#ten steps back

[serasfanfiction]

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3| Part 4 | Part 5| Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10

The magnitude of the deal felt more earth shaking this time around. The beams holding up the tower shrieked in protest, shuddering as their bolts fought to keep from detaching from the side of the hotel. The hotel itself was marginally less effected, only the top two floors rumbling as the shockwave moved through them. By the time the wave of their magic reached the bottom floors and the ground itself, it was hardly noticeable, save the fact one would have to be blind not to have seen the magic itself.

The radio tower's occupants blinked at each other, both simultaneously realizing they probably should have sealed the deal somewhere other than a structure held up by a handful of beams.

Alastor drew his hand away, staring around at the mess they had made of his studio. Anything not bolted down or with a sturdy base had toppled over. The coat rack lay on its side, the blanket that had been thrown over it sprawled out beside it. The lamp and table had both been upended. One of the lamp's eyes was cracked, its light dimmed. The remaining eyes skittered around the room in alarm. Alastor's notes had been scattered across the floor, one of the halves on his staff amongst them. The icing on the cake was two of the windows were severely cracked, with a third having a handful of spider web fractures running through it.

Lucifer took it all in, wincing at the damage. He raised his cane, intent on restoring the room and repairing the integrity of the structure. Only to pause when Alastor placed a hand over his hands to stop him.

"None of that, your Majesty." He released the fallen angel in favor of retrieving the half of the microphone that had fallen to the floor and setting it with its other half. "I'm more than capable of taking care of my things if you would be so kind as to carry out my first favor."

Lucifer suspected Alastor simply didn't want anyone messing with his things any more than they'd already been messed with. He gave him a side eye in response to the possessiveness, shoo'ing the redhead back as he stepped up to the desk.

Alastor took a step back up, but only a single one. He wasn't hovering, per se, but it was apparent he was anxious to see his microphone repaired and returned to him.

Lucifer put him out of his mind, concentrating on the task in front of him. He reached out, fingers coming to lightly rest upon both halves of the staff. This would have been easier had it been an inanimate object, although it was likely Alastor wouldn't have needed to waste a favor if it had been. All angels had an innate ability to heal, some undoubtedly better than others. Lucifer's talents lay more with creation and rebuilding. Healing was similar, sure, but it involved forcing organic cells to divide and multiply far faster than they would have on their own until the wound had knit itself back together.

Then again, if it had been a wholly alive being, like Alastor himself, he would have just given it some of his blood and called it a day. With the new knowledge he'd gained, he was suspicious the deer demon had benefited in more ways than he'd known from those two previous feedings. The staff must have taken the brunt of the damage, if Alastor was still alive, let alone up and moving about. A direct hit would have killed him, for sure.

Lucifer closed his eyes, opening his senses to the very elements that made up the staff. The issue with damage caused by angelic weapons lay with the fact that they were blessed. God himself had created the steal that made up their spears, imbuing it with special powers so that his soldiers could carry out his will with little opposition. Weapons made from angelic grace weren't quite as powerful, as the angels made the weapons, rather than God, but they still weren't anything to sniff at. Weapon's made of angelic grace weren't a certain death threat to other angels, divine beings that they were, but it was certainly a very effective tool against sinners. To take divine will of any kind to something already damned was to ask for things to get very catastrophic very quickly.

Alastor really had no clue how lucky he was to be alive.

What gave them any chance of this working was that the staff knew how it was supposed to fit together. The two broken ends called to each other. Lucifer just had to bridge the gap so they could comb back together and they would be in business. Falling into autopilot as he allowed the process to guide him, he picked up each half. The break hadn't been easy or clean. The two edges no longer fit perfectly together. He had to pull from the blueprint within the staff's genetic makeup to coach the pole into being a smooth column again. From there, he had the equally hard job of convincing the two edges that they could reform again, but once they were certain it was possible, the two edges became magnetized, snapping and mending together until they were a single, solid structure again.

Lucifer snapped his eyes open. Sitting in his hands was the microphone of the infamous Radio Demon, whole and restored to its full glory with not a hint that it had ever been damaged.

Between one blink to the next, the staff vanished. Out of the corner of his eye, Lucifer saw it reappear in Alastor's hand. The sinner gave it a twirl, before tapping it to the ground to test its durability. Assured that it was indeed fully restored and could withstand some rough handling, Alastor brought the end to the ground with a hard, sharp crack.

Voodoo symbols lit the air around them with their sinister green glow. Shadows spilled out across the floor like ink, spreading up the walls until the entire room (and likely the entire structure) was engulfed in them. The only light remaining came from the soft glow of Alastor's eyes and teeth.

Lucifer, who needed no light to see, tracked the way Alastor's magic not just coaxed the various misplaced items back into their proper positions, but it also restored them back into their pre-damaged state. By the time the shadows dispersed like smoke and the symbols vanished out with a wink, everything was back to how it had been when they entered with not a single item or sheet of paper out of place. It was as if time itself had reversed itself before his eyes.

Grinning from ear to ear, Alastor tapped the microphone end of his staff. The sound echoed around them as it connected with the equipment, signifying that it was indeed functional again. Outside, the ON AIR sign flicked on for the first time since the extermination. Meeting Lucifer's gaze, expression predatory, Alastor greeted any listener with a radio nearby with: "Greetings and salutations, sinners. Did you miss me?"

He walked the scant distance between where he stood and his work station, deliberately walking around and behind Lucifer. As he passed, he ran a single finger along the fallen angel's back from shoulder to shoulder, merely because he could. "Of course you have," Alastor continued jovially. "Well, never fear, my wicked listeners, as your regularly scheduled broadcasts will begin again soon." Leaning over the controls, he pressed down on a more prominently visible button. What was visible of the ON AIR sign's light winked out as his short broadcast ended as fast as it began.

Seeing him in his element, Lucifer was certain this was the first time he'd ever seen Alastor sincerely happy to any degree. The very air around him seemed to have changed, becoming charged with possibility. It was a stark testament to how diminished he'd been up until that point. Alastor gave the staff a toss from hand to hand, as if refamiliarizing himself with its weight. Satisfied at last, he set it down in front of him, resting his hands upon it. Everything about his body language sang of his satisfaction. "Yes," he purred. "This will do quite nicely."

Lucifer opened his mouth, likely to come up with a witty retort, but never got the chance. It died on his lips as he was cut off by a sharp banging on the window to his left. As one, both turned to see what had made the noise.

Hovering outside, livid with her spear out was Vaggie. And she looked more than ready to break Alastor's windows all over again. She wouldn't have been able to, being on the other side of Lucifer's barrier, but she looked more than happy to try. They could just barely hear her as she shouted, "What the fuck did you do, Alastor?!"

Out of his peripheral view, Lucifer saw Alastor waggle his fingers at her in a wave, completely unconcerned as usual. If he didn't hope that the asshole really would get stabbed one day, Lucifer would have had a little chat about Alastor egging on people who could and would do just that.

Wincing, Lucifer imagined that if Vaggie was here, it was likely Charlie wasn't far behind. It was just as likely the only reason she wasn't outside the window herself was because she couldn't fly. With a wave of his hand, he dropped the barrier around Alastor's domain.

The moment it was dropped, Alastor darted forward. Lulled into a false sense of security by the redhead's previous helplessness, Lucifer didn't react in time to stop Alastor from wrapping a hand around his waist and pulling him in.

Prize acquired, Alastor pulled them both into his shadow.

Lucifer had not paid too much attention to Alastor's shadows, beyond acknowledging they existed and they could be lethal. He had noted how the redhead's personal shadow seemed to have a life of it's own, both working in tangent and separately of Alastor. Lucifer had only seen it twice, but he'd found it to be cheeky and only tolerable because it didn't speak. Unlike the demon who cast it.

Whatever Alastor had plunged them into - whether it be another realm or something else - felt wrong. It felt like being plunged into an ice cold bath, but on a metaphysical level. Darkness to a degree that the simple absence of light couldn't explain surrounded them on all sides. Out of the void came the feeling that they were being watched as they passed through.

Hands he couldn't feel, but still knew were there, curled into Alastor's coat until the fabric threatened to tear. The place screamed unholy. Every instinct in his body reared it's head, telling him that he - a child of God, disowned or not - shouldn't be there. He wanted to light a flame to chase away the darkness, if only he could figure out if he needed to use divine or demonic magic. Above all, he needed to get out. It was only because he wasn't entirely certain he couldn't escape on his own that he didn't actually just portal himself away.

Later, when he was able to think about that place without his mind shying away from it, he'd realize that something about the feeling of it was familiar.

But that would be then, and for now, the whole experience ranked as sheer nightmare fuel. How could Alastor stand it? Was it because he was human and/or a sinner? This place could drive a being insane.

When they reappeared in Alastor's hotel room, it felt like an eternity had passed as opposed to a mere minute or two. Lucifer took a shallow breathe, his whole body shaking like a bird trying to resettle it's feathers.

Oh, that was deeply unpleasant. He never wanted to do that again, ever.

Nonchalant, Alastor took hold of the hand clutching his jacket in a death grip. His smile oozed of false politeness. "Are you alright, your Majesty? You look a little pale."

As if he didn't know that place was messed up. Lucifer was distracted from wiping that smug grin off of the redhead's face by a loud bang against the other side of Alastor's door, the wood around the lock shattering as it finally gave up the ghost of keeping anyone out. The door slammed open, hitting the wall with such force that it ricocheted off of it.

Cherri stood with her foot still poised in the air, giving herself away as the person who had literally kicked the door open. Charlie hovered just behind her, hands in the air as if she had been trying to stop her. Angel stood to her other side, his main arms crossed, while his secondary hands were resting on his hips. "See," he was in the process of saying to Charlie, triumph both audible in his voice and visible on his face. "I told ya we could get the door open without the bombs."

"Yes, well, it would have been better if we didn't damage the door!" Charlie admonished, voice high pitched with stress. She turned her attention to the room itself, tensing as took in the scene in front of them. Lucifer watched her tense, fear twisting her features in a way he hadn't seen since her teenage years. "Dad! Are you alright?" She burst into the room making a beeline for her father.

Lucifer stepped away from Alastor to meet her, putting on an only marginally strained smile. "Of course, sweetie. Everything is fine."

Despite his reassurances, she checked him over for herself. When she was assured he was okay, she turned on Alastor. Her fingers twitched like she wanted to give him a similar inspection, but was holding back. "What did you do?" Her expression was a mixture of concern, anger, and guilt.

Alastor ran his hand down his coat, smoothing the creases out until it was as impeccable as ever. "How suspicious! What makes you think this is my doing?"

"Because it usually is." This was from Vaggie, who had appeared in the doorway while no one was looking. She pushed past Cherri and Angel, who were lingering for the promise of drama and maybe a little bit of curiosity over why the hotel was nearly knocked down for a second time in as many months. She marched straight up to Alastor, and then jabbed a finger into his chest when she was near enough to do so. "First Charlie and now Lucifer?! I knew we should have never let you stay here!"

Lucifer had been content to stand back and let Alastor take the heat. Maybe soil his own image a bit in Charlie's eyes. After all, Lucifer had been willing pay for his help. To make promises he was more than willing to keep, if it was within his power to keep. Alastor was the one who turned it into a binding deal, however predictable the move had been.

Then the implications of what Vaggie said sank in.

He could feel his control over his form slipping as he felt the anger rising. He reached out, almost not wanting to believe that it was true.

But there it was. The green chain of one of Alastor's deals hung from Charlie's wrist, damning evidence of the truth.

Lucifer saw red. His voice was cold despite the fire he could feel burning his tongue. "You made a deal with my daughter?!" The chain creaked as his fist tightened around it. He was going to shatter this little deal, take the remaining shards and shove them down Alastor throat. Then he was going to wrap his hand around his neck and--

"Dad, wait!"

The sight of Charlie suddenly filling his vision felt like being doused in cold water, enough to allow sanity to creep back in and take root again. "Charlie, I told you! You can't take shit from sinners like him." He glanced behind her, still able to see Alastor, posture tense and ears pinned back. His shadow was curled uneasily at his feet, ready to spirit him away at a moment's notice. Lucifer hissed. "They're nothing but parasites feeding off the rest of humanity."

For a brief moment, and only because Charlie had her back to him, Alastor bared his teeth, neither ashamed nor cowed.

Charlie raised her hands to calm him. She paused when one hand didn't raise as far as the other, catching on the chain around her wrist. Wincing at the fact that he was now physically restraining her, Lucifer released it. The chain vanished back into the ether. Freed of the restriction, Charlie lightly placed her hands on his arms, saying, "Dad, it's okay." She smiled to show she really believed it to be so. "He gave us information on how to protect the hotel. I'm happy to do something to help him in return."

Her smile, her trust, had the opposite effect, angering him further. "Charlie..." Lucifer wasn't certain who he was more angry with in that moment: himself for believing that Alastor might actually care about Charlie, in his own way, or Alastor for being none other than Alastor. All the signs were there: the redhead might like to play his games with Lucifer, but his interactions with the Charlie held a hint of genuine attachment to them.

Yet it would always be about power with him, wouldn't it? Could he even help himself anymore, when presented with an opportunity he seemingly couldn't pass up?

Lucifer's expression saddened as he focused on his daughter. His hands rose up to gently take hold of the wrist the chain was wrapped around, even if it were no longer visible. As a parent, he wanted to protect her from situations like these: where she was bound to get hurt. He knew he needed to give her space to learn from her mistakes, but how could he just leave his baby girl in the hands of a known sadist? "If he really had your best interests at heart, he wouldn't have needed to make a deal with you."

Charlie's eyes searched his, brows furrowed. "Dad, I can take of myself, remember?"

Because he never knew when to stop when he was ahead, Alastor interrupted them with, "There's no need for fighting, my dear. Your father is right." A red clawed hand appeared on her shoulder. Both of the Morningstars looked to see Alastor standing at Charlie's side. Alastor was giving her the same look he'd given her during his and Lucifer's swing dance show down over who was the better father figure for her. It made Lucifer's teeth itch with how false it was.

Charlie, on the other hand, merely watched him with confusion. "Alastor? What do you mean?"

As if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, Alastor said, "Only that bonds built on mistrust make for unstable foundations." With a flick of his free hand, a glowing document appeared out of thin air, unfurrowing to reveal Charlie's signature plain as day at the bottom.

It was Charlie's contract.

"I think we can both agree," he carried on, knowing he had everyone in the room hanging on his every word, "That you and I have built such a bond of trust that this silly little thing isn't necessary."

Before anyone could react to that clearly manipulative statement, Alastor took the document, one claw on each of the top corners and ripped it in half. Without missing a beat, he tossed the two halves to either side of himself, the supernatural paper catching fire and burning away as if fell. A wisp of ash touched the floor before disappearing. "Charlie, I release you from our deal."

Lucifer stared, his emotions a storm of confusion and doubt. He couldn't believe what he had just seen. There was no way. Alastor would never have just released anyone from their deal with him unless he was getting something out of it. Alastor didn't do things for the good of other people. This had to be a game somehow. But what did he gain from it? Unease began to creep in as Lucifer tried to make sense of what he'd just witnessed.

The answer came when Charlie inhaled sharply, all but literal stars in her eyes. "Alastor! I'm so proud of you!" She threw herself at the redhead, wrapping her arms around him in a bone crushing hug. "Of course you can trust me!"

Lucifer realized with dawning horror that this, this was what Alastor gained from that little display of pretending to show faith and trust. Charlie had bought it hook, line, and sinker. His whole body locked up, the instinct to protect his child at war with the fear of excommunicating her by killing Alastor for the sheer audacity.

Worse, Lucifer had been right there and he had still failed to protect her from this sinner.

Alastor's expression softened with fondness as he tolerantly patted her head, enduring the forced contact with grace. After letting her have her hug, he gently pried her hands off of him, to which Charlie winced, saying, "Sorry! Sorry, I know. Boundaries."

The redhead gave her a light bop on the nose, to show he forgave her her trespasses. "It's perfectly alright. No harm done." He sent his microphone away to clear his hands, freeing them to clap together, as if he didn't already have everyone's attention. "Now, if everyone would kindly vacate my room, I have a very long To Do List to accomplish and there are only so many hours in the day to do it."

Angel and Cherri didn't need to be told twice, ready to make themselves scarce now that the drama had passed. Charlie moved over to grip Vaggie's arm as they walked together out the door, the taller woman saying with excitement, "Vaggie, did you see! I told you!"

It was a relief to see that Vaggie still looked doubtful, for all that it did nothing to slow down how quickly Alastor was entrapping Charlie little by little.

When it was just the two of them, Alastor turned to Lucifer, his smile maliciously pleasant. "Come now, your Majesty, out you go. One of those tasks is one you appointed me yourself."

It took every ounce of Lucifer's no small amount of self control not to lose his shit all over again now that they were alone. "You may have Charlie fooled, but don't think for a second I don't see through you."

Alastor leaned forward, his hand wrapping itself around their mutual deal. The physical reminder of how entangled they already were casting a golden, green glow upon his face. Bold to his core and with the fearlessness born of someone who knew he held Lucifer's number one weakness in his claws, he said, sweetly, "And yet, I've already got exactly what I wanted."

Lucifer slapped the hand away, as if allowing the chain to disappear would somehow make what he said any less true. "Thin ice, Alastor. Don't forget it."

He pivoted on his heel, refusing to see what the response would have been. If he wanted any hope of being able to work with Alastor, Lucifer needed to leave now before any remaining good will was burned away.

He ignored the way that Alastor's gaze burned into his back, the sensation lingering long after he'd left.

tbc

Part 11

[wordsoftheheartandsoul]

It can feel hopeless to find yourself in a season where nothing seems to be going right and every effort only makes things worse. For every step forward there always manages to be ten steps back. But maybe that's the point of it all. Maybe we are experiencing this level of discomfort because God wants our attention. Maybe He wants us to focus on our mental health and things within, instead of getting wrapped up in the world and everything around us. Maybe He wants us to experience lack so we can truly appreciate the growth and abundance that is coming. Whatever the reason may be, find yourself grateful. Be grateful for the positives you have and the problems that you don't. Give thanks in your progress and focus only on moving forward. This journey has never been or will ever be about anyone else.

Morgan Richard Olivier - Blooming Bare

[a-hearts-a-heavy-burden]

Me : excited to maybe have an increased income

My sister : so if they give you back pay for Aug & Sept ALL of it comes to us

Me : 🥲 k.....I'll just go fuck myself 🙃

[poseurson]

when i linked up with Purple Apples, he already had so much of his own solo stuff that u should check out too! I was almost more excited getting to play his music as a fan before we start playing the stuff we made together 😅 we love to play Crush from an old ep of his right into Ten Steps Back from his latest album Ms.Genuine, both ON ALL STREAMING PLATFORMS

🍎💔🕷

u can Follow us on Insta too for future shows & more,

@ purpleappless

@ poseurson

& @ ryanmoutenot 🥁

#purpleapples #poseurson #hangingoutwithhumans #MsGenuine #crush #tenstepsback #postpunk #grunge #alternative #rock #indie #trippy #music #band #art #create #newmusic #newjersey #bergenfield #bergencounty #fyp

[queerofthedagger]

i'm re-reading the hobbit (aka it's my current falling-asleep audiobook) and there is something to doing that after having just read the silm and the great tales and (almost) the entirety of HoMe that just hits me in the sense of. so much of the great tales talk of great heroics and incredible deeds of valour. and yes of course their mode is different and that's why they feel like this, why they are a little untouchable sometimes, bigger than life, almost. but there still is something so poignant to returning to scared, terrified, shaking-in-his-boots bilbo baggins who faints at the notion of a dragon and baulks at the idea of an adventure and then goes anyway.

i don't have a very coherent conclusion about this yet beyond, it keeps making me think of the 'courage is not absence of fear, it's being scared and doing it anyway' and how on one side it says so much about bilbo, about how he goes, and keeps going, keeps growing with each new step on the road, without ever quite stopping being scared out of his mind. and how on the other side it is also a reminder that regardless of the tales painting them great, we should not forget how often all the great heroes must have been scared, too. how they went anyway. perhaps finrod did not faint at the prospect of facing sauron, but he went anyway. perhaps hurin did not quail in the face of morgoth, but he must have been terrified for himself and his family anyway. how he kept resisting anyway. perhaps luthien did not try to convince herself just to stay home on page, but how hard the road regardless. how she walked it anyway! like!!

[tennessoui]

Hey I hope you're having a good day! I'm sure you've already got a handful of prompts but how about *shakes magic 8-ball* number 17, meeting at a party whilst drunk au!

hello thank you for sending this in!! i'm still working down my list of prompts, and this one is: meeting at a party whilst drunk

i took some liberties with the prompt here though, so really this is meeting (again after a long time) at a party whilst drunk

(2.8k) (gffa, anakin leaves the order after the war au)

Usually, Obi-Wan is better about this sort of thing. It is, after all, a matter of utmost importance. It’s a matter of survival. 

Usually, when he receives an invitation to an event, he does not commit himself to going until he can complete some reconnaissance about the other guests invited. Until he knows beyond a reasonable doubt that Anakin Skywalker, ex-Jedi and current husband to Senator Amidala, will not be in attendance.

It is much better this way. For everyone involved, really, but especially for Obi-Wan and his poor fool’s heart. It is much better if they keep an entire planet between themselves these days—preferably multiple planets. Preferably half a galaxy.

But this is a retirement party for Bail, and Obi-Wan cannot miss it. His old friend deserves better than that, better than Obi-Wan’s cowardice getting in the way of a celebration of his decades-long career in the Senate.

So he accepts the invitation without researching the guest list. He thinks—he hopes—that in the past nine years, Anakin Skywalker’s intense dislike of Bail Organa has not waned. Anakin, when Obi-Wan knew him, when he was Obi-Wan’s—Obi-Wan’s padawan—had a tendency to make a snap judgement about someone and never change his opinion. 

His hatred had been like an impenetrable wall, unchanging and immovable.

His love had ebbed and flowed, drowned out by his anger or his irritation, coming in great waves when he was in a fine mood and resembling a desert’s drought when he was upset.

But his hatred had always been unshakable once assigned. The very first time Obi-Wan saw it in Anakin’s eyes when he looked at him, a year after he left the Order and the last time they'd seen each other, he’d known for a fact that he’d lost him. That the love had dried up and gone and that it would never return. It’d felt like watching Anakin leave the Temple all over again, like a hand clenched around his heart squeezing and squeezing and squeezing.

So he hopes that Anakin has chosen not to attend Bail’s retirement party. Oh, he knows that Anakin’s wife is here, and he has already downed two flutes of sparkling wine to prepare himself for the sight of her looking resplendent across the ballroom, but he hopes that Anakin has chosen to stay home instead of wasting an evening fawning over a man he never liked in the first place.

Besides, someone should look after the children. They’re nine now, Obi-Wan knows. If they are anything like Anakin was at that age, they must need constant supervision. And he has already seen Senator Amidala once tonight from afar, knows that she is here amongst the party-goers.

He tightens his grip on his fourth flute of wine and turns his attention back to his conversation partner. 

It is rather rude to be so preoccupied in the midst of a conversation with another, but Obi-Wan is an old man now and a war hero. He’s allowed to get away with much more these days than he could in the past.

“Yes, I admit the Jedi Order still has far to go in order to rebuild itself,” he says, mind torn between the small talk and the drink in his hand. These sorts of conversations are easy to have. Yes, the war took a lot out of the Jedi Order. Yes, we are still working through the damages and the trauma. Yes, it’s been ten years since, but sometimes it feels as if it was only yesterday. Yes, sometimes it feels as if I am still fighting.

And then—

Then the woman he is talking to grows bold. She rests her hand on his forearm, the one that is holding the flute of wine, and steps closer.

And in the Force, there is a rumbling of pure, visceral hatred, the sort Obi-Wan has only ever felt in the air a few times.

The sort that is achingly, distressingly familiar.

He turns his head, even though he knows he should not look. He knows looking will take him out at the knees. He knows he may never recover if he looks.

He turns his head and he looks anyway. There, across the room, standing to the left of a load bearing pillar is the drawn and furious face of Anakin Skywalker, ex-Jedi, ex-padawan.

Obi-Wan’s first thought is that he looks older, though he realizes a moment later how absolutely inane that is. Of course he looks older. It has been nine years since he really talked to him, eight years since he last saw him, and he has tried to avoid any news or photos about the man at all. In his mind, he is still as he was in those days and months following the end of the war. But logically, he knows that the time has passed, that not even the Chosen One is immune to aging.

Anakin’s hair is streaked with shoots of silver. It’s short now, cropped close to his head though still curling as much as he lets it. His face is worn, wrinkled in different, unfamiliar places. He is wearing finery befitting that of a senator’s husband, the color of a midnight sky.

It is strangely comforting to see him dressed in the same colors he has worn since he was a youngling in Obi-Wan’s care. If he were wearing white or, or green or pink, then Obi-Wan isn’t sure he’d be able to recognize him at all.

“Are you quite alright, Master Kenobi?” the woman asks, words filtering in through the static noise in Obi-Wan’s head. 

No. Of course he is not alright.

Yes. He is better than alright. He feels as if his head has broken the surface of the water he’s been trapped under for the past nine years. He feels as if the sight of Anakin Skywalker is a sip of water when he’s on the brink of dehydration.

“You know actually I am not sure,” he tells her, which is overly personal and not at all what he’d meant to say. But that is what the sight of Anakin Skywalker does these days. It throws him off, makes him loose-tongued and off-centered.

Fuck, he thinks once, viciously. 

“If you’ll excuse me,” he tells her, carefully separating himself from her touch and taking a step away. She looks disappointed almost immediately, and Obi-Wan should care about the image he’s making, how impolite he is being, but he has bigger concerns right now. 

Anakin Skywalker is here. 

“Enjoy your evening,” he adds as he raises his flute of wine to his lips and drains it in one go. “Unfortunately, I’m going to go get incredibly drunk.”

“Uh,” the woman says, but Obi-Wan is already gone. He can’t—he can’t stay. Not in this room, not under the weight of Anakin Skywalker’s stare.

Thank the Force he started the night by giving his congratulations and warm regard to Bail. If things turn sour, he’ll be able to slip away with only minimal rudeness.

And, if he’s being quite honest, things have already soured beyond the point of salvation.

But instead of leaving—instead of slipping out the room and running back to the Temple, tail between his legs, he stays. Inexplicably, he grabs another flute of wine from a passing server and retreats to a balcony.

Fresh air will sober him up, he thinks, even as he downs half the flute. 

He should leave, he thinks, even as he stays.

He should leave—but he cannot bring himself to. Anakin is here and it’s Obi-Wan’s worst nightmare and it’s the only thing he’s desired for the past nine years.

Barely a minute passes before the balcony door opens behind him. Obi-Wan keeps his eyes pinned to the city-scape around them.

“Occupied,” he says, even though he knows who it is. Even though he knows the word is useless. Anakin will not leave until he wants to.

“Obi-Wan,” Anakin says. Just his name, just three syllables.

Obi-Wan downs the rest of the flute. “Anakin,” he says, closing his eyes for a moment to gather himself before he turns to look at him.

Oh, he wishes he could blame the alcohol for how beautiful he finds him, but he knows that’s just some dark and twisted part of himself, some sinful and perverted aspect of his soul he has never been able to scrub clean.

“How are you?” He says, because he cannot let Anakin speak first. If he lets Anakin speak first, there will be a diplomatic incident, surely. If he lets Anakin speak first, Anakin will control the conversation—Anakin will tear through all of his shields and land on his sorest, most vulnerable spots. “How are the children?” “Do you even know their names?” Anakin spits back, eyebrows drawn dark and heavy over his expression. His face is flushed. He must have been drinking as well. “How old they are? Do not ask after my children as if you care about them at all, Obi-Wan—I know you don’t!”

“Luke,” Obi-Wan says. “Leia.”

Oh, he wishes Anakin were right. He wishes he didn’t know a damn thing about them, about him, about the life he lives now. One completely separate and void of Obi-Wan. 

Anakin probably does not notice his absence. After all, he has a wife, two children. A part-time job, if Bail can be believed. He wonders if he still meditates facing the wrong way, back to the sun, and suddenly his heart feels so tight he can hardly breathe through the pain.

Anakin sneers. “Whatever,” he says and reaches into the folds of his robes to pull out a silver flask. He raises it to his lips and takes a swig, rubbing a hand over his mouth when he’s done, capping it and sliding back into his robes.

It is the alcohol that loosens his tongue, Obi-Wan knows it. Obi-Wan understands that he has had too much to drink tonight to be standing before Anakin Skywalker now, that anything that comes out of his mouth will be something he regrets in the morning.

But does it really matter? How could it matter? Anakin Skywalker was his whole life for a decade and a few years, and then he left. And now a decade has passed. In five years, he will have spent longer missing him than he spent loving him. What does a few words matter now?

Obi-Wan has already lost everything. He is already made of regret.

“I don’t know why you insist on acting so hatefully,” he says. “You left.”

He means, of course, that if anyone should hate anyone here, it is Obi-Wan’s right to hate Anakin.

Impossible, as it were, but his right. Anakin left.

Obi-Wan asked him to stay.

“You kissed me,” Anakin spits back.

And yes, alright. He kissed him as well.

His fingers itch for another flute of wine. Perhaps a swallow of the flask in Anakin’s robes. Anything. Anything to dull the white-hot ache of this conversation. Anything to escape these consequences.

“Nine years ago,” he says, quietly. “It’s been nine years, Anakin.”

Let it go.

He hadn’t—he really hadn’t meant to kiss him. It had been—a foolish mistake, something that had happened late at night, a few months after the end of the war, and they had been in Obi-Wan’s quarters, drinking and talking and Anakin had said something about leaving the Order, and Obi-Wan had said something about him staying, and Anakin had said, Padmé is pregnant, and Obi-Wan—Obi-Wan had kissed him.

A foolish mistake, made only survivable by the way that, for a handful of precious seconds, Anakin had kissed him back.

Before the yelling, the hatred, the anger. The leaving. Before all of that, Anakin had kissed him back.

“I have already apologized, Anakin,” Obi-Wan whispers, exhausted, and his eyes cut away from Anakin, turn back to the city. “I have thought of that moment countless times–-and I cannot begin to explain what came over me, what I was thinking at the time.”

He just—he hadn’t wanted Anakin to leave. Had thought that perhaps if he could—if he could give Anakin himself in all the ways one person could devote themselves to another, then maybe it would be enough. Maybe he would stay.

A foolish hope, one that Obi-Wan should have known better than to entertain even for a moment.

“I have thought of it too,” Anakin says. He clears his throat. He lurches forward, unsteady on his feet. His hand comes into contact with Obi-Wan’s arm, glove on sleeve. Thank the Force for the layers still in between them.

“I’m sorry,” Obi-Wan murmurs, and the truth is that he means it as much as he does not. He is sorry for taking the brotherhood and friendship between them and shattering it. He is sorry that he kissed Anakin, that he hastened his leave.

But he is not sorry for knowing how his lips felt against his own. How he tasted.

Obi-Wan is a lonely old man, despite the family he has surrounded himself with at the Temple. Despite his new padawan that he has been training for the past eight years. Despite the trips he takes to see his retired men, Cody and the 212th scattered across the galaxy. Despite all the ways he fills his days, all the people he meets and talks to and trains with, he is still lonely. There is still a hole in his heart, a space that Anakin used to occupy.

“I have thought of it every day since,” Anakin says, repeating himself in that way drunkards do when they have forgotten they already started the same sentence a moment before.

“I’m—”

“It has haunted me,” Anakin says. His voice is sharp and angry and Obi-Wan wants to close his eyes and shy away from it. Obi-Wan, who has faced down Separatists and sith lords and blaster fire, wants to turn tail and hide. Retreat. Retreat.

Anakin’s voice turns—darker, wilder. His hand tightens and he tugs, just hard enough that it overbalances Obi-Wan. “I am haunted by the kiss you never should have given me.”

“Had I known you were married, I never would have—”

“You ruined it,” Anakin snaps. “You ruined my marriage!”

“I…” Obi-Wan’s throat clicks, words drying out. “What?”

“We filed for separation months ago,” Anakin says. His eyes are dark; he is holding his arm so tightly that it hurts. “Joint custody of the children, but a formal divorce. Amicable.”

Obi-Wan…Obi-Wan doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know if he can speak at all.

“It wouldn’t have been amicable if she knew though,” Anakin says. He takes a step forward. Obi-Wan gives ground. He does not know how else to fight Anakin. “If she knew what I thought about when I retreated from her touch. If she knew what—who—drove me from our bed every night to walk through our house like a ghost wandering the halls.”

“If your marriage ended over a kiss I gave you nine years ago, then it is hardly my fault,” Obi-Wan says, putting his hand on Anakin’s chest to keep distance between them. When did they become so close? This is much too close. Obi-Wan can smell Anakin’s soap, his sweat. The alcohol on his breath.

“But it is,” Anakin insists, unable still it seems to take his share of the blame and make his peace with it. “It is, because I spent half my life in love with you, then I finally commit to someone else—allow myself to look and love and appreciate someone else’s beauty—and then you kiss me, as if I have not already sworn loyalty to another! As if I could be yours to kiss! As if I still was!”

Obi-Wan shakes his head, unable to do more. “It was a kiss, Anakin, it was—I assure you, I am not such a good kisser that I can be blamed for your failed marriage when it was nine years ago!”

“Then you do not remember it as well as I do,” Anakin murmurs, and now—now the rage has turned darker, heady. His eyes catch and hold onto Obi-Wan’s lips. His eyes are more black than blue. His face is flushed. He is—so handsome. So beautiful still, after all of these years. “Let me refresh your memory,” he says, and Obi-Wan—

Obi-Wan is weak when it comes to Anakin. He always has been. He is so weak. And he needs—he needs so much. He makes a sound, something embarrassingly small and desperate, and then Anakin is kissing him and it feels like being sliced open and like coming home, all at the same time. 

Like how it felt when he returned to the quarters he shared with Qui-Gon after his master had died—a homecoming, but at what cost? A death and a birth, all at the same time. He had lingered in the doorway that first time, unable to push himself across and into quarters that felt both strange and familiar. 

It had been Anakin, a small boy still, who had grabbed him by the hand and pulled him inside.

Still now, even all these years later, Obi-Wan closes his eyes and allows himself to follow Anakin’s lead. 

[discordiansamba]

the taste of the tea is familiar.

min-su frowns, and stares at his cup. he knows this flavor, but he's never been to this tea shop before. he never would have thought of coming to a tea shop in the upper ring if lee hadn't invited him. he'd been worried sick about the kid recently. he kept disappearing and reappearing- moving away suddenly, without warning.

he looks up at lee. something is... different about him.

it's just the short hair. or maybe it's the way he's stopped hiding his scar. it had churned his gut the first time he saw it. he'd wondered how anyone could do that to a kid- and he'd been relieved to learn later that it was just from an accident. he wasn't so sure why he'd been convinced someone had done it to him on purpose.

(he always expected lee to hate his father.)

min-su asks if he can meet the brewer. the tea is delicious he says. lee nods and leads him to the back. he's not smiling, for once. his expression is serious. it's not like him, min-su can't help but think. it's very much like him, he also thinks.

min-su stops dead in his tracks at the sight of the old man in the kitchen. he... knows this man from somewhere, some part of him thinks, even though they've never met. the man meets his eyes, and tears flow down his cheeks.

he calls him lu ten.

min-su feels cool hands pressed up against his skull- and then slowly, groggily, lu ten wakes up. it's like being dragged out of a frozen pond after being trapped in there for a long time. for a few moments, he doesn't remember how to move his body. then his father has thrown his arms around him and the spell breaks.

"father," lu ten says, "-what are you doing here?"

here is ba sing se. the siege failed. lu ten was captured. he was taken underneath a lake, and a different man using his body had walked back out. he called himself min-su, and found work as a guard. he was a good earth kingdom man, loyal to the earth king and the dai li. he fought for his country. he'd fallen in love with a metalworker and had married him. his favorite tea shop was a place called the lotus blossom...

...his favorite tea server was a young boy named lee.

lee. agni. zuko.

"father, zuko-"

"is fine," zuko says from behind him- then makes a face and wiggles his fingers, "-ish."

the waterbender just nods her head in solemn agreement. lu ten wonders if he's supposed to know her too. he's pretty sure she did something to heal his head. he looks at his cousin- and then extends an arm to him. zuko rolls his eyes in a very un-lee-like way, but he lets him drag them into the hug.

he'll find out a bit later exactly what happened to him. he'd been brainwashed. years later, his uncle and zuko come to the city as refugees- and zuko would help his sister take it down from the inside, only to be doublecrossed by her. zuko had been brainwashed too, but his was far worse than lu ten's had been.

the war was over. the fire nation had been defeated. his father now sat on the fire lord's throne, after having it taken from him by his uncle. he no longer wished for war- only peace. and lu ten, who had lived for seven years as a good earth kingdom man, could look back and see the futility and cruelness of it all.

...agni. how was he supposed to tell his husband this?

[screaming--agony]

Dear Diary,

I’m just not worth the effort I guess.

[alicentsaegon]

Modern fantasy writers are like

"I want to tackle themes such as misogyny or clssism or racism or homophobia in my work!🤗🤗🤗 No there's none of that present in my book, this society that mimics 1300s central Europe suffers from none of these issues because thats not progressive and if we have DRAGONS and MAGIC why do we need this ahaha am I right? 😅🙂‍↕️Except for this individual conflict in this novel the characters have to overcome but that's an isolated case. Oh look there's a Queen!"

[flumpermergen]

Okay I know for a fact they did not do all that 😭

[rking200]

It's Sunday, and Chapter 14 of The Red Room has been posted! A lot has lead up to this moment, so follow Hank's perspective of the evening and enjoy <3

Featuring a beautifully intimate render by @connor-sent-by-cyberlife! This chapter also officially pushes this fic past 100k words!

The Red Room (111850 words) by rking200 Chapters: 14/? Fandom: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor Characters: Hank Anderson, Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Original Chloe | RT600, Markus (Detroit: Become Human), Elijah Kamski Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Human, Stalking, Vomiting, Suicidal Thoughts, Top Hank Anderson, Bottom Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Connor is a Mess (Detroit: Become Human), Hank Anderson is Bad at Feelings, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Missing Persons, Abduction, Manipulation, Death Threats, Mental Health Issues, Zlatko didn't do it, POV Alternating, Slow Burn, Sex at some point Summary: Connor Stern is a law school dropout who dreams of making it big in the music industry. He manages to get into a special apprenticeship program with the musical genius Elijah Kamski and, despite working two jobs and struggling to stay afloat, feels like his dream is finally within his grasp. When Hank Anderson stumbles into the lounge Connor performs at, The Red Room, he becomes entranced with him. As Hank falls in love with Connor's voice, he ends up entangled with conflicting emotions and delicate situations. Slowly, his nights are filled with Connor's songs and his closeness, even if he feels he doesn't deserve it. They reach several roadblocks along the way of getting closer, some more dangerous than others. A collaboration written alongside Connor-sent-by-Cyberlife for the Reverse Big Bang 2024, told with a POV alternating between Hank and Connor. Chapters added weekly.

[lavenderspence]

coming from a pr student, making your driver film a video where he address fans and has to lowkey make excuses for your mistakes (possibly being fed all of this beforehand) isn't the way to placate fans and make them accept or even excuse your bullshit.

How about instead of doing that, you take your work seriously next time around, so we aren't forced to see this week after week while being fed false hope? I don't think your driver deserves this, and neither do the dedicated fans who just started believing in you again. Looks like we're back circa 2022

Do better. Thank you ferrari🙃

[ovenproofowl]

Despite the whackiness of the special effects, there were a lot of dark themes thrown about in this episode, but none - I think - were darker than the conversation the Doctor had with who he thought was Donna.

The fact she baits him by using the information she's learned from his mind, that she lets him think the DoctorDonna showed her everything that happened with Flux and the Doctor's own mysterious origins. And it kills me because the Doctor hasn't been able to talk to anyone about this. Not in depth. Not at all. And they're finally in a body that can say stuff like love and hug with abandon, facing one of their best friends and she knows everything, the Doctor thinks, so for just a second the walls go down and he steps forward and he's about to unleash it all.

And then the mask comes off. And it's not Donna at all, but he's still stood there with everything on the tip of his toungue with no choice but to swallow it down again. To yell and kick and scream where no one can hear him. Just like it's always been.

This was exactly how I was hoping they'd incorporate Flux and The Timeless Child into the story. I'm really wishing they'll stick to these themes going forward, with the Doctor's guilt and anger finally bubbling up, because so much could be done with it.

For now though, I am just so happy we got this.

[annabelle--cane]

being a somewhat strange person, your friends and family get used to hearing strange things about you rather quickly, until you say something that would knock an unsuspecting classmate or coworker flat but your well-acclimated closer companion simply nods and says "stands to reason," so there's a certain joy in occasionally saying something so unusual that your own mother of twenty-one years puckers her lips in shock and says "marina... that's not normal..."

[whywishesarehorses]

The donkey is PROFOUNDLY interesting

[contagiousrhythminmybrain]

10 YEAR ANNIVERSARY Meryl Davis and Charlie White win Olympic gold in ice dance