No one ever tells Obi-Wan that he is his Master's padawan.
Of course, for most people who had known Qui-Gon Jinn, telling someone else they resembled the the man would in fact be a thinly veiled insult. But still, Obi-Wan feels the absence of comparisons almost as strongly as he feels the absence of his Master.
There is no one for Obi-Wan to push against now, no strong presence at his side, ready to grab him by scruff and pull him back from another reckless stunt. It's an odd feeling. He has been set loose against his wishes. There is no one to his left and Anakin at his heels, but Anakin had needed, still needs, a strong, gentle figure for his prickly but sensitive heart. For even their worst bickering could not hold a candle to the scathing remarks he and Qui-Gon had shot at each other and Obi-Wan knows he cannot push and needle Anakin in the same way.
When Qui-Gon had been alive they had been an amusing, mirrored pair, the maverick and his rule-following padawan. Opposites clashing against each other, yet working together to complete the most difficult missions. Few saw that Qui-Gon's impertinence had indeed rubbed off on his padawan, cultivated from that small, angry initiate, because the only way to rebel against the rule-breaker had been to parrot the Council fastidiously. No one would ever get to see that again. Obi-Wan is one half of a mirrored pair trying to complete a routine on his own. What once was an impish, teasing compliance is now a betrayal of all his Master's values.
"How could Qui-Gon raise such a model Jedi?" He hears them say, "It's admirable that Master Kenobi was appointed to the Council despite his Master's maverick ways."
Padawan Kenobi would have yelled and kicked and screamed. Master Kenobi is serene. It should feel like an achievement. It feels like a disappointment.
Sometimes, Obi-Wan looks at the shape of the man he has moulded himself into, and aches to be his Master's padawan.
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Something I really like about Life Series Jimmy is the steady confidence he's built in himself. Like, Jimmy has always been an all talk, not a lot of bite kind of guy, but seeing it progress as the seasons go on is fun!
In 3rd Life he was very apprehensive about killing, and while he made bold moves to try and stomp his foot down like when he bruned the Dogwarts banner, this season is still definitely when he was most passive. Even in Last Life, I think one of the boldest moves he made was running off with that life, which was practically just an act of self-preservation.
Cut to Secret Life where Jimmy is actively doing things to harm people, and he's really having a godo time causing havoc. I'd argue he tried to be more violent and aggressive in Limited Life too, but it wasn't as much as he did this season. He was genuinely a very fun antagonistic force for the Heart Foundation to deal with, and he created tension in ways that didn't involve him putting himself at a disadvantage with his lack of combat skills.
I think a lot of this comes from the other characters not taking him seriously, and that's still very evident now. Despite the sure and certain nature in which Jimmy tends to deliver his threats, he still tends to crumble when he knows he's outmatched or when he feels as though he's being seen as just a fool to people. He's always been like that but like...now he's just been indulging the power he gets from being red, and it's interesting to see.
I guess that plays a big part in why I don't really like how he's been or used to be characterized as an innocent guy who could do no wrong. I'm very far from the first person to say that, and I'm honestly not adding much to the conversation, but like, he can play SUCH a cool antagonistic force, but people just reduce him to the angst that comes with his curse, or whatever.
Don't get me wrong, I think Jimmy can be very kind! It's especially evident when he's with his allies; he always does what he can to defend them, even if he can't properly follow through with his vows of protection. He gets excited over little things, and is generally just a sunshiny kind of dude; I can see the golden retriever resemblance! But, to treat his character as if he's free of flaws or just the most innocent, sad boy in the world is just. It irks me a bit, though I don't see it much anymore, so that's good!
Anyways. That's my ramble for today!!! Sorry again to anyone who expects art out of this blog I promise I will get to it. Life's just been kicking my ass.
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A Fuuta + Tears drabble for @erimnar, featuring Mahiru :D Thank you for the request!! It was really fun to write out some thoughts I've been having about the irony in Fuuta's crime... It takes place sometime after Haruka's T2 verdict but before Fuuta's.
Mahiru always prided herself in her friendly disposition, even if it was what had landed her here in the first place. She would never turn away someone in need. It would break her heart to ignore someone when she could help, even if they had never gotten along with her to this point. Even if they were the type to shun her help, anyway. Even if they were a total asshole who drove her up the wall most days.
She steeled herself before entering Fuuta’s cell.
The two had never gotten along during the first trial. (Then again, Mahiru was learning that getting along with someone meant little once she was labeled with a verdict.) She’d managed to hold a few more conversations with Fuuta than usual, but he still proved poor company. In all honesty, she would have continued leaving him to his self-isolation if it weren’t for the sniffling she could hear through the bars.
“Hello?” Following a gentle knock on the door, she wheeled herself inside.
She figured things must be really bad if he didn’t even yell as she let herself in. He simply lifted his head from where he was hunched in the corner. Then he dropped it again, red hair falling over his face. Tears fell into his lap from his left eye. His breath hitched now and then.
He looked… defeated.
Mahiru tried to hide her surprise. The last thing he needed was someone gaping at his pain. “I can go get Shidou. I’m sure he has --”
“No.”
He returned to sniffling without elaborating. Mahiru folded her hands in her lap. If he was hurting that much, she didn’t think curling in on himself like that was doing any favors to his bruised and fractured chest. But maybe the real issue was his eye. She couldn’t imagine what that must feel like. She was about to make another offer for help when he spoke. It was so soft she almost missed it.
“What… have I done…?”
She blinked. “Fuuta?”
He looked up at her. He was difficult to read. It wasn’t as defeated as she’d originally thought. He appeared angry, like usual, but it was layered with a new desperation. Horror. Confusion.
“How could I do this? Me? I never thought... I never meant to... Fuck!”
His fists clutched at the restraints on his uniform. In an instant, Mahiru realized his tears weren’t from any physical agony.
His voice broke. “I was supposed to be a hero, you know? All my life, that’s all I wanted to be. I was supposed to help people. I wanted to… this wasn’t supposed to…” He made a strangled sound. “What have I done?”
Mahiru instinctively reached down to touch his arm. He flinched.
“I don’t-” he hiccuped “-don’t need your pity.”
“It’s not pity.” She had to stifle the tears that had sprung to her own eyes -- she was the type to cry easily when others did. “I didn’t want to hurt anyone, either.”
“It’s more than that!” His body shuddered. “I wanted to be the one that people looked to for help. I wanted to clean up all those scumbags, one at a time. Make the world better. I knew I wasn’t cut out for anything else -- I’d never make it as anything in this society. But I thought, online… I really thought… I could still be a hero…”
He sank his head into his hands. Mahiru got the sense he wasn’t actually expecting any response. He probably could care less if it were her beside him, or anyone else, or no one at all. But she would help. That's what she did.
“Fuuta… you haven’t given up, have you?”
He stayed silent.
“You stood up from Yuno, after her interrogation,” she said. “You reprimanded me and Kazui for taking the situation too lightly, and not leading the other prisoners. You’ve spoken a lot about escape plans.” She didn’t mention that they had yet to sound possible. “Your conversations with Amane have kept her spirits up. At least, I think so… You’ve kept an eye on Haruka to make sure he’s safe. And I heard you yelling at Es about what happened to me, even if it wasn’t their fault.”
She smiled gently. She knew his explosive rant in the corridor the other day had been more out of anger than love. Still, thinking of it always made her heart flutter a bit. Fuuta would’ve made a horrendous love interest from the romance novels she’d been reading, but at least he knew how to stand up for a woman like one.
“So what? Get the point, I don't give a shit.”
Horrendous, see?
Mahiru sighed, keeping her expression kind. “We all have done horrible things. I’m not saying it’s okay. But in here, you have been a hero. So please, you can’t stop now.”
He let out a single bitter sound -- something caught between a laugh and a choke -- before he resumed his crying. Shaking, sobbing breaths filled the cell.
Mahiru’s face fell.
"Ah... I'm sorry."
With that, she wheeled herself outside. Fuuta had given up. And once again, she’d said too much. She only wanted to show him kindness. To tell him how much she cared. To remind him of the good that was still going on. She should know by now that her love only made things worse. It was best that she left so quickly. No need to endanger him, as she’d endangered others before. She shouldn’t put anyone else at risk.
“Hey -- !”
She whipped her head around. Fuuta was standing outside. His cheeks still shone with tears, but he clenched his fists in determination.
“I’m not giving up, you hear? I’m not that weak!” His expression was wild. He looked ready to fight. Mahiru knew he was, right now. “I’m not fucking giving up on us!”
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So sorry if this is bothering you but so curious as well... why do you hate Guts?
Thanks for your time ❤
you’re not bothering me!
I think the simplest way to answer this is with one of Olivia’s own lyrics from pretty isn’t pretty when she sings “none of it matters and none of it ends” because. That is kind of her whole ethos about how life works. She believes that! And so her work, to me, is profoundly cynical and self-absorbed because it can’t point to anything bigger (none of it matters) so it revolves purely around her own feelings. It won’t ever situate itself in a wider picture. And I love whining in a song tbh. I love when an artist captures those uglier emotions —the discontent, the restlessness, the irritation, the blandness and staleness of it all and the railing against it—because those are all part of the human experience. I am continually shocked—it is shoCKING—by how many negative emotions I can and do experience over and over again. But it is thankfully against the backdrop of reality. My bad moods are something that can be so unpleasant to feel and so ugly to witness—I wrestle with how ugly and small my suffering is—but there is a way in which, all discourse about the validity of any and all of my feelings accounted for, those aren’t real. Just symptoms of my suffering and sometimes my convalescence (lol, love a symptom of convalescence) but reality is still always so much realer. It’s always ready to break in a million times a day; the beauty and sturdiness of reality, the texture of existence, as Flannery O’Connor once said, is always there and with enough time (and with patience and help and love) I can get back to contact with it. Not just the state of my own mind full of bitterness and worry and pain, endlessly stewing in its own unhappiness.
I am not good at that, it takes a lot to get me there. But I guess my point is—to circle back—Olivia’s music doesn’t try and doesn’t want to. Its scope is so narrow, every song no matter how pleasing at first eventually sours (lololololol) because it’s JUST rooted in her own experience, generally her own suffering. And there’s no sharpness or cleverness in the world (she can be both sharp and clever!) that can hide that lack of range. So you hear a song once—for me, it was brutal—-and you’re like YEAH. I recognize this kind of whininess because I’ve felt it before. There is something true to it! But the more she writes the more you watch her do it over and over again (sonically, too, she loves to speak-talk and tbh they’re just sub-par remixes of brutal) the more you start to be like “oh, is that it? We’re not going anywhere with this? There’s no turn or catharsis or bridge or anything that lifts us out of this even for a second?” and it’s just —blegh.
And the thing is there doesn’t even have to be, like, some triumphant girlboss victory where she feels better. I’m not saying her songs are bad because they’re sad and depressing. It’s that they establish no outside contact with reality. They are, for all her clever little film-noir references or whatever, only ever self-referential. And that gets old so fast no matter who is talking.
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oh look another pair of lymond quotes I can pin together on a corkboard with red string
'Jerott, for God's sake! Are you doing this for a wager?' said Lymond, his patience gone at last. 'What does anyone want out of life? What kind of freak do you suppose I am? I miss books and good verse and decent talk. I miss women, to speak to, not to rape; and children, and men creating things instead of destroying them. And from the time I wake until the time I find I can't go to sleep there is the void - the bloody void where there was no music today and none yesterday and no prospect of any tomorrow, or tomorrow, or next God-damned year.'
The Disorderly Knights, part 3 ch XI
But to the members, old and new, of the company he had created [...] he showed a blank and courteous indifference. And nightly, when he could, he withdrew from their society to Güzel's civilised house, with its books and its music and its well-prepared food
The Ringed Castle, part 1 ch 6
how's that working out for you, Francis?
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i personally don't think henry is the kind to indulge his counterpart with aftercare, or if he does, a lot of it. he is not as affectionate as one may think, so i imagine him reacting to a bit of upset for not helping enough after, especially if the sex was rough
i completely understand where you're coming from and therefore have a perfect reason to agree. he isn't affectionate whatsoever, which is why the aftercare he would offer would be sparse at best. i think it wouldn't be entirely non-existent, but fleeting. he would bring you a towel or tell you to clean up, bring you a glass of water, light you a cigarette, maybe run his hand through your hair. however, i don't think he would be the cuddler type, even after sex — even if it was overly rough. on the contrary: i believe he would be most likely to leave you trembling in bed whilst still trying to recover from his overpowering strength and the recent activity, which could possibly upset you — you would request him to alter his treatment, and he wouldn't be fully inclined to do so. i think that it would only lead to his staying in bed a little longer, maybe running a careful caress down the length of your back or asking whether you need anything to come back to. for the most part, however, that would be it.
i know how drab of a setting this is, but it's one of the most in-character scenarios i've been requested to write about on here, amusingly. it does seem quite accurate.
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