#prof kenobi

[gojonanami]

Um when my major is physics with an emphasis on astrophysics. I hope my professor for my new astronomy is as hot as professor gojo is cause other wise i will be soooo disappointed

manifesting this for you truly — if not, you can always imagine gojo is one of your professors and I’m sure he can give you some encouragement :)

[cupcakeinat0r]

Prof!Miguel has been updated on Ao3!!!

Part 1 is 3.3k words long 👀 Which is significantly longer than the original, so I’d advise for those who have read it alr to read again! A lot of good stuff has been added, I promise 🫶

Enjoy ! <3

<3 Tags <3

@mukeovernetflix @mochikisses @miguels-cock-piercings @miranexx @bunnibitez @deepdiveintothedeephive @faretheeoscar @sillygardeneggperson @librababe99 @sariespi @little-lovelace @monstersimp @oharasfilipinawife @obi-mom-kenobi @hyjionie @maomaimao @pomakori @pinkhelados @mochimoqa @princesatracionera @queerponcho @walmaerts @froggygal @yaysposts @koko-1025 @kikaaauu @lauraolar14 @anotherprettyprincess @kaidxra @farrowroyale @pigeonmama @exactlyyoungchaos @fayeofthenightingale @s4dow @safixiovi

@hartsucks @amberbalcom14 @wait2nourh @tatooieve @helen-j-magnus @cl3stevu

@mintssanctuary @ghost-lantern @snails-doodles22 @tinythebunni @shaquilles-0atmeal @nina-from-317 @exoticb-utters

[halfagonyandhope]

ignite the stars │ch. 1

Satine Kryze is an internationally-recognized scholar in genocide studies who recently resigned from the Department of State over her concerns regarding the agency's ethics. Ben Kenobi is a tenured professor at Georgetown University studying the use of religion to justify military conflicts. Once high school sweethearts, the two haven't spoken since parting ways for university. That is, until Satine accepts a research fellowship - at Georgetown.

---

"The dark is generous and it is patient and it always wins –

but in the heart of its strength lies its weakness:

one lone candle is enough to hold it back.

Love is more than a candle.

Love can ignite the stars.”

― Matthew Stover

---

She’s lost.

Satine Kryze sits on a wooden bench in a deserted hallway, rolling her eyes. If only they could see me now, she thinks. Satine Kryze, internationally-recognized scholar of genocide, once heir-apparent to the United States Department of State - lost, on her way to find her new office.

It’s not as though Georgetown University’s campus is particularly hard to navigate. But she’d just spent eight hours in back-to-back department meetings for her orientation to her new fellowship position, and she can barely recall what she’d managed to eat for lunch let alone where she’d been several hours before that. And her Metro card - the key to her catching her bus and getting home - happens to be in her office, along with her phone.

She sighs. No matter. By the sound of it, lecture is wrapping up in the room beside her, and she can ask for directions.

Satine leans against the cool marble behind her and begins to listen to the prof.

She tenses.

She knows that voice.

The last time she’d heard it - in person at least - they’d been hastily pulling off clothes nearly twenty years ago, both eighteen and about to depart for university, loath to let either of their first times be with anyone but each other.

And then he’d disappeared, off to West Point, seemingly to enlist in the war.

“Dr. Kenobi, can I get an extension on the midterm paper?” comes the sound of a young voice as the door to the classroom opens and a throng of students rush to leave. “My grandma passed away this weekend, and I need to attend her funeral.”

Satine hears a sigh. “Mildred,” comes a deep voice. “How many grandmothers do you have? By my count, you’ve lost three this term, and it’s not yet half over.”

Satine snickers, then, remembering herself, she covers her face with her arm as though stifling a cough. The stream of students slows to a trickle, and then an embarrassed Mildred exits the room. Satine stands and takes a deep breath.

Then she steps inside.

The lecture hall slopes downward so that she has the high ground. The lights are still dimmed, PowerPoint presentation still on the screen above the man behind the lectern.

Ben Kenobi looks precisely as she remembers and yet completely different. His auburn hair is neat, tidy, but there are patches of gray near his temples. Satine tenses again as she takes in his beard - now that is new. She’s not sure what to think of it.

Tall still, and lanky - still - but now, the years have filled him out. Ben is muscular and broad in ways completely unfamiliar to her. But the way he moves, every motion smooth, calculated, like a dancer - that’s all she’s ever known.

Ben ejects his thumb drive from the computer, drops it in his bag, and looks up.

Satine meets his eyes.

He can’t hide his surprise.

“Satine?”

She embraces the awkwardness. “Hello there, Ben.”

He hitches his bag further up on his shoulder. “After all these years, you're even more beautiful than ever,” he says, seemingly without thinking if the blush that spreads across his face is any indication.

Satine raises an eyebrow, but she’s amused. “And you’re still a flirt.”

She walks down the aisle to meet him at the lectern, under the dim light. And she takes in all the details she could not from the top of the room: the laugh lines around his eyes - she hopes the wrinkles are due to laughter - and the scent of sandalwood. The latter, at least, hasn’t changed, and the memories activated by the distinct aroma flash in her mind.

The twinkle of his eyes, blessedly, also remains.

“It’s still working for you, apparently,” he retorts.

Satine rolls her eyes and crosses her arms against her chest. “All those years, and yet…here we are.”

He grins. “Here we are.”

She can’t help the quirk of her lip, even if her stomach flips at the sight of his smile. “It is good to see you again, Ben.”

“Likewise, Madam Secretary,” he teases. “Or has everyone stopped calling you that?”

Satine groans internally at the old nickname. It had started at boarding school and somehow continued throughout university, amplified by her meteoric rise at State after completing her doctorate. Despite the hype, she’d resigned before ever truly becoming qualified for the position.

At her silence, Ben says, “I read your op-ed. In The Washington Post,” he adds, as if feeling the need to clarify - perhaps wondering if she’d written other critically-acclaimed opinion pieces. “It was well-written. Noble.”

“Yet not realistic?” It was the same argument they’d had twenty years ago, the same argument they’d always had.

Ben shrugs. “What I think is hardly the point. You realized the work you were doing didn’t suit the person you’d become. That’s honorable.”

“You disagree with my choice.”

“Would I have made a different choice? Yes,” says Ben, chuckling. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t respect yours. And for the record, I think you’re right - I don’t think there’s a way to work in international relations, particularly at State, without compromising your ethics or morals. But I’d rather the kind of people who are actually concerned about that be the ones who remain in leadership there.”

Satine lets out a huff. “Was that a disguised compliment, Ben Kenobi?”

“There was nothing disguised about it, Satine.”

They hold each other’s gaze for a long moment before he speaks again.

“But you didn’t stop by my lecture for a compliment,” he says. “In fact, judging by how uncomfortable you look, you didn’t plan on stopping by here at all.”

Satine sighs. “I left my phone and Metro card in my office. And I do not remember where my office is.” She narrows her eyes at him before he can speak. “It’s been a long day,” she hisses, and he throws up his hands in mock surrender.

“Did I say anything?” he says.

“You were thinking it. Very loudly.”

“I didn’t say anything!”

“Look, Ben, I just assumed whichever authority figure was lecturing here would know how to get back to the International Relations wing. Little did I know that no actual authority figure would be lecturing.”

He presses a hand to his heart. “A lethal blow. Well, authority figure or not, I actually know precisely where your office is.” At her questioning glance, he gives her a small smile. “I stopped there earlier today. I knew it was your first day, and it’s not far from my office. I wanted to warn you.”

I wanted to give you a head’s up so that you wouldn’t find out your ex works down the hall from you, potentially in front of all your new coworkers.

The additional explanation goes unsaid, but she hears it anyway, and she is grateful. Then all of his words sink in.

Satine blinks at him. “You kept tabs on when I was starting?”

“You’re joining my department,” he says pointedly.

“You’re in International Relations?”

“The tone in which you delivered that was another lethal blow. Yes, actually, and I was just granted tenure last year.”

She tilts her head, considering. “You weren’t among the faculty I saw when I interviewed.” She would have remembered seeing him.

Ben shifts his weight. “I was on sabbatical last semester. I didn’t spend much time on campus, much to the horror of my postdoc and grad student.”

“Pray, please repeat yourself because I must not have heard that correctly. Ben Kenobi, the man who once swore hither and yon that he would never go into teaching, is now a tenured professor with a postdoc and a doctoral student?”

“Technically, she’s a master’s student.”

Satine bites her lip.

“Probably wise to remain silent,” says Ben, smirking at her, “if you’re counting on me to rescue you. Further verbal abuse and I’ll just get you even more lost.”

He gestures with his hand for her to lead the way out of the lecture hall, and she climbs the steps in front of them, pondering over his words. He’s right, she realizes, but not for the reasons he thinks.

She’s already irrevocably lost - she had been the moment she’d locked eyes with him again.

[aragarna]

10 characters, 10 fandoms

RULES: List your ten favourite characters from ten separate fandoms then tag ten people!

Thank you Prof @professorlehnsherr-almashy for the tag! <3

Peter Burke (White Collar)

2. Andrea Fanti (Doc, Nelle Tue Mani)

3. Aziraphale (Good Omens)

4. Henry Morgan (Forever)

5. John Reese (Person of Interest)

6. Diego de la Vega (Zorro)

7. D'Artagnan (The Three Musketeers)

8. Obiwan Kenobi (Obiwan Kenobi)

9. Doug Ross (E.R.)

10. Richard Castle (Castle)

Andrea is making a dramatic entrance and steals the silver medal!(Peter is and will always be #1. That's just the rule). Top 6 is my hardcore top. I wish there were women in there, but I boringly only fall for men. Also it's technically book!d'Artagnan more than any other version but while I didn't really like the movies, I do like François Civil so... ;)

Special mentions for: Horatio Hornblower (Hornblower), Jonesy (Carnivale), Paul Weston (In Treatment - how could I forget Paul?!). And Tintin should probably be there somewhere too.

tagging @thesymphonytrue @penna-nomen @ascreamintothevoid-blog @archaeopter-ace @amalthea9 @mystrade4lyfe @ladymisteria @laylainalaska @donfadrique @whirlwind-lancer-dilan @fluencca and whoever wants to play! :)

[palfriendpatine66]

Favorite obikin smutty fan fic tropes ask

(Long winded ask. Bear with me) SO. A million bajillion years back I had the idea for a creative writing obikin modern au in which Anakin is a little shit college student who writes increasingly erotic self insert fictions staring Jedi Adrian Starkiller and his illicit romance with his mentor, a thinly veiled stand in for Professor Kenobi that is fooling absolutely nobody.

Here’s where the ask comes in: I would LOVE for Anakin’s stories (which we will read/experience mostly through Prof. Kenobi’s reactions to reading) to be an amalgamation of all kinds of super common fanfic tropes. He’s going to start off a little less obvious and end up writing over the top, gratuitous smut in an attempt to seduce/get a reaction from Professor Kenobi.

Have a favorite way one of them is described during sex? Super common thing that comes up every time that wouldn’t feel right without it? Ridiculous thing that they *must* say? I would LOVE to hear, and will have So Much Fun trying to include your faves in some kind of ridiculous Anakin Skywalker original.

Comment, ask anon, message, whateves floats your boat!! I’ll be collecting these ongoing for a while! Send them along anytime!

I foresee me doing this for fun when I need a break from some of my more angstier ideas in the works 😉 thanks in advance 💕

[ladyxskywalker]

writing more gentlemanly banter & filth 😭 brooding hot anakin loml. doting prince oberyn. flirty boy kenobi & grr angry din. smug pilot king poe. sad prof hours. ugh. & then ... 💫💖

[jezatalks]

Je réfléchissais (encore) à mon autisme et au fait que ce trouble est potentiellement héréditaire.

Je pense pas que ça vienne directement de mes parents parce qu'ils sont avenants/assez extrovertis mais avec le combo hypersensible pour ma mère (mais pas autant que moi) et ils adorent aller en concert. Donc j'ai été fouiller dans ma mémoire. Côté maternel, je vois pas grand chose malgré la 50aine de personne qui compose ma famille. Mes grands parents maternels sont décédés il y a 10 ans maintenant et j'en ai pas trop trop se souvenirs. Mais ils aimaient quand il y avait toujours du monde chez eux. Je pense pas que ce soit ça.

Par contre côté paternel, il y a mon grand père, et avec le recul je me dis : peut être queeeee.

Il a un caractère particulier, mon copain le compare à Obi-Wan Kenobi car il veut souvent apporter un dernier mot sage/conclusion à quais toutes les discussions alors que souvent il n'y participe pas.

Il possède une étagère dans son bureau intégralement remplie de sa collection d'insectes. Toutes les étagères à livres de la maison, excepté 3 ont ses livres de sciences/nature/animaux (il était prof de science en collège et lycée)

Il a une pièce qui s'appelle "la pièce aux animaux" aka un cabinet de curiosité avec au milieu de sa collection d'hameçons préhistorique, pierre précieuses et d'animaux empaillés, on a un crâne humain unique par un micro détail, une dent de mammouth, une moulure de poumon de lièvre ou encore un poisson séché/empaillé.

Outre ces passions/collections il a sa propre pièce pour développer ses photos.

Il est extrêmement énervé qu'on touche à ses affaires sans demander.

Il ne supporte pas qu'on mette de la musique, alors que ma grand-mère adore ses CDs et que son bureau est à l'exacte opposé du post radio. Les seules fois où il a toléré la musique, c'est quand on faisait des trajets de minimum 5h de voiture pour les vacances (et pas plus de 1 CD par 1h30/2h)

Il voit facilement les détails. Ce qui lui permet toujours de repérer grenouilles, champignons, particularité sur une feuille ou arbre en forêt et champs.

Comme moi il n'aime pas les carottes.

Il a "son couteau" pour manger. Qu'il aiguise et nettoie lui même.

Il pourrait porter les mêmes vêtements des semaines d'affiler et sa garde robe comporte énormément d'articles similaires.

Quand on était petites, il enregistrait films sur films sur vhs. Il numerottait les vhs, et reportait les noms des films dans un répertoire (ordre alphabétique donc) avec le numéro de la cassette pour qu'on puisse trouver la vhs plus facilement. Avant qu'ils ne jettent tout, il y en avaient au moins 60 consacrées aux films jeunesse, et au moins 50 de plus pour des films +14 ans et plus.

[notthestarwar]

WIP

my drafts are getting impossible to navigate so posting this so i can find it easier

Posted:

Talking to the dead (tangled au)

What the living do rewrite

How the living go on living and the dead go on living with them (what the living do sister story)

No children (looper au)

The glass wall

Not posted:

The island

Boba and Cody spn au

Amnesiac Fox- fox&maul.

Obi Wan and Jango’s dream(s)-

Fox gets a job- quin/ Fox

Prime, the worst clone.

Undead Fox

Who killed chancellor palpatine

The unwanted and unintentionally abandoned- Post order 66 Boba and Korkie (Kenobi) team up.

Post order 66, Obi Wan finds Cody. (reverse Cody finds Obi Wan on Tatooine.) Cody is not happy.

Venators are haunted- ghost story where arla haunts the clones.

The one where everyone runs away

Those that are forgotten and those that are just lost- Jango/Obi Wan. they meet on Mandalore during the civil war and within minutes of meeting, Jango sees a vision of himself killing Obi Wan years in the future. He ends up falling for him anyway.

A violent product of a violent world- Cody/Obi Wan. Chip CC2224 finds himself in competition with the man he once was for Obi Wan’s love. And then Cody starts trying to take over CC2224’s body.

Modern AU- The most convoluted backstory ever. Obi wan and cody Foster baby boba cause jango is involved in a conspiracy

The cycle ends with me- in which Luke runs away to tattooine to try and raise Ben Solo’s child and ‘end the cycle.’ Literally takes nothing from canon but names. I can not stress this enough, Rey and Ben Solo are at no point anywhere near being together. Rey is a lesbian and living her best life.

Slavery canon divergence- Jango & Obi Wan were slaves together in the past. Cody ends up driving Anakins redemption?

The dream/the pond- University prof AU in which all is perfect and actually a dream, reality starts creeping in and corrupting the beautiful

End credits- Codywan reverse happy ever after. (post order 66 happily ever after slowly unravels)

Cody tries to find himself by moving in to Rex and Ahsoka’s spaceship roomshare.

Obi wan raises anakin Modern AU- where Qui Gon (irresponsible absent dad) visits (just about) adult Obi Wan, turning up on his doorstep with a child (this is Anakin, your new brother) and then dies in an accident.

Suburban life- post order 66 Anakin and Padme living in perfect suburbia, on some distant planet, nobody knows them. They are desperately trying to make friends but everyone thinks they are utter weirdos. So they plot to bring Cody and Obi Wan to live there, to show everyone how normal they are.

Council chambers- Obi Wan walks in to a council chambers type limital space, full of representatives all of a possible future, each of them are terrible

The Orb- Codywan on tattoine in which Obi Wan tries to tear apart reality to fix the past

The one where Cody’s chip breaks and he sets out as a bounty hunter after a woman hires him to find her husband

Bedtime stories from an alternative universe- A collection of stories from various universes running parallel to the prequels and what comes after.

You could make this beautiful sequel- Cody confronts Obi Wan about running

What the living do sequels-

-And when the time comes to let it go, to let it go (Boba, Rex and Cody in the aftermath)

-Nothing is lost in life or love (Cody and Obi Wan live their best life after the war. Obi Wan hasn’t seen a ghost in years. Anakin is raising the twins by himself and so visits often to make this their problem.)

[stars-gazeback]

this is exactly the prof. kenobi that cody is heart-eyes.emoji about

I’m always a little Meh on people making Cody the same age (or older) than Obi-Wan in AUs that don’t take place in the gffa. Because. Listen.

Hot fresh grad Cody with some impressive job as like… a newscaster or a male model or some military thing… dating a bedraggled rumpled wet cat of a middle-aged Bug Scientist, and thinking this easily-distracted disaster is the hottest shit ever, while his brothers look on in absolute confusion and mild horror.

Obi-Wan can clean up nice and be this refined professor type with perfectly coiffed hair and perfectly groomed beard and perfectly pressed sweatervest combo and a perfectly cultured accent… but then he sees a rare Parasitic Worm in the bushes by the koi pond, and suddenly he’s covered in mud and bleeding and holding up this specimen with demands for a mason jar so he can get it back to a lab and see if they can get this into that one breeding program over in the university three states over.

And 22yo ‘could have literally anyone he wants’ Cody is like 😍

[gojonanami]

hi i would like you to know that you are putting me through so much pain because of the tension in the second part of the prof geto fic. Im literally walking around my apartment screaming just let them fuck, and my neighbors are confused as hell.❤️

@nanamishotbuns

hahaha i love that for you -- i'm both sorry and you're welcome!!!

don't worry, they will have a happy ending (and they will fuck :D)

[highsviolets]

ne plus ultra

summary: you encounter acclaimed scholar obi-wan kenobi after an academic conference

rating: mature (not explicit)

notes: all my love and affection to brit and mia. @profkenobi​ you are my prompt muse & @goldenkenobi​ you win many awards by listening to my endless rambles about this fic. // CHAPTER TWO 

ne plus ultra (n). 

(1) the highest point capable of being attained 

(2) the most profound degree of a quality or state

the story starts in medias res, as all lives do. the beginning of your life is always in the middle of someone else’s. your death coincides with another’s gallant ebullience, your semi-colon failing to incise upon their life. so the scholars say.

the conference — your first since you passed your dissertation — had made you nervous, and you were glad to be spending an extra night before returning to the real world tomorrow.

your palms are slick, as they always are after too long spent in the company of other academics. the anxiety that swells in you is ballast and the deadweight forces you to slump forward slightly, the visible seam on your the shoulder of your shirt sashaying inwards.

when you smile at the concierge, it is tight, like a formation of soldiers in Napoleon’s day, and does not quite reach your eyes. still decked with traces of freckles and darkened by a summer spent abroad under the sun’s penetrating gazes, your skin fails to comply with demands of minuscule muscles pulling and stretching, commanding it into a thin arc.

but it is no matter — you receive your key and you sign the paperwork and are ascending the winding staircase to the seventh floor. emerald green carpet is your guide, swathing your ascendancy in a sheen of dark-hue velvet. sir gawain chasing after the knight in green armor, a lecture on virtue streaming from the knight’s mouth, materializes on the steps. the galloping thought makes you smile, this time more relaxed. that story is something you know. something you know so well you could almost touch it. indeed you had fingered its pages, during your apprenticeship at the British Library.

hope. the words springs forth, nearly unbidden, from your lips. the word is spoken so softly — merely a breath and a hint of sound disturbing the stairwell’s precious physics. it is a reflex of association. green means hope, the scholars had said, and during the course of your studies you had been disappointed to find that you agreed with them. you did not want to agree with the fashionably smug expert in the field. you wanted to rattle him. shake him to his sacrosanct core, the sanctimonious scum.

you had never met the man: the mysterious OWK. your advisor had raved about his breakout lecture series that had taken place years ago, when he was a newly minted phd and you were still in undergrad. sipping a cup of cafeteria coffee (they always forgot you preferred tea, all these years later), they had rambled on about the poetry of OWK’s phrasing and his decisiveness in speech and the unparalleled skill of his primary source research. the lectures had been sadly lost, the footage deleted, or archived, they didn’t know which. just that the man had refused to distribute them and speak on the matter further, nearly abandoning academia entirely.

the beverage was bitter but you laughed lightly. “is this thomas moore and his lectures on st. augustine, then? so legendary that no one can find them?”

your advisor had inclined their head, congratulating you on your witty reference. “i suppose so,” they had mused, leaning back in their office chair and staring at some point above your head, at the oaken bookshelves with brightly colored book jackets lining the walls. “now, your latest draft—“

the memory fades as your purpose alters. a simple twist of the key and the door opens. but you remain on the threshold, stuck between two modes, between here and there.

there is a man in your room, and he is as handsome as sin. he sits in a chair in the corner of the room and one leg is resting on the other’s kneecap at a ninety degree angle. he is wearing glasses, and has short auburn hair that gleams in the dull light of the lamp beside him (although, a few wayward strands obscure his eyes, layering over the frame of his glasses). he is reading. the cover is folded over so you cannot see the title but it is hefty, judging from its position on his thigh. shadows have formed over high cheekbones.

the man removes himself from the task, focusing his gaze on you. you see now that he has bright blue eyes.

“hello there!” his greeting is polite, and amiable, and accented, though not pleasantly so. “can i help you?”

“I’m afraid there seems to be a mix-up!” you say in your ‘adult voice.’ it’s same one you used on your dissertation defense. “it seems we were placed in the same room.”

“ah.” he nods sagely, as though this were to be expected, and unfolds himself from his chair.

you place a hand on your hip — near the phone snug in the back pocket of your jeans — and shrug. “I’m sorry.” the apology is saccharine and tastes like grenadine. “I’ll pop back downstairs and find out what the problem is.”

he urges you to stay, to let him call from here rather you lugging your things all the way down and all the way back up again. “it’s not proper,” he insists, dragging you in and closing the door behind you. in the time that his is so near to you and you feel the way his frown matches the steady grip on your upper arm, something warms in you at his indignation. your hand drifts away from your phone. he retreats to his corner to make the call while you linger just beyond the threshold.

the conversation is hushed and decorated with the raised tones of inquiry. when he hangs up, he sighs.

“they were under the impression that we were a married couple. apparently we booked under a similar last name.” his voice turns down at the edges. he sounds the way his frown had earlier: weary, confused, and a dash of inexplicable certainty.

“but—“ you gesture to the beds — “two beds?”

something of a grimace shadows his face. “all that was available, apparently.”

“oh.” there is a pause. he does not continue. “but they got me a room, right?” if you sound slightly desperate, perhaps it is because you are. you are sweaty. you are nervous. you want to relax. in your own room.

he zooms past your query. “i know you,” he says, and sounds as if he is surprised he knows how to speak.

“i —“ you shake your head — “i don’t think so.”

when you give your name and recognition fails to present itself, he falters and twists to stare through the glass behind him. “i thought…” but he breaks off.  in the end he rights himself and tells you of the situation — how there is no vacancy, but he does not mind the sharing a room with you, just for the night, it wouldn’t be a bother.

there is something different about him. maybe it is the way that he emphasized the word can. maybe it is the way he is pushing the hair from his eyes, and removing the glasses from his face. maybe it is the way that, now pausing his actions, the man cants his head and furrows his brow.

air grows thick with the brush strokes of caravaggio: he is in the spotlight, sure and solid and steady, pure against the whirlpools of unknowing realism.

you are on the cusp of stepping into his white light when he offers his name. the first letter of each word drags itself from his mouth and burrows into your ear, until you almost divorce the meaning but for the particulars.

the first instinct that you are aware of is one you cannot name — it is an anger that is sweet, and one that is shielded by sadness, yet fueled by frustration.

there are dozens of others that your heart and mind have already examined, of course, turning them this way and that, inspecting their corners with bloodied hands. but they are rejected, and expelled into the waxy shadows, without your being aware of them. that is the job of the soul: to know before you are even aware.

he senses the shift. perhaps uncertainty has clouded your eyes. obi-wan kenobi, OWK, takes a step back from rising mist and shadow and once more turns to gaze out the window. through the glass there is a gentle village scene, all cobblestones and iron street lamps and hills keeping time on the horizon.

“i — “ you start, but you stop again. you must start, you feel, but you do not know what path to take, and you halt. the time he thinks you consider you are in fact not considering at all. there is only one answer (answers that are wrong are never really answers, after all, just more questions).

“i’ll stay.”

—

Obi-Wan is courteous and deferential and demands that you permit him to treat you this evening as an apology. he departs to give you privacy as you shower, and the flash of shimmering emerald carpet you spy as he exits makes you wonder if you are the Lady Bertalik to his Sir Gawain.

the steam and the water beat down clenched muscles with gentle hands and lingering touches. it is for several minutes that you linger in their warm embrace, but as you wipe away fog from the mirror you cannot help but encounter the sensation that you are alone, and wrongfully so. you cannot feel Obi-Wan’s presence and the air feels stale without him — like there is no current disrupting the atmosphere’s mundane course.

droplets decorate your shoulders and the hollow of your throat. they hold fast even when you pad softly to your belongings for a fresh change of clothes.

The ache in this room is stronger. The walls themselves are mourning his absence. You feel it settle in your gut, a gluttonous mass that lightens when you consider that he should be returning soon. the sky outside the window is orange and gold, flattering the leaves of maple trees in autumn.

the room is pretty, in a simple way: the emerald carpet of hope has been exchanged for a darkened hardwood. Chrome accents gleam in the reflection of the wood, and two beds — one at opposite ends of the wall — are smothered silver-white sheets. a series of Malevich paintings are hung up in a neat grid, as though the dissembling artist would come barging in, screaming of the devil, if the French theories of symmetry were not obeyed.

as you dress and begin to comb your hair, you wonder why you miss someone whom you have just met, and someone you are not disposed to like. can you miss someone you don’t like? he is sporadic and paradisiacal; in motion and steady. his kindness had surprised you, as had his beauty. he was less corrosive than your advisor had made him out to be, less ambitious than the accolades awarded to his name. but he is zealous, hungry, seeking: you could see in the way his eyes bunched around the edges, in the crick of his neck when he sought wisdom from the hills, how he had contorted his body in the chair.

(he is like you, both here and not here, and although you did not yet know, your soul was aware and reflective in wonder)

when your flesh-and-blood sir gawain returns, you muse that you are a poor temptress in an thick-knit ivory sweater that encases your body from neck to wrists. it had been a steal from a second-hand store a few years back, and you had never found the heart to give it up. it was like a childhood book, or a favorite mug — the object, in all its durable materiality, was akin to you.

Your smile pleases him. Obi-Wan says he has found a place for this evening, nothing special, but nice. “We are celebrating after all,” he says, shrugging off a dark woolen coat.

“We are?” you look at him through the reflection of the mirror. blue eyes meet yours.

“Of course!” the phrase suspends itself for a moment, maybe two, as though it is waiting for something to slip in and complete its trinity. but it falls, tumbling back down to terrestrial concerns. “We are celebrating our meeting.”

He is absurd, and you laugh. Obi-Wan’s theory of festivity is not so mercurial as his speech — the declaration sticks to your ribs, pumping blood to your heart and flooding your cheeks with a natural flush.

Obi-Wan continues to examine you. “Might I ask,” he starts, hands stilling in their expedition of finding suitable attire, “where you bought your sweater?”

you respond: it was from a second-hand store, you found it during your apprenticeship, it was the only thing that kept you warm that terribly dreary winter, it was your constant companion.

“does it have a trio of red threads on the left cuff?”

satisfying his quench takes precedence to mystery of his request.

Obi-Wan’s smile engulfs the spirit of the room, and the two of you, and the bedding, and the glass window, too.

“that was my sweater,” he says. “my uncle made it for me, and i gave it to my brother after we adopted him. he wasn’t used to the dampness of English winters, but he didn’t like the itchiness of the knit. he always had an aversion to gritty textures.” he reaches out a hand with a faint smile, like the combined power of his simple offering can cross space and time and memory and return him to the days of him and his uncle and adopted brother.

you do not know what to say. you watch him for several moments. you want to speak, but your mind is blank, thrumming with the idea that it is so very right that part of him has been with part of you all of these years. parts have him has seen you through the long hours of a dreary apprenticeship and discovering the healing properties of English tea and catching tears and wisps of smiles and witnessing ink spill over pages as you churned out dissertation drafts until the argument was smooth and refined.

the idea makes you feel very alive, and alert, and you want to offer him comfort. “would you like to take it back?” one hand tugs at the edge of the cloth, near your waist. “it’s yours anyway.” the pain of parting is lessened by the joy of giving.

he demurs, you coax. eventually it is determined that he will wear the garment for the evening, but only if you wear something of his, too. “that way it’s even,” he says, and you laugh again to hide the dip in your stomach at thought of wearing something of his, of wrapping yourself in his scent, of placing your body in a place his had once inhabited.

you settle on a light gray blazer that you think must compliment his eyes, which sparkle with aquamarine and crystal. it is paired with a turtleneck and when you emerge to show him the completed ensemble, spinning in a circle, he chuckles.

“you look like me,” he says, one hand cupping his chin.

a feeling pulses in your mind but you let it go. you may like him after all, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t a pompous academic whose theories had made your life hell.

—

you expect him to take you to a cozy place. somewhere where they serve the local brew and make homemade shepherd’s pie, but he doesn’t.

he takes you a bar that is sleek and modern, with soft yellow lights and paneled ceilings and marble counter-tops. Obi-Wan escorts you to a high table in the corner, a hand on the small of your back. the warmth from his palm spreads through his jacket and your turtleneck and it feels like cinnamon and candlelight.  

later, you will not remember what you ordered to eat, but you will always remember the two cups water that appear on the table.

the glasses have smooth edges and and rounded sides, curving around themselves ad infinitum or perhaps reductio ad absurdum. faint golden orbs hunch against the surface; integers of light cling to any sort of tactical reassurance. even the glass will do.

the cups are hefty, and not just with the font of life. the vessel is weighty, durable. Obi-Wan tells you that they are recycled.

he does not talk about what he does now and how he teaches, and you do not mention your work. you do not need to: what these truths have taught you is in every swallow, every glance, every gentle barb. the two of you do not need shields of citation guidelines to understand one another.

the conversation dances. he pulls you in with a question. you twirl around him, brushing his five o’clock shadow. artifice glistens and then falls away. with every pass and dip and pas de chat resentment and assumption weaken, and your eyes become bigger. he changes the time signature, the style (first it was a waltz, and then a swing step, and now it is easing into something unknown). the fabric of his jacket is smooth, and comfortable, and smells like him — warm and spice and clean. you ease into it like it is your birthright.

you do not see, but Obi-Wan notices, and grins into his water.

he does not see, but you notice, the way he couches into your sweater, and your eyes curl in some form of elation.

“what were they about? the lectures, i mean.” this is the question you have been waiting to ask. here, in the bar, with glass, you are emboldened to let go of one last grudge.

he looks at you, and his gaze stabs you, but then it softens — like the needle from a shot easing into muscle before retreating as swiftly as it came.

“what did your advisor say they were about?” he fiddles with his glass.

“they said…” you close your eyes in recollection. eyelashes flutter against freckles. “they said the lectures were about grief.”

Obi-Wan’s smile is wry, but he does not seem displeased. he is still too relaxed to be angry. how you can read his body language so quickly, you are not sure — maybe it is because he is wearing your sweater. so many things you are unsure of, but he is not one of them. not really.

uncertainty is different with him. he is not an ever-fixéd mark, nor a staid anchor in the waves. but he is resolved, and you can separate him from the rest of the particulars that impede your life. he is not just krei: distinguishing and judging and explanatory and crisis all at once, all at everything.

yes, uncertainty with him is less about judgment and is rather imbued with mystery. it is krei mixed with mysteriam: separating the hidden things from that which is known.

Obi-Wan taps his finger on the glass and the sound returns you to the present. he has caught you wandering, again, wandering the wayward halls of esoteric remembrance.

“they were about grief,” he nods, staring at the transparent material in his hands.. Obi-Wan’s voice is kingly and aromatic, like basil. it lilts and sways around the words he speaks as in a courtly dance, like those Anne Boleyn performed for King Henry.

lifting his gaze to yours again, he adds, “and they were about joy. those lectures were about everything, and nothing.” a hand rises, and rhythmic fingers sweep away invisible cobwebs. “they were,” Obi-Wan concludes, “about life itself. phenomena, as it were.” the hand floats down and rests on the table.

it is perilously close to yours now: mere inches from the edges of your body. you both look down at his hand in a brief moment marked and scratched with silence, and you are alone with  your thoughts. his hands are worn, like they have been used — little scars and wrinkles and a slight puffiness that tells you that he spent a lot of time writing today. you like that.

you point to the swelling, at the v of his hand where thumb and palm meet. the tip of your index finger hovers above the spot and your confession must linger too, because it takes several moments for him to drag his eyes upwards to study your face.

“how many ACE wraps did you fray while writing your dissertation?” he asks, and you want to push him for being such a competitive brat.

your hand is still suspended above his.

you tell him your answer, and he cups his fingers around yours in a spasm of revelation. “me too!” his grip tightens. “academia is one son of a bitch.” he catches you in a sideways glance, and when you laugh, he relaxes into a smile.

“I read your dissertation, you know.” the sweater itches against your wrist, where the sleeve of his blazer has ridden up and exposed skin.

“i didn’t.” you take a sip. “but i do know how you feel about scholars such as myself.” another sip. are you biding time? you are not sure. “you feel very strongly about the color green, Dr. Kenobi.”

his grip slackens but he does not release your hand completely. “please. call me ben.”

“no?” your eyebrow arches. “not OWK, either?”

“I don’t use that name with friends.”

“Are we friends?”

his eyes are earnest, open, porous, like blue tulle on ballet costumes. “yes. i dare say we are.”

—

when the two of you stand to leave, there is a still a table that prohibits unity. emptiness subsumes you; he is so near and yet so far; Ben should be next to you. the distance continues, grows, as you exit, and an ache pours forth from your soul, because you now know what you did not know before. you had seen it in the glass, and in the reflected light, and the way you had seen yourself in his eyes when you danced with him without touching his hand.

you halt, he pauses. you take a step forward and Ben watches you. darkness blankets the town’s cobbled streets; the stones gleam dully and swallow the street lamps all into an abyss. except his eyes: Ben’s silken azure eyes are your anchor.

people don’t make sense but you do.

a few steps more and the two of you are very close. you tilt your head to look at his face. you are there, reflected in his pupils. “maybe i am you.” you mean for it to sound teasing, but your soul knows before you do, and the words are laden with imperial import, like a royal seal.

those gemstone eyes flicker over your face. he has felt it too, he is telling you, but how you know this you cannot say. “no, i do not think so.” letters drip out, leaking in a slow stream. “but i think perhaps we are a part of each other.”

and then you have narrowed down the sum to its composite parts. the glass has shattered and the left hand swims in its sand and calcium carbonate and ash, drifting through a process of becoming. particles glimmer on skin, under nails, brandishing depth and texture and a pantone coloring book of the human heart.  

it is a mutual kiss, one where individualism no longer endures. his hands — swollen, calloused, firm — are grasping your cheeks. your arms are around his waist, winding around sweater and skin and soul. when you close your eyes, you think it will be dark. you are wrong. tenebrism creeps away and shadows vanish, and there is only him, and a resounding tenor of colors.

ben’s lips are soft, and his breath is warm, and it is the kiss for which you feel like you have spent your whole life preparing. he is safe (tender) and unexpected (his tongue grazes your teeth). he likes it when you grip him harder, the knit no longer coarse against your palms, not when his hand is wandering through your hair in flashes of blue and gold and pearl.

when you pull away, and nuzzle his cheek, Ben smiles — soft and comforting like the garment on his back. maybe this is why glass shatters and cracks around your feet, crunching as you sway slightly in each other’s arms — you have worn his jacket, and he has worn your sweater.

—

it is predawn the next time he kisses you. the two of you are on his bed, near the window. sweaters and blazers have been exchanged for baggy t-shirts and sleep shorts. Ben is facing you, cross-legged on the pale sheets, and he watches you as you take in the metamorphosis of the sky, from black to navy to the merest smidgen of blue and grey on the horizon, skating across the silhouette of the hills.

he watches you as you speak, too, about the way you loved the ocean as a child, and your favorite book is Moby Dick. it was so very ethereal to you, the way that sailors used the stars to navigate. it was like they were communing with the heavens.

Ben thinks that your voice glitters. it is weary with much talk and too little sleep but it shines the way diamonds do when they are stitched onto spanish lace, supported with the strength that is only found in delicacy.

your eyes, he thinks, are more like satin, for the way they gleam and mix their depth and shadows without losing their sheen, glassy in their wonder.

but you notice his regard, and you pause. he cannot see it, but he can feel a blush jogging from your neck to your cheeks.

you stare at each other. and then — he is next to you, and laying you down, and you are learning his labyrinthine ways even as you begin to come undone.

he is coming alive, or waking up—you’re not sure. his ends and beginnings are still a unknown to you: you must fashion yourself a mystic to enter his realm. somehow you suspect he is yours. your alpha and omega, the moral force that has driven you forward to now, to this point, where his forehead is meeting the jut of your jaw as he kisses his way down your neck.

you are hot and cold all at once and when he licks your pulse point, and sucks, you gasp. it is a gentle thing, more like a deep breath than an exclamation. you feel yourself leaning into him, straining for his touch. his auburn hair under your fingertips is soft and slick with his gel and you tug at it in an act of encouragement.

he pulls away. hovering over you, eyes blue and silver in the pale light — twin moons, perhaps — he smirks. “are you trying to tell me something, darling?” he asks lowly, and his voice is dark molasses. it is sticky and sweet and bitter, inching down your body. you want his kisses to follow its tortuous path, staining you with vermillion and black and dying you with pleasure.

he is color. you are cloth.

the durability of your nature returns in a rush marked with grains of steel. “no.” you swallow and the action traces where his lips met your skin just moments earlier. “i rather thought you were trying to communicate with me.” you sound ragged, coy, on the verge of aching.

Ben does not take your bait. “i was.” his breath is hot against your ear, and arresting. he pauses. the molasses continues to drip. “i was just wanted to make sure i had a clear answer.” and he nips your earlobe. you bite your lip in response: the two of you are in sync.  

“yes.” you are fabric, and your voice is terrycloth.

“Yes?” he repeats your fiat. Shards of glass collapse around you as he again meets your gaze.

this must be how the Virgin prayed her Magnificat, you think as his heart errantly beats against his throat. She must have been like he is now, brimming with humble righteousness and bound by understanding. Tenderness cords through you; it tempers your breathing, smoothes the bubbles of molasses. Reaching up to to cup his face, you let your fingers splay over his cheek, resting on stubble and skin. your pinky finger meets the angle of his cheekbone. the image falls into place and the symmetry causes you to smile.

“yes. etiam. ja. sí.” you are about to conclude in greek — ναί — but he halts your litany of assent by placing an offering on your lips. the greek is in the twists of his tongue in your mouth, and so is the hebrew, and the arabic, and all the languages yet to engrave themselves in your memory.

it is like the first time you experienced champagne at your father’s christmas party. one of his students had poured you, then sixteen, a glass and said with a wink, “the monks declared it was the taste of the stars.” you had raised the flute to your lips and drank as you were bid, and when you had swallowed, you knew the world was different now. or perhaps the old world had not changed, you had merely adapted to fickle ways.

your tongue did as it had then, skating across your front teeth onto your upper lips in quick, jabbing motions. unsatiated and incomplete.

he pulls away again and you frown. eyes closed, you tug at his shoulder in a nonverbal ask to come back.

silence meets your plea and you open your eyes. he is still above you, weight resting on his forearms, and he is smiling.  “you are so impatient.” the rebuke is fond and he soothes its burn with a kiss to your cheek. your eyes flutter closed, briefly.

“i am not impatient.” arms cross over your chest and eyes roll. “i am —“ the phrase is paused as he kisses your other cheek. you open your eyes. “i am.” he waits for you, as he always has, but after a few heartbeats he gleans the completeness of your meaning. existence is the watchword of this night, or this dawn: let sartre and his kind be put to rest.  

so the two of you kiss again, and when his arms get tired, you drape your legs over his lap and press yourself into his chest. the last vestiges of moonlight have settled upon you, but it is no thing, not when skin feels what eyes cannot. lips are languid and hands stroll up and down pathways and alleyways and sidewalks. brittle substances of impatience are burned away through the silk of his fingers. you are content to rest in chiaroscuro.

there is another breaking: transparent and fortified compound of ash and sand — let in by the moon and the rising venus — twinkles around your head, his spine. a whispered ask, a tender assent: shirts glide over shoulders and he guides in your descent.

breathing is knowing, feeling is seeing: for here essence and existence bleed into one consummate act of communion.

lips touch your collarbone, your breast. your hands plane over his chest in a crusade of knowledge. he does not begrudge your gasps, now, or the arches your back erects to his honor. ben’s lips, hands, the vehicles of his words to the world, at once analyze and soak in praise.

clothes fall away, skin uncovering skin, manifesting a reality that had resided in your souls far before today. before the bar, the hotel, the sweater, there was always the two of you, striving for eudaemonia.

“this is phenomena,” he whispers against the curve of your hip. ben presses a kiss to the bones that give form to your body politic (the totality of your shattered glass made whole).

fin.

Tags: @profkenobi @goldenkenobi @ohhellokenobi @obitwo @nobie @cherieboba @lazzwhile @rentskenobi @master-obi-wan-kenboneme @justrunamok @citadoll @obirain @catsnkooks @royalhandmaidens @kyjoraven @mcu-padawan @anakin-danvers @snips-n-skyguy0501 @saintlaurentkenobi @answer-the-sirens @videogamesandpoorlifechoices @likeshootingstarsinthenightsky @icedcoffeeandgays // please send an ask or fill out this form to get added to my taglist!

[wolfsnape]

Colleague : hey, can you proof read this to be sure I made no mistake in your part of the project, before I send it to our boss ? :)

The paper : *is 15 pages long with little to no breaks*

Me :

[delhe-dalim]

ooOOHH nice nice 👀 Here I started to think cuz there are some that I saw a loong time ago, but I still remember the nice feeling they left me 💛 Soo here I go! 1. Star Wars: Obi-Wan Kenobi my beloved 2. The Clone Wars: Plo Koon / Ahsoka / Obi-Wan / Anakin / Rex 3. The Bad Batch: All batchers x2 and Maydayyy 4. Tmnt 2012: Leo / Splinter 5 Tmnt 2003: all the fam but especially Donatello / Traximus 6. Invader Zim ETF: Prof Membrane / Dib / Zim 7. Centaurworld: Horse / Wammawink 8. Romantic Killer: Anzu / Riri / Kazuki 9. The disastrous life of saiki k: Saiki / Nendo / Kaido 10. Gravity Falls: Dipper / Mabel /Stanley / Soos

I don't know who to tag so If you see this feel free to do it if u want!

Starting new thread...

List your 10 favorite characters from 10 different fandoms, then tag 10 people!

Thanks for the tag, @dystopicjumpsuit , @heyclickadee , @niobiumao3

Disclaimer: I will follow none of the above rules.

1) Delicious in Dungeon: Senshi

2) The Bad Batch: Tech/Mayday 

3) The Sandman: Dream/Delirium 

4) GI Joe: Snake eyes 

5) Russian Literature?: Alexei Karamazov

6) Batman: Batman/Poison ivy

7) Vikings: Ivar

8) The Clone Wars: Maul/Rex/Wolffe

9) Mandolorian: Mandolorian 

10) Star Wars other: Thrawn

NPTs: @eobe; @ele-millennial-weirdo; @jedi-bird; @drafthorsemath; @wings-and-beskar

[dammit-stark]

i present to you, obikin university au:

Anakin didn’t make a move until after he turned in his final paper. He may be a horny, bisexual disaster, but he was also a responsible adult, okay, he knows the rules, and he knows what’s at risk.

That being said, he turns his final paper in to Professor Kenobi in person specifically so that he can hit on him. Anakin Skywalker is a man with goals, okay? And that goal right now is to get in Obi Wan Kenobi’s pants. He’s simple like that.

“I enjoyed having you in class, Mr Skywalker,” Obi Wan says, tucking Anakin’s final paper into the side pocket of his briefcase, “You always brought a… refreshing perspective to our discussions.”

Anakin grins. He knows what he is. He’s a goddamn menace. He leans forward against the edge of Obi Wan’s desk and says, “And I enjoyed coming to class every day professor. Always good to see you bright and early in the morning. And please, call me Anakin.”

Obi Wan blinks at him. Anakin really is laying it on pretty thick. Oops. Obi Wan clears his throat, shaking his head, “Yes, very well, Anakin. Will do. I hope you take another class with me in the future, I really appreciate your voice in the classroom.”

Anakin takes a step closer, “I’d like that professor, really, but I don’t think I will be. I mean, that’d make this a conflict of interest.”

Obi Wan squints, “What?”

And Anakin kisses him. In his office. Boldly. Wonderfully. Because Anakin Skywalker is a man on a mission and Dr. Obi Wan Kenobi, professor of religious literature at Coruscant University is very, very hot.

“Oh.” Obi Wan pants as Anakin pulls away.

Anakin grins, bobbing his head. He wipes at the corner of his mouth with his thumb, “That okay?”

Obi Wan hums dazedly, but it’s far from a no. Anakin gravitates closer.

“Can I do it again?”

“Uh-“ Obi Wan’s eyes dart for his closed office door. His cheeks turn pink, “Sure.”

“Brilliant,” Anakin says, and he stalks toward the professor.

[shatouto]

cuddly fall commission for @tree-scapes !

[tennessoui]

ahsoka seems like she'd be one of professor kenobi's students that obi-wan gets attached to, who eventually becomes his ta (who also babysits from time to time)

LOVE this i think this may win because you know what who's to say ahsoka hasn't also baby sat for anakin before he ever moved in? so when she gets to her class with Professor Kenobi later that year and she sees those demon twins as his screensaver/background image she just freaks out because ??? what a small world!!

and for like three weeks shes like... to bring it up or NOT to bring it up?? but then anakin texts her his new address because both him and obi-wan are going to be unavailable one night and ahsoka figures she has to tell him before she literally Goes To His House