What is Angstober?
We’ve put together 31 angsty prompts you can use daily to pour more delightful anguish and suffering into the world (fictional, all fictional…) The challenge is open to fandom and original works, in any medium you like.
How do I take part?
Tag your works with #angstober2020, and the day of the prompt (#day 01 for ex.), to share on Tumblr. If you want to share your work on AO3, submit it to the Angstober collection!
Weakly, Luke attempted to shift himself further back on the cot, only to let out a pained hiss. The noise finally stirred the Sith Lord into action as he finally strode into the tiny imperial cell. Almost immediately Han moved to block his path "Don't you dare touch h-" he was cut off as he was thrown into the wall of the cell by an invisible force, a groan exited his lips but Vader paid him no mind. Eventually he came to a halt in front of the cot and stared down at the injured Luke. After what seemed like an age, he finally spoke; "Who harmed you young one?"
DAY 30: ANGSTOBER: Trapped @angstober
Set in the same AU as this ficlet and this ficlet!
Weakly, Luke attempted to shift himself further back on the cot, only to let out a pained hiss. The noise finally stirred the Sith Lord into action as he strode into the tiny Imperial cell.
Almost immediately, Han moved to block his path. "Don't you dare touch h—"
He was cut off as he was thrown into the wall of the cell by an invisible force. A groan exited his lips, but Vader paid him no mind.
Eventually he came to a halt in front of the cot and stared down at the injured Luke. After what seemed like an age, he finally spoke:
"Who harmed you young one?"
“Your men did,” Luke snapped, “when they stalked Han to Tatooine and shot at us there!”
Vader clenched his fists and Han watched him physically restrain himself as he growled out, “They were not supposed to.”
And Han was struck anew by the awkwardness of Vader—the same man who’d stood before him and confessed to a lifetime of mistakes hoping for a son’s absolution and acceptance now stood in front of his true son, with no idea of how to reply. Luke was still clutching his side desperately, tears leaking from his eyes, and it hurt Han to look at, he wanted to go back and shoot those troopers right through their bantha crap helmets before they could take aim at Luke. He wanted to go closer—it was obvious Luke needed someone to hold him, a hand to squeeze in the hopes it would make the pain go away—but when he tried, Vader just shoved him back again.
Han’s head hit the wall, hard; all he heard was Luke’s shout. “Han!”
He forced his eyes open, not liking the dizziness he was feeling suddenly. “…s’alright… sweetheart…” he got out. “I can take him.”
Luke was definitely glaring at him. “You’ve been conscious for ten minutes, stop picking a fight!”
Yes. Yes, Han had only been conscious for ten minutes, because he’d been knocked out by a stun bolt the moment he took a step out of the docking bay and trussed up as bait for Luke to come rescue, and then he’d woken up to his boyfriend in a cell next to him groaning about his wound, and—
Luke didn’t know.
Han hadn’t been able to tell him.
Han needed to—
Luke turned that belligerent glare of his on Vader. “Leave him alone,” Luke snapped.
Vader clearly picked up on something then, stiffening, turning to observe Han and Luke, head tilting this way and back. “What…” He seemed to be struggling for words just as fiercely as his vocoder was struggling to interpret the cadences he was going for. “What is the nature of the relationship between you two?”
Han laughed. “Oh, now you’re interested?”
“Just leave him alone!” Luke said. “What does it matter and what do you care? It’s got nothing to do with you.”
“It has everything to do with me, young one—”
Vader stepped forwards, looming, and Han went, “Nope.”
He inserted himself between Luke, still half-hunched over on the bunk, and Mr Tall, Dark and Paternal, doing his best to hold his gaze stubbornly. “Leave Luke alone. I know why you want him and I know that you’re just kriffing things up for yourself!”
“If I wanted your opinion, Solo,” Vader growled, “I would ask for it.” He lifted his hand, clearly about to toss Han into the wall again, when he stopped. His mask was angled down, to where Luke had grabbed Han’s hand, tightly enough it was bruising.
Han set his jaw, raised his eyebrows at Vader, and interlocked their fingers.
Vader said, “I should kill you for this alone, Solo.”
“That’s not very parental of you,” Han shot back. He was pretty sure Luke thought he had a death wish.
“Han…”
“I’ll tell you what, Your Asthmatic Lordliness,” Han said. Luke hiccupped—maybe that was laughter, maybe it was a gasp of fear, Han had no idea. All he knew was that Luke was hurt, shit was about to go down, and the sooner Vader stopped being eerie and cryptic the sooner they could both get Luke to a medbay. “Stand outside the cell. I’ll break the news to him gently. Then you can come in here, be the… role model…” He gave Vader a sceptical look. “…ya always wanted to be, and get this kid to a medbay before his injury gets worse. We got a deal?”
Vader stared at him for a moment, as if he could not imagine someone was that stupid. “I will tell him,” he growled. “I deserve to—and you are lucky I do not behead you where you stand, Solo, particularly considering what you know, and what you have done—”
“What are you going to tell me?” Luke said sharply. “What’s going on? Han—”
“Obi-Wan lied to you, Luke,” Vader boomed.
“Yeah,” Luke snapped back, “I guessed that after what Han said over the comm. What I want to know is what about. What are you—”
“Everything.” Vader folded his arms behind his back and paced the tiny cell. Perhaps it was stress-relieving for him, but Han and Luke just exchanged a look; it was a small enough room that the cape whacked their legs with every turn, and it just felt very threatening. “He is a liar and a traitor—a prime example of why the Jedi were weak and needed to be exterminated. Nothing he said to you can be trusted, particularly not—”
Han leaned into Luke and whispered, “Vader is your dad.”
Vader stopped pacing. Clearly, he’d heard that.
Luke stiffened. The hand that wasn’t grasping Han’s released his side and grabbed Han’s arm, smearing it with blood. “What!?”
“He used to be Anakin Skywalker. He made a lot of mistakes. Gave me a whole sappy speech about it when he thought I was you. He didn’t kill your father; Ben Kenobi lied. He is your father.”
Luke blew his eyes wide.
He stared at Vader. “Is this true!?” To Han, pleading: “Tell me you’re having me on.”
“It is true, Luke,” Vader said. He stepped forwards, reaching out a hand for Luke’s face; Luke watched him warily, like he was ready to bite one of Vader’s fingers off, but he let Vader brush a finger down his face. “Obi-Wan stole you from me. I have been searching for you from the moment I learned your name.”
“I see. And you thought Han was me?” Luke raised an eyebrow.
Han got the sense that if Vader was anyone else (and in a larger room) he would have taken a step back. “I…” he said weakly. “There were holos of the Rebel medal ceremony after Yavin. He… was tall…”
Han looked at Vader—a two-metre-tall monster—and then at his tiny, blond son. He couldn’t quite stifle his guffaw.
Luke just glared. “You’re my father?”
“Yes.”
“You had your men shoot me?”
“They were not supposed to. They will be facing severe consequences for this.”
Luke’s face was beyond confused.
But he said, “Then take me to a medbay. I’m your son. I’m injured—unless you want to keep me trapped in here until I bleed out?”
Vader stood in stunned silence for a moment. Han couldn’t help but feel pettily pleased.
Vader clearly hadn’t planned on Han. He hadn’t planned on Luke being injured. He hadn’t planned on resistance.
Vader was a kriffing idiot. This was his situation—if he wanted to value some dramatic entrance over just shooting first, getting it over with and doing damage control later, Han wasn’t about to stand for that.
Luke needed him here, clearly.
“…yes,” Vader said finally. “I will take you to a medbay, son.”
He put emphasis on the word. As if either of them had forgotten.
Han rolled his eyes, and took Luke’s arm.
“C’mon, kid,” he said. “Let’s get you checked up.”
Summary: Vader has come to Tatooine and found something extremely precious.
– - – - – - – - – - – - –
Darth Vader stepped up to the crib. It was made of mismatched metal probably found in a junkyard, but it was sound and well built. To his surprise the baby was awake. It was wrapped up in a soft white swaddle blanket to keep it warm and snug in the cold of the desert night. It kicked its legs, wiggled, and cooed.
Vader thought his heart had melted when he first saw the baby, his baby, but now it was truly liquid. How could this small precious thing be alive? He slowly lowered his hand, but stopped just above the baby. Both of his hands were now prosthetics and gloved. He wouldn't be able to feel his baby, at least not here, but perhaps back on his ship.
His hand came down and with one fingertip he brushed the baby's light blonde hair to the side. The baby wiggled, but didn't whine or cry out in fear. Gently, slowly, and a bit cautiously, Vader pulled at the swaddle. Two chubby little arms popped up. At once the small hands reached for Vader.
He was completely still as a small hand wrapped around his index finger.
His prosthetics barely registered the pressure, but he could see it through the red-tint of his lenses. The baby was holding his finger. His baby. His son.
His breath caught in his throat as Luke looked around and the death and destruction surrounding him. Members of the Red Guard, various other Imperials, and a select smattering of Alliance contacts lay scattered through the room in varying degrees of injury. Many were dead at his father’s hand, even more incapacitated, and several others at the Emperor’s.
At the far end of the room, slumped against the wall, was Vader. The wheeze of his damaged respirator echoed throughout the hall, and he cut a far less intimidating figure with his shoulders hunched and the way he swayed on his feet. On the ground just in front of his boots, however, lay the lifeless form of the Emperor, blank eyes seeming to stare right at Luke, filled with anger and shock, almost daring him to partake in the same defiance as his father.
“What... what have you done?” Luke winced at how hoarse his voice was, how soft his words were, how much of his pain he couldn’t quite conceal. He stood away from his father, still, hardly daring to get any closer, but feeling drawn onwards...
“Son,” Vader rasped, feeling weaker in the Force by the second, “I did this for you.”
Luke was stunned. “For me?” Instantly, he felt dirty, the blood shed as much on his hands as his father’s. “I never wanted this... Father, all I ever wanted was peace - ”
“Your mother,” Vader cut in, a degree of desperation making its way into his voice, “I wanted to give her everything. She wanted much the same... peace... but it could only ever be attainable in one way... through the death of the Emperor. Even at the cost of my own life.” He paused
A pang rippled through him, wanting nothing more than to ask more about his mother, but his words pulled him in another direction. “I - all I ever wanted was to be with you... to know you. Please...”
“You will inherit this galaxy,” Vader declared, voice more steady than it had been until this point. “I had hoped your mother might have... but in her stead, you shall serve its people. You will become the rightful Emperor. As you deserve.”
“Father, no, I - ”
“You deserve better than me. Please remember this... I did it for you, because you deserve the galaxy, and all I can do is deliver it to you...”
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
DAY 04: GRAVEYARD
Summary: After the fall of the Empire, Luke travels to Naboo to finally learn more about his mother. He learns more than he expected to.
“Did you come to lay those at the tomb of a former queen?” She asked, gesturing to the lilies.
“Er-,” he didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t say he was laying them on his mother’s tomb, that wouldn’t make sense if he was in the Royal Gardens where only former queens were buried.
The woman seemed to pick up on his hesitance and hurried to continue. “It’s okay if you aren’t, dear. It’s just a Naboo tradition to lay flowers at the final resting place of former queens on Shiraya day. We believe that she welcomes them all into Elysium when they pass and the flowers are laid in thanks to her generosity.”
“Oh,” he said, relaxing. “Yes, I would like to present mine.”
The woman’s husband held up a beautiful multi-colored bouquet Luke hadn’t noticed at first.
“We’re headed back to that section of the garden as well to say our prayers. Whose tomb are you looking for? Do you know the way?”
“Uh,” Luke stuttered, “um- I’m looking for Queen Padmé Amidala’s tomb.”
The couple paused for a moment, looking between each other before recovering. The woman fixed Luke with another maternal smile.
“We’re going to Padmé’s, too. Would you like to walk with us?”
Swords and Starflowers AU
⚔️ 💮 ⚔️
Day 26 [Angstober]: Fallen
This is a continuation from the previous post.
Newly named, the young Sith stumbles back from his master’s study through the gallery. It is a long walk, and by the time he reaches his rooms, he can barely hold on to his crutches, and has to lean on the wall for support. The servants have already tidied the space, and cleaned up the mirror shards. By tomorrow, they will have cleaned up the smears of blood he’s left in the gallery, his rooms, and the Emperor’s study. Perhaps they would even be able to lift the stains from the silk carpet. Just like nothing ever happened.
The Spinnakerian still sits by his bedside table, shiny and tempting on its dainty porcelain plate. Someone has covered it with a glass dome, and left a bottle of pear cider next to it. This confection… It is her favorite, too, singled out over the entire formidable range of pastries Theed has to offer. The memory flashes before his eyes in vivid detail.
“As if marrying you wasn’t treason enough,” she quips, and pokes a finger to his chest with a bright laugh. A touch he is death-certain he would never feel again. A laugh he would never hear.
He takes a swing at the glass dome, and it shatters, flying off the side table and sweeping the cider bottle with it. Vader turns away. He can’t bear to see the broken pieces.
Three servants on late duty are called to young master Palpatine’s rooms for another clean-up. He sits in his inner parlor like a stone gargoyle, his right hand freshly bandaged, and pays no heed to them. But when they are about to leave, he calls them in a voice so cold that the youngest in the trio shivers.
“Wait.”
They stop by the door, turn, and lower their gaze in respect, but not before noticing this dangerous yellow glow in his eyes, one they have only seen before in his Father’s.
“Yes, my lord?”
“Tell Chef I don’t want him to make…” Lord Vader falters, suddenly unwilling to say the name of the confection, “this…” he motions at the mess they are about to carry out, “ever again! He should have taken the hint by now,” he pauses. “Or, there will be consequences.”
“Yes, my lord,” the eldest among the trio assents with another deep bow, then they flee the room. They know too well how precarious the moods of a man with yellow eyes can get.
On their way back to the kitchens, the servants are caught in the same thought, but no-one dares speak it aloud. Their esteemed young lord, the pride of Spinnaker, a boy who in all his years here had never been unkind to the staff, seems truly gone. This new lord, having risen from the ashes, bore little resemblance, and spoke harshly on each rare occasion he condescended to open his scarred mouth.
The next day, Lord Vader demands to be moved to a single room, up in the left wing’s lone tower. He dismisses his servants, and day by day, the folks in the grand estate think about him less and less. Since no-one ever sees him, and His Majesty no longer mentions him, many wonder if he has died in that tower after all, and has been secretly buried. The older members of the staff who remember him growing up silently mourn his passing.
Autumn arrives with a glorious splash of color that year, and on a crisp Sunday morning, the servants must ponder the identity of another lord: a tall man who no-one has managed to see arriving, but is about to leave the Castle. He is accompanied by a small retinue of black-armored knights, bearing an unfamiliar red sigil next to the Imperial cog. On his head, the lord wears a full-face daemon mask crowned with jagged thorns of embersteel, and his finely wrought scale armor swallows the bright morning sunlight in the embrace of a yawning abyss.
⚔️ 💮 ⚔️
[So angst it is, warning: this isn’t fluffy at all.
Cal Kestis. Darth Vader. Unwanted memories.]
His eyes couldn’t quite comprehend what he was seeing, or rather, they didn’t want to comprehend. The ground was dripping in red, redder than his hair could ever hope to become, and he could only stumble back a step as he brought a gloved hand to his mouth.
No.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. This wasn’t anything he had ever wanted to see again. A faint trill of concern barely brushed the surface of his shock and Cal raised his free hand to place it gently on BD. The stench was violent, but the emotions that were curling towards him were so much worse. He shuffled back a few steps, a futile attempt at putting distance between himself and the air that was screaming.
There was so much screaming in his head.
The limbs were contorted, the eyes empty, and each and every helmet was cracked down the middle. Something violent had happened to these Imps, something that wasn’t his blade. He would never have been so ruthless-
Cal choked on the cold as he tried not to see clones in his mind.
”You need to eat, vod.”
“You got it this time for sure, Cal!”
“Here, put your hand in the red paint and then on my pauldron.”
“You’re one of us, Commander.”
“Good soldiers follow orders.”
“He’s in the vents!”
“Kill on sight, he can’t live!”
“TRAITOR!”
Cold slammed into him and he felt like if he exhaled now that he would be able to see each droplet of oxygen leaving his lungs. BD screeched in warning and Cal reacted without thinking. The hilt of his lightsaber flew into his hand, with a flick of his wrist he ignited both purple blades. They cut through the air with a hiss that echoed in his ears.
“How could you,” he yelled as the tell-tale breathing filled his very being. Each mechanical exhale made his heart stutter. “They were your soldiers!”
“They were nothing, Padawan,” the cold voice wrapped around him like a vine. Cal choked on a sob, holding back the emotion as he brought his blade up between him and the Sith Lord. “Not even as good as the originals. You know this, you’ve killed them. How easily you’ve given into your hate for what those helmets mean.”
“No,” he snapped while fear began to grip the edges of his mind.
“You would be wise to surrender and do as I say, Cal Kestis. I won’t ask a third time.”
“Yeah...probably,” he spun the blade and crouched down low as he waited for the fight he knew he’d barely survive. The first time he had won was only thanks to having an ocean to drop on Darth Vader, the second time he had thrown himself off a waterfall. This time? He only had the bodies of mutilated stormtroopers around him. He wasn’t going to fling dead bodies at Vader, he wouldn’t be so disrespectful. “But again, I think I’ll pass.” BD chirped his agreement and the air around him grew somehow colder.
The red blade was like a blemish against his vision and he shifted his grip on his own lightsaber without thinking. That blade, wielded by that person, was going to cause him so much pain.
“Kestis, Padawan, I did it for you.” Did what? Cal was caught completely caught off guard and couldn’t hide the confusion on his face. What in karking Hell could Darth Vader have done for him? Besides attempting to kill him each time they ran into each other, which was increasing drastically. It was like the Sith was hunting him or something- a thought that was not pleasant at all. A cruel laugh escaped the monster in front of him before the man motioned to the carnage that surrounded them. “I killed them all for you.”
He had killed the soldiers for him and, in some way; he realized it was because of the armor. He had killed every single person because they wore the armor that hurt Cal to see.
He looked at a trooper and he saw the clones that had treated him like a little brother, like family. They had wanted him.
He saw the clones that snuck him candy when he was upset over failing yet another lesson with his Master.
He saw the clones that had turned their blasters on him without any word.
He saw the clones he had loved and hated.
Cal’s arm trembled as he shifted back another step. “No, no! Don’t- you didn’t do this for me! I didn’t ask for this, any of this! They trusted you!”
“And you trusted your clones, your family, didn’t you, Cal Kestis? Where did that get you? Abandoned. You know how easy it is for someone to betray you.”
”The only good Jedi is a dead Jedi!”
“Stop!” It made so much more sense when Darth Vader was trying to kill him and now he was left floundering. Why wasn’t the monster trying to kill him? Why was he trying to put tiny cracks into the sides of his heart so he slowly bled out with each breath?
“We will beat the Seppies, don’t you worry, vod.”
“All you have to do, all you ever had to do, is stand by my side and you can stop this from happening again. You can protect everyone. All it takes is one single step forward, Padawan. Don’t you want to protect everyone? I can make you strong enough.”
BD started swearing colorfully and Cal found himself rooted to the spot.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
The truth of his heart is contained in the force. It swirls and dances, pushes and pulls like the eddies of an ocean, a constant rhythm he knows like the back of his hand.
