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Dove-Shaped Perfume Vessels from Ancient Rome, c.50 CE: these glass vessels were filled with scented oils or cosmetic powders and then sealed, meaning that their contents could only be accessed by breaking the dove's neck or tail
These bottles were created and used as unguentaria (otherwise known as balsamaria) which are ancient vessels that were typically filled with scented oils, cosmetic powders, balms, or ointments. Unguentaria could be crafted from ceramic, glass, or stone, and they came in various shapes and sizes, but dove-shaped vessels made of glass were especially popular during the second half of the 1st century CE, when they were produced and distributed throughout the Roman Empire.
Above: a dove-shaped unguentarium with residue from the original contents still visible inside
Each bottle was crafted from blown-glass that was carefully modeled into the shape of a bird; the inner cavity was then filled with perfume or cosmetic powder, and the tip of the tail was reheated and compressed, effectively sealing the vessel.
Above: dove-shaped vessels that were opened and emptied long ago, c.50-100 CE
As this article explains:
The vessels were produced with glass blowing pipes by so-called "free blowing," and are for this reason extremely thin-walled, with body thicknesses significantly below 0.1 cm.
After the containers had been filled, the tail feathers were sealed airtight by reheating to protect the contents from moisture. Parts of the containers, such as the head or tail feathers, had to be broken off in order to access the contents of the vessels, which means that they were disposable packaging.
Above: vessels with the tips of their tails broken off
Most of these bottles were made from clear or pale blue Roman glass, but some were crafted with a dark blue, green, purple, or yellow appearance instead:
As cheap, mass-produced goods, the packaging consisted mainly of the conventional thin-walled and transparent Roman glass with an unintentional light blue colouring. Specimens made of intentionally coloured transparent glass (e.g. dark blue, dark green, violet or yellow) are less common. This may also have to do with the fact that the pink or white contents could be visually better distinguished and marketed if the vessels were made of the conventional Roman glass, which offered more transparency to the beholder than the intentionally coloured glass.
Above: a sealed unguentarium that likely contains scented oils and cosmetic residue, from Rovesenda, Italy, c.50 CE
Research suggests that many of these bottles were filled with powder, including pink substances that have been described as "blush" or "rouge," while others were filled with liquid.
Above: more dove-shaped unguentaria from the Roman Empire
Vessels with this design (which is also known as Isings form 11) have been unearthed at Roman-era sites located throughout Europe:
Evidence shows that these glass containers were widely marketed in the Roman Empire. The main areas of distribution are the central and northern Italian regions of Campania et Latium, Venetia et Histria, and Transpadana, along with the northwestern provinces of Gallia Belgica, Gallia Lugdunensis, Germania inferior and Germania superior [in what is now Italy, France, Belgium, Luxembourg, Germany, Austria, Switzerland and the Netherlands].
There is also evidence from the Balkan and Danube region in the provinces of Dalmatia and Pannonia, and also from the eastern Mediterranean in the provinces of Achaea, Creta et Cyrenae and Macedonia. The distribution in the western Mediterranean seems to be limited to Hispania Tarraconensis.
Above: the severed heads of two bird-shaped unguentaria
Sources & More Info:
Glassware and Glassworking in Thessaloniki: 1st Century BC-6th Century AD: Bird-Shaped Inguentaria (Isings Form 11)
The Austrian Archaeological Institute: New Finds of Bird-Shaped Glass Vessels with Residues of their Former Content
The British Museum: Roman Perfume Bottle in the Shape of a Bird
Società Friulana di Archeologia: Glass Doves and Globes from Thessaloniki: North Italian Imports or Local Products?
Analytical Chemistry for Archaeology and Cultural Heritage: Compositional Analysis of Greco-Roman Unguentaria Residues
Metropolitan Museum of Art: Glass Bottle in the Shape of a Bird
The popularity of the "incompetent stupid piece of shit husband and competent wife who loves him anyways" trope in media is a psyop to make women believe its normal to settle for an incompetent stupid piece of shit husband
But if a woman acted incompetent once then she will be literally crucified in the street and she's evil for manipulating her husband into settling for less and suddenly it's not a silly endearing sitcom trope 🤔
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Putting the term "Catholic guilt" on a high shelf where fandom can't reach it until everyone learns how to identify characters who are very very clearly coded as Protestant.
UNPOPULAR OPINION: A lot of "mental health issues" disappear when bills are paid, rent is secure, and the fridge is full. Peace is expensive. And pretending money doesn't affect mental health is privilege.
for the writing prompts obikin + A partner/bystander points it out bluntly: “You know they’re in love with you, right?”
Thank you for the prompt!!! I went a little overboard on this one and in a direction I did not expect 😂 But have some Anakin not realizing Obi-Wan is thirsting over him 💕
From this prompt list
***
Pick the bag up, turn to the right, pass the bag off.
Over and over again as the sun hangs high in the sky, mocking them with its bright rays and the absence of clouds.
But the forecast promises rain and the tides are expected to rise with the orbit of the planet’s twin moons and it really would be a shame for the city they just saved from Separatist takeover to be washed away by a hurricane.
And besides, there is comfort to be found in this kind of work especially after the day they have just had. Anakin can sink into it, use the Force to guide his limbs and supply him with boundless reserves of energy. They have a clear goal in front of them: build a wall of sandbags to prevent the city’s shelters and municipal buildings from flooding in the storm. One by one, bag by bag, the wall of sandbags gets higher, stronger together than any one bag set apart.
His men are elsewhere, clearing away the wreckage from the fight and readying for the next engagement, assisting in the evacuation from more precarious areas of the continent’s coastline. Obi-Wan is here somewhere in the village, Anakin can feel him in the back of his mind like heat from the sun. Probably off charming the locals, talking with one of the librarians in the city archives or down on his knees with children in the town square or being dragged into someone’s home to join them for dinner. He has a way with people that Anakin has never quite been able to learn, probably because it isn’t something learned, it’s inate, but Anakin is doing his best exactly where he is: ducking his head down and pitching in to help.
When the last sandbag passes him down the line, Anakin stands up straight and leans back to pop his spine a bit. The muscles in his arms and legs burn in a way that no amount of training could have prepared him for, executing the same repetitive movements for hours on end. But he feels good, lighter for not having to carry the burden anymore and he accepts the smiles and pats on the arm from the people he spent ages crouched side by side with in the line.
“You look like you could use a drink.”
Anakin turns to find Obi-Wan making his way through the dispersing crowd, a sweating glass in his hand. He takes it gratefully and downs it almost immediately. It’s sweet, lemon and mint tea but more importantly it’s cold. Anakin hadn’t realized just how thirsty he was until he started drinking, now he can’t seem to stop.
“Careful now. It’s not going anywhere,” Obi-Wan says amused. Just to show him, Anakin lifts the glass a little higher and drains the whole thing.
When he finishes, Obi-Wan is staring at him baldly, watching as Anakin makes a show of wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. So what if he made a mess of himself? It’s not like Obi-Wan was out here hauling hundreds of forty pound sandbags.
Obi-Wan clears his throat as Anakin hands the glass back to him. “You made quick work of that. The sandbags, I mean. I just hope it will be enough to prevent any serious flooding.”
Anakin nods. The little barriers don’t look like much. Surely with the kind of technology the city has available or stars, even the Republic army has on board their flagships, they should be able to come up with something better than a few bags of sand. But the town council had insisted that this was all they needed, along with a bit of assistance from a Jedi Knight, if he would be so kind. Anakin and Obi-Wan don’t have orders to move on for another two days so they will be able to ride out the storm along with everyone else in one of the local shelters and help out with the clean up afterward if need be.
“What did you get up to today?” Anakin asks. He plucks at his tunic, bringing it away from his chest where it sticks with sweat and waving it a bit to air it out. He could use a sonic desperately or better yet a bath. Hot water to soothe sore muscles, maybe another cold drink to beat the heat first.
“Battening down the hatches,” Obi-Wan says with a shrug. “Securing a place for us to sleep for tonight and a lovely family offered to host us for dinner this evening.”
Logistics and mingling, about what Anakin imagined he was up to as his mind drifted during manual labor. But at least that means Anakin doesn’t have to worry too much for the rest of the day beyond shower, food, and rest.
“Sounds great.” He catches Obi-Wan looking at him. “What?”
“It’s just—here.” Obi-Wan reaches up and wipes away at what must be a smudge of dirt on his forehead. Anakin cringes away from the rough strokes of his thumb, feeling a bit like a youngling again. He can’t imagine what kind of good it’s going to do; he’s filthy all over, a bit of dirt on his face is the probably the least of it.
Then Obi-Wan brushes away a stray lock of hair that has started to fall in front of Anakin’s face. He lets his fingers comb through the rest of it to tuck it back behind his ear. Anakin isn’t sure it’s worth the effort. He can feel the way his heavy curls are damp underneath near the skin and starting to frizz on top from the humidity. He must look a mess but Obi-Wan offers him a small smile instead.
He is about to say something when someone calls, “Master Kenobi!” at the edge of the crowd.
Obi-Wan turns to see who it is. “Ah, right. I’ll be back in a moment. We can head back to our lodgings together.”
He offers Anakin’s arm a quick squeeze before heading off. His light-colored tunics make him easy to spot as he weaves through the people still milling about, making preparations for the storm. As though Anakin needs any assistance in spotting Obi-Wan in a crowd.
“You know he’s in love with you, right?”
The voice comes from the girl he was standing beside in line, now accompanied by a friend who had a spot further down from them. The two of them look at Anakin with a mischievous sort of light in their eyes which makes Anakin feel all of thirteen again, deeply frightened and uncertain as to what that kind of teasing smirk might mean.
Anakin shakes his head and tries to remind himself that he is twenty now and a Jedi Knight, not an awkward padawan desperate to fit in with his peers. “Who, Obi-Wan?”
The two of them giggle but nod.
“No, he isn’t.”
The two of them share a look, then they burst into more giggling. Did they see the same thing Anakin did? If anything, Obi-Wan treated him like a child, as though Anakin never amounted to much more than the tow-headed youngling that first became his padawan.
“Okay,” says the first girl. “Maybe not love then, but he definitely likes you.”
Well, yeah. Of course Obi-Wan likes him. Though—alright, granted, there were more than a few days, especially during their late apprenticeship, when Anakin had been less than sure of that fact. Obi-Wan had always been less than demonstrative, verbal or otherwise, at least not in a way that Anakin could appreciate. But they understand each other better since the war. He knows now where he stands with his old master, or at least, Anakin thinks he does. Perhaps they have both just had bigger problems to deal with.
“No, it’s not like that between us. See, he was my master and I was his apprentice. Like a teacher and student? He doesn’t see me like that.”
More giggling. It might be Anakin’s least favorite sound in the galaxy.
This time it is the friend that speaks up, the words bursting from them from behind a bitten lower lip. “But he was totally checking you out!”
The two of them leave after that, each of them dragging the other away because they’ve said too much and Anakin watches their retreating backs, still shaking with laughter.
What could they possibly be talking about? Anakin looks down at himself. The dirt streaked tunic clinging to his chest in strange places—he did away with his tabards and belt a few hours ago, his full Jedi robes were not conducive to working in this heat. The shirt is hardly doing him much good at all anymore, he might as well take it off, so he does. He’s putting it to better use, wiping away the beads of sweat on his forehead and at the back of his neck by the time Obi-Wan returns to him, announcing his presence with a splash of spilled iced tea on the ground.
“All set?” Anakin asks.
“What?” The word is startled out of Obi-Wan. As he looks at Anakin, his face does something strange. Obi-Wan blinks at him, clears his throat a little, and he has to force himself to look off to the side and away from Anakin before he is able to speak. “Oh, yes, that. Everything squared away. Let’s—let’s get you cleaned up shall we. What in blazes happened to the rest of your clothes?”
“It’s too hot for all of those layers,” Anakin says, reaching out to pinch at Obi-Wan’s multiple layers of white and brown and cream. “Some of us spent the day working.”
Obi-Wan gives him a narrow look. “Some of us spent the day being gawked at by the locals.”
That makes twice now in the span of minutes that someone has commented on his appearance. Anakin has to resist the urge to use his balled up tunic to cover his chest somehow. He doesn’t normally think of himself as attractive—he tries not to think of his appearance much at all, citing an awkward adolescence in which he was essentially raised by monks. Not that the Jedi didn’t talk about such things just that—well, Anakin often found it easier not to.
But in an objective sense, Anakin supposed that some people might find him attractive. He had finally grown into his height since the war, his shoulders broadening. The rigor of physical training kept him fit. Knighthood allowed him to finally shed the bristly padawan cut with it’s nerf tail and braid. Yes, Anakin supposed by certain objective standards, some beings in the galaxy might find him attractive.
The locals and Obi-Wan though, what could they possibly see in him like this? Anakin tries to imagine Obi-Wan in his place in the line, hauling heavy sandbags for hours on end, sweating and red cheeked, shedding some of those layers. He thinks about the way he tends to look after an intense sparring match, his lips parted through heavy breaths, the sounds he makes with exertion…
Okay, there might be something to all of that. Maybe Anakin did look somewhat attractive. That doesn’t mean what those two said it meant though.
Anakin can’t help but think continue to think about it, as he and Obi-Wan make their way to the lodging he secured for them for the evening. When they arrive, Obi-Wan quickly makes his way to the kitchen to check on dinner and ushers Anakin up to the refresher as soon as possible. Anakin makes sure to give him the biggest, stickiest hug he can, bare skin to clean robes, before leaving.
Once Anakin is finally able to slip into a bath, he is ready to laugh a little to himself, thinking about what the two locals said about Obi-Wan.
Does Obi-Wan love him? Sure. Anakin would like to think so. He isn’t sure that you could become so close to someone, live inside of each other’s pockets for so long without some kind of love forming. At the very least, you couldn’t do so happily without that essential ingredient.
He thinks about the way Obi-Wan sought him out and took care of him, the light in his eyes as he brushed back his hair, the tenderness in the way he touched him. He thinks of the way he seeks out Obi-Wan in a crowd, the warmth at the back of his mind that represents their connection to each other. Yes, there is a kind of love in that, certainly.
In love with him? That’s not something the Jedi do. The idea of Obi-Wan in love with someone is almost antithetical to who he is in Anakin’s eyes. It makes a strange knot form in the pit of his stomach. And in love with Anakin? It seems so far-fetched it isn’t worth imagining.
But Obi-Wan attracted to him? Checking him out? Yeah, right.
Anakin holds his breath and sinks below the surface of the bath, letting it wash away the day’s grime.
A prompt you say? How about "a drunken kiss neither can stop thinking about" for obikin 🙏
Thank you for the prompt! 💕 I had fun with this one 😂
From this prompt list
Obi-Wan wakes up the next morning feeling hollowed out, empty.
Although, that’s not entirely true, is it? He isn’t empty, just filled to the brim with all of the wrong stuff. The blinding pain of a headache searing behind his eyes. A thick, gummy residue on his tongue even though Obi-Wan could swear he remembered to brush his teeth last night. Though admittedly, as he realizes from a bit of shuffling around that makes his stomach lurch, and oh yeah—his guts might be filled with an absolutely vile concoction that will meet his bedroom carpet if he doesn’t make it to the fresher sometime soon—but his feeble attempts to roll over allow him to realize that he never actually managed to take off his robes last night before falling face first into bed and staying there.
Last night was a happy occasion, perhaps the happiest and most impossible occasion Obi-Wan could imagine for the longest time: the end of the Clone Wars. It isn’t right that all of that happiness—the atmosphere of sheer joy and elation, a resounding feeling of freedom and justice throughout the galaxy—should leave him feeling this terrible come morning.
Obi-Wan supposes that bringing balance to the Force isn’t necessarily enough to change the immutable laws of chemistry and physics but it feels like it should allow for at least a little grace the morning after.
Carefully, he pries himself up from the bed with one arm, slowly convincing his other limbs to join in on the attempt to sit up. He left the blinds open on the windows last night and a gleaming ray of sunlight reflected off of a skyscraper blocks away threatens to strike him dead. With an effort that feels no less heroic than the events that led to the celebration last night, Obi-Wan sits up in bed. He has to swallow down a belch that attempts to escape him for his trouble.
Now upright and slowly adjusting to the myriad sensory inputs related to sight, Obi-Wan spies his boots tossed to one side of the room—he managed to take those off before collapsing into bed, how thoughtful of him. He rubs ruefully at the belt he forgot to do away with, all of those lovely pockets and cylinders perhaps permanently impressed on his midsection.
He needs to take a few fortifying breaths before he is prepared to brave standing. In his right mind, a Jedi master does not have to suffer the gauntlet of indignities posed by a hangover. A careful understanding of the Force and the way it flows through a body allows a well-trained Force-sensitive to rid their body of such toxins. But Obi-Wan is very much not in his right mind at the moment. He’ll need to use the fresher and courageously contemplate his conservator to determine whether or not he is prepared for solid foods or perhaps a cup of caf before he'll be able to meditate with any real success.
Stars, what possessed him last night?
It was truly a celebration like no other, certainly none that Obi-Wan has ever seen in his lifetime. The entire planet of Coruscant seemed alight with music and fireworks, the joy of billions palpable in the Force. That alone was a dizzying thing to experience.
But then came the return of all the far-flung Jedi across the galaxy back to the Temple. The very stones of the Temple’s walls and foundations seemed to sing with joy and light with all of its children back under one roof.
The night began out in the city. After the brief formal celebrations—an official confirmation that Palpatine was well and truly dead to set the record straight with regards to his evil—the revelry spilled out into the streets. They passed through the assembled crowds, through blocks filled with people stories deep into the fathomless layers of the city.
There were people celebrating everywhere, many didn’t even seem to know what for. Palpatine’s machinations were largely secret, hidden from everyone’s view until it was almost too late. Ranking members of the Delegation of 2000, stepped up to tackle the Holonews, spinning the story into something palatable. Obi-Wan thanked the Force he played no part in that.
The rest of the night starts to go hazy from there. When Obi-Wan thinks back, he can recall flashes of memory like still images that begin to elide into one another more as the night goes on, the connective tissue of how he got from one place to the next remains a stubborn gap in places. He remembers drinking with a few dozen members of the 212th and the 501st in a bar a few blocks from the Senate. Then Anakin said that Ahsoka and a few of her friends had commandeered a club a few levels down and the party seemed to follow them there. Quinlan found them a few hours later and renewed their flagging energy.
The celebrations went on and on, drinking and dancing, talking and laughing. It almost makes Obi-Wan nauseous all over again to remember how dizzyingly happy he and everyone else around him had been. The one bright spot that keeps him grounded in all of this reminiscing is Anakin.
Luminous is the only word to describe him, though Obi-Wan has a couple hundred others to add on as well. Bright, shining, golden, he truly looked the part of the poster boy everyone would declare him to be over the next few days. A hero, a Jedi, a beautiful young man. Free at last from the dark shadow of the villain who spent so much of Anakin's life trying to carve him into a weapon. In the midst of everything else, all of the scenes of joy and festivity, Obi-Wan couldn’t take his eyes off of him. His beautiful boy.
Which is why the next flash of memory from last night churns his gut so awfully, Obi-Wan stumbles to the fresher and braces himself against the sink. Nothing comes up, thank the Force, but the cold shock of emotion too tangled up to name still roils in the pit of his stomach.
Outside one of those bars—Obi-Wan can’t precisely remember which at this point—he and Anakin stepped outside for some air. They were both well and truly trashed that late in the night, though Coruscant’s ever present light pollution and the alcohol made it difficult to tell exactly how late. Obi-Wan leaned back against the wall and lifted his head up to look at the ships passing overhead, trying to make out the larger cruisers in orbit above, and to center himself. He hardly noticed Anakin at all until their shoulders brushed, their usual Force-assisted balance and grace deserting them as the night wore on.
Obi-Wan can’t even be certain that they said anything to each other—he would like to think he would remember it if they had. Anakin had just smiled at him, something in his eyes looking impossibly young while at the same time, appearing older, more settled and mature than Obi-Wan had ever hoped Anakin might achieve.
It was all too easy to turn to him and kiss him. The desire took form in his limbs the very same instant that it took shape in his mind. His hand found Anakin’s face and steadied him there while the rest of his body pressed him to the wall, caging him in, claiming him, consequences be damned.
And now here Obi-Wan stands, chest heaving, hands clenched against the edge of the sink, damned.
How is he supposed to face Anakin after betraying his friendship like that? Forcing himself on him when he was vulnerable and unsuspecting. How is he supposed to look his former padawan in the eye after acting on the desire Obi-Wan has spent years trying to desperately give to the Force?
Because that is Obi-Wan’s true crime. One kiss could be shrugged off, getting caught up in the heat of the moment, a result of their deep and undeniable connection to one another. But no, Obi-Wan has wanted this for some time now. In ways he has struggled to come to terms with, avoided thinking about at all costs for the sake of the relationship he already has with Anakin, the friendship he holds most dear to his heart.
Obi-Wan has to apologize. That’s the only thing for it. He needs to face Anakin and tell him that what happened last night doesn’t change anything between them—or else, that it doesn’t have to change anything between them. Obi-Wan can’t deny the simple fact that this one small and simple mistake threatens to change everything and likely already has. He knows the feeling of Anakin’s lips against his, soft and perfectly formed, the taste of sweat and alcohol and the scent of him. He knows what Anakin’s heart feels like rabbiting in his chest when pressed up against his own. The feeling of those lovely curls between his fingers. How right it felt just to hold him.
Perhaps the stars will shine on Obi-Wan and Anakin won’t remember a thing from last night. It took some effort for Obi-Wan to recall what he did, the fulfillment of years’ long yearning. Perhaps he will wake up with a hangover to rival the one he had at sixteen after attending a party with the other senior padawans. Anakin spent the night on the floor of the fresher and woke up shivering the next day, hardly able to stomach salted crackers and broth for lunch. Perhaps Obi-Wan will get lucky.
Obi-Wan is almost never lucky.
He resolves himself to facing whatever the day has in store for him. He can’t hide away in his bedroom for the rest of the day or for the rest of eternity, much though he would like to at the moment. Perhaps after getting some food in his stomach, all of this will look so much simpler than his hungover mind is currently able to process.
It doesn’t seem likely but the fact remains that Obi-Wan has to try.
As soon as he opens the door from his bedroom into the living area of his quarters, Obi-Wan nearly trips over something left on the floor outside his room. No—not something, someone. They’re a little hard to make out at first, bundled up in what Obi-Wan thinks might be a spare cloak he left on the arm of the couch and curled in on themselves, hiding their face from the bright sunlight. But it could only be Anakin, lying on the floor of the quarters they used to share years ago. Obi-Wan would know him anywhere.
Anakin starts abruptly after having been unceremoniously kicked in the rear. He knocks over a mostly empty bottle that Obi-Wan vaguely recognizes as the Chandrilan brandy he kept in a cupboard over the sink saved for a special occasion that never really came to pass. The remainder seeps into the carpet of the living area, the sharp smell of alcohol turning Obi-Wan’s stomach for the umpteenth time on this terrible, terrible day.
Blinking up at him with bleary eyes, Anakin says, “Obi-Wan?” as though he might have expected someone else to come out of Obi-Wan’s quarters after apparently, guarding the entrance all night.
“Good morning, Anakin,” Obi-Wan murmurs. His voice sounds to his own ears like it has been stomped on by an AT-TE walker and dragged across a battlefield. “Rough night?”
A jaw-cracking awn splits Anakin’s face and he makes no move to cover it. “No,” he says, his voice low and rasping with sleep. “It was a good night. I think.”
Well, that speaks well to convenient amnesia but Obi-Wan isn’t about to get his hopes up.
“Feel brave enough to stomach some breakfast?” Obi-Wan reaches out a hand to help Anakin up off of the ground but he ignores it in favor of working out a kink in his neck and spending some more quality time with the floor.
Anakin nods. “I’m starving.”
Obi-Wan takes that a sign that most things, if not everything, are right with the galaxy this morning. He steps into the kitchen and stares into his conservator for a few moments. Then he opens a few cupboards, looks back at the conservator, and stalls out, trying to make sense of the paltry foodstuffs he has in his kitchen. He supposes the last few days have been so hectic, what with ending a war, revealing and defeating a Sith lord and saving the galaxy, he might have been too busy to buy groceries.
A pair of arms slip around his waist and a familiar head settles on his shoulder. The presence is enough to break through the fog Obi-Wan has been fighting with all morning, making him stand up straight and still as though he might startle Anakin with a sudden movement.
“Want to go to Dex’s? I would kill for one of his egg sandwiches.” Anakin says, the vibration of his words rumbling through both of their chests.
He stays there, wrapped around Obi-Wan like the tentacles of an ungulith, while Obi-Wan tries to form an answer. He rests some of his weight on Obi-Wan like he can’t bring himself to carry all of it alone just yet. It’s far more physical affection than Obi-Wan has known from Anakin since he was only tall enough to reach his waist; his hugs at that age were clinging and ferocious, like he was afraid Obi-Wan might disappear.
“Alright then, dear one,” Obi-Wan says, wincing internally as the endearment escapes him. “Get your shoes and we’ll go.”
Anakin nuzzles his face into Obi-Wan’s neck and from this vantage point, Obi-Wan can’t tell but he thinks Anakin presses a kiss to the bare skin there, his lips warm and a little wet, the gesture soft and sleepy. “I might need your help to find them.”
Obi-Wan huffs a laugh and decides he might be strong enough to face this brave new world after all.
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I was just thinking about the old Japanese censorship laws that gave birth to tentacle porn...
So for anyone not in the know, the Japanese government decided to fight perversion with censorship.
Specifically you weren't allowed to draw penises.
So they drew things that WEREN'T penises instead. Like tentacles. Fast forward to today and tentacle porn is an entire standalone genre with thousands upon thousands of examples and enjoyers.
The attempt at censorship did not quell perversion, it only caused it to mutate.
And now I'm thinking about tumblr's decision to ban porn and of all the people leaving captions under videos of heavy machinery and industrial accidents like "I need someone to do this to me" and "this wouldn't fix me but it would help" or "everything reminds me of her"
You are an unreliable narrator because your coping mechanisms for your deep-seated trauma forbid you from acknowledging the reality of the situation. I am an unreliable narrator because I sincerely have no idea what the fuck is going on.
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