#and the same thing happened with the creche last night mind you I ended up reloading the autosave before the inquisitor talk

[bragganhyl]

ngl at times I feel like I may be a little too stupid for this game, truth be told, tbph

#hablaty #bee gee three posting #I kiiiiinda don't rest often so I may have missed some stuff #and I kiiiiinda skipped some stuff on accident bc I got lost #like I didn't do the cult infiltration thing for example bc I figured I'd help shadowheart first #and whoopsie battle time against a big tentacle monster now #And idk wtf is happening and everyone talks about stuff that I was supposed to have found out but didn't about isobel #and the same thing happened with the creche last night mind you I ended up reloading the autosave before the inquisitor talk #And noping tf out of there and that might have been the wrong call bc now I can't go there at all #But on the upside apparently I should've gotten a jealousy convo but I didn't bc my guy doesn't sleep #so it's a trainwreck of a pt but honestly it captures the himbo vibes better than the actual rp-ing in the game #maybe the 8 in intelligence was me this whole time

[wickedscribbles]

Come What May, Chapter Two

A/N: Enjoy! You can find up to Chapter 9 on my Ao3 if you get antsy for more; my username is just WickedScribbles. :) 

Masterlist

Pairing: Obi-Wan Kenobi x Original Female Character (Second Person Perspective) 

Rating: Explicit

Tags: female masturbation, male masturbation, first kisses, admission of feelings, Obi-Wan ain’t give a fuck he’s getting some, that’s not how the Force works, discussion of the Jedi Code, Obi-Wan is a switch and you can’t change my mind, come marking

Word Count: 4.9 K

After the awkward ship ride home to Coruscant, Master Obi-Wan seems to make it his mission to stay as far away from you as possible. In the Temple, this isn't hard to do; most floors and rooms were meant to hold dozens, if not hundreds of people, and Obi-Wan knows its halls better than most.

It’s admirable, how he’s managed to vanish in a place that adores him so much. Have you seen Master Obi-Wan? is always followed by, Oh, you just missed him or No, I haven’t seen him. The most you’ve been able to see in weeks is the edge of his cloak slipping around a corner. A startled look over his shoulder as he flees the gardens, realizing that you’re meditating there, too. If you’re both attending a council meeting, you swear he ignores you so vehemently that you start to doubt your own existence.

And his life Force? Forget about it. He's shoved it down so tightly that he might as well not exist to you. You find yourself pining for it. If he's determined to never interact with you again, you had hoped to at least feel his Force touch yours, even in a friendly way. It's almost as if he yanked a part of your own essence away when he withdrew that night in Odryn. Something feels missing from you. In the mess hall, you start asking for cinnamon tea. It tastes flavorless.

In some ironic twist, now you're the one tormented by dreams. But each one leaves you right on the edge, with no one to reach out to. Alone in your quiet room, gasping for air as the details of the dream drain away the more awake you become. Obi-Wan. Smirking down at your naked body. Hands. Tongues. Breath. Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan. Each time it happens, you bring yourself to climax, face muffled deep into your pillow, biting down a cry of his name.

Hesitant, you touch the thick cloud of life Force all around you. You have to swallow the bile rising in your throat. It's like slogging through floodwaters with Jedi on all sides; far too overwhelming. You have to pull out almost immediately, the sensation akin to being drowned under the weight of information.

You can feel the signatures of every Force-sensitive in the Temple, from the smallest youngling all the way to Master Yoda. They all have a presence. Lying on your back, you stare up at the ceiling with a fading sense of nausea. If you ever want to speak with Obi-Wan again, you’re going to have to get better at this.

Two more weeks pass before you can re-enter this headspace. Inhale, exhale. Don't try too hard to keep a rhythm. Body relaxed. Mind at ease. Then...you dive in.

Lit candles and a holonovel. Leaning on an old cane. The smell of blaster fire. Giggling and playing tag with your creche mates. Lying in a medbay bed, watching sunlight streak the window. Feeling fear wrench in your gut at the thought that this war might never end. Watching your Padawan twirl her sabers, her lekku flying behind her. Sitting cross-legged in the library tower, thinking about things you shouldn't.

The last one is him -- it has to be. There’s no other Force here that feels like this; the same mix of emotions run through it that you felt before. But now, they feel muted, pushed down under a working consciousness. You’re not sure you would’ve been able to sense it at all, had you not already made the connection.

Though you're still reeling from a dozen other sensations, you get to your feet. The library’s halfway across the Temple -- you trip and nearly fall flat in your haste to get there in time. Your urgency earns you more than a few strange looks, but you can’t bring yourself to care. You don’t even have a plan for what to say when you get there; all you know is that you need to see him again.

You slow to a walk when you reach the library’s entrance, trying to blend in with those coming and going. It’s the middle of the afternoon, the perfect time of day to be here if you wanted to go unnoticed. Younglings have just been released from their lessons, roaming the aisles. They chatter at a poorly managed volume, despite their minder’s warning. Older Masters roam to and fro as well. Some are glued to holodisplays, others watch the younglings play with fond smiles.

But where are you, Master Kenobi?

Dodging a group of Padawans, you scan the perimeter. Nodding hellos and exchanging brief greetings, your heart begins to drop the longer you investigate. It wasn’t him. All that work, for you to be wrong. Whatever connection had occurred on that mission is unwanted on his end -- so much that he's actively pretending that you aren't alive. Jedi are supposed to be good at letting go of attachments -- are forbidden from forming them -- so why does this sting? You turn to the library’s exit, fist clenched tight. Then, you hear it.

“Thanks, Master Kenobi!”

“Of course, Padawan. Any time.”

A short Rhodesian girl darts past you, beaming as she holds her unlit lightsaber with newfound determination.

Only years of discipline and training keep you from bolting past her like a Jawa to a shipwreck. Taking a deep breath, you round the corner. There he is. Finally. Sitting cross-legged, just as you’d seen him through the Force, warmed by the sun coming in through one of the high windows. He doesn’t look up when you spot him -- his brow is furrowed (like it was when he -- no, not here) like what he’s reading is too important to take his eyes off of.

Is it your imagination, or has he gotten prettier since you’ve had the chance to get a good look at him? His hair’s longer -- it’s starting to curl near his ears. The beard’s a little bushier, but still well kept. Obi-Wan brings a hand to his mouth, stroking it lightly. Maker. You swear the ghost sensation of the hair is still tickling your lips, though it’s never really been there.

Well, you didn’t track him down to stare.

You walk over to his small table in the corner, and he only looks up when your hand is on the back of the unoccupied chair. Must be one fascinating holotext. If your heart wasn’t pounding, you might have laughed at the expression that crossed Obi-Wan’s face before he composed himself. His eyebrows threatened to disappear right into his hairline. How many people could say that they’d caught Master Kenobi off guard in such a manner?

“Master,” you greet, bowing in a show of respect. “May I have a word with you?” You have to pull your hand off of the chair so that he can’t see it trembling.

For a moment he looks at you, apparently lost for words. You wish you knew what he was thinking -- or even better, could feel his life Force mingled with yours. You practically grieve it with him right in front of you, but unable to feel a thing. It’s torture, waiting for him to either accept or dismiss you with no hint about which he’ll do. At last, with the smallest of sighs, he closes the holotext and straightens.

“I suppose I can spare a moment,” says Obi-Wan, getting to his feet. “Come with me.”

Feeling like a youngling again, you follow him out of the library and into a hall that you’ve hardly ever been down. Together, you pass no one but a few busy cleaning droids. Neither one of you says a word as he pauses in front of a door, keying in a code. Looking around to make sure that no one’s watching, Obi-Wan waves you in before he follows. The door locks behind him.

It’s an abandoned training room. Still clean due to the presence of droids, it’s nonetheless clear that no living thing has set foot in here for some time. Wooden sparring sticks lie in a pile next to the door, and an outdated holoprojector sits in the far corner. The small size surprises you -- a room this large would likely only hold around half a dozen students. You imagine that’s why it’s no longer used.

“Please, sit.” Master Obi-Wan gestures to a floor mat, and you drop onto it obediently. He mirrors your assumed posture, back straight and ankles crossed. As if this was an out-of-the-way meditation session, not a tense confrontation that you’d been trying to have for weeks.

“You’re a hard man to find, Master,” you say, hoping to break the tension.

He ducks his head, the slightest hint of color creeping over his cheeks. “Yes. Well. War does keep one busy.” You watch his fingers drum on top of his knee, a habit never seen before. Is he anxious?

You nod. “Of course. And yet I notice that I haven’t been assigned any more missions.” When he doesn’t say anything, you continue.

“Our... mission on Odryn seemed to meet the Council’s standards.” Your tone is light, cautious. It’s true that you’ve been stuck in the Temple since then, with many other Knights coming and going. Hard not to believe that Obi-Wan hasn’t had a hand in where you get assigned. Or if.

Obi-Wan takes in a sharp breath, turning away. Was that going too far? He’s silent a moment before speaking, his tone lower than you’re used to hearing it. “Young one, I...that is to say...accompanying you that day was a mistake.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, a look familiar to you from watching him chase Anakin Skywalker around.

You’re genuinely curious when you ask what he means.

“What I mean is--” the blush on his face is darkening, and you lower your eyes, biting off a smile. Cute, your mind tells you again.

“I knew that there was -- that I -- felt something toward you. That offering myself as a volunteer to go with you on the Odryn mission was a poor choice. That my thoughts would -- that I might --” He breaks off, taking a moment to collect his thoughts. “Yet I went anyway. I am so sorry for what followed.” Obi-Wan looks ashamed, not meeting your eyes when you go searching for his.

Ashamed? Sorry? Poor choice? That’s...the complete opposite of how you feel.

Felt something toward you! Your brain screams in retaliation, alight with joy that you hadn’t hallucinated the whole ordeal.

“Do you...remember anything?” you ask timidly. “The dream?”

“I remember enough,” he replies, not seeming to want to discuss it further. “Enough to be consumed with guilt for what you had to witness. I assure you -- I swear -- that every moment since has been dedicated to severing the bond I mistakenly forged. To improving myself as a Jedi.”

For several seconds, you have no clue what he could mean. Then it hits -- he thinks that everything that happened was all his doing. That you were a bystander, a -- a victim.

“Obi-Wan,” you stammer. You’ve never called him that before, and it feels far too intimate once it leaves your mouth. He looks up, blue eyes full of chagrin. “Did you really think that was all you?”

“I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

“Can I...could I just show you?” You swallow. Oh please I’ve missed you, please.

Obi-Wan opens his mouth, then frowns, seeming to think better of it. After a moment of hesitation he simply closes his eyes and inclines his head, an invitation. So relieved you could cry, you close your eyes in turn and drop your shoulders, relaxing. Yes, oh stars, yes. Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan.

When you reach, the door to his life Force is open -- barely ajar, but open all the same. This time you’re the eager one, the neglected one, and your Force greets him like a long lost friend. He wraps around you, hesitant but willing to take you, to listen. You feel tears slip down your face before pushing harder.

Sunshine, tea, cinnamon, cedarwood, shame shame shame. His purest parts clouded with it, making your chest ache so deep you can’t catch a proper breath. This isn’t right. This isn’t the whole picture. You long to make him understand. To let him know that you want him every bit as much as he wanted you that day, and so you flex forward and show.

You hear him gasp from the sheer volume of it. All your desire, watching him sleep and dream of you. Feeling the ebb and flow of his thoughts and thinking you’d never touched a more beautiful life Force. Watching his fantasy about you and feeding back one of your own. When you play back your affection toward him -- before Odryn and after -- he makes the smallest sound under his breath. And when you show him how you came just from feeling his orgasm, right there on the jungle floor, he withdraws from your mind so painfully it feels like a blow to the head.

“Stop,” he chokes out, eyes wild. “I -- I get the picture.” His hands clench tight to the material of his robes, arms crossed over his midsection.

“Are you okay?” you ask quietly, wiping your face. “I didn’t mean to overwhelm you -- but you need to know. It’s not just you.”

Both hands bridge in front of Obi-Wan’s mouth as he stares straight ahead. “I'm not sure if this is better or worse.”

“Why?” You lean forward, unable to keep the desperate note out of your voice. “Master -- Obi-Wan -- I don’t see the issue. This appears to be… highly mutual.” You let your eyes dart down to his waist, which he’s still keeping hidden from you. He catches your look and bites his lip, and never in your life have you wanted to break a rule more. Because you know exactly what he’s going to say before he even has a chance to explain.

“Sometimes I forget how young you are,” he sighs, shifting under your gaze. “You know why. The Code -- attachments are exactly the sort of thing we can’t have.” But you can hear how his breathing’s gone shallow and shaky. His own eyes are lingering on your mouth, like he’s imagining if you taste like you do in his dreams.

“I think that’s an outdated rule.” You cross your arms, not missing the way his gaze now bounces down to your lifted breasts. “You’re attached to Anakin. And his Padawan, Ahsoka.”

“That’s…” Obi-Wan sighs.

“If either were about to die on the battlefield, would you not run to save them? Or leave it to fate?” You quirk an eyebrow, knowing his answer.

“I suppose you’ve got me there. But that’s not -- not the same attachment. It’s familial, not -- this.” He glances up at you shyly. “I can say with full confidence that Anakin has never tempted me in the ways that you have.”

“You’re one of the only people in the Temple he hasn’t, then,” you laugh, trying not to bask in the thought that he’s just said you tempt him. Obi-Wan grins back. A bit of that sunbeam feeling returns, though his Force is nowhere near yours at the moment.

“Anakin has a...fast and loose relationship with the Jedi Code. Even more so now that I am no longer his Master,” he chuckles. “Still. I have to assert that this is a different matter.”

“Hmm.” You frown, feigning contemplation though your mind is already set. “What if we... promise not to get attached? To fall in love? Would that feel safe enough for you?” A long shot.

Obi-Wan shakes his head, giving you a sad sort of smile. “I’m afraid that wouldn’t be possible, dear. I’ve seen your thoughts. You’ve seen mine.” The seeds have already sprouted, he doesn’t say.

Unable to help it, you scoot closer until your knees touch his. “That’s too bad. I -- I really wanted to kiss you, Master.”

And there -- you’ve struck a nerve. Simply addressing him as Master in such a sweet, plaintive tone is enough. Obi-Wan practically flinches, lips pressed tight together. His eyes are bright and longing, looking right into yours now. His lashes are longer than mine. You know without looking into his mind that he remembers that particular part of his dream. Finding you in his room, bare but for your long, brown cloak.

For a moment, you stare at one another. Then he takes a deep breath. “Well. In for a chit, in for a credit,” he murmurs, and presses his mouth against yours.

Oh, it’s soft. So gentle. The barest touch of lips, yet it makes you shiver. You place a hand on his cheek with a happy hum, so glad you were able to convince him. Obi-Wan answers with a satisfied sound of his own, inching further into the kiss. When he presses harder, his moustache threatens to go up your nose. You pull away instinctively, fighting not to giggle.

“Not good?” Obi-Wan’s mouth is still inches from your own, his innocent question full of concern.

“No, it’s fine. But you’re a little,” you grin, “fuzzy.”

“Oh.” His hand drops to his mouth as if he’d never considered it before. “You’re right, I suppose. It is getting to be a bit much. Should I shave it?”

“No!”

“Trim it, then.”

“Later,” you breathe, coming for his lips at a less direct angle.

“Mm! Mmm…���

The urgency of his tone betrays him as he claims your mouth again, more confident this time. Obi-Wan’s legs fall open loosely, and you crawl forward to sit between them, not quite in his lap. His arms come around you, fingers tight on your shoulder blades. You let your mouth fall open against his closed lips as you pant, heart hammering. Gods, he’s strong. The knowledge that he could easily be rough with you -- and yet his mind shows that all he wants is to be gentle -- only makes you want him more.

Obi-Wan’s lips open against yours in turn, and you whimper at his breath mingling with your own, hot and inquisitive. You curl a hand in his hair, wondering if he’ll have the reaction you imagined in your Force projection. He doesn’t disappoint -- with a needy little gasp, he pulls you forward, effectively placing you onto the very erection he’s been trying so hard to hide. His cock flexes up into your core. Oh kriff yes there, your body sings, applying the lightest pressure back.

This time Obi-Wan is the one to pull away, dropping his forehead to your cheek. You slide back to the floor, leaning back on your palms.

“Would now be a bad time to say that I have no idea what I’m doing?” he admits with a breathless laugh. His Force is trickling back open like he can’t seem to help it, and oh, do you like what you feel.

You laugh too, just as flustered. “Doesn’t seem like it, Master.”

“I’m flattered, but really. I’m rather clueless. I assume from the way you’ve spoken about attachments that you are...not.” You sense curiosity from him, though he says nothing more about it. In return, you offer your thoughts. It’s easier -- and far less embarrassing -- to show. Your eyes seek Obi-Wan’s, asking permission to join his life Force again. He inhales shakily, and you don’t miss how tightly his hands are clenched in his lap.

Pressing a kiss to his temple, you re-enter, gentler this time. Truthfully, the experiences you have to offer aren’t that impressive. Fervent touches with a few fellow Knights who also had little to no experience, but passion in spades. Your hands on your own body, long after night had fallen at the Temple. Obi-Wan observes these parts of you, not critical or judgemental. Instead, you’re met only with his growing attraction to you, his consistent relief that what occurred on Odryn was not his fault (but you started it, you tease.).

And you? You prod. His Force shrinks a little, nervous, before opening to you further on the topic.

He hadn’t lied. In conscious practice, there’s nothing. You sift through years and years of thought in fast-forward and he’s never even laid a hand on himself, though the urge to simmers far closer to the surface than he prefers. This...definitely explains the lack of certain details in his dream. Aside from intimacy displayed by couples he’s seen out and about on-planet, he doesn’t have much to go on. This isn’t a topic they teach you as a youngling. Because why would a Jedi need to know? You remember your own firsts, everything coated with disquietude.

“Told you,” he mutters, breaking your concentration. When you open your eyes, he’s giving you a classic Kenobi smirk. Uncertainty lingers behind the kind crinkle of his eyes, anxiety that he can’t quite banish. Neither of you address it. “Are you still so eager to break the rules?” Do I still appeal to you?

In answer, you graze your mouth over his once more. When you tug at Obi-Wan’s bottom lip with your teeth, the pile of sparring sticks in the corner collapses and scatters.

“This is a training room,” you say between kisses, adrenaline flooding your veins at the noises he’s making. Quiet gasps ascend into groans the more daring you get with your tongue, his fingers trembling on your shoulder. “So we should make the best of it. Get some more experience under our belts.”

“I like -- your phrasing,” Obi-Wan manages. "But I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to stop talking," one of his hands snakes to your ass and you squeak in surprise, "and come here."

Gladly, you have time to think at him, before he grabs your hips and lifts you right back into his lap. Nothing shy about it this time -- he's put you directly on his clothed cock.

Now you're the one caught off guard, and he can sense it all over you. How badly you want it. How long you've imagined. You must smell like need. Locking eyes with you, Obi-Wan rolls his hips into your cunt, slow and purposeful. When you whine, something seems to click in his expression -- like he's filing the information away.

I see.

See wh-- !

But you're not allowed to finish the thought. In one motion, Obi-Wan is rising up and over you, crowding you onto the floor under him. You lie there, the training mat stiff underneath you, as he continues to survey you. His hips press yours firmly into the floor, a delicious pressure as you lie flat and he sits astride you.

“There are several options running through your mind, little one,” he says at last, and you blush. No one’s called you that since you were a youngling, tripping over the hem of your robes and envying the Padawans with their lightsabers. To hear him refer to you as little, when you’re pinned under his arousal, does something to you. “Show me the one you want the most.”

Licking your lips at the way his curious look has morphed to one of hunger, you offer the image that has gotten you to climax for the past few nights. You had been desperate to be claimed by the one person who hadn’t seemed to want you.

How things have changed, you muse, watching his eyes go wide as he watches the scene play out in his own mind. Obi-Wan’s full lips part on a silent moan as it vanishes, blinking back to reality slowly.

“Yes. Yes, I think we can manage that.” His voice is so soft, a contrast to the hard press of his cock and hips. “Pull your tunic up for me.”

You scramble to obey, exposing the flat planes of your stomach, then the curve of your breasts. The sturdy material of the tunic is gathered up near your neck, leaving your torso bare for him. Obi-Wan reaches down to swipe the pad of his thumb over one nipple, making you squirm under his hold. He purrs at the desperate sensation it incites in your core, feeling it almost as you do through the Force.

Staying silent as he’d asked you to, you nonetheless beg him to hurry, both with your eyes and through the Force. You know he wants this just as badly -- can feel the stiffness of his cock and the arousal pooling in his gut as surely as if it was your own body -- yet he takes his time here.

So when he finally palms his dick through his trousers, forcing it flat against your stomach, you mewl for him. Your hands reach up to dig into his thighs, urging him on.

Exhaling through his nose, Obi-Wan continues to palm himself through the material, sucking in a gasp when he finally lets himself wrap a hand around it and squeeze.

“Out of everything you imagined,” he murmurs, undoing the ties on his pants deftly, “this is really what you want most?” His erection peeks out at you now, straining his underwear. With a bob of Obi-Wan’s hand, that too is pulled out of the way. Fucking -- Maker --

“Yes,” you whimper, mouth watering for it.

It feels like you’ve waited years to have Obi-Wan’s heavy, naked cock lying full on your stomach. He’s thicker than anyone you’ve been with, and flushed red with want. The tip is already dripping, warm on your cool skin. He grabs it firmly in his right hand, a ragged groan tearing from his throat as he gives it a slow pull. Powerless to stop yourself from wanting a closer look, you prop yourself up on your elbows. Your heart jumps to your throat as the extra attention makes him flush.

Those lovely eyes, framed by copper lashes, dart away from yours as he tugs harder, biting a knuckle to keep from crying out. Kriff, you wish he wouldn’t. You want his overstimulated sounds almost as much as you want his come smearing your chest.

One hand works his shaft at an increasing pace as the other tenses in the material of his tunic. "Always -- so much," he confesses in a gasp. "Such a m-mess to wake up to." And indeed, pre-come is dribbling down his cock and hand in rivulets now, pooling below your belly button.

"I've never," he shudders, shoulders tensing, "never done this -- on purpose --" Obi-Wan looks down at you, not really seeing, brows knitted with desperation. The normally composed Jedi is falling apart, and it’s driving you insane. "I can f-feel it about to happen." In his fist, his cock is making obscenely wet sounds as he covers it with his own juices.

"How -- how close?" you ask, unable to take your eyes off of the way he's working his hips in tight little thrusts now. Fucking into his hand like no matter how fast he strokes, it won’t be enough. You feel like your hips will be bruised by how hard he’s pinning you into the training mat, but you can’t bring yourself to give a damn.

“Close --” he whines, ducking his head, face screwed up as he pants. Obi-Wan’s hand and wrist are a blur as he pleasures himself, balls drawing up in anticipation. His hair is a mess, so untidy from its normal neat part, and you wish you could run your hands through it. “Oh, gods -- oh, gods --” His Force is blazing with the chase, teetering on the edge of an orgasm he’s never been able to fully experience. Going to come all over you, stars, feels so good --

“Please, Master, please,” you beg, shoving his hips further up your torso. You’re soaking in your underwear, waiting for him to mark you.

You see it in his eyes three seconds before it happens. They go completely round with wonder, a hand slamming over his mouth as the first spurts of hot come streak your stomach.

Little one, stars -- I’m coming, I’m coming -- oh f-fuck fuck --

Though Obi-Wan hardly lets more than a whimper escape past his own hand, you hear everything loud and clear in your mind. It’s every bit as intense as you remember from that day on Odryn, and you clench as his aftershocks roll through your empty cunt. Rope after rope of come covers your chest, from the bottom of your stomach to the hollow of your throat. The scent of it coats your nostrils, thick and musky and Obi-Wan.

Obi-Wan’s eyes flutter closed, hand falling from its grip over his mouth. “That -- that was…”

“Messy,” you joke, offering a smile. Incredible, you add as a hint of embarrassment creeps into your bond. When you reiterate how good it felt to watch him losing himself in the pleasure of it, he relaxes again. With a sigh, he eases off of your hips and tucks his wilting cock back into his trousers, settling down on his side next to you.

“You do look rather pretty like that,” he admits quietly, cheeks still flushed from exertion.

“Just wait until we actually take our clothes off, Master.”

“Pfft.” Obi-Wan leans in and kisses you, as gentle as the first time. “I have to tell you something,” he adds, voice lowered to a conspiratorial volume though you’re alone.

“What is it?”

“You taste like that dreadful tea they serve in the mess.”

#come what may ao3 #wickedscribbles #obi wan kenobi #obi wan x you #obi wan fanfiction #obi wan x oc #obiwan smut #ziva courtee #obi-wan x oc #obi-wan fanfic

[etraytin]

i just love your west wing headcanons!! do you have any for josh and donna as parents?

Josh and Donna as parents, huh? I have lots of different headcanons, some of which are directly contradictory to one another. Thank god for AUs, right? :D 

Okay, so Josh and Donna get married sometime around the end of the second year of the administration, after midterms of course. They managed to overcome their own worser natures long enough to have several really good talks about expectations and life plans before getting married, so they’re pretty much on the same page kidwise. They want some, but they are both too busy to pay a lot of attention to the getting of them, something that might be necessary now that Donna is in her late thirties and Josh has had his medical issues. They decide to leave it up to fate until after reelection, and if nothing has happened by then, maybe they will visit some doctors. Donna gets pregnant the month after she stops taking birth control. Josh blames hyperfertile Scandihoovian genes from Wisconsin. 

They play the pregnancy very close to the vest, partially because they both cling to what scraps of a private life are possible in the DC fishbowl, partially because Donna is just a little superstitious about telling anyone before the crucial first twelve weeks are over. Donna winds up telling Helen, Annabeth and Otto because they are starting to wonder why she’s throwing up all the time. Josh tells CJ because he feels it is important, for some obscure reason, that she know that they might possibly have conceived a baby on CJ’s old desk in what is now Josh’s office. CJ does not appreciate this knowledge, but she’s very happy for them anyway. Everyone else finds out in dribs and drabs after the three month mark is passed, though Margaret maintains she’s known it all along because Donna’s aura changed so decisively. 

Donna researches pregnancy meticulously, choosing a birthing method and studying it carefully, dragging Josh along to classes and writing multiple drafts of her birth plan to account for every possible contingency. She finds a midwife who does not laugh at her and instead spends several hours going through the plan to figure out all the things Donna is worried about and what they might do about those things. Her main concern is that Josh isn’t going to make it there on time, so the midwife recommends a backup coach, just in case. Otto is honored to be chosen, though he does have to endure a grueling interview with Josh before being cleared for the position. In the end, in what is probably the last truly obliging act of his childhood, the baby arrives within two days of his due date, during the early morning hours when Josh is home, and everything goes almost according to plan. Donna is smug. They name the baby Garrett Noah, for Josh’s actual father and the man who stood in loco parentis for him at the White House. 

Donna takes eight weeks of maternity leave and really enjoys it, but coming back to work is hard. She needs to come back because Annabeth is nearly ready to go on maternity leave herself unless she explodes first, but the idea of leaving Garrett with a nanny is almost impossible to bear. Josh takes what would’ve been an almost unfathomable step a few years ago and takes three weeks of family leave himself just to put it off that much longer. Right around that time, Helen Santos comes up pregnant as well, and the three ladies of the East Wing decide that the only thing to do is start a creche so they aren’t all simultaneously pregnant, pining, or losing their minds trying to multitask. It works out surprisingly well, and both Donna’s babies spend their first few years in the White House when they aren’t at home. 

Their second child, a girl this time, comes very close on the heels of the first. After Evelyn is born, Donna stops relying on breastfeeding as a birth control method, because she absolutely cannot cope with any more babies right now. The Santos administration is more relaxed than the Bartlet administration in terms of making sure people are allowed to spend time at home and have lives outside the White House, which helps a lot, as does the fact that Josh turns out to be a much more involved parent than anybody would’ve guessed. He has insomnia many nights anyway, so he’s good about taking nighttime changing-and-singing shifts, and he develops the habit of taking the kids out for breakfast every Sunday morning so Mom can sleep in. 

It’s still hard while they’re in the White House, there’s just no getting around it. Things happen, there are late nights and missed appointments and suppers that get cold, but they both knew that was coming. They never do hire a nanny, but they have several babysitters on call who can do all-nighters if necessary. During one particularly fraught week in the second term, Josh doesn’t get home for more than three hours for a solid week, and it’s always when the kids are asleep. The good thing about term limits, though, is that Garret is only five and Evie four when they leave the White House. There’s plenty of time to make it up to them. 

#the west wing #headcanons #fanfiction #josh lyman #donna moss #josh x donna #thewintersoldierdisaster

[inkognito97]

In the lion heart au do shifters who have more carnivorous animals tend to eat and crave meat more than others? Because I can see quigon and Asian being big meat eaters?

@mostie01

I can see them adapt a lot of other animal specific characteristics…

“That’s disgusting,” Tahl sounded truly disgusted and while Qui-Gon only rolled his eyes - he could not do much more with his mouth full - but Mace had to agree with her.

“She is right, Qui. It is one thing to eat meat, but you basically eat it raw… and bloody,” the corner of his mouth twitched a little. 

“I tend to keep my opinion of food consummation to myself, since I am a vegetarian and you both are not, but this is disgusting.” 

Qui-Gon finally swallowed.”You can blame it on Aslan,”  he said.

“Your… spirit animal… lion thing?” Mace quirked an eyebrow. 

The long haired man nodded, before his midnight blue eyes fell on the chrono. “I have to go, Obi-Wan is waiting for me.” He stood up from the table in the cafeteria, where not many Jedi were currently eating. He took his tray with him and with a last nod towards his two friends since créche, he finally left. 

Tahl leaned slightly back in her seat, watching the tall Jedi Master go. “I still have not completely wrapped my mind around this ‘spirit animal’ thing,” she said.  

The dark skinned Korun Master nodded. “Me neither,” his eyes had a hard look.

The female tilted her head so that she was looking at her remaining companion. “If this Aslan influences Qui-Gon in his eating habits… do you think that other areas of his life are influenced as well?”

“It could be,” said the Councillor. 

“Did you know, that male lions tend to kill their male cubs?” Tahl had raised an eyebrow.

Brown eyes looked hard at his companion for a few moments. “As a fellow friend of Qui-Gon… do we have to bring this before the Council?” his tone was serious.

Tahl took a deep breath, “Let us watch them… let us… catch them in an unguarded moment.”

“You mean we are to spy on them?” Mace raised an eyebrow.

“Yes,” Tahl was serious too.  “We could install cameras in their quarters, not in their fresher or their bedrooms, mind you.”

Mace seemed to ponder about the idea for a moment. With a defeated sigh, he eventually gave his approval. “But we are only doing this for Obi-Wan’s safety,” he said, as if to convince himself of the rightness of their idea. Tahl chose to not reply.

“We have been watching them for days now and nothing unusual has happened, except the unnatural amount of meat they consume,” grumbled Tahl.

“Their spirit animals are carnivores, Tahl. What do you expect?” Mace retorted. 

They were currently watching Qui-Gon lying on his stomach on the couch, reading something they could not identify. He had been like this most of the evening and the two Jedi were getting bored in.

“I think this whole idea was stupid,” the Korun Master said. “There is obviously nothing wrong with their relationship.”

“I agree, we… wait, look.”

Mace leaned forward to see the monitor better and he followed the female’s finger, which pointed at a certain ginger haired boy, stealthily making his way towards the couch, while crouching on all fours. 

“What is he doing?” Tahl asked aloud.

“Hunting,” the Councillor shrugged. “As I said, carnivores… in wilderness foxes or lions have to hunt to eat.”

They held their breathes when Obi-Wan made his way forward and a Qui-Gon was not the only one, who let out a startled gasp at being pounced on.

“Obi-Wan,” the man’s deep voice reminded the two Jedi of a growl.

“Master,” the word was muttered in the cute access of his. “What are you doing?”

“I am reading,” he turned back to his reading material, ignoring the young Padawan resting on his back. He did not seem to mind. “Or at least, I am trying to.”

Obi-Wan ignored the remark and moved until his chin rested on the taller man’s shoulder so that he could read as well. For a few long moments, nothing more seemed to happen. 

“That was it?” the Councillor sounded actually surprised.

“Hush,” the female waved at him, her eyes were practically glued to the monitor now.

The ginger haired Padawan grimaced and slightly turned his head, looking sideways at his Master, who completely ignored him. “Master, I am bored.”

“Then by all means, Obi-Wan, continue to read or do your homework or train.”

“I already did all that,” but the Padawan’s protest was skillfully ignored.

Obi-Wan huffed and slightly pushed himself up, with a big pout. But then, a wicked grin appeared on his freckled features and he leaned down again. Qui-Gon had no time to react, none at all, before his cheeky apprentice BIT into his ear. It was not hard enough to draw blood, but it still hurt. 

By the time the Jedi Master had sat up and was angrily rubbing his abused ear, had the younger male already moved far out of his reach. There was still a huge grin plastered on his young face.

“Did he just… BIT Qui-Gon?” Mace could not believe it.

The Noorian had to hide an amused smile. “It was an invitation to play, nothing more.” 

Mace hummed in reply, watching how his friend since creche slowly rose from his couch.

“Oh, just you wait until I get my hands on you,” he growled, but the way his eyes sparkled, it was clear that it was just fun.

“You have to catch me first though,” Obi-Wan challenged. 

A mere huff was his answer and then the two Jedi were already in action. Tahl suspected that their spirit animals were slightly taking over, at least that was her guess, because she had never seen Qui-Gon move and jump like this, not was it usual for Obi-Wan to scramble on all fours, not so fast at least. 

It came like it had to come however. With an elegant jump over the couch, Qui-Gon had finally gotten a hold on his Padawan, who squealed in surprise. Almost immediately, the younger male rolled on his back, looking up at the towering man with an innocent expression. 

“Ah, a submissive position. Clever, but I don’t think it will get him out of trouble,” Tahl observed.

She would end up being right, because Qui-Gon began to mercilessly tickle his Padawan, until the latter was a laughing mess on the floor, with tears running down his pale face. 

“Do you give up?” Qui-Gon asked cockily. His Padawan was panting heavily and unable to answer, but the older Jedi decided to take mercy. “I take that as a yes.” 

his midnight blue eyes softened and with a thumb, he gently wiped away the tears stains. Obi-Wan immediately leaned into the touch. Out of instinct, did the older Jedi lean down again, rubbing his cheek against his Padawan’s. 

“Come here you,” he sneaked his arms under the boy’s frame, with the latter holding on to his neck and wrapping his legs around his waist and with the ginger haired Jedi secure in his arms, did Qui-Gon raise. “It’s time for bed now, Padawan mine, you have an important exam tomorrow.”

“But I am not tired yet,” it was not defiance, realized Qui-Gon and so did the two spies, it was just a fact.

Qui-Gon waved with his hand so that the couch turned into a sleep couch and then he lowered his cargo onto it.“How about I read something to you?” he suggested.

Obi-Wan nodded eagerly and after his Master had laid on the couch, he cuddled into the older male as close as possible.

Tahl and Mace were not sure, how long they sat and listened to their friend’s deep and soothing voice, but both agreed that the man’s voice was made for story telling. Obi-Wan seemed to have the same opinion.

At one point, the young Padawan began to shift and moved, so that his back was towards his Master, then he rolled himself into a tight ball with a huge yawn. Qui-Gon send his Padawan a smile, kissed the boy’s cheek and then shut off the datapad. With another flick of his wrist, the lights were turned off and he curled himself around his charge, offering warmth and his presence. It did not take long for the pair to fall asleep, with Qui-Gon still curled around his Padawan and Obi-Wan rolled to a small ball, with his head resting on his Master’s arm.

“And we were afraid that he might do something to Obi-Wan,” Tahl whispered, as if she were actually in the same room like those two.

“Ridiculous,” Mace agreed. He had seen enough. He and Tahl would remove the cameras tomorrow and then they would be done with it. There was also no denying it now, Kenobi and Jinn were the closest Master-Padawan-Team this Order had seen in a long time. They just had to be careful that their love - for what else could it be - for each other would not turn into attachment.

“Let’s leave them to their rest,” Tahl shut down the equipment.

“I will return to my own quarters now, good night Tahl.”

“Good night, Mace,” she smiled at the retreating Korun Master and with a last glance at dark monitors, she went into her own bedroom. Had the monitor still be on, she would have witnessed the protective arm that the older Jedi unconsciously laid over his charge and the matching smiles of content on both their faces…

#star wars #obi wan kenobi #qui gon jinn #tahl #mace windu #lionheart au #lionheart #aslan the lion #tilkie the fox #spirit animals #padawan obi-wan #animal behavior #mace and tahl are suspicious #observation #fluff #space dad qui-gon #prompt #mostie01 #i turned it into a prompt at least

[getseriouser]

20 THOUGHTS: Giants Pickett-apart

DID it easy. 

A Qualifying Final against the softest draw recipient in memory, into a Preliminary Final with a completely false minor premier, finishing with a Grand Final facing, well, you saw how competitive Saturday was.

All without Alex Rance, like it didn’t matter in the end.

Great side though, clearly the best team in this three-year period and two flags’ reward is nothing short of what they deserve.

So season 2019 done and dusted, Grand Final in the books, and now we trade.

 1.       Firstly, some self-appeasement. Before you promote others you must be able to promote yourself. It was the night of August 13th, and we quote “Nat Fyfe, if you can get anything over $3 for the Brownlow, just remortgage the house, don’t be subtle”. Not only have we seen many readers cash in, but all the home loan re-financing in doing so has re-stimulated the economy. Brilliant.

2.       174 votes from 173 games now, that’s just insane. Two medals, and then the one he lost to Matt Priddis by a vote even though he lost a week through suspension. In a market that asks “does he win another Brownlow?” I’d happily flutter on ‘Yes’.

3.       Anyway, back to the gratuitous love bites in the mirror section of the column, many said the Giants might make this close, some even picked them. Utter trash. Last week we led with the Tigers by 5 goals plus, and the only reason we didn’t go higher was just to be nice. So for anyone who turned Fyfe winnings into Tigers 39+, well done; this isn’t just a shit hot read each week but looks after your hip pocket as well.

4.       And lastly in this real look at me section of the column, Marlion Pickett. We declared right back the mid-season draft he was a gun, a steal of a selection and would be in the Tigers’ best 22 by year’s end. Nailed that call right out of the screws, that’s four all day, out through extra cover, don’t bother running.

5.       And what a game he played whilst we’re on him, looked assured, looked like he deserved to be out there on such a stage, in such a team. In fact I know the backstory might over-elevate how one could have seen his game, but in that second term I thought he was influential as any, especially getting the ball inside 50 (led all Richmond players on the day pretty sure). I know Martin has a sexy stat line, but for making a real difference, it was Pickett who could have snared the Norm Smith easily for mine.

6.       I get the Martin BOG pick, and what a resume that is now, but the influence Pickett had in getting the ball inside 50, plus Riewoldt who hit the scoreboard just as much as Dusty, I don’t think it was as clear cut. Houli too has now had two great Grand Finals and been pipped for the Norm twice. Shouldn’t go unheralded that.

7.       Mind you, what if Jason Castagna kicks straight, is it his Norm? Seriously influential in the second, very, very noticeable indeed.

8.       Tigers were 9th at the end of Round 14. Without Rance a show of coming back. That’s just a super effort.

9.       And then the Giants, are they the second best team of the year? Probably not. West Coast? Ended up fifth and barely made it out of the second week? Collingwood? On paper, probably, but you don’t feel great about it. Sure, might have been the best opposition for Richmond on the day but it was always going to be a Tigers flag this year post bye, no-one else was going to defeat them Saturday more to the point

10.   And also on GWS, even with all those really poo years when they came into the comp fronting up with teams fresh out of the creche, that was the Giant’s lowest ever score. Incredible.

11.   Justin Longmuir gets the Freo job, yeah mad. I got nothing on that. Scotty Burns looks favourite for the Crows too. Excellent. Top notch. I too have nothing on that.

12.   Bold 2020 prediction, one that doesn’t involve the Tigers coz that’s just too easy? Carlton Collingwood Grand Final. We’re seeing a pattern of teams launching from the bottom six of the table, Richmond, Collingwood, then Brisbane this year – a very talented Carlton with a good trade period could be that next iteration. And we also tend to see a revengeful prelim final loser make amends the year after, could that be the Pies next year, to then set up an almighty Grand Final for the ages? Get around it.

13.   Trades. Now stay woke. We now have beyond saturated press on this stuff now, and most of it will be as relevant as the nutritional information on a maccas cheeseburger.

Firstly. Herald Sun reported “Essendon says Joe Daniher will be a Bomber next year”. The only quote they used from Essendon was “the facts are he’s contracted for next year”. That headline and that quote are by no means joined at the hip. Not even close. And secondly, today, "The Swan to set to push Reid out of Pies", when Ben Reid has actually re-signed for 2020, and the ‘Swan’ in question is the untried Darcy Cameron, never played a game, not the reincarnation of Barry Round. So please, don’t say you haven’t been warned.

14.   That all said, lets see. Seems like Carlton ends up with Jack Martin, Eddie Betts, then one of Dan Butler or Tom Papley. I know it might not seem like much, but with a fit Sam Docherty returning, geez, bet against Carlton making the eight next year at your peril. I know, its Carlton, but you can’t say they’re not due.

15.   Tim Kelly, wants to go to West Coast, can they make it happen, probably not? Freo definitely can, so with the Cat this year actually out of contract, he might be destined for the draft if he doesn’t go Dockers. Could end up in purple after all.

16.   Sam Powell-Pepper and Orazio Fantasia, that ends up being some sort of swap deal for sure.

17.   After all that jazz, I reckon Joe Daniher stays. Story got ahead of everyone I reckon.

18.   Gold Coast, geez, how about that for a rescue package. And it is just that, a rescue. Top of the draft priority pick this year, middle first next year, end of first the year after. Plus they get Darwin as their zone and, when it comes to academy players, they can get them without clubs making bids for them. Massive package. Ludicrous. Here’s why, bear with, I’ll keep this as short as possible:

Last year, lost Tom Lynch, but got pick 3 for it in compo, got Izak Rankine, who I think is the most talented kid of last year’s lot. They also lost Steven May to Melbourne but got pack pick 6, Ben King. So yes, seeing their ex-skipper win a flag 12 months on stings but they’re not the first to see that happen, and they’ve already been really well compensated. We move on.

2017, lost Adam Saad for a second rounder, yeah sure, too lost Ablett back to Geelong after getting him for nothing in the first place, he did give that club a Brownlow. They also had pick 2 that year but spent it on getting Lachie Weller from Freo. Exactly! Their first pick was pick 19, Will Powell, yet Tim Kelly went five picks later.

Lastly, 2016, lost Dion Prestia but got pick 7 back, lost Jaeger O’Meara but got back 10. Went to the draft with 4, 7, 9 and 10, drafted Ainsworth, Scrimshaw (left last year for Hawthorn for squat all), Brodie and Bowes. Potatoes the lot of them. Meanwhile, Richmond got Shai Bolton at 29 and Jack Graham at 53.

Futhermore, in those same three trade periods, the Giants lost Jack Steele, Cam McCarthy, Paul Ahern, Will Hoskin-Elliott, Caleb Marchbank, Jarrod Pickett, Devon Smith, Nathan Wilson, Matthew Kennedy, Will Setterfield, Tom Scully, Dylon Shiel and Rory Lobb. The only player of note they’ve gotten back for losing so many has been Tim Taranto.

And just made a Grand Final.

So there’s three things here, one, its not a Suns issue, the Giants have lost heaps too and been just fine, sure, no-one of Tom Lynch’s quality, but it stacks up. Two, they don’t need more picks or access to picks, look at their track record, it hasn’t mattered any which way. And three, yes losing Lynch stings, but they’ve already been well compensated for that, its not as if they’re not getting back to the pointy end of the draft to restock.

Summing up, the Suns just need to stop making mistakes, or move. Whether they get picks, or go for Shaun Burgoyne, whether they get pick 1 or pick 50, whatever actions they take and decisions they make, they need to be good ones. Remember when retention wasn’t a Gold Coast issue but a Queensland footy issue, funny how that disappeared so quick it kinda makes you question how real a problem it was for Brisbane in the first place? Either Chris Fagan and Luke Hodge are in essence God and Jesus respectively, or it’s a non-issue. And then the Suns package today becomes a joke.

Either the Suns get out of this mess organically and its been a waste of time and way too much hot air, or guess what, they’re still desperately shit in three years post-package and Tassie is knocking on Gil’s door asking how much more than can do.

Anyway, where were we…

 19.   Footy Show Grand Final on Wednesday rated as well in Melbourne as the Front Bar did the following night. Interesting. Watch Nine commit to something for next year, not sure what, maybe it’s the Sunday Footy Show boys or something else, but a prime time offering from Nine next year got rubber stamped essentially off those numbers. Will it work? Let’s wait and see.

20.   And for anyone who thinks rules have ruined AFL, that score review or any adjustments to the laws have made it too hard to stick with after all these years – you’ve got nothing on the Rugby World Cup. The great game of Rugby, that’s always being very hard to referee anyway with all the tackles and rucks, has become impossible and any true-blue Aussie watching the Wales game Sunday, would make any nay-sayer AFL sceptic send Steve Hocking a Christmas Card. There’s always someone worse off, I assure you.

[mesdea]

The Philosophy of Lost Chances Chapter 10

I"m sorry for the lack of update last week. It's been a rough year for me, we've been in mandatory Overtime at work for almost 8 months. After a while it really starts to wear on you. We are hoping there is an end on the way, however.

If I have enough time tomorrow, I might try to post another chapter, no promises, but I will try. (I know, do or do not, but sometimes all you can do is try.)

I would just like to mention that while not graphic, there is the mention of torture and violence in this chapter.

The smell of copper was in the air when Qui-Gon finally opened his eyes. No light was in the room, only the darkness that he was becoming used to. His life had become a constant barrage of beatings, some with questions, other times just the viciousness of the attack. The tall master once again pulled at the chain on his neck, the collar that kept him from the sweet comfort of the force.  How long had he been here, he kept asking himself after each beating? Was it days or weeks, he felt utterly cut off in the blackness of the room, it felt like a time without end.

“I see that you are awake, my apprentice.” The emotionless words were spoken from the opening to the room, allowing a trace of light that almost blinded Qui-Gon.

Qui-Gon had learned after the third beating that it was better to say nothing; it only provided the man pleasure to see him struggling. He fought to stand up, still refusing to bow to a Sith, he would die a Jedi.

“You will be such a delight to break, but our time here is growing short. We must leave the planet and continue your training elsewhere. That young brat that killed Maul refuses to leave well enough alone. I was trying to relish his undoing, but he may have to be dealt with soon.” The disgust in the man’s voice was quite evident.

“NO!” Qui-Gon was on his feet and lunging at the cloaked figure, his anger getting the best of him.

There was a cackle as the man was just out of reach from the chain. “You are learning. Perhaps I should allow you out of the chain, allow you to strike out at me. To embrace your destiny and take my place.”

There was a small gasp and all the air was let out of his body. He collapsed back to the ground and tried to release his feelings, which felt like an impossible task without the force at his side. “No, I will die a Jedi and Obi-Wan and Mace will make sure that the Sith are defeated.”

“Oh? I suppose I forgot to tell you. There was an incident at the healer’s ward and Master Windu took a turn for the worst. Your old friend is part of the force now. That whelp of his, walks around like the wounded, but he refuses to give up on finding you.”

Qui-Gon closed his eyes at the Sith’s words. Mace couldn’t be gone. No, he had been fine and healing. “You are lying.”

“If it makes you feel better, you can believe what you will. Perhaps instead of killing Kenobi in revenge, I could turn him as well.” The figure left the room swiftly and the dark once again invaded the room. Qui-Gon was holding his head in his hands, trying to think through the pain and confusion. Mace couldn’t be dead; Obi-Wan would never turn.  They both had to be safe, he had to do something.

“You can’t do anything, you’re worthless like this.” The voice that penetrated the blackness sounded oddly like his own. “If you just gave into the darkness like he wants, you could save him. All you have to do is let go.”

The voice continued to talk to him throughout the hours, never relenting. “Obi-Wan, please.” The plea was whispered to no one in particular. He was losing faith; he was starting to feel he was losing his grip on reality. He held tight to the picture of a young man with gorgeous red hair that had never given up on him. He needed to hold on to that hope. He had to make it through this nightmare, or end it himself to save Obi-Wan. He needed him to be safe.

It had been three days since all hell had broken out in Obi-Wan Kenobi’s life. He had woken up from the force induced sleep, screaming Qui-Gon’s name, but quickly was comforted by the strong arms of his master. Mace had quietened him down; allowing the young man to settle before the healers once again filled him with drugs to calm him. Once he was finally quiet, Mace had filled him on all they had done to try and track down Master Jinn, but it was as if he had disappeared completely.

It was hard to believe that it was all so much better three days ago. He had felt the comforting warmth of the man he desperately wanted to get to know better, only to feel it ripped out violently from his mind. “Credit for your thought, Ben?” The nickname from his past was a comfort.

“Master, they released you?” Obi-Wan watched the man walk gingerly towards him. He wasn’t healed completely, but he was glad to see him up and about, even if there was nothing else to be happy about in this moment.

Mace simply walked up to the younger man and wrapped his arms tightly around the smaller form, consoling him with everything he could. “They did because my padawan and best friend needed me. I can’t help from a bed.”  He heard a soft sob muffled in his robes and knew that his padawan was trying his best to be strong.  “Did I ever tell you the story about how Qui-Gon broke his nose?” Mace knew he needed to offer a distraction to them both.

With another sniffle beneath the robes Obi-Wan lifted his head to look up at Mace. “No, you never really talked about him much.”

“I should work on that. We really did have many good times together; I think I was just afraid that you would start to ask questions before I was ready. I am sorr…”

He was once again cut off by a stern look, “No more apologies. We agreed.”

“Yes Master Kenobi.” They both let out a soft chuckle, the lightness a welcome relief from everything else. Mace directed them both against a tree, sitting down with Obi-Wan against his chest. They had often sat like this when the padawan was just a boy. They would talk about the day’s teachings and sometimes just tell each other silly stories.

“I’m almost sure that I am too old for this master.” The boy looked over his shoulder to the smiling Korun.

“You are never too old for comfort. I guess I have a few more things to teach you.” Mace let his chin rest gently on the young man’s reddish spikes. “So let me tell you about Qui-Gon, shall I?” Obi-Wan just nodded his head up and down, holding back the tears he still felt when he reached out for the non-existent presence in the force.

“We were Crechemates from the very beginning. However we were not always the best of friends. I hate to say that once upon a time I was quite the bully to him. I would tease him and call him Qui-Baby.” Mace felt his padawan tense, remembering his own run in with Bruck Chun’s teasing taunts. “It wasn’t something I am proud of now. Back then, Qui-Gon was connected to the living force much more than anyone else. He felt things more deeply, that led to many tears being shed over different things.”

“How did you go from bully to friends?” Obi-Wan looked back at his master, a bit disappointed at the revelation.

Mace ruffled Obi-Wan’s hair. “It isn’t something I am proud of, but back then I was self-conscience about a great many things and was trying to deflect it on someone else. It was hard dealing with shatter points at my age. It’s no excuse, but it was the reason.” Obi-Wan nodded for him to continue on with the story.

“It had happen about a year after we had both been taken as Padawan’s.  We joined the yearly tournament for the first time. I would say we were both trying to prove something to ourselves and our new master’s. Qui-Gon had worked for months on getting his kata just right and sparring with anyone that would let him. Towards the end of his training, he had a growth spurt. Believe it or not, Qui-Gon Jinn was a short padawan at first.” Obi-Wan chuckled at the thought of his huge friend being a tiny padawan. It just didn’t fit his image now.

“You can laugh all you want, but the man was almost the runt of the creche at one point. However, in the weeks prior to the tournament, he shot up like a weed. He was all limbs. As you can remember when you had your own growth spurt, well…”

“It’s hard to grow into your limbs. It makes you quite clumsy.” Obi-Wan nodded once more.

“That is correct. Qui-Gon was so worried about the tournament that he had taken to living in the salles from morning to night. He was trying so hard to overcome what he felt was a horrible defect. His balance was off and it wasn’t a body that he wanted to accept.” Mace paused for a moment, letting the story bring him back to that moment in time…

“You know, if you keep living here, they will make you move from Master Dooku’s rooms.” The small Korun boy just flashed a smile at him.

“What do you want Mace?” Qui-Gon wasn’t in the mood for the boy’s rude comments and taunts. He was frustrated and just wanted to feel like himself once again. This was not HIS body.

Mace just shook his head back and forth at the boy. “Perhaps I wanted to offer my help?”

“Yeah and Master Yoda is the most gorgeous Jedi ever.” Qui-Gon snorted back.

“Well, he’s my master so I can’t really comment on that, but you do seem to be without a partner. Shall we?” Mace knew he had been a handful for Qui-Gon in their creche years and after a year in his master’s presence he realized all the hurt he had put on Qui-Gon for his own insecurities.

Qui-Gon looked at him, trying to determine what he was up to. This wasn’t the same boy he grew up with. “No tricks, Mace.”

“No tricks, Qui-Gon.” Mace watched the smile on his face when he was actually called by his real name. It was a smile he could grow to like. They both started in a defensive stance. They sparred for hours, both offering counters to each other’s moves, teaching the other. Mace offered techniques to assist with compensating for the longer legs and arms, Qui-Gon showing Mace some of the aerial things he had learned from his master. After hours together, they were both immersed in the force, they didn’t realize they had an audience. They were focused on each other and force, it was all that had existed in this one perfect moment. They had let go of their emotions and forgiven the past. It was all quite dizzying in its perfection.

Qui-Gon had just completed a flip over Mace when his saber was going for a kill shot to end the match, when they heard clapping, bringing them both back to their surroundings rather abruptly. Qui-Gon pulled his saber back, trying to avoid the boy before him as he felt himself off balance once again by his gangly limbs. Just as Qui-Gon pulled back, Mace had been lunging forward to try to escape the blow by going low. Everyone that was watching gasped as Mace’s head connected to Qui-Gon’s face and blood flew.

They collapsed on the floor, both laughing hysterically as Qui-Gon held his broken and bleeding nose. “Going on, what is?” They both looked up, still giggling as Master Yoda looked on them both.

“M..Master, it was an accident, really.” Yoda’s ears drooped as he looked to Qui-Gon. “Accident it was, Padawan Jinn?”

Pinching his nose, Qui-Gon struggled to kneel before the grandmaster. “It was just an accident. I had never felt so one with the force, and I forgot my surroundings. It was as much my fault as Mace’s.” Mace looked on with shock. He could have told the story differently and gotten the padawan in much trouble.

“To the healers, you should go. Broken nose, not attractive it is.” The master smiled and walked away.

“I don’t know, I think it adds character.” Mace blushed slightly. “Why didn’t you? You could have?”

“The past is set; I wish to live in this moment. Perhaps we could start again?” Qui-Gon offered his non-bloody hand to the padawan before him. He felt the blushing of his own cheeks, feeling the warmth of friendship around them.

“I would like that, but we should get you to the healers before that is permanent.” Mace smiled and offered his hand in assistance. Qui-Gon held onto it just a bit longer than he should, but felt himself drawn to the padawan that was once his worst nightmare.

“It’s just a little broken nose; I can set it and go into a healing trance. As you said, its character and well, I want to remember this moment. Nothing is ever hopeless, if you just keep trying. Shall we go have lunch?” Mace just smiled shyly and nodded. It was the beginning of many meals together and many more intimate moments as friends.

Mace finished his tale, smiling at the memory. He had remembered that slightly crooked nose and how lucky he was to have such a wonderful friend in his life. He had mourned his loss after Xanatos and never wanted to give up on him.

Obi-Wan turned in Mace’s arms and kneeled before him to look deep into the other’s eyes. “You really should listen to Master Jinn’s words from back then. You should live in this moment. We will get him back and you can make a new start once more. He…isn’t lost to us, he can’t be.” Obi-Wan felt his face flush once more, as the force tried to whisper to him. “Master, can you feel that?”

Mace stood up and offered his hand to Obi-Wan, pulling him up once more. “Yes, it’s something. I don’t know, it’s something fleeting, but urgent. It’s as if the force itself is trying to send a warning, but it’s not strong enough.”

“We have to find him, Master. I need to know what this man is to me. I…”

“Well, Master Windu and Padawan Kenobi, this is a sweet scene. Have you stopped searching for Master Jinn?” They both turned around at once and saw the chancellor before them. “I’m sorry to disturb, I was just going to visit the gardens before it is time to return to Coruscant.”

Obi-wan looked to his master that was once again the stoic Jedi Master of the order. “You did not disturb us. We were just remembering what we were searching for to bolster our efforts to keep going. We will find Master Jinn, if it is the last thing we do.” Mace still wasn’t sure about this man before him. Every time they were in his presence there was this strange buzz in the force and it caused him to get a headache. Why would that be, he thought to himself. Why did he suddenly have the desire to investigate the Supreme Chancellor more?

“I’m sure you will do everything in your power. I have the upmost respect for you both. May the force guide you to your friend. I do hope it isn’t too late.” Palpatine turned a small smirk on his face as he left the garden.

Mace felt his padawan stiffen. “What is it padawan?”

“That man…I swear he was downright happy and pleased just now. Why would that be?”

Mace looked at the pale face once more, feeling the emotions flow over their bond. “Why indeed. Let us visit the Queen once more. I have some more questions.”

Obi-Wan closed his eyes for a moment and whispered into the force. ~Hang on Qui-Gon. We will find you, Hold on for me, hold onto hope~

#quiobi #Qui Gon Jinn #obi wan kenobi #qui-gon x obi #the philosophy of lost chaces

[qaftsiel]

The Night Watch

(Trying a new thing-- posting the fic itself here. It’s also on AO3 and FF dot net!) 

It's 3984 CE and Dean is the Night Watch engineer aboard an RK-NGL high-γ cruiser. It's a run-of-the-mill transit until it isn't. (Hard science fiction AU. Slow burn Destiel, a lot of space travel feelings, some plot, and a sprinkling of posthumanism. Currently rated T, but might go up.)

“Went out on the mass drivers today, Sammy,” Dean says as he shucks the skintight underlayer of the exosuit. The magnetized gauntlets, kneepads, and boots of the external components are already neatly tucked away in their cubby by the airlock. “Another eighteen months, another three point five tee. She’s holdin’ up like a champ, though-- these new-fangled cruisers are somethin’ else.”

Sammy, his clunky second-generation berth not so much ‘nestled’ as ‘crammed’ in between the RK-NGL’s cutting-edge, almost miniature creches, doesn’t reply. The berth’s LS unit emits the same, soft, green blink it has every minute of every year that’s passed.

“Knew you’d agree, bud,” Dean hums. Always the nerdy one of the two of them, his Sammy-- if it isn’t planetary law, it’s starliners or Pre-Diaspora history or biology or whatever other topic that’s caught his attention and imagination. Dean’s always hard-pressed to keep up so Sammy won’t ever be bored or without someone to talk to. “You’re gonna flip when you hear about these new ablation shields. Slicker than fuckin’ BAM, man, and just as hard-- you’ll say she looks like crap, but she’s a damn tank, Sammy. Shit’s unbelievable.”

Blink.

“Naw, you just wait,” Dean says, finally extricating himself from the last of the underlayer. “I’ll tell you all about it, dude. Give you the grand tour and everything, I promise.” He lays a gentle hand over the thick, chilly window in the berth’s insulated metal shell. “You sleep good, okay? I gotta go check up on the forward arrays, and then it’s my turn for a break; I’ll get back to you when I start my next shift.”

Blink, goes the LS unit.

Dean takes a moment to gaze down at his brother’s quiet face through the berth’s porthole, and then makes his way inward through the payload ring.

The RK-NGL, like all high-γ cruisers, doesn’t look a damn thing like the ships in Pre-Diaspora movies. As stardrives had been built and then improved upon, humanity had discovered that the not-quite-vacuum of space became very hostile very quickly as one’s velocity increased-- even the sparsest regions of the interstellar medium would blast away a poorly-designed craft’s hull in very little time at an appreciable percentage of the speed of light . Changing course mid-transit, yet another pre-Diaspora science fiction favourite, had led to several well-known explosive disasters due to catastrophic structural failures. Excess mass and pretty-but-useless bulk had rendered the earliest starliners so fuel-hungry and slow that humanity had very nearly abandoned space travel on the basis of cost-- when even a team of multinational corporate CEOs couldn’t foot the bill for something, it was far, far too expensive.

Eventually, though, humanity had shed its dreams of gleaming, frog-legged saucers, beringed pyramids, and ominous wedges. Leaving the system permanently had become less and less of an option with the way the War Between Worlds had continued to spark bigger and bigger satellite conflicts, and wishful, nostalgic frivolity had quickly been discarded in favour of relentless survivalism.

Within decades, intrasystem cruisers and starliners had dumped mass, shed cubic meterage, and stripped out all unnecessary components. Elegantly curved routes weaving from star to star had been abandoned and redrawn for straight, unwavering lines: Point A to Point B, no frills, no stops. Fins, wings, and rings had been scuttled, thrown to the blast furnaces, and re-forged with only brutal efficiency in mind.

Now, almost fifteen hundred years after the first ship had departed Earth for Proxima A, starliners are starkly different animals when compared to their imagined forbears, and the RK-NGL is no exception. She’s a child’s stacking toy stretched to almost twenty-five times the diameter of her base-- a rigid carbyne-tungsten spine capped at one end by a bouquet of cutting-edge Chevy-AkoSi mass drivers, tipped at the other by the nosecone and ablative shielding, and ringed throughout the rest by reactor, fuel, and payload toroids. From the outside she looks like nothing so much as a half-polished missile from pre-Colonial history, and except for the fact that she’s meant to stop and not explode, she might as well be one.

She’d be considered ugly by pre-Diaspora standards, sure, but that’s nothing new for starliners, and she’s one hell of a lot cooler than some of the other bags of bolts Dean’s worked on. Built around tech mecca Orla B, she’s hot off the anvil and bristling with technology so advanced that he’d had to study pre-release schematics for years on top of the data dump in order to win his position as the Night Watch crew. He even gets his own space within the Watch toroid-- not that it’s much, given that the toroid’s sandwiched between the payload ring and the nosecone, but it’s more than anyone had ever afforded him in the past.

He shares the squished little Watch toroid with two maintenance mechs, GG4-BE and B3N-N1. Dean hates unit numbers for mechs as a matter of principle, so he calls the two Gabe and Benny, respectively; in the year of prepwork before their AIs had gone into hibernation for the transit, they’d been pretty happy about it. They’re quiet now, of course, but they still respond to the nicknames as well as their actual designations, and Gabe still plays games with Dean during its downtime to help keep him from getting too bored.

Gabe still kicks his ass at Go every time.

Dean kinda misses the way the mech used to lord it over him.

“Fifteen and a half down, nine and change to go,” he assures no one in particular as he lets himself onto the spine goway.

The quickest way to get from point A to point B on the ship, the goway is the cylindrical, two-meter-wide space between the inner surfaces of the toroids and the heavy-duty strutwork of the RK-NGL’s spine. Once upon a time, he would have found it scary as fuck-- it is a kilometer-long, pitch black tunnel shot through by support braces and anchor points, after all-- but after dozens of Watch gigs on similar (if smaller) craft, it’s just a larger variation on a familiar theme.

At least, it’s familiar on most trips. Something’s a little off as Dean makes his way noseward-- there’s a glow coming from behind the hatch into the nosecone and the forward array banks. It’s pretty blue, but the area around it doesn’t register as temperature-hot, thank fuck. Still, Dean’s whole frame prickles with high alert. There shouldn’t be light from that part of the ship. End of.

By the time he’s a meter or so from the hatch and its little window, the light is so bright that he can see his own hands and arms as he gently redirects his careful drift up the goway. Their unnatural gleam is even weirder in the eerie, blue glow.

Slowly, cautiously, Dean throws the analog lock on the hatch and swings it open.

Nothing happens.

Floating in front of the open hatch, Dean’s skin prickles and buzzes anyway-- no matter the number of modifications or years, the old lizard brain’s reflexes still resurface from time to time. Scoffing at his animal ridiculousness, he shakes it off and gently propels himself into the array bank.

The glow, he realizes, is nothing more than his handlight-- the one he’d been looking for since the last full check-in he’d done of the ship. “God dammit,” he grumps aloud, and snatches up the device. He glares at the feathery afterimages of the array bank after switching the handlight off. “Gotta get some fuckin’ rest.”

Once he’s given himself just enough time for a satisfactory sulk, he plugs into the output jack, switches video inputs, and looks over the last month of data from the array. Except for a cluster of blips in the 450 nm range a few days ago, the readouts all look pretty normal-- just the usual bunch of Doppler-shifted noise from stars and regular pings from navigation posts along the RK-NGL’s route. Even the blips aren’t anything huge, really. Dean’s seen others like them, especially on that one supremely fucked-up trip from Landung to Dàodá that, among other things, had involved passing through a (distant) pulsar’s jet range. Those peaks had been literally off the fuckin chart; these were just… well, blips. Kinda dinky, actually, like they ran over a messy smudge of blue somewhere along the way.

Or maybe crossed the path of some dumb kid’s toy laser. Dean’s seen that before, too. Either way, it’s nothing worth freaking out over. He archives the readouts along with the rest, closes up shop in the fore array, and grabs the Watch toroid’s hatch with an easy swing.

Gabe’s docked and in full dormancy when Dean drifts in; Benny, on the other hand, is just coming out of standby. <Greetings, Dean,> they send as they run their startup routines. Dean watches, and wonders if it’ll ever not be jarring to see all that servo motion and not hear a bit of it.

<Hey, Benny. Good rest?>

<Charge is at 100% and all systems are running within optimal parameters,> Benny reports out, which is about as close to a “yeah, man, like a baby” as Dean is going to get in transit. He waits while Benny pulls the archived array readouts and the walkover reports from Dean’s shift. Shortly thereafter, an update appears in the RK-NGL’s log-- Benny’s agreed with Dean’s reports, and has signed off on handing over the shift without further action needed. <The Takaoka-REST has completed startup and is prepared for use.>

<Thanks, dude,> Dean replies, and opens the hatch to his pod. <See you in eighteen.>

Like every other mech Dean’s been in transit with, Benny doesn’t respond to the small talk. Dean’ll get a ‘thank you’ for it at the end, though, and that’s enough to keep him doing it throughout the trip.

Pressing his legs together with a soundless click, Dean levers himself feet-first into the open Takaoka-REST pod that’s been his home sweet home since leaving Orla. Except for the missing atmo panel, the high-gauge standby lines, and the heavy-duty power line, it’s exactly like every other hotel pod Dean’s ever been in-- a bit over a meter wide, a little under a meter and a half tall, two and a half meters deep, and plushly cushioned on every wall but that of the hatch. It’s probably the most unnecessary thing on the whole damn ship, given that Dean could do just as well with a run-of-the-mill standby dock like Benny and Gabe use, but he’s not about to argue if his employers want him to have a few creature comforts.

After a few minutes of fiddling with the standby jacks and wrestling with the power line (someday he’s gonna get around to reprogramming so he’ll have that piece of shit power port somewhere logical, not the middle of his fucking back), Dean queues his sleep routines and closes his eyes.

When he wakes, they’ll be another year and two point three trillion kilometers closer.

It’s good progress.

***

Dean stands and watches as the stasis technicians swarm around Sam’s berth; next to him, there is a man with scruffy hair and blue eyes. Dean doesn’t remember the man, but he remembers this moment like it happened mere minutes ago, and not… then. He remembers all too well the unresponsive LS unit, with no indications of where the error might be. He remembers the engineers announcing that there was no way to crack the unit open to run diagnostics without a catastrophic stasis failure.

He remembers realizing that his baby brother wasn’t going to wake up anytime soon.

That terrible moment in time, pivotal and agonizing, replays in front of him like a Netflix show.

The man tilts his head and watches as the swarming technicians slow, shake their heads, and then steadily disperse. As he had before, Dean falls to his knees.

The scene shifts. It’s Dean’s first Watch gig, aboard an intrasystem shuttle. Sam’s berth matches the ones around it pretty closely.

The flight engineer’s mouth is moving behind his faceplate, but the words come to Dean as if through water. ‘You’re joking, right? Until you’re sucking oxygen like the rest of us, Tin Man, you’re just another mech to babysit. Go play with your robot buddies and leave us real people the fuck alone.’

The man is there again. He and Dean watch the flight engineer throw the lock on the mech hangar as he leaves.

The scene blips. A vidscreen in a hospital room that resembles a nanofactory more than a medical ward streams ProximaNewsNow on mute; closed captioning flickers across the bottom of the screen. A 2967 Chevy Impala is barely recognizable onscreen, its sturdy carbon fiber frame turned to flinders beneath the shattered bulk of a freight canister. Two nearby lumps are covered with white sheets. The thing the emergency crews extricate from the wreckage doesn’t look like a body, and doesn’t get much better even after they’ve dunked it into an emergency stasis creche and sent an ambulance racing away with it.

Dean stares up at the screen from the hospital bed. Near the door of the room, a bald man and a bearded, dark-haired man face each other down, red-faced and shouting and pointing fingers. A younger, floppy-haired man-- Sammy-- sits in a chair beside the bed, hands clapped over his ears and tears filling his eyes. Lying in the bed, Dean closes his eyes and listens to the soft whine of servos as he flexes his new hands-- open, closed. Open, closed.

Sticking out from the hospital gown, Dean’s new legs gleam steely blue under translucent sensory-polymer skin. He watches the fibers twitch as he raises one knee, then the other.

More blips, faster this time. Dean re-learning to walk, Dean picking up egg after egg after egg until he’s finally able to do it reliably without cracking the shells. Dean re-learning to write. To speak. To sleep.

Dean staring down at the rejection from the MIT-Proxima Bouchet School of Physics, where he had been only been months away from his doctorate-- ‘intellect’ is a term valid only for those with organic brains, it seems.

Dean going to live with Sammy, who’s always there, alway his ally, until the day Dean learns he won’t wake up.

They’re in front of Sammy’s creche again.

The man’s eyes are very, very blue.

Continued here.

#my writing #fanfiction #Supernatural #science fiction AU #destiel #slow burn #rating: T #may go up