#force bond

Anywhere but the vicinity of the unknown, of the one variable that, no matter how hard you had tried to ignore, the Force always found a way to put right back into the equation.

Unknown was something you had stopped being afraid of a long time ago, for not many choices had been presented to you - not knowing if your belly would have been full into the night, or if your ship could have withered one more hit through the ion storms, had trained your mind enough to develop the courage to dive headfirst, regardless of the consequences.

It was survival, after all - that never changed, whether you found yourself on a daunting warship or the leveled moon, and it did not listen to your excuses stemming from fear or hesitation alike.

It demanded motion, movement, action, for they were the only answers it had ever accepted, and every fiber of your informal training obeyed, much against the heartbeat in your ribs that kept calling a name you could never forget.

The question of where answered itself in the frantic thoughts of your mind that threatened to match your motions, as you had very limited choices before facing the wrong end of a blaster.

The ship.

Your ship, the one that carried you across worlds, the one with the damaged starboard panel, the one holding your trusted droid safely occupied. The one that seemed like the only familiar place to run to, the only constant that you could name, as the halls were foreign, the overhead lights were too bright, and the air suddenly felt too dry to breathe in.

The heat that had burnt enough to scar within your sternum grew colder with each step treaded.

The boots that had seen the grime of the Outer Rim hit too hard against the polished durasteel, too fast, in a hurry that they had not been in a while, with intention in mind, your memory not failing you yet to map the turns you had walked through a mere hour ago.

They kept up.

They did their job of lining up your feet, one after the other, keeping you as stable as they could when your gait threatened to falter at any given moment, holding up the slight buckle of your knees with the shock running through your limbs.

Yet, they could not be fast enough, for you did not make it far before a heavier, louder stride made the steel echo, with a frequency you could never mistake for anyone elses.

The low static in your mind that had hummed since the first step onto the warship, now erupted, spreading across all your senses, your limbs, and took over your thoughts in the only way it knew how to.

Instinct, the honed edge just under your skin that had kept you alive, that had managed to extract you out of impossible situations in one piece, was left defenseless against the mere proximity after a decade of distance, and the sheer possibility of an exchange after a decade of silence.

Of all moments, across the stars and the space and through the days spent wishing, it chose this one to break resolve - when a voice you had lost all hope in rang through metal with a certain plea.

“Wait.”

------------------

“Wait.”

In the moment that your body moved to turn, an otherwise instant motion that stretched reality this time, etching itself very well into his mind - Anakin Skywalker could swear he felt the galaxy fall, right through his fingers, star and planet alike disappearing into oblivion the moment his eyes locked into yours.

War, he could prepare for.

He could train endlessly in the salles, swing and push until he was drenched in sweat, obliterate any obstacle to perfect his form. He could review approach plans till the rotations slowed and blue of the holotable became one with his vision. He could read maps and create tactics in the hopes of surviving a siege in a clever way, bending the rules just a little when he needed to.

War, at least, was something from which he could come out victorious.

The fastening heartbeat that echoed against his ribcage reminded him, almost instantly that, from this, there was no parting with a win.

It was a ripple within the Force so strong it dragged deep cracks across the surface as if the very fabric of the universe was mortal durasteel. It was the clash of many truths he had once attempted to sweep aside, by his own hand, finally landing to show face.

This, no rule he had ever come to know could contain. There was nothing, nothing in the whole wide galaxy, that could have prepared him for just how this would feel.

Nothing would ever account for the collapse of all that held him whole, from the very instant he had felt your signature in the thread of the universe, to this moment where his feet had dragged him towards you, without permission, without a second thought.

The corridor, the standard sleek design of the Republic’s finest warship, that often bore the coldness he had gotten used to way too quickly, now pulsed with the warmth of the thread that refused to be tamed.

His pulse had found a new tempo, a new rhythm that the war had not yet taught him, one that lived in the marrow of a boy who had once pressed his cheek to a viewport in a ship that would fail to keep promises.

What lived beneath the walls he had once built with bloodstained hands, the very emotion he had refused to name even in the privacy of his own mind, had never disappeared through the years that, unknowingly, inevitably, all led to a singular point in spacetime - and, they tugged onto the pull that lived in his sternum to awaken it.

They did not have to try for long, for the thread was no longer a dormant, silent being once filtered out by his own doing, for no wall, no mind trick could ever contain scorching warmth.

Following the pull, his reflexes moving against the will of his mind, the movement of his eyes betrayed the difference of rank that hung in the air.

And, at this moment, perhaps with a hint of shame, he allowed himself to take you in, for the war did not afford the recognition often, for the weight of long lost years demanded it so.

The dreams that had often woken him up in sweat and gasps, the faint visuals that rendered him unable to fall back into slumber could not do justice to what the galaxy had carved out of the girl in the desert.

Innocence was a long lost feature that no longer coated your face, as fate and decision alike had rendered it infeasible to stay. Your flight suit, a dark synleather number he had noticed you zip up with haste prior to leaving, spoke of a thousand runs, of rattled seats and metal that pierced through on a hit taken too hard, yet, above all, of all the hits that you had survived.

The lines of your figure had gotten sharper, leaner, taller than the girl who had once fit under a workbench. The faint traces of definition along your limbs were molded by a life spent from one cockpit to another, a life of survival that he had been too afraid, too occupied to witness.

It all added onto the tender tragedy of your face, one he had not been ready to read, one he thought he had memorized every letter of in his mind once, yet, still, the inscription was of a language he had forgotten how to speak.

It was a face that would haunt his living and breathing moments, one that had stolen the air in his chest before he could protest, one forged in fire and molded by pain, one the galaxy had no right to make this beautiful.

And, Maker, your eyes. Those eyes that had shone with the fire of building, of winning, those familiar irises that overlaid themselves to the expanse of his dreams, of his conscience, of the memories that threatened to resurface regardless of the many tactics the Jedi had taught him.

From the day you had pranced into the junk shop, ever since the formation of that unforgettable memory he etched onto his heart long ago - Anakin had known those eyes would be the death of him.

And now, they were, unapologetically, staring right into his, making him wonder just what you were seeing, and what exactly mirrored the defiance in your gaze in the depths of your soul.

The general, hardened by the weight of decisions he had to make, scarred by fire and ash alike, was reduced to a little boy on the desert with sand in his hair and the suns blinding his eyes.

It was no longer the warrior that stood in the spotless halls, but rather the little boy who had also once stood in a shop, and believed, with all the certainty of childhood, that there would never be a force strong enough to take you away from him.

He was, with all that was left of him, at that moment when the ship stood still, the boy that had promised you the stars.

The strength that often came natural to him, dwindled as it decided to let fate take over - and it was evidenced by words finally finding voice, finally dragging themselves from his dry throat, low, unbelieving, and raw.

“It’s you. You - you are alive.”

As the admission left his mouth with a tremble in his voice, nothing seemed to matter.

Suddenly, the war disappeared from his thoughts. Voices that belonged to the routine of the ship quieted, the distant murmur of clones and officers moving through the belly of the vessel no more than residual noise.

There was nothing but the resurrected pulse within his chest, echoing the vibrations in your signature, screaming, kicking, yet silent.

There was nothing but the very reflection of all he had once held close to his heart, standing on a pair of dusted boots, shining with the blinding light of the suns that the galaxy could not succeed in dimming.

His gaze flickered across your face with a helplessness he despised in himself, in an attempt of attaching memory to a face, of digging what he had buried with his own hands.

He hoped, in the depths of his heart, that the child from the desert was in there somewhere, whose laughter was subdued for survival, who was forced to grow up too soon. It was in the almost defiant way you held his stare and did not flinch under recognition, in the faint tension along your jaw that spoke of secrets than aggression, as they all materialized into the sharp silhouette that the lowest places in the galaxy carved out of you.

Then came your voice, dry but purposeful, and it proved to be enough to rip the galaxy apart in the depths of his conscience.

“It seems that I am, General Skywalker.”

The title, uttered from voice he had only heard in dreams finally finding tone, struck him like a blaster bolt, making his jaw twitch.

It did not carry the warmth of the nickname you once had for him, one you never dropped from your tongue when he had to rewire, one that you had screamed across the stars at his rising ship. It was pure ice, for it sounded wrong coming out of your mouth, after all these years. It was too clean, too deliberate, shaped by a restraint that made the thread ache between his ribs.

It awakened something in him, born out of the ashes of recognizing yet always falling short - a certain melancholic denial that he was told, countless times, to let go as a Padawan.

The words left him before his discipline could stop them, his training falling short yet another time, as shame could not act fast enough to drag them behind his teeth where they belonged.

“That is what you are calling me?”

The simple question hung in the sterile air, followed by the slight breathy chuckle that carried the disbelief of a man who had heard his own rank spoken to him thousands of times across the war, across each rotation, and had never once felt it tear open a wound up until that moment.

However, you seemingly did not care to share his disbelief, as your gaze remained on his with a stillness that, at first glance, could have passed for indifference. Yet, the burning feeling beneath his ribs had another thought as it tightened in a way that made the empty space between your bodies some uncharted territory no voice dared to cross.

“It is your rank.”

The obvious truth sounded nonchalant as it spilled from your mouth, yet the rank did not belong to your voice, not to him, for there was once a shorter name you had for him that had carried a different melody in the warm air.

Anakin, with the stubbornness that had won him battles, made it his unspoken mission to uncover what the decade had eroded whatever was left of the sparks that once erupted in your eyes when they had landed on him, whether the name you had for him still rang close to your heart or if it had been swallowed along with many words that never came to the tongue.

“You know that is not what I meant.”

Your hands went back to clasp themselves, assessing, in the same way they did when you had been inspecting his wiring under the panels, when you had watched him attach servomotors to half-finished droids, with a certain maturity carved by sand that many children had not possessed that young.

To an outside observer, to the passerby clone heading to his post, to any other pilot or soldier, it would be seen as a harmless, natural gesture of a lower-ranking officer when faced with the general of a legion.

To him, it was a blade, rough along the edges, lodged into his skin deeper with each beat of recognition - yet the memory managed to outweigh the pain as it earned a softening in his electric blues, for your hands, beneath the icy enigma of your stance, still spoke the same language, even when your mouth refused to.

“I am afraid you are going to have to be more clear, sir.”

He did not know what he had wanted or what he had expected, for he had imagined all the possible scenarios seeing you would bring, over the years, often in the darkness of his bunk or in the corners of the training salles. He had imagined this a hundred different ways, often times with a gentle hug, or an angry outburst, a sobbing yet smiling face, if the Force had given him the blessing of sparing your life enough to meet again.

It had, and along with the light, it had also given him the dark.

The guise of recognition that the heat in his sternum denied viciously, the relaxed body language that you never broke as if it was strict formation, the words that concealed their true meaning under formality, the closeness of a mere three meters yet all the distance that came with it - brought out what he had often forgotten about.

It brought back, in the flesh, the boy in the desert, the relentlessly stubborn yet kind demeanor, with the childish anger stemming hot and anew, the one his masters and their doctrines had attempted to bury under the sand, yet could only hope to succeed.

His gloved hand flew to the back of his neck, a restless, frustrated motion of a body that refused to stand still in front of a ghost from the past, in front of the one, singular, constant truth that the galaxy had never succeeded in taking away from his soul.

“Don’t.”

That earned him a slight tilt of your head, your eyes relentless in their calm hue as they kept contact with his, a slightly confused expression settling into your gaze.

“Don't stand here and act like - don't talk to me like you don't know me."

His breathing shifted into something more urgent, the rhythm of it slowly losing its resolve, following the tightening of his jaw, yielding to him even before the implications of the words could fully take a shape. Hints of frustration, something no Jedi should have ever housed within, crossed his face more evidently now, turning more unguarded by the second.

He was a man who could command armies with precision, yet could not command a single sentence right there in that corridor, against the patient voice of a woman who, seemingly, had all night, and had no intention of giving anything away.

"I know who you are, General. Everyone on this ship knows who you are. Half the Outer Rim has heard your name by now."

And, before the silence could engulf the air, before the meaning could land in his mind and soul, your voice carried on its steady pursuit which showed no mercy to the fire in his ribs.

“I also know where we stand.”

Something behind his eyes shifted, the light in them dimmed as if the flame that kept his protest alive got extinguished. His shoulders, broad and tense beneath the robes that had always, somehow, seemed to belong to someone older, someone steadier, dropped into the quiet stance that spoke of defeat.

It was a surrender for a battle he had not been given a chance to negotiate through, for he had already done so, when he had boarded that ship in the middle of the dunes, when he had sealed your name into the void with bloody hands in the desert.

Words rose, still, like ash swirling in the wind to make it to the skies. All the sentences he had silently screamed, all the apologies, the regrets and explanations that came with them, all ten years’ worth of utterances, yet none of them felt worthy against what the years had carved out of you, and none of them felt sufficient to cover what he had owed.

He wondered if they ever could.

They did not make it past his teeth before your voice rang in the sterilized air again, sending his heart into a frenzy.

“Now, unless there is anything I can help with, General,” you spoke, voice cold, dry in a way that could never reveal any emotion underneath, “ - I have a mission to prepare for.”

And, once again, in his troubled blue eyes, he carried the look of the nine-year old boy under the suns, watching your parting figure disappear into a sandstorm - only this time, the sand was durasteel, and the storm was one of his own making.

The thread, the one he had buried alongside every promise he had broken, every plea he had failed and every vow he had made, stretched taut between as you turned the corner without awaiting formal dismissal - and it did not grow cold.

Strategy meetings were usually boring, mostly because you were still a knight and not allowed to speak, just sit and listen next to your master. The lights were dimmed, everyone focusing on the projection with the planets that were under the separatist’s grip. Bored to death and in urgent need of a distraction, your force signature brushed the man’s in front of you.

‘Sit properly, Kenobi’ you whispered into his mind.

He startled, looking over at you with furrowed brows, then answers in a surprised and unexpected, ‘what the fuck?’

You bit your lower lip to hide your smile, your sultry eyes on him.

‘Sit properly. You’re nearly lying on the chair.’

He looked at you with furrowed brows, but straightened nonetheless. ‘What are you doing?’ He asked.

‘I am bored, I thought to bother you a bit’

His eyes returned to the projection, and you think he will shut you out of his mind for good but instead.

‘On the contrary. This meeting just got much more fun.’

‘I am trying to find a place where we won’t be interrupted’

The smallest smirk played on his lips. ‘interesting place you choose, surrounded by the council’

‘they can’t reach us in here, nor prohibit us from anything’

‘the mind is the first place where the dark side lurks’

You snorted but quickly disguised it as a cough. “Are you alright?” Master Billaba asked you.

“Yeah, sorry, it’s just a cold”

She kept talking about the possibility of an army but you returned to your friend’s mind.

‘careful’ Obi-wan teased.

‘you really are a prude’ You see the corners of his mouth quirk up.

‘is that so? don’t speak like that to a master’

‘master my ass’

‘is that an invitation?’

‘not to a prude’

Obi-wan places one elbow on the table and his chin on his palm, covering his mouth just enough to hide the smirk growing on his face.

‘You can always prove me wrong’ you pressed.

‘Oh I will, soon enough.’

‘Show me’

‘What?’

‘How you’d prove me wrong’

‘Right now?’

‘what? Are you afraid of getting caught? It’s your mind Kenobi, you choose who can have a glimpse of it’

‘You are having a glimpse without my approval’

‘Because your guard was down. Lock us inside and show me.’

‘Where could I begin?’ 

He shows you the hallway kiss.

‘Lame’  

‘You show me something interesting’ He dares you.

‘Aright’ 

You show him a memory of sparring combat.

He was pining you down, his blue lightsaber on your chin. Two of his fingers are solemnly raised pointing at your cuffed wrists above your head. Through the bond you share the thoughts in your head at the moment: your mind is spiraling into his damned fingers, right above your eyes, keeping your hands in place. You think you can still fight him off but the distraction was too great, too much of a liability, so you decide to surrender.

“Pax” you say. 

Your gaze lingers on his fingers as he turns off the saber and clasps it back on his waist.

‘Your turn.’ The projection stops. 

When you look at him he is not quite smiling, but you spot a faint blush on his cheeks. You feel a growing warmth in the bond.

‘That’s cute’

Then you are seeing yourself from afar; your hair is tousled and your clothing is slightly out of place. You are training with Master Windu. Your brows are furrowed in concentration, but Obi-wan’s gaze is spotting the curve of your back when you lean to defend; the dim shadow on your legs when you take a step, marking the muscle beneath.

He notices your tunic is crumpled on your bicep and a thin black strap wraps on your shoulder. He can guess what it is just fine, but knowledge of the garment doesn’t stop the growing desire.

He’s enraptured by the movement of your neck on every breath, the muscles of your shoulders when you raise your saber. He tries to think of your polished warrior qualities, tries to see you strategizing against one of the greatests masters in the temple, but all he can think of is to follow that damn bra strap down your chest and have you gasping for air like you are as he watches.

The memory snaps and now you are the one who’s blushing. 

‘Still lame?’ He questions you. 

You don’t answer, instead you show him the hallway of your personal rooms. It’s late at night, your arms are full of books, walking back from the library on one of Windu’s reading assignments when you halt around the corner. Obi-wan is there, pushing a woman against the wall. She is not a jedi, that much you can tell from the type of dress she is wearing. 

His lips are on hers and by the sounds she makes you guess he is good at it. Her leg is on his waist, one of his hands is climbing up her thigh. You can see how her skin reddens at the contact, but your gaze is locked on his fingers conquering like they own it.

‘Stop it’ He orders you, snapping the image away. ‘I didn’t know you were there’ 

‘It was an interesting discovery’ You swallow at the memory of his hands clutching her thigh. ‘Proof that you are not completely prude’

‘Why did you show me that?’

‘Because you looked hot’ 

Obi-wan coughed, all the masters turned to him with furrowed brows. 

“Rounding the room, a flu is” Master Yoda mused.

“Apologies, master. Please continue.” Obi-wan politely nodded to the elder.

His ears are crimson when he looks at you, but his attention returns to the meeting.

‘Game on, my dear.’ His signature force nuzzles yours.

He shows you the training room again, but this time he is the one you are facing. Your hair is flowing freely on your shoulders, hiding his main distractor: your neck. So he focuses on the task at hand, he attacks and blocks, rises and duks; the sound of your breathing hitching in his brain. He’s bewitched by that rapid motion, in and out with an occasional scoff. Your brows are furrowed and your lower lip is being tortured by your own teeth. He thinks of seeing you like this underneath him, so it makes it come true.

With a wave of his hand your lightsaber is off your grasp.

“Obi-wan!” You whine, further fueling his fantasy.

His feet are quick to unbalance you, grabbing your waist as he guides you to the floor.

You fall on your back agape, your brows furrowed and your eyes decisive. 

You try to raise again and that’s when his lightsaber goes to your chin and his fingers pin your hands above your head.

Straddling you, he looks at you from above.

It’s the same sparring session you showed him, but from his perspective.

Then you are somewhere else but you keep seeing the same: your hands above your head, your furrowed brows. He replays your harsh breathing and the feeling of his hand on your waist, your whines of his name and that damned black strap.

Suddenly your heart is beating too fast, too strong, a sense of relief is drowning your senses as a warm liquid wets your right hand. The only thing you see is a white plain ceiling that reminds you of your own bedroom.

You nearly gasp when you understand what Obi-wan had just shared with you, and the image snaps when the voice of Master Windu echoes in the room.

Your entire body is heating up, both from embarrassment and the knowledge of Obi-wan pleasuring himself to an image of you. You try to disguise your nerves as your head lands back into the meeting. 

“We need an urgent explanation, Kenobi.” Your master urges him.

Your heart stops. And by the look of Obi-wan’s face, his as well.

“Inappropriate, that is. Worried for the youngling I am.” Master Yoda continues. “A path to the dark side, his anger is. Stop him, you must.” 

Obi-wan exhales loudly. To everyone in the room it will pass as a gesture of exhaustion from his padawan, but you know is the fear of getting caught. “Anakin is” his voice is hoarse as he begins, “a very special kid. I am doing everything in my power to make him a good jedi.”

“A community task raising children is. Help you need from your fellow knights.” Yoda looked at you as he spoke.

You nodded in understanding. 

“Back to your padawan, you shall go.” 

Everyone stood up and left the meeting. You waited for Obi-wan just down the hall.

“What was that?” You asked him, still blushing.

“Oh? I thought I was the prude one.” 

He looked around before placing a warm kiss on your cheek.

You leaned against the cold stone wall, desperately needing to cool down.