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Update! sweet tenor of eden grace

Chapter 8 is out!

you can read it here!

have fun!

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ani

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hello there obikin nation

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03ani&obi

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Anakin Assists the Jedi Council While On Medical Leave

AU brainstormed primarily by @atagotiak, @gelpenss, and myself.

Basically, a fix-it based in Anakin getting a peek into the daily life on the Council early, and accidentally Figuring Some Shit Out along the way, mostly because Palps Fucks Up.

Keep reading

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the boys (again) x

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Scary dog privilege

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Heartbeat Drives You Mad - Chapter 12

Tags: Alternate Universe - 1980s / Getting Together / Explicit Sexual Content / Depression / Grief/Mourning / Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism / Older Man/Younger Man / Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms / Loneliness / Anakin Skywalker in Booty Shorts and Tube Socks / Codependency/ This Fic is a Horny Depressing Mess / Just Like Obi-Wan Summary: Anakin was wearing his customary shorts - blue with yellow banding today - and a cut-off shirt. He was dark all over, skin an even deeper shade of brown that made him look like liquid honey and bronze, supple yet sturdy. The sun had bleached his hair, bringing out the blond tucked away in the brown strands, curls on top of curls shimmering like spun gold. He leaned back next to Obi-Wan, hot against his side and smelling of cigarettes, clean sweat, and the sun. — After a devastating loss that Obi-Wan can’t seem to recover from, he decides to pack up his life and move to a small lazy town on the outskirts of a desert. Depressed and alcoholic, Obi-Wan figures fucking his pain away with the pretty nineteen year old neighbour boy is a good idea. Turns out, it is anything but a good idea.

Thank you to @tideswept for the moodboard 💖

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Drunk Anakin C:

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I'm don't like how this turned out but i was supposed to post this yesterday so here it is.

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hi guys, I don’t know if this fandom is still alive but I’d really love a obikin or codywan mutual ❤️

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i promised to forget you (i lied)

the first time he calls, it goes to the machine. obi-wan's voice crisp and clean over the line. 

"i gave your name as my emergency call," anakin says, voice breaking, "please pick up."

the officer give him a look that he assumes is pity, "try someone else. they can come get you tonight."

anakin tries the number again, listens to the tone ring and ring. it goes to the machine again. 

"obi-wan, please. i know you're probably awake. please."

he could call asohka (but he's probably burned that bridge too) she might come get him, lecture him on the way home and deposit him in bed one last time.

if she knew he was in lock up, she'd have his head. he promised to do better.

“i swear he’ll pick up,” anakin whispers, voice lost in the cacophany of the county jail. 

he does not say, he always picks up. he does not say, he has always picked me up. he does not say, i think i burned that bridge, what if he doesn't pick up?

the alchol is still making his head fuzzy, the world blurs aroud the edges of his vision, though that might be the concussion. he thinks his nose is broken. his hand too, maybe. all the pain drowned under the heartbreak.

anakin knew they left things in tatters, their relationship in pieces as they (he) hurled the most hurtful things he could think of back at obi-wan while he tried to be understanding, patient, until even that was impossible. 

"son," the officer says. she's defintely looking at him with pity now, it burns. "try someone else."

anakin dials obi-wan's number again. fingers too tight around the black plastic as he punched the number in again. 

it rang twice.

"hullo," obi-wan says. his voice is too thin, frayed, like he's hanging on as well as anakin is.

"obi-wan," anakin breathes out and the line cuts off.

anakin slams the reciever down and lets out a frustrated yell. the officer lays a hand on his shoulder. he doesn't have the energy to shake it off. 

"he was wrong to hang up," she says, like she's trying to comfort him. 

belatedly, he realizes he's shaking. he thinks he's crying. he can't tell. 

"let me try again. i'll stay the night, i swear he'll call back."

"why are you doing this to yourself?" the officer asks. she's kinder than most of the officers at the county jail. patient with him when she doesn't need to be. she could send him out into the rain alone to find his way back home. 

"he always picks up," is all he can say in response. 

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Thursday snippet

Thanks for the tag @heartofspells! I just posted a Prongsfoot snippet here right before you tagged me, so I don't have much new material yet. :D Anyway, here's a snippet from my Obikin fic that I'm just editing, so not HP this time but Star Wars. (It's a fic that I wrote a few years ago, translated into English one year ago but never posted. I decided I don't want to leave it hanging anymore so just trying to get it done.)

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"We are here to catch an assassin," Obi-Wan reminded him. Anakin noticed how his Master's fingers tightened around his waist.

"But no one else knows it." Anakin opened his eyes and gave his Master what he hoped was a seductive look.

Obi-Wan, however, continued to stand rigid and uncomfortable, and Anakin eventually took a step back, feeling sorry for him.

"Master," he whispered, nervous energy building within him. ”Is everything all right? Does this really bother you?" His voice shook slightly. Anakin hated the power Obi-Wan wielded over him unknowingly. He only wanted to make his Master happy, now and forever. He desperately wanted Obi-Wan to view him as more than just a Padawan.

Obi-Wan's gaze softened slightly. "This is not your fault, Anakin. You're right, we have to pretend to make this look real." He drew Anakin closer again and began to sway gently to the music. Their movements were minimal, but Anakin supposed it was better than standing still.

"You seem a little stressed, Master," Anakin said, breathing in Obi-Wan's natural scent that made him weak in the knees. They were standing so close to each other, and Anakin wanted to take advantage of the situation.

"It might seem more...believable if you looked like you were enjoying yourself," he whispered, nearly touching Obi-Wan's lips with his own.

Obi-Wan's chest rose and fell with his breaths, and Anakin noticed that his arms were entirely wrapped around his waist.

"Anakin, I know you're at an age where you might start paying attention to other people…or creatures…" Obi-Wan sounded like he was trying to deliver a reluctant speech about the birds and the bees. "But you know that –"

"I noticed you earlier," Anakin interrupted.

"Anakin," Obi-Wan said sharply. "You have been my apprentice for a long time."

"But I noticed you a few years ago," Anakin insisted.

Obi-Wan sighed. "We had this conversation once before. I told you it is completely inappropriate –"

He couldn't complete his sentence when Anakin put his index finger on Obi-Wan's lips. Anakin drew a shuddering breath, and his hand shook slightly. Now or never, he would have to say out loud everything that had been on his mind and in his heart for some time.

"That was when you spoke, Master, and I had to listen and obey. But now it's my turn to speak."

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Tagging @fiendishfyre because I know you're into SW :D and anyone else who would like to share their writing!

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omg wait anakin’s freshly spanked pussy getting filled by a tentacle at the vending machine as part of his punishment (while obi-wan watches)

Anon you're a genius... Anakin's cunt is red and wet and weeping. He's squirming and apologizing and promising Obi-Wan he'll behave, he'll be good, but it's too late. Obi-Wan spreads his legs and holds him there and tells him sweetly that if he doesn't shut up, Obi-Wan will get something to fill that hole too.

So Anakin stops begging, but he can't help whining and crying out as the tentacle shoves its way into his pussy. It's pressing against every nerve ending at once. Anakin's trembling and sobbing in his Master's arms.

When the tentacle deposits the first egg into him, stretching his cunt and filling him up, his eyes roll back. By the third egg, he's coming. By the fifth, he's thrashing, trying to leave again. It finally stops after the ninth egg. Anakin has definitely cum more than once. He's stuffed so full that he'll "surely have trouble participating in his usual reckless behavior."

Obi-Wan coos and presses kisses into his hair and asks Anakin if he's learned his lesson.

(He hasn't)

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After few drinks at 79's to celebrate the victorious mission, Anakin teaches Crosshair how to braid hair.

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apparently, it's not my first work about Crosshair being CF99's barber -> [LINK] <-

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STAR WARS: The Clone Wars/The Bad Batch © George Lucas/ Dave Filoni/ LucasFilm/ Disney

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I had missed drawing them!

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ganymede & zeus but make it obikin

been a while since i did a ficlet for tumblr....this comes out of a discord convo about ganymede!anakin and zeus!obi-wan......sort of dark tho gods are horrible beings with no boundaries

(for @jswander ) (2.3k)

Every muscle in Anakin’s body feels overextended and sore. He cries out from the sensation upon waking, instinctively trying to curl in on himself—anything to get away from the pain.

“Hush now,” a voice above him and below him and around him says. “None of that, beloved,” it speaks again when Anakin fights to tear open his eyes. “Sleep.”

There is nothing Anakin wants to do simultaneously more and less, but he’s never submitted under another’s thumb without a fight. With a great push of effort, he arches his back up, off the comfortable surface he’s laying on. And with what remains of his will, he wrenches his eyes open to survey his surroundings.

He cannot see a thing. White fills his vision, so bright and heated that it feels as if he is burning from the inside out, as if his very being is disintegrating the longer he looks at the light. It is blinding. It is everything. He cannot look away, nor can he close his eyes. His mouth has fallen open and he can hear himself screaming from the pain of it all, the radiance of the being in front of him.

“You stupid boy,” the voice snaps, sounding absolutely furious as the light coalesces into one solid shape, something that looks like a chest, then an arm, then a hand reaching towards him.

Anakin tries to scramble back, away from what will surely feel like a brand against his skin—and oh gods, doess he know what that feels like—but the hand extends faster than he can move, and even when he turns his head away, it catches him. It covers his eyes.

“Drink,” the voice murmurs, reverberating around him. Only then does Anakin notice that a cup has been brought to his lips. His lips seel themselves into a firm line. No. No. “You stupid child,” the voice snaps, “Do as you are told.”

It is the sheer power in the command that causes Anakin to open his mouth, to tip his head back. He is the lion among men, the Conqueror with No Fear, the Queen of Naboo’s Chosen Warrior, and yet—he opens his mouth and yields to the voice, to the hand over his eyes that burns. It feels like renewal, not pain, though that may be because every other part of his body still feels as if it is on fire, the aches from the first few moments of consciousness burning to ash under the pain of that radiance.

“Sleep,” the voice commands, and this time Anakin can do nothing but listen.

—---------

When he awakens next, he can tell from the breeze in the air that he has been moved. It is cool, and the breeze brushes against his skin like a gentle friend, running over his body to reach every part of him.

It is then he realizes that someone has stripped him of his clothes, his armor. He had been wearing armor. He had been preparing to lead his men into battle. He had—

The breeze in the air twirls around his chest and neck, caressing his skin until his nipples stiffen into peaks from the cold. Almost distantly, it sounds as if someone is laughing, an exhale over and over again that conveys their mirth, and Anakin can suddenly feel the breeze on his lips like a lover’s breath.

“Eurus, out,” a voice roars from somewhere that is everywhere and nowhere all at once. Anakin quakes from the sound of it, but the breeze withdraws, tosses out one last laugh that sounds almost like a cackle, before seemingly winking out of existence.

Anakin lies carefully still. The fabric beneath him feels soft, slippery. He’d been to the palace of Naboo only once to pay respect to the queen he fought his wars in the name of. Her personal chambers had been draped in a material that felt similar. So soft that it had felt then almost uncomfortable to touch. 

Anakin had been born a slave. He did not know soft things, nor how to languish against them. The queen had tried to show him how, had made such a persistent overture in the name of pleasure that he had sworn his loyalty to her name—but, privately, to her figure against those silks, the line of her throat, the tilt of her chin as she gave ground and submitted to his desires—and yet he still could never relax in the comfort her status and love had offered. He was not made for it.

He was not made for these silks either, though they certainly felt different against his skin. 

“You are too perfect for your own good, my darling,” the voice says quietly, a hand running through Anakin’s hair carefully. The motion is one filled with strange devotion. Tenderness. “Your beauty could start a war amongst the gods themselves, for they would all like to take you, to have you. Yet you are mine.” 

Anakin can feel his heart stutter at this declaration. The touch of his hair is no longer tender. It is proprietary. He opens his mouth, wets his lips. “I am no one’s,” he whispers, voice hoarse and cracking. 

His defiance makes the voice laugh, a rich sound that reminds Anakin of the sounds of rocks tumbling down a mountainside. “You have sworn yourself to me, Anakin Skywalker, of course you are mine.”

“You are not my queen—“

“You would be wise to not speak of your infidelities so casually,” the voice snaps, and the hairs on Anakin’s arms stand as the air seems to fill with electricity. “You have no queen here.” 

Anakin is silent, his mind and heart racing. Has he been captured? Is he a slave again? He would rather die. 

“Open your eyes, darling. Look upon me and allow me to see the reward of my labor,” the voice turns soft again, coaxing, and the hand leaves his hair to trail down the side of his face, thumb brushing over the bow of his lips.

“Hurt,” Anakin manages to say. The thumb takes his parted lips as invitation and presses into his mouth to rest against his teeth. Anakin thinks about biting it, but there is something inside him that screams at him to be careful. To tread carefully around this voice. This man.

“I know,” the voice croons, “and I apologize for it, treasure. I had not expected you to wake so soon after your ordeal and was not prepared. Humans cannot bear to look upon my godly form. Those who have have perished. You have frightened me with your recklessness.” 

The thumb presses down hard before it withdraws.

“Open your eyes, Anakin,” the voice says. “Your king demands it.” 

Gingerly, carefully, Anakin opens his eyes.

He is met immediately with the sight of a man leaning over him. His face is lined with a well-kept beard, short and practical and dark red. His hair too is the same color of russet, pushed up and off his forehead in a rakish cut. His eyes though—Anakin cannot look away from them. They are glittering, electric blue. No—they are the color of the sky before a thunderstorm, whirling points of gray and dark blue. No—they the early morning sky in the north of Naboo, slate gray and bright.

“Hello there, darling,” the man says. He strokes Anakin’s cheek again, resting his broad hand against his skin.

Anakin can do nothing but stare. This man—he is handsome beyond imagination, but there is something in the set of his face, the jut of his lips, his jaw—perhaps something in his eyes that screams danger.

He is so perfect that he is almost unreal.

“I will miss the blue of your eyes,” the man murmurs, looking at him intently. Critically.

Hungrily.

“What?” Anakin whispers.

The man continues as if he has not heard him. “Yet there is something deeply satisfying in seeing your eyes stained gold from my blood. You wear it well, darling, your godhood.”

Anakin shakes his head. The man’s words—they do not make sense though he says them in the manner any sane man speaks. 

“Truly you were born to be mine,” the man whispers like a sacred declaration, and this finally causes Anakin to flinch away.

“I am no one’s,” he says again, shifting off the fabrics and pushing himself to stand. He was wrong earlier—he is not fully nude, though he thinks he’d prefer to be. There is a cloth like a skirt around his hips, though the fabric only covers the area between his legs, held together by clasps that lay against his hips. And even then, it is light and transparent and doing little to protect his modesty. His chest is bare, but his upper arms have been wrapped in gold coils, one short and one extending almost to his elbow.

The man before him has dressed him as a child would dress a doll and it infuriates him. He is Anakin Skywalker, a lion among men, and he will not suffer this.

“I am no one’s,” he declares with a snarl, turning upon the man and striding forward. “Release me at once!”

The man arches a singular eyebrow but otherwise appears completely unaffected. Anakin feels like roaring, like taking his face into his hands and ripping it apart. 

“Where am I?” He interrogates as he stalks towards the man. Though he is handsome and though he appears strong, his bare torso as visible as Anakin’s and just as well-muscled, Anakin is a warrior and broader than this man, taller too.

Anakin can beat him into submission. 

“Why have you taken me? Return me at once, and I will let you live! I am Anakin Skywalker, I am the Resolute, I am the warrior with no fear and the Queen’s intended. I—”

The man, whose face had been unflinching in response to Anakin’s threats, stands at the mention of the queen, beautiful features twisting into a wicked snarl as he suddenly meets Anakin in the middle. The temperature in the room grows cold and the air becomes heavy with electricity. With something that Anakin does not know how to name.

“If you mention your queen once more, I will kill her,” the man bites out, every word weighted with promise. “I will kill her and see her soul damned to Tartarus. I will take her there myself and string her up amongst her kin. Thieves and pillagers and all those mortals who were foolish enough to attempt to steal from the king of the gods.”

Anakin flinches away, some long buried instinct in him insisting that he put space between himseslf and the predator staring down at him. “Who—who are you?” he asks, question catching in his throat. 

The man’s eyes, stormy blue now and swirling in his rage, lighten at the question. His mouth relaxes. He appears to enjoy answering, for he takes his time with it. “I find myself offended that you have forgotten,” he says, moving to touch Anakin again.

Like a frightened rabbit that knows it has found itself in the jaws of a lion, Anakin lets the bejeweled hands cup his face.

“I am the man who bought you and your mother from your masters when you were but a child. And I am the boy who sold you fruits that never seemed to bruise, no matter how you handled them as you walked home. I am the cat that lurked outside the god king’s temple as you prayed to him for strength and skill and riches, promised yourself to him in return, promised to wage every war in his name, conquer in his colors. And I am the old man who trained you in battle, showed you how to fight and kill and conquer.”

Anakin shakes his head, struck speechless at these words. They are the ramblings of an insane man, but…but this man knows too much about him. No one knows that he was born a slave. Even when he fucked Padmé, he had made sure that she could not see the brand on his leg.

He latches onto the last words, shaking his head harder. “Ben was a crippled old man. You are—” handsome, is the only word that comes to mind.

As if the man has heard it in his head, he grins, gifting him with a flash of white teeth. “Yes, he was, wasn’t he? And you were so young then, all of eighteen years old and eager to prove yourself. I thought if I took my most preferred form, this form, you would never pay attention to my lessons. And I knew if you had offered yourself to me then, I would not have turned you down. Nor would I have let you leave.” Anakin shakes his head once more, but there’s no power in the motion.

“I was the eagle that flew above you as marched into battle, and I was the handmaiden who bore witness to your betrayal, when you promised yourself to the queen of Naboo, as if you had not already promised yourself to me.”

The scowl has returned, marring the man’s perfect features.

Anakin swallows, wetting his lips. “I promised myself to the king of the gods,” he whispers. “To Kenobi.”

“And he has made good on your promise,” the man smiles, one hand falling from his face to cup his neck. “He has taken you from your battlefield, delivered you to Mount Olympus. I have taken you as mine, I have taken what is mine.”

Deep within Anakin, he knows that the man before him speaks the truth. That he is no man at all. That—that—that he is—

“Kenobi,” he whispers, and the king of the gods lets his eyes flutter shut as if he hearing his name from Anakin’s lips causes him great pleasure.

“Yes,” Kenobi growls, adjusting his hold on him to tug him closer to his body.

Anakin is touching a god. A god is touching Anakin. The king of the gods has taken him from the battlefield, from the arms of his bride to be, from the mortal realm all together.

And he is holding him like he has no intention of letting him go.