#vaderkin is always so caught up in his 'he will SEE what it does he WILL be the one being awkward this time!'

[obiwanobi]

this "(tumblr)/darkpuck/672201149761355776/lightsabers-have-one-fatal-flaw-you-cannot-use" in the always a sith anakin au

god tipping up your enemy's chin with your lightsaber is so hot 🥵

I can't decide which one would do it to the other so I think they should both get to do it. Obi-Wan does it first, almost by mistake, cornering against a wall an enraged Vaderkin who got wounded by clones and using his lightsaber simply to get him to pay attention to him and not the clones around getting away, and doesn't realise that it works a little too well.

The second time it happens isn't a coincidence because Vaderkin planned it for weeks and is ready to give Kenobi a taste of his own medicine and make HIM uncomfortable this time, but when Vaderkin actually does it --

when he presses his saber under Kenobi's chin, Kenobi's eyes widen, which is good, but then he smirks. The asshole smirks. Which is not what Vaderkin wanted. He really didn't expect Kenobi's hand to release pressure on his wrist and turns the touch into an almost caress, or even purrs "oh, I see now. That's why it worked last time. You actually liked it, didn't you?"

Dooku better not make any comment about the way Obi-Wan foolishly waves at him from the other side of the battlefield with a taunting smile on his face ten minutes later, when Vaderkin retreats to his shuttle as fast as possible without even killing anyone on the way.

[tennessoui]

You kind of already did 31 but pleaseeeeeeee

these ficlets keep getting longer ffs this is 2k

31. One is a sex worker, the other is a client AU

anakin's had his turn as a sex worker in my writing so it's Obi-Wan this time, paired with Vaderkin and i made it more dark than I thought would happen whoops but. warnings are: probably bordering extremely dubious consent even though no sex happens and this is just the lead up. a brief reference to underage sex work, though absolutely nothing comes of it. and vaderkin being a bit creepy.

There is a saying among the workers at the Establishment: if the imperial palace calls for you, you should hope the person that is displayed next to you is prettier.

Obi-Wan has never bought into prayers of any kind and this saying is only ever said with something akin to a worshipful dread. Still, when Ahsoka drapes a cloak of red around his shoulders and whispers those words to him—“May the others be your betters”—he thinks for a second about the nature of prayer and of hope and the futility of both in this galaxy.

“Don’t worry, little ‘Soka,” he smiles from under the cloak’s hood. “I’m sure it’s just a mistake.” He is, after all, one of the oldest workers here, makes most of his money these days tending bar and running the front desk, called in to serve mostly for virgin customers who want a gentler and more experienced hand to guide them in the art of pleasure. He doesn’t think any of the words could be used to describe the Emperor Vader, can’t see the imposing black-suited man interested in the art of pleasure.

Ahsoka can’t look him in the eye, but she hugs him tightly as he boards the shuttle that will take him to the Palace.

The ride there is quiet. Obi-Wan tries to avoid as many glances from the other people as he gives to them. Most of them are young, human. He seems to be the only male above 40. His chances are good.

Maybe he hadn’t been lying to Ahsoka. Maybe, truly, his name being included on the list had been a mistake

Something inside him hesitates though. He’d been out in the Upper levels a week ago, making his way home after one of his rare appointments with an old client turned friend. A child had fallen into the path of a small parade of speeders. A correctional officer had raised a whip. Obi-Wan had reacted on instinct, catching its lash with his forearm. The child had run off. Obi-Wan had stayed. He’d raised his head just enough, eons later, to see the durasteel outside of the largest speeder pass by his prone form, just enough to see the Imperial crest on its hull. Just for long enough to see a glint of a yellow eye from the window.

Bacta had treated his wounds, but his mind had not allowed him to rest easily, caught up in the memory of that eye--had he imagined the interest? Had he imagined it all?

And so to hear his name called tonight--the first calling since The Incident--had felt like the confirmation of all of his most unfounded fears.

Would tonight be the night he died? He had lived a long life. A rough one. Perhaps it is time.

Still, in the back of his head, a selfish, utterly human part of him whispered, may the others be your betters.

---

Those chosen do, often, come back. Sometimes they do not. Mostly they do. Obi-Wan has never truly decided which of these fates is the worse one. Those who survive don’t say anything for days on end, their eyes blank as they stare forward. Their bruises, if they are there, are easy to heal. But something is always wrong with their minds afterwards. And those who don’t come back...well. It’s hard to say what happens to them, where they go. Far away or down below.

Obi-Wan is forced to his knees in between a moderately aged female Togruta and a fairly young teenager. The boy is shaking. He can’t be more than sixteen.

They’re in the Entrance Hall. Obi-Wan has never been here before, but he supposes it makes sense. There will be one person who ventures further into the Palace. The rest will be dismissed out the doors that just shut. No need to bring the scum further in than they have to.

Distantly, like a funeral drum, Obi-Wan can hear the sound of feet falling, making their way closer. Just a single pair. He wants to look up, to watch the Emperor--because it has to be the Emperor--approach, but there’s a Guard behind him, holding his head down.

The footsteps are close now. There’s only ten of them--sometimes, Obi-Wan has heard that there can be as many as twenty or thirty--so the line is short. Vader paces quietly from the first to the last person, before stopping in the middle. Obi-Wan can just see the black of his boots if he flicks his eyes as far as they can go to the left. The boy next to him lets out a muffled sob. Obi-Wan wishes he could offer the kid some sort of comfort, some sort of reassurance that the Emperor will choose one of the other workers, a body more desirable than either of theirs, but there are no words to describe the guilty relief of a suffering passed onto someone else.

On some sort of invisible signal, the Guard behind Obi-Wan wrenches his head back by the hold he has on both the silken hood and his own hair. It’s far from comfortable, tilted so far back. The message is obvious. Submission is not optional. Respect will be shown through any means necessary.

Obi-Wan tries to keep the hulking form of Vader in his eyesight, even though to see ahead of him he has to close his eyes almost completely because of the angle. It’s impossible to see anything from the chest up, but he can still hear. Loud, mechanical breathing fills the halls. Vader stops at each person for no longer than five seconds before he continues down the line. Obi-Wan holds his breath, waiting for his turn. Does he turn his head as much as he can, to try and accentuate the gray at his temples? Does he lower his eyes?

He doesn’t, in the end, do either. Vader is wearing a mask, completely covering his face. He doesn’t even look human, except for the way he cocks his head slightly as he stares down at Obi-Wan. He feels flayed, just under the single look, but he can’t turn away either. He glowers up at him. Five seconds pass. Vader should be moving on by now. The fact that he hasn’t fills Obi-Wan with the sort of fear he’s only felt a handful of times in his life.

“This one,” Vader says through a voice modulator. Obi-Wan closes his eyes in defeat, thinks of Little Ahsoka back at the Establishment, thinks of what she’ll think if he doesn’t make it home.

But the boy next to him bursts into sobs and Obi-Wan opens his eyes to see that Vader’s hand isn’t pointing to him at all, but instead just to his right.

But Vader’s face is still pointed directly at Obi-Wan though, head still cocked. The question is as clear as if he actually spoke the words aloud. What will you do about this?

What will he do? What can he do? It’s the street from a week ago all over. A child is in danger. How can Obi-Wan ever live with himself if he doesn’t at least try to throw himself on the blade?

“No!” he says before he can think it through. The Guard behind him jerks his hair back roughly in punishment, but the monster in front of him runs two gloved fingers down his cheek, the pantomime of a lover’s caress. “Me instead. Choose me.”

“Quiet,” the Guard hisses to him, making him wince with the ferocity of the yank he gives his hair. Obi-Wan pants open-mouthed as he tries to think of an argument, of a single reason why the Emperor should not get what he wants, should settle for a washed up whore instead of a younger model. All he can think of is the moral justifications of it, and he’s not sure Vader would care for that line of reasoning.

“I’m asking,” he blurts out. The fingers pause from where they’ve been absent-mindedly touching his beard. “When has anyone ever asked?”

The Emperor takes a step back and seems to consider Obi-Wan, what he has to offer. He tries to preen, to throw his shoulders back and sit back on his heels to show off his body, but it’s hard when the Guard hasn’t let up on his hair. In fact the grip gets even tighter as the man behind him snorts a common insult.

A second later, the hand and the pressure disappear. Obi-Wan falls forward automatically at his sudden release. He scrambles away instinctively, even if that means closer to Vader. Vader who has his hand raised out in front of him clenching his gloved fist tight. Obi-Wan looks behind him at the guard who had held him. The man is scrabbling at his throat. Obi-Wan knows already it will be a futile effort. With Vader distracted by his execution, he turns to check on the boy. He’s looking down, refusing to make eye contact.

Probably for the better.

The Guard falls to the floor. The other nine Guards don’t move at all. Obi-Wan supposes there’s no room for loyalty in a galaxy like this.

“Come,” Vader says, running a hand through his hair. It’s a surprisingly gentle touch, seeing as that hand just took someone else’s life.

Slowly, Obi-Wan rises to his feet and follows behind him, through the twisting halls of the Imperial Palace. He thinks anyone could get lonely here if they have no one to keep them company. It’s so big. Obi-Wan shares his room with three other people, and he frets if one of them is still gone by the time he falls asleep.

This much space would drive anyone mad for another’s touch.

He blinks at himself, incredulous. Is he actually trying to feel compassion for the Emperor? Is it actually working?

The Emperor flings open a pair of elaborate doors without touching them, and suddenly Obi-Wan’s in the bedchambers of the most powerful man on the planet. And to think, he’s wearing mismatched and terribly darned socks.

He resolves to not ask Vader for permission to do anything with his own body for the entire night. He sits on the edge of the bed and watches as Vader takes off his cape and his gloves.

“Would you like to know my prices before or after?” He asks as cooly as possible.

“Your price is that it’s you here and not the boy.”

“Would you have wanted the boy?” Obi-Wan can’t hide the disgust in his tone.

“No,” the Emperor says succinctly. “But I did want to know what you would do. If you really were the same man as the one in the street.”

Obi-Wan’s breath catches in his throat. “Why would you want to know that?”

“There’s so little good left in the galaxy. It’s fascinating that so much is concentrated in you.” Vader reaches up to unlatch his mask. A cascade of golden curls falls out.

He huffs. The Emperor of the Galactic Empire thinks there’s not enough good in the galaxy. It’s at the very least ironic. “It’s a greedy galaxy, your Imperial Majesty--”

The Emperor turns around to face him, helmet still held in his hands. Obi-Wan is surprised to learn he’s just a man. An attractive man, certainly, young and almost pretty with a perfect arch to his lips and a roguish scar cutting through a thick eyebrow. If he had been one of Obi-Wan’s workers, he’d have taken him under his wing, tried to protect him from the clients who would have paid extra to rough up that face.

He was saying something. Obi-Wan had meant to say something else. Oh. Right. “Good cannot be bought.”

The man in front of him--was it really Vader?--smiles, but it doesn’t reach his yellow eyes. “No,” he purrs, discarding his helmet and stalking forward. “But you can.”

[ilcuoreardendo-fic]

Can you write about some Vader/obi wan where Vader sorta obsessed with obi and like is constantly giving him gifts. And obi wans like super confused. ALSO suitless Vader and there was no obi wan/Vader confrontation after he turned. Ps I LIVE FOR YOUR WRITING ITS SO GOOD

Hi Nonny. I’m actually already working on a little something for suitless Vaderkin/Obi-Wan (part of a series of probably unrelated snapshots). So that’ll be along eventually. 

Here’s what popped up for the gift giving. I originally wanted to go for levity, but...my muse had other ideas. ____________________________

Reflecting the Giver

After Obi-Wan is caught in the outer rim, chasing word ofsurviving Jedi, following that small light of hope through the darkness ofspace, he expects the worst.

He expects imprisonment.

He expects pain.

He expects execution.

He does not expect to wake in the mornings, in a privatesuite, to the pale gold of a Coruscant sunrise. From his window, he can see thespires of the Jedi Temple, the red Imperial banners that now festoon itsexterior walls. He wonders if that is on purpose.

He does not expect to have breakfast brought in by a servicedroid. Hot spiced tea and toast, coddled eggs and fresh fruit or fried cakeswith sugar.

He does not expect to kneel on the balcony in the warmth of theearly summer morning and meditate. As much as he can with the neural disruptoraround his throat, an energy field draped like a shell over the balcony. Therewill be no escape from this vantage point.

He comes to expect the void-dark presence in his room themorning of every Primeday, an hour into his near useless meditations. Helistens to the rasp of breath through the respirator. He never turns around.And in these moments he is…almost glad his connection with the force is severed,otherwise it would be too tempting to reach out, to touch, to brush mentalfingers along Vader’s force signature as he had done so many times with Anakin,as his Master, as his friend.  

Vader doesn’t try to talk to him. And he never stays long. Whenhe leaves, he always leaves something behind.

The first time it was the tail feather of a firebird, shiningdark red in the wan light of the room. Obi-Wan wondered at the feather, at itsmeaning. He finally placed it on a shelf where the sunrise caught it and thevane burned crimson in the morning light.

The tail feather was followed by a small box of handmade sweetsObi-Wan had given Anakin on his birthday, during the last several years Anakinwas his Padawan.

Then a pearl from the Corellian sea, small and shining blueand black like the eye of the universe.

After that, a book ofpoems Obi-Wan used to keep on his shelf at the temple. He remembers it constantlydisappearing into Anakin’s room during the years they lived together, returningwith pages slightly dog-eared and the binding falling open to the most oft readpages.

Today, it’s the river stone Qui-Gon had given Obi-Wan forthis thirteenth birthday, black as onyx, shot through with veins of red thatseem to pulse, glow. Obi-Wan had, in turn, given it to Anakin on Anakin’sthirteenth birthday.  He remembers Anakinfiddling with it occasionally as a Padawan and later as a Knight, on flights,on watch, lying in his sleep roll, unable to sleep for the adrenaline stillcoursing through him from battle.

He lifts the stone from the corner of the settee, cradles itin his fingers, warm and smooth as he remembers. He closes his eyes, tightenshis fingers around it, and brings his hand to rest against his mouth. If heholds it tight enough, breathes deeply enough, he thinks he can feel the golden-brightenergetic hum of Anakin’s force presence, before Mustafar, before…. Before.

When he opens his eyes, he sees gold sunlight, the brightburning feather on its shelf, next to the book of poetry. He feels the stonesmooth and warm in his hand.

And he wonders what it all means.