#anyone who had the barest trace of that scent was subjectd to an anakin skywalker on a mission

[tennessoui]

“You don’t want me.”

I don’t have any au preference. I just know the potential with this one has me vibrating!!!!!

ahhh ok ok so !!! this is the long-awaited (im telling myself this) regency au snippet where obi-wan and anakin meet!! here is the tag for the au on tumblr to find the other snippets + bonus ao3 christmas tide oneshot, but chronologically this takes place first (with minor tweaks to the existing au: obi-wan always knew anakin was the duke, mace was there their first time meeting each other)

(2.4k) (squick tag: a/b/o)

At the very edge of the dancefloor, Obi-Wan stands with his hands tucked neatly behind his back as he watches the members of high society spin around the ballroom as if it’s some sort of contest.

He supposes it is.

And being unwilling to participate in such pageantry has found him invariably pushed him to the edges of their circus, his tattered, off-season clothing only cementing his place there.

He has stopped caring four seasons ago, taking his cue from his elder brother. The people who could not hold their tongues called Mace spinster to his face, and conceited behind his back. But Obi-Wan was there at his side the first time his brother realized high society had moved forward without him: he had seen the relief that accompanied his slumped shoulders, had seen how much lighter his eyes grew when the last of the alphas at the ball dragged their eyes past him as if he were invisible.

Almost immediately, Obi-Wan, all of ten and seven then, had wanted that freedom for himself. Alphas were exhausting. Society alphas even moreso. When his brother had stepped back to a nominal role in the season—present only in body, only as chaperone to his four younger omega siblings—Obi-Wan had been eager to step into the shadows with him.

“Alas, my ankles hurt,” he told every alpha—of which there were only a handful—who asked him to dance over the past few seasons.

Eventually, they stopped asking, though Obi-Wan still attended every dance of the season, if only to witness Bant trip over herself in front of her flutist, or to watch Aayla dance the night away with a bright smile on her lips.

He’s startled out of his contemplations by the arrival of his brother, who offers him a discreet flask from his coat pocket. “To the beginning of another season,” Obi-Wan tilts the flask towards his brother with a smirk. “May we be fat with children come spring.”

Mace huffs out a snort and takes the liquor back from him, medicating with a hearty swig before he tucks it out of sight once more. “You know, Obi-Wan, you do not have to wear the cloak of the cynic just because you like how it looks on me.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Obi-Wan replies, looking across the ballroom. On the other side of the cavernous space, people are starting to flock towards the doors, each louder and more enthusiastic than the last.

Beside him, his brother lets out a sigh. “I remember a boy who took great pleasure in his dancing lessons once upon a time. What turned him into this man, who I have not seen take to the floor once in five years?”

“His dancing partners,” Obi-Wan quips back, stealing the flask from his brother’s coat. “What do you think that is all about?” He inclines his head to the gaggle of alphas and omegas alike, clamoring at the base of the great staircase.

Mace shoots him an incredulous look. “Brother, surely you must know.”

Obi-Wan scowls. He does not appreciate the tone nor the implication that he is behind on some great piece of societal news.

“The duke Skywalker has arrived,” Mace says quite slowly. “He is spending the season here, as these are his ancestral grounds. The king wants him to settle here apparently. We have been ungoverned for too long, and are thinking of dangerous ideas. ”

“Hah,” Obi-Wan replies. “I suppose it is of no coincidence that he has arrived at the start of the season? Is he in want of an omega?”

“Surely he must be,” Mace dips his head. “Though I believe it wouldn’t matter if he were not,” he raises his eyebrows pointedly in the direction of the crowd.

“Because everyone else is in want of being his omega,” Obi-Wan finishes and shakes his head, a strange surge of pity welling up in his chest for the alpha duke. It is not often he recognizes someone so thoroughly trapped, which is the only thought in his head when the doors finally open and reveal their duke.

The man stands tall in an outfit of daring red, a color that has not been popular for at least a few seasons. Obi-Wan thinks this is probably about to change now that society has seen the way the shade looks on the duke’s well-muscled body,  the way its darkness highlights the tarnished gold of his wild hair.

From his position on the landing, the duke looks over the crowd. Obi-Wan can see the way his eyes widen slightly at the crowd that awaits him at the bottom of the stairs, though he cannot be surprised. He barely resists the urge to snort when he sees the way the alpha’s nostrils flare as he scents the room. In the city, this must be acceptable practice, but here? It is uncouth to the extreme. But of course someone as wealthy, handsome, and eligible as the duke will be able to get away with the action.

The duke’s face darkens suddenly, head still tilted a touch too high to be natural. Ignoring the guards who have announced him and who now are trying to gently urge him down the steps to his doom, he steps forward to lean against the marble banister as his eyes focus on the party below him, as if intent on making eye contact with each of his subjects before deigning to walk amongst them.

“It will be the mating of the century,” Obi-Wan says, taking another sip from Mace’s flask.

“It will be a boon onto our business,” Mace replies. “If the amount of omegas through our doors just for tonight’s dance is any indication.”

Obi-Wan blinks. He’d noticed that the business in their tailorshop had increased rather substantially in the past month. He hadn’t realized the duke’s presence had anything to do with it, though he supposes it makes sense.

“And here I thought our recent fortunes were due to your clever hands.”

Mace snorts and confiscates his flask. “One day, my vexing brother, your clever tongue is going to get you in trouble.”

Obi-Wan is a respectable omega and gentleman, so he does not stick out his tongue in response. Alright. He does not stick his tongue out at his brother for very long.

“Pardon me, I believe I should say hello to Mrs. Dubrey,” Mace nods across the way. “Smooth over Depa’s fourth late-to-return library book.”

“Mrs. Dubrey’s standing by the refreshments table,” Obi-Wan points out. “You’re not fooling anyone. And I would like a honeycake, thank you.” 

Mace rolls his eyes and claps him on the shoulder. “Then I’m sure a strong and willful omega such as yourself will find a way to get one.”

He takes his leave to the sound of Obi-Wan’s displeasure, which is apparently music to his brother’s ears.

—----------

Not two songs have passed before Mace is back in front of him, strange, troubled expression on his face. He offers Obi-Wan a honeycake wrapped carefully in a linen napkin.

“Why do you look so perplexed?” Obi-Wan asks, taking the food gleefully from his brother’s hand. “Was Mrs. Dubrey immune to your charms? Do we owe her a horse to pay for Depa's fees? Can we lend her Depa instead? With the stipulation we care just as much about a properly observed return date as Depa has in the past, of course.”

“I…I ran into the duke,” Mace says, ignoring everything else, eyebrows furrowed. Obi-Wan startles. “Or—the duke accosted me may be more accurate.”

“Pardon?”

“I was chatting with Mrs. Dubrey, and then suddenly, he was standing before me. It startled me half to death, mind you, he is...very intense, but—”

His brother breaks off and tilts his head as he looks at Obi-Wan. “Was he untoward?” Obi-Wan asks, preparing to set his honeycake aside to approach the duke and challenge him to a duel for his brother’s honor, should the situation demand it.

“No,” Mace says sounding only slightly unnerved. “No, he—scented me from afar, and asked whose scent I wore over my own.”

Obi-Wan blinks and then stares.

“Obi-Wan,” now Mace’s voice is more hushed as he leans forward, hand grabbing his shoulder. “The only scent I could possibly carry apart from mine is yours.”

Obi-Wan shakes his head slightly, eyebrows furrowing for a moment before a curl of a new scent shocks him into stillness.

Cedar and snow, clinging to the edge of Mace’s coatsleeve, and Obi-Wan is leaning forward before he even realizes it, mind focusing only on the sleeve—the smell—the cedar—the snow.

“What did he—” he starts to say, but before he can finish the question, his attention is captured by cedar&snow growing closer, stronger. 

Overwhelmingly closer. Overwhelmingly stronger.

“Pardon me,” a voice says from behind him, and Obi-Wan is turning around as if someone else is controlling his puppet strings.

Cedar and snow threaten to tear his senses asunder, so crystal clear is the scent. For one moment, he blinks in sudden, unnatural quiet as the duke Skywalker comes before him. He’s taller than him though only by a few measures. He’s older than him too, though only by a few years. Perhaps five seasons more mature, at most. A scar cuts through his brow, giving him the appearance of some sort of devilish rogue, despite the neatness of his outfit. His hair has much more shades up close than it had far away.

And suddenly how close the duke is as he stops to stand directly before him, eyes roaming over his face not unlike a starving man looks at a feast.

And then the duke bows in front of him, to him, and it is so incredibly wrong that Obi-Wan can only gape from his figure down to the upturned hand the alpha holds out. 

Mace nudges him; it’s effective in snapping him into action, though it does little to make this reality sensible again.

He rests his palm in the alpha’s hand, and the duke curls his fingers around it as if he has been given the most precious jewel in the entire kingdom.

The duke’s nostrils flare again at whatever scent Obi-Wan must be leaking into the air around them, and Obi-Wan darts a nervous look towards his brother. He is wildly out of his depth, but Mace does not offer much help.

“May I have this dance?” The alpha asks. His thumb strokes along the inside of Obi-Wan’s wrist, so close to one of his scenting glands that the action feels scandalous.

Obi-Wan swallows. “May I have your name?” He asks, clawing at normalcy as his instincts and body begin to revolt. But he would not be Obi-Wan Kenobi if he allowed himself to be so easily overpowered by his sudden urge to show his throat to a rather intense and powerful (and handsome and sweet-smelling) alpha.

The duke blinks, but rather than scowl at what can be nothing but a slight, his face breaks into a smile. “Anakin,” he says eagerly. “My name is Anakin Skywalker.”

Obi-Wan is helpless but to smile back. “Charmed,” he says because it’s true.

“May I have this dance?” The duke asks again, much more insistent now that the newest song has begun.

“You do not want my name?” Obi-Wan asks.

“I will learn it,” Duke Skywalker says so confidently that Obi-Wan would be hard-pressed to doubt him.

He opens his mouth—to tell him his name, to tell him he will dance, to tell him he cannot—but before he can get more than a breath into his lungs, his eyes are dragged away from the duke’s face by movement behind his shoulder.

People.

People staring, whispering, tongues wagging as they observe.

Obi-Wan takes his hand back, cold reality seeping into his field of vision. “You don’t want me,” he tells the duke quietly, leaning his head forward so that the words stay as private as his shame. “I promise.”

The alpha rears back as if Obi-Wan has said something deeply offensive. “I assure you, I do.”

“You do not,” Obi-Wan says firmly, turning slightly away toward the surety and safety of his brother.

“May I have this dance, omega?” The alpha catches his elbow. “Please.”

“You do not even have my name,” he says—the words are supposed to leave his mouth scathing, but instead they fall to the ground between them, heavy and lost. Before the alpha can reply, Obi-Wan shakes his head, so cognizant of the onlookers that he can hardly move his lips. “The song is almost over.”

“Thank the heavens then that the night is still young,” Duke Skywalker says immediately.

“My ankles hurt, I would be a terrible dance partner,” Obi-Wan murmurs. Mace makes a noise next to him, one that is half-disbelief and half exasperation.

“I shall have no other,” Anakin replies, stepping forward and carefully touching the dance card Obi-Wan has strapped to his wrist. “I would take all your remaining dances for myself.”

Obi-Wan’s lips curl up into a small smile. “I think that would lead to a riot, your grace.”

“Ah. So you know who I am. I wasn’t sure.”

“Know who you are? You bowed and gave me your name. I was listening.”

“You are vexing,” Anakin decides with a smile, as if the discovery is one to be worshipped or at the very least treasured.

Obi-Wan does not truly think of his actions or of their consequences. 

The last person who called him vexing had been his brother.

He is acting purely on learned behavior when he raises his chin and sticks his tongue out at Anakin. A second later, of course, he remembers himself and startles back, feeling the blush grow over his face as he blinks at the duke in front of him.

His brother groans. “Obi-Wan,” he swears as if his name is a curse. “For the love of—”

Anakin’s eyes have gone very dark. “Obi-Wan,” he repeats, testing the name on his tongue.

Obi-Wan swallows, and then, perhaps minutes too late, bows to the duke. 

“May I have this dance, Obi-Wan?” the alpha asks, extending his hand between their bodies.

This question, repeated for the third time still just as sweetly as its first iteration, causes the blush to darken across his face.

He allows his hand to rest in Anakin’s.

With his other hand, he deposits his untouched honeycake into his brother’s open palm. After a second’s consideration, he maneuvers his dance card off the circle of his wrist as well, dropping it next to the pastry. 

He has a feeling that he will not be needing it for the rest of the night.

[dream-about-dancing]

#oh so anakin caught a whiff of obi-wans scent lke as soon as he entered the room#and talked to everyone trying to find it#anyone who had the barest trace of that scent was subjectd to an anakin skywalker on a mission#and then mace is likee soaked in that scent#anakin absolutely follows him back to obi-wan#and is thrilled by obi-wan#and infatuatd#and scent drunk#sort of ached writing this because you know they havee such a good night#and amazing time#and then they won't have another like it for months#because they're idiots (via @tennessoui​)

“You don’t want me.”

I don’t have any au preference. I just know the potential with this one has me vibrating!!!!!

ahhh ok ok so !!! this is the long-awaited (im telling myself this) regency au snippet where obi-wan and anakin meet!! here is the tag for the au on tumblr to find the other snippets + bonus ao3 christmas tide oneshot, but chronologically this takes place first (with minor tweaks to the existing au: obi-wan always knew anakin was the duke, mace was there their first time meeting each other)

(2.4k) (squick tag: a/b/o)

At the very edge of the dancefloor, Obi-Wan stands with his hands tucked neatly behind his back as he watches the members of high society spin around the ballroom as if it’s some sort of contest.

He supposes it is.

And being unwilling to participate in such pageantry has found him invariably pushed him to the edges of their circus, his tattered, off-season clothing only cementing his place there.

He has stopped caring four seasons ago, taking his cue from his elder brother. The people who could not hold their tongues called Mace spinster to his face, and conceited behind his back. But Obi-Wan was there at his side the first time his brother realized high society had moved forward without him: he had seen the relief that accompanied his slumped shoulders, had seen how much lighter his eyes grew when the last of the alphas at the ball dragged their eyes past him as if he were invisible.

Almost immediately, Obi-Wan, all of ten and seven then, had wanted that freedom for himself. Alphas were exhausting. Society alphas even moreso. When his brother had stepped back to a nominal role in the season—present only in body, only as chaperone to his four younger omega siblings—Obi-Wan had been eager to step into the shadows with him.

“Alas, my ankles hurt,” he told every alpha—of which there were only a handful—who asked him to dance over the past few seasons.

Eventually, they stopped asking, though Obi-Wan still attended every dance of the season, if only to witness Bant trip over herself in front of her flutist, or to watch Aayla dance the night away with a bright smile on her lips.

He’s startled out of his contemplations by the arrival of his brother, who offers him a discreet flask from his coat pocket. “To the beginning of another season,” Obi-Wan tilts the flask towards his brother with a smirk. “May we be fat with children come spring.”

Mace huffs out a snort and takes the liquor back from him, medicating with a hearty swig before he tucks it out of sight once more. “You know, Obi-Wan, you do not have to wear the cloak of the cynic just because you like how it looks on me.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Obi-Wan replies, looking across the ballroom. On the other side of the cavernous space, people are starting to flock towards the doors, each louder and more enthusiastic than the last.

Beside him, his brother lets out a sigh. “I remember a boy who took great pleasure in his dancing lessons once upon a time. What turned him into this man, who I have not seen take to the floor once in five years?”

“His dancing partners,” Obi-Wan quips back, stealing the flask from his brother’s coat. “What do you think that is all about?” He inclines his head to the gaggle of alphas and omegas alike, clamoring at the base of the great staircase.

Mace shoots him an incredulous look. “Brother, surely you must know.”

Obi-Wan scowls. He does not appreciate the tone nor the implication that he is behind on some great piece of societal news.

“The duke Skywalker has arrived,” Mace says quite slowly. “He is spending the season here, as these are his ancestral grounds. The king wants him to settle here apparently. We have been ungoverned for too long, and are thinking of dangerous ideas. ”

“Hah,” Obi-Wan replies. “I suppose it is of no coincidence that he has arrived at the start of the season? Is he in want of an omega?”

“Surely he must be,” Mace dips his head. “Though I believe it wouldn’t matter if he were not,” he raises his eyebrows pointedly in the direction of the crowd.

“Because everyone else is in want of being his omega,” Obi-Wan finishes and shakes his head, a strange surge of pity welling up in his chest for the alpha duke. It is not often he recognizes someone so thoroughly trapped, which is the only thought in his head when the doors finally open and reveal their duke.

The man stands tall in an outfit of daring red, a color that has not been popular for at least a few seasons. Obi-Wan thinks this is probably about to change now that society has seen the way the shade looks on the duke’s well-muscled body,  the way its darkness highlights the tarnished gold of his wild hair.

From his position on the landing, the duke looks over the crowd. Obi-Wan can see the way his eyes widen slightly at the crowd that awaits him at the bottom of the stairs, though he cannot be surprised. He barely resists the urge to snort when he sees the way the alpha’s nostrils flare as he scents the room. In the city, this must be acceptable practice, but here? It is uncouth to the extreme. But of course someone as wealthy, handsome, and eligible as the duke will be able to get away with the action.

The duke’s face darkens suddenly, head still tilted a touch too high to be natural. Ignoring the guards who have announced him and who now are trying to gently urge him down the steps to his doom, he steps forward to lean against the marble banister as his eyes focus on the party below him, as if intent on making eye contact with each of his subjects before deigning to walk amongst them.

“It will be the mating of the century,” Obi-Wan says, taking another sip from Mace’s flask.

“It will be a boon onto our business,” Mace replies. “If the amount of omegas through our doors just for tonight’s dance is any indication.”

Obi-Wan blinks. He’d noticed that the business in their tailorshop had increased rather substantially in the past month. He hadn’t realized the duke’s presence had anything to do with it, though he supposes it makes sense.

“And here I thought our recent fortunes were due to your clever hands.”

Mace snorts and confiscates his flask. “One day, my vexing brother, your clever tongue is going to get you in trouble.”

Obi-Wan is a respectable omega and gentleman, so he does not stick out his tongue in response. Alright. He does not stick his tongue out at his brother for very long.

“Pardon me, I believe I should say hello to Mrs. Dubrey,” Mace nods across the way. “Smooth over Depa’s fourth late-to-return library book.”

“Mrs. Dubrey’s standing by the refreshments table,” Obi-Wan points out. “You’re not fooling anyone. And I would like a honeycake, thank you.” 

Mace rolls his eyes and claps him on the shoulder. “Then I’m sure a strong and willful omega such as yourself will find a way to get one.”

He takes his leave to the sound of Obi-Wan’s displeasure, which is apparently music to his brother’s ears.

—----------

Not two songs have passed before Mace is back in front of him, strange, troubled expression on his face. He offers Obi-Wan a honeycake wrapped carefully in a linen napkin.

“Why do you look so perplexed?” Obi-Wan asks, taking the food gleefully from his brother’s hand. “Was Mrs. Dubrey immune to your charms? Do we owe her a horse to pay for Depa's fees? Can we lend her Depa instead? With the stipulation we care just as much about a properly observed return date as Depa has in the past, of course.”

“I…I ran into the duke,” Mace says, ignoring everything else, eyebrows furrowed. Obi-Wan startles. “Or—the duke accosted me may be more accurate.”

“Pardon?”

“I was chatting with Mrs. Dubrey, and then suddenly, he was standing before me. It startled me half to death, mind you, he is...very intense, but—”

His brother breaks off and tilts his head as he looks at Obi-Wan. “Was he untoward?” Obi-Wan asks, preparing to set his honeycake aside to approach the duke and challenge him to a duel for his brother’s honor, should the situation demand it.

“No,” Mace says sounding only slightly unnerved. “No, he—scented me from afar, and asked whose scent I wore over my own.”

Obi-Wan blinks and then stares.

“Obi-Wan,” now Mace’s voice is more hushed as he leans forward, hand grabbing his shoulder. “The only scent I could possibly carry apart from mine is yours.”

Obi-Wan shakes his head slightly, eyebrows furrowing for a moment before a curl of a new scent shocks him into stillness.

Cedar and snow, clinging to the edge of Mace’s coatsleeve, and Obi-Wan is leaning forward before he even realizes it, mind focusing only on the sleeve—the smell—the cedar—the snow.

“What did he—” he starts to say, but before he can finish the question, his attention is captured by cedar&snow growing closer, stronger. 

Overwhelmingly closer. Overwhelmingly stronger.

“Pardon me,” a voice says from behind him, and Obi-Wan is turning around as if someone else is controlling his puppet strings.

Cedar and snow threaten to tear his senses asunder, so crystal clear is the scent. For one moment, he blinks in sudden, unnatural quiet as the duke Skywalker comes before him. He’s taller than him though only by a few measures. He’s older than him too, though only by a few years. Perhaps five seasons more mature, at most. A scar cuts through his brow, giving him the appearance of some sort of devilish rogue, despite the neatness of his outfit. His hair has much more shades up close than it had far away.

And suddenly how close the duke is as he stops to stand directly before him, eyes roaming over his face not unlike a starving man looks at a feast.

And then the duke bows in front of him, to him, and it is so incredibly wrong that Obi-Wan can only gape from his figure down to the upturned hand the alpha holds out. 

Mace nudges him; it’s effective in snapping him into action, though it does little to make this reality sensible again.

He rests his palm in the alpha’s hand, and the duke curls his fingers around it as if he has been given the most precious jewel in the entire kingdom.

The duke’s nostrils flare again at whatever scent Obi-Wan must be leaking into the air around them, and Obi-Wan darts a nervous look towards his brother. He is wildly out of his depth, but Mace does not offer much help.

“May I have this dance?” The alpha asks. His thumb strokes along the inside of Obi-Wan’s wrist, so close to one of his scenting glands that the action feels scandalous.

Obi-Wan swallows. “May I have your name?” He asks, clawing at normalcy as his instincts and body begin to revolt. But he would not be Obi-Wan Kenobi if he allowed himself to be so easily overpowered by his sudden urge to show his throat to a rather intense and powerful (and handsome and sweet-smelling) alpha.

The duke blinks, but rather than scowl at what can be nothing but a slight, his face breaks into a smile. “Anakin,” he says eagerly. “My name is Anakin Skywalker.”

Obi-Wan is helpless but to smile back. “Charmed,” he says because it’s true.

“May I have this dance?” The duke asks again, much more insistent now that the newest song has begun.

“You do not want my name?” Obi-Wan asks.

“I will learn it,” Duke Skywalker says so confidently that Obi-Wan would be hard-pressed to doubt him.

He opens his mouth—to tell him his name, to tell him he will dance, to tell him he cannot—but before he can get more than a breath into his lungs, his eyes are dragged away from the duke’s face by movement behind his shoulder.

People.

People staring, whispering, tongues wagging as they observe.

Obi-Wan takes his hand back, cold reality seeping into his field of vision. “You don’t want me,” he tells the duke quietly, leaning his head forward so that the words stay as private as his shame. “I promise.”

The alpha rears back as if Obi-Wan has said something deeply offensive. “I assure you, I do.”

“You do not,” Obi-Wan says firmly, turning slightly away toward the surety and safety of his brother.

“May I have this dance, omega?” The alpha catches his elbow. “Please.”

“You do not even have my name,” he says—the words are supposed to leave his mouth scathing, but instead they fall to the ground between them, heavy and lost. Before the alpha can reply, Obi-Wan shakes his head, so cognizant of the onlookers that he can hardly move his lips. “The song is almost over.”

“Thank the heavens then that the night is still young,” Duke Skywalker says immediately.

“My ankles hurt, I would be a terrible dance partner,” Obi-Wan murmurs. Mace makes a noise next to him, one that is half-disbelief and half exasperation.

“I shall have no other,” Anakin replies, stepping forward and carefully touching the dance card Obi-Wan has strapped to his wrist. “I would take all your remaining dances for myself.”

Obi-Wan’s lips curl up into a small smile. “I think that would lead to a riot, your grace.”

“Ah. So you know who I am. I wasn’t sure.”

“Know who you are? You bowed and gave me your name. I was listening.”

“You are vexing,” Anakin decides with a smile, as if the discovery is one to be worshipped or at the very least treasured.

Obi-Wan does not truly think of his actions or of their consequences. 

The last person who called him vexing had been his brother.

He is acting purely on learned behavior when he raises his chin and sticks his tongue out at Anakin. A second later, of course, he remembers himself and startles back, feeling the blush grow over his face as he blinks at the duke in front of him.

His brother groans. “Obi-Wan,” he swears as if his name is a curse. “For the love of—”

Anakin’s eyes have gone very dark. “Obi-Wan,” he repeats, testing the name on his tongue.

Obi-Wan swallows, and then, perhaps minutes too late, bows to the duke. 

“May I have this dance, Obi-Wan?” the alpha asks, extending his hand between their bodies.

This question, repeated for the third time still just as sweetly as its first iteration, causes the blush to darken across his face.

He allows his hand to rest in Anakin’s.

With his other hand, he deposits his untouched honeycake into his brother’s open palm. After a second’s consideration, he maneuvers his dance card off the circle of his wrist as well, dropping it next to the pastry. 

He has a feeling that he will not be needing it for the rest of the night.