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darkness-and-books · 1 month ago

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I’m saving this meal for later

True Librarian: Part 1

The Empire seeks to destroy everything beautiful. One of their first targets are the libraries. Determined to preserve the volumes, you download what you can and run to continue that mission undercover. And because this is a Star Wars fic, you run into Ben Kenobi, who is on a mission of his own.

Pairing: Post-Order 66 Obi-Wan x f!reader

Word count: 4.6k

Warnings: dry humping, fascism

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A galactic empire.

You’d read the histories in school and knew that empire was only good for the few at the top. The rest? Gobbled up, set against one another. Everything curious or creative and hopeful snuffed out. So as soon as that melted old man on the podium declared the new order, you began walking through the stacks in your section of the library - the children’s section - as calmly as possible, downloading books onto a data pad. Once that was full, you went to retrieve another, but the head librarian approached with a stern reminder that it was story hour and you were about to be late.

“I know what you’re doing,” she said quietly. “Most of us will be doing the same. Keep to this section and be careful.”

“Most of us? Some wouldn’t try to preser—“

“Those people,” she huffed, “are not true librarians.”

The little group of younglings sat on the colorful carpet in the story corner, rapt at your reading of a cheerful adventure where everyone learned something. There was a moment when they all gasped as the main character wavered and almost made the evil choice and breathed out with relief when they did the right thing and clapped when everyone lived happily ever after.

“Little ones, go get your juice and cookies.” You waved at the small curated shelf behind you. “Then bring back a book you want to read!”

You relaxed, pleased that they liked the story and were so excited to read on their own. This was your favorite part: a gaggle of younglings asking how to say this word, reading a new sentence, connecting a picture to the story’s action.

Rowan ran back with a book he practically shoved into your face, yelling THIS ONE I WANT TO READ THIS ONE

It featured an illustration of a Jedi from the stories everyone read as younglings: magic warriors who would appear in a desperate time of need. There were no news or public record of them visiting this peaceful planet at the edge of the inner rim that had miraculously remained untouched during the war. Even as the Chancel— Emperor - declared them traitors, no one paid them any mind. They were practically mythical characters in children’s stories anyway.

“This looks exciting!” You smiled as the boy plopped on the floor, holding the book on his lap. “Let’s look at the cover and wonder what might happen.”

A pinched face man you’d never seen before stalked over and snatched the book from the boy’s hand.

“Inappropriate,” he said crisply, dismissing the boy’s incoming tears.

The pinched face man went child to child, boney fingers yanking books from little hands and barely glancing at them before declaring the material was inappropriate and would be removed from the library.

Desperate to keep the children from crying at the loss, you pulled out the flimsi pad that lived in your pocket; the one where you kept notes for story hour.

“It’s ok, little ones,” you said, kneeling on the story corner carpet, spreading out a few sheets of flimsi. “We can write a story together!”

Boney fingers yanked the flimsi from your hands.

“Inappropriate,” he hissed. Then stalked off into the stacks. “Obscene.”

You still knelt on the story corner carpet, stunned and only brought back by the younglings’ wailing at something they loved being taken away. The head librarian lurked in the shadows of the last stacks in the children’s section.

Protect the books. Take what you have and run, she mouthed silently, eyes darting toward where the pinched face man had gone. and may the Force be with you.

Several years later

The library ruin on this remote world was particularly bad. Some walls melted rather than broken. The dirt so scorched that it may never see life again. Much of what was left had been scavenged years ago. Still, you carefully sifted through the ash, hopeful that some bookchip had survived. It didn’t matter if it was intact; you’d learned much in these last five years and might be able to extract something. These days if you were lucky, there might be a few paragraphs or the miracle of a full picture.

There wasn’t much time, though. You’d already been poking around the site for two days. Even on barren planets like this with so few people, it was risky to linger.

However, you had the usual cover story in case anyone happened by: you were a historian tasked with documenting the horrors the Jedi committed against the Republic. Of course it was important to examine the library ruins. There may be Jedi propaganda and younglings might be exposed to it.

The lie became less plausible every day as there were fewer libraries to sack and fewer books to save. Meanwhile, your data pads were running out of space.

Shaking the ash through the sieve, a bookchip emerged. This one had a nick on one side near the corner. Ever so slowly you brought it through the ashes until it saw light. The chip would have to be examined and cleaned, but maybe something inside had survived.

“Hey, beautiful,” you said, gently blowing away the ashes. “Let’s get you somewhere safe.”

A while later, sitting on the floor of The Dewey, your tiny ramshackle ship, you carefully removed the dirt and ash that had settled into the chip’s crevices. It was safer to do this part on the ground; space could be unexpectedly bumpy and this was delicate work. This one’s innards were packed in good with debris and would take some time to clean out; more time than felt safe even though this world was so sparse.

It was getting increasingly difficult to keep The Dewey fueled and flying. Between each library raid, it was necessary to take a job or two to stay afloat while saving for the next search. Knowing how remote and barren this planet was, the last stop had gone on longer than most to save up for just enough fuel to get here and back. Things would be slim for a few weeks while saving again. It would work out, though. Always did.

“That’s my ship!!!!”

The planning had been done right. Fuel: there was enough to land. Landing conditions: weather reports projected a calm overcast day. Landing area: a few klicks away from the town in a clearing where nomads had formed a transient camp. It was perfect.

Until the weather unexpectedly shifted and you had to navigate through a hurricane. Which ate too much fuel to get to the camp, so you had no choice other than to land in town, hitting hard. After paying the docking fee, you went into town searching for work and, if you were lucky, somewhere to sleep.

After a week behind the bar of a cantina, there was enough to buy fuel to move the ship from the dock to the transient camp. However, the manager refused to release Dewey and was already contracting with a buyer, citing insufficient funds.

“I paid the docking fee!”

“Yeah, doll. But storage is extra,” the dock master drawled.

Storage fee. After the scary entry and rough landing, you hadn’t even thought of it. Stupid. Stupidstupidstupid

“Week without storage fees, ship gets sold. Busy dock. Not a lot of space. Bring the credits today, keep the ship. Can ya get ‘em? The credits?”

“No,” you looked down, disappointed in yourself. “I can’t.”

The new cover story was hobby detectorist.

There had been a detectorist club that met at your old library to share their finds. They were a sweet bunch content to wander around parks and clearings and beaches with their metal detectors, looking for forgotten trinkets and such. Surely no one would pay much mind to a hobbyist poking around with a metal detector, stowing scraps in a bag.

The only problem was that, without a ship, your range was limited to short-range public passenger transports and even that could be difficult to swing considering how expensive things had become. You’d saved for months just for this one trip to a nearby world. It seemed that the Empire didn’t want anyone going anywhere and wanted keep everyone struggling to survive.

This dingy transport was beyond cramped. For a while after take-off, you stood in the aisle holding on to the overhead rail, praying no one messed with your backpack or the collapsable metal detector strapped to it. Someone’s armpit was too close to your face. After the first stop, a scant few seats opened up; aisle riders scrambled like rats to claim them. You managed to snag nearest one which was next to a slumped, ragged person covered in a faded brown hooded robe.

“This seat taken?”

The person’s head snapped around, a sliver of face exposed by the shifting hood: beard, a lock of lank hair hanging one side of his forehead, unbroken nose, and part of one haunted blue eye that gave you a cursory yet assessing glance.

The man waved his hand at the empty seat. He immediately went back to gazing out the window. You got a glimpse of his reflection but saw nothing but the hood backlit by the overhead lights and hints of a wraith within it. It was hard not to look away; he looked like the antagonist of so many of the books you’d read to younglings at story hour. Where were they? Were they still allowed to read?

“Is there a problem?” He asked softly. Elegant deep core world accent which did not match his appearance.

“No. I’m sorry. I just—“ you searched for a reasonable excuse for staring. “I’d hoped to be lucky enough to snag a window seat.”

Shockingly he stood, stepped into the aisle and waved his hand toward the now vacant window seat, holding his ground as other passengers threw elbows and fists into his torso trying to get to the seat you’d just vacated. You slid in to the window seat and clutched the backpack tight as a binky as he sat in the aisle seat, visibly tense.

“Thank you.”

There was no response. With each stop on the line, passengers disembarked and boarded, yet the crowd didn’t thin out much. The few surrounding conversations were peppered with talk of finding steady work among the few available jobs. It all made your mission feel decadent. After a few more stops, it was your turn.

“This is me,” you said. “That was nice of you.”

Again, no response other than a silent nod.

Outside the terminal, the town held the light rain that foretold an incoming monsoon, which posed a problem: there weren’t enough credits saved to get a room, so you’d counted on spending the nights in a hideyhole somewhere. You’d gotten fairly decent at finding such places these last years and accustomed to powering through the aching joints the morning after. Rain steadily came down harder as you stalked alleys and collapsed buildings, finding nothing that would provide sturdy cover.

From the street end of another alley, you spied what might be a deep alcove. Wasn’t perfect, but it would provide some cover. It was coming down in sheets now as you dashed toward it, jaw clenching at the effort to avoid slipping on the slick ground.

The alcove was better than expected: there was enough room to stretch our your legs with some inches to spare and it was just deep enough that you’d stay protected from the rain unless it blew in sideways. Best of all, there was no armpit in your face. After a day on that cramped transport, this was nigh luxurious.

Of course someone had to poke their head in and ruin the bliss. Seeing you, the person - a man’s voice - shouted sorry to disturb you! and turned to dash away, presumably to find some other shelter.

Then he promptly slipped and fell on his back, hitting hard.

Even through the rain, you could see his deeply resigned sigh. The odd thing was that he stayed there getting pummeled by the rain with thunder getting closer, robe splayed open against the pavement. A robe similar to. . .

Oh for fuck’s sake

“It’s not safe out there!” You shouted. “Come inside!”

He didn’t move. Whoever this man was, he was either a drama queen or had a death wish. But, he’d shown a small kindness on the transport and that meant something. Even after these years of the Empire, little things like that gave you hope. So against all sense of self-preservation, you went out and grabbed his hand, trying to drag him to the alcove’s safety.

That seemed to wake his senses. He heaved himself up, still holding your hand, and trudged to the alcove, falling heavily against the wall. You settled against the other wall, close eye on what you could see of him which wasn’t much: beneath the sopping robe was a dripping beard and hair plastered his face. Even so, it was unmistakably the man from the transport.Your stomach curdled at the coincidence. Had he been following? If so, you couldn’t very well throw him out now without arousing suspicion. And it was freezing; following or not, sharing body heat might be necessary.

This alcove was not meant for two people stretching their legs out. Leaning against opposite walls, trying to find some way to co-exist with the slightest bit of comfort led to a bit of feet and knees getting tangled and muttered on both sides. As the night went on, the rain had grew colder and both of you were shivering. Self-preservation kicked in.

“We’re being stupid. It’s safer to huddle together,” you said through chattering teeth. “I’m coming over there.”

Compressed joints burning, you turned around, shifting to sit between his legs, back to his chest. He didn’t fight. Just let it happen.

“I don’t want to die here,” you choked, realizing that death was a real possibility tonight.

His head fell forward, beard brushing your cheek.

“Neither do I,” he sighed. “Neither do I.”

There was little sleep.

As feared, the rain blew in sideways, chilling the alcove even more. The two of you huddled together; if it was impossible to stay dry, at least you could warm each other a bit. During the night, the violence of the rain and distant thunder made you shake and whimper like you’d done as a child hiding under the dining room table during storms. Instinctively, you shrunk fetal. The hooded man wrapped his sopping robe around and held you tight.

Then the storm abruptly stopped and you both dozed off. In the lightest dream, your hands traveled along his thighs. Just a dream, though.

The sounds of the town starting it’s day echoed down the alley, snapping both awake. Your head had lolled over his shoulder, forehead pressed into his neck. His hand cradled your cheek. Stars, it had been so long since you’d been touched—not even so much as a handshake—that the contact sent a shiver down your chest and further.

You frantically untangled from one another and began the process of checking supplies and, in his case, wringing out a soaked robe.

“Do you need help with that?”

No he shook his head, wringing water out of a sleeve. Sighing when the other sleeve, which had just been wrung out, fell into a puddle. Maker, this man seemed so defeated. Ignoring his rejection, you yanked the sleeve from the puddle and twisted, then did the same with the hood.

“It’s too big for one person. You take that end,” you nodded to the hem, “and I’ll start here. We’ll meet in the middle.”

Silently, the water was twisted from the robe until you stood shoulder to shoulder sending that shiver down again. If only you’d paid more attention; who knew when - or if - such contact would happen again. Shoulders and arms touching for a moment, even through the damp clothes, was a treasure.

“Thank you,” he said quietly. “This was kind.”

You lingered longer than appropriate against his shoulder, not wanting to break a connection to. . . to anyone. Having no idea how to respond.

“I do what I can.” You shrugged into the backpack, made sure the metal detector was still there and walked off, intending to keep an eye out for being followed. He disappeared almost immediately.

Obi-Wan couldn’t stop thinking about that woman.

It wasn’t her kindness in pulling him into the scant shelter or helping with the robe, which had always been difficult and smelly after being caught in the rain. After that business on Kamino, he’d flown off in a drenched robe and his ship had smelled like a wet tooka for days.

The problem was she showed up twice in the same day. After landing, he’d looked over his shoulder for hours in case someone might be following. Also scanning ahead because the enemy may not be at one’s back. She was never in sight.

Then the violent rain had started and she’d already been in the shelter he’d spied. After he’d slipped and fallen, he only meant to rest on the ground for a few minutes or all night. Obi-Wan hadn’t anticipated the woman yanking on his arm so hard to drag him to safety. He certainly hadn’t anticipated holding her while she curled up and cried at the sound of thunder and the pummeling rain.

Even though he had cut himself off from The Force, his awareness and attention to detail remained in tact. They told him she wasn’t a threat. She was like him: just another person trying to survive. Alone.

Just in case, he’d still have to keep an eye on her while going about his mission.

Obi-Wan dismissed the lingering feeling of her head against his neck and her hand against his while wringing out that robe. Time was limited and he needed the information for the boy’s sake.

The ruins had been pretty well picked clean of anything that could be sold or useful, which was nearly everything. Even the roof and walls had been hauled away, leaving nothing other than ash, the foundations, and the few support beams that had held the place together. You swept the metal detector in slow arcs anyway, occasionally finding a small metal scrap that quickly found its way to your bag. Everything would be useful or sellable. Maybe there’d be enough to buy a meal today.

Then.

Him.

He was more robe than man, slowly walking through the ruins, head down, stopping to examine something in the ash. This could be a problem. You considered the options and went for the reckless one. He’d likely already spied you here and there weren’t enough credits to properly run.

“What are you doing here?”

“I’d ask the same thing.” He didn’t look up, running his fingers through a pile of finely crumbled rubble.

“I’m looking for interesting things. It’s a hobby!” you snapped, waving the metal detector in a wide arc. “What are you up to here?”

“Looking for a book. This is the nearest library.” He looked around the shattered metal and stone. “Rather, it used to be a library.”

Too easy a story. Like yours. Nowhere to run. Reckless. Tired. You stormed toward him.

“Are you following me?”

“I’d ask the same thing,” he repeated, casually standing up. Yet there was no doubt his body had gone tense. Ready.

“Never seen you before yesterday on the transport,” you tutted.

“A second meeting could be simple coincidence,” he trailed off, eyeing you with suspicion, pulling his robe close. “A third looks like a trap.”

“Well, we were cheek to cheek last night and there was no trapping. It would have been an easy opportunity,” you pointed out. Hopefully it sounded more confident than you were. “Let’s just go about our business and hope there isn’t a fourth.”

With the barest nod, he squatted and went back to examining the ground. You continued with the metal detector. Each keeping an eye on one another. As the sun fell further, the hope that anything worthwhile would be found sank with it. At least you had a decent haul of little scrap bits to sell or trade. The only panic was a few stormtroopers on patrol who hadn’t bothered to look toward the ruins. The hooded man disappeared at the sound of their marching boots.

Obi-Wan did his best to disappear behind a crumbling column at the edge of the library ruin. Having cut himself off from the Force, it was a struggle to keep one eye on this dangerously curious woman and the other on their surroundings. Every footfall sent panic through is veins. I cannot be found. . . the boy . . . what is she doing . . . three times. . . now I have to follow her.

Skulking. He was out of practice. Had been even during the war due to Anakin’s inability to be subtle. That idiot. Obi-Wan shoved aside the feeling of clashing lightsabers that always charred the edge of his dreams.

She was heading back to the alcove. A lure or simple stupidity. He squatted behind a few collapsed shelves, hood pulled deep, hoping that the pebble he’d disturbed hadn’t been heard.

“If you’re an Imp can you just take me in? I’m tired.” She stood slumped, head dropping so far down, arms out, wrists together waiting to be cuffed.“It probably doesn’t matter anyway. Just take me in. I don’t know if I can anymore."

A violent wave of resigned dread knocked him down, shoulder hitting the ground hard. He rolled onto his back, staring up at the sky that was veiled by mist and smoke. Just few minutes. That’s all. A few minutes to gather himself back to the mission.

Rain. Of course there was more rain; just a gentle fall for now. He closed his eyes for a moment then pushed himself up. Despair hit him, not enough to knock him back down. Enough for him to notice it was from her. Still on her feet but wavering as if gravity tried to bring her down and she fought against it. Barely.

Obi-Wan stood and took a few tentative steps forward. Her knees buckled. He ran, arms out intent to catch her and did catch her as they both slipped and fell to the ground. The rain came down harder, pummeling his body. After these last years on Tatooine, the violent water was a welcome reprieve. Again, he wondered if he’d done right by bringing the boy to that wretched planet.

The thought was interrupted by the woman’s foot in his face as she tried to stand.

She stood to make her way to the alcove and slipped. Then slipped again. Heavy as the rain became, she kept getting up, slipping, then getting up. It took longer each time until she stopped and lay face down on the ground. Not injured. Just laying there, defeated.

He rose and dashed ahead, grabbing her at the waist and dragged her to the questionable safety of the alcove.

“I’m not an Imp. I won’t hurt you.” She’d balled herself up, head to her knees and it was unclear if she had even heard. “What is it?”

“What’s what?” she sobbed.

“What you can’t do anymore.”

“Hope.”

The storm had subsided in the night, leaving you damp rather than soaked and, surprisingly, mildly rested despite having slept upright in the fetal position. He squatted at a fallen slab nearby, pouring water into a readi-meal.

“It’s not hot and not much,” he called. “It’s something, though.”

Everything cracked and ached as you ambled out of the alcove and went toward the lure of a scant meal. He held it out, yet you hesitated. There could be anything in there. There was also the risk of eye contact and acknowledging that what had. . . happened. . . last night.

“I’m not an Imp.” he said again, taking the shallow bowl back and taking a bite himself before handing it back as if proving it wasn’t tainted. “I owe you, so let’s eat and be on our ways.”

The hood was finally down, draped over his shoulders. Oh, stars. His hair and beard were still damp enough that they weren’t any particular color. Age was a mystery as well; maybe in his forties but it seemed regular people aged faster these days. Like everyone under the Empire, he looked tired and battered. The only point of light was the blue eyes. Still, he looked beautifully worn like someone in a faded old heroic painting.

It was all too coincidental. But, he’d had every opportunity to . . . whatever Imps and other brigands do . . . and didn’t. There was a sense of brightness from within him; dim, but there. The last remnants of warm hope in your soul said he’s trustworthy

He’s good

“What were you looking for anyway?” you said cautiously, not daring to make eye contact, unsure if it was from embarrassment or the fear of dangerously wanting it again. “I was looking for old books.”

He sighed, looking up to the clear blue sky, hand pinching the bridge of his nose.

“It appears we share a goal.”

You stepped forward, tentatively touching his shoulder. The libraries in cities and towns had been pointedly targeted and their destruction very public. The smaller libraries were less likely to have been completely demolished.

“There’s another one on this world. Small. Rural. Maybe there’s something for both of us.”

This is a terrible idea

They’d found a rickety farmer’s cart going in the right direction. The fee? Work. Pick through the cart’s contents examining for pests and signs of rot. It’ll save time on my end, the farmer had said. And the barn needs cleaning if yins want a dry roof and a meal tonight.

Obi-Wan was running out of time, but couldn’t go much longer with this exhaustion and couldn’t afford to lose this unexpected companion. She knew the location of this other library and if he was going to find a remedy for Owen’s rare illness, he’d have to trust her.

In the farmer’s barn, they made quick work of it and, as promised, the farmer brought two bowls of fresh stew and a blanket. I only got the one to spare, he said before leaving. But, warm breakfast in the morning.

“We can’t make a fire in here.” Her fingers ran along the blanket. Chilly wind whispered between the precarious barn. “We’ll have to— we should—“

The memory of her face buried in his neck the previous night lingered, as did the feeling of her being possessed by bad dreams and squirming between his legs. Shamefully, Obi-Wan began to harden when her hips accidentally pushed against his cock. His head had fallen against the brick and the storm stole the moan that escaped. And the next. And the next.

He’d tried to gently shift her into a position that did not bring them in such close contact while also sustaining their combined warmth. But then she’d awoken and looked up with such searching eyes. Such deep desperation for touch, connection. The same as his. Her gaze flicked down to where his hand rested at her hip, granting permission.

Obi-Wan slid his hand along her inner thigh, settling at her apex and began stroking over her rain-soaked pants. She ground her ass against his rock hard cock and held his hand against her. Cries stolen by the storm as they’d come together.

Obi-Wan could not afford for it to happen again.

But it was cold and there was one thin blanket. And she was looking at him like that again.

“Yes. Yes, we should.”

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Love me some Sad Ben Kenobi! I'm planning this as either a two-parter, maybe a trilogy. I've been working on this for a while and was hesitant to post it because of the fascism aspect. But fuck it. We gotta find joy. And fucking any Obi-Wan is pure joy.

I'm planning this as either a two-parter, maybe a trilogy. And I promise there will be some proper fucking in the next installment.

I hope you like it and thank you for reading!

@marierg @thegreatwicked @baba-fett @sinisterexaggerator @bobafetts-princess @agirlunderarock @hideflen @bl00000g @kenobiquinn @kenobiapologist @allthingskenobi @dystopicjumpsuit @starlady66

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