i’ve read that some people don’t support obikin bc of the age gap? or that it’s not a healthy dynamic?
it's a ship not a political campaign, so support is the wrong word to use. if people don't like a ship they should just ignore/block the shippers, not send 'joking' death threat memes. the default used to be "ship and let ship" and it wasn't perfect, but it was better.
if this is in response to the DNI post (which was half tongue in cheek) then it's about learning what you can handle engaging with. if it upsets you* to know that the person you're talking to likes to write about characters kissing, then it's on you to step back. if you tell the other person not to talk about kissing to you (not in general), and they don't, then they have a boundary issue and you need to block them if they won't step back.
*general you, not specifically you
but yeah, the post was tongue in cheek and i was on a spree of seeing posts that said something like "if you tag this post as ship i will kill you" in the tags and feeling really upset about it so i wanted to be like: you know, we both love these characters in a very similar way and if you don't like thinking about them kissing, we could talk about the other things we love about them. it's about stopping infighting, its about people having more in common than they'd like to think.
it's about judging the book by one single word on the cover.
if you're seriously asking about the ship being "unhealthy" i would like to remind you that it's fiction and there is no ship that is perfectly healthy or non-toxic. that is a false metric. either you like the dynamic or you don't, either you are okay with the age gap or you're not. that is a personal decision.
Star Wars. Obikin. This WIP was based on a "drunken confession" prompt. Post war's end.
~~~
"What're you looking at?" Anakin grumbled.
"You," Obi-Wan replied guilelessly.
Anakin scrunched one eye as he opened it, his brow furrowed.
"Why?" he grumbled.
"I'm just looking my fill now that we're mostly safe." He sighed. "Unless there's another Sith hiding in a clone factory somewhere."
"Urgh," Anakin said, sounding thoroughly disgusted. "Don't even joke."
"I know there's always dangers… That's the nature of what we've chosen to do…" Obi-Wan gazed off into the distance, but the hair on the back of his neck stood up as he realized that Anakin was staring at him. "What?"
"Does drinking make you maudlin or something? Yes, being a Jedi is dangerous. You're reminding me of the talk Qui-Gon gave me when he first picked me up."
At that reminder of how they'd come to be connected — his late master's penchant for picking up those who needed help most desperately — something raw broke open inside Obi-Wan.
"Listen, I'm trying to tell you something—" Obi-Wan desperately sucked down air, trying to not lose control but rapidly feeling there was nothing he could do, not about this, and certainly not about the unfeeling spiral and tilt of the galaxy. "I was never able to tell Qui-Gon just how much he mattered to me."
"Okay, hang on, I think I need to be sitting for this," Anakin said, sounding alarmingly awake.
~~~
Gonna tag this "obikin drunken confession" in case anyone wants to read more~
No specific ship (have fun choosing, I like all your ships!) but an overly specific whump scenario for you:
B staggers into A’s presence clutching a bleeding wound (in their side, their thigh, their upper arm?). B gasps an apology before collapsing and passing out. A then has to figure out what happened and how to take care of B before they lose too much blood.
Bonus points if they’re not in a war time scenario.
Double bonus points if B is delirious through any caretaking and A is losing their mind with worry while trying to hold it together.
Of course you should feel free to eschew any of these specifics and just go with a vibe. I’ll be happy either way. ❤️🩹🥰❤️🩹
oh... this one was so good 😭 thank you!
(from this ask game: whump me up - still open, cuz why not)
I decided on the crossover ship, put into my head by @sanerontheinside and @firondoiel, with Hannibal Smith from 2010's The A-Team and Catcher Block from Down With Love. Played by Liam Neeson and Ewan McGregor respectively... You see where this is going.
This is only PART ONE! I started part two but I'll post this plus the edited version of this on AO3 when it's complete.
Length: 1460~ words
Rating: Mature for gunshot wound care
🌙
Hannibal staggers through the door at quarter past eleven and Catcher thinks he's finally lost his mind. He's been working on a deadline and trying to sip the cognac rather than get buzzed too quickly. But seeing Hannibal — he wishes he were shit faced.
"You're showing your face again, hmm?" Catcher drawls.
"Sorry," the Colonel gasps and passes out before he's completely through the doorway.
Catcher is on his feet in an instant, rolling Hannibal onto his back and immediately sees the thick expanse of blood beneath Hannibal's shirt. His body seems cold, but it's winter and he's not really dressed for the weather. Hannibal still has a pulse but it's a fluttering thing. The longer Catcher looks at the blood, the queasier he feels. He glances up across his apartment to the phone.
He needs a doctor. He needs to call a doctor. He leaves Hannibal's side and picks up the phone and is told that he needs to get Hannibal to the hospital, but not only is the Colonel half a foot taller, he's much heavier too. As he is about to inquire about an ambulance coming to him, he hears a mumbling spluttering voice moan out, "No… no… no…"
So Catcher hangs up, locks the door, collects some tools and comes back to Hannibal's side. The big man has gotten paler and Catcher's field medic training in Panama seems a long time ago. Still, there must be a reason Hannibal came here instead of anywhere else. There must be a reason he doesn't want an ambulance. Maybe if he can get the man to talk to him, or at least examine the lug, he can figure out if Hannibal's wishes should be overruled.
Then again, maybe Hannibal just wanted to bleed out on his carpet. With the way they left things, he wouldn't put it past the other man.
Carefully, unheeding of the blood on his trousers, Catcher props Hannibal up somewhat and gently pats his cheeks, getting nothing in reply. He slaps Hannibal harder, and the man gasps.
"Ow!" Then he grunts, a weak hand rising to try and press against the wound still hidden by the blood-sodden shirt. He lets out a long groan.
"What happened? What do you need me to do?" Catcher asks, long used to asking the right questions and being conservative when what he really wants to know is 'Where have you been?' and 'Why me?'
"Shot," Hannibal gasps out, his eyes already getting more heavy lidded again. "Too slow, these damn guns are no good… Need you to… stitch…" His voice gets considerably more slurred, his breath more labored.
"Right," Catcher said, suspecting as much, trying to grasp onto this direction firmly with both hands. "Right."
He yanks off his sweater — cashmere, but what does that matter now — and places it under Hannibal's head. He then uses scissors to cut open the shirt as close to the center of the blood as possible. He's wrong. He has to peel away inches and inches of damp, dark fabric, until he finds the oozing red center, the blood coagulating already.
"Why do I need to get the bullet out?" he asks, he can feel the tears in the back of his throat but is doing his best not to retch and that's a significant distraction.
"'S lead," Hannibal slurs. "Plastic would have been better… might have gone through… or killed me outright…"
Insanely, Hannibal chuckles breathlessly. He groans. His hand flops uselessly as he tries to raise it to his stomach once more.
"Please," Catcher says emphatically. "Please," he repeats in a whisper. "Don't move."
Catcher switches on the lamp he dragged over to the elevated foyer where Hannibal has landed, he picks up the forceps from the shallow bath of alcohol they've been sitting in, he blinks hard, sure that he's only a shade or two less pale than Hannibal. With the tools he has on hand, he does his best to open the small wound up and gently hunt for the bullet he's been told is in there. He wishes there was gunfire to distract him, other medics to assist him, or even just some casual promise from Hannibal he could cling to. But no, he has none of those things.
His forceps thud against something distinctly metal, a scraping sound juddering up his fingers — very different from bone, he remembers that much. He tries to grip the bullet right then, pulling the forceps open, and Hannibal hisses in pain.
"You sure you've done this before?" Hannibal asks, a smirk on his lips, apparently able to make salacious jokes at a time like this.
Catcher wants to scream.
"I need you to hold very still," he says instead.
"Just take it easy, baby," Hannibal slurs, his eyes dreamy, hands limp at his sides. "You shoulda told me it was your first time."
Catcher tries to ignore him, tries to ignore the anger and despair battling inside him. If Hannibal dies and this entire chapter of his life just ends, he doesn't know if he'll ever truly get over it. It's not really a choice, then.
He moves carefully and with precision, opening the forceps and angling them just so that he can grip the bullet. He moves slowly, aware that the Colonel is growing restless beneath his hands and growls, "Don't move." It doesn't seem to make a difference, all Hannibal is doing is breathing. Suddenly the bullet is out, the blood trapped behind it gushing out, but Catcher tosses the forceps aside, pressing gauze to the oozing wound and allowing himself only a second to breathe while he applies pressure to the wound.
This is the less pretty part, but he knows it has to be done. The wound isn't very deep thankfully. If Hannibal had gone to a hospital, they probably would have already been done with him in the time it's taken Catcher to get this far. His needle is from the sewing kit he rarely uses, the thread is cotton, but Hannibal didn't really give him a choice. He swipes at the wound with alcohol and then presses the skin closed, Hannibal groaning as Catcher tries to just get through this.
"You didn't really give me a choice," Catcher says angrily as Hannibal grumbles about glue and grafts. "You should have gone to a hospital."
"Worried they'd report you?" Catcher asks, journalist curiosity joining forces with his need for a distraction as he worked. He'd always been slow with a needle and thread, this is why he paid Paula and others to fix his clothes for him.
"Not exactly," Hannibal says, laughing dryly, just a rasp. He's clearly dehydrated with all the blood he's lost. He'll need juice and iron supplements. A blood transfusion would be ideal. "I wasn't sure about… bullets."
"What?" Catcher asks, focused solely on the movement of his needle before he ties it off and looks up. "I'm pretty sure they could handle a bullet."
"Well," Hannibal continues, voice somewhat garbled with how delirious he is. "Depends on the bullet… plastic on the x-ray… didn't think it was the nanites… but if there was a tracker…" He tried waving his hand but ended up just flopping it back and forth. "Couldn't risk it."
"Who are the nanites— Nevermind," Catcher begins to ask, not making sense of any of it. "You sound like a science fiction program."
"Little robots," Hannibal says with a brief smile, his eyes dipping shut again.
"Little— hey! Stay with me!" Catcher reaches forward to pat a hand against Hannibal's cheek as his heartrate spiked. He needs Hannibal. "Tell me about the little robots or— or the tracker."
"Tracker's a device... that shows... where you are on a map, no matter where you go. Unless... you get deep enough... underground or if you're... in a dense... rain forest..."
Catcher resumes working, trying to make sense of what Hannibal was saying. The wound is no longer oozing blood as he finished, his fingers are stained pink, but he cuts the thread and sat back.
"So in a bunker," Catcher says.
Hannibal nods minutely.
"I need to wash you off and, preferably, get you to the bed."
Hannibal quirks a smile at that, but doesn't seem capable of his usual witty rejoinder.
"If I help you, think you can walk with me?"
While supporting his back, Catcher lifts Hannibal to sit upright, but the rush of blood from his head seems to be the final straw and the big man passes out.
Catcher scarcely gets a hand under his head before Hannibal is horizontal again.
"Fuck," Catcher says, slumping forward to hold his own head in his hands while the emotions he's been holding at bay finally sweep over him.
🌙
Thank you for reading!
So, this is just part one, I will be sharing part two as soon as it's done. If you want to check out the other stories with this pairing, they're on AO3 in the "Out of Time" series. Otherwise you can follow my fic log @dreaminghour-archive or subscribe on AO3 if you want to be notified.
If you liked this, leave a comment or reblog! That's the best way to let me know what you liked and that you want to see more. Emojis and likes are also great.
May I see (or have you talk about) WIP 33 for Six Sentence Sunday?
So this is my obikin drunken confession fic that i've been working on for an embarrassingly long time. I don't even know what I've shared from this or not off the top of my head so... have a drunk moment~
(from this six sentence sunday ask game)
When Obi-Wan woke, he was floating. A few seconds of experiencing dry-mouth and then he was plummeting into his stomach. He did his best not to kick Anakin (who lay slumped on the floor) on his way to the fresher.
There were no thoughts, only the press of consequences and the heavy weight of a few drinks. Once his stomach was empty, he could focus on the shivers across his skin, the way the cool air was caught on the sweat beading his brow, and slowly he felt the world begin to settle around him. His stomach was no longer fighting gravity.
possibly forcing myself to write when i don't want to. i used to be quite proud that i wrote no matter what but after a few too many crying fits i realized maybe i need to take more breaks from writing if it isn't going well instead of forcing things. took me a while to realize my bad mood might be burn out... :(
16. where is your favorite place to write?
like with the previous answer, i tried really hard to cultivate no rituals. i wanted to write whenever possible, wherever. that said, i'm usually writing at home, and my dual screen set up is really my favorite.
17. what is your favorite line you’ve ever written?
this is hard... but I often think about this one line at the end of a scene from my unpublished ch 4 of my Game of Thrones fic, Sing Me Safely Home which is about Jon and Tormund going north of the Wall after season 8
They stood in the silence, the dawn coming over them like something too soft, undeserved.
I'm gonna put the whole bit (129 words) leading up to a it behind a jump because it includes some gore and an execution. I love this bit SO SO much! I just need to iron out the end of this chapter and come up with a framing device and I can post it lol... its been waiting on that for a year now though.
"Do it," Tormund said, dropping the man back to his knees. Tormund placed his hand against Jon's, pressing the knife harder against the man's neck. "If you don't do it, he'll run back to his masters and they'll send others after you straight away. Or he'll try again and be less stupid about it."
Jon's hand didn't move.
“Jon,” Tormund whispered.
A fine mist of sleet began to blow, and the cold was eager, but Jon’s grasp slackened.
Tormund pressed his hand harder against Jon's, the dagger digging into the man's throat, and blood ran over their hands. The man gurgled, his eyes feral like a silent animal, and he gasped uselessly for breath.
They stood in the silence, the dawn coming over them like something too soft, undeserved.
Star Wars. This is from 9k worth of WIP which ends up with Anakin divorced from Padmé, outcast from the Order and working as an assassin. It starts with truth serum. :)
~~~
"Obi-Wan," Anakin was huskily whispering, his breath reeking of stale spit and something medicinal. "Wake up, I need to tell you something."
"Anakin." Obi-Wan rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, feeling hungover. At least he felt like he knew where his skin was. "We've been impacted by nano-particles—"
"Shh!" Anakin put his hand over Obi-Wan's mouth, his eyes wide. "I need to tell you something before Mace comes back—"
A flash of ill-contained anger made Obi-Wan grasp Anakin's hand, metal unforgiving beneath his fingers, pushing him away.
"Do not presume—"
"We don't have time!" Anakin hissed. "I need to tell you something, not Mace."
~~~
Gonna tag this "assassin anakin au" if anyone wants to seek out more~
at risk of barking up the wrong tree, i can't stop thinking about this kiss from my QuiObikin threesome smut I've been working on as a sequel chapter for Trying Out for the Team (2,505 words) its a college setting where they are all fencing, but that's not necessarily important
so Anakin went to Qui-Gon's house with Obi-Wan after they bantered, flirted and kissed in the first chapter. Anakin nearly bailed but Obi-Wan 'convinced him' he was wanted with a kiss. here's another kiss:
Was it strange for Anakin to blush?
He stepped toward Qui-Gon, faintly hearing music playing in the background, and glanced down as he took Qui-Gon's hand in his. Deftly, Qui-Gon raised Anakin's hand and kissed the palm, his other hand scooping Anakin's waist as he tugged him closer.
Neither of them spoke. Qui-Gon just patiently waited for Anakin to raise his eyes, his lips parting as he felt breath caress his skin.
Unlike with Obi-Wan, Anakin didn't want to push; unlike with Obi-Wan, Qui-Gon didn't chase. This was gentle in a way that Anakin was unaccustomed to but it warmed him completely differently than Obi-Wan had. Qui-Gon's kiss him made him feel cherished, as though he were something delicate.
"Hello," Qui-Gon whispered when he pulled back.
Anakin's eyelids fluttered as he realized this was a pause and he should pull back too. He licked his lips.
"Uh, hi," he replied.
"I'd ask you to make yourselves at home," Qui-Gon said, glancing at Obi-Wan, and Anakin followed his gaze, "but you already have."
"Didn't want anybody getting cold feet," Obi-Wan said, steely gaze fixing Qui-Gon as though Anakin hadn't nearly bailed on them.
if you're curious, you can read ch 1 here and subscribing will send you an email when i finally post it. just been difficult to make progress on anything lately with my burn out feelings
QuiAni has been kind of exempt from those feelings. rereading this kiss just filled me with all the feels ☺ I didn't think I'd be so into them or QuiAniObi
✨(wouldn’t say no to more of drunken confession if that’s an option!)
thank you <3
you can always send an ask for more of a specific au. otherwise ✨ will prompt me to share a snippet from a random WIP. this is helping me remember how many WIPs i have... over 90k worth for obikin alone... oh dear.
obikin. prompt was "drunken confession" from last june! post-war, obi-wan and anakin get drunk. this is the very beginning of the fic.
~~~
That was the problem with alcohol, it made everything hold an equal weight and the smaller consequences float away. It was nice while it lasted, though. The air was soft, like the ocean, and colors seemed to be filtered through stained glass. Music was inoffensive and moved through his entire body, making his blood throb with the beat. Or was that his heart?
Anakin grasped Obi-Wan's collar, it seemed very important that Obi-Wan pay attention to him though he wasn't sure what was about to happen. Something about the music.
"I love this song!"
Obi-Wan smiled, knowingly. "I'll remember you said that. We'll see how you like it when hungover."
Anakin had perhaps had too much to drink, but he knew that on a night like tonight even Obi-Wan could not resist drinking. Around them, the bar, the city, the system, the entire galaxy was celebrating. On the far side lay grief, the old companion. But here, and now, was relief. A tug on Anakin's hair had him swearing and turning around.
"Ow! What?"
"I'm heading out." Ahsoka was all teeth as she smiled, her gaze shifted to Obi-Wan. "Get him home in one piece, ok?"
"Aye-aye," Obi-Wan said with a wink.
"I can get myself home, Padawan," Anakin drawled.
Ahsoka tweaked his nose instead of replying and he turned to Obi-Wan for support.
"I can get myself home," he repeated, scowling.
"Right," Obi-Wan said and then was distracted by someone else turning him around for a brief but loud exchange. There was shoulder-slapping and laughing.
~~~
feel free to send me ✨ to my ask box for something random or else you can ask about any of my WIPs specifically~
