#when i should have just cut my losses and bailed

[allaganexarch]

godddddd wasting time and energy on things that don't fucking matter has got to be THE worst feeling

#personal #i felt super embarrassed in my korean lesson today #because I didn't have a lot of time the last couple of weeks and I was trying to resolve the situation w the other tutor #when i should have just cut my losses and bailed #and look i know i'm learning there's literally no reason to be embarrassed etc but i am insane so that's not an option LOL #i should have somehow already known the contents of the lesson and therefore not needed the lesson hope this helps #but actually it was like i spent what little time i had preparing for the other lesson that was stupid and pointless rather than this one #and that just made me feel :( you know #in fairness to me my mental health was circling the drain literally until 2 days ago #so the last couple of days have just been like *sweeps up the carnage of various mental breakdowns and other insane behavior* LOL #but idk just generally feeling frustrated with myself even tho that's not super helpful #also frustrated that stupid bullshit has been taking up way too much of my time and energy lately #and it seems like the more i try to get the stupid bs out of the way the more it just dominates my life somehow #also super helpful that my brain's natural response to this state of being is 'well maybe you can't do anything right and should die :)' #like okay ty for your input LOL #despite how this sounds actually my korean lesson was REALLY good LOL #it was so good I just like got upset about wasting time on other bs you know?? #anyway ty for coming to my nightly overshare i actually feel better now #love to shout into the void #exciting korean learning tag

[ohtobeleah]

Trade Places // Jake Seresin

Summary: It was supposed to be Hangman. And if you could go back in time? You’d let it be him. Without a shadow of a doubt.

Warnings: Leg Amputation. Jake Seresin x Enemy F!reader. Angst. Whump.

Word Count: 1.6k

Author Note: Day Sixteen of Whumptober. Prompt I chose: Amputation. Thank you to @ailesswhumptober for the prompt list.

Whumptober Masterlist | Main Masterlist

“The extensive bone injury along with the degree of soft-tissue infection is troubling.” It was supposed to be Hangman. He was the one who was meant to be flying when shit went wrong. It was supposed to be him, the one lying in a hospital room with doctors and nurses consulting on what exactly their best course of treatment would be. “No matter what we do—“

“If the infection goes to the bone it’ll be hard to treat.” There were two of them, tag-teaming the explanation that turned the axis of your life as you knew it on its head. 

“And eventually you’re looking at bone loss.” It was almost impossible to understand what the doctors were trying to explain to you at that moment in time. There was no way that this was even happening. Surely you were caught up in some twisted nightmare. Because this couldn’t be real, right? This couldn’t be happening to you. “Officially, Lieutenant—I’m recommending amputation now to avoid complications later down the line.” 

“I withhold consent—“ You mumbled out nearly incoherently. Your body felt so weak but the morphine was sweet. It made you feel like you were floating, but the weight of the situation you had found yourself in was pulling you back down. Keeping your grounded in reality when all you wanted to do was float away. “I withhold consent, before you drug me up anymore or sedate me, I give no-nobody permission to cut off my leg.” 

Rooster, Bob, Phoenix, Hangman and yourself had been running drills at the Mountain Home Air Force Base in Idaho for the last week and a half. Advanced Tactical air to air Combat Training that was designed to push you to your absolute maximum. The Airforce were running the training days and Mav saw no excuse for the five of you to tag along. 

“And certainly not some yahoo in dump truck Idaho—“ It was then you looked over to where Jake sat in the corner of the room. He looked a little worse for wear but nothing compared to you. 

It was supposed to be him in that bed—fighting to keep his leg after being ejected and thrown to the ground like a damn rag doll. It should have been him—but of all days to be running ten minutes late, you took the first session, the first run, and he watched you take his place when fate called your number instead of his. 

“Please, just take me home.” You begged him as tears welled in your eyes and your bottom lip quivered. “Please Jake.” He hated that it so easily could have and should have been him in your position. So without a word—Jake got up and bailed out of the room. He said not a single word as he made his way to the nearest exit. You cried a little harder knowing you were left all alone. 

He couldn’t take this, this torture of knowing if he had just been on time it would be him in your position instead of you. He’d give anything to trade places with you. But he couldn't, not now not ever. Jake Seresin couldn't turn back time any more than he could take your pain away. 

“Lieutenant, we’ll give you some time to reconsider your options.” 

“You’re not taking my leg.” You spat without hesitation. “I’d rather die than lose my leg, do you hear me?” You meant it with every fiber of your being. “I'd rather die, because without it I'd be just as good as dead.” 

This wasn’t supposed to happen to you, it was Hangman's session, it was his hop, his jet, his damn everything.

It should have been him. 

***~***~***~***~***~ 

You were going to lose your leg, you knew it. To have your leg amputated from the knee down would end your career. It would see a stop to all that you were trying to achieve. 

“I’m gonna go heat up some formula for Lila.” Your husband cooed as he leaned in the press a gentle kiss to your forehead. The two of them had caught the first flight out they could in order to be by your side. After all, it isn’t everyday you get a call to say your wife had been involved in a pretty catastrophic accident. But regardless of the prognosis—your husband Eric was as loving and as supportive as he could be. He knew however, what losing a limb meant for your career. “We’ll be right back.”

“Okay.” You replied as you settled in and pressed the pain relief button. The infection in your leg had taken a drastic turn in the last three days. You had held out as long as you could but alternately, you were scheduled for amputation at three. 

Your world had completely changed in one fell swoop. 

“Hey.” Jake's voice caught you off guard by the doorway, you’d drifted off as the medication that kept you from screaming the entire hospital down in utter agony coursed through your veins. “I uh—I bought these for you.” In his hand was a bunch of white Lilies, you could smell them from your bed. But you knew deep down they were just sympathy flowers to help soothe Jake's feelings. He felt guilty, but he didn’t feel remorse. “I saw your husband in the hallway.” With tentative steps, Jake stepped inside your room as your eyes lingered on his frame. He looked like hell. Again, nothing compared to you with all your cuts and scrapes and bruises. “I uh—“ It was the way he stumbled over his words that told you Jake wasn’t okay. The usual cock sure of himself aviator had dark bags under his eyes that told you he wasn’t sleeping—and the way he clutched the takeaway coffee up in his hand also told you that his caffeine intake had increased tenfold to keep him awake. “I feel like crap, it should’ve been me on that jet—believe me when I say that if I could trade places with you? I would.” 

You didn’t answer to begin with. Hell you weren’t even going to dignify him with a response like when he walked out of your room without a word three days prior. But as Jake looked at you with puppy dog eyes, he needed to be reminded that yes—yes this shouldn’t have been you. 

“I would let you.” You sighed. Jake wasn’t expecting that. He was sure you wouldn’t say something along the lines of ‘it’s okay, it wasn’t your fault.’ But no. He stood there with a chill so strong creeping up his spine as you laid in that hospital bed awaiting the surgery that would leave you with one less limb, and listened to every word you spoke. 

“I had that thought a lot too, and I didn’t like myself for it—but I did.” It was the honest truth, you’d spent hours upon hours thinking about it. “When I was out there, being crushed by debris, I just kept thinking about my husband and my baby and how you have no wife and no baby.” Jake didn’t speak, hell he was sure he wasn’t even breathing—but he was listening. “You have no one.” 

Jake Seresin wasn’t any easy person to get along with. Phoenix and Rooster had tried to tell you time and time again that under all the toxic male bravado and the cock sure attitude—Jake could be and was, a decent human being. But he’d never given you a reason to believe that he was nothing but an egotistical, arrogant, and selfish man. 

“I only went up there because I was pissed at you for being late.” You could remember it so clearly. How mad you were at Jake for being late to work. How if you didn’t get going you’d be forced to stay late and breastfeeding was already a mission in and of itself as it was. Being so far away from your baby girl meant you were pumping and dumping and freezing what you could. Jake being late was throwing you off your schedule. “So I kept wondering, while I was lying there just waiting for someone to come rescue me, that I was only there because he’s so selfish and so thoughtless.” 

You’d tried to like Hangman, time and time again you’d given him the benefit of the doubt. You’d even set him up with a friend of yours. But all he did was break her heart. Jake knew that you had tried, he’d given you every reason under the sun to hate him though. 

Why? 

Because what was the point in ever being close to you when he could never have you. The ring on your finger reminded him every day of the unattainable. 

“And no matter how hard I tried to make you better, you’re still a horrible person.” It was hard to take on the chin, but Jake took it. He only let the tears in his eyes well long enough to let you know that your words would forever remain with him. No matter where in the world he went or the people he’d eventually meet. He’d remember you, the woman who took his place when it so easily could have been him. “So now, I keep wondering—why this would happen to someone like me, instead of someone like you.” 

“You’re pissed off—I get it, I really do.” Jake finally answered you as he walked over to your bedside. “But I really am sorry for what happened, all of it.” Jake Seresin was a lot of things, but a liar wasn’t one of them. He truly was sorry—and he’d give anything to trade places.

“Yeah—yeah I guess you could say that I’m still pretty pissed off—“ You scoffed in return. Nothing Jake could say could change the past, could change what happened. He was lucky. He was the one who got to live out his life the way he always saw it playing out. The Hangman—always and forever leaving people high and dry. 

“So, with all that being said, Lieutenant Seresin, could you please get out of my fucking room.” 

***~***~***~***~***~***~***

Whumptober Tags 🏷️ @xoxabs88xox @oldermenaremyreligion @slut-f0r-u u @emma-is-cool @armydrcamers @topguncortez @topgun-imagines @kmc1989 @els-marvelvsp @blindedbythelightt

#ailesswhumptober2023 #jake hangman x reader #jake seresin x reader #jake hangman imagine #jake seresin fanfiction #jake hangman seresin x reader #top gun fanfiction

[crazy56u]

Okay, the app is starting to become self aware, I feel…

Addison, cut your losses with Tom.

“Look, I gotta go, Ben needs me, he totally didn’t just black out from too much coffee.”

Plot twist: Herbicore is poisoning the pumpkins, that’s why Steve’s wife has that cough.

I technically called it!

“Look, Connie, I finally figured out what the plot is, this weed eater shit is gonna kill everyone!”

Oh, great, Peacock’s running ads now.[/joke]

“I’m Chet Barlow of Herbicore, asking you to come to Denver. We’re not Detroit.”

…why does your brother look like a sex offender?

Joe doesn’t even know what’s going on, he is drunk as shit.

Why is this two weeks in a row where puns are plot points?

If only ad blockers existed in the 1980s…

“Do you think Chet knows his weed killer is dangerous?” Ben, he’s a CEO in the 1980s. Sucker’s bet.

Ben, if you don’t say a name now, Connie is gonna drop this story.

“He called you on that pay phone, right? Late night when he needs your love?”

“There’s no such thing as a dead end.” I name at least five Looney Tunes cartoons that would disagree.

Oh, goody, an inside job. So, calling it now: Just like in “Roberto!”, that guy is fucking dead now.

Okay, now I feel bad about calling Robbie a sexual predator…

I have a sinking suspicion their boss might be in on this…

“We need to keep this between the two of us. Now, if you know any ghosts, they can get lumped in as well.”

I admire the fact that Robbie didn’t opt to just bail.

“Who says I’m afraid?” “Is it your brother?” “…” “Okay, so you are afraid.”

I love how they are openly having this loud ass conversation in public.

Now, how long until Ben draw the connection between “this is killing farmers” and “Steve’s wife has that cough”.

Oh, goody, Chet is basically Gideon. God fuck, can’t he go away…

“I’ve seen people disappear. Sometimes in bight blue glowing light, they get replaced with other people and they don’t remember shit!”

“Look, we tried, it’s not like the episode isn’t even half over yet.”

And Steve becomes plot important!

“Herbicrop? I love that stuff, I’m swimming in tumors!”

Steve, your wife is fucking hacking up a lung, and you act like they’re spewing bullshit.

“Everything’s gonna be alright.” Episode is half over, there is a shoe yet to drop.

Ben, never do that again.

Davidson is 100% in on it, that was too fucking coincidental.

And it’s gonna be Robbie’s car in 5… 4… 3…

We are now 100% “Roberto!”

Ben, Connie is experiencing PTSD, maybe calm down.

…Connie, I think we both know that’s not what actually happened…

“Rule three: Fuck this job.”

Connie, if you think Ben is gonna stop, you are sadly mistake . [And sound goes off.]

Ian and Tom, stop pretending Magic isn’t gonna be the one to lose their job, just because he was pissed off, it doesn’t mean he’s letting anyone else take the fall under the bus.

And Ian, rightfully, goes the fuck off.

[Sound goes on.] And it’s time to get crunk.

…it only now just hit me that Addison never told Ben that… it been like two fucking episodes!

“What happened?” “What didn’t?”

Ben, unless your unknowingly leapt into the guy that planted that car bomb, stop blaming yourself for shit.

Now, that just sucks for Robbie: him dying is the Canon Event.

…or Robbie just fucking hates cars.

“Hey.” “I thought I fired you.” “I love how you thought that would work.”

“Look, I don’t care if Robbie is still alive, I still fired you.” “We both know I ain’t accepting that, Connie.”

“Look, Connie, I also suffer from being depressed about my actions.”

[Sound goes off.]

“So, is this the end of Quantum Leap?” NBC, YOU ARE IN THIN FUCKING ICE NOW

Tom, even if I already know the punchline, you should be the one to go.

“I wish there was another way.” Tom, you dumb idiot, you basically just gave Magic the go ahead…

[Sound goes on.]

Cut to The Pink Hotel.

“…so, you’re telling me I blew up my car for fucking nothing.”

I love how Robbie was willing to leave the country despite knowing he could’ve ended the episode early.

Look, Robbie, sometimes you gotta “Scorpion and the Frog” this shit.

I also love how the pink lighting is making Robbie look more depressed.

This is now a heist movie.

“What do you mean ‘Leverage the door’?” It means grab a flat thing, and break the door.

I love how the key to saving the day is just breaking shit.

I love how Ski Mask is acting real fucking cool right now, as if Ben isn’t gonna kick his ass.

Ben, I hope to fuck you rolled a Crit Success on Fast Talk.

And now Wyatt fears God.

…and is probably gonna meet him face to face.

Ben just kicked cancer’s ass.

And Connie pulls the Columbo maneuver.

Chet is about to get fucked by a pumpkin.

“It’s you.” “It’s always me.” …annnnnnd now my brain is trying to craft a Quantum Leap/FNAf crossover.

And Ben dips.

[Sound goes off, fuck you Tom.]

“Look, Tom, be honest, we both knew Ben was gonna win out in the end.” “Honestly, same.”

And now, for the most obvious ending of the episode!

“Look, Tom saved our asses, but Gideon wants someone fired. And it can’t be Ian, and I ain’t firing you, and Addison wasn’t even in this subplot, so… … … (leaves)”

And we end with a dedication to Matt Dale. Watch as NBC promptly fumbles the bag, and cancels the show next week…

So, next week’s a two-fer, Magic is quitting, and Gideon is still fucking here!

Happy Valentine’s Day!

#the outsider #spoilers #quantum leap #Roberto! #Columbo #FNAF

[drabbles-of-writing]

Can we get some raeda hc from any au please

I know you said an au but they are on my mind constantly so I'm just giving general hcs that could probably go with a few different aus. Who knows. I care them.

As we have seen, both of them are little bastards. Trickery, the two of them. Raine is sensible enough to know how insane an idea is but goes through with it anyway. They have impulse control but only barely, and Eda is their enabler. It keeps going in circles.

The difference is that Raine is v good at acting innocent and knowing when to cut their losses. They don't piss off teachers unless they know they won't be caught or have a backup to get off scott-free. Eda usually ended up taking the fall for a lot of failed schemes that Raine was involved in. Every single time, Raine offered to come clean bc they knew they'd get a reduced punishment. Every single time, Eda refused. She insisted it was bc they needed to have someone who could bail her out with needed and with a clean track record, and it was maybe half-true.

Eda was always more anti-government than Raine. They both hated Terra and Raine disagreed with the restricted use of magic, hell, they always knew Eda as a wild witch, and she was a loose canon, sure, but not evil. They ended up joining the Bard Coven more out of a desire to not live a life on the run when it was eventually found out they hadn't chosen one. They kind of always knew it was gonna wind up like that, and Eda figured it was going to happen at some point, too. Tried to make a bunch of plans for how their relationship was gonna work when Eda inevitably became an outlaw, including, but not limited too: house with a secret basement, moving outside the cities, changing her name, & fake coven branding. Of course, she never used any of these plans, and scrapped them. Raine didn't know about them until they were clearing out their stuff.

Raine very much wanted Lilith to like them bc she's Eda's sister and Eda rlly liked her. Lilith wasn't jealous of Raine being close with Eda, but she was certainly a little off-kilter about it. Yes, she was spending less time with Eda to study as much as she could, but she was still used to Eda always being there, since nobody else wanted to talk to her. This mostly resulted in young Raine trying to start conversations before chickening out/growing too anxious to continue and Lilith mostly ignoring them before occasionally dropping a question like "did you actually switch schools to see Eda?" and "did you really try to attack a head witch w her?" of which Raine was never sure if they should answer with the honest pride they had or fake sheepishness. It mellowed out after a few years.

They were never exactly friends, but they were nerds, so Raine and Lilith mostly got along. Very awkward after the breakup, but they'd both elected to ignore that whole debacle when it became clear Raine was swiftly climbing ranks and would be seeing Lilith more often. They were neutral up until the huge fight Lilith and Eda had on the bridge, of which anyone who hadn't watched it heard about it twenty times from everyone else. Had Lilith not have fled during the petrification, Raine would have absolutely decked her.

Raine spent so long trying to teach Eda bard magic. Mostly because Eda could never decide what instrument she wanted and kept goofing off and making her own songs up that did not sound even mildly pleasant to the ear. They eventually settled on a mandolin and Raine was wholly dedicated to teaching her how to play. The Rhapsody wasn't the first original song Eda made up that sounded nice, but it was the one she was the most proud of.

Raine did so much research on King and Luz when they were in the clear for supposedly being brain-washed and could move around mildly unsupervised. They took everything with a grain of salt, because all they could really get was news outlets that mentioned the kids, but they did gather that one of them was a human, and the other was a demon that probably hadn't even reached double-digits. Eberwolf and Darius bullied them for being an emotional mess over the whole thing bc Eda has kids and she very clearly loves them and Raine almost let her die with them. Casually avoiding having to think abt almost leaving the BATTs on their own with their little stunt. We have already learned that Raine is not immune to doing the same things Eda did but with a different hue.

Obligatory 'Raine finds Eda's harpy form hot' here. As if anyone who could see thought otherwise. Absolute disaster who swears they're good, they're fine, they can cool it for five seconds. They cannot. But they try.

Also, to add-on; do all the coven heads have those other forms or is it just Darius and Eberwolf? I hope it's all of them. Raine deserves their own transformation form. Dana can you hear me. Apollo if you had any reason to gift me another prophecy-

#asks #the owl house #toh #raine whispers #eda clawthorne #lilith clawthorne #darius #eberwolf #luz noceda #king #raeda #headcanons #bards #WHOA HEY AN ASK FINALLY #anyway this is buildup to a fic im gonna be posting very very soon.

[darkorderaf]

How about another supernatural fic with Malakai Black is old god from the old world. He likes the reader because she has his symbol tattooed on her. Then Hijinks.

Oh, I am THRIVING. I love this idea. Here’s a spookyish small spin on a coffee/tattoo shop AU. Thanks so much for sending this in and thank you for your patience; I hope you like it! <3

Pairing: Malakai Black x OFC. Rating: T. Warnings/Content: Spooky! Maybe fluff if you squint. Word Count: 1825.

Tag List (asked to be added/removed): @alyhull @boutmachines @lghockey @rubyred1980 @simoneinside @sillynilly27

(I don’t own gif; all credit to hangmangang!)

“Hey, how full is your schedule today?”

Slow knocks on her door got her attention and she slipped her headphones around her neck. Her boss looked at her with expectant eyebrows raised as she held up a finger and scrolled through her phone really quick.

“After Kyle canceled on me–that’s twice now, by the way–I have one in about twenty minutes that shouldn’t take too long, then…” She paused to look through the rest of her Google calendars. “I don’t have anyone the rest of the night. What’s up?”

“We have a walk-in,” her boss said as he peered back from where he leaned against the doorway. “Guy seems pretty cool as far as I can tell. I just can’t take him because I gotta go take care of some things at home. It should just be a routine touch-up if you want to stick around later and don’t mind closing up.”

Fucking Kyle bailing on her again left her a little strapped for cash. She worried her bottom lip between her teeth then nodded. It would be a late night for her but she didn’t have anyone to wait up on her like her boss did. She just had a cat and sometimes, she felt the cat could be more self-sufficient than she was at times. Selene would be fine.

“Sure, yeah, that sounds good,” she said. “I don’t mind at all. Does he mind waiting?”

“I don’t,” a new voice cut in. Her boss stepped aside and she was momentarily at a loss for words. He was the most striking man she had ever seen. Head mostly shaved on both sides, dark hair swept back. Dark dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Tattoos on display. A well-trimmed beard. Intense, mismatched eyes that seemed like they observed further than skin deep. “Apologies for cutting into your conversation. I overheard and figured it was appropriate to introduce myself before our session.”

“Oh, right,” she said as she got her shit together and remembered what being professional was. She stood up from her sketch desk and smoothed her skirt down before she crossed over to the doorway, arm extended. Her boss gave them both an awkward smile before he quickly made himself scarce. “Sorry about that, I spaced a little. It’s nice to meet you…”

She paused to give him space to tell her his name but he seemed far more intrigued with her arm. Specifically, the intricate ink that wound around her forearm. Under his scrutiny, she felt naked. Almost flayed.

“Malakai,” he finally said. He took her hand in his but didn’t shake it. “Malakai Black. That is an interesting piece you have.”

“Oh, this one?” She turned their hands to show him the full artwork. “It’s a, um, special one to me. I got it when I went backpacking around Europe. The artist that did it is incredible because I haven’t had to get it touched up in years.”

“Ah, I see. I can tell,” he said. He must have realized that he was intensely staring at her because the corners of his eyes creased with his smile as he let go of her hand. “I didn’t think I would see something like that here. It…reminds me of home.”

“Really? Where’s your home?”

“Yes, very much so,” he said softly, his voice something far off. “Ah, my home is an old place. I’ll tell you about it one day.”

The jingle of the door and a familiar voice broke whatever was happening between their eyes. Right, she had another client before him. He gave her a slight bow of his head before he returned to the waiting room. She made polite conversation with her client but her mind kept drifting to the mysterious man in the waiting room. Once the tattoo was finished and her client was pleased, she stepped out. Night had already started to fall outside the shop.

“Malakai?”

She stripped off her used gloves and tossed them out as he stood up and followed her into her room. After she adjusted her radio, she settled into her chair. He wasn’t shy as he undid his shirt with nimble fingers and folded it to set it aside. Her trained eyes scanned the art that adorned his chest, his arms, his neck. When he turned, she was in awe of the piece that stretched along his back.

“Jesus,” she quietly exclaimed. The work he already had done was borderline intimidating. “Which part did you want touched up?”

Malakai seemed thoughtful as he sat down in her chair and looked at her.

“Actually, I had an idea,” he said and she narrowed her eyes as she waited. He folded his hands in his lap. “I want to tell you about my home and whatever comes to your mind, I would like a piece of it.”

“That’s not–” A full piece would cost more than just a touch up but he did seem like a man bothered by the monetary cost of anything. “You want something done by me?”

“Yes,” he said. He gestured to his side, the untouched skin there, then dropped his hands again. “I trust your judgment.”

“No offense but you only just met me,” she said carefully. Some part of her felt like she should be alarmed. Worried. “Are you sure about this?”

“Sometimes we meet people that we feel we’ve met before. This reminds me of that.”

He took her arm as delicately as he could and traced the horned shape along her forearm with a fingertip. With familiarity. Reverence. Then he let her go.

“Alright, Malakai,” she said after a slow breath. She flipped to a clean page in her sketchbook and grabbed one of her pens. “Tell me about your home.”

—

As he spoke in that smooth voice and painted her a picture, the vision of his home came to her mind’s eyes. A dark place of amber and moss. Creatures so old she couldn’t even name them but she knew what they looked like. A wild place. Untouched by modernity. A dangerous place. Transfixed, she said nothing as she sketched and outlined. Dark horns encircled by vines of ivy, attached to a skeleton face with a serpent in its jaws. Not biting into it but housing it. Protecting it.

“It sounds…terrifying,” she told him honestly. “Beautiful, I mean, but still terrifying.”

“Most things are,” he said. “But you can see the value of both. Many can’t.”

Once the final detail was filled in, she pulled away from the sketch with a quiet gasp. It had come to her so naturally that she hardly had even thought about it, caught in a trance by Malakai’s story. As if she had been there before. She rubbed at her inked arm, a habit of comfort, then met his eyes. He looked at her curiously and she took a moment to speak.

“That…Is this what you had in mind?”

Malakai ran his eyes along the linework then, pleased, nodded at her.

“Yes,” he said. “That is my home. Yours too, I suppose.”

She snorted as she snapped on her gloves and readied a new set of needles. Malakai seemed the spiritual type and she had nothing against that. In a way, she was too. But too many disappointments had left her lost. She had her cat and her job but there was always this feeling that she was missing something. A real home.

“I don’t know about that,” she said as she guided him to lay on his side so she can clean the skin she was about to tattoo. “Are you ready?”

“Are you?”

“You’re a strange man, Malakai,” she said and he made a soft laugh of agreement. “I don’t think I have to remind you about deep breaths.”

The same with the sketch, she slipped into an almost meditative state as she began to tattoo him. Even as she worked along his ribs, Malakai was completely unphased. He watched her and while she might have felt immense pressure under such scrutiny, she didn’t. It was that same look of reverence again and she didn’t know what to make of it.

“You said you felt like you had met me before,” she said as she paused. The tattoo just a breath away from being finished. “What did you mean?”

“When you were in Europe, in the old woods, did you feel alone?”

“No,” she admitted. “I felt…comfortable there. Like I could stay there for the rest of my li–How did you know I was in the woods?”

She pulled her hands away from him and scooted away, that fear response driving her away from him. He took an easy breath as he sat up and smoothed his hair back. The lights flickered sporadically and between the dark and the light, his shadow stretched upwards. A horned crown. Then it was gone and he looked at her again with that curious look.

“Who are you?”

“Someone you have met before,” he said. “I don’t want to frighten you. I was with you in those woods, same as I’m here with you now. Do you understand?”

“What…What are you?”

He chuckled and rubbed at his chin, eyes momentarily shut.

“I could show you,” he said. “But not here. I have a proposition for you.”

“You have a minute before I call the cops.”

He seemed to understand that.

“I know you seek a home, a place to belong. To not feel lost,” he said. “I know of a place but it isn’t here. It’s a home to very few but we are a family. I want you to join me in the House of Black?”

“House of Black? What is that, another studio? I like my j–”

“Don’t play coy, mijn lieverd,” he chided. “You know of the place I’m talking about. You’ve seen it, haven’t you? Walked through it and came out the other side. And now you long for it, don’t you? Do you want to go back?”

“I–”

“Finish this,” he said as he laid back on his side. “Your decision can come after.”

Even though her hands shook, once she restarted on the tattoo, that sense of ease fell over her. The needle in her hand went silent as she finished the last line of ink and he breathed quietly into the studio. She remembered the feel of the grass beneath her feet, the wood beneath her fingertips. The comfort, not the fear, of shadows. She wound her hands together as he sat back up.

“Malakai?”

“Yes?”

“Show me,” she said. “I want to see it again.”

His hand took hers and she looked up at him. Darkness, a pitch dark mist, overtook the room and a sudden fear of choking overtook her. Then his voice was in her ear and she shut her eyes, leaned into his chest.

“Breathe in,” he said. “Do not be afraid. You walk with me. You walk with gods.”

#malakai black fic #malakai black fanfiction #malakai black imagine #aew imagine #aew fanfiction #aew fic #wrestling imagine #wrestling fic

[thornedrose44]

Supercorp prompt-

Lena takes an art class to de-stress and Kara is the nude model. Awkward semi- naked flirting ensues.

(A/N: So, I put my own twist on this (hope that’s okay), I made Lena a teacher just because I liked the idea of Lena having to keep her lack of chill under control and be professional in front of a class funny - though this fic went down just a really light, fluffy route which I hadn’t expected when I started it.)

Read on AO3

It had been going well, the first term had passed with only a few missteps and one trip to the emergency room - though, the Dean had told her that Zach had yet to make it through a single class without some sort of accident and had been preemptively banned from taking Chemistry classes for fear of taking out an entire graduation class. 

Lena had never expected to return to her alma mater as a lecturer but the stars had aligned at just the right time. The youngest Luthor had reached a stage in her career where she had finally proven her adoptive mother wrong about not finding success as an artist and had made enough money that she need never paint another picture in her life again. The lack of necessity and the return to a more Luthor-esque lifestyle - galas, fancy balls and paid talks - had subsequently impacted her inspiration. She needed a change. A return to her roots and some sort of stability without losing her ability to make a personal impact with her work. 

Her mentor - J’onn - was stepping down from the art department and had recommended her as his replacement; National City University had jumped at the chance of the world renowned Lena Luthor taking up a teaching position there. 

She was now a third of the way through the school year, settled comfortably into her new role, and absolutely loving it. Her spark was back, and she was enjoying being in one place surrounded by her old friends. She was reconnecting with skills and techniques she hadn’t touched in years whilst simultaneously giving advice and encouragement to students that reminded her of herself when Lillian had cut her off to force her into attending business school and abandoning her dreams. She was finally able to return the kindness J’onn had given her all those years ago to the next generation of artists. 

It was the second term that Lena experienced her first set of real nerves. 

Lena had an artistic weak spot, an achilles heel that she had been able to keep out of her signature artistic style but she would now be forced to confront. 

Life drawing.

It had been her lowest scoring class by a mile and she had avoided the advanced elective classes like the plague. Lena knew practice made perfect but she’d never had enough interest to develop her skills. Her interest had always lied more in natural landscape beauty - J’onn had said her true inspiration lied with trying to recreate her childhood memories of Ireland: emerald rolling hills, rocky cliffs, dense forests ensconced by a mystical fog that lended her artwork a fantastical element that she was now known for.

The problem lied in Lena’s lack of interest in people. 

She had never really seen the ‘art’ in them.

Kelly, Sam and Andrea had spent hours over evening drinks psycho-analysing just why that might be, their two favourite theories were Lena’s family (the loss of her mother and the general unpleasantness of the Luthors) or Lena’s truly terrible dating history (their favourite topic of conversation due to the sheer number of embarrassing stories it elicited).

Lena refused to acknowledge the accuracy of both theories. 

It was therefore with a sense of dread that Lena prepared for the first Life Model Drawing class that Tuesday afternoon. The one small silver lining was that she didn’t need to arrange a model - she had vague memories of J’onn trying to entice volunteers and grumbling under his breath about some of the less than pleasant eager volunteers. J’onn had a list of regular volunteers that he had accrued over the years that were reliable and just liked to help out - most of them older with an appreciation for the arts and more time on their hands than they knew what to do with. The University admin team had organised everything and simply told her to expect a Kara Danvers at the studio some time before the class.

Lena had finished prepping the studio well in advance, reviewed the relevant techniques for most of the morning and even phoned J’onn for a much needed pep talk over lunch. She had just convinced herself that everything might be okay, that she just might be able to do this, when the most beautiful woman Lena had ever laid eyes on burst into the studio.

A toned body that glinted with a light sheen of sweat barely covered by a white v-neck tucked in at the front of a pair of dark jeans that merely brought all of Lena’s attention to the bronze belt buckle that locked away a thousand dirty thoughts. Glorious golden ringlet curls bounced up and down as the woman stumbled to a sudden stop as the most piercing blue eyes imaginable behind thick glasses locked with Lena’s green ones.

“Hi, I’m Kara!” The goddess announced, swallowing thickly and stumbling forward in her hefty black boots as she extended out a hand for Lena to take.

Lena only reached out due to years of Luthor training that had ingrained politeness into her muscle memory - her brain still not firing on all cylinders at the sight of the woman in front of her. Kara’s warm palm connected with Lena’s, long fingers curling gently yet firmly around the edge of her hand and sending arcs of lightning through Lena’s body and causing her breath to stutter. 

“I hope you haven’t been waiting for me for too long.” Kara continued, a bright apologetic smile lighting up her entire face and grinding whatever gears were still turning Lena’s mind to a dead - permanent - halt. “I try to always get here early to help set-up but the interview I was conducting overran - I’m a journalist, by the way - and then my bike - motorbike that is -” Lena’s mind caught on the motorbike and turned it round over and over and over again, “didn’t start and… I’m rambling. Oh, golly! I mean heck, I mean sorry.” Kara huffed, cheeks filling with air before releasing into an adorable pout. “Sorry.”

It was then that Lena realised two things.

One, it was her turn to say something and there had now been at least ten  prolonged seconds of silence as they stared into each other’s eyes.

And two, they were still holding hands because that’s what it was now, it most definitely could not be considered a handshake.

“Umm… hi…” Lena choked out whilst simultaneously jerking her hand back to her side, hoping the somewhat stifling heat of the studio would hide the red blush perfusing her cheeks.  “Lena. I’m Lena, that is…”

“Hi.” Kara murmured, smiling soft and sweet at her causing Lena’s heart to flip and melt and dance and do a million impossible things all at once.

“Hi.” Lena repeated dumbly - so dumbly.

“I should…” Kara chuckled, hands miming grabbing the edge of her t-shirt and lifting it up, “You know?”

Oh, god the goddess is going to undress, Lena’s brain screamed in gay at herself.

“Yeah, definitely do that.” Lena encouraged with a flap of her hand towards the centre of the studio where a solitary illuminated stool awaited. “Do you need anything? Is the lighting okay? Stool… umm… sturdy?”

Kara grinned at her, blue eyes barely sparing a glance at the studio’s set-up, “Looks perfect.”

“Great.” Lena cheered, jerking her thumb over at her desk in the corner where she had prepped her teaching materials, “I’ll… uh… be over there.”

“And I’ll be right here.” Kara shot back with a cheeky wink as she walked over to the stool, a towel awaiting her to provide suitable covering until the class had settled, shucking her white shirt over her head and revealing back muscles that would star in Lena’s fantasies for the foreseeable future.

“Yep.” Lena popped, taking a deep breath and trying to work out if she should be murmuring a thank you to God or screaming a desperate why me.

***

The class had gone well - except for the long periods where her brain shutdown whenever she studied the play of shadows across Kara’s defined musculature. She managed to cover it quite well by making it seem like she was just assessing her students’ work closely, analysing their line work and shading rather than going through an extended gay crisis that eclipsed seeing boobs for the first time in college.

Kara, on the other hand, was a consummate professional, holding a steady pose throughout and utterly unfazed by the concentrated gazes on her - though, Lena could have sworn that she caught deep blue eyes tracking her movements round the half-circle every now and again. 

“So, you’re experienced doing this?” Lena asked, once the last student had departed and Kara was finishing re-tying her sturdy boots back up.

“Taking my clothes off?” Kara chuckled, shooting the teacher an amused smirk, getting to her feet and strolling easily over to where Lena was examining the product of her class’ efforts. 

Lena faltered, “I meant-”

“I’m just teasing.” Kara reassured, reaching out to squeeze Lena’s forearm in a half-apology that Lena could have sworn burnt Kara’s hand print into her skin, “I’ve done this for a while now. I did an interview with J’onn a few years ago and his model bailed at the last minute and I was here already and…” Kara shrugged casually like stepping in was the obvious thing to do, like kindness was the only option - which Lena didn’t doubt for a second was something Kara genuinely believed. “I like helping out where I can. And I just kept coming back…” Kara explained, clasping her hands behind her back as she took a tentative step closer to Lena, “I was never really sure why until-”

“Hey, babe, you ready to go?” 

Lena’s head snapped round to see Andrea strolling through the doorway, eyes fixed on her phone utterly oblivious to the moment she had just trampled all over. Lena wasn’t sure whether Andrea was naturally such a good cockblock or if she practiced at it - regardless of either option Lena’s sexlife had vanished into thin air since she’d returned to living in the same city as Andrea. (Not that Lena thought that her and Kara were heading that way but Lena had been enjoying the hope of it at least).

“Andrea, you’re early for the first time in.... well, ever…” Lena snarked, rolling her eyes before glancing over to Kara, only to find the blonde had taken a large step away from her and her expression was far more neutral and guarded than it had been only moments before.

“Wait, we weren’t meeting at 4?” Andrea frowned, still not bothering to look up.

“Ah, so you’re not early, you’re over an hour late.” Lena remarked.

“God, you’re such a drama queen…” Andrea sighed, finally lifting her gaze from her phone, her eyes immediately alighting on Kara with undisguised interest. “And who is this?”

“Andrea, this is Kara the model for our life drawing classes.” Lena introduced taking a protective step in front of the blonde, an action that did not go unnoticed by the other two occupants in the room. “Kara, this is my supposed best friend who is regularly trying to lose that title.”

“Oh, best friend?” Kara repeated; the familiar brightness from before returning to her expression as she looked excitedly between the two friends.

“Yes.” Lena answered, smiling shyly at Kara and immediately forgetting Andrea’s existence, let alone presence in the room.

“That’s great.” Kara grinned, blushing a light pink a second later as her hands fidgeted with her keys, “I mean… ummm…. That you have a best friend. My sister is my best friend, though I have other friends. I just mean that… friends are cool.” 

Lena laughed lightly at Kara’s ramble, leaning closer towards the blonde without realising until Andrea appeared at her shoulder looking far too pleased with herself.

“Kara,” Andrea greeted, holding out a hand for the blonde to shake (Lena was comforted to see their handshake was quick, almost professional in comparison to the lingering touch Kara and Lena had shared earlier). “The pleasure is all mine.” Andrea declared, winking surreptitiously at the teacher - Lena instantly dreaded the upcoming girl’s night.

“Nice to meet you.” Kara replied friendly and sincere, before smiling softly at Lena and muttering a hopeful, “I’ll see you next week?” 

“I’ll be here.” Lena reassured, watching as Kara nodded farewell to Andrea and departed, waving on her way out.

“Well…” Andrea murmured mischievously.

“Don’t.” Lena said sharply, holding up a finger to deter whatever torment Andrea had brewing. “Not a word. Not a single word.”

“Ooookay.” Andrea lied.

***

“You okay?” Lena asked tentatively, watching as Kara sluggishly slung her bag over her shoulder the pep to her step nowhere near as present as it had been last week. 

They hadn’t had a chance to talk before the class even though Kara arrived much earlier to help set-up - Lena had been helping a student struggling with deadlines and a sudden crisis of confidence which prevented them from interacting. Despite being occupied, Lena had seen the fatigue weighing heavily on the reporter, saw how her impeccable posture dropped and how her students added weary lines to her expression in their artwork. 

“I think you fell asleep on that stool for ten minutes at some point.” Lena murmured, brow creasing in concern.

“Pfft… what?” Kara reassured with a light-hearted wave of her hand. “Impossible.”

Lena arched an unimpressed eyebrow, “You snore. Quite loudly.”

“Oh…” Kara pouted guiltily, rubbing at the back of her neck, “My sister is going through a rough patch and I stayed up late with her last night.”

Lena’s amusement drained away to be replaced with soft, supportive care, “Is she okay?”

“Yeah, she’s doing better.” Kara replied, blue eyes twinkling at Lena’s inquiry that had them both ducking their heads coyly and sharing furtive glances. “I should get going.” Kara coughed out, though she made no move to leave.

“Or…” Lena began hesitantly, heart fluttering in her chest, “we could go for coffee? You should probably have a coffee before driving,” Lena rationalised, nervously stepping back from the blatant romantic line she was toeing, “you know for safety…”

“For safety.” Kara repeated carefully, blue eyes glowing with warmth, “That sounds wonderful.”

***

It didn’t take them long at all to settle into a comfortable routine.

Kara came early to the life model classes, helping set-up the room as they talked about the students' progress and what Lena was going to make the focus of the class. During the class itself, Lena no longer needed to flit as regularly between her students, they had learned the basic techniques enough to practise for themselves, now only requiring light guidance which allowed Lena time to either do some marking or her own art. Kara posed perfectly throughout, though Lena was becoming more and more aware of Kara’s still gaze on her as the weeks passed by. 

After class, it was now custom for them to grab a coffee and go for a long walk around the university campus as they talked about everything and nothing. They would have been building towards a strong friendship if it wasn’t for the lingering touches, blatant flirts, blushes and wandering gazes. 

Lena wasn’t overly sure why they hadn’t crossed that line, made that final move, but she found she didn’t particularly mind the wait. She was convinced that they had both decided that the journey was making the destination all the more desirable.

It became abundantly apparent, though, that Kara thought differently if their conversation after the class midway through the term was anything to go by.

“So do you not like my body?” Kara asked, quick and fearful, eyes looking down at the sketch Lena had done during class of a vase of flowers in the corner rather than of the readily available model.

“What?” Lena muttered in disbelief looking up sharply from her desk to see Kara paling considerably having clearly not intended to ask the question that she had blurted out.

“I… uh…” Kara squeaked, mouth opening and closing rapidly, before lifting her bare wrist up with a jerky motion and whistling in exaggerated surprise, “Wow, look at the time. I’m late for… uh… this thing. Work thing. Interview! That’s a work thing.”

And just like that she was gone - Lena wouldn’t have been surprised if there was a Kara shaped hole in the studio wall with how fast she disappeared - leaving Lena with a sinking, twisty feeling in the pit of her stomach that told her she might have lost more than her regular coffee with Kara over that one interaction.

***

Lena had Kara’s phone number and they had taken to texting throughout the day; however, since Kara’s panicked question - which probably revealed some deep vulnerability in the blonde - there had been complete and total radio silence. No memes, no cute animal pics, no sweet check ins… Lena’s phone remained silent when it once vibrated with life. 

Lena wanted to text or call Kara the second she had left the studio but Lena didn’t feel like this was a conversation they could have over text, so she waited impatiently for them to be face to face again, counting down the days until the next class. 

Lena even took to repeatedly checking in with the admin office to confirm that Kara hadn’t pulled out of modelling; reaching the stage where Jess, the most senior admin in the team, had taken to emailing her every couple of hours to reassure her that Kara still hadn’t cancelled. 

When Kara appeared, nervously stepping into the art room, fingers playing with the hem of her shirt, it was like Lena could finally breathe easy again. The fear and loss eeking away in an instant, giving Lena the necessary courage to stride forward and bare herself in a way that Kara had been doing every week without Lena fully realising.  

“I don’t like drawing people.” Lena announced, shoving her hands into her pockets to resist the temptation to reach out to the other woman as the blonde blinked at her in surprise, listening intently. “It’s kind of a thing with me.” Lena winced, pushing down all the reasons for why that is. “When I draw something I… kind of let whatever it is into me, let it consume me and it… stays with me for a long time after that. It’s why I draw what I draw. I draw my home because it's a part of me already. Drawing someone means carrying them with me and… that’s scary for me.” Lena breathed, glancing at the blonde to see soft understanding in blue eyes. “I just wanted you to know it’s not you.”

Kara nodded, shuffling closer and dipping her head so that she could whisper into the still space between them, “Thank you.” 

“Right,” Lena murmured, swallowing thickly before jerking a thumb over her shoulder, “I should-”

“Do you want to get dinner?” Kara inquired earnestly causing Lena to freeze in hopeful surprise. “After class, that is?”

“Um… Yes.” Lena replied, nodding her head eagerly.

“Awesome.” Kara grinned brightly.

***

Kara took her to a tucked away italian restaurant that was one of National City’s hidden gems. The food was outstanding and the company was even better.

It wasn’t a date, but it wasn’t just friends going out for dinner either. 

Lena would call it a test-run but that would imply that Lena wasn't already one hundred percent certain that she wanted an actual date with Kara. It was more of a date-appetiser if Lena was going to call it anything, a taste to build interest before the real thing. 

Once they had finished their food, Kara didn’t hesitate to interlace their fingers as they went for an evening stroll around a nearby park, both wishing to prolong their time together.

“Can I see your art?” Kara requested; they had been sitting on a bench in front of a lit-up fountain for the last twenty minutes or so in comfortable silence. Lena had expressed an interest in sketching the fountain and Kara hadn’t hesitated to find them a seat and encourage Lena’s desire without complaint, occupying herself with people-watching in the meantime. 

“I’m pretty sure the images are all over the internet.” Lena replied drolly.

“Yeah, I know it’s just…” Lena’s pencil froze in it’s movements finally noticing how hard Kara was trying to act casual, “what you said about it being a part of you, I thought-”

“You want me to show it to you…” Lena inferred, setting her pencil down and closing her handy sketchbook in an instant. 

“It’s stupid, I’ll-” Kara laughed awkwardly, shaking her head in an attempt to brush over the request like it wasn’t a big deal

“I don’t have many pieces here in National City,” Lena said thoughtfully, getting to her feet and holding out a hand for Kara, “but I have some works in progress that I can show you… if you want that is?”  

“I would love that.” Kara beamed, jumping to her feet as Lena tugged her back towards her campus studio, already picking out her favourite pieces in her mind that she wanted to share with the blonde.

***

Lena and Kara’s ‘friendship’ continued to blossom into something neither could have anticipated that day Kara sprinted into the studio all those weeks ago. The weekly class they shared was now always followed by dinner, taking it in turns to share their favourite cuisines and restaurants. They had also grown beyond only seeing each other on their allotted class day, sharing lunches and movie nights and spontaneous coffees as they learned each other's schedule and needs. 

Lena read all of Kara’s articles and spent many an evening asking countless questions about the background to each of them. Likewise, Kara would appear for coffee with one of Lena’s artworks saved in her phone, burning with curiosity about what had inspired it.

Time spent with Kara flew by and, before Lena knew it, it was the final class prior to spring break. Her last class with Kara until the next school year and Lena was finally ready.

She had finally figured it out.

Why she had waited.

Why she had yet to seize the numerous opportunities to transition her relationship with Kara into a romantic one.

It was because she knew. 

She knew from the second that she had taken Kara’s hand in hers when they first met that this was it. That Kara was it.

And that was, and still is, terrifying. 

When they had first met, Lena hadn’t been ready for Kara. Hadn’t been ready for everything that Kara represented and would come to mean. She had needed the time, the time to lower her guard, to trust and hope. 

And now, she was ready and she knew exactly how to let Kara know.

The class came to an end with Lena giving her students a quick speech on how proud of their progress she was and wishing them a good spring break. Kara lingered behind as was now custom, helping Lena tidy up the area before they headed out together.  

“Kara?” Lena called out nervously, sweaty palms rubbing against her black denim covered thighs as her heart beat thunderously in her chest. “I was wondering…” Lena began, clearing her throat as Kara stopped what she was doing to give Lena her undivided attention. “Can I… can I draw you?”

Kara’s brow instantly furrowed in confusion, “I thought-”

“Yeah…” Lena laughed shyly, staring into deep blue eyes, practically begging for Kara to understand what she was really saying. “Can I?” Lena repeated.

Kara pursed her lips thoughtfully as she studied Lena’s expression - it was then Lena realised that Kara understood exactly why they had been waiting. Kara wasn’t replying because she wanted to check that Lena was sure, was giving Lena a chance to delay, was saying - without really saying it - that she could wait longer.

Lena didn’t take the escape Kara offered, instead she lifted her head higher and arched an eyebrow at the blonde.

A thousand-watt smile of excitement took up residence on Kara’s face as she nodded eagerly, “Of course.” 

“Clothes on.” Lena clarified - she had promised herself that the first time she truly studied Kara’s body it would be in a setting where touching would not break any professional standards. 

***

Lena had Kara sit opposite her in her private studio, their knees pressed tightly against one another providing a warm point of contact to keep them grounded. Lena’s gaze flickered from her sketchpad to Kara’s features; occasionally, she would reach out to adjust a lock of golden hair so it caught the light. Kara, meanwhile, had an ever constant soft smile that didn’t diminish for the entirety of the session even as she was forced to rein in her boundless curiosity to stop herself from sneaking a peek at Lena’s sketch until it was ready to be revealed.

Lena only drew Kara’s head because, though, she had spent countless hours in the presence of Kara’s naked body over the course of the last few weeks - when Lena thought of Kara (really thought about her in the way that made her heart skip), it wasn’t her abs or her biceps that Lena pictured (though she did think about them regularly when she was in her bed alone at night). 

It was Kara’s eyes that Lena thought about most. 

How they were so bright and hopeful whilst simultaneously melancholic and lost.

There were whole galaxies in those blue eyes and Lena knew that she could spend the rest of her life drawing them and never get bored, nor get them exactly right.

“What do you think?” Lena asked, slowly turning her sketchbook round for Kara to see.

It wasn’t finished. It was mere line work that would require further detailing but it was a good start and she hoped Kara could see its potential like she did with everything else in the world - like she did with Lena.

“It’s…” Kara began, licking her lips as she pulled the sketchbook closer to her chest like it was something treasured and infinitely rare. “It's incredible.” Kara breathed, the sincerity of her words undeniable due to how they were accompanied by a watery film to her blue eyes.

“I like your body.” Lena whispered, shattering the companionable silence they had drifted into as Kara admired Lena’s artistry.

“W-w-what?” Kara stammered, head jerking up at the out-of-the-blue declaration.

Lena reached out for the sketchbook, lifting it out of Kara’s hand and placing it on the nearby table so that she could take Kara’s hands in hers. 

“You asked if I liked your body a while ago,” Lena reminded the blonde, “and I just thought you should know that I do. I really, really do. I mean really.” Lena emphasised, glancing appreciatively down at Kara’s body prompting the blonde to blush a pleased pink. “But it's more than just that. It’s become more than that. Talking after class, getting coffee, going for dinner… it's the best part of my week. You’re the best part of my week.”

“Lena-” Kara began, her mouth suddenly snapping shut as her jaw clenched and her chin lifted in determination. Blue eyes studied Lena for a long moment and all Lena could do was hold her breath and wait. 

Lena made Kara wait weeks, she could therefore wait the stretched seconds that Kara needed in return without complaint

Kara got confidently to her feet, tugging Lena up with her, squeezing their hands once before releasing her so that she could reach up to tenderly cup Lena’s face. “I’m going to kiss you now.” Kara declared, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Thank fu-” Lena sighed gratefully, cut off from offering up her thanks by Kara’s perfect lips sliding over hers.

#supercorp #supercorp fic #supercorp prompt

[carry-the-sky]

Kastle + 2 for the touch writing prompts 💕

based on the prompt: a touch with relief

also on ao3

shout out to @onebatch2batch and @ninzied 💕

.

She’s late.

Frank’s eyes dart to his phone. Screen’s dark, same as it was when he glanced at it a minute ago. No missed calls, no texts. He swigs his coffee, more to swallow down the muted panic in his throat than anything else.

“Fresh cup for your friend, honey?”

Frank looks up. The waitress—Jo, her name tag reads—is nodding at the mug of coffee he ordered for Karen when he got here.

His eyes linger on it a moment before he shakes his head. “I’m good, ma’am. She’s, uh—she’s on her way.”

Frank must look as keyed-up as he feels, because Jo offers him a gentle smile. “You got it,” she says. “Just holler when she gets here, okay?”

Then she’s walking off. Probably assumes he got stood up by a date, and hell—he almost wishes that’s what this was. At least he could shrug that off, carry on with his day instead of sitting across from an empty booth, chest slowly going tight with dread.

Frank pushes back from the table, forces himself to breathe. Maybe something came up at work—a deadline got pushed up or a source backed out last-minute and Ellison’s got her holed up at the office doing damage control—

His hand twitches for his phone. They’ve been meeting for lunch pretty regularly for the past month or so, but Karen always shoots him a text the day before to confirm. He scans her last message in their thread—Tomorrow still good? Same place as last week?—and something in his chest twinges. Maybe it’s an occupational hazard, or maybe it’s just her way of making sure he won’t bail—either way, Frank can’t blame her. He’s far from atoning for the way he left things that day at the hospital. It’s a small miracle she let him back into her life at all.

Frank’s eyes flick to the time at the top of the screen. It’s going on twenty past the hour. Hell with it—maybe he’s being paranoid, but his gut says something’s off. He hits the call button next to her name.

It goes straight to voicemail.

His pulse stutters. It doesn’t mean anything, it doesn’t mean—

He tries her again.

Hi, you’ve reached Karen Page. Please leave your name and number and I’ll get back—

Shit. Frank swipes over to his contacts, scrolls until he finds the number for the Bulletin’s front desk.

“New York Bulletin,” a cheerful voice answers on the second ring. “How may I direct your call?”

“Is Karen Page in?” he asks, straining to keep his voice steady.

He knows what the answer will be, but it still lands like a gut-punch when the receptionist tells him that Ms. Page is currently out of the office. His hand is shaking when he hangs up.

Jo is making the rounds again, and Frank doesn’t miss the sympathetic glance she shoots in his direction. He takes a deep breath through his nose, slow and steady to counter the hammer of his heart. He needs to focus, think.

Hanging around her office is a non-starter—he’s let his beard grow out, but his face has been plastered across the front page enough times that the damn receptionist would probably recognize him now. He could try Karen’s place on the off chance she ran home—

Frank’s fingers twitch against his phone. He should get up, move, do something other than sit here with this familiar tension cranking up his sternum. One thought spins on a turntable in his head—something’s wrong. Something’s wrong. He let his guard down, let himself breathe for one goddamn second, and now—if something happened to her—

The world narrows, tilts like a kaleidoscope. He needs air.

He’s dimly aware of standing, tossing a few bills on the table before he’s out the door. The street is thick with noise—people laying on their horns, distant sirens, someone shouting. He focuses on each individual sound, anchors his breath to the steady thrum of the city around him.

He’s not sure how long he stands there—a few minutes, maybe. Long enough for his vision to stop swimming, for the pounding in his ears to subside. Long enough to register his phone, buzzing in his hand.

Her number’s flashing across the screen.

Frank fumbles to answer, almost dropping his phone in the process. “Karen, hey—”

“Frank,” she replies, and relief floods his veins at the sound of her voice. “I’m so sorry—my phone decided to automatically update right as I was leaving for lunch, and then when you didn’t show—I was getting worried.”

He frowns, trying to process her words. “Where—where are you?”

“Sal’s. Why, didn’t you—” she pauses. “Wait, did you go to Cinco’s?”

Frank turns her text from last night over in his head. Same place as last week. They definitely grabbed lunch at Cinco’s—he’d ordered extra steak fries with his burger, just to let her swipe a few from his plate—but, shit, that’s right—they’d swung by a new place afterwards for dessert, some local café that had just opened.

We should try this place for lunch sometime, Karen had said in between bites of her raspberry scone. Frank remembers the dusting of sugar across her upper lip, remembers the small heart attack it gave him when she’d licked it clean.

“Think there might’ve been a misunderstanding,” he tells her now, cheeks warm. Karen just laughs in response as it all clicks together, and Frank lets the sound wash over him, the warmth of it dissolving the tension in his chest. She’s laughing. She’s okay.

“Lesson learned,” she says. “Be more specific. And make sure the phone isn’t going to update.”

“Wouldn’t be a problem if you had one like mine.”

“Not a chance. There’s old-fashioned, and then there’s prehistoric.” There’s a beat of silence, and he knows she’s smiling on the other end of the line. “Listen, I have to head back early today, but are you free for lunch tomorrow? I owe you some fries from Cinco’s, at the very least.”

“Works for me,” Frank says. “Sure you don’t wanna write that down, just to be safe? That’s C-I-N—”

“Shut up, Frank.”

It’s his turn to grin. “Tomorrow, then.”

“Tomorrow,” she echoes.

He stays on the line until she hangs up, weightless with relief even as his blood still hums with adrenaline. It was just a miscommunication—but when his eyes squeeze shut, he’s right back in that hotel watching Lewis drag her into the elevator, praying to whoever the fuck was listening that she’d still be breathing when he got to her.

He knew, even then, what it would mean to lose her. Lose her without her ever knowing—

Make it mean something.

About damn time he did.

.

Karen’s waiting for him when he gets there the next day, sitting in the same booth he was. Her eyes snap to him as he pushes through the front door, and then she’s standing, and somehow before he’s fully aware it’s happening, he’s pulling her close, burying his face in the slope of her neck, breathing her in.

She’s warm. Her arms cinch around his shoulders, drawing him in even closer, and he smells something floral, soft and clean when her hair brushes his cheek. They stay like that a moment, holding onto each other—then she gently pulls back, and the loss of contact aches like a bruise. As he slides into the booth across from her, it’s all he can do to keep from reaching for her again.

Jo comes by with coffee, gives Frank a wink that could be seen from outer space as she slides Karen a mug. When he ducks a glance at Karen, she’s pressing her lips together like she’s trying not to smile.

“How long were you sitting here yesterday?” she asks.

Frank grips his own mug tightly to keep his fingers from shaking. “Not long. Felt like—longer than it was.”

He tries to keep his voice light, but he never did have a very good poker face. And they don’t do that. They don’t lie to each other.

When he looks again, Karen’s face has softened. She reaches across the table, rests a hand against his forearm. “Frank—”

He recognizes her tone of voice, knows she’s about to apologize for something that’s not her fault. After all his bullshit, everything he’s put her through—she’s still the one telling him she’s sorry. She’s still all heart. The ache in his chest digs its roots in, blooms until he can hardly breathe.

“Hey.” He tilts his head to catch her gaze, holds it. “I’m good. Yeah? Might chuck your phone in the Hudson first chance I get, but—”

He’s hoping the jab will pull a smile from her, and it almost does. Her mouth crinkles at the corners. “Still,” she says. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”

He just looks at her—eyes bright and blue and open, and shit, he’s gonna kick himself for the rest of his life for taking his sweet time telling her exactly what she means to him. He slowly turns his arm until his hand grazes her wrist, her palm, and then he’s threading his fingers through hers.

“I’m always gonna worry, Karen. I know you can handle yourself, that’s not what—” he cuts off as she gives his hand a gentle squeeze, swallows thickly before saying— “You’re the most important person in my life. You’re everything. I’m never gonna not worry.”

Now she’s smiling, mouth curved like a moon as she looks down at his hand in hers. “You mean that, Frank?”

“I’m sorry it took me so long to get off my ass about it, but—this thing, Karen, you and me—if you’re in, I’m in. I’m all in.”

He’s not sure it’s happening until it’s happening—one second Karen’s leaning across the booth, the next her lips are on his.

He barely has time to process the softness of her mouth, the warmth of her hand cupping his jaw, before she’s sitting back, looking as stunned as he feels.

“I take it back,” he says, a little hoarse. “What I said about your phone. Damn thing should update every day.”

Karen just laughs, and they both lean in again.

#kastle #kastle ff #kastlenetwork #kastle fic #my fic

[phoenixyfriend]

Re; Ahsoka and Quinlan being the same age, now I'm picturing Ahsoka, Quinlan, and Rex eventually ending up in a weird sorta thruple where Quinlan comes in and out of the relationship but the door is kinda always open for him? And Rex spends a lot of mornings eyeing the tangle of orange and brown skin on the other side of the bed like he has no idea how he ended up here but he's (mostly) okay with that tbh

Context: Commander Buir in chronological order

YES okay so this is wild to me that people are invested in this but like half the time-travel fics with Ahsoka in the same age-group as Quinlan have me wondering if I should ship them. Let me just. Ho shit.

So, okay, I've explored a lot of possible dynamics but there's something really engaging about how Quinlan, trained as a Shadow before the Sith came back, could react to a War Padawan. Ahsoka isn't really infiltration material yet, she's very much a frontline fighter, but she's got a lot more experience with a kind of consistent dark atmosphere that most Jedi don't. They get exposed to plenty of dark stuff, sure, but not the kind of all-encompassing "this is my life for the last two years" thing that is usually reserved for the long-term field agents like Shadows and Watchmen.

The War Padawans, for all that they were supposed to be just normal Jedi Padawans, were living in the kind of consistently negative environment that's normally experienced by those Knighted Sentinels.

So Ahsoka, while still generally pretty young in these AUs, is a very odd kind of person to be around, because she's spunky and vivacious and snippy and affectionate and snarky and knows how to break every bone in your body from harrowing experience as the only thing standing between death and thousands of brothers.

And Quinlan, I imagine, really likes that about her. She gets it, and she's still an energetic and loving and trying to do her best to be a good person despite everything. He gravitates towards her and she... well, she's not blind. She can tell he's interested. And she's not upset about that.

ANYWAY, ONTO REX

So, Rex is... technically twelve. He hasn't exactly got a whole lot of experience with romance. He is also, up until the point of time-travel, legal property of the Senate and the Jedi Order, which means that Ahsoka, or at least her community, owns him. He was indoctrinated to serve her and that community. She also outranks him, for all that she usually lets him take the lead in the field due to experience. He's older than her physically and maturity-wise, but she's also had a grow-up-faster-than-you-should adolescence, and she has superpowers.

What I'm saying is, the power dynamic is fucked up.

(Unironically I spent hours last night realizing that it balances out a lot more than C*dywan does, which I'm censoring because by god do I not want discourse on this post. I like both ships, and don't want to argue about what's the most problematic. It's Star Wars. The only unproblematic ships are Bail/Breha and Owen/Beru.)

Here's the thing, though, because the main thing people seem to argue here is the age/maturity difference as a problem area:

The age difference in actual time is four years, which is smaller than the two main ships of the franchise (Han/Leia and Padme/Anakin, to be clear). The age difference in maturity is ??? We'll say that the clones started aging normally after they hit twenty, so the age difference in maturity is six years... which is still normal for SW ships.

(This is why I don't have any issues with the ship in a post-O66 context, once they've had a few years to move past the traumas and whatnot. The age stuff all evens out with time, they're a good team, and neither was grooming the other. It's not objectively any more problematic than most SW ships at that point, and I'm okay with that. They deserve to be happy if they want.)

But they get yanked away from all that structure of who owns what, who reports where, who has which rank, who's legally a person in the eyes of the Republic when they end up on Dagobah. Once they've registered when they are, the only remaining complications are:

He grew up in a cultlike environment and was indoctrinated to serve her (but has been replacing that indoctrination with genuine respect and affection for her as a person because they've worked together for two years).

She has superpowers (contextually not a big problem: we see several Force-Sensitive/Non-Sensitive ships that don't consider those powers a complicating element)

He's several years younger than her (canonically less of an issue than it could be: Cut got married and has kids) and has next to no experience with what a normal romance looks like except for hanging out on the edges of whatever the fuck his General has going on with the Senator

She's several years less mature than he is (...something of an issue)

So a lot of this is mostly okay. She feels weird about the fact that she's got more knowledge of romance and all that it entails. He feels weird about the fact that, despite her being older, he looks at her and sees someone that's still a little young, not quite a shiny. Except she is older than him, and he's seen her behead four people in a single move, and they've saved each other's lives more times than either of them can count anymore. He respects her, and the fact that she's babyfaced doesn't change the fact that, in terms of who they are as people and warriors, they're on a level playing field.

She still looks at him and mourns his lost childhood, and he still looks at her and takes a moment to see past the too-big eyes and adolescent proportions.

But they really, really care about each other, and maybe part of them is starting to recognize that there's a bit of a crush before they time-travel, but neither one wants to make a move. There's a lot of baggage on both sides, a lot of "but they're a child" and "but they're (literally vs functionally) below me in the chain of command, I can't take advantage of that" and all that fun stuff. It's the kind of situation where two people circle each other for ages without making a move, because actually making that move is terrifying on account of not knowing whether the other party knows they can say no, on top of the usual "what if it ruins our friendship?" thing.

What happens on Dagobah, though... is very tropey. They're sort of stranded until Ahsoka can fix the ship, and that takes time. The area is also very heavy with the Force, dense and heady with the energy it carries, and it's... actually really not great for Ahsoka. She keeps feeling like she's back on Mortis, and has nightmares from the trigger there, but also keeps hallucinating because she wasn't ready for the thickness of the energy (like Yoda) or still new enough to the Force that she couldn't feel how dense it all was (like Luke). She can't work on the engines as constantly as she'd like to get them out of there, and while Rex is a competent mechanic, he's not as skilled with it as the girl who jumped headfirst into lessons with Anakin.

Rex spends a lot of time holding Ahsoka and wiping her brow with a wet cloth while she's feverish and out of it. Yes we're going full Florence Nightingale romance here, let me have my fun.

They get the communications relay working earlier than the engine, find out the year is wrong, panic a bit. All is well. (It's not, but they're holding it together for now.)

Ahsoka keeps working on the engine when she's lucid. Rex keeps hunting up game and edible plants for them while she does. They cuddle at night, because it's not cold but it is empty of the people they care about, and they kind of want that reassurance of someone they trust and love at their back.

(Morai visits.)

(Daughter shows up in the nightmares, tells Ahsoka that age will not come for her beloved until the time is natural for it. The phrasing is dumb but she does manage to convey that the accelerated aging is no longer an issue, if it even was after they hit adulthood. Ahsoka is relieved.)

And, you know, emotions happen. She takes his hand while they're leaning up against each other. He kisses her forehead while she's having a bad spell. They cook together and tell jokes to keep sane and spar. They hug each other through nightmares and panic attacks. There is much blushing. There is much cuddling.

Once, they kiss.

They break apart, flushing and stammering and being very awkward about the whole thing, and make excuses to leave and panic about the fact that they!! Kissed!!!!!

A couple hours later they find each other again, and have a long and complicated discussion about why they like each other (war makes bedfellows, there's trust and affection and all that fun stuff) and why they're hesitant (age stuff, maturity stuff, prior indoctrination), and make the decision to take it slow. They cuddle, and kiss, and blush a lot because both of them are basically just dumb teens having their first real relationship.

They eventually leave the planet, make it to Coruscant, etc. It takes a bit for anyone except Obi-Wan to realize that something's changed between them. Most people didn't know them before, and Anakin's observation skills are currently at a very low ebb. But they sit together and hold hands, and flirt when they spar, and once or twice people find them kissing (both standard and Keldabe) in a corner while holding hands and then just smiling at each other like loons.

They end up rooming together because nobody has the heart to separate them after hearing about all the war stuff. Like yes attachment's bad, but these two do seem to understand loss of loved ones and recognize that they could lose each other at any time and death is natural and they won't lose their entire shit about it, and if even General Kenobi is anxious as hell about being separated from the people he fought side-by-side with for two years, then maybe it's just... really normal for those two to want each other's company, and everyone can just turn a blind eye to the romance happening.

They share a bed, but they only ever sleep in it. Like, there's some goodnight kisses and cuddles, but everything is very G-rated until they've had time to settle into being true equals instead of just the "well, I guess the power dynamics balance out? Maybe?" of before.

And just... yeah. Rex does not believe that he's in this good of a position whenever he has the time to think about it. He's got a girlfriend! A really pretty, smart, strong, skilled one! Who thinks he's a cool dude! How the fuck did a clone like him manage that? He wasn't even legally a person a year ago, how did he end up in bed with one of the most amazing people he's ever met? He spends multiple nights just staring at her while he tries to fall asleep, asking himself how he got here and just like... marveling at her. She's worth marveling at. He's in love and she's amazing and he has no idea how to handle it at all.

...yeah no I have a lot of feelings now.

#Rexsoka #Ahsoka Tano #Captain Rex #Quinlan Vos #time travel #Commander Buir #Phoenix Posts

[tennessoui]

i really am just so excited for part two of the roadtrip au and knowing it might be from obi-wan's perspective??? seeing obi-wan fawn over anakin while anakin dotes on him?? i'm losing my mind.

hey!!! bless!!!! i know i said it would be part 1, part 2, part 3, but i started writing part 2 and it's like already 2.2k long and they're just in Pennsylvania so i think we should all start thinking of this story as part 1 (finished, posted), ARC 2 (very long, is in segments, depending on what people wanna see and what road trip shenanigans i can think up), and part 3 (tbd)

anyway here's the 2.2k (squick: a/b/o, mpreg)

“Uh, sir? Are you...alright?”

That’s the gas station attendant. Obi-Wan barely resists the urge to thunk his head on the side of the bathroom stall. The only thing stopping him is how absolutely unsanitary it would be, and he already feels dirty enough. He pulls a few more squares of toilet paper from the dispenser and wipes at his mouth.

Of all the pregnancy symptoms he hates, he thinks morning sickness is the one he hates the most. And it’s the one that seems to be, for some reason, sticking around the longest.

He’d never even known how much of a misnomer morning sickness is, but it’s not like it’s only happening in the morning. He’ll feel nauseous halfway through the day, mid-afternoon, early evening.

His doctor and close friend at the hospital, Bant, had assured him this was normal and nothing to worry about. But it’s hard not to worry about it, especially when he lives with an Alpha who worries about everything.

“Just fine, thank you,” Obi-Wan says politely as he flushes the toilet and leaves before he can watch his breakfast spiral down and disappear. That’ll only make him feel even more sick.

The girl wrings her hands as she watches him wash his, and he has to take pity on her. She can’t be older than eighteen. “Morning sickness,” he tells her, placing a hand on the virtually unnoticeable swell of his belly.

“Oh!” she says. Obi-Wan fights the urge to grimace when he sees her eyes dart down to his unmarked neck. He knows how it looks. He knows how it sounds. “Sorry, sir, I didn’t mean to--”

“It’s quite alright,” he says. It’s not, but it is. Obi-Wan doesn’t want to have this conversation, doesn’t want to talk to this girl anymore. They’re passing through a small town in central Pennsylvania. He’s a pregnant, unmated, thirty-eight year old male omega. A rarity. A talking point. He doesn’t want to talk to her, he wants--

There’s a loud knock on the door to the bathroom. “Obi-Wan? Are you alright? Is there someone in there with you? I thought I heard voices. Obi-Wan? I’m coming in, Obi-Wan.”

Anakin.

Obi-Wan gets halfway through drying his hands before Anakin’s there, crowding him against the sink and nosing at his face and neck.

“Sir, this is a bathroom for omegas only!” the gas station attendant protests, but Anakin growls at her.

As much as the pregnancy has made Obi-Wan lose parts of himself to his Omegan side, it’s been ten times worse for Anakin for some reason. As far as Alphas go, Anakin’s always been a thoughtful, respectful one. Quick to anger, perhaps, but never violent or suspicious.

Now it’s like everyone in the world has done something to personally offend Anakin. Everyone but Obi-Wan.

If he didn’t feel such a burning, unignorable need to get to Seattle, Obi-Wan would have called the whole trip off weeks ago.

But he couldn’t then and he definitely can’t now, not when they’ve both taken the time off of work and Obi-Wan’s let his doctor know he’ll be out of the state and they’re already in Pennsylvania.

He’ll just let Anakin do whatever he needs to do to feel alright with taking a pregnant, unmated omega across the country. It’s not as if it’s a hardship to put up with all the scentings and hugs and looming and protectiveness.

Quite the opposite, actually.

Which just makes Obi-Wan feel even more guilty, the way he’s using Anakin like this. His dearest, closest friend, who is helping him in such an amazing way, and every time he touches him, it’s all Obi-Wan can do to not arch up into the touch.

He wishes he could blame it on the pregnancy hormones, the way his instincts are going haywire to keep an alpha--any alpha--close. But it’s not. It’s Anakin. It’s the fact that Obi-Wan is hopelessly, irreversibly in love with the alpha.

The touches and the scenting don’t mean what he wants them to. It doesn’t mean anything, the way Anakin pushes his shirts and sweaters to Obi-Wan’s chest and watches him put them on. He’s an observant man, his alpha. He knows Obi-Wan likes wearing his scent now that he’s pregnant. It’s comforting.

So even though it doesn’t mean anything at all, the way Anakin’s hands roam over his waist and stomach and hips as he growls at the poor gas station attendant, Obi-Wan has to fight to not push back into the touches, to not scent him in return.

He’s afraid once he does, he won’t be able to stop. The thought of it, of marking the beautiful, strong, virile alpha with his smell, is too addicting to ever risk trying.

“I’m fine, I’m fine. It’s just a bit of morning sickness,” he says lightly, touching Anakin’s chest gently. “She was just checking up on me.”

Anakin glares at the girl and starts to herd Obi-Wan out of the bathroom. “Not hers to check up on,” he mutters, hands latching onto Anakin’s hips and guiding him through the aisles of brightly colored chips and candy.

Obi-Wan thinks that for both of their sakes he should remind Anakin that he’s not his to check up on either, but he doesn’t want to, not when he can pretend for a little bit longer.

“I think I would like to lie down in the back for a bit,” he says, holding his stomach. “Just until we get out of this state.”

Anakin agrees immediately, like he knew he would. “Okay, Obi,” he murmurs, opening the car door for him. They’d laid down their suitcases in the wells behind the two front seats, and Anakin had thrown a couple of blankets over the entire area to make a sort of makeshift nest for Obi-Wan to sleep in should he want to.

They’ve only been driving for four hours, but Obi-Wan already wants to. He’s painfully on edge.

He hadn’t understood how hard it would be to convince his hindbrain and body to leave the safety of their apartment, but all he wants now is to nest somewhere safe for him and the baby. It would have been impossible to do this without Anakin.

“Alright,” the alpha says. “Um. Wait. Here.”

He shucks off his sweatshirt, a faded college one that Obi-Wan’s been coveting with his eyes since Anakin had put it on this morning. “Oh, dear one, no,” he forces himself to say anyway. “It’s December. You need a sweatshirt.”

“I’ll turn up the heat,” Anakin holds it out insistently, stubbornly. “Take it, come on.”

Obi-wan can only make himself hesitate for a second more before he’s snatching the soft fabric that smells like sunlight linen honeydew out of his hands and holding it greedily to his chest. “Alright.”

Under the weight of the alpha’s watchful eyes, Obi-Wan crawls into the backseat and curls up with his head diagonal from the driver’s seat. He thinks it’ll be nice to wake up and see Anakin’s profile whenever he wants to without additional shifting.

“Oh shit,” Anakin curses suddenly. “I was going to buy a coffee.” The alpha pauses, clearly torn between going back inside and not wanting to leave the omega alone in the car. But Obi-Wan knows Anakin, and he needs his coffee.

“Oh,” he says as if he’s just remembering something himself, “can you get me one of those bananas on the counter? I think they’re good for babies.”

That, obviously, changes everything for Anakin who straightens instantly. “Bananas are good for babies,” he declares, nodding his head before narrowing his eyes. “Would you...can I lock the door? I won’t be long. Just for safety.”

Obi-Wan blinks and purses his lips to stop his little smile. His alpha can be so silly. Safety. In the middle of the afternoon in rural Pennsylvania. “Okay, alpha,” he agrees before he even realizes that he really shouldn’t be calling Anakin alpha. Especially not when the other man always reacts so strongly to it.

Case in point, he thinks to himself sadly as Anakin’s hand spasms on the car door handle before he slams it and hustles away, almost at a run.

With a long sigh, he flops back down into his nest and squirms until he gets comfortable. There’s a pillow close to his hand that he hugs to his chest when he realizes it’s Anakin’s pillow from his bed at home. It smells amazing, a mix of both of them together.

Ever since he’d told the alpha he was pregnant, Obi-Wan’s fallen asleep in Anakin’s bed more often than not. It’s a comfort thing, one that Obi-Wan feels intensely guilty about. Surely if he keeps being so clingy and whiny and Omegan, Anakin will get sick of him.

And this is just the beginning of the pregnancy. He knows rationally that Anakin loves him as a friend, a brother, but how long is that love going to last if Obi-Wan can’t get a handle on his goddamn hormones? Anakin hadn’t signed up for any of this. It’s not even his pup. How much is Obi-Wan willing to put him through just because he can’t imagine a life without the alpha in it?

Wouldn’t it be the best thing for the both of them to cut their losses now? Bail and Breha had told Obi-Wan he could move in with them for the duration of the pregnancy if he needed to. The only thing that stopped him from saying yes immediately had been the hope that Anakin would be willing to stay with him, keep living with him even after he’d fucked up so much.

And the alpha, by some miracle, hadn’t left, hadn’t moved out. But Obi-Wan can’t shake the thought that he will soon, that this will all get to be too much. Obi-Wan’s omega whimpers at the back of his mind at the idea that one day the alpha will be gone.

The scent of distressed omega fills the car as Obi-Wan feels his bottom lip start to wobble.

Alright, the influx of hormones that are wreaking havoc on his emotions is probably the pregnancy symptom he hates the most. But morning sickness is still up there, too.

He sniffs into Anakin’s college sweatshirt and tries to think happy thoughts. He shouldn’t make Anakin worry about his emotions when he’s already spending so much time worried about his physical health.

How much is Obi-Wan going to take advantage of Anakin’s kindness?

The doors unlock with a beep, signaling his alpha’s return to the car.

It doesn’t take Anakin even a second to catch onto Obi-Wan’s recent spiral of emotion, but at least he won’t know why unless Obi-Wan tells him.

“Obi?” he asks frantically, as soon as he opens the car door. “Obi, are you alright? Did something happen? Did someone see you--?”

“Put the coffee down before you spill it,” Obi-Wan instructs after peeking out of his sweatshirt haven. “I’m alright, Anakin. It’s just the hormones. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Anakin shakes his head. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for.”

The statement pulls a wry smile from Obi-Wan. “Oh, I can think of a few things,” he murmurs, touching his belly with a pointed, gentle hand. Before Anakin can say anything about that, he continues quickly. “I was just wondering about something, I’m fine, really. Really.”

And then, knowing he shouldn’t but also knowing it’ll distract Anakin enough from this line of questioning, he tilts his head back to expose his neck and says, “Can we drive, alpha?”

The coffee cup still clutched in Anakin’s hands bursts open under the force of his grip. He really should have put it down.

Anakin curses up a storm as he shakes the hot liquid off of his skin, and Obi-Wan sits up worriedly. Anakin was bothered so much by Obi-Wan calling him that that he accidentally hurt himself. No more, the omega resolves. He can take a hint.

“Are you alright?” he asks, grabbing at Anakin’s hand to examine the red skin.

“I’m fine!” Anakin yelps, jumping away. “I just--I’m just going to go wash this off. Um. And get more coffee.”

He slams the door shut, and Obi-Wan wilts as he watches him go. He can’t even follow after him because Anakin’s locked the doors with his car key. He’s done enough already.

“Oh baby,” he tells his stomach. “I don’t think I’m ever going to have that alpha figured out.”

The baby is still and, of course, silent, but Obi-Wan takes comfort in their presence anyway. They can’t leave him. Not yet, at least.

Gingerly, he maneuvers his way out of his nest so he can reach his messenger bag he’d left in the foot of his passenger seat. It takes some finangling, but finally he’s able to fish out his headphones. As he resettles into his nest, surrounded on all sides by Anakin’s scent, he notices the bunch of bananas thrown in the driver’s seat.

Obi-Wan snorts at his silly alpha, but can’t deny that he’s touched at the same time.

It’s extremely easy to find the track he wants to listen to, what with how often he listens to it these days. Sometimes, it’s the only thing that can get him to fall asleep.

He pulls up the downloaded homemade album Anakin had given him for Christmas four years back. When he presses play, his alpha’s deep melodic voice spills into his ears.

“Whan that Aprill with his shoures soote, the droghte of March hath perced to the roote…”

Of course he can’t be sure, but he’s fairly certain he’s asleep by the time Anakin comes back to the car.

#asks #squick tag: a/b/o #squick tag: mpreg #prompt fill #roadtrip au #oh?? its somehow MORE angsty now that obi-wan's POV is being explored??? #is ANYONE surprised??? lmao #(no) #also yes at the end obi-wan is listening to anakin recite the general prologue of the canterbury tales with the original english #that anakin learned how to pronounce correctly so he could make obi-wan the best christmas present ever #was it going to be a love confession too but he chickened out at the last second??? yah #will anakin get jealous obi-wan's always lsitening to something on his phone and demand to know what it is??? yah #poor dumb men

[chrisevansluv]

Here is the 2012 Detail Magazine interview with chris evans:

The Avengers' Chris Evans: Just Your Average Beer-Swilling, Babe-Loving Buddhist

The 30-year-old Bud Light-chugging, Beantown-bred star of The Avengers is widely perceived as the ultimate guy's guy. But beneath the bro persona lies a serious student of Buddhism, an unrepentant song-and-dance man, and a guy who talks to his mom about sex. And farts.

By Adam Sachs,

Photographs by Norman Jean Roy

May 2012 Issue

"Should we just kill him and bury his body?" Chris Evans is stage whispering into the impassive blinking light of my digital recorder.

"Chris!" shouts his mother, her tone a familiar-to-anyone-with-a-mother mix of coddling and concern. "Don't say that! What if something happened?"

We're at Evans' apartment, an expansive but not overly tricked-out bachelor-pad-ish loft in a semi-industrial nowheresville part of Boston, hard by Chinatown, near an area sometimes called the Combat Zone. Evans has a fuzzy, floppy, slept-in-his-clothes aspect that'd be nearly unrecognizable if you knew him only by the upright, spit-polished bearing of the onscreen hero. His dog, East, a sweet and slobbery American bulldog, is spread out on a couch in front of the TV. The shelves of his fridge are neatly stacked with much of the world's supply of Bud Light in cans and little else.

On the counter sit a few buckets of muscle-making whey-protein powder that belong to Evans' roommate, Zach Jarvis, an old pal who sometimes tags along on set as a paid "assistant" and a personal trainer who bulked Evans up for his role as the super-ripped patriot in last summer's blockbuster Captain America: The First Avenger. A giant clock on the exposed-brick wall says it's early evening, but Evans operates on his own sense of time. Between gigs, his schedule's all his, which usually translates into long stretches of alone time during the day and longer social nights for the 30-year-old.

"I could just make this . . . disappear," says Josh Peck, another old pal and occasional on-set assistant, in a deadpan mumble, poking at the voice recorder I'd left on the table while I was in the bathroom.

Evans' mom, Lisa, now speaks directly into the microphone: "Don't listen to them—I'm trying to get them not to say these things!"

But not saying things isn't in the Evans DNA. They're an infectiously gregarious clan. Irish-Italians, proud Bostoners, close-knit, and innately theatrical. "We all act, we sing," Evans says. "It was like the fucking von Trapps." Mom was a dancer and now runs a children's theater. First-born Carly directed the family puppet shows and studied theater at NYU. Younger brother Scott has parts on One Life to Live and Law & Order under his belt and lives in Los Angeles full-time—something Evans stopped doing several years back. Rounding out the circle are baby sister Shanna and a pair of "strays" the family brought into their Sudbury, Massachusetts, home: Josh, who went from mowing the lawn to moving in when his folks relocated during his senior year in high school; and Demery, who was Evans' roommate until recently.

"Our house was like a hotel," Evans says. "It was a loony-tunes household. If you got arrested in high school, everyone knew: 'Call Mrs. Evans, she'll bail you out.'"

Growing up, they had a special floor put in the basement where all the kids practiced tap-dancing. The party-ready rec room also had a Ping-Pong table and a separate entrance. This was the house kids in the neighborhood wanted to hang at, and this was the kind of family you wanted to be adopted by. Spend an afternoon listening to them dish old dirt and talk over each other and it's easy to see why. Now they're worried they've said too much, laid bare the tender soul of the actor behind the star-spangled superhero outfit, so there's talk of offing the interviewer. I can hear all this from the bathroom, which, of course, is the point of a good stage whisper.

To be sure, no one's said too much, and the more you're brought into the embrace of this boisterous, funny, shit-slinging, demonstrably loving extended family, the more likable and enviable the whole dynamic is.

Sample exchange from today's lunch of baked ziti at a family-style Italian restaurant:

Mom: When he was a kid, he asked me, 'Mom, will I ever think farting isn't funny?'

Chris: You're throwing me under the bus, Ma! Thank you.

Mom: Well, if a dog farts you still find it funny.

Then, back at the apartment, where Mrs. Evans tries to give me good-natured dirt on her son without freaking him out:

Mom: You always tell me when you think a girl is attractive. You'll call me up so excited. Is that okay to say?

Chris: Nothing wrong with that.

Mom: And can I say all the girls you've brought to the house have been very sweet and wonderful? Of course, those are the ones that make it to the house. It's been a long time, hasn't it?

Chris: Looooong time.

Mom: The last one at our house? Was it six years ago?

Chris: No names, Ma!

Mom: But she knocked it out of the park.

Chris: She got drunk and puked at Auntie Pam's house! And she puked on the way home and she puked at our place.

Mom: And that's when I fell in love with her. Because she was real.

We're operating under a no-names rule, so I'm not asking if it's Jessica Biel who made this memorable first impression. She and Evans were serious for a couple of years. But I don't want to picture lovely Jessica Biel getting sick at Auntie Pam's or in the car or, really, anywhere.

East the bulldog ambles over to the table, begging for food.

"That dog is the love of his life," Mrs. Evans says. "Which tells me he'll be an unbelievable parent, but I don't want him to get married right now." She turns to Chris. "The way you are, I just don't think you're ready."

Some other things I learn about Evans from his mom: He hates going to the gym; he was so wound-up as a kid she'd let him stand during dinner, his legs shaking like caged greyhounds; he suffered weekly "Sunday-night meltdowns" over schoolwork and the angst of the sensitive middle-schooler; after she and his father split and he was making money from acting, he bought her the Sudbury family homestead rather than let her leave it.

Eventually his mom and Josh depart, and Evans and I go to work depleting his stash of Bud Light. It feels like we drink Bud Light and talk for days, because we basically do. I arrived early Friday evening; it's Saturday night now and it'll be sunup Sunday before I sleeplessly make my way to catch a train back to New York City. Somewhere in between we slip free of the gravitational pull of the bachelor pad and there's bottle service at a club and a long walk with entourage in tow back to Evans' apartment, where there is some earnest-yet-surreal group singing, piano playing, and chitchat. Evans is fun to talk to, partly because he's an open, self-mocking guy with an explosive laugh and no apparent need to sleep, and partly because when you cut just below the surface, it's clear he's not quite the dude's dude he sometimes plays onscreen and in TV appearances.

From a distance, Chris Evans the movie star seems a predictable, nearly inevitable piece of successful Hollywood packaging come to market. There's his major-release debut as the dorkily unaware jock Jake in the guilty pleasure Not Another Teen Movie (in one memorable scene, Evans has whipped cream on his chest and a banana up his ass). The female-friendly hunk appeal—his character in The Nanny Diaries is named simply Harvard Hottie—is balanced by a kind of casual-Friday, I'm-from-Boston regular-dudeness. Following the siren song of comic-book cash, he was the Human Torch in two Fantastic Four films. As with scrawny Steve Rogers, the Captain America suit beefed up his stature as a formidable screen presence, a bankable leading man, all of which leads us to The Avengers, this season's megabudget, megawatt ensemble in which he stars alongside Scarlett Johansson, Mark Ruffalo, Robert Downey Jr., and Chris Hemsworth.

It all feels inevitable—and yet it nearly didn't happen. Evans repeatedly turned down the Captain America role, fearing he'd be locked into what was originally a nine-picture deal. He was shooting Puncture, about a drug-addicted lawyer, at the time. Most actors doing small-budget legal dramas would jump at the chance to play the lead in a Marvel franchise, but Evans saw a decade of his life flash before his eyes.

What he remembers thinking is this: "What if the movie comes out and it's a success and I just reject all of this? What if I want to move to the fucking woods?"

By "the woods," he doesn't mean a quiet life away from the spotlight, some general metaphorical life escape route. He means the actual woods. "For a long time all I wanted for Christmas were books about outdoor survival," he says. "I was convinced that I was going to move to the woods. I camped a lot, I took classes. At 18, I told myself if I don't live in the woods by the time I'm 25, I have failed."

Evans has described his hesitation at signing on for Captain America. Usually he talks about the time commitment, the loss of what remained of his relative anonymity. On the junkets for the movie, he was open about needing therapy after the studio reduced the deal to six movies and he took the leap. What he doesn't usually mention is that he was racked with anxiety before the job came up.

"I get very nervous," Evans explains. "I shit the bed if I have to present something on stage or if I'm doing press. Because it's just you." He's been known to walk out of press conferences, to freeze up and go silent during the kind of relaxed-yet-high-stakes meetings an actor of his stature is expected to attend: "Do you know how badly I audition? Fifty percent of the time I have to walk out of the room. I'm naturally very pale, so I turn red and sweat. And I have to literally walk out. Sometimes mid-audition. You start having these conversations in your brain. 'Chris, don't do this. Chris, take it easy. You're just sitting in a room with a person saying some words, this isn't life. And you're letting this affect you? Shame on you.'"

Shades of "Sunday-night meltdowns." Luckily the nerves never follow him to the set. "You do your neuroses beforehand, so when they yell 'Action' you can be present," he says.

Okay, there was one on-set panic attack—while Evans was shooting Puncture. "We were getting ready to do a court scene in front of a bunch of people, and I don't know what happened," he says. "It's just your brain playing games with you. 'Hey, you know how we sometimes freak out? What if we did it right now?'"

One of the people who advised Evans to take the Captain America role was his eventual Avengers costar Robert Downey Jr. "I'd seen him around," Downey says. "We share an agent. I like to spend a lot of my free time talking to my agent about his other clients—I just had a feeling about him."

What he told Evans was: This puppy is going to be big, and when it is you're going to get to make the movies you want to make. "In the marathon obstacle course of a career," Downey says, "it's just good to have all the stats on paper for why you're not only a team player but also why it makes sense to support you in the projects you want to do—because you've made so much damned money for the studio."

There's also the fact that Evans had a chance to sign on for something likely to be a kind of watershed moment in the comic-book fascination of our time. "I do think The Avengers is the crescendo of this superhero phase in entertainment—except of course for Iron Man 3," Downey says. "It'll take a lot of innovation to keep it alive after this."

Captain America is the only person left who was truly close to Howard Stark, father of Tony Stark (a.k.a. Iron Man), which meant that Evans' and Downey's story lines are closely linked, and in the course of doing a lot of scenes together, they got to be pals. Downey diagnoses his friend with what he terms "low-grade red-carpet anxiety disorder."

"He just hates the game-show aspect of doing PR," Downey says. "Obviously there's pressure for anyone in this transition he's in. But he will easily triple that pressure to make sure he's not being lazy. That's why I respect the guy. I wouldn't necessarily want to be in his skin. But his motives are pure. He just needs to drink some red-carpet chamomile."

"The majority of the world is empty space," Chris Evans says, watching me as if my brain might explode on hearing this news—or like he might have to fight me if I try to contradict him. We're back at his apartment after a cigarette run through the Combat Zone.

"Empty space!" he says again, slapping the table and sort of yelling. Then, in a slow, breathy whisper, he repeats: "Empty space, empty space. All that we see in the world, the life, the animals, plants, people, it's all empty space. That's amazing!" He slaps the table again. "You want another beer? Gotta be Bud Light. Get dirty—you're in Boston. Okay, organize your thoughts. I gotta take a piss . . ."

My thoughts are this: That this guy who is hugging his dog and talking to me about space and mortality and the trouble with Boston girls who believe crazy gossip about him—this is not the guy I expected to meet. I figured he'd be a meatball. Though, truthfully, I'd never called anyone a meatball until Evans turned me on to the put-down. As in: "My sister Shanna dates meatballs." And, more to the point: "When I do interviews, I'd rather just be the beer-drinking dude from Boston and not get into the complex shit, because I don't want every meatball saying, 'So hey, whaddyathink about Buddhism?'"

At 17, Evans came across a copy of Hermann Hesse's Siddhartha and began his spiritual questing. It's a path of study and struggle that, he says, defines his true purpose in life. "I love acting. It's my playground, it lets me explore. But my happiness in this world, my level of peace, is never going to be dictated by acting," he says. "My goal in life is to detach from the egoic mind. Do you know anything about Eastern philosophy?"

I sip some Bud Light and shake my head sheepishly. "They talk about the egoic mind, the part of you that's self-aware, the watcher, the person you think is driving this machine," he says. "And that separation from self and mind is the root of suffering. There are ways of retraining the way you think. This isn't really supported in Western society, which is focused on 'Go get it, earn it, win it, marry it.'"

Scarlett Johansson says that one of the things she appreciates about Evans is how he steers clear of industry chat when they see each other. "Basically every actor," she says, "including myself, when we finish a job we're like, 'Well, that's it for me. Had a good run. Put me out to pasture.' But Chris doesn't strike me as someone who frets about the next job." The two met on the set of The Perfect Score when they were teenagers and have stayed close; The Avengers is their third movie together. "He has this obviously masculine presence—a dude's dude—and we're used to seeing him play heroic characters," Johansson says, "but he's also surprisingly sensitive. He has close female friends, and you can talk to him about anything. Plus there's that secret song-and-dance, jazz-hands side of Chris. I feel like he grew up with the Partridge Family. He'd be just as happy doing Guys and Dolls as he would Captain America 2."

East needs to do his business, so Evans and I take him up to the roof deck. Evans bought this apartment in 2010 when living in L.A. full-time no longer appealed to him. He came back to stay close to his extended family and the intimate circle of Boston pals he's maintained since high school. The move also seems like a pretty clear keep-it-real hedge against the manic ego-stroking distractions of Hollywood.

"I think my daytime person is different than my nighttime person," Evans says. "With my high-school buddies, we drink beer and talk sports and it's great. The kids in my Buddhism class in L.A., they're wildly intelligent, and I love being around them, but they're not talking about the Celtics. And that's part of me. It's a strange dichotomy. I don't mind being a certain way with some people and having this other piece of me that's just for me."

I asked Downey about Evans' outward regular-Joe persona. "It's complete horseshit," Downey says. "There's an inherent street-smart intelligence there. I don't think he tries to hide it. But he's much more evolved and much more culturally aware than he lets on."

Perhaps the meatball and the meditation can coexist. We argue about our egoic brains and the tao of Boston girls. "I love wet hair and sweatpants," he says in their defense. "I like sneakers and ponytails. I like girls who aren't so la-di-da. L.A. is so la-di-da. I like Boston girls who shit on me. Not literally. Girls who give me a hard time, bust my chops a little."

The chief buster of Evans' chops is, of course, Evans himself. "The problem is, the brain I'm using to dissect this world is a brain formed by it," he says. "We're born into confusion, and we get the blessing of letting go of it." Then he adds: "I think this shit by day. And then night comes and it's like, 'Fuck it, let's drink.'"

And so we do. It's getting late. Again. We should have eaten dinner, but Evans sometimes forgets to eat: "If I could just take a pill to make me full forever, I wouldn't think twice."

We talk about his dog and camping with his dog and why he loves being alone more than almost anything except maybe not being alone. "I swear to God, if you saw me when I am by myself in the woods, I'm a lunatic," he says. "I sing, I dance. I do crazy shit."

Evans' unflagging, all-encompassing enthusiasm is impressive, itself a kind of social intelligence. "If you want to have a good conversation with him, don't talk about the fact that he's famous" was the advice I got from Mark Kassen, who codirected Puncture. "He's a blast, a guy who can hang. For quite a long time. Many hours in a row."

I've stopped looking at the clock. We've stopped talking philosophy and moved into more emotional territory. He asks questions about my 9-month-old son, and then Captain America gets teary when I talk about the wonder of his birth. "I weep at everything," he says. "I emote. I love things so much—I just never want to dilute that."

He talks about how close he feels to his family, how open they all are with each other. About everything. All the time. "The first time I had sex," he says, "I raced home and was like, 'Mom, I just had sex! Where's the clit?'"

Wait, I ask—did she ever tell you?

"Still don't know where it is, man," he says, then breaks into a smile composed of equal parts shit-eating grin and inner peace. "I just don't know. Make some movies, you don't have to know…"

Here is the 2012 Detail Magazine interview with chris evans:

The Avengers' Chris Evans: Just Your Average Beer-Swilling, Babe-Loving Buddhist

The 30-year-old Bud Light-chugging, Beantown-bred star of The Avengers is widely perceived as the ultimate guy's guy. But beneath the bro persona lies a serious student of Buddhism, an unrepentant song-and-dance man, and a guy who talks to his mom about sex. And farts.

By Adam Sachs,

Photographs by Norman Jean Roy

May 2012 Issue

"Should we just kill him and bury his body?" Chris Evans is stage whispering into the impassive blinking light of my digital recorder.

"Chris!" shouts his mother, her tone a familiar-to-anyone-with-a-mother mix of coddling and concern. "Don't say that! What if something happened?"

We're at Evans' apartment, an expansive but not overly tricked-out bachelor-pad-ish loft in a semi-industrial nowheresville part of Boston, hard by Chinatown, near an area sometimes called the Combat Zone. Evans has a fuzzy, floppy, slept-in-his-clothes aspect that'd be nearly unrecognizable if you knew him only by the upright, spit-polished bearing of the onscreen hero. His dog, East, a sweet and slobbery American bulldog, is spread out on a couch in front of the TV. The shelves of his fridge are neatly stacked with much of the world's supply of Bud Light in cans and little else.

On the counter sit a few buckets of muscle-making whey-protein powder that belong to Evans' roommate, Zach Jarvis, an old pal who sometimes tags along on set as a paid "assistant" and a personal trainer who bulked Evans up for his role as the super-ripped patriot in last summer's blockbuster Captain America: The First Avenger. A giant clock on the exposed-brick wall says it's early evening, but Evans operates on his own sense of time. Between gigs, his schedule's all his, which usually translates into long stretches of alone time during the day and longer social nights for the 30-year-old.

"I could just make this . . . disappear," says Josh Peck, another old pal and occasional on-set assistant, in a deadpan mumble, poking at the voice recorder I'd left on the table while I was in the bathroom.

Evans' mom, Lisa, now speaks directly into the microphone: "Don't listen to them—I'm trying to get them not to say these things!"

But not saying things isn't in the Evans DNA. They're an infectiously gregarious clan. Irish-Italians, proud Bostoners, close-knit, and innately theatrical. "We all act, we sing," Evans says. "It was like the fucking von Trapps." Mom was a dancer and now runs a children's theater. First-born Carly directed the family puppet shows and studied theater at NYU. Younger brother Scott has parts on One Life to Live and Law & Order under his belt and lives in Los Angeles full-time—something Evans stopped doing several years back. Rounding out the circle are baby sister Shanna and a pair of "strays" the family brought into their Sudbury, Massachusetts, home: Josh, who went from mowing the lawn to moving in when his folks relocated during his senior year in high school; and Demery, who was Evans' roommate until recently.

"Our house was like a hotel," Evans says. "It was a loony-tunes household. If you got arrested in high school, everyone knew: 'Call Mrs. Evans, she'll bail you out.'"

Growing up, they had a special floor put in the basement where all the kids practiced tap-dancing. The party-ready rec room also had a Ping-Pong table and a separate entrance. This was the house kids in the neighborhood wanted to hang at, and this was the kind of family you wanted to be adopted by. Spend an afternoon listening to them dish old dirt and talk over each other and it's easy to see why. Now they're worried they've said too much, laid bare the tender soul of the actor behind the star-spangled superhero outfit, so there's talk of offing the interviewer. I can hear all this from the bathroom, which, of course, is the point of a good stage whisper.

To be sure, no one's said too much, and the more you're brought into the embrace of this boisterous, funny, shit-slinging, demonstrably loving extended family, the more likable and enviable the whole dynamic is.

Sample exchange from today's lunch of baked ziti at a family-style Italian restaurant:

Mom: When he was a kid, he asked me, 'Mom, will I ever think farting isn't funny?'

Chris: You're throwing me under the bus, Ma! Thank you.

Mom: Well, if a dog farts you still find it funny.

Then, back at the apartment, where Mrs. Evans tries to give me good-natured dirt on her son without freaking him out:

Mom: You always tell me when you think a girl is attractive. You'll call me up so excited. Is that okay to say?

Chris: Nothing wrong with that.

Mom: And can I say all the girls you've brought to the house have been very sweet and wonderful? Of course, those are the ones that make it to the house. It's been a long time, hasn't it?

Chris: Looooong time.

Mom: The last one at our house? Was it six years ago?

Chris: No names, Ma!

Mom: But she knocked it out of the park.

Chris: She got drunk and puked at Auntie Pam's house! And she puked on the way home and she puked at our place.

Mom: And that's when I fell in love with her. Because she was real.

We're operating under a no-names rule, so I'm not asking if it's Jessica Biel who made this memorable first impression. She and Evans were serious for a couple of years. But I don't want to picture lovely Jessica Biel getting sick at Auntie Pam's or in the car or, really, anywhere.

East the bulldog ambles over to the table, begging for food.

"That dog is the love of his life," Mrs. Evans says. "Which tells me he'll be an unbelievable parent, but I don't want him to get married right now." She turns to Chris. "The way you are, I just don't think you're ready."

Some other things I learn about Evans from his mom: He hates going to the gym; he was so wound-up as a kid she'd let him stand during dinner, his legs shaking like caged greyhounds; he suffered weekly "Sunday-night meltdowns" over schoolwork and the angst of the sensitive middle-schooler; after she and his father split and he was making money from acting, he bought her the Sudbury family homestead rather than let her leave it.

Eventually his mom and Josh depart, and Evans and I go to work depleting his stash of Bud Light. It feels like we drink Bud Light and talk for days, because we basically do. I arrived early Friday evening; it's Saturday night now and it'll be sunup Sunday before I sleeplessly make my way to catch a train back to New York City. Somewhere in between we slip free of the gravitational pull of the bachelor pad and there's bottle service at a club and a long walk with entourage in tow back to Evans' apartment, where there is some earnest-yet-surreal group singing, piano playing, and chitchat. Evans is fun to talk to, partly because he's an open, self-mocking guy with an explosive laugh and no apparent need to sleep, and partly because when you cut just below the surface, it's clear he's not quite the dude's dude he sometimes plays onscreen and in TV appearances.

From a distance, Chris Evans the movie star seems a predictable, nearly inevitable piece of successful Hollywood packaging come to market. There's his major-release debut as the dorkily unaware jock Jake in the guilty pleasure Not Another Teen Movie (in one memorable scene, Evans has whipped cream on his chest and a banana up his ass). The female-friendly hunk appeal—his character in The Nanny Diaries is named simply Harvard Hottie—is balanced by a kind of casual-Friday, I'm-from-Boston regular-dudeness. Following the siren song of comic-book cash, he was the Human Torch in two Fantastic Four films. As with scrawny Steve Rogers, the Captain America suit beefed up his stature as a formidable screen presence, a bankable leading man, all of which leads us to The Avengers, this season's megabudget, megawatt ensemble in which he stars alongside Scarlett Johansson, Mark Ruffalo, Robert Downey Jr., and Chris Hemsworth.

It all feels inevitable—and yet it nearly didn't happen. Evans repeatedly turned down the Captain America role, fearing he'd be locked into what was originally a nine-picture deal. He was shooting Puncture, about a drug-addicted lawyer, at the time. Most actors doing small-budget legal dramas would jump at the chance to play the lead in a Marvel franchise, but Evans saw a decade of his life flash before his eyes.

What he remembers thinking is this: "What if the movie comes out and it's a success and I just reject all of this? What if I want to move to the fucking woods?"

By "the woods," he doesn't mean a quiet life away from the spotlight, some general metaphorical life escape route. He means the actual woods. "For a long time all I wanted for Christmas were books about outdoor survival," he says. "I was convinced that I was going to move to the woods. I camped a lot, I took classes. At 18, I told myself if I don't live in the woods by the time I'm 25, I have failed."

Evans has described his hesitation at signing on for Captain America. Usually he talks about the time commitment, the loss of what remained of his relative anonymity. On the junkets for the movie, he was open about needing therapy after the studio reduced the deal to six movies and he took the leap. What he doesn't usually mention is that he was racked with anxiety before the job came up.

"I get very nervous," Evans explains. "I shit the bed if I have to present something on stage or if I'm doing press. Because it's just you." He's been known to walk out of press conferences, to freeze up and go silent during the kind of relaxed-yet-high-stakes meetings an actor of his stature is expected to attend: "Do you know how badly I audition? Fifty percent of the time I have to walk out of the room. I'm naturally very pale, so I turn red and sweat. And I have to literally walk out. Sometimes mid-audition. You start having these conversations in your brain. 'Chris, don't do this. Chris, take it easy. You're just sitting in a room with a person saying some words, this isn't life. And you're letting this affect you? Shame on you.'"

Shades of "Sunday-night meltdowns." Luckily the nerves never follow him to the set. "You do your neuroses beforehand, so when they yell 'Action' you can be present," he says.

Okay, there was one on-set panic attack—while Evans was shooting Puncture. "We were getting ready to do a court scene in front of a bunch of people, and I don't know what happened," he says. "It's just your brain playing games with you. 'Hey, you know how we sometimes freak out? What if we did it right now?'"

One of the people who advised Evans to take the Captain America role was his eventual Avengers costar Robert Downey Jr. "I'd seen him around," Downey says. "We share an agent. I like to spend a lot of my free time talking to my agent about his other clients—I just had a feeling about him."

What he told Evans was: This puppy is going to be big, and when it is you're going to get to make the movies you want to make. "In the marathon obstacle course of a career," Downey says, "it's just good to have all the stats on paper for why you're not only a team player but also why it makes sense to support you in the projects you want to do—because you've made so much damned money for the studio."

There's also the fact that Evans had a chance to sign on for something likely to be a kind of watershed moment in the comic-book fascination of our time. "I do think The Avengers is the crescendo of this superhero phase in entertainment—except of course for Iron Man 3," Downey says. "It'll take a lot of innovation to keep it alive after this."

Captain America is the only person left who was truly close to Howard Stark, father of Tony Stark (a.k.a. Iron Man), which meant that Evans' and Downey's story lines are closely linked, and in the course of doing a lot of scenes together, they got to be pals. Downey diagnoses his friend with what he terms "low-grade red-carpet anxiety disorder."

"He just hates the game-show aspect of doing PR," Downey says. "Obviously there's pressure for anyone in this transition he's in. But he will easily triple that pressure to make sure he's not being lazy. That's why I respect the guy. I wouldn't necessarily want to be in his skin. But his motives are pure. He just needs to drink some red-carpet chamomile."

"The majority of the world is empty space," Chris Evans says, watching me as if my brain might explode on hearing this news—or like he might have to fight me if I try to contradict him. We're back at his apartment after a cigarette run through the Combat Zone.

"Empty space!" he says again, slapping the table and sort of yelling. Then, in a slow, breathy whisper, he repeats: "Empty space, empty space. All that we see in the world, the life, the animals, plants, people, it's all empty space. That's amazing!" He slaps the table again. "You want another beer? Gotta be Bud Light. Get dirty—you're in Boston. Okay, organize your thoughts. I gotta take a piss . . ."

My thoughts are this: That this guy who is hugging his dog and talking to me about space and mortality and the trouble with Boston girls who believe crazy gossip about him—this is not the guy I expected to meet. I figured he'd be a meatball. Though, truthfully, I'd never called anyone a meatball until Evans turned me on to the put-down. As in: "My sister Shanna dates meatballs." And, more to the point: "When I do interviews, I'd rather just be the beer-drinking dude from Boston and not get into the complex shit, because I don't want every meatball saying, 'So hey, whaddyathink about Buddhism?'"

At 17, Evans came across a copy of Hermann Hesse's Siddhartha and began his spiritual questing. It's a path of study and struggle that, he says, defines his true purpose in life. "I love acting. It's my playground, it lets me explore. But my happiness in this world, my level of peace, is never going to be dictated by acting," he says. "My goal in life is to detach from the egoic mind. Do you know anything about Eastern philosophy?"

I sip some Bud Light and shake my head sheepishly. "They talk about the egoic mind, the part of you that's self-aware, the watcher, the person you think is driving this machine," he says. "And that separation from self and mind is the root of suffering. There are ways of retraining the way you think. This isn't really supported in Western society, which is focused on 'Go get it, earn it, win it, marry it.'"

Scarlett Johansson says that one of the things she appreciates about Evans is how he steers clear of industry chat when they see each other. "Basically every actor," she says, "including myself, when we finish a job we're like, 'Well, that's it for me. Had a good run. Put me out to pasture.' But Chris doesn't strike me as someone who frets about the next job." The two met on the set of The Perfect Score when they were teenagers and have stayed close; The Avengers is their third movie together. "He has this obviously masculine presence—a dude's dude—and we're used to seeing him play heroic characters," Johansson says, "but he's also surprisingly sensitive. He has close female friends, and you can talk to him about anything. Plus there's that secret song-and-dance, jazz-hands side of Chris. I feel like he grew up with the Partridge Family. He'd be just as happy doing Guys and Dolls as he would Captain America 2."

East needs to do his business, so Evans and I take him up to the roof deck. Evans bought this apartment in 2010 when living in L.A. full-time no longer appealed to him. He came back to stay close to his extended family and the intimate circle of Boston pals he's maintained since high school. The move also seems like a pretty clear keep-it-real hedge against the manic ego-stroking distractions of Hollywood.

"I think my daytime person is different than my nighttime person," Evans says. "With my high-school buddies, we drink beer and talk sports and it's great. The kids in my Buddhism class in L.A., they're wildly intelligent, and I love being around them, but they're not talking about the Celtics. And that's part of me. It's a strange dichotomy. I don't mind being a certain way with some people and having this other piece of me that's just for me."

I asked Downey about Evans' outward regular-Joe persona. "It's complete horseshit," Downey says. "There's an inherent street-smart intelligence there. I don't think he tries to hide it. But he's much more evolved and much more culturally aware than he lets on."

Perhaps the meatball and the meditation can coexist. We argue about our egoic brains and the tao of Boston girls. "I love wet hair and sweatpants," he says in their defense. "I like sneakers and ponytails. I like girls who aren't so la-di-da. L.A. is so la-di-da. I like Boston girls who shit on me. Not literally. Girls who give me a hard time, bust my chops a little."

The chief buster of Evans' chops is, of course, Evans himself. "The problem is, the brain I'm using to dissect this world is a brain formed by it," he says. "We're born into confusion, and we get the blessing of letting go of it." Then he adds: "I think this shit by day. And then night comes and it's like, 'Fuck it, let's drink.'"

And so we do. It's getting late. Again. We should have eaten dinner, but Evans sometimes forgets to eat: "If I could just take a pill to make me full forever, I wouldn't think twice."

We talk about his dog and camping with his dog and why he loves being alone more than almost anything except maybe not being alone. "I swear to God, if you saw me when I am by myself in the woods, I'm a lunatic," he says. "I sing, I dance. I do crazy shit."

Evans' unflagging, all-encompassing enthusiasm is impressive, itself a kind of social intelligence. "If you want to have a good conversation with him, don't talk about the fact that he's famous" was the advice I got from Mark Kassen, who codirected Puncture. "He's a blast, a guy who can hang. For quite a long time. Many hours in a row."

I've stopped looking at the clock. We've stopped talking philosophy and moved into more emotional territory. He asks questions about my 9-month-old son, and then Captain America gets teary when I talk about the wonder of his birth. "I weep at everything," he says. "I emote. I love things so much—I just never want to dilute that."

He talks about how close he feels to his family, how open they all are with each other. About everything. All the time. "The first time I had sex," he says, "I raced home and was like, 'Mom, I just had sex! Where's the clit?'"

Wait, I ask—did she ever tell you?

"Still don't know where it is, man," he says, then breaks into a smile composed of equal parts shit-eating grin and inner peace. "I just don't know. Make some movies, you don't have to know…"

If someone doesn't want to check the link, the anon sent the full interview!

#chris evans #cevans #Details Magazine #2012 #interview

[the-last-kenobi]

For BTHB "Halucinations" with Obi-wan on Zigoola?

@coalmine301 you do delight my whump-loving heart. Sorry this took so long!

tw for mental breakdown, ptsd, graphic injury, self harm, and torture.

Zigoola was not a place.

At least, it was not only a place. Not anymore.

The power of the Force, honed and used and washed over a place over time, eventually causes great change.

The Jedi Temple was not merely a building, after all, but a beacon of peace and light for all who could feel it. Its bones ran deep with power, layers upon layers of light.

It was the way of the Light to be fortitude, to be patience, to be serenity, forgiveness, humility.

It was the way of the Dark to be recklessness, to be rage, to be thrill, to be destruction, consumption, emotion.

And Zigoola was Dark.

Dark indeed.

And when Obi-Wan Kenobi left that hellish planet, secure in the worried arms of Bail Organa and Padmé Amidala...

Zigoola followed him home.

: : : : :

Anakin and Ahsoka returned from their most recent campaign flushed with triumph and eager to share the bragging stories all the men did, with bravado and cheer to help cover for the losses met and the sacrifices made.

They returned when most of Obi-Wan’s external injuries had been washed away by bacta.

“Hey, Master,” Anakin greeted him, stretching luxuriously as he swaggered into their quarters. He always called him Master when he was worried about him. “Heard you got roughed up on a mission. What happened?”

His eyes were overly keen. He had seen that Obi-Wan is (is?) fine, and now he wanted to know why secrets were being kept.

How dare they send his Master alone on some secret mission?

How dare they allow him to be harmed because Anakin wasn’t there beside him?

“We met with some turbulence,” Obi-Wan said calmly, carefully turning in his chair in a way that showed Anakin his face while casting the still-pink burn on one side hidden by shadow, in a way that didn’t put pressure on his bad leg. (Worse leg.) “I’m all right. Bacta still smells as unpleasant as I recall.”

Anakin chuckled. He came to sit on a nearby chair, kicking his booted feet in the air.

“Anakin,” sighed Obi-Wan. He shifted again. Just a little. Just to keep his face out of direct light. “Please, sit properly?”

“This is properly,” his former apprentice teased. He flipped around so that his feet were off the back of the chair and his head was on the floor. “A chair is for getting off your feet and being comfy. I’m off my feet. I’m comfy. So this is totally proper.”

Obi-Wan muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “graceless ass.”

Anakin launched a cup coaster at him with the Force.

: : : : :

Obi-Wan woke suddenly in the dead of night.

It was pitch black in his room, but he could sense Anakin leaning over him as clearly as if he could see him.

“‘N’kin?” he mumbled.

Anakin shifted closer to the bed. “Yeah. Obi-Wan... what’s going on?”

“What?”

“You were screaming,” his friend said slowly. “In your sleep.”

Obi-Wan flushed, grateful that the darkness hid his face from view. “Oh. I’m sorry. You know how disturbed the Force is these days, especially here on Coruscant. I must have...”

“No,” Anakin cut across him. “It wasn’t like that. What aren’t you telling me?”

“It’s nothing, Anakin.”

“It’s not nothing.”

Obi-Wan sighed and shifted in his bed, tugging the sheets up higher, shielding himself from the chill of the room. “It is, Anakin. I’m sorry I disturbed you, but—”

“It’s not nothing,” said Anakin in a low voice. “If it was nothing you wouldn’t have lived. Why did you live?”

Obi-Wan’s heart stopped. “What?”

“Why did you live?” demanded Anakin’s voice. The dark presence beside him seemed to suddenly swell, filling the entire room, sucking out all the air. “Why didn’t you die, Jedi?”

“Anakin?” Obi-Wan said hoarsely, starting to sit upright.

Two hands caught him forcefully and shoved him back down, pinning him on his back. The bedsheets suddenly felt suffocating; his limbs were tangled in them hopelessly as he began to kick and struggle.

No matter how hard he thrashed, the hands held him firmly.

Obi-Wan opened his mouth - to question, to beg, to scream - something - but more hands came out of the blackness and closed around his throat, cutting off his voice before he could do more than let out choked cry.

The darkness remained, but somehow, Anakin’s snarling face came into view, illuminated in red as if by fire.

“You should have died on Zigoola,” he sneered. “Die, Jedi.”

And he snapped Obi-Wan’s neck.

: : : : :

Anakin meandered up the hallway, chasing a feeling.

It happened sometimes. The Force just prodded and poked with no clarity whatsoever.

He spotted a familiar figure at the end of the hallway, standing next to a large window overlooking the western horizon of Coruscant. Anakin knew long before he got close that it was Obi-Wan.

“Hey.”

The man didn’t move.

“Obi-Wan, Ahsoka wants to grab lunch at Dex’s before she sets out for her solo. You coming?”

He had his robe on, but it was wrapped tightly around him, and the hood was raised.

Anakin frowned and stepped closer. “Hey. Obi-Wan.”

Obi-Wan pulled his cloak even tighter around him. His head turned slightly. “Go ahead and say what you want to say,” his former Master muttered. “I won’t talk to you.”

Anakin looked as if he’d been slapped; the hand he had raised to touch the older man’s shoulder fell back to his side. “Fine,” he said curtly. “Whatever makes you happy I guess.”

He turned on his heel and stalked off, brimming with hurt and anger.

He was long gone before the Jedi by the window turned his head slowly to look where he had gone, a look of confusion on his face. “...Anakin?”

: : : : :

Night fell again.

Obi-Wan climbed slowly into bed, shaking like a leaf in a tempest. It took five tries - five - just to hoist himself onto his mattress and lay flat, his hands and feet trembling so badly that even his vision was vibrating.

His head began to pound.

Die, Jedi.

Die, Jedi.

Die, Jedi, Die, Jedi, Die, Jedi Die Jedi Die Jedi Die-Jedi-Die-Jedi-Die-Jedi

DIE JEDI DIE—

Bail’s hands covering his. A flash of red. A flash of blue.

Obi-Wan clamped a palm over his mouth to contain the shriek of agony that exploded out of him.

His head - his leg—

Die Jedi

Bail was screaming—

Qui-Gon was reaching for him, then toppling backwards with a beam of red through his chest, his face frozen in a look of shock—

Die Jedi

Obi-Wan slammed his head against the headboard, screaming again into his hand.

“Obi-Wan!”

Anakin was standing over him again, and Obi-Wan curled away from him, clutching his wounded leg with one hand and covering his mouth with the other.

Anakin towered over him, tall, washed in the light streaming from the common area of their quarters—

Wait.

Anakin dropped to his knees, his expression almost frightened. “Obi-Wan! Obi-Wan, snap out of it!”

The older Jedi shuddered where he lay, digging his fingernails into his leg for a purchase on reality.

“Master,” Anakin begged. “Please talk to me!”

Obi-Wan reached further down his leg and shoved his fingertips into the open wound made by his own saber - but - but his fingers dug only into shallow scarring and the dull throbbing of still-healing tissue.

Zigoola.

Bail.

That injury.

It had all been... weeks ago. Weeks and weeks.

His former student knelt next to him, one hand clinging to the bedclothes, clearly wanting to comfort his Master but wary of frightening him further.

“...Anakin?” Obi-Wan whispered around his hand. His voice was small and cracked, a child’s voice after a night terror. “A-Anakin?”

The younger man exhaled shakily, nodding. “Yeah. Yeah. It’s me, Master. Listen. Obi-Wan, you have to let go of your leg... and your face... you’re hurting yourself, all right? Just let go.”

Obi-Wan stared at him.

Anakin stared back, half-stern, half-begging.

After a moment, Obi-Wan obeyed.

He released his leg gingerly, and felt only the residual pain of his slow-healing stab wound and the sharp imprints of his own fingernails.

Then he removed his hand from over his mouth.

His howl of anguish when a red blade pierced Anakin from behind tore through the room, and died into terrified dry sobbing when Anakin fell dead to the floor, his young face painted with shock.

: : : : :

“Master Kenobi!”

Obi-Wan ignored it.

Whoever it was would get his attention more forcefully, real or otherwise. He had no choice but to accept it, but delaying, delaying he could do.

“Master Kenobi! Obi-Wan Kenobi, have you lost your hearing?”

A middle-aged Twi’lek with bold blue skin shouldered her way in front of him; her expression was fierce, but her eyes and the hand she pressed against his chest to stop him were exceedingly gentle. “Obi-Wan?” she repeated.

“Master Che,” he answered dully. “Can I help you?”

“I was about to ask you the same,” she returned, eyes narrowing with concern as she took in his wan visage. “Obi-Wan, your health is deteriorating. An apprentice Healer could tell that at a glance. Why didn’t you come to the Halls?”

“There’s no point,” he said. “It’s just lack of sleep. I’ll pull through.”

Her lekku twitched. “Lack of sleep, hm? That doesn’t explain the rapid weight loss, the new damage on your arms, or your eroding mental shielding...”

“I am fine, Vokara,” the youngest Councilor said sharply. “I won’t be forced into the Halls against my will. If something is really wrong, by all means, feel free to scrape me off the pavement.”

He walked away with his hands folded in his sleeves. His head was bowed.

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” the Healer murmured, and picked up her comm unit. “Skywalker. We need to have a conversation. Your Master’s last mission is classified on a need-to-know basis. And you need to know.”

: : : : :

Anakin entered their shared rooms cautiously this time.

The lights were off, save a few small illuminators scattered around the room, radiating soft warm light like candles. Obi-Wan’s robe was draped over the back of the chair, and his boots were set neatly on a mat against the wall, a contrast to Anakin’s, which could usually be found in odd places like on a chair or next to the refrigerator unit.

His former Master’s door was closed.

Hardly daring to breathe, Anakin gently pushed it open.

He blinked, letting his eyes adjust to the deep darkness, and felt his breath hitch.

The bed was empty.

The sheets were tangled and strewn halfway across the floor, as if the occupant had been dragged away or had left in a panic.

Anakin sprang forward, his heart in his throat, as he noticed two things.

A black scorch mark in the floor, where a saber had struck it.

And Obi-Wan’s lightsaber lying discarded in the corner.

“Obi-Wan!” Anakin yelled. “No... no—Obi-Wan!”

: : : : :

Obi-Wan ran.

His vision was flickering like an old holo, flashes of different things all layered together - was he running over damp grass with Qui-Gon - or the polished floors of the Jedi Temple - or the cracked stone of a Sith Temple with Bail - or a strange fiery planet with bursts of lava and Anakin just out of reach - or —

He didn’t know.

He kept running, constantly changing direction as he registered obstacles and turns at the last second.

There was a tree in front of him. He veered left and smacked into a stone wall carved with Sith Runes.

The graven words burned red and fire lanced out at him, biting into his clothing and taking hold, setting him aflame.

Obi-Wan gasped. He stumbled backwards, trying desperately to peel the burning clothing off of him, hearing maniacal laughter echoing from the black corridors all around him, hearing the screams of the dying, the dead.

Someone grabbed him by the arm and he wheeled around, the fire vanishing inexplicably as Cody, wearing bloodstained armor but without his helmet, stumbled into his arms, gasping for air.

Before Obi-Wan could speak, Cody spat out a mouthful of blood and fell to his knees. His hands dragged the Jedi down with him. But when they hit the floor, it was only Obi-Wan, on his hands and knees in some corridor of the Temple, shuddering and crying.

Die Jedi Die Jedi Die Jedi Die Jedi Die Jedi Die

Die Jedi

DIE JEDI

Die

Jedi Die Jedi

Die

DIE JEDI DIE

Die

J

E

D

I

die

The voices in his head rose and coalesced.

Now the voices of the Sith and the voices of his past and the voices of the future and the voices of the dead were all in agreement—

DIE, JEDI

Obi-Wan reached out desperately for the Light.

There was only Darkness.

Die, Jedi, Die, Jedi

Qui-Gon, running ahead of him chasing a Sith across catwalks. Obi-Wan, desperately racing after him.

Qui-Gon turning at the last second, his verdant lightsaber running Obi-Wan through. The man smiled. Relieved. Pleased. “Die,” he said.

Anakin, ten years old, tentatively asking to spend the night in the same sleeping mat on a mission. Obi-Wan, gently pulling his apprentice into his arms. Waking up hours later with small hands wrapped around his throat and cutting off his air. The innocent face grinned. “Die.”

Ahsoka, dangling out the side of a crashing Y-wing, crying out in pain as her injured shoulder strained. Obi-Wan, diving to catch her hand before she could fall, lifting her back into the ship. Hugging her. And then she kicked him, hard, sending him flying out the door and to his death. She smiled after him. “Die.”

Where was the light?

Where?

...There.

A faint blur of light. A glow.

The feel of fresh air, defying the horrifying visions.

Obi-Wan fixed his eyes on the light, and jumped.

“...NO!”

Someone stopped him. Caught him violently around the waist and dragged him back, pulling him back into the shadows.

Obi-Wan wept, utterly spent.

“Obi-Wan!” a voice raged at him. “What were you doing? What were you even doing?!”

The Jedi only continued to weep silently, letting the strong arms haul him further away. He felt himself lowered to the ground, felt arms come around him in an embrace that felt restrictive.

“Talk to me! Dammit, Master, I need you to focus. Please! Come on, open your eyes properly. Look at me. Look at me.”

The voice became gentler as it went on. Warm and soothing, like the small fires they pitched in encampments, when it was safe to do things like that.

A gentle Force presence brushed against his mind.

It blew through the claws and thorns of Darkness like a hot wind - painful at first, and then calming.

Comforting.

Bright.

Obi-Wan opened his eyes and found himself collapsed in Anakin’s arms, his friend looking down at him with a face twisted with fear and concern. They shifted a little into relief when he met Anakin’s blue eyes.

“...A-Ana...An’kin?” Obi-Wan asked, hardly daring to hope.

Anakin nodded fiercely. “Yeah. It’s me. Listen — we’re going to talk about this later. We’re going to fix this. I’m not going to leave you alone for a second, you hear me? We’ll stick together until this is over. But for now...”

He swallowed hard and looked up at the open balcony mere yards away, glowing innocently in the light of a Coruscant night, the only source of light in the long dark hallway.

“Let’s get you somewhere safe.”

Obi-Wan exhaled softly. “...All right.”

And then his eyes fluttered closed again, his head tilting to one side to rest against his Padawan’s shoulder. Anakin jolted slightly in alarm, but when he checked, he realized that his old Master was merely sleeping.

A proper sleep.

For the first time in Force knew how long.

Anakin sighed and stood up, carrying Obi-Wan in his arms. He was heavy, but still too light and too thin for Anakin’s liking.

The report from Master Che... Anakin bit the inside of his cheek hard to contain a curse, remembering the extensive list of injuries and repercussions the Healer had given him with her eyes full of uncharacteristic worry.

But it would be all right.

They’d handle it together.

They always had.

Always would.

Anakin paused at the end of the corridor and looked back. He held Obi-Wan a little tighter— remembering the moment he had come tearing up this same hall not five minutes before, just in time to see him - the man he had followed for twelve years, humorous and serene and kind and steady, his mentor, his best friend, almost his father, even closer to being a brother...

See him sobbing, stumbling blindly, preparing to leap over the edge of the balcony to his death.

Tormented and lured by the Dark Side.

Anakin forced himself to turn away once more and move his feet back home, holding the sleeping Obi-Wan with all his strength.

: : : : : : :

#bad things happen bingo #I write to make you upset #that’s it #that’s why #okay that’s an exaggeration but still #star wars #star wars fic #obi wan kenobi #anakin skywalker #hurt comfort #this time with some actual comfort #zigoola #bail organa #long post

[qqueenofhades]

Fake dating AU for the idiot Heartrender Husbands! I beg of you!

As ever, I am preposterously easy to enable, and since they will eventually make an appearance in A Phantom in Enchanting Light, I decided to write their backstory for that verse. Also, “fake dating but it’s only fake because they’re both idiots” is an Aesthetic. I love them.

Moscow, 2010

The guy is most definitely late. Fedyor got here early – probably too early, since they’re supposed to meet at eleven and he arrived by quarter past ten – but it’s now 11:08 and still no sign of him. Fedyor has claimed a corner table in the coffee shop just off Red Square with its splendid old tsarist-era décor, surrounded by the murmur of conversation and clicking laptop keys as his fellow Muscovites get on with their daily lives. The rule is fifteen minutes, yes? If Ivan Sakharov doesn’t show up in another seven, Fedyor is free to bail. But it’s been so long, and Nadia, the mutual friend responsible for this set-up, has begged Fedyor to give him a chance. And since it is understandably difficult to date as a gay man in Russia, Fedyor’s patience must be tested longer than usual. He sips his flat white and glances at the door again. Still no Ivan.

Fedyor opens his phone and checks the photo that Nadia sent him, trying to decide if this man is attractive enough to compensate for his tardiness. It’s hard to tell. It is 11:14, and he is absolutely about to pack up and leave by no later than 11:25, when a tall, grim-faced man in a red windbreaker strides in. He stops short, glances around, spots Fedyor, and powers over with such single-minded determination that Fedyor fears he’s about to be arrested. “Hello,” he says curtly. “I am Ivan Ivanovich Sakharov. I believe you are waiting for me?”

“Ah – ? I am Fedyor Mikhailovich Kaminsky, yes,” he manages, offering a hand, which Ivan crushes in a Terminator grip. “It’s – nice to meet you?”

Ivan snorts, pulls out the other chair, and drapes his jacket over it, then orders a small plain coffee (black like his soul, evidently). Then he returns, sits down, and claps his hands as if he is calling a misbehaving class to attention. “Where are you from?” he barks. “How long have you lived in Moscow?!”

Fedyor continues to gape. He’s genuinely not sure if this is Ivan attempting to get to know him on speed-run, or if he’s being interrogated by a FSB agent who can’t even act for two seconds like he’s not. It’s ominously possible. Dmitry Medvedev is the president and there are hopes that there might be a social liberalization, but the Orthodox patriarchs and the far right have been increasingly agitating against Russia’s embattled LGBTQ community, and things could just as easily get worse. Is this a setup or a setup? Nadia would never knowingly put him in a dangerous situation, of course, but maybe she was likewise fooled. You’d think that if this was a sting, they could have found a guy who was actually capable of pretending to be on a date, but maybe that’s the point? What the hell is going on here?

Fedyor opens his mouth, then shuts it. As a matter of fact, he is originally from Nizhny Novgorod, but moved to Moscow for university and has lived here for seven years, but if Ivan is with the FSB, he probably already knows that. Is this a trick? Is Ivan trying to match him to some police intelligence file or see if he’s a liar? Fedyor is seriously about to get up and walk out (or maybe sprint out) when Ivan, perhaps realizing that he’s blowing this to a heretofore unprecedented degree, says, “Sorry. I am from Krasnoyarsk. I enjoy rugby.”

Of course he likes rugby if he’s from Krasnoyarsk. This is a disaster. “Uh, what side?”

“Krasny Yar,” says Ivan, in the tone of a man about to stand up and belt out the fight song. “I also enjoy football. Yenisey Krasnoyarsk. Though I have begun supporting Lokomotiv since I came to Moscow. That was five years ago.”

So, he’s definitely a hooligan. Fedyor does his best to keep smiling. In the flesh, Ivan is definitely not unattractive. His hair is crisp and brown, there are glints of hazel in his eyes, and he has that hard, chiseled handsomeness that Fedyor always ends up getting suckered into. Except for the fact that he is lively, extroverted, and outgoing, likes clubbing and mingling and making friends, and this man does not appear to have ever heard of a single one of those things. What was Nadia thinking? It’s not like her to whiff this badly. Or did she have to be so circumspect in asking Ivan if he would like to meet Fedyor that, even if he’s not an undercover cop, he is in fact clueless about the true nature of this social engagement? Thinks it’s guys being pals?

“Did you have somewhere you were coming from earlier?” Fedyor asks, after another excruciating silence. “Is that why you were – ?”

“My apologies. The bus was late. I am normally very punctual.” Ivan scowls ferociously, as if the bus ever dares to do such a thing again, he will personally murder it. “What hobbies do you enjoy, Fedyor Mikhailovich?”

“I think you can call me Fedyor, yes?” They are clearly nowhere near “Fedya” and “Vanya” just yet, but “Fedyor Mikhailovich” always makes Fedyor look around warily for his grumpiest professor at MSU. He tries to think of subtle conversational gambits to find out what Ivan knows, without being obvious. Oh God, he really should just cut his losses, but something – perhaps the pathetic conviction that even a terrible date is better than no date at all – keeps him in his seat. Presuming that he does get out of here alive, he will call up Nadia straightaway and ask her many, many questions, mostly consisting of Why??! “Well,” Fedyor says at last. “I like having fun?”

“I also enjoy fun,” Ivan says, stone-faced. “I am very funny.”

Russian humor is normally extremely deadpan, to the point that Fedyor does wonder if Ivan is in fact a diabolical troll genius, but somehow he doesn’t think so. The rest of the conversation proceeds in this fashion, but by the end of an hour, Fedyor still has no idea if he has just been on a date or a trip to the gulag. Ivan gets up, administers another bone-crushing handshake, thanks him for his time, and marches out. Fedyor can practically hear the Red Army Choir thundering some patriotic anthem in his wake.

When he gets home that afternoon, Fedyor is resolved to write off the whole thing, except it was weirdly kind of not as bad as he first thought, maybe, somehow. If nothing else, he’s fascinated by this, like watching a slow-motion train crash. He takes out his phone with the intention of calling Nadia, only to see a text message from an unfamiliar number. When he opens it, it reads, Hello. Your company was agreeable today. Thank you. Perhaps we could meet again next week. Please reply yes or no. The message uses the formal styles of address, and some of the spellings are slightly old-fashioned. He has also signed it – Иван Сахаров – in case there might be some confusion with another Ivan the Terrible at Dating of Fedyor’s recent acquaintance. It is a bit like getting a text from the undertaker.

Fedyor stares at it, insanely tempted to burst out laughing, and finally, just because now he’s too curious to refuse, texts back his gracious acceptance. Still chuckling, he makes dinner, and then, as his phone pings with Ivan’s response, wonders in horror what on earth he is getting himself into.

This is how things continue for the next six weeks. Ivan and Fedyor meet up for the second time, stroll sedately around one of Moscow’s many city parks together, then part ways, and this time it’s Fedyor’s turn to ask if he would like to do it again. He isn’t sure exactly why, except that Ivan is unexpectedly easy to spend time with, and he nods in stoic approval of whatever Fedyor says. Of course, they follow the usual rules of dating which are especially important in Russia: don’t talk about politics, don’t talk about religion, don’t talk about America, don’t talk about Ukraine, don’t talk about Chechnya. From what Fedyor can glean, Ivan’s views tend to the doctrinaire, but he is surprisingly undogmatic, and willing to at least act as if he has an open mind. If he was an FSB agent, it feels like he would have busted Fedyor by now, but maybe he is waiting for him to do something unmistakably gay. That’s not it. Right?

Nadia calls, wanting to know how it’s going, and Fedyor grills her for forty minutes over whether Ivan is a law enforcement plant, a lonely guy looking for a friend, the world’s most method practical joker, or just extremely stupid. Nadia insists that he is actually very nice once you get to know him (HA, thinks Fedyor) and has no particular affection for either the ruling classes or the oligarchs. He can certainly be an acquired taste, but he is not evil.

Forced to accept it, still chickening out of asking Ivan whether he knows they’re dating, wondering if they are dating, if Ivan knows that Fedyor knows they’re dating, if Fedyor only thinks he knows that they are dating while they are not actually dating, or if Ivan thinks he knows that they’re dating while they’re… whatever the fresh-fried fuck is truly happening here, Fedyor trudges off for what has become his almost-weekly rendezvous with Ivan the-Maybe-Not-Quite-So-Terrible. They manage to have a few conversations verging on meaningful, and Fedyor has found himself telling Ivan about his family and Nizhny Novgorod and other such things. Fedyor likes to talk and Ivan likes to listen, though he breaks in now and again with a bone-dry quip. He’s still never what you would call loquacious, or easily forthcoming, but Fedyor likes that. Ivan is tough, complex, enigmatic, guarded, occasionally willing to let down his walls but only if the other person is worth it, and Fedyor finds, to his surprise, that he wants to be worth it. If this is a long-con mind game, he almost doesn’t care. (Almost.)

The problem, however, is that they’ve been seeing each other regularly for a month and a half and they haven’t gotten any closer than walking through a park, outdoors, in full view of their fellow comrades. Even the first time Fedyor takes the plunge and invites Ivan to his apartment, they sit three feet apart on the couch, watching a badly-Russian-subtitled version of Die Hard and providing critical commentary. Fedyor’s English is a lot more fluent than Ivan’s, and his middle-class family, while not exactly wealthy, is definitely better off than Ivan’s hardscrabble clan of miners and loggers in Siberia. That upbringing certainly does explain, to some degree, why Ivan is the way he is, and Fedyor wonders anxiously if Ivan views him as an insufferably posh city boy. Ivan barely finished high school and went straight to working in a Krasnoyarsk aluminum factory. He definitely did not faff around Moscow State University and attend global development seminars in Paris.

Nonetheless, despite their obvious differences, they do get along, and Fedyor is unable to deny the fact that he would, if it’s all right with everyone, like it to be more than that. Of course, finding out if Ivan knows, etc. etc., has been the paramount challenge, and there is no way to find out other than to go for it. Fedyor is 75% sure that they’ve been going steady for two months, but if it’s actually the other 25%, this is going to get awkward in a hurry. Is this essentially a fake relationship, or is it only fake because they’re both idiots?

After having duly commended his soul to God, Fedyor invites Ivan over on Saturday night. He rents a tiny flat by himself since he’s been burned on rooming with strangers, but Ivan is used to it by now, and it doesn’t feel too small with the two of them. Fedyor strains his limited culinary skills to cook supper, probably making his babushka cluck her tongue and sigh in a judgmental fashion back in Nizhny Novgorod, and they sit down and eat in silence for five minutes. Then Fedyor says, “Vanya?”

The consistent use of the diminutive has started sometime in the last few weeks, neither of them remember quite when. Ivan doesn’t correct him. “Yes?”

Fedyor clears his throat. “Do you…” He winces. “Do you… like me?”

“Yes?” Ivan says again, looking confused. “I would not have spent so much time with you if I did not, don’t you think? We are friends.”

“Yes, I know that we’re friends, but…” Fedyor looks at the ceiling. It doesn’t help, so he looks back at Ivan. “Are we… special friends?”

Ivan continues to look blank. “Are we?”

Fedyor resists the urge to tug at his collar, thinking that it’s a damn good thing that he didn’t go with his other idea of just leaning across the table and passionately kissing him. With absolutely no change of tone or expression, Ivan says, “Please explain. Special friends how?”

“Friends who want to…” Fedyor takes a deep breath. “Be… more than friends?”

“How?” Ivan orders again, ruthlessly. “Be clear, Fedya.”

“Are we maybe… boyfriends?” Fedyor’s voice squeaks on the word. “As in… we have feelings for each other that aren’t just… friendly? Like… feelings which are… romantic?”

Ivan continues to stare at him like a statue for several more seconds, and Fedyor contemplates the feasibility of tunneling directly through the floor of his apartment and running all the way to Latvia. Then at last, Ivan throws his head back and – startling Fedyor deeply – breaks into real, genuine, belly laughter, the kind that he has never heard from Ivan before. “Oh my,” he chortles, slapping the table. “Your face. You were sweating bullets.”

“WAIT, WHAT!?!” Fedyor pushes his chair back and stands up with a clatter, incandescently outraged. “Are you – were you messing with me?!!”

“Maybe a little,” Ivan says, wiping his eyes. “You know, all this time, I have not been sure if you are shy or a terrible prude. Why haven’t you kissed me yet?”

“God’s Mother in Heaven – ” Fedyor feels another prick of disloyalty to his babushka for swearing on the Bogomater, but some people deserve it. All inhibitions forgotten, he charges at Ivan like a runaway train, as Ivan springs out of his own chair in readiness, and starts pounding on his chest in transports of fury. “You are the worst! You are the worst person ever! For two months, what have we been doing?! I have been afraid this whole time that maybe you don’t know what’s really going on, and now – ?! You are the worst!”

Ivan catches Fedyor’s flailing arms, holds them away from him, and picks him up bodily, swinging him around and pushing him against the wall. “Maybe I am just a dumb country boy from Siberia,” he remarks, “but even I am not that stupid, Fedyor Mikhailovich.”

“I hate you,” Fedyor pants, their faces and their mouths an inch away from each other. “Get out of my apartment.”

“Mmm?” Ivan cocks an eyebrow. Then he plants both hands on either side of Fedyor’s head, leans in, and deeply, savagely captures Fedyor’s mouth with his own.

Every remaining vestige of barely rational thought in Fedyor’s head evaporates in screaming shock. He still wants to shove Ivan away, knee him in the balls, or break a chair over his head, but if he did that, he would have to stop kissing him, and he can’t do that either. He moans, Ivan’s tongue takes the opportunity to slip into his mouth, their hands clutch and claw and their legs melt out from under them, they turn away or break contact only to gulp a breath before diving back in again, and the next time Fedyor is aware of anything, they have collapsed on his kitchen floor in a wrung-out, entangled, gasping heap. Ivan says in his ear, “Do you still want me to leave, Fedya?”

“No,” Fedyor manages. “Because now, I am really going to make you suffer.”

Ivan’s smile is dark and full of promise. He pulls back, gets to his feet, and holds out a hand. “Then I’ll meet you in the bedroom.”

(Ivan doesn’t leave Fedyor’s apartment that night. He doesn’t leave it the next night either. At the end of the week, Fedyor calls up Nadia and informs her that he hates her so much, and when they do next see each other, he’ll shake her by both shoulders and then thank her for introducing him to the no-good, truly awful, very bad love of his life.)

#ivan x fedyor #heartrender husbands #henchmen deserve happiness too okay #a phantom in enchanting light #mearcatsreturns #ask #fivan ff

[dalekofchaos]

If Vader raised Luke and Obi-Wan trained Leia

Let’s say sometime after Mustafar. Darth Vader in his meditation in his castle, Vader felt a presence he hasn’t felt since.....Padme. Since he felt his unborn child through the force. His child is alive. Sidious lied. The Jedi took his son from him. They will all pay. So here is what would happen if Vader sensed, found and raised Luke. 

Darth Vader would’ve killed Owen and Beru instantly and burned the Lars homestead

Obi-Wan would rush to face Vader. Vader would overpower Obi-Wan, mortally wound him and throw him into the burning homestead and use the force to crush the roof onto an unconscious Obi-Wan 

Darth Vader would hold a baby Luke in his hands and  for some reason Luke is not afraid, but drawn to this dark figure. 

Vader would simply say “Luke. Son...”

Vader takes Luke to his castle on Mustafar

Obi-Wan would crawl out of the remains of the Lars Homestead. Injured, but alive. Obi-Wan failed. He contacted Yoda and told him Vader found and took Luke. Yoda will simply tell him “There is another.” All he can do is call Bail for transport to Alderaan. He failed Luke, but he will not fail Leia. 

Bail and Breha would teach Leia about politics and Obi-Wan would train Leia to become a Jedi

Luke would spend his entire childhood to adulthood in the depths of Fortress Vader. Training and submerging himself in the dark side of the force. 

Vader would indoctrinate his son into hating the Jedi. Hating The Emperor and instructing his son that only together could they destroy The Emperor and the last of the Jedi.

By the events of Rogue One/A New Hope. Luke’s training would be complete. “You were weak when I found you. Now your hatred has become your strength. At last the dark side is your ally. Henceforth, you shall be known as Darth Zhoun. Rise, my son.”  Source 1. Source 2

Luke would be Vader’s assassin. Carrying out assassinations in the name of the Empire. Killing the last of the Jedi. Enemies of The Empire. His identity is unknown to the Emperor and Rebellion, but his reputation would strike fear in the Rebel Alliance. He is simply known as “Vader’s Shadow.”

Palpatine feels a disturbance in the force, but for some reason, he cannot detect Luke. All he can sense is “a shadow”

Luke fully embraced the dark side and is consumed by it. When Master Shaak Ti tries to turn him away from his path, before killing her(What is this her 5th death????) Luke will say “My father’s fate is my own.”

Vader’s final test for his son would be to pit him against his old Padawan. Luke kills Maul with ease as he decapitates him. Luke uses Ahsoka’s need to save her friends against her and when she attempts to save them, Luke cuts Ahsoka down. 

Thrawn would request the aid of Vader, in his stead, Vader once again sends his son. Luke would kill Ezra and save Thrawn. “Lord Vader has need of you, Grand Admiral. Set up the TIE Defenders program in the Unknown Regions and return with a fleet of them.” Thrawn would call off the fleet and let Lord Zhoun deal with the Rebels. Luke would then slaughter the Rebels on Lothal

Sometime after securing Thrawn’s victory on Lothal, as a gift. Thrawn has given Vader and Luke their own personal TIE Defenders. 

Vader and Zhoun would slaughter Cal and Cere. The Holocron is theirs. 

The existence of Darth Zhoun would only be known to Vader, Admiral Piett and General Veers.(you’ll see why)

Leia had a decade of training. On Alderaan and on Dagobah. Yoda and Obi-Wan together completed Leia’s training. Leia is now a fully fledged Jedi Knight and is ready to lead the Rebellion and confront her father and brother.  art source

Yoda and Obi-Wan would tell Leia the truth. Darth Vader is her father and his secret assassin is her brother, Luke. Due to a decade of training, Leia would prove strong and wise enough to learn the truth of her family.

Also Leia would ask about her mother. “Tell me, what was my mother like, my real mother.” “Your mother was Padme Amidala, a senator, queen and a kind and beautiful..” “Strong, was your mother. Believed in peace and diplomacy did she.” “And my father? Was he always Vader?” “Your mother loved your father. Anakin Skywalker was a good man. But he was consumed to stop the people he loved from dying. His mother was killed by the Tusken Raiders on Tatooine and the Emperor seized the opportunity to turn your father to the dark side. One day, your father was plagued by nightmares of Padme dying in childbirth, The Emperor promised him the power to save your mother, but in doing so Anakin became twisted by the dark side and became Darth Vader.” 

Leia believes her family could be turned. Obi-Wan would object. He's more machine now than man. Twisted and evil.” When insisting that Luke could be saved. Obi-Wan would be remorseful. “I failed my duty to save Luke, I should have followed Vader and staged a rescue, but you needed to be trained, you were our only hope.” 

Leia would be contacted by Bail requesting aid on Scarif. Yoda gives his blessing for Leia to go. Saying Ready to reveal herself to the galaxy, she is. Obi-Wan would join her as he must confront Vader one last time.

Leia and Obi-Wan get there just in time and they save the Rogue One Crew. Jyn personally gives Leia the plans. Obi-Wan tells her. “What is it?” All Leia can tell her master is “Hope.”

Leia would transmit the plans to the Tantive IV where her father would be there to receive the plans.

Vader and Luke board the ship to slaughter the rebels. Before they can get the Death Star plans back. They are confronted by Obi-Wan Kenobi and Leia. 

Darth Vader and Obi-Wan would duel similar to how they did in ANH aboard the ship. Leia and Obi-Wan are in desperate need to escape

Leia is able to defensively take down her brother, Obi-Wan momentarily stuns Vader and they escape with the plans.

As The Tantive IV is boarded, Leia and Obi-Wan are able to evade detection and hide in the escape pods with C-3PO and R2-D2

In place of Leia captured by the Empire, it is Bail Organa. Bail gives the plans to his daughter and pleads with Leia to leave with Master Kenobi. 

Leia and the droids wander Tatooine for a long walk. All Leia can think is “so much sand. so much fucking sand.”

Leia would store the plans in R2. Just in case something happens.

Leia is guided by Obi-Wan. “We must find passage to save Bail.”

Leia and Obi-Wan finds Mos Eisley Cantina and there they meet Han and Chewie. Leia asks for passage to Alderaan for herself and her droids no questions asked. “Is it a fast ship?” “Fast ship? You’ve never heard of The Millennium Falcon? It's the ship that made the Kessel Run in less than twelve parsecs! I've outrun Imperial starships, not the local bulk-cruisers, mind you.” All Leia can do is roll her eyes and takes Han’s word for it. Leia tells her “Once we get to Alderaan, my father Senator Organa will pay you handsomely. Say 15,000 credits?” Han just smiles that cocky Solo smile and says “you got yourself a deal princess”

Once Leia sees the Falcon. “You fly in that thing? You’re braver than I thought.” Han retorts “She'll make point five past lightspeed. She may not look like much, but she's got it where it counts, Princess. I've made a lot of special modifications myself.”

Leia and Han bicker like an old married couple and Chewie just decided “that’s it I ship it” Obi-Wan would see the writing on the walls. “Oh, this is like watching me and Satine” 

Bail watches the destruction of Alderaan

Leia would convince Han to help her free her father. Han is hesitant, but Leia will insist “my father will be very grateful, I’m sure we can triple the rewar-” Han would say so quickly “DONE!”

Han and Leia are pretty much battle couple goals while taking down Stormtroopers and Imperial Officers in the detention center.

Leia saves her father and embraces him in a hug.

Vader and Obi-Wan duels and Obi-Wan sacrifices himself to save Leia and Bail

Bail is forever in Han’s debt. He saved his life and his daughter’s life. He will pay Han anything. Being indebted to a Hutt is no way to live a life. He pays Han what he’s owed, but asks if he can join the Rebellion after clearing the debt as the Rebellion is in dire need of good pilots. Chewie is all for it, but Han is having none of it, but looks at Leia and says “I’m not saying yes, Senator, but...maybe.” Bail sees that he’s looking at Leia and says “I see” and knows he fancies his daughter.

Leia would fly in her personal Jedi X-wing Starfighter(Just imagine a mix between Anakin’s Jedi Starfighter and an X-Wing) during the Battle Of Yavin IV Leia’s hypothetical ship would look like this(source) but realistically it would be colored blue and white

Han would make the save and Leia would destroy the Death Star(btw Han now will not shut up that he saved Leia, ya know in a way, princess I helped destroyed the Death Star. I saved you from Vader and gave you the confidence you needed to destroy the Death Star. Sometimes I amaze even myself. Leia rolls her eyes and smiles...and blushes. Bail notices this and is happy his daughter is in love but knows she will never admit it) 

Leia would be knocked out and captured by a Wampa. Leia defeats it.

Han would save Leia. “Don’t worry, your worship I’ll save you.” Leia now wishes for death, he would not stop bringing up saving her during the Death Star, but now she owes him twice. Is the force punishing her?

Darth Vader and Darth Zhoun are on the hunt for the Jedi Princess. 

Bail requests Leia and Han to bring Master Yoda back into the fight. 

When Han and Leia escape. Bail stays behind. Darth Vader kills him and Leia feels the loss of Bail and breaks down. 

Instead of bickering and bantering, Han comforts Leia. Leia embraces Han in a hug and a kiss. Leia lets him in.

Leia and Han make it to Dagobah. Leia is very patient with her old master, but Han thinks he should be bigger. “This is Yoda?” Leia confirms and Chewie says so as well an goes “and how would you know that???” “I fought in the Clone Wars, Han” “Well, what do you want, a medal???”

Chewie would embrace Yoda in a hug. Yoda would warmly greet his old friend. “Chewbacca, missed you I did.”

Leia and Han asks Yoda to return to aid the Rebel Alliance. He doesn't have to fight but advise the leaders as what they must do. Yoda is willing, but first he must complete Leia’s training. With this, Leia tells Han to go and pay off Jabba’s debt. and kisses Han goodbye. Han says “When you’re done, meet me on Bespin, I’m going to see an old friend.”

Meanwhile aboard the Executer, Vader and Luke set in motion the plan to destroy The Emperor. Everyone aboard The Executer, especially Admiral Piett and General Veers are loyal to Vader and his son. The Emperor lies in his throne in the safety of the Imperial city, while Lord Vader is a man of action who fights on the front lines with his soldiers. They will stand by Lord Vader and his son, soon more will follow. 

Vader’s call with The Emperor happens as same, but Palpatine says “We have a new enemy. There is a great disturbance in the force. The Rebel Princess who destroyed the Death Star.” “She is just a girl, Obi-Wan and her father can no longer help her. “I have a feeling she is the daughter of Anakin Skywalker.” “How is this possible?” “Search your feelings Lord Vader, you know it to be true.” “If she can be turned, she can be a powerful ally.” “Yes...can it be done Lord Vader? “She will join us or die.”

Vader internally is pissed, but also pleased. Vader tells his son. “A Twin Sister, you have a twin sister. If she can be turned, we will destroy The Emperor and rule the galaxy as a family.” “What if my sister doesn’t join us?” “Then she will die. 

Leia’s training is complete. Yoda dubs Leia the rank of Jedi Master. Leia senses Han is in danger. Yoda tells her to go. “Be here, I shall be. May the force be with you, Master Leia.”

Despite paying off his debt to Jabba, Vader still intends to test Han Solo into carbonite freezing him. And Jabba would be overjoyed to have Han as a decoration. 

Vader orders Luke to bring his sister in the fold or kill her. “As you wish, father.”

Leia is too late. She sees Han frozen in carbonite. 

Leia feels the presence of her brother. They duel and they evenly matched. One wrong move and the fight is over. Luke cuts Leia’s hand off and asks his sister to join him and his father. Leia defiantly refuses. “Vader killed my master and my true father, I’LL NEVER JOIN YOU!” “The Jedi betrayed our father. turned our mother against him and had us separated, luckily he found me and rescued me. With our combined strength, we can destroy the Emperor and bring order to the galaxy as a family.” Leia refuses and falls..

Thanks to Yoda guiding Lando and Chewie, they find her just in time.

Despite not having Leia, Vader and Luke has everything they need to pull a coup on The Emperor

Vader has his son. Admiral Piett. Grand Admiral Thrawn. The Death Squadron. Death Troopers. A legion of TIE Defenders and more and more are drawn to Vader. Vader and Zhoun make their attack on Coruscant. 

Darth Vader and Darth Zhoun face Palpatine. The Throne room is lit up with force lightning and crimson blades. The battle is powerful and raw, but ultimately Luke and Vader overpower The Emperor. There is nowhere where Palpatine can escape to. Not Exegol or anywhere. Vader decapitates his old master. 

Vader broadcasts to the galaxy. “The Emperor is dead. I am now your Emperor. Those who serve me and my son, you will achieve greatness as we bring order to the galaxy. Those who stay loyal to The Emperor, die.” There would be a small civil war, but eventually all those who stayed loyal to Palpatine would be rounded up and killed.

Leia rescues Han. Leia does not resort to allowing herself to be captured. Nor does Leia need to be forced to wear that slave outfit. Leia gives Jabba one chance to free Han. Jabba refuses and since a Jedi would be impossible to be enslaved, he plans to feed Leia to his pet Rancor. That would be Jabba’s undoing. Leia would use animal bond/beast control on the Rancor and successfully tames the beast. After Leia convinces the Rancor to help her, Leia unleashes the beast on Jabba and his men Source

Leia unfreezes Han, rescues Chewie, Lando and the droids. 

In addition to rescuing Han, Leia also rescues Oola and all the slaves in Jabba’s palace.

Leia and Han would fight Boba Fett. With Boba Fett at their mercy, Leia decides to save him. Leia thinking “he could be so much more.” Han makes the decision to save him.  Han and Boba Fett finally bury their rivalry and leave it in the past and shake hands. Boba would declare that Han’s bounty will no longer exists and he won’t chased by him and exits the story. This would work because it would show that Han has grown from the rogue who would shot a man dead without question in ANH to someone who is willing to find an alternate solution to his problems. It’d also give some layers to Boba Fett of being a man of honor.

Yoda dies, but tells her that she is the only hope in saving her brother and stopping Vader. 

With Vader as Emperor, he has no intentions with building a second Death Star. Instead he intends to wipe out the Rebellion from the face of the galaxy. 

Luke feels a pull to the light. After a life of darkness and evil, Luke feels remorse. He sees what his father as Emperor is doing is wrong and if he feels these feelings, it’s all over. 

The Rebellion plans to make one last ditch effort to end the Empire once and for all. A Coup. The battle on the ground would now take place in the Imperial City and the area surrounding the Imperial Palace. The dogfights between X-Wings and TIE Fighters would take place in the skies above instead of in space. The confrontation between Leia,  Luke and Vader and would take place in the Imperial Palace in The Emperor's Throne Room.

Leia would contact Luke in order to get close to the palace.

Leia feels the conflict within her brother. Luke is trying to keep her out. Eventually Leia gets in and pleads with her brother to help him destroy Vader. But Luke takes her before Vader

Vader taunts Leia that the Rebellion will die today, but they can all be saved if she gives in to the dark side and joins her family

Vader forces Luke and Leia to fight to the death. Only one can serve him. Leia refuses to join him, but Vader and Luke are not giving her a choice. 

Leia and Luke’s duel is a mix between Anakin/Obi-Wan and Vader/Luke in terms of how the fight would go. In the end. Neither Luke nor Leia can kill the other. They both deactivate their lightsabers and embrace in a hug. For the first time in a long time, Luke’s yellow eyes turn blue. This ignites the wrath of their father. 

Vader force chokes both his children with full intentions of killing them. The only thing that can save them? Leia remembers on what Obi-Wan spoke about her mother. “Our mother was Padme Amidala.” Vader is stunned and enraged by the mere mention of her name. All Vader can say is “Do. Not. Say. Her. Name.” 

Vader ignites his lightsaber preparing to kill. While Luke and Leia are ready to defend themselves. Luke lands a strike that is similar to Ahsoka’s where Vader’s face is visibly seen

With Vader down. Leia continues to speak about her mother. “She was kind and beautiful. You were deceived and betrayed by The Emperor. He turned you from the most compassionate Jedi Knight to ever live into a dark lord. You do not have to be this way. You are free. You and Luke are free. Padme loved you. Obi-Wan loved you. You are Anakin Skywalker, our father. Call off the fleet and let us bring peace to the galaxy as a family.”

Anakin concedes to his children. 

The war is over. The Empire has ended. Vader agrees to whatever punishment the Rebellion has for him. 

Leia is in charge of Luke. Leia helps Luke on his path of atonement. 

Vader is sentenced for execution. His final request. “Let me see my children one last time.” Leia and Luke are saddened, but Anakin assures his children he has made peace with his fate. His final request from his children is to take his mask off. “ Just for once, let me look on you with my own eyes.”

#Star Wars #Darth Vader #Jedi Leia #Sith!Luke #Luke Skywalker #Leia Organa #Dark!Luke #Obi Wan Kenobi #Yoda #Han Solo #Hanleia #Emperor Sheev Palpatine

[deancaskiss]

Chapter Twenty-Two (Tinsel & Tourists)

Word Count: 2,200 (another long chapter ahead (sorry for it being long) - chapter continued under the Read More)

Cas’ POV

Link to ao3 / Link to masterpost

Cas chewed on his lip for a second as he contemplated Dean’s question. What did he want to know? Everything. He wanted to know everything about Dean. But he had time to learn, didn’t he?

Just as he opened his mouth to ask something, Dean spoke up first. “Before- um, before you ask what you want to know, can I just say something?”

Something about Dean’s tone was hesitant, almost soft, and it tugged at Cas’ heart strings. He nodded slowly, not trusting his voice.

“I just wanted to say I’m sorry, Cas. I really am. I didn’t want to lie to you. Or to hurt you. Or to see you get hurt. I hope you know that,” Dean said, free hand reaching up to caress Cas’ cheek. “I just wanted to keep you safe. But then I fell for you, hard and fast. I almost told you the whole ‘monsters are real’ speech several times. I just thought…” Dean said, suddenly trailing off.

“Thought what?” Cas asked, squeezing Dean’s hand that was still interlocked with his own.

“That if you knew the truth, knew what I did and who I was…” Dean said, shrugging before finally finding the words, “That you’d decide you didn’t love me the way I loved you.”

Cas felt his stomach lurch, and he quickly moved to bring their joined hands up to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to the back of Dean’s hand. “Not possible,” he whispered.

And it really wasn’t possible. Even last night, after Cas thought Dean had broken his heart, he still ached for him. In fact, his first words to Libby had been, ‘I told him to leave and not to come back, and I don’t want that, Lib. Why did I say that? I still want him. I-I love him. Oh God. What have I done?’

Dean smiled weakly, thumb brushing along Cas’ jawline softly before he cleared his throat and nodded. “I’m sorry. That’s just… that’s all I wanted you to know. That I’m sorry. For all of it.”

Cas had been so hurt last night, so betrayed. But now, he could see it on Dean’s face; that Dean truly meant every word of his apology. And Cas’ heart believed him. “I forgive you, Dean. I’m not mad at you. Do you understand?”

Dean hesitated for a second, before he nodded. “I- thank you,” Dean said quietly. “Alright, um, what did you want to know?”

“How long have you been hunting?” Cas asked, squeezing Dean’s hand again just to ground himself, and maybe to ground Dean, too.

“My whole life. Dad was a hunter. He raised us to be hunters after my mom was killed when I was four and Sammy was six months old. Something killed her, a demon, and my Dad spent the last twenty years hunting the thing down.”

“What’s- what’s out there?” Cas asked hesitantly. Did he really want to know? Was he better not knowing? Or was knowing the truth the best option?

Dean huffed out a laugh. “Better question is what isn’t out there. Vampires, werewolves, ghosts, ghouls, skinwalkers, Gods, demons, angels-”

“Angels? Angels are real?”

“Mmhmm,” Dean hummed. “That’s the only reason I’m here right now.”

Cas cocked his head, looking at Dean carefully. “What do you mean?”

“You asked last night about me going to Hell…” Dean trailed off.

“How did you- why were you in Hell? Wait, at the tree lighting, you said you almost died. That was a lie, wasn’t it? You actually did die?” Cas asked in shock.

Dean swallowed thickly before nodding. “Yeah, I did. The demon that killed my mom… he essentially had Sam killed a couple years ago,” Dean said, voice low in the air between them. “And it was my job to protect Sam. I was supposed to take care of him. And I wasn’t quick enough to save him,” Dean paused, taking a deep breath. “So I made a deal with a crossroads demon. I sold my soul to bring Sam back to life. But it came at a price. I got a year to live, and then I was killed by hellhounds and sent to Hell,” Dean explained.

“That- that sounds horrific. Why would you-”

Dean laughed humorlessly. “I couldn’t live without Sam. I didn’t want to be alone. I uh- I actually felt the same way last night, when I heard you get attacked and taken. I told Sam that if I lost you… if I lost you, I’d sell my soul to any demon if it meant bringing you back.”

A choked off noise slipped from Cas’ mouth, and he lurched forwards, claiming Dean’s mouth in a chaste kiss. “Dean,” Cas whispered, at a complete loss for words. Dean would have sold his soul for him? Oh God. How could he have ever accused Dean of not loving him? Of faking it? How had he been so blind? It was so obvious Dean loved him as much as he loved Dean.

Cas squeezed Dean’s hand again, trying to offer him some comfort as he leaned their foreheads together for a brief second before he pulled away. “You don’t- you don’t have to talk about it. About any of it,” Cas said quietly when he saw the pain etched into Dean’s face.

“No, I do. You wanted the truth. I owe it to you. I- uh, I went to Hell. Time works differently down there. It was only four months Earth time, but down there, it was forty years. For thirty years, I was tortured, beaten, ripped into, and killed over and over again, until I… until I-” Dean tried to say.

“Shush, Dean it’s okay, it’s okay,” Cas said, leaning forwards and pecking Dean on the lips. “You don’t have to tell me,” he whispered. “Whatever happened, it isn’t changing how I feel about you,” Cas murmured, softly rubbing his nose against Dean’s.

Dean nodded, sucking in a deep breath and shifting his free hand to the back of Cas’ head, where he tangled his fingers into Cas’ hair. “The um- an angel came and pulled me out of Hell. Zachariah. Something about me being needed. That I’m important to their plans. Either way, angels aren’t what you think they are. Just spineless, dickless assholes.”

Cas snorted, somehow finding it funny that Dean was so pessimistic about angels when he was saved by one. “But they saved you. That counts for something, right?”

Dean huffed out a breath. “Until recently, I didn’t feel like it counted for anything. I felt like I didn’t deserve to be saved. But then… then I met you. You’re the first- the only- good thing to happen to me,” Dean whispered.

Cas shifted to rub his nose along Dean’s cheek, pressing his lips to his cheekbone. “The feeling’s mutual.”

They lapsed into silence for a second before Dean spoke up. “What else? Do you want to know, I mean?”

“Everything, Dean. I want to know it all. I just want to know you,” Cas murmured, smiling when Dean let out a chuckle. “That’s a lot, though. And it can wait for another day. There’s um, there’s something I should tell you actually. It seems only fair.”

Humming, Dean squeezed Cas’ hand this time, sending a little shock wave down Cas’ spine.

“I uh- I told you I went to culinary school in Montpelier a while ago. When I was there, I was engaged to a man I met during my first year classes. His name was Travis. I thought- naively thought- that he was the one. Gabriel repeatedly told me he was wrong for me when he came to visit- that he was the worst kind of person- but I refused to listen. I was completely mesmerized by Travis. He was dashing and witty, and way too good for me. Everyone knew him, and I thought I was lucky to have his attention. That the fact he chose me… someone as bright as him choosing someone like me. I thought it was some kind of miracle he chose me when he could have anyone,” Cas winced.

“I worshipped him. Made excuses for him, too. When he was late, or when he blew me off to be somewhere else. He’d miss huge events I was cooking for or bail when I needed him to taste test before being approached by my teachers and mentors. He ditched me on dates and then didn’t show up to our apartment for days at a time. I had so much blind faith in him. Turned out I was too good for him, not the other way around. I found out he was cheating. Not just with one person, either. With ten other men,” Cas said, and the sting burned up his throat again at the memory; of discovering Travis’ reputation and realizing he meant nothing to Travis.

“Cas,” Dean whispered, leaning forward to press their foreheads together. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Cas laughed, a broken and warped sound. “You wanna know the sick part? I wasn’t the only one he proposed to. There were three of us who were “engaged” to him. I thought he loved me, and he used the same ‘restaurant proposal’ shit on the other two guys as well.”

Dean growled low in his throat, ripping himself away and balling his hands into fists. “What the actual fuck? What kind of fucked up person does that?” Dean seethed, before realizing himself and suddenly leaning back into Cas’ space, pressing their foreheads together again softly; a stark contrast to the sudden outburst of anger.

“Cas. You’re beautiful. Absolutely breathtaking. You deserve so much more than that. God. You deserve the world, Cas. You’re so… you’re absolutely...” Dean trailed off.

Cas felt his heart leap into his throat, and he nuzzled Dean’s face. “I’m what?” he asked breathlessly.

“You’re-” Dean started to say, but he was cut off as Gabriel’s voice rang out through the air.

“Hey lovebirds, can you quit sticking your tongues down each other’s throats long enough for Cas to get back to work? Customers are stacking up in here and unless you want me to start cooking for all these lovely people?” Gabriel shouted.

“Oh God,” Cas said with a wince. “He burns everything he touches,” he muttered to Dean. “Don’t you dare touch anything, Gabe. I’ll be right there. One minute.”

“Sixty seconds, brother dear. Tick tock, tick tock,” Gabriel called out.

“God, I hate him,” Cas said, rolling his eyes before flickering his gaze back to Dean. “Are you- are you really leaving town?” Even the idea of Dean leaving made Cas feel sick to his stomach, and he defensively gripped Dean’s jacket tighter, as if he could keep him anchored right here with him.

A little smirk slipped across Dean’s lips, and Cas felt his heart kick up against his rib cage. “Was thinking of sticking around through Christmas and asking this insanely gorgeous man to be my date for Christmas. Mostly because this devastatingly handsome man stole my heart, and I wouldn’t mind taking him out and kissing him silly under more mistletoe.”

“Mmm, I might be a little jealous of this mystery man. Although, after last night, I don’t think I ever want to see mistletoe again,” Cas said, images of the druid flashing through his mind.

Dean hummed in agreement. “I wonder if this man will let me kiss him silly without the pretext of mistletoe?” Dean asked with a grin.

“I think he just might,” Cas murmured, leaning forward and ghosting his lips against Dean’s.

“Time’s up, Cas! I’m heading into the kitchen,” Gabriel yelled.

Cas jumped up, giving Dean an apologetic look. “Dumbass actually will walk back into the kitchen. Um- I’ll um-”

“When are you off, handsome?” Dean asked smoothly, standing up and catching Cas’ hand again.

“My shift ends at 6,” Cas said, chewing on his lower lip and squeezing Dean’s fingers.

“Then I’ll be here at 6 to pick you up. Don’t be late,” Dean said, leaning down and pressing a lingering kiss to the corner of Cas’ lips.

Just as Cas tilted his head to properly capture Dean’s mouth, the diner door swung open again and Kelsey stuck her head out. “Hey, Cas. I hate to interrupt, but your brother’s hurling pans around in the kitchen again.”

“That’s my cue,” Cas mumbled against Dean’s mouth.

“I’ll see you tonight,” Dean hummed, hand dipping down to graze over Cas’ ass in a teasing touch.

“It’s a date,” Cas replied as his cheeks flushed red, nudging his nose against Dean’s before stepping out of Dean’s embrace.

Cas slipped inside the diner, heart racing in his chest. He’d just made it to the kitchen door when he turned back around. Dean was still standing there, messy hair and cheeks flushed red. When he caught Cas’ gaze, Dean winked playfully and blew him a kiss.

Cas blushed, throwing a wink back at Dean before he made his way into the kitchen. He spent the rest of his shift thinking about the little kiss Dean blew at him and how the man he’d fallen hopelessly in love with had told him he loves him, too.

Tag List Part 1 Below- (please let me know if you’d like to be added or removed from the list!)

Tag List: @cas-deserved-so-much-more @hello-x-sunshine @bibelphegor @likepurplemuses @expectingtofly @neo-neo-neo @shadowywerewolfqueen @a-sweet-indisposition @feraladoration @xojo

@oganizediguana @paintdriesfaster @adsp-destielcockles @destielangst @im-your-huckle-berry @justa-crayon @dea-stiel @superduckbatrebel @destielfactory @miluiel-erynion

@y-yo-a-ti-cas67 @cockleslovesdestiel @toxic-nebula @misha-moose-dean-burger-lover @enchantinghairdoherringwombat @proudace @galaxymysteryelephant @aelysianmuse @ramennoodles-dean-cas @you-changedmedean

@gmos-winter-wonderland @deansotherotherblog @trekkie24 @geo-val @dizzypinwheel @hermionevaldez9 @gimmeprozac @iamsherlockedondoctorwho @dickspeightjrs @imbiowaresbitch

@destielle @hopefuldreamers-world @organicpurplepants @dean-you-assbutt-cas-loves-you @shut-up-dean @sapphirecobalt-1 @eshaninjer @spnobsessed50 @mishka @holygoddessofvictory

@jayus-fandom-writer @2musiclover2 @rainbowscas @bennedict @cassiecasyl @jensenacklesruinedmylife @can-i-just-stay-in-the-corner @chaoticdean @destiel-trash-asf @tlakhtwritesdestiel

@bri-winchester @50shadesofcockles @trasherasswood @spittingpagan @castielstolemyheart @becky-srs @phoenix13 @jiminthestreets-bonesinthesheets @deancasology @top13zepptraxx

@love-neve-dies @good-things-do-happen-dean @tearsofgrace @thedirtytrenchcoat @a-porno-with-the-russian-mafia @on-a-bender @moi-the-bard @one-more-offbeat-anthem @naturallyathief @queen-rowenas

#destiel #long post #conversations #destiel fic #hallmark

[dothwrites]

spn15 spec, destiel, post 15.18, mcd?? sort of???

---

And when your sorrow is comforted (time soothes all sorrows) you will be content that you have known me. You will always be my friend.--Antoine de-Saint Exupery, The Little Prince

---

Castiel opens his eyes in nothingness. 

It’s not dark, though the air which presses around him is thick onyx. There is neither gravity nor weightlessness here. Castiel exists but he does so in a void so barren that he doubts his own mind. He opens his mouth to call out, but no sound escapes. 

Castiel exists in ignorance for one, glorious moment. Then the weight of memory crushes into him. His chest buckles underneath the pressure. He tries to scream, but the vast emptiness swallows the sound. 

---

“Cas, we can fight this!” 

Dean, his Righteous Man, Dean, the shining beacon, his friend...The first real friend he’d ever made. Dean is ready to fight. Dean would fight God, has indeed fought God. But he can’t fight this. 

The door shudders in its frame. Blow after blow rains down on the weakening wood. Already, the wood is splintering under the assault. The thin strip of light at the bottom of the door disappears underneath a sea of writhing black. The Empty is here. It wants what it was promised.  

“Dean,” he says. He intends to say much more--It’s too late, let me go, thank you--but his voice cracks on the single syllable of Dean’s name. 

He wants to stay. God help him, but he wants to stay. 

“No, dammit Cas! You don’t get to give up! We can fight this thing, we can keep running, we can...” Dean’s voice trails off into nothing as he looks wildly around the small room. 

Though he might protest, Castiel knows that Dean is a man bailing out a sinking ship. In his heart, Dean knows the battle is already lost. But he’s still defiant, still clinging to the faintest shred of hope.

Castiel loves him for that. 

“You fought for the whole world.” Castiel’s voice is weak and pale against the ear-shattering thunder of the Empty’s attempts to break into the room. 

“Cas, no--” 

“But you can’t fight for me.” 

The words shatter something vital in him. Castiel gasps as the agony shreds through him. He thought there would be more time. He thought that happiness was an ideal that no one could ever reach. He thought there would be time, he doesn’t want to go, he wants to stay--

“Cas, I can’t...Not again, I can’t lose you again, please don’t go--” 

Black seeps into the room, slender tendrils snaking across the room towards where they stand. Castiel feels every second ticking away. He’s lived for millennia, seen worlds and empires rise and fall, felt the passing of centuries like nothing more than a passing breeze. Millions of years, and now, when it means everything, he has no time. 

Castiel cups Dean’s cheek with one shaking hand. If this is it, then he doesn’t want to leave with any regrets. “Dean,” he croaks. That word has become his compass, his prayer, the star to which he hitched his wagon. 

“I’m so sorry. I don’t want to leave you. If I had a choice, i would stay. I would stay with you through every sunrise and sunset, through every moment, the mundane and extraordinary alike.” Castiel’s voice catches in his throat as the door finally shatters and darkness pours into the room. 

“You’ve taught me everything, Dean, and I...I’m so grateful that I got to know you. Without you...” 

Castiel can’t continue. He’s immeasurably grateful for all he’s experienced with Dean, but he’s always been greedy. He wants more. He wants to see Dean’s hair continue to silver until it’s soft and grey. He wants to go fishing with Dean and discover the peace inherent in the activity. He wants to watch Jack grow into his own and Sam start a family. He wants, with a fierceness that takes his breath away. 

Darkness curls around his ankle and winds its way up his calf. 

Dean shakes his head. Tears well in his eyes but refuse to spill over, though his lower lip shakes. “Please,” he asks, tilting his head into Castiel’s palm. “I can’t...how am I supposed to do this without you?” 

Castiel starts to respond, but his voice is cut off by the swift, hard press of Dean’s lips into his. His heart jolts and gutters in his chest before it picks up again, beating so hard he thinks it might escape through the confines of his ribs. 

“I love you.” 

The words tumble out of Castiel’s mouth, the same as they did years ago when he was rotting from in the inside out. The same frantic need consumes him now as it did then, when every beat of his heart dragged him closer to the edge of oblivion, when seconds were more precious than gold, when he was so close to losing everything--

Dean sobs. He clutches the lapels of Castiel’s coat and kisses him, teeth bruising behind his lips.

Castiel’s whole lower body is engulfed in darkness so complete that it feels as though it’s ceased to exist. His whimper is lost in Dean’s mouth. 

“No,” Dean gasps, pulling away. Castiel already knows the cause of Dean’s denial. He can feel it, creeping up his chest and shoulders, slithering down to his arms. He remembers how it was to be devoured, remembers the noxious black ooze of the Leviathan crawling through him, but this is worse, is so much worse, because now he knows what Dean’s lips taste like, now he knows everything he has to lose--

“Cas, I love you,” Dean tells him, though his words echo strangely. The Empty crawls up his throat. Castiel chokes on it, but he doesn’t dare to blink. He can’t lose a second of this, of Dean’s face, horrified and tear-stricken though it is. 

Seconds tick away like centuries, Dean’s face in front of him. Castiel can’t hear what he’s saying, but he can see the words shaped on his lips. 

I’ll find you, I promise, I’m coming for you, Cas, Cas, I love--

And then. 

Empty. 

---

With the image of Dean’s face in his mind, Castiel screams. 

There is no sound in the Empty, but he screams anyway. His agony and loss pour out of him, his grief and fear. Everything that he’s lost, Dean--

Castiel screams until his voice cracks and breaks, until his throat is shredded and raw, until he tastes blood in the back of his throat. 

Hollow, he slumps to the side, curling into himself. His one consolation was that he would at least be asleep for the rest of eternity. He wouldn’t have to live with the weight of everything he’d lost. Now, even that slender comfort has been ripped from him. For the rest of time, he’ll have to exist with the memory of Dean’s glassy eyes, with the sound of Dean’s choked voice echoing through his skull, with the phantom ache of Dean’s lips against his. Castiel shudders, sobs ripping out of his throat. 

“Jesus. So much for helping.” 

Castiel blinks. The sound of another voice is foreign in this void where nothing should exist. He rolls over, looking up at the sardonic face staring down at him. 

“Ruby,” he rasps, then remembers himself. 

That’s not Ruby. 

“Go away,” he mutters. He wraps his arms around his legs, pressing his forehead to his knees. There’s no point in having pride here, not when time is meaningless and every second is a torture. The Empty already knows his secrets, though why it chose Ruby’s form to torment him is a mystery. 

“Look feathers, you were the one who screwed the pooch on this whole ‘fixing eternity’ thing. So I think I’m going to stick around for a bit.” 

“There’s no point,” Castiel says miserably. “You got what you wanted. I’m here. I’m suffering. What more could you possibly want from me?”

“Were you dropped on your halo? I told you what I wanted the last time you were here. I want out, you moron. I told you to find a way out, and you wound up here, which is kind of the opposite of what I asked.” 

Castiel blinks slowly, lifting his forehead from his knees. “Ruby?” he asks. 

Ruby rolls her eyes and sighs for dramatic effect. “Yeah, dumbo. You know, I’ve only been trying to tell you that since the beginning.” 

“I can’t trust that.” Castiel remembers all too well the last time he was here, the jolt of pleasure at seeing Meg once more only to realize that the Empty was aping her appearance to hurt him. “The Empty, it takes on your visage, your memories--”

“Yeah, you’re just going to have to trust me on this.” Ruby’s eyes flash black. “You know, as much as you can.” 

“I’d pay attention to her, Clarence. If you don’t, then she’ll probably kick your ass.” 

Castiel knows that voice. He whirls around. Meg’s face greets him, a tiny smirk twisting her lips upward. “Meg,” he whispers, an odd combination of grief and happiness twisting in his chest. 

“The one and only,” she assures him. 

A small shred of doubt clings at the back of Castiel’s mind, but he has to trust in something right now. Even if it’s two dead demons. 

“Castiel. So lovely to see you again. Though I can’t say that I agree with the company you’re keeping these days.” 

Make that three dead demons. 

“Crowley,” Castiel breathes. 

The demon looks exactly the same as he did  the day he died. His suit is pristine, down to the pocket square. He looks at Meg and Ruby with disdain before he turns that expression on Castiel. “I suppose you’re doing your biannual visit to this dump? Feel like taking any passengers out with you when you make your escape this time?” 

“I’m not...I made a deal,” Castiel whispers. He made a deal to save his son and he’ll never regret that, not for a second, but then he thinks of Dean’s face. “I’m not leaving.” 

“Oh, I wouldn’t be so negative, Cassie. You do have a way of wriggling out of the tightest of places.” 

Mingled guilt and joy sear through Castiel as he turns around. Balthazar’s familiar face looks at him. Balthazar raises an eyebrow. “No hug?” he asks. 

“I don’t understand,” Castiel breathes. Surrounded by ghosts from his past, he feels weak. “None of you should be awake. That’s the whole point of this place. All of us, asleep, forever.” 

“That’s the way it should be, but you have a habit of wrecking the natural order.” Castiel winces at Anna’s cool voice. Though there’s no real judgement in her voice, there’s also no real warmth. “It’s been changing here, ever since your last visit.” 

“I woke it up.” 

“And because you woke it up, we all started to awake as well.” Hannah’s calm voice joins their small group, though it’s growing steadily larger. “All of us, demons and angels, started awaking. At first, it was just for moments, but lately, it’s been distracted. More of us have been able to stay awake for longer. Eventually we started finding each other.” 

“That’s my boy,” Meg says, unmistakable fondness in her voice. “Shaking up the natural order, wrecking the whole of the afterlife.” 

Castiel’s eyes dart between all of them, former enemies, allies, and friends. “Is this all of you?” 

“Were you not listening? Did they not just tell you that we’ve all been waking up, at least a little bit?” 

Gabriel pops into existence next to Castiel. Despite himself, Castiel jerks back in surprise. 

“So, what’s it going to be, Cas? Are you going to just pop out of here like always?” Crowley brings Castiel’s brain back to the present. 

When he made his deal, he made it with full awareness that there was no coming back. He accepted that burden because he knew it was the only way he could save Jack. 

But that was before he felt Dean’s lips against his, before he heard the words fall from Dean’s mouth. I love you. 

When he made the deal, he had never heard those words directed at him. When he made the deal, he had nothing to fight for. 

Now he does.

He made a choice long ago. You don’t have to be ruled by Fate. You can choose freedom. 

Castiel looks at all of them, demons and angels alike, and makes a choice. 

“We’ve got work to do.” 

#destiel #destiel fic #destiel fanfic #supernatural #supernatural fic #deancas #deancas fic #spn15 #spn spoilers #kinda? #dean winchester #castiel #s15 speculation #the empty #cas' deal #angst #open ending #dothwrites #throwing my hat into the speculation ring #because why not #but this is what i always wanted from the empty deal #@dabb just let me write for this show

[jasontoddiefor]

Title: threads spun

Summary: In another life, Obi-Wan Kenobi would have fought plenty of other Jedi Masters for the right to train little Luke Skywalker. In this one, Luke is 19 and just lost his family when Obi-Wan teaches him how to do a proper Padawan braid.

AN: I’M BACK FROM NANO WITH NEW FANFICS.

The boy just lost his whole world, and he clings to Obi-Wan's robes with shaky hands. His eyes are bright blue, his hair a fair gold color, and for just one short moment, Obi-Wan isn't sure whether the child in front of him is nine or nineteen, whether his name is Anakin or Luke.

It is the reason he gave Luke to his family in the end, even when the Force and all his selfish desires were screaming at him not to. The newborn, the son of his Padawan, the child that was Luke Skywalker, had deserved better than a broken man who didn't even know who he was without a thousand lights illuminating him. A man who'd risk forgetting that he was not holding the child he had raised, the child he had left to burn.

Obi-Wan closes his eyes and the moment passes. 

He doesn't ask the boy if he's alright because it is obvious that Luke is not and it would be cruel to demand an honest answer. Luke can't be standing straight after he experienced such tremendous loss for the first time, nobody would, and Obi-Wan is saddened that he can't give Luke the time to grieve.

Despite all this pain, Obi-Wan still dares to hope for light and life.

He is relieved to see that Luke doesn't take all the hurt and anger to hide it within himself. Obi-Wan has never taught Luke a single lesson about Jedi philosophy, the way they grieve and handle all the emotions that are too large for this world, those that are capable of tearing the galaxy apart. And yet Luke controls his feelings exactly as a temple-raised youngling would, not pushing them aside or letting them overtake him. He takes timed breaths, centers himself on the world surrounding him and not on his anxieties. Pride fills Obi-Wan's heart as he watches peace and balance return to Luke's mind.

In another life, Obi-Wan would have fought plenty of other Jedi Masters for the right to train him.

He can almost hear his family laugh at him, playful jabs about him being so eager to train yet another Skywalker and see what colors they could draw nebulas in. It isn't Obi-Wan's fault; he has always loved a challenge, and Luke, racing in Beggar's Canyon at an age no boy should step into that death trap, would have certainly been a joy to teach and guide.

He could have taught him so much, so much he still needs to teach him, but the clock is ticking and time has always been a cruel mistress. Not purposefully, she wouldn't dare, but she is absolute and eternal, and like death, she takes.

Obi-Wan silently wonders how much time he has left. He knows exactly where they are heading and despite the legends he has wrapped around himself in his exile, he's neither crazy nor a fool. They are attempting to pull off a plan that they wouldn't even have dared to suggest during the Clone Wars, not with so many untrained people. He's been called reckless plenty of times, his ability to talk himself out of seeming like an adrenaline junkie being his only saving grace. Still, Obi-Wan is acutely aware of the danger they are in.

But they have no other choice. They may have the Death Star plans in their hands – and wasn't it utterly predictable that it would be Artoo to carry the plans for a weapon of mass destruction? – but Leia can't stay in the Empire's hands.

Luke and she were so strong in the Force at their birth already. While Obi-Wan is convinced that Bail must have taught Leia at least some shielding techniques, half-trained children can't withstand a Sith Lord for long. Should Vader or worse, Palpatine, learn what Leia could become capable of, they would have so much more to worry about in the future.

The Rebellion might as well be lost.

"You have grown into a fine young man, Luke," Obi-Wan tells Anakin's son instead.

"I have?" Luke echoes, curiosity coloring his voice, highlighting a cadence similar to Padmé's despite his heavy Outer Rim accent.

"I brought you to Tatooine," Obi-Wan tells him. The journey hadn't been an easy one. They had to change ships multiple times and every time somebody had mistaken Obi-Wan for Luke's father, he had wanted to stop and cry like the infant in his arms. "You were a very sweet baby."

"Oh." Luke falls silent again, but his hands have stopped shaking. In his dirty white robes, he reminds Obi-Wan just a bit of a messy Padawan. He wears Anakin's lightsaber well, even if he doesn't know how to execute even the simplest of lightsaber forms. Frankly speaking, it is a bit terrifying to see how quickly he picked up the weapon and had gotten comfortable with it. The Force curled around Luke's every movement, guiding him like a beloved teacher.

Luke will need a teacher if he is to face the darkness that would catch up to them soon.

Obi-Wan feels much older than he actually is. The fault lies partially with the harsh marks that Tatooine has left on his body, but also with the life he has led. He isn't sure if he can teach another student, no matter how much he wants to, but he has to try at least for Luke's sake. That is, if the boy truly intends to follow the path of the Jedi.

"Luke," Obi-Wan says seriously, thinking of the one who gives life, the name granted to such a young child, "Do you truly want to become a Jedi?"

"Yes." There is no hesitation in Luke's reply. "I want to follow my father's footsteps."

No, Obi-Wan wants to weep. You don't. You can't ask me to cut you down as well; I couldn't bear it.

"It is admirable to want to follow the path of someone you respect," Obi-wan starts carefully instead. He can't tell Luke what became of Anakin Skywalker. The child deserves better. "But I am asking about your own inclinations. The path of a Jedi is not an easy one, and you have to follow it for your own sake if you want to succeed."

Now Luke does hesitate. He looks down at his hands, curls them into fists and relaxes them again.

"Yes," Luke finally replied. "Yes, I want to be a Jedi."

"Then I'll hope you'll give me the honor of teaching you. I'd like to take you as my Padawan."

Obi-Wan had said these words over three decades ago to another lost blond boy, the language a little different, their surroundings certainly more peaceful than the ship of a smuggler. He tries to banish the image from his mind.

"Padawan," Luke repeats slowly. "What does it mean?"

You should know, Obi-Wan thinks. You should know what it means and be overjoyed and celebrate this day.

He can't hold it against this boy, not even against himself or, dare he think it, Anakin because choices had been made, but away from it all, Obi-Wan can only blame the Sith who ruined them, continues to hurt them.

"It means that I want you as my student, teach you all I know so that you may surpass me someday."

Bring us back to the light, rebuilt all that we lost. Obi-Wan is asking him for so much when just days ago it would have been enough for him to someday see Luke marry that boy he's been crushing on for years and live the rest of his days happily, far away from the war.

And now he dreams of home again, the rooms full of plants and droid parts, poetry collections, board games, and warmth so kind and all-compassing that no nightmares can haunt you.

"You'd really teach me?" Luke asks as if he'd be honored and the right to be taught not already something he possessed since his birth.

"Of course."

"I'd be honored to accept," Luke replies with a shy smile.

Obi-Wan returns his smile and reassuringly squeezes his shoulder once. Luke leans into the touch and so Obi-Wan lets his arm linger around the boy's shoulders as he continues to explain traditions long lost. "Traditionally, we would now braid your hair and put in the first bead."

"Braid my hair?"

Obi-wan nods and thinks of all the times his Master ran his fingers through Obi-Wan's hair, tugging at his braid and saying one thing or another he hadn't paid any attention to because he'd been too awestruck by the fact that he had a Master at all. "Yes, all Padawans of the Jedi Order have a braid. It shows your dedication to your studies and how serious you are about them. It means that you know that this is not an easy task or an easy path to take, but that you are willing to walk it anyway."

Luke thoughtfully looks at Obi-Wan, then he reaches up with his hand, putting a strand of hair behind his ear.

"My hair is not long enough to braid it properly," Luke mutters, dismayed.

He's pouting more than he is actually hurt by the thought. Nevertheless, if he lingers on it, he might ask more questions about what other chances life has denied him and because of it, Obi-Wan wants to distract him quickly.

The distraction comes at the price of remembrance, a fourteen-year-old Padawan clinging to what remained of his braid, burying his head in his Master's chest, and crying after enduring days of torment. Obi-Wan had fixed Anakin's hair then as well so he wouldn't have to deal with too many looks once they were back at the Temple. His braid had been short, but it had been there. For a moment, Obi-Wan tries to recall who had assigned that mission to them, whether Sidious had already sown his seeds of discord then.

He lets the moment go. "Don't worry, I can help you."

He had done plenty of braids during his as a Padawan and later as a Master. When the war had been going on, he had helped frenzied Padawans countless times with their braids.

There was an almost meditative process to the act of braiding and letting others braid your hair. It had soothed innumerous over the centuries and now it will once more calm another. Luke sits still when Obi-Wan begins to part the stray strands of hair on the left side of his head into three. Luke's hair really isn't all that long, but it is definitely more than enough to work with. Slowly and withs steady fingers, Obi-Wan braids another bond with his second Padawan. Luke is a kind child and this war will hurt him incredibly. Obi-Wan can only hope that what he will pass onto him will be enough to have him keep his path, to wander in the light even when the darkness reaches for him with the intent to consume.

Once Obi-Wan is finished with the braid, he reaches for his belt, takes an old leather cord from there, and wraps it around the tip of Luke's hair.

"And finished," Obi-Wan announces.

Luke, who had closed his eyes, opens them and immediately reaches for the hair, twirling it between his two fingers in a fashion reminiscent of Obi-Wan in his youth. He had only managed to get rid of that nervous habit after his won braid hat been cut. Whether Luke would act similar, Obi-Wan doesn't know, but the thought of seeing Luke ascend to the rank of Knight of the Order, no matter how small, splintered and broken it is right now, it makes his heart beat a bit quicker.

"How does it look?" Luke asks.

"As it is supposed to," Obi-Wan replies. "I believe Mr. Solo has a mirror in his fresher if you want to take a look."

Luke races off before Obi-Wan can say anymore. He returns a few minutes later, already with more color in his face than he had in the hours before.

"Thank you. Master." Luke tags on the honorific only belatedly, unsure whether it fits and it is all the convincing Obi-Wan could ever need.

"You are welcome, Padawan."

Obi-Wan Kenobi has a student once more and he will not fail him.

#star wars #obi wan kenobi #Luke Skywalker #jedi #original trilogy #fanfic