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tennessoui · 10 months

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democratic fic part two

(democratic fic masterlist) (5k)

Four days after meeting Obi-Wan Kenobi for the first time, Anakin has an unexpected and incredibly unfortunate break in his schedule.

“Are you sure about pulling down the committee meeting?” He asks, verging on desperate. His eyes look through the tinny figure of his fellow senator and out through the transparisteel windows of his office. Coruscant moves around him, early morning settling gently into early afternoon. “It was supposed to be four hours.” “Yes,” Senator Amidala says very slowly. “And everything on the agenda can be discussed via written missive. We do not need to physically meet to discuss things that can wait until after the coming assembly—”

“But I think I’ve found a solution!” Anakin interrupts, no longer bordering desperation but rather falling directly into near-begging.

“A solution,” Senator Amidala repeats. “To…galactic slavery in the Outer Rim?”

Anakin’s eyebrows furrow and his lips purse. “Yes.”

“Oh, by all means then,” the tiny comm figure crosses her arms, tilting her head to look disbelievingly at Anakin. “Please, tell me.”

Fierfek.

“Kill…them.”

“Kill them,” Senator Amidala repeats. “Kill the slavers?”

“...yes,” Anakin says and then winces, knowing what’s to come.

Senator Amidala puts her hands on her hips as she tries to stare him down through the poor connection of the holo comm. “Alright,” Padmé decides. “What is going on, Anakin? You haven’t suggested such a policy since your first year on Coruscant when you actually started learning about how politics worked.”

Anakin scowls and looks away, jaw clenching and then unclenching. Most days, he still doesn’t think his younger self was wrong to advocate for the death of all slave owners, but Padmé is right: he knows better now than to say that. That’s how he and Padmé have managed to build and maintain their friendship over the years, even though their policies and values couldn’t look more starkly different on paper: Anakin swallows his words, and Padmé pretends she did not see him move as though to speak.

“Nothing is going on, Senator,” Anakin replies with a mutter, rubbing a hand over his eyes and then down his face. If she is calling him by his first name then it means that the official part of their business has concluded. Reaching up, he unpins his hair and tosses the ceremonial hair-piece to the side. It makes a heavy clunk as it lands on his desk. “I was simply looking forward to that meeting.”

“Banthashit,” Padmé surmises immediately. Anakin scowls. He hates when she— “Ani, ten years ago if someone told you that one of your four hour long meetings was cancelled, you’d be halfway down to the lower levels by now.”

“Maybe I’ve grown up,” Anakin replies and then winces again.

“If only the growing up had happened six months ago,” Padmé’s tone turns sharp. “Perhaps before the holonews were flooded with pictures of you pressing some podracer bunny up against an illegal pod we both know you’ve been flying for decades, hands stars know where—”

Anakin remembers exactly where his hands were, but he thinks probably that information is better kept between him, the stars, the woman he’d slept with that night, and all of the users of the Holonet who had thought to raise the brightness on those photos.

“You almost sound jealous,” Anakin’s mouth moves without his permission, and he can’t stop the wince that follows because karking stars, he shouldn’t have said that.

Padmé laughs, which is almost more offensive than anything else she could have said. “Of your image in the media? No, I wouldn’t say so, actually. Just tell me what is wrong, Anakin. You do not have to pretend to be so alone.”

Anakin feels his eyebrows furrow and a sneer grow at the edge of his mouth. Pretend? Rich, coming from Padmé Amidala, who grew up surrounded by people her age, other girls who adored her, a large family who loved her as well. Anakin did not have to pretend to be alone. He simply is and has been for more of his life than he hasn’t.

But…if Padmé is so insistent on being helpful, then…maybe she could help him solve his sudden and dire problem.

“There’s this boy,” Anakin tells her before he can think better of it.

Any malcontent seems to wash from her face at this confession, and her mouth falls open in surprise. “There’s a boy?” Her eyebrows fly down into a suspicious look. “How young is this boy?”

“Scandalously so,” Anakin admits, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Anakin—”

“I know, I do,” he cuts her off quickly. “But he is a visiting dignitary, the grandson of a Count who wants to get into politics—”

“Anakin, a boy saying he wants to get into politics does not mean you should take him into your bed—”

“That isn’t what’s happened, Padmé, come on. He just—he requested that I escort him around Coruscant for an afternoon, and I couldn’t say no, his grandfather and the Chancellor were right there, alright, I’m not a monster. But I am uninterested in pursuing the boy—the scandal that being seen alone with him would bring me….”

Padmé’s eyes narrow. “What does this have to do with our committee’s meeting.”

“I told him that I would comm him should I have free time to escort him, Padmé! I am honor-bound to see that vow to its conclusion.”

The tiny figure of his friend raises her eyebrows. “Genuinely, you are not,” she says, but her words do not soothe the part of him that insists he must follow through on his word—the part of him that knows he will be comming Kenobi within minutes of ending his call with Padmé.

“I am,” he insists, resting his hands on the desk in front of him. Perhaps not as gently or as naturally as he would like, he adds, “but if you were to escort me escorting him, there would be no scandal for the holonews to write about.”

Padmé blinks. “I’m sorry?” “Think about it,” Anakin says, tone edging back into desperation. “If you accompany me, he will assume we are together and any interest he may harbor for me outside his ambitions in the Senate will dwindle.” Without Anakin having to say anything one way or another, which is the best scenario Anakin’s thought of yet.

Though to be fair, he does not know if Kenobi has any interest in him in that way. After all, he had also flirted with Palpatine’s secretary.

But, a tiny, self-satisfied voice points out in the back of his mind, he did not ask her to show him around Coruscant, did he?

He shakes his head quickly to dislodge the thought. What he has to be self-satisifed about, he doesn’t know. Kenobi’s appreciation of him, perhaps the boy’s infatuation with him, will only cause him problems if he does not act to rid him of it.

“You won’t be in any meetings, will you?” he adds innocently, and when Padmé does not immediately scold him for the cheek, he knows he’s won.

After all, they have been good friends for years now, and she stepped up to guide and mentor him when he first arrived on Coruscant to be Senator of Tatooine. Their names are tied together on the holonews—any scandal that Senator Skywalker invites reflects badly on Senator Amidala.

“Alright,” she relents. “I will join you two.” The edge of her mouth curls up into a smile. “It will be an excellent jaunt down memory lane, won’t it, Ani? I have not had to act as your shield against suitors since we were in our twenties.”

“Yes, well. Who knew you would have to reprise the role?”

“Certainly not me,” Padmé tells him archly. “After all, from what I’ve seen, you’ve been handling your suitors just fine.”

—--------

Kenobi is, of course, free. His comm message comes through perhaps half a minute after Anakin had sent him an inquiry as to his schedule for the rest of the day, given that Anakin’s own had opened up rather unexpectedly.

Yes, Kenobi types. I will be free at 1700. Perhaps we can meet at the North Entrance of the Senate Sector Gardens? I have always thought they looked beautiful from the outside.

Anakin wrinkles his nose and wonders if he can beg off because of allergies. The Senate Sector Gardens are, in Anakin’s mind, one of the most offensive displays of wealth and greed on Coruscant. They are open most of the calendar year, regardless of the manufactured temperature of the planet. This is because each of the plants grow inside a near invisible force field, one that carefully monitors the temperature and humidity and soil texture of its plant. It’s Coruscanti artifice at its most beautiful.

But, he remembers, a walk through the gardens has a set beginning and end point: a destination where he can separate from Kenobi, duty fulfilled and honor intact.

Of course, Anakin replies. I will meet you there at 1700.

Kenobi does not respond, and Anakin does not think anything of it until he sees him several hours later, waiting quite docilely with his hands behind his back as he appears to study the entry requirements of the gardens.

He must not have responded to Anakin’s comm because he must have thrown his own down and spent the next five hours getting ready.

Stars.

The curse is apt, at least, as upon his approach, he sees that the boy has placed strategic flecks of silver glitter on every one of his freckles, and the boy has many cascading down his shoulders and back, which is bare to Anakin’s eyes. A silver chain rests loosely against the dip of his lower back. There are freckles made into stars here, too, at the base of his spine, Anakin’s eyes tell his brain, as if this is necessary information to know.

Kenobi turns around, as if waiting for him to get closer. His smile is bright, a flash of white teeth framed by deep dimples. The neck of his tunic stretches almost up to his chin, but his shoulders are bare, the edges of his clavicles visible before the dark blue fabric stretches up his neck.

He has woven silvery chunks of metal into the fall of his hair, and they hit the light each time he moves his head even slightly.

Anakin is quite upset to realize that his memory of the boy does not quite do him justice. His eyes are paler, his hair a crisper strawberry blonde. He’d somehow forgotten the beauty marks on his face, a faint one on his forehead and the other on his cheek. What a great disservice Anakin had done him by forgetting these marks.

“Hello, Senator,” Kenobi says, stepping forward and offering up his hand. Anakin would be a fool to take it. He would be a fool to scorn him. He takes his hand and brushes a kiss over his knuckles, lips catching on the cool bands of metal that frame his knuckles. Rings, each with intricate patterns and bright jewels set into them. “You look lovely.” Anakin does not, of course, having worn the same dark clothes he wore to the Senate today.

“I think the dark tones suit you,” Kenobi adds, hand coming to rest on the large wine-red collar of Anakin’s outer tunic. “It makes you look powerful.”

“I thought you said I looked lovely,” Anakin replies, taking an unnecessary yet completely rational step closer to the boy. His hand is still extended between them, laying almost on his chest. It looks rather delicate—pale and willowy against the darkness of Anakin’s robes.

Obi-Wan has painted his eyelids a glittering silver, a color just a few shades lighter than his eyes. It’s…enthralling, especially when the boy looks up at him from beneath his pale eyelashes. “Do you not believe that something can be both lovely and powerful at the same time, Senator?”

Anakin has the unignorable and quite worrying feeling that he is looking at one such thing now. The boy’s hand is still on his chest. There are very good reasons why this cannot continue, and Anakin is quite sure he recalls them all.

“Powerful things are not lovely,” he murmurs. “Not by their nature. But lovely things…” Kenobi cocks his head as Anakin trails off. A piece of his hair falls out of its delicate arrangement and rests against his cheek. Anakin watches his hand reach out and grasp the strand as if he was not in control of his body. He carefully tucks it behind Kenobi’s ear, only just realizing that the boy has draped his ear with a dangling, sparkling silver chain that wraps along the shell, threads through the lobe and hangs down almost to his shoulder. Kenobi shivers at the touch of his finger. The reaction makes Anakin’s mouth dry. “Lovely things are always powerful, one way or another.”

When their eyes meet once more, Kenobi’s seem to have darkened considerably. A faint flush has bloomed across his cheeks.

“Anakin!” A voice cuts through the charged moment, and Anakin steps back from the boy automatically, as if he’s been caught red-handed. He hasn’t been caught at all.

Obi-Wan’s face shutters at the interruption, though his eyes remain fixed on Anakin’s face, like he expects Anakin to get rid of the intruder and return his attention to Obi-Wan alone.

Unfortunately for him, Anakin had invited this intruder.

“Padmé,” he says, turning from the boy completely to face her. He even holds out his arm for her to loop hers through, thinking that maybe such a gesture is overkill until he catches sight of Kenobi’s sour expression and the way his eyes are focussed with laser-like intensity on where Anakin’s arm is covered by Padmé’s hand. “You look wonderful.” Padmé had dressed in a soft pink outfit, like the sky just as dawn breaks. With a wide golden headband and her hair loosely braided, she did look wonderful.

And yet Anakin couldn’t stop thinking that she paled in comparison to Kenobi.

“Thank you,” Padmé replies gracefully, smiling up at him the same way she did when he was twenty and she twenty-five. It makes her look girlish and soft around the edges, and Anakin can barely stop himself from snorting. He knows her too well to fall for such an act after all these years.

But Obi-Wan Kenobi does not.

“Sorry,” the boy says, not sounding very sorry at all, “who are you?”

Padmé’s smile turns a hair more genuine as she turns to look at Kenobi. “My name is Padmé Amidala, young one. Ani said you were interested in learning more about Coruscanti politics? I am one of the senators of Naboo.”

Kenobi scowls. “I’m twenty-three,” he says, no sign of the temptress angel anywhere in his tone or face. He ignores the last part of Padmé’s question, running his hand over and behind his ear instead—perhaps subconsciously copying Anakin’s touch.

“When you’re our age, young one, everyone thirty years and below looks young,” Padmé replies, waving her hand through the air with a slight smile.

“Your own failure to age with grace should hardly color the faces of all those younger than you, my lady,” Obi-Wan says rather scathingly. “Such a mindset is indicative of an underdeveloped and immature worldview, one I am surprised to hear come from a senator. I am twenty-three.”

His eyes land once more on Anakin’s arm, and his lips soften from a scowl into something more closely resembling a pout.

For a man who insists on being treated like a fully-fledged adult, he certainly knows how to look rather young and indubitably pathetic.

Anakin sighs inwardly and offers his other arm to Obi-Wan. The boy’s face lightens considerably as he accepts it, and Anakin feels suddenly infused with a strange sense of warmth, almost like he can feel the boy’s pleasure wrapping around his mind.

Maybe he can—after all, the boy was trained in the Force, up to a certain point at least. That sort of control and power isn’t so quickly forgotten, despite how many years it’s been since he received a proper education. After all, Anakin had had several lessons in the Force when he was a teenager, once it was clear that even though he was too old to be trained as a Jedi, his connection with the Force was not fading and in fact only growing more feral and out of control.

Instead of simply locking their arms together as Padmé had, the boy curls his hand to rest on top of the length of his arm, bare fingers touching his bare wrist.

The scamp, Anakin cannot help but think. He keeps his face resolutely straight forward as he leads them both into the gardens, ignoring whatever look Padmé is shooting him.

What was he supposed to do? The little harlot was pouting up at him like he’d broken his heart and left him for dead simply because he’d given Padmé attentions he hadn’t given Kenobi. And Anakin isn’t a monster.

“Shall we?” He says, not giving Padmé time to speak or Obi-Wan time to protest.

“I hadn’t realized you would invite another,” Obi-Wan says finally, after several minutes of tense silence.

Anakin makes sure to shrug artlessly, carelessly. “I remembered you told the Chancellor that you were interested in immersing yourself in Coruscanti politics over this next season. He advised me to bring along another Senator so that you could begin to make connections.”

Obi-Wan falters for half a moment, head snapping to look at Anakin’s face. “He did?” he asks, sounding rather strange. Perhaps slightly disconcerted that the Chancellor had opinions and advice on his life.

Palpatine hadn’t said anything to that effect of course. All he’d said about the Count’s grandson after they’d left the office had been a short and rather mysterious: “Be careful with that one, my dear boy.”

Anakin hadn’t liked the idea—or rather, the reality—that even the Chancellor of the Force-damned Republic not only knew of Anakin’s…appetites, but also felt the need to warn him away from scandal.

“What did he say?” Kenobi insists, hand tightening on his wrist, like he’s considering jerking Anakin to a stand-stil.

“Nothing of note,” Anakin reassures him. “Only that it may do me well to help you find your way.”

Obi-Wan’s eyes narrow, as if silently calling the words banthashit in his mind. He’d be right, of course, but he doesn’t need to know that.

A moment later, his face smooths out, as if a change has overcome him. His eyes brighten and widen, and his grip softens significantly. “And would you, Senator?”

“Uh,” Anakin says, distracted by the appearance of a moue between the boy’s eyebrows. “Would I what?”

“Guide me,” Obi-Wan replies, finally pulling Anakin to a stop in the middle of the garden path. “You are in need of an aide, I checked the Senate accountant files myself. I know it wouldn’t pay much,” his nose wrinkles at the thought, and a part of Anakin has to stop himself from snorting. Most honest jobs would pay less than being a Count’s grandson. “But I would be such a hard worker. Diligent and passionate.”

“Uh,” Anakin says, unsure if the emphasis he’s hearing on certain words really exists or if his dirty mind is tricking him into all the ways Obi-Wan Kenobi could be a hard, diligent, passionate worker.

“Do you have a resumé of past work experience?” Padmé asks with interest from Anakin’s other side. He almost startles, having forgotten she was there at all, despite her holding his arm.

Obi-Wan’s face scowls as he remembers her presence as well. “I may,” he says shortly.

“I would be interested in taking a look,” Padmé says with all the grace of a queen. “At least I could perhaps offer some insight. At best, I myself am looking for another aide—”

“I thought all of your staff had to bear a resemblance to you in order to work in your office,” Obi-Wan lifts his nose in the air and turns away from both Anakin and Padmé. “I should sooner die than bear that burden.”

Anakin chokes slightly on thin air and then on the ghost of a chuckle when he realizes what Obi-Wan’s just said. Padmé lets out a vaguely offended noise, and Anakin pats her on the arm. “There, there,” he says in an undertone as he watches Obi-Wan stalk further up the path from them. The loose chain against his lower back swings with each step, and Anakin finds himself halfway to entranced just watching it move.

“He is incredibly….” Padmé trails off with a shake of her head.

“Beautiful, I know it,” Anakin agrees, running his eyes up to linger on the boy’s rather muscular back.

“I was going to say spoiled,” Padmé replies with an arch of her eyebrow. “Conceited, in fact. Catty, not to mention outright rude.”

“There, there,” Anakin repeats, patting her arm once more. “You know you’re beautiful as well. The opinions of a twenty-three year old hardly matter.”

Padmé arches one fine eyebrow, but before she can say in return, Obi-Wan is calling Anakin’s name from further onward.

Anakin goes, only realizing he has let go of Padmé when he arrives by Obi-Wan’s side unencumbered. “Yes?”

“Look,” Obi-Wan murmurs, eyes fixed on a fully-bloomed light blue rose, growing out of harsh, dry desert soil. “They say it is from Jakku.”

Anakin hums, looking between Obi-Wan and the rose. “Do you have—some sort of connection with Jakku?” “I’ve never visited a desert planet,” Obi-Wan tells him lightly, fingers hovering over the forcefield protecting the plant. “Tatooine is one though, yes?”

Anakin grunts his agreement.

“Do you believe something as beautiful as this could grow on Tatooine?”

“This isn’t even growing on Jakku,” Anakin points out rather dismissively. “Beautiful, fragile things do not last long on desert worlds.”

Obi-Wan does not reply for long moments, studying the rose. “Stewjon is a desert world,” he finally murmurs, allowing his hand to drop once more to its side. “I was shocked when I found out…I have no memories of the planet. The Jedi took me when I was quite young, you see. Just a babe. But when Dooku found me, he took me there.”

“I thought you said—”

“I requested that we leave before the ship even broke atmo,” Obi-Wan admits quietly. “I knew just from circling the planet that it was not my home. It could never be my home.” He looks once more at the rose before turning to study Anakin, expression unreadable. A moment later, his face breaks into a small smile. “I’m far too pale and fair for a desert planet, I would burn to a crisp within a week.”

“When I’ve visited Tatooine, I’ve worn light protective cloth and escaped without a single burn,” Padmé remarks, having silently come to stand beside Anakin’s side. “You do not have to renounce your home just because you feel as if you are ill-suited for it.”

Whatever vulnerable light that had been shining in Obi-Wan’s eyes shutter once more at the interruption. “I like to think that the planet is ill-suited for me, Senator, not the other way around.”

“Does Serenno suit you more?” Anakin asks curiously, allowing Obi-Wan to take his arm once more.

Obi-Wan grins, a small, artificial thing. “Does it look as if it suits me, Senator?”

Anakin swallows rather uncomfortably. It does, of course. Obi-Wan Kenobi looks resplendent and wonderful and angelic and lovely. He knows better than to say this.

As a group, they move further into the gardens. After perhaps an hour, Obi-Wan stops frowning whenever Padmé speaks, settling into a chilly sort of acceptance rather than throwing out outright insults.

Over a particularly rough patch of cobblestoned path, Padmé trips, and Anakin moves to catch her automatically.

Whatever progress Obi-Wan and Padmé have made withers and dies the moment Obi-Wan turns from examining a hanging vine to see Anakin’s eyes wrapped securely around her waist, her hands braced on his chest.

Thirty minutes of what Anakin can only describe as bitching later, Padmé decides to take her leave. They’ve barely started through the section of the gardens dedicated to the Mid-Rim planets, but Padmé will not be convinced to stay.

“Ani, if he says one rude thing about Naboo’s greenery, we may come to blows,” she tells him in an undertone as Obi-Wan moves ahead of them, carefully examining each plaque beneath each plant—looking, no doubt, for the ones from Naboo, for no other reason than to release barbed and vitriolic comments.

“Padmé, come on, you know the risk of scandal should I—”

“It occurred to me several hours ago that you never said that you did not want to sleep with him,” Padmé interrupts, eyebrow raised. “Just that you were uninterested in pursuing him because of the scandal.”

Anakin flushes. “I am uninterested in sleeping with him.”

Now, both of Padmé’s eyebrows raise. “You would lie to me so blatantly after I just spent the last two hours putting my life on the line as a favor for you?”

“You’ve hardly put your life on the line—”

“Either tell him you will not fuck him or fuck him somewhere private. Where no holo cameras can find you,” Padmé says in a very no-nonsense tone.

“Pads—”

“And then after, refer him to my office,” she adds, looking down the path at the boy. “He’s quite—lethal. If you do not want him as your aide, I’ll take him as mine.”

Anakin blinks. “What?” he says. “He hates you.”

“Then be a dear and fuck it out of him,” Padmé replies archly. “He could be useful if all that hate was directed a different way.”

“I don’t want to fuck him,” Anakin protests far too loudly. His eyes dart to Obi-Wan, but the boy seems distracted by a venus fly-trap from Dereak.

Padmé looks pitying and unamused. “Enjoy the rest of your evening, Ani. Please don’t tell me the details.”

Anakin scowls and opens his mouth to argue once more. Before he can, she turns and leaves in a tidal wave of soft pink.

He hates it when she does that.

“Oh,” Obi-Wan says when Anakin comes to stand next to him. “Did your friend leave?” The brat.

Anakin purses his lips. “She had somewhere to be,” he lies.

“How unfortunate,” Obi-Wan lies in return, and Anakin’s lips twitch up into a slight smile before he schools his expression.

“We should hurry through the rest,” he says, “as it is almost dark.”

“Yes, of course,” Obi-Wan says, entirely docile once more like a loth-kitten allowing its fur to be smoothed flat now that the danger has left.

Anakin shakes his head. If the boy is serious about getting into politics, the first thing he should learn is how to be a better actor—or at least, how to better control his emotions.

“I was thinking,” Obi-Wan tells him thirty minutes later, twilight now fully taking over the Coruscanti upper levels. “This was quite fun and very educational.”

“Yes,” Anakin agrees, only slightly reluctantly, but he cannot pretend that he did not have fun. Obi-Wan’s company has been surprisingly pleasant, the boy surprisingly endearing.

“Thank you for acting as my escort,” Obi-Wan adds, gently touching the back of Anakin’s hand.

“You’re welcome,” he replies rather roughly. The twilight throws fascinating shadows over the lines of Obi-Wan’s face. He shines in the pale light, like something truly ethereal.

“But this is not really Coruscant,” Obi-Wan says, blinking up at Anakin’s face. “It is too…artificial. It reminds me of the Jedi Temple gardens: carefully tended to and carefully curated. Incredibly fake.”

Anakin had thought the same thing when Obi-Wan first suggested the location. “I feel the same way,” he says, feeling as if he is walking into a trap.

“I would like to see the Lower Levels,” the boy says. It sounds like a demand, and it must to the boy as well, because he adds a nice little please at the end.

It doesn’t do much to soften the blow of the words. “The Lower Levels?”

Obi-Wan nods, looking quite serious. “We could get something to eat down there, you could show me what Coruscant is truly like! Please, Senator, this is the only home I have—I want to see it all now that I have returned!” “You can’t go down to the Lower Levels dressed like that,” Anakin shakes his head and rubs his free hand over his mouth as he looks at the boy. “Stars, you’d be torn to shreds.”

“You’d protect me,” Obi-Wan says confidently. Too confidently. Anakin resents the assumption the boy has made, similar to the one Padmé had made: that he wants this boy. That he will go out of his way for him.

“No,” he says, shaking Kenobi’s hands off him. “I will not, young one. The Senate meets for assembly tomorrow, and—”

“Please,” Obi-Wan interrupts, voice shaking. “I would like to see them, and you make me feel safe, Senator—” “And I said no, Kenobi,” Anakin snaps, and Obi-Wan recoils as if he has been slapped.

The rejection hangs in the air between them for several still moments before Obi-Wan throws back his shoulders and tosses his hair back. “Fine,” the boy sniffs, somehow looking cooly down his nose at him, despite their height difference.

He spins on his foot and stalks away from him.

“Where are you going?” Anakin snaps, moving forward to keep up with the boy without consciously deciding to follow him. “It is late and dark—I must ensure you get back to your apartments—”

“I’m going down to the lower levels,” Obi-Wan declares, halting in his path to glare at Anakin. The garden lights have flickered on as the night fully descends. The golden lights of the floating orb fixtures dance across Obi-Wan’s face and make his eyes glow slightly as well. “Without you if I must.”

“Obi-Wan,” Anakin starts, but Obi-Wan turns his cheek away from him.

“Must I?” he demands, blue-gold eyes finding Anakin’s and fixing him in place. “Must I go alone, Senator?”

#obikin #democratic fic #obi-wan is the cattiest brattiest bitch in this i truly love him #he is endearing to anakin who loves a disaster #sith obi-wan kenobi #senator anakin skywalker

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tailorvizsla · 1 year

Note

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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kneamet · 2 years

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Hi hi hi :D I loved my beautiful madness, by the way <3 I'm not sure if i could request again but can i put in another request but this time it's for Obi-Wan Kenobi or Patrick Mckenna? I had this idea from listening to the song Meant to be yours and it made me think of two ideas: a. Sith!Obi-Wan hunting down Jedi Knight!Reader as she hides during order 66, but then Obi-Wan starts professing his feelings for the reader in a very very twisted way (The lyric i based this idea from was "You were meant to be mine, i am all that you need! You cut open my heart, [you] can't just leave me to bleed!") There could be two endings to it (it's up to you if you want to add this part in hihi) 1. Reader comes out of hiding and willingly surrenders to Obi-Wan, something happens that makes the reader give in to the dark side (can be the obsessive joy that comes from Obi-Wan, or can be a short kiss) 2. Reader manages to make Obi-Wan snap and he accidentally *ahem* kills the reader; Obi-Wan has to live with the guilt of losing his love for the rest of his life AND b, Patrick and reader are dating (well, in Patrick's perspective he and the reader are dating), but then the Reader says she wants to separate herself from him, which angers Patrick and scares the reader into staying with him (Based on the lyric "You toss me out like i was trash, for that, you should be dead) and then it ends with Patrick just trying to calm the reader down from his outburst Hehe thanks so much!

The stars all belong to the Gods

Trigger Warning: angst, fear, yandere, obsession

Word Count: 2345

Character: sith!obi-wan kenobi/reader

Summary: Death could not be denied, death could not be avoided; Obi-Wan was death. Frightened by his own power, turned to the dark side, fell under the power of Darth Sidious, he was lost. Obi-Wan was mired in darkness, wrapped in the thinnest threads of madness, but he never forgot about you. The distant stars fell under his tears when he, unable to touch, watched you.

When Obi-Wan rose, the stars lit up in the sky. A great Jedi who lost a master at a young age, fought a Sith, did not succumb to the dark side — there were legends about Obi-Wan in the temple. And while the adult Jedi were whispering about him, the younglings were inspired by his story until they learned the terrible news — their revered symbol turned to the dark side, betrayed the codex and thrust a lightsaber into a student on a fiery Mustafar. When Obi-Wan fell, the only thing you felt was emptiness. An all-consuming, all-encompassing, dreary emptiness. The words struck you like thunder, and while the master was leaving, you looked at the floor in an eclipse, did not believe.

Old acquaintances, padawans with a forbidden connection, you did not hide secrets from each other, trusted each other, supported each other. Even when Obi-Wan had a student, even when there were moments of sadness and separation, you always knew: you have him, he has you — and your forbidden bond is one. Bitter nights, as soon as the walls were cold, pressed, and the dream was the worst nightmare, he came to you, saved you from a fictional villain and hugged, kissed the top of your head with weathered lips. His big rough hands stroked back, and his head lay on his shoulder — and the rest of the dream passed.

You swear when the sand of Tatooine winds in your squinting eyes, leaving grains of sand in the folds of your nondescript clothes. Boots tread on hard sand. The house — the cave, to tell the truth — in which you live was far from the city and all thanks to Order 66; an order that changed your entire former life. Sighing, you look down. There is very little time left before home and your day repeats itself from time to time: dawn is the beginning of wakefulness, day is work, sunset is sleep.

You had the fate of a martyr, and it was unclear why you continue to exist — to create or destroy? How many deaths were on your hands — and it doesn't matter, Sith, civilians — how many destroyed houses, broken destinies. How many children... Victims of your stupidity, naivety! disbelief that Obi-Wan could betray the rules, the Council, and you. His ashen body — which was in peacetime, your time, glowing, freckled — burned to scars.

Deprived of all the benefits, ruined by your own aspirations, stopped by the masters, you exiled yourself, hid in the darkness of darkness, having no light. The Jedi are gone, life is over. Reproaching yourself, eating your soul and heart with memories of poor children, you had to hide on Tatooine, in a world of sand and sadness, forgotten ideas and people. The sun was your eternal companion, withstood all the aching pain, absorbed doubts and worries, disturbed the heart.

The Sith became the lords of thoughts; seized power, possessed minds, exterminated former Jedi. There were quite a few rumors about one of the most formidable Sith — Darth Lant, famous for his elegant cruelty, exhaustion and seductive voice. He was a fallen Jedi, General Kenobi, Obi-Wan Kenobi, your Obi. He forgot everything, burned fiercely and left half-ruined cities in ashes behind him, but succumbed to the influence of your charms, gently and menacingly, to the point of trembling, whispering words of love and gently caressing.

His straw-colored hair has become stiff, long, and his hands are always wearing gloves. Obi-Wan came to you in your dreams, talked with the intonation of approaching danger and continued to talk about meeting soon. He, like the white knight, saved you from terrible monsters — which he was — and began to attack you with special pleasure. It was a shame to admit it, but the old, such familiar movements brought back the lost dignity and excitement, brought out of the terrifying confusion and pain in which the heart had been fully immersed for the last two years, and you again recalled those carefree days with little Kenobi.

He directed dreams, created them for you and built castles in the air. He came up to you with a grin, took advantage of confusion and defenselessness: he walked around from the side of the leading hand and put a sword to his throat. He enjoyed, he rejoiced, played like a child. He is your death, your time, your space, your pain. And he will be your executioner.

Your door creaks, and you immediately feel something wrong. Straining your gut, connecting with the Force — I am one with the Force — you inspect a familiar house: a bed, a carpet, wooden cabinets and a wardrobe. Your hands sweat, breathing slows down when you forcefully hear the world you know, a familiar personality, a favorite whisper. Clenching your teeth, you squeeze your lips and want to rush to the closet, but you stood there, as if chained... or someone else's the Force.

"Oh, darling, you have no idea what it's like to see you alive and completely at my mercy," a voice murmured from behind. There was a rustling, incomprehensible sounds. Obi-Wan was coming out of the second room, smiling and playfully shaking his head. "I've been dreaming about meeting you for a long time... You've changed so much in the last two years... You look different in holograms. I keep every one of them."

Long, matted hair covered an overgrown face, on which there were several scars; one healed scar crossed an eye. The light eyes turned yellow — dangerous, possessed and vindictive, such as only Sith have. The eyes of an animal, not a human. His clothes were dark, malicious, worn, and there were scars on the exposed parts of his body. Having lost his beauty, he remembered the annoying words of the code. It was driven into the head, securely fixed in it.

"I can touch you!" Obi-Wan said with childish delight, touching your face distorted in anger. His hand was shaking, but you could see the broken, bitten nails on his fingers. He barely touched you, as his face immediately transformed: he licked his lips, opened his mouth and looked at you with an incomprehensible shade of sadness. His palm continued to stroke cheek, gently and weightlessly, as if he was afraid to touch you. "You're so real..."

"Let me go, Obi-Wan," you said through the pain in your throat, through Kenobi's the Force, but he only frowned. The fingers pressed lightly on the skin. "Please..."

"Darling, don't, you won't run away. You know perfectly well that I am stronger than you. All the masters talked about it. Or should I remind you of our sparring sessions?"

"I remember them well, Obi-Wan, and I remember that you lost in the last."

"Obi-Wan lost, darling, but Darth Lant didn't lose. I could fight you now," he ran his hand over your shoulder, slowly descending lower and lower, "but I don't see any fun in it. You're weak, but you're so adorable!

It was getting painful to stand. Obi-Wan kept saying something, turning away from you, but his words flew by, didn't seem true. He stood slouched, his shoulders were heavy, his posture tense. Kenobi looked like a king surrounded by disappointed subjects; even now, no matter how much he tried to appear mocking, goofy, menacing, there was universal fatigue in him. Fatigue from the world, fatigue from the laws, fatigue from misunderstanding. Obi-Wan was promised freedom, but he continued to feel the shackles on ankles.

There was a sweet lie in the words of Darth Sidious, which he fell for. The Dark Lord looked solid, scary and creepy; Obi-Wan was kneeling in front of him, humbly lowering his head and whispering words of forgiveness with his lips, he did everything right, he did it for you! it seemed to him few years ago. But death had no love, she was a vile, mocking creature, whose wounds he successfully mashed.

In the dark, where only red and gold existed, Obi-Wan was the hero of the ashes; he emerged from the heat and pain as a champion, but continued to dream of happiness. His life was hectic and not alive, and death remained adamant. For death life was a scar — people don't live, but heal; life is a sore, a burr, a blister or a pimple. Obi-Wan had all the time in the world to retire and subdue his thoughts, but they continued to remain intrusive, free.

In moments of sadness, in moments of pain and despair, the only thing he thought about was you — your face and a sweet smile, a brisk temper and a sharp laugh, warm hugs and eternal criticism of the objectionable. Obi-Wan couldn't do anything with himself; during the fights, the murders, in the midst of the corpses of adults and children, the screams of men and the crying of women, while his trembling hand clutched a lightsaber and his face was sweaty, he thought about you. Tossing and turning on hard beds, getting lost and connecting with you in dreams; and while Darth Lant was conquering the world, Obi-Wan couldn't conquer you. His heart sank every time you turned away from him.

His palate had its throat cut long ago.

The silence was deafening. Obi-Wan, lost in thought to the core, suddenly turned to you with a confused face. His eyes seemed bright again for a couple of seconds, mired in blue and calm, and his face seemed transformed — he seemed young, handsome and yours again. The former Obi, who was not afraid to show love, who overcame madness and doubts; the former Obi-Wan, who loved you, and you loved him. What has changed?

"You... Do you want to come with me?" he was naive, he came up again and touched you. His the Force was weakening, but you continued to stay in place and not move. "I can give you the whole world!" his gaze is soulless and cold, but there is beauty in it; beauty is different, unknown. Frightening beauty. "I'll give you everything you want, I'll give you everything that's left! Just let me love you up close again... Just be mine again, please..."

He was different from what he was in dreams. You looked at him carefully and, like a second, he will fall to his knees in front of you. The rumors that spread from mouth to mouth in the city were not confirmed: in the stories of your friends, sellers in the market, ordinary workers, he appeared in the form of a terrible figure, carrying thousands of deaths, cold and torture. An evil Sith who abandoned the Codex and the Jedi; a big, scary and ironic man for whom life is just entertainment, and demise is a snap of two fingers.

"Obi-Wan, please..."

"No! Why don't you want to listen to me?! What did I do wrong?" he exclaimed, and his eyes watered for a second from the sunlight from the window. There's a damn empty desert there, no souls and only peace. Did he really want this outcome? Why did he serve the Sith? "You were meant to be mine, I am all that you need!"

A second — and something squeezes the neck, something tightens. The body rises up, you try unsuccessfully to grab air with your mouth. The breath disappears, the nose lays, the words are lost and useless. The lower jaw and stomach are shaking, the body is numb. Thousands of moments and memories flash before eyes, millions of images from a past life flash by; a life so happy, serene... That life when you were naive, because you thought you could save a fallen warrior, heal wounds.

The second second — the two of you are lying in his apartment, wrapped in a warm blanket and looking at the dark ceiling. Your hands are tightly clasped, and while Obi-Wan whispers to you sweet passions, stupidities and promises stars, you purse your lips, looking at his face — in his eyes, giving off blue, like water in the purest sea, you selflessly drown. His voice — his alluring, forbidden and such a charming voice — extraordinary.

"You cut my heart! Left me!"

The third second — and Obi-Wan's face is distorted in anger. You take your last breath, it gets dark in your eyes, and your body falls to the dirty floor. You forget yourself, you die, you don't see how Obi-Wan's eyes turn blue again, yours. He runs up to you with an invisible expression, says something, begs for help, tries to lift you up, staggers and wraps his rough hands around you. No, no, no! The thought of death pierces through the heart, empties and almost stops beating; there is a deafening ringing in the ears.

His head bends down, and Obi-Wan touches your body with it — soulless, inanimate... He wants to scream, turn off in the languor of self-immolation, turn back time and change everything. A shaking hand ran through your tangled, clean hair, Obi-Wan hoped that you could feel him, forgive him. He hugged you, throwing the sword far away, and cried.

He kissed your back, and now he inflicted thousands of wounds there. He whispered words of tenderness to you, and now he muttered threats. Beauty remained with you even now, at the moment lost for him, when it is unknown where to move now? and will he be able to forgive himself for this nightmare? Obi-Wan returns to the house and everything is the end of life: he, absorbed and brought up by the darkness, dies, only Darth Lant remains.

Obi-Wan looked at your exhausted body and tried to preserve it. A person had a choice — a choice to love, a choice to die, a choice to be or to be, a choice to keep cold or to burn, but Obi-Wan had no choice. There was no free will. Devoid of love, devoid of emotions, devoid of home and sleep, he gets up by force, grabbing a sword, and looks at you for the last time. Darth Lant pressed his lips together and, looking away, left the cave, leaving behind his fears, his beloved and his choice.

When Obi-Wan fell, the stars cried, died.

and here im back, hooray! @jjeresano-euler, im sorry if there was something wrong and u can always ask for something else and ill write (including your second idea with patrick). i hope you enjoyed it!

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