right now, i don't have individual songs on repeat so much as an entire playlist on repeat. been working on tbobt a lot and so most of my listening has been my tbobt playlist. it is, however, 53 songs long, so i shall choose the five that i'm vibing with the most.
Broken Crown by Mumford & Sons
Daylight by David Kushner
Wolves by Down Like Silver
The War by SYML
Babylon by Barns Courtney
bonus, the song i was listening to on endless repeat a few days ago
Dog Prophecies by Josie Edwards
some no pressure tags! @clearbluewaters @kcrabb88 @starcatboy @bucketofdeltav @paleoleigh <3
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yes, it is a registered user. and yes, it quite accurately describes my newest story using the correct names and themes. these bots are getting better and better at mimicking real comments by running your fics through ai. this bot ruined it by coming right out and adding the "connect with me via discord/instagram" which is how i instantly knew it was a bot.
other signs that it was a bot: the incredibly formal, analytical description of scene from my fic (this had my hackles up by the first sentence, although it is not a guarantee the comment is from a bot. i have had plenty of real commenters that leave similar comments with similar phrasing). another indication was that the account was brand new, with no works or bookmarks on its profile (bots do not have old accounts. they usually get taken down for their spam comments before they make it more than a few days).
i reported this comment/user to the policy & abuse team, and they have already taken the bot down. this is not a necessary step, you can just delete the comment if you want, but reporting the bot means that the p&a team can get the account taken down, so it can't leave comments on anyone else's fics. (they got to my report extremely quickly, thank you p&a team).
Remember:
do NOT ever connect with an ao3 commenter through another platform like discord or instagram (if you already know them on those platforms, it's most likely okay)
do NOT agree to any exchange of money with an ao3 commenter (not only is it almost certainly a scam, its against ao3 policy to advertise that anywhere on the site)
DO leave comments on the fics you like. tell the author what you enjoyed about their fic. your favorite lines, how much you love their characterization or dynamics or prose, whether you stayed up until 1 am to read it... leave emojis and keysmashes and fight back against the shitty bots with real, genuine love for your favorite authors
well well well if it isn't the 100k fic I never thought would happen
um. yeah. tbobt rewrite hit 100k words for real for real, not just in my master document. im feeling some sort of way about it. proud? astonished? completely fucking bewildered by my own writing capabilities?
fifteen year old me, completely new to writing fanfic, could never have imagined writing something this long and complex. i look back at my very first completed star wars fic, and it was less than 1k words when i first posted it (i later added a couple chapters unintentionally). so yeah. glow up.
i feel like a better writer than i was even two years ago when i started tbobt, so to think back to my writing over a decade ago??? its just incredible knowing how much i've improved.
anyway, enough of me being sappy, here's some snibs. one from the og draft, and then the second from the rewrite
----(og)----
Vokara hated her job sometimes. She loved it too, of course, loved the reward of saving a life, healing wounds, taking away her patientsâ pain. It was deeply fulfilling work, and she couldnât see herself anywhere else, doing anything else.
But at times like this⌠she hated it.
Jedi didnât hate, but faced with the evidence of months of suffering, months of torture, written in scars on the broken body in front of her, she couldnât help it.
Someoneâsomeone she didnât even want to think the name of, lest she go down to the prison and break her oath as a Healerâhad done this. Had⌠inflicted such immense harm on a man who had never and would never deserve it. A man who she cared dearly for, who had been her patient since she was a young Padawan-Healer and he an even younger crècheling. Someone had looked at this man and decided to hurt him beyond repair.
And for what?
----(rewrite)----
Vokara hated her job, sometimes. She loved it, too, of course. Loved the reward of saving a life, healing a wound, easing a patientâs pain. The work was deeply fulfilling, and to imagine herself anywhere else, doing anything else was simply⌠inconceivable.
But not all lives could be saved. Not all wounds could be healed. Not all pain could be eased. At times like those, at times like this⌠she hated being a Healer.
To hate was not the Jedi way, but in the rare moments, Vokara allowed herself this one concession to sentient nature. Master Yoda would tell her to meditate, to release her hate to the Force, and she would. Later. But for now, faced with the evidence of months of suffering, months of torture, written in scars on the broken body in front of her, spelled out in technical terms on the scanner in front of her, she couldnât help but hold onto it.
She had met Obi-Wan as a young Padawan-Healer, and he an even younger crècheling, newly arrived to the Temple. He had come down with the Dantooine flu, and spent three days feverish and delirious in the Halls, under Vokara and her Masterâs watchful eyes. He was the most stubborn patients she had ever met, and one of the most beloved. She had cared for him as an Initiate, a Padawan, a Knight, and a Master. She had saved his life on dozens of occasions, and healed his injuries more times than she could count.
Whether she could heal him this time⌠they could only hope.
Someoneâsomeone she refused to even think the name of, lest she go down to the detention cells below and break her oathâhad done this. Had⌠purposefully inflicted such immense harm on a man who had never and would never deserve it.
Someone had looked at this man and decided to hurt him beyond repair.
it is... my longest chapter yet, now. three new scenes, nearly 10k more words than the og draft, and i'm pretty sure i made obi-wan's life even worse than i already had (somehow). so.
onto the next chapter!
and of course, celebratory snib under the cut.
He was thirty-seven, and he was a prisoner, and he was laid flat on his back, legs spread for the Sith Lord raping him.
âI should keep you like this all the time,â Palpatine groaned. âNo fighting. No talking back. No disobeying. Simply taking it like a perfect, little whore.â
Obi-Wanâs mind trembled at the prospect, though his body remained utterly limp. His whimpering protest never even formed in his lungsâthe inalterable pace of his breathing, the leaden immobility of every one of his muscles, prevented it.
Helpless. Trapped. Only able to lay there and take it.
Hot droplets of tears leaked down to his temples. With his eyes closed, he could almost, almost, pretend the weight on him was Quinlan. But every time Palpatine spoke or moaned, every time he shifted his thin-fingered grip or the angle at which he thrust, the illusion broke. This was not Quinlan. He would probably never see Quinlan again. Never hear his voice. Never feel his touch.
*holds out my hands like a begging victorian child*
Please, may I have some tbobt snippets?
you may indeed :)
When Obi-Wan was eleven, heâd broken his arm attempting to perform a double backflip in the Initiate dorms. He had broken other bones since thenâmostly ribs, a few ankle bones, one or two fingers, his other armâbut that first time still stood out, the worst pain he had ever felt up until then. It didnât hold a candle flame to the agony of now, when every shift of weight, every stretch of muscle, sent fresh pain ricocheting through his entire body. He had the Healers when he was little. He had a bone knitter and bacta and pain medication.
He had none of that, now. Only the pain and the anticipation of more of it. There were no casts or splints, no orders to rest and recover. Instead, there were collars around his throat⌠and an order to kneel.
Much of his time as Sidiousâs prisoner had been spent on his knees. The bruises on his shins and kneecaps were testament to that. But to kneel on broken bones, all his weight on his lower legs⌠It was a special kind of agony. The kind of agony he could hardly bear, and yet he had no choice but to bear it. Because kneeling might hurt, but the punishment collar hurt worse.
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hello there! i bring a snib and some art on this fine wednesday.
and yes this is odious because my brain is still in the pit of obsession
please enjoy my most recent sins.
âWhatââ The word breaks in Obi-Wanâs mouth. He coughs and tries again. âWhat did you do?â
Delicate fingers trace the blistered lines on his back, and he winces at the sting. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches the fevered smile curving Palpatineâs lips. The Sith leans down and kisses the back of his neck. His breath puffs warm on Obi-Wanâs flushed skin. A shudder races down Obi-Wanâs spine.
âYou are mine,â the Sith murmurs, âAnd I have marked you as such.â
alright alright fine. its 1 am, i'm struggling to write a part of this one scene and keep getting distracted. i guess i will share a snibbet courtesy of @brokenphoenix99 's request.
The rhythm of his hips sped up. Faster, faster, faster. He adjusted the angle by degrees with each thrust, until one burst pleasure deep inside Obi-Wan, tingling warmth blooming through his gut. The instinct to twist away, to escape, reared its head, and Obi-Wan squashed it ruthlessly.
He would not win.
âThatâs it. Surrender, pet. Give in to me. Give in to your master,â Sidious purred. The Sith shifted to hit that spot every time, precise and calculated pleasure crashing over Obi-Wan again and again and again andâ
A fresh wave of tears flooded his face. Cracked open, on display, assaulted by pleasure, he was defenseless. Sidious knew him in ways not even Quinlan had, now. Knew him in ways not even Obi-Wan himself had.
He knew how to make Obi-Wan hurt. He knew how to bring Obi-Wan pleasure. He knew how to break him utterly.
how it's at 50k already when i'm not even halfway through the og draft, i have no idea.
anyway. celebratory snib ;)
His memory gaped open like a gutted fish, a terrifying empty spot during which the myriad of his injuries had been treated. Not fully, not enough to erase them or their ache, but enough to take the edge off. Enough to keep him alive. Enough to send him into a tailspin at the thought of what else may have been done to him while he wasnât awake to remember it.
The stench of overripe muja fruit and sticky sheen of bacta still clung to his skin, though he recalled nothing of a bacta tank, or indeed, any of the medical treatment logic said must have happened. He had gone to sleep in his cage wounded. He had woken up in his cage less wounded.
But the easing of his pain hadnât eased his suffering any. Instead, all of the other torments rose to the surface, submerged, as they had been, by the all-consuming sea of agonies.
Torments like the headache. Like the exhaustion. Like the hunger.
He groaned at another cramp in his gut, his stomach consuming itself from the inside out. Kark it all. Palpatine seemed to feed him only when he remembered his pet needed sustenance to survive, but⌠starvation was a very real threat. It would take longer, much longer, than if he wasnât fed at all, but while he could pick whatever battles he needed to with Palpatine, he couldnât fight his own body. No amount of willpower to endure would prevent his organs from shutting down.
