ladykelsi 2025. please do not steal, copy, plagiarize, translate, or repost any of my works without my permission, including ai/c.ai/chatgpt/lore.fm and similar sites and softwares.
[navigation page inspired by the lovely @waves-against-a-cliff]
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you're in near-hysterics when ghost lumbers through the door, absolutely reeking, his perpetually foul coveralls unzipped and tied around his waist, white undershirt plastered to his sweat- and mud-streaked skin.
you're backed against the kitchen sink, doing a terrible job shielding the frozen limb beneath the running tap, the foot jutting out from one end.
ghost pauses in the doorway, taking in the pathetic sight. you know he knows you fucked up.
the mask on his face shifts as he snorts. his chin drops as he toes off his boots and kicks them aside for you to deal with later, then drops his work bag beside them. when he looks up again, he rolls his neck, adjusts the sack slung over one shoulder, and moves toward the kitchen island.
you start apologizing immediately, voice scratchy, throat suddenly parched with terror. you own up to the mistake. he already made the consequences of lying to him crystal clear weeks ago.
he heaves the bag onto the island with a heavy thump and ignores every word. reaching over your shoulder, he grabs a plastic cup from the cupboard and sticks it beneath the tap, diverting the stream away from the frozen leg while it fills.
your apologies taper off as he shuts off the water, peels off his mask, and chugs. the last few droplets from the tap plink into the sink behind you. you stare up at his ugly mug, at his chapped, scarred lips. when he's finished, he sets the cup beside you and pats your cheek.
"good thing i found a morsel on the side of the road on my way 'ome then. some takeaway."
you peer around his bulk at the bag. a reddish-brown liquid oozes from a dark patch on the sack, slowly congealing on the butcher block beneath it. sticking from the opening, a few red curls.
"take that out of the sink an' stick it back in deep freeze. we're 'avin' rump roast."
you nod frantically and get to work. after wrestling the leg back into its place in the freezer, you return to the kitchen and tie on your apron—crudely fashioned from one of his old ones. then it's back to the work you've learned by heart, helping him wrap cuts in butcher paper, label them, date them. you try not to think too hard about any of it while you help prep dinner. so long as it's not you on the table.
so you're not in quite as much trouble as you'd feared.
but after dinner, he yanks you outside and drops into a lawn chair. he watches while you hose out the truck bed, hand-rolling a cigarette and nursing a beer. when you ask what to do about the stubborn bits lodged in the ridges of the truck bed, he fetches you your toothbrush.
"You blush from your ears," you tell Sylus, like you're presenting him with groundbreaking knowledge. "It's never from your cheeks first, always your ears."
Sylus blinks, resisting the sudden urge to touch his ears.
"I don't blush at all, sweetie."
You hum, eyes sparkling mischievously.
"Of course you don't, oh big bad leader of Onychinus."
That small taunt earns you a soft swat to the bottom which you easily evade, delighted giggles pouring from your lips.
"Brat," he murmurs around a smile as you wink at him. "One usually has evidence along with their accusations."
You don't reply to that, don't say a single word but you look thoughtful and Sylus instantly knows that he's gotten himself into trouble.
The next morning, Sylus walks into the living room and stops right in his tracks when he's greeted by a blown up image of his face. The shot has been taken at just the right angle to show one of his ears. His ear which is flushed a deep red, the striking colour bleeding into the pale of his cheek.
Sylus stares at this photo for a long time, long enough for you to stroll into the living room with two mugs of coffee in hand. You pass him one, smiling victoriously when he silently accepts it.
"You asked for proof." Is all you say before you're sipping from your mug like the winner you are.
Sylus doesn't know whether to be proud, irritated or aroused.
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if qui gon had been anakin’s master, anakin prob wouldn’t have gone to the dark side. not necessarily bc he’d been a better master, but bc obi wan would be the cool older bro he’d sneak out w and confide in instead of the fake father figure he felt the constant need to rebel against. ‘palpatine has been asking me to spend time with him…’ ‘NEVER trust a politician. wait, hold. why the kriff is a decrepit thing like him trying to hang out w a 12 year old’ ‘I’m in love w padme. I want to get married!’ ‘u still have a rat tail’
Everything I read about recovering from burnout is like “it takes months or even years to fully recover” and it’s like okay…. I have a weekend before I gotta clock in on Monday
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Padmé gave Anakin and Ahsoka some money to buy gifts for their trip off-planet; unfortunately, the senator has no concept of money, something that leaves the two humble Jedi in complete shock.
strangely enough, he does not conform to the classic black aesthetic of the Sith. but prefers a shade of cream white and gold.
something similar to what the Jedi might wear but more refined. instead of the standard scratchy cotton, it’s a softer fabric. smoother, more luxurious and meant more for comfort and silent signifier of wealth than a statement humility.
seeing this attire, one would think that someone with a red saber would want to carry some semblance of who he once was before he turned to the dark side. but no.
to him, it is not a marker of nostalgia or of him holding on to his past self.
this visage of white and gold, to him, is an improvement. to him, this is what the Jedi are afraid to lean into. the element of a soft texture, of leaning into comfort, of leaning into enjoying wealth and an attachment to the finer things in life is one of the reasons he enjoys the dark side. because the Jedi don't allow such things, they don't allow one to enjoy the fruits of their labour to the fullest.
to be caught in his line of sight is akin to a death sentence.
there is no defeating him. no knocking him off kilter. no hiding from him. he is the perfect embodiment of all that is dark and twisted. a perfect mesh of order and chaos in graceful movements and carefully executed aggression to tear down whoever and whatever stands in his way.
to have a habringer of death calmly circling around you with no hope for mercy after a long and hard battle. to be brought to your knees with his red saber under your chin. beyond that, any semblance of your previous life is over. whether you are Jedi, senator, princess or peasant, your life is now effectively and undeniably his.
thus.
“what i expect...” he muses with the corner of his mouth quirking slightly upward, honey gold eyes gleaming from the fire and destruction all around. “is absolute devotion.”
