This is my official post to say that if you ask me a question or send in a request (for writing) there about a 100% chance I’ll answer it, I love talking, I do not shut up, it's fun
if you see an emoji next to the title (normally a stick of dynamite) that just means its some form of actual writing, anything else is a headcannon or general ramblings, there's no exact tag for writings right now but the stick of dynamite stands out enough from everything else
I am a grown adult so minors DNI, no writings I post will be NSFW (they will be linked to my Ao3) but that dosen't mean my blog is SFW all the time, stay safe out there 👍
Anakin got 13 years of therapy, 10 which were spent with a dedicated therapist solely assigned to helping him manage his emotions and behavior so he could find a healthy path through life. But Anakin believed that he was the one person in the world who didn't need any therapy because he was better than everyone else who needed therapy and they were just jealous that he didn't need therapy when they tried to suggest that maybe he did in fact need therapy like the rest of them.
And then Anakin proceeded to murder all of the therapists and their children and spent at least two more decades continuing to hunt down any surviving therapists and anyone left who had the ability to BECOME a therapist, so while he was no longer receiving therapy at this point, that's pretty exclusively his own fault.
And even if there WERE some therapists still left alive, they weren't exactly jumping to offer him therapy anymore and it's pretty hard to blame them for that after he murdered them all.
So he mostly just ended up super lucky that a few of those surviving therapists ended up training his son to be a therapist and that his son was able to get through to him when no one else could specifically because this time it was his flesh and blood telling him these things and he was more willing to listen to his own flesh and blood.
So, yeah, I don't think the issue is that Anakin didn't get therapy when he needed it. That's a gross misunderstanding of his story and his character.
The people request it ig (me),,,, clone wars rdr2 cross over under the cut,,,, its A/B/O bc i cant help myself but its not like, weak omegas, its like, this exact photo
Arthur blinks and just sighs heavily as he looks out at camp, spying someone doing something they were clearly not supposed to. Wonderful. He already had a shit day and now he’s got to deal with a notorious asshole, well not an asshole but a notorious bitch at least.
He reattaches the lasso he was holding onto his belt and makes his way over to the asshole's tent, said asshole, Wolffe, who grated on his nerves like a damn eel, was putting in the tent stakes wrong.
“You ain’t doin that right, you’re tents gonna fall down on ya the moment you go in,” he grunts, watching as Wolffe doesn’t pay him any mine, his eye twitched and he puts his foot on top of the stake “you listenin?”
Wolffe grinds his teeth and just glances up “move your foot Arthur.”
“I ain’t gonna move it till you realize it’s gonna be a shit night if you wake everyone up trying to set it up again,” Arthur snips right back, he was rapidly losing the little patience he had with this guy.
“I know what I’m doing.” Wolffe says, shoving Arthur’s foot off the tent post and ignoring the way the man wobbles to gain balance back.
Arthur had it up to here with the damn attitude, he wasn’t bigger then Wolffe in pure mass but he sure was taller and more suited to this life in the wilds, grabbing the back of his shirt and hauling him up “since you wanna catch an attitude so badly I’ll show you just what happens to fools whose tents fall down.” He growls.
Wolffe planted his feet and forced himself back to fall, hard enough to dislodge Arthur’s hand and to drag the man down with him. Using his still planted feet and twisting with his upper body so he landed square on top of Arthur, baring his teeth as he grabbed onto the lapels of his jacket “you do not have any permission to touch me, Morgan.”
Arthur felt himself scramble for purchase so he didn’t get the wind knocked out of him, didn’t work all too well as he laid flat on his back, dazed out of his mind as Wolffe gripped at his jacket. He blinked once, then twice, before registering Wolffe’s words once he collected his breath.
“M’orry,” he says, holding up his hands the best he could as he tried to adjust enough so Wolffe wasn’t sitting right on his lungs “didn’t realize you’d be all ornery.”
Wolffe growled low in his throat, his grip on Arthur’s jacket getting tighter “I’m not ornery, you sack of horse shit.” He snaps, snapping his teeth at him before the corners of his mouth twitch up when Arthur presses further into the dirt to try to avoid his teeth.
“Alright alright,” he says quicker, making eye contact with the double set of sharp canines that Wolffe was sporting “m’sorry, again, just, you ain’t setting up your tent right, any old wind could knock it down,” he tries to explain, pointing towards the now collapsed tent that fell in the fall the two had, despite being a foot away from it.
Wolffe looked back, his brows furrowing as he let go of Arthur’s lapels, putting his hands on his chest and squinting “I set it up right.” He says again.
Arthur distinctly and suddenly smelled burnt toast, he wrinkled his nose and ignored it, “it’s muddy where you set up, you didn’t put your posts out far enough.”
Wolffe’s head snaps back towards him and he growls again.
Arthur’s hands fly up again as a peace offering “just- pull em out more, till the ground is dry-“ he claims, trying to not sneeze at the now very bad burning smell filling his nose, who’s damn sent is that, and could they calm down.
Wolffe was embarrassed, he knows how to put up a damn tent! He can smell himself now which means that his patch wore off, he knew he didn’t smell the best when embarrassed but it’s not his fault damnit!
He shoves off of Arthur and takes a few steps towards his tent, he felt his bottom lip tremble as he looked at the tent that was now on a pile on the ground.
Arthur realized starkly that the burning scent was Wolffe when the man moved off of him and the scent went too, fuck, he hadn’t meant to- well to do what ever it did that made him smell like that!
“I’ll help,” he says quickly standing up, he puts one hand on Wolffe's back and the other rests on the man's elbow, letting out his own scent to try and sooth Wolffe.
Wolffe stiffened up, the sudden smell of smoking gunpowder and oil filling his nose, he lets out a deep breath and yanks his arm from Arthur “You stink, I don't need a man who stinks to help me,” he snaps again, Arthur didn't stink at all to him, he smelled so good and it was pissing Wolffe off even more.
Arthur sucked in a breath quickly, the new scent filling his nose was good, it smelled of warm buttery eggs and soft fluffy toast, a good smell. He wanted to be closer to the source so badly, feeling his pants tighten a tad bit more.
“M’sorry, I didn’t mean to assume, I just,” he stutters and swallows again, Wolffe had only yanked his arm away, he hadn't actually moved from the hand on his back that Arthur had placed there, he looked around and took in another deep breath.
“Listen, I’ll help you set up your tent and that's all I am gonna do,” He mutters again, bowing his head and letting his forehead hit Wolffe’s shoulder “I jus don't like the smell of burnt toast.”
Wolffe was getting flustered, his breath hitching when Arthur's forehead hit his shoulder, what a stupid split second decision he was going to make based on scent.
“Pitch the tent yourself.” He mutters, storming away.
Arthur's breath hitched and he looked at Wolffe as he walked away, a task, an omega is letting him, a shoddy alpha, do a task, a special task too. He looks at the boneless tent in front of him and lets a small smile, an omega letting an alpha build shelter is an honor, for Wolffe to let him do this even after all the faux pas he committed? He could do something right after all. Hopefully-
He pitched the tent easily, making sure that it was sturdy and that the canvas was tight, he twangs the ropes to make sure there’s no slack before huffing with pride. He looks around and sniffs before finding the scent of warm toast and sizzling bacon on the wind, immediately following it and walking into the woods.
“Wolffe?” He calls lightly, sticking his head behind a tree and smiling brightly when he sees him leaning against one a bit aways “there you are, I pitched the tent for you,” he says proudly, stopping right in front of the Omega.
Wolffe just raised an eyebrow, before looking back at camp and seeing that Arthur had in fact pitched the tent. He sniffed and his nose filled with the same Smokey smell he had smelled before, tinged with a hint of sweetness, Arthur was proud of himself that much was clear.
Calling the BMV is like *being on hold* *being on hold* *pressing a few numbers* *on hold* *on hold* *finally a person!* *nope it’s automated* *is still fucking on hold, I’m caller number 2 at NINE AM* *really bad hold music*
Drawing him more accurate would be fun! No pressure tho I just love sharks and love talking about them, I love that you pulled more from a bull shark bc that makes total sense, in my mind Jaster is totally a great hammerhead because we know for a fact they will often roll over and start swimming on their side to conserve energy so much so that they spend about 90% of their time on their sides swimming! And that seems like something he would do, but if you want an ancient shark breed then the Greenland shark is always my suggestion, freaky guys but I adore them!
I’m always worried about voicing my starwars opinions, like what if mine SUCK for some reason, just worst opinions ever, which is totally unfounded because fandom is built on opinions and also who cares
