#obi wan can sing

[thegalaxykatsworld]

aaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH

OKAY SO

There was this fanfic I think called

Come what may AND IT WAS A SOMETHING OF AN OPRA OF OBI WAN SINGING COME WHAT WAY AND HIS OTHER SONGS

I HAVE SPENT THE LAST YEAR TRYING TO FIND IT

It’s EMBEDDED IN MY BRAIN AND I WANNA READ IT SOMEONE HELP OR MAKE ME A FANFIC OF MY LOVELY OBI WAN SINGING

EL DE TANGO ROXANNE

I will be in your dept 😭😭💜

[tennessoui]

can’t believe there’s no balcony neighbors to friends to lovers obikin au

so like imagine like anakin and obi-wan live in apartments that face each other and are separated by a narrrow alleyway, so when both are out on their own balconies, they can pretty easily see each other and talk. they don’t but they could is the thing, it’s just a weird sort of line to step over, being in someone’s space so intimately but not being invited there, witnessing someone’s life move along like an unstoppable ocean current, but not being in the water with them.

anakin knows what book obi-wan is reading and which newspaper he subscribes to. obi-wan knows anakin’s favored brand of beer and how he sounds when he sings his baby to sleep. anakin has overheard many arguments between obi-wan and his lawyer and his estranged wife about the divorce case. they’re physically close enough that when anakin steps out one summer night, obi-wan can wordlessly pass him a cigarette over the divide. “i don’t smoke normally,” obi-wan says, with a flick of his wrist to shake loose the ash. “i know,” anakin says, because he does. “divorce was finalized yesterday,” obi-wan says. “i know,” anakin says, because he does. “my name’s obi-wan,” obi-wan says. “anakin,” anakin says because he hadn’t known that.

[butterflydragon14]

Ewan Mcgregor singing “Lay All Your Love on Me”

You agree

[aq2003]

What would you say are some of Obi-Wan's biggest character flaws?

the biggest thing to me is his underlying fear that he's failing the people he cares about. you see it more at the forefront when he's a padawan but i think it's something that he still definitely ends up carrying into adulthood. the one thing that keeps haunting him is the fear that he isn't good enough to raise anakin/that if he had died in qui-gon's place anakin would've been better off. (side note: i like to think that qui-gon on mortis wasn't actually force ghost qui-gon but actually the direct manifestation of obi-wan's feelings at the time. bc obviously the chosen one prophecy put an unfair weight on anakin the most but it also affected obi-wan as well).

anyway it's just. like. the seed of self doubt of it all that causes him to crash and burn when his fears are realized. obi-wan immediately blames himself for anakin's fall—upon finding out abt it in the rots novel he basically says "i should've died, maul should've killed me on naboo". he goes into hiding on tatooine thinking he's in part responsible for his family's deaths. this is so very essential to me. the way he initially refuses bail to go save leia because for so much of his life he's had these horrible doubts about himself and then he was proven right. helping people is the core of what makes a jedi but he doesn't believe he can do that anymore because his loss of hope is centered at his loss of faith in himself. etc

the other thing is that (in the PT and tcw) he's got a mild arrogant streak and you see it best w/ maul, ventress, and grievous. by far not a major flaw but it's just. this detail about him that keeps him grounded i think. a lot of this gets ignored bc fandom calls it flirting but to me it's him just. constantly talking down to his enemies for fun. biggest example of this: the one ep in the ilum arc where he found the time to leave a snarky goodbye message to grievous telling him the ship he was on was about to self destruct. bro why did you do that. now grievous knows to actually escape the death trap you set for him. please

[hotvintagepoll]

Propaganda

James Stewart (It's a Wonderful Life, The Philadelphia Story, Mr. Smith Goes to Washington)—the thing about Jimmy Stewart is that for a weird-enough looking guy, he is yet somehow SO hot and SO believable, ALWAYS. He always plays the same person—he's always, well, Jimmy Stewart—yet that person can be a murderer, a dark cynic, a naive idealist, the boy next door or an old man who knows better, and every one of those is hot. I would jump his bones in a heartbeat

Toshiro Mifune (Rashumon, Seven Samurai, Grand Prix, Stray Dog)—i love and respect my boi tab hunter (rest in peace you beautiful, beautiful man ❤️), but after i watched like 12 of his movies in a row on tcm last year, i ALSO love and respect toshiro mifune, son of a literal actual hatamoto’s (a high-ranking samurai) daughter, also very possibly related to the best judokan EVER, AND, he’s the guy who SHOULD have been obi-wan kenobi. the fact that he’s ALSO hot as hell just adds to his appeal.

This is round 4 of the bracket. All other polls in this bracket can be found here. Please reblog with further support of your beloved hot sexy vintage man.

[additional propaganda submitted under the cut.]

James Stewart propaganda:

"Ough I saw him first in It's A Wonderful Life, where he is very charming as a suicidal family man being absolutely crushed by capitalism. But then. The Philadelphia Story, in my opinion, should get the same kind of press The Mummy does for being a bisexual dream. Now I'm not really bi (not into women) and it's honestly up for debate whether i'm attracted to men or not, but COME ON!! The movie stars James Stewart as well as Cary Grant and Katharine Hepburn (and Ruth Hussey). Stewart plays a common working man, a journalist, to contrast with Grant's character, who is mega-rich. He is scrappy and hates rich people. Hot! They have a whole scene together where he's super drunk and being really physical with his acting, which I love because he is kinda wet noodle shaped. Hot! He carries Hepburn in his arms while singing Somewhere Over The Rainbow. Hot! He gets punched in the face by Cary Grant. Hot!!! In The Man Who Shot Liberty Valence, we get to see him portray an alternative type of masculinity, opposite John Wayne doing John Wayne. He is even more wet noodle-y, to put emphasis on his incompatibility with the rugged masculinity of the cow-boy, he wears an apron for a lot of the film, again, to blur his masculinity, and he gets shot. Hot! Also he's older here, if that's your thing. Long story short: He's giving librarian chic and The Philadelphia Story made me want to be poly."

“Here he is next to Grant, in what I believe to be a promotional shot for The Philadelphia Story. Please don’t get distracted by Grant (or do, i’m submitting him next).”

“He’s a nice guy and a good guy and deserves all the happiness and joy ever! Classic boy next door/class president kid that everyone loves for real. Stand-up for the Little Guy vibes. With a charming fun side!!”

Toshiro Mifune propaganda:

"In addition, he spoke fluent mandarin and every time he was casted in foreign films, he said his lines in the language of the movie (although they ended up dubbing him. He wasn’t happy about it though).”

Submitted: this gifset

Also submitted: this video (yes, that one)

"Crucial Toshiro Mifune propaganda: THOSE LEGS."

"That is hella muscle. Go watch The Hidden Fortress, aka Star Wars A New Hope. His thighs deserve an award."

[skybreakprimeonao3]

He had a name before he was assigned to a battalion, even though everyone called him Shiny until he proved himself in battle. Though once he did earn the right, he decided to stick with the name given to him by the other cadets.

“I’m called Two Tone,” he told his Captain, who raised an eyebrow. To the silent question, he shrugged. “No one told me why.”

And that was the truth. He wasn’t inclined to whistle or sing. He got the name long before he reached the age of his voice cracking in forced puberty. Just one day in class, one of his batchmates laughed and called him Two Tone, and it stuck.

Somehow, he never figured out why he was called that until after a joint battle with General Unduli and General Kenobi, fighting to take back a planet from the Separatists, at the request of the local government. Everyone was giving him weird looks ever since he had painted his armor, and he just told himself it was probably because of the design. He always had problems getting it correct on his armor, and he didn’t want to ask someone for help, so he was stuck with his own quality.

Cleaning up after the fight was normal, trudging around the battlefield to find any fallen comrades and equipment, seeing the medic if hurt, packing things away again. Two Tone thought it was weird when he didn’t bump into anyone from the 212th, but figured it was because they might have been on the other side of the battlefield. He did his best sticking to his brothers as things began to get loaded into the LAAT/is, tired and quiet as he road the drop ship up to the Venator.

He assisted with unloading things, feeling the ship shudder faintly as it transitioned into hyperspace, though his movements came to a halt as he saw General Kenobi walking by the area. Frowning, he turned to the Clone beside him.

“Why isn’t General Kenobi with the 212th?”

The Clone frowned at him. “This is the 212th…”

Two Tone prided himself on being levelheaded, so when he started to panic so hard that General Kenobi came to an abrupt stop and looked at him, he was proud that he didn’t run away or collapse or simply imploded.

“Are you all right, dear one?” General Kenobi asked and a part of Two Tone’s mind was amused to learn that the rumors were correct about the endearing terms the man used.

“I apologize, sir,” Two Tone managed to squeak out. “But… I was assigned to General Unduli… I’m on the wrong ship.”

General Kenobi’s head tilted to the side curiously, glancing over Two Tone’s armor.

“Have you been tested for colorblindness?” the General asked curiously.

***

“Deuteranopia colorblindness,” Obi-Wan said, giving Luminara a faint smile. “The poor man was so embarrassed. Evac tested him and decided to do a ship wide test. Apparently colorblindness isn’t too uncommon among the Clones.”

The holo of the Jedi Master shook her head, a fond sigh escaping her. “When he painted his armor orange and green, I thought he was living up to his name. I am glad to hear that we hadn’t lost him in battle.”

“No, just temporarily misplaced,” Obi-Wan said with a chuckle.

“Joint custody then, until you can return him to me?”

“Well keep him safe, I promise you.”

[motelofmermaids]

i barely see gentle anakin skywalker… so… i am introducing it to y’all! rots anakin (lord have mercy) ❥ (+18)

anakin skywalker is unpredictable, in more ways than one—always leaving your breath caught in your chest.

he was rough in his voice, he had a strong sense of force. you knew that, he stood tall and confident… been through the darkest of days, the darkness of his life. he was cold because of that, never quite letting anyone in as much as he did with obi-wan. but you were different, and he knew that from the beginning. when you were sitting across from him in the jedi council, being only two years younger than him—the second youngest person to hold a position on the council—he knew you were different. you were soft in all ways. your voice, gentle. your eyes so sweet and smile just as warm when looking at everyone. including him.

you were the one that was there to arrest chancellor palpatine when anakin was at his lowest, fighting the dark side, slowly succumbing to the manipulation. you were there to give him a voice, allowing him to use it when the council fought so hard to refuse. he was head over heels, always around you. he smiled more, spoke up more—joked around, even. and eventually, he was not afraid of you being a little too close, was not afraid of your touch burning his skin—he was not afraid of receiving true love, because he was no longer afraid of losing you like he had lost his mother.

he stood tall and strong, but he was no longer cold and dark. anakin conveyed this in many ways, more specifically when you were beneath him. with a hand on your hip, his other, robotic arm, rested up against your head, his elbow digging into the pillow to hold himself up—too afraid to put too much weight on you, so afraid to break you like fine china.

he’d go slow, so excruciatingly slow. you’d beg out quiet sobs. ‘ani, please… ani, you can go faster,’ and how he loved your sings of utter submission. kissing up your neck, breathing so heavily into your ear. he’d leave you shaking, tears prickling your eyes because anakin was gentle, treating you like the most vulnerable thing as he shielded you with his body, fucking you with such fervor. wasn’t afraid to moan, show you just how much he craved your entire being. you were his religion, the way you whimpered and cried against the ghost of his lips—and god, he loved your lips. loved seeing his thumb trace it, loved seeing his fingers push in, pull out, push in until you were drooling around them.

anakin talks you through it so well, knows what to say to get you clenching around him, eyelashes fluttering as he stares into your pretty doe eyes. cannot help it, he argues, the way your whole body floats and blushes and glows when he calls you a ‘pretty girl,’ when he’s telling you ‘god… fuck—you take it so well, good girl.’ you were irresistible. he did it even when he’d be doing all the work, turning you into a sweet puddle of mess. he’d tell you how good you were doing. he craved the reaction. the praise he gave you, it made him feel powerful.

he’d mumble heavy i love you’s into your thighs, exploring every crevice, mapping out every single detail of a body he wants to engrave behind his eyelids. loved the way your fingers would twitch and pull his hair when his tongue would have you soaring and hiccuping out the most divine sounds. you were an angel, he’d conclude, every time his lips wrapped around your sensitive bundle of nerves.

he cannot get enough you, he never will, and he conveys it in multiple ways. anakin skywalker is gentle.

[ddejavvu]

Betrayal - Obi-Wan Kenobi x Reader

Summary: months into the war and it's not as exhilarating as you'd hoped - not for your battalion, anyway. when the air conditioning in your compound blows, an old friend brings his tech genius of a padawan to fix it for you. while anakin is working, you convince his master to spar for old times' sake, and simple adrenaline gives way to a landslide of long-buried feelings neither of you should have for each other.

Contents/Warnings: smut, minors dni, fem!reader, jedi!reader, reader is a general, sweat kink (? they are really sweaty and i talk about it a lot), oral (m+f receiving), semi-public sex (risk of being caught), sparring, lightsaber use, throatfucking, messy kisses, scratching/marking, lotsa spit, obligatory 'had you said the word' (sorry satine i had to steal his line)

WC: 16.9K / navigation / inbox

A/N: sorry this took me so long to finish! i didn't have time to write for like two months but it's done now and i hope you enjoy it <3 this is set a couple months/a year into the clone wars, but i have chosen to fuck with their ages a little bit. in this, anakin is like 12-14-ish, even though he was older in AOTC when the war began.

feedback is greatly appreciated! comment, reblog, talk in the tags, send me a message, tell me what you think!

Neglecting the option of taking a padawan under your wing is what stuck you on this humid, blazing, hellish planet, and you almost regret it. You’d wanted more freedom in your duties, didn’t want a youngling clinging to your leg begging for help with their rudimentary saber drills, so instead you swapped it for what you thought would be constant battle, exhilarating speeder chases, and the glory of proving yourself. Unbecoming of a Jedi to wish for, yes, but you’ve never claimed to be Council-worthy.

Now your butt is sticking to the chair you’re planted in, overlooking a very empty, very desolate, very boring outpost. It’s so hot that you think you’ve melted into the chair and fused with its fabric. Standing might tear your skin away from your flesh, leaving an imprint of you behind in your seat.

“General,” One of your clone troopers calls, sticking his head through the doorway to your station, “Nothing on my scanners.”

“Nor on mine,” You drawl lazily, “We’re scheduled to be inspected today. Any word from the crew?”

“None.” He laments, “I just hope they bring a droid that can fix the cooler.”

The base you’re stationed to isn’t always this disgusting. The structure is wired with an air conditioning system to keep the inside much cooler than the outside, but after a rather unfortunate incident with a freshly manufactured astromech droid with some crossed wirings, both lay broken and singed in the maintenance bay. Your clones don’t know how to tinker with droids or heating systems, and you’d probably wind up just as ash-covered if you tried.

“Alert me when they land,” You order the trooper, leaning your forehead against the cool metal of the scanner screen before you, “I want to have time to change into an outfit I haven’t soaked through with sweat.”

The scanner grows warm against your flushed skin far too soon. Everything is hot, and sticky, and gross, and you find yourself yearning for the cold showers you used to despise at the temple. Perhaps you yearn for the temple in general, for the familial atmosphere shared among overconfident Padawans and exasperated Masters. You think specifically of Obi-Wan Kenobi, a man you’d trained with, now Master to his apprentice Skywalker.

You haven’t seen the pair in years, but you remember Anakin’s blonde mop of hair, as well as his penchant for chaos. Watching Obi-Wan’s eyes fill with horror at whatever shenanigans his Padawan had gotten into that day was part of what helped you make the decision to decline one yourself, though you hold no distaste for the boy. He was simply young and untrained in the ways of the Jedi, and you were not a patient enough person to gracefully navigate that predicament then. You’re not sure you are now, either.

Even though you know you’re better suited on your own, you wonder if you’d have been more fulfilled with a Padawan learner of your own. Surely anything could be better than this, wasting away- rotting on a planet hot enough to boil your blood if you stepped outside without proper protection.

Your base is secluded and temperature-controlled, even if the contraption that the Republic had fashioned under pressure of time to keep you isolated is rather crude. It’s, in essence, a large dome, seals in place to ensure that vessels can land and takeoff without destroying the temperature control. It’s cooler within the dome than it is outside of it, but the hurriedly-designed system can only do too much, and you greatly depend on the air conditioning to do its job. Now that it’s not, you’re irritated from the heat, and you wish that the inspection team would just hurry up already. The patience you’d had drilled into you from your early years as a Youngling is nowhere to be found under the pressure of a heat wave, and your foot taps impatiently against the floor while you itch for some action.

You think it’s rather pathetic that you yearn for excitement so badly that you’re anxiously awaiting the inspection team. Their job takes barely an hour, a scan of your equipment and a survey of your troops. They’ll walk in and out without so much as a pleasantry, but you long for something new, something more, something exciting.

The call over your comms comes over an hour later, a time in which you remain at your post but begrudge it all the while. “General,” Your trooper barks, voice staticky and rough over the channel, “We’ve got visitors. Inspection team’s here. Initiating landing procedure.”

“Copy that,” You bolt out of your seat, barely remembering to lean over the microphone to reply, “Thank you.”

Finally.

Finally, someone new to talk to, even if they have the same face as everyone else you’ve spoken to on this long, dreary assignment. You’re friendly with your troopers, of course, but that itch for more is back in your brain, igniting you with vigor you don’t normally possess as you rush to greet the inspection team.

However, when you reach the landing bay, and the ship’s hydraulics hiss, clone troopers aren’t the only ones to disembark. Jedi robes make their appearance, shrouding the very man you’d just thought about, as well as the child by his side. 

Obi-Wan wears the years that have passed since you last saw him, but time has treated him well. His hair is longer now, gone is that stiff Padawan buzz. His braid is missing as well, giving way to luscious strawberry blonde strands that he’s slicked back so that they drag against the back and sides of his neck. Longer hair looks good on him, just as it had when he was fifteen and had refused a haircut for months in a typical, if rather tame, display of teenage rebellion. Anakin is also significantly older than you’d kept track of, but he can’t be older than fourteen if his lanky limbs and awkward demeanor are any evidence.

Obi-Wan smiles at you, and you nearly forget to shove down that shameful part of you that wants to take more out of him than he can give you. Even as Padawans you’d always gravitated towards the man opposite you, sneaking out to roam the gardens after hours together or sharing sly glances across mission briefings. But he’s an honorable Jedi Master - a member of the Council itself, so you’ve heard - and you wrestle down your repressed feelings to grin at him.

“General Y/L/N,” He greets with a smile so charming you lament that the Jedi Order interrupted his chances of being a model.

“Master Kenobi,” You greet, but you know he’ll chide you for the honorific if you use it more than once, “I wasn’t aware you’d be on the inspection team.”

“We’re not. Technically.” Obi-Wan admits, arm coming to press against Anakin’s back and nudge him forwards, “We got word that your air conditioning system is out, as well as one of your new astromechs. Anakin here is still an excellent mechanic, I thought we’d come out to offer you some reprieve from the heat.”

Anakin looks embarrassed by the attention that’s fallen upon him, in typical pubescent fashion, and you take pity on the timid teenager, casting your glance back at his Master, “Maker, thank you. We’re melting out here.”

“I can imagine,” Obi-Wan laughs, and you turn again to Anakin who’s anxiously awaiting your orders.

“Anakin, if you could fix our air conditioning, that would be wonderful. Honestly, I’m not even sure I want the droid fixed, it’s what got us into this mess in the first place. But they’re both over there,” You point to the shorted out panels, “And my troopers will offer you any supplies you need, like tools or wiring or refreshments.”

“Thank you.” Anakin nods, hands clasped behind his back obediently even if he looks mortified to be the center of attention once more, “I’ll have things up and running as soon as possible.”

“I’m leaving you here,” Obi-Wan warns the boy, pointing an accusatory finger at him, “I don’t often leave you alone with machinery and tools, Anakin, for reasons we’re both aware of. Promise me you will not do anything reckless?”

“I promise,” Anakin mutters reluctantly, and you avert your eyes so he has some semblance of privacy.

“I mean it, Anakin. This is no time to experiment with your technical prowess. You simply fix their system and you wait for me back on the ship, understand?”

“Master,” Anakin pleads, “I understand.”

“Very well. Get to your duties,” Obi-Wan dismisses the boy, turning to you only after he sees his Padawan crouch by the singed panel.

“He shouldn’t take long. He most likely will try to tinker with the astromech, though.” Obi-Wan smiles sympathetically, “He’s not one to leave a droid unusable.”

“I remember he had a particular talent for mechanics,” You muse, starting off towards the main base intent on leading Obi-Wan to your rec room, “If I recall correctly, he figured out how to inconspicuously rewire his communicator to give you an ‘unavailable’ signal if he didn’t like what you were asking him to do.”

Obi-Wan scoffs as he lets you lead through the doorway, “Yes, my Padawan has always had very selective hearing. I’m sure you don’t mind not having one of your own.”

“That’s one of the reasons I justify my choice,” You chuckle, letting the door shut behind you as you make your way through the halls. The base that the Republic had granted you is spacious, even decked out with training facilities and rec rooms interspersed throughout your rows of quarters, but it’s unbearably hot and you’re tired of being cooped up inside of it.

“This isn’t bad for a base,” Obi-Wan muses, robes swishing behind him as he strides beside you, “But I hope Anakin fixes that cooling system soon.”

“Try being stationed here permanently,” You scoff, tugging at the sweat-soaked neckline of your tunic, “I have long since abandoned my robes.”

“Do you have somewhere I could set this?” Obi-Wan asks, fingers catching the front of his cloak as he slings it off. It falls gracefully from his shoulders, and he holds the garment up as he laments still having to wear the rest of his robes.

“You can leave it in my quarters,” You veer sharply to the right, letting him catch up, “They’re just down this hallway.”

There’s unmarked doors on either side of the corridor, and you’re still impressed that each clone trooper knows where their bed is at night. Your door has a plaque beside its frame that reads ‘General’s Quarters,’ and you’re not confident that you could navigate the halls without it. You type in your access code, and the door slides open with a hiss.

“Just set it on the bed,” You gesture towards your mattress, “If we have some time, I thought,” You reach into the closet, pulling out your seldom-used lightsaber, “We could spar.”

Obi-Wan laughs, discarding his cloak onto your bed as his eyes crinkle happily at the corners, “You’re lacking a bit of excitement here, aren’t you, Y/N? There’s no way you’d duel me willingly after I took you down the last time.”

You’d sparred together since you’d been handed a saber for the first time. Sure, your initial weapons were wooden, then training blades designed to be duller than their more advanced counterparts, before you’d finally been granted allowance to manufacture one of your own. But there were no more dedicated sparring partners than the two of you, and you can tell the man opposite you is fond of the reminder you’ve given him, even if he is trying to tease you.

“You did not take me down,” You gawp, “I mean- yes, I was on the floor, but I wasn’t done! You didn’t win!”

“Mm, yes. I didn’t win because no one did.” Obi-Wan sends you a sly grin, “Anakin interrupted us, don’t you remember? We never got to finish.”

“Then a rematch,” You insist, gesturing towards the open doorway, “Once and for all we’ll prove who the better duelist is.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll win. After all, I can tell you spend every waking moment practicing and making sure you lose none of your fighting abilities,” Obi-Wan’s hand darts out to switch on your holotable, revealing an in-progress game of chess. You’re losing.

“I’ve only been using that as of late,” You snap, defensive, “It’s insufferable to train without proper ventilation. And only when I’m not on duty. I don’t spend all of my time sitting and playing chess.”

“Losing at chess.” Obi-Wan arches an eyebrow, finally stepping out of your quarters so that you can shut it once more, “Come, Y/N, show me to your training grounds.”

The training room is just as hot as everywhere else on the base. You walk through the doors and humid air greets you, something that wrinkles Obi-Wan’s nose and rustles his mustache.

 “God, I hope your Padawan knows what he’s doing,” You groan, rolling up the sleeves of your own tunic but jumping excitedly into action despite the heat. You ignite your saber, slightly embarrassed by the thrill that the weapon gives you as it thrums to life. You haven’t felt this in a long time, at least, not paired with the thrill of battle. It’s significantly less awe-inspiring to ignite a saber against a training droid you know wouldn’t be able to singe your tunics if you stood stock still. Obi-Wan brings his to life as well; blue and green lights bathe your faces.

“I’ll go easy on you.” He smiles infuriatingly, cocking his head slightly to one side, “Ready?”

“Ready.” You jolt right, a fakeout before you dart left instead. He catches on rather quickly, though, and his blade clashes against yours as you aim for his leg.

“Nice start,” Obi-Wan admits, “But you can’t rely on misdirection for your entire fight. You’ll have to overpower me.”

“I could easily overpower you,” You swing left, breaking the contact of your two sabers, then jabbing so that he has to move his foot out of the way to avoid the plasma. He stumbles, barely catching himself against his back foot, but it gives you time enough to bring your blade up and around to nick at his shoulder, a hole now slashed into his tunic.

“Okay,” He stands straight, eyeing the tear in his clothing warily, “I won’t go easy on you.”

“Never underestimate your opponent,” You tease proudly, saber still ignited, “That’s one for me, Obi-Wan.”

“That doesn’t count,” He scoffs, standing at the ready, “I told you I’d go easy on you. Now I’m serious.”

“All I’m hearing is excuses,” You gloat, feet light as you step around him, “You lead this time, Kenobi.”

He does. He swings downwards, and you block your face with your own blade to stop him. He nearly jabs at your gut before you can prevent it, and you feel the heat from his blade as your own comes to block his.

You fling his weapon away with yours, and he lets you. After such a long period of no action (and shamefully little meditation) your abilities with the Force have grown slightly weaker, as have your regulatory skills. You can still sense what he’s going to do when he squares his shoulders, but you’re almost not fast enough to interpret those senses, and you barely make it to block him from swinging his blade in a fiery circle that would clip the edge of your arm.

“You’re rusty,” He taunts, his own Force abilities stronger than ever as his presence seeps through the cracks in your mind. You try to force him out, but it takes effort, and it’s effort you can’t expend elsewhere. It means that you can’t foresee his intent to aim for your face, and his blade hums inches away from your cheek as he holds it there.

You freeze; you’re caught.

We’re even,” You grunt, sweat beading at your forehead, “But we’re not finished.”

“Hang on,” He disengages his saber, letting the apparatus clatter to the ground as he tugs at one of the outer layers of his robes, “I’m going to shed a few things.”

“Stripping will not help your cause.” You tease, “I’m not distracted by sex appeal.”

Clearly, he isn’t expecting your jab, and he lets his mouth fall open as he slings off one of his garments, an incredulous laugh filling his throat.

“Y/N. You’ve obtained a foul mouth somewhere along your career. It certainly wasn’t in the temple.”

“It’s the clones,” You groan, “Try being stationed with a troop of grown men who went through puberty in record time. They’ve got the appetite of an adult with the filter of a teenage boy.”

“They’ve never tried anything with you,” Obi-Wan narrows his eyes questioningly, and you try to avoid looking at the sweat glistening against his tanned neck as he strips to his base layer.

“No, they’re respectful.” You assure him, “Just crass.”

“Yes, well,” Obi-Wan frowns distastefully, “They haven’t had Jedi training. I suppose I’m not surprised.”

He stands there for a moment with only his undershirt covering his chest, then decides that it’s still too warm, tugging at its hem to raise it over his head.

You feel your insides ignite with a fire you haven’t felt in a long time when his bare chest is exposed, skin marred and riddled with coarse, wiry hair. His stomach is flat but not as tight as you remember in your youth, softer now. You can tell there’s an impressive layer of muscle beneath the milky white skin, though, even if it’s not outwardly visible. He uses his tunic to wipe the sweat off of his face so you’re granted a moment to ogle him, your mouth watering as you try to conceal your thoughts. 

“Okay. Enough with this child’s play.” You shake your head, letting Obi-Wan have just enough time to toss aside his tunic before you plant your feet against the mat. Obi-Wan stands at the ready, both of your sabers ignited, “I want a real match. A long one, now that we’re warmed up. Best two out of three, Kenobi. Winner takes all.”

“Winner gets to stand in front of the air conditioning vent when Anakin gets it up and running,” Obi-Wan suggests, sweat trailing down his neck and over his chest. You avert your eyes, lest the fraile state of mind you’re in betrays you.

“Fine.” You shrug, reaching for the hem of your vest. It’s tactical, good for keeping with you on duty, but it’s etching lines of sweat into your back now. You sling it off, letting it land in a heap similar to Obi-Wan’s robes, and exposing the tank top you have on beneath it. “I know just the one I’ll pick. In my room, there’s one just above the bed. Maybe I’ll let it hit my back while I win at holochess.”

“I think the heat might be getting to you,” Obi-Wan cracks, a slight heave to his chest as he tries regulating his breathing. It’s hard when you’re as hot as you are to get enough oxygen, and you’re doing the same. It’s awfully difficult not to indulge in the view of his bare chest rapidly rising and falling, and you feel a tug below your gut as a vision flashes through your mind. It’s of what else could make him pant in such a way, and you can’t afford to entertain the thought, not around him. “I’m not sure which outcome is more delusional; that you’ll win this duel, or that you’ll win at holochess.”

“You’re wasting time,” You croon, charging with your blade poised for battle so that you have no more time to fantasize, “I think you’re scared.”

“Do I feel afraid?” Obi-Wan laughs, blocking your attack with little effort and redoubling to launch one of his own. The clatter of your sabers almost drowns out his words, “Reach out, Y/L/N, all you’ll feel is confidence.”

“I’m not sure I could feel you if I tried,” You lament, chest heaving as you block one of his swings, “Not while my mind is occupied with our duel. I am rusty, you were right.”

“Practice more,” He chides, “Less chess, more meditation.”

“One is a lot more boring than the other!” You groan, barely managing to get your arm up in time to take a shot at his own, “And the less boring one is chess, so that’s really saying something.”

“It may be boring but it is beneficial,” Obi-Wan lectures you, and you wonder if he thinks you’re still a Padawan. You fight with heaving breaths and monumental effort, the heat sucking your energy out through the sweat that drips down your skin. He turns and his back is glistening, which is really not a sight that helps you to stay focused.

“Now I’m starting to see why Anakin tinkered with his communicator,” You call, as Obi-Wan whirls around your left side, “You’re very dull as a Jedi Master!”

You have to throw yourself onto the floor to avoid a swing at your head, your right shoulder aching as you do so. But you scramble away from him, righting yourself and miraculously avoiding the blade of your saber coming into contact with the training mat.

You stumble to your knees, driving the forward momentum you have against Obi-Wan as he tries blocking you. You nearly get a nick out of his pants, but he pushes you backwards with the threat of his blade, and you fall with your back to the mat.

Your stomach drops when a blue blade hums hot and bright near your throat, its tip directed at your jugular. It doesn’t matter that it’s on its training setting; it’s inescapable and daunting when it’s an inch from your skin. You’re done for. 

“I may be dull,” Obi-Wan pants, beard glistening as sweat streams down his neck. His chest heaves as he speaks, bare and open for your eyes, and his pink tongue pokes out of the corner of his mouth to dart along his lips, “But I am victorious. Does this remind you a little bit of the last time we fought?”

It does. He’d been standing over you then as he is now, and you’d had to fortify your mind back then not to let slip vulgar thoughts about being on the floor below him. His thighs, meaty with muscle and strong from training, are hidden behind loose pants, but their crotch has tightened slightly, a chub to what should be a relaxed surface.

A pang of arousal shoots down your spine, and suddenly the lightsaber near your throat isn’t the most daunting thing in the room. It’s Obi-Wan.

He swallows, his adam’s apple bobbing as you lay beneath him.

“Your thoughts betray you,” He observes, and you feel his invasive presence in your mind, sucking out the private thoughts coursing through your brain. They’re of panting breaths, heaving chests, wandering hands, and meshing tongues; passionate embraces, intimate attachments. Things no Jedi should fantasize about, not under the code. Things that should bring shame to you, and maybe they do, and maybe you like it.

“Your body betrays you,” You’re able to muster, swallowing the saliva pooling in your mouth as you glance pointedly at his bulge. It’s only grown since you’d last glanced at it; evidently your visions did something to him too.

He sees, or perhaps, feels what you see, freezes, then clicks his saber off. The blade retracts with a hiss and there is a distinct vacuum of sound where its humming once was. He breaks the unnerving silence with a clatter as he tosses it aside, feet still firmly planted on either side of your hips. 

“It’s natural.” He weakly supplies, a poor defense, “It’s adrenaline-fueled, nothing more.”

“Really? So when you duel sith lords, when you chop the heads off of battle droids, you walk away with a stiff dick?” You carefully observe his body language, feet poised like he might bolt if you make any sudden moves. He’s flighty, and you have to make your next moves carefully.”

“Y/N,” He begins, his voice weak, “I wish you wouldn’t use such foul language.”

“Is it the language that bothers you?” You push your elbows against the mat, hoisting yourself up at an obtuse angle to meet his eye better, “Or is it the truth it carries? Obi-Wan, you were right. It’s natural. And it is not something to be ashamed of.”

“It is against the Code,” He reasons, his voice still fighting to sound resolute. He offers no other reasoning, and you know it’s because he has none.

“It’s not.” You insist, “The Code is ancient and rigid. And celibacy is not required, only a level head.”

“That’s the problem,” He chuckles weakly, “I don’t have a level head when it comes to you, Y/N.”

“You seem as though you do.” You press cautiously, careful not to push your luck, “I’ve never felt anything unprofessional about your feelings towards me.”

“That’s because I haven’t been around you in a long time,” He admits, “Not consistently. I was better at controlling it- no, hiding it when we were Padawans. I had to do it every day, it was natural to me. But I am out of practice now, and I have been since you were stationed here. I barely have the ability to hide how I feel about you, Y/N. And- and it is not something the Council would approve of.”

You sit up now, fully straightened. You’re still between his legs, but you’d need to rise to your knees for your face to be level with his bulge. You plan to.

“The Council is not here. Nor can they see us, or hear us, or feel us. They will not know what we do, Obi-Wan.”

“I will know.” He breathes, his voice growing weaker each time he tries raising it against you, “Y/N, I will never forget a thing we do together on this base. If we… If you touch me, I will remember every brush of your skin against mine for eternity. If you- kiss me, I will never be able to put the thought of your lips on mine out of my head. And I would not know how to live without it for the rest of my life.”

Your heart sinks in your stomach like a stone in water. He’s loyal to the Order, he always has been. But you’d been so blinded by isolation, so convinced by your own delusions, that you’d assumed his loyalty to you would be stronger. But it’s not, and you can’t earnestly be angry with him for it.

You swallow what little saliva has accumulated around your tongue to give yourself something to do, then rise to your feet.

“It sounds like you should walk away.” You mutter regretfully. His eyes hold the same feelings, strikingly painful. He nods, almost imperceptibly, but before he can follow your orders, you continue.

“But will you forgive yourself if you do?”

You feel it, his swell of emotions. Every single one is unbridled, yearning, heartache, fondness, want; all of them unleashed from the man whose mind is usually a fortress. They’re washing over you like waves, invading your brain and turning your thoughts their colors. 

“No. I couldn’t,” He admits, “But-” and there’s always a but, “The Council would never forgive me if I didn’t.”

“They won’t know.” You insist, but it’s lost on him, “Obi-Wan, please make a decision. Who is more important, you or the Council?” Then in a more timid, soft voice, as his soft eyes bore into you and beg for mercy, you give him the opposite, “Who is more important… me or the Council?”

He kisses you. There is no warning, no shift in his Force signature, only his hands on your face and his lips on your own. There is strength in his touch, his hands firm where they pull your cheeks ever-so-slightly towards his face as if he’s trying to mash them into his own. His beard is rough and grating against your face, but it’s not unpleasant, especially when it brings with it his lips. His lips, which are much softer than you’d have imagined them, merely frame your own. The kiss is sweet but chaste, and the only indication you have that he wants more is the way that he holds you against him. Otherwise you’d mistake his courtesy for disinterest, and you tilt your head slightly sideways to encourage more enthusiasm from him.

When your lips reconnect he sighs, a breath from his nose that fans over your top lip. He’s letting you lead, letting you dictate whether you want to keep kissing him or whether you’ll suddenly switch positions; it’s like he’s afraid that you’ll rip off a mask and reveal yourself to be Master Windu, scolding him for his reckless passion. But of course you don’t, and you lick gently against the plush of his bottom lip instead.

He hums at the feeling of your tongue against his mouth, but he’s suddenly pushing against your cheeks instead of pulling.

“Are you absolutely sure,” He starts, but can’t seem to resist the temptation to steal another kiss from your spit-slicked lips, “That you- mm, that you want this? Because I cannot-” He breaks off with a weary, pleading, defeated look in his beautiful eyes, “I cannot turn back if we go further. If we proceed… I will not be able to forget what we do. If you’re not interested… please tell me now, so that I may save myself from loving you for an eternity that you do not wish to share with me.”

You scoff, moving in for another kiss at his lips. He doesn’t reciprocate, only pushing you back so that you can respond.

“I just spent five minutes,” You pant, desperate to reconnect your lips, “Bargaining with you to get you to forget about your nerves. And you don’t think I want this?”

You try surging forwards again but he holds you back, eyes still begging for your words.

“Please. I need to hear you say it.” He seems almost self-conscious, worried you’re not interested in him the same way he’s interested in you. But you have been since you can remember, and you’re more than willing to work around the unconventional aspects of your relationship if it means you can have him, even just for today.

“I want you,” You breathe, the exhale hitting his lips, “Please- Obi-Wan, I want you. I want you no matter what the Code says. No matter what the Council says; I want you.”

He looks like he could cry. He is devoted to the Order, far more than you have seen most Jedi, and to hear you choose him over the Code must mean a great deal. He pours passion into the kiss you share, chest filling with oxygen that he gulps just to be able to keep his mouth on yours for longer. He consumes you, fingers pulling at your cheeks and tugging you closer still, like he thinks you might fuse if he tries hard enough.

He groans into your mouth, his tongue more exploratory now that you’ve pledged your devotion to him. He’s not afraid of taking now, of getting his hopes up only to be thrown down, and he swipes the wet muscle in a hot stripe over your own tongue. He rolls it against your lower lip, so wonderful to kiss for someone with such lacking experience.

“No one is coming,” You breathe, exhaling against his mouth as your hands wander to his waistband, “No one- no one can see us.”

“I want you in your quarters.” He protests, grabbing your wrists when your hand sinks to his bulge and ghosts over it. He jolts at the unexpected contact, but holds you back, “I want to lay you down, Y/N, I want to indulge in every part of you. Worship you.”

“I will let you,” You moan, tilting your forehead against his and mouthing at his lips in a sloppy kiss, “You may have me any way you want, Obi-Wan. But here, I- I want to have you. I need to have you now,”

“Impatient,” He notes, sounding suspiciously close to lecturing you. But he lets your wrists go, and you sink to your knees instantly. He hears them hit the training mat, knows they must ache, but he can’t find any part of him available to worry about it, not now that your hands are prying greedily at the waistband of his trousers.

He’s a near stranger to physical pleasure, at least in recent years. He’s a grown man, he has urges, but he also has responsibilities, and the constant pressure of an ambitious (read: reckless) young Padawan under his supervision mixed with a quickly-rising rank within the Jedi Order leave him with little time nor interest to indulge in his barest desires. Your hand gently squeezing his clothed bulge as you wrestle with his pants nearly knocks him off of his feet, and he’s not sure he’ll be able to handle having your warm mouth envelop it.

Finally you tug loose the drawstring within his pants, and yank them down his thighs. They’re seldom bare, you see from the milky white tone of the skin there, but they are muscled and thick like he does not neglect them.

You can’t help yourself when you lean forwards, tongue already protruding from your mouth to lick a fat, wet stripe around one of his thighs. It’s sturdy beneath your tongue that dips into the crease between his skin and the parts of it that are covered by his briefs. His muscles tense like you’ve struck him with a fatal blow, and an open-mouthed groan escapes his lips.

His skin tastes of the sweat that’s currently moistening every inch of your bodies, salty and tantalizing. There’s no escaping it in the brutal heat, but it makes him all the more sexy, his skin glistening before you even get a chance to smear it in your saliva.

You’re guilty of impatience as he accuses, and you can’t resist mouthing at his covered bulge. He’s half-hard, but when your lips purse around the outline of his cock in his briefs he twitches, and you feel him stiffen against the restraints of his underwear on your tongue. 

His knees give out with no warning, and he barely has the foresight to grab desperately at a bench press behind him for stability. He falls quickly to its surface, perching on the edge of it while you desperately chase his cock. You fit your mouth again over his briefs and drool against the fabric, surely soaking it through with your saliva. His cock, though restrained, is heavy and thick on your tongue, making your mouth water and produce enough drool to soak through his entire ensemble. His hands clutch the bench beneath him with white knuckles, and he grits his teeth to stop himself from shouting as you suck at his clothed cock.

“Oh, Y/N,” He pants, voice strained as you get lost in your task and forget that you need to actually pull his briefs down. He reaches for your head, gently nudging you away with his knuckles against your temple.

“Darling, please, I can’t- I won’t last for very long. Please, have me properly.”

He grips at the waistband of his underwear, tugging them down hurriedly and letting his cock spring free. It’s of decent length, but slightly thicker than average, its base shrouded by a patch of curled hair at his groin. It’s a similar caramel color to the rest of his hair, and his sweat has accumulated particularly within its wiry constraints, leaving him musky. The smell might bother you if it were anyone else, if you were anywhere else, but here and now, on your knees for Obi-Wan in the training room, it’s the most disgustingly tantalizing thing you’ve ever smelled in your entire life.

That’s why you bury your face into it, the hair tickling at your skin. His hips jolt as you inhale deeply near the base of his cock, groaning and letting your tongue fall to drag against just the shaft of his erect dick. He’s painfully hard, embarrassingly seconds to orgasm, and your spit now glistening on his length doesn’t help. Or it helps too much; either way, he’s close to cumming and you haven’t even had a chance to put him in your mouth.

“Darling,” He begs, pushing at your forehead once more, speaking through an eternal shortage of breath, “Please, I- it all feels too good. I can’t take it. I won’t last long.”

“That’s okay,” You pant, your breath falling over his cock as it practically pulses with pleasure, “We’re here for a good time, not a long time.”

“Terrible,” He manages to chuckle weakly, but any further chiding he has planned for your cheekiness is cut short when he stops breathing. He actually forgets how when your wet mouth closes around the head of his cock, your tongue licking flat over its head and covering most of its surface area. It’s so much sensation so fast that Obi-Wan has to clench his hands around the bench not to cum right then and there, and he feels pinpricks of pain over his skin that he realizes are from his fingernails digging against his palms. When you draw your head back off of his cock with a slick sound, then move in again to take more of his length into your mouth, his lungs suddenly remember their function, and heave within his chest.

His groans are filthy and they only pool more slick wetness between your thighs as you kneel for him. You don’t care about the ache in your knees, nor the pain in your neck from the slightly awkward angle you’re indulging in him at. All that matters is his cock, heavy and thick on your tongue, sweat and precum alike flooding your taste buds. 

His restraint is put to the test. He’s a member of the Jedi Council, for Force’s sake, and he should have a little more control over himself than this. But it takes almost all of his energy not to buck his hips forwards and plunge the length of his cock down your throat, and it means that he’s not able to devote as much restraint to delaying his orgasm as he’d like.

He’s twitching in your mouth, and even with your faded Force abilities, mental muscles weakened by disuse, you can feel the tension coursing through his veins, hot and wild. You don’t need to look at his strained, white-knuckled grip on the edge of the bench to know that he’s devoting all of his energy to restraining himself, and you take pride in being able to undo Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi with merely your mouth. You indulge in his painful hardness, tongue smoothly caressing the underside of his length as you bob your head back and forth around him. Each time you draw back you flick your tongue up and over the ruddy, leaking head of his cock, something that makes that fiery tension in his body glow even hotter.

“I’m going to-” He warns you, voice petering out weakly as he tries controlling himself, “I can’t- I can’t help it, I’m going to cum.”

“Cum,” You speak in unison, your word coming out muffled as you speak it against his cock. You smooth your hands up his thighs, feeling his muscles impossibly tight beneath your fingers. You stroke them soothingly, encouraging him to unclench his jaw that’s wired so tightly that you’re sure his teeth are on the verge of cracking, “Cum, Obi-Wan, please.”

Even if you hadn’t asked him so kindly, he’s sure he wouldn’t have been able to withhold any longer. Not with your pretty eyes gazing up at him from between his legs, lashes latticing the tender emotions swirling in your gaze. Your fingers slide calmly, sweetly over the expanse of his thighs, and the mere thought of you digging your nails harshly into them and leaving marks is what elicits the final twitch of his dick on your tongue.

Evidently, you’re more in tune with his thoughts than he’d expected. You’d caught the quick image that had flashed through his mind, now completely unguarded to you, and you curl your fingers quicker than he can comprehend, carving searing marks into his thighs that will show up red for at least a week. Paired with the movement of your fingers, you suck hard at his cock, plunging your face forwards to nestle against the base once more. His tip hits the back of your throat with force and it makes you gag, and Obi-Wan isn’t sure what sensation is more overwhelming: the vivid burning at his thighs, the way the tip of his dick nestles so securely into the warm, wet sleeve of your throat, or the way that you’re breathing in his sweat-marred scent like it’s the purest oxygen you’ve ever had in your lungs. All he knows is that together, they’re his undoing, and he lets out a rugged cry; he can’t control himself any longer when pleasure roars through him with a fury he’s almost frightened of. 

He’s always calm, collected, in control. But now he’s grabbing your face with shaking hands as he pumps warm spurts of cum down your throat, holding your jaw steady so that you can’t back away, not that you want to. He holds you in place while his thighs begin to tremble, your tongue continuously smoothing over the underside of his cock while it twitches in your mouth. He keeps himself fully nestled into the back of your throat while he cums, and if he had energy to be embarrassed about cumming as much as he was, he’d be apologizing. But he can’t, not when you’re swallowing him so eagerly, throat convulsing around the head of his cock and only milking more out of him. There’s obscene groans coming from his mouth, the kind that bring heat to your own core, and you think you could get off to the sound a thousand times over if you recorded him now. They’re deep, throaty, and desperate as he holds your face around his cock, gagging you on his dick as his orgasm takes control of him.

A part of your training that hasn’t left you yet was your extensive disaster training, in which you were taught how to extend the time for which you could hold your breath. That comes in especially handy when Obi-Wan’s hands cradle your jaw, keeping you snugly choking around his dick. You have to fight not to draw back at the strange sensation of your throat being plugged while his cum splatters against the back of it,, and you use all of your strength to keep yourself from panicking at the lack of airflow. You’re only slightly ashamed to admit that you’d willingly die like this, a fucktoy for his cock.

Once his orgasm has worked its way through him he seems to remember you can’t breathe, all of the tension having leaked out of his muscles. He inhales with a start, pushing against your cheeks and tugging his cock out of your mouth, “Oh, Y/N, darling- Y/N, are you-?” 

At the sight of your spit-soaked lips, tongue desperately running over them to collect any of the sweat that had accumulated there from being pressed against his pelvis, he lunges forwards to meet his lips with your own. He can taste the slight savory hint of his own release, your tongues meshing wetly and messily. He’s hunching now, even though you’ve straightened up on your knees, and he feels you clumsily palm at his dick, tucking him back away into his briefs. It makes his lips go slack with a gasp even though he’s just finished, and he’s more than eager to take you by the wrists and help you to your feet. You toss his undershirt at him with careless speed, and he nearly gets lost in its beige expanse from the way that his arms shake as he pulls it over his head.

“My quarters,” Your voice is thick and ragged, still recovering from your prior lack of oxygen, “We can- it’s soundproof, no one will know.”

“Yes,” He breathes, legs shaking slightly as he gathers the rest of the clothes he’d shed while sparring with you, “Um- we can... Anakin still hasn’t gotten the air conditioning running.”

“Uh-uh,” You shake your head, feeling nothing from the vent to your left, “Hurry, let’s go before-”

“General,” The door slides open, and you both startle, much less in tune with the force presences of those around you than you’d like to admit. One of your troopers sticks his head through the door, “The kid needs a multitool.”

You blink once, registering a slight soreness at the back of your throat, “Get him a multitool, then.”

You’re sure he can see your haggard appearance, and all apart from the glossy look of your lips looks like you’ve been sparring. Which you have, technically. You just hope Obi-Wan’s trousers don’t look like they’ve only just been hitched up around his waist again, or his shirt barely pulled down over his chest.

“I lost mine, general,” The trooper admits sheepishly. There was an abundance of the supplies that were offered to you before you’d been shipped out to this battle station, and more had been stocked for a long time in one of the supply closets, but your troopers are bored more often than not, and you shudder to think of all of the times they’ve used them as target practice by standing them on the balcony and opening fire. Apparently, you need to request some more from the next inspection team, as well as impress upon your troops the difference between an abundance of resources and useless clutter begging for a blaster wound.

“I have one in my quarters,” You sigh wearily, “Let’s see to it that we don’t misuse our equipment anymore, soldier.”

“Yes, General,” He nods vigorously, stepping out of your way to offer you the open door.

“Obi-Wan,” You turn apologetically, “We’ll have to continue our sparring match after I retrieve the multitool for your padawan. You’re welcome to follow us, though I’m not sure it’s any cooler out there than it is in here.”

“I’d like to stash my clothes somewhere, if you don’t mind,” Obi-Wan holds up the outer garments he’d shed, “I think it gives you somewhat of an unfair advantage if I’m liable to trip over my own tunics.”

You grant him a good-natured laugh as you pass your trooper in the doorway, and all in all, you think that the two of you have done a fantastic job at pretending his dick wasn’t in your mouth only minutes ago.

Your trooper makes the wise decision to stand outside of your quarters when you enter them, although any initial disappointment you’d felt at his poorly-timed request has well worn off by now. That’s all he’s guilty of, anyways; you find their antics amusing despite their destructive nature. It’s not his fault that you’re canoodling with the Jedi master, so you forgive him his abhorrent timing. You beeline for a locker in your closet, punching in the numeric code and letting the squeaky hinges reveal your small weapons store. It’s a multipurpose space, blasters on a rack that’s affixed to the back, a mount for your saber, and a drawer of various other mechanical supplies down below. You throw it open, and Obi-Wan watches you dig for the multitool where he stands by your bed, his tunics laid on your bedspread.

You realize all too late that one of your other mechanical supplies is in full view of the Jedi master standing behind you, black in color for subtlety but unmistakable in shape. It’s phallic and has a second prong that shoots off of the base to vibrate against your clit, something you only use when you're absolutely certain no one can hear. Besides, the sound could very well be mistaken for one of your troopers shaving their scruff, so you have ample opportunity. You snatch the multitool out of the drawer and slam it shut, making your trooper’s shoulders twitch in a quickly concealed wince. You’re thankful that only Obi-Wan was a temporary witness to your lack of organizational skills.

“Here,” You rush to hand it off, forcefully locking the cabinet and thrusting the tool towards the trooper, “Take it- uh, keep it, I’ll put in a request for more supplies tonight.”

“Thanks, General,” He nods warily at you, and you pity the way he’s taken your context clues and misarranged them to view your behavior as standoffish and exasperated with him, “My apologies again.”

“No worries,” You try not to snap at him, unnerved by the abnormal lack of mental pressure from Obi-Wan behind you. He used to tease you abundantly in your youth, prying at your mental shields and slipping snide remarks through the cracks while you fought to keep a straight face, but now that he’s laid his eyes on possibly the most embarrassing item you own, he’s completely still, completely silent.

“Goodbye.” You shut the door with a hydraulic hiss, and stand facing it until Obi-Wan speaks, pretending to fuss with the control panel.

“It seems you overlooked another multitool in that drawer,” His voice finally reaches over the silence, carefully bundled so that the underlying mirth is something you can only guess at, “Now I wonder if your battalion is really the cause of your foul mouth.”

“Shut up!” You whirl on him with cheeks blazing on opposite sides of your face like Tatooine’s twin suns, “Don’t tease me-”

“I’m not teasing you!” He insists, voice sounding aghast, like it’s out of the question, like he’s offended by the accusation, taking your arms into his grip when you look like you might shove him. His face is split into a smile - not a grin, which is reassuring - but a warm smile, even if there is amusement twinkling in his eyes.

“Yes you are,” You scoff, and you have half a mind to pull away when one of his hands releases your arm and anchors itself against your face instead. It’s warm, rough from wear but impossibly gentle. You fight leaning into it for as long as you can, pride still bruised, but he leans in to press his lips against your forehead in a chaste kiss. 

Typical.

You’d gagged on his dick ten minutes ago, and he’s kissing your forehead.

“Darling,” He hums sympathetically, tucking your face against his chest so snugly that you think it was engineered for the curves and bumps of your skin. You relish the hug he traps you in, the tender hold even though you’re interested in something more carnal, feral, hungry. His voice is strong and soothing as he speaks, and the vibrations thrum through his chest and against your face “You had my cock in your mouth not ten minutes ago. I’m not going to make fun of you for having a toy.”

Oh. Perhaps he hadn’t forgotten.

“Such a foul mouth,” You admonish him, tucking your grin away between the haphazardly-righted folds of his tabard. 

He pinches at your side, fingers greedily prying at the soft flesh of your belly through layers of clothing you wish weren’t between your skin and his, “Yes, well, it’s because I’ve had yours all over me.”

His hand, similarly bold to his mouth, flattens out along the curve of your side, tucking into the space above your hip bones. The other stays in place against your cheek, finger running idly across the underside of your jawline. You don’t know whether the shiver that shudders down your spine is due to the ticklish nature of his touch, or the sensual area he’s chosen, but he feels your spine thrum, and he presses further into you like it was an invitation.

“Darling,” He starts, back to that well-practiced hesitancy, “If you still want to…”

“I do,” You nod, feeling sweat drip down the back of your neck and soak into the fabric of your tank top, “Do you think we have time?”

“Anakin can occupy himself with scrap metal and multitools for hours,” Obi-Wan recollects with a smile on his face that isn’t committed to fondness or resignation. You’re sure he’s proud of his padawan’s abilities, but not of the havoc he wreaks with them.

“Hmm, that might be cutting it close,” You pretend to debate it, gnawing at the inside of your cheek, and he lets out a laugh as warm as the runoff heat from his saber with none of the bite of its blade.

“You’d occupy yourself with me for hours?” He teases, but when you nod, it’s earnest.

“I’d occupy myself with you for the rest of my life, Obi-Wan.”

The breath that he draws in when you begin speaking is the last one he draws for a while. Instead he holds it there, letting it burn and sear at his lungs while he wonders if any words he could produce with it would contain even a fraction of the yearning he feels roll over him in a nauseating wave. Very little has ever made him want the life of a civilian - his home is between the opulent walls of the Jedi temple, but any walls he shared with you would be infinitely more grandiose if only for your place within them.

“Had you said the word,” He elects to speak the truth, even if it isn’t even a chip away at the trove of feelings he keeps locked tightly away in his mind for you, “I would have left the Jedi Order.”

Would have.

You know why he won’t now, and you’re not upset with him for the reasons. You understand them, even if you don’t relate to them.

“But Anakin…”

“I know,” You nod against his chest, fingers taking hold of his undershirt’s fabric edge and fastening there, “You made a promise to your master. And to him. And he needs your help. I wouldn’t ask you to leave.”

“Would you have? When we were younger,” He idly strokes down the length of your spine, arm wrapping comfortably around your waist.

“Maybe…” You admit, “Maybe if I’d known your trip to Naboo would bring about such change. Maybe if I’d known I only had a few years left with you as we were. But I didn’t. So I never asked. And I never will.”

He doesn’t react verbally or physically after your confession, but the silence that ensues isn’t an awkward one. Instead, he maintains his hold on you, and you feel a gentle wave of affection flow from him through the Force. Affection, appreciation, love, which you feel so broadly through the Force, but rarely so devoted to you yourself rather than the galaxy in its entirety. You’re no stranger to the feeling, but it’s different channeled privately between two people than it is as a way of life.

“Let us pretend,” Obi-Wan finally musters, his voice thicker than usual, though if you were not so in tune with him you wouldn’t have perceived it, “For the next few fleeting moments, that we are still young. That we don’t have responsibilities other than those to ourselves, and to each other.”

Though your youth may have escaped you, your mind weary with resignation and Obi-Wan’s eyes darkened with the perpetual exhaustion of adulthood, his touch does not feel tired or incapable. It feels strong, firm, and mindful where it slips from your chin to your waist. His other hand sandwiches you between them, and you’re tilting your chin up to kiss him before he gives any indication that he’ll do the same. But he does, his boldness almost reset from the interruption you’d suffered. Like you need to coax him out of his shell again, like he’s worried you’ve somehow changed your mind.

You take the back of his neck in your hand, finding it slick and tacky with sour-smelling sweat, and pull him down so that his lips smash messily to your own. It’s a move he’s not expecting, and a startled groan escapes his lips as proof. You drink it, sucking it down your throat and pulling him towards the bed with the same backwards momentum. He’s nimble even if he’s unprepared, probably to do with his extensive agility training. You’re more than ready to fall back onto your bed when your calves butt against the frame but he lowers you down gently, with ease, drawing back from your kiss despite your fervent protests to watch you look up at him.

“Obi-Wan,” You beg, your voice weary, “Why are you hesitating?”

“I’m not hesitating,” He answers, and you feel it to be truthful, “I’m admiring you, darling. I’m not unsure, I’m more sure than I’ve ever been in my life.”

“Prove it,” You plead, already pulling at the hem of your tank top. You peel its sweat-soaked binding off of your skin, showcasing the equally stained garment beneath it that keeps your chest closer to your neck than your stomach, “Please, Obi-Wan, take me like you want me. Not like you feel bad for having me.”

“I do not feel bad for having you,” He promises, mouth barely parting from yours to utter the words. His lips are pink-tinted, glistening with spit, probably a mixture of his and yours. He pants slightly, cheeks similarly ruddy, “Perhaps later I will. When I stand in front of the Council and tell them we conducted routine maintenance. When I lie, when I guard my memories of you from them. But I’m not occupied with that now, darling. Only with you, I swear it.”

“Oh, well, that’s good to know,” You hum, kissing an inch lower than his mouth, the apex of his chin that’s marred by the scruff of his beard. It’s prickly and rough beneath your lips, and when you draw back they glisten with transferred sweat, “I’m glad you’re not thinking of Master Yoda while dipping a knee between my thighs.”

“Oh,” Obi-Wan ducks his head, advances on pause as he plants his forehead against your shoulder, “That’s awful. Really, truly vile.”

You laugh, and despite his disgusted bravado, so does he. His chest shakes against yours and you relish the sound, hand still planted firmly on the back of his neck. You briefly consider breaking out your rusty Yoda impression, ‘kiss me, you must’, but decide against it, instead choosing to press his head closer to your torso, letting his forehead lay flush and sweaty against your shoulder. It puts the scruff of his beard on the curve of your tits, and you feel it burn your skin as he kisses along it lightly. 

His mouth is soft, and his beard is its abrasive opposite. They trail in tandem along the slope of your breasts, first the soft lips and then the burn of the beard, until he’s lit a fiery trail across your skin to the padded edge of your bra. When his lips meet fabric instead of skin he noses beneath it, surely smelling a morning’s worth of sweat accumulated beneath the weight of your chest. You’re self conscious, for only a flash, then he takes a deep drag of air, inhaling until his chest seems fit to burst.

“I’m sorry,” You find yourself humming, regardless of his clear interest, “I wish a shower would help. Even the cold water doesn’t prevent sweating.”

“I don’t want you to shower,” He muses, pushing his face between your breasts to kiss at the skin between them. He mouths gently, tongue sliding over your skin with little form and too much spit that blends well with your sweat, “Sex is not sterile, darling. Soap and water defeat the purpose.”

You’re not sure whether it’s his insistence on the natural state of your body or the way that his knee gently prods against your center, but whatever it is, your fingers itch and you fling them up to cup the underside of your chest.

“Take it off,” You beg, and Obi-Wan shows no hesitation in complying, his hands sliding beneath your back, rough and weathered from work. They’re gentle as they slide over the clasp of your bra, and you push yourself up onto your elbows on the mattress so that he can maneuver the stretchy fabric easier.

“Does it hook or button?” He nudges his nose against yours to ask, and your stomach flops at the question. Both the fact that he doesn’t have enough experience to know, and the way that he feels comfortable enough admitting that to you by asking so earnestly only make you want him more, and you’re barely able to mumble ‘clasp’ before pressing your lips to his own once more.

“Three,” You add later, against his lips, when he unhooks one and still doesn’t have the garment undone, “There’s three.”

He takes your orders with unfailing patience, a trait you’d admired even in your youth. While you’d been more prone to hotheaded outbursts, he’d take you by the arm and speak for the both of you, usually resulting in far less severe of a punishment than you’d have gotten if you’d spoken your mind. Then the two of you would share sneaky, fleeting glances at each other while scrubbing the floors of the refectory, trying not to laugh loud enough for the Knight unwillingly supervising your punishment to hear.

You’re pulled out of your reverie when he finally unhooks the garment and slips it off of your shoulders, meaning you have to draw back from where you’d tucked your face over his shoulder, giving him a view of his work. As your faces pass each other he offers you the same grin he’d worn all those years ago, his pretty eyes alight with the love you feel seeping from his fingertips. You see a glimpse of the boy he was through the man he’s become, and both are equally endearing to you. The first, because you’d grown with him, like ferns tangled together in sticky, clinging tendrils. The second, because he wears his accomplishments on his face, crows feet at the corners of his eyes from laughing at his padawan’s wayward antics, and frown lines for scowling at the same incidences only moments prior. He’d laughed at you in your youth, and frowned just the same at your more uncouth ideas for adventure, and now those expressions are etched into his face, like layers of makeup no longer dissolvable with remover. He’ll wear them forever, and you want to see him display them even in his old age.

He watches the way that your body moves when he peels the sweat-soaked garment away from your chest. He watches your breasts succumb to gravity’s harsh pull, sloping sideways and downwards rather than maintaining their tight compress towards your chin. He watches them sag, watches them fall to their natural state and declares, “You’re beautiful, darling.”

He takes them in his hands, their mass in his palms as he rolls his thumb over the skin of your nipples. They’d usually pebble in the cold but now they’re pulling taut beneath his touch, and when he brushes his thumb over their peak you stifle a gasp.

“Beautiful,” He repeats, and leans down to meet one with his mouth. He gravitates towards the right one first, and the embrace of his hot mouth against your skin tempts your back to arch. His tongue presses flat against your nipple, then drags up its surface, and his lips kiss over the stripe of saliva he’d left behind.

His beard rubs against your skin and it’s not rawing, not yet, but you know it will be the more he mouths at your breast. He’s licking, sucking, pulling, but never biting, teeth merely grazing your flesh rather than indulging in it. His tongue does that instead, flattening out over your raised flesh and dragging hot, wet stripes over the bud of your perked nipple.

“Obi- Obi-Wan,” You gasp, dragging desperate, heaving breaths into your lungs as your hands fly to his lengthened hair. You’d ruffled it many times when it was short and spiked, but now you’re able to get purchase in the strawberry-blonde locks, curling your fingers around the soft, sweat-darkened strands and pulling. 

You don’t pull hard, but it’s unexpected, and you feel the momentary pinch of Obi-Wan’s teeth around your breast. It floods heat to your already-pulsing core more than you’d have thought possible, considering the sweltering temperatures you’ve been in the whole time, but the soft groan that then ripples through your skin from the depths of his throat only makes you more desperate. All of a sudden the long-suffering heat is tepid by comparison, and you yank at the material of his undershirt so hard you nearly rip the fabric.

“Off,” You pant, “Please, take it- get it off, Obi-Wan.”

In a fluid, crouched movement Obi-Wan tears his undershirt off with one hand at its hem, his muscles flexing as he swings the arm up and over his head. He discards the shirt carelessly beneath him and it droops to the floor, no longer covering the bare skin of his chest that you’d admired earlier.

You have half a mind to do to him what he’s been doing to you, to sink your teeth into the flesh of his chest and suckle on his sweat-soaked skin. But he dips his face back to mouth at your tit once more, so you settle for running your hands greedily, desperately over the layer of soft skin that blocks his muscled chest from view. When he was younger, what seems like an eternity but must only be five years, his build was more defined. You’d gotten plenty of eyefuls of his bare, heaving chest during a particularly intense sparring match, or down by one of the large pools that were definitely supposed to be used more for reflection and tranquility rather than the chaos you’d wreaked upon them. But years of planning someone else’s schedule before his own has meant that he’s softened out around the middle, muscles still prominent when you dig your fingers into his skin, just not starkly visible anymore.

Age does that to a person; pushes them harder than ever before to achieve a less-defined result than they’re used to, but you find that you want to grind down onto the thin layer of pudge he’s accumulated just as much as you’d have wanted to drag yourself over his defined abs. The thought of doing both, either, anything makes you dizzy with desire that you express by scratching your sharpened nails down his skin, feeling his muscles shudder beneath your fingers.

“Darling,” He groans, choking on the word like it’s gagged him, “I- I think we ought to- are you ready?”

You marvel at his sincerity, at the idea that he’s not aware of the throbbing, slick mess that your core has become. You’d been ready twenty minutes ago, sprawled out on the floor beneath him, and you’ve only gotten more eager since then. His concern makes you want him more, and you use your grip on his soft hair to tug him upwards to meet your lips in a kiss. 

“I’m ready,” You breathe, laying the words out in a hazy moan over his tongue, “I’m ready, Obi-Wan, please- please take me.”

A groan melts from his mouth like molten butter, dripping over your tongue and down your throat. He pants, lets you suck his tongue into your mouth in a long, eager drag, then mumbles clumsily, “I want you. I want- I want to have you, darling, I want to take you.” His hips roll experimentally against your own, the tight pressure of his clothed cock digging into your panties as he nearly loses the function in the muscles that are holding him up above you.

He lets out another moan as you drag your hips up to meet his premature thrusts, and this time it’s a weaker sound, more strangled and mottled. It’s satisfying, knowing that you’ve reduced the ever-stoic, prized Jedi negotiator Obi-Wan Kenobi to a heaving mass of sweat and desire. His undershorts are rucked up around his meaty thighs, but he hasn’t yanked them off to free his stiff cock yet, so for a moment, all you do is grind against each other. 

The layers of clothing between you, one covering you and two covering him, provide frustrating boundaries but much-needed friction, and the scrape of his rough undershorts dragging against your thin panties makes your fingers curl into his back once more. You suspect that when he wakes tomorrow, your marks will still be there, and you take pride in knowing that he’ll have a very hard time forgetting you.

“Obi-” You really do intend to say his full name, but your breath leaves your lungs too quickly for it, and you revert back to the nickname he’d loathed as a teenager. Too juvenile, he’d protested greatly at the clipped diminutive, but he leans into it now. He licks the word right off of your tongue, his own plunging past your lips and dragging over your teeth in a messy, imprecise fashion. You get the sense that this is not about sex to him, it’s not about mechanics or equations or the perfect formula. It’s about you, and him, and you and him together. He doesn’t kiss you like a storybook prince because he kisses you like Obi-Wan, and Obi-Wan wants to lick the spit out of your mouth and suck on your tongue. Obi-Wan wants to feel, not think, for once in his life, so he does.

“Obi-” You falter again, hands traveling from his muscled back to his hips. Your fingers dip beneath the waistband of his undershorts, then his briefs where they lay against the same stretch of skin, “Off. Off, please- Obi-Wan, off, take ‘em- off.”

He grunts his approval into your mouth, obscene squelching sounds coming from where his spit pools between your teeth and your tongue. He reaches down with a blind, clumsy hand to tug at his waistband, but when it doesn’t provide immediate results, he finds himself getting frustrated. It’s an unfamiliar feeling, not the frustration itself but his inability to control it, and he feels his brow crease in irritation as he reluctantly parts from your mouth to focus on the task at hand. All he needs is a little extra leverage to slide his shorts off of his waist, briefs bunched together, and as soon as they’re out of his way he’s reaching for your own underwear.

You crane your neck downwards to watch him, and the glimmering mess of saliva in your mouth practically doubles in volume at the sight of his red-tipped, rock-hard cock. It’s curved slightly up towards his stomach in its desperation, and there’s precum oozing from its tip, foaming and all too appealing. You want to suck him off again, to really choke yourself on it this time and never draw back for air, but there’s no time when he tugs swiftly at the elastic band of your panties, tearing them easily away from you. They drag beneath your thighs but he merely pulls harder, until they spring free and bunch up around your knees.

“Up,” Obi-Wan taps at your left thigh, and you struggle to bend your knees amidst their relentless trembling. He helps you, strength having stuck with him even when composure has abandoned its post. You get your left thigh up first, exposing your glistening cunt, smeared sticky with your own slick. His breath catches, you feel it stutter to a stop in his chest that you’re groping, and his eyes glimmer in the warm lights above you.

“Darling,” He breathes, taken by the mess of your drooling cunt. He reaches out, touches it carefully, with only the pad of his pointer finger. He ghosts it along the side of your slit, and even the infuriatingly chaste touch is ultra erotic. At the way you writhe beneath a single one of his fingers he brings his thumb up to stroke down your slit, catching wetness on his thumb that his mouth opens to accommodate.

He sucks your release clean off of his thumb, you’re almost certain he scrapes his teeth along his skin just to get it all. 

He leans into his own thumb, chases after it like he’s not the one taking it out of his mouth. He hesitates no further in clamoring backwards on the mattress until his knees hit the floor below, and he thanks the Force that the beds you were given are low enough for him to lean over the edge and bury his face in your cunt.

“Obi-Wan, no!” You plead, fingers tangling in his pretty blonde hair, “You’ll- you said- don’t cum yet, please, I- I want it in me!”

“I will cum in you,” He pledges, voice deep and determined as he nudges his nose against your wet cunt, “My darling, I’ll do whatever you ask. But I need you here, now. Please,” He breathes, his exhale shaky and warm as it heats your cunt, “Please, Darling, I want you here.”

“Have me,” You whimper, squirming your hips from side to side to propel yourself down the mattress. Your cunt bumps messily against his face that he doesn’t bother moving, and you buck your hips once, twice against his nose, riding his face, “Please, have me, Obi-Wan, you can have me.”

Your consent is all it takes. His mouth is open and his tongue is out the second you say the word, licking wet, tantalizingly slow stripes up your slit. He doesn’t breach it, doesn’t delve his tongue into your entrance, he laps at the slick smeared on the outside, as well as the wetness that has thoroughly soaked your thighs. Your skin is tacky with it even when he’s replaced it with his spit, and your cunt throbs at the meticulous approach he’s taken to appreciating every drop you give him. 

It’s too meticulous. 

After another slow, careful, nearly chaste lave of his tongue over the crease between your thigh and your cunt, probably just as soaked with sweat as it is with slick, you retighten your now-loose grip in his hair. You’d let go of the strands when he’d given you what you wanted, but now you want more, and you lead him straight to your core where he’d been lapping at your thighs instead.

“Here,” You beg, pulling his face against your drooling cunt until you’re certain he’s unable to breathe. You feel his nose breach your slit, nudged into your cunt by your insistent tugging on his hair.

“I need you here, inside, please.” You beg, pussy aching with abandon. His slow, careful ministrations had driven you mad, and now you are teetering on the edge of insanity as you nearly howl, “Please!”

His response is white-hot and wet. His tongue prods gently from between his lips as his jaw widens, and he watches your reaction as he fills your cunt with his slick tongue. A gush of your own wetness greets him, and as insistent as he is at meeting your eyes, his own flutter shut at the taste.

“Force,” He breathes, and the exclamation is uncommon from him. The muffled, garbled word sends vibrations straight into your cunt, and after the initial shock of his tongue inside of you, you feel his beard.

It scrapes abrasively against the sensitive, licked-over skin of your inner thighs, and prickles deliciously at the base of your leaking cunt. You feel sharp hairs prod at the curve of your ass, and his mouth moves fluidly, tongue wriggling with surprising prowess through the mess of slick you’ve accumulated in your cunt. It slides wetly along your inner walls that have made way for his tongue, and that will stretch eagerly to accommodate his cock. 

His cock, oh, you’d forgotten the thick weight on your tongue, and your jaw aches with the ghost of it. Your cunt aches, too, and when his nose softly bumps your clit you gasp as your hips jolt upwards. He catches your thighs with Jedi agility, his muscles not straining at all to hold you to the mattress. The casual, easy display of strength makes your thighs quiver, and something inside of you tighten like a knot.

He licks you out like he’s drinking ambrosia, the glistening substance smeared over his face and starting up the bridge of his nose. The noises that he makes are hungry and wild as he licks more, sucks more, takes more. He’d moderated himself at first, lapped the sticky spillings of your wet cunt like he was rationing a meal. Now he feasts, tongue losing focus from inside your pussy and rapidly licking over your clit. His lips suction on and his beard burns tantalizingly at your sloppy cunt. You feel stimulation everywhere, the knot below your belly tightening ever-stronger until you feel the beginnings of a fray. It’s a step you take, an incline that you scramble up, and each pedestal you achieve gives way to a higher one. You let yourself climb, climb, climb, against every pulse of his suctioned lips around your sensitive bundle of nerves, and you breach the clouds as Obi-Wan broadens his sucking mouth to half-latch to your clit, his tongue delving back into your drooling cunt. You leap for the final pedestal and a surge of pleasure hits you, soaking wet like a wave that you ride back down to the surface. 

You tremble, you whimper, you love. Your thighs shake, the muscles in your stomach stuttering as your hips jolt and jerk. Your mouth produces such feeble sounds, whines and moans and ‘Oh, please, yes’s, and ‘Obi-Wan- kriff!’s. Your fingers in his hair latch tight but cling gentle, holding him to you as you lose control of yourself in the Force. All of the love, all of the passion, all of the attachment, all of the terrible-horrible-no-good-very-bad-un-Jedi-like things that you’re not supposed to feel surge through the Force and hit Obi-Wan like Coruscant’s train, knocking the wind out of him, though he never stops sucking at you.

Obi-Wan licks you through your orgasm, tongue pressing tight and hot and wet to the quiver of your cunt, letting it spasm against his mouth. He sucks up every last drop of slick that you’ll give him, greedily mouthing at your cunt long after it’s begun stinging from oversensitivity. You want his mouth off, and his cock in, although that first part sounds like a heinous thing to wish for. His tongue is perfection, slippery and knowing you well enough to hit just the right spots even though it’s never had you before. You only push his mouth away to beg for his cock, but you’re tempted to let him white out your vision and lick at you until he passes out.

“Obi-!” You gasp, pushing instead of pulling at his golden hair, “Obi-Wan, no- no more! Here, up- here, please, and I want you inside of me.”

He lets you unlatch him from your pulsing cunt, rife with the sting of stimulation. You need only a matter of seconds to come down from your high, but they’re seconds you can’t afford to spend on Obi-Wan’s tongue, or the clock won’t ever start. He licks at a smear of slick over your thigh that he’d missed earlier, and his brain seems to register your begging.

“Alright, darling,” He pants, out of breath from the way he’d spent it all in your cunt. His voice is ragged, drowned in slick and thick with want.

He clamors back onto the mattress, all humbly-forged muscles and greed. He hovers over you, and dips down to claim your mouth the way he had your cunt: with broad, sweeping swipes of his tongue. He licks your slick across your tongue, letting you taste yourself on him.

“I’m here,” He soothes, his voice a notch deeper than usual and his words malformed due to the open ring of his mouth. He licks against your tongue once more, sloppy and hot, as his hips grind down against your thigh. He knows you need time but he doesn’t have long, and he grinds against your hip until you’re ready. You feel his stiff cock digging into your flesh, and it sends pulses of energy to your recovering cunt that make it beg to be filled. He’s not composed the way that he normally is, but he’s managing to hold himself together through grunts and groans into your mouth. If you don’t act fast, he’s going to splatter your stomach with cum, which wouldn’t be distasteful by any means, but you’d rather him paint your insides with it.

“You are intoxicating,” Obi-Wan proclaims, speaking directly into your mouth, an addict that can’t wean off of his drug, “I don’t know how I am supposed to pretend like this never happened.”

“Don’t,” You beg breathlessly, “Don’t forget me. Keep quiet around others, and- and when you are alone,” You reach down to take his cock into your hands, heavy and thick and waiting, “When you lay in bed at night, when you touch yourself-” He lets out something teetering on the edge of a whimper as you stroke your hand along his flushed length, an angry red coloring the tip that exposes how much self-control he’s composing, “-touch yourself, and- and think of me. Think of my hands, of my mouth, of my cunt. Think of me, Obi-Wan.”

“I will,” He vows, his voice holding like a frayed rope with one thread remaining, strained and pulling and clinging together, “Please let me have you. Please,” He braces his forehead against yours, his cock throbbing in your palm, “Please darling, let me in. I want to be inside of you, I want to have you, please.”

You’ve never seen him babble before. Not when he’d been seven years old, bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked, caught with a stray tooka cat in his robes halfway back to the creche. Not when he’d been fifteen and a warrior, his side split open in a gory mess of blood and flesh and lymph and bone. Not at his old master’s funeral, the light from the pyre’s flames dancing upon his stoic features. Obi-Wan Kenobi is a master at composure, but he is breathless now, sacrificing it to the dewy-warm crease where your neck meets your shoulder, and sucking up your sweat-salty scent in return.

You place your free hand on his back, sticky and flushed beneath your touch, and use it to help guide him into you. Your other hand, still wrapped around his cock, lines it up with your entrance and he needs little coaxing from there. He pushes himself into you slowly, courteously, but loses himself to some deep, primal urge that he’s buried beneath layers of meditation and balance. 

He comes undone.

His muscles surge and his hips buck in what begins as a steady pace, but transforms into a wild rhythm that pins you against the mattress. He lets out a groan into the sweaty juncture of your neck, something that sounds like it could be from a beast and not a man. You feel the scrape of his beard against the seldom-touched skin there and you’re sure it’s growing raw, but you couldn’t care less. He’s not holding your hips up - his hands are plastered to your side and holding you there with a force carefully and pointedly short of bruising - but you angle your pelvis up anyway, allowing him to hit that much deeper inside of you. The tip of his cock never hurts where it connects briefly each thrust with your cervix, but you feel it intimately, every vein and ridge and curve that his body has to offer. 

You’re grateful for the sound-proof walls of the military compound because you realize after a moment that you’re making noise just the same as he is. It’s softer, quieter, but it’s there, the underlying harmony to his leading grunts and groans. 

All the while he is soft and gentle, because what he wants is not sex, it is you. Perhaps if he were a lesser man, he’d squeeze you, or bend you, or break you, all to take you the way he wants. But it is the soul inside of you that he’s after, and he takes great care with the vessel it’s enclosed in. He holds you, but he does not squeeze you. He kisses you, but he does not bite you. He moves with you, not against you. Your hips surge upwards to meet the thrusts of his cock and he latches his mouth to yours desperately, pleadingly. Your breathing is short and staccato through your nose, fanning against his top lip as he mashes it messily to your own, and you’re much easier to bring to a climax the second time around, sensitivity still roiling in your blood from your previous orgasm.

“Obi-Wan,” You beg, the words spilling languidly into his mouth, as you move in tandem, in, out, in, out, forwards, backwards, everything, nothing.

“Obi- I’m gonna- ooh, I’m gonna cum,” You cry, overwhelmed by the consistent drag of his cock against the walls of your soaked cunt. You’re slick again, gushing enough to replenish however much Obi-Wan had licked out of you. It squelches as he drives his dick into your pussy, foamy from the repetitive motions that are only creating it at faster intervals.

“Please- please do,” He moans, his dick twitching inside of you, “Force, I- ah, there’s nothing I want more than to feel that, darling. Please- please cum, please-”

“Kiss me,” You plead, even though he’s never stopped, if the way that his mouth moves against yours can still be considered a kiss. It’s far from any conventional peck on the lips, mostly tongue and drool that seeps down the side of your mouth and into your neck, mixing with the sweat already lingering there from your workout.

He tries kissing you more neatly, his lips tightening and suctioning around your own, but the closer you both get to your impending orgasms, the sloppier his thrusts are, and the more slack his mouth goes, smothering your own instead of truly kissing it while his tongue continues its dogged pursuit of your own. It’s no matter; his spit leaks uncontrollably into your mouth and you relish the taste. You don’t need perfection, you need him.

You can’t help your wandering hand from snaking down to his waist, curving just below his cock to cradle his balls against your palm. They’re heavy and warm as you take them into your hand, and doing so elicits a gasp from the man chasing his release inside of you, his hips stuttering in their pursuit of the wet warmth of your cunt. You squeeze them, not harshly, just a gentle compression, and Obi-Wan melts. A whimper escapes his lips, still slack and pressed to your own, and though his thrusts momentarily slow, they resume at double the pace. He’s rapidly bucking his hips now, barely containing himself enough to lift one hand off of your side and bring it to your chest. He fits his palm over one of your breasts, your stiff, sensitive nipple caving against his palm. You gasp at the prickling sensation and your fingernails momentarily dig into his back, but when his dick twitches once more inside of you, desperate, fit-to-burst, you drag them down his back in searing red lines.

If you hadn’t been able to feel Obi-Wan cum inside of you, you’d have known it was happening from the cry he releases alone. It’s abrupt, like his orgasm catches him off-guard even though he’s been pursuing it. But you can feel it, you can feel his warm cum ooze out of the head of his cock, momentarily stationary as it’s snug against your cervix. You feel it gush from his dick, filling any and all available space in your pulsating cunt before flooding outwards, dripping down your ass and thighs in an obscene display that soaks right into your bedsheets. Obi-Wan rides out his climax at a pace rapid enough to coax your second one out of you, and you welcome the now-familiar sensation of cumming around Obi-Wan. It’s mind-numbing, your ears ring for a faint moment, and your cunt rapidly clenches and unclenches around his cock that’s all too happy to continue occupying the space.

He grunts, moans, and groans as his sloppy thrusts finally slow, and your cunt appreciates the reduced pace. You’re well and truly spent, difficult to achieve for someone who’d gone through endurance training since childhood, and you’re not surprised that Obi-Wan, too, needs a break. He lowers himself to your chest with a slow, shaky exhale, eyes closed and face glistening with sweat just as your own does. 

His beard grates roughly against your skin, shifted with every ragged breath that he draws in. His hair spills over the breast that his mouth isn’t nestled beside, and you stare down at his face, marveling how beautiful his barely-fluttering lashes and heaving chest are.

Before he opens his eyes he angles it towards you, so that the first thing he sees is your flushed, sweaty, open-mouthed expression. He’s in the perfect position to kiss the side of your breast, and it tingles with the phantom sensation of his palm flat against your perked nipple barely minutes before. His beard scrapes your skin like it has since you first kissed him, and you wonder if you’ll ever be able to live happily without the scratch of it against your cheeks, or thighs, for that matter. The skin between your legs is still raw, stinging with the friction of Obi-Wan’s coarse hair against your flesh..

“You look beautiful, darling,” He hums, his voice grated raw from fatigue. His breath fans hot over your chest, but he pushes himself up on his tired biceps to hover over you. His weight against you had been comforting, but his gaze is even more so, and you let him loom over you.

His chest, peppered with auburn curls so fine they glisten in the poor lighting of your quarters, rises and falls deeply in front of you. You have half a mind to bury your face in it; you might if his face wasn’t impossibly more captivating.

His eyes search yours, for what you’re not sure, but you realize that his breathing gets more shallow until his chest stills completely. He only releases his breath when you reach up to thumb gently at his sternum, loosening his lungs again.

“Do you regret it?”

You suppose you didn’t have to ruin the moment so harshly, but you want to know the truth. You want to know if this was worth it, or if you’re going on the list of regrets that Obi-Wan pours over obsessively.

He takes a moment to answer, but you suspect it’s because he’s been caught off guard by your question. He shakes his head, dipping his face down to kiss the swell of your cheek.

“No, I don’t.” He mumbles against the dewy skin of your face, hiding his words there in self-preservation. You kiss the fleeting scruff of his beard as he pulls away, and your eyes find the blue of his instantly.

“You needed convincing at first,” You recall warily, something sinking in your chest now that you’re not puppettered by lust, “Are you certain it was the right thing to do?”

“Not at all,” He admits, “In fact, I think it was wrong of me. But I’ve done it anyways, and I am happy for that.”

“Why wrong?” You ghost your knuckles against his cheek, and he leans into it like he used to do when you’d clean scrapes and cuts he’d acquire while sparring. 

“I am more attached to you now than ever,” He offers simply, but it doesn’t seem like it pains him to confess. He seems lighter now, less embroiled in his own anxiety.  “And I’m not certain I can keep my personal feelings- well, personal. I don’t know that I could think rationally about you. That’s not desirable to the Order, or to the war effort.”

You bite your tongue, teeth digging softly into its muscle.

“All the same,” He continues, “Jedi are not without attachments. Younglings form friendships in the creche, and their minders love them. Padawans love their Masters, and vice versa. Masters engage in relations,” He acknowledges, then his brows tick up and he considers, “Ki Adi Mundi has four wives. Perhaps I’m not the most blasphemous Jedi they’ve ever seen.”

A laugh comes tumbling from your lips before you can stop it, and Obi-Wan’s face softens into a grin of his own.

“Five,” You correct him, “He has five wives.”

“Force, he’s a heretic,” Obi-Wan exclaims, but it’s all for show; he holds no ill opinions of the council member.

“I’m happy for his wives,” You hum, the sound just short of a giggle, “But I prefer your beard over his.”

“Oh, but he’s got a better mustache than me,” Obi-Wan settles on his side facing you, a smile etched permanently into his features as he plays along with the banter you’ve started. He relishes its lighthearted nature compared to the hesitance of moments prior, “Maybe I should grow it out and curl it like his.”

Before you can offer him another round in exchange for a promise to never shape his facial hair around Master Mundi’s, the walls of your compound give a creaky grinding sound, then a rumble, and air whooshes through the vents you’ve come to loathe for their uselessness in the recent past.

“He did it!” You gawk, sitting up excitedly, nearly forgetting that you’re topless, “Oh Force, Anakin’s a wizard! He really is, he’s a mechanical wizard, and I’m going to buy him a speeder for this.”

“Do not,” Obi-Wan groans, sitting up beside you and tugging you easily to fit your back against his chest, “The last thing that boy needs is the ability to go faster.”

“He did it,” You sigh happily, leaning back and pressing your lips to Obi-Wan’s. He reciprocates easily now, unlike before when he’d run himself ragged with doubts.

“That means we’ll be off soon,” Obi-Wan reminds you gently, and you deflate slightly in his hold, “But I don’t think comming each other should be any issue.”

“Every night?” You suggest, kissing at the prickly cleft of his chin.

“That’s- ambitious.” He chuckles, but it’s not meant to tease, “Every night, darling.”

“You can send me dirty videos,” You gush, scrambling to free yourself from Obi-Wan’s hold when he tries locking his fingers onto your sides, nipping sharply at your shoulder.

“I will not!” He insists, voice firm but chest trembling with barely-withheld laughter, “Force, if I pressed the wrong button…”

“Perhaps Master Mundi could share it with one of his wives,” You laugh, scrambling back into your underclothes and heading for the fresher to clean yourself up, “Hurry up and get dressed, Obi-Wan, one of my troopers is probably on their way to tell us the good news!”

Your suspicions are confirmed only moments later, thankfully, after you’ve both had time to right your appearances. You look flushed and sweaty, if anything, but the cool air hasn’t managed to flood the entire compound yet, and you’ve been exercising, so it’s excusable. No one but you two needs to know that exercising didn’t mean sparring for longer than ten minutes.

“Anakin, you’re fantastic,” You call, rushing through the empty hangar where he’s standing near the ramp of the ship, “You’ve saved us all. I’m fairly certain my troops would have resorted to fratricide if we’d had to melt here for any longer.”

The padawan gives you a valiant effort at a polite chuckle, and you press on, “For the record, I told your master I’d get you a speeder for helping us today, but he said no.”

“Y/N,” Obi-Wan starts, exasperated, but catches himself on the use of your first name. Perhaps it feels different now, coming out of his mouth much more measured than it had only twenty minutes prior. He doesn’t speak further.

Anakin’s eyes briefly glint at the fantasy of his own speeder, but he controls himself quickly. He’s a credit to his master, who manages to look convincingly like he hadn’t just broken a very long streak of celibacy. Still, you appreciate that war hasn’t managed to suck the most basic of excitements out of the child, and you reach up to pat his cheek in a gesture distinctly un-Jedi like. 

“Take care of yourself, and don’t let Obi-Wan bore you with a million lectures on economics, or politics, or the two combined.”

Anakin nods, but bites his lower lip to refrain from smirking, saving himself a lecture on sass later on. You hear Obi-Wan exhale huffily behind you, and you turn your attention to him when Anakin retreats onto the ship.

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t add to my apprentice’s willfulness,” He grouses, but the corner of his mouth twitches upwards in fondness for you both, “He’s got enough of that on his own.”

“Take care of yourself,” You ignore his teasing, your voice tender and sweet, slightly more than it had been for Anakin, “I know they don’t send you out much, because he’s only fourteen, but- but please take care of yourself, Obi-Wan.”

Perhaps if Anakin hadn’t been lingering on the ramp of the ship, perhaps if there weren’t five clone troopers stationed in the hangar, perhaps if you were the only two people in the world, like it had felt less than an hour ago, Obi-Wan would have kissed you. But he doesn’t, all he does is nod, 

“We will,” He vows, and you nod, satisfied.

“I mean it,” You continue, more threatening than your earlier sentiment, “Comm me.” And you think back to the request you’d made earlier, breathlessly, the words fanning out against his sweaty skin, “And… think of me.”

You know he’s recalling the same moment in time when his cheeks tinge pink.

“I will,” He promises, singular this time, confirming your suspicions that his mind is flashing with visions of your flushed skin beneath his hands, “And please take care of yourself, too, General.”

Something hard and aching tugs at the back of your throat at the honorific, such a far cry from the intimacy you’d shared. But now you are General Y/L/N, and he is Master Kenobi, and that is the way things must be in the presence of others.

“Master Kenobi,” You bow, bending at the waist and noting the soft tug of soreness there.

“General Y/L/N,” Obi-Wan mimics your gesture, hands folded neatly into the sleeves of his robes.

He turns. He pivots on his feet and strides up the ramp of the ship they’d taken, Anakin waiting until he’s passed through the doorway to follow behind him. The door hisses shut, concealing them both, and the mechanical whiz-kid has the engines powered up in no time. You watch their ship take flight and navigate the narrow entrance to your hangar with ease, waiting until they’ve passed each temperature-isolating layer of defense that enshroud your compound and disappear into the planet’s heat-hazy atmosphere to turn away.

“General,” One of your troopers lingers behind you, “Is everything alright?”

“Yes,” You put on a convincing show, smiling serenely, “I’d just forgotten how much of a challenge sparring with Master Kenobi is. I’m fatigued; I think I’ll retire to my quarters for some rest.”

“General,” He nods, stating your title like a vow of loyalty, standing at attention as the hangar doors finally shut you in. 

You walk the familiar path to your sparse quarters absentmindedly, feeling that same twinge of achiness each time you take a step. Only once your door hisses shut do you release the prim tension in your shoulders, slumping and slouching like you’d just escaped the throes of battle. 

There is a shirt on your bed.

It’s white, though it’s been worn thoroughly, so the color is muddied ever so slightly with the tan tinge of sweat. It’s rumpled, from a hasty removal. It’s laid over your poor excuse for a blanket, cream-colored against the starkly contrasting black fabric. It’s impossible to miss, which means it had to have been placed there deliberately; it wasn’t forgotten.

It’s Obi-Wan’s.

You overcome your momentary stun and pad towards the bed, reaching for the shirt with a hesitant hand. You take it, feel it ever-so-slightly damp with lingering perspiration, and your stomach flips.

It’s Obi-Wan’s; it’s yours.

The shirt winds up snug around your pillow, tucked beneath the Republic-issue linen. It’s invisible to the outside eye, but when your nose is pressed gauchely into the pillowcase you can smell Obi-Wan through it, a mix of natural and artificial scents.

The musk of cologne and the acrid smell of sweat. Composure and lust. What is right and what is wrong.

You and Obi-Wan.

feedback is greatly appreciated! comment, reblog, talk in the tags, send me a message, tell me what you think!

[frostbitebakery]

THERE’S ALWAYS ROOM FOR JUST DES(S)ERTS

a Gooey-Wan story

Sitrep.

Cody stares at the tableau in front of him.

Palpatine’s body has gone cold and kind of more shrivel-y, still in that terror-filled, agonized fetal position.

A mouse droid steadily bumps into the corpse as it cleanses up nightmare sludge residue. The usual wails of eternal torment and stalking mimic of the hunted under the whirring of the little droid are almost a comfort.

The galaxy is saved from a madman’s nightmare visions by his own, custom-tailored nightmares in between a lot of impressive lightsaber acrobatics and surprisingly few dismemberments, considering.

“Huh,” Fox says next to him and takes a sip from his “Second Best Commander in the GAR” mug that Cody had helpfully corrected and improved.

“There were,” Obi-Wan pauses, visibly ruminating on his next words, “a surprising amount of tookas involved in the dreams. And those little… do you recall those little fluffy critters we encountered on Therenx VI?”

“Huh,” Cody echoes. He does remember the small bear-like animals. Mainly because they tended to shoot lightning out of their fuzzy little bellies unprovoked. Perma-banning them from the Negotiator after singed eyebrows and electrocuted equipment had involved a lot of tears and attempts at mutiny secretly sponsored by Cody’s General.

“So,” Fox drawls out, “that’s it?”

General Windu frowns. “With the reveal, there are certainly more issues to be resolved. But for the moment? Yes, it seems so.”

“‘Kay. I’m going on vacation. Toodles.” And with that Cody watches Fox go away with a careless gesture.

Cody waves after him before he realizes what he’s doing. He shakes his head and turns back. “You okay?”

The pulsing, thick smoke is slowly absorbed back into the heavy cloak. Obi-Wan is flickering once in a while, the sclera of his eyes a black hole for the stars in his pupils. He drags a hand through his hair but the stubborn strands just fall back across his forehead. “That was quite the outing,” he says cheerfully. “Never did like Taungsdays very much.”

Cody raises his eyebrows, still waiting for an answer. He doesn’t do anything to suppress or hide the smile tugging insistently on his lips.

“Frankly, I could do with a cup,” Obi-Wan admits and cracks his back with a satisfied groan that does it for Cody very much. “I do feel a bit matte.” He tilts his head back a bit, strange, beautiful eyes seeming to stare into the galaxy’s matter itself. The black tongue laps at his lips, quick and away. “And very full. The Chancellor’s dreams provided indeed.”

The sing-song voice is back and Cody shivers despite himself. It’s…unnerving. The one thing that makes the hair rise on Cody’s arms. That tells his hindbrain that there’s nowhere he can hide, nowhere he can crawl into, nowhere to turn to, because what is looking for him can find him in ways beyond his control.

Obi-Wan shakes his head, black bleeding out of his eyes, and leans forward on his knees with another long groan. “I want a nap.”

General Windu shakes his head with a fond look, and leads him away from the body with a steady hand sinking into a smoky shoulder. “Master Mundi is bringing some trusted Senators here.”

“Very well,” Obi-Wan nods and looks at Cody. “Commander,” he starts and Cody straightens instinctively as he receives the last orders from his General.

.

“Force, this is exactly what I needed,” Cody hears around the entry to the small kitchen. He takes his mug back to the living quarters and drowns in the sofa cushions next to Obi-Wan.

Nightmare sludge is happily sopping into the bowl placed under black clawed hands.

“Feel better?” Cody asks, sipping from freshly brewed caf made from real beans. The luxury feels endless. Smoke gently curls in between his fingers, dancing and playing around when he wiggles his hand.

With a mischievous smile Obi-Wan turns his head to him, burrows into his side. “Hmhm, that shower was rejuvenating.”

Cody has to agree. Feeling the grime and battle and literal nightmares washing off his skin, Obi-Wan’s skin, under hot water and hotter breath, the calming smell of the soap steaming against the tiles - it feels like a happy ending like in the holo movies.

“How are you?” Obi-Wan asks, shaking nightmares off one hand into the bowl.

“You know,” Cody tips his head against ginger hair and closes his eyes, “I feel really good.”

for @deathdovesong

[mock-arts]

part 2/2 of my 2023 cover collection! This one only 75% star wars and 25% sandman. Check out my cover collection tag for big chunks of covers like this, or check out my big bang tag for a bunch of collab'd stuff! idk or do whatever you want!

oh, and happy thanksgiving for my american buds I'm thankful for getting to work with so many cool people

Links and summaries beneath the cut!

2023 cover collection

We'll Meet Again by @littledumplingwrites (art) (with more art by @punkascas)

When Initiate Obi-Wan Kenobi is assigned to AgriCorps, he goes to his Creche Master to ask why he hasn’t been assigned to a Service Corps better suited. As a result he’s sent to MediCorps to become a healer. Cue Obi-Wan becoming Ben Kenobi: a master healer and specialized surgeon who does philanthropic MediCorps work on the Outer Rim. It’s hard work, but good work and he enjoys what he does. But when the Clone Wars start, Ben is called away from his humanitarian work to patch up Clone Troopers and Jedi on the battlefield. And once he’s there, he meets a rising star in the Clone Army: one Captain Cody.

Or, Healer-Surgeon Ben Kenobi was called to the war front. And he wasn't too keen on going. What were the Jedi even thinking when they started a war?

That M*A*S*H Star Wars AU that I just couldn't get out of my head, so I wrote it. (However, you do not have to know or have seen MASH to understand this.)

Healer Ben Kenobi, Reporting for Duty by @littledumplingwrites (art) (with podfic by mengde)

Healer Ben Kenobi finishes his surgical work on one battlefield and finds out he has a new assignment: rendezvous with the 212th and work with the clone healers there. This makes Ben a little nervous, because his new boyfriend Major Cody is a part of the 212th and Ben hasn’t heard from him in weeks.

Can the two of them work through their relationship issues, even as the Separatist Droid Army closes in on their position? Can Cody learn to trust someone who isn’t a brother? And can Ben learn to put his partner’s care above his past hurts?

Can be read as a standalone. Also, you do NOT need to know anything about M.A.S.H. to read or enjoy this story.

Bonds of Beskar by @popjeckdoom (art) (with more art by Aliennotperson)

In a universe where the Mandalorian Empire never fell, but changed, Ad’be’alor Kote Vhett faces threats from all sides. His father, Mand’alor Jango Vhett has been cursed into a Majick sleep, and as Tor Vizsla and his supporters tear the Council of Clans apart, Kote is desperate to wake his father and reunite the Empire. In an effort to save his father, and his people, Kote Vhett offers “anything” to the person who can cure his Father’s curse.

Jedi Obi-Wan Kenobi may be the person for the job; only one issue--the Jedi have been in hiding for a thousand years, still hunted by Sith and Mandalorians alike. Can he keep his true identity secret long enough to help the Mand'alor... or will events conspire to reveal him before his mission is complete?

Forever; Without Stagnation by @noir-renard (art)

Din and Luke meet on Tatooine. Din and Luke fall in love. Din and Luke get married—

And then the plot catches up.

The Galaxy needs you, says The Force, and Luke believes it.

Din will understand, Luke thinks. It won’t take that long. What is a few years compared to the vow of 'forever'?

Only Blindly Could I Read You by @lillytalons (art) (with more art by @vanisketches

Rex's goal was to get into the organization, get the information, and take it down. Of course, no one had ever successfully infiltrated this empire, and most people had died attempting it, so it was easier said than done. But, the fact that a government agency had also sent in an agent, their best agent, was either a very good or very bad thing. Rex just happened to recognize them, and for some reason, Ben had decided that working together was the best option. What could go wrong?

It's a Sad Song (But We Sing it Anyway) by @ouzoa11-writes (art) (with more art by @impalafortrenchcoats)

Obi-Wan and Cody Kenobi have raised Luke for years and are at the center of the Rebellion when a new threat looms the horizon in the form of a new weapon. The tides seem to turn in their favor, even as they face new challenges along the way.

Or: Obi-Wan and Cody are soulmates who just want to see everyone survive. Their lives from Luke and Leia's nineteenth birthday to a confrontation with Vader alone.

Standalone though it is part of the "We Raise Our Cups To Them" universe

An Epiphany of Poppies Upon the Battlefield by @questing-wulfstan (art)

April 1940, On a French battlefield, Hob Gadling doubts his will to persevere in being alive for the second time of his existence. He swallows morphine in the hope to soothe his horror-scarified mind, and summons a mirage of the stranger who occupied his thoughts as the patron of his immortality. In a Japanese psychiatric ward, Delirium of the Endless is alerted by Dream's irruption in her realm, who she found missing when she sought his company on her quest for the Prodigal. Disappointment overcomes her as she finds it was but an image of her brother conjured by a mortal, and so it does Hob when her eruption dismisses the vision. Delirium will not resign herself to her exponential loss of brothers however, neither will Hob Gadling withhold his aid from any entity in distress, whether the stranger or his younger sister ; they just might hold the might to liberate Morpheus between their four hands ...

The Other Kingdom by @banhus (art)

In 1916, Roderick Burgess successfully summons Death, and Hob Gadling wakes up in the trenches alongside three dead soldiers.

[dioscouroi]

A photo printed in flimsi from their wedding day. A memento that Obi-Wan still keeps even while he lives on Tatooine during his self-imposed exile.

A reminder perhaps, of better days that will never return. Or maybe a source of both, sorrow and torment, upon remembering things that once made his heart sing, and that now can only bring longing and pain upon his broken heart.

(look, this one is not finished... Buuuuut I'm giving up. I'm in pain rn, and I'm likely to be flooded quite soon with painkillers to deal with said pain 😵)

[tennessoui]

The other fave mob fic 👀 do you have any thoughts about Ashoka in that universe cause I think about if she maybe started flirting with a singer at some point and Anakin just like being absolutely pissed that now he has to compete with a singer for Ashoka’s attention as well as his daddy’s

Aw lol im laughing at the idea of Ahsoka getting a baby crush on a singer and being like “anakin please do not kill this one” but it’s like the worst thing she could possibly say because now Anakin knows she thinks that singer is special >:( and HE’S the most special boy >:(

But even funnier imo: I think a year ago we talked about Ahsoka becoming like. Cody’s assistant/training under him and going to university for like. Business and administration.

And abakin just hates how much time his sister is spending with CODY. This is AWFUL. He cant even kill Cody because then Obi-Wan will be all huffy so he just has to suffer through Ahsoka and Cody becoming BFFs even though Cody is like the worst person anakin has EVER met and he doesn’t understand why ANYONE would voluntarily spend time around that asshole.

[im-poe-dameron]

THE ROCKROSE AND THE THISTLE

➛ THE BEGINNING

a/n: originally this fic was a one shot. except it became too long to keep it as one part so it's split into two. this is honestly me obsessing over the idea of anakin remaining anakin while being a sith. no armor, no mask, just him with yellow eyes. so i ran with it and turned it as angsty as possible.

summary: after the galatic republic fell to its knees, whispers of anakin skywalker begin to surface. claims that he was no longer the hero they once knew, but a darkness they came to fear. darth vader. yet when he begins to call to you in dreams, you make a choice that might kill you in the end. you choose…to save him.

OR old friends meet now as enemies.

word count: 4.5k+

pairing: anakin skywalker x f!reader; darth vader x f!reader

warnings: not explicit, angst, so much of it that it's insane, the hunger for what once was, anakin being evil, dark dreams, talk of death, trauma, fluff, padwan!anakin, soft romance, hopes being tarnished.

THE END | FIC MASTERLIST

His laughter stuck to your skin like a cold sweated fever that refused to pass. It edged its way towards your heart, breaking open your ribs and settling right underneath them. You gasped for air, the heat of the planet seeping into your already bare body with every passing second, and if you weren’t careful it might kill you. Choke you while you slept and continued to dream of the one person you couldn’t save—even if it wasn’t your job to do so.

“C’mon Bandit, that's the best you can do?”

You could see him, a smile on face as he danced around you—the assuredness in his stance and ease in his nature did nothing but make your heart twist violently. The both of you were so young. So innocent and naive; holding beliefs that the galaxy wasn’t as cruel as the Jedi Masters made it out to be. It was a hope that you held more than he did. A reminder in the back of your head that you hadn’t chosen to become this without knowing the consequences. After all, what was light without the darkness that crept around in the shadows, waiting for a chance to strike.

How oblivious were you to what was truly going on with him? How could you not see it? The turmoil behind those blue eyes of his, the pain that laced his voice with every word he spoke to you.

“Anakin,” you breathed, your hand clutching at the sheets that were tossed over your body.

“Well don’t just stand there padawan,” he called out as you were pulled once more into a dream you did your best to fight against.

Twisting your body away from the close swipe of his lightsaber, you felt the heat of the blade brush past your cheek. Master Obi-Wan had said you weren’t yet allowed to fight like this, but Anakin always did like to break the rules. Even if it meant getting hurt. Yanking your own lightsaber off the belt it hung loosely from, you pressed the switch—feeling and hearing the familiar thrum of it as it came to life.

“Last time I checked we’re both padawans Skywalker!” You dodged his move, nearly landing into the bushes that lined the edges of the training courtyard.

He shrugged. “Yeah, but in terms of training, I’m definitely ahead of you.”

Scoffing, you leapt forward, swinging the lightsaber towards his leg. He stepped out of the way, attempting to avoid being sliced open but your other leg got beneath his sturdy one, swiping it out from underneath him and causing him to topple to the ground. He fell with a groan of pain—his lightsaber landing a few feet away, now turned off. Anakin’s eyes went wide as you brought your green blade down until it was directly in front of his nose—nearly singing the hair off his face.

“You were saying?”

“What are you two doing?” Obi-Wan’s voice echoed off the walls, startling you from where you stood above Anakin. “I thought I told the both of you that training alone was off limits until you were ready.”

“Master—” Anakin began, his hand reaching out for something—eyes flashing up to see the panicked expression on your face.

“We were just—”

Obi-Wan raising his hand stopped you in your tracks, the all too familiar sigh leaving his lips as he walked towards you. Shifting your footing, you moved to give Anakin space to get up, but didn’t expect his lightsaber to fly through the air, nearly hitting you in the shoulder. He jumped up—a joyous cry of victory echoing around you as he swung his lightsaber towards you, the blue glow of his blade heading towards you.

Switching yours on with a swiftness neither of you knew you possessed, you managed to block his attack—the clashing of the two colors flashing before your eyes. Obi-Wan’s pleas for the both of you to cease whatever this was were suddenly drowned out as you glanced up—a smile on your face.

Expecting to see the friendly blue eyes you’d grown attached to, you felt a shock go through your system as you were met with a glowing yellow. The green of your blade was striking against the red of the lightsaber he held—his teeth bared in a snarl. Dropping your weapon, you stumbled back as he advanced, a cry of his name leaving your mouth. No longer were you friendly sparring with a boy you’d known as long as you’d been alive, but instead you now faced the man who had been twisted up inside—the man you couldn’t save.

“Anakin!” you shouted, hitting the cold ground beneath you.

Gasping sharply, you shot up in the makeshift bed you had on the rocky floor of what looked to be a cave. A ragged sob left you as you scrambled to gather the sheets around your body, tears streaming down your face while the memories of your dream played on repeat in your mind. Anakin’s face—the jagged scar running down his face, the sinister yellow eyes, the absolute fury in his expression—left you shaking. That was not the boy you had known, but a mere fragmented piece of him that still lived in your mind.

It took you a few minutes to remember where exactly you were and how you got there. But eventually you were able to recall landing on Tatooine, the call from Obi-Wan through the Force coming in loud and clear as you meditated on your ship. For years you’d been traveling from planet to planet. Hiding wherever you could and searching for any Jedi that might still be alive. You knew it was a small possibility, but you couldn’t ignore the tug in your gut at the idea.

So far you counted three. Obi-Wan, a boy from Bracca that recognized you when you hid on the planet, and Ahsoka Tano. The hunt for more put you in a state of constant weariness. With every Jedi you found dead, you continued to feel the break in your connection to the Force. The pain you suffered now brought you to the very edge of giving up entirely.

What use was being a Jedi if you had no one to protect but yourself?

You couldn’t even recall the image of your master’s face anymore, let alone remember what it felt like when peace lived within the galaxy. Now you were constantly looking over your shoulder. The fear of being found, always leaving you teetering on the edge of panic.

Exhaling out a stuttered breath, you heard your name called from the other side of the cave as Obi-Wan was roused from his own sleep. The twin suns were starting to rise in the distance—light breaking through the darkness within the rocks and you felt some sense of peace fill your lungs. For now you would push the nightmare aside and focus on the present. There was no use remaining in the past—in things you couldn’t change.

No matter how much you wished you could.

“Is everything alright?” Obi-Wan asked, his bare feet coming into your line of sight as he shuffled closer.

You nodded, the sweat sticking to the back of your neck. “Yeah I just…I had a nightmare.”

He sat beside you on the floor, offering you a small canteen filled with water, which you took gratefully. “About Anakin?”

Simply hearing his name brought the fire back into your chest, the pain that ran through your body returning with enough force to have you shrinking in on yourself. You only knew Anakin as a friend; had seen him one last time when he entered the Jedi Temple before you managed to escape and drag a few younglings with you. But Obi-Wan knew him like a brother. They were closer than you could have even imagined and while you sat there fighting back the pain—he’d already gone numb because of it.

There was speculation that he died on Mustafar. That Obi-Wan had delivered the final blow—put what once was his apprentice out of the agonizing misery he left him in. But you now knew otherwise. After all the whispers of sightings grew—claims that they’d seen the once heroic Anakin Skywalker destroying planets, killing innocent people—reached your ears. Until you had no choice but to let him in—find him through the one final connection you still had yet to cut off.

“I know where he is,” you muttered, staring at the light dusting of sunlight that covered the floor.

Obi-Wan turned quickly towards you. “What?” You nodded, tracing the cave’s entrance with your eyes. “Where?”

“Right where you left him,” you breathed. “I suppose Palpatine thought he was being funny by remaining on Mustafar.”

“He’s—” Obi-Wan let out a breath, looking down at his hands. You felt grief flicker through the Force—dark and muted. A stark contrast to his usual cerulean blue. “Did you see him?”

“That’s the awful part Obi-Wan,” you said, the tears streaming freely down your face. Or perhaps you hadn’t stopped crying in the first place. You could no longer tell. “He called to me…like you did, placing memories in my head of our past together. And—then I saw his face and his—his eyes are…” Trailing off you wiped roughly at your cheeks. “He’s no longer Anakin.”

“He called to you,” Obi-Wan murmured.

At first when the dreams started, you couldn’t tell if you were finally losing it or if your mind truly held a twisted sense of humor. Playing back every happy memory you shared with Anakin. Every daring adventure you both took together and more often than you would have liked, the kiss you shared in the middle of Tatooine—the night his mother died. It was a past you wished to forget and yet it was seemingly forced upon you night after night.

“Why?” You shut your eyes, once again seeing his yellow eyes flash in your mind. “What does he want with me?”

Obi-Wan stood, turning his back to give you a chance to dress yourself. “He may not even realize he’s calling out to you.”

Shoving your tunic back on, you tied it around your waist, your boots going on next. With the heat that spread around Tatooine you regretted showing up in the black clothing you wore, but they were all you owned. The black cloak you’d been wrapped in reminded you of the man you tried so hard to forget about. After all, it was his to begin with.

One freezing night on Ilum—a mission to get him a new kyber crystal after he destroyed his lightsaber—led to him handing over his cloak. In a foolish turn of events, you forgot yours on the ship and Anakin didn’t want to return back to Obi-Wan with you half frozen to death. You could recall the way he’d wrapped it around the both of you, his arms tight on your waist as you hid in the caverns of the planet. What you thought would be simply another mission, wound up being far more than you expected. 

You realized the depth of your love for him in the perils of a planet that would end you without mercy. The irony wasn’t lost to you. Trapped in a place that felt like your fury of emotions—the danger of what you harbored like a fugitive.

Sure, you’d shared your fair share of emotions with him, kissing here and there, but nothing progressed further than that. His heart had always belonged to another. And you accepted it without question.

“He’s dreaming,” you whispered, picking up your lightsaber and clipping it to your belt.

“His mind may not yet be settled completely in the dark side of the Force. It would betray him in dreams.”

“But why me? Why not you?” They held a closer bond and Anakin would surely call for his former master before he called for the girl he once entertained the idea of feelings with.

“You represent a time in his life when he was happy.”

“So do you. So why does he—”

“I left him half alive on Mustafar. Padme is dead,” Obi-Wan stated monotonically as if he were reading it from a book. “His mind wouldn’t turn to memories of a woman he could no longer reach. If anything that would only push him further into the dark side.”

You sighed, the pain in your head now spreading down to your neck. “Unless he’s trying to figure out where his children are.”

“No, he doesn’t know they’re alive.”

Letting out a breath, you tried to focus on the small inkling of light that came through the Force. Your last attachment to it suddenly become your life line every night you fell asleep; the pain of reliving your past was so grueling it became torture in its own way. You felt the familiar press of Obi-Wan’s energy against the back of your mind as he gently asked for permission to see what you saw. To relive the memories with you.

“You won’t like what you find in there,” you muttered, slipping on the cloak that somehow still carried fragments of Anakin in the fabric.

“Perhaps not, but nonetheless Bandit.” Flinching at the nickname bestowed upon you by Anakin himself, you relented and allowed your walls to collapse to the ground beneath you.

None of it mattered anymore. Not the love you felt for him or the anguish you endured when he fell for someone else, because he wasn’t Anakin anymore. He merely wore the face of a man you thought you knew once upon a time—a memory that refused to die.

“Just remain still,” Obi-Wan said, watching as you returned back to where you were sitting, your legs crossed and eyes falling shut. “This won’t hurt.”

You both knew it was a lie, but you didn’t care much at that point. He’d already delved past your walls and was now digging through your memories, yanking up each one that Anakin had placed there. Inhaling sharply you dug your nails into your clothed thighs as he pulled up one that proved you and Anakin both went against the Jedi Code at least once in your life.

Once again his laughter filled your mind, splintering your heart in two.

“Tell me Bandit,” Anakin leapt over a rock in the middle of a river, his boots splashing water everywhere. “Why didn’t you want to come here?”

You sighed, picking up a stone and tossing it—watching with satisfaction as it floated in the air for a second. Courtesy of Anakin attempting to show off his powers.

You were sent to Kashyyyk as a part of the Jedi's diplomatic training for padawan, but halfway through Master Yoda told the both of you to stand guard near the camps. Which led to Anakin and you residing in the middle of a river, watching as birds flew overhead. The sounds of the forest around you breathed life into your lungs.

“I can’t help it if my master thinks I need diplomatic training,” you replied, emphasizing the word diplomatic with a roll of your eyes.

“Every Jedi needs it.” He tossed a pebble your way, watching you focus to float it in mid-air, copying him. “Or at least that’s what Obi-Wan tells me.”

“And what do you think?”

He shrugged. “I think that diplomatic training helps us make a difference in the galaxy. We’re meant to be peacemakers right?”

“I guess…” Shifting, you turned to see another bird fly overhead, making a shrill sound you’d never heard before. “But what’s the point of being a peacemaker when so many think of the Jedi as soldiers?”

“That’s where the training comes in handy,” he said, a grin spreading across his lips.

“Then tell me Skywalker, what makes you such an expert in the diplomatic areas of life?”

He tossed another pebble, laughing when it hit your shoulder. “Sometimes you have to make negotiations as a Jedi.” He jumped to shore, dropping another stone to the collection he’d been steadily building since you found the river.

“Ah yes but not all of them are peaceful,” you called out, following him and landing on another closer rock.”

“Obi-Wan likes to call them…aggressive negotiations.”

“Let me guess… That means negotiations—”

“With a lightsaber,” he finished for you—smiling.

You fell into laughter at that, throwing your head back as a lovely ache spread through your stomach. Only for it to quickly divert into a yelp at the feeling of your foot slipping on the rock. Losing your balance, you quickly tried to right yourself, but knew there wouldn’t be a way to fix it in time. So you gave into the fall. The pain would last for a moment, but Anakin’s hand grasping onto your wrist steadied your movements. He brought you back to a standing position. Where you promptly fell against his chest.

“Are you okay?” he asked, hands cupping your cheeks to tilt your head back.

Nodding, you felt your throat dry up once you realized exactly how close he stood to you. It wasn’t right to feel the sharp tug in your heart at the sight of his blue eyes which bored into yours—the color nearly putting the river itself to shame. You shouldn’t hold these feelings for a fellow padawan—you knew the rules inside and out, and yet…he still hadn’t let go of your face. His thumbs rubbed gently at your cheeks, a faint smile playing on his lips as he saw your own part slightly.

“What would you call this?” you inquired breathlessly, hands pressing against his chest and feeling his heartbeat beneath them.

Anakin breathed out a puff of laughter—the warmth of it washing across your cheek as he moved even closer. “A polite conclusion.”

Before you could smile, he dipped down, pressing his lips against yours and effectively ceasing your words. You’d always wondered if he would ever kiss you a second time after what happened on Tatooine. Neither of you spoke of it again after he pulled away and left you standing there, but you knew something had shifted between the both of you. Just like it did now. Sliding your hands up until your arms wrapped around his neck, you tried to keep yourself balanced as he once again tore the ground up from underneath you.

It was him pulling you closer that did you in. His lips were soft—you always knew they would be—and it took everything in you not to ask for more than just this. The warmth of his tongue pressing against your bottom lip jerked you out of your reverie, causing you to practically tear yourself away from him. His arms only tightened around your waist, lips more insistent as he coaxed you once more into a kiss that shouldn’t have happened.

You opened your mouth, melting into his hold as his tongue pressed against yours and felt the steady thrum of your heart speed up exponentially. Until you were sure it would burst out of your chest.

“Beautiful,” he murmured—pressing a kiss to your jaw.

“They could find us,” you said, fighting against the haze he put you in. “They could—”

“I don’t care.”

Three words shouldn’t have made you submit so easily, but there you were giving into his kiss yet again. Whimpering into his mouth and kissing him back with enough fervor to throw him off slightly, causing him to stumble back a bit. This shouldn’t happen. It wasn’t right. Jedi weren’t meant to form attachments. Especially not with other Jedi. The heat of his tongue against yours shoved the words right out of your mind, but still something continued to feel off.

It wasn’t…right.

This…didn’t—it didn’t feel…right.

“Enough!” you exclaimed, shoving Obi-Wan out of your mind as you clutched your head, the tears now falling down your face in waves. Heaving in a ragged breath, you tried to piece the walls that enclosed your mind back together, but found you couldn’t.

“I didn’t mean—”

“Just don’t,” you snapped. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

You knew it wasn’t right to turn your anger on Obi-Wan, but there was so much of it that you couldn’t stop it even if you tried. At this point you weren’t sure if the anger truly belonged to you or if it was Anakin’s pouring into you from the Force. Still you struggled to maintain it, breathing deeply as you fought to get back to the light side of the Force.

“Yes,” Obi-Wan said, watching as the inside of your mind waged war on itself. “I know why he’s calling out to you.”

“Why?” you asked, helpless against the mental anguish that you were going through.

“He loves you.”

Scoffing, you struggled to get to your feet. “Don’t be ridiculous Obi-Wan. He never loved me.”

“If you believe that then there’s no hope in saving him.”

Turning, you felt the anger flood your veins, shoving its way to the surface. “Saving him?” you shouted. “There’s no saving him! He murdered the people we cared about. Younglings! He turned himself into what they wanted him to be—what they molded him to be.”

“We’re Jedi. We must keep the peace no matter the cost—”

“And how far will you go to keep this peace? My death? Your death? The death of Luke, of his sister?” Obi-Wan’s eyes narrowed. “Anakin Skywalker is dead. In his place Darth Vader walks the path of the Sith.” You shut your eyes, doing what you could to right your mind. “Saving him was never an option.”

“We have to try.”

“I don’t,” you replied, effectively shutting yourself off from the Force as Obi-Wan attempted to push his way through to you.

“Then what will you do? Keep hiding?”

“Yes!” you cried. “I will keep hiding, because the Jedi Order is gone and everything we stood for, everything that kept the balance…he destroyed. I would rather think him dead than be constantly reminded of his betrayal.”

Obi-Wan stood, his expression exactly the same as when he told you of what transpired that fateful night. “You’re being selfish and that’s not the Jedi way.”

“Fuck you.” The words were spat out harshly in his direction. “I choose to forget all that pain and if that makes me selfish…then so be it. Perhaps you should try it.”

You were being cruel to him—unfair—because the anger inside of you could no longer be contained behind the walls of your mind. Whether it was yours or Anakin’s you could no longer tell, but it hurt either way. It felt as if you were being stabbed repeatedly in the heart with every new memory, dream, and hope that was shoved your way. Obi-Wan’s ideas of saving Anakin were merely fantasy. Yet that didn’t stop you from believing they could be true—that you might be able to save him and stop this madness.

“Do you think I haven’t tried?” His words startled you. “I wish I could forget what I did to leave him there, how I nearly killed him. It haunts me with every dream and every memory—just as it does you Bandit, but I…do not have the luxury of forgetting.”

He was right. You knew it down to the very marrow of your bones that being able to forget was simply a transparent hope you held onto. Eventually it would shatter in your hands, leaving you bleeding in the end, just as he did. Only how could you try and save the man who did so much damage? Who broke your heart over and over again simply to gain the power to save the ones he loved from death.

“He’ll kill me,” you whispered, eyes staring at the now orange sky that peeked through the entrance of the cave.

“How do you know?”

Scoffing, you glanced at Obi-Wan. “I just do. Even if he did love me, love is a weakness to Sith.”

“Yes. You’re right.” He stepped closer, his palm falling to your shoulder and grasping it softly. “But a weakness in Anakin’s case could be just what’s needed to save him.”

You wanted to deny his words, to pretend you could simply remain as you were. A fugitive in a galaxy that was under siege—a galaxy that could no longer be saved. But the familiar feeling that pulled at the back of your mind rose up—making space in the hollow space of your chest that once housed your heart. The need to help. To bring peace once more and show that the Jedi of old weren’t gone entirely.

“I don’t know if I can face him,” you whispered, staring at the lines of your palm in the hopes that they would make his eyes vanish from your mind. That you wouldn’t have to live with this suffering.

“We all have to face him eventually,” Obi-Wan admitted.

You knew what he meant; how the feelings waged a war in his own mind too. He was just as terrified to finally see the man he once knew, to witness what Anakin had become, what the dark side turned him into. The fear still lingered in his mind, overtaking everything he knew like a plague. There was never any other alternative than this. The second Anakin turned, the both of you were left with nothing else to do except scatter amidst the galaxy.

It was a grief that weighed heavy on your shoulders.

A loss you’d never come back from.

“There’s nothing we can do to help him.” As much as Obi-Wan wanted to see otherwise, you knew that to be the truth. Anakin was beyond helping, but even still you found yourself unable to let go of the hope. That constant echo of what once was now resurfacing the longer you tried to fight against this.

You were a keeper of the peace. A protector of those who couldn’t protect themselves.

You were everything Anakin turned his back on and somehow in a twisted way…it might just be what could bring him back.

Obi-Wan watched as you fought with yourself. Your mind was dark and filled with turmoil, but then he saw it. The small glimmer of something bright reflecting back at him. That once evergreen hue flickering to life again—matching the light of the weapon you once wielded with pride. He watched as the Jedi you once were—the master you came to be—bloom before his very eyes. Obi-Wan try as he might would not be the one to bring Anakin back from the dark side. Even you might not succeed in this task, but he could see the determination in your eyes, the power that filled your stance.

In the depths of your memories he saw the truth. The reason why he urged you to go.

You would die for Anakin.

Just as he would have died for you.

It was a bond stronger than any he’d witnessed before and he could see that you knew it as well.

“I’ll need a ship,” you said, finality echoing in your tone—eyes sharp and clear.

He grinned, reached for his cloak and the small pack of credits. “I’m sure there’s something to be found.”

[padawansuggest]

Okay so a lot of us make fun of Qui-Gon for giving Obi-Wan a stone for his birthday, and people seem split on it.

Some people think it shows true apathy towards him, and you know what? Fucking maybe. Sure. Whatever. The authors of those books smoked a lot of Qui-Child-Abandonment-Gon meth and you know what? Whatever.

But some of us like him to genuinely be a good master because guess fucking what else? I don’t care about him but Obi-Wan deserved a master who ADORED his sweet baby boy with all his codependent heart.

And you know what? We’re right too, because he eventually did get there.

Not what I’m here for I’m saying don’t fight me on this because both of us can be right.

But idk if this fact is canon or not but he told Obi-Wan that it was a force sensitive rock.

Why do people mock that aspect of it so much? So many of you say ‘lol nah he just gave the boy a rock’ no????? This entire series is built on force sensitive rocks??????

Kyber. Obvious.

Kyrat Dragon Pearls. They can literally be used as a kyber replacement in a lightsaber, they are THAT powerful.

In the Star Wars Visions episode Journey to the Dark Head, we see a temple of Jedi where seers are sent. They have a courtyard full of head sized round flat stones. When it rains, you pick them up, and certain ones will give you vivid visions of the future. The seers then read the vision out to a keeper who writes down each vision they can while it’s still raining. This happens on a sibling temple.

Star Wars Young Jedi Adventures: there was an episode where one of the main characters, Ky, goes into the forest with another child to finish a small mission. Obviously it’s a lesson in learning to work together, but the point is that they have to find a lantern that’s not glowing, and figure out what to do to get the lantern to glow again. None of these lanterns have a source of electricity, and they can’t be solar powered since they’re in a forest so dense that these lanterns are used regularly to keep the paths lit. As it turns out, they have a chunk of crystal inside, the side of one of their heads, and they both need to work together to make the crystal glow again. That was an obviously force sensitive crystal.

Same show, The Mystery of Opal Cave, in which the main characters stop pirates stealing a bunch of valuable opals from a planet. At the end of the episode, the natives show them what makes the Opal so valuable to them. They touch two opals together, it creates a ringing sound, and in turn, the previously dark cave lights up and all of them start to glow and sing. That was magic af don’t tell me real rocks do that they Do Not.

That fuckass rudesss cave on Mortis that gave everyone weird ass mean dreams and was full of giant crystals. Obviously they projected rudeass force visions meant solely to hurt me feewings.

There are probably a hundred more types I’m forgetting rn. Because. I’m literally just going off the cartoons and a bit of the video games. There are a LOT of force sensitive rocks, they do a lot of weird things.

Now. With that in mind. In an AU where Qui-Gon adored and doted on and loved Obi-Wan from the start (or even just what it likely was in canon, a thoughtful but maybe not adoring gift) he likely would have given Obi-Wan this force sensitive river rock without even realizing it’s abilities.

Let them keep that parent to child connection, I promise, it means a lot.

[dontbelasagnax]

Honestly this was so hard to chose but I would LOVE to hear about the hair trimming fic please?? <3

Thank you for asking, Mia!!!

The really exciting thing about this fic is that it's a collaboration with @shortcuts-make-long-delays, @aquaticflames, @foreverchangingfandomsao3, @happybean17 @anaclastic-azurite, and @smoosey!!!! (Love you guys)

The other day I was telling some friends my clone hair headcanons and a fic idea that stemmed from it and they really liked it. We all wanted to see a fic so we decided to work together and each write one section to patchwork together a 6 (yes, six) +1 fic!!!

I've only really written 100 words in the doc so instead of a snippet you get what I shared in discord that activated our collective codywan braincell:

I admittedly have a shit ton of clone hair headcanons. Like for clones hair is a deeply personal thing that everyone learns how to individualize (or not- their prerogative) by trial, error, and community. Basically everyone learns how to hairdress in some fashion since they either do it for themself or help brothers out. Short haircuts are popular and so are lots of shaved designs. But there's a wealth of culture in hair that is long enough to be braided. They come up with their own styles. In my head, hair is seen as a treasured part of clone culture where everyone helps out- be that with braiding or doing their best to get a cut right or bleaching stripes. I have a fic idea that's like "This is why Obi-Wan lost his mullet in the war and also I'm a little bonkers and made it a Whole Thing" in which an encounter with Ventress leaves Obi-Wan with singed uneven hair and it will be a while till Obi-Wan can go back to Coruscant and see his usual hairdresser so Cody takes him aside once they're back on The Negotiator and gives him the classic TCW/RotS cut. So, naturally, Obi-Wan keeps having Cody do his hair. (Because it's a love language. I'm. Mentally unwell.)

Our tentative summary, courtesy of Aqua, is "six times Cody trimmed Obi-Wan's hair and one time that Obi-Wan trimmed Cody's"

Feeling quite unhinged about it as I'm thinking about it again 😂

[jessicas-pi]

Korkie Kenobi is fun and all, but have you considered all the potential in Korkie not-Kenobi?

have you considered Korkie seeing a picture of Obi-Wan and thinking that maybe—maybe—maybe his parents are alive, maybe his mother has been there all along, maybe his father is an amazing hero out there in the galaxy saving people, and he's wrong, his parents are dead and he never knew them and it really is his aunt who is raising him, and Korkie knows this but he hopes, oh, he hopes—

have you considered Obi-Wan panicking when he sees Korkie on his trip to Mandalore, because even though he and Satine were never together, never so much as spoke about their feelings, for a split second he still wonders, and Satine laughs behind her hand because she knows what Obi-Wan was thinking, and Korkie is blissfully ignorant of it all because in this universe he never even imagined Obi-Wan could be his father—

have you considered Korkie making jokes about it, laughing with his friends over holonet conspiracy theories, and never in public, never where people could hear, never where it could get in the gossip magazines, because he's careful, and Satine had worried it might hurt him but he knows who his parents were and he thinks it's funny when his friends call him Obi-Two—

have you considered Satine being seventeen and pregnant and too ashamed to tell her parents, and then she's seventeen and pregnant and she has no parents to tell because they're dead, and then she's eighteen with a newborn and on the run for her life, and the young Jedi who helped save her rips up his own cloak to make a birikad and he sings lullabies on the restless nights and he changes the baby's soiled diapers, he does it all without hesitating, and Obi-Wan didn't father Korkie but he is the closest thing Korkie will ever have to a father—

have you considered Korkie being picked up early from his first day at school, sobbing and hiding in his Auntie Satine's arms, because one of the children was calling him a mean name and saying things about his parents and his auntie and someone named Ke-no-bi, and he doesn't know why, he doesn't understand, and he won't tell his auntie what the children called him because it's a bad word, but Satine knows exactly what they were calling her nephew, and she knows that he will be called it for the rest of his life—

have you considered Korkie with a single glass marble, stretching out his hand and reaching for a power he does not have, and nothing happens and his friends encourage him to try harder because if your dad can do it, you can too but Obi-Wan isn't his dad and he can't do it—

have you considered Korkie living in the shadow of a legacy that isn't even his, because nobody believes he is who he says he is, and his instructors all grade him a little more harshly because the son of a Jedi should be at the top of the class, and his friends all one-by-one find ways of asking if Obi-Wan Kenobi is his father and he says no but he knows they don't really believe him, and Korkie will never ever be who his people expect him to be, because they expect him to be the son of a Jedi but he's only Korkie—

have you considered what it would mean for Korkie to not be a Kenobi?