#and she's half right because obi-wan absolutely despises here

[tennessoui]

ganymede & zeus but make it obikin

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

(for @jswander ) (2.3k)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—---------

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You are not my queen—“

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

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

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

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

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

The thumb presses down hard before it withdraws.

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

Gingerly, carefully, Anakin opens his eyes.

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

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

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

He is so perfect that he is almost unreal.

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

Hungrily.

“What?” Anakin whispers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anakin can beat him into submission. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[obiwanobi]

senator skywalker and sith senator kenobi au where anakin annoys obi-wan so much that in the end he just. fuckign rails him to shut him up. but then afterwards he’s all pliant and sleepy and beautiful, and for the first time in 30 years something in obi-wan’s cold dead heart shudders to life.

good lord I’m really, really into it.

The dynamic is so different here, because Obi-Wan is doing this ‘hidden Sith in politics’ very well, he’s charming, pleasant, pays attention to what he says in public and everyone feels heard and important when he’s here. He was even voted one of the most popular Senators among the public this year.

Senator Kenobi could declare that he’s going to nuke Coruscant in the next hour and people would probably thank him for being brave enough to announce it himself. He’s everything Sidious hoped for, and Obi-Wan thinks that it’s worth being away from real action and unable to wield his lightsaber for a few years.

But then Senator Skywalker shows up, and Obi-Wan’s nerves never truly recover. 

Skywalker is the worst. He has an extraordinary gift for making everything difficult: questioning centuries-old protocols, rallying the public (and even politicians, because they’re all as brain-dead as the people they represent) to useless and time-consuming causes like stopping slavery in the outer rim, (is there still people living in the outer rim? Gross.) trying to make revolutions and civil wars happen everywhere he goes and diverting everyone from Obi-Wan’s objective by being loud and obnoxious.

He’s a pain in the ass, and unfortunately, he notices Obi-Wan. And from this moment, where Obi-Wan allows himself to be annoyed at another senator instead of violently murdering them in cold blood like he wants to, Senator Skywalker becomes the bane of his existence. Putting himself in his way whenever he can, voting against every bill Obi-Wan promotes, arguing with him over petty details from 08:00 to 19:00 and sometimes even through the press, until he’s permanently tightly wound up and angry enough to look borderline furious any time Skywalker walks in his field of vision.

And Skywalker smiles through it all. 

Obi-Wan dreams of decapitating him. 

The day Obi-Wan finally looses his legendary patience in public and yells at Skywalker is also the day he fucks Skywalker through his desk three hours later. 

Obi-Wan throws him out of his office after five seconds of blessed silence, when Skywalker recovers enough of his wit to make a sharp comment about knowing that Obi-Wan couldn’t be as perfect as everyone said he was. 

This, (fucking him, not throwing him out) was a colossal mistake. He knows. He just... couldn’t find any other way that doesn’t include maiming him for life to make him shut the fuck up for one minute.

Skywalker takes it as an invitation to bother him in private in addition to turning into his personal nemesis in public. Anytime they’re left alone, Obi-Wan snaps at him, throws sarcastic comments after rude remarks, criticizes absolutely everything from the ugly scar on his face to his unrealisable and childlike ideas about social changes. But Skywalker doesn’t leave, and argues with him or finds it funny, and it only makes him stick around more (he is funny, in a very dark and horrifying sense of humour that absolutely no one should know Obi-Wan possesses.) 

But it’s also almost... relaxing, to be able to talk to someone without carefully choosing words beforehand. To say the most outrageous thing his mind comes up with, and only have Skywalker laugh and maybe even add a comment himself. Skywalker has his limits, obviously (Obi-Wan knows now to never approach the slave topic in a fifty lightyears radius again, and notices that he’s weirdly protective of Naboo’s Senator) but any violent argument is generally solved by fucking and then ignoring their divergence of opinion. 

They fuck when the atmosphere becomes too tense between them, they fuck when it’s convenient, they even fuck when they celebrate the departure of a hated colleague or Stewjon’s victory in whatever mid rim sport is popular these days. Sex is good, even better when they start to learn what they both like and relish the intimate noises they can draw from each other a few doors away from their colleagues.

They still hate each other. (One time a journalist asked him about his thoughts about Skywalker’s reelection as Tatooine’s Senator, and Obi-Wan said “I think he’s the senator Tatooine deserves”. Later that day, Skywalker commed him. “You’re really good at shitting on me and my planet without anyone noticing, hm.” He knew he was smiling, so Obi-Wan smiled too and told him to be in his office without his pants on in half an hour if he wanted to complain about it.)

They still don’t get along. (”They’re children, Kenobi, you’ll have to be extra nice in front of the cameras and not look like you’d rather have a vasectomy than spend one more minute listening to their incomprehensible babbles and being touched by their dirty little hands,” Skywalker once said while readjusting Obi-Wan’s collar. “You know I hate doing that.” “Yes, but you’re also very good at pretending to have human feelings.” “I know, it’s a curse.” Skywalker half-laughed, half-kissed him. He didn’t hate it.) 

Obi-Wan still throws him out of his office or apartment after he’s done with him. (Except that one time Skywalker fell asleep in his bed because he had an exhausting day and still came to Obi-Wan’s apartment. And this one time he blinked slowly at him right after sex, all warm and soft and content and said “This is the only time my brain can shut down and I’m finally free.” And also the time Skywalker came back from his horrible two-month-long diplomatic mission that almost killed him and spent two days on his couch, refusing to talk but leaning in when Obi-Wan’s hand stroked his head.) 

(It means nothing.)

But then Skywalker makes the mistake of being jealous.

Obi-Wan has never really cared about...Well, anyone, really, so when he fucks (gently, slowly, with soothing words, Force, this is all so boring) the pretty niece of a King to make her change her uncle’s mind about taxes on hyperspace lane routes in his sector, he doesn’t think about it much.

Until Skywalker barges in his office yelling. It’s different from their usual banters and fights. For once, Obi-Wan is more confused than irritated because Skywalker isn’t making any sense (less than usual anyway) and keeps talking about Obi-Wan being the worst (nothing new here) and when he finally understands that it’s about... Phimla? Phila? Whatever the name of the girl was, he can’t help but be annoyed.  

“Oh, please don’t tell me that you’re a romantic.”

He’s waiting for more yelling, but nothing comes. Skywalker just stands here, looking at him like he barely recognises him, with an expression Obi-Wan can’t completely read. It’s a long silence, almost an uncomfortable one because nothing should be so still around Skywalker who’s always on the move. It doesn’t feel right, not knowing what to say to him, how to make him react, understand what’s happening. 

It takes a long, long time to realise that Skywalker is holding back tears.

Obi-Wan can’t deal with crying people. That’s the only reason he hates seeing Skywalker’s trembling hands running through his hair. 

“I can’t believe I thought you could— Doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. Of course you can’t understand normal emotions, it would make you human and we both know you can’t even be in the same sector as human or else you implode.” 

"Skywalker—”

“Fuck you, Obi-Wan.”

He leaves. He has never called him Obi-Wan before.

Obi-Wan doesn’t see him for weeks. Not in the corridors of the Senate, not at cocktail parties, not in meetings. No one challenges him when he speaks in public now, no one makes a sarcastic comment about his flowery turns of phrases or pushes him in an empty room for a blowjob right before an important conference to throw him off.

It’s boring. 

It doesn’t help that people have been acting weirdly lately.

“Should I book two tickets?” His assistant asks him when he tells her to get him transport to Stewjon for a weekend. “No, why would I need two tickets?” She sends him an unimpressed look.

Despite his best efforts to be polite and courteous, Senator Amidala refuses to speak directly to him. 

Even Sidious makes a comment. “You’ve been distracted lately.” Obi-Wan doesn’t know how to answer to that. It’s best to say nothing. “I have something to cheer you up, you’ll like it. I think it’s time we get rid of a... troublesome Senator.”

Obi-Wan thinks he’s having one of these unpleasant feelings he despises. 

[soulwounds-a]

RELATIONSHIP / CONNECTIONS  CALL  !      /     because  everyone  else  seems  on  this  band  wagon  so  i  thought ,  hey ,  why  not !     i  could  always  use  more  stuff  for  all  my  characters !    just  hit  that  like  or  comment  or  just  IM  me  if  you’re  interested  in  anything !

LINK     :     22 ,  human  (  prev .  hylian  ) ,  male ,  asexual .

ROMANTIC  RELATIONSHIP  /  OPEN      :      while  i  am  partial  to  some  loz  ships  (  particularly  link/zelda  but  also  link/midna  &  link/malon  )   &  would  lean  towards  those  if  we  got  those  characters ,  i’m  also  not  against  simply  shipping  link  with  someone  he  meets  here  if  there’s  good  chemistry !     he’s  ace ,  sexuality  wise ,  but  for  sure  demi  romantic .   he  can  fall  hard  for  people  he  gets  close  to ,  male  or  female ,  he’ll  get  some  massive  heart  eyes .   plus ,  he’ll  defend  you  on  pain  of  death  always  if  he  has  to . PLATONIC  RELATIONSHIPS  /  OPEN      :      link  is  literally  the  softest  boy   &   deserves  all  the  friends  i  beg  of  you !    he’s  extremely  kind   &   very  easy  to  befriend .   literally  if  you’re  just  nice  to  him  he’ll  consider  you  a  friend  after  like  5  seconds   &  would  fight  god  with  a  stick  for  you  if  you  asked .

ROWENA  MACLEOD    :    300+   (  appears  roughly  40  ) ,  witch ,  female ,  pansexual .    (  @evliskank  )

 ROMANTIC  RELATIONSHIP  /  OPEN      :      open ,  yes ,  but  rowena  is  far  more  for  playful  flirting   &   meaningless  flings .    this  doesn’t  mean  i’m  against  a  serious  relationship  for  her  completely !    especially  after  this  event  as  rowena  will  be  losing  memory  of  most  of  her  life  including  when  the  man  who  would  be  crowley’s  father  broke  her  heart   &   caused  her  view  of  love  as  weakness .    so ,  she  won’t  despise  the  thought  of  being  in  love .   however ,  as  her  memories  slowly  come  back  she’ll  become  more  callous  towards  it . PLATONIC  RELATIONSHIPS  /  OPEN      :      want  a  powerful  witch  friend  to  gossip  with ?   say  no  more .    rowena  isn’t  easy  to  befriend ,  however ,  but  it’s  not  impossible .   if  you’re  interested ,  we’ll  work  something  out ! ENEMIES  /  OPEN      :      rowena  makes  a  lot  more  unfriendly  relationships  than  she  does  friends .    if  you  guys  want  a  rivalry  that’d  be  awesome !    plus ,  we  can  even  look  into  a  frienemies  kinda  deal  if  you’re  into  that ,  too .

JESSE  TURNER    :    20 ,  cambion  (  half  human ,  half  demon  )  +  the  antichrist ,  male ,  homosexual .   (  @anitchrist  )

ROMANTIC  RELATIONSHIP  /  CLOSED      :      sorry ,  boys ,  the  antichrist  is  taken !    or  he  will  be .    loey  &   i  have  a  plotted  ship  to  come  for  jesse   &   jack  kline . PLATONIC  RELATIONSHIPS  /  OPEN      :      jesse  is  pissy ,  emo ,  sarcastic ,  &  a  down  right  loner   . . .   please ,  force  friendship  on  him .   i’m  especially  here  for  him  being  befriended  by  someone  who’s  all  sunshine  &  rainbows !    that  dynamic  would  be  great .     plus ,  who  doesn’t  wanna  be  friends  with  the  antichrist ,  am  i  right ? ENEMIES  /  OPEN      :      it’s  not  like  he  means  to  make  a  lot ,  but  jesse  can  be  off  putting  to  some  people .    particularly  this  is  open  to  anyone  who  plays  demons .    jesse ,  though  half  demon ,  hates  demonkind   &   thinks  them  pathetic   &   obnoxious .     he  wants  them  to  leave  him  alone .

THE  COLT    :    183  (  appears  roughly  early  30s  ) ,  human  (  humanized  gun  ) ,  male ,  pansexual .   (  @dustsanything  )

 ROMANTIC  RELATIONSHIP  /  OPEN      :      he’s  still  learning  about  being  human   &   feelings  like  this  but  i’d  be  very  entertained  to  see  him  in  a  relationship  tbh .     if  you  like  cowboys  who  used  to  be  literal  guns   &   have  a  slight  god  complex  then  i’ve  got  good  news !  PLATONIC  RELATIONSHIPS  /  OPEN      :      him   &   friends  he  makes  are  usually  amusing .   not  much  to  say  on  it  . . .  but  also  if  your  character  wants  some  protection  i’d  recommend  him .   he  doesn’t  play  games  in  defending  people  he  likes ,  usually ,  &  he’s  the  most  powerful  gun  in  the  world .   he’s  good  to  have  on  your  side .  ENEMIES  /  OPEN      :      probably  mostly  for  supernatural  creatures ,  seeing  as  he’s  sometimes  salty  towards  them ,  &  he’s  whats  made  to  kill  them .   plus ,  he’s  a  hitman  it’s  his  job !   he’s  bound  to  have  made  some  enemies .

AZAZEL    :    10,000+  (  appears  around  50s  ) ,  demon  (  prince  of  hell  ) ,  male ,  pansexual .   (  @yellweyes  )

 ROMANTIC  RELATIONSHIP  /  OPEN      :      uh  . . .   i  mean  i  guess  if  you’re  into  . . .  horrible  asshole  demons .    don’t  expect  anything  super  healthy  though .  PLATONIC  RELATIONSHIPS  /  OPEN      :      there  are  people  who  will  amuse  him   &   he’ll  choose  to  spend  time  around  them  for  that .   doesn’t  mean  he  cares  much  or  he’ll  do  much  for  you   . . .   but  he  likes  having  friends  for  entertainment .  ENEMIES  /  OPEN      :      look  he’s  terrible  he’ll  make  enemies  with  everyone .

OBI-WAN  “BEN”  KENOBI    :    40 ,  human  (  force  sensitive  ) ,  male ,  asexual .     (  @jedirelic  )

 ROMANTIC  RELATIONSHIP  /  OPEN      :      it’s  gonna  be  hard  for  him .    especially  seeing  as  he’s  A.  ace  as  hell   &   B.  has  the  jedi  code  still  very  imprinted  in  his  lifestyle .   plus  he’s  just  mega  depressed  from  a  lot   . . .   i  will  say ,  though ,  he  can  playfully  flirt  like  no  one’s  business .    there’s  not  much  meaning  ever  behind  it ,  but  he  thinks  flirting  is  fun .    he’s  a  master  at  flirting  but  has  the  romance  skill  of  a  bent  spoon .  PLATONIC  RELATIONSHIPS  /  OPEN      :      god  he’s  so  sad  he  needs  friends  again .   all  his  friends  are  dead  please  befriend  him  he’s  so  so  kind  he’s  just  tired  bc  the  world  hurt  him .

CAPTAIN  JAMES  KIRK    :    27 ,  human ,  male ,  bisexual .   (  @flvbov  )

 ROMANTIC  RELATIONSHIP  /  OPEN-ISH      :      i  say  ish  because  i’m   . . .   i’ve  been  playin  lowkey  but  tbh  spirk  is  everything  to  me   &   i’d  die  if  we  got  a  spock .    but  like  i’ll  think  about  it   . . .   he’ll  flirt  too  he’s  flirty .    so  flings  are  for  sure  something  we  can  talk  about  or  friends  with  benefits .  PLATONIC  RELATIONSHIPS  /  OPEN      :      he’s  SUCH  a  good  friend   &   he  loves  just  having  fun  honestly ?    he’s  very  interested  in  this  place  as  it  is  200  years  in  the  past  for  him .   he’s  excitable   &   fun .   kinda  like  a  puppy .

MERLIN    :    1,500+  (  appears  mid - late  twenties  ) ,  sorcerer ,  male ,  bisexual .   (  @magicitslf  )

 ROMANTIC  RELATIONSHIP  /  CLOSED      :      if  yall  don’t  think  him   &   arthur  are  endgame  as  all  get  out  then  i’ve  news  for  you .    merlin  can  be  flirty ,  though !    he  can  be  a  saucy  minx .    i  mean  just  watch  the  show  he’s  a  dumbass  but  i’m  pretty  sure  every  character  on  that  show  was  at  least  a  little  in  love  w/  merlin . PLATONIC  RELATIONSHIPS  /  OPEN      :      be  the  sweet  magic  boy’s  friend .    if  you’re  earth ,  you’ve  probably  heard  of  merlin  as  arthurian  legend  is  big  too .    also ,  this  goes  heavy  for  anyone  with  magic .   looking  at  you ,  hp  characters !    there’s  also  not  a  lot  he  wouldn’t  do  for  his  friends .    OH  ALSO  WITH  ANYONE  WHO  HAS  A  MUSE  THAT’S  A  PERSONIFIED  DRAGON !    bc  ik  there  are  some  got  dragons  around .    merlin  is  a  dragon  lord ,  basically  he’s  able  to  speak  in  the  dragon  tongue   &   can  command  dragons  when  he  does   &   the  cant  disobey  him .   he  loves  them .     ENEMIES  /  OPEN      :      are  you  someone  who  uses  magic  for  ill  will ?   guess  what !    merlin  isn’t  going  to  like  you .    he’s  also  got  strong  opinions   &   a  big  mouth  so  if  he  doesn’t  like  something  you’re  doing  you’ll  know .

HENRY  JEKYLL  /  EDWARD  HYDE    :    37 ,  human ,  male ,  heterosexual  but  this  could  change  idk .   (  @viceindulged  )

 ROMANTIC  RELATIONSHIPS  /  OPEN      :      he’s  married  to  science  but  he’s  also  a  sweet  man   . . .   well .   henry  is  nice .    scratch  that ,  he’s  kind  of  an  absolute  disaster  of  a  human  being  but  he’s  trying  his  best .   &   then  there’s  hyde  his  counterpart  who  is    . . .   just  plain  terrible .   for  sure  a  ship  with  him  would  be  angsty  as  all  get  out .    he’s  a  bit  terrified  of  loving  people ,  what  with  hyde  coming  out  on  his  own  now .  PLATONIC  RELATIONSHIPS  /  OPEN      :      he  needs  some  friends  to  support  him .   there’s  also  a  million   &   ten  plots  we  can  draw  up  for  them  discovering  about  hyde  &   trying  to  help  him  through  this  because  it’s  driving  him  insane  almost   &   tearing  him  apart .    he  just  really  needs  some  support .    also  if  y’all  have  any  sadistic  muses !   you  can  also  be  friends  with  hyde ! ENEMIES  /  OPEN      :      when  i  say  enemies  i  mean  people  who  meet  hyde  before  meeting  jekyll .    jekyll’s  nice ,  doesn’t  make  a  lot  of  people’s  bad  lists ,  but  hyde  is  horrid .   people  who  meet  hyde  can  hate  him   &   then  it  leads  for  a  ton  of  confusion  when  meeting  poor  jekyll  later   &   it  has  him  deal  with  the  repercussions  as  he’s  always  cleaning  up  hyde’s  messes .    enemies  also  work  for  people  who  end  up  befriending  hyde  also  being  enemies  to  jekyll .    most  people  who  are  an  enemy  of  one  will  be  friend  to  another .    there’s  also  the  idea  that  someone  thinks  he’s  just  unstable   &   unsafe  so  he  needs  to  go  altogether .

[msu82]

The Artist and the Mechanic

Tagging: @markwatnae and @prfury I FINALLY WROTE SOMETHING!

Guess whose OC is meeting Anakin, you two? *throws glitter*

I can't believe the Council is having me teach a class of padawans! Anakin paused in the middle of his fuming, eyes wide as he blinked a few times. ...I can't believe the Council is trusting me to teach a class of padawans. Trust. Huh. well, now that young man couldn't decide if the reason they were filling up one of his days with teaching a mechanics course was because, a, they wanted to punish him for some unknown reason or, b, they were showing respect to his positions as a Jedi Knight, an army general, and as a teacher to his own individual padawan.

...I can't believe they're making me over think this! He released a grown before flopping down in a chair in a little nook of a room connected off of the flight hanger, rubbing a hand down his face as he awaited what was going to be his second class of a total of four throughout the day. The first class had been absolutely horrible! No one could blame him for his hesitance and annoyance at having to endure another three. A bunch of snot-nosed teenagers who think that 'I am only a year away from being a legal adult in the galaxy!' means they know more than someone whose been alive longer and seen more in life than they ever have yet. ….Anakin knew it probably game as some sort of territory-pecking considering her was barely half a decade older than that class of students, but he was still a Jedi Knigth and a General in the war. Didn't that earn him any respect?!

The blonde stopped abruptly in his angered pacing, closed his eyes while his arms cross over his chest, and bowed his head. Breathe, Ani. Just breathe. This next class is around Ahsoka's age—he totally didn't sulk over the fact he wasn't be allowed to teach classes his padawan was actively in, and instead the age groups directly above and bellow her age—so that should mean they'll, in the least, be decent kids. Doesn't it? He didn't have much time to fret over his thoughts, for before he knew it a group of thirteen year olds were entering into what had become his little domane for the entirety of the day.

Now usually when this particular Jedi has doubtful thoughts like that, they come to bite him in the ass.

For once, they seemed not to.

He actually had a group of kids who seemed eager to learn mechanics! From him specifically! Oh, he'd have to tell Padme about this—she had teased mericlessly that he'd probably want to cry by the end of the day from the children driving him insane or not paying attention to him at all. I knew kids love me! The blonde thought, a bit giddy.

Knight Skywalker went about officially introducing himself (“Just call me Anakin or Skywalker, I'm not all for the title business”) with a grin on his face to his newest class of students, and after that began demonstrating and explaining that day's lesson.

These kids hated him.

They despised him.

They must have litereally wanted him to die in agony and horror and–

SPLAT-TA-TA-TAAA-PLOOP-PLOOP-PLOOP!

“Sith-spit!” A youthful, perhaps male voice cursed from across the room. “Language....” Anakin mumble out from his temporary desk, face-down in the sweet sanctuary of his arms as another sound of a failed machine met his ears. He had heard the same splatter-plopping sound a dozen times already. The last one to do it marked the thirteen. There was still another nine others in the-

SPLAT-TA-PLOOP-PLOOP-TA-TAAA-PLOOP!

There as still another eight students with machines in the class.

Padme is never gonna let me live this down. He wasn't whining. He was not whining. Anakin Skywalker did not whine; not even in in the depths of his brain!

SPLAT-TA-TA-TA-TAAAAA-PLOOP-PLOOP-PLOOP-PLOOP!

Anakin groaned in the safe haven that was his pillowing arms. Why me? The young adult whined in his brain. It was taking all he had not to pull out his hair.

Honestly, how could now fifteen out of twenty-two Junior Padawan's in war time not understand the most basic set of instructions? Couldn't fix a simple machine? The entire machine was there for each of them at their desks!

All they had to do was re-attach two parts.

He had provided a hands-on demonstration, text directions, and photo directions. He had explained that it was a delicate little system and, as long as they had steady hands and took their time, they'd be fine! He just couldn't understand why they weren't understanding it.

SPLAT-TALOOP-PLOOP-PLOOSTA-TATA-SPLAT!

He groaned into his arms again, fingers of his non-mechanical hand tugging at his hair. “Someone. Jam. A lightsaber. Into. My brain.”

“I don't think that would be healthy. And, you know.... It would kinda be murder.”

A voice piping up was not expected, especially in such a sassy little way, and Anakin nearly startled out of his chair as he came face-to-face with a rather short being. The female padawan, who looked younger than the rest of her peers, seemed to smile in an apologetic way.

“I'm sorry to startle you, Mister Skywalker—” Huh, never been called 'Mister' before, Anakin thought to himself— “But I finished my machine. I just wanted your opinion on it before I started it up.” The girl finished.

“Why do you want me to do that? None of your agemates had me do that.” The Jedi Knight prodded, curious as he sat up straighter in his seat.

The girl was silent while looking contemplative, and Anakin was expecting some sort of long, droned out, logical answer.

“Because I'm pale as all hell and don't want to be oil-stained for weeks.”

“Psh-!” He snapped a hand over his mouth to muffle of a snicker. He hadn't been expecting that. The young adult cleared his throat, composing himself as he said as he replied, “Language, little one, and I will come look at your machine. Lead the way...?”

It took moments to get to the table and start examining the device the young padawan had been charged with fixing, the same as her classmates, but... even with another sound of exploding oil filtering to his ears as background noise, his focus was on the work to this particular device. One that look near exactly like his if it wasn't for the few tiny, oily fingerprints littering the pieces that had needed reattaching.

Finally. The young adult thought to himself, and gave the short brunette a beaming smile. “Padawans, gather around! It's time to show you what this device does. I believe your classmate here—”

“Gensen.” The girl supplied helpfully.

“—that your classmate, Gensen, has successfully repaired her machine.”

A few moments later there was a chorus of nearly two-dozen awes as, after he brought out a canvas he'd stashed behind his temporary desk and flipped the switch for the machine, that it would begin spraying a picture into existence. The awes turned to laughter and amusement as the picture created was that of Grandmaster Yoda piggy-backing on Master Windu.

It wasn't long after that when it would be the time for the padawans to head off to their lunch period (each with their own copy of the painted oil-pictures after using the Force for some hand speed drying),  but as they left the young knighted-general  couldn't help but stop the girl who had actually done the entire thing right.

“So your name is Gensen, yeah? You mind me asking how you knew asking me first was the answer?” Anakin asked, and after a moment added appreciatively, “Not that you needed it in the end, technically speaking. The picture could have gotten sprayed on the table.”

“Well,” The girl paused, hitching her backpack over her shoulders. “You didn't tell us what the machine  would do beyond that it sprays oil. And I wanted to make sure I had every piece exactly right, and there's no better way in assuring that than asking the teacher.” The girl shrugged her shoulders on her pudgy frame, hugging her souvenir of this class against her chest.

Anakin nodded with her words, “Good reasoning, little padawan. You're quite the mechanic.”

“...Eh.”

That made him arch an eyebrow. “Eh?” He parroted, disbelief and bemusement starting to spring to his face.

“Yeah, eh. I'm not a mechanic. I'm an artist.”

“Oh, really now?” He crossed his mixture of flesh-and-mechanical arms. “And what's so great about being an artist?”

The girl cocked a hip, raising an eyebrow of her own. “What's so great about being a mechanic, Mister Skywalker?”

“Creating things, making things work one way or another, and the mess of it all.” He replied without missing a beat.

Gensen grinned before saying, “Same with art. The only difference is I don't have to worry about something exploding in my face if I mess up and need to fix something—I'm not all for chemical burns and sparks and flames.” She held out her arm, rolling up her robe sleeves. “I did say I was pale as all hell, Mister Skywalker. Patches of red wouldn't look any better on me than patches of black.”

This time he couldn't stop the startled laughter even if he tried, sharing a grin with the spunky little padawan before giving her shoulder a nudge. “Go on to lunch, young one. I have to prepare for another class. And watch that language of yours, alright?.”

“Uh huh. Of course I will!” Anakin didn't believe her words for a second. She just seemed endless sass even if her personality was so genuine.

Soon enough the blonde was by himself, cleaning up for the next class as his mind wandered to who could be Gensen's Master if she managed to have such a personality as that at her age. He knew not all were strict, but he also knew that most schooled their padawans into perfect properness outside of private situations.

He was pulled from his wandering thoughts (and temptation to look up the girl's personal record out of sheer curiosity) by his commlink beeping. Pulling it out of his pocket and answering it, he grinned as his former teacher's voice filled in from the other end.

Obi-Wan would be back in just a week, and the day after that was hoping Anakin would be free to finally meet the ginger's new padawan.

Anakin grinned, having heard so much about the kid. He immediately agreed, said he'd bring Ahsoka along, and wished his former-Master well on the rest of his journey home.

When Anakin Skywalker met his sister-padawan a little over the week—an 11-year old girl with brown hair, brown eyes, pale skin, and a form that wasn't bone skinny—the Knight felt a sense of deja vu. He had been run busy all week training students in general education classes, so his mind was a bit scattered.

He could have sworn he'd seen her before, and shrugged it off as it being in passing before smiling and shaking the girl's hand. “Welcome to the lineage, Edie.” The blonde said, and then shared a grin with his Obi-Wan Kenobi as Ahsoka swept in with making the younger girl feel welcomed.

While happiness happened for the Jedi adults and the padawan-children, none were aware that the very same night another innocent, bright young padawan would face the extreme opposite of the word 'joy.'

[dream-about-dancing]

#anyway i think anakin has some distant god in him so he didn't immediately die when he looked at obi-wan#but also obi-wan has been secretly giving him food and drink of the gods for his entire life#the fates said that anakin would be his eventually#obi-wan just got tired of waiting after 22 years of it#he saw anakin at 22 and swooped down to grab that#also idk i liked the idea of obi-wan's blood turning anakin's eyes gold but also healing him#there was a lot of things going on in my mind that did not make it into the story#most importantly that in a couple of days anakin is thrilled to be there#like it's not really dubcon much#much less dubcon than knocking on the wrong door au#oh also padme is definitely pregnant with the twins and obi-wan is gonna steal them too#ganymede au padme is like that one woman in greek mythology where shes sure the gods hate her specifically#and she's half right because obi-wan absolutely despises here (via @tennessoui​)

ganymede & zeus but make it obikin

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

(for @jswander ) (2.3k)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—---------

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You are not my queen—“

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

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

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

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

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

The thumb presses down hard before it withdraws.

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

Gingerly, carefully, Anakin opens his eyes.

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

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

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

He is so perfect that he is almost unreal.

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

Hungrily.

“What?” Anakin whispers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anakin can beat him into submission. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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