Oh Dear.

It took water, crops, livestock, and people with equal indifference. It buried homes beneath shifting dunes and erased trails before a traveler could think to look back. On Tatooine, survival depended on learning that the land would never love you back.

Still, it was home.

It had been your home for as long as you could remember.

You woke each morning before sunrise, when the stars still clung stubbornly to the sky and the twin suns had yet to crest the horizon. By the time the first orange light spilled over the dunes, you were already outside checking moisture vaporators, brushing sand from filters, and muttering half-hearted curses whenever another intake pipe clogged during the night.

It was repetitive work.

Demanding.

Lonely.

But it was yours.

The first time Ben came to your farm, you heard him before you saw him.

Not his footsteps—they were impossibly quiet—but the soft grunt of your old bantha.

You looked up from the engine compartment of a vaporator and blinked against the growing sunlight.

There, standing beside the enormous creature with one weathered hand resting against its shaggy neck, was a man wrapped in faded brown robes.

Your bantha, Ban, regarded him with sleepy black eyes while chewing lazily on dried scrub grass.

"You've made a friend," you called.

The stranger glanced toward you.

His face was partially hidden beneath the shadow of his hood, though you could make out a neatly trimmed beard streaked with silver and a pair of startlingly blue eyes.

"They're good company," he replied.

His voice surprised you. It was warm, cultured, and gentle—not at all what you’d expected from one of the strange hermits who wandered the Jundland Wastes.

"You know," you said, setting down your hydrospanner with a dull clank against the workbench, "Ban usually spits at strangers."

The man's eyes flickered toward the massive, shaggy bantha tethered near the moisture vaporator. "I think we've reached an understanding."

As if to prove his point, Ban leaned heavily against him, nearly knocking him sideways. The man let out a soft, amused laugh, rubbing the beast's matted fur without a hint of fear. You found yourself smiling at the sight.

After that day, Ben became a familiar sight around your homestead. Never expected, but always welcome. Sometimes he appeared carrying a bundle of medicinal plants gathered from rocky canyon walls miles away. Other times he arrived with fresh water balanced across the back of a patient eopie, claiming he'd collected more than he needed. You strongly suspected he simply knew your cistern ran low after every sandstorm, but he never mentioned it. Neither did you.

The desert had its own language, and kindness was rarely spoken aloud. It was repaired fences found before dawn. It was a crate left quietly beside someone's door. It was an extra water skin offered without making the other person feel indebted. Ben seemed fluent in that language.

It took months before you truly looked at him. Not just glanced out of curiosity,

He wasn't old. Not really.

Older than you, certainly, but not ancient as the townsfolk insisted. His face was simply tired. It was the kind of tired that settled deep into someone's bones after years of carrying burdens too heavy to set down. Fine lines framed the corners of his eyes, though you suspected they'd once appeared only when he smiled. Now they remained even when he didn't.

His hands, however, fascinated you most. They were strong, scarred hands with calloused palms marked by years of weapon training rather than farm work.

There was an elegance to the way he moved that no amount of hardship had managed to erase. He bent to lift heavy machinery with effortless balance. He crouched beside broken engines with a surprising, fluid grace. Even something as simple as accepting a cup of tea from you carried a quiet precision. Everything about him suggested discipline, not military, but something older. Something calmer. Like a man who had once spent years learning perfect control over every breath he took.

Sometimes you caught him staring toward the horizon. He wasn't watching the dunes; he was watching something only he could see. The expression in his eyes always made your chest ache. It wasn't longing. Longing implied hope.

This was grief.

One afternoon, the heat became unbearable. Even the wind seemed exhausted, drifting lazily through the canyon with all the enthusiasm of an overheated bantha.

You were balancing atop a flimsy ladder while replacing a cracked vaporator valve, your brow slick with sweat. Suddenly, the metal rung shifted beneath your boot. The ladder tipped violently.

Your stomach lurched. For one suspended heartbeat, you knew exactly how this would end—a hard, bone-breaking crash onto the sun-baked flats.

Then... nothing.

You hadn't hit the ground. You weren't falling anymore. Instead, you hung strangely still in the air, weightless, as though unseen hands had caught you mid-plunge.

Your eyes widened in sheer disbelief. The ladder settled itself back upright against the vaporator with impossible gentleness. Only then did your boots touch the ground.

Across the yard, Ben stood perfectly motionless. His hands remained folded neatly inside his wide sleeves. His expression revealed absolutely nothing.

"You should replace that ladder," he said calmly, his voice slicing through the ringing silence.

You stared at him, your heart hammering against your ribs. "You..."

He tilted his head slightly. "Yes?"

"...How?"

"I don't believe I know what you mean."

"You—"

"The valve appears secure," he interrupted smoothly, nodding toward the machine.

You let out a breath, laughing despite your shock. "You are the worst liar I've ever met."

One corner of his mouth lifted in a rare, genuine smirk. "I've been told otherwise."

****

That evening, you shared dinner beneath the shade of your home's awning. The sky burned orange, then crimson, before slowly fading into a deep, velvet indigo. The first stars emerged like tiny pinpricks through the darkness.

Ben looked upward almost immediately.

"You always watch the sky," you observed, leaning back against the cool stone wall.

"I used to know it," he murmured.

"You still do."

He smiled faintly, though it didn't reach his eyes. "No. As strange as it sounds... it has changed."

"The stars?" you frowned.

He nodded. "They're always moving."

"I suppose they are."

"They remind us," he said quietly, his gaze fixed on a distant constellation, "that nothing remains where we left it."

The evening breeze stirred loose strands of your hair across your face. You brushed them aside, studying his profile in the twilight. "You talk like someone who's lived a hundred lives."

For a fraction of a second, something flickered behind his eyes—an expression so fleeting you almost thought you imagined it. Regret. Memory. Love. Loss. All of it tangled together in a single, painful knot.

"Some days," he murmured, "it feels as though I have."

Silence settled between you. It wasn't awkward or empty; it was simply shared. The desert stretched endlessly before your little home, vast and indifferent beneath the emerging moons. Yet sitting beside him, listening to the quiet cadence of his breathing, you realized the silence no longer felt lonely.

The fire had burned low.

Only a handful of glowing embers remained, breathing soft orange light into the little house while the wind sighed against the walls outside. Every so often, grains of sand rattled against the durasteel shutters, a quiet reminder that the desert never truly slept.

Ben sat opposite you at the small wooden table.

His untouched cup of tea had long since gone cold.

He seemed elsewhere again.

You had begun to recognize that look.

His eyes would lose focus—not vacant, but distant, fixed on memories that lived somewhere far beyond Tatooine's endless horizon. Sometimes they softened, touched by something almost fond. More often, they darkened with grief so profound it seemed impossible one person could survive beneath its weight.

Tonight was one of those nights.

"I know."

His gaze lifted, focusing back on you. "What do you know?"

"I know you're hiding from something," you said. Not accusing. Simply certain.

For a moment he didn't move. Then the faintest crease appeared between his brows. "I've never been particularly gifted at it."

His fingers curled loosely around the ceramic mug. "I suppose I've become predictable."

"Not predictable," you countered, leaning back in your chair to study him in the flickering firelight. "Just... transparent."

One corner of his mouth twitched. "I don't believe anyone has ever described me that way."

"They haven't been paying attention." You watched him retreat behind himself, preparing another careful answer, another polite deflection. You couldn't let him do it again. "I know you're not just a hermit. I know those aren't the hands of a farmer."

Silence met your words.

"I know you carry yourself like someone who spent his entire life being watched," you continued. "I know you've had military training."

A tiny shake of his head broke his stillness. "Not military."

"No? Then what?"

He didn't answer.

"You've lost people," you said softly.

His jaw tightened. "Everyone," he whispered.

"Before this desert," he began, the words coming slowly, as if he were unearthing treasures buried deep beneath the sand, "there was an ocean of light. Coruscant. A city that covered an entire world, reaching so high into the atmosphere that you forgot the ground even existed. I lived in a temple of glass and stone, surrounded by thousands of my kind. We served the Republic. We settled disputes. We protected those who couldn't protect themselves. We were meant to keep the peace."

"Were?"

"We failed."

"You mourn someone named Anakin," your voice softened even further, "and someone called Qui-Gon."

A bitter, melancholy smile touched his lips.

"I had a Master—the wisest man I've ever known. He taught me patience. He taught me compassion. He taught me there was always another way. He also had an infuriating habit of being right."

You smiled despite yourself. "He sounds unbearable."

"He often was." The smile faded just as quickly as it had arrived. "He died while fighting. I thought... if I honored what he'd taught me... then perhaps his death would mean something."

He stared back into the fire, decades passing across his features.

"I trained a boy. Younger than he should have been. Brilliant. Kind. Stubborn. So terribly alive." His lips trembled. "I loved him. I raised him. I watched him become one of the greatest Jedi who ever lived."

You could feel the immense weight of the memory pressing down on him, a grief so profound it made the air around you feel cold despite the lingering desert heat.

"What happened?" you asked, almost whispering, suddenly afraid of the answer.

"The dark took him," Ben murmured, his voice cracking slightly. "It took all of them. The temple, the Republic, the thousands of voices I used to feel in the back of my mind... vanished in a single heartbeat. And the boy I swore to protect..." He trailed off, his eyes darkening with a pain so sharp you felt it like a physical blow to your own chest. "He was consumed by it. I watched him become one of the worst monsters the galaxy has ever known. I believed I could save him." His breathing hitched, tears finally brimming over. "I believed... that if I just said the right words... he would come home."

He looked at you then, his blue eyes searching yours, filled with a deep, warning gravity.

"My name...my real name..." he hesitated, as though saying it aloud would summon the very ghosts he feared, "...was Obi-Wan."

You repeated it softly. It sounded right. It sounded as though 'Ben' had always been a piece of clothing that never quite fit.

"There is no glory in being what I am," he said quietly. "Only ghost stories and a debt I can never fully repay. I am here because I failed. And because the only thing left for me to do is to watch, and to wait, and to ensure that the last tiny ember of that light isn't extinguished by the dark."

Slowly, you reached out and placed your hand over his calloused, scarred knuckles. His fingers closed around yours with surprising strength. You didn't say anything. There were no words in any language, desert or otherwise, that could heal a wound that deep.

"You talk in your sleep," you revealed, looking toward the dying fire. "You never say much. Just names. And you apologize."

"I didn't realize."

"I don't think you were meant to."

He laughed once, a sound completely hollow of humor.

"I think... once, you were someone very important. I think people followed you."

"They did."

"I think they trusted you."

"...Yes."

"I think they loved you."

His eyes glistened in the firelight. "So did I."

"And I think," you whispered, "whatever happened... you've spent every day since believing you deserved to survive it less than they did."

"I don't," the words scraped raw against his throat. "I don't deserve it."

"I've watched you for nearly a year," you said quietly. He remained silent. "You help travelers without expecting thanks. You mourn strangers. You carry everyone." Your voice trembled slightly. "And somehow you've convinced yourself you're a monster."

His breathing became uneven. "You weren't there. You didn't see what I became."

"I don't need to."

His head shook. "You should."

"I see who you are now."

"No," his voice rose—not in anger, but in sheer desperation. "You see what remains."

"I don't know the man you used to be," you said quietly.

"No," he agreed. "You don't."

"I know the man who fixes my vaporators. I know the man who feeds hungry children before feeding himself." His thumb brushed unconsciously across your knuckles. "I know the man who can't walk past someone in pain without trying to help. And if Obi-Wan was ever worthy of being loved... then I think Ben still is."

For a long time, he said nothing. Then, with tears still shining in his eyes, he leaned forward until his forehead rested gently against yours.

"I don't know," he whispered, voice shaking, "if I deserve to be loved like this."

"You don't have to deserve it." you kissed his flushed cheek. "You only have to let yourself be loved."

His eyes closed.

The years of war, the unbearable guilt, the endless exile—they had taught him how to endure almost anything.

But they had never taught him how to accept tenderness.

So he leaned into your touch with the smallest, most hesitant movement.

It was almost imperceptible.

To anyone else, it would have looked like nothing at all.

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Obi-Wan believes that aftercare is intrinsic to having and maintaining a healthy sex life. 

He follows a usual pattern or routine after intercourse, making sure you’re cared for in all aspects. 

He will first lead you to the refresher so that you’re able to urinate—peeing after sex helps clear the urethra of harmful bacteria that can potentially lead to a risk of developing a UTI. If the session was particularly rough or the two of you made any mess, he’ll change the sheets if need be, then, once you’ve finished up in the refresher, he'll fetch you some water or a snack, depending on your needs. Sometimes, he’ll run you a bath or start a shower for you if you’ve not taken one beforehand or have gotten too sweaty and sticky from your escapades.

He won’t rest or offer cuddles until your other physical needs have been met; he’s not a risk taker by those measures. 

Every sexual encounter is different, and he will gauge his response based on how you are in the moment, catering his methods towards what you need or ask for. His main love language is acts of service and won’t address his own needs until yours are satisfied. 

Once you have been cared for properly, he’ll scoop you into his arms and hold you against his chest or he’ll spoon you from behind. In these quiet moments, he likes to whisper sweet nothings into your ear, praising you for how well you’ve done for him, how happy you make him and how deeply he cares for you. 

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

His favorite body part of yours are your lips, primarily because of how much he craves your sweet kisses, but he also adores your natural pout, how they purse together in concentration when you’re deciphering his words like a riddle, the subtle downturn when you’re frustrated, the thin-lipped stretch of them when you break a smile and show your teeth…your face is always so expressive and the quirk of your lips tell him so much about how you’re feeling and your level of comfortability. 

Every physical feature or attribute serves a necessary function and Obi-Wan is pragmatic about his own body. He hasn’t ever considered himself through the lens of physical attractiveness before, but if he were asked to pick one part of himself that he prefers, he’d most likely say his arms, because of how it feels to hold you in them. 

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Obi-Wan’s respect for you is of the utmost importance—he’s not going to ejaculate anywhere on your body or inside of you unless he’s been given explicit permission beforehand. Reassurance and conversation about your comfortability are a necessity and he’ll want your expressed consent each time.

The most respectful way he can think of to spend himself is to cum inside you and, if you’re alright with it, he’ll bury himself in deep before he releases, filling you to the brim as his hips rock smoothly into you, pushing his cum deeper within you. However, he won’t do any of this unless you’re on some form of birth control. If not, he’s wearing a condom. 

If your preference is for him to pull out, he’ll gladly reach his peak on your thighs or stomach. 

He will never cum on your face. He finds it distasteful, and any form of degradation is unappealing to him—he will not get any excitement out of it. 

D = Dirty secret (pretty self-explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

 He loves tasting himself inside you, licking you clean and lapping up his cum as it dribbles down your sensitive inner thighs and trickles into his beard every time he goes in for another exquisite taste. 

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Obi-Wan has a fair share of experience. Shame and guilt swirled within him as a young Padawan, but his Master had encouraged him to experiment as all young men do, so at the behest of Qui-Gon Jinn, he’d done his best. 

He was much more sexually repressed as a new Padawan but was far more eager and easier to arouse than in his more mature years; he struggled with premature ejaculation, especially when he was really turned on and had not yet learnt proper restraint and discipline through his training.  In these early years, he loved to be praised and guided through his encounters, seeking reassurance that there was nothing wrong with what he was doing and wasn’t forsaking the Jedi Code, etc. 

He had a complicated relationship with sex, because he once believed that adherence to the Code and avoidance of attachment, in any form whatsoever, was most important to pursuing the life of a Jedi and his path to Knighthood. However, as most young men are at least somewhat sexually curious and experimentative, Obi-Wan was no exception. He has had several attachment-free sexual encounters throughout his lifetime, and at least one that developed beyond what could be defined as a hookup. 

He knows how to please you, having learnt that it excites him far more to give sexual pleasure than to receive it himself. 

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Missionary is his favorite, because he can look into your eyes while he thrusts into you, appreciating the nuances of your emotions through your expressions. He likes the closeness of it, the intimacy relating to the position and how he can hold you close and have you wrap your thighs around his hips to force him in deeper. 

He also likes leveraging his weight and the angle of his body to his advantage, like if he sits on the edge of the mattress and bucks up into you while you sit on his lap with your back pressed to his chest, preferably in front of a mirror so that he can watch your breasts bounce. He can wrap his arms around you and hug you against him, because physical closeness is important to him especially if he can’t directly see your face. 

Alternately, he likes slow, languid sex and any positions that cater to those desires, like lying on your sides, one of your legs hitched up to your chest while his hips thrust shallowly against you. 

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Obi-Wan is very serious in the moment, but he’s not above letting out a chuckle or cracking a smile if your rhythm falters or if his cock slips out of you at an inopportune time. The important thing is that you’re both comfortable and feel safe enough to laugh with each other at a time that might otherwise be embarrassing or awkward. 

H = Hair (how well-groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

The older he gets, the more concerned he becomes with making sure he’s trimmed, but he has chosen to leave his happy trail the way it is, since you are so fond of it. His pubic hair is a shade darker than the coppery hair on his head, and its thickness is nearly the same, although there is slightly more curl to it. 

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Obi-Wan expresses his love for you through both romantic and sexual intimacy. 

Foreplay is perhaps more rewarding than the act of intercourse itself, and not every element is sexual in nature. Sometimes he likes to simply pamper you, run you a nice, warm bath complete with a tray of snacks, scented oils and moisturizers to apply afterwards, and cozy clothes to slip into before retiring to bed. He enjoys massaging you, lighting candles for a relaxing ambience and pleasant aroma, and lying skin to skin with you while you talk for hours. 

Some of these are a gateway to sex, but Obi-Wan doesn’t manipulate the interactions—he prefers to let things progress naturally and if it happens to lead to sex, then that’s just an added bonus. 

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Obi-Wan rarely masturbates. It’s not something he’s had to rely on heavily since he was a Padawan, because then, he’d done it quite often, despite the guilt which consumed him afterwards. Now, he’s only interested in sexual release if it involves you as an active party. If you’re not in the mood, he’ll ignore his needs or suppress them through meditation, sparring, training or some other activity to take his mind off it. Wearing himself out physically will minimize his arousal, so he likes to keep busy. 

It’s not the healthiest method, but Obi-Wan has difficulty managing his own needs and will put them off for the sake of taking care of others. He is always going to put you first, even to the detriment of himself. 

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Praise kink—giving. He’s not as needy for praise as he was when he was young, but he loves to tell you how well you’re doing, how satisfying your touches are and your body is, how gorgeous your parted lips and flushed cheeks look, how perfectly tight your little pussy is wrapped around his cock. When it comes to praising you, Obi-Wan’s mouth is an endless flow of compliments. 

Dom/Sub dynamics—gentle Dom. He’s not going to do anything to hurt or frighten you, but directing you how he wants you, manhandling you into submission, grabbing your wrists, pinning you to the bed with his hips, forcing you to make eye contact with him, he’s doing it all. 

Brat Taming—Obi-Wan adores his subby little brat and he’s most definitely going to put you in your place if you step out of line. He’s not above spanking you, if you’ve teased him one too many times, or just because he wants to hear your soft moans and watch you flinch each time he brings the palm of his hand down on your exposed flesh. 

Honorable mentions for both sensory deprivation (blindfolding you) and watching you masturbate for him.  

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

His or your bed, no exceptions. Obi-Wan is staunchly against anyone finding out about your relationship, not just because he would then have to choose between being a Jedi or leaving the Order to remain with you, but also because he’s a very private man and likes to keep his intimate affairs between the two of you. 

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Simplistic domesticity, craving a life with you that is just for the two of you, pretending that nothing outside the walls of your little apartment is as important as what’s cradled between them. Obi-Wan doesn’t regret his decision to become a Jedi, but he would leave the Order for you and there’s catharsis in that revelation. Watching you devote your time and energy to your shared life fills him with warmth, when you let him bring you breakfast in bed, folding laundry together, conversing over a mug of hot tea, allowing him to help you with daily tasks and errands, those are the things that turn him on because, it’s a Jedi’s natural purpose to be welcoming and open to others as well as to the Force, but for you to let him in is a choice and he is honored to have been chosen by you. 

On a different note, he’d also love to see you wear something sexy for him, preferably with lots of lace, soft colors and a flattering design that accentuates your curves. 

Flaunting a pretty set of lingerie for him would definitely make him squirm. 

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Anything that causes you significant pain, discomfort or harm (the closest to this he’ll get is spanking, but only if you are comfortable with it.) 

He isn’t interested in any kind of degradation either, or truly, anything that you don’t consent to or don’t enjoy. Obi-Wan is never going to ask anything of you that you aren’t a hundred percent committed to. 

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Obi-Wan is a giver and going down on you is one of his favorite forms of sexual foreplay. It is a time when he really gets to worship you, drawing a multitude of needy moans, soft gasps and pleasured cries from you. It makes him giddy to know he can get you to make those sounds for his ears only and he won’t be able to pull himself away from between your legs until he’s thoroughly pussy-drunk, your juices glistening on his lips and beard. He’s gifted at eating pussy. 

Going down on him requires much conversation and gentle reassurance that it’s something you want to do, not something you feel like you must do. Once he’s convinced you’re not doing it solely for his benefit, he’ll tug out his cock for you and you’ll find him surprisingly hard, though you’ve not done anything to him yet. He doesn’t make a lot of noise, except for several groans and a few sharp gasps. He always alerts you before he cums, letting you know he’s getting close so you can pull off if you want to, but the time when you grabbed his hips and refused to let him pull out, he was left with no choice but to spill into your warm, waiting mouth and his lips parted in shock as he watched you eagerly swallow. 

If you’ve got a cock instead of a pussy, he’s going to be tentative at first, a subtle blush rising on his cheeks at the idea of taking a penis into his mouth, not because he is averse to the idea, but because he hasn’t had any prior experience with that genitalia other than his own. So, he just applies what he knows from his own pleasure, what feels good to him and what he likes from his partner, and he catches on fast. He doesn’t have much of a difficult time suppressing his gag reflex and can take you down his throat quite easily, which is a pleasant surprise. 

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

You and Obi-Wan do not often get to spend as much time together as you would like, your busy schedules keeping you apart most nights when you’d rather be in each other’s arms, so when you finally fall into bed together, Obi-Wan wants to take things slow and steady, building a rhythmic, sensual pace that gradually becomes rougher and more frantic the closer you both get to orgasm. 

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Obi-Wan doesn’t like quickies because you deserve far better treatment than that, but if it’s all the time you have, then he won’t deny you if you want him that badly. If you’re crunched on time, then he’ll bend you over and take you from behind, so that neither of you have to get completely undressed. 

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Obi-Wan is not a risk-taker, in any situation—your relationship is the biggest risk he’s taken in many years. He’s a rule follower and functions best with having clear set-in-stone boundaries. He doesn’t like unprotected sex, nor anything that he thinks could harm you or cause you to lose trust in him. 

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Obi-Wan has Jedi Master level stamina, so he can last a long time or go for multiple rounds, but he is getting older and therefore he not only has far more control over himself than he did when he was young, but it’s also somewhat difficult for him to get hard again after he cums, or that it just takes longer for him to recover, so he’ll usually just try to last as long as he can before he lets himself have an orgasm. 

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Obi-Wan doesn’t usually accept toys into your sex life, but there was one time he asked you to show him how you would pleasure yourself when he was gone and he’s never gotten harder in his life. 

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Obi-Wan is such a tease, but with words and his voice, rather than through touch (but that doesn’t mean he won’t graze his fingertips across your skin, just to make you shiver and whine for him.) 

He’ll take you by the arm or lean in close as he brushes past you, just a hair’s breadth away from you and use his honeyed accent to his advantage as he whispers hotly in your ear, “do you have any idea, dearest, what I have planned for you this evening? I’m going to absolutely worship you, darling, lay you down across our bed, and make you mine, in every sense of the word.”

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Obi-Wan makes a good effort to suppress his sounds at first, and you have to coax him for quite a while to get him to give in. He’ll give you little groans and the occasional low, sweet moan, but he’s never very loud.

He makes up for this with significant dirty talk: “I’m going to fill you up, dear one. Oh, yes, you’ll be so full, you’ll be babbling incoherently, like you’ve never received cock like this before. Think you can take all of me tonight, dearest? I’m certain you can…you’re such a good girl.”

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

He’s a big fan of casual nudity, which is not a preference he gets to indulge often. When he has some time off, he’ll take you away to a distant planet where you can interact with some freedom, choosing a sparsely populated city to visit, using his credits to purchase a stay at a quaint little inn or to rent a few nights inside a cottage amongst the trees so that he can observe you naked as much as he wants. 

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Obi-Wan’s cock is about 6-6.5 inches long and is of average thickness. His shaft tapers slightly near the head and has an upward curve when he’s hard. His tip is sensitive. 

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Obi-Wan’s sex drive is average, but a lot of different things can affect it, such as his energy level, whether he had an argument with Anakin earlier in the day, what he’s eaten (if he has a heavy meal on his stomach, he’s just going to want to snuggle and relax) or if he’s got a lot on his mind. He tries to give his thoughts to the Force, but meditation has never come naturally to him and when he needs to blow off steam, he’d much rather vent his frustrations. 

He won’t want your relationship to revolve around sex, but you can expect that he’ll experience typical arousal for a man his age. 

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Aftercare is an important ritual and he’s not skipping any of it—he won’t settle down for the night until he’s satisfied that you’re cared for to the best of his ability. 

Obi-Wan is a very light sleeper and intuitively shifts his position based on your movements. 

He likes to sleep skin to skin, lightly draping his arm across your stomach while you lay on your sides as his thumb tenderly caresses your exposed skin. 

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The heat in the training sala always smelled of scorched ozone and sweat, but today, it felt entirely suffocating.

You kept your gaze locked on the scuff marks on the floorboards, deliberately counting the grain of the wood just to avoid looking up. It didn’t work. The sharp hiss of a lightsaber igniting drew your eyes like a tractor beam, and suddenly, there he was.

Obi-Wan.

He moved through a standard Form III sequence, his movements fluid, precise, and disgustingly perfect. A stray strand of ginger hair had escaped his topknot, damp against his forehead, and his Padawan braid whipped against his shoulder as he pivoted. When he deactivated the blade, the sudden silence in the room was deafening, save for the sound of his steady breathing.

He wiped his brow with the back of his hand, turned toward the benches, and caught you staring.

Your heart did a violent, undignified flip against your ribs. You immediately looked down at the datapad in your lap, pretending to be deeply invested in its settings, though your hands were shaking too much to actually tap the screen.

"You're quiet today," Obi-Wan said, his voice carrying that smooth, clipped Coruscanti cadence that usually irritated you in other initiates but made your throat completely dry when it came from him.

He sat down on the bench beside you, close enough that the heat radiating from his shoulder bled through the fabric of your tunics. He smelled of clean linen, the sharp tang of the refresher, and that bitter Alderaanian tea he insisted on brewing at zero-hundred hours.

"Just thinking," you muttered, your voice a little tighter than you intended. You didn’t dare look at him. If you looked at him, you’d look at his mouth, or the ridiculous, earnest slope of his nose, and then you’d say something completely unhinged that would get you reassigned to the Agriculture Corps by nightfall.

"A dangerous pastime," he teased gently. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw the small, private smile tugging at the corner of his lips—the one he didn't show the Masters, the one he saved just for you. "Master Qui-Gon says that overthinking is the first step toward clouding one's connection to the Force."

"Master Qui-Gon also thinks talking to plants helps them grow," you shot back, finally looking up.

Obi-Wan let out a soft, huffed laugh, his blue-gray eyes crinkling at the corners. The sheer warmth in his gaze was agonizing. It was an ugly, heavy sort of longing that pressed down on your chest, because he was sitting right there—so close your sleeves were brushing—and he was entirely, blissfully oblivious. To him, you were his rock. His brilliant, reliable fellow Padawan. His best friend.

He had no idea that every time he patted your shoulder, or stayed up late helping you memorize the treaties of the Ruusan Reformation, you were internally imploding.

"He's not entirely wrong about the plants, you know," Obi-Wan said, nudging your knee with his own. It was a casual, friendly gesture. It nearly made you stop breathing. "But if something is troubling you, you know you can tell me. Surely whatever it is, we can handle it together."

Oh, if you only knew….

He looked at you with such fierce, unwavering loyalty that it made your teeth ache. He was a textbook Jedi, growing truer to the Code every day, and you were hopelessly, desperately tangled up in him.

"It's nothing, Obi," you said, forcing a crooked smile that felt entirely fragile. "Just dreading the galactic history exam tomorrow."

"Ah." the boy stood up, brushing a speck of dust from his robes, completely satisfied with the explanation. He extended a hand to help you up, his palm warm and calloused from years of saber practice. "In that case, I shall expect you in my quarters after evening meditation. I’ve already color-coded the flashcards."

You stared at his hand for a fraction of a second too long before taking it, letting him pull you to your feet.

"You're a lifesaver," you murmured.

"Always," he said, giving your hand a brief, reassuring squeeze before letting go.

You stared at his retreating back, the heavy blast doors of the training sala hissing shut behind him and cutting off the view of his swinging braid. Only when he was entirely gone did you let out the breath you’d been holding, dropping your head into your hands with a pathetic, muffled groan.

It hadn't always been like this. That was the most frustrating part.

There was a time, years ago, when Obi-Wan Kenobi was just the stiff, overly serious boy in the back of the galactic history classes who kept his tunic buttoned all the way to his throat.

Back then, you’d thought he was a bit of a prig. He was the initiate who never broke curfew, who cited the Jedi Code like poetry, and who looked like he’d collapse from anxiety if a Master so much as glanced his way with a stern expression. You had been perfectly content to coexist in the same clan, exchanging nothing more than polite nods over trays of lukewarm nutrient mush in the refectory.

Then came the year you both turned fourteen, and everything went entirely sideways.

It hadn't been a sudden, no dramatic clash of lightsabers or saving each other from the jaws of a beast. It had happened on a rainy, miserable afternoon in the lower levels of the Archives, a place where the air always smelled of ancient flimplast and ozone.

You had just received word that you weren't chosen by a Master during the latest exhibition tournament. The rejection had felt like a physical blow, a cold weight settling deep into your chest. You had hidden yourself away in the darkest, most forgotten corner of the history stacks, curled up against a cold durasteel shelf, silently crying hot, angry tears of humiliation. You were certain you were going to be shipped off to the Agricultural Corps on Bandomeer, forgotten by the Temple entirely.

Then, the soft scuff of boots had broken the silence.

You had looked up, wiping your face frantically, expecting a stern archivist telling you to keep the noise down. Instead, you found Obi-Wan. He wasn't wearing his usual pristine posture; his hair was a bit rumpled, and he looked incredibly awkward, holding two slightly crushed, warm pastries he’d clearly smuggled out of the refectory kitchens inside his wide sleeves.

He hadn't offered a lecture on non-attachment. He hadn't told you to let go of your fear into the Force. He had simply sat down on the cold floor right next to you, his knees pulled up to his chest, and handed you the larger pastry.

"I failed my first three trials this morning," he had murmured quietly, staring at the opposing shelf. His voice had lacked its usual confident cadence, sounding small and remarkably fragile. "Master Qui-Gon Jinn told me my focus was entirely too scattered. I thought... well, I thought if I am to be sent to the AgriCorps, at least I won't be the only one who doesn't know how to grow a single thing."

It was a terrible, clumsy joke, but it had made a wet, startled laugh break through your tears. And when you turned to look at him, he had turned to look at you. The dim light of the archive terminal had caught the exact, shifting shade of his blue-gray eyes, and he had given you this tiny, completely unpolished smile—one that said I’m terrified too, but I’m here.

Right then, something in your chest had cracked wide open. The galaxy had shifted on its axis, and you had realized, with a sudden, horrifying lurch of your heart, that you were utterly undone by him.

The blast doors behind you chimed, jolting you back to the present. Another pair of Padawans walked in, laughing and igniting their training blades, the bright green and blue light reflecting off the metallic walls.

You shoved the datapad into the inside pocket of your robe, wiping your palms on your tunic. Two years had passed since that day in the Archives. You had both gotten chosen by Masters; you had both survived. But the crush hadn't faded. If anything, it had grown into a massive, unruly thing that lived under your skin, fed by every polite door he held for you, every late-night study session, and every time he looked at you like you were the only person in a room full of masters.

"Color-coded flashcards," you muttered to yourself, shaking your head as you walked toward the exit. "He's doing it on purpose. He has to be."

He wasn't, of course. He was just Obi-Wan. And you were going to have to walk into his quarters in three hours, sit on his floor, and pretend your heart wasn't trying to escape through your ribs every time he smiled.

******

The walk from the training salas to your quarters was supposed to be a grounding exercise. Center yourself, the creeds always said. Let your emotions dissolve into the current.

But the current was currently clogged with the memory of Obi-Wan's hand squeezing yours, and the Force wasn't doing a particularly good job of filtering it out.

"If you sigh any louder, you'll dissolve into the air, my dear."

The voice was dry, gravelly, and entirely too close. You jumped, nearly tripping over the hem of your own tunic, and turned to find Master Vane leaning against the arched doorway of the lifting station.

He didn't look like the statues of the high-and-mighty Masters in the Jedi Council chambers. His robes were a patchwork of dark greys and faded browns, chosen more for utility on the outer rim than Temple protocol, and his thick, greying hair was loosely tied back with a piece of synth-leather. A Mirialan with a sharp gaze and a permanent crease between his brows, he spent most of his time looking at the galaxy as if it were a complex engine that desperately needed a wrench taken to it.

"Master," you stammered, quickly straightening your posture and folding your hands into your sleeves. "I didn't hear you approach."

"Clearly," Vane said, stepping out into the corridor. He fell into step beside you, his cybernetic left prosthetic clicking rhythmically against the polished stone floor. He glanced down at you, his golden-yellow eyes calculating. "Your mind was entirely somewhere else. If a rogue bounty hunter had been waiting in that lift, you’d be a smoking pair of boots right now. Care to explain what has your focus so thoroughly compromised?"

"Just... thinking about the galactic history exam tomorrow, Master. The Ruusan Reformation is proving difficult to memorize."

Vane let out a short, cynical bark of a laugh. "The Ruusan Reformation was a bureaucratic disaster that castrated the Jedi military infrastructure and left us at the mercy of the Republic Senate. You don't need to memorize it; you just need to know it was a mistake."

"I don't think Master Nu will accept 'it was a mistake' as an answer on the datapad, Master."

"No, she won't. She’s terribly fond of her dates and signatures," your Master conceded, though his sharp eyes didn't leave your face. He stopped at the intersection of the residential wing, turning to face you fully. He crossed his arms, leaning slightly on his organic leg. "But it wasn't the ghost of Chancellor Tarsus Valorum that had your heart rate spiking in the training sala. I felt your signature from three floors up. It was loud. Messy. Painful, even."

You felt a hot flush creep up your neck. Having a Master who was a skilled Empath was a specialized kind of torment.

"I'm just tired," you lied, looking past his shoulder.

Vane sighed, the harsh edge of his demeanor softening just a fraction. He reached out, his heavy, calloused hand coming to rest on your shoulder—a stark contrast to the brief, electrifying touch Obi-Wan had given you earlier. Vane's presence in the Force was like a solid anchor, grounded and unyielding.

"You are a capable Padawan," Vane said quietly, his tone shifting into something genuinely earnest. "But you carry your attachments like a hidden blade in your boot. You think no one sees it, but it changes the way you walk. It changes the way you fight." He tilted his head toward the direction of the senior Padawan quarters. "Kenobi is a fine Jedi. Qui-Gon has trained him well. But he is on a path that leaves very little room for... distractions. And so are you."

The bluntness of it felt like a splash of ice water. He knew. Of course he knew.

"I know my duty, Master," you whispered, the words tasting like ash.

"I know you do," Vane said, giving your shoulder a firm squeeze before letting his hand drop. "Which is why I am giving you until tomorrow morning to clear your head. Go study with the boy. Absorb his color-coded notes. But when you walk into that examination room tomorrow, I expect my Padawan back. Not a lovesick initiate. Understood?"

"Yes, Master."

"Good. Don't stay up past midnight. I've scheduled us for a heavy scouting simulation at dawn." With a final, knowing nod, Vane turned and walked down the corridor, his mechanical footfall echoing into the distance.

You stood alone in the hallway for a long moment, the weight of his warning settling heavily on your shoulders. Your Master wasn't cruel; he was a realist who had seen the galaxy at its worst, and he knew exactly how dangerous a misplaced heart could be for a Jedi.