“We’ll take the boy,” Bail Organa says to Obi-wan Kenobi, “my wife and I have always dreamed of having a little boy.” And Obi-wan nods and gathers the tiny, squalling girl into his arms and heads for his ship.
“Exile for us then, eh?” he says quietly, soothing, but the girl still screams. Her brother was quiet, serious, even moments after birth. But she is full of fire. “Oh, do be quiet, Leia,” Obi-wan says wearily, but he’s smiling. And she suddenly stops crying and stares back at him with a steely gaze as if she’s realizing she’ll get farther with less dramatics. “Your mother was just as brilliant,” he says dryly and sets course for Tatooine.
She grows up loved, yes, but it’s a harsh world, this endless desert, and she soaks some of that into her skin. Luke would have been softer, the sand grinding his harsh edges down, but Leia is ignited by the heat of this world, and she glows like fire. She grows up angry (this does not change), and she grows up ready. For what, she’s not sure, but she’s ready. She takes her speeder into town and gets into bar fights. She flies out to the Jutland Wastes and tangles with sand people and old Ben Kenobi comes in and saves her on more than one occasion–not that she needs saving. She leans on her stun-rifle, self-satisfied grin on her face, sand people unconscious at her feet. “What?” she asks Kenobi, grin tilting over the edge into mischievous, “I can take care of myself.”
“I know,” he says, world-weary, resigned. “Your father was the same.”
He tells her about Anakin, the best fighter pilot in the galaxy–“I always knew he wasn’t a spice merchant, like Uncle Ben said,” Leia crows triumphantly–the fighter, the Jedi, the friend. He hesitates, but can’t bring himself to tell her what happened to him. “Vader killed him,” he says, and it’s not a total lie, but Leia’s eyes narrow and her head tilts to one side. She’s shrewd. She knows it’s not the whole truth. “You’re a lot like him,” Kenobi says sadly. “You share a fire.”
She wants to come to Mos Eisley with him. Her brother would have accepted that he needed to get home, that he was in enough trouble as it is, but Leia wants off this rock. She wants to use her fire, wants to learn how to be a Jedi, wants to change the world (this does not change), and the soft strength of the boy in the hologram begging for aid just stokes her fires. “He needs help,” she says to Kenobi, “and I’m going to help him. It’s my droid, anyway.”
Prince Luke of Alderaan has his own fire, but it’s quiet, a hearth compared to her bonfire (this does not change), but he’s brave and strong and he draws her into his fight for the galaxy as easily as pulling her in for a hug. She’s comfortable around him without explanation, and she can’t help but love him and his adorable hope and optimism. “I’m a senator,” he says, shrugging, “I have to believe there’s a better way. A better galaxy. That there’s still good out there” She laughs, but claps him on the shoulder.
“Okay,” she says, “let’s go find that good.”
She’s still in charge (this does not change), and she’s still the one to save their skins over and over, because no matter what world Leia grows up on, she’s good with a blaster, good at the pilot’s controls, and the only one quick enough to fix the plans that go awry. She’s backed this time by years of back alley scraps in Tashi Station instead of senate floor debates. But they made her just as furious, just as brilliant. She still takes after her father, and Luke still takes after their mother. But it’s more pronounced, more obvious. Kenobi watches and worries.
But he didn’t have to worry. Leia on Degobah is determined, fierce in her studies, desperate to cultivate her control of the Force. Yoda worries–“Much anger, there is in you, much hate for the Empire.”
“What do you expect?” she snaps. “They murdered a planet, and they would have murdered more if we hadn’t stopped them. They’re horrible.”
“Do not let this anger control you,” Obi-wan says from beyond the grave, but she just shrugs. “Vader was consumed by his anger, and it led him to the Dark Side.”
“Well, then, it’s a good thing I’m not him,” she says, gritting her teeth as she lifts the X-Wing from the marsh and sets it on dry land with nothing but the Force. “I will never be him.”
There is more than one way to channel anger. Leia channels hers into love (this does not change), and when she goes to save her friends, when she goes to save her father, it’s her furious love for them, for what she’s protecting, that burns with the fire of Tatooine’s twin suns. She grew up in a blazing desert, soaking in the heat of two stars and all the love her uncle and aunt could muster, and she lets that radiate out of her until she glows.
She’s still the same Leia. Her brother is still the same Luke. It doesn’t matter what world they grow up on.
This is a fic I have wanted to write for over two years, and for some reason it just won’t coalesce for me? Whatever.
CW era, Anakin is dosed with a Seperatist truth drug. You can imagine it causes problems. I’m leaving in my brackets and notes because fuck it!
Anakin
frowned. If this Seppie didn’t can it he’d lose count.
“Pay
attention, Skywalker,” his interrogator hissed—what was he called? Flassk? That
couldn’t be right. “Or this could be terribly uncomfortable for you.”
Flange? Was that it? Now Anakin was
annoyed that he couldn’t remember. Obi-Wan kept track of all the targets,
Anakin just took them out.
And now he’d lost count. He may
never know if this Seppie interrogation room at more or less ceiling beams than
the last one.
“I’m not going to be here long
enough for that,” he said, easily.
SUMMARY: (So this is a totally contrived Obitine pile of trash that was a complete guilty pleasure to write. If you’re looking for a little Obi-Wan/Duchess interaction with eventual smut, then read on!)
When Obi-Wan is gravely injured during a botched rescue operation, he turns to Mandalore for sanctuary. Reunited with Satine after months of separation, the Jedi and his Duchess find it difficult to resist their desires.
A bit of blood and violence, some merciless flirting, and some classy smut.
He knew full well that Satine enjoyed teasing him, that she liked to needle away at his self-control and elicit a response that gratified her. What she did not know was that he took equal pleasure in doing the same to her. He had grown to love slowly working her into a frenzy until she was nearly delirious with desire.
——————–
HELPFUL NOTES BEFORE YOU BEGIN:
Ever notice those delightful scrapes, scratches, and bruises Obi-Wan occasionally has in The Clone Wars? Think Landing at Point Rain or Revenge. Some of us find that particularly appealing on Master Kenobi, so that’s been included here.
And if you’re like me, you’ve always kind of wondered what that base-layer/black undershirt is like that Obi-Wan wears under his tunic… Click Here or Here for a reminder of what this looks like. We explore that a tiny bit.
This guilty pleasure trash heap was completely inspired by this delightful piece of fan art. May the gods bless this artist!
I also use some Mando’a words/phrases. Please see the end notes for translations.
I dedicate this story to my friend and favorite snowflake!
Now that Obitine Week 2018 has been announced (September 24-30) I think it’s a good time to reshare this story.
WOUNDED JEDI is a hurt/comfort fic full of all my favorite tropes!! LOL!! Obi-Wan being cute with little kids, Obi-Wan getting hurt, Obi-Wan needing Satine and Anakin but only admitting it when he’s delirious and his guard is down. This is as fluffy as I get. There’s clever flirting and tasteful, mature content that is not explicit but it still fun… (Am I allowed to give that kind of opinion on my own work??? LOL)
If you’ve never read it before, please give it a try and let me know what you think.
If you’ve already read it, perhaps you’d like to read it again???? (•‿•) I’d love to know how you liked it. Maybe you would even be so kind as to tell a friend about it or share it onto your blog??
“I beg your pardon,” he repeated for what had to be the fifth time, “but married?”
The coat that had started the whole thing was innocuously hanging on the rack next to the door, and Obi-Wan resisted the urge to glare accusingly at it.
“Sorry,” said Rex with an awkward shrug, “but I don’t make the rules.”
In which there is a deal, a coat, and what comes after.
(or the selkie au)
Huge thanks to everyone who’s stuck with me through the long, long, oh god so long process of this getting written read the bits and pieces here and cheered me on. This would not have happened without you.
Also thank you for tagging me in all things seals. Now this monster is done I do want to go back and write some snippets for those. So watch this tag.
It was a rare bit of downtime for the 212th and Obi-Wan was happy to see the men relaxing. The intercom in the LAAT/i had been jerry-rigged into a sound system and was pumping raucous music into the clearing. Bottles of beer had been procured, although no one seemed to know where they’d come from. Obi-Wan shook his head, taking a swig from his own bottle. It wasn’t quality brew, but it did the trick.
Cody was laughing at something Waxer had said and Obi-Wan found himself smiling in response. This last mission had been a particularly bad one (as had the one before it and the one before that) and his commander’s dry sense of humor had been in short supply. Seeing him laughing, seeing that rare grin that lit up his face did something to ease a knot of tension in Obi-Wan’s chest. Cody was happy, his men were happy, and for the moment, Obi-Wan was happy, too. He took another drink from his bottle, eyes idly tracking Cody as the commander walked over to where a couple of the men- possibly Porg and Wooley- were sparring. In one swift move Cody had stripped off his top and stretched his arms.
Obi-Wan inhaled his beer.
As he coughed, his eyes remained riveted on Cody. Warm afternoon light painted his skin with gold. He laughed again, giving Wooley a good-natured shove shove as he prepared to take on Porg himself. He watched the two men grapple, Cody quickly pinning Porg to the ground and grinning down at him.
Heat pooled in Obi-Wan’s stomach as he imagined himself in Porg’s place. And then he realized what he was thinking.
Oh, no.
He drained the rest of his beer and went to grab another. Or two.
Right, this is horridly late, but I know most everyone still in school will have started school this week/will start next week, so here’s an addition to my Little Brother AU, a sunshine-and-daisies version of the GFFA where Obi-Wan is Dooku’s padawan, Xanatos never fell, and the whole lineage exists in an endless series of prank wars, dimples, and Dooku failing to maintain his poise. Link above if you want to read the previous instalments.
This one is set chronologically before any other; it shows Dooku choosing Obi-Wan as his padawan. It’s not quite classes, but it does have a teaching component.
Winning Smile
It was only after he found himself carefully braiding his new padawan’s russet-brown hair that Dooku actually paused to consider the trouble he had gotten himself into.
By his own choice, no less.
Dooku had never gave serious thought to taking another padawan. Part of this was due to his previous, and only, padawan (because Qui-Gon Jinn. Oh, stars above, Qui-Gon Jinn). And partly, Dooku’s own duties as Sentinel and Jedi Shadow. His work often led him to the farthest and darkest reaches of the galaxy; such places and deeds were not fit for the bright-eyed, unsullied youth of the Temple corridors.
And when he had the rare chance to return, it was always to the report that his grandpadawans had gotten themselves into another glorious mess; Feemor’s fondness for “accidentally” upending bottles of pungent perfume onto Mace Windu’s cloaks and Xanatos’s penchant for underhanded humiliation of any (admittedly, usually deserving) party always reflected, in the end, upon Dooku himself.
And so he had remained without an apprentice for long, long decades.
Until now.
It began, as all these Force-fated moments do, with an accident.
Dooku would be the last to admit it, but something very akin to frustration was building behind his temples as he strode purposefully through the Archives.
If Jocasta Nu was not one of his oldest and fondest friends, he would have had a dour word with her regarding the upkeep of her archives; it did not reflect well upon her duties that there should be only one holovolume concerning the Force-users of the pre-Old-Republic Deep Core; it was even worse that the volume was not registered as checked out, despite its clear absence from the shelves.
Frowning severely, Dooku stalked out of the row of holovolumes and past the Initiate-level self-study cubicles, fire in his eyes and the promise of a very painful death curling at the edge of his dark russet cloak.
Around him, Initiates shrank back into their seats, Force-signatures flaring behind wobbly, juvenile shields; but he continued on regardless, mentally composing how best to voice his dissatisfaction to Jocasta Nu without incurring her fearsome wrath.
It was only after his sleeve brushed past something and a flute-like voice yelped somewhere near his hip that Dooku realised just how unbalanced he was.
He spun smoothly in place, eyes searching, but the inkpot, pushed off the edge of the table by Dooku’s careless sleeve, was already almost to the floor; a wave of sable ink was slipping from its opening, and the Initiate at the table had a hand outstretched, blue eyes wide-
-And everything froze.
Dooku halted, cloak settling around his ankles.
He stared.
The inkpot floated languidly on the currents of the Force, the small wave of ink cresting over its lip frozen forever in space-time, like a baseless sculpture of utter stillness.
The Initiate – a young human boy of no more than eleven years of age, with clear blue eyes and a chaos of russet-brown hair – grinned past a look of intense concentration, brows furrowed, as his outstretched hand shook with a telltale tremble.
His Force-signature was pure, focused light; a compressed supernova.
Dooku did not become aware he was staring until sweat began to bead slightly at the boy’s temples and a perfectly flute-like voice said, “Could you step back, please, Master?”
Dooku slid back smartly.
The inkpot smashed into the floor. A mess though it was, Dooku’s boots remained untarnished – something that would definitely have not been the case were it not for the Initiate’s quick thinking.
The boy slid out of his chair and bowed once, chubby cheeks pink. “I apologise, Master…?”
“Dooku,” Dooku replied, blinking the afterglow of the boy’s Force-signature from the backs of his eyelids. “That is not necessary. The fault was mine.”
The boy straightened out of his bow and blinked up at him.
And then he smiled.
Stars, Dooku thought.
If there were ever a pair of dimples that could charm the most severe of crèhemasters, this was it.
An actual supernova chose this moment to crest the horizon; Initiate and Master spun in unison, agitation bleeding into the Force.
“Madame Nu,” the boy whispered, eyes very, very wide.
Dooku realised, belatedly, that the tables around them were empty; all the other children had scented danger and fled accordingly.
Jocasta Nu descended upon them like a Force-wraith of the old legends.
“Initiate Kenobi,” she began, in a tone that was half severity and half fond exasperation. “This is the second inkpot you have seen to destroy in a week.”
The boy – Kenobi’s – ears turned scarlet. He stared at his feet and mumbled something, looking every inch the morose, regretful akk-pup. Jocasta’s eyes softened as she looked down at him.
It was enough to make something twist in Dooku’s chest, even – something that had not happened in a very long time.
“Do not fault the boy,” he said smoothly, stepping forward. “It was I.”
Jocasta’s gaze turned at once upon him, burning anew and skewering him in place. “You?” she said, looking not unlike the time he had said something rather foolish to her when they were Senior Padawans and she had promptly given him such a good walloping in the lightsaber arenas that he had limped for a week after.
“Yes,” Dooku replied, squaring his shoulders. “It was me, Jo.”
“Hmm,” Jocasta narrowed her eyes at him, like Krayt dragon going in for the kill. “See that it is cleaned up.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Dooku replied, a trifle sardonically, and barely kept himself from wincing when she stuck him with another pointed glare as she turned to go.
In the careful silence in her wake, Dooku removed his cloak and knelt to wipe at the pool of ink. The laundry droids were likely to throw a fit, but it was better than allowing ink to further stain priceless larmalstone.
A much smaller piece of fabric joined his cloak a moment after. Dooku raised an eyebrow at the cream coloured tabard and the small hands studiously cleaning up the mess with it, but kept his comments to himself.
Initiate Kenobi did not meet his eyes either. The boy was intensely focused on the pool of ink; the tip of a pink tongue was just visible between his lips.
Dooku looked away before any traitorous words such as adorable could register properly.
Scrubbing away at the ink took longer than Dooku thought; as he worked, he glimpsed the title of the holovolume still set on the table and blinked in astonishment.
“Master Dooku?”
Dooku’s gaze snapped back to the boy; the fact Kenobi had sensed the change in his Force signature at all was nothing short of outstanding sensitivity.
“Your choice of reading material is rather unexpected, young Kenobi,” Dooku said, after a moment.
“Oh!” Kenobi’s ears turned pink again – Dooku noticed they did so rather often – “I’m researching Pre-Old-Republic Deep Core Force-users. It wasn’t clearly mentioned in my classes so I decided to read up on it myself.”
“Hmm,” Dooku murmured, working at a stubborn stain.
“Am I…not supposed to?” a hesitant voice said.
Dooku’s head snapped up. “What?”
Kenobi had stopped scrubbing away at the floors. His hands curled around his ruined tabard. “I’m…sometimes the masters who teach my classes tell me I read too much. It’s not my level, they say.” His eyes blinked slowly, a film of moisture over the blue irises. “I put too much into my essays and when I ask questions they say it’s not within the scope of the course and don’t answer me. So I come here.”
Dooku stared.
And then, before he knew it, he was very, very angry.
Kenobi flinched, sensing the heat-filled flare in the Force.
“No, no, I’m not angry with you,” Dooku found himself saying, even as a distant part of him was yelling into the Force loud enough that he wondered if Jocasta would sense it and come ablaze with fury again.
Not that it would matter. There was enough fury in Dooku at this moment.
“Do not concern yourself,” Dooku said, as the two of them mopped up the last bit of ink and shattered ceramplast. “As it happens, your reading topic is also one of my recent research interests.”
A gasp. “Really?!”
It was astonishing. One moment, those eyes had been covered with a film of moisture; now they were shining with delight in a dimple-cheeked face.
For some reason or the other, Dooku found it extremely hard to look away. It was ridiculous. Inexplicable.
But then two hours later still found him sat at that same table with Kenobi – Obi-Wan, as the child explained very soon after – both as utterly delighted with the holovolume as they secretly were with each other.
Though neither of them voiced it.
The change came soon after.
Several masters and knights specialising in teaching roles were found in the Temple refectory a month or so after, sharing seething battle-stories in low voices.
“Will you believe he charged into my classroom without permission-”
“-berated me for poor standards of teaching, no less-”
“-I had to revise my entire Galactic History syllabus with him looking over my shoulder-”
“-and the Council gave him permission too, for stars’ sake!” One Twi’lek Knight wailed, lekku writhing in agitation. “And here we always thought Master Dooku was the sane one in his lineage-”
“Ahem.”
The knight shrieked. Loudly.
Dooku looked coolly down at the assembly. Raised an eyebrow.
The knights and masters all avoided his gaze.
“I trust my point is made,” Dooku said. Then he smiled. Nastily.
And then he walked on. Behind him and slightly to his right bounced a young boy in a new cloak a shade or so darker than his russet hair, the new braid behind his ear so short that it stuck straight out behind him like an antenna.
“Padawan,” Dooku murmured, admonishingly.
The bounce in Obi-Wan’s step decreased slightly. Emphasis on slightly.
“Yes, Master,”he said, and smiled winningly up at Dooku.
Those blasted dimples.
The Force help Dooku when the rest of their lineage get their hands on him.
END
This is a part of an AU of mine, Little Brother AU. For more instalments, click on the link! I’m not sure if the link works on mobile, but it definitely works on computer. Happy school days, everyone 🙂
Obi-Wan tucks himself into a quiet corner of the room to sip at his drink and observe while he catches his breath. It isn’t that he’s not good at politics – he hasn’t earned the title ‘the negotiator’ for nothing – he just loathes the maneuvering and lies. He does, however, enjoy watching his husband and wife play the game.
Many of the politicians and nobility underestimate both Jango and Satine for very different reasons, and they are ruthless at exploiting it. Jango was the son of a farmer who became a bounty hunter. He was born far from nobility, a pretty face or a warm body in the Duchess’ bed. Obi-Wan has heard quite a few nasty terms bandied about, and he’s never been shy about putting the speakers in their place; Satine is even more ruthless about it – there are a few whose careers will never recover from a few words spoken into the right ears. Jango doesn’t care, but he is theirs. They protect their own. What none of the upper-class understand is that he knows the value of hard work, he knows how to look for weaknesses and exploit them, he knows how to be invisible and to strike at just the right moment, a hunting shriek-hawk.
Satine is underestimated for her pacifism. She is an idealist, yes, and she is aware of the way many people believe they can take advantage of that for their own ends. She is used to being treated like idealism and a belief in the better nature of the galaxy are markers of an idiot, like she’s blind to the truth of it all. It makes her a target, as though she is weak, as though the refusal to fight is the coward’s way out, when in truth, it makes her stronger than most. Her spine is steel and her blood is ice. She doesn’t respond to the accusations, to the machinations of her enemies. She’s a viper among them, deadly fangs only bared when anyone dares tread too close to her home.
They assume quite a bit about his husband and wife. Obi-Wan smiles behind his glass, because he knows the truth. It’s why he loves them.
this took A While, but im really really happy with the end result! i dont usually do as big pieces when im just working on my own, so having a driving force to actually do something like this was both challenging and really nice? also please fullview, this tiny version doesn’t do it justice at all
Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars – All Media Types Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Jango Fett/Obi-Wan Kenobi Characters: Jango Fett, Obi-Wan Kenobi, Qui-Gon Jinn, Quinlan Vos Additional Tags: Alternate Universe – Modern Setting, Contract Killers, Jango is a tiny bit oblivious, ObiWan is a tiny bit devious, QuiGon is very tired and wants ObiWan to be more like Anakin Series: Part 6 of A Loving Heart is the Truest Wisdom Summary:
The ginger was pretty cute, Jango had to give him that, but he couldn’t dance worth a damn.
Stranded alone with his Jedi General, Cody learns the man behind the title, as they struggle to survive together on an uninhabited world. Will the Republic come for them?
wrennette 