Sidious: *raises Maul to be a weapon, abusing and mindfucking him from actual toddlerhood to the point where he’s constantly paranoid, feverishly and painfully loyal, desperate for approval, anxious about legit everything that isn’t combat, poorly socialized and meant only to serve as a pawn*
Maul: *somehow manages to survive and endure it, clings to what few fragments of individuality he’s allowed, builds an imperfect but genuine code of honor he adheres to all the way up until he’s legit cut in half and left in the actual factual trash, keeps surviving despite all that abuse and still somehow manages to have less of a body (or limb) count than most Jedi*
People on the internet: I don’t see what’s so interesting, obviously he doesn’t have ANY PERSONALITY WHATSOEVER and that has NOTHING AT ALL to do with the fact that any display of weakness was horrifically punished; it can’t be that he mercilessly represses *himself* thanks to his abuse, it just means he has no personality. Clearly.
mr bingley to darcy: “how could you propose to elizabeth bennet in kent just after you convinced me not to marry jane bennet because of her poor social status?”
That is the look on the face of a woman who is reconsidering all her life choices, like she married this and he’s attached at the hip to that and then she has to be a little disappointed in herself because OH NO THE BICKERING IS KIND OF HOT AND SHE’S INTO IT WHY IS SHE INTO THIS.
LISTEN, I LOVE HER, BUT I WILL FIGHT THE INTERNET THAT PADME IS JUST AS MUCH OF A ROMANTIC DISASTER AS ANAKIN, SHE MARRIED A CHILD-MURDERING HOT MESS LIKE A WEEK AFTER SHE MET HIM, NO WAY IS A SUPER HOT THREESOME GOING TO BE OFF THIS LADY’S AGENDA.
where is the AU when both Anakin and Padmé try to come up with the perfect argument that would convince their other half that adding Obi-Wan into their bedroom is a brilliant idea?
Without Obi-Wan noticing a thing, of course
Ok but seriously that would be so amusing because Padmé’s going to be approaching this from the “Ani can be kind of possessive and I don’t want to make him jealous or think I’d leave him for Obi-Wan” angle while Anakin is torn because “I married Padmé and I don’t want her to ever think that I don’t love her with every inch of me even though I love Obi-Wan too.”
Which sound the same but they’re really not.
And lead to major miscommunication.
Because Padmé starts laying the groundwork by bringing up the whole “sometimes sleeping with someone isn’t a sign of absolute and utter ultimate devotion” thing as a prelude to the idea that you can have more than one partner and Anakin of course reacts with horror at the very notion (thinking she’s talking about casual sex) so Padmé tamps down her hopes, vows not to bring it up again and focuses on reassuring her husband. She’ll just have to keep her feelings as her little secret…
Meanwhile Anakin, even more than usual, starts bringing up how much he loves Padmé and that he could never dream of not doing so her and she responds (again thinking he needs reassurance) with a romantic and heartfelt speech about just how special and unique their relationship is and how she cherishes his devotion cannot imagine ever giving up his heart! And Anakin beams and mentally promises to hide his feelings for Obi-Wan because he can’t betray his wife like that…
And so it goes in a mass of frustration as Padmé watches Anakin and Obi-Wan interact and their feelings are so obvious and if Anakin could just SEE, and Anakin sighs over his amazing wife and beloved master and swears to be true to them both and never let either know.
And then Obi-Wan dies.
Padmé watches Anakin stand at the head of the pyre, feeling the anguish that he is so carefully bottling up inside to keep hidden from their fellow mourners. That night, as he collapses in her arms, alternately sobbing and cursing Rako Hardeen, Padmé can only hold him close and grieve with him.
“I loved him” Anakin whispers into her chest as Padmé runs gentle fingers through his hair. Somehow she knows even saying his name is too painful right now.
“I know. He was your Master, your best friend…”
“No.” His eyes fix her own with an earnest regret, pleading for her understanding. “I mean I loved him, like I do you, and I swear I was never going to act on it because I love you and you are everything but I’m never going to be able to tell him that because he’s gone!”
And Padmé shushes him even as her mind is frantically making all the connections because oh…
“I knew.”
Her husband looks at her in disbelief and Padmé draws him closer still.
“It’s ok. I knew.” She takes a deep breath bringing her husband’s face up to meet her own. “It’s why I was working out how to suggest adding him to our marriage.”
Anakin looks at her the same way he did on their wedding day, full of awe and stunned devotion as if she is truly the semi divine being he names her as.
“Angel…” He breathes, looking lighter than he has in years, before reality sets back in and he collapses bitterly back into her arms. “But it’s too late now. Too late.”
And they hold each other into the night, thinking of a wondrous dream that will never be.
Except then it turns out, that it may not be too late.
Obi-Wan Kenobi is a complete and utter bastard.
They love him anyway.
HOW DARE YOU HIT ME IN THE FEELINGS PLACE, with how they’re so mad at him and yet they love him anyway. HOW. DARE. YOU.
me: huh, in all the tons and tons of writing i’ve done, i’ve never once attempted any smut; maybe i should give it a shot sometime, like what’s the worst thing that can possibly happen?
my brain, without missing a goddamn beat: you will get four sentences in, attempt to type the word “cock” in a sexual context, and become so completely overwhelmed by your own embarrassment that you will pass out, hitting your head against the floor loudly enough that your downstairs neighbors will call 911.
you will come to in the back of an ambulance, confused and a little concussed and momentarily unsure why none of the ambulance workers will meet your eyes until you realize, with dawning horror, that when they broke down your door to rescue you, they must’ve caught a glimpse of your laptop screen and it’s all over now, everyone knows that you are a failed pornographer, there is nothing left for you to do but dive out of this ambulance, barrel roll to safety, grab your passport and flee the country.
you pack a bag. you take a greyhound bus, and then another bus. it’s raining by the time you make it to the canadian border. the customs line is long, and it is suspiciously full of other people like you, mostly women in their mid to late twenties who despite their fervent belief in sex positivity and freedom of expression are still in some ways filled with shame at the prospect of any personal expression of any remotely sexual inclinations, but also filled with a complicated shame about that shame.
too late, you remember that you know almost nothing about canada. oh shit, are their power outlets different there? will you need to get a new phone? at the very least, you’re definitely gonna have to learn the celsius scale. fuck. is it five ninths the fahrenheit temperature minus 32? you never loved algebra. fuck fuck fuck.
the girl ahead of you in line meets your eyes, gives you a sad, sympathetic smile.
“fleeing the country, huh?” she asks you. “me too,” she says, and something in her face tells you that she will understand.
“it’s just,” you swallow. “smut is so DIFFICULT.”
“uh,” she says. “i—actually i’m on the run because i murdered a guy, but. yeah, i guess writing porn does present some challenges.”
you and the murderess shrug at each other. you can’t bring yourself to ask who she killed or why. what does it matter at this point, one outlaw to another? you have left your friends and your family behind. she is your people now. there is no going back.
I was actually really hoping this was going to continue until it evolved into erotica.
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