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absolutebl · 2 years

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You're in filmmaking and working on your big dream BL production, your writer is one of the best, you got decent budget, interested sponsors, a great director, a professional crew. Now, you gotta cast your actors, the mains and maybe a sidedish. Who would you chose and why? Which criteria would you apply for example age, appearance, acting style, experience, ability to create chemistry, on-screen charisma, name recognizability? Which actors would you pair and why? Make it country specific.

MY ULTIMATE FANTASY CAST + BL MASTERPIECE!

If I could have any BL in the world. What would I pick?

I kinda already did this here:

TOP 10 BL PAIRS + What They Should Play Next - I chose SamYu for the gay Descendants of the Sun, but you threw the door wide open on this one so I am pushing it. (I also did Crazy BL Actor Pairing I'd Love to See )

I hold by those picks but I’ll reboot the game a little.

Now, you gotta cast your actors, the mains and maybe a sidedish. Who would you chose and why?

(SamYu - We Best Love) in a Taiwanese production of Hospital Playlist.

So Hospital Playlist is a true ensemble piece with 5 leads, but the anchor relationship would be these two. In case you were in any possible doubt as to my ultimate bias.

(L-R: prudish pediatrician, arrogant heart surgeon, comedic general surgeon, neurotic OBGYN, warm & brilliant neurosurgeon)

Hospital Playlist is not just one of my favorite Kdramas, it’s one of my favorite dramas of all time. I love a medical drama, it has multiple solid romances all ending happily, it’s about older characters, there are complex stories and GREAT side characters, food is vitally important, and it’s ultimately extremely comforting. It’s sadly het, tho.

So I want Taiwan to do the queer version. And I want it to get the proper treatment the way Taiwan sometimes does with their het stuff, like full on 20-30 episodes.

Hospital Playlist only it’s 5 queer surgeons, paired as follows:

Sam plays the funny single dad general surgeon (his husband left him alone with their adopted son, yadda yadda)

Yu is the kind hearted brilliant neuroscientist. I’d like to see him play a warm nerdy character for a change.

(Spoiler, these two characters are already besties who once moot-pined and eventually end up together.)

Lin Yu (OuWen from Love is Science) plays is the arrogant heart surgeon. Of COURSE HE DOES. Slayed by the military boy in the end, of course. Honestly we can pair him with Anderson Cheng again as Sam’s younger brother, but I’m not married to that pairing.

The OBGYN has to be our neurotic chaos bi character (that comedy writes itself) and I would cast Bruce He in the role. Because, he has dimples and I love him in everything and I am shallow af. He can have all the crazy exes up the wazoo. That’d be fun. I don not care who he ends up with.

I’d turn the rich prude pediatrician character into a lesbian who I want played by Aviis Zhong, because she hasn’t played enough lesbians yet. Never enough lesbians.

I want her slow pining desperate younger love interest (AGE GAP!) to be played by Tannie Huang (DNA Says Love You bestie). I think they would kill it.

I want the older administrator of the hospital adopted lesbian mom of the group to be Tammy Darshana Lai (Encore Martha). And I want her to be having her own life, quandaries and relationships.

Which criteria would you apply for example age:

I’d like it to be older characters in general. I love a high school drama but I’d like something more relatable to me, and more meaty for the actors to sink into, where being queer is there, and important, but there’s other life shit going on (ex spouses, children, career hiccoughs, side interests and hobbies).

Clearly I’m picking all over the place on actual actor ages, but the main characters would all be in their late 30s at least. The support cast of residents and students and patients so forth would be many other ages.

I’d like the Love is Science? team to direct (Tsai Mi Chieh & Chang Chin Jung).

Appearance, acting style, experience, ability to create chemistry, on-screen charisma, name recognizability?

I want mostly pretty because, as already mentioned, I shallow af. But I also want broad queer rep and diversity. So trans characters, butch, femme, various creeds and colors, all of them - in complex, capable professional doctor roles and positions of power. I want it to look like the Philippines vomited queer rep on this hospital.

It’s my fantasy medical drama, I’ll queer it up if I wanna.

I think Taiwan in general has a realistic, highly physical, slightly comedic acting style that would suit Hospital Playlist very well. (Probubly better than Korea’s style did, quite frankly.)

All the actors I chose (but Yu) are experienced and established. I think Avis and Bruce are big enough names for major draw. And SamYu as a pair are a big enough deal to pull the BL audience in spades. A show like this could take off international well and easily. Authentic queer rep is one of Taiwan’s strengths and this kind of show could showcase that for truly broad appeal, like Asia’s version of Queer as Folk, only a million times BETTER.

Did I sell you on it?

(source)

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cupheart-land-of-aviie · 28 days

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She is three apples tall :)

Ik her uniform makes no sense when the grass in Aviie is pink shhhh-

(I feel like I should clarify when posting a military character during the current situation even though I've made it clear before, Free Palestine. I do not support the IDF at all, and it's frankly disgusting to see how, in the era where information is most avaliable, people still refuse to educate themselves. 🇵🇸🇨🇩)

Gwen is now avaliable for asks!

Characters avaliable to ask: Jeremy Heere, Michael Mell, Christine Canigula, Brooke Lohst, Chole Valentine, Jenna Roland, Jake Dillenger, Rich Goranski, Evan Hansen, Connor Murphy, Zoe Murphy, Alana Beck, Jared Klienman, Baldi, Principal of the Thing, Gotta Sweep, Null, Playtime, Bully, Arts and Crafters, 1st Prize, Beans, Cuphead, Mugman, Bendy, Sally Face, Larry Johnson, Blanc Slatee, The Squip, Monsune, Milky, Cyanide, Gloopy, Gwen.

Text Write Up:

Gwen: Klevki and Apricot should be out in a second.

Brooke: Aww!! She's so cute!! Can I give her headpats?

Chole: Brookie, that's weird...

Gwen: I, Gwendolyn Chimp, am the same age as you, and at age 3, I had men fall and crumble at my behest. You will *earn* the right to pat me on the head.

#ask blog #cloa #cupheart #cupheart land of aviie #send asks #send me asks #be more chill #brooke lohst #chole valentine #chole bmc #brooke bmc #Gwendolyn Chimp #gwen cupheart

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scribblesbyavi · 7 months

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Avii why no writings.....

no readers, no writings….

just kidding! have been running busy with work.

SOON…

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thetlctrash · 1 year

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Intro because I haven’t yet

My name’s Avii, I’m female and a minor. I post exclusively The Lunar Chronicles content. I do write fanfic (usually not for this fandom) so if you have any requests feel free to ask :) can’t promise anything about quality though. Anyways most of my posts are crack or rants so stick around for more brainrot.

Main: @viva-la-fu

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tallboyben · 4 years

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no sir i’m not saying i’m inspired by this and that i want to write an angsty turn fic about a gal who enlists with her husband and then he dies and then she falls in love with someone else but that’s exactly what i’m saying

#idk if im up to writing another longfic but we shall see #when i say someone else yall know who i mean #avii speaks #writer!avii makes an appearance

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aviiens · 4 years

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possibly the greatest feeling in the world is making a writing schedule and actually sticking to it :-)

i’ve been writing at least 1k words every day for four days so far and i’m so proud because i’ve never been this consistent before!!

#avii speaks #writing

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chaosintheavenue · 3 years

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Fallout Bang Summary Post

Most of the pieces created for the 2020 Fallout Bang event have now been posted (there are a handful of pieces with deadline extensions left to come in, which will be added to this post in future). Here’s a little index/summary in case you missed any!

A Little Closer

Writing by @nonopi Art by @commonwealthcommoner

[Writing] [Art]

Dear Hearts And Gentle Nightkin

Writing by @roachvalentine Art by @sarsaparilla-star

[Writing] [Art]

I’d Rather Not Die Young

Warnings: Blood Writing by @mouseclarke Art by @i-aviy

[Writing] [Art]

Just The Way You Are

Writing by @nukaworld-nora

Art by @mutantenfisch

[Writing] [Art]

Midnight Snack

Writing by @pchberrytea Art by @euclidsefinder

[Writing] [Art]

Mistaken Identity

Writing by @chaosintheavenue Art by @itisadragon

[Writing] [Art]

Noir, Autumnal

Writing by @bellzaboohuffin Art by @brofligate

[Writing] [Art]

Nuclear Family

Writing by @scipiolyoko Art by @checkered-madness

[Writing] [Art]

Radiation Family

Writing by @lady-luck-courier Art by @catbunblue302

[Writing] [Art]

Stories

Writing by @euclidsefinder Art by @hydroflorix

[Writing] [Art]

The Beginning And The End

Warnings: Blood, violence, suicide mentions Writing by @gaybabylegs Art by @bigmoodquotes

[Writing] [Art]

We All Go Together

Writing by @unconfirmedbachelor Art by @bigmoodquotes

[Writing] [Art]

What Happens In New Vegas...

Writing by @theuntitledwriter Art by @mitsybubbles

[Writing] [Art]

With A Little Help From My Friends

Writing by @aspiringhorrorauthor Art by @paladinthrockmorton

[Writing] [Art]

And so, that's a wrap... for now. Current plans are to host a second, longer Bang with a specific theme in the new year, so look out for information on that! Oh, and our Discord server will remain open for general chatter and use of the writer and artist spaces, but anyone who isn't interested in using those is absolutely free to leave if they wish!

Before I ‘officially’ close this event, I‘d like to send a huge thank you to everyone who participated and helped to make this event what it was, with special thanks to those who took on two partners (namely, bigmoodquotes, euclidsefinder and theuntitledwriter) and blessed me with their Discord know-how (commonwealthcommoner and mouseclarke)!

#falloutbang #long post #thought I'd post it now before memories start to fade #and also because a few peeps have been waiting to see the list in one place for a while #sorry for the delay in putting this together!#there are a LOT of links in this post and there is potential for any one of them not to work #so let me know if there are any issues with it please :)

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thehoveringbrain · 6 years

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31 Days Of Character Development - Day 15.1

Write a short blurb of your character interaction with each other character

I’m splitting this into separate posts for each character or it’ll be the worst wall of text ever ;)

Sheen and Alena

The city sprawled beneath them. Alena's feet tapped on the white stone of the tower. Sheen looked down. The people on the streets were going home for dinner, to their families, to their friends.

"When's your curfew?"

Alena shrugged, "I can sneak in".

Sheen looked up. She followed with her eyes the path of a couple of golden swirls in the sky. She could hear Alena breathe at her side.

"I'll come back, you know?" said her.

"It's a war" said Sheen, she looked at her friend, "Not everyone comes back".

"Are you mad at me?"

"No"

"You are mad at me!" said Alena. The elf swung her legs back on the tower's floor. "Avii, Sheen, I'm a soldier, you knew this would happen!" Sheen stood still, "But you're young", she said.

"I was young when we met, now not anymore. I'm ready, we are ready. Beside that, we’ll be in Darzlet, just doing some peace enforcement".

Sheen silently mouthed the word. Alena, her little Helle, stood in front of her, hands on her hips. "I won't be coming tomorrow at the Gate" said Sheen.

"I know. We're leaving too early anyway". Alena tried to catch her eye, "Bye then, uh?"

Sheen smiled bitterly. "Sheen", said Alena, "Don't be mad at me". Sheen nodded. She stood, they hugged. Alena left. She left her on that tower alone.

#wordsnstuffcharacterdevelopment #my writing #oops a brain #writing #sheen #helle

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absolutebl · 2 years

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You did a post earlier about BL actors you would love to see together in a BL, but I would love to see actresses you would love to see do a GL together!

Ooooo, what a GREAT question.

Actresses I'd Love To See Do GL!

Jan Ployshompoo (SOTUS, Cupid’s Last Wish) + Mild Lapassalan (3 Will Be Free, Dark Blue Kiss)

Why? They are both super charismatic and likable, they could do a great take on a Bad Buddy style premise. Enemies to lovers kind of thing.

Gigie Chanunphat (2gether) + Jamie Juthapich (Baker Boys, Kiss Me Again)

These two are very different in terms of style and screen appeal, I could see them doing something cutthroat and edgy set in the fashion or tech industry.

Tanshi Bumrungkit (Together with Me) + Momo Pawarisa (La Cuisine)

What, it’s me? Of course I’m picking an age gap. And you know I want it to be older sister’s best friend trope. I’m thinking lots of pining and child hood crush etc... Ooo, could we push into teacher’s pet territory? Eh, too kinky, better leave that to Japan.

Fah Wisansaya (Love Area) + Pray Praeploy (Why R U?)

This is my hacker/programmer or gammer girl pick. I’m thinking a lesbian Falling Into You Smile. The older girl broke ground as the first female pro-gamer, the younger girl is the new upstart with stars in her eyes. It writes itself.

I would also like to see these already established pairs get full shows:

Bad Buddy

Seven Project

From Taiwan?

Aviis Zhong & Tannie Huang (DNA Says Love You)

Aviis has done a kinda GL before, but I wasn’t wild about it. These two are KILLER performers and it’s Taiwan, so make it high heat and hella messy, (so long as its HEA). How about Trapped the GL version? SCI Mysteries only lesbians? MoD the lady’s stop a murderer?

From Japan?

Noriko Iriyama & Matsui Airi

I love the idea of a tsundere older character and cheerful sunshine puppy pursuer. Something in the To My Star vein, only with Japan’s kinky touch? Let’s go with that.

From Korea?

Jeon Mi Do & Seo Hyun Jin

This should be a straight up (pun intended) office set Kdrama, all the tropes, just they v gay. That’s it, that’s all I want. They’re both mature, career women, established dating history, one of them can know she likes girls, the other one can find it out as they go along. Make it hurt so good. Lots of mess and pining. Stupid separation in the final ep. Classic Kdrama, it’s just they're lesbians, Korea.

(source)

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patrice-bergerons · 7 years

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You're amazing, one of my favorite mutuals, I love your writing, and we both love United so that's really amazing as well!

Eeeeeee Avii you are the best!

tell me one thing you secretly think of me, anonymously or not!

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tometales-blog1 · 7 years

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Welcome to TomeTales

Q: What do we call you?

Admin Aivy: Call me Aivy! I’ll sign off any of my works as Aivy and if you want to submit something or request, remember that there’s two admins and we both write different things (sometimes) so either put Aivy or Snowy for the admin you want to see/write it :)

Admin Snowy: Snowy. That’s what most call me. As Aviy said, I’ll be signing my works with Snowy as well.

Q: What groups do you write for?

Admin Aivy: I write for various groups, such as: Monsta X, BIGBANG, BTS, and more!

Admin Snowy: I don’t write for as many groups as Aivy, mainly for Seventeen, but I can do BTS too! I’m in charge of other fandoms ^^”

Q: What other fandoms do you write for?

Admin Aivy: Mystic Messenger, Vampire Knight, Diabolik Lovers, etc

Admin Snowy: Mystic Messenger, Fire Emblem, and various of anime series; Bleach, Diabolik Lovers, Assassination Classroom, Attack on Titan, and others. I also have my own original story which I may be posting here!

Q: What sort of fics? Only xReader?

Admin Aivy: I also write MxM, GxG, etc. In other words, I basically write x everything and anything XD

Admin Snowy: I don’t mind. I prefer xReader and xOC.

Q: Do you have any fic recs?

Admin Aivy: I can include fic recs if anyone wants any, just ask c:

Admin Snowy: We’ll do a fic rec post if need be.

Q: Do you have an update schedule?

Admin Aivy: No, sorry ;n; I have school, but I’ll try to update when I have free time~

Admin Snowy: Nope, my schedule will work around my school work ^^”

Q: What AU’s do you write?

Admin Aivy: Lots of different ones! Fairy AU’s, Hybrid AU’s, Royalty AU’s, etc

Admin Snowy: Tons, though I do prefer writing the original the most.

Q: Do you do anything other than writing, eg. Texts, snaps, reactions, etc?

Admin Aivy: I wouldn’t mind doing reactions and ships, but I don’t know how to do texts and snaps so I won’t be doing those, sorry ^^’’

Admin Snowy: I’ve never tried, though I doubt I will be.

Q: Do you do drabble games?

Admin Aivy: I’ve never done a drabble game before, but I’m willing to try!

Admin Snowy: Sure thing!

Q: Do you do fanart?

Admin Aivy: I wish ;n; I’m bad at art so I don’t think I will be

Admin Snowy: A little, but I don’t have too much time to do so.

Q: Do you take requests?

Admin Aivy: Yup! Just to note that I’ll need you guys to be patient with the amount of time it takes for your request to be posted~

Admin Snowy: Yup, 100%. It’s hard to write with my ideas only all the time.

Q: Do you take anonymous requests?

Admin Aivy: Yep!

Admin Snowy: Mhm.

Q: Do you have any guidelines for requests?

Admin Aivy: Other than I would prefer if there wasn’t a vague request as I can’t do much with that, then no, I don’t have any guidelines c:

Admin Snowy: Just note if it is a vague request or not, so I know if I need to be specific and follow something, or if I can make stuff up.

Q: If I had a problem, could I talk to you about it?

Admin Aivy: Of course! Though I can’t guarantee I can be of much help, I’ll try be there for you c:

Admin Snowy: If you feel comfortable, then go right ahead.

Q: Will this only be writing and such?

Admin Aivy: Since I do have another tumblr, I probably won’t be using this one for reblogging, but who knows, if I see something interesting then maybe XD

Admin Snowy: I don’t have another tumblr, so I will be using this account for reblogging and such as well.

Q: Will there ever be more than two admins?

Admin Snowy: No, there will only be two admins. We don’t need anymore I think.

Q: Will you accept other questions?

Admin Aivy: Yep! Remember to show whether the question is for me or Snowy or both :)

Admin Snowy: Mhm, just make sure to state who it is for.

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papercinders · 4 years

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wanderer

PART I OF ENIGMA

PAIRING: obi-wan/reader RATING: PG WORD COUNT: 2.8k SUMMARY: the stranger comes to tatooine with an orphaned child. you are certain that he belongs in the stars. not here. or: the first time you ask obi-wan who he is. A/N: this is the first fic i’m brave enough to post online. no warnings unless you count angst. this is the first chapter of enigma, a six-part series.

next part | ao3 | masterlist

The first time you meet him is in a musty cantina on Tatooine, hung with the scent of dried sweat and watered-down alcohol. The air is still. Lazy. Particles of dust spin in the sunlight that streams through the angled blinds of the only window.

A cup of something foul is set before you, but only because the owner will kick you out of the establishment if you don’t buy something. The drink goes untouched. It’s an excuse to sit in a dim corner of the cantina and spend the afternoon inside, away from the thick heat of Tatooine’s binary suns. If only for a little while, you’re content to drift into a glassy-eyed, passive mode of pure observation.

When he steps through the doors of the cantina, stopping just past the threshold as the doors close behind him, the first thing you notice is his boots. They’re clean. Then you take in the surety of his posture, even if he is unmoving at the front of the cantina. A beard, but trimmed; coarse clothing, but neat; guarded eyes, but not cruel. Bounty hunter, you decide, but then again, the galaxy is brimming with so many people it’s impossible to pinpoint whether the newcomer is a trader passing through Mos Eisley or a smuggler collecting a shipment of spice or simply another face in a crowd of people who somehow wash up on Tatooine and end up stuck.

It doesn’t matter where he’s from. Everyone gets used to the sand and the sweat and the sunburn. Eventually, at least.

A cloak trails behind him as he strides through the cantina, boots barely scuffing against the floor. His hands are not hidden nor gloved, you notice, and you decide that he is not a bounty hunter, a smuggler, or a mechanic. He is the kind of riddle that you would like to solve, but your interest is passive.

The stranger disappears from your line of sight, and you lean back against the corner of the wall. It’s getting late, judging by the gold-tinted line of light on the ground, from where sunlight seeps through the sliver of space between the door and the wall.

There’s the slight murmur of voices, and then the cloaked, empty-handed stranger emerges again, escorted by the owner of the bar. You catch him say Jundland wastes and guide, and then your interest is piqued. The newcomer’s clean boots and clothing must have caught the eye of the cantina owner, partly because a newcomer means an easy scam and partly because nice clothing means good coin. Even if the stranger doesn’t know it, whoever the cantina owner presents as a guide to the Jundland wastes will surely charge an exorbitant fee. It’s common practice. Mos Eisley isn’t known for being nice.

But some part of you doesn’t want to let the stranger get abandoned in the middle of the desert, all his earnings stolen, scammed and left for dead. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t fit in with the sand and the scum of Tatooine, even if his clothing is woven of coarse cloth and doesn’t look like it belongs on Coruscant or Alderaan, either. Maybe it’s because he walks without hiding his hands or his face, or simply because he doesn’t seem to harbor much fear. He might be an honest fool. He might not be.

You don’t really know why you do it ― later, a collection of words can quantify your reasons, but for now, you aren’t entirely sure why you stand and cross the short distance to the stranger and the cantina owner.

“The Wastes are crawling with Tusken Raiders,” the owner is saying, in a gravelly rasp, as you draw near. “Five hundred credits is cheap. No one’ll do that work for less.”

“I’ll do it for free,” you cut in, and you’re still not sure why you’ve taken such an interest in this stranger. Are you so far gone that decent hygiene will compel you to stick out your neck for someone you haven’t even met? Still, you can’t shake the feeling that there’s something different about him.

The stranger and the owner have gone silent, both pairs of eyes sliding over to look at you. There’s something murderous in the narrowed eyes of the surly cantina owner, but that’s to be expected. You just foiled his scam. Slowly, you turn to the stranger, as if finally making eye contact with him is like spoiling the end of a story.

His eyes are blue, you notice, and his brow is furrowed in slight confusion. He holds your gaze for a moment longer, as if you are the riddle and not him, and then turns back to the cantina owner.

The owner is indignant, looking you over as if to reconcile your words with the unobtrusive nature of your appearance. “And who’re you?”

You glance at the newcomer, and his eyes pin you there for a moment. You smile. “A friend. Or at least, I’m friendly enough to stop an innocent traveler from being scammed.”

The owner arranges his face into something slightly less murderous. He fumbles for words. Finds them, after a few moments. “Scammed?” He pauses to huff. “It’s dangerous out there. This ― this girl can’t protect you from Tusken Raiders.”

You open your mouth to defend yourself, but the stranger speaks before you can.

“Oh, I’m not concerned about raiders,” he says, and his voice is carried by a lovely accent that sounds so...un-Tatooine. There’s some kind of playful music in the tones of his voice, though subtle. Coruscanti, you speculate, but you’ve never even been to Coruscant.

“If you wanna risk it,” the cantina owner says, when he has no response. “I warned you.” He’s met with silence, and his eyes shift to you and the stranger, almost accusatory. “If you’re not gonna buy anything, stop loitering.”

“I bought a drink,” you point out, more out of spite than anything, motioning to your booth in the corner of the cantina, abandoned drink still untouched.

“He hasn’t,” the owner replies, and levels a look at you. It’s not like you threatened his family or tried to steal from him, but then again, in Mos Eisley, hindering business is considered its equivalent anyway.

“Fair enough.” You meet the eyes of the stranger and then nod to the doors, and he follows close behind as you exit the establishment. You won’t be returning to this cantina, but it’s not like you were ever thrilled by the dim interior or the simultaneously tasteless and foul alcohol.

As soon as the doors slide shut and the stranger pulls up next to you, passing a glance over, you speak. “Who are you?”

His eyebrows pull together almost imperceptibly, eyes dropping to the ground and then back to your face. “Who am I?” he repeats, and something resembling a smile tugs at the corners of his lips; but it fades as soon as it appears, along with the look in his eyes that makes you wonder all the more. He finds the words he’s looking for. “Just a wanderer. Now, you can lead me through the Jundland Wastes?”

You nod, still trying to place what his occupation is. Wanderers don’t wash up on Tatooine with Inner Rim accents and clean boots. Wanderers don’t look for guides to lead them to specific places, even if the Wastes are vast and empty.

“There’s something I have to get from my ship,” he says. “I hope you don’t mind.”

You pause for a moment as his eyes search yours. “I don’t,” you say, “as long as you tell me your name.”

His lips curve into a slight smile, and this time it doesn’t fade nearly as soon. And perhaps it reaches his eyes, too. He’s silent for a few seconds before he tells you his name, voice low against the soft hum of Mos Eisley. A single syllable: “Ben.”

You repeat his name aloud, and though it’s just a name ― unobtrusive, uncomplicated ― it somehow feels significant. He smiles again when you say it, eyes crinkling up in the slightest, but he doesn’t ask for your name in return. It could be because you’re just his guide, but you’d like to think it’s because he’s noticed you haven’t offered it and doesn’t want to inquire.

Ben. It’s not the answer to the riddle, but it’s something. For a moment longer, his gaze is warm ― not hot, like Tatooine at midday, but warm. Then he turns back to the road, glances back to confirm you’ll follow, and sets off toward his ship.

You follow close behind, wondering what business he has with Tatooine; what he wants from this world of dust and deserted dreams.

The ship is situated past the outskirts of Mos Eisley, and sand whips past your face as you make the short trek to the starfighter that lies on the crest of a sand dune. In the warm light of late afternoon, the ship’s metal ridges glint gold.

He ― Ben ― tells you to stop before you draw near to the ship, and you comply silently, watching as he goes the remainder of the way to his ship, the edge of his cloak dragging in the sand. He’s been quiet for your short journey here, hardly saying more than necessary, but you get the feeling that he’s usually more talkative.

You’re not close enough to the starfighter to decide what kind of model it is, but it doesn’t look like the kind of makeshift, ill-repaired vessel that bounty hunters and smugglers travel by. Perhaps he’s involved in something equally as lucrative but still legal ― at this point, you’ve decided that he’s not a fugitive and not involved in semi-illegal operations. But even though legal and wealthy aren’t usually synonymous on Tatooine, you suppose it’s possible. He isn’t from here, anyway.

Ben returns, arms cradling a bundle of something wrapped in cloth. He holds it close to his chest as he climbs the rest of the way back to you, and then merely nods once. Let’s go, he seems to say, and whatever he’s holding must be important, because the tentative friendliness you built up before is set aside in lieu of some odd mix of caution and haste.

You turn to lead the way back to Mos Eisley ― there, you can buy better transportation ― but a soft cry breaks the silence. It’s simultaneously unfamiliar and universally recognizable.

“Is that a baby?” you say carefully, turning back around to face Ben.

He hugs the bundle to himself, as if you pose some kind of threat. Ben’s eyes search yours, and it’s the first time you’ve seen any kind of uncertainty in him. Even if you’ve only known him for a few hours at most. He clears his throat. “It is.”

A litany of questions threaten to spill from your lips, but you notice that he doesn’t offer any more information. You can’t help it, though. You have to know. The question is blunt, and it even makes you cringe, but you ask it anyway: “Are you a slaver?”

Ben recoils almost instantly, looking from you to the baby, still hidden from your view by layers of cloth and the extra fabric of his cloak. “No,” he says, and the word is forceful but not forced. “Why...why would you think that?”

You shrug, shift nervously for a moment, and then decide that you might as well tell the truth. You motion to him with a vague hand. “You’re not poor, obviously, and you have a nice ship. You’re not from Tatooine, but you’re passing through, looking for a single location. And you carry a baby, though something about it makes you uncomfortable.”

The last part was a guess, but you didn’t anticipate that he would react with a visible flinch, features twisting for barely a moment. It’s brief, but you suppose there is something important about this infant that he carries so protectively and yet so wearily.

You’re met with silence, if you don’t count the constant blowing of wind over the sand dunes or the soft noise of Mos Eisley nearby.

“I apologize,” you say, when the pause extends a beat too long. “I overstepped my bounds. Come on. We should leave now to get to Anchorhead before dark.”

He nods, almost imperceptibly, and you lead the way back to Mos Eisley, silently berating yourself. There could be a number of reasons why he has a baby, and an even longer list of reasons why there might be complicated feelings surrounding the baby. It’s not your place to pry. You offered to take Ben through the Jundland Wastes free of charge just because he intrigued you, but now you wonder if it would have been better had you stayed silent.

A few minutes later, you’re surprised to hear his voice. “He’s not my son,” Ben says, and you turn to look at him, faltering in your steps for a moment, though his gaze is fixed ahead firmly. “His father was killed. In the war.”

Oh. You know people who were affected by the war, of course, but there are some things that are too tragic to reconcile with words alone, some things that go beyond your capacity for comfort. What’s left is a void of numbness and dumb silence, and you scramble for something to say. How do you give your condolences for a son who will never know his father?

“I…” you start uncertainly, because you know that you have to start somewhere, but words still fail you. “I’m sorry.”

“So am I.” Ben’s voice is soft and low, and he looks at the face of the baby in his arms. “So am I.”

You wonder if this is the end of the story, the answer to the riddle; if this sorrow is what marks him apart from the rest, if this burden is what renders him alone. Perhaps there’s more ― he hasn’t told you his occupation, or where he comes from, or the model of his ship ― or perhaps there isn’t.

“What’s his name?” The question tumbles from your mouth, clumsily, and you immediately wonder when you’ll finally learn your lesson to stop prying.

But just as surprising as before, Ben answers. “Luke,” he says, and like his own, the name is simple, a single syllable, a lone note on a sheet of music.

You don’t know what lies behind either of their names, but there is a brand of steadfastness in the quiet solitude of the wanderer and his ward and the names he has given to you. It’s more of who he is ― his voice, his eyes, his disposition ― that intrigues you than the names themselves. He could have given you any name, you realize, and his voice would have made it sound like the first note of a song. You would have wanted to hear more, either way.

Before, when he told you his name, there had been some kind of wistful nostalgia associated with it ― he had smiled, even ― but his eyes are more sorrow than memory. The Clone Wars are over, now, but only within the last week. You wonder where Ben comes from, how he knew Luke’s father, whether it was Separatist or Republic forces who orphaned a child in the last days of the war.

“Come on,” you say softly, picking your feet up off the sand and angling yourself toward Mos Eisley. The sun hangs between the horizon and the sky overhead. “We should get going.”

“Alright,” Ben says, even if you have the inkling of an idea that things aren’t.

But you remind yourself that it’s not your place to pry, so you tear your eyes away from his, trying to ignore the contrast between the clear blue of his eyes and the endless expanse of sand and sun. You forge ahead toward Mos Eisley, but you can’t forget the still image of Ben framed in the glow of two stars, the edge of his face traced in waning gold sunlight.

You also can’t shake the feeling that he is meant for far more than still deserts and oppressive suns and seas of sand. You try to picture him somewhere else and you can’t place an exact location. But you’re almost certain that in some other life ― some parallel universe, perhaps ― he is more than just a wanderer.

#star wars fanfic #obi wan kenobi x reader #obi wan x reader #star wars fanfiction #star wars reader insert #avii writes #fic: enigma #userkarina #im scared to post mom come get me

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tallboyben · 4 years

Text

ben’s season 4 hair gives me hope for this election

#also makes me wanna write something #too bad i have like 4 other wips in the way #benjamin tallmadge #avii speaks

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papercinders · 4 years

Text

exile

PART II OF ENIGMA

PAIRING: obi-wan/reader RATING: PG WORD COUNT: 3.0k SUMMARY: he had a home, once, but now it is gone. you offer yours, if only for the night. or: the second time you ask obi-wan who he is. A/N: this is the second installment of enigma, a six-part series; updates every saturday. let me know if you would like to be added to the taglist. otherwise, enjoy!

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By the time you reach the farm, night has almost fallen. It’s not cold, but compared to the blistering heat of day, Tatooine by night is pleasant. The sky is painted in strokes of bluish gray and amber, the brighter of the two stars following the other as it sinks below the horizon. Soon, the farmstead will be cast in an expanse of pure darkness.

You hold the reins of the eopies, watching from a distance as Ben carries the bundle to the two silhouettes standing at the edge of their settlement. It’s a humble abode. The landscape is barren. You watch as the infant is passed between them. His name is Luke, you remind yourself.

You wonder who these people are. They take the baby with outstretched hands and little words, and the man wraps an arm around the woman as they turn toward the sunset, as if they are the last people in the galaxy, standing against some insurmountable obstacle. It’s just a baby, you tell yourself. It’s just an orphaned baby, and not even orphaned anymore.

Ben stands there for a moment, cloaked, a dark stain against the residual light of Tatooine’s binary sunset, but only for a moment. Then he turns back toward you, face unreadable, and though he arrived in Tatooine with empty hands, it doesn’t look like he has let go of anything.

When he is near enough for you to call out to him, you hold back words. He stops before you, eyes not meeting yours, and then slowly raises his head to meet your gaze. The world remains silent for another moment, and then ―

“I haven’t even asked for your name.”

He says it as if you haven’t noticed. To him, you suppose you’re just a speck in a sky of grief. His face seems to fit into the mold of a smile so well, so often, and yet he has shown you little joy. You suspect he is here because of some unspeakable tragedy.

You realize that he is still watching you, and you say your name quietly, as if afraid to give too much of yourself away. Even though names, at their base level, are meaningless ― you learn far more about a person from actions and words ― there is something in that uselessness that makes a name all the more intimate.

Ben pauses for a moment, eyes still holding yours, and then he nods once, a single acknowledgment. “Thank you,” he says, but he does not repeat your name. You wonder why.

He crosses to one of the two eopies and hauls himself over the side of the creature and into the saddle; casts a glance at you from the side, and then dips his head in some form of goodbye.

Before he pulls the reins, the words come pouring out of your mouth. Part of it is genuine curiosity, but the other part of it is some desperate desire for him to stay. You tell yourself it’s because you haven’t figured him out yet. Just like before, you can’t quite explain why you speak. But just like before, you do.

“Where will you go?”

There’s a lull in the breeze, and everything holds its breath before he forms words. Ben searches your eyes. “Here,” he says, and from beneath his cloak, produces a few credits. They clink together. He holds out his hand for you to take the credits.

You look at the offered credits, glinting in the quickly-fading light, and then back to Ben. His hand is still outstretched, open. “I said I’d be your guide for free,” you say, and make no move to take the money.

Slowly, he pulls his hand back and stows the credits away again, still watching you. His eyes are blue like water, or maybe an ocean. You’ve seen bodies of water before, of course, but they don’t exist on Tatooine. At least, not until he arrived.

“Where will I go?” Ben muses, and he finally breaks eye contact, sweeping a gaze over the endless landscape of sand and horizon, interrupted only by the farmstead. “My ship, I suppose. I’ll return the eopies.”

“And after that?”

“After that?” he repeats, glancing at you briefly. His eyes are not wholly troubled, but neither does he seem unburdened or at peace. Exhausted, maybe. He sighs, shoulders rising and falling. “I’ll find somewhere to stay. Somewhere near here.”

“On Tatooine?” you say, and you can’t keep the disbelief from bleeding into your voice. He has a working ship, from the looks of it, enough credits to spare, and no reason to remain on Tatooine. Who would willingly stay here?

Ben is quiet for a beat. “Yes.”

The word why almost slips past your lips unhindered, but you remind yourself that you are still strangers. It’s one thing to know where he is going and how he will get there; it’s another to ask him to explain. Especially when he doesn’t seem keen to answer.

You follow his gaze to the small, round house on the edge of the moisture farm. The couple has disappeared inside with the baby. You wonder what Luke is to Ben; what it meant to take care of him, what it meant to give him up. You have the barest of ideas that he intends to stay on Tatooine for the child, but you wonder why, then, he gave him up in the first place.

“I should leave now,” Ben says.

Both stars have disappeared beneath the horizon. Light still radiates where sky meets land, but with every minute, it is leeched away. Darkness has already rendered the clouds gray and the opposite horizon a palette of muted tones.

Night is falling. He’s right. He should leave now.

But instead, you ask, “You have nowhere to go?” Behind the question is a variety of implications. You hope he takes it at face value. A ship, after all, is not a home.

He hesitates, as if weighing whether he considers a single-pilot starfighter to be sufficient. In the end, the silence stretches on, and you decide for him.

“There’s an extra room at my place,” you say, but your voice is quiet. You’re suddenly aware that you’re offering to let a stranger into your home ― even if your home isn’t much ― and you don’t even know what he does for a living or what his surname is. It’s in a different category than offering to be a guide.

Ben’s brow furrows, and he looks at you as if trying to figure out why you would offer something of yours so freely. “Why?” he asks, and it’s a fair question.

You’re not sure what to say, so you settle on honesty. “A ship is not a home.”

“Do you offer a room to every traveler passing through Tatooine?”

“No,” you say. A pause. “But you’re not a traveler passing through.” You know why he asked the previous question. He’s unsure of your motives; you can read it through more than just his words. “You just…” You search for words to describe what you know of grief. It’s futile. “You seem lost. Alone.”

When there’s more silence, you nearly backtrack, take back all of your words as if they are crumbs you can sweep from the floor and throw away.

But before you can retract your offer, Ben says your name. It sounds strange, unfamiliar ― it has been a long time since anyone has called you anything except girl and you ― but it is a part of you, after all.

“You’ve already been kind to me,” he says, and his voice is soft, even in the slow breeze as it rolls over the sand dunes. “I only need a place to stay for the night. At first light, I’ll be on my way.”

You’re surprised. He doesn’t come across as the kind of person who would accept help without a fight. But then again, he seems tired. Weary. Perhaps a little broken ― or a lot. Maybe, you decide, he has already survived a battle. A war. And maybe that’s why you have given him your time, your home, and your kindness.

The Republic is now the Empire. The war is now the past. It has left behind pieces and shards and ashes, and perhaps it is your job to pick them up. Or perhaps you only tell yourself that because you have no other purpose in this endless, lonely expanse of desert and empty wind.

You don’t have much food to offer him, but you don’t bother apologizing. You know he’ll say that he doesn’t mind. You know he’ll bring up the fact that you’ve offered your home up to a stranger.

The truth is, it’s not really a home ― you throw around the term because it’s loosely accurate, but house is a better word for it. Or hut, if you were more precise. All it is is a clay and synstone hut with two rooms and a common area. You don’t know who built it, or who lived in it before you. But it’s yours, now.

Over a meager dinner ― ahrisa and haroun bread, nearly stale ― you sit in silence. A few words are exchanged, but his voice is soft and in the dim evening, when eye contact is softened and movements dampened, you don’t mind the quiet. You’re tired, and you suspect Ben is, too.

But he is the first to break the silence. “Why are you on Tatooine?”

The question is odd. You tilt your head to the side, unsure if he knows what he’s asking. There’s the easy answer, and then there’s the difficult one. You lean back in your seat, regarding him in the faint, diffused darkness. “Let’s make a deal.”

His eyebrows pull together in curiosity, but he humors you with the slightest of nods.

“I’ll tell you why I’m here if you tell me,” you say. You’ve been wondering for the past few hours, postulating about Luke, about the couple that took him in, about where Ben comes from and why his ship glints bright and clean in the sun.

There’s a beat of silence ― hesitation, you think, but it’s hard to tell ― and then Ben nods again, pulling forward to rest his arms on the surface of the dining table. “Well, then, you first.” Something in his voice sounds almost playful, and though it surprises you, it also seems strangely natural to him, some side of his that has had little chance to show itself.

Again, there’s that sense that Ben is changed, somehow, different from who he really is. You can’t say for sure because you’ve just met him, but on a few instances, you wonder what he’s actually like. Whether he smiles often or his voice has a lilt to it; if he laughs openly or softly; if his eyes can show as much joy as they can grief.

You shut away those thoughts. You first, he said, and you try to decide how much of yourself you’re willing to give away. The silence does not cease, so you speak.

“I don’t come from anywhere in particular,” you say, keenly aware of Ben’s eyes on you. “I ended up on Tatooine out of sheer dumb luck. Ran out of money.”

A beat of silence. “Ran out of money?” Ben repeats softly.

“I was scammed,” you say, and shrug, though it’s a weak shrug, born not of indifference but of wearied regret. There’s nothing you could’ve done, and Tatooine is not known for being kind to newcomers. But the sand and the desert here are tempered by some broken-in mix of resentment and acceptance.

Ben’s voice comes out of the silence again. “Is that why you helped me?”

He poses it as a question, but both of you know he’s right, at least to some degree. Still, to answer would be to cross a boundary. “That’s not part of the deal,” you say, and for some odd reason, the brief tug on the corners of your lips is not wholly unnatural. “It’s your turn.”

“I suppose it is,” Ben says, and you can’t read his tone. He hesitates ― this, you think you’re sure of. “I came to Tatooine to find Luke a home. His parents are dead, and I cannot be his guardian.”

You notice that he does not say why he can’t take care of Luke, so you don’t ask. Instead, you say, “Why stay on Tatooine?”

Ben is silent again, but before you can retract your words, he answers you. “I had a home before the war,” he says, eyes downcast, form still cast in darkness. “During the war, even. But it’s gone now.”

Gone? you want to ask, but your mind is reminded by your heart that the absence of loved things and places is painful to talk about. And you are reminded by your head that despite everything, Ben is still a stranger, an unknown, and though he sits in your house and eats your food and answers your questions, he is just another traveler torn from his home by the war.

It’s easier to think about when you’re reminded of how wide the galaxy is; when you think about it in terms of numbers and not faces. It’s better that way, isn’t it?

“Tatooine is fitting for the lost,” Ben says. You find his eyes in the dark, and his gaze is soft. His voice is quiet. “It’s fitting for who I am now.”

“And who are you?” you say, even though just a moment ago you were so sure that considering incomprehensible numbers and entire galaxies is preferable to faces and voices.

Still, Ben answers. “An exile,” he says, and though the word is inherently hopeless, he is not entirely grief-stricken. Not entirely. Not yet, perhaps.

An exile, you repeat to yourself, and you wonder what his home looked like before the war took it away from him. In the music of his voice alone, you decide that his home must have been complete. Or complete enough, for nobody misses what is already lacking.

You don’t ask him any more questions after that. It doesn’t matter that there’s some tentative bond in mutual loneliness, or that you’re both indebted to each other in different ways. You tell yourself that strangers are strangers and must remain that way; that even though Ben says he will stay on Tatooine, no one with a ship stays for long. Not when the rest of the galaxy can offer so much more than here.

The night is deep and long, and conversation is extinguished. You show Ben to the extra room, holding back an apology for the dust because you know all he wants is to rest. The house is still and quiet, and as you switch off the last lantern, true night descends. You close your door and lie in bed and try not to think about the stranger who does not seem like a stranger. The wanderer who does not wander; the exile who cannot be only that. You thought he was a puzzle to be solved; a riddle to be answered. But perhaps, you think, as you drift off, people are more complicated than messages to be decoded or secrets to be found.

In the dead of night, you’re woken up. You think it’s because you heard someone cry out. You’re not sure. The house is silent, the air unmoving, and for a few moments, you lie in bed, blinking exhaustion out of your eyes. You’re already on edge because there’s someone unfamiliar in your house, so you try to convince yourself that’s the only reason why you’re awake and unable to fall back asleep.

You still can’t sleep, so you slip out of bed, creaking the door of your room open and then padding past the dining table and finally, to the other closed door on the other side of the house. You stand in front of the door, in the darkness. Part of you is sure that you heard nothing and you should go to sleep instead of disturbing Ben. The other part of you is convinced that you’re just afraid to knock.

In the end, you step away from the door, quietly, and retreat away from the extra room and the stranger that resides within. Go to sleep, you tell yourself, and you’re sure that everything will make sense when the suns rise over the horizon and light fills your house again and darkness does not prompt your mind to invent what cannot exist.

But before you’ve gone a few paces away from the shut door, in the utter silence of night, there is the soft click of a door being cracked open. You turn at the sound. Ben stands in the opening of the door. It’s too dark to make out his face clearly, but what dim light exists reflects off his eyes, which peer at you.

“Did I wake you?” you say quietly, even though you’re certain that it’s the other way around.

Ben is silent for a few moments, and in the padded, inaudible night, you’re unsure of how much time lapses between your voice and his.

“No,” he says, finally. “I couldn’t sleep, anyway.” There’s something behind his voice that you can’t figure out, but you resist the urge to theorize about what kind of sadness has crept into the music of his words.

I’m sorry, you want to say, because you know that he’s lost a home and a friend, at least. But you merely nod, even though you’re not sure if he can make see much in the gloom. There is nothing more to say ― nothing that would not cross the boundaries of strangers ― so you murmur a goodnight for the second time and cross the distance back to your own room. You do not wake until morning.

And in the morning, he is gone. A few credits are lined up on the dining table, glinting softly in the early light. The blanket in the extra room is folded and set on the bed, the door wide open.

The air is still, the morning silent, and your only companion is the first of the suns as it climbs above the horizon. It’s quiet, and your house feels strangely empty.

taglist (i tagged users who reblogged or commented on the first part; let me know if you don’t want to be tagged): @coraxaviary @princessxkenobi @fortunately-golden @ravenoushela @damalseer

#star wars fanfic #obi wan kenobi #obi wan kenobi x reader #obi wan x reader #star wars fanfiction #star wars reader insert #avii writes #fic: enigma #userkarina

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papercinders · 4 years

Text

survivor

PART IV OF ENIGMA

PAIRING: obi-wan/reader RATING: PG WORD COUNT: 3.0k SUMMARY: he tells you he has no fear. you’re sure that’s false, but he’s never lied to you. or: the fourth time you ask obi-wan who he is. A/N: no warnings (except mentions of injuries and getting attacked by raiders). this is the fourth installment of enigma, a six-part series. updates every saturday. let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist!

previous part | next part | ao3 | masterlist

He treats your wounds, but you don’t want them to heal.

Before, you were drawn to him as a concept ― an outsider, a newcomer, the idea of something other than sand and spice smugglers and raiders. To you, Ben’s arrival meant something to break the monotony of the desert, a traveler who had not been on Tatooine long enough to grow as ruthless as the rest of the planet. He was a concept you were chasing after.

But now, you can’t pretend it’s just that. It’s him you’re drawn to, not what he stands for. Him.

You don’t want to admit it, but as one day drags into two and two into three ― as your wounds begin to heal ― you don’t want to leave. It’s not that his house is nice; it’s just another synstone hut, falling apart at the corners, dustier than yours. It’s not that you’re afraid of the raiders. It’s Ben that you don’t want to leave.

You sit at his table and take the food he offers you, even if it isn’t much. You don’t mind. You watch him across from you as you take a bite of the meal ― dustcrepe and nausage ― and in the waning light spilling through the windows of the hut, the edge of Ben’s silhouette is lined in amber. He looks up to find you watching him.

“Is everything alright?” he says, brow furrowing as his eyes meet yours.

“Everything’s alright,” you say quietly. “Thank you.”

Ben pauses for a moment, head tilting in the slightest, as if trying to discern your thoughts. “You don’t have to thank me.”

He’s said so multiple times, but it doesn’t change how he replaces the bandage on your hand every day and gives you the only bed in his house. How can you not thank him when it’s his food and his bandages and his help that enables your body to piece itself back together?

“You’re on the way to recovery,” Ben says, and your attention snaps back to the present.

Again, your thoughts rebel against the notion of lacing your boots back on and setting out over the desert, back to your own house, back to your own silence and your own desert. But you remind yourself that you’re just a guest, and you have been imposing on Ben’s kindness for more than a few days.

“I’ll be on my way soon,” you say, all while failing to convince yourself that it’ll be better alone. “As soon as I can make the journey.”

Ben looks as if he is about to say something more, but he stops himself, eyes unreadable as he nods. “When you are able to.”

When you are able to. When the cracks in your ribs begin to fuse, when the cut in your hand begins to close, when the bruises that litter your arms and your stomach begin to fade. They are ugly marks dealt to you by the Tusken Raiders, but they are what has bound you to Ben and kept you here. You do not want them to heal if it means you can stay for longer.

But that’s not how Tatooine works, you remind yourself. Ben will leave once he understands this. There is no kindness here. No warmth; just burning, blistering heat.

After every supper, he takes your dishes back to the kitchen, refuses your help, and returns with bandages. He apologizes for not having bacta, and you wonder where he came from if bacta is considered a necessity and not a luxury. But you don’t ask. If his home was abundant enough to have bacta, he must miss it dearly in comparison to the dusty, bleak landscape of Tatooine.

You set your hand on the table, palm up, for it has become a routine. Ben slowly unwinds the bandage from around your palm, fingertips barely grazing your skin. When the old bandage is gone, you pause to look at the red line carved from the base of your index finger and through the flesh of your palm, stopping before your wrist. It stings, uncovered, but you hold your fingers still. The cut hasn’t completely scabbed over, but it’s slowly healing.

“Good,” Ben says softly. “Not infected.”

The air is still between the two of you, the house silent, and as he works to wrap your hand again, there is nothing to think about but the faint warmth of his fingertips as they skim over your palm. You think his hands are callused but you can’t tell if it’s just friction.

Ben is careful, each move deliberate and measured, and he always bandages your hand slowly, as if he is afraid to cause you pain or tear open the wound. You’re not sure how a soldier can be so gentle or how rough hands can have such a delicate touch, but his do. He has shown you all kinds of impossibilities: oceans in deserts, kindness in mourning, peace in silence.

His hands leave yours, and he is done with the cut on your palm. You pull your hand back toward yourself, examining the bandage for a moment, carefully flexing your fingers. You’re about to say something about the cut feeling better, so you turn to Ben.

But the words die as his eyes pin you there, and your brow furrows as your thoughts turn to why he looks at you with something tantamount to perhaps concern or frustration.

You open your mouth again to push away the silence, but the words die in your throat as Ben reaches over with one hand to brush against your cheek. It’s just the pad of his thumb, tracing along the edge of the scratch on your cheek, but his touch is gentle and unexpected, and you forget what you were about to say. His touch is gone all too soon, but the traces of it linger, as if there is a second scratch carved into the skin of your cheek. You don’t want it to heal, either.

“I was wrong,” Ben says softly. His hand drops back to his side. “Maybe the cut on your cheek will scar, too.” There’s a pause. “I’m sorry.”

He shouldn’t apologize. But you can’t find the words to say so, not when you know it will shatter the tentative vulnerability that extends between you and him.

“It’s not your fault,” you settle on. “I don’t mind.”

And you don’t. Really. No one on Tatooine would care about a scar on your face. And Ben, you think, carries scars of his own, both old and new, and you think you are beginning to understand how they interfere with the skin of his soul, even if he hides them.

Ben holds your gaze for a moment longer, and his eyes are forever deep in the falling twilight. There’s something else in his eyes that make you pause, but you can’t figure out what it is. You have yet to figure out who he is, after all, or the answer to his riddle.

You don’t want to leave, not when you haven’t yet figured out how the pieces he has given you fit together. You’re certain that once you piece the puzzle together, it will be quite beautiful.

Night comes all too soon, and the lights in the hut are dimmed. It’s quieter, even though there’s hardly any sound during the day. It’s silent as you ease yourself onto the thin mattress of the house’s only bed. Ben is in another room, washing up, perhaps, or taking inventory. You don’t know where he sleeps, and you’re beginning to wonder if he sleeps at all. But you never comment on it.

In the darkness, you find sleep easily. You dream of worlds that have come and gone long ago: planets of ice, and cities with skyscrapers, and oceans ― you’re always thinking about oceans. You’ve cursed your misfortune to be stranded on a planet of deserts and hot suns. You don’t think you could get sick of oceans, not even if you were stranded on a planet covered entirely in water.

And then your dream turns, almost inevitably, to the raiders.

In your distorted memories, their masks are bleeding from the sockets, their clubs pointed instead of smooth. They never attack you in your dreams. They only heft their clubs and scream death because it’s not the pain that you remember vividly, but the fear. That’s what you have immortalized for yourself ― a kind of fear that holds you like a vice and does not let go, a kind of fear that slows the pace of time and squeezes your stomach until you see black.

You remember that.

The universe is cruel for keeping you conscious for the length of your fear and then yanking you away from the waking world once you were safe and rescued. But you dream of what you remember, and though it is distorted, your fear is not. It is a snaking, suffocating thing that closes your vision and expands and contracts your lungs painfully fast. Fear is supposed to keep you alive, but now you think you’re about to die, and it extends, wrapping you whole, pulling you into some darkness that screams ―

No, it does not scream.

The voice is not quiet, but it is not frantic. It says your name, and you think you’ve heard this melody before. The darkness dissolves, slowly and then rapidly, and in the fog of retreating sleep, you’re aware that you’re awake and it is still night.

Someone is saying your name, and you latch onto whatever certainties you can find. The dream begins to fade, and reality clicks back into place. Ben. He’s saying your name. He says it again, and this time, his voice is more gentle.

“Ben?” It’s dark, and you cannot see more than a vague silhouette hovering over you. He’s touching your shoulder, you realize, and you think that maybe he was shaking you to wake up.

“It’s just me,” he says.

When the world is blanketed in night, his voice is the only thing to latch onto. You still haven’t asked him if his accent is Coruscanti. Part of you doesn’t want to know ― to know where his voice comes from would be to contain him to some part of the galaxy when you so desperately want him to be more than what it can offer. To label the music of his voice would be to attempt to define something which is better left alone, better left a mystery.

His hand is still on your shoulder, warm, and though the back of your shirt clings to your skin with sweat and hair is matted to your forehead, his warmth is welcome. You don’t understand how you can still distinguish between levels of warmth when you have lived under the Tatooine sun for so long, but with Ben, you can.

“It was a nightmare,” he says. “It’s alright now.”

His touch leaves your shoulder and a lantern clicks on, and he settles the light source at the foot of the bed. It illuminates the planes of his face in soft golden light.

You’re not sure how to respond. If it was anyone else, you’d thank them for waking you up and then try to fall back asleep. But Ben will reject your gratitude. He has saved your life and still does not accept anything from you.

“I get them too,” Ben says, after a moment of silence. He seems to understand that you don’t want to go back to sleep, not yet. “Nightmares, I mean.”

You know that already, but you don’t mention the night he stayed in your house or the exhaustion that hangs over him every day. There are things both of you notice but never mention.

“I haven’t had a nightmare like this in awhile,” you say, and you prop yourself up on your elbows to sit up, kicking off the blankets because it’s hot. “Not even immediately after the raiders.”

Ben studies you for a moment in the soft light. “You’re afraid,” he says, after a moment. “It’s fear.”

It always is, isn’t it? But the word fear means something else to Ben by the way he says it carefully. You can’t discern what it is to him from his face alone.

“How do you know it’s fear?” you say.

He blinks at you once, mouth pressed into a firm line, and then he lets his gaze fall, not meeting yours. “I had a friend who dealt with nightmares,” he said quietly. “He was afraid of losing the woman he loved.”

You can’t help but ask. “Did he?”

“Did he what?” Ben says.

You pause for a moment, unsure of venturing into Ben’s past. You know there’s pain somewhere in the folds of why he came to Tatooine. He still does not meet your eyes, so you forge on, though your voice drops in volume, as if you’re afraid to hear the answer. “Did he lose her?”

Ben looks up at you then, blue eyes still blue in the warm light, and where his gaze was soft, it is now piercing. He searches your face, and not out of concern, but out of some strange defensive mechanism. You wonder if you can take back your words, take back the hurt that you have just caused him, pretend you’re not afraid of losing what you have come to love.

Slowly, his eyes dim again. “Yes,” Ben says. His voice is soft, the music dampened. “He lost everything.”

The words offer no comfort to you, but you asked for the truth. He has given you a piece of his nebulous past, and you hold onto it. Perhaps you’ve caused him pain by asking. Or perhaps he has offered to endure it, since it was him who brought up his past in the first place.

“I’m sorry,” you offer, but the words are hollow, even to you.

He watches you with a furrow in his brow. For a moment, he leans forward, and he’s on the verge of saying something, and then he stops himself and pulls back again, looking down at the lantern.

“Do you want it on?” he says. “You should go back to sleep.”

You recognize it as a dismissal ― he has ended the conversation, if it could be called one ― and you should play your part, too: tell him that it’s alright, that he can turn off the light, that you’ll go back to sleep. Pretend nothing happened in the morning.

But you’re tired of these stolen glances and nearly spoken words and decisions that always seem to end in silence and disappointment.

“You’re afraid, too,” you say, instead.

Ben hesitates for a moment, eyes trained on the floor before rising to meet yours. “No,” he says softly. “I have no fear. Only regret.”

You could ask him what he regrets, but you know that regret is inherently riddled with hurt, and you will not ask until he offers. “Who are you, if you have no fear?”

He pauses, eyes still trained on yours, and then he says, slowly, “A survivor.”

He has picked a new word every time you ask him who he is, but they aren’t so different. He has defined himself, again and again, by the separation between what was and what is. You want to ask him who he was before he came to Tatooine, or even before the war, but you don’t know if he will tell you. A soldier, he said once, and you suppose that is the most accurate name he has given himself, even if it seems like he fights more of a war now than before.

“Do you want the light on?” he says quietly.

You are silent for a moment. Is this how everything is supposed to end? You thought it was better to be alone ― to keep your house empty and your heart closed ― but if you don’t want to be alone, is it really better?

“Wait,” you say, when Ben turns to retreat. He pauses, looking back, questioning. Your heart hammers in your chest, and it’s fear, but a different kind than you’re used to. “Don’t leave.” Not yet, you’d add, but you don’t want him to leave at all.

His lips part, as if he’s about to say something more. He decides against it once, and then, after an agonizing moment, speaks. “You want me to stay?”

You pull your knees to your chest, suddenly vulnerable in the light of Ben’s gaze. It feels like he finally sees you, and not just his friend who lost everything or a victim of the Tusken Raiders. You know that’s not entirely true ― he hasn’t replaced your worth with something else ― but something changes when he asks if you want him to stay.

“Yes,” you say, simply. “Stay.”

You could explain; tell him that you can’t sleep and you don’t want to be alone and you enjoy his company, but you don’t think you need to explain. He knows you are afraid. He sees past your words.

Slowly, perhaps because he wants to preserve the quiet, Ben crosses the distance between you and him, perching on the edge of the mattress past your feet. He pulls his own knees up, crosses his legs, and lets out a breath.

“Are you alright?” he says quietly, leaning against the wall of the alcove to look at you.

You nod. “I will be.” You’d ask in return, but you know what the answer is already.

It’s silent, even while Ben sits against the far end of the bed and you curl your chest into your knees on the other side. He seems to know that you don’t want to be alone but you don’t need to talk. You just need the knowledge that someone ― Ben ― is there.

Eventually, you fall asleep again, and this time, your dreams are empty. When morning comes, you find that Ben is still leaning against the wall, legs still folded in front of him. His eyes are closed, though, and his breathing steady. It’s the first time you know of that he’s slept.

taglist (i tagged you if you reblogged or commented on the last part. please let me know if you want to be removed or added!): @coraxaviary @princessxkenobi @amberthefiredemon @livsbaby @ravenoushela @holdurhuxbby @fortunately-golden

#star wars fanfic #obi wan kenobi #obi wan kenobi x reader #obi wan x reader #star wars fanfiction #star wars reader insert #userkarina #avii writes #fic: enigma

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