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I keep thinking about how Newt and Theseus were ‘discovered’ to be Eluréd and Elurín.

..for some reason, I typically see the scene set in the Golden Wood, shortly after Newt and Graves’ wedding - which, as we’ve previously worldbuilt, was officiated by Radagast, and attended/witnessed by both Theseus and Arwen. …it was also subject to an orc ambush midway through, with Graves and Newt shouting out their vows mid-battle a la At World’s End. (Theseus bawled as he beheaded a charging orc.)

Newt and Graves (as well as Theseus and Arwen) subsequently traveled to Lothlorien - perhaps because even though there’s a special kind of pleasure in wandering beneath the stars, it’s really very nice to sleep in a proper bed in a lovely place where there is ABSOLUTELY NO CHANCE of being ambushed by Orcs in the middle of the night. (Also, Theseus insisted on toasting his brother and his new brother-in-law.) …which was when the rest of Elrond’s contingent caught up with them.

…apparently, leaving a letter that, paraphrased, stated ‘Newt accepted my proposal of marriage; Arwen agreed to serve as my witness. I am hereby notifying you of the fact that I am taking advantage of several centuries’ worth of accumulated vacation time to get married and go on my honeymoon’ was - not the most suitable way Graves could have employed to notify Lord Elrond of his impending marriage.

The news hit Rivendell - and, subsequently, elvish society at large - like a battering ram. It was the event of the decade; Percival Graves - orNoirëion Laicaethë, to use his ‘proper’ elvish name - got married. To a wood-elf. A Noldor, one of the vanishingly rare survivors of Gondolin, famed warrior, loyal until death and beyond, who had lived through fire, floor, and the War of Wrath - got married. To a wood-elf of no pedigree whatsoever.

It was a scandal. It was news. And some people tried very hard to object.

Not Elrond, or any of the people who really mattered to Newt and Graves - Graves, for one, was getting steadily more irate as various elves he’d never even met before kept harping on about how Graves was better then this, how he wasn’t thinking this through, how - Newt was growing even more and more quiet, practically hiding behind Graves as Theseus bristled and stepped forward to his defense -

Which was when Galadriel stepped in.

Galadriel, and her Mirror. Which, among other properties, can show ’Things that were’.

(When pressed, Galadriel will later state that she felt something, a hidden knowledge that needed to be made plain - a secret, hidden by years, unknown even to those who carried it.)

And the Mirror showed the past.

Specifically, Newt and Theseus’ past.

The accumulated elves flinched in shared memory as the Mirror showed the grim scene of the War of the Last Alliance - and there was Theseus, reckless grin on his face as he fought alongside the rest of the infantry. There was Newt, soothing horses as he joined a cavalry charge.

The Mirror swirls, and another image is shown.

There is Newt, caring for a badger in the middle of a forest. There is Theseus, a song on his lips as he guards a group of travelers making for the Grey Haven.

A ripple of water, and the scene changes.

There is Newt and Theseus - but younger, elves barely into adulthood as they march with one of the refugee bands that traced their way from lost Beleriand during the War of Wrath. And the mirror is going faster now, and Newt feels Theseus’ hand tighten upon his own as they see their own faces as children, and the faces of the elves who adopted them , and then -

Then, the faces of Men. And the encampment which was their earliest memory - and the onlookers can see them now, a pair of thin, dirty elf-children, hungrily gulping down the stew that they were offered.

“They found us in the forest.” Theseus says quietly, eyes fixed on the worn, tired faces of their human foster-parents. “Just a pair of orphans, running from the war. We didn’t remember much - too traumatized, I suppose. We couldn’t even remember even our own names - they fed us and took us in and named us.” Newt nods silently, eyes hungrily drinking down the sight of the long-dead humans who had been the first to love them.

The Mirror is swirling even as they watch, shifting to the sight of two painfully young elves - barely more then toddlers, but still recognizable as Newt and Theseus - making their way through a dark wood. And then it dips and swirls and resolves one last time -

And there is Newt and Theseus, as younglings, barely more then infants, clasped tight and secure in the arms of a pair of elves who must be their birth-parents - the resemblance is all too striking, and Newt and Theseus stare at the unfamiliar faces of their biological parents, trying their best to sear the image into memory. They do not recognize them; their features mean nothing to the twins - but a great susurration erupts from the assembled elves who do know them - and who even now are putting the pieces together.

And Galadriel lets the mirror flicker and fade into nothing, voice and face regal as she draws air to speak.

“Hail!” Cries the Lady of the Wood in a great voice. “Hail Eluréd and Elurín Diorion! Hail to the sons of Dior, son of Beren and Luthien, who return to us now beyond hope, beyond fear, beyond expectation! Hail, princes of lost Doriath, brothers to Elwing, kinsmen to the Star of High Hope! Elen sila lumenn’ omentielvo!”

…and then things get very loud indeed.
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“How much farther?” Fingon called into the wind. “How much farther can you bear us?”

The eagle’s cruel, hooked beak did not move, but his great voice echoed in the minds of those that huddled upon his back.

“I am Thorondor, Lord of Eagles. My wing beats are the crack of mountain thunder and when I stoop to kill it is the strike of lightning. My wings span thirty fathoms and my strength is the strength of the rising storm. I can carry you as far as is needful.”

“Thirty fathoms exactly?” said Fingon. “And how much do you weigh?”

Thorondor blinked his golden eyes. “What?”

“We’ve been doing some calculations back here,” Fingon said, oblivious to his confusion. “The average harpy eagle has a wingspan of about a fathom and can carry its own body weight - say twenty pounds - for short distances. If we were to extrapolate your weight and scale linearly, you’d be able to carry our combined weight with ease.”

“But the matter is vastly more complicated than linear scaling,” croaked his cousin. “Based on wingspan and weight, an unladen eagle would induce a velocity change on air of almost eight miles an hour - forgive the approximation, I don’t have parchment or sufficient blood - and would require a tremendous amount of energy.” 

“Factoring in the additional weight of two adult Eldar-“

“-plus armour but sans several litres of blood-”

“-the energy requirements would be ludicrous. And that’s without getting into the tensile strength of muscle, bone, etcetera.”

“You understand,” said Thorondor slowly, “That I am a maia of Manwë, cloaked only in the seeming of an eagle?” He was remembering again why, Oaths and murders aside, he found the Noldor such a thoroughly disagreeable people. 

“Well yes,” said Fingon the Valiant. “But that’s no excuse for the crafting of a shoddy fana.”

“O Heirs of Finwë,” said Thorondor. “Behold! For we have found precisely how far I can carry you and it has nothing at all to do with the power of my wings and everything to do with the limits of my patience.” He folded his wings and dived towards the mushroom patch of tents that marked the Noldor’s camps upon Lake Mithrim’s shore, his passengers clutching tightly at his feathers and at each other.  

They landed in a hurricane rush of wind that tore several tents from their moorings, and the raking of great claws that tore great furrows in the brown earth of the lake’s shore. 

”Right,” said the Lord of Eagles, turning his head to peer at the elves upon his back. “Fuck off.”
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via http://hamelin-born.tumblr.com/post/163202051202:Baba - Chapter 1 - Crownofpins - Castlevania (Cartoon) [Archive of Our Own]:

Author: Crownofpins

Summary: Deep in the wilds, mysterious things wander through the lands on mysterious trails. Dracula isn’t the only legend that walks their earth.

Trevor darns clothing, Sypha sews some pants, and Alucard spends a lot of time thinking about plumbing. And, through it all, they bond… hopefully. If they don’t kill each other first.

And if they don’t get eaten first. That’s important too.

 Graphic Depictions Of ViolenceAlucard/Trevor Belmont Trevor Belmont/Sypha Belnades Alucard/Trevor Belmont/Sypha Belnades Sypha Belnades/AlucardAlucard (Castlevania) Trevor Belmont Sypha BelnadesFriendship Pre-OT3 OT3 magic is menacing men darning socks Domestic sinister toilets Fairy Tale Elements drinking alone in the dark never ends well  

This is an exquisitely beautiful story that I highly recommend to one and all.

@elenothar @lectorel @esamastation @blackkatmagic @sanjuno @greenekangaroo @funkzpiel
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@hamelin-born​ asked: I feel like worldbuilding - would you be interested in giving me a gramander prompt to expand on?

@funkzpiel​: YES. Hmmmmmm… Newt is actually a Changling that copied Child!Newt’s form
when said child died from becoming an Obscurial. Percy ends up in
Wonderland and Newt is part of Wonderland in some way. Royalty AU where
Character A is King to Be, but taken away/kidnapped/etc etc and
Character B is either charged with retrieving them (or stumbles
accidentally upon them). ASSASSINS AU. Oh Oh OH Angel AU. Ghost AU. Spy

I didn’t expect such an enthusiastic response! But - well. The thing about angel AUs?

“Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell.“ - Macbeth, William Shakespeare.

(Also, to anyone reading this, please don’t kill me for what’s
probably going to be an extremely fictionalized interpretation of
Christian Mythology. Warnings for - I dunno, blasphemy? Maybe torture?)

Keep reading

It…this..how the hell do you breathe such life into an AU so quickly, woman! HOLY SHIZ-NIZ. 

There’s such a thing as possession, but there’s also such a thing as becoming - and what use do they have, really, for wings that burn like firestorms whenever they take flight?

I think my favorite thing, my absolute favorite thing, is how both angels cope with their past differently.

Newt devotes his life to healing in a an effort to curtail any living beings pain as quickly as possible. He is the help in the aftermath, the gentle hands in the waning light, the patient presence at the bedside - bringing pained souls home.

Percival is the shield. He is the flood gates. An endless basin, ready to take as much pain in and onto himself as needed if it means another soul never feels it. He is the front lines, the brave shot in the dark, the folded flag on a soldier’s casket - large hands that gently cover society’s eyes, lest they know the bitter truth of the world and wilt quicker for it.

But both of them have one thing in common - selflessness.

“She’s a Taker. You need a Giver.”

@funkzpiel  I reiterate what I expressed in the tags to the original post: You had better be prepared to live with the consequences  if you suggest Angel AUs to someone who has read Milton, Marlowe, and Goethe. Also, considering that I’m a hardcore fan of Good Omens, I devoured Neil Gaimen’s The Sandman (and also, to a lesser extent, the side-story/sequel of Lucifer) and was a fan of Supernatural for a while (before it ended, that is, and they started filming fanfiction on the air instead)… Well. You accidentally stumbled on just the right combination of things to set me off like a firecracker.

Also, here! Have a youtube link to a performance that I must admit was quite present in my mind while writing.

Thank you for all the lovely words! One of the things I enjoyed writing in there was how Newt and Graves’ respective habits are not entirely a reaction to coping with their shared past. It’s selflessness on both their parts, yes, but it’s also a choice - a choice that after living in pain and darkness unimaginable, they can be something different. The entity that was once compared to a burning hearthfire had been a soldier, the terror of the battlefield, for literal lifetimes of the earth, and now Newt can be gentle. The being that wore the memory of the night sky used to interrogate the beings unlucky enough to be captured alive, and now Graves can protect people, can make sure it never happens again.

They were literal demons, but when given the opportunity - this is what they chose.
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(this may or may not ever turn into something, so I thought I’d leave it here as the product of my procrastination.)

Obito gets lost on the way back to the afterlife.

It sounds like the start of the worst joke ever, like something Kakashi would mock him for forever after finding out about it, but it is, Obito admits to himself with great reluctance, actually true. This is definitely not the Pure Land, Rin is definitely not waiting for him, and he is definitely alive, because apparently using Kamui to skip out on your path to the afterlife leaves you alive even when you don’t want to be.

The worst part is, Obito can’t even regret it. He’d make the same decision again, because Kakashi needed his eyes so he wouldn’t just stand on the sidelines like a useless lump or throw his life away trying to take a hit. With Kamui, Kakashi has a chance at getting them a victory against Kaguya. Without it—

Without it he’s dead, and Obito doesn’t need the blood of any more teammates on his hands.

Cursing quietly, Obito pushes through a particularly tight net of tree branches, trying to figure out where he is. Another dimension, he can tell that much—Kamui gives him a good sense of such things—but unless he wants to kill himself with chakra exhaustion he can’t teleport back out of it. He could try it to get back to the afterlife that way, or just use a kunai, but—

Obito is a stubborn bastard. He was fine dying to save his friend, because there was no other choice and he was dead at the end of the war anyway, but if he’s alive? Yeah, fuck that, Obito is going to survive. It’s what he’s always done, and even if it’s against the world’s best interests, Obito is going to keep it that way. He’s alive, and no one can take that away from him.

The forest thins out up ahead, the spaces between the tree trunks widening as the ground grows rocky, and Obito makes for it, hoping to find some higher ground so he can at least get a look at his surroundings. The earth is covered with old leaf-litter, soft and silent underfoot, and Obito feels like he should know it, like this whole area is familiar, but he can’t quite place it.

He rounds a thick stand of trees, pushes through a thicket of brambles that curl away from the touch of his Mokuton, and hears—

War. War like the one he just left, the one he started, but without the monstrous roar of the bijuu or the overwhelming lash of chakra from shinobi with no concept of human limits. The earth trembles beneath his feet, the air rings with shouts, and there’s a clang and crack of weapons meeting. Fire roars, the smell of scorched cloth and flesh rising in its wake, and there’s a loud cry.

A familiar cry.

Obito reacts without even thinking. He dodges around the last copse of trees, chakra already surging within him, and bursts out onto the battlefield just as there’s a flash of yellow light.

Years of learning how to craft a plan, how to alter it on the fly, how to act and react and take advantage of every skill he’s managed to cultivate—that’s enough to let him take in the fight in one swift glance, ignoring that fact that it should be impossible. Senju on one side, heavily armored and fighting desperately; Uchiha on the other, backs bared because their stupid pride won’t let them wear armor, but pushing the Senju back. Two sources of chakra brighter than the rest—one on the far right, two heads with long black hair, a dragon made of wood, a familiar gunbai and a curl of scorching flame. The other is at the far end, almost dead-center. A fading glow of gold, black hair, Uchiha symbol, and he’s turning but it won’t be fast enough.

But Obito has faced a man who’s even faster, and he can make it in time.

It’s nothing conscious that drives him—the connections are simpler than that. Half a moment to judge, another bare fraction of a heartbeat to let Kamui whirl to life, and there’s a beat in Obito’s blood that sounds like the cause the cause the cause. Nothing solid, nothing certain, but trained instinct and denial working in tandem as he whirls off the battlefield. A portal into the Kamui dimension, and almost before he fully materializes he has another forming, leading right back out, and he snatches up a staff from a pile of stored weapons and is gone. As soon as he’s through he shifts his body sideways, back into the other dimension as he phases through the man—no armor, just robes, and fuck but Obito can’t believe he’s part of a clan filled with such arrogant assholes, thinking they’re too good to wear armor in a fight—and brings the shakujo around.

A sword collides with it in a flash of yellow light, and red eyes framed by white hair go wide.

Obito snarls, in no mood to call for a truce here and now, and plants the butt of the shakujo in the ground. He leaps, using it as a pivot, and slams a foot into Tobirama’s armored chest with all the force of his chakra behind it. The future Nidaime goes flying, and Obito lands lightly, yanking the staff up as he turns.

Uchiha Izuna rounds on him with a victorious laugh, red-and-black eyes bright with triumph, and opens his mouth.

Obito sweeps his feet out from under him, dumps him on his ass, and buries him in grasping roots that drag him to the ground and pin him there. “When the hell is it ever going to be enough for you bastards?” he snarls right in the man’s dumbfounded face. “How many innocent people need to die in this stupid fucking war before you finally decide that you’ve had enough revenge?!”

There’s no answer, only blank gaping, and Obito growls, pivoting on his heel. Several knots of fighting shinobi are watching him with one eye, clearly wary, but not enough to stop their own battles. It’s not going to be enough to save them, because in a split second Obito has made up his mind. It’s a stupid decision, probably the worst he could come up with, but if there’s a chance in hell of stopping all of this before it starts, Obito will take it.

“Stay there,” he growls at Izuna, leveling his shakujo at him, and then turns. A burst of speed sends him hurtling right at a Senju kunoichi with her hair in a topknot and the ponytailed Uchiha she’s fighting, and he shoves right behind them, knocking the woman into the man and pinning them both with Mokuton. The Senju lets out a startled cry, but Obito is still moving. Branches and roots erupt around him, grabbing for shinobi without discrimination.

Those in Obito’s path don’t have nearly as much of a chance to fight back; Kamui makes him a ghost, and even when he’s tangible his speed leaves him all but untouchable. He plows through the ranks separating him from the other fighting pair, drives forward with a wave of Mokuton subsuming everything behind him. There’s a snarled knot of fury growing larger and larger in his chest, a twist of something that’s very close to grief, and he’s had enough.

With a shout, Madara shoves Hashirama away, then whirls in, sword sweeping down. Hashirama catches it on a thick burst of wood, shoving him back, and in the same moment Madara’s eyes flicker up above Hashirama’s shoulder, taking in the rest of the battlefield in an automatic sweep.

Obito, barely three yards away with his shakujo already swinging, catches his eye and bares his teeth in a wolf’s grin.

Oh, he’s going to enjoy this.

Hashirama must see something in Madara’s face—either that or his instincts give him warning, but Obito likes the idea that Madara’s dumbfounded expression serves as warning enough. The man ducks, rolling to the side, and the ring of the shakujo sweeps across the space he just occupied. It just misses Madara as he leaps backwards, a fireball bursting from his lips, but Obito phases right through it, landing lightly and spinning the staff through his fingers.

Madara feints left, but this is man who trained Obito to begin with, almost a century younger and far less skilled, and Obito easily spots the misdirection. He lunges the opposite way, catches Madara’s sword when he reverses directions, then twists past the blow, drives an elbow into Madara’s gut, grabs him by his long, thick hair, and uses it as a handhold as he spins, knocks Madara’s feet out from under him, and drags him down to the ground.

From above and behind him, there’s a cry, and Obito wrenches the sword from Madara’s hand, keeping the other man pinned with the shakujo against his throat, and half-turns to level the blade at Hashirama. It taps the Senju’s chest as he pulls up short, eyes wide, and Obito snorts.

“One move and I’ll happily put another hole in this waste of space,” he growls, seeing the way Hashirama’s eyes flicker from him to Madara and back.

Hashirama stares at him for a long moment, then nods and takes a careful step in retreat. One half-glance around them and he says very quietly, “You have Mokuton.”

Madara makes a sound like a pissy cat dropped into a pond. “You have the Sharingan,” he spits, as though this personally offends him. “You’re an Uchiha.”

“And that fact has been responsible for pretty much all of the misery in my life,” Obito retorts, and for a breathless, terrible moment he’s back in that clearing under the full moon, a handful of seconds too late to save Rin from Madara’s manipulations. One blow and he can stop all of that here and now, can prevent so much of the pain that might come.

Hashirama must see something of that in his eyes, because he takes a quick stride forward, only to pull up short when Obito snarls and levels the blade at his throat again. “Please, don’t!” he insists.

“Get lost, Senju!” Madara snaps at the same time. “This is an Uchiha matter, I will handle—”

“Clearly it is a Senju matter as well,” Tobirama says coldly, coming to a halt a short distance away, but his eyes are on Obito’s sword where it touches his brother’s collarbone.

“I don’t think so,” Izuna counters, equally chilly and just as biting as he edges closer, Sharingan eyes narrowed and wary. “Just because some Senju bastard couldn’t take no for an answer when it was coming from an Uchiha kunoichi—”

Instantly Tobirama whips around, offended rage written clearly across his face, and he grabs for his sword, only to be pulled up short when Hashirama reaches back and grabs his wrist.

“But—” Tobirama starts to protest.

“Izuna,” Hashirama says, carefully even, and he doesn’t look away from Obito but there’s a spark of tightly contained fury in his dark eyes. “Mind. Your. Tongue.”

Izuna flicks a glance between Hashirama and Tobirama, swallows, and takes half a step away from them. “Brother,” he complains.

Madara gives Obito a dark look, but he doesn’t try to move. “You wouldn’t stand for such an insult to our clan, Izuna,” he huffs. “Don’t expect the Senju to have any less pride.”

Narrowing his eyes, Obito presses the shakujo in a little more firmly. “Don’t bother taking that high and mighty tone, Madara,” he bites out. “You’re the one I hold responsible for all of this, and I’m going to fucking take it out of you hide.”

Red-and-black eyes go wide, and Madara almost flinches away from him, hands rising in something like surrender.

Obito doesn’t want surrender, though. He wants to rip into Madara the way he wasn’t able to before, wants to get a hand in his chest and tear the heart right out of him, pay back every bit of pain that Madara inflicted on the world, through Obito and through Zetsu and by his own hand as well. Wants to rip and slash and hack away until this monster is nothing but a pile of bloody flesh, unable to hurt anyone ever again. It overwhelms him for the space of a breath, white-hot rage the only thing inside of him, and before he can think to stop himself he tightens his grip on his shakujo and—

Big hands grab him, one arm around his waist and the other around his chest, and with a jerk he’s hauled right up off of Madara, dragged back against a broad chest as dark hair tumbles around him. “No,” Hashirama says, halfway to a plea, and his grip tightens enough to force the air out of Obito’s lungs.

Obito freezes, stiff and stunned at the touch of another human. Years, it’s been, since anyone touched him to do anything but inflict pain, and his muscles go tense and tight in anticipation of a blow.

There isn’t one, though. No hit, no pain, no kunai slid into his kidneys to gut him and leave him for dead.

No pain, just—

A trickle, wet and hot, against the back of his tattered robe. Blood, by the smell, and since Obito doesn’t bleed anymore it has to be Hashirama’s, has to be from when he knocked the sword aside to save the man who will eventually kill him.

It’s too much. The thought of it, the reality of standing here over Madara, able to end everything before it begins, and Hashirama is the one to save him—

What Obito did, the people he killed—that’s on his head. But it’s on Madara’s too, on Zetsu’s, on Kaguya’s. Uchiha Obito should have died in a cave-in when he was thirteen, but he didn’t, and the reason for that is right in front of him. The reason he didn’t carved a seal into his heart, killed his best friend, and gave him a twisted, broken vision of the world as an illusion, and then set him to unmake it.

Obito is responsible for his own actions, and he knows it all too well. But Madara was the trigger. If Obito was the sword then Madara was the hand that forged and wielded him, and that has to mean he bears at least a part of the blame from the hell of the past few years.

“No,” he snarls, and though he shoves backwards to loosen Hashirama’s grip and get away he doesn’t reach for Kamui, doesn’t try to hurt the man (again, again, something in him whispers, hurt him again you mean). “Let go of me! He deserves whatever I do to him!”

Hashirama’s grip isn’t harsh, but it is immovable, and he’s as solid as an oak as he drags Obito back another step. “Don’t,” he says quietly. “This isn’t the way.”

Naruto, Obito thinks, guilt and grief and regret and anger all wound up and tangled together. He curls his fingers into fists, takes a breath that vibrates with anger, and does the hardest thing he’s ever managed in his life.

He opens his hand and lets the weapon go.

This is fantastic and beautiful and just guhh. Obito going for Madara, and almost incidentally saving Izuna along the way - Izuna, who was the trigger that was almost single-handedly responsible for Madara’s later actions. Obito, who doesn’t give a damn about who’s Uchiha or Senju and is almost casually curb-stomping them both equally as he lunges for Madara’s throat - *sniffs happily*. This is lovely.

I especially love all the speculation about Obito’s background! This must be the darkest fears (or the secret hopes) of both sides; an individual wielding both the sharingan AND motokun. Who does not hesitate to bitch both sides out (though I think he hates the Uchiha a lot more then he does the Senju - eh. Apples and oranges). The speculation that he’s a child of rape, that’s - well, completely plausible within the clan’s working framework of the situation. Add in the way that he went straight for Madara - the obvious conclusion is that he’s perhaps taking out a very personal grudge on Madara in his capacity as head of the Uchiha clan, and thus nominally responsible for his entire clan and their actions. (…the age difference isn’t plausible for the other reason a Senju/Uchiha hybrid might be going for an Uchiha).

…all I can think of is that one story of yours where Obito was the child of a Senju and Uchiha marriage. I can just see him going “It was my father who was the Uchiha, actually. And my mother was the Senju.” And just as both clans start drawing some horrifying conclusions, he casually adds - “Also, they were married.” (THAT would set the cat among the pigeons)


May. 26th, 2017 04:39 am
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The HP/OP crossover that no one asked for. (Otherwise known as I’m clearing out my notes so have some pre-written stuff to read while I’m on break)

“You want to make a deal?” 

Harry stares at this strange man, the first to ever find his island, the first capable of reaching the shores of his home. 

The man who is slowly making his way into the clutches of Harry’s dear friend, his servant and companion. 

“If I come three years early, give me three minutes in the future!” 

“Only three minutes? Whatever for?” 

He’s interesting, this man. He’s got a kind of charisma that showcases nothing but open honesty. 

He’s the kind of man Harry might have willingly followed in his mortal life. 


There’s no impact. 

Ace is braced for it, he’s looking his startled little brother in the eye. 

Keep reading
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OH GOOD LORD, SOMEONE WRITE THIS. Secretly Married Obi-Wan is killing me. Like, Obi-Wan keeps meaning to say something, keeps meaning to resign from the order so that he can go BE WITH HIS WIFE but…he doesn’t want to set a bad example or anything and this KID is here now and…well, he’ll figure it out later. Attachments are forbidden, Anakin! Hang on, I have to go…to Mandalore…for reasons. I’ll be right back! Politicians are not to be trusted byeeeeee!

Satine is going to be so epically annoyed with him for dragging his feet on this. ARE YOU ASHAMED OF ME, OBI-WAN KENOBI?! WELL THEN MAYBE YOU’LL ENJOY SLEEPING ON THE COUCH. *throws a martini into the wall*

Can you even IMAGINE Anakin’s face when he learns this Important Information? Oh my God. 
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You are an anonymous professional assassin with a perfect reputation. You lead an ordinary life outside of your work. You’ve just been hired to kill yourself.

My first thought is that the middle man I use–calls himself ‘Leader’, real name Brett Thompson, 46, balding, lives in PA–has uncovered my identity. Why else would I be staring down at a picture of my own face? I think it’s a warning, that he knows about the Sanchez job, and I nearly reach for my go bag.

Then I see the client’s name.

Vi Larson, the file tells me, male, 32, computer analyst.

I close the manila folder, tossing it away from me. The whiskey sour’s gone warm in my hand, but I drink it down anyway, eyes distant. I don’t need to read any more of the file. I can fill in the gaps well enough.

Funnily enough, this betrayal is just as sharp and unpleasant as the first one, the one that got me into this business in the first place.

“You at least owe me a crime of passion, you bastard,” I mutter into my drink. I close my eyes and sigh, willing away the stinging in my heart. I knew that my relationship was in trouble, but this is just cold. 

 In a way, I can’t believe it. Is a divorce really that hard?  But, no, I know Vi. He’s methodical, analytical, and competent. If anything, hiring an assassin with a reputation like mine is right in line with his personality. Nothing but the best, even in the murder game.

I should be flattered, really. My rates aren’t cheap. Whatever I did to make him send this in–and he did, there’s his social security, his fingerprint, everything–it must have been killer.

I set my glass down on the counter and tuck the folder under my arm. I need to think and I do my best thinking in the tub. Vi won’t be back from his “business” trip for another three days, during which I’m supposed to kill myself.

As I head up the stairs, I can’t help but laugh. Finally, after three years of marriage, my husband does something interesting. And it breaks my fucking heart.


He wants me to make it painless but horrific. There’s a script in the document, something that’s more common than people think, and it’s hard to read it, even surrounded by bubbles and soothing music.

“Your husband sent me. Said he needed to shed some dead weight.” I snort at the pun and close my eyes, resting the file against my face so it doesn’t get wet. Unfortunately, the tears do that anyway.

“Fuck,” I say. “You bastard.”

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That story is awesome and I want a summer blockbuster filmed with it starring Idris Elba and Riz Ahmed
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Can I put forwards a petition for Graves’ animagus form to be a black smoke Norwegian forest cat? I mean.

Majestic as fuck.

100% done with your shit.

Bitching black and silver colour scheme and a boss coat.

Fanged death machine that strikes terror into the hearts of prey dark wizards and manages to look hella fine while doing so

paint me like one of your french girls

So I can’t stop thinking about this post. ><

Since I’m terrible at contributing to headcanons, I can only offer this humble (and unfinished) drabble:

There was a black cat sitting primly beside the entrance of the Woolworth building when Newt headed out that drizzly gray Friday evening.

It watched him with a piercing golden gaze as he exited, seemingly unaffected by the chilly bite of the night air and the smattering of rain that struck it periodically when the wind changed directions. Contrary to its regal demeanour however, the cat was a sorry sight physically, bedraggled fur dotted with splatters of mud and patches of missing fur.

“Oh,” Newt murmured quietly, careful not to startle the feline, “hello there.”

He carefully knelt down when the cat did not immediately react and slowly extended his palm out. Newt lowered his gaze and waited patiently, alert for any sounds from his feline companion. After several minutes of inactivity, he considered lowering his hand, having decided that the lack of response was likely an indicator of disinterest.

Just as he was about to do so, Pickett peeked out from his pocket and made a small inquisitive noise.

Newt heard, more than saw, the cat flinch.

He lifted his gaze high enough to stare at the cat’s chest and said softly, “don’t be alarmed, I promise that Pickett is very friendly.”

Newt smiled slightly when the cat got up onto four paws and padded closer, but kept his gaze low until it tentatively reached his still outstretched hand. To his surprise, instead of sniffing at his hand, the cat padded right past and straight up to Newt where it sat down again.

When Newt got over his surprise and took a proper look at the feline, he noticed that it appeared to be glaring at Pickett.

For a scruffy stray, it seemed surprisingly fierce, and Newt absolutely did not blame Pickett when the Bowtruckle quavered under the cat’s watchful gaze and shrank back into Newt’s pocket.

Apparently unsatisfied, the cat made to move closer, boldly placing its paws onto Newt’s thighs, intent on climbing its way up.

“Oh,” said Newt, thoroughly taken aback, “I’m afraid I can’t let you scare poor Pickett.”

An irritated chitter came from his pocket and Newt winced apologetically. “Quite right Pickett.”

He smiled ruefully down at the black cat. “Excuse my poor wording just now, Pickett is definitely not afraid, he’s just trying to give you space.”

He suppressed a wider smile when the cat sat back on its haunches and made a huffing snort.

This close, Newt can see the stray was not only dirty, but severely underfed. The girth he had assumed to be a healthy amount of weight turned out to be nothing more than knotted, but still fluffy, fur.

Newt’s heart clenched.

He offered his hand out to the feline again, fervently wanting to scoop the poor thing into his arms but unwilling to intrude upon its space without proper permission.

When the cat continued to simply watch him with a narrow-eyed gaze, Newt found himself speaking again. “My name is Newt Scamander,” he said, “and I would very much like to treat you to dinner.”

For another tense moment, the cat simply sat there and Newt had the impression that the feline was thinking, weighing Newt’s worth with its golden gaze.

Abruptly, it got onto its paws again. Stepping closer, the stray sniffed delicately at his index finger before pushing its head against his hand briefly. Newt ducked his head to hide a pleased smile and allowed himself to inch closer, keeping his movements deliberately slow so the cat can move away if necessary.

It didn’t, though it did tense again when Newt carefully ran his hand down its back.

“You’re absolutely lovely,” Newt told it quietly, “won’t you come home with me tonight?”

The cat gave him another considering look, then, strangely enough, it turned away to stare intensely at the entrance of the Woolworth building.

Newt followed its gaze. He frowned, and moved closer to the door closest to him. There appeared to be scratch marks on the wooden panelling, as if-

He looked down and met the cat’s intelligent gaze. “Were you-” he stopped himself and rephrased his question, “do you want to go inside?”

Newt’s eyes widened when the cat nodded.

He stared down at it.

The cat gave an impatient huff when several seconds passed and Newt had not moved. Startled into action, Newt stood up and took a step back, suddenly all too aware of the events of the past few days and the entirely unpleasant events with Grindelwald. He discreetly felt for his wand and tried to quiet his heart as it began to pound anxiously in his chest.

“I’m afraid I can’t let you in,” he told the cat, trying to sound firm.

Instead of lashing out or transforming into a Dark Wizard or a million other scenarios Newt’s suspicious mind conjured up, the cat merely looked begrudgingly resigned. It seemed to shrink into itself and made no move to approach Newt.

After a beat, the cat turned away and slunk back to its original spot by the entrance. Only, instead of sitting down, it moved closer to the door and curled into a small ball, heedless of the wet ground or the continued existence of the rain.

Newt watched helplessly from his spot.

After a minute, he bit his bottom lip and casted an Impervius Charm on the stray. Then, he forced himself to look away and Apparate back to his hotel.

He did the right thing, Newt told himself firmly as he went through his suitcase and fed all his creatures. There was something odd about the cat, and as much as Newt wanted to help, he can’t allow it entrance into the MACUSA headquarters without a better understanding of what it was.

Because there was no way it was a normal Muggle cat.

Still, Newt couldn’t help the pang in his chest when he came out of his case and noticed the rain had gotten stronger in the intervening time.

He hoped the charm would last the night.

Newt does not see the black cat the next morning.

He dithered by the Woolworth building entrance, under the pretense of purchasing and reading a Muggle newspaper. During this time, he saw countless Muggles, wizards and witches enter and exit but never once caught a glimpse of the stray from last night.

It seemed unlikely that anyone would have stopped to let the cat in.

Newt was familiar enough with Muggle laws to understand that strays are not usually tolerated in public spaces, and whilst he has not yet encountered an animal control officer or an animal shelter during his stay in New York. He had no doubt that they existed and, given his experiences with said institutions in the past, would likely be very unforgiving with the black cat’s life.

Perhaps it had snuck inside after someone?

Unlikely again, Newt concluded after some thought, if the cat simply wanted to sneak inside, it could easily have done so last night, when Newt exited the building. He was broken out of his thoughts when the Muggle newspaper purveyor cleared his throat pointedly. Realizing that he has easily stood outside of the entrance for more than fifteen minutes, Newt ducked his head and entered the building.

Once inside, Newt spent the next half an hour trying to track down either Tina or Queenie. There was something decidedly strange about the stray from the prior night, and he wanted to inform one of the Goldstein sisters if his suspicions are proven to be correct.

Eventually, he spied Queenie as she strode purposefully down one of the hallways and hurried to catch her. Queenie slowed when he approached and turned around with a pleased smile. “Good morning,” she greeted happily, seemingly unconcerned when Newt flashed her shoes a brief smile in response. She then said, with a small frown, “oh. That is indeed odd.”

Newt ducked his head, quietly glad that Queenie agreed with his assessment of last night’s events. “Yes, I thought so as well.” He briefly peered up at her thoughtful expression before looking back down and staring at her chin, trying to concentrate on visualizing the intensity of the cat’s gaze. “It seemed so intelligent.”

Queenie hummed in acquiescence before tugging Newt gently closer to her. “We should drop by and see if dear Tina has a moment to chat.”

Newt nodded and disentangled himself from her grip, which Queenie relinquished with a slightly apologetic grin. Instead, she began moving again, in the opposite direction this time, seemingly turning down corridors at random until at last, they turned right one last time and came across a harried looking Tina.

She was in discussion with several other Aurors, heads bent together conspiratorially and murmuring in soft voices.

As they drew closer however, Newt was able to catch snippets of their conversation and realized idly that they were discussing the search for their Director and, judging by the exhaustion on their faces, he concluded that they likely haven’t had any success.

Tina had noticed them by now, and carefully extricated herself out of the group, gesturing that she would be back. She moved to greet them with a small nod, smiling fondly at her sister before turning the same expression onto Newt.

She must have noticed something on his face because she immediately frowned. “Is everything alright Newt?”

“Oh, yes,” Newt said, then added uncertainly, “only I had the strangest encounter with a most fascinating creature last night.”

Tina tensed. “What was it? Wait, where is it now?” She questioned and glanced down quickly at his suitcase with a furrow in her brows which belied her unease at the thought of Newt acquiring yet another largely prohibited beast.

Newt shook his head and peered up at Tina’s chin. “It was a cat actually.”

She visibly relaxed, shoulders slumping with a relieved sigh. She must have caught sight of Newt’s slightly offended pout because she straightened again and inquired in a more collected voice. “A cat?”

“Yes, it was behaving in a decidedly strange manner,” affirmed Queenie from the side, “it seemed to understand Newt’s speech.”

Newt found himself nodding along with that description. “It was trying to get into the building,” he continued, “it had left visible scratches on the wooden panelling of the door but had likely stopped once it realized the futility of the action in its current form.”

“Current form,” Tina said, then trailed off, “you don’t suppose it could be an Animagus?”

Newt darted a look at her face, taking in the worried downturn of her lips with a small pang of regret. The aftermath of Grindelwald’s deception has not been easy on MACUSA, and having been re-instigated as an Auror, Tina has been running around along with the rest of the Department, trying to tie down loose ends around the city. The toll of the long work hours was visible in the dark circles under her eyes and they made her seem especially pale under the dim light of the hallways. 

“I’m afraid I can’t say for certain. It exhibited intelligence far beyond what is commonly attributable to the species, though it is unclear if this is simply an anomaly, an Animagus, a Transfiguration or something else. However,” he paused until Tina looked at him again, “it did not attack me when I refused to grant it entrance.”

“Oh,” said Queenie in a small voice when Newt thought of the last time he saw the stray, how it had curled its malnourished and dirty form into a tight ball against the door, as if that would be enough to keep out the chill. “Poor dear.”

Tina gave her sister a puzzled look but let the comment slide in favour of the more pressing issue. “Is the cat in your possession?”

Newt shook his head. “It, ah, did not seem interested in coming with me and I did not see it when I came in this morning.”

“Thank you for alerting us, though I’m not sure there is anything the Department can do for now,” Tina sighed and turned an apologetic look at Newt. “Grindelwald’s schemes have left us quite short handed. And between the restorations to the city, clean up within the Department and the search for Director Graves, I’m not certain the Madame President will be willing to spare any Auror to investigate into this, especially not with the new wards they’ve put up.”

“New wards?”

Tina nodded at Newt. “Not fully sure of the specifications myself, but I understand that new wards are able to detect the individual’s wands and are meant to deny entrance to those without a registered wand in good standing in the system.”

Newt mulled over the implications for a few seconds and nodded his head. “This would explain why it could not simply sneak in through the doors.”

“Yes,” agreed Tina. She twitched when one of the Aurors called her name and gave them a brief smile, reaching out to briefly touch Newt’s arm. “That’s my cue, there’s been rumours that Grindelwald kept a warehouse down by the docks for his,” she grimaced, “prisoners. Thank you for informing me, I’ll be sure to warn the others to keep an eye out.”

Newt smiled back and ducked his head. “I hope you find him soon.”

“Me too,” said Tina quietly.

The cat was back by the time Newt left the Woolworth building that night.

He stared at it from under the fringe of his bangs and was fiercely glad that the weather tonight was a significant improvement from the prior eve. He didn’t think he would have the heart to leave the poor thing again, even if it was a Dark Wizard in disguise.

Newt had spent the remainder of the day secluded within the confines of the library within the Woolworth building, pouring over what little information there was on Animagus transformations, Transfigurations and potential spells to detect magical deceptions. He had intended to leave around ten, only Newt had found a particularly detailed dissertation on the transference of physical attributes to the Animagus form and gotten lost in the discussion, and by the time he finished, it was close to midnight.

Newt watched the cat.

It was sitting by the doors again and had perked up briefly when Newt stepped through, but upon recognizing Newt, it made a huffing sound and flicked its tail once.

Newt swallowed, and turned so he was facing the feline properly.

It stared back at him.

“Good evening,” Newt said carefully and palmed his wand in what he thought was a discreet manner. He bit the inside of his cheek when the cat immediately tensed and stared at where his hand was gripping his wand inside his jacket.

Definitely not a normal cat.

Newt observed its sudden wariness and made a split decision, unable to bring himself to cast anything on the creature without provocation. He loosened his grip on his wand and slowly withdrew his hand, watching as the cat fully relaxed once his hand was completely out of his pocket.

“You’re not just a cat, are you?” Newt asked.

The black cat swished its tail once, and Newt got the distinct impression that it was very unimpressed with his deductions. Regardless, after a moment’s hesitation, it shook its head.

Newt suppressed the instinctive sense of apprehension that flared bright in his mind, aware again of his current isolation and the lateness of the hour. He forcibly told himself to take a deep breath and continued. “You can understand me.”

This time, there was no hesitation. The cat nodded.

“Are you,” Newt began then stopped. He rethought his plan and instead said, “will you trust me?”

This seemed to give the cat pause, because it made a low growl in the back of its throat and tensed again.

Pickett stirred in Newt’s shirt pocket and made an inquisitive noise. Newt reached up to place a comforting hand over his pocket, offering silent reassurance to the Bowtruckle. He knelt down slowly and reached out his hand again, a reenactment of his actions from the prior night. “Will you trust me?”

The cat watched him with its golden gaze and Newt forced himself to meet its eyes. Now that he was certain this was not an actual Muggle cat, he was no longer worried that it would interpret his direct gaze as a challenge.


Newt held his breath as the cat slowly padded up to his proffered hand. It does not rub its head against his hand again, instead, it simply placed a paw in his hand.

Newt smiled.

“I’m going to cast a few spells on you,” he told it quietly, and does not wince when it responded by digging its claws pointedly into his palm. “You need to trust me.”

It huffed at him and flicked its tail against his hand, but it does not react when Newt reached into his pocket for his wand again.

“Revelio,” Newt said.

Nothing, not a simple Transformation spell then.

“Finite Incantatem,” he tried.

Again, nothing.

Newt frowned down at the cat. “Reparifarge.”

The cat huffed.

That only left one other option, the spell to force Animagus to transform back into human form. Newt steeled himself for a confrontation and casted the Homorphous Charm.

A bright blue and white glow settled over the cat’s form and Newt gasped. He gripped his wand tighter and readied himself for a fight. Only, the light quickly faded away and left a distinctly grumpy looking feline.

The cat hissed at him and lifted its paw from his palm with the wounded dignity of the deeply offended.

“What,” said Newt then winced when the cat gave him a particularly spiteful scratch. He stared down at it and said faintly, “well then, I suppose we might as well as get dinner.”

It scowled at him.

Hi. Scroll back up. Read the story. Thank you.

Please, may we have some more?
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The memory of their touch burns him even now in the cold rain as he slowly makes his way through the market on Hosnian Prime, rain dripping of his hood as he keeps it as low as possible.

Soft summers on Naboo with gentle hands brushing his legs and strong arms wrapped around his shoulders as he relaxed and looked forward to a future that perhaps could be happier then the past he had.

The yellow eyes and Padme’s intrigued expression at the promise Anakin had given her, the curve of her belly, the gentle hands resting on it as Anakin offered her the galaxy to rule with justice and peace as she saw fit.

Obi-Wan took a deep breath and released it slowly as he continued walking. He had not wanted to end up on Hosinan Prime honestly but that was where the smugglers were going, he needed to reach the outer rims and hoped for a transport there. Months on the run from the two who were reaching across planets slowly but steadily.

It was amazing however how no one even gave him two looks after he had shaved his beard and let his hair grow long, no one recognizing him as the famed negotiator despite his poster hanging everywhere.

But not like the other escaped Jedi’s. His did not say wanted, his said missing.


Missing husband of Empress Amidala and Emperor Skywalker.

He tucked his robe more around himself and glanced about warily as uneasy emotions started to permeate the Force. Obi-Wan stopped, eyes flickering around, a familiar sensation crawling up his spine.


He could feel Anakin.

Anakin was on Hosinan Prime.

He barely dodged the blaster before it impacted where he had been standing, screams sending the crowds scattering as he looked around wildly until he saw the clone sniper on the roof. Even from a distance he could see blue on their armor.

The 501.

Anakin’s troops.

He dodged the next blast from a different direction even as troopers appeared in each direction  of the market. Some with blue and some with orange.

The 212.

Obi-Wan was boxed in by his and Anakin’s troopers.

He needed to run, he needed to run no- “Obi-Wan.”

That voice, that impossibly calm and teasing voice. “I believe its time to stop running now Obi-Wan. You’ve lead me on a merry chase but Padme would rather you’d come home now to meet the twins.”

Obi-Wan slowly looked towards the voice, his stomach turning unpleasantly at Anakin’s smiling face and yellow eyes as he kept his own hood low. He didn’t answer and the blond sighed quietly. “Come now Obi-Wan, I don’t want to hurt you but you need to come home now.”

A fine line of exaustion trembled through Obi-Wan and Anakin eyed it with all the concern in the world laid bare. “You’re shivering, really, you are to take care of yourself more husband of ours.”

“I never stood in a church and I never said yes.” Obi-Wan rasped out and Anakin’s brow furrowed at the tone.

“Are you sick Obi-Wan?” He walked towards the man, uncaring of the danger of approaching a cornered Jedi.

Then again, he knew that Obi-Wan would never strike him down, so what did he have to fear. Obi-Wan bowed his head, he had no where to run, Anakin was right there in front of him with both their troopers on each side and stationed on the roof and this time he had no conveniently placed ship that would take him away.

He watched black boots stop in front of him before a gloved hand went under his chin and tipped his head up, Anakin’s other hand pulling the hood back enough to see him.

Surprised yellow and exhausted green meet.

“You shaved.” Anakin rested his hand against a fevered cheek. “And you ARE sick.” The other tisked before placing a firm hand on Obi-Wan’s shoulder. “SLEEP.”

Obi-Wan struggled against the Force suggestion but exhaustion and illness finally caught up on him and he collapsed against the taller mans chest, unaware of the world as he was picked up by the Emperor of the Empire and carried away.


He ignored them at the dinner table, it was easier to ignore them if he just didn’t join them.

Sitting in the window sill and staring at the world outside as they talked softly with each other before Padme rose to her feet and moved to him, placing an elegant hand on his shoulder. “Come eat Obi-Wan, I will not have it said I starve you.”

Gentle words and touches tearing him apart from the inside even as he stood and mutely followed her to the table, settling down to a plate full of what was his favorites. He stared at it for a long time before slowly tucking in, if he didn’t eat they’d just trick him to it later.

When he had woken up after being caught, Obi-Wan had no idea how long had passed there had been three things he had been instantly aware of.

One, he could no longer reach for the Force though he could feel it.

Two, Anakin and Padme were in the room with him.

And three, there was a bandage wrapped around his calf.

He had gotten his explanation for the first one, Anakin and Padme had a tracker and a Force inhibitor surgically placed into him.

To prevent him escaping again.

That had been weeks ago and his voice had become a rarity.

They still brought him to their bed and their touch still burned him but during those moments he could forget the world outside and during that time his voice could be heard as they teased it out of him with slow and loving touches.
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The bells around his ankles chimed with every step he took with his bare feet and as much as he wanted to wince from the sound alone, the former Jedi managed to keep his face blank. If only because he didn’t want to give more fodder to the Empire’s cronies tales.

Instead he made his way to the top of the table and stopped at Vader’s side. “You summoned me?” He asked quietly.

“You’re late.” Lazy eyes peered up at him, silvers of amusement in them, recognizing his former masters dislike of the bells at his ankles.

“I was with the twins.” Obi-Wan crossed his arms over his chest and felt a twinge of discomfort as yellow eyes traced the v of his tunic that showed part of his collarbone and neck.

“Of course. I’m starting to regret giving you permission to come and go to them as you wish, since its depriving me of your company.” Vader drawled before standing, peering down at his former master. Obi-Wan hated how his shoulders hunched in on themselves on instinct, trying to make himself seem smaller in front of the man that had once been his padawan.

Vader however seemed to enjoy it as he smirked and nodded to the rest of his entourage before slipping his arm around Obi-Wan’s waist and leading him away. “The Emperor has been kind enough to give me control of Naboo and a few weeks of leave from my position.” He drawled.

“How magnanimous of him.” The former Jedi murmured before yelping as he was pushed against the wall, the back of his head cracking unpleasantly against the durasteel wall, pinned between it and Anakin’s warm body as the robotic hand rested against his throat, cold and heavy.

“Considering the pardon he extended to you at my behest, very.” Vader growled at him, a warning that Obi-Wan was overstepping himself once again.

The copper haired man flinched when a softer human hand caressed his cheek.

“You shouldn’t fear me, I wouldn’t harm you Obi-Wan.” Vader lost the growl.

“Not sure I believe that Va-” The hand at his throat tightened slightly in warning. “…Anakin, you have proven yourself quite capable of many things I did not believe of you.” Obi-Wan offered and Vader hummed at him, leaning in to gently nose at his neck. “I know the transition from honored Jedi Master to pampered war prisoner has been a rough transition for you, but aren’t you happy I let you see the twins at least. I don’t want to harm you former master of mine, I only want you safe, cared for, with me.” He slipped his arms around Obi-Wan’s waist, dominating hands settling on his narrow hips and pulling the redhead from the wall and against his own body.

He nudged the others head to the left with his nose, exposing more of the others throat to his lips. “We are leaving for Naboo, today. The twins will visit Padme’s grave, we’ll stay at one of the summer palaces and we will enjoy ourselves. I hope this is agreeable?” He murmured against the pale freckled skin.

He felt the other hesitate before Obi-Wan sighed and gave a slight nod.

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This is weird and I am rusty, BUT 

Anakin Tells Everyone to Suck It, Padme With the Assist ~700 words

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So if, theoretically, I were writing the Death Star AU, the first chapter would look something like this.

fandom: Star Wars

characters: Jyn Erso, Cassian Andor, Bodhi Rook; later, Leia Organa, Luke Skywalker, Han Solo; Jyn/Cassian

length: 4900 words (this chapter; God knows what it’ll be eventually)

stuff that happens: Jyn, Cassian, and Bodhi survive, only to face the worst bonus mission ever.

“Jyn, we have to leave now,” Bodhi was shouting.

She wasted no more time, just climbed over the railing, ignoring the twinges in her leg. They were about to be worse, but she could see Cassian near-collapsed over Bodhi. She’d live. Hopefully.

Jyn jumped.

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@snartha appeared on our skype call tonight wearing a wooly grey hood thing and within 3 minutes we’d invented a new OC.

She had been an early prototype.

An unnecessary one, Sauron admitted to himself later, but he’d always been a stickler for perfection and couldn’t bear to set his Great Plan into motion without having done a dry run first. Experimentation was important, he was a scientist, he was an artist, he was a performer –

It made sense to have a dress rehearsal.

She had been no one of importance – a woman of mean birth from the nameless hills, with little power and less an ambition. Her anonymity had been an important control, he had thought at first, though he did realize this made her hardly representative of what was to come. Still, the important factors manifest despite this in the years after Old Nan had curiously slid that ring onto her bony finger.

The long life, for one.

The magnification of her most potent personality traits for another.

(The fact that these were good-naturedness, an almost pathological worry about others catching cold, and a zeal for crochet had made Sauron frown a little at this perversion of his gifts, but still. One couldn’t be choosy with a prototype.)

When she had died at last, or hadn’t, her spirit was fully under his thrall, and he rejoiced, for it meant his plan was to work, and the Nine – gleaming in their leaden honeycomb deep within his forge – would do what he had dreamed of:

Provide him with an army of wraiths; potent slaves; undying, biddable, powerful beings.

The fact that Old Nan hung around was annoying, but unavoidable. She drifted around in her old cowl with the herringbone pattern, embarrassing Khamul by draping a muffler around his neck and chiding the Witch King for going out to pillage the Shire with ‘nary a mitten, for shame!’

The Nine, to Sauron’s surprise, not only tolerated but venerated her, which gave him some pause, even jealousy. Surely he should be the only one his Ringwraiths venerated - but then, respect for one’s forebears was ground deep into the bones of these Wraiths Who Had Been Men, and as such he did not forbid their deference to the Wraith Who Had Been A Grandmother.

Besides, he didn’t know what he’d do without her tri-color, heel stitch, fingerless gloves.  

@greenekangaroo  @urloth
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The Sheriff Debatesby hamelin_born

Fandom: Fantastic Beasts and Where To Find Them/Welcome to Night Vale fusion

Original Prompt and Fill. AO3 Link.


Grindlewald found it far too much of a hassle to keep Percival Graves on hand. He wiped his memories instead, and dumped him in a little town in the middle of nowhere - just in case he needed the man later on.

Six months later, Percival Graves runs for the office of Sheriff of Night Vale.

The desert owl hoots. The cactus flowers rustle. The neighbors have been arrested for malicious loitering.

Welcome - to Night Vale.


Today marks the final day of elections for the position of Sheriff. And what an election it has been! Who could forget the opening race across the dessert? The bloody footprints of the participants as they ran, neck and neck, across the Sand Wastes? Each man - and woman, and being of indeterminate and purposefully obscure gender, species, and denomination - carried forward by the courage of their convictions and the sniper rounds snapping at their heels.

In a completely unanticipated turn of events, the man in a red balaclava who we all suspect is the sheriff has faced unexpected competition from new Night Vale resident and sheriff candidate Mister Graves. Mister Graves – that’s Mister with an i, not an r – has only recently arrived in our lovely desert community, but he has already proven himself to be a true citizen of Night Vale. He just had the misfortune to be born outside city limits, but if you slice him open, I’m sure that the name of our home is written on his heart. Figuratively, not literally. Don’t do that, because there will be a lot of blood and a lot of screaming and then the Sheriff’s Secret Police will have to arrest you and charge you with murder, and we’ll have to get a jury, and it’ll just be a hassle.

This is the first time that not one, but two candidates for Sheriff have ever reached this point in the Sheriff Trials. I know because I sent Intern Karen down to take a look at municipal records, and usually most of the other candidates – if there are any – have quit or been killed by this stage. Today marks a completely new event – we’ve never gotten to do this before – the Sheriff Debates. I can see that you’re curious. What is a Sheriff Debate? We’ve never needed one before!

Well, I sent Intern Karen down to poke around City Hall and ask a few questions. And it turns out that in a Sheriff Debate, we get to ask the two Sheriff Candidates questions! And then we vote based on how they respond. Incidentally, I don’t think we’ve ever been able to vote for who we want to be the Sheriff before! I’m sure it’ll be quite the experience!

Here’s a little bit of background while they gather enough ground meat to build two separate podiums. As you all know, the man in a red balaclava who we all suspect to be the Sheriff has been the suspected Sheriff longer then anyone else in Night Vale history. We don’t know his name, his face, where he lives, his telephone number, or exactly what he does – but we know he’s done a lot for us, right? The Sheriff’s secret police are indispensible to the fair and organized running of our town, and we’d all be lost without them. And I’m not just saying that because one of them gave me a map last year after my car got ticketed with the word ‘parking lot’ scribbled over the cactus grove between the Ralph’s and Dark Owl Records. They’ve helped us so much, and, presumably, it’s all thanks to the man in the red balaclava who we all suspect is the Sheriff.

 Mister Graves, in turn, is a more recent member of our community. I mean, I think. We don’t really know how long the man in the red balaclava who we all suspect is the Sheriff has been here. Mister Graves, however, arrived in Night Vale six months ago, tied up – quite professionally, I’ve been told – stuffed in a sack, with a gag thrust between his teeth. He was immediately granted citizenship – the City Counsel apparently agreed that anyone that polite deserved to be a citizen. His integration into the town has only been strengthened by the fact of his near-complete amnesia – apparently, he can only remember his name. Nonetheless, he has done a superb job as the new daycare center employee – as his employers, who have declined to be identified – whispered to me, the little tots all love Mister Graves. As do their older siblings, who have taken to hanging around the building after school lets out. Apparently, no one does the voices like Mister Graves does during storytelling, and his bloodstone circle chants are a thing of beauty. And let us not forget that in the time he’s been employed at the daycare, their weekly firearms drills, parades, and attack scores have reached an all-time high – apparently, Mister Graves has a positive gift for teaching!

 But will his experience leading an army of toddlers be enough to win the position of Sheriff? We’ll find out shortly – Intern Karen reports that the Sheriff debates are about to begin!

Karen says that before the first inquiry could be made, the man in the red balaclava who we all suspect to be the Sheriff harrumphed, said that there was no way Mister Graves could ever be Sheriff, refused to answer any questions, crossed his arms, and – we think – pouted. Accordingly, all of the questions were instead directed at Mister Graves.

Intern Karen says that the first question was this: ‘Why do you want to be Sheriff?’ Mister Graves apparently didn’t hesitate in his response.

“Because Night Vale deserves better. The current Sheriff isn’t doing his job – the Sheriff’s Secret Police are poorly equipped and poorly trained.” Here he paused, and looked at the crowd. “How many people know that the Sheriff’s Secret Police wear balaclavas?” Well, obviously we all do, and the crowd said as much. Mister Graves nodded. “That isn’t very secret. Everyone knows what the Sheriff’s Secret Police look like. Everyone knows that you can find a member of the Sheriff’s Secret Police if you whistle into a rain gutter or fall down a sewer pipe accidentally, or scream bloody vengeance at the moon in the middle of a bloodstone circle on Wednesday. That isn’t very secret. And who here can tell me what a member of the Sheriff’s non-secret police look like?”

And here we all paused. Because I can’t remember the last time I saw a non-Secret Police officer. I mean, really. What do they even look like?

Mister Graves was – well, grave. He nodded. “The Sheriff’s Secret police needs more funds. Better equipment. Extensive treatment. Thanks to my experience leading the daycare, I’m prepared to deal with all of the above.”

And, well, you have to admit that he’s got a point there. The daycare has never looked better!

The next question: ‘You have amnesia. How can you even be Sheriff?”

Mister Graves paused for a moment before answering. “Well, I’ve actually read a book about the law.” And I can’t decide admitting that he read an actual book is bravery or audacity. “And,” he continued, “My lack of memory really is an advantage. Because I don’t know who I was before I came to Night Vale. I could be anyone. A lawyer. A used car salesman. A thief. A mayor. Your uncle. Your cousin. Your brother. Anyone. And if I could be anyone, I could be you. Yes, you heard me right. I could be you. And who would be better as Sheriff then you?” And the crowd all nodded, because of course they would be awesome as Sheriff. Even if they never wanted to be Sheriff, of course. Because who would want to be Sheriff? It’s a lot of hard work!

The last question – because there are only three questions allowed in a Sheriff debate, according to the degree the City Council passed hastily in their secret meeting in the secret bunker at the very last minute before midnight yesterday. ‘What’s the first thing you would you do as Sheriff?’

Mister Graves has obviously been thinking about this. “Arrest the City Council. Did you know they haven’t paid their taxes in sixty-two years?”

I did not know this, listeners. And neither did the rest of the crowd. And neither had the City Council, judging by the loud yammering and unintelligible groans of sensory deprivation vibrating from City Hall. Can you imagine? Not paying the taxes? The taxes which the City Council raise as a matter of principle every tax season? That’s just not nice.

 Now that the Sheriff Debate had been concluded, we now proceed to the last remaining stage of the election – the trial by combat. As the challenger, Mister Graves gets to pick the weapons, and – what’s this? Intern Karen, slow down, I can’t – I can’t make out what you’re saying. What did you say –

 Oh no.

 Listeners. Listeners, I can barely believe it, but Mister Graves has picked Trial by Librarian.

Mister Graves has challenged the man in the red balaclava we all suspect to be the Sheriff to walk with him into – into the Library. The first man to emerge alive with a copy of the Constitution of the United States of America will be the new Sheriff. And – can he do that? Intern Karen, can he do that?

 According to intern Karen, who just watched the City Counsel turn themselves inside out before vanishing in a puff of space-time, Mister Graves can do that.

 They’re walking towards the Library now. Side by side. Mister Graves – Mister Graves is not trembling. Mister Graves is not sweating. Mister Graves looks – slightly annoyed? Maybe it’s because the man in the red balaclava who we all suspect is the Sheriff is sweating and trembling, and probably crying, judging by the wet stains on his balaclava. They’re getting closer to the door now. Closer. Closer.

 The air has gone quiet. They’re almost there, and – Mister Graves has stretched out his hand. Mister Graves has put his hand on the doorknob. Mister Graves is turning the doorknob -

And the man in the red balaclava who we all secretly suspect to be the Sheriff – is gone. He turned and fled when Mister Graves stepped inside the looking black portal that leads into the Library. And – I’m confused. Can Mister Graves be Sheriff now? I mean, the man in the red balaclava who may or may not be the Sheriff has forfeited his place as Sheriff by turning and running for the Dark Owl Music Records store, but can Mister Graves even be Sheriff if a Librarian has torn him inch by well-dressed inch?

Citizens of Night Vale. To the family, friends, students, and co-workers of Mister Graves, I am sad to announce the passing of a fine man. He was – he was not a man I knew well. But he was a good man. A great man, daring to enter the Library because he believed in the law. Because he had a dream of a Sheriff’s Secret Police who were truly secret. Who believed, to his last breath, in the Constitution of the United States of America. Night Vale – everyone – in honor of Mister Graves, I take you now –

To the weather.

(Music plays.)

Listeners. Listeners, I cannot believe it, but – Mister Graves is alive!

He walked through the door of the Library, a copy of the Constitution proudly clutched in one hand. His suit was impeccable. His stern expression was untamed. He was – he was pristine! Listeners, we have a new Sheriff! Mister Graves – no. No, Sheriff Graves nodded seriously at the crowds cheering his name and demanding to know how he did it, how did he do that!

“I like to read.” Sheriff Graves admitted dolorously. What a brave man to share such a weakness! “I brought my copy of Little Women with me. And when the Librarians swarmed me, I told them that the building was not up to code, and offered to get them the appropriate documents to fill out. They’re still working on those, actually.”

What steadfast courage. What manipulative cunning. Listeners, let me be the first to welcome Sheriff Graves.

The future is truly bright. The future is truly clouded. But listeners – it is up to us to decide which of these the future truly is. It is, of course, both. And sometimes it’s not. Sometimes, the future is a past that can’t be remembered. Sometimes, it’s a ravenous Librarian descending upon you, claws outstretched. And always – always. It’s up to you to decide what it’s supposed to be. Personally, I’d avoid the future with the Librarians, but that’s just me.

Stay turned for details on the hooded and robes figures who attempted to swarm Sheriff Graves before the Sheriff conclusively proved that these figures were not the same hooded figures that live in the forbidden dog park. They were promptly swarmed by outraged Night Vale citizens before being driven from our town in shameful defeat. And as always, good night, Night Vale.

Good Night.
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Anakin blinks at the data-rod thrust into his hands; Padme, standing beside him, echoes his confusion. “There must be some error.” His wife - his beautiful, glorious, legally-wed wife - smiles graciously at the blue-and-red Mon Calamari tapping his fingers on a data-slate.

Said courier simply looks bored. “Are you the legal spouses of one - “ he checks his data-slate “-Obi-Wan Kenobi?”

Padme frowned. “Well, yes - “

“Both of you?”

“Yes, but I don’t see - “

“Then one Xanatos of Telos left that to you in his last Will and Testament.” The Mon Calamari nods at them before turning on his heel and striding away. 


Xanatos of Telos.

Anakin knows the name. He felt Padme’s hand tighten in his as she registered just who had left them the data-rod he’s currently clutching like a life-line. Telos, under Xanatos, was the first planet in the galaxy to pass anti-discrimination and equal rights laws for Change-children. Outworld, under the legendary CEO, employed more Changechildren and at better salaries then literally anywhere else; practically every Changeling Equal Rights group is either inspired by or can trace its roots directly back to the efforts set in motion by one Xanatos of Telos, Xanatos du Crion.

They have a personal message from Xanatos of Telos.

It doesn’t take long to load the message. Anakin sits backward, Padme at his side, as the well-known profile shimmers into existence. Xanatos du Crion is - was - a darkly handsome man, the pale, almost milky skin of his face marred by a single scar; he’s dressed in elegant, understated robes as his signature smile - polite, genial, and somehow managing to give the impression that he’s laughing at a private joke - twists across his face.

“So.” The voice is - was - as darkly compelling as the man himself; the holo-image smirks at them. “You’re the being - or beings - who married my little brother.”



Anakin is so busy choking on thin air that he nearly misses the next sentence.

“I’m guessing that he didn’t tell you.” Xanatos’ holo-image is idly inspecting the fingernails of one hand. “So, to clarify a few matters - yes, Obi-Wan Kenobi is my younger brother, and yes, the boy is one of the most closed-mouthed, reticent beings I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting.” He rolls his eyes. “I’ll give it a moment to sink in.”

The holo waits a polite span of seconds before continuing. “If you’re getting this, I’m dead. Otherwise, I would have had you kidnapped, and interrogated you on your intentions towards the brat.” Xanatos smiles cheerfully at them. “He’s the most stubborn, annoying, thick-headed, smart-mouthed, idiotic, self-sacrificing youngling I’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting. I care for him quite deeply, and if you ever manage to hurt him, I will drag myself back from the underworld by my fingernails and tear your still-beating heart from your chest.”

“Gods.” Anakin mutters, impressed in spite of himself at the sheer menace radiating from the holo. 

“So!” Xanatos’ image claps his hands together. “No doubt you know some - or all - of what I am about to tell you. But here are a few things that you need to know about my little brother - verify whatever he’s told you about his past, preferably from an independent source. His childhood was - not the best.” The imagine flickers momentarily - or perhaps that’s just a shadow passing across du Crion’s face. “But it’s Obi-Wan. He would tell you that he’s just fine even after having both legs amputated by blaster-fire.”

“I was practically the only positive influence in his life as an adolescent, and even then, he had to keep my involvement in his life a secret from the Jedi - and especially one Qui-Gon Jinn.” Xanatos sneered at the name. “He’ll tell you that Jinn was a dutiful Master. A good man. He wasn’t, but you’d never get the brat to admit that under torture.”

The image sighs. “I guess what I’m trying to say is - take care of the brat. When he loves someone, he loves them with his whole heart - he’s a gullible optimist who only thinks the worst of himself - “ And, well, that does sound like Obi-Wan “ - when he’s one of the best people I’ve ever known. Too many people have hurt him.”

“You’re now the legal owner of a bunch of jewelry that’s currently rotting in one of my vaults. It belonged to my mother - part of her dowry, I believe, from when she married my father. It’s been in the family for ten generations, but if worst comes to worst, don’t hesitate to sell it - Obi-Wan’s far more valuable then dead metal and cold gems.” Xanatos winks at them. “Welcome to the family.”

“And by the way - “ The now-familiar smirk heralding a shocking revelation once more snakes across that familiar face. “You might want to ask Obi-Wan what I left him in my will.”

The image splutters and dies, leaving only silence in its wake for a long, timeless moment.

Padme is the first one to speak. Each word is chosen with care and deliberation.



“We’re going to pin Obi-Wan to the bed when he comes home and interrogate him within an inch of his life.”

“Yes, dear.”
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His vision is blurry; Percival glares nonetheless, ignoring the dim outlines that fade in and out of resolution. It doesn’t matter; not the blood sticking his hair to one side of the head, not the probably-a-concussion throbbing like a war-drum behind his eyes, not the hollow ache of hunger that hasn’t left him for days.

He tells himself it’s days, anyway. He doesn’t really have any way of telling for certain, and he isn’t going to give Grindlewald the satisfaction of asking.

Speaking of -

The (psychopath, killer, mass-murderer, monster) man wearing his face is staring down at him, face solicitous - and fucking hell, but it’s strange to see that expression on all-too-familiar features. His words are spiders and poison, seeping into his ears like time-released Essence of Flesh-Eating Slug - corrosive, and devouring. 

What a sad hand fate has dealt you, Percival Graves - and then a hand, reaching forward to ruffle at his hair.

It’s jerked back quickly, a British obscenity snarling from between Grindlewald’s lips as Percival Mordecai Graves bears his teeth in a bloody grin. He’ll pay for that. He’ll more then pay for that; he can see the curse forming on Grindlewald’s lips already, but it was fucking worth it.

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or:  “Obi-Wan’s Life Gets Worse (Though It’s Not As Bad As It Could’ve Been)” so aptly named by grunklebill

Based on this idea by @obaewankenope

The list goes from what happens earliest in the timeline to what happens last.

Emergency session and a call for a Vote of No-Confidence

Padmé’s POV of the Emergency Session

Anakin reacts to the whole mess

Obi-Wan wants to be alone in his rooms

Young initiates look up Obi-Wan’s records, his friends talk

Obi-Wan finally leaves his rooms

Obi-Wan gets voted in as Chancellor (new: 13 dec 2016)

Obi-Wan gets sworn in

Padmé and Anakin talk to Senator Mandai

Obi-Wan finds out about the Inhibitor Chips inside the Clones

Obi-Wan’s first session in the Senate

The first assassination attempt (warning: descriptions of violence)

The first 10 confederate worlds want to rejoin the Republic

Total word count: 10 830 (as of 13 dec 2016)
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What if there was a possibility that, during the Clone Wars, the Republic could vote Palpatine out and replace him with a Jedi? Like, sort of by a really obscure, little known piece of legislation that technically counts the member of the Jedi Order - especially members of the High Council - as senators.

So Obi-Wan somehow finds himself elected Chancellor of the Republic and refuses to not be a General still. Though he changes the entire set-up of the war, simply because he’s a well-known Jedi to separatist worlds - some of which he’s been to personally before the war - and they trust him personally.

Dooku ends up losing a load of planets because “we know Jedi Kenobi well, he is trustworthy and now that he is Chancellor, we wish to return to the Republic” and has to either admit defeat or attempt an all-out attack on Obi-Wan. Or try and enact Order 66 somehow.

Though, since only the Chancellor ranks higher than the Jedi, and the Chancellor is also a Jedi, that’s pretty much impossible.

Tell me more *chin hands*

Actually, I’m just gonna go for it. Lol. As always, I’m incapable of being brief, even in a directly-into-tumblr-ficlet.

The Senate building is bustling with activity; the Senators are taking their places and talking amongst themselves already. Obi-Wan Kenobi and Mace Windu have been called to represent the Jedi Order.

Honestly. Obi-Wan isn’t quite sure why their presence was demanded. It’s not as if they can cast any votes. To have Jedi in the Senate occasionally certainly isn’t a bad idea, but to demand their presence for a specific Session is rare, if not unprecedented.

Obi-Wan is tired; the war has dragged on for far longer than he would have ever dreamed or hoped. The Jedi hardly take missions outside of leading troops into battles these days, and the fighting and distance from their ideals is taking their toll on the Order and all the Jedi in it. Several Jedi have already left, unable to cope.

Keep reading
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The strain in his shoulders told him his arms had been restrained behind his back though his other injuries seemed blissfully gone. He clearly did remember the clone trooper breaking at least a few ribs but every breath was easy.

The surface under him was soft, softer then anything he had on Tatooine and for a moment all Obi-Wan could do was enjoy the sensation of something clean and soft against him as he kept his eyes closed.

“I know you’re awake.” A calm voice offered and Obi-Wan spasmed in surprise. Yet he didn’t bother to lift his head or even open his eyes.

There was a dip in the bed and then Obi-Wan felt a gloved hand in his hair. “Open your eyes Master.” There was a note of warning in the voice now that told Obi-Wan he better. Yet he did it reluctantly, peering up at the tanned face of his once padawan.

“…Vader.” He offered and winced a bit when the gentle hand in his hand turned into a painful grip.

“Anakin. You call me Anakin Master.” The sith said quietly before letting go. “I should be angry at you, but I find that I’m relieved you are as well as you are despite being malnourished and dehydrated.”

Obi-Wan just quietly watched the yellow eyed man in return. He should have taken care of him instead of fleeing, but he had told Yoda the truth, he couldn’t kill Anakin and so he had fled with a dying Padme.

“I must thank you for watching over my son Obi-Wan.” The words caused the copper haired man’s blood to freeze and he stared at Anakin who had gone back to the light petting. “Though Tatooine was worst place to take him.”

“…Where is he?”

“No where you should concern yourself with.” The blond snorted before smirking. “He’s with Leia, honestly Obi-Wan. Did you think I wouldn’t feel something? I admit, twins were a surprise but…I felt her the moment I landed on Alderaan to…talk to Bail and Breha.” Obi-Wan closed his eyes.

Anakin knew. The kids were now in his hands.

And so was he.

“…What happens now? Am I to be executed?” Obi-Wan asked quietly.

“No.” Anakin’s gloved hand moved, pushing the Jedi onto his back and then moving his human hand to cup the others chin, Obi-Wan opening green eyes to stare up at him in surprise. “You belong to me Obi-Wan. Both you and Padme did. But she’s not here anymore. Only you are. I’m never letting you or the kids go.”

Predatory possessive eyes watched him as greedy lips pressed against Obi-Wan’s, green eyes going wide in surprised shock.


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