from the 1928 films Steamboat Willie, Plane Crazy, and Gallopin’ Gaucho. “It’s a political stance,” he says.

Langlais firmly believes that people should be paying closer attention to where AI tools get their training data; he’s working on several separate projects focused on creating models that train exclusively on public domain works to that end. He whipped it up in hours, because it’s essentially a filter laid atop of Stable Diffusion, not a totally custom data set. (That would be a far more labor-intensive project.)

As anything related to AI artwork tends to stir up controversy, he’s been pleasantly surprised by the joyful reception his tool has received online; because it is built on a tiny set of low-quality images, the works it creates tend toward the rough-hewn and glitchy. (“You should not expect consistently good results from Mickey-1928,” his project description warns.) Langlais originally intended to add to the data set to improve its quality, but now he’s going to leave it as is. “I think people liked that it was slightly bad,” he says. “It created some funny results.”

Others liked it precisely because of its political valence. “It’s pretty satirical,” says emerging technology researcher Eryk Salvaggio. The Steamboat Willie iteration of Mickey Mouse entering the public domain is a big deal partly because people love all things Disney, but also because Disney played a role in shaping contemporary copyright protections specifically to shield this character. As Salvaggio points out, people nicknamed the Copyright Term Extension Act of 1998—which, as its name suggests, extended copyright terms—as the “Mickey Mouse Protection Act,” because Disney lobbied aggressively in favor of prolonging copyright.

“This particular Mickey Mouse, from Steamboat Willie, is now in the public domain at a time when questions about what we can grab and use are up for debate,” Salvaggio says. “It’s an interesting confluence.”

At least some of the AI-generated Steamboat Willie images are explicit middle-fingers to Disney. On the social network Bluesky, for example, a user called Virtual Balboa posted an image of Willie smoking a joint. (They asked to be identified by their pseudonym so their family “doesn't get swatted by some random lunatic.”) In an email, they detailed their motivations for creating doobie-smoking Willie. “I love the idea that Disney will be forced to spend money and resources looking at my stupid pictures to check if they are too far removed from Steamboat Willie to count as public domain,” they wrote.

While people like Langlais and Neville are experimenting with Steamboat Willie in part to test the guardrails put in place by generative AI companies, Virtual Balboa is deeply skeptical that enhanced copyright protections will benefit regular people: “Any guardrail-type laws will be written by computer-illiterate geriatrics and only make life harder for people trying to use ‘ethical AI’ to do legitimate work.”

Putting aside considerations of how digitally savvy regulators may or may not be, the rush to remix Steamboat Willie with AI tools demonstrates, once again, the growing inescapability of these products.

[hellonoblesky]

Happy Saturday it’s past 2am here’s Harbinger Angst. Because I’m up late and I’m havinggg thoughts.

So here’s my hcs about the Harbingers reacting to/dealing with the news of Signora‘s death :)

(CW For like. Mental breakdowns and guilt and general emotional instability because no one is having a good time here. Oh also cussing, anddd some familial angst in Childe’s bit? Also I am so sorry about any misspellings n whatever it is. Very late and I already have two other posts in my drafts collecting dust that are also HCs so.)

Dottore:

So if you don’t follow my art blog or haven’t seen my Harbinger hcs (which are under the process of some change with new info being released and whatnot), you don’t know this but I HC Dot and Signora to be like sorta just evil siblings

Now because death is such a commodity in Dot’s uh… specific line of work, he doesn’t register that Signora is dead until like two days after he hears the news

He picked up the phone (rotary perhaps?) to go call up Signora‘a office to see if she has any good gossip and then stopped halfway through dialing because it hit him that she’s never going to be there to pick up the phone on the other end. Ever.

He usually listens to music when he’s working but with the absence of Signora ranting he has to take up listening to the radio on top of the music

Problem is: the radio doesn’t have the same charm and cadence to it that Signora’s rants did, because normal people are boring and it’s going to drive Dot up the walls if he has to listen to one more commercial or one more anxious ramble about how cool and great the Fatui are from some stupid radio host trying not to overstep the Tasritsa’s favor like she listens to some boring ass radio station in her spare time!!!

HE HATES IT. But is forced to make do because if he shows weakness he will be torn apart (or so he thinks)

So this leads to him locking himself away in his office even more than he already did

Because he was already intrigued by the traveller after their actions in Mond and their victory against Childe, but them beating Signora in a duel before the Shogun? Oh now that kickstarted a whole new line of study

Especially because his only coping mechanisms are Be Destructive and Dive So Far Into Work You Don’t Think so within about three days he has a comprehensive analysis of everything he can possibly get his hands on regarding the Traveler (without interacting with other people) and is about to pass out because he hasn’t slept

Oh and the funeral was absolute hell for him.

Mainly because while he was barely conscious he agreed to play violin at the service and then promptly passed out and forgot about it so he woke up and was hit with the consequences of his own actions in the form of sheet notes

He endured, obviously, he’s not going to back down from playing something at the funeral of one of the few interesting people in the organization, that’s what tools and cowards do and this might be the Fatui but if he’d survived the wrath of dead gods he would make it through this

Went right back to locking himself away after that though

He actually got bad enough that the other Harbingers took notice of his state and MADE him come out of his labs and eat (mainly at demand of the Tsaritsa because she just lost the Crimson Witch as an asset, she wants the rest of her Harbingers in good health god dammit, the Traveler is becoming a genuine threat)

Broke down at dinner a week after the funeral

Swears that if any of the other Harbingers bring it up ever ever again he will kill their bodies and keep their consciousnesses trapped in a machine that he controls forevermore

Really he’s just glad that no one immediately pounced on one of his few shows of weakness

Maybe he’ll risk it again if it means he can cry it out for another hour but he wouldn’t dare say that out loud, won’t even finish the thought

But you know what he will do?

What he does best, of course

Look at an oddity in the world (in this case the traveller) and seek to pick it apart until he can put it back together without looking and still have it work

The only way he can actually get through his grieving is by finding something to take the edge off

And it just so happens that the traveller is a perfect candidate

Childe:

By no means has he ever liked Signora, in regards to personality or method, but her death still hit him

He had to travel back to Snezhnaya for the funeral, and it did absolutely cheer him up to see his family again and get to spoil them all silly, but with a mind whirling with thoughts it was genuinely hard for him to keep a smile up

Mainly thoughts about battle, because that’s really the only way he can interpret the world at this point

Like he keeps thinking about weather the Traveler was holding back with him, or if they had gained the strength to fight off yet another Fatui plot just in the month or so since Liyue? And if they had gained strength, how had they done it so fast? If they’d been holding back against him had he not shown himself to be a fighter worthy of their strength? Had Signora even faced the Traveler‘s full strength?

Overall his head is much too full of too many things, and it wears him out to the point that he ends up sleeping in late enough for his family to actually worry because usually he’s up before dawn training and they don’t see him until the afternoon

But he’s back on track as soon as he can, because the training helps him think, and once he can resolve most of his thoughts (or repress them so they don’t bother him too often) he’s absolutely alright and fine and ready to go! Totally. Fine. It’s fine.

The thoughts were very much There during the funeral, especially as the first harbinger read a (somewhat summarized version) of Signora’s life to the assembly of Fatui

(Oh and Pierro didn’t really care weather or not Signor wanted people to know her life after she died because she was dead now what was she going to do??)

The reveal that Signora had been fighting for the Fatui because her lover had been killed by the actions of the Anemo Archon, and she desired nothing more than to see him again… it got to Childe. It got to Childe more than he’d like to admit

Because suddenly the woman who he had always known as the embodiment of frostbite and frozen barbed wire fencing had someone she had cared about, genuinely cared about, to the point where she had become the Mondstadt legend, the Crimson Witch herself

And she had lost that lover to the actions of a fool of a God

He swore silently to himself that when the Tsaritsa‘s future came to pass he would make a little monument for Signora. Nothing big, probably a plaque on a nice stone where Mondstadt would have been before the Tsaritsa’s success, but a monument nonetheless

This promise was a spur of the moment thing, and later he would be like “Man she was a jerk, lost love or not why did I promise her that?“ but he doesn’t go back on promises

Besides, actually watching Dottore break down in a grief and sleep-depravation induced haze was also something that got to him because of course the two people he happened to simply Hate The Most in the organization were close that makes perfect sense but also wow it is weird to see Dottore cry and it feels Wrong because after murdering and tormenting so many people… Signora is gone and he breaks then??? What the fuck

Avoids most of the Harbingers after that, just heads home to Morepesok to spoil his siblings silly before going back to Liyue

Oh and his siblings can tell something is up, Teucer especially because when his brilliant big brother, the greatest toy salesman in all of Snezhnaya, is suddenly struggling to keep a smile even though they’re at home… he notices

Childe’s other siblings are all avoiding the subject, they heard about the death of Signora and all, they just assume the organization is going through it tight now and frankly most of them are a little afraid of him weather they‘ll admit it or not

Not Teucer though, he’s confused just because he still has grasped how Snezhnaya works yet, so he goes ahead and asks anyway

Childe just says he’s sad because he has to leave again so soon! And he hasn’t even been able to take Teucer fishing this time, isn’t that sad?

Teucer can tell that he’s lying

But Teucer is also beginning to sense the danger that lies behind Childe’s eyes, so for the first time? He doesn’t push it or say that they could go fishing now if they hurry

Just a grin and a “Next time!! Promise?” Makes it all better and he doesn’t have to think about why his big brother feels unnerving to look at sometimes

Childe is oblivious to Teucer’s growing awareness

He heads back to Liyue and makes himself focus on work

Scaramouch:

Now he didn’t particularly like Signora either, and didn’t really care about her life’s story, because blah blah blah we get it lady you lost someone, we all did, cry about it or whatever

But he does feel… he feels guilty for leaving her to face the Shogun

He had the Gnosis, he had finished Signora’s mission for her without even meaning to, and he had thought it would be funny to just let her face the Shogun without knowing that

To some extent, it’s his fault she’s dead

And it’s not the fact that she died because he didn’t go get her that weighs on him, it’s that he left her to the Shogun of all things

I don’t know if puppets like Scara can feel things like people and such do, but considering how the Shogun expressed frustration and stress when Ei disabled the majority of her functions, I’m going to assume they can

And because of the meddling of ‘some eccentric scientists’ his emotions are probably toned down a tad but he can still feel guilt all the same

And leaving Signora to the Shogun makes him feel guilty because he and the Shogun are essentially kin

Disowned and disavowed kin, but you know

He may have been able to easily counter the Shogun, or even help Signora prevail in her duel, but he. Ran. Off.

He happens to think that that was very cowardly of him

It causes a spike in his aggression which everyone unfortunately has to notice every time he walks by because the sheer static electricity that snaps in the air when he’s in the room now? Haha. Ouchie

Fun fact: he has no idea how to cope with guilt

He channels ALL of it into SHEER RAGE

Ever seen a couple hundred year old man go absolutely apeshit in the Harbinger‘s shared training arena? Well now you have!! It’s not a pretty sight!!

He’s crying and can’t tell why, which fuels his anger, which fuels stress as a fun side effect which just makes more tears and now he has to snap someone in half because he needs it to stop he hates it here he hates it here he hates it here

And in the beginning the guilt wasn’t even that severe for him, it was just so immensely magnified by his lack of coping skills that he very nearly broke himself down

He tried going to Dottore to get it disabled but Dottore had his doors all locked so Scara couldn’t even get a word through to him

Oh and the funeral was fine with him he just left early because he didn’t want to deal with looking people in the eye at the time because, again, his lack of coping skills with guilt magnified the whole feeling so it was almost unbearable

It’s a lot of fighting and breaking things before he’s able to resign himself to some semblance of how he was

#Genshin impact #genshin spoilers #genshin inazuma #genshin fatui #genshin Hcs #genshin headcannons #genshin signora #Rosalyne-Kruzchka Lohefalter #crimson witch of embers #crimson witch of flames #genshin Childe #Genshin Dottore #it is very late and my brain is abuzz #I have s’more thoughts about the Harbingers and Signora hut I’m already throwing all of this at y’all so #yeah #anyway #sad about her but also where Is Dottore hand him over mhy please

[penfullofwordsaheadfullofstories]

No Matter How Many Skies Have Fallen

A/N: I really have nothing to say for myself at this point. 

Sequel chapter to this fic here, if you’d like to catch up. 

Thank you to @caffeine-in-an-iv​ for being my incredible beta and to @maybege​ for letting me rant to you and giving me so many wonderful ideas when I hit my walls. Also to the Obi-Wan fandom in general: Y’all are some of the kindest, most supportive people I’ve ever encountered on this hell site. Thank you for your support and your content! 

Pairing: Obi-Wan Kenobi x Force Sensitive! Fem! Reader (no Y/N)

Word Count: 11.9K (I lost all control) 

Warnings: SMUT!!! Soft Dom! Obi rights, Also, Sub! Obi vibes, Foodplay (but not how you’d think), Inappropriate use of the Force, Voice Kink, Obi-Wan Kenobi’s Hands Appreciation Society, As Usual: Too Many Feelings For Porn, Emotional Competence Kink, Trust Kink, TW: Pregnancy, TW: A character draws blood on themself unknowingly

Title from one of my favorite quotes:

“Ours is essentially a tragic age, so we refuse to take it tragically. The cataclysm has happened, we are among the ruins, we start to build up new little habitats, to have new little hopes. It is rather hard work: there is now no smooth road into the future: but we go round, or scramble over the obstacles. We’ve got to live, no matter how many skies have fallen.”

-D.H. Lawrence

What infinite irreverence the galaxy has for Obi-Wan Kenobi. 

As if his master and only semblance of a parent wasn’t taken from him when he needed him most.

As if a boy who needed a father wasn’t entrusted to Obi-Wan quickly following, far too young and full of his own loss. 

As if he wasn’t thrust onto the pedestal of parenthood when he really only wanted to be a brother. 

As if that isn’t what they became anyway, and as if that wasn’t the exact cloud that hung over the atmosphere of your lives ever since you’d arrived on Tatooine. 

As if the being whose life signature resided in your abdomen didn’t throw a punch into each of those blooming bruises by its very existence.

Which is why, you knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that you couldn’t tell him yet. 

Normally, it’d be no small feat to keep something of this scale from him. But these days, he’s so focused on having his shields up around you, keeping you from both being hurt by or helping with his torments. 

You have to take great care to control your body language, because even when he’s shut off from you in the Force, his keen perceptiveness will pick up on something being off anyway.

The art of a convincing lie is having layers. If he senses your feelings and decides to dig, then only give up one layer, and he’ll stop looking.

 In this case, it’s your worry over him. It is true you’re trying to shield him from feeling that, not wanting him to carry the burden of it on top of having to work through his own pain.

  But it’s not everything you’re trying to hide from him. So you let a small projection of your fear over his well-being escape, like you’re losing control of your feelings. It’s enough to convince him, and something critical inside you dies at the victory every time.

 He deserves your honesty, and you’ve never given him anything less until now.

 You hate how well your strategic deceit takes root. Because only part is due to your talent as a liar. The rest comes from how much he trusts you.

  You’re not stupid, though. You know it’s only a matter of time before the biological changes in your body betray you. 

Obi-Wan said he needed time, and you’re going to give him as long as you possibly can before dropping this anvil on him, hoping the further he gets from it all, the better off he’ll be. 

You could kick yourself for not being more careful. You hadn’t missed any dose of your herbal Ho’Din contraceptive. It was one of the few things you shoved in your bag with the mere minutes you had to leave Coruscant for good. It was from a reliable medicinal shop, and there’s no good reason it should have failed in any way.

But here you were anyway. 

Of course, there are options that free you from the obligation of carrying the child to term. All are expensive, and Tatooine is sorely lacking in any trustworthy medical facilities. The alternative methods could put your own life in danger as well. 

Even if it wasn’t, you’d feel so strange making that kind of decision without Obi-Wan. Not that he wouldn’t support whatever decision you needed to make for yourself if you did, but going behind his back is something you’re not sure his trust could recover from. 

And really, far too much has been decided for him in his life. 

The worst reason why you can’t bring yourself to move towards any solution that ends the pregnancy now, the reason you abhor, is because somewhere within you, despite the awfulness of the time and place, you want this baby. 

You couldn’t give a definitive explanation for yourself, but you did. Undoubtedly

Obi-Wan doesn’t press when you ask to cease your combat training for a time, asking to start learning the new offerings of the Jedi texts instead. 

He’s concerned when you tell him, but if he’s suspicious as for your reasoning, he doesn’t show it outwardly, at least. 

The way he doesn’t even ask about why, though: It makes you wonder if he had a reason all of his own why he’d rather not fight, even in imitation.

The Jedi writings given to Obi-Wan by Master Yoda are often more cryptic and mystifying than logically applicable without deciphering, which you are at first annoyed by, but then strangely thankful for, as Obi-Wan verbally processes his understandings of it, knowing what he does of the Jedi way, and you adding your thoughts from the stance of fresh eyes. 

The conversations distract wonderfully, and you savor any way you still get to connect with him.

You don’t push for the ways he doesn’t allow you to connect with him anymore. The way he won’t let you in his mind. Because now, you too have a reason to not let him in yours. 

*******

When it’s time to go into town for supplies again, you make up some feeble excuse which you know Obi-Wan sees through as a lie, and this time, he does pry, eyes soft and concerned. He knows you love going to the markets. You simply explain that you’re tired, which is true enough to satisfy him, leaving you behind with a kiss on your forehead before you watch him saddle up your eopie and ride off.

You sigh, sagging against the closed door once he’s disappeared into the horizon. You do love the markets. They’re the most colorful thing the planet has to offer, textiles and rugs and shiny, hanging things. 

But the spices. Fragrant and potent, usually so appetizing and intoxicating, you know would turn your stomach alone. And that doesn’t even account for the strange meats being cooked at different vendors, and Maker help you if anyone was selling raw meat of any sort today. You’ve done your best to keep your nausea at bay, at times even tapping into the Force for centering when the world felt like it was rocking. But you know the market would be too much, too many variables.

It’s not a fast journey, even on the eopie, and you don’t expect Obi-Wan to be back for hours. Which is why when you hear a knock on your door, the tool in your hand clatters to the floor, as does the remnants of your project. 

You quickly grab one of the long staffs you and Obi-Wan had only begun to use in your defense training, trying to recall the lessons as adrenaline begins to rush through your veins. Tatooine isn’t known for its pleasant company, and if anyone was going to try to rob your home, now would be as good a time as any. 

The knock sounds again, and you shout from the inside, “What do you want?!” 

“A peace treaty in the form of baked goods,” comes the feminine voice, one you recognize. 

Opening the door, you lower the weapon in your hand as Beru Lars blinks at you.

“I’m sorry, I thought you were…” You step aside, gesturing for her to come in.

She waves a hand, dismissive. “I understand.”

You lead her over to the small living area as you fix two glasses of water from the kitchen. 

When you set them down on the table, Beru speaks. “I apologize for the intrusion, if there was another way of contacting you before coming here…”

“It’s absolutely fine, I’m glad to have you.” You smile in what you hope is an assuring way.  “Although, I’m surprised at it just being you. Where’s Owen?”

Her eyes flick to the stone floor. “He um… doesn’t exactly know I’m here. He’s out on a business deal today.” 

You feel your eyebrows go up at that, waiting for her to continue. But instead, she changes the subject. “Where’s Ben?” 

“In town. We needed some things from the market.”

Awkwardness settles in as a conversation topic evades you. 

She breaks the beat of quiet. “Here, I brought these for you.”

You take the basket in her hands from her, peeling back the thick woven cloth to reveal a simple form of bread. It looks so appetizing your stomach clenches, and you instantly realize you haven’t had anything since breakfast. 

But then the smell hits you, hard and powerful, and stars, it’s just bread, there’s nothing that should do that about bread, but you’re on your feet in a minute, forsaking the basket on the ground as you bolt to the fresher, barely making it in time to the sonic sink before you start heaving. 

In a moment, you feel soft hands at the nape of your neck, gently holding back the fabric of your shirt and blowing cool air as you continue to wretch. 

By the time everything has settled again, you’ve dealt with the aftertaste in your mouth, and splashed on your face with a precious cup of cool water, hot shame rises in your cheeks at how this must seem to Beru. 

You wipe at your face with a rag, half muffling your words when you address her. “I’m so sorry, I’m sure they’re absolutely delicious, It really has nothing to do…” 

“How far along are you?”

Your spine straightens instantly, and you let the cloth drop to the floor.

“I… what?”

Now she’s the one to flush. “My apologies, it’s just that it’s known for being a very gentle bread, it’s one my mother used to feed me when my stomach ached. If that smell turned you... I just assumed, and I shouldn’t have.” 

Your lips purse as you consider your options. It’d be easy to say nothing, or just to nod. 

“Two months,” you hear your own voice answer despite yourself. You’ve never been one for easy anyway.

A surge of emotion wells up in you at even being able to speak it aloud, aloud to another human, and next thing you know, to your absolute horror, you’re crying into your hands as your shoulders crumple in on themselves. 

Why now, of all times? In front of Beru Lars? Whom you know accepted Luke with her husband without question because they couldn’t biologically have any children of their own? 

“I’m… so… sorry,” You manage to choke out through the sobs, disgusted at your own lack of control.

At some point Beru must join you on the floor, patting her hand soothingly on your back. “Shhh, it’ll be alright. You’ll see. It’s not so bad having a young one around, you and Ben have so much to look forw…”

“He doesn’t know.” 

Her hand pausing briefly on your back is the only indication she gives of shock.

“Would he not be happy?”

You take a steadying breath in, trying to calm yourself. “I don’t know,” you whisper, small and almost frightened to let the room hear you say it.

It falls silent again, but it echoes around in your brain, bouncing against your thoughts until you feel the onset of a headache.

After you’re to a numb enough state to enjoy yourself, you and Beru make tea and bring it back to the living area. 

She lifts her glass to yours, clinking them. “To secrets kept from men and the mischievous company they bring.”

Your head now throbs with pain, but you smile anyway. “Thank you,” you say to her, and you mean it so very much.

********

The next time Obi-Wan goes into town, you’re feeling well enough to go with him. 

You’re not visiting the food portion of the market, after all, so you’re not as much of a risk to set your stomach off. He’s taken to fixing small machinery for trading with the Jawas recently, the extra income helping with the projects around the house. 

There’s a trap door that you found within the first day of being there. The staircase carved out of the bedrock beneath the hut leads to a small room that has now served as additional storage and a place for Obi-Wan to work. It’s also quite cool during the day, so if you can stand the smell of the various meats hung to dry, you’ll sit down there with some sort of project, or even reading material if you come upon it.

So today, he’s looking for a few specific tools that will streamline his working. 

It doesn’t take long to find a promising stall among the maze of shopkeepers, selling everything from trinkets to weaponry of questionable legality. Obi-Wan finds what he needs easily enough, and it looks like the trip is going to be as efficient as it is successful as you walk through alleyways with him. 

At some point, he takes your hand in his, squeezing it gently, projecting an assuring strand of affection toward you. It’s such a small gesture, but you’ll never tire of the feeling of his hand clasped in yours. 

You’re almost back to where the eopie, Rooh, as he named her, is stabled when Obi-Wan abruptly slows his pace, dropping into a stall. An alarm goes off in your head when you watch him pick up a frivolous trinket on a table that you know he has no interest in. 

You open your mouth to inquire at his actions, but it answers itself once you see him glance out of his peripheral vision to where the holonews plays in the stall adjacent. 

Battle footage on what you recognized to be Kashyyk at the presence of the many Wookies plays with the Emperor addressing the viewers in a very two-dimensional, sugar-coated, thinly-concealed threat to any other world that would try to resist occupation.

There’s wreckage and uncensored violence, and you turn your head away. 

“May it be known that Lord Vader is quite capable and willing to help those into compliance that require assistance... “

The item in his hands crushes, ceramic tile cracking into his hands, breaking the skin and drawing out drips of red.

But he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even seem to register the glass he’s pushing into his own hand. His eyes are wide and he makes a wounded noise from the back of his throat, eyes peeled to the holonews now, not even trying to feign disinterest.

His signature sparks, giving a flash and then a severe cry of anguish, and it hits you then. Pieces of information coming together as you feel Obi-Wan tear apart at seams. 

Anakin Skywalker turned to the Dark Side, and Obi-Wan thought him dead. There’s a new Sith Lord now; the correlation and timing can’t be coincidence. 

The Toydarian male behind the stall shouts something about paying for it in full, and you quickly hand over the credits with a glare.

You start to pull Obi-Wan’s other hand off the table, but you quickly realize your mistake in that.

The moment it isn’t holding his weight anymore, his knees start to give, and you’ve only a second to react, jamming your body under his arm to keep him upright. His momentum nearly pulls you forward, but you plant your feet and remember at the last second to call on the Force to assist you.

He seems to come to himself enough to walk somewhat as you steer him to the nearest alley away from the vendors.

He braces a hand on the stone wall, but even it isn’t enough as he drops to his knees. He doesn’t even seem to have the will to stand.

Crouching beside him, you place one of your hands on his chest. 

“I…. I…” The tremor in his usually so crisp wording and steady voice crushes your chest, making it hard to breathe. “I failed him. I failed him.” 

“Obi-Wan,” you start, trying to grasp at anything, everything to comfort him, not even thinking of how you can’t call him that here, even if there’s no one in sight.

If he registers your call, he doesn’t let on, continuing in his whispers to the wall.  “He was burning. Burning, but I couldn’t do it. It would have been mercy to kill him, it was my mandate to do it, but I could not...” his voice gives out on the last word, and his shoulders fall forward in a shuddering inhale that transforms into a cut-short sob on its exhale.

“And now…” as the words pour from him, his shields fall, and so do the floodgates on his emotions, and it takes all the training you know to not be washed away in the torrential current of his grief. Does he even know he’s doing it, or has the insurmountable weight of his burden finally overridden his innate control over them?

“I’ve sentenced him to a fate worse than death.” He’s only barely choked out the end of his thought before his shoulders start to shake in earnest and he crumples in on himself as he begins to weep for his brother.

Giving no heed to the odd angle, you throw your arms around him. Trying to get your arms around his body is exactly the embodiment of the feeling of the moment, this anguish you don’t even begin to be enough to cover. 

What could you say? What could you do? What would even begin to… 

When you press your fingers to his temple, it’s light, a show of how unforced this is, how much he can say no if he needs.  Because this isn’t for you. No, it’d be so much easier to not know the exact depth of his pain and rip your chest open with that knowledge. But you’re offering it,  meaning it absolutely, desperate for him to take the hand offered to him. “Please let me in. Don��t do this alone. Let me…”

Then he’s pulling you in, not just letting you come in yourself, clinging to you like a person drowning. You remember to steady, to try to keep your own head above the water as wave after surging, overpowering wave of soul-crippling agony like you’ve never felt it engulf you in their surge.

You can’t hold out against it no matter how hard you try, so you refocus from centering yourself to pulling his signature into yours as you wrap your arms tighter around his torso. 

 And you begin to weep with him.

 *********

 The suns are drifting low by the time both of you have any intelligible thought, far too late to start the journey back to the hut. 

At the inn, as Obi-Wan falls into the beginnings of a restless sleep, a thought emerges, clear and crisp in its awful truth. 

 You cannot tell him for a long while still. 

 *******

 It’s different now. Because when he wakes in the night, he doesn’t give you falsehoods you see right through. He lets you into the terror and distortional dreams that all reside over one theme.  

There’s silence in the first days after. Just silent tears and still embraces and the way time seems to freeze when grief is at its worst.

But then he starts talking. It comes in little pieces, then in larger ones.  

The loudest thing his signature screams is guilt.

You tell him how it isn’t his fault, how Anakin is responsible for his own choices, but he just gives you a new reason every time as to why it is his fault, how he could have stopped it. 

Because even in what he considers his worst failure, his verbiage is indicative of how it’s not his own image and pride hurting that he’s even considered. All of his thoughts, all of them, are on what Anakin needed that he didn’t give.

 At first, it’s just impressions from his mind, unsorted, blurry thoughts and feelings, but it eventually begins to become words. 

“After his mother died… I know that he blamed me. How couldn’t he? He told me of his dreams, dreams he knew were foresights, but I dismissed them, multiple times, at that. And the council… advised me against comforting him, but he… I… I did anyway.” His shoulders are forward, body sagging with unsureness that doesn’t fit him right in the slightest. “But it was far too late. I know there was something pivotal about the death of his mother, and I am...” he hesitates, seemingly not because he doesn’t know what to speak, but because he does. “Terrified. Terrified it’s all because I didn’t validate him sooner. If I had not...” His voice breaks off, as he shuts his eyes.

Fear is not something admired by the Jedi, you know. When he speaks of his own emotions, he speaks them like he’s confessing them.

 And as he confesses and confesses, you comfort where you can, cry with him when you cannot.

 *****

 The swells of sorrow ebb and flow in their intense bursts and receding stillness, and despite the moments of not being able to breathe under the weight of it, there are miniscule, almost violating, hysterical intervals where smiles and life spring to the surface, gasping for air. 

Or in this case, the inexplicable desire to dance. 

You don’t even really know when you start, simply going about cleaning clothing in the sonic washer, and the next, some ridiculous, repetitive tune sweeps you to move your hips and feet, uncoordinated and graceless. The tune itself played from a datachip, scrapped with some pieces Obi-Wan was repurposing to make repairs. You’re not even familiar with the type of music, and it’s hardly the type of music you’d normally choose, but you find that today, it’s an improvement on the quiet that falls upon the house as Obi-Wan works outdoors. 

The song swings into a bridge, and you slide across the stone floor, imitating something you saw in a music holo years ago, as you do, your foot catches on the rug you recently added, sending you fumbling for your footing. You eventually catch it before you fall, but as you look up, you decide to lower yourself to the ground anyway at the sight of Obi-Wan, leaning up against the door frame, watching you with an amused expression, the fingers of one hand tracing between his lips and chin.  

You sit splayed as tactless and gangly as you danced and let out a short, startled laugh. 

“Please, don’t stop on my account. I was quite enjoying myself.”  

Maker, could you just hide under the rug you tripped over? “Please tell me you haven’t been standing there long.”

He pushes off his lean on the wall, crossing the room to you. “I won’t tell you lies, my love.” 

Shame twists in your gut at his words, chasing the laughter in your throat away. But Obi-Wan extends a hand down, and you take it, letting him draw you to your feet. 

He kisses the back of your hand before taking it in his, extending the clasp out to the side of your bodies as his other hand rests hot on the small of your waist. 

“But I will join you, if you don’t mind a style change.” 

“I don’t know how to dance like this,” you say, factually.  

“Then allow me to teach you.” When you look in his eyes, they’re lined with the etches of heartache still, but there’s something else too, brimming to the surface. 

“What, to this music?” You give your last, unconvincing protest.  

He simply drops his forehead to yours, and the small sounds of the room fade to white as a sweet, moving melody replaces it. It’s not perfectly clear, and it takes a moment to realize that it’s because it’s coming from Obi-Wan’s memory.  

The music has a distant, foggy quality, and it has potential to be eerie, but instead, it just lifts you into an ethereal feeling.

He steps, and your feet follow, not as graceful, but he makes it easy for you, the steps hinted out in his thoughts before taking them in actuality. 

When you start to feel confident enough in the movements, you look up at him. “Does this mean I can teach you my dances next?”

He laughs, laughs, unabashed and with no emotion harbored under it, and some torn piece of your heart mends at the sound.

“Certainly not.” 

You laugh too, even at the thought of him trying. The laugher rolls into a smooth quiet, and you let yourself bask in the feel of his body against yours, the press of his hand on your back as you rest your cheek against him. 

Obi-Wan cradles you to him, forsaking the pattern of the dance as he encompasses you in his arms, lowering his lips to your cheek, then your mouth in a blazing kiss. 

He takes your hand in his, lifting it above your head. Then you’re guided into a spin, and the room spins double with it as you abandon all endeavors of trying to get the dance correct. Your hand drops protectively to your belly before you can even think better of it, and by the time you know you’re not going to throw up, it’s too late. You already feel Obi-Wan’s unmistakable concern right before he asks, “What’s wrong?” extending an arm out toward you. 

His complexion is ashen with worry, and when you don’t respond, you feel him start to reach out to your mind; a spike of panic zaps down your spine, and you’re suddenly not sure you’re not going to throw up after all. 

Your shields crash down, not enough time for subtlety, and he retracts both his hand and inquiring tendril of energy as hurt and confusion shape his features. 

You can’t do this. You can’t keep up this facade or cover this moment with a lie you know he’ll see through. But you can’t tell him either. After all the weight he’s carrying, the weight of the being that grows in you should be yours alone. You can’t thrust that upon him. 

But it’s a delusion that you can keep this from him forever. You’re going to hurt him one way or another, and the weight of your silence and lies multiply every day you insulate him from the truth. 

You take in a shuddering breath as dread settles into your bones. You know what you have to do.

Even as you slowly lower your shields, opening your signature, your mind screams at you in opposite directions, ripping you in half, and your hand shoots out to the nearest wall to stabilize yourself. How could you be so sadistic to tell him this? How could you not tell him? After all the trust you have in each other?

But he doesn’t take the invitation. “I will not touch your mind if you are still unsure you want me to,” he says softly but resolutely as he approaches you, but stays an unthreatening distance away, as if approaching a frightened animal. 

No, no, no. You won’t have him being the one to sturdy you through this. You need to be strong, be ready, don’t force him to coddle you through the blast to his own chest. 

So you dial down your own emotions and switch your absorption to amplifying the still tiny, barely recognizable life you’ve been carefully censoring ever since you heard it yourself.

You want to close your eyes, blockade the pain of both how it impacts him and how it will impact you, but that’s not how you two do things.

Summoning every iota of bravery and resolve running in your veins, you force yourself to look up at him as you watch understanding coat him. 

His eyes go wide, and his hands clench and flex at his sides in an erratic, nervous pattern. 

You can’t keep your signature open to his mind’s reaction, you just can’t. He’s seen enough, and you can put your shields up again. His face is enough to confront all on its own.

Obi-Wan steps toward you, slowly, dazed in a completely uncharacteristic way. With the way he seems to ever be prepared for the blows life throws at him, you hate how you have to be the harbinger for the second one that’s knocked him off his feet.

When he stops in front of you, he places his hands on either of your shoulders and looks into your eyes, searching for confirmation, and you nod, trying to not let fear seep into your expression.

One of his hands covers his mouth as he takes it in. 

And then he’s sinking in front of you, off of his feet indeed, and onto his knees. You want to follow, ready to hold him through the heartache sure to follow, at the second child he didn’t ask for while he still grieves the loss of the first. 

But his hands instead take purchase on your stomach, tightening the fabric of your tunic around the barely-visible bump before bunching it up and lifting, just enough so he can tilt his forehead against the skin there. 

You can feel him reaching out, not taking him long at all to find what he’s searching for, and curiosity beats self-preservation at the last moment, prompting you to open your mind again, just for you to be able to catch elation coursing through Obi-Wan.

You don’t even bother trying to stifle your confusion as he looks up at you with glassy eyes.

Sinking to your knees to meet him, you take his face in your hands, trying to make sense of it all as he takes your hand in his. “I never... “ when his voice comes out unsteady, he clears his throat and tries again. “I never thought I’d have... That we could… didn’t occur to me that now...stars above, how long have you known?”

You don’t recall when you start crying, but tears are falling freely down your cheeks as you shake your head. “I’m so sorry. I… I would never want to keep something like this from you, Obi-Wan, but I couldn’t tell you, not with everything, not with all you already have…and i’m so sorry.”

“Oh, heavens, no. You should not have to do this alone. Please don’t keep things from me, even if you think it to be for my sake. We can…”

You fix him with a pointed, unamused stare. He exhales as he must notice his hypocrisy. 

“Your point is well-put and taken, but the sentiment still stands. We’ll not keep secrets from each other anymore. Do we have an accord?”

Despite it all, you smile at his overly-formal phrasing, something you’d normally have a quip about if it weren’t for the concern still nagging at you.

“Are you not angry then? Or disappointed?” you watch him carefully, praying to any deity listening that he doesn’t concoct some half truth to placate you. His first instinct is always to protect, but you’d never want it at expense of his authenticity. 

Bafflement marks his brow at first, then he takes your face in his hands. “Darling, no.” He says your name, gathering every bit of your attention. “I dreamt of you. During the war, when I was away. I did not sleep well, even then, but when I did, I’d sometimes dream of you, holding a child that I knew to be ours. When I woke, I would remember it so vividly, so painfully, because I never thought that was an attainable future for us.”

But that doesn’t need to matter if you… do you want this child?” His eyes are so full of hope, and it was the last thing you expected, but here he is laying it down on the altar of your preference, and maker, are you glad those two things aren’t opposing each other. 

Because his hope and yours are one in the same, and once he knows it too, at your whispering, choked, “yes,” he’s clutching you in his arms.

And for the second time in a month, you’re both huddled on the ground in tears. The first, bowing under the mass of catastrophe. Now, at the glowing relief of the sprouting of a dream sown in tears, too tender before to even say aloud.

But now? You’re saying it, back and forth, from him to you as your walls fall, permitting him into your mind as he welcomes you into his, and finally you take true comfort once again in the home you’ve built in each other. 

*******

The night after, you lie side by side, hand in hand, on a blanket splayed not far from the hut. The suns have sunken, but the pinks and oranges of their palette still paint the sky where it hasn’t yet turned to midnight cobalt. The light of the lantern gives off a similar hue, dousing everything in your reach in soft, warm hues.

It has taken Obi-Wan some convincing, being so out in the open with everything he had to worry about wasn’t his first choice, but you compromised for a small alcove in the rock formations which surrounded you on two sides. More easily defensible. Not that he needed it, but if he was cautious before, it was borderline unbearable now. With the added danger of the Empire knowing without doubt that he lived.  With more than ever to lose. 

So, he was in charge of safety, you were in charge of snacks. And if they so happened to be almost entirely comprised of those melons you couldn’t quite get enough of lately? That was no one’s business except yours. You brought a few things you knew Obi-Wan liked too, of course. 

What little remains of the miscellaneous spread you push to the edge of the blanket so you can both lie down. 

“I dare say it’s almost pleasant out tonight.”

You turn your head to him, a snort ready at him discussing the weather of all things, but it instead forms a cloud in your throat at the sight of him. 

His eyes are closed, hair rustling in the slight evening breeze, a tranquil ease over his profile. 

The small patches of grey in the part of his beard next to his ears catch the first glints of moonlight in a way the rest of his hair doesn’t, giving them away. 

The mellisonant lowness of his voice brings you back to yourself, cheeks heating. 

“I can feel you staring, little one.”  He opens his eyes, leisurely rolling to his side. “Some say it’s quite impolite.” Slanting over you, he lifts a brow, daring your response.

“And is that a problem?” You look up at him through your eyelashes, feigning innocence. 

Obi-Wan’s gaze follows back up to the stars, as he plays right along, pretending to have to think on it. “I suppose it depends.” 

“On?”

“On whether or not you allow me to return the impropriety,” he responds with a coy smile, moving back to you, so close now you can feel his exhales on your cheek. 

Warmth blooms through you as you answer back, “You can always look, Obi-Wan.” You lift yourself to close the short distance between your face and his, pressing your lips together, which he deepens right away. Using the hand not supporting half his body off of you still, he fans out his fingers across your belly, towing the line between caressing gently and clutching protectively. 

You pull your lips back from his as an uninvited slither of insecurity slips into your chest. 

He senses it, of course, so you speak before he even needs to ask. “Are you really, truly, certain this is what you want? Now? I don’t want you to just say so because…and we could wait, we have...”

“I am,” he says, adamantly, before you even have a chance to finish. His eyes flash to the side. “I…” He rolls back onto his back, looking straight up as he talks seemingly half to you, half to himself. “There is not much I know for certain these days. Some days… I scarcely can remember who I am anymore.” 

He turns his eyes back to you, unwavering. “There are seldom few things I haven’t questioned of late, and my love for you isn’t one of them. And from the moment I’ve known, from the very first instant you let me feel the life within you, my love for them hasn’t been one either.” 

Your thoughts split into two, one wanting to lean into it, to take him for his word that’s always true, and the other cautioning you, telling you to keep distant and watch for the surface level honesty he gives that hides the brutal one he safeguards you from. 

But you’re not hiding anymore, feelings unconcealed in your energy and on your face, so he leans back into you, grasping your arm in his hand, squaring your shoulders to him. You cringe at yourself when you know he’s heard the impression of you questioning. It’s redundant, but self-doubt always is. “Know, please know, my darling.” Taking your hand in his, he brings it up to his temple with an insistence that you have no desire to counter. 

And it’s there. Right there and sparking in its clarity, right at the threshold of his mind as you enter it. How much he means his words, no holds barred, no cleverly crafted glazes to an unly underbelly of reality. His reality was this, how severely he craves starting a family with you. How much he already loves the being within you, how he looks forward to the day he gets to hold them in his arms. 

The fear is there too, quiet, but not kept from you. The fear of failing as a father, unsure of assuming any role that resembled a mentor again, all-too-familiar with the ghost that will float over him in every lesson he teaches. 

What shocks you there is his faith in you. In how much he’s already learned from you about the impact of open affection, in how you don’t let your feelings lead you, but you let them breathe, not suffocate them. It’s part of how he even can acknowledge his fears to himself and to you without berating himself under the too-simple phrase “fear leads to the dark side.” There’s truth in it, but also inaccuracy. 

Because he’s afraid, and yet, there is so much light in the acknowledging of it to himself, and in that very act, it loses much of any power it could have had over him. Oh, how deeply he wishes he could have articulated that understanding to Anakin. 

The pain is fresh, but so is his anticipation for the future, swirling together in a potent drink, and his throat bobs with the effort to swallow them down simultaneously. 

He knows you’ll help ground him through it, he trusts you, even in his uncertainty in himself.

It breaks your heart but also warms it: the knowledge that he lets you into that place where he keeps the questions of himself, the place only you and the man who’s caused most of this doubt have been permitted. 

 With a thankful short farewell, you part from his mind as you know exactly what you want to do.

The remains of your snacks still rest on the edge of the blanket, including the shells of the deep purple-pigmented melons. The one draw-back to their delightful taste was how badly they stained your fingers. You had to break them into tiny pieces, plopping them into your mouth without allowing them to touch your lips unless you wanted your mouth to stain too. 

But right now? The staining quality was just what you needed. 

Although first you needed a blank canvas. 

“May I take your tunics off?” you ask, sitting up. 

Despite a short twitch of confusion and then interest, Obi-Wan follows, raising himself up into a kneel, slightly lifting his arms in compliance. 

The paleness of his skin catches all the light of the lantern, highlighting your view as you slowly slide the fabric up and off, gliding your hands up the line of hair dipping below his navel as it becomes more exposed. It grants you a quiet, steep intake of breath from him and you suddenly give halt momentarily, distracted by the alluring appetite you’ve created. 

No, you won’t give in. Not yet. He needs to know this. 

You take one of the broken pieces of melon rind in your hand, where little tart bits of the fruit still cling, dribbling pigment, but before your finger makes contact with the taut skin of his chest, you pull back at the realization you might have bitten off more than you can chew. 

How do you even begin to describe him? Obi-Wan is so many things at once, so many attributes, and every descriptor that comes to mind falls blatantly short of him. 

Then you recall Obi-Wan going through the motions of Alchaka, watching his body fight to maintain the poses at times. Being such a personal practice, you felt honored that he let you see him go through the exercises, and even more honored that he opened up to you about the purpose behind it later. It was an exercise of both physicality and Force use, and the goal was absolute exhaustion. That was the destination. Trying, knowing from the start that he’ll fall short in the end, but doing it all the same. Because there’s so, so much to be said for the trying.

So you do. You bring the messy fingertip to his clavicle, smearing the first word you know to absolutely be true of him, as if starting the premise with a whisper of I know you’re even more than the sum all of these singular praises. 

The word “complex” appears in your penmanship on his skin as you drag it to life. You look up to his eyes, and his curiosity is clear there, but also so is the tenderness that is elemental to any time he looks at you. And just like that, you have your next word.

Kind.

And at the way he flushes so lovely for you at that?

Beautiful. 

You feel his protest before you see it, the objection in his signature, and you know you’re going to have to switch methods. 

Just then, a droplet from where you’ve written the last word on his pectoral falls, down, down, threatening toward the hem of his trousers, but you’re fast, dropping your mouth down and catching it all on your tongue before it can stain the bleached beige of his remaining clothing. 

When his stubborn revolt at the affirmation quiets in his mind in exchange for a flash of searing lust, you know exactly how you’re going to continue. 

Because Obi-Wan Kenobi, general, warrior, negotiator, Jedi Master, legend, has rarely ever been affirmed as such, and he squirms under the thick blanket of his humility and deprivation anytime someone endeavors. 

So you need his mind to be preoccupied enough, guards down low enough, so he can even hear the message get through.

When you place your hands over his waistband, locking eyes in inquiry, stopping when he hesitates, scanning the area around you, vigilant as always. Overly so now. 

“We’re alone. And wouldn’t you be able to sense it if we weren’t?” 

He looks down at you as he answers. “If I stay mindful enough to do so, yes.” 

Good, he’ll be even less prone to fight you if he has some of his mind sensing outward.

You look back up at him with the facial equivalent of asking “well?” to which Obi-Wan sighs in response. “Very well then.”

With your familiarity with ridding him of clothing, it only takes moments before you can finally taste him where you want to, where he’s already hard and swollen for you. 

 You know you won’t be able to take him as much as you want, a recently-developed overactive gag reflex preventing you. But it just so happens to be convenient tonight, as the resulting taunt should have him right where you want him.

A gentle kiss, right to the head of his cock is all the warning you give him before taking the whole tip in your mouth, swirling your tongue around him, pulling a choked hum deep from his throat. 

Oh, oh, Maker, have you done a grand miscalculation, because you forgot an entire factor in this equation: the way you have been borderline hysterical in hunger for him.

You’ve kept so much from him, and part of how you’ve even managed is starting to convince yourself of less than fact. Facts like how many times you’ve had to change underthings recently, physical evidence of desire unwilling to comply to your head’s demands. Facts like how you’ve literally had to bite your finger to keep the feelings at bay. 

You’d expected changes in your body even before your belly grew, but this was one you hadn’t anticipated. In some ways, it wasn’t that different than usual. You never knew you could want someone with the breadth that you want Obi-Wan. 

But this? Of late? It feels like it’s been amplified tenfold. 

You’re not keeping any cards close to your chest anymore, but you do have to ignore your own body’s screaming cries as you complete this.

He needs to know. 

Nerves still serenading his brain with feedback, you re-wet your finger with the purple juice and write the next words across his abdomen. 

Wise.

Perceptive.

He’s caught on to your scheme by now, cued by the all-too appropriate addition of the last word, and he lets you know it, an impression projected, speechless but still unobstructed. He’s still powerless against it. Or rather, letting himself be powerless. Trusting you with the control he has left, trusting you in his vulnerable places. The places where he’s weak.

Strong.

The word spread over his right upper arm, where he’s obviously just that. But may the tint of the word bleed through his skin, may it run through his veins, because that’s how deep and deeper still that his strength runs. It’s in the way he doesn’t flaunt it. It’s in the way he chooses to wield it. 

Gentle. 

He closes his eyes, flinching at the onslaught of acclamation, and you dip your head down again, wrapping your lips around his cock, letting him slide to where you can take him comfortably, just starting to build a pace as his hips squirm in harmony with his suddenly erratic breaths. Oh, how you’d love to let him deeper, allow his cock past your lips beyond the teasing amount you can take now, but the little writhes his body gives in protest are enough to almost make you okay with how your mouth won’t agree with your ambitions. He says your name, groaned out in bliss as he cups a hand on your cheek.

His barriers are down, so it’s easy to hear when his deprecating thoughts quiet again, and you switch back to coloring him again. 

You know the moment you look up at him that it’s a mistake, because he’s flushed, so torn, suspended in the limbo of your give and withdrawal, mouth ever so slightly open, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip. 

You’re only human, so before you draw anything else, you bring your lips to his, which is yet another mistake, because among the many things Obi-Wan is, he is a deep kisser, and as his tongue delves into your mouth, your will power takes a devastating blow. 

You pull back, reeling at the reminder of how easily he can take back control, knowing you have to complete this before you let him. 

Stars, how you want to let him. 

For now, you need that control back, so you take him into your mouth again, filthily wet and not nearly long enough as you quickly pull back, watching in satisfaction as he heaves forward at the loss, correcting himself quickly back into straight posture. 

With a smirk, you drag your slippery, pigmented finger across his lower stomach. 

Disciplined.

There’s so many more words, so much more he needs to know, and if you covered every inch of his skin in the smallest writing it still wouldn’t be sufficient of all that he is. 

Or you could whisper it all through the Force, embed it all in his mind. 

But because you’ve been there, know his mind inside and out, you know every time he sees his own skin, all he sees is the red of blood on his hands. The blood of his brother. 

And that’s exactly why you’re going to stain it in your own colors. Take back territory and push back the front lines that the army of guilt has taken over on him. 

Your Jedi, ever-adorned in unassuming beige, now drips in the color of royalty.

Charming.

Humble. 

Confident. 

Steadfast. 

You’re only left with enough space for one more word, and you want some sort of conclusion to it all, something to summarize the expanse of the man kneeling in front of you. 

Nothing can. 

But maybe, just maybe, one word encapsulates what he is to you. 

Treasure. 

This time you do chant it across his thoughts, prompting him to open his eyes and look at you.

Cerulean blue blinks open, slowly, almost painfully and nearly overflowing with emotion. 

Thank you, is all he says, unable or unwilling to say it out loud, much too heartfelt and newly-budded for that.

You know his pain has older roots than those tended to in this moment, but you vow to yourself that you’ll never stop trying. 

Lowering your mouth around him once again, you don’t tease him anymore, at least not intentionally, even though you still can’t take more than half of him. 

“Look at you, you’re…” he hisses in a breath as you swipe your tongue against that vein on the underside of him. “Stunning. You’re doing so well, little one.” 

The taste of him compels you as much as his words, seizes you in spice-like addiction, and how interesting it’s going to be explaining that taste craving to him, among your sudden adoration for those damn melons. 

“Darling, I’m…” 

You feel it in his energy before he says it, already pulling off, replacing your mouth with your hand, dropping your lips down even lower, mouthing at his balls, and the feedback is instant. An outpouring crest of his pleasure blasting outward as he lets out a depraved moan, netting his hands into your hair.

Your hand is wet and so is where he’s spilled on his still flexing and releasing stomach, clear white maring the lettering halfway through “disciplined.” You’d clean it with your tongue if you weren’t sure how your overly sensitive taste buds would react now. 

It’s not the first time you’ve had sex since you’ve known you were pregnant, but it’s the first time since he’s known, and it’s the first time you’re not hiding the symptoms. Before, you carefully shied away from anything that might give you away, and between the preoccupation of everything on his own mind he was trying to keep from you and his respect for your boundaries, he never pressed. He had questions in his eyes, but you knew how to carefully reveal partial vulnerabilities to keep him off your trail.

Your chest flares at the memory.

We’re not hiding now. 

It’s your chant, your reminder, your comfort. How nothing of this caliber will be kept between you again.

His eyes confirm it, sincere and exact as they fight to break through their dazed slipping. 

Never again. His voice in your head is home, so consoling it can and has put you to sleep before. 

Right now, it wakes you up in a different light, dowsing you in heat as Obi-Wan takes your hand in his, wiping it on a piece of his discarded clothing before wiping the spend off himself. 

Then he’s taking your face in both his hands tilting you up before kissing you soundly. 

I love you, he says across the wire that ties your minds, the wire that keeps growing stronger every day. So, so very much.

You say it back, a fact as simple as breathing. You love him.

You want him, borderline need him the way you need your next inhale, you don’t say, but he must hear it anyway, because that cocky little smirk that’s been gone far too long is back.

“Shall we do something about that?”

You’re about to just lift your shift dress up and off in response, but he halts you, grasping your wrists. 

“Allow me.” 

He pulls you into another sultry kiss, completely neglecting the task of ridding you of clothing.

Or so you think.

There’s buttons all the way down the dress, and you’ve never used them, always wondering at their purpose if it can so easily lift over your head. 

At first, you don’t even know he’s doing it until you start to feel the coolness of the night air on your nipples. Opening your eyes, you pull back from him to watch as seemingly in thin air, your buttons undo themselves. 

“You needn’t seduce me further. You already know how much I need you,” you gasp, breathless from the kiss.

Obi-Wan just gives a small smile as he drops a hand, dragging it down your side, then down your thigh. “Hm. So impatient. All this from just pleasuring me?”

Maker, he knows! He knows that you are. You always have been, and it’s not as if you weren’t projecting your feelings too.

When he reaches a hand between your thighs, parting them and making a single, tempting stroke through them, his fingers come back glistening. 

“I should think you could feel that I am.” You let the tide of your frustration spill over into your connection to his mind. 

You know he had to hear you, but he gives no indication that he did. 

“Mm. Desire needn’t always be indicatory of impatience,” he punctuates his statement with a hand at the base of your skull, tipping your head back to expose your neck. “I need you to be patient, little one. Let me savor you.” And with that, his mouth makes contact with your neck at the same time his other hand plays with one of your exposed nipples. 

You whimper at the attention, quietly pleading with him for more. Among the still slight changes to your body, this has been the most notable one. How sensitive your breasts have become to even the scrape of the fabric of your clothing. 

And with the rough pads of his fingers working only one, leaving the other to pang in want...

“Obi-Wan,” it’s a prayer, a request. He doesn’t need his hands to cause sensation, and you’d beg him right now if he asked. 

He lets up on your neck, only barely, lips moving against the now throbbing skin. “Answer me first.” 

Clearing your throat, you give the most cogent response you can muster. “Depends on if you’re definition of savor is synonymous with torture.”

He locks eyes with you then, gently grasping a breast in each of his hands, dragging his thumbs over the nipples as you moan out your assent.

His chuckle is far too self-satisfied to be becoming of a Jedi, but you’re already too far gone to call him on it. 

“Is that what you want, little one? For me to torture you so?”

An affirmative whimper is all the response you can give, and Obi-Wan reacts quickly, taking your chin in his fingers and tilting your eyes up to his again. 

“Then you will be patient for me. Because I’m always happy to stop, and we can begin again when you decide to adhere.”

Your brain short circuits on the spot, and all energy is redirected much, much lower. His voice, stars above, his voice when it takes a commanding tone. 

It’s intimate, it’s personal, and yet this game is almost inappropriately playful for how sincere the moment is. 

But such was being loved by Obi-Wan. Full of dissimilar feelings that shouldn’t fit, but moved together in liquid consistency. Like metaphors that didn’t rhyme but still somehow gave their own life-giving rhythm, not dissimilar to the sound of his heartbeat when you lay your head against his chest at night. 

Making quick work of the remaining buttons of your shift and underwear, he beckons you to join him as he lies back down, large, warm hands guiding you to turn around so you’re facing away from him. 

You know that the purple stickiness of the fruit will smear from his body to yours like this, but you can’t at all bring yourself to care. 

You gasp a sigh of relief as one of his hands finds your breast, brushing a knuckle over the too-sensitive nipple. 

“Please.” Your whispered beg sounds pathetic, even to your own ears. But as you arch against him in a frenzied attempt at skin contact, Obi-Wan juts his hips forward, grunting into the exposed column of your neck, and stars, yeah, maybe he didn’t find that so pathetic after all. 

“What do you want, darling?” His voice doesn’t divulge any desperation, and for only the hundredth time do you envy his immaculate self-control. 

“You know, don’t pretend you don’t.” Leaving any doubt to the wind, you push your chest against his barely-touching hand. 

“Specificity can be a virtue; that I also know.” 

You change techniques, driving your hips back softly into where he’s hard and insistent against your ass, hoping it compels him. 

Then you simply… can’t anymore. You’re frozen, unable to move your lower half at all. 

Tangling your desires into a knot and tucking it away, you find the mindfulness to reply. “Yeah, so is mercy.” 

“Indeed it is. I shall concede when you do.”

You won’t win a battle of the wills with him. You’re not sure anyone could.

So you bring his hand over to your nipple. “Touch me here.” 

You feel his smile without even seeing it as he starts tweaking the bud. “Like this?”

It’s so much sensation, all concentrated on such responsive flesh, that you want to beg for him to switch to touching you between your legs.

You haven’t even finished the thought when you feel his unmistakable metaphysical brush against your thigh.

Extending a tendril of your own energy, you invite him in, and he takes it eagerly, ever as eager if not more to be entwined with your mind as with your body. 

He hears it all, the besottment, the arousal, the neediness. The panic that he might drag this out longer, that you’ll have to go a single minute longer without...

“It’s alright. It’s alright.” He sends soothing waves through your connection, and he swaps the positioning of his hand with the curl of power. He turns his hand so that the back of it runs through where you’re aching for him, gathering up your slick on the backs of his knuckles. You have to contort your neck to see what follows when he takes the hand back behind you, and your mouth goes dry when he sucks the knuckles in between his lips. 

You want to hear, you want to know what he’s…

He’s welcoming you in, navigating you to the brink of his mental barriers, letting you take that final plunge into the unsuppressed fullness of your bond to each other.

Now it’s your turn to hear it: how his carefully constructed unaffected persona is not at all a match for his naked, wanton need for you. 

And under that, the foundation on which that desire is built, not the product of it, is his love, his unyielding, unashamed, iridescent love for you. 

It’s all you can do but to pour it back, affirming and soothing and calling his love into action with your own. 

You both don’t want anything else except the most complete of entanglement, and that’s exactly what he moves to do, situating your bodies, hiking your top leg in the crook of his arm as you feel the initial breach of his body into yours, and all breath leaves your lungs in an exhilarating evacuation.

His audible gasp is an echo of his emotions, how he thinks he’s prepared for this onslaught of feeling, but how you take him off guard, how his equilibrium threatens to teeter every time. 

The web of his consciousness enveloping you, it’s easy to pick out a single thought blaring within him: How much he adores the way you fit together. Your back against his chest, how your breast fits in his hand, how the snug joining of where his cock presses into your body sends you into trembles, how comforting your very presence is to his soul when he lets you in like this. 

Tears, without warning, seep out of your eyes as he starts to move against you, slow and deep. You close your eyes, willing the powerful emotion away, but glimmers of light flash out behind our closed lids the moment you do, and how the kriff does he stay composed? 

Anchor. Anchor against me. 

He stills, letting you have a break from the barrage of pleasure blinding you as you search him out, looking for the cords of his intellect that seemingly both steam downward and beam upward, grounding him.

You find it, and you clasp on tightly.

But the moment he starts moving again, you lose sight of it all over again.

Your heightened hormones make your flesh so susceptible, and the tears start to fall again. Obi-Wan rolls your nipple in between his thumb and index, and he’s so good, and you’re so full, and you can hear his pleasure as your own, adding, doubling everything…

Scorching, electrifying heat speeds through your veins, hitting hard and fast, leaving you astounded and even more sensitive than before. 

Obi-Wan’s signature spikes as your climax resounds through him, and you can feel the vibration of the wanton noises he’s making right where his beard scratches against your neck. 

But he doesn’t allow it to overtake him, letting it run through him without resistance, making himself pliable but unmovable, keeping himself back from the edge. 

You still have much to learn.

Because that control? Gives him the ability to not even stop, not even hesitate once, even at both yours and his own ecstasy flowing through him.

When he starts striking his hips hard into yours, the weight of him inside you dragging exactly in the right place, you start to cry in earnest. Obi-Wan stops for a millisecond, concern radiating off of him, even when he can hear how much you want this so clearly, has access to every little passing thought. 

“Don’t stop, I’m fine, I pro…” He does just as asked while moving his hand down to your belly again, a soothing touch to his rough thrusts. Your eyes are blurred with wetness, overwhelmed with him. 

He’s listening to it all, applying every micro-feeling of feedback into action against your desperate, post-orgasmic skin, hand switching back and forth from your nipples to loosely clutching your neck, Force energy focused on applying pressure to your clit. 

“You’re doing so well, so good for me,” comes the wisp of his sultry tone, lips pressed against your ear. 

Since you aren’t even thinking about changing position, you know it’s his own preference that has him withdrawing, guiding you onto your back. 

There’s no inhibition this way, not the way there is when you’re on your side, no separation from your bodies being flush when he pushes into you again. You have to anchor in him, both mentally and with your fingernails clawing at his shoulder blades as your body starts into tremors.

He’s keeping the weight of his chest off of you, even though your belly is still barely swollen into distinguishable roundedness, and as much as you miss the contact, you can look into his eyes like this, can see the unfiltered attachment and all the weight of all the emotion he wills his body to not cave under. 

But then the tremoring transforms into series of contractions throughout your body, centering through your slick core, and you thrash your head to the side catching a glimpse of Obi-Wan’s fingers clenching into white knuckles, grasping into the exposed sand from the blanket being bunched up. 

He projects his thoughts across the tether to you,  how thoroughly impacted by the very fact you’re carrying his child, how affected he is by every little thing about you, honored that he’s allowed to touch you like this. 

You roll your hips back up into his, and that’s what it takes. His stuttering body is the lightning, and the searing, molten pleasure across your connection is the thunderous repercussion. 

It completely overthrows you, and your body bows against him as his high instantly cues yours again.

You can feel him throb inside you at the very moment you do, his turn to experience the secondary sensory white-out of your mate’s climax through the Force, his shuddering shout meeting your breathy whines in the close distance between your mouths. 

And he does kiss you then, soundly but with the haze of afterglow slowing it. 

“Have you any idea how bewitching you are to me?” He breathes it out, and despite all the ways you’d normally scoff at such words, his eyes tell the story, and you listen to it’s truth. 

His eyes hold that constant infiltrating study of you, the one that could be unnerving if his mind, still tethered to yours didn’t hold such amor, heart bleed such fondness that settles in the creases around his eyes. 

How interesting it is watching someone as knowledgeable as him having such an inquisitive outlook on life, and being so frequently the object of those investigations. 

Did the galaxy know her debt to him? Did she know the sum owed to inflicting the worst of life’s pains on someone who refused to let it build anything except an even gentler man of himself? When does she plan on repaying him? What does she offer in exchange for her cruelty of the hand she’s dealt Obi-Wan Kenobi?

Then the whisper comes, soft but crisp, from somewhere in the threads of existence around you, “Can’t you see? It’s you, child.” 

You could argue it. You could scream how it’s not enough, how you’re not enough,  how he deserves so much more from some dark insecure place inside you. Or how love shouldn’t be treated as currency in exchange for pain, how the galaxy could still have your fists if that was how it tallied. 

But the finality of it settles in your soul, more impressionistic than in solid wording: there is no easy conclusion that ties the suffering of life into purpose, no experience that erases or mends its pain. But love. Love makes the complicated endeavor of trying to find purpose in the madness worthwhile.  

Obi-Wan’s hum of agreement resounds in your ears and through to your head. His Force signature feels so familiar, so at home within yours and yours within his, that you’d briefly forgotten he could still hear you. 

With all the strength still left in quaking limbs, you wrap your arms around him, and he melts into it. 

The compassion of his soul hardly matches his war-ravaged skin, his guilt-ridden memories. Every good thing here came to be with a war waged, refined and not burnt away in fire at his sheer tenacity. 

It’s a growing thing, blooming in the desert. The beliefs in both of you. Your love for each other. Your own trust in the Force. 

Healing is no short journey, but her two sojourners here are determined.

And if that tender hope can blossom here?

Then maybe, just maybe: Tatooine is exactly the place for a baby after all. 

*********

In the valley beyond the hut, a boy jets quickly away in some mechanical contraption he recently motorized, a girl in a similar vehicularized compilation of junk not far behind. 

On the cliff’s edge stands Obi-Wan, eyes scanning the landscape intermittently for any sign of threat between longer affectionate looks at the children before him.

He turns, feeling your approach in his keen awareness as you set a hand on his shoulder from behind. His temples are now even thicker with sun-bleached silver, and his eyes wield the lines of laughter around them. 

And you? You’re as roped in by his gravitational pull as you’ve always been. 

He puts a hand over yours, clasping it to bring you in front of him, where he can still watch the children and encase you in his arms at the same time. 

“Slow down, Luke! You’re going too fast!” comes the distressed cry of your daughter, Ahlina, drawing your attention away from admiring Obi-Wan and back to the valley. Her vowels curl in the same way her father’s does, but her more casual phrasing was certainly thanks to you. Luke shouts back at her, “Come on, keep up!” while he races on ahead.

Obi-Wan smiles, seemingly amused at a secret joke. 

“They are much too young for this nonsense still,” he speaks, muffled slightly as he hides his lips in your hair. 

“Probably,” you reply with an airy laugh.

Not long after, the engine on Luke’s small contraption gives out, jutting him off and tumbling forward into the sand. 

“I told you!” Ahlina yells, her own machine coming to a halt not far away from Luke. 

When they make it back up the cliff, Obi-Wan couches and opens his arms, and they both come running with smiles. They’re still young enough to be unshy about affection, and Obi-Wan knows to soak it up, closing his eyes in relishment. 

Luke is the first to wiggle down, waving before running over to hug your leg, which you happily return, brushing some of the blonde mop of hair from his forehead. You adored the nights that the Lars let him sleep over. 

Although the nights that Ahlina slept over at theirs certainly had their allure too. 

“Can we have a snack, Daddy?” Ahlina asks, still happy to be hoisted up on one of his arms. 

“Hm. Perhaps I can make some of those ahrisa sweet breads again?”

She wrinkles her nose. “Can Mommy make them?”

“Why not mine?”

“Because you always burn them.”

He bops a finger lightly on her nose with a smile. “Cheeky.”

She goes to bop him on his nose in return, but he catches the finger, holding it. 

“Give it back!” she screeches through a giggle. 

“No, no. I think I’ll keep it now.” 

The suns are dipping low as you retreat into the hut, the two children running ahead, racing to gather the ingredients to help you bake the bread. Luke especially was an enthusiastic sous-chef. 

You step to follow them, but Obi-Wan grasps your hand. You turn back to him, and he barely gives you a second before he joins his mouth to yours. Sliding a hand into the auburn beard, you open your mouth to him, letting his familiar taste permeate your senses. 

He reluctantly breaks after a long moment, and you take his hand in yours. When you turn back to the horizon, the suns are dipping, blanketing the landscape in the most celestial light of the day. 

The planet’s eyes aren’t harsh in the way you used to see them. They’re still intense, and frequently unforgiving. 

Perhaps they never changed. Maybe only you did.

But as they sink now, you give a silent, partial farewell, knowing they’ll greet you again in the morning. 

Because if Dark’s patience is infinite? 

So is the promise of the return of the Light. 

Tagging upon request: @million-dollar-legs

#obi-wan kenobi #obi-wan kenobi x reader #obi-wan kenobi x you #obi wan kenobi x reader #obi wan kenobi x you #obi-wan x reader #obi-wan x you #obi wan x you #obi wan x reader #obi-wan kenobi smut #obi wan smut #obi-wan smut #obi-wan #obi-wan x oc

[wilburs-soot]

ayo here besties have my take on Derivikat’s Revived bc as much as it’s a banger the c!wilbur analyst in me is just Losing it over the character interpretation

(please note, nothing against the song or the artists, again I think the song slaps and the art is incredible!! there’s just some stuff that doesn’t sit right with me and I wanted to put my ramble out there!! Also, this is all just opinion!! Please feel free to disagree with me, I think the different interpretations of c!wilbur are really fascinating!!)

————

in my opinion, Revived reads as an outside characterization of Wilbur from just moments after he was revived. Which is fine, it just means that it loses a lot of the nuance that his character has in favor of going “oh no he’s back he’s got big plans oh fuck” which is valid, but feels very far removed from how his character *actually* existed during the revival stream. The song just doesn’t feel like it has c! Wilbur’s voice as a character in it.

I really do think the art in revived is very good! However, it leans into the whole “red eyes, evil plans, bad guy” lens on wilbur which I am just Very Much Not A Fan Of because when this portrayal of his character was most popular, he was in the middle of a self destructive mental spiral. (See the “are we the bad guys” stream.) The whole concept of drawing him with glowing red eyes to represent his villainy and (in the case of the pogtopia arc) making him encroach upon Tommy’s personal space to prove a point/“manipulate” him just feels like such a surface level take on the character for me, and while again this is valid, it’s frustrating bc all these big creators keep making content where they paint him like this and due to their popularity he becomes widely villianized in artwork/people’s interpretations of him. In my opinion the revival stream read as him being excited to be alive again and free from his own personal hell, and to have it be an “I’m back, this has been my plan all along, I’m here to fuck shit up and take everything back” just feels Icky to me.

At this point I feel that though his apologies to people weren’t well executed he did genuinely mean them and while again, this song was made before more recent lore streams and has a right to interpret that as him being up to no good or whatever like,,, the man was a Mess that entire stream! He couldn’t even make a point without contradicting himself, of course his apologies are gonna feel weird!

My final point is about limbo and the way the ycgma pallete is used in the song because as much as I love when it’s used it just feels like an weird interpretation of limbo/the album itself to me. the album is so deeply rooted in Wilbur’s mental health and does a great job at expressing the vulnerabilities it needs to, but to take c!wilbur, who clearly is going through a lot of the stuff referenced in the album, and use it so it’s almost like, weaponised?? (Not exactly the word I’m looking for but you know, ycgma feels a lot angrier and like a tool towards a goal in this, at least to me) I dunno it just rubs me the wrong way.

Tldr my take on the revival is essentially “man is stuck in the physical representation of his mental illness and is happy when he’s finally freed bc thirteen and a half years of solitary confinement is Literally Torture holy shit” and the fact that it’s interpreted on a very large scale as “man has used his time dead to his advantage. He’s back, he’s manipulative as ever, he’s evil, and you’d better watch out” just stresses me out because again, it’s such a surface level characterization and he just has so much more depth to him.

Again these are all just my opinions, please feel free to disagree!! I think it’s really interesting how other people view him and other viewpoints are absolutely valid!! That’s the beauty of being able to watch this story from different perspectives, it leaves a lot up to interpretation :)))

#wilbur soot #dream smp #dsmp fandom critical #not really but just to be safe #the song is a banger I just worry about the effect it’s gonna have on peoples interpretation of c!wilbur lmao

[dysphxtric]

Mental Illness - My Mental Health Story

TW: Depression, Anxiety, Self harm, Suicide, Sexual Harassment

“You should smile more.”

“It could be worse.”

“Just don’t think about it.”

These were the phrases I heard throughout all of my elementary and high school years. There was never a time when my peers and teachers, would not mention some bizarre, ignorant statement revolving around mental health. Not to mention, my family also contributed heavily to the stigmatization of mental health issues. Essentially, my family approached the subject of mental health with extreme hesitation, they refused to talk about how it affects people of all age, gender, ethical background (etc.) Every time I would say “I’m feeling lost” my family would automatically dismiss my frantic worries and it was not any different when I went to school. My peers would continuously remind me that my pain was not valid and that I need to stop being so sensitive. My primary parental figures, my mother and brother did not have the adequate knowledge or tools to be able to hold space for me. I would frequently hear my mom say, “I could understand someone suffering from PTSD feeling upset or sad but you’re so young and healthy honey, you have nothing to worry about” or the old classic “Someone else has it worse than you”. Whether I was at home or at school, I heard the same ignorant statements spewing out from what felt like everyone. And I could never comprehend what was the point of these falsely “encouraging” statements and why profusely use them? These kinds of statements do not uplift, nor do they empower those struggling with mental health issues, if anything it makes it extremely debilitating when your emotions are not acknowledged nor validated. One cannot expect to simply brush away another person’s emotion, thought or feeling as though it means nothing.

With that being said, growing up, I lived in a dysfunctional household alongside my mother, my older brother, and my grandmother. My mother would always be juggling work, schooling, and her dating life. My brother was very reluctant about staying home so he would always vanish after school, hang out with friends, party hard and engage with various street substances. Now my grandmother? It was not long after she immigrated that she began to immerse herself within the Jehovah’s Witnesses ideology and “religiously” strayed away from us as my mother likes to say. My mother was never fond of religious practices that were not “orthodox”. My grandmother wanted to indoctrinate my mom, brother, and I into joining her religious little club but failed which resulted in countless fights, yelling matches, and multiple dents left in our walls. The back and forth with the yelling was what scared me most in my childhood even if it was over something as small as not closing the cabinet door. I think it was around this time period I experienced violence/ trauma at home and truth be told I was extremely stressed and anxious all the time as a kid. My mother would cover the punched indents by taking magazines and sticking pages onto the indent. Often times my stomach would turn as I looked at the pages covering the area where my brother punched the wall with brutal force. Moreover, I felt impending sadness because all I ever wanted was for everyone in my family to be able coexist and not argue. I was trying to keep the peace between everyone, yet I was always the one that got caught in the middle of everything whether I liked it or not. I would get blamed a lot for trying to mend things for everyone. Even though all I wanted was the best for all my family members.

Fast forward to my pre-teen/ teenage years. By this point, my brother and grandmother were no longer living under the same roof as my mother and I. My brother was living with his ex-girlfriend while working as a security guard meanwhile my grandmother was living in her own little subsidized apartment preaching the word of Jehovah. At that particular time, my mother and I lived in a marvellous urban semi-detached house in a peaceful neighbourhood. My mother’s boyfriend had moved in with us and for the most part I was really happy because at least it was not just me and her.

My mother’s boyfriend lived with us while I was going to school. He was a really nice, caring and warm-hearted individual although I could never understand why my mother argued with him so much. I once told him “You should propose to her, I can see you two together forever” to which he replied with a welcoming smile.

But eventually just like with all good things, there comes an end. The inevitable breakup my mom went through was very bitter and I had to be there for her. Afterall, I was technically the only child that was around to emotionally comfort her. Ironically, the breakup occurred during the time I was being bullied in school. And it was difficult to be fully present for my mother while dealing with a lot of negativity at school. I had been experiencing cyber bullying on MSN by a bunch of peers calling me “weird”, “ugly” and “different”. To make matters worse, the group of kids that bullied me online ended up following me everywhere I went for recess which posed as a big obstacle for my well being. I had to eat inside the portables when teachers weren’t around or inside the girl’s bathroom stall just to avoid being teased. I never felt like I had a safe space to myself where I could be vulnerable and open up. Not to mention, it was a difficult time and there was practically no one I could confide in. I didn’t have a social circle of supportive friends, after all I was an antisocial person. Fear washed over me as I worried about disclosing my unpleasant experience to my mother because she was already dealing with so much, the heartbreak, the bills, work problems (etc.), it was then and there that I decided to lie instead of telling the truth. Ultimately, lying became my cooping mechanism to deal with the ongoing pain.

I kept up the lying for a long time in order to make it seem like everything was okay. I lied to everyone from family members to school peers to the teaching staff to principals to counselors.

For the longest time, lying sheltered me from all sorts of unnecessary questions. No one could really tell whether I was truthful or disloyal because I was able to make it sound believable. When I was a teenager, I continued to go down the same destructive path by being dishonest with myself and others. Many times, the thought of suicide crossed my mind and when I started to think about it and plan/coordinate the intricate details it did not hit me that something was very wrong, and I needed urgent help. A big part of the problem was that I was so used to downplaying my pain, given my family circumstance and stigmatization I experienced growing up with. There is no denying that I would engage in negative self talk convincing myself that I deserved the pain and suffering for not being likeable enough or for not being smart enough.

Sometimes I think that is the thing… people do not understand that I lied because that was what I was required to do in order to survive my childhood. I, myself do not tolerate lying and I think it is a form of betrayal and if I were to be completely honest, I would have NEVER lied to my mom had it been safe for me to express myself authentically in my household.

I did not live in a household where it was safe to speak my mind freely and disagree with my mother. Disagreeing was always the last thing I wanted to do, disagreeing meant I got the belt, my devices would get confiscated or that I was going to get grounded. They say, “Honesty is the best policy” and I do not disagree however, it is not as black and white as one may think. In my situation, lying was not only an adaptive coping mechanism but it became a survival mechanism to keep me safe from harm/threat.

I did not have very much individuality growing up. I felt as though having an opinion of my own was bad. In order to perpetuate this fixated mindset that I had, my mother constantly deemed certain attributed behaviours or thoughts as “good” or “bad”. So, say you were upset about a recent breakup with your partner, my mother would scoff and say, “You know life isn’t just about love right?” and play it like it means nothing to the person affected by the situation.

The first time I ever felt depressed was when I was 13. At that age I did not understand why I was feeling what I was feeling. All I knew was that there was something wrong with me. It did not help when I was being picked on by my classmates telling me “Go die”, “You belong in a ditch ugly bitch.”

The moment when things started getting out of hand was when I was first started my Art and Family Studies class in the same semester. In both classes I was placed into groups amongst other students. In Family Studies I had to be in a collaborative group that would divide responsibilities and tasks accordingly. When it came to cooking, my group consisted of four snobby, rich yet immature peers who were unwilling to help and contribute in any shape or form, I had to become the bigger person and sure enough I took all the responsibilities on myself. Though, it was not a smart move. But I was super shy and felt anxious to do anything different least to say speak up and advocate for myself, so I did what I had to do which was prepare meals, clean, and wash the dishes. At the end of the day, none of my peers thanked me, the only thank you I got was getting groped while washing the dishes and getting laughed at.

After what happened I ran to my best friend in tears to tell her what happened just to find her say “It’s not that bad, you’ll be fine” I felt like my blood was going to boil and I was about to start fuming. I stood thinking “Huh, that is so weird, is this how you comfort a person after being sexually harassed?”

Not to sound all grim but that experience showed me that no one really cared about me. No one cared that I got groped or how I felt in that moment. Let alone not even my “best friend” who was supposed to fulfill her role and be there for me. All I wanted was comfort and to be heard out. I could not even tell my mother about this experience until I turned 21 because of how ashamed I felt carrying around that experience and not having the ability to open up and mourn what happened that day and to be able to heal that damaged part of myself. I carried that incident with me for 7 years in silence because I was scared of being honest.

That specific experience was very detrimental to my mental health. Everything began to spiral out of control, I sprawled into a dark depressive state. I began to have intense panic attacks, insomnia, forgetfulness (etc.) After a certain duration of time, I had thoughts of suicide lingering at the back of my head. I questioned my worth, my identity, my culture, my everything.

The bullying and name calling persisted and became so intense that I ended up missing weeks of school time. Some of the boys in my Art class found it funny to make fun of my last name and call me “Prostitute”.

One day in the early springtime, my Art teacher noticed the marks on my wrists as I was painting and had not said anything until I made it to my last period class. I was called down to the guidance counselors office and was interrogated with questions.

“It has come to our concern that one of the staff members noticed cuts on your arms.”

I sat in silence trying hard to contain my anxiety.

“Are you struggling with depression or low mood? Is everything okay at home?”

It came to the point when I got so tired of lying about my pain that I admitted “Yes, I am struggling, I need help”. I dived into the bullying occurrences, the cat calling, my low grades, my self-esteem, the groping, my home situation (etc). After that, I was told that my mother would have to be called down to the school for “safety” reasons even though my counselor promised not to disclose any personal information to my mother. My greatest fear was that I did not want my mom to know that something was wrong.

Of course, my mom came to my school. She was told everything that had happened. I met her at the counselor’s office just to find her wailing in distress “You are such an embarrassment” and “Your counselor told me what you did, how could you do this?”. When the counselor gave us resources for help, my mother grabbed the papers and shoved them into the trash, got up and yanked me out the office.

The next three days that followed, my mother withdrew into her room not saying a word to me. I felt really uneasy and upset. She had her right to be alone but locking herself away from me and avoiding communication altogether? Didn’t make much sense.

I felt extremely guilty for not opening up to my mother sooner. But instead of choosing to be compassionate and caring she chose to resort to anger. She furiously blamed me for being “quiet” and “not trustful” which all landed on my shoulders again. It was “my” fault I thought.

Bottling this up resulted in a full-blown mental breakdown. I could not focus or concentrate because of everything building up. It came to the point where my mom had to choose between living in a toxic community or starting fresh elsewhere.

And even though my mother kept subjecting me to her harmful stigmatizations, the transition from my old school to my new one helped me greatly. When we moved away, I gradually started to feel better emotionally, mentally, and spiritually. Very quickly, I ended up adapting to my new high school where I finally made friends.

One thing I cannot deny is that there definitely was a silver lining to all of this. Although I went through severe bullying and torment at school and home, I managed to reclaim my power and through that I discovered my inner peace after being extracted from my toxic high school. The new school that I ended up attending completely changed me and inspired me to become a more authentic version of myself. It was almost as though I did a complete 180°

My new peers and teachers were enthusiastic, open-minded and caring. The new community I was surrounding myself in was a very positive one that broke down stigmas and encouraged deep understanding and acceptance. My mind was blown when I found that it was easier to conversate with girls and guys at my new school, I was gradually becoming confident and more vocal, and I liked the feeling of not hiding myself away from the world. It felt rejuvenating to finally be heard and seen by others.

Slowly but surely, I began to partake in various activities at my school. I joined the Poetry Club which I would have never considered joining had I stayed back in my old school due to fear of how I was perceived. Ultimately, I started caring and nurturing myself more. My new friends supported me, and teachers began to openly listen to my stories and encouraged me to write. When I started writing, I realized that I could use this medium to cope with my depression and anxiety. The acknowledgment made a major difference in my life like never before.

If it were not for the transition from my old high school, I would have not made progress in developing into the woman I am today. I know that I am not my pain, I am not my mistakes.

Do I still struggle and have bad days? Yes, of course. Just like any human being I have my days when I am not feeling the greatest however, I am more open to learning about how to engage with my mind, body and soul in order to soothe myself during turbulent times. I still have that inner critic however, I have been engaging with activities such as bike riding, painting, drawing, and reading to help occupy my mind which as a result has reduced the time that I spend ruminating. Occupying myself has worked magic, I am now able to reduce and control how much time I spend self-loathing, criticizing, and judging myself. Rather than judging every thought, I’ve learned to slow down and observe.

If you stuck along until the end of my story, I want to thank you for reading through my experience. My hope is that my story can shed some light on the myths and stigmas surrounding mental health, especially within the Eastern European community. I want you all to know that you are ALL valid and I wanted to be able to share my story so that my readers know that they are not alone.

#mental health #mental health awareness #depression #mdd #mood disorder #anxiety #gad #my story #hope #bullying #narcissistic parent #end the stigma #recovery #fyp

[overwatch-does-stuff]

Lindholm Family Headcanon Dump!

I know Michael Chu retracted the statement that Torbjorn has a bunch of kids, but Chu just quit so I make the rules now. It’s a LONG post under the cut because I got carried away. Mostly starring Torbjorn, but featuring Ingrid, Reinhardt, and Brigitte (plus a bunch of other kiddos that exist but I don’t have headcanon names for yet oops.) There won’t be any Bastion in this one because that’s an entire other post’s worth of content.

- Torb has a big family. He and Ingrid had a couple children of their own while he had a stable position in Overwatch, but they found out that they loved having little children around the house, so after all of their biological children moved out, they chose to volunteer in the foster system! This lead to them adopting at least four more kids. - Which means they drive a huge van everywhere.  - Both Ingrid and Torbjorn are masters at driving as a result. - They’re exactly equivalent in skill with one exception: Ingrid can parallel park the van, a skill he has yet to figure.

- Their house is pretty big (the Overwatch paycheck paid well, that, along with Ingrid’s income,) so there’s plenty of room for all of them. - There’s three levels: upstairs (for the bedrooms and playrooms,) downstairs (for entertaining spaces/the kitchen and stuff,) and finally, the basement, which is Torbjorn’s personal workshop. - Most third world countries would kill to have a workshop as good as his. - It’s all because Ingrid spoils him so much. He gets just as excited for Christmas as his kiddos do. - “The latest arc welder? Aww, honey, you shouldn’t have!” - Ingrid doesn’t work in his field, but she listens to his special interests dumps, and puts in enough research of her own, that she knows just what to get him every year. - Ingrid doesn’t like getting gifts as much as he does, so for Christmas, he always makes sure to spend quality time with her. He jokes that he ‘sucks at planning dates’ but he really doesn’t! For her, it’s nothing but the top restaurants and most exciting experiences. She loves going ice skating in particular, something that he hates but will always do with her. - Torbjorn and Ingrid split the cooking equally. They’re a bit traditionally gendered with what they like to cook, with Torb leaning more towards grilling and Ingrid preferring baking, but it suits them just fine. - Their grill, along with every other cooking contraption in the house, has been upgraded in some way. In fact, Torb’s the one who grills only because Ingrid still can’t figure out how to use the damn thing since he upgraded it. - Their house is covered in contraptions of all sorts. Other than the grill, Ingrid utilizes every single one of them. Meals get served and sent around via chutes. The floors sweep and mop themselves automatically when they’re dirty. The dishwasher loads, washes, and unloads itself in record time. - You know the zany contraptions in the Addam’s family house? Think that, but more brightly colored. - However, Ingrid’s taste in interior decorating is the opposite of gothic or minimalist- she loves quirky, unique features and bright colors. - She loves thrifting.  - The huge chair they got for Reinhardt in the living room was a thrift store find that she’s still very proud of. - She also has an old-fashioned “live laugh love” wall with all of the family portraits. She knows it’s cheesy, but it’s nostalgic for her.  - She doesn’t just bring furniture home. She also brings home cats. - That’s right. Brigitte got her cat love from Ingrid. - It’s a long-standing tradition, with the first cat she brought home was over thirty years ago when they were a new couple. - Torbjorn swore that it would be her cat and that he wouldn’t take care of it. - He was wrong. - Very wrong. - He now loves his cats and calls them cutesy nicknames in whatever language he feels like in the moment. - He built them automated feeders, automated litter boxes, and even some automated toys. He spoils them rotten. - Every time Ingrid brings home a new cat it’s the same routine. He swears that this will be the last one and that he’s not taking care of this one! But that’s wrong and he knows it. - But, because Ingrid’s always bringing things home, she’s a little more tolerant when Torbjorn brings. . . a specific Omnic. . . home.

- But that’s a whole other fanfic that I would need to write, so instead, back to the parenting! - Ingrid is 100% a feral soccer mom. Torbjorn is just as bad. - They’re the ones screaming their lungs out at sports games.  - They have a house rule where their kids have to participate in one extracurricular sport. It can be school teams, club teams, or even just working out on their own, but fitness is something that both Ingrid and Torb consider important. - Torbjorn, of course, built his own gym in the basement. He trained with Brigitte, and now he trains with another one of his daughters who’s taken an interest in weight-lifting. - But this all doesn’t mean that the Lindholms discourage more creative talents! - Torbjorn crafted a giant steel board where any arts and crafts get hung with magnets. One of his little boys is an artist and he couldn’t be more proud.  - Brigitte experimented with metal art when she was a teenager, and many of her pieces are now permanent fixtures in the Lindholm home. - She crafted a particularly beautiful string of lights that hangs above the dining room table.

- Now it’s time for Uncle Reinhardt!!! - Okay, so maybe he’s called just ‘Reinhardt’ by the older kiddos, but everyone knows he’s essentially an uncle in all but blood. - He’s been invited to every holiday celebration for about. . . actually, he’s just always been there.  - He’s a true multi-generational staple. Brigitte can’t remember a holiday without him, and now the younger kiddos are getting doted on by him every Christmas.  - Rein loves telling stories for the children. He spends the entire car ride there planning his multi-hour epics. - Now that she’s older, Brigitte sometimes helps with the storytelling, contributing sound effects and such. - Something which just causes Torbjorn to laugh and shake his head. - Reinhardt also loves nothing more than being a walking jungle gym. As soon as he walks in the door, he’ll grab the nearest kiddo and put them on his shoulders. He’s often seen walking around with a kid in each arm and usually an extra hanging off his back. - Sometimes he gives Ingrid a heart attack when he starts throwing kids around, but hey, she’s known him long enough at this point that she (mostly) trusts him. - Everyone gets sad when Reinhardt has to leave, but he insists that there is justice that needs to be done. He soothes the kiddos by promising an even better story when he gets back.

- Now it’s time to get sad. . . here’s my Brigitte headcanons. . . - Brigitte was REALLY close with her father growing up. She spent so much of her time in his workshop learning from him, as one of the only Lindholm children to take a liking to machinery and engineering. - However, when she moved out. . . she found it difficult to escape his legacy. Everyone, many of the older industry professionals and the like, expected her to be just like her father. They tried to cajole her into finishing old weapons designs that Torbjorn had abandoned. - It was then that she learned the full extent of Torbjorn’s involvement in the Omnic Crisis. - She had a lot of trouble reconciling this news with her love for him. It’s still something she had great difficulty with.  - This shock played a big part in her decision to give up on finding a job in the industry and instead accompany Reinhardt on his travels. - It wasn’t a decision that Torbjorn endorsed, which hurt their relationship even further. - But it’s not like he doesn’t try to keep in touch. They call every other weekend or so to catch up, but there’s always a tension between them that neither one is ready to address.  - They will talk about it someday. They’ll figure things out. They care about each other too much for either one to give up.  - In the meantime, though, Brigitte has gotten a lot closer with her mother. She calls her much more often.  - They talk about all of the things that Brigitte wasn’t all that interested in when she was younger. Stuff like fashion, makeup, and more traditional advice, such as how to get a date or what it feels like to fall in love.  - Ingrid also makes sure to show her how the cats are doing over the online call.

- To be truthful, Ingrid isn’t too worried about Brigitte’s decision to live the rough-and-tumble lifestyle. It reminds her a lot of her own young adulthood, where she decided to pick up everything and move to the big city to get away from her parents. - She’s quick to remind Torbjorn that her own little rebellion is how they came to meet whenever he gets worried about Brigitte’s decision. - (They met at Ironclad. The only job Ingrid could find after her big move was working secretary. She fell head-over-heels for him immediately, while it took him a while to warm up.) - (Their first date was just walking around the city, with Torbjorn talking almost the entire time about random things he saw. He’d see the newest cars on the street and dive into what he knew about that industry. They’d pass by a construction sight and he’d point out what tool designs were similar to the ones he was working on.) - (When he realized that she was actually listening to him and taking him seriously, he agreed to a second date and never looked back.) - They aren’t a perfect couple- they’ve had their fair share of arguments, especially because they’re both deeply stubborn, but they’re always able to work it out in a way that makes them both happy. That skill is why they’ve lasted so long. - One thing they’ve never argued about, though, is Torbjorn’s commitment to duty. When they started dating he made it clear that his work was very important to him. Ingrid made it clear that she was willing to be patient. - It got hard when he was away for months at a time with Overwatch during the Crisis and its aftermath, but through constant online calls they managed. - The biggest surprise of Ingrid’s life was when he told her he wanted to have kids when the Crisis ended. - Turns out, having a major life crisis about how your career impacted the world makes someone want to find another purpose in life besides their career. - And thus, they dove into parenthood together. - Now they both couldn’t be happier :)

#overwatch #torbjorn lindholm #overwatch torbjorn #ingrid lindholm #reinhardt #overwatch brigitte #brigitte lindholm #I have so many feelings about Torbjorn and his family. . . #I'm not sure this is very articulate but eh #who cares #it's content

[illinoisjournal]

Hey there Pal! Good to see you around~ This is just my blog for talking with others or cataloging my adventures. Stick around,maybe you'll fall in love with me~Who knows?

Last Edit [April 12th,2021]

This is essentially the About ! I'll add a DNI,guidelines and such to another post. For now,this is just a general run down on my "version" of Illinois!

About the muse!:

Name: Illinois Jones [Alias],Harrison Aaron Williams [Legal name]

Age: Ranges from 25-30

Pronouns: He/Him [They/Them She/Her or neopronouns are fine! Illy doesn't care about pronouns]

Sexual Orientation: Queer/No preference/Bi/Pan/really anything. Polyromantic/sexual

Nicknames: Illy,Jones,Hotshot,Handsome,Etc.

Physical info:

Species: Human

Height: 5'10-6'0.

Build: Athletic build,Slim,Strong

Clothing: Tan button up with two pockets on the chest,tucked into Tan/Brown pants. Wears a satchel,Two belts,and a Hat. Belts hold his whip,gun holster,multi tool,and a knife tucked into his pocket.

Accesories: earrings,A couple bracelets,a watch.

Eyes: Dark brown,T50 on This chart

Hair: Dark brown,almost black. Wavy. Curls when short or wet. Ranges from 2C to 3A on This chart

Skin: Tanned and freckled. Several scars. Face has no scars,besides a barely visible,hardly there scar just next to his right nostril. Rest of his body is littered with freckles,marks and scars.

Extra:

Sign: Scorpio

DoB: October 30th

Family: Dead,N/A

Likes: Adventure,Mystery,Mythology,Linguistics,History,Ancient History/Ancient society,the outdoors,Animals,Documentaries,Museums,Journaling,Rocks,His looks,Archeology,Being right,trailmix,historical art,Nature

Dislikes: Crowded spaces,tight squeezes,boulders,Attachment,animal cruelty,any type of abuse,chewing with mouth open,Disrespect of culture,people,or artifacts,being alone,

Strengths: physically fit,good eye hand coordination, photographic memory, very knowledgeable on most topics,Multilingual,good with most weapons, knows many fighting techniques,Handsome.

Weaknesses: overwhelmed by big crowds,emotionally repressed,probably cursed,just so irresistible it makes people want to fight him,forgetful of certain things (Unless it's written down. This is due to head trauma.) Very excitable

Random Fact: Illinois can and will occasionally info dump. Sometimes he will mention weird,supernatural things,and not realize most others don't experience those things. Also might be cursed.

Favorite color: Green,Yellow,Orange,Blue

Favorite food: really likes pumpkin pie

Occupation: Independently contracted out by people/governments to find and retrieve artifacts,or to help restore places to former glory. Used to collect info for undercover operations, since he's a bit of a smooth talker. Could possibly pick up teaching. Went to college and is now a certified archeologist.

Shitty Playlist here ! 

About the Mun:

Name: Seraph!

Age: 19,soon to be 20

Pronouns: He/Him

My DNI , RULES and GUIDELINES

Uhhh idk what to put here but ! I like to draw,I like legend of zelda and I’m just here to mess around and have fun.

[If you know who I am,please try not to let others know! Unless I've stated it's ok. Thank you]

Tag directory

[^^^placeholders till I have those written!]

#illinois #illinois jones #illinois rp blog #illinois rp #roleplay #rp #semi selective #semi independent #markiplier egos rp #markiplier egos roleplay #youtube egos rp #youtube egos roleplay #ooc #pinned #info post #ahwm rp #for for the main tag #sorry for the main tag :( #ahwm illinois roleplay #rp blog #ahwm roleplay #oc friendly #selfship friendly #self ship friendly #pinned post #[info] journal entries

[punkinroses]

Alright! Round two of the next generation(s) for the Zutara au I eventually want to write. The last post detailed Zuko and Kataras kids and grandkids. So, I feel it fitting to address the next batch of them with the

Sukka Kids

Yue: The eldest daughter of Sokka and Suki, she has risen to become the current elected chief of the Southern Water Tribe. Charismatic, strong willed and kind, she lives up not only to the legacy of her parents, but also her namesake. She's someone who has been doing the best she can for her people and the growth of their Tribe and has been currently been in meetings to figure out which is the best route for her people, fully uniting with their Northern sister tribe or to gain full independence, or if their current compromise is beneficial to her people. The biggest shock of her parents life came when she showed to be a Waterbender, something that was much to the delight of her Aunt Katara. Yue has many of her aunts softer features, but has her fathers dark brown hair, blue eyes and darker skin. She keeps her long hair braided back in a thick plait and has it kept with a blue band with a Water Tribe charm attached to it.

Her husbands name is Kenai. He is the son of one of the council Elders who fell head over heels for Yue when they were just teenagers and was constantly trying to win her affections. She soon found herself falling for him and after a long, grueling grilling from Sokka, the two would be married. He's an equal partner and counselor to her over political matters and he also runs his own restaurant that serves traditional Southern Water Tribe cuisine, along with occasional specialties he's picked up from his Earth Kingdom and Fire Nation in laws. He's got long, dark brown hair, and greyish blue eyes and has been growing out his stubble as of late.

Their eldest child is their son Haku. He, like his mother, is very charismatic and strong willed, and he's also a social butterfly. He's focused on making strong connections with others as a show of leadership, and maybe flirting with the men and women of the Water Tribe he finds attractive. His parents are very determined to teach him leadership qualities while also letting him enjoy his youth while he can. He has dark brown hair done in a warriors wolf tail, much like his Grandpa Sokkas, bright blue eyes and he finds it quite funny that hes taller than his parents. He also has a tattoo on his upper left arm and wears Sokkas necklace.

Their middle child is their daughter, Eira. Eira was born deaf and uses sign language to speak, though she also knows how to read lips, and has also learned how to express herself through her waterbending. She actually wants to be a waterbending instructor for the younger generation, while also making art from her ice sculptors. She loves really stupid jokes and is a self proclaimed Penguin sledding champion. She also has recently gotten very into photography and is always taking pictures at family get togethers. Her hair actually hangs down freely and she has a couple strands done in her familys signature "hair loopies" and her eyes shine brightly and she loves the new dresses and jewelry her Aunt Kaguya brings her from her travels.

Their youngest children are the twins Kallik and Kari. The twins are quite frankly polar opposites. Kallik is very much a social butterfly like his brother and never knows a stranger. He wants to always run head first into adventure and be a great warrior and adventurer like his grandfather. Kari, on the other hand, likes to be kept to her own devices and is quite sarcastic, but she loves to read and invent. She wants her inventions to make a difference in the world, she just has to learn how to get them on a grander scale. Kalliks hair is always done up in a man bun, and Karis is done into pigtails with her bangs falling over one eye. They also have birthmarks on the opposite shoulder for each of them.

Aylin: The second born daughter, she has the heart of a true warrior. Aylin has trained hard to become not only just a Kyoshi Warrior, but one to lead her elite group and become a head guard to the President of Republic City, while also helping her younger sister run the training school. She's what she claims to be the most "sensible and logical" out of her sisters and believes there's reason behind everything and that anyone can rise up to be as strong and as capable as they put the effort into. She's also got every bit of her father's sarcastic personality. And with it all comes a strong sense of justice and a lot of influence from the story of Avatar Kyoshi. Like her parents, she's a nonbender but is heavily proficient in her fans, hand to hand combat and sword fighting, though she relies mostly on her fans. She has dark reddish brown hair kept in short, blue eyes and a slightly lighter complexion than Yue and is actually the shortest of her sisters.

Aylin has a girlfriend who is a metalbender named Ikue. Ikue, like her girlfriend, has a strong sense of justice and wanting to see a better world. She also uses that to her advantage when she wants to bring home stray animals by saying "It's the right thing to do to give them a home." Ikue works at a library in Republic City and believes knowledge is a great and essential tool in making a good world. She's also just waiting for the time to pop the question to Aylin or for her to do it, wanting to truly settle down.

Mahina: The third born daughter, she, like Aylin, followed their mothers footsteps into becoming a Kyoshi Warrior and is the head teacher at the dojo in Sukis home village on Kyoshi Island. She loves being a teacher more than anything, as she's able to guide the next generation of young women to being the best warriors they can be. And she loves telling horrible jokes to them to keep the smiles on their face and moral high when they feel like they're hitting a slump. She's a very playful and big hearted person, but can also prove to be just as deadly a warrior as Aylin and Suki. Her preferred weapon is the sword but she also was passed down her fathers beloved boomerang that she will frequently use. She's got a light olive complexion, a more muscular build, short brown hair and brown eyes, as well as her fathers cheekbones.

Mahina has only been married to her husband, Jian, for a year and they have recently announced they're expecting their first child. Jian is a hardworking soul and works as a merchant in their small town, selling not only custom jewelry, but very detailed and well made swords, knives and the works. They first met because of his work and for them it was love at first sight. He's very dedicated to his growing family and is very proud. He is a bit clumsy and socially awkward however.

Kaguya: The youngest daughter, Kaguya was always her fathers baby in a sense (though he loved all of the girls equally). She chose a different road than her sisters, and instead decided to follow her passion of poetry and music. Kaguya has become a famous singer and pipa player across the world and loves spreading her passion. She's very famous for her own spin on Don't Fall in Love with the Travelling Girl, Leaves From the Vine, and the revival of a shanty from Avatars Kyoshis time simply titled Work Shanty. She also has her own original works that have become very popular amongst the people. She's the most softspoken out of her sisters, and they argue she's the most spoiled, and she likes indulging in the life she's worked hard to gain. She dresses in the latest fashions and loves representing both her heritages with blues and greens. She's got long reddish brown hair, blue eyes and a slightly darker complexion than Mahina.

Kaguya claims she has no desire nor time for ever settling down with someone, and considers her nieces and nephews to be like her own children. She has actually discovered she is infertile after a particular couple of scares from flings but she is quite fine with that. It just means she can focus more on her real baby, music!

#atla #atla ocs #avatar #avatar the last airbender #avatar lian #sukka #sokka #suki #zutara au #sukka kids #avatar oc #avatar ocs

[sullustangin]

Headcanon: Theron Shan

^^ --- I lived for that line. 

In honor of Theron Thursday, this headcanon applies to the fic series Corellian Whiskey and Sullustan Gin.

-- Because he was raised by Master Zho until he was 13, Theron missed out on a lot of pop culture -- holo films, music, toys, video games (or the SW equivalent), comic books, etc.  He caught up on the comics thanks to one of his classmates at the Coronet City Military Academy, but he doesn’t have a favorite song or a favorite holo.

-- However, as an agent, he can sing, dance, and act for cover purposes. Essentially, he knows and can do the science/technical aspects but hasn’t developed a personal taste regarding any of these arts.  They’re tools. 

-- Theron is a voracious reader, which is why the comic books were read.  He’s read the classics of the galaxy and plows through the best seller list for fun; if he takes a date out to see a holo, he has read the book first.

-- He has the bad habit of using his implants to read intel and data when he’s supposed to be reading or watching something that doesn’t interest him. 

--  Theron went from Jedi youngling to military academy student to SIS trainee; he can boil water, and that’s about it.  Home ec was never on the agenda.  He does like food, however, and he’s eating his way through the best restaurants on Alderaan once he finishes up Coruscant. 

-- Theron has a datapad of holo stills and a few vids from his childhood.  That’s it as far as keepsakes go.  He has a few bits of memorabilia from his swoop circuit days, but in general, Theron’s life fits in a few pieces of luggage, mostly clothes.  I imagine he doesn’t even have enough stuff to make a place look frat house messy.

-- Theron does that thing of buying clothes in multi-packs (shirts, underwear, socks, everything), but he gets away with it like George Clooney got away with wearing the same tuxedo for 20+ years.  That said, he’s not in the clothes we see in-game all of the time....it’s just that certain pieces keep rotating through due to multipack buys. 

Semi-spoilery headcanon below the the cut.

-- Theron is very discreet about his past and his private life when he’s working.  A small number of SIS coworkers know his preferences, and he has dated a few people from the office.  Nothing serious, nothing long term; the people in the know respect him enough not to gossip.

-- However, everyone else not in the know is thirsty as hell for Theron gossip, so there’s really crazy stuff out there.  There’s even a rumor within the rumor mill that Theron planted some of the more bizarre items deliberately for science.  Or for his own amusement.  Why not? 

-- Yes, there is a rumor that Marcus Trant is Theron’s dad. 

-- Gossip shoved aside:  In my headcanon, Theron is bisexual, heteroromantic. His partners are women, 75-80% of the time.  He’s gone on dates with non-binary people.  He’s gone on dates with men that ended in bed, and he’s also gone on dates that didn’t end at one apartment or another.  However, he pursues relationships and consistent sexual contact with women.  Biphobia exists in my version of the Old Republic, so Theron is highly cautious about revealing this; some women have reacted negatively to it in the past. 

I work ahead on the series, so I’m actually a fic and a half ahead of what I’m posting on AO3.  I’m at a point in writing the series where it’s taking a increasingly overt sexual turn -- thoughts get closer to action. Theron knows he has to disclose certain information at some point to potential love interest Eva (OC smuggler), but he’s not looking forward to it due to past experience. Eva, however, can gather intel on her own, plus she reads people like she reads gambling tables -- well.  She figures it out before he tells her.  Eva is fine with it; if he can handle her body count, she can handle his body count, whatever the composition. 

#theron thursday #theron shan #headcanon #swtor headcanon #fan fiction #swtor fan fiction

[omega-deku]

So I would love to progress on my art and try comics any tips? ÙwÚ

Hi! I’m so sorry about the late reply. D: I hope you don’t mind if I take this opportunity to address all the anon messages about how we can improve as artists. 

I have a tough time answering this question because there is so much I need to learn. I’m super flattered that some of you feel that my art is good enough to ask me for tips, first of all!! So thank you, guys.

It’s a struggle because I only recently started taking up art again. So I’ve forgotten a lot of the things. So I’m probably not the best person to ask about this.

I used to draw all the time as a kid, but after high school, I stopped drawing. I stopped drawing for almost a decade, pretty much. I really regret it. I feel like I could have come such a long way if I did keep going. My parents really discouraged me from pursuing art, even just as a hobby, too. Even when I left home (I’m back now tho), my ex-spouse, greatly discouraged me from doing art too. I mean, “proper” art. They told me my art wasn’t “real art” because it’s not studio art, it’s “sellout” art, like anime/cartoons/fanart. I had even worse self-esteem as I do now, and I listened to them and gave up. I convinced myself I hated drawing. 

Please don’t deny yourself things that make you feel engaged and connected. If drawing makes you feel good, if it makes you not realize how much time has passed and makes you feel like you’re accomplishing things, even little by little, please don’t stop. Even if you suffer from depression and feel like things like this are pointless, remember that just doing things in general will help you. Drawing is an awesome way to get into the flow state. To me personally, it’s almost like a meditative state and I find it helpful in dealing with chronic pain and mental health issues. 

Anyways, I’ll try to compile some advice sort of things.

ART IN GENERAL

1. Draw what you enjoy! I think the most important thing is to draw what you like. It’s okay if it’s “dumb stuff”. Draw your favorite characters or pairings from your favorite tv shows if that tickles your fancy! You’re much more likely to be spending more time drawing if you’re drawing stuff you like. And as long as you’re drawing, you’re improving. (But still, challenge yourself and get out of your comfort zone!)

Especially for those of you who are planning to pursue art as a career, it’s essential that you don’t view practicing art as a chore. 

2. Draw from life. If you really want to take your art to the next level, drawing from life is vital! I think many of us have come across artists who are just amazing, but there are things that look a little “off”. For example, the anatomy doesn’t look quite right, or the perspective is a little wonky. Things like that can be a tell that they’ve learned to draw from other people’s art rather than from life. Or just haven’t practiced the basics enough. (My art isn’t amazing or anything close to that lmao, but it definitely suffers from this. I need lots of life drawing practice.)

There is nothing wrong with learning from your favorite artists, but to really train your “artist’s eye”, you need to strip away all the stylistic choices and go back to the basics. Training that Eye is one of the most crucial things you could do as an artist. 

Just take a piece of paper, a pencil and start drawing what you see. If you can, take figure drawing classes at your local community college, or draw the animals you see at the zoo. Sit on a bench and draw the scenery in front of you. Over time, you’ll start to recognize common patterns, simplify/think of things in terms of lines and shapes.

If you can’t afford a class or have the ability to go outside easily, drawing from photographs can be the next best thing. (See the Resources below for an online figure drawing tool.) I’m not experienced enough to definitively say why this isn’t the #1 idea, but from what I hear, there are things that you’ll miss out on, such as subtle shifts in shadows, colors, and other things that will happen from small movements in pose changes, a cloud moving, or whatever else. A different “feel”, if you will.

With the digital art boom, a lot of artists are learning how to do cool digital effects and fancy things, but forgoing basic anatomy, perspective, shading, etc. Which is all fine if you’re just having fun, but isn’t the best idea if you’re really serious about improving. Practice the fundamentals!

(If you have been dreaming about CalArts at one point like I did when I was in high school, one advice I came across from everyone who went there was to draw from life. All the time. It’s not an answer I expected from people who draw funny looking characters all day. You mean all these people who draw such simplified cartoon people and animals can actually draw like masters? Perfectly rendered bowls of fruit? I didn’t realize how much work goes into animating simple characters.)

3. Put in the time. 

It’s really easy to get suckered into just watching “how to improve” videos all day and thinking about improving. Watching how other artists work is an important learning tool, but you’ll never actually make progress if you aren’t practicing. 

Sometimes, the best thing to do is to not think about it. Just do it. 

It’s like when I’m spending a whole lotta time thinking about getting physically fit than just, you know.. just doing it. “Tomorrow for sure.” 

It may seem like it’s worthless, but doing those lame 5 push-ups a day instead of the 20-minute workout you wanted to put in, is better than nothing at all. You are making progress, no matter how small it may seem.  

Make it a habit to practice every day. That way, you don’t even hesitate. It’s as automatic as brushing your teeth.

All the artists you see who have fantastic, awe-inspiring art may seem like Unreachable Gods sometimes, but those artists didn’t just pull that out of their ass one day. They put in hours and hours and hours of work. Let’s not disrespect other artists by ignoring that and chalking it up to “talent”. No one is born with an innate ability to draw. WE can get there too if we practice!

I want to get good enough to draw the things I have in my head one day!

Some resources that may be helpful:

Draw a Box - This is a site for free lessons for absolute beginners. Look under “Lessons” to learn. The creator of the site is the mod for r/ArtFundamentals. You can post your work there to get critiqued.

Check out Proko’s videos on gesture drawing, art fundamentals, etc. Daily routines of successful artists.

Use this site to practice figure drawing, gesture drawing - Set aside some time to practice drawing people and animals every day. Start trying to see things as lines, shapes, and go big. Don’t get too caught up in the details, and tiny drawings. Learning to draw fast (not draw FAST as in speed, but as in capture the gesture in a post, the “feel” of the movement) will force you to do this more, and with more experience, make your figures less stiff looking. 

And it’s okay if you’re aren’t good at it. You’ll make loads and loads of shit drawings until you can get decent. 

I’m most definitely in this stage right now, trying to train my Artist’s Eye. As in, I can’t just draw a figure from memory. I don’t really know what goes where without a reference, or how they move, etc. You can tell by how stiff my drawings look.

Lulusketches How to Improve video - She has similar advice, but her point about looking at “Art of” books something I have come across from multiple professional artists; Her advice on worrying about finding your own “style” is really good too. Do challenges like she said!

Her playlist of art tutorials & advice is great. They’re short and sweet. Her beginner digital art tutorial got me started on digital art (the one with Ginny Weasley). 

Not free ($30 a month), but these online Schoolism classes look helpful. It’s run by Bobbie Chiu. I saw some great reviews and I want to try them someday. They’re taught by artists in the animation/film industry. But you gotta have a basic grasp on digital art/photoshop for many of the classes, I think? I’m not 100% sure. They’re pre-recorded video lessons. 

You can pay more for feedback from the teachers, but you can also just use it as a self-learning guide. 

This drawing faces from any angle video was pretty helpful for me. The artist has loads of other tutorials.

COMICS

I don’t feel qualified enough to give much advice on comics. I mean, I don’t even draw the lines for the boxes, haha.. However, these comic books are basically required reading for some courses:

Scott McCloud’s Understanding Comics & Making Comics.

I can’t remember which one it is that I read, I think it was Making Comics? But wow, if I remember correctly, it was FULL of really useful things about how to make effective comics. I lost the book while moving years ago, but it was FANTASTIC learning material. I loved every panel of it. 

He talks about everything from perspective, placement of characters, speech bubbles, how big panels should be, etc. 

If you can afford it, get a used one and start reading! Even if you don’t want to make comics just yet, it’s super interesting. 

#art #comics #art reference #art resources #asks #text #okay i fixed some of the links now #added better stuff