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tennessoui · 11 months ago

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hi kit i swear to god someone sent in 35 from the prompt list for 'one of them is trying to get the other off of drugs' but someone must have deleted the ask from your ask box.

oh no! who could have done such a thing. after i already wrote 3k for this prompt and everything!

(but in seriousness i KNOW someone sent me that prompt i just can't find it rn!!! but i enjoyed writing this so much it really literally could be the first chapter of a multi-chapter fic......we'll see)

(also this is what i wrote for the same prompt from a few years ago)

35. one of them is trying to get the other off of drugs

(3k) (warning: non con drugging/attempted date rape drugs used -not by main characters)

Obi-Wan’s got a heavy mind most days. Heavy heart too, but it’s been a while since he checked in with that part of himself. Mind’s easier.

Right now, he’s mostly annoyed at the cantina crowd, but that’s a most days thing too. After all, the cantina’s in the middle of the spaceport, best watering hole around. Only watering hole around, really, and it gets him all sorts of people walking through his doors.

Some days, he really wishes Linell’s hadn’t closed, mostly so he could send the roughest looking folk that way instead. He doesn’t care much if smugglers decide to get wasted at a bar before hopping in the cockpit of their ships, but he doesn’t necessarily want it to happen at his cantina.

Mostly because when smugglers get drunk, they get rowdy. They get dangerous. They get handsy.

And Obi-Wan’s not under any sort of illusion here, he knows what sort of cantina he runs, knows the crowd it attracts, knows no one’s ever gonna bring their youngling past the doors—knows that no Jedi is ever going to stop in for a drink.

But that doesn’t mean he’s going to allow for that sort of ruckus. The Temple raised him better than that, for whatever that’s worth. They instilled a pretty solid understanding of morality in him at a young age; then the AgriCorps gave him an appreciation of organization and tidiness that even after two decades away from it all, he hasn’t managed to shake.

It makes for bad business anyway, to allow the rougher-looking crowd to linger in the back corner, swat at the passing serving girl, call out harassments to other customers. And perhaps this wasn’t the life Obi-Wan thought he’d have, but it’s the life he does have. And he’s in no mood for his cantina to go under as well because of morons like Chak Tuuel getting too drunk and causing a scene.

It was easier four years ago, Obi-Wan has to admit. It was easier to keep a tight hold on his cantina when he could openly use the Force to pull patrons off of each other, push one back to his chair and spirit the other to the far side of the room. It was easier when all it took to convince a pirate that he’d be better switching to water was a well-placed Force command.

But the rise of the Empire saw the criminalization of Force users, even ones who can’t be called Jedi, like Obi-Wan.

It’s been bad for business, the Empire has. That’s the only thing Obi-Wan cares about, the only reason he has to hold such hatred in his heart for the emperor. It has nothing to do with the massacre of the Jedi, the fall of the Temple. It’s because it’s bad for business. That’s all.

Now he has to be ten times more discerning about who he lets into his cantina because he has to actually reason with them now. On more than one occasion in the past four years, since the Fall of the Temple, he’s chopped off a patron’s hand. Arm. Whatever.

That’s also bad for business in general, though it’s not as if he can actually get into much trouble for it, considering he owns this cantina. And it’s the Outer Rim. Anything goes.

His eyes survey the cantina as his hands busy themselves making a drink for a rather quiet patron at the bar. Most likely a businessman of some sort, given how often Obi-Wan’s seen him come in and out.

It’s rather late in the night, as much as there is a night at the spaceport. The cantina’s full of the usual sorts, and the place is loud. There’s a group of five men in the back, dressed like smugglers. Obi-Wan has been watering down their drinks for the last two rounds, but they’ve yet to notice. Their eyes are ravenous as they look around them. Most of them are big, all are human. There’s one small one amongst the pack, and it’s him that Obi-Wan’s eyes stick to.

There’s something about him. Maybe it’s the way he holds himself, tense and with his shoulder hunched. Maybe it’s because of how smaller he is than the companions he’s chosen. Maybe it’s because he’s so pretty.

Even from all the way across the cantina, Obi-Wan knows the boy is pretty, can see his pale pink lips and dark golden curly hair. He doesn’t look like the sort of person who tends towards the crowds of pirates and smugglers that populate the back corners of Obi-Wan’s cantina. He looks out of place, misplaced.

Sith’s hells, Obi-Wan probably looks more like a smuggler than this boy. Even the scar across his face, through his eyebrow and trailing down his cheek does little to make the boy look dangerous. Even his outfit—a black cloak on top of other, darker clothes—cannot make him look as dangerous as the men around him.

But they had come in as a pack, the boy in the middle of them. It had been the boy who had talked with the serving girl, Challa, who sat them. It had been him who’d ordered the first round of drinks.

The Force is screaming, a loud reverberation of a warning filling up his head and making the beginnings of his headache twenty times worse.

If someone dies tonight in Obi-Wan’s cantina, Obi-Wan is going to make Challa fill out the flimsiwork. It would be what she deserves for allowing this crowd in.

A moment before Obi-Wan looks away, the boy looks up from his drink and catches him staring. His face freezes as it is, held tight as he looks at Obi-Wan looking at him. For a strange moment, it looks like his eyes flash gold before they fall away, attention grabbed by the kid next to him.

Obi-Wan’s own attention is claimed a moment later.

“Whatcha looking at, boss?” the second bartender on shift asks, resting their arms on the counter beside him. “You look mighty disgruntled.”

“So you thought adding yourself to the situation would help,” he says automatically, caustically as he turns away from the group to stare at his employee. “Naturally.” “Naturally,” Saak agrees with a pointy smile. “I’m a saint.”

“Hm,” Obi-Wan says, even though he quite likes working with the twi’lek. These days, Obi-Wan keeps much close to his chest—especially his affection.

“That’s not an answer to my question,” Saak points out, looking back out at the cantina. “Who’s caught your eye? Because me and the crew in the back have a bet going about if you’re ever going to take someone home.” “I don’t mix business and pleasure,” Obi-Wan says, eyes staying resolutely away from the boy’s table.

“See, that’s part of the bet,” Saak says, easy as anything. “We don’t think you have pleasure.”

Obi-Wan frowns and turns to look at them fully. “What.”

Saak shrugs. “I don’t think I’ve seen you smile once, and I’ve worked here for three years. You don’t come out with us after work, you throw out every comm sequence customers leave you-–and trust me, I know there’s been a lot, you never mention anyone at home. In your personal life.”

“I enjoy a healthy amount of privacy,” Obi-Wan snaps, clenching his fists tight on the towel between his hands before he carefully tosses his irritation into the Force.

He understands almost immediately that his anger isn’t even at Saak for prying or at his employees for gossiping.

It’s because he knows Saak is right. Not about—well, not about abstaining from sex, as Obi-Wan gets a rather sizable amount of sex at any given time. But about the distance. The lack of pleasure. Even the sex doesn’t light him up the way it did when he was seventeen, fresh from leaving the Agricorps and setting out across the stars. A consequence of age probably.

“Hey,” Saak’s tone changes, turning from cajoling employee into something much more concerned. “That table in the back, look—I don’t think that guy is doing alright.”

Obi-Wan snaps out of his thoughts instantly and looks at where Saak’s gesturing.

He knows before he even sees them that it’s that Force forsaken table in the back.

And Saak’s right, shit.

The boy Obi-Wan had been staring at looks—looks rough suddenly. His head is reclining back onto the body of the man beside him, eyes half-lidded. He’s flushed a flattering red, lips parted and stained an even darker color.

He could just be feeling the effects of the alcohol he’s been consuming for the past hour now, but it’s the way his companions look at him that has Obi-Wan rounding the bar and crossing the cantina. They look hungry. Eager. Anticipatory.

In the Force, the boy’s muted presence has become fuzzy. Muted.

Of course the moment Obi-Wan turns his gaze away from the group, they drug the boy. It suddenly seems so inevitable that it’s almost funny. Of course this was going to happen.

“What did you give him,” he demands as he reaches the table. The anger licking at his chest is new. Useful. Righteous.

One of the smugglers, the one next to the boy, tosses him a sleazy grin, wrapping his arm around the boy’s shoulder. “No need to kick us out, mister,” he says. “We were just leaving.”

“Yes, you were,” Obi-Wan nods sharply. “Without him.”

The smuggler’s grin slides off his face. “He came with us.”

“You drugged him!”

The boy in question looks up at Obi-Wan as much as he can with his eyes half-way to shut. “Oh,” he says. “That’s what it is.”

His voice is slow and deep. A byproduct of the drug?

He blinks at him in syrupy slowness, and his eyes are tawny. Why had Obi-Wan thought they were blue from across the cantina? They shine golden now.

Something about his eyes, his face, the way he’s looking at Obi-Wan makes his thin sense of control snap. “You will leave now,” he commands, Force reverberating through the words, so strong that the smugglers stand to attention immediately, repeating the order mindlessly.

Even the boy struggles to obey, pushing up on his feet in drunken surety.

“Not you,” Obi-Wan snaps. The boy sits back down like his strings have been cut, a sigh of relief at the release.

It’s entirely too orgasmic to be appropriate.

And the way the boy looks up at him is entirely too trusting for someone who’s just been drugged by his companions.

“I hope you have another form of transportation off here,” Obi-Wan says with a sigh. “I imagine you will not want to travel with them tomorrow.” “I’ll kill ‘em,” the boy mumbles, letting his head fall back.

“Sure, kid,” Obi-Wan tells him. He looks like he couldn’t hurt a fly, let alone kill a man, but he’s also not entirely sure the boy would appreciate him pointing that out. He looks like a kid who’s decided to try and play outlaw.

This is what happens to kids who try to play outlaw, he thinks dispassionately.

“Not a kid,” the kid says.

“Sure, kid.” He’ll need water. Obi-Wan grabs at his chin and forces his eyes up. His pupils are so dilated it’s hard to even see what color his irises are. Paired with the flushed cheeks, the poor coordination, and the slurred but cohesive speech, Obi-Wan’s pretty sure he knows what sort of spice they used on the poor kid.

And the comedown is legendary for how rough it is.

Obi-Wan barely resists the urge to sigh. It’s even harder to resist the urge to scream.

He hates the men who laced the boy’s drink. He hates Challa for letting the group of men into his cantina, thereby making this his problem. He hates Vynny for crashing his speeder and forcing Obi-Wan to cover his shift while he recuperates from the loss of both legs.

And he hates the fucking ghost of the Jedi Order for instilling in him the importance of doing the right thing.

“You’re coming home with me,” he says, unable to stop himself from sighing.

The boy blinks at him. “If you touch me, I’ll kill you too,” he warns, but his eyes are still much too trusting. “Slowly.” “Noted,” Obi-Wan snaps, reaching down to fish the boy out of the booth. “And when you’re sober again, you’re going to be paying for the entire tab you and your lot racked up.”

The boy pouts, even as he allows Obi-Wan to drag him to his feet. “What if I let you touch me instead?” “I don’t want to touch you,” Obi-Wan says. “I want the credits.” The boy giggles and presses his face against his neck. Obi-Wan waves to Saak behind the bar, gesturing to the boy and then to the doors, trying to convey I’m going home to take care of this absolute youngling because I am a better person than you and you need to take care of my cantina and lock up behind you and no, this does not count as taking a customer home with me.

Saak gives him two thumbs up, so Obi-Wan is hoping that means the message has been received. It had better be received.

“What’s your name, kid?” he asks as he navigates out of the cantina. Thank the Force, his own cruiser is close. The boy is heavier and bigger than he’d looked amongst the rest of his group. Firmer and more weighted with muscle. And Obi-Wan is no waif, but he doesn’t care to lug around a man who is actually, well. Taller than him.

“Vader,” the boy mumbles, nuzzling into Obi-Wan’s touch. “Why do you feel so good?”

“It’s the spice they gave you,” Obi-Wan mutters. “Makes touch feel good, makes you…want.”

“Oh,” Vader says, rubbing his face against Obi-Wan’s neck like a cat. “I don’t want it.” “Me neither, kid,” he assures him, propping him up against the side of his ship so he can unlock it and key in the code to have the ramp descend.

“Good,” Vader says. “Keep touching me.”

Obi-Wan bites his lip so he doesn’t tell the kid that he doesn’t take commands, not even from imperious little boys who sound as if they’re very used to being obeyed.

It adds more evidence to his theory that Vader is some spoiled rich kid looking to rebel.

“What were you even doing with them?” He mutters as he drops Vader into the seldom-used co-pilot seat of his ship. “Not the sort you’d want to hang around with, are they?” “Bellion,” Vader replies loosely, waving a weak hand. “As’ —assign—assignm’nt.”

It takes through takeoff for Obi-Wan to realize what he’s said. “The Rebellion? You were on an assignment for the rebellion?” Vader makes a noise and turns his head to look at him, eyes almost shut. “Bellion,” he agrees, before promptly passing out.

“Huh,” Obi-Wan says.

Of course he knew that there was a rebellion against the empire, that they were building in both power and numbers as the years grew. He’d even flirted with the notion of joining it himself, but he’d always stepped back. The rebellion was too close to the Jedi. And the Jedi had made it clear that they did not want him.

Why would the rebellion be any different?

When he’s entered hyperspace, he looks over at the boy who has turned his head away from him, exposing the long lines of his neck.

He really is quite beautiful, for better or for worse.

The boy shifts, restless. He pushes himself further into the seat, leaning back and spreading his legs. Obi-Wan would wonder what he’s dreaming about, but before he can, the boy’s cloak shifts.

And there, on his hip. The handle of a lightsaber.

Obi-Wan is moving before he can help it, stepping over to Vader’s side of the ship quietly, eyes glued to the ‘saber.

It’s been so long since he’s seen one. He never got to hold his own. Never made one himself.

But here is one now, on Vader’s hip. Vader is a Jedi. A Jedi!

It is part greed, part agony, and part disbelief that makes Obi-Wan reach his hand out and carefully detach the blade from Vader’s belt.

The boy does not even notice, except to push his hip up further at the ghost of Obi-Wan’s touch.

It’s a heavy weight in Obi-Wan’s hand, and he takes a moment to just—look at it. It’s darker than he would have crafted his own, sturdier and longer too, as if Vader wields it with two hands. He probably does—Obi-Wan still remembers his forms, remembers each stance down to the footwork. Vader has the body to be a formidable Djem’So user. Or Atari. Obi-Wan had favored the latter when he was an Initiate.

Vader is a Jedi. Perhaps—perhaps in the morning, after the spice is out of his system, he can tell Obi-Wan about the Temple in its final days. Surely he was not there, Obi-Wan doesn’t know how anyone could have survived the massacre, but he must know. He does not truly look so young that he would have been an Initiate. He must have been a Knight.

Perhaps Obi-Wan will tell him about being raised there. He can share in his pain, if only a little bit. After all, Obi-Wan spent thirteen years of his life at the Temple. The Jedi will always hold a part of his heart. He has never before wanted to admit that, but now—Vader is a Jedi. He would understand.

Obi-Wan’s mouth is dry as he drops his gaze back to the saber.

He wants suddenly, terribly, to flick it on. To hear the buzz of the ions of the blade. To see the color of Vader’s kyber crystal. He wants to take pleasure from the sight of it, the enduring symbol of it, of the Order.

He knows he should not. He knows he has no right to it. If he were meant to hold a lightsaber, his life would have worked out in thirteen thousand different ways.

But—Vader is asleep.

And no one would have to know.

If just for a second, Obi-Wan allowed himself to give into his want.

He flicks it on and then almost drops it from the sheer surprise he feels as it powers to life in his hands. Because the blade is not green. It isn’t blue. It isn’t even purple, like he remembers Master Windu’s being.

It is a sickly looking red.

It is not a blade of a Jedi.

Obi-Wan flicks it off and tucks it back onto Vader's belt. Then he sits down in the pilot's chair once more, head spinning and heart racing.

And he directs the ship to drop out of hyperspace to his homeplanet anyway because---well. What else can he do? He'd promised to take the boy home and see him off the spice.

The fact that the boy is---is a Sith does not change anything. It cannot.

#asks #prompt fill #obikin #vaderwan #anakin is going to wake up and be like aw why is he being so distant and grouchy #and obi-wan is going to be like i cant believe im helping someone who probably helped murder my family #but then vader who has not experienced kindness from strangers before #keeps coming back for more kindness from this grumpy stranger #this is like #non consensual adoption of a grumpy bartender au #or something lmao

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