are you a fan of the bone-picked teeth series penned by the infamous @whirlybirbs, starring the handsome af ewan mcgregor in an alternative universe cut exploring the characterization of sith lord fortem, who looks an awful lot like our beloved space saint obi-wan kenobi?
then may i present for your listening pleasure heart’s got fangs - a bone-picked teeth fanmix! while the tunes on the mix are based off of my own interpretation of fortem, series aesthetics, and me!specific senator, i hope you find some sounds of you inside of this.
... god how do i even begin to describe how i feel about less-than-good versions of ‘good guys.’ i cannot. it’s weird, okay?
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COMING THREAT ; summary: things go awry with the hit. there’s a mole. fortem warns you.pairing: senator!reader x sith!obi-wan kenobia/n: oh? a light plot? oops -- read the other chapters here!
You are interesting.
Leaned against one of the far pillars, Fortem watches you with curiosity.
Curtained by dark lashes, golden eyes jump across the scene playing out before him -- you’re walking along with a handful of the other senators as the chamber is dismissed for the evening, face animated with a breath of kindness. You’re speaking softly to a woman he recognizes to be Padmé Amidala -- the Senator to Naboo.
Pretty little thing, she is. But, vastly outshone by your beauty.
As you move to sweep past him, Fortem drops his chin and coughs; he flies under the radar of the cluster of politicians -- but not you. No, at the back of the pack, you catch the clever smile on his lips clear as day.
Recognition, promptly followed by shock, flies across your face.
Crossing his arms, he can’t help the small smirk that winds itself around his lips.
You stop in your tracks, glittering black dress twinkling in the setting sun of Coruscant.
“Are you coming, Senator?” Padmé asks sweetly, a smile played upon her lips as she juts her chin to the other’s stepping into a Senate Transport, headed to the Federal District’s lower level, “We’d love if you joined up for dinner.”
Fortem watches, hand playing with his beard; half to hide his smug expression.
“I’m afraid not. It seems I have some business to tend to tonight,” you sigh, frowning apologetically -- you squeeze her hand. Fortem wonders how you became such a good actress. He can feel enough irritation rolling off you in waves to know your soft voice is merely a show, “Though, please do have a drink for me, Senator Amidala.”
The words are enough for the former Queen of Naboo. She smiles, nods, then leaves to join the others. Once the she’s gone, you turn on a heel fast -- your head spins around as you lurch towards Fortem, hand swatting at his chest as you round the pillar and hide you both in the dark.
“What are you doing here?!” you hiss, swatting at his hands as he raises them in a weak defense.
He’s laughing -- that same boyish chuckle he’d done in your quarters two nights prior when he’d slipped you gilded words of praise and sipped on your brandy stash. He leans around the pillar with a smile, only to have you shove him back into the shadows.
“She’s rather pretty --”
“She’s dangerous,” you bite, eyes fleeting shut in annoyance.
“Oh?” he digs, “Coming from you --”
“She’s close with the Jedi Council,” you breathe, raising a finger and pointing with a controlled sense of rage, “And as much as I can’t stand you --”
“Be still my beating heart,” he shirks, crossing his arms and quirking his head, “Are you worried for me, Senator?”
You grit your jaw tightly, dropping your head into your hands and worrying your brow. Your circlet tinkers as you do so, hair pulled back tightly and up away from the low sweep of your neckline. Fortem admires you for a moment as you rub the bridge of your nose and exhale tiredly.
“What is it you need, Fortem?”
“Must I need something to see my favorite Senator?”
“Oh,” you laugh bitterly, “You’re doing nefarious business with other Senators, then?”
Fortem makes a face. Half-way between a frown and a snarl.
“I’d rather --”
“Rather be put on trial by the Jedi Council?”
“Enough already. You’ve made your point --”
“Have I?” you bite, jabbing a finger into his chest, “As fun as this little game of yours is, it’s dangerous. You will be arrested, put on trial, and I will follow.”
Sand-colored brows quirk as he crosses his arms and recoils a bit. The expression that slips onto his face, for only a moment, could be akin to hurt -- or maybe, distaste. You aren’t terrible sure.
“’Little game of mine’?”
“Do you think me naïve, Darth Fortem? Sneaking around, coming into my apartment unannounced --” you voice is low and soft like satin.
He scoffs, eyes twinkling with amusement. You note the beauty mark along his right cheekbone. The corners of his eyes crease as he laughs; his voice is level with a threat.
“You are certainly something, Senator.”
“Something you like, clearly --”
“I came here to warn you,” he snaps, then, leaning forward as a spark of rage lights up between you, “That someone tipped off the target. I showed up, he didn’t. Someone knows you hired me -- and someone talked.”
“That’s... impossible.”
And yet, here he is, exasperatedly running a hand through his pristine hair -- concern painted on his face. “You deserved to know.”
Suddenly you feel a bit bad for the jabs; you exhale slowly, wrapping your arms around yourself.
“Any word from the target?”
“None.”
“Right.”
“You’re panicking.”
“I am not --”
Suddenly, his hand is on your arm.
He speaks firmly, voice a bit warmer than you’ve grown accustomed to. His eyes connect with yours for a moment; then they roam your face as he urges his reassurance.
“Senator, I won’t let anything happen to you.”
Your eyes fleet shut in surrender as you sigh. “Thank you --”
maybe uh,, give us some fortem? bc i gotta get a bad taste outta my mouth,...
a/n: hehehe have some later-on-in-their-relationship senator!reader x sith!obi
“You clean up nice.”
It’s all he can really muster.
Fortem feels like he’s been cast into Mustafar’s lava sea.
He’s sweating.
You swat at his hand, gathering your gown up in your hands and stepping down the grand staircase leading out of your Senate District apartment -- outside, there’s a speeder waiting. You stride ahead of the ruddy blonde nipping at your heels, sporting a roguish grin as he rushes to keep up.
“Hurry along, won’t you, Lord Fortem?” you call over your bare shoulder, catching golden eyes stuck to the flash of skin that peaks from your dress -- the high slit crawls up your hipbone; and as you bend and slip into the speeder, Fortem eagerly follows -- chasing not only you, but the sight before him.
“Someone is in a mood tonight,” he mumbles closing the door and rapping his knuckles on the partition as the driver turns over the engine and begins to pull away from the apartment.
You cross your legs and lean back, flashing Fortem an unamused look. Low lashes dart up his figure, red painted lips pulled into a snarl.
He matches it.
Then, easy as breathing, both of your faces melt into slow smirks. Crosses his own leg, ignoring the fact he is most definitely wrinkling the suit clinging to his body. Not that he had anyone to impress. No, he was on security detail.
“I don’t intend on staying the entire time,” you mutter, eyes cast out the window, “Nor do I want to.”
“Worried...?”
“No, simply that rubbing shoulders is exhausting,” you sigh, smoothing the satin of your sleeveless dress, “Especially during cocktail hour.”
“Oh woe --”
You slap at his knee. He grins. You simply shake your head, rolling your eyes with a warmth that only Fortem manages to wrangle out of you -- he notices, and leans to drape his arm around the back of your seat.
Without a word of protest, you lean into him and plant a well-manicured hand high on his thigh. You can see the hilt of his saber flash beneath his jacket. You say nothing, only allow the Sith to touch your chin and turn your face to his.
“You look beautiful,” he says, quieter now, “Truly.”
“I’d kiss you,” you say, then, “But you’d have lipstick all over --”
Obi-wan Kenobi has long since been dead. In his place, Darth Fortem stands. A Sith Lord working in the background during the Clone Wars, he's hired to murder a newly elected Corellian Senator stirring up problems for the syndicates back home.
Against his better judgement, he lets her live. And her own wickedness surprises him.
Cue a tumultuous relationship built on the backbone of questionable morals.
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all I can think abt is how cozy obi looks in that one gifset in his robes in rots & now I’m thinking about sith!obi just looking like a cute lil thing in his huge dramatic sith robes.,
a/n: this spurred the next installment in “fortem is tiptoeing around his feelings while the senator leaps around them”, read the whole work on ao3!
He wakes to sound of something sizzling in a pan on the oven, the smell wafting over to his perch among the cushions on your sofa.
The Sith inhales long and slow, pulling his eyes open as he shifts in the small nest he’d burrowed himself into throughout the night -- the two blankets you’d provided, plush and soft, are around his legs and his robe is balled up beneath his head, making him look like he’s drowning in a river of bedding. He can feel a crick in his neck from the odd angle he’d dozed off in, having been guarding the apartment with more seriousness than he’d originally anticipated.
He couldn’t help it, though, after you’d ambled from your room at an odd hour with anxiety painted over your usually stoic features. It was... out of character for you. Though, the Sith couldn’t blame you. There’d been an attempt on your life earlier that night. Sleep, for many, wouldn’t come easy after a threat to that degree. Even for an icy, powerful, young Senator who has a Sith Lord wrapped around her very thumb.
Fortem exhales. He pulls himself upright and blinks blearily over the back of the couch at the morning sun streaming in through the floor to ceiling windows.
When in the seven hells did she pull the shades up? Had he really slept through that?
The morning traffic has already begun, the sound of the air-lanes humming by. It dances on the plush, maroon carpet. The light is soft, warm and sweet -- the exact opposite of how Fortem looks right about now.
He has to fight the temptation to fall back into the cushions.
Fortem’s hair is strewn about, with his auburn cowlick pointing straight up, yet simultaneously in every direction possible. His black under-tunic is the only thing around his shoulders. After all, he’d hucked his top robes off his body in a flash of heat in the middle of the night. Your apartment had been freezing one minute, then unbearably hot the next. He was trying to get comfortable.
Fortem scratches his beard as he swings his legs off the couch. Woolen socks meet the carpet and he cracks his neck, rubs his face, all before being greeted with a soft laugh from your direction.
You’re slipping a prevva egg omelette onto a plate for him as you speak, gaze lingering on the sleepy Sith from your spot at the kitchen’s island.
“I was worried you’d gone and died in your sleep, Darth Fortem.”
Fortem groans and stands, moving to snatch his tunic and tug it over his head. As he does, you spy the hem of his long-sleeve lift, showing a trail of hair up his abdomen that matches that of his beard along with dark Dathomirian tattoos -- you pretend having not caught the sight, lowering your eyes as you fix yourself a plate for breakfast while he clears his throat and moves to fix the mess he’d made of the couch in his sleep.
And his hair. Gods, his hair is a mess. Atrocious. He fusses it down.
His is hoarse with sleep when he finally speaks. “I might as well have. How long have you been up, then?”
“Not long,” you tut, switching off the oven and gathering the two plates. You move gracefully across the apartment, dropping the plates at their spots on the dining table outlooking the air-lanes of Coruscant’s morning traffic. It’s practiced, and Fortem wonders if you’ve made breakfast for many overnight guests before.
He steps from the sofa, moving towards the table that you’ve settled at -- you sit unlike he’s seen before. One leg pulled to your chest, arms leaned around to dig at the omelette on the delicate china plate. Your fork and knife tinker softly against the setting as you drop a bite into your mouth and chew.
You look softer -- less... dangerous. Fortem wonders if it’s the warm light of the morning, or the domesticity radiating from your actions. He settles down at the table without a word, golden eyes glued to you the entire time he moves.
You shift in your seat as Fortem chews, happily realizing you are a good cook; he spares you a sheepish look as he digs in for another bite.
“Hungry?” you ask softly after swallowing your mouthful, a polished example of etiquette even in the informal setting of a hit-man and his employer eating breakfast together, “There’s another carton in the fridge --”
“You didn’t need to feed me.”
“I don’t have guests often,” you shrug, “It’s rare I cook for someone aside from myself -- and you did pluck me from a free-fall last night. This is the least I could do for saving my life.”
You gather your napkin from your lap, placing your fork and knife down as you stand -- Fortem continues his endeavor on finishing his plate, stealing a side-ways glance as you move across the apartment. You snatch something from the counter, then sit back down.
You’re still in your robe from the night before, hair relaxed and face bare -- he spies a glimmer of gold along your neckline and tries his best not to stare at your décolletage as you slide a platinum card his way.
Manicured nails recoil as his face warps in confusion.
“Your payment.”
His mouth is full. He chews quickly, eyeing you and the card and you again, before snagging the credit crypto-card with a measured level of scrutiny.
He’s only seen these a handful of times before -- but it makes sense. It’s an account, essentially, operating off your usual banking chain-code and heavily encrypted. Maul had once copped a collection of these little beauties; not even the best cryto-pirates in the guild had been able to slice the binds off the credit transfer system.
Reliable, clean, secretive.
Perfect payment for a man of Fortem’s caliber.
His brows are knotted. “I’ve not delivered my end of the --”
“The deal has changed,” you mutter, “I think it’s fair to say.”
His fork wavers in the air. Golden eyes blink at you.
“I’d like to keep you around,” you say finally, digging around your omelette and pushing the egg about on your plate, “Until this is sorted and I find out who is trying to ensure I end up dead... For the price of triple our original agreement, if you agree.”
“Forget the price.”
You balk.
He doesn’t even look up, just forks another mouthful and chews. Fortem’s jaw tightens as he does which gives you a better view of the tattoos along the column of his throat and neck. They’re jagged and puzzle-like, running like deep rivers across his skin. They disappear beneath his collar and the stubble of his beard. You wonder if they’re everywhere; his chest, of course, but his arms? Legs? Back?
You can see the edges of some peeking out from the hem of his under-tunic’s cuff, darting up his wrist. Typically, his hands are hidden beneath jet-black, leather gloves. But now, in the morning sun, you can see the callouses and scars alongs his knuckles from years of fighting.
His gaze meets yours. “I am serious, stop looking at me like that.”
“... Why?”
A shrug. He tosses his napkin onto his now empty plate and sits back. He crosses his arms and shrugs. Fortem speaks slowly, ignoring the annoyed wane of his heart and mindful logic as he does.
“Wouldn’t be very chivalrous of me to take advantage of a kind Senator in need, would it?”
You narrow your eyes, albeit playfully. “And what of serving your best interest?”
Fortem shrugs. “You said it yourself; things have changed.”
His lips quirk and your face plays at something just as amused. Your lashes flutter, a scoff on your tongue, when suddenly, there’s a call at the door.
A sharp knock, followed by the buzzer announcing loudly:
“-- Senator, Sir Praze from the Financial District is here for you.”
Your head whips up from the meal.
Fortem makes a face.
Instantly, you’ve sprung up; your eyes are wider than ever, face contorting into an expression that fleets between worry and fear and anxiety all at the same time. Fortem screws his brow as you usher him up with hushed words and gentle hands.
“Get up,” you hiss, “Into the bedroom.”
“What?”
You move quickly across the room, hands pressing the buzzer as you speak cooly into it. “One moment. Send him up.”
Fortem is confused -- but suddenly realizes that you’re about to receive a guest... and can’t help but snort. You swat away any remarks he’s about to croon your way with your hand, opening the door to your bedroom and nearly shoving him in.
“Stay here and,” you bite your tongue, “Just... be quiet, Fortem, please.”
He leans on the door frame.
“So ashamed of me, dear?”
“Terribly,” you bite, smacking his arm away as you close the door, grumbling as you do, “Please! This... of course he’d show up --”
Fortem is then left with the sight of your door as you hurry away and slam it quickly in a haze.
From the other side of the door, he hears you greet someone -- this Sir Praze character, he assumes -- rather stiffly before a moment of silence washes over the room and Fortem has to lean his ear to the door to get a good listen.
ugh I love whatever this is between sith!obi-wan and senator!reader
TANGO ; summary: lord fartem pays another visit, with updates on the job you’ve hired him to do. more verbal tango. you both ignore something there.pairing: sith!obi-wan kenobi x senator!readera/n: i …. i was gonna go to bed but wanted to write one more thing
“You really ought to lock that –”
This is the third time he’s let himself in.
“Oh! My god,” you grit in suprise, hand flown to your chest as you close your eyes and catch your breath, “You’ll be lucky if one of these days I don’t shoot you.”
Fortem laughs – a bit boyish and a bit airy – as he paces around your dinner table. It’s empty, aside from you, so he makes a point of leaning on the chair beside where you sit and watching you thoughtfully chew through your last bite of kibi steak. You avoid his eyes, instead wiping your mouth with your napkin and sipping your wine before you allow him your full, undivided attention.
You look pretty – your is hair relaxed along your shoulders and frame swathed in a simple, chiffon nightgown. It’s a deep indigo. Free from the war-paint of politics and smells like expensive bath salts, you’re hardly the cunning woman he’s had running around in his head for the last three weeks.
“Lovely spread.”
He doesn’t mean the candles or the fruits.
“I like to think myself a cook.”
He chuckles.
You smirk.
“… Did you need something?”
“Oh,” he waves a gloved hand, “Hardly.”
An amused blink. Your eyes narrow in on him, light with some sort of emotion he can’t quite put his thumb on. You lean back in your chair and fiddle with a strand of your hair, gaze rooted on the peppering of a few greys in his beard that you never noticed.
“And you’re here, why?”
“Paying you a visit,” he shrugs, beginning to pace around, “Hoping you’d offer more brandy, I suppose. It was rather good –”
“You’re a pest,” you hiss playfully, standing then and moving past him.
He’s gone and left the balcony doors open; the night isn’t too cold, but the late summer air of Coruscant’s Senate Distract does lend you to wrap your arms around yourself a bit tighter as you venture towards the bar by the open-air patio.
He follows, watching as you make him a glass and he’s surprised he’s gotten this far on the premise of brandy alone – he lingers over your shoulder as you pour the drink.
“I can feel you staring.”
Blunt. He doesn’t even pretend to play it off.
“Can you blame me?” Fortem croons, “Quite the sight you are, bathed in moonlight.“
You ignore the terribly delightful roll of heat that stirs in your belly. You spare him a faux-irritated look as you turn around, handing him the drink and moving towards the couches.
“Have you come only to rob me of my brandy and shower me in gilded compliments, Lord Fortem,” you wave a hand, shaking your head, “or do you bring other news?”
“Always so focused on business –”
“There’s still a job to be done, is there not?”
Touché.
He leans back, crosses his legs and hums. “Quite. I thought you’d be pleased to know I’ve arranged a meeting with the man who’d originally asked for your pretty little head on a silver platter.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. Tomorrow evening.”
You cross your arms, smugly chuckling. “I’m impressed.”
“You thought so little of me?”
“Well,” you pout, “I did nearly shoot you in the head the first time I met you –”
“An underestimation of your wickedness, Senator, and it will not happen again, I assure you.”
“Well, then tell me, Lord Fortem, should I expect further wickedness from you? Will you turn around and lob my head off clean, present it to whomever on a silver platter?”
He scoffs into his drink. “Betrayal, you mean?”
“You’re hardly loyal to me. Betrayal references some sort of bond.”
Fortem shrugs. “I’m acting in my best interest.”
“And what’s that, Fortem?” you ask, tilting your head.
He offers a warm smile, one you would just hate to trust.
ya and also feel like senator reader kind of expects sith obi to like blow his load and hit the road but boy is so gentle and sweet and kind with her after frick fracking like affection left right and centre he cares so much i would like to smooch
Fortem, hair mussed and eyes half-lidded, sits up only after darting an exhausted kiss to your cheek – he groans as he does, stretching his back slightly and swinging himself from bed.
You’re anticipating him to leave; it hurts, quite a bit, to know that’s exactly what he’s about to do – you wish, despite the cynic in you, that you’d been more ready for it. Tangled in the sheets, you exhale a steady sigh and stretch your legs.
You’re already sore.
Fortem is slow to rise; in the dim light of your bedroom, you can see the inky tattoos that run down the expanse of his back and curl around his biceps. He leans, snags his woolen trousers, and hops into them before moving towards your master bedroom’s refresher.
The light paints your face from your spot in bed when he flicks the switch. Your mascara has run, hair an awful nest compared to its usual fashion. You watch him scratch his beard and muss his hair, all before he tosses you a soft smile you’d not been ready for and closes the refresher door.
The toilet runs, and then the sink, and he emerges with a facecloth and a gentle expression.
“C’mere.”
Your face screws up. Crankily, you sit up. Is he not… leaving?
Fortem has to laugh – he moves to wipe away the streaks where your mascara has run down your cheeks; carefully getting rid of the rest of the lipstick smeared across your chin. You hold the sheets close to your chest as he does, pouting slightly. The ruddy, blonde haired Sith then offers the warm facecloth your way.
“Here,” he says softly as one hand squeezes your ankle, “Want tea?”
You have to stop your jaw from falling. You swallow thickly. Your voice is hoarse.
“If… If you’re offering.”
He nods, one hand sweeping along your jaw as he presses a kiss to your hair and stands. “Go clean up, and I’ll be back with a cup.”
And sure enough, after heading to the refresher and squaring yourself away – all while marveling at the deep purple hickies along your throat and chest – you return to the bedroom to find Fortem already back in the sheets and a steam cup of tea on your bedside table.
Your heart nearly stops when he toys with your hair as you sip the hot drink, relieved at the sensation soothing your throat post-activities. You sit up against the headboard, sheepish as you’re the center of his attention – you steal a glance from the corner of your eye and hide a smile.
“You’re beautiful.”
“Fortem –”
He smothers your protest with a kiss to your cheek.
