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tennessoui · 10 months

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democratic fic part one

here she is!!!! as a quick refresh, i posted a poll of fic prompts and asked everyone to vote as to which one i would write. the prompt that won (by a pretty narrow margin) is "GFFA universe, reverse age, Sith apprentice Obi-Wan and Senator Anakin". this is ~3k to set everything up, and i'll post two polls later today that will guide the next part of the fic! i'll pin a post with links to all ficlets and polls to my front page for the time the story runs, so people can find things easily - please enjoy and, when the polls are up, please vote!!!

(3k)

The chancellor’s secretary types every letter of every word with deliberate intent, methodical and precise. Each time her finger hits a key, a loud clunk reverberates around the quiet front office.

Anakin is sure that the secretary tampered with it somehow to make it so loud. He has no idea as to why a person would do such a thing, but she had to have.

Clunk-clunk-clunk-clunk-clunk.

Anakin hadn’t slept well last night. He’s been nursing the beginnings of a headache since dawn, and it’s only gotten worse as the day drags on. All of his kindness and patience was spent before he even stepped foot into the Senate building, and the chancellor’s secretary is currently dancing on his last nerve with each kriffing clunk of her type-writer.

The air around him—the Force—warps and shivers. Anakin’s headache blooms into itself properly, and he gives into the urge to rub at his temples with one hand. Of all the days for the Chancellor to request his presence for afternoon lunch, it had to be this one, when all Anakin actually wants to do is find a dark area and lie down.

The Force trembles again, reverbrating around the small waiting room with such intensity that Anakin straightens, skin crawling. It’s like the Force is screaming at him in a language he doesn’t speak.

He’s on edge, but he doesn’t know why.

Stars, he doesn’t need a fancy lunch with the chancellor. He needs a dark room to take cover in and Force-suppression cuffs locked on his wrists so he can focus on something other than nebulous, useless warnings.

And he needs this blasted headache to subside, or someone’s going to—

“Excuse me,” a soft voice breaks the stillness of the room, and—miracle upon miracles—makes the clunk of the type-writer halt. “Is this the Chancellor’s office?”

The Force rings one final time and then goes quiet, like it’s disappeared all together.

“Yes,” the secretary tells the newcomer. “But he’s currently in a meeting. Do you have an appointment?”

Anakin closes his eyes, letting his head fall back against the wall behind him. It’s not a posture befitting that of a Senator of his stature or age, but he’s weary down to his bones.

“I don’t, no,” the soft voice says, something like amusement curling around the syllables. There’s the rustle of fabric, and then the quiet sound of fingers tapping against the edge of the secretary’s desk. “Actually, I believe my grandfather is currenttly meeting with him. I was asked to join at the end to introduce myself. What benefit the Chancellor will receive by meeting a failed Jedi and boy from Serenno, I hardly know, but my grandfather is an ambitious man. At least when it comes to his grandson.” The speaker lets out a small laugh, more breath than sound. It makes the secretary giggle.

Anakin hadn’t known they were capable of making that sound. She hasn't so much as smiled at Anakin before, and he sees her several times a week.

He rolls his head to the side and opens his eyes a crack to look at the newcomer.

Ah.

Well, that explains the giggle.

There’s a boy leaning against the secretary’s desk, head tilted as he dimples down at her. He’s tucked a piece of his auburn hair behind his ear so that his profile is unobstructed to Anakin’s gaze. More of the strands cascade to his shoulder, shining red-gold in the light of the waiting room. His eyes are a pale blue, his skin pale as well. His nose is narrow and proud, but it’s his smile that’s most mesmerizing. That or the twinkling of gold jewelry wrapped through his hair, dangling from his ear and neck. Gold powder is smeared across his eyelids and over his cheeks.

Whatever he may say, the boy does not look like just a boy from Serenno. And he certainly looks as far from a Jedi as it’s possible to be.

Poor girl, Anakin thinks with a slight smirk of his own as he lets his eyes fall closed again. If he were ten years younger and the boy was staring at him like that, he thinks he’d be similarly affected.

“May I have your name?” the secretary asks. “I’ll comm the Chancellor.”

“Oh, thank you,” the boy murmurs. “That would be quite superb.”

Superb. Honestly.

“I am Obi-Wan Kenobi,” he adds. “My grandfather is Count Dooku.”

“Yavi,” the secretary gives her own name, even though Kenobi had not asked. She sounds incredibly winded.

“Pleasure,” Kenobi tells her; there’s a slight shift in his tone, its volume, like he’s turned his head. The Force trembles. “I’ll wait here. Do me a favor though: if they sound like they’re still talking about tax exemptions and resource management for Serenno, spare me, please. I’d rather sit out here with the lovely company than in there listening to two old men arguing about water law.”

The secretary giggles once more and resumes typing, this time probably typing out the comm number of the Chancellor.

Soft steps signal that Kenobi has taken his leave of the secretary.

Fabric whispers as the air shifts slightly and the boy settles into the seat next to him.

Clunk-clunk-clunk-clunk.

“I was including you when I spoke of the lovely company in this room, sir,” the boy says softly, just for him.

“Do you always flirt with everyone you meet?” he asks, stubborn enough to keep still and not engage the boy, arms crossed over his chest and eyes closed. He is tired. His head hurts.

Though—the headache has lessened, actually now that he’s thinking about it. It feels like half the pressure around his mind has disappeared.

The boy breathes out a laugh and shifts. “Senator, do you always assume everyone is flirting with you?”

“You called me lovely,” Anakin points out rather roughly. Lovely. He can’t think of the last time anyone has called him that.

He is a man of forty years with more wrinkles on his face than laughter lines. He is a senator that is feared in the Chambers. His temper and incredibly high standards ensure that he cannot keep an assistant for more than a few months.

Lovely.

“You are incredibly bright in the Force,” Kenobi says. “It is almost blinding, but…pleasant to brush against.”

As if to illustrate his point in the physical plane, his sleeve whispers against the bare skin of Anakin’s bicep as he moves slightly.

“It is lovely,” the boy finishes. A moment passes, and Anakin can hear the smile in his voice. “And besides, I never flirt with someone whose eyes I cannot see.”

Anakin turns his head to look incredulously at Kenobi, realizing a beat too late that in doing so, he has opened his eyes and engaged the boy.

Up close, Kenobi’s smile is boyish and disarming and devastating.

“Hello there,” Kenobi says, two deep dimples framing the curve of his lips. “My name is Obi-Wan. I would have yours, Senator.”

Anakin’s mouth is opening, tongue moving almost against his will. Certainly not with conscious thought. “Anakin Skywalker.”

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan repeats. “It’s lovely to meet you.” He holds out his hand, pale and elegant, slightly limp as if he requires Anakin’s help in holding it up.

Anakin is going to reply, mouth already open to once more protest the adjective even as he reaches out to take his hand, but the sound of a door sliding open interrupts him.

In the blink of an eye, Kenobi is on his feet, hands falling behind his back and pale blue sleeves engulfing that delicate skin. Anakin turns to look as well and rises to his feet at the sight of the Chancellor.

He is a good head taller than Kenobi, he notices and then dismisses the thought just as quickly as it occurred to him.

“Chancellor,” Kenobi murmurs respectfully, dropping into a deep bow. Anakin cannot remember the last time he bowed before the Chancellor, but then Palpatine has been his friend and mentor figure since he first donned the robes of a Senatorial aide. They are past empty shows of respect.

“This must be your grandson, Count Dooku,” Palpatine says, approaching Kenobi and holding out the back of his hand in a pantomime of the same gesture Kenobi had just shown Anakin.

Kenobi brushes his lips against the back of his hand before straightening.

“Well-trained,” Palpatine remarks, an odd, appraising tone note coloring his tone. “I understand there is no blood relation between you two?”

“No, Chancellor,” a white-haired man replies, slipping out from the Chancellor’s shadow to stand at the midway point between Kenobi and Palpatine. He looks stern, Anakin thinks. His lips have turned down into a frown naturally, accentuating the wrinkles around his mouth. His eyes move over Kenobi in a way Anakin can only call disinterested, detached. “Adopted.”

“What generosity,” Palpatine murmurs, tucking his hands into the balloonish sleeves of his robes. “How many years have you been living with the Count, Obi-Wan?”

“Ten years, sir,” Kenobi replies easily. “He adopted me when I was thirteen.”

“Ah,” Palpatine says. His voice is silky. “If I am not mistaken, thirteen is the age that Jedi Initiates are asked to leave the Temple if no Jedi Master has requested to take them as their padawan, yes?”

The muscles in Obi-Wan’s back tense and shift. “That’s correct, sir. I was on Bandomeer working in the Agricorps when Count Dooku found me.”

“If only he had expressed interest in training you sooner, when he was a Jedi Master and you an Initiate!” Palpatine remarks, tilting his head.

“You must be mistaken, sir,” Obi-Wan replies, sounding rather sheepish, as if he cannot believe his own gall at correcting the Chancellor of the Republic. “Count Dooku is not training me at all. Our relationship could not be further from that of a Jedi Master and Padawan.”

Palpatine’s eyes flash with something unreadable. “But of course,” he finally murmurs. “I was only referring to your Court education. I apologize if my wording…pressed against a bruise.”

The Count clears his throat with a smile. It looks like it pains him. “No harm has come to myself or my grandson. There is no need for an apology, Chancellor.”

Anakin shifts and thinks of interrupting. The conversation is awkward, simmering with some emotion that Anakin cannot place. His headache is back in full-force.

“Your generosity knows no bounds, Count. How long will you be on Coruscant during this visit?” The Chancellor asks, turning his head to look at the Count.

“That depends on my grandson, your Excellency,” Dooku tilts his head, and Obi-Wan shifts and then smiles.

“I requested this trip, Chancellor,” Obi-Wan says. “It has been a decade since I last stepped foot on Coruscant, and I found that I missed it. Though I feel as if I have been rather rudely confronted by the reality that I may never have known the real Coruscant—after all, I lived in the Jedi Temple. Markedly different from the rest of the planet, I fear.”

“Ah,” the Chancellor replies. “So this is a trip fueled by nostalgia. How excellent.”

“Obi-Wan has his sights set on politics,” Dooku adds wiith a slight roll of his eyes. “Do not let him fool you. We’ve rented an apartment a sector away from the season. He is hoping to find a temporary placement within the Senate.”

“Oh?” The Chancellor says. “How…ambitious. Do you have your eye on any senator specifically? I believe both from Serenno have aides already.”

“I am Stewjoni by birth,” Obi-Wan says. “Their coalition in the Senate is powerful, and I believe Senator Aaerul is in want of an aide. If I cannot entice him into taking me, I will look elsewhere.”

For the first time since the Chancellor arrived, Obi-Wan tilts his head in Anakin’s direction, flashing his blue eyes and deep dimples.

“Perhaps Senator Skywalker would be willing to take me,” he purrs.

Anakin is, of course, aghast at the boy’s brazenness. “Unfortunately, I am not currently in need of an aide. Perhaps Senator Bail Organa, from Alderaan.”

Kenobi’s smile slips seamlessly into a small pout. “That is unfortunate,” he agrees with a sigh.

Palpatine’s eyes narrow as he glances between them. “Yes, I believe Senator Aaerul would be a worthwhile placement, young one. And I wish you all the best. Now—”

“Senator,” Obi-Wan says, eyes focused on Anakin’s face with such intensity that Anakin must look back at him. “How long have you lived on Coruscant?”

Anakin blinks. “Twenty-five years.”

“Would you say you know the planet well?” The boy’s head tilts, his hair a waterfall of golden autumn as it spills over against his shoulder.

“Yes, I suppose,” Anakin replies, tearing his eyes away from his hair to focus on his face.

“I am sure you are a busy man, Senator, but I would be quite obliged if you would accompany me around the sector. If you had the time. Perhaps on a day without a Senate assembly?”

Anakin can feel his eyebrows raise. “I would be terrible company.”

“We have been over this,” Obi-Wan’s eyes become slits with the force of his smile. “I think you are lovely.”

“I—” Anakin swallows and tucks his hands behind his back. His eyes dart to look over at the two older men, both of whom are watching carefully with great interest. He does not want to engage this fae of a boy, unsure where that could lead, where it would end.

But the idea of rejecting him once again in front of his grandfather and the Chancellor of the Galactic Republic makes Anakin feel rather…uncomfortable. He is not a heartless man.

He sighs, barely even noticing that his headache has faded to almost nothing. Perhaps it’s that release from pain that makes him give in. Perhaps he is just weak to a pair of earnest blue eyes.

“I…will see if there is time in my schedule,” he says, and Obi-Wan beams at him.

Lovely, the word echoes in his mind, though it is surely not Anakin who has thought it…probably.

“Thank you, Senator,” he murmurs, hands clasping in front of his chest. “I will give you my comm sequence, you’ll let me know when you have time?”

“Yes,” Anakin agrees grudgingly. “That is what I’ve said.” He slips his comm from his tunics and presents it to Kenobi. The boy takes it with another smile and enters his comm sequence with a flourish.

“Brilliant,” Obi-Wan says, passing it back. “I look forward to it.”

“Obi-Wan, we should take our leave,” Dooku says before Anakin can respond. “I believe the senator is overdue for lunch with the Chancellor.”

“Thank you,” Anakin dips his head automatically. He has, after all, been waiting for over an hour.

“Oh, apologies, my dear boy,” the Chancellor says, sounding startled. He lays a hand over Anakin’s arm. Anakin barely contains the urge to raise his eyebrows. The Chancellor has not called him dear boy since he turned thirty. “I did not even notice the time. We were too engaged upon tax exemptions on Serenno.”

Without conscious thought, Anakin’s eyes dart to Obi-Wan. The boy gives him a wink and a small smirk. Unbidden and to his utmost surprise, Anakin feels a responding smile twitch at the corner of his own lips.

“Chancellor, it was a pleasure to meet you,” the boy bows once more to Palpatine before he moves to the side, allowing Dooku to brush past him. “Anakin, I look forward to your comm.”

The gall of the boy. It’s almost impressive how brazen he is.

The pair take their leave, Obi-Wan throwing one more smile over his shoulder at Anakin, as if he cannot help himself.

The waiting room is still and quiet for several long moments in their absence. Anakin feels sort of like he’s been bludgeoned over the head.

“Senator, please,” Palpatine recovers first, a thoughtful look on his face as he gestures for Anakin to follow him into his office. “I feel there is much to discuss.”

Anakin cannot help himself from looking back at the door Kenobi has just left through, though logically he knows that no one will be there to catch his glance.

The only thing that greets him is the dour expression on Palpatine’s secretary’s face and the sound of her fingers on the keyboard as she resumes typing.

Clunk-clunk-clunk-clunk-clunk.

#democratic fic #obikin #sith obi-wan #senator skywalker #oh you know palpatine is pissed af #kit's fics #not a poll question but i would be interested in hearing from you: would you want obi-wan's pov as well or just stick with anakin?

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tailorvizsla · 1 year

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Alright, Tailor, Sith Obi-Wan has invaded and demands more attention. After your encounter with him, you are determined to show him how good and loyal you can be. You take on any project you can that might catch his notice, and when an opportunity to transfer to a position in his main division is announced, you eagerly apply. You make it to the interview round where there is a panel of superior officers and Lord Kenobi himself. You're very prepared and ready to show him how qualified you are. Yet, as soon as those golden eyes lock onto yours, your mind is flooded with images of him and you doing every dirty act you can imagine. You try to focus and answer the questions as best as you can, but each time you look at him, a new filthy scenario comes to mind. At least Lord Kenobi looks amused, and you can only wonder what he must think. The interview ends and you're crushed thinking you've blown you're only chance at working more closely with him.

Ugh OKAY look you can’t keep doing this to me my heart CANNOT take this! Here you go!

(the thot inbox is open fyi if y’all want to send some in!)

Your superiors have been raving about your work for weeks now. Reports? 100% accuracy. Your subordinates? All in line, and most of them even give you good reviews. Your inventory? Not a single nutri-cracker unaccounted for. You’ve been receiving so many positive remarks that you feel like you are literally glowing whenever you turn your data pad on. You’ve been sending money back to your elderly parents back home, and they’ve been taking good care of the rest of the family. You…you really do hope to retire soon, and go back to them. You just want to see them again.

You’re at your desk for another day of reading and filing paperwork when your pad buzzes. A frown crosses your face - you’ve silenced non-critical alerts. The only people who should be able to bypass that are much higher than you in the organization. Nervously, you turn it over and check it, hoping your superior won’t catch you reading messages

Your presence is required for an interview in conference room 19-562.1A at 3:00 PM. Do not be late.

You check the sender, but there’s nothing there except an official stamp from the Corps of Logistics. There’s a tap at your door.

“Lieutenant, reading messages? On the job?” your superior asks in a vaguely teasing tone and you put your pad down in embarrassment.

“I’m sorry, sir,” you say, “I got a note saying that I’m scheduled for an interview at 3? Do you know anything about it?” They shake their head and you frown again.

“Who is it from?” they ask, coming around to your side of the desk.

“It’s a generic message,” you say, showing them the message. “But it’s on the executive floor…” They sigh.

“Well, either someone is really happy with you, or they’re really pissed at you.” You nod in response, and turn worried eyes up at your superior.

“If…anything happens…you’ll send my last check to my family, right?” They give you a mirthless smile and nod. “Your service has been exemplary thus far…we should be able to arrange that.”

You know what organization you work for and the dangers it brings. All it takes is one misinterpreted look and you could be thrown in prison. Or worse.

At 2:40 PM, you head out for your meeting. It’s a short elevator ride away, but if you’re late, you might as well shoot yourself and save them the trouble. You step out into the marble-clad atrium and then step through the ostentatious glass doors. A secretary at the desk gives you a look, their eyes sliding from your rank bar to your face.

“May I help you?” they ask, and you feel like you are being judged harshly by this random person. Still, you nod respectfully and give your name and rank. Then you add on, a bit unnecessarily, “I have an appointment, but I am not certain with whom. Only a generic stamp was used.” They look down at the pad and tilt their head. “Go take a seat. You will be seen shortly.”

You murmur a hasty, polite thank you and sink down into one of the plush velvet chairs. You cross one leg over the other neatly, your hat in your lap, and your eyes focused on the wall in front of you. The entire room is decorated in harsh scarlets, golds, and white marble, and it looks atrocious. You wonder who committed the crime of decorating here. At least the window grants you a view of the beautiful city outside.

You’re being watched, of course, by the secretary and the numerous cameras around the place, undoubtedly looking for something. You keep as calm as you can. At precisely 3, the door opens. The secretary doesn’t look at you as you get to your feet and head in, following the droid. It leads you to yet another room, where the decor is tastefully done in earthy colors. You wait at the door, standing at attention, waiting for the person who had called you -

“Sweetheart,” comes the familiar purr. Your body jerks in surprise and your pulse skyrockets. “Sir,” the reply falls automatically from your lips.

You can feel as he comes into the room, his electric presence brushing up against the corners of your mind. He sinks down in his chair and crosses one long, lean leg over the other. He rests his chin in his hand as he watches you. Like before, the presence is subtle, golden, as he tastes your mind. Once he’s satisfied, he gestures you forward. You stop just in front of him, hands at your sides as you stand at attention.

“Your performance has been exemplary this quarter,” he says. “Were you thinking about having my cock, sweetheart? Or are there other reasons?”

You can’t stop yourself from thinking about your family still living in near-poverty back home, and you decide it’s best to be honest. It’s not like he doesn’t already know what you’re thinking.

“Having your cock would be nice, sir,” you say. “But I also have family back home. My brother…he wants to become an artist.” You cut yourself off from your rambling. Don’t be a distraction. He didn’t ask for you to elaborate. Lord Kenobi hums as he looks at the pad in his hands.

“Truly phenomenal work, sweetheart…perhaps it is time for your reward?” he asks, looking up at you. Pure heat fills you, and he gestures for you to sit down. He levitates another pad to you.

Position: Imperial Administrative Assistant, Level 7 Pay Grade: 7A - SRT5 Hours: Standard Travel: 25% of the month is typical, but may require longer stretches depending on circumstance. Clearance: 8-TN9 or Higher Qualifications: Recommendation from superior. Five years in administrative assistant position, specialization in diplomacy/negotiations…

You frown in confusion. He watches you intently. The pay increase is mind-boggling.

“I’ve recommended you for a transfer,” he purrs. “Should you accept, you and I will be seeing each other far more frequently.”

You stare down at the pad for a moment, “Lord Kenobi, I am truly honored…however, I do not have these qualifications…and I am afraid I won’t be able to provide the same level of service I am providing in my current position. Will that be a problem?”

He gives you one of those soft, dangerous smiles. “That will be no issue. You will be taught all you need to know.”

At long last, you swallow down your anxiety, and ask, “If I pass the interview…who would I be working with?” He waves your comment off. “Do not concern yourself with that information. Your interview is at 4 PM.” You frown. “Tomorrow?” He gives you an annoyed look.

“Today,” he says curtly, and pure horror fills you.

“What? I haven’t prepared - my resume isn’t updated,” you babble out, “I don’t have recommendations, and I haven’t even had a chance to ask my references for permission to give their information out - sir, I - “ He waves you away. “You’ll be fine. You may go wait in the lobby for the interview.”

Standing on shaking legs, you get to your feet and scuttle away. The secretary doesn’t give you a second look as you step out into the blazing red and gold hellscape in the lobby. You take a minute to try and center yourself - you’re being tested under pressure, that’s what they’re doing. They want to know you can handle last minute changes. Swallowing, you sit down and try to go over the questions you could still remember from your interview for your current position.

All too soon, you’re called back for the interview, and you step into the same room as before. You can see six much higher ranking individuals at a desk. Lord Kenobi sits at the head of the table, his golden eyes fixed on you. Oh, you’re fucked. So, so fucked. Your mouth is dry as Tattooine right now, and you’re pretty sure you’re shaking in your boots. You sit down at the end of the table by yourself.

The first few questions are standard - name, rank, how long you’ve been working at the Empire, and what your daily routine is like. As the nerves start to wear off, you feel a tiny bit more comfortable, and your death grip on your hat loosens. The Admiral asks your first landmine question, probably designed to test your diplomatic skill.

“Why did you apply for this position?” he asks, his nose curling slightly as he looks down at your profile, “You haven’t the qualifications.”

“I was recommended for this position, sir,” you say calmly. “I am aware I am unqualified, but it is my greatest hope that I can continue learning so that I may perform well, if I am chosen for this role.”

- warmth engulfs you, and you’re spread out in a nest of soft, silken sheets and pillows. A warm, wet mouth covers yours as a hand squeezes your thigh. As your head falls back, you feel something probing at your folds, something warm and blunt and -

You swallow and try to push the thought away as the others discuss something between themselves. You try to ignore the heat rising in your belly as another Admiral speaks.

“...and are you aware of what this position will entail, exactly?” she asks, a brow raised at you.

You recite the requirements back at them, and they share a look between themselves. They go back to muttering.

- a gasp falls from your lips as you dig your fingernails into someone’s back. His cock starts to inch inwards, spreading your slick walls open. He’s so, so thick it makes you squirm and whine, forcing you to gasp for air as your poor little pussy strains to take him all in -

Oh no, not right now. Why is your brain misbehaving? You hope they can’t tell that you’re squirming in your chair as you try to remain calm.

“Lord Kenobi, I do not believe she is fully educated on what this position will entail,” the Admiral says carefully. “I think it would be…ethical…if we reiterate the requirements to her.”

Lord Kenobi gives you a small smirk.

- he finally seats himself all the way inside, drawing a short, soft cry from you. His teeth find your shoulder and he starts to move. As he pumps into your body, your sodden cunt makes the most obscene sounds, wet and loud and messy -

“She knows exactly what she will be doing if she chooses to work under me,” Lord Kenobi says.

With a rush, you realize that’s why he recommended you for this role. Pure heat fills you - this time, it’s all your own, and you gnaw on your lower lip. Boldly, you look him in the eye and ask the most important question you have for him.

“Would I be your slave, sir?” you ask. “Or will I be your equal?”

The others exchange a look as Lord Kenobi gives you a long look. You’re not going to be a toy to be tossed aside once he’s bored. If he really wants you in his bed, if he truly wishes to have you, he will have to be prepared to have all of you. And if he’s not prepared to give you that, you’re not sure you can fulfill that role in his life. Sith Lord or not, you will be treated with respect, and you will not settle for anything less. He smirks at you.

“You can never be my equal,” he says, and you know that’s true. You’re not a Sith lady, and you don’t have the same desire for conquest that he does. “But…you will never be a toy. You will be mine - body, mind, and soul. You will sit by my side, and only mine.”

“Does that go both ways, sir?” you dare to ask.

He laughs.

“Come here, sweetheart,” he says, and you obey. You hope the Admirals can’t see the shaking of your legs, or how drenched the back of your pants are. Lord Kenobi pats his knee and you sink down, embarrassed of the wet spot you will undoubtedly leave on his linen pants. He tilts your face up to his and stares deeply into your eyes.

“You will serve me well,” he says.

“I’ll send the transfer orders,” one of the Admirals says. “You have chosen well, Lord Kenobi.”

“You may leave,” Lord Kenobi says to the Admirals. “I require privacy with my new assistant.”

#star wars #asks #firstofficerwiggles #obi-wan kenobi #sith obi-wan kenobi #sith obi-wan #sith obi wan x f!reader #sith obi-wan x you #spicy

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