#i literally am not disturbing nor bothering anyone and yet peoples just can't seem to go a day without hurting me 🥲

[kelin-is-writing]

do y'all know that feeling when you go to sleep at night where you just know something the next day is going to hurt you deeply? yeah, same.

[glare-gryphon]

Hi! So, I can't resist these prompt things, especially when my fav writers put them up! Thus, if you would like to, prompt 22 with Anakin/Vader would be great! Thanks :)

Here you are, my dear! I ended up working in Obikin because I am just… Obikin garbage.

Rating: M

Prompt: A book infested with ghosts

Relationship: Obi-Wan Kenobi/Anakin Skywalker (Darth Vader)

Additional Tags: Post-Mustafar AU, Suitless Vader (Vaderkin), Vaderwan, Sexual Content, Dubious Consent, Tatooine Mythology I Literally Made Up

~2670 Words

Anyone born of Tatooine knows better than to wander too farinto the Wastes. It is a savage, inhospitable place: a land of dragons andraiders and ghosts. Farmers dare not set down roots, travelers dare not passthrough its heart. It is cursed land, long-ago scorned by the gods of theirpeople. Anyone born of Tatooine knows that should you stay too long, the Wasteswill show you your past, your failures, your regrets. You will see what was andwhat could have been and what never will be. Those hills can drive a man mad.

It is there that he finds Obi-Wan Kenobi, at last.

Years of searching have led him to this moment. He hasslaughtered Jedi, sacked Temples, turned entire planets inside out in hispursuit of the man he had once called Master. Now he approaches, following theglow of the man’s Light through the Waste. His own presence is dimmed, maskedby the shielding he’s mastered in the time since their parting, lest he alertKenobi to his presence. If his has his way, this will be swift. His skills as aswordsman have grown under Sidious’ tutelage, and there is something satisfyingat the thought of finally besting his old mentor. He’d left his signature maskbehind in his transport, as there is little risk of anyone seeing his face sofar out into the desert; he’s going to look Obi-Wan in the eye when he strikeshim down.

Yet, when he crosses the next rise, it quickly becomesapparent that things will not be quite as simple as he had previously thought. Atthe base of the hill is a herd of bantha, grazing on the meager plant life thatthe Wastes are able to support. They snuffle and groan, their attention drawnwhen one of Vader’s boots knocks against a stone buried in the sand and sendsit careening down the hill.  Among them,cross-legged in meditation, is Obi-Wan himself.

Obi-Wan is older now than he was that final day on Mustafar,a fact that is more surprising than it rightfully should be. His hair and hisbeard are more grey than red, his face lined and worn by the desert. The twinsuns, just beginning to dip below the horizon, have managed to tan the man’sstubbornly space-pale skin, bringing out freckles on his shoulders and thebridge of his nose. Blue eyes, familiar yet so very different, follow thetrajectory of the displaced stone until they settle on Vader. There isrecognition there, but not comprehension. Not enough for the enormity of thissituation.

A brilliant smile blooms on his face. “Anakin!” He calls,pushing himself to his feet. The process is considerably slower than it hadonce been, his joints aged beyond his years by the abuses of war. “I waswondering when you would visit me.”

The smile he wears, the vacancy of his eyes—there issomething unsettling about it all. No one knows better than Obi-Wan Kenobi themonster that Anakin Skywalker has become. He alone knows the face hidden behindthe cold mask presented to the rest of the galaxy, and he alone knows the namelong-shed in favor of his new moniker. A thought flickers across Vader’s mindof the gossip he’d heard passing through Mos Eisley. Old Ben Kenobi, the Wizardof the Wastes.

Those hills can drivea man mad, the voice of a nine year old slave boy murmurs in his ear.

“It’s been some time since you last visited,” Kenobicontinues, and there’s a flicker of something injured in his expression. “I wasbeginning to wonder if you’d ever come back.”

A mirage. That’s all he is, or at least, all Obi-Wanbelieves him to be. This would be the perfect time to strike the man down. Hewould never see it coming. Never suspect. Yet something stays his hand, and hefinds himself climbing down the hill to meet Kenobi and his herd at its base.

“I was just about to take the bantha back to the homestead,but you’re welcome to join us.”

Even addled and desert-mad, Obi-Wan has still retained hisgift for the Force. It takes but a brush of his mind, his will, to get the herdmoving. Vader tracks along beside him as they make their way through the Waste,listening as the man babbles on about his life here in the desert, filling himin on the happenings since his mirage’s last visit. It’s mostly uneventful: thebirth of a new calf, a raid by the sand people, repair of the vaporators.“Qui-Gon comes around quite often, these days,” he says, suddenly solemn.“Sometimes I think I see… see Satine. She never lingers, though; not the wayyou and Qui-Gon do.”

Vader wonders how long the ghost of Anakin Skywalker hasbeen haunting his old mentor. How long had it taken for the curse of the Wasteto take its toll?

Seeing Kenobi’s homestead puts into perspective how the mancould have so quickly slipped from the war hero Vader spent years of his lifefighting beside to the mad old man whispered about in the canteens of MosEisley. The stables are well-maintained, but even the descent of night can hidethat everything else on the land seems just this side of dilapidated. Obi-Wandoesn’t seem particularly disturbed by this fact, nor does he comment whenVader hesitates in the doorway of the man’s home. He just ushers the man in, asthough inviting the ghosts of his past in for tea is just another part of hisaverage day.

“I’m sorry it’s a bit of a mess,” Obi-Wan mutters, the lightflush to his cheeks illuminated only by the light of the three moons as he scurriedaround ahead of Vader to try and pick up the space. “It’s been rather—rather difficultto keep things tidy since you stopped visiting.”

As far as homes go, Kenobi’s is spartan in the way one mightexpect from a former Jedi. Beyond the standard necessities for desert living,there is very little to distinguish it from any other homestead. There’s asmall living space, a dining table, and a cot pushed into one corner. In fact,beyond a mildly alarming number of empty bottles of alcohol, the only realunique piece in the home is a wooden chest near the bed, intricately carved andsecurely locked. Vader’s curious as to its contents, but Obi-Wan directs him toa chair at the dining table before he begins shuffling around in the kitchen toprepare tea and something for an evening meal.

Laying on the surface of the table is a familiar sight:Obi-Wan’s journal. An integral part of his former Master’s life, the journalhad rarely stayed far from the man’s side Even during the chaos of wartime, thelittle book could often be found tucked into the folds of the Kenobi’s robes,ready to be pulled out and the dealings of the day scribbled down whenever hecould find the time. Vader had mocked him for his incessant record-keeping, butthere was always something soothing about settling down beside the man,listening to the scratch of ink against flimsi and simply unwinding after thestress of another day on the battlefield.

Kenobi returns with two cups of what Vader presumes to be tea and bowls of what he knows to be stew. Little goes to wastein Tatooines’s harsh climate, and the small creatures that lurk in the nooksand crannies of its land had fed him often enough in his youth that he recognizestheir pungent aroma even now. The stew is barely edible, though this he wasexpecting. Kenobi never had any kind of gift in the kitchen, often relying onAnakin to keep them both fed when away from the refractory of the Jedi Temple.The tea, though, is quite possibly the worst thing he’s ever tasted. There’ssomething wrong with the filter of the vaporator the water had been collectedfrom, leaving a salty, metallic taste that makes him cringe.

The flavor doesn’t seem to bother his old mentor, who dragshis old journal closer and begins the ritual of recording the day’s events inits pages. He mumbles to himself as he writes, pausing intermittently to glanceup at Vader and make sure the man is still there. In honesty, the Sith isn’t intendingto move anytime soon, as he’s still not quite sure what he’s supposed to donow.

He’d come to this planet with the intention of striking downhis former Master. Obi-Wan Kenobi, Grand General of the Republic, the Negotiator,Sith Killer—a dozen titles worn by a man Vader thought himself to hate. Butthis Kenobi that sits before him? He is none of those things; as much a ghost ofhis former self as the specters that visit him. The thought of killing him nowleaves a sour taste in his mouth.

“I missed you,” Kenobi says quietly, drawing Vader from hisintrospection. He’s set the journal aside, turned the full focus of hisattention on the younger man. The Apprentice feels himself swallow reflexivelyat the intensity of his expression, very nearly flinches when one of Obi-Wan’shands covers his own. The calluses on his palm are unfamiliar now, wear from alightsaber’s hilt replaced with the evidence of physical labor. “I often findmyself wondering what our life might have been like if you’d left the Orderwhen you’d considered it as a padawan. Would the war have still come to passwithout our influence? Would things have been different between us? Would Ihave still… loved you?

“I don’t think I ever told you,” he confesses, “but I wouldhave left with you. I would have followed wherever you led. Stars, Anakin, whydidn’t I just tell you?”

Vader doesn’t dare speak, doesn’t dare shatter thisillusion, but he can’t hear any more. He can’t sit here and listen to Kenobispeak truths he’d considered impossible, and know that he’d thrown this man’sloyalty back in his face. He’d torn Obi-Wan’s world to pieces, reduced him tonothing but this broken, desert creature in return for his unconditional love.

Leaning over the table, he is perhaps a bit forceful when hepresses his lips to Kenobi’s. The man chokes, clearly intending to pull away,but Vader sinks one hand into the man’s hair to cut off his escape. When itbecomes apparent that he isn’t going to let go, Obi-Wan allows himself toreturn the kiss. Hesitant, at first, but gaining confidence with the longer thecontact continues, even daring to nip at Vader’s lower lip when the younger manpulls away to catch his breath.

They disentangle, Vader pushing out of his chair to tugKenobi to his feet and back him toward the small cot in the corner. He stripsthe man’s clothing off as they go, his own coming undone under Obi-Wan’s persistenthand. While the older man’s nakedness is something Vader seen a hundred timesbefore, it all seems new in this context: sprawled out on the thin blanket ofthe cot, pressed against Vader’s own. A small part of him notices that the manhas lost weight since their separation—a consequence of live on Tatooine.

“Anakin, please,” Obi-Wan gasps. “Take me.”

He shouldn’t, he knows he shouldn’t, and yet he does. Hedoes, because Obi-Wan begs and pleads, a desperation in his voice that makesVader think he might break if he doesn’t give this. This one thing, this onecomfort, this one desire.

They have nothing but spit and the fluid that beads on thetips of their cocks, everything else too precious to be wasted on something assuperfluous as sex. It’s not nearly enough to slick the way, to make the pressof Vader into him anywhere close to comfortable, but he suspects that isn’twhat Obi-Wan wants, anyways. His fingers dig into Vader’s shoulders when theyounger man is finally seated inside him, eyes scrunched with pain.

“Move,” he hisses between clenched teeth.

Vader does, slowly. Agonizingly so, despite Obi-Wan’s demandfor something harder. It may be what he wants, but it’s not what he needs. Heknows this and leans down, claiming the man’s lips in a tender kiss as he rocksagainst him. There in that moment, there is no Light and no Dark; no Jedi, norSith. It’s just him, just Obi-Wan, connected in a way the galaxy and fate hadlong denied them.

Tears stream down the older man’s face as Vader wringsorgasm from him, spattering their stomachs and chests with the evidence of hispleasure. The younger is quick to follow, spilling within Kenobi’s body, barelyable to stop himself from collapsing atop the man in the aftershocks. Both hisswhen he pulls free; there is blood on the sheets. Nothing to be done about itnow, however.

He goes willingly when Obi-Wan pulls him down, curls againstthe man’s chest and listens to the rhythm of his heart. Once, so long ago now,it had beat in time with Vader’s own. Out on the battlefield, tied together bythe Force, they’d moved and thought and breathed as one. Kenobi’s heart stillbeats to that rhythm; it is Vader’s own that has gone astray. He gave his heartto another, and another, and another. To all, it seems, but this one man, whoseown still belongs solely to the brother that forsook him.

“Must you go?” Obi-Wan asks. Vader doesn’t dare move whenthe man reaches out, cupping his face with a shaking hand and brushing away atear that’s escaped him despite his best efforts. “Yes, I suppose you must,” hesighs, a soft smile on his face. There is sadness in his eyes, like a woundthat will never heal. “You were always destined for greater things than thelove of this silly old man.”

Kenobi leans down, pressing one last, lingering kiss toVader’s lips, and it feels like something inside of him breaks. The heart he’dthought long burned from his chest cracks, shatters to pieces on the sandyfloor of the small hut. He wants to sob; to fall to his knees and beg forgiveness;to remain curled into the man’s chest until dawn and Obi-Wan realizes that thisisn’t a mirage created by the desert. But he can’t.

Already he can feel his Master’s impatience prodding at theshields he’s keeping so high, desiring a report Vader doesn’t want to give. Tolinger further would tempt fate—something he’s long since learned better thanto try. If his Master were to send someone out after him, they could findObi-Wan. They could find him, and kill him, and the last piece of AnakinSkywalker’s wretched, broken heart would die too. He can’t allow that.

So he pulls away, despite the way every part of him screamsin protest. Kenobi settles back against the sheets, eyes already flutteringclosed with his exhaustion, and Vader tucks the thin blanket around the man’sshoulders before he rises from the cot to collect his scattered clothing.Slipping from the home like the mirage he’s pretended to be, the touch ofObi-Wan’s journal burns against the skin of his chest like a brand. Wornleather and brittle pages, their history written down in thousands of words,stolen from its place on the man’s small dining table and tucked away withinhis robes. It had been Kenobi’s constant companion during the trials of war andhis lonely days in the Waste. Now it will be a reminder of everything waitingwhen Vader is finished atoning for the destruction he’s wrought.

“I love you, too,” he says to the wind before he boards histransport back to the Vengeance,sending a prayer to the old gods of the suns and sand that his confession willbe carried safely back to whom it belongs.