#anakin often threatens to make him sleep on the couch

[tennessoui]

Prompt: "You're a terrible cook" (aka me wanting more kuwsk or recipe for disaster content ;D )

yes!!! ive been meaning to write more recipe for disaster content for soooo long so this is the perfect excuse. (obi-wan is his daughter, ahsoka's piano teacher, until ahsoka refuses to learn anymore. desperate to keep talking, obi-wan offers to teach anakin, chef, how to cook. obi-wan is a terrible cook.)

this is just fluff and bickering and them being married and ahsoka (nine now) being too long suffering for her age.

(1k)

“Obi-Wan,” Anakin coughs as he opens and closes the kitchen door rapidly, trying to fan out half the smoke. “You’re a terrible cook.”

“I’ve made a few mistakes,” Obi-Wan allows, coughing himself as he steps away from the stove. “You’re the one that keeps leaving me unsupervised.”

“Baby, I leave Ahsoka unsupervised in the kitchen and she’s nine years old.”

“Which I believe to be a parenting folly, as she is a child—”

“You know what she isn’t, Obi-Wan? On first name basis with all the firefighters in this city.”

“Careful, you almost sound jealous, love.”

“I’m not jealous, but I do think our taxes could be used for other things—”

“I agree, perhaps fixing the pothole you love to fly over out on 12th street, before you give me permanent neck and shoulder damage—”

“Who are you texting. We’re having a disagreement.”

“Cody. I’m telling him not to bring the troops out to the house. We’re fine.”

“You understand that it’s not normal to have the chief of the fire department as a contact on your phone, right?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Cody is deputy. Mace is the chief.”

Anakin opens and closes his mouth several times before he finally pulls himself together enough to shake his head with something that feels a lot like awe. “You’re the worst cook I’ve ever met in my life.”

Obi-Wan blinks imperiously at him from a scant foot away. Whenever they bicker, space seems to evaporate from between them, much like the boiling water Obi-Wan never remembers to cover on the stove. “Half your job is to teach terrible cooks how to cook. I am what you made me.”

Anakin lets out something close to a scream before he launches himself at his husband and kisses him roughly against the counter. Of all the people he could have ever fallen in love with, he chose Ahsoka’s piano teacher, who turned out to be the most stubborn and petty son of a bitch this side of Coruscant. He attacks his mouth with his own, pressing him hard against the edge. The fire alarm is still going off.

But that’s alright. Anakin has become quite adept at kissing people as the fire alarm goes off. Not people. Just this one man. 

They separate just as quickly as they came together, though Obi-Wan’s hands stay locked around Anakin’s waist.

“Forgive me, darling,” Obi-Wan murmurs, tilting his head to press a fleeting kiss against Anakin’s lips. He kisses him again half a second later. Anakin accepts each kiss as being from the love of his life and therefore what he deserves.

“Mm,” Anakin replies, as if he has to think about it. As if Obi-Wan has just destroyed his third saucepan and Anakin is actually mad. They’ll get another one. He’ll get Obi-Wan. It evens out. “I don’t know.”

“Now I can’t tell if you’re mad about dinner or about the fact that this marks the 20th recipe in your draft book that I cannot cook. How can you go forward with publishing a book called Recipes So Simple My Husband Can Cook Them if I cannot?”

“Maybe I have another husband,” Anakin replies, leaning forward to kiss him. He’s always been addicted to the sweetness of his husband’s kisses.

“Who also cannot cook to save his life?” Obi-Wan says. “Darling, you may just have the weirdest type I’ve ever seen.”

Anakin kisses him quiet and then pulls back. Almost all the smoke is gone, so he surveys the kitchen with interest. “What was it this time, baby? It was a recipe for a salad.”

“The instructions on how to cook the chicken were too vague,” Obi-Wan defends himself immediately. “And I…may have gotten a bit of flour in the fire. Which didn’t help.”

“No,” Anakin says, “I don’t think it would. Flour, Obi-Wan? The recipe doesn’t even call for much—”

“Dad? Obi-Wan?” The voice of his daughter calls from the entry hallway. “I’m home!”

Both adults rush out of the kitchen to the hall in order to greet her with a smile.

She looks between the both of them and sniffs the air. “Oh,” says Ahsoka. “Take-out for dinner again?”

Obi-Wan splutters and sets about defending himself, holding out his hand to guide Anakin’s daughter into the kitchen. He can make her her afternoon snack. There’s no way cheese and crackers can be fucked up. 

Anakin takes the free moment to go into his study, carefully locking the door behind him. A draft of his next cookbook is in a locked drawer in his desk, and he fishes it out to flip to the twentieth recipe. “Spell out steps for chicken?” He writes quickly before he forgets. He reads over what he already has skeptically. He doesn’t particularly know how he can be more straight-forward than what he already has typed.

“Add note: Remember everyone, flour is highly flammable. Best to not add any near an open flame.” He reads over the words before shrugging and closing the draft.

The dedication on the second page catches his eye, and he stops to read it with a quirk of his lips. 

To my husband, OWK.

I promise to cook our every meal for the rest of our lives, 

If you promise to set my place at the table and make sure that it’s always next to yours.

Also if you promise to never touch a anything more culinary complicated than an EZ-bake oven ever again.

Love,

Ani

His husband is going to feel like such a dick when he reads it. He’ll probably cry.

Anakin can’t wait to kiss away his tears. For that, and for every other part of their future together, two of those really long notes played in perfect melody. Harmony. Whatever.

It’s not like Anakin knows anything about music, after all. That’s Obi-Wan’s job.

[catiescosmos]

a weight lifted

anakin skywalker x senator!reader

warnings: mentions of threats to an elected official, other than that just fluff!

fluffy anakin blurb because i love him and also i would cut off my left arm to be in the galactic senate <3 inspired by the fact that i fell asleep doing policy research for my job a few nights ago :’)

“you should get some rest,” anakin said, as he walked into the sitting room of your apartment. you were curled up on the couch, datapad in hand, attempting to finish drafting a bill you were sponsoring for the senate session next week.

you, padme, and other liberal senators had been working on it for months—a bill to fund female education in the mid and outer rim. you knew that many women in the republic didn’t have access to education, and how lucky you were to be able to attend school and university on your home world.

less lucky, though, was your current predicament. about a month ago, you’d sponsored a bill in support of a tax increase on the wealthiest in the republic—something that wasn’t widely supported on your home planet. this led to some… threatening holomessages to your office, and ultimately, anakin being appointed as your jedi guard.

it hadn’t been bad. you and anakin had grown close over the weeks he’d spent protecting you so far. he was staying at your apartment and there wasn’t often a moment that he wasn’t by your side. you knew everything about each other’s lives. well, almost everything. little did you know, he’d fallen for you. hard.

“i know,” you sighed, eyes straining as you tried to focus on the bill. “i just need to finish—“ you were cut off by a yawn. this wasn’t the first night this week you’d worked well past when the moon rose over coruscant. it was a large project, and time was running out if you wanted the funding in this year’s budget proposal, especially considering the significant amount of debate there would be before the bill, hopefully, passed.

anakin stood by for a moment, as you flicked your eyes back to the plans and budget necessary for the mid rim, sent to you by a group of leaders from various worlds. it was reassuring to know that your bill had support all over the republic, but you worried who you would be letting down if you didn’t get it passed.

“well, can i get you anything?” he asked, after a few minutes of silence. your eyes flitted to the clock on the wall, before you shook your head.

“i’ll be alright. you should get some sleep,” you turned the tables, knowing you weren’t the only one short on shut eye.

anakin chuckled, taking a seat in the chair adjacent to the couch you were laying on. “so stubborn,” he chastised, playfully. after he’d shrugged off his cloak, anakin pulled out his own datapad, getting comfortable in the chair. the room fell into a silence, save for the occasional sigh or the scratch of your stylus on the datapad.

“you’re shivering.” you didn’t notice until he mentioned it, but goosebumps had risen on your skin, the night air cooling your apartment off. before you could say anything, anakin was draping his previously discarded cloak over your shoulders.

“thanks,” you whispered, pulling the cloak closer around your body. the warmth was comforting, but made you all the more tired. you wanted nothing more than to curl up in bed, but knew you had to keep working.

as the night went on, the letters on the pages began blurring together, and the drafts were getting scrambled in your head. anakin could tell how tired you were by the way your eyes drooped, and how heavy the datapad looked in your hands.

he sighed, shaking his head. for the past few days, anakin had watched you overwork yourself to the point of exhaustion. he understood the pressure you were under, better than almost anyone really, but it didn’t make it any easier to watch. he wished there was some way he could take some of the weight off your shoulders, even just for a minute.

but this was exactly what you were meant to do. you were a brilliant senator with the passion and drive necessary to fill the position. and this bill was your pride and joy. it was hard to miss the way your eyes would light up when you’d talk about it. so anakin let it be, as much as it worried him to see you like this.

a few minutes later, he looked up to find your eyes shut, datapad fallen flat on your chest. you looked so peaceful, anakin couldn’t help the smile that crept onto his face. he didn’t want to wake you, but knew you’d be more comfortable in your bed.

as quietly as he could, anakin made his way over to you. carefully, he took the datapad off your chest, clicked it off, and set it on the table. you let out a sigh in your sleep, but didn’t stir from your slumber.

anakin proceeded to gingerly slide his hands under your back and knees, and lift you off the couch. you instinctually curled into his frame, but again, didn’t rouse. he carried you from the couch to your bedroom, where he laid you, still wrapped in his robe, on your bed.

leaning down, he pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead. “i’m proud of you,” anakin whispered, despite knowing you couldn’t hear it. he tucked your blanket around you, with care not to wake you.

you immediately snuggled into it, a soft smile on his face as he took in how small you looked. no one would guess that you were one of the most influential politicians in the galaxy.

to anakin, you were just… you. and he loved you for it.

[tessiete]

If you still take prompts: Rumors of the Duchess of Mandalore (bc patriarchal bs and misogynistic beliefs about female leaders) potentially getting married reaches Coruscant and Obi-Wan copes as well as can be expected. Cue sad boi sadness with maybe fluff at the end? Or go full angst I’m ok with either

I AM! I am still taking prompts, and I know this took a while to get around to because I’m also sloooooow at filling them. But here we are, dear anon. I hope you enjoy this little snippet! <3

THE GRAVITATIONAL DEFLECTION OF LIGHT

There is some silly, selfish part of him that he never outgrew, and like a weed in his gut it twists and writhes when he hears that the Duchess Kryze is to marry.

And suddenly, he finds himself thinking of her more often, and more frequently during situations where his attention would best be put to use elsewhere. In council, he is forced to ask Master Windu to repeat a question he’d failed to hear, his mind being drawn by the gleam of light off the Senate dome on the horizon. During a sparring match, he takes a hit he’d never have missed except that Anakin threatens to deliver him a close shave at the end of his saber, and he’s struck dumb by the memory of her hand upon his cheek. There are peace lilies in a vase in the Archives, and pure beskar changes hands in a deal he’s meant to disrupt at a Separatist camp, but by far the most egregious lapse comes in the midst of relief efforts in a small village on Taskeed. He is caught, for a moment, by the sight of a woman with blonde hair and a young boy on her hip turning away from him. His focus slips. A blaze of light flashes more quickly than he can see, and by the time he hears the retort of a blaster rifle he is already on the ground.

The clones close ranks around him. Cody kneels, calling in a medevac even as Obi-Wan tries to rise. 

“No, sir, stay down,” he says, laying one hand against his shoulder. Obi-Wan winces at the contact. His muscles strain at the effort, the nerves at the site of his injury ruptured and ragged.

“Cody,” he chokes out. “There’s a hostile.”

His second is a merciful man and makes no comment on the idiocy of that statement. Instead, he bites open a pain tab, and shoves it between Obi-Wan’s teeth. Then, so rapidly he has no time to protest, he removes his belt, and tears apart the fabric at Obi-Wan’s waist, sprinkling sulfa powder over the gory wound, and pressing a bacta patch down to cover it.

There is no more blaster fire to mark their passage back to the ship, but the wound is too serious to treat on board The Negotiator. He is sent back to Coruscant as a consequence of his foolishness.

There, he is dipped in bacta, where he doesn’t dream, and he spends the next week of his convalescence thinking of her.

It had never been this bad during their first separation. The months following her ascension to the duchy had been painful, that he cannot deny, and he spent hours in his room lonely, and self-pitying, but he had been a child then and he can forgive himself now of the folly of youthful indiscretions. There followed more than a decade between them and he had gone days, weeks - upon the outbreak of war even months - without thinking of her at all.

But with one touch of her hand, he’s fallen again, his resolve crumbling into dust as though his indifference to her were only a veneer grown thin and brittle with being stretched over so much time.

The Duchess of Mandalore is to marry.

Why should that matter to him? They are friends. Hardly that, and nothing more. And it was he who had defined those terms. So why should he be restless, and anxious, and fretted up like some craftsman’s handiwork at the thought of it? It is silly. It is demeaning - to her, and to him.

And yet...he wants to know.

Who is she to marry? And when? How did they meet? Is he a Mandalorian, like her? Or did she meet him here? Did they meet at the Senate while he walked in the Temple only a few klicks away? Have they much in common? Do his political aims match hers? Does he long for peace like she does? Will he stand by her side in upholding it? Would he die for it? Would he die for her? Does she love him?

She must, he thinks. She must love him. She would not choose him, otherwise.

And that, perhaps, is the cruelest thought of all.

He is confined to medbay with nothing to occupy his time but his holopad, his dispatch reports, and her when he sees a news story flash on his screen.

At Last! The Lily is Plucked

He cannot help himself as he reads about a chance meeting, a whirlwind romance, and plenty of private assignations held at various hotels and restaurants across Capital City. There are holos, too, and reels. He sees her leaving the Bal Silvestre on the arm of Corellian senator, Garm Bel Iblis.

Senator Bel Iblis is older than her, and seems a bit unkempt, his long hair pulled half back in a simple style. Obi-Wan knows of him by reputation, and heard him called a rake. His politics brand him a maverick, and a rogue, and he has been known, once or twice, to engage in backdoor negotiations in order to ensure a vote swings one way or another in his favour. Beside him, while he stands smug in his dark brocade, she shines. She is spotless. Luminous. They are not well matched.

He scours the net for more, and because he is looking, he finds it. There are many articles - hundreds. Some map out timelines of their courtship (they met years ago, apparently, at some gala held while Obi-Wan was still helping Anakin with Basic), some tell the history of their previous romantic entanglements (he was engaged to a woman now dead. She was once rumoured to be promised to a Vizsla. Obi-Wan’s name is not mentioned). Some merely provide pictures of their exploits, and comment on their mutual friends, making conjecture after conjecture about how their romance came to be, and what must happen next now that the flame has been rekindled. It is torturous. And tedious. And soon, Obi-Wan loses track of the details that appear in one article, and again in every other.

But one thing remains clear to him: Satine Kryze is going to be married. She has forever slipped his reach.

A reach, he pathetically reminds himself, he never intended to extend. All this self-flagellation is for naught. He is being ridiculous. 

So he thumbs off his pad, turns out the lights, and tries to sleep with the image of Satine, smiling and resplendent flickering in his mind. The next morning, feeling no better for the little rest he managed to steal, he deletes the history of his pad, and determines to feel absolutely nothing at all about Satine Kryze.

Then Padme comes to the Council and requests a padawan be sent to Mandalore’s aid.

It is Ahsoka who goes. Of course it is. He takes small solace in the fact that it had not been he who suggested her, but since she was assigned, he feels well within his rights to enquire about the Duchess upon her return.

“She seemed fine,” Ahsoka tells him. He has invited her for tea following her report to the Council, hoping he might, in his hospitality, coax a few more personal details from his grand-padawan. “I mean, there was a moment where Almec - that’s the Prime Minister, or rather was - anyway, there was a moment where he had her in a shock collar, but like I said, the cadets and I managed to sort it out.”

“Right,” he concedes. “As you said.”

A moment passes between them. Obi-Wan sips his tea, struggling to swallow as the fist around his throat grows tighter and tighter. Ahsoka, blissful in the aftermath of a successful solo mission, grabs another biscuit and a strip of perami gammon. 

“And tell me,” he ventures. “What of her - her consort? Any word of him? Where was he during this mess?”

“Her consort?”

“Her husband.”

Ahsoka scrunches her nose, and cocks a brow at Obi-Wan’s wild inquiry.

“She had a nephew,” she says. “But no one ever said anything about a consort.”

“Ah,” he says. “Perhaps he was occupied elsewhere.”

“Maybe,” she agrees, amicable and amenable to letting the whole thing slide. He only hopes she won’t think it significant enough to mention to Anakin later. His curiosity won’t be as easily sated with tea and deflection.

--

He is not a lucky man.

Anakin comes blazing into his room with an ambitious stride, and a grin that speaks of imminent mischief.

“Heard you were asking Ahsoka about the Duchess’ consort,” he says, throwing his cloak over the back of a chair and dropping to lounge across Obi-Wan’s low couch.

“I was asking about her mission,” he corrects. He turns his back to set some water to boil, knowing that such an entrance by his padawan indicates a visit of extended duration. “And the key players, therein. Purely professional.”

“Purely.” Anakin smirks.

The subject is dropped when Anakin is diverted by the service being laid before him, and the inclusion of several of his favourite confections.

“Noorian memba tarts!” he cries. “Where did you even find these?”

“An old recipe,” Obi-Wan says. “But I remember you enjoyed them when we dined on Belasco and thought I’d try my hand at it.”

It is not a bad effort either, judging by Anakin’s display of enthusiasm. He eats the first with some degree of etiquette, but the fourth, fifth, and sixth are gone with no display of decency or shame whatsoever.

Obi-Wan sips his tea. He is thinking of Tahl while Anakin is thinking of the sweetness on his tongue, and making excuses for his absence the previous night.

“I’m sorry, Obi-Wan, but I was unavoidably delayed after the Senate recessed for the evening. I had to - to assist a delegate with a personal matter.”

Obi-Wan says nothing, but remembers how Qui-Gon, too, used to invent reasons to disappear unchecked. He invents nothing. He only cleaves to his duty, while time and fate conspire to keep him absent anyway. 

Anakin must hear something in his silence, because his expression loses the tension of equivocation, and he falls to studying Obi-Wan’s face.

“I was only teasing, master,” he says. “Before. I didn’t think to ask Ahsoka anything about the Duchess. She spent most of her time with the nephew, but he seemed a bright kid. Close to Satine. I can ask her to ask him if he knows anything -”

“Absolutely not,” says Obi-Wan. The words are soft, but definite. He rises swiftly to clear the detritus of their meal. “Thank you, Anakin, but Duchess Kryze is only a friend. I merely inquired out of a desire to assure myself that the report issued to the Council lacked nothing in the thoroughness of its presentation. I should hate to think that such a personal association might be overlooked as an avenue for effecting harm.”

“Oh.”

“But I thank you in any case. Ahsoka’s report was well done, and you should be very proud of your padawan,” he says. “As I am of you.”

He turns to Anakin then, smiling and benign. His padawan meets his look with a vaguely skeptical one of his own, before patting him on the shoulder, and shrugging back into his cloak.

“Alright, master,” he says. “I’ll let her know how thorough she was.”

“Goodbye, Anakin.”

“Goodbye,” his friend replies. Then, just as he crosses the threshold of the door and moves into the open hall, he looks back. “Oh,” he says. “There’s a quick supply run being made to Mandalore for relief in light of Ahsoka’s investigation. Scheduled for tomorrow, but unfortunately, I’m needed back at the Senate. I meant to ask - you wouldn’t mind making the trip for me, would you? You don’t even need to get off the ship.”

---

There is nothing he can say to Anakin, so of course, as contrived and embarrassing as the whole thing is, he goes. And he does get off the ship.

Satine is there to meet him.

“Master Kenobi,” she says, extending her hand. “To what do we owe this pleasure?”

He drops a brief, and reverential kiss then lets her go. 

“Cleaning up after my padawan and his padawan, it seems,” he says. “Apparently, a master’s work is never over. Congratulations on your recent engagement, Duchess. I hope you’ll both be very happy.”

The look which passes over Satine’s face is one he cannot decipher. He thinks she looks in equal parts shocked that he has heard, disgusted by his presumption in speaking of it, embarrassed by his boldness, and wearied by his presence. But she doesn’t deny it, so he makes his excuses to leave.

“Excuse me, Duchess,” he says. “But this was only meant to be a very brief visit, and I should prepare for departure.”

“Can you not stay for midmeal?” she asks, and he hesitates upon the precipice of her invitation. “Surely you don’t mean to tease me with a visit as brief as this? And surely your men would enjoy some rest and repast before you go?”

The troopers at his back shift, and he can feel their eagerness undulate in the Force. It would be cruel to deny them for the preservation of his own fragmented dignity, so he relents.

“Of course, your grace,” he says. “We would be most honoured.”

“Captain,” she says to the Protector at her right. “Have these men fed and watered immediately. The kitchens and my staff are at their disposal.”

He clicks his heels, and disappears, while she steps forward, and wraps her arm around Obi-Wan’s as though completely uncaring of any beau or consort or husband who might see.

“You, my dear master,” she murmurs slyly by his ear. “Are to be attended elsewhere, at my discretion.”

He does nothing to resist as she pulls him along.

Soon, they are at the Palace. Soon, they are sat at a small table in her private quarters, drinking Mandalorian kava, and eating freshly baked land’shun. Soon, they are alone.

She sets her drink aside, and dusts her hands on a fine silk napkin before broaching the subject trapped between them.

“Now, what is this about my nuptials?” she asks. Her blue eyes are steady upon his own, and he feels his palms slick with sweat. She is radiant. She is regal. There is no holo or reel or word that could do justice to the beauty of this woman in the flesh, and he feels that insidious root of jealousy writhe with agony.

“Satine -” he begins.

“No, no,” she protests, seeming to anticipate his deflection before he has begun. “I should like to hear why you think I ought to accept your congratulations, and why you felt you ought to offer them personally, in particular. Mandalore seems a rather dull trip for a High General to make.”

“I came in Anakin’s stead, actually,” he replies pertly. Another sip of kava lends some sophistication to this claim.

“Of course,” she says, but she does not look away. He can feel her gaze upon him. He can feel her glittering in the Force. She is laughing.

And he cannot bear it.

“Forgive me, your grace,” he says, rising to his feet. He sets the cup upon a saucer where it clatters inelegantly against the pot of sucre next to it, overturning the dish and sending the crystals spilling across the table. “Forgive me,” he says again. 

She lunges forward to right the pot, and still his hand beneath her own. For a moment, he doesn’t breathe. Then, he pulls away.

“I read about it on the net,” he says. “I saw the holos, and the reels. I only wanted to see you one last time, to see...I wanted to see that you were happy. That’s all.”

“Oh, Ben,” she says, his name like a sigh upon the breeze.

“It is nothing,” he says. “A foolishness all my own. I am sorry if I have troubled you, and I offer you my sincerest congratulations.”

He bows, though when he raises his head, his eyes do not rise with it, so he does not see the look of sorrow upon her face. Still, he imagines it as pity, and moves to make his escape. She is faster than he is. 

“No,” she says, standing between him and the door. “I will not accept your congratulations, and I will not accept your departure on such callous terms as these.”

“Duchess -”

“Ben,” she counters, leaning on the name. “I am not engaged. I am not married. And I do not intend to be, no matter how devoted to the idea of it you are.”

“I - devoted?” he asks, his voice rising to the height of his indignation. “I am devoted to no such thing. I have only - only been reconciled to it for weeks, thinking only of you and your happiness.”

“And your own misery, too, I’d wager.”

He chokes on his denial because he knows it is too big a lie to fit through his lips, and stares at her in dismay. She is smiling. Force, he thinks. She is incandescent. Like she has swallowed a star, and he can’t look away. He would that he could be consumed by her too, and finally, he gives in.

“Yes,” he says in an admission of guilt so great it brings relief. “I was miserable. I am, I think, an infinitely miserable person.”

“You are,” she agrees. “But I am not getting married, I am not engaged, and I am only as in love as I ever have been. And if you are foolish enough to forget that, then you are deserving of every misery you heap on yourself.”

“Have pity,” he begs.

“None,” she says.

“Have mercy,” he pleads.

“For you?” she says. “Always.”

They fall together like gravity and sunlight, and for a moment, whole galaxies bend to their will.

[sanerontheinside]

feels

uuuuuum I can’t tell if I drifted thru povs however I felt like it, or if it counts as third-person omniscience, but I will say that having an actual panning camera image of the scene as you write it can be very annoying that way. 

also this is one of the only scenes I have written in full, and it’s been written for some months now, so I’m dropping it here in a moment of extremely questionable decision-making and doing my best not to question the fact that I just posted a major resolution point. 

then again, if this au ever gets written? by the time this scene comes up again it will either have changed significantly, or y’all won’t remember this ever happened, or both. so that’s not so bad. 

@deadcatwithaflamethrower​, @aidava​, hi I blame you for the frankenau

—note: Obi-Wan’s first mission as a Knight leaves him stranded on a planet being invaded and reclaimed by its neighbour world. eventually he does a successful blockade run, only to end up crashlanding on Tatooine. that is where Qui-Gon and Anakin find him. to skip over a lot more detail, Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon are eventually partnered again, and Anakin becomes their shared Padawan. Also Offworld subsidiaries reappear, which throws everyone for a loop. 

He awoke with his throat raw from a scream he couldn’t remember the reason for, which was frustrating. When the Force chose to make itself known, it wasn’t usually so skittish, but this time he had to go digging for the nightmare that had prompted this rude awakening.

“Obi-Wan?”

Shit. “Sorry, Qui-Gon. Didn’t mean to wake you.” He turned, and found himself staring across the encampment at a blearily blinking Jedi Master. Qui-Gon had propped himself up on one elbow on his pallet, his hair spilling over his shoulders in a sleep-tousled mess, deep blue eyes unfocused in the firelight. It was a surprisingly endearing sight, and Obi-Wan mustered an apologetic half-smile for waking him to cover the feeling of warmth he felt bloom in his chest.

“Bad dreams?” Qui-Gon asked, voice deep and sleep-roughened.

Obi-Wan bit his lip, gaze turning inward to finally track down the thread he’d nearly lost just now. “Bandomeer,” he said at last. “I hadn’t thought about that in a long time.”

“Offworld.” When he looked up again, Qui-Gon looked grieved. “Haven’t had to think about that in a long time.” He shifted, then gave Obi-Wan a shy look and raised the corner of his blanket in invitation.

Obi-Wan didn’t let himself think—simply got up, collecting his own blanket and draping it over his Master before settling in under his arm. The easy pressure of Qui-Gon’s breath at his back, the protective limb across his chest pulling him in and holding tight for a moment before relaxing—this comfort, this sense of safety was not one he’d had the chance to feel in long years.

In the Temple, the nightmares eased in Qui-Gon’s quarters, which still felt more like home than his assigned rooms. He ended up on that couch more often than not, and when he did cry out in his sleep—after missions gone horribly or with visions creeping into his dreams—Qui-Gon was there, running his hand through Obi-Wan’s hair and whispering comforts.

Here, though, the entire compound was saturated with a feeling of unease, and it leached into the surrounding woods. They’d wandered off as far as they’d dared, set up a campsite, but apparently not far enough. Obi-Wan’s dream had so unsettled him that his heart still beat rapidly in his chest. After a few moments, as the adrenaline drained away, he felt cold and a fine tremor ran through his body.

Behind him, Qui-Gon sighed deeply. “I think we’ll be awake for some time yet, Obi-Wan. Come on, up—let me stir the fire.”

Obi-Wan couldn’t help a faint, shiver-broken chuckle as he shifted to sit alongside his Master, pulling one of the blankets around his shoulders. “Staying awake with the nightmare-plagued Padawan again. Between Anakin and myself, it’s a wonder you’ve gotten any sleep in the last few years.”

“Sleep is something of a privilege rarely afforded to Masters with Padawans,” Qui-Gon informed him, the fond smile he threw over his shoulder warming Obi-Wan better than the struggling campfire.

Qui-Gon finally moved back to their nest of blankets, shifting until he sat shoulder to shoulder with the Knight. “I never meant to take on another Padawan,” he mused softly.

The remark that caught Obi-Wan entirely by surprise. “Qui-Gon?”

His former Master turned half-amused, half-regretful blue eyes on him and studied him calmly. “Certainly not Anakin.”

Obi-Wan tried to shake off the confusion he felt. “But—a nine-year-old boy, never trained to control his emotions, and so strong in the Force—he could put out a sun if he thought about it hard enough. We couldn't just ignore him.”

“Yes.” Qui-Gon looked back at the fire in the centre of their camp, flickering and popping loudly in the gaps between speech. He was seized with a sudden melancholy. “The Council displayed an unusual lack of common sense.”

Obi-Wan snorted. “Not so unusual, these days.”

Qui-Gon’s smile was a fleeting thing. “It was a desperate bluff, claiming Anakin as my Padawan.”

He felt Obi-Wan go very still against him, so he pressed on quickly before his agitation could choke him. And his profound shame, too, for the desperation that had coloured his bid to secure Anakin’s future.

“I hoped either Mace or Yoda, or maybe Plo, might dismiss my claim, and take on Anakin themselves.” He sighed and disturbed the blankets in a small ruffle, reaching up to drag his hands over his face. “Worked like a charm,” he added, with humourless laugh. Qui-Gon was not bitter, not in the least.

His former Padawan was staring at him, and Qui-Gon wasn't sure he wanted to know what the expression on his face held.

“I thought you—" Obi-Wan broke off with a slight cough. “You were bluffing?”

Qui-Gon glanced up at last, startled by the disbelief in the exclamation—and more, by some unnamed emotion caught behind tight shields that threatened to wrench itself out of Obi-Wan’s grasp. It almost felt like an old injury pulling at his attention again.

Obi-Wan was grappling with the elder Master’s admission and finding it rather difficult to contend with. “That was not the time, Qui-Gon!” he sputtered at last.

“There was no time, Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon said softly. “The Council refused to accept Anakin outright, which was completely ridiculous—as though an untrained Force Sensitive of his potential could be any less dangerous than a Sith. I needed them to agree, at least to not turn him away.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think to warn you. I didn’t think—couldn't imagine—it would come to that. And I would have explained, afterward, but then—"

Then Naboo. That silent, strained trip through hyperspace, the careful way in which Master and Padawan had avoided each other. Qui-Gon’s features twisted with regret.

“Anakin was a joy to teach, and when you vanished he was the only one left to ground me in reality. It wasn't an easy time for us,” he added with a wry, strained attempt at a smile. “Thank all the little gods we found you, you helped us through so much.”

Obi-Wan shook his head, turned back to stare at the flames again. “Can't say I gave you a chance to say anything.”

Those beautiful blue-green eyes turned inward thoughtfully, and Obi-Wan absently bit at his lip. Then, apropos of nothing he said, “I wanted to ask you if we could remain partnered after my Knighting.”

Qui-Gon shifted in surprise. “Why didn't you?” He watched as the younger man looked away and his shoulders twitched in an aborted shrug, clearly fighting with himself. “Please, Obi-Wan, don't be afraid to tell me.” The flicker of a pained glance in his direction was enough to cause a physical twinge in him, and the silence weighed heavily on Qui-Gon’s mind.

“I thought you didn't want me,” Obi-Wan said at last, quietly. A barely audible hitch in breath escaped Qui-Gon’s control. “Though if truth be told, I was very grateful you weren’t with me on that mission. Nak was—hm. ‘Frustrating’ doesn’t begin to cover that level of Sith hells.”

Qui-Gon scoffed. “My Obi-Wan, better with you to all Sith hells than ever without you. I don't—" he hesitated a moment. “You thought I wouldn't want you?”

The younger Knight curled into himself, feeling small under the weight of that intent gaze. “I didn't realise you were bluffing. You told them I was ready for my Trials, but I didn't feel ready.”

At Qui-Gon's continued silence, Obi-Wan finally dragged his eyes up to meet his former Master's gaze, heart almost shuddering to a stop at the expression he saw there.

“You were long ready, Obi-Wan,” he said solemnly. “I, on the other hand, had done you a great disservice. I trusted you with every mission, and you’d long since been carrying the responsibilities of a Knight, but I thought—I thought I could protect you. I thought I would not lose you if I kept you close.” His attempt at a self-deprecating chuckle sounded pitifully broken even to him. “I didn't realise you'd think of my recommendation for you Trials as a dismissal. But then, how could you not? It was abrupt, presented completely without finesse.”

Qui-Gon broke off and closed his eyes, dragged in a shuddering breath and held it for a count of seven. “We didn't have the finest of beginnings. Old fool that I am, I thought the last few years with our rhythm, our partnership, our bond and the strength that it had—”

“You shut me out, I didn't know what to think.” Obi-Wan shrugged, without a tinge of bitterness.

“Ah.” Obi-Wan glanced up, saw Qui-Gon flinch. “That was—forgive me—"

Obi-Wan watched his former Master stutter to a halt with every false start. Here was a man usually so eloquent, always one to use words to their greatest effect, now incapable of saying something that must have weighed heavily on his mind for a long time.

He reached out and rested a hand over the other man’s, tracing delicate circles over smooth, soft skin. “Qui-Gon?”

“Obi-Wan.” Deep blue eyes opened, gaze intense, and locked with Obi-Wan’s. “There is not a single thing you could ever do that would have made me deny you as my apprentice then, nor now as my Knight-partner and friend.”

“Then why did you block the training bond?”

Qui-Gon winced, but he didn’t look away. “Your nightmares, Obi-Wan.”

“The visions?” Obi-Wan pulled back, surprised. “I—they bled through?”

Qui-Gon shook his head. “Only once, when you were still too afraid of losing your place at my side to tell me what they were. I sat with you that night.”

Obi-Wan nodded. “I remember.”

“I was always aware of them, even when I did not see them. I remembered them, and I could always tell when they started again. As they did before Naboo.”

The look of frank astonishment on Obi-Wan’s features melted into an aggrieved smile. “You always tell me to live in the moment, and yet that time you chose to listen to visions? What exactly were you thinking of when you blocked me out? What is it that you finally listened to?”

It was some time before Qui-Gon could answer that. His body betrayed him even as his mind tried, needed to get the words out. His throat constricted, refused to give way for any more than a tight pained sound. He let his head fall back, face upturned to the starry sky but eyes unseeing. The stars blurred, distant pinpoints washing out into silvery spots.

“From the moment I faced the Zabrak on Tatooine, I knew what your visions were trying to tell you.”

He heard a sharp intake of breath. Obi-Wan froze, muscles iron-tense all along Qui-Gon’s side, but his voice, when he spoke, was low and wrought of perfect calm. “The figure in black and red.”

“I could barely hold my own against him then, I knew I couldn’t hold him alone on Naboo. Maybe just long enough to weaken him, long enough to let you finish the fight and guarantee your survival.”

Silence. The Force, somewhere, roiled with emotions, but those emotions were all Qui-Gon’s. Obi-Wan hid himself away so well under his shields, Qui-Gon couldn’t sense even a whisper of what he must have felt. He’d imagined anger, which he well deserved. He’d imagined grief, even. But of all the things he might have expected, he’d never even imagined this death-still, accepting calm. A sudden intense pain flared in his chest, a depth of fear and loss he could not even begin to fathom, and he nearly curled into it.

And as if that were the sign for him to let go, Obi-Wan all but exploded. “Dammit, Qui-Gon! What did you always tell me? ‘Live in the Moment, Padawan, the future is always in motion, focus on the here and now’. And then you go and run ahead to face that thing alone. I thought I wasn’t good enough to fight at your side, that I’d failed you, lost your trust. You knew it would kill you, and you thought that would be better than—"

“Better than watching you die, Obi-Wan.”

The quiet words brought him up short, it seemed. Again, Qui-Gon wasn’t sure what to think, but at least the air between them wasn’t frozen still in total impassivity.

He drew a shaky sigh and turned his head away. “Three years later, you still hadn’t returned from a mission that had gone badly sideways, and I was forced to face my greatest fear anyway.”

For a long moment there was nothing but quiet again. He thought Obi-Wan might have dozed off, letting the confession hover over them like the heavy weight it had been all these years. What was a few more hours, anyway, before Obi-Wan was driven from the warmth of their nest of blankets by the morning light—before they never spoke of this again?

Then Qui-Gon hissed, startled, as a cold nose found its way into the join of neck and shoulder, and icy hands burrowed into his robes. “Obi-Wan?” he rasped, bewildered.

Hot tears on his skin, against his cheek, silent shudders wracking the body that pressed close to him. Qui-Gon let out a quiet keening noise at the feeling that wound itself around his chest and squeezed, and pulled Obi-Wan closer, wrapping his arms tightly around the quivering body, one hand sliding up into the copper hair and tightening on the nape of his neck.

It might have been an hour later, drifting on the edge of sleep, swollen, aching eyes soothed by the night cold, that he just barely heard Obi-Wan’s vehement whisper, “Don’t ever do that again, Qui. Promise me.”

Qui? he thought, the smallest smile twitching at his lips. “I promise,” he whispered, solemn.

[dream-about-dancing]

#anyway they're disasters#and bickering is their foreplay#but they love eachother so very ardently#theyre both assholess#anakin is very earnest tho pre obi-wan#a bit of obi-wan has rubbed off on him at thiss point#obi-wan often laments as to where the nice boy who gave him duct-taped flowers with bits of grass has gone#anakin often threatens to make him sleep on the couch#but how could he ever deprive himself of a night without obi-wan in his arms???

Prompt: "You're a terrible cook" (aka me wanting more kuwsk or recipe for disaster content ;D )

yes!!! ive been meaning to write more recipe for disaster content for soooo long so this is the perfect excuse. (obi-wan is his daughter, ahsoka's piano teacher, until ahsoka refuses to learn anymore. desperate to keep talking, obi-wan offers to teach anakin, chef, how to cook. obi-wan is a terrible cook.)

this is just fluff and bickering and them being married and ahsoka (nine now) being too long suffering for her age.

(1k)

“Obi-Wan,” Anakin coughs as he opens and closes the kitchen door rapidly, trying to fan out half the smoke. “You’re a terrible cook.”

“I’ve made a few mistakes,” Obi-Wan allows, coughing himself as he steps away from the stove. “You’re the one that keeps leaving me unsupervised.”

“Baby, I leave Ahsoka unsupervised in the kitchen and she’s nine years old.”

“Which I believe to be a parenting folly, as she is a child—”

“You know what she isn’t, Obi-Wan? On first name basis with all the firefighters in this city.”

“Careful, you almost sound jealous, love.”

“I’m not jealous, but I do think our taxes could be used for other things—”

“I agree, perhaps fixing the pothole you love to fly over out on 12th street, before you give me permanent neck and shoulder damage—”

“Who are you texting. We’re having a disagreement.”

“Cody. I’m telling him not to bring the troops out to the house. We’re fine.”

“You understand that it’s not normal to have the chief of the fire department as a contact on your phone, right?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Cody is deputy. Mace is the chief.”

Anakin opens and closes his mouth several times before he finally pulls himself together enough to shake his head with something that feels a lot like awe. “You’re the worst cook I’ve ever met in my life.”

Obi-Wan blinks imperiously at him from a scant foot away. Whenever they bicker, space seems to evaporate from between them, much like the boiling water Obi-Wan never remembers to cover on the stove. “Half your job is to teach terrible cooks how to cook. I am what you made me.”

Anakin lets out something close to a scream before he launches himself at his husband and kisses him roughly against the counter. Of all the people he could have ever fallen in love with, he chose Ahsoka’s piano teacher, who turned out to be the most stubborn and petty son of a bitch this side of Coruscant. He attacks his mouth with his own, pressing him hard against the edge. The fire alarm is still going off.

But that’s alright. Anakin has become quite adept at kissing people as the fire alarm goes off. Not people. Just this one man. 

They separate just as quickly as they came together, though Obi-Wan’s hands stay locked around Anakin’s waist.

“Forgive me, darling,” Obi-Wan murmurs, tilting his head to press a fleeting kiss against Anakin’s lips. He kisses him again half a second later. Anakin accepts each kiss as being from the love of his life and therefore what he deserves.

“Mm,” Anakin replies, as if he has to think about it. As if Obi-Wan has just destroyed his third saucepan and Anakin is actually mad. They’ll get another one. He’ll get Obi-Wan. It evens out. “I don’t know.”

“Now I can’t tell if you’re mad about dinner or about the fact that this marks the 20th recipe in your draft book that I cannot cook. How can you go forward with publishing a book called Recipes So Simple My Husband Can Cook Them if I cannot?”

“Maybe I have another husband,” Anakin replies, leaning forward to kiss him. He’s always been addicted to the sweetness of his husband’s kisses.

“Who also cannot cook to save his life?” Obi-Wan says. “Darling, you may just have the weirdest type I’ve ever seen.”

Anakin kisses him quiet and then pulls back. Almost all the smoke is gone, so he surveys the kitchen with interest. “What was it this time, baby? It was a recipe for a salad.”

“The instructions on how to cook the chicken were too vague,” Obi-Wan defends himself immediately. “And I…may have gotten a bit of flour in the fire. Which didn’t help.”

“No,” Anakin says, “I don’t think it would. Flour, Obi-Wan? The recipe doesn’t even call for much—”

“Dad? Obi-Wan?” The voice of his daughter calls from the entry hallway. “I’m home!”

Both adults rush out of the kitchen to the hall in order to greet her with a smile.

She looks between the both of them and sniffs the air. “Oh,” says Ahsoka. “Take-out for dinner again?”

Obi-Wan splutters and sets about defending himself, holding out his hand to guide Anakin’s daughter into the kitchen. He can make her her afternoon snack. There’s no way cheese and crackers can be fucked up. 

Anakin takes the free moment to go into his study, carefully locking the door behind him. A draft of his next cookbook is in a locked drawer in his desk, and he fishes it out to flip to the twentieth recipe. “Spell out steps for chicken?” He writes quickly before he forgets. He reads over what he already has skeptically. He doesn’t particularly know how he can be more straight-forward than what he already has typed.

“Add note: Remember everyone, flour is highly flammable. Best to not add any near an open flame.” He reads over the words before shrugging and closing the draft.

The dedication on the second page catches his eye, and he stops to read it with a quirk of his lips. 

To my husband, OWK.

I promise to cook our every meal for the rest of our lives, 

If you promise to set my place at the table and make sure that it’s always next to yours.

Also if you promise to never touch a anything more culinary complicated than an EZ-bake oven ever again.

Love,

Ani

His husband is going to feel like such a dick when he reads it. He’ll probably cry.

Anakin can’t wait to kiss away his tears. For that, and for every other part of their future together, two of those really long notes played in perfect melody. Harmony. Whatever.

It’s not like Anakin knows anything about music, after all. That’s Obi-Wan’s job.