#jazlr

Notes:

Warnings: Canon typical violence and smut. Yes, you read that right, sex in the first chapter, near the end. Look, these idiots need to get their horny out of the way before we can get to the philosophy and world building that makes up 80% of this story. Post-nut clarity is necessary for brain cells to be functioning enough for philosophy. I know it's unconventional, but what, 14 years of slow burn not slow enough for you? You want me to make it last even longer? Geez. Just kidding, I do have an Obikin slow burn that is about as dark, way grosser and more angsty than this one. Go check it out if you want slow xP So, enjoy this chapter's smut while it lasts because it's gonna be several chapters before we get more. This first chapter puts the philosophy on the back burner in lieu of practicalities and story, before we get deep into world building and character introspection in the following chapters. Next chapter will be up in a week! Most of this fic is a result of the excessive time I've spent thinking about the philosophies and practices of the Jedi and the Sith, the ways in which both failed, the opportunities wasted, and the absurdity of the Jedi literally having the ability to feel each others’ emotions yet somehow decided to cultivate a culture that encourages solitary emotional suppression, rather than communal emotional growth and mutual support. Anyway, here's the abstract for this thesis fic: No code, creed, or philosophy exists in a vacuum. Interpretation is its lifeblood, its danger, and its potential. What we draw from a code is shaped by who we are—and what we need it to mean. Give anyone ten random words and time, and they’ll find a way to make it prophecy, dogma, or damnation. That’s not the words’ fault. That’s ours.

“Wait, Master.” Obi-Wan calls out to Yoda, unable to resist the pull towards the brightly lit consoles. “There is something I must know.”

“If into the security recordings you go, only pain will you find.” Yoda cautions him and Obi-Wan swallows, but presses on, striding past his elder.

“I must know the truth, Master.” Obi-Wan insists, his heart swirling with grief, loss, and fear.

He's lost everyone, his family. His brothers, his sisters, his fathers and mothers, even the clones that he'd thought of as friends. He doesn't know what he's hoping to see. They hadn't found Anakin's body amongst the fallen. Perhaps his brilliant boy had fled successfully. He hadn't felt Anakin nearby and for all his disobedience, the young man has always been so resourceful. Perhaps he’d gone in pursuit of the traitor or Sith that killed their brethren.

Or maybe Anakin had been kidnapped by the murderer, his courageous reckless boy was the Chosen One after all. The Sith have always been interested in him, stalking him, baiting him. What nefarious things Obi-Wan could imagine them doing to the young man he'd trained. If Anakin had been kidnapped, he would need to find his former Padawan. There was a high chance that Yoda and himself are the last surviving Jedi, there would be nobody else who could go to Anakin's aid.

It worries Obi-Wan that he can't say for certain that he wouldn't defy Yoda's orders if necessary. Seek out and rescue the boy that he had practically raised as his child no matter the cost. He shouldn't, shouldn't let his emotions guide his actions, but the thought of letting Anakin die, of losing him alongside his brothers and sisters, is beyond agonising.

Anakin is all he has left.

He knows he's attached. He's tried so desperately to hold it back, to hide it and bury it. But he is. Terribly so. And the pain from losing his brethren is making it impossible to suppress or ignore. Impossible to pretend it doesn't exist. Hope isn't meant to be this painful.

Obi-Wan knows a part of him would do anything for Anakin. Even help the boy hide his relationship with Senator Amidala, no matter how much pain their love causes him. Obi-Wan knows what it feels like to be parted from the woman you love, as he had in his youth, a scar that he's carried since then. And if the person Anakin wants is not him, but loves Anakin back just as fiercely as Obi-Wan does, he will not come between them.

He needs Anakin to be both safe and happy.

Well, as happy as he can be, Obi-Wan isn't even sure that's truly possible.

Then he turns on the holo... and his heart stops. Anakin? My Anakin? The Sith, the traitor. The murderer of our younglings, our brethren.

“It can't be.” Obi-Wan breathes, horror now mingled with grief and fear. He chokes on the bile rising in the back of his throat. “It can't be.”

He watches in a daze, as what must surely be Darth Sidious enters, and his Anakin—his beautiful, kind, proud boy—kneels before the man.

“You have done well, my new apprentice.” The hologram of the Sith Lord says, and Obi-Wan feels his horror begin to melt into something dark and ugly. Slimy coils undulating in his insides. “Now, Lord Vader, go and bring peace to the Empire.”

“I can't watch any more.” Obi-Wan mutters under his breath, trembling fingers reach for the console. He knows what is coming and he knows he can't hear it, if he hears it–

He's too slow.

“Yes, my Master.” Anakin's hologram says and Obi-Wan's pain ignites into rage.

After everything he's done for Anakin. Clothed him. Bathed him. Fed him. Suffered for him. Worried after him. Taken Anakin's sorrow, fear, and anger, carried as much of it with the boy as the Code would allow. Endured every time Anakin hurt him. Been there for Anakin. Tried to teach him. Tried to guide him. Tried to do good by him. Protected him. Loved him.

How long? How long has his boy been another's? How long has Anakin been under the thrall of another man? What else has he done in service of the Sith? How much of the boy that he loves is real?

Anger and an almost masochistic need to know—his blasted insatiable curiosity—drives Obi-Wan now. He rewinds the footage, hacks into the Central Surveillance Grid, and tracks Anakin's steps all the way back to Chancellor Palpatine's office. Watches Master Windu confront the evil man, watches Anakin seal Master Windu's fate. The revelation that the Chancellor had been Darth Sidious all along.

Through it all, even if Anakin ended up saving the Sith Lord, Obi-Wan is relieved to see that Anakin had turned Palpatine in at first. Wanted the man arrested at least, showed horror at his own actions, collapsed to his knees after Sidious threw Windu out the window.

Comforted beyond belief that his boy hadn't secretly been Sidious’ apprentice for years. Hadn't been lying to Obi-Wan, faking his love and compassion.

“I will do whatever you ask. Just help me save Padme's life. I can't live without her.” Anakin begs in the hologram and Obi-Wan's heart aches as he gazes at Anakin's tear-stricken face. Oh, my boy, my poor, sweet, loving, beautiful boy.

His anger towards Anakin dissipates, evaporating back into sorrowful love, as it often does. Is this his fault? Obi-Wan feels regret bite at his heart. Perhaps he should have stopped Anakin from being with Senator Amidala, but he'd loved Anakin too much to hurt him that way. Was not the war enough pain for his Padawan? He'd resolved to allow Anakin as much choice and agency as he could, but if his boy would choose this...

“Good. To cheat death is a power only one has achieved, but if we work together, I know we can discover the secret.” Palpatine says, and for the first time in his life, Obi-Wan feels true hate. Pure unadulterated hate.

He'd thought he knew what hate felt like, when Maul murdered Satine, cast her down at his feet, made him watch helplessly. But Obi-Wan now knows that it had merely been anger and sorrow, grief for the loss of a noble soul, fallen in battle against evil. His pain tempered by the knowledge that she would not want him to lose himself in it.

This man, however, isn’t taking Anakin’s life, but his soul. This scum had corrupted Anakin’s heart...

Obi-Wan had always felt uncomfortable about Palpatine's friendship with Anakin, always felt like the man was trying to steal Anakin from him. Trying to undermine his authority over Anakin's upbringing. Obi-Wan had thought it was just his own attachment talking. Jealousy. Possessiveness. Attachment. The path to the Dark Side. He'd suppressed it in terror. Acting on strong emotions was not the Jedi way. It was wrong, dangerous. Anakin was not his.

But now...

Now, to see that man using Anakin's goodness and love to manipulate him. That it hadn't been all in his head, that it hadn't just been Obi-Wan's own emotions getting the better of him. How much of Anakin's troubled Padawan years could be laid at the feet of this man? Obi-Wan's jaw tightens, he should have stopped Palpatine, Chancellor or not.

This was all his fault. He should have acted on his feelings and stood between his child and that man. That monster.

Palpatine, no, Sidious will pay.

For corrupting and breaking his Padawan, his apprentice, his boy.

The anger seething in his chest is like nothing he's ever felt before. Less like burning anger and more like acid, corrosive, sour and bitter. The sight of Anakin kneeling before the Sith Lord, pledging himself to Sidious burns itself into his retinas.

The Sith Lord is no doubt banking on Obi-Wan's own concession. Convinced that Obi-Wan would let Anakin go as he should, leave Anakin to face the consequences of his own decisions, as he had so many times. Simply rolling over and allowing Sidious to take his child from him.

Well, not this time.

Never again.

Anakin has only one Master and that is Obi-Wan. His Master Qui-Gon had bestowed the most strong, passionate, loving, brilliant child on Obi-Wan, and he isn't about to let the boy go without a fight. Anakin is his.

Only his.

Obi-Wan turns off the footage as Sidious gives Anakin his new name, before he is forced to hear his boy call the man his Master again, and turns to face Yoda. His body aching with the effort it has taken to remain outwardly calm and hold his turbulent emotions behind his mental shields.

The elder eyes him warily, saying. “Destroy the Sith we must.”

Yes. Yes. I must.

“Send me to kill the emperor.” Obi-Wan asks—no demands. “I will not kill Anakin.”

“To fight this Lord Sidious, strong enough you are not.” Yoda rejects him flatly and Obi-Wan has to force himself to calm, lest the Master sense his fury at being denied.

“He is like my brother. I cannot do it.” Obi-Wan states, and before Yoda can respond, he cuts in. “Master Yoda, please. With all due respect. If I face Ana– Darth Vader, he will live. I might not be able to kill the emperor, but if you go, at least Sidious will be robbed of his most powerful apprentice.”

Yoda hesitates and Obi-Wan presses further. “Sidious is weakened, we saw what Master Windu did to the man. I will buy you time to handle Vader, track the Sith's movements. And when you have taken his apprentice, you can join me, and we can face the emperor together.”

Yoda closes his eyes for a moment, and then gazes into his own. “Certain you are, that kill Vader you cannot?”

“I cannot. I am sorry, Master.” Obi-Wan lowers his eyes, hoping the Grandmaster will agree to this. If not, he is ready to fight the elder if necessary. To rush to Anakin's side and warn him.

But after several long seconds, Master Yoda sighs, heavy and tired. “Very well. To the Dark Side, I do not wish to lose you. Go I will, to find Darth Vader.”

“Thank you, Master.” Obi-Wan bows his head to hide his relief. “Senator Amidala should be able to lead you to Vader. Here, take this.”

Obi-Wan hands Yoda a copy of the security footage, and attaches a tracker to it so he can follow them later. He feels bad for sending Yoda to her, but he hopes Senator Amidala will understand, he needs the Master to leave his side as soon as possible. With any luck, she will be able to resist and delay Master Yoda as well, buying Obi-Wan time to do what needs to be done.

The elder hesitates for a moment more, before he accepts it with a nod, eyeing Obi-Wan carefully. “Find the Senator, I will. Monitor Darth Sidious, you must.”

“Yes, Master.” Obi-Wan bows his head again and then watches as the small Jedi hobbles off down the hall.

Obi-Wan swallows. He must act swiftly, otherwise Yoda will actually kill Anakin before he manages to kill the Emperor.

This is a risky gambit, Obi-Wan knows. He might not be able to kill the Emperor, but as foolish as this is, he has to face the man. Has to right his failures. He has faith, at least, in Anakin's powers. The boy is strong enough to hold out against Yoda and Obi-Wan will do whatever it takes to protect him.

Even risk his own life and the galaxy.

He makes haste to Palpatine's chambers, and with every step, Obi-Wan feels his anger become increasingly unbearable. Feels the darkness that he'd held back for so long begin to creep in around the corners of his heart, gnawing at the edges of his mind.

A part of Obi-Wan knows what is happening, the teachings of the Jedi warn of this, and he's quietly struggled against it for so long. From the day he'd woken up to find Anakin, his small boy, curled up at the foot of his bed. When he didn't scold the child and shoo him back to his room, but simply wrapped his arms around that tiny body, holding Anakin to his chest. Even as he pushed his drunk Padawan away, sticky lips peeling from his own, he'd known.

He was doomed.

The way his heart ached as Anakin grew into a man, the forbidden feelings that also grew in his chest, fighting so hard to stamp them down and force them away. To hold Anakin at a distance even as he pulled on his leash, to push the boy away from him, so that both of them might not fall into depravity.

Now, look where that had gotten him. He'd failed to curb his own feelings. And pushing Anakin away had only pushed the boy into the arms of a vile man who plainly wanted nothing more than to use his wonderful child. If Anakin would fall anyway, then what was the point of holding back anymore?

He should have taken Anakin from the Order, out of Palpatine's reach. All the suffering he'd put them both through, it was all for nought. All in vain.

Regret tastes bitter on the back of his tongue, souring and calcifying into toxins that burn through his veins as he approaches the Chancellor's room.

Even if he should die here today, if the poison infecting his soul is enough to take Sidious with him, Obi-Wan will be satisfied. He lights his saber, fingers itching for violence.

A flick of his blade past the walls is enough to cut down the Red Guards by the Chancellor's doors. Obi-Wan has no mercy to spare for anyone who serves the new Emperor.

He steps inside and sets his baleful gaze on the wretched face of the Sith Lord. Truly, this man is a monster, a demon. It is fitting that he wear the hideous visage of one, as justice is done.

“Master Kenobi, you survived.” Darth Sidious drawls and then pauses, a wide grin spreading across the man's grotesque face. “And what's this I feel?”

“You will die today.” Obi-Wan says, raising his saber towards the filth that dared take what is his.

“I sense darkness in you, young Master Kenobi.” Darth Sidious’ smirk widens. “Who would have thought that the most virtuous paragon of the Jedi could harbour such a well-hidden affinity for the Dark Side.”

“Silence.” Obi-Wan hisses through clenched teeth.

The pounding in his head makes it ache. There's something dark clawing its way into his insides, nestling in its new home with a purr. Or is it clawing its way out of him? He isn't sure. All Obi-Wan knows is that he wants to hurt this man, wants to make him suffer. Anakin is mine.

The Sith Lord laughs and cackles, it grates on his ears. “Perhaps I should have tried to seduce you to the Dark Side too. I can feel a great power sleeping inside you now. If you join me, I can help you cultivate it.”

“I don't care.” Obi-Wan snaps, he really doesn't. He just wants Anakin.

“Come now, if you join me, you can stand beside your old Padawan.” The Emperor coos and Obi-Wan's patience hits its limit.

“I think I'd much rather just kill you.” With that, Obi-Wan darts forward and swings his saber at the man.

Time passes in a blur, Obi-Wan feels only his anger and hate welling up within him. This man had taken everything he'd ever loved from him. Started the war that killed Satine, the woman he'd loved as a boy, before he met Anakin. Turned his own clones—his loyal men, Cody even—against him, forced Anakin to betray him, killed all of Obi-Wan's fellow Jedi, his family.

Die.

That single thought drives his swings, and their sabers hiss when they meet. Red against blue. His anger and righteous fury lend strength to every blow, forcing the Sith back relentlessly, unwilling to cede ground when so much is at stake. When Anakin is at stake.

He barely even feels the pain from Sidious’ dark lightning. It can't compare to the pain he felt when he thought Anakin lost. That he still feels at the thought that he yet might. Searing hot fire courses through his body and the Sith looks legitimately shocked when Obi-Wan gathers it up, adds his own hate to it, and throws it right back at the man with twice the intensity.

The Emperor's agonised screams are music, the stench of burning skin fills the room, and his panicked scramble for the door is the most amusing sight Obi-Wan has seen in years.

“Wait! Wait!” The Sith screams, but he doesn't.

Obi-Wan swings his saber and the man's head rolls across the floor.

It is done.

He feels a satisfaction he's never felt before. It's intoxicating, powerful. He thinks he might even have laughed as he staggers back from the headless body.

Sadly however, he doesn't get the time to savour this victory, because in the next moment, he feels something slam into his mental shields, cracking them with brute force and burrowing inside.

Obi-Wan releases a shout of pain and collapses, clutching at his head. It hurts. Searing pain everywhere, like a thousand needles digging into every inch of his skin. A foreign presence, a hostile mind trying to break his own and gain a foothold in his body. He struggles against it, feels it tighten around him, choking the life from him.

He can feel Sidious’ glee, the Sith's eagerness to take his body and then eventually Anakin's, and Obi-Wan realises that he’d fallen into a trap.

In desperation—bereft of the Code and betrayed by his own Dark emotions that had allowed Sidious entrance into his body—Obi-Wan abandons all else and reaches for the Living Force. The pillar of his existence, the Will that Master Qui-Gon had always told him to rely on.

Then, he touches something he's never felt before, something just past the Living Force, and it feels like the entire cosmos has opened itself to him. Unfurling like a blossoming bloom.

Obi-Wan tumbles into its warm embrace, drawn in by the Cosmic Force, and as he does, he sees a vision of his Anakin.

He looks older, worn from decades lived in solitude, bereft of loving touch. Broken and alone, his body clad in a suit of black. Bald and scarred, covered in welts and burn marks. He feels his boy dying slowly, pain with every breath, heart full of fear for the life of his son. Loneliness, regret and sorrow. He feels his boy fade into the netherworld of the Force, heart aching with longing and a single thought in his mind, Obi-Wan, Master...

Sheer anger and horror rips through Obi-Wan. He has seen many futures in the Force, but this one. This one, he will not allow to come true.

Obi-Wan feels the Force whisper to him, urging him forward, feeding him its strength. He has turned his back on the Jedi Code, and it is only now that he feels it, the mandate that he has been ignoring this whole time. As blinded by his adherence to the Code and the will of the Jedi Council, as a Sith was by their negative emotions.

Years wasted feeling uncertain if he was the right man to raise Anakin, if Master Qui-Gon would have done better with his boy. A decade spent denying his own attachment to Anakin, fretting about being unworthy and incompetent. Terrified of embracing his feelings for the boy he'd raised. Ashamed and fearful that he would fail Anakin by doing so.

Now he sees the truth, sees why the Living Force has always seemed just slightly out of reach. Its power denied to him, because Obi-Wan was too busy trying to be a good Jedi to follow his destiny.

He had been chosen by the Force.

Chosen to protect its child.

And he will. By any means necessary. Even if he must embrace the ways of the Sith to do so.

He draws up all his strength, bolstered by the might of the Force, and tears into the invading mind, shredding it with precision. He uses his will and skill in Mindform to sink his teeth into the invader, crunches down viciously, and swallows. Consumes. He digs into the intruding mind—Darth Sidious’ mind—gnaws at its insides and drains every drop of blood he can find. He feels the Sith Lord's pain as his weakened mind finds, not an escape in Obi-Wan's body, but a predator waiting to subsume him.

He devours every morsel of the Sith's soul, his knowledge and his power. It is all his now. Like Anakin will be. Like Anakin was always meant to be.

The last dregs of Darth Sidious’ mind fades into oblivion and Obi-Wan opens his eyes, disoriented.

He is still himself. Still Obi-Wan Kenobi.

He pushes himself to his feet slowly, wobbling slightly on the spot. His throat is raw from screaming, his head is aching, but he feels stronger now. His mind is still sorting through the wealth of knowledge he'd gained from the Sith Stars, it's an absolute mess inside him. It will probably be a while before he can access the bulk of them properly, perhaps through meditation.

A brief skim of the surface is enlightening however, the discovery that Sidious himself was not even properly following the Sith Code. Perhaps that was why the Jedi struggled to gain any ground against him. They'd been training to fight an enemy that had long mutated into something far more insidious. Perhaps much of what he'd long believed true about the Sith, were meaningless.

How much of the evil that he'd seen merely been Sidious’ evil, and not inherent to the Dark Side itself? The Sith Code reverberates through his mind, along with the disdain Sidious had borne for it, despite calling himself a Sith. It is because of that, that Obi-Wan finds a new appreciation for it.

Peace is a lie. There is only Passion.Through Passion, I gain Strength.Through Strength, I gain Power.Through Victory my chains are Broken.The Force shall free me.

Obi-Wan takes a deep breath. The air tastes different as he draws it in. Sweeter, lighter, the heavy cloud of the Dark Side no longer feels oppressive. Truly, he has never felt like this before. Blissful power and freedom. Yes, the Force has freed him indeed. Everything feels right now. He's free, free of doubt. Free to love Anakin the way he's always wanted to. The way he was always supposed to.

In contrast, the Jedi Code that he'd clung to now feels stifling.

There is no emotion, there is peace.There is no ignorance, there is knowledge.There is no passion, there is serenity.There is no chaos, there is harmony.There is no death, there is the Force.

His fellow Jedi's deaths were unfortunate, but perhaps also necessary. Necessary for him to be free. Obi-Wan has sworn to serve the Will of the Force. If this is its Will, perhaps he should not linger in grief, perhaps he should let his sorrow go, make peace with his destiny, as the Jedi Code urges. After all, it is by the will of the Force that he is free. Now, he can be with his beloved boy. There is nothing holding him back anymore.

He catches a glimpse of his reflection in the silver on the walls.

His eyes are yellow, and the Force is silent, waiting.

He looks away.

He can pursue this train of thought later. Regardless of which philosophy is better suited to following the Will of the Force—Jedi or Sith—Obi-Wan has one objective, one duty as assigned by the Cosmic Force itself, and that is Anakin. He needs to find Anakin.

He has to stop Yoda, before the Master kills Anakin or turns him into a lonely broken man clad in black. Nothing else matters.

He runs through the halls, the senate is in an uproar over the newly crowned Emperor's death. Fortunately, thanks to the speed with which he'd taken down the Emperor, the forces brought to bear against him are minimal. He cuts down Mas Amedda and the Red Guards that the Senator leads to stop Obi-Wan's escape, and manages to steal a ship to leave, following the tracker he'd given Master Yoda.

Mustafar.

He prays he will make it there in time.

The air is dry. Arid and hot. Obi-Wan follows the tracking signal, and finds the closest landing platform of a large facility. There's already another ship there, Senator Amidala's star skiff, and on the floor near it lies the Senator herself, unconscious.

Obi-Wan rushes to her side and checks her pulse. She's still breathing. Thank the Force. She's carrying Anakin's child, and whether Amidala retains her loyalty to Anakin or not, he doesn't want any harm to come to the baby. He carries her inside the ship quickly, and has 3PO and R2-D2 stand guard over her while he races to save Anakin. He feels his boy nearby, follows their bond to him. Runs through the halls with fear snapping at his heels.

Is this what Anakin felt on a daily basis? Like his entire universe is on the line? Like insanity is one slight misstep away? No wonder his boy is always a mess.

He finds them fighting by the side of a pit of lava. A fear like no other lances through him when Yoda throws Anakin into a fixture and the boy crumples to the floor. Obi-Wan raises his saber and dives into Yoda's path, catching the falling green blade with his own.

Yoda's gaze is sad as he meets Obi-Wan's eyes through the sabers’ light. “A mistake I have made, leaving you alone with the Sith.”

“I'm sorry, Master.” Obi-Wan murmurs, pushing back against the small Jedi and Yoda flies backwards, landing on his feet and putting space between them. “But I cannot let you kill Anakin.”

“The boy you raised, gone he is.” Yoda shakes his head mournfully, his little ears lowered. “And now, so too are you.”

“Yes.” Obi-Wan nods slowly. “I suppose to you, we are.”

Gone is the weak man who was too afraid of Falling, of losing his home, his place in the Order, his honour and piousness to the Jedi Code. There is no longer anything left to lose. Except Anakin. He will take Anakin back. Whatever he has to do. He will.

His eyes are open now, he can see that the Sith and Jedi are merely two sides of the same coin. Two interpretations of the same Force. That it is how it is used that determines good or evil. Why should he not use both to serve the will of the Force?

“Master?” He hears the sweetest sound from behind him and Obi-Wan glances back to see Anakin staring at him with wide and dazed eyes. They are yellow too.

Both their eyes had once been crystal clear blue, now they bear the same gold glow. Of course they are. Affection is gentle in his breast. The truth that Obi-Wan has long denied. That they were two halves of a whole, where one goes the other follows. That has been the case for more than a decade, and so it will always be.

“Anakin, I'm glad you're alright.” Obi-Wan smiles softly at him, before it lifts into a playful smirk. “Now then, are you just going to lie there and make me do all the work?”

A disbelieving grin spreads across Anakin's face, his eyes soft with wonder. For a moment, the boy looks as he once had, before the war. Bright and beautiful, the way he should always be.

Anakin calls his lightsaber to him and they fight together. While Master Yoda is powerful, he is not strong enough to defeat the two of them, not when they fight as one. Not when the Force sings with their unity. Not when they draw on emotions both Light and Dark in balance, both the joy and relief of reunion and the vengeful fury that rejects anything seeking to tear them apart.

The war has only made them stronger when in sync, the Hero With No Fear and the Negotiator. And together, they drive Yoda all the way back to the ship and the small green Jedi steals Obi-Wan's vessel to flee.

Exhausted from fighting Yoda till Obi-Wan's arrival, Anakin collapses to the floor, and Obi-Wan rushes to his side, taking the young man into his arms. “Anakin!”

“I'm– I'm alright.” Anakin murmurs faintly, stares at Obi-Wan through heavy-lidded and unfocused eyes, and reaches out to him with his left hand. The tips of his fingers brush Obi-Wan's chin and his voice is thick with disbelief. “Master you... you didn't betray me.”

“Never. I'm always on your side. I'm sorry, I should never have pushed you away. I was just–” Obi-Wan mutters, takes Anakin's hand, feels the warm flesh beneath his glove and places a kiss to the back of it. “I would never betray you.”

Anakin's glazed blue eyes search his own for several moments, disorientation and confusion ripples from him through the Force. Before he seems to find whatever he's looking for and he clutches Obi-Wan's hand tightly.

“Thank you, Master...” Anakin's eyes well with tears. “But– but she did, Padme... she brought Yoda here. She brought him here to kill me.”

Anakin sobs with agony, and Obi-Wan cradles his boy to his chest, cooing to him softly. Obi-Wan's jaw is tight, and his eyes burn with rage. He'd given way to her, let the Senator have Anakin, and that woman had failed to love Anakin as much as he did. He knew it, politicians were never to be trusted. If she weren't round with Anakin's child, he would kill her for this treachery.

The thought gives him pause, kill... he supposes this came with falling to the Dark Side. He no longer instinctively baulks at the thought of killing for a personal slight. He feels like he should be more concerned about that than he is. Instead, any discomfort is buried under the joy of having Anakin safe in his arms.

Obi-Wan is still unsure where he stands, a Sith or a Jedi or neither. He shakes his head, such matters should perhaps be left for later thought, they have more pressing concerns to worry about at the moment.

For starters, where will he go now? He has Anakin, and Senator Amidala. What next? For once, he hadn't planned very far ahead. Anakin had consumed all his thoughts.

He feels Anakin go limp in his arms and Obi-Wan places a soft kiss on his forehead. Gently, he scoops the boy into his arms, cradles his precious cargo against his chest, and carries him into the Nabooian transport.

“Oh, Master Kenobi!” 3PO calls out with some relief as Obi-Wan sets Anakin down on one of the seats. “Miss Padme seems to be going into labour!”

Obi-Wan sighs tiredly, shoulders sagging and body aching, there's always something.

He glances at R2-D2, the shorter droid whirring at Anakin's unconscious body with concern, it's always been more emotional than any droid he's ever known. Perhaps Anakin's power extended to granting sentience on top of creating love and devotion in everything he touched.

“He'll be alright.” He pats the droid on the head comfortingly and it beeps at him. “R2-D2, chart a course for Tatooine and prepare the Hyperdrive. 3PO, take the controls while I check on Amidala.”

For now, it was probably safer to remain in the Outer Rim, what with the clones still out for Obi-Wan's blood. Perhaps they could seek aid for Amidala's labour from Anakin's stepbrother.

Leaving the droids to it, Obi-Wan goes to see Amidala. She lies on the small bed, covered in sweat, and her tired face lightens with relief when she sees Obi-Wan.

“Obi-Wan.” She reaches a hand out to him, and he takes it gently. “You're alive, I was so worried...”

“I'm sure you were.” Obi-Wan smiles thinly and brushes a hand over her damp forehead, it wouldn't do to endanger the child by putting her under any further stress. “Don't worry, you're safe. Just focus on the baby.”

She doesn't even manage a smile, closing her eyes as he returns to the cockpit.

It takes some time to get to Tatooine, and Obi-Wan collapses into a pilot seat, taking the opportunity to recover his strength. Fortunately, when they arrive, Owen, and his wife Beru, recognise Amidala and agree to help. Obi-Wan assists them as much as he can, asks Owen for materials and cobbles together a makeshift crib with R2-D2's help, welding metal strips together. Takes rubber and a pair of bottles and fashions two rudimentary baby bottles in preparation for the child.

It's strange, he notes—somewhere in the back of his mind—that after war, betrayal and treason, he's ended up here. On Anakin's home planet, the place where his destiny was born. Cutting rubber with the edge of a vibroblade in a stranger's home. The house that Anakin might have become a free man in, if Obi-Wan and Master Qui-Gon hadn't spirited him away.

He wonders if Shmi regretted allowing his Master to take Anakin. But even if she had, Obi-Wan would never have given her son back. Anakin is his.

When preparations for the child are complete, Obi-Wan leaves Amidala in the care of the couple and goes to attend to Anakin, carrying the boy to the small side building that Owen had offered the men to stay in. He gathers several stacks of cloth together, and a blanket, into a makeshift bed on the floor, and tends to Anakin's burns. To his relief and pride, Anakin's injuries are relatively minor, considering that he had been fighting Master Yoda for hours.

When he's done treating his own injuries as well, Obi-Wan returns to Amidala's side to find that she is having twins and that she is dying. He still can't quite work up any grief or bring himself to care very much about the latter, but he takes the time to assure her that her children will be taken care of.

He supposes she does still love Anakin, because she says that there's still good in him as she breathes her last. As though Obi-Wan would need any convincing of that. Perhaps he had been hasty when assuming that she had indeed betrayed Anakin? Maybe Master Yoda had given her the impression that he was planning to arrest Anakin rather than murder him?

Either way, Obi-Wan is grudgingly grateful to her for making Anakin happy for the last four years—he caresses the cheek of a chubby baby girl—and for giving Anakin these beautiful children. He knows Anakin will need something to cultivate after her death, and his children would be solace to his beloved.

Though he does hope that Anakin will cling to him too for comfort, and from the boy's behaviour before passing out, Obi-Wan is optimistic.

Obi-Wan insists that Beru allow him to feed the children, holding one in each arm as he uses the Force to lift the bottles—of nutrient powder from the star kriff, hastily mixed in water—for them to suckle from. He's now glad that he'd made two bottles, in anticipation of rotating between them for one child.

As he rocks the twins gently to sleep, he feels Anakin begin to stir from his fitful rest. So, Obi-Wan leaves the twins to sleep in the crib, swaddled in cloth. Sets 3PO and R2-D2 to stand guard and ensure that they come to no harm, and quickly returns to Anakin's side.

He finds the boy sitting up on the floor bed, his inner tunic pooled around his hips and bandages wrapped around his arms and side, anxiety thrumming through the Force. Their bond has always been stronger than the average Master and Padawan's—one normally born of familiarity—and he'd thought this was thanks to Anakin's immense power. But somehow, it feels like it has actually grown stronger since Obi-Wan accepted his attachment to the boy.

“Master, where is Padme?” Anakin asks, sounding quite disoriented. “Is she safe? Is she alright?”

“Anakin...” Obi-Wan sighs as he sits on the edge of the bed. Even after she broke his heart, the boy still loves her so deeply, and as little as Obi-Wan now cares for the woman, he hates to break his beloved's heart. “I am so sorry, dear one. But she passed away in childbirth.”

Anakin's face crumbles, despair floods their bond, painful enough to bring tears to Obi-Wan's own eyes. The boy reaches out to clutch at his sleeve, pleading. “No, that can't be–”

“Your children are safe and well.” Obi-Wan interrupts, hoping to stem the flow and halt his spiral.

“Children?” It works, Anakin stops momentarily in confusion.

“Yes, you have twins, my dear.” Obi-Wan brushes back the long curly locks that hang over Anakin's face. “A boy and a girl, they are beautiful.”

“Twins...” For a moment, Anakin's eyes are wide with wonder, but then distress returns. “They– they'll need their mother. Please, we have to go find my Maste–”

Obi-Wan snarls at that, and his hand shoots forward to grip Anakin's chin sharply. The boy freezes, and his cold voice feels foreign to even his own ears. “You have only one Master, Anakin. And that is me. You were my Padawan, my apprentice. Nobody else's.”

It's so much worse to hear Anakin call Sidious his Master in person. Obi-Wan almost wishes he could bring the audacious filth back to life just to kill him again.

Anakin shivers at his tone, and he stares into Obi-Wan's eyes as though seeing him for the first time. “Master, you also? Your eyes–”

Had they gone yellow? Curious.

“Yes.” Obi-Wan murmurs, loosens his grip, traces his thumb over Anakin's jaw, feeling the beginnings of stubble peeking out of his soft skin. “If you must have a Sith for a Master, that will still be me. Always me.”

Anakin's eyes go hazy at the possessive desire that must be creeping along their bond, his boyish cheeks flush and his lips part to release a hot breath. To his pleasure, Obi-Wan can feel Anakin's shock, his confusion, his delight, and... his arousal.

“But– but Master, Palpatine is the only one who knows how to create life.” Anakin protests weakly, blinking as though to dispel the effects of whatever he was feeling.

“What do you think you did with your children?” Obi-Wan snorts.

Anakin rolls his eyes. “You know what I mea–”

“If you think he can bring the dead back to life, then I haven't taught you well enough.” Obi-Wan chuckles darkly. “I see I must find a way to work that naïveté out of you.”

Anakin's neck goes red with indignation, and he jerks his chin from Obi-Wan's grip. “I don't need another lecture.”

The boy bites his lip—and Obi-Wan wants to do that for him—saying, “He knows things, Master. He knew about my visions of Padme's death.”

“And I didn't lend enough stock to your visions, does that mean I can never be correct?” Obi-Wan cocks an eyebrow. “Just because he was able to peer into your mind, doesn't mean he wasn't lying about everything else. He didn't even claim to have the ability to save her yet, do you really think he would have been able to figure it out with you before she gave birth?”

“It's worth trying!” Anakin exclaims desperately. “Please, Obi-Wan, I can't raise my children alone. I need her, they need her!”

“Oh, my dear. You wouldn't be alone. I would gladly raise your children with you.” Obi-Wan murmurs and is delighted when the receding flush returns to Anakin's cheeks again. “And I'm afraid that isn't an option regardless. Darth Sidious is dead.”

Anakin's eyes go wide. “Wha– how!? Who?”

“Who do you think, my dear?” Obi-Wan askes with some amusement, places his hands on Anakin's shoulders and presses the boy back onto the bed, sliding a knee between his legs.

“You? Master, you defeated the Sith Lord, alone? And his guard? Even four of the Council Masters weren't enough to–” Anakin gapes, and the awe radiating from him is intoxicating, heady and delicious.

“I assure you, Anakin. I am stronger now, strong enough to protect you. To protect our children.” Obi-Wan purrs, braces his hands by Anakin's head and leans close enough to feel his heated breath against his lips. “I consumed the Chancellor's mind. Took for myself, his knowledge and his power. You don't need him or Senator Amidala, and neither do our children. I will provide everything you need.”

Anakin knots his fingers in his clothing as Obi-Wan nuzzles his nose against the boy's cheek, murmuring softly. “You can be their loving mother, and I will be the guiding father. You were raised by a loving mother, you can do it too, dearest. I believe in you. I've always believed in you.”

A soft keen escapes Anakin's throat, and when Obi-Wan lifts his head to gaze into deep blue, he sees that they are damp with tears. “Even– even after everything I've done? Fail– failed to be a great Jedi– failed you...”

“You could never fail me, my dear.” Obi-Wan breathes, catches with his thumb, a shining drop from the corner of his eye. “My love for you has never been conditional. I would follow you down any path, no matter what.”

He feels something inside Anakin shatter, a swell of emotions too powerful to name pours through their bond like a torrent, a raging river, as though the entire galaxy had changed inside the boy's heart. As though a vast weight, an expectation of himself that he's been carrying for years, has finally been cast down.

“Obi-Wan–” Anakin whines, need and longing, desire and hope, all condensed into that one word.

It makes his heart ache, and he finally gives in to the urge to claim the beautiful boy's lips. They are sweet against his own, delicious and soft. Everything he's craved for the last six years. He slips his tongue inside to caress Anakin's, feels the boy moan into his mouth, and his burning desire becomes an inferno.

He licks into that hot cavern with relish, savouring the forbidden fruit he has long abstained from, taking his time and stealing Anakin's breath, before parting to grant him air. Obi-Wan trails his lips down the boy's jaw as he pants and tears at Obi-Wan's robes.

“Master...” Anakin moans breathlessly, ruts against his knee, desperately grinding his hardness against him. “I thought– I thought you didn't want me–”

“Of course I do. How could I not?” Obi-Wan murmurs against that slender throat, mouthing at the boy's voice box. “Shouldn't have pushed you away when you kissed me.”

“Thought you were disgusted–” Anakin gasps as Obi-Wan presses a finger into a bruise on his ribs.

“Only with myself. For wanting to hold you. You were fifteen, my dear.” Obi-Wan nibbles lightly, runs a hand over that wonderfully muscled chest. “And drunk. I was trying to be a good Master.”

“Didn't want you to be good–” Anakin swallows thickly, and his throat flexes deliciously under Obi-Wan's lips. “Wanted you so bad–”

“I did too.” He breathes, and digs his teeth into the golden skin on Anakin's bare shoulder, enjoying the way the boy bucks and moans against him. So perfect. “Dreamt of you every night since then, dreamt of touching you. Making you cry out for me. Force knows how guilty I felt, how frustrated I was at you for being so gorgeous. A siren sent by the Dark Side to seduce me.”

Anakin's breath catches when Obi-Wan takes a nipple into his mouth. Chokes out a moan when Obi-Wan laves his tongue over the hard pebble and suckles on it, like he thinks he can get the young man to lactate for his children.

“Then– then what–” Anakin whimpers when Obi-Wan's teeth clamp down around his areola. “What are you waiting for–”

“Patience, my dear.” Obi-Wan coos, taking the other nipple between his lips. His beard rubs against Anakin's chest as he gives it equal attention, he wants to leave abrasion burns all over his boy.

“Obi-Wan–” Anakin groans, his voice choked with pleasure and frustration, and then the young man is grabbing him firmly by the shoulders and pushing him back. Obi-Wan's lips make a wet pop as they are peeled off his lovely tits and Anakin glares at him. “For Force's sake, you've made me wait for years. Made me settle for the love of a woman I barely knew.”

He yanks hard at Obi-Wan's robes, loosening them enough to reach into his undergarments, and Anakin grasps Obi-Wan's aching cock with a growl. “So, stop teasing and start kriffing me, right now.”

Arousal pulses through Obi-Wan's body, and he bites back a moan, feeling the boy's thumb rub over his swollen tip. So much for foreplay, he should have known his boy wouldn't have the patience to be unwrapped slowly and worshipped, showered with love. Anakin really would be the death of him. Or at least his restraint.

Obi-Wan stands to remove his clothing, enjoying the way Anakin's eyes scrape down his skin as it's revealed. Watching with equal intensity as the young man removes his pants, tosses his robes aside, and spreads his legs in clear invitation.

What a glorious sight, his Anakin laid out like an offering on an altar. Obi-Wan thinks this is what a God feels like.

Such a vision was surely not something Jedi Master Kenobi would have ever gotten to see. No, this is perhaps something that only a Sith could look upon without shuddering in horror at such depravity. Without recoiling at the knowledge that this was the boy he'd raised, the child Master Qui-Gon had entrusted to him. The little boy who'd clung to him in the night, desperately afraid of losing him.

He kneels between Anakin's knees, runs his fingers along his inner thighs. He's beautiful. Kiss reddened lips, covered in his bites and bruises, a flush on his cheeks and nape, eyes filled with desire. Long gangly limbs that had filled out over the years, cock hard and swollen, pretty pink head peeking out from his foreskin, leaking little pearls of fluid from the tip. Obi-Wan collects that precious dew on the tip of his finger and places it on his tongue, delighted when Anakin keens.

Then he uses the Force to call a sachet of bacta from his waist pouch as he dips his head to take Anakin's cock into his mouth, the sounds the boy makes are music to his ears. The most lavish orchestra, unparalleled by the greatest artists money could buy. The heat and hunger in Anakin’s eyes as his boy watches him is unbearable. He pauses only to rip open the packet and squeeze some bacta onto his fingers, before returning his attention to Anakin.

The length in his mouth twitches when he sinks a finger into Anakin's puckered entrance, who groans as Obi-Wan searches the tight and hot channel. A moment later, Anakin jolts and his back arches, bucking deep into Obi-Wan's throat with a gasp. His head is thrown back and moans of pleasure fall from his lips, his hips stuttering as though unable to decide if he wants to kriff Obi-Wan's throat or press back against his finger more.

Obi-Wan adds another, strokes his fingers in and out, thinks of how he's going to be doing this with his cock in a few minutes, drags the tips of his fingers over the sensitive strip along Anakin's inner walls.

“Master–” Anakin claws at the blankets beneath him, sweat pools in the dips of his smooth chest when a third finger is added, and he shakes his head with a whine. “I can't– I'm going to–”

Obi-Wan doesn't stop, doesn't slow down, just keeps kriffing the beautiful boy with his fingers, watching intently, the mounting ecstasy on Anakin's face. He wants to see his proud boy come apart at his hand.

As though in response to his desire, Anakin moans, loud and shameless, his neck tightens, his toes curl and Obi-Wan's throat fills with fluid. He swallows quickly around the pulsing cock and with a last shudder, Anakin goes limp on the bedding, panting and gasping for air.

Obi-Wan allows the softening length to slip from his mouth, brushes away the wetness from his lips and beard, and admires the view. His child is gorgeous, broad shoulders trembling as he heaves for air, blue eyes hazy with pleasure. Had Amidala seen his boy like this? Obi-Wan pushes the thought away with a growl. This is his now, his reward for years of caregiving, patience, and frustration. He's never needed a reward for loving Anakin, but now he craves it desperately, hungers for it. Unbearable. It's unbearable.

He withdraws his fingers from the boy's body, calls the bacta sachet back to him and coats his aching erection with the oily liquid. He's waited for so long, he can't wait any longer, so he presses the head of it against Anakin's relaxed opening and hooks those long muscular legs over his shoulders. He groans low and deep as his cock is enveloped in wet heat, shuddering at the tightness, and the boy's insides spasm around him.

“Wait, Master–” Anakin rewards him with a strangled moan, shaking his head. “Too much– I can't–”

Obi-Wan leans down, practically folds the boy in half and sinks even deeper, making Anakin choke on air as he's filled. The boy is trembling when they're fully joined. He places a kiss on the corner of that gasping mouth and hisses lovingly into his ear. “You can, and you will.”

Anakin moans loudly and clings to his shoulders, eyes glazing over with heat and desire. Releasing a needy whine as Obi-Wan draws back out, pleased to see that there is no blood or signs of injury, as he thrusts back inside again. The boy wails at the overstimulation, his limp cock gradually hardening again as Obi-Wan pumps his hips relentlessly into him.

He can still barely believe that he's finally taking what has been his all this time. Could almost believe that he is simply dreaming, if not for how incredible it feels, nothing like his fumbling clumsy trysts with Satine as a fifteen-year-old Padawan. Anakin's body feels like it was made for him, that tight hole suckling on him as he ruts in, wanting to embed himself inside forever.

It's perfect, he's perfect. Obi-Wan groans as he lowers his gaze from Anakin's panting mouth, takes in the obscene sight of his cock ramming into his opening, the bacta oozing out around his reddening rim. “Look at you. Such a good boy, taking me so well. My dearest, Anakin.”

“Master–” Anakin wails and rakes his nails down Obi-Wan's shoulders. He can feel how much his words have affected his beloved, Anakin's side of their bond is a chaotic avalanche of sensation and emotion. Perfect.

His Anakin was always meant to be like this, wasn't he? Obi-Wan had spent years trying to train it out of him, but Anakin has always been a storm of passion and love. Something that had both inspired admiration and fear within Obi-Wan. Fear of losing his wonderful child to darkness. Fear that Anakin becoming a Sith—as he was always so clearly meant to be—would take Anakin from his side.

But, now that Obi-Wan no longer fears the Dark Side, sees that passion is only dangerous when warped and twisted, by someone like Sidious. Now that he no longer believes that these powerful emotions will cost him the person he loves most, Obi-Wan is free to admire Anakin's beauty. To watch with adoration and desire as Anakin writhes beneath him, firm muscles tight and unrestrained ecstasy pouring from his presence in the Force.

To behold his perfect child lost in the throes of bliss.

Drool trickles from the corner of Anakin's slack mouth, his deep blue eyes, dilated and glassy, gasping desperately for air as though he's drowning. Anakin looks like he's losing his mind, and Obi-Wan feels like he is not far behind. Force, he loves this boy, has wanted him more than anything, and now that he has him, Obi-Wan will do anything to keep him.

“My Padawan, my boy, my apprentice, my love.” Obi-Wan breathes in awe, in reverence and adoration. “My little Sithling.”

Anakin only moans weakly in response, sweat covers his brow, and his watery blue eyes struggle to focus on him as Obi-Wan rocks into him ruthlessly, finally indulging in his desires, taking everything he's ever coveted.

With a wave of his hand, he takes the boy by his ankles and raises them into the air with the Force, holding them in place. The new angle allows him to sink even deeper, forcing a punched out sound from the boy as he reaches between their bodies to grasp Anakin's bouncing cock.

“You are mine, Anakin. As I am yours.” Obi-Wan smiles down at him, stroking that swollen and sensitive length slowly, lovingly, contrasting with the pace at which his cock continues to drive into Anakin's body. “You will only ever attain this pleasure from me now. Understood?”

Anakin nods drunkenly, tears at the blankets beneath him, his tongue hangs out like he's trying to swallow the air, his words slur together like he's forgotten how to use it properly. “Y– yes, Mast– Master... please–”

Obi-Wan's grin widens and quickens his strokes to match his thrusts. Within seconds, Anakin releases another wail, his spend spurts onto his own abdomen in thick globs and his insides clamp down on Obi-Wan's cock.

He kriffs Anakin through it, savouring the sensation, the echoing explosion of pleasure through their bond. It takes everything in his power not to come from it. Obi-Wan doesn't want to stop. He can only have Anakin for the first time once and it feels too good to just end like this.

But then Anakin gives him an exhausted smile, a beautiful, pure smile—like the ones he'd worn as a child, before his obsession with Amidala, before the war, before all his smiles became permanently shadowed by weariness, bitterness, and pain—and whispers faintly. “L– love you, Obi-Wan...”

That's all it takes.

Obi-Wan buries himself inside and his control slips, dropping Anakin's ankles back onto his shoulders as his entire being becomes doused—absolutely drenched—in ecstasy. It seers through his body. He paints Anakin's insides white and gasps for air, kriffing his seed deeper with stuttering thrusts. Such a good boy, granting him so perfect a first claiming.

The pulses of pleasure ripple through him for a blissful eternity, before they begin to calm, as all good things that must sadly come to an end. Obi-Wan heaves for air as he lowers Anakin's legs to the blanket and braces his hands by the boy's head for a moment to collect himself. Anakin's eyes are closed, and Obi-Wan presses a sweet kiss to his damp forehead.

Then he leans back and lets his softening cock slip out, a trickle of pale fluid oozes out with it and something in him purrs with satisfaction at the depraved sight.

Once he has caught his breath, Obi-Wan uses his undergarments to clean the mess from Anakin's stomach and bottom. Then he lies down beside him and holds his boy close, pleased when Anakin stirs shortly and eagerly wraps himself around Obi-Wan. The young man hooks a leg over his, and nuzzles his flushed cheek into the light auburn strands covering Obi-Wan's chest with a contented sigh.

The moment is quiet and peaceful, basking in the warm afterglow while he, and presumably Anakin, sort through their thoughts.

Obi-Wan runs his fingers idly through soft brown curls. He'd meant it when he said he would take care of Anakin and his children. But in all honesty, he still isn't certain what their next move should be.

The Senate is likely a warzone now. Palpatine had just consolidated all the power in the Republic under himself, and now he's dead. The power vacuum would likely incite the most powerful members of the senate to attempt to seize control of the newly created—and vacated—Emperor's throne. Would the clone troopers follow whomever won?

He thinks of Cody, his men. He knows what they are. Slaves. He always tried not to think of it, like his fellow Jedi. They hadn't had much choice, the best they could do was be good slavers. Treat their men as well as they could. What would happen to them under other Masters? Does he care? They'd betrayed him, Cody tried to kill him. Anger simmers in his heart.

“I'm sorry, Master.” Anakin murmurs softly, interrupting his thoughts. “For giving in to Palpatine. For killing the younglings.”

It gives him pause, perhaps his boy had felt his sense of betrayal and thought it was of Anakin's deeds. Which it wasn't, but it did make Obi-Wan reconsider his anger. Perhaps Cody hadn't had much choice, perhaps he had been manipulated into it, like Anakin had been.

Even if he would be regarded as a Sith now, Obi-Wan still sees little sense in acting impulsively without first seeking the necessary information to make objective decisions. After all, Padme had been more loyal to Anakin than he'd first assumed based on Anakin's words. If he had allowed himself to hurt her because he thought her treacherous...

Perhaps being guided by strong emotions may not be as bad as he'd been taught to believe. But the Jedi's preference for caution and reason had won him victory enough times that he feels it foolish to simply discard everything he had learnt from them and jump to the other extreme. As tempting as that may be.

So, though he feels Anakin's fear, Obi-Wan resists both the ingrained reflex of offering up a quote of ancient wisdom, and the instinctual protective urge to grant immediate comfort and absolution.

Instead, he takes the time to consider his response, what he personally feels, what he knows, and what Anakin needs. He takes a quick glance through some of the memories—and thoughts of Anakin—that he'd acquired from Sidious’ mind. He doesn't want to say the wrong thing, not here, not now, not when it matters so. There will be a time for casual light-heartedness to return to their relationship.

“Good. You should be.” Obi-Wan eventually answers, and he can feel Anakin flinch, before he presses a kiss to the boy's hair. “But I do not blame you for falling to his manipulation. You are young and Darth Sidious used your kindness against you from start to finish, systematically breaking down your mind until the easiest option was to obey. To let someone else do the thinking for you.”

He can feel Anakin's confusion and smiles sadly. “First, he used your need for the affection that I was too afraid to give you. Then your love for Padme and your proximity to him to isolate you from the Jedi. Then he made himself look helpless in front of you, used your instinct to protect the weak to get you to attack Master Windu in his defence. That was the first break.”

Anakin nods slowly, clutches at him like he would as a child after a nightmare.

“I was tired, so tired. Trying to decide what to do. Then being forced to wait in the Council chambers for hours. When he killed Master Windu because I–” He swallows and takes a shuddering breath. “...I just wanted it to all stop. To stop thinking. Stop feeling. To rest.”

“You shouldn't have been left alone, I'm so sorry, my love.” Obi-Wan caresses his face gently, is pleased to see Anakin's eyes soften at the term of endearment. “That's why he revealed his identity to you then, while I was away. When I couldn't be there for you. I shouldn't have left.”

“I wish you'd been there.” Anakin murmurs. “Even if we had been arguing, it would have been less painful and exhausting than arguing in circles with myself.”

“Exactly. And then while you were tired, he had you do something that you could never forgive yourself for. Something to break your self-image.” Obi-Wan closes his eyes for a moment, even now, this is something he too must come to accept. “We both know he could easily have killed a handful of children on his own or with the clones. He did it to make you feel unredeemable. Unforgivable. To the point where being offered forgiveness would cause you pain.”

Anakin smiles wryly. “Is that why you're not offering forgiveness for the younglings?”

“Correct, clever one.” Obi-Wan taps him lightly on the nose. “I will offer you forgiveness for breaking my heart and taking my younger brothers and sisters from me. But for the act itself, the ones you need forgiveness from... are the dead, and they cannot give it. So, it is you who must forgive yourself. That is a pain I have not the ability to relieve you of.”

Anakin remains silent. And Obi-Wan allows him the space to think. He knows the boy has never enjoyed his lectures, but he feels a curious new willingness to listen. Is it because he stopped pushing Anakin away? Obi-Wan swallows a snort, what irony. That his boy would only listen to him after he lost the need to lecture him quite so harshly.

After the burden of being the Master of the Chosen One, of being a member of the Council, of being a good Jedi while honouring Master Qui-Gon's wishes. After everything he's carried for more than a decade has been laid down to rest. When he is free to be kind and indulgent towards his former Padawan simply for the sake of it. Because he loves Anakin.

“What will we do now, Master?” Anakin finally asks and Obi-Wan hums, accepting the change of topic. There was no need to rush his emotional recovery.

“I'm not sure.” Obi-Wan admits, stroking a hand over his beard. “We could stay here, hide from whomever takes power in the senate. A new war could start.”

Anakin bites his lip and shakes his head. “I don't want my children to grow up here. Tatooine is... this place... The desert only takes.”

Obi-Wan's eyes narrow, there's something that Anakin is hiding from him. He can feel it through their bond, simmering under the surface, a cautious hope that Anakin can share this secret with Obi-Wan, now that they are Sith. Is this something his boy had shared with Sidious? Envy coils in Obi-Wan's stomach, he could look, could search Sidious’ memories for it.

But he doesn't. That wouldn't be real. He wants to hear this secret from Anakin, as a show of trust.

“What is it?” Obi-Wan asks, tracing a thumb over Anakin's lower lip. “What are you keeping from me?”

Anakin swallows and shakes his head. “I'll– I'll tell you later. When we have time. It's... it's not important right now.”

He's not particularly pleased with the response, but he can feel Anakin's pain and that the boy is being honest, so Obi-Wan lets it go. For now.

“I think we should go back to the Repub– Empire.” Anakin says instead.

“I should hope you recall that the clone troopers have orders to kill me on sight.” Obi-Wan drawls dryly.

“Palpatine made me his apprentice, his second in command.” Anakin states. “Now that he's dead, the clones should obey my orders. If we return quickly enough, before they crown a new Emperor, we can take over and rule the galaxy. Make things the way we want them to be.”

“Now why would we want to do that?” Obi-Wan asks, raising a sceptical eyebrow. “Are you not tired of war?”

“I am.” Anakin admits. “But I want my children to grow up in a peaceful galaxy. I want to give them everything.”

“Being the children of the Emperors will take freedom from them.” Obi-Wan warns. “They will need constant protection, they will never have equal peers or a regular childhood.”

“And they would here?” The boy scoffs, an ugly sneer darkening his face. “On a backwater planet with no water. With slavery, raiders, gangs and crime? Under Hutt control. Where the sick creature could seek to make a pleasure slave of my daughter and nobody would lift a finger to stop it.”

Obi-Wan sighs and strokes his beard, Anakin had a point. Tatooine isn't a good place to raise children either. They would still be isolated and in constant danger of dying to something banal like the weather. At least as political hostages, their children would be valuable and have the chance of ransom or negotiation.

“Besides, they will likely be Force Sensitive. We both know this.” Anakin shakes his head. “I'd rather we be able to give them every material luxury they may need. A stable planet like Coruscant, with the Jedi Archives, schools, parks, and all the karking water they need.”

Obi-Wan gazes at Anakin's worn face and sighs again. “If we go back, we will never be free. We will spend the rest of our days at war.”

“They're worth it.” Anakin declares, before hesitating and giving him an uncertain look. “I– I hope we are... to you.”

The furrow between Obi-Wan's brows eases and he strokes a hand over Anakin's hair comfortingly. “Of course. You are worth everything to me. My life, my morals. Everything.”

Relief is plain on Anakin's face and joy sings through their bond as Obi-Wan lifts his hand from his chest and presses a kiss to the warm skin of his bare knuckles. “You are mine, which makes your children mine as well.”

“Are you proposing, Master?” Anakin asks with some amusement.

“If you wish.” Obi-Wan chuckles. “We are not Jedi any longer, not that that stopped you.”

Anakin gives him a sheepish grin, before asking tentatively. “Why did you let me be with Padme, when you felt this way about me?”

“Because she made you happy. I foolishly thought at the time that it was better for you to love her. That it was alcohol and fear of abandonment that made you desire me.” Obi-Wan explains with some irony.

Anakin snorts, his voice dry and bitter. “Could've just asked me what I thought.”

“There were many things I could have done.” Obi-Wan murmurs, brushing his fingers through the boy's damp brown strands.

“Like kriff my fifteen-year-old ass?” Anakin offers him a boyish grin.

“Anakin.” Obi-Wan rolls his eyes, but can't help smiling fondly when his boy nuzzles happily against him.

He's lost so much in the last few rotations. His brethren and his friends. Fought and killed the Sith Lord, acquired both new power and Anakin, lost the respect of Master Yoda, gained a pair of children. Obi-Wan knows he'll feel the true brunt of all this in time, but for now, he's just grateful that he has a new meaning and purpose. That he hasn't lost everything there is to live for.

He holds Anakin close, covers them with a blanket, and allows the exhaustion of this whole ordeal to carry him into rest.

Notes:

On the logistics of this fic's premise, I definitely cranked Obi-Wan's possessiveness over Anakin up, and did the impossible—making the security footage in the Chancellor office not only exist but also viewable from the Jedi Temple. But that's about it. I hope you can suspend disbelief for these unrealistic elements just so I can explore all the shit I wanna in this story OTL

Hear me out, if Obi-Wan wasn't the one who told Padme about the killed younglings, she wouldn't have already primed all of Anakin's insecurity and made him anticipate Obi-Wan's disapproval.

Padme also didn't know Obi-Wan was alive, so her first response to seeing him isn't to ask after Anakin's health, which makes Obi-Wan think she doesn't care about Anakin that much. He also misses how Anakin's anger can make him harm the very person he was so desperate to protect, so he doesn't get the impression that Anakin is lost. He doesn't see Anakin let his emotions control him or say "I understand" when Palpy's all "Obi-Wan's an enemy too", only sees Palpy manipulate him.

I like the theory that Sidious had wanted to use Essence Transfer to possess Anakin's body, but didn't in Canon because of Anakin's injuries. So, with an unexpected confrontation by an Obi-Wan leaking Darkness, and the idea that Obi-Wan's strength of will wouldn't be strong enough since he was such a stalwart Jedi yet he fell anyway (plus he's pretty powerful in the Force and would deteriorate slower) that makes his body an attractive candidate to Sidious.

Let's just say Sidious made a bad snap decision here, just like Yoda haha

Then the scene where Padme and Obi-Wan confront Anakin occurs, but with Yoda in Obi-Wan's place, and the scene where Anakin strangles Padme for "betraying him and bringing Yoda here to kill him" follows similarly. Anakin's fight with Yoda would not be as emotionally charged, so he'd be less reckless and, through pure Force power, be able to hold his ground against Yoda in a stalemate till Obi-Wan's arrival.

And thanks to all of that, butterfly effect, bam.

And, on the more character study side, I think Anakin's main source of fear and insecurity has always been that he'll make a mistake that causes him to lose those he loves. Whether it be them taken unwillingly from him through death or them discarding and abandoning him, leaving him to walk a lonely path. He fears having nobody to blame but himself, and ironically, that fear is a self-fulfilling prophecy.

It comes true when Padme says she cannot follow him down this path (and Obi-Wan in canon tries to kill him). A path he feels trapped on, unworthy of any other path, as Anakin says when bleeding his Kyber Crystal, all he can be is a Sith after everything he's done.

However, here Obi-Wan promises, and has in fact proven just by retaining loyalty to Anakin despite his actions, that he can and will follow Anakin down any path. This affords Anakin the security to risk changing his path. To endure the pain that comes with acknowledging a grave mistake he has made.

Ironically, it is when one is secure in the ones they love, that they can boldly face the prospect of self-improvement and progress despite the fear of failure.

Also, I think it's important to remember that in Anakin's experience, the systems he's seen have done jack shit to protect him or the ones he loves. Tatooine's hutts are a violent gang, the Republic didn't save him or his mother from slavery, it was Padme who later managed to liberate some slaves from Tatooine, but that was her own political efforts. The war showed him first-hand how fragile and limited the reach of the Republic is.

For someone who doesn't trust the system, who has been hurt by the failures of the system, there's a lot of paranoia and anxiety. That's why Anakin wants power and to be the one at the top, not out of hate or desire to subjugate others, but for the safety of his loved ones. Wanting one's family to be safe, is honestly just human and should not be treated as a bad thing. It's the system's fault for creating such paranoia. The solution is to improve the system.

Unfortunately for Anakin, he's attached to a politician, a Jedi and is the Chosen One. He can't just leave like Ahsoka.

Honestly, the people who say to Anakin, “with great power comes great responsibility, you got born with the Force, suck it up” are no different than the Nazis who said, “well, you're disabled and a waste of resources, so we are killing you, suck it up” or the slavers who say, “you're born a slave so suck it up”.

If someone (Jedi or otherwise) is ready to sacrifice their personal happiness for others that should be respected, I would admire and grieve for anyone strong enough in their beliefs to make that choice. But nobody should ever force or impose such expectations on someone who is unable to do so (like Anakin), any more than one should expect the blind to see.

Notes:

So, this is probably the shortest oneshot I've ever written, I'll explain in the notes where it came from, but this came out super damn smooth, like, bam, under two hours and barely any editing needed. Getting this out was like the smoothest diarrhoea ever, complete with painful cramping.

And, whoooo! It’s finally come, the day that my notes are actually longer than the fic itself. Aha ha ha… goddamnit. Though, I’ll admit that that’s because half the notes are me ranting about the argument that got this churned out to begin with. So, I apologise to anyone who came in thinking the fic is 5k words, half of that is notes and they wouldn't fit in the notes category. I'm sorry! OTL

Also, fuck me, I only have a week left before my deadline and the next chapter of It's My Own Design is still only half done- ToT Being in an argument makes it hard for me to regulate and get into my writing, it's already over but I'm still feeling its effects... sigh hopefully getting this out will make me feel better...

You watch as the wand falls from Sebastian's fingers, he's staring at his hand like it's betrayed him. You're about to speak, to ask him what the ever-loving fuck. When the Inferi nearby swipe at you and you can't simply continue watching his stunned form.

“Sebastian, look out!” You shout, casting Incendio at the Inferi around you, the flames licking across the hems of your robes. “Snap out of it!”

This isn't the time to be horrified. Not yet, anyway. Not while the living dead continue to attack, uncaring of the absolute shit show of a disaster that has taken place here.

You spare a moment to cast a Confringo at one of the skeletons coming up behind Sebastian, but he takes a blow from another, which jostles him from his stupor, and he finally seems aware of his surroundings again. You kick his wand to him, Inferi first, you can slap him later.

He quickly scoops up his wand and resumes fighting. Without Solomon attacking you alongside the Inferi, without Sebastian being distracted trying to solo Solomon, the two of you sweep up the remaining Inferi with your usual efficiency and teamwork.

All too soon, the cavern is quiet once more, save the panting from you and he. Charred bones litter the floor, covering almost every square inch, but you have no interest in them, because Sebastian has gone still, staring at his uncle's body once again.

“Sebastian... what have you done...” You breathe, you don't know what to do, how to react, nothing could have prepared you for this. For him to do this.

Sure, Solomon had been coming at you with terrifying anger, even hung you in the air and petrified you - as the Inferi slashed at you - threw Confringos at you, ignored your pleas for him to stop, to stop making things worse. But this... the Killing Curse, you're not sure whether Sebastian was trying to protect you or just taking his anger towards Solomon too far.

Maybe it was both? You pray it was both. His outburst on the mountain still feels uncomfortable, even if he apologised for it. If you pissed him off enough, would he kill you too? You watch Sebastian sink to his knees by his uncle's body, reaching out with shaky fingers to touch the hardening skin.

“U- uncle?” He murmurs faintly, and you know the answer. He wouldn’t have. Sebastian is just as shaken by his actions as you are.

You have to mean it.

You swallow, yeah, you'd meant it too, when you threatened to abandon Sebastian, when he was being a prick on the mountain. Didn't mean you wouldn't have felt awful about it afterwards, if he made you feel like you had to, if he pushed you into that corner. Didn't mean you wouldn't hate the consequences, didn't mean you wouldn't miss having your friend by your side, as you fought against Ranrok. Alone.

You take a step towards him, but you don't know what to say, and the sound seems to jostle him from his daze.

“In- inferi.” Sebastian mutters, pushing himself to his feet unsteadily and taking several steps back, turning away from the body with a hand over his mouth. He looks like he's seconds from vomiting. “We- we can say the Inferi did- did- this.”

“Sebastian...” You frown, he's doing it again, closing his feelings off and trying to think with his brain alone.

“Please-” He gasps, knowing that you're about to... actually, you're not sure what you're about to say or do, but whatever it is, you don't get to.

“Sebastian?” Anne's voice reaches your ears, and both you and Sebastian stare at the doorway, in varying degrees of horror.

“A- Anne-” Sebastian moves, as though wanting to cover Solomon's body from her view, even though he must know he cannot possibly do so in time.

You see her expression change the moment she spots Solomon. With wide eyes, she staggers towards him, slowly at first, disbelief on her face, and then she's running, stumbling and falling mere steps away. Sebastian quickly darts forward to catch her, but she throws his arms off and collapses to the floor, dragging herself across the stone to kneel by Solomon's cold corpse.

“No- no no no- Uncle?” Anne touches Solomon's face frantically. “Please, uncle-”

“He's- he's gone.” Sebastian pleads, practically begging her to stop. To stop making him regret what he's done. “Anne-”

“Why- how-” Anne gasps, tears spilling from her eyes in rivers as she clings to the man's body.

“I- Inferi- they- they got him.” Sebastian answers, giving you an entreating stare, like you were a deity that he was praying to for salvation.

You are at a loss for words, there hasn't been enough time for you to decide if you will go along with his lie. And it is a lie, an outright lie. He's told many half-truths, used misleading language and implied things that weren't true, kept secrets - just as you have - but this is his first baldfaced lie.

“Why-” Anne continues before you can decide, turning to look at Sebastian. “Why did you do this? Any of this...”

“I-” Sebastian stammers, you've never seen him so speechless.

“I'm not worth this.” Anne sobs and Sebastian immediately kneels, grabs her by the shoulders and shakes her.

“You are!” He declares, it sounds like a demand and a plea in one, and he's crying now too, more desperately than you ever imagined the cocky boy could. “You are! I- please, Anne, I can't live without you.”

He touches her face gently, tenderly, despair dripping from every word. “You can't say that. I- I need you. You are worth it. You... you have to be.”

He's hanging off her shoulders now, sobbing harder than even she had been, and she watches him with empty eyes.

Defeated, resignation in the slump of her shoulders, in the flatness of her expression. It hurts to watch.

She slowly raises her hand to touch his wet cheek, speaking gently. “You need to let me die.”

“No!” Sebastian practically screams, grabbing his head between his hands and you instinctively raise your wand. He's going completely off the rails, and you're worried about what could happen, what he might do, but he only continues wailing. “I can't, I need you! Anne, I can't live without you! Don't leave me, please, please stay, just- just stay... I'll do anything...”

He grasps her hand, gazing into her face, his eyes red and frenzied, and she swallows, before closing her eyes in acceptance and sorrow.

“I know... but I can't.” Anne whispers, and before his face can harden into anger, she touches his cheek with a sad smile. “So... let's go. Together.”

His entire body freezes, and you freeze too. Surely, she can't be suggesting-

“I can't- I can't let you hurt anyone else, but I understand now.” Anne gives a bitter laugh. “I was wrong to think I could just... set you free.”

He chokes on a sob, placing his hand over hers.

“I'm sorry, I'm so sorry Sebastian. It's okay.” She smiles beseechingly. “I know you don't mean to, and you would hurt too, wouldn't you? If anyone else gets hurt. If Ominis or...”

Anne gives you a glance and you jolt in place. She was serious!?

Incredulous, your eyes flicker to Sebastian, who is also staring at you now. He's wearing a complicated expression, and you're not sure which you see, fear, relief or regret. Perhaps it's all of the above.

Your heart clenches, was that why he didn't tell you when he was going to test the relic? Because he didn't want you or Ominis getting hurt if it went wrong? Because he wasn't willing to sacrifice anyone beyond himself? Was that why he seemed so eager to show you that he'd mastered the relic without a sacrifice?

Was that why his control over the relic hadn't been complete? He was so clever, it would be Sebastian who'd manage to make the relic work halfway, without even paying the price for its services.

Anne turns back to Sebastian, her voice firm. “So, come with me. I won't leave you behind to suffer.”

He returns his gaze to her, eyes wide - like a lost child - and she presses a kiss to his forehead. “We can find a quiet peaceful place, we'll spend our last days there, and then we can go. Together.”

Stop. You want to say, you want to step forward, to stop this madness, but something holds you in place. Is it shock? Is it fear? Is it because... you can't see any other option either?

Sebastian stares into her eyes, and you watch. It's like watching the most beautiful, serene, and tranquil... horror play, enacted before your very eyes. A small smile of relief spreads across Sebastian's face, and he nods.

Anne leans forward to press their foreheads together and the twins close their eyes.

“Born together...” Sebastian whispers, like a prayer.

“Live together...” Anne's smile and voice are tight and watery.

“Die together.” Sebastian breathes and something in you snaps.

“Wai-” You step forward, the word barely out of your mouth, as the kneeling twins and Solomon's body vanish with the crack of apparition, and you shout. “No!”

But the cavern is empty now, nothing but you in a sea of bones, as your shout echoes down the hollow tunnels.

You stand in shock for several moments, before panic sets in and you scramble for the doors, bones clattering loudly as you kick them out of the way. You barely manage to reach the exit without stepping on a fibula and twisting yours.

The cold evening air hits your face when you emerge from the catacomb. It's bracing, but you have no time to enjoy the fresh breeze.

With a single deep breath, you take off towards Feldcroft at a sprint, if they leave the village, you don't know where they might go. You're desperate to stop them, wishing you could apparate too. You barrel through bushes, leap over rocks, stumble as you run.

The dimly lit hillside stretches out before you, and it was only a matter of time before you tripped over something. The dirt hurts, grains lodging themselves under your fingernails, but you push yourself up with trembling arms and throw yourself forward again.

The sound of them disapparating replays in your ears on repeat. The blissful smile on Sebastian's face, the peace on Anne's, flashing through your mind.

Tears bead in your eyes, and you pray to any celestial being listening that that will not be your last image of them. You feel like the pain in your chest may never fade if it is.

You're out of breath when you arrive at the Sallow residence, and you cast your gaze about frantically, hoping to see them, but all you find is Ominis, leaning against the rock fence behind the cottage. The blind boy is bathed in the last rays of the setting sun, staring distantly with something clutched in his hand, and you rush over.

“Ominis! Have you seen Anne and Sebastian!?” You gasp out without much thought, before your eyes settle on what seems to be a freshly dug mound on the ground near him, and a tombstone that reads ‘Solomon Sallow’. A sinking feeling bears down on your shoulders, settling heavy in your gut.

A bitter, hysterical laugh, almost painful in its grief, rips from Ominis’ throat. “No... but they- goodbye... they said goodbye.”

His cheeks bear streaks of tears and he whispers brokenly. “I- I couldn't stop them...”

No pit in your stomach has ever hurt this much, you cover your mouth and stumble to the side, catching yourself on the same fence. You want to vomit, your heart hurts, they hadn’t even said goodbye to you.

“Sebastian- Sebastian gave me this...” Ominis murmurs, holding out the item in his hand, a rolled-up note. “For you-”

His words choke in his throat, and you take the parchment with trembling fingers, you feel like the same lump is in your throat, as you unroll it to read.

I'm sorry, I wish I could say goodbye to you. But I know you wouldn't let me go. So, this must suffice. Our time together has been short, but I have cherished every moment, and you will always have my gratitude for being by my side.

I have no right to ask anything of you. After everything, you would be well within your rights to hate me. You and Ominis believed in me, and I let you both down.

But please, please take care of Ominis for me? And for Anne. Don't let him be alone. I don't want him to follow us. You know how to talk to him, better than I ever did. Be there for him, like you were for me.

Please. Humour my selfishness, just one last time.

Your friend, Sebastian Sallow

P.S. Help me burn Salazar's journal too. I no longer need it, and Ominis was right. I did end up regretting it.

Your knees hit the floor and your fist slams against stone. Pain shoots up your arm, but it doesn't compare to the pain in your heart. That fucking prick. That selfish - selfless - fucking idiot.

You hear a sob leave Ominis and he slides down to sit beside you, his expression is the most broken you've ever seen. More than in the Scriptorium, where he'd seemed more afraid than anything else. Now, he looks as though a stiff breeze could rip him apart.

You lean into him and wrap your arms around him, letting him cry into your shoulder, as you do his. Taking comfort from each other, and mourning the tragic twins who'd come to mean so much to the two of you. Those two bright souls, searing in their intensity - in their love - burning everything they touched, and then burning out like a wisp on the wind.

Alright. Alright, Sebastian. I'll try my best.

You never see them again, but you can't forget how powerful and beautiful love can be, and how painful a curse it can also be.

Maybe, hopefully, they are finally at peace.

Together.

Notes:

I tried to write this from the perspective of the average player rather than my own, because I know there's a lot of people who didn't react the same way I did during the game, and I wanted to sort of guide the brain (of anyone who relates to this response), to the conclusions I came to after analysing the game.

The reason I have Sebastian willing to burn the book and express regret is because he buried Solomon himself this time, not Anne alone. So, he had more time to feel the weight of his actions, that's one of the things I find frustrating, I've seen people go “Sebastian didn't say he regrets it until we threatened to turn him in” and I'm like, yeah, because he didn't get to face what he'd done, Anne's intervention allowed him to look away from what he'd done and distract himself. To wrap himself in the blanket of his righteousness. Thus, it was only when the social consequence became undeniable, when his actions irrevocably damaged his bond with Anne, that he was forced to face it.

For example, if a kid was recklessly grabbing a cup and it spilled everywhere, the correct thing to do is tell them that they should be more careful next time and then have the kid clean it (with your guidance, of course). The wrong things to do are; scold the child with “what's wrong with you, you are so impatient, look what you've done, you stupid kid”, or shoo the kid away and clean it yourself. One is hurtful, and the other doesn't teach the kid to take responsibility and give them a means of repenting and fixing the mistake.

Solomon repeatedly does BOTH those wrong things every single time we see him interact with Sebastian!

One of the arguments (for Sebastian being evil) that I hate the most is the, “you have to mean it, so Sebastian meant to Avada Solomon, and meant to cast the Cruciatus, he eeeevil.” Like, really? You've never done something that you were sure of in the moment and then regretted later? Seriously? Never said something hurtful, kicked a chair, broke a pencil, threw a tantrum? You sure meant it then, does that mean you can't regret it? Does that mean it didn't hurt to do it? Come on.

I was recently in an argument with someone who tried to tell me that mistakes aren't choices, saying that, “tripping on a rock, or dropping a cup is a mistake. Sebastian made a choice, not a mistake”. I'm just like, you're describing an accident, if you drop a cup, that's by accident. Mistakes are wrong/misguided choices, choices you regret, choices you want to take back. It's in the damn dictionary!

People make mistakes when under extreme stress. Case in point, Ominis. Cruciatus, big oof, 100% not his fault, but he did mean it. I just think that anyone who judges Sebastian but says Ominis is an angel doesn't understand that torture isn't always ripping off fingernails or stabbing eyeballs. The type of torture Sebastian was experiencing was equally as cruel as Ominis got from his family. Just because Sebastian's torturer is reality itself (plus his uncle salting the wound), doesn't make it any less painful or devastating.

Another one is, “Sebastian manipulated MC into helping him and lied about his goals.” Like, when? Sure, he's been evasive, he's lied by omission, been misleading, but those were always in order to advance steps on the way to the goal, his goal was very plain from the beginning and never changes. “Cure Anne. Consequences? Who cares? If she dies, I might as well die too, then nothing matters.” That's why he's so reckless, it's despair and depression. Like, Sebastian could be an unreliable narrator regarding the way Solomon treats him, but he didn’t need to do shit to make me disapprove of Solomon’s behaviour, the man earned that on his own.

You can even say that this is the exact scenario that the Ominis in my other fic, Heavy Is The Crown, was so terrified of. Sebastian just doesn't have much to live for besides Anne and Ominis.

I will admit though, that Anne's maturity and balls have been cranked up a tad for this fic, she's more insightful and willing to face Sebastian's desperation rather than running away from the reality that, whether she likes it or not, even if it's not her fault, her death will ruin him, and she can choose to do something about it, or leave him to drown without her.

In this ending, she gives Sebastian relief, she offers him permission to stop. To give up, to stop trying, to stop fighting, to stop swimming against the current, to let it carry him down the stream, shatter his body against the rocks and obediently sink to the bottom. Permission to stop acting strong, to stop trying to convince others and himself that he's strong enough to carry a dying girl on that tiny 15-year-old back. It's a relief, it's freedom, it's her saying he can say, “I've done enough.” and she won't be disappointed that he can't move on, she's accepted it.

I actually believe in euthanasia, as it is done in the Netherlands, there's just so many things that are worse than death. The person I argued with tried to convince me that murder is the greatest sin, and I'm like, I can list a million things I'd rather be murdered, than be inflicted with, you lucky sweet summer child. I congratulated them on never having reached Sebastian's desperation and they seemed to be offended, but I meant it. I would love to believe that murder is the worst sin.

Then again, this person I was arguing with also said they'd rather lock up and punish someone who regrets and is ready to repent, than for anyone to “get away with it”.

I think it's also frustrating that some people seem to think that Sebastian doesn't care about Ominis because he keeps throwing us at Ominis, but I think he's hurt that Ominis listens to a stranger over him. It's because Sebastian cares about Ominis more than his own pride, that Sebastian says “you know what, I can't figure out what Ominis needs, but I want him to get it. So, if you can do it, please, even if it hurts me to ask you to do something I wish I could do. Talk to him for me because I don't know how to do it without hurting him.”

In the game, Sebastian shows signs of being bitter about not being able to communicate properly with Ominis, and it's one of the reasons he's ready to die with Anne in this fic. Sebastian doesn't feel needed by Ominis, Sebastian mistakenly thinks that Ominis is angry that “being friends with Sebastian” means that Ominis still has to think about Dark Arts. Sebastian doesn't have a reason to stay.

And that's why I prefer legalised euthanasia, going through multiple doctors, years of evaluations, lawyers and hoops before being approved and being able to back out any time. It's better than suicide since there's professionals to make sure that you've tried every option. Without legal euthanasia, people are more likely to attempt suicide alone, and when it's based off misinformation, like Sebastian's mistaken belief that he isn't needed.

In Heavy Is The Crown, Ominis gets his head out of his ass and takes action to prevent Sebastian from falling to suicide, but in this alternate path, Ominis continues his modus operandi of just feeling sorry for himself when something he doesn't want to happen happens. Which, obviously is NOT his fault. That's his default modus operandi because of his abuse and disempowerment in his home and school, because his family influence is so broad.

Also, um, I feel like I should just say, you're welcome to interpret Sebastian and Anne's love in this fic however you wish, but I personally did not write it with incestual romance in mind. Just... making that clear. The Reader/Ominis is a bit more intentional and I do think of this as a bit of pre-ship between Ominis and MC, but you can also see that as platonic, of course!

I'm just gonna rant about the person I was arguing with for a bit. You can skip this, but if you want to know where this fic came from, feel free to read the painful experience that led to it.

One of the most horrifying things that person said was “if a woman who had been assaulted and became afraid of men afterwards or if someone had a bad experience with a black person, and retaliated against the next black person who approached them aggressively, they should be blamed for choosing to react violently.” Like, I'll grant that these people with bias resulting from bad experiences should not be in charge of making laws and they need therapy, but blame them for a fear response? Wtf-

I begged them to try to understand why people make mistakes or overreact and take their experiences into account and have compassion, if they want to prevent tragedies and treat the root of problems, and they said I was insulting them as uncompassionate. They pulled a “I've suffered too, but I didn't become a murderer” line too, why do they always pull that one? Just because you can, doesn't mean everyone else can! We are not all equal in experience, support, background, and physical/chemical make up!

I pointed out their misquotes of lines that weren't in the game, like, they said Anne said the “Inferi were heading to the town”, which... no, Anne calls Feldcroft a hamlet, not a town and that line just doesn't exist! And they said Ominis approved of Anne getting Solomon and said, “I completely forgot, Anne's going to get Solomon.” but what he actually said was “I was so worried about Sebastian. I didn't even realise - Anne's gone to get Solomon.” Completely different meaning! I was like “please play the game again, you're hallucinating” and they called that an ad hominem.

They said there's a special Rehab Azkaban for minors that has no dementors (since when!?) where kids get to leave unharmed (That's some amazing Just World Fallacy, this is a country with slavery, legal racism and no lawyers!), right after saying that Sebastian would be an adult at almost-16 during that time, so this mythical minor-rehab-Azkaban wouldn't take Sebastian anyway! They even say Inferi can't leave their gravesite without being controlled, and then, that Sebastian failed to control the Inferi contradicting their assertion that Inferi were heading to the hamlet. And then they say I'm insulting them by saying they're being contradictory and illogical. Oh, and when I pointed that out, they said the relic was controlling the Inferi not Sebastian, like, controlling them to do what!? By that logic, I can say the gun killed that guy, not me. Wtf-

Then they said it's dangerous and unhealthy to draw conclusions about someone based on how they interact with a fictional character, (even though they said they would rather lock away anyone who isn't “sufficiently repentant” irl too, which sounds good until you realise that they don't think Sebastian was repentant) and that fictional topics should stay in fiction. Like, wtf, fiction is meant to allow us to share and simulate situations, explore, and practice emotions safely so we can learn from the experience and grow as a person, and face reality wiser. I feel like this person would say Star Trek isn't political and shouldn't be compared to real world politics.

God, that was such an awful conversation, they picked a fight with me over a 2 year old thread, refused to leave me alone when I said I'd rather not fight and continued spamming me, said I'm an unpleasant person to converse with (then leave me alone, Jesus), then they accused me of liking my own posts too, and when I went and liked some to show that the 1 like wasn't myself, because, look, I liked it and it's now 2, they said that's evidence that I... was indeed liking my own posts. Like wtf? They say I'm a bad debater, and yeah. You're right, I'm not here to debate. I'm a teacher. So, if you insist on bothering me, what you get is a lecture!

And then two other people came in to pile on me, calling me nasty, an awful person and insufferable without telling me what I've done that is so “nasty”, and refusing to answer when I asked how they would rather I phrase my replies. At least when I say someone is awful, I say why, and it's pretty much only when someone tells me they want to make already suffering people suffer more. Those supporters said they didn't see any wrong quotes or wrong info from the person I argued with, and I am so confused. I feel like I'm the crazy one. What is going on, how can you two agree with this person when they are concerningly saying a 15-year-old is old enough to be treated like an adult!? Then they say I’m rude for saying that has concerning implications of the paedophilic kind. Sorry, but that's where your double standard logically leads.

Then they started mocking my "books" and laughing with each other, yeesh, what is this comically middle school bullying of the nerdy autistic kid shit? And mate, if you think 1k words make a book, I have bad news for you.

Look, we raised the age of adulthood for a reason! We have juvenile court for a reason! We raised the minimum working age for a reason! Children do not yearn for the mines! We abolished “guilty until proven innocent” for a reason! We take dangerous things/info out of reach of kids, not keep them in the easily broken-into Restricted Section! We don't just judge radicalised kids and lock them up in a torture chamber with dementors, we figure out how it happened and understand it, to prevent it from happening again.  We rehabilitate them and offer them compassion, dignity and support. Hell, it's usually depression causing the problems and you want to throw the kid in depression central? Even if you think there's a non-Azkaban rehab, mental hospitals in the 1890s were also torture chambers!

Who decides who is unsaveable and who isn't!? Who is repentant and who isn't!? This person decided on their own that Sebastian will 100% kill again, when the person he killed in the heat of battle- when Solomon attacked Sebastian emotionally for years and then physically. They even said that Sebastian blamed Anne for leaving him when Sebastian explicitly said, “I can't blame her. I couldn't really blame any of you if you gave up on me entirely. You all believed in me. And I let you all down.”

I tried so hard to get them to realise that there was nothing Sebastian could have done to convince them he'd changed and was worthy of a second chance, that they'd already judged him, closed the possibility in their mind and given him a task that was impossible, because they'd already decided that he was unsaveable. That they are more fixated on punishment than reform. That they simply want justice without compassion.

They gave him an exam with a pass grade of 130/100. He has no chance and that's not fair. (Which ironically, was the same thing they did to me with the "likes" thing, they seemed to think I was pissed about that because I cared about... honestly, I don't know, I don't see what the point of that would have been, but the thing that actually pissed me off was that there was no way to convince them that I didn't like my own replies. Even though I have zero reason to do such a thing and have proven it by actively using my one like to bring it to 2.)

But they literally went, “I'm done reading your essays, I'm right and you're wrong.” I can never get over how painful that is, to face a person who slams the door in my face after I spent so much effort trying to reach them sincerely and honestly. Called insufferable because I refuse to bend my principles, my belief that everyone deserves mercy and a second chance. I plead for kindness, and they get angry instead and say I'm, “nauseatingly full of yourself” and “talking down on people”.

I'm on my knees bro- I'm not talking down on you, I am begging you, for the people around you, the children you say you are in charge of caring for. You don't know how painful it is to not be believed when you are trying to change. When you know you've made a mistake you can't take back, and you want to repent and make up for it, but nobody believes you or gives you the chance to. To be accused of crocodile tears or purposely fucking up or not trying.

To just be punished, made an example of, and hung out to dry as a child. To be given up on, betrayed by those you thought you could count on. To realise your best was never enough, could never have been enough. That you were doomed to fail from the start, and nobody cares that that was your best.

I know those people wouldn't even read this, but you who are reading please understand that, in the face of all that…

Ah, I wanted to crosspost this here a lot earlier but I've been really busy and burnt out. So, sorry for the wait!

Notes:

I actually didn't super ship RadioApple in Season 1, I saw potential and it was a nice idea, but was kinda like, eh there isn't enough basis for it. Then Season 2 rolled around and I am frothing at the mouth-

Like gawd dayum this season went and gave me everything I want from a rivals ship, prioritising your rivalry in a literal cage while ignoring the captor? Hells fuckin’ yeah!

Which means my brain started churning this fic like I was possessed and I drafted two chapters of this shit in like three zombie hyperfixated days, before finally going to look at other fan stuff (I often do this to get my original ideas out first and avoid idea contamination), and I found several of my headcanons in fanart and in the like, 5 fics I've had the time to read since finishing the second chapter (God, I am so tired, the last month has been a roller coaster irl)

Which is pretty cool, I'm especially glad the RadioApple community agrees on the executioner pitch being a delicious angle, so here's my contribution to the party buffet and my take on what could have been going on all this time under the hoods of our favourite devil daddy and red loudspeaker!

Er, also, slight warning, Alastor really hates Vox in this one. I am a-okay with RadioStatic as a ship. Like, if you ship it, hell yeah, go wild! Have fun! I just use Vox as contrast a lot in this fic because he's right there in the canon story and he's the perfect foil x'D

Also, there will eventually be spoilers for Helluva Boss and some crossover!

And some assumptions we're gonna go on for this fic, they'll be illustrated in the fic itself, but I'll list my reasons for going with them here:

1 is that Charlie's been alive for 200 literal years. I've seen some argument as to whether she's in her 20s or 200s (but mentally 20s), but Vivziepop said the Pilot is still canon and there's a painting of Charlie as an adult with both her parents dated 1871, so, yeah. We're going with that for this fic.

2 Lucifer and Lilith have been split even before she went missing 8 years ago, they were in contact till she poofed but not really interacting romantically anymore. Charlie said her parents split up in S1EP5 and based on the More Than Anything's scene of Lilith taking Charlie away as a kid, I'm going with the idea that they split while she was young. Plus Lucifer seems to have been off his throne for long enough for Satan to lie that he's been ruler of Hell since before Lucifer Fell without being laughed out of the court by everyone, not just the other Deadly Sins. So I think it's a reasonable interpretation.

Now, is my portrayal of Alastor, or Lucifer's relationship with Lilith in-character? Who the fuck knows, man. We barely know anything about all three in the wake of season 2, so this is all my best guess based on what's out and a few random statements from Vivziepop that I came across. I usually write fics for completed stories so I'm not nearly as confident in my interpretation for this one. I'm just writing something fun that I think could work alongside the little info we have at the moment.

On another note, as a sex-indifferent AroAce (Demiromantic/Aegosexual) myself with an AroAce (Uniromantic/Demisexual) soulmate, it's a lot of fun to write Alastor haha, boi's finally gonna get his Uniromantic awakening after a literal century lol

As a reminder, Alastor is from 1900, and Rosie canonically demonstrates that he doesn't know what the term Ace even means, and probably as a defined concept too. Heck, before I knew there was a name for it, even I thought I just either hadn't met the right person that would magically make me want to have sex or that I just didn't like shallow portrayals of romance/sex.

And in case it needs to be said, being AroAce doesn't mean "physically can't get it up or reach orgasm", that would be a medical condition. AroAce are spectrums and encompass to "little to no interest". Those of us who aren't sex-repulsed can engage in sexual activity under specific conditions or for specific reasons that vary across individuals on the AroAce spectrum rather than sex for its own sake or its own appeal. In this fic, Alastor just represents one possible presentation.

The next chapter will be up in a week, just because I'd feel like an asshole leaving it here lol, Chapter 2 is a better stopping point for you, my dear readers! Chapter 3 will probably take a bit longer to polish as I'm also working on a more angsty “what if the Might of Lilith exploded” RadioApple fic too (why do I like hurting my favourite characters?) And my next three weeks are packed. Fuck.

Anyway, please look forward to it! x3

Music. Ah, to have lovely jazz in his ears, a delightful performance courtesy of Nifty's little roach band. A glass of rye whiskey in hand, half of it already warming his stomach and two empty glasses on the counter. Not to mention, an entertaining show put on by an idiot who'd managed to drink himself into a tizzy and was presently embarrassing both himself and the daughter he cared about more than anything else.

Perfect.

Alastor's ever-present grin widened as Lucifer finished loudly waxing poetic about how much he missed Lilith to an increasingly alarmed Charlie.

“Dad!” Charlie hissed under her breath as she held the unsteady man, glancing around with a chagrined smile while the hotel's many guests looked on with avid interest. The reporters in particular. “There's cameras!”

“Oh, Char-Char! She was so– hic!” Lucifer slurred, tears in his eyes as he sobbed. “And you look– look just as beautiful as her, she'd– hic– she'd be so proud!”

“Dad...” Naturally, Charlie’s stiff smile softened despite herself.

Leaning back against the bar counter, Alastor watched with amusement. Despite surely knowing that it would come back to haunt her should she arm VoxTek with ammunition to detract from her momentous victory—the leeway to spin her party commemorating Sera and Lucifer’s peace treaty between Heaven and Hell into frivolous gossip—it was clear that Charlie wasn't willing to shoo her own dad away and risk hurting him. Not while he was so vulnerable and visibly maudlin.

He took a sip from his glass. What a fascinating display. Alastor would readily admit that it was something he found almost admirable about the princess, her ability to recover from virtually any setback, her smile that waxed and waned yet never dimmed, her refusal to compromise on her ideals. Such a rarity, a person who genuinely wasn't hypocritical, was willing to adapt and grow.

The average person was mostly self-serving. Though they would never admit to it because they loved the idea of being like Charlie. That was their weakness.

If you can't commit to it, if you're not ready for the consequences, you shouldn't be trying. That was his motto.

Idiots like that fucking TV creep were always dancing on that line, self-serving—taking every shortcut—yet wanting love from others, the type of love that came at a great personal cost, that only competent selflessness could actually earn. And it was pathetic.

And useless, since they only ever ended up self-destructing or being manipulated, like the man whose crushed dreams of war and glory they were celebrating.

Alastor, on the other hand, was entirely self-serving. Everything he did was for himself, which made it so much easier to calculate and weigh his options in life.

Only the people who were willing to fight to win, to defy everything, even fate itself. Only such people survived. That was the world he lived and died in, the world he'd manifested in after death. Neither world cared about fairness or justice, so if he was a double-dealing manipulator, it was simply because he played with the rules and did whatever was necessary.

Whatever it took to survive and win.

After all, nobody had ever dedicated themselves selflessly to him when he was alive. His mother had been the only person to do so, because he was family, and his loyalty had remained with her till the day she died. What did he owe anyone else?

The vile, uncouth, disrespectful, arrogant men he'd killed in life—and thus earned his condemnation to Hell—they deserved everything they got. He'd learnt quickly. Did what he could to ensure that he wouldn't be cursed to start at the bottom of society again in Hell, the way he'd had to fight in life just to be seen as human, all because of the colour of his skin.

Especially since so many of the men he killed were doubtless in Hell too. In a way, as much as he missed her, he was glad to have never found his mother in this godforsaken place. Surely she was in Heaven, so kind a woman as she. The rest of the world—particularly his fellow denizens of Hell—weren't generous, so neither need he be.

Everything in this cesspit existed for his entertainment.

“Charlie, I– I love you so much– hic!” Lucifer smiled, a tender, shaky thing, trembling around the corners, painfully honest. “I wish– I wish your mom could be here to– here to see you.”

Including the Morningstars.

Chuckling to himself, Alastor downed the rest of his whiskey and allowed his body to dissolve into a plume of shadow.

“Well, I do believe your dearest daddy here has had a bit too much to drink.” Alastor drawled, startling the little princess when he appeared behind Lucifer. “As your ever reliable Host of the Hotel, allow me to help you with that.”

Shadows melted around Alastor as he grabbed the King’s collar from behind and lifted the spluttering clown by his white coat like an unruly kitten.

“Oh!” Charlie, to her credit, seemed a tad suspicious, and Alastor's eyes curled upward ever so slightly. Such a clever girl, but it wasn't like she had many options. With how full a house this party had filled the hotel, most of her friends were busy with their various roles.

“Not to worry, my dear. I'll simply drop him off in his room. You're welcome to swing by and check on him later. I promise I won't harm a single hair on his head.” Alastor purred pleasantly, and Charlie glanced at the reporters clamouring to shout questions at the drunk King.

“Alright, please take care of him.” Charlie sighed, giving Alastor a look that screamed I will absolutely eviscerate you if you hurt him.

“Of course, my dear. You needn't concern yourself. Please rest assured as you attend our guests!” Alastor quipped brightly, beginning to wrap himself—and the mangy duck—in the cool inky embrace of his shadows, only for the princess to then add with a gentle smile.

“And Alastor, thank you.”

He blinked for a moment, before chuckling as the room became obstructed by darkness. “You're welcome, my dear.”

“Hey– hey! Hanzzzoff bell-op! Lemme go!” The petulant King flailed in his grip as they emerged from the shadows just outside the King's room.

Tempting as it was to wait and see how long it would take Lucifer to remember that he could do more than just flail, it was getting slightly annoying, and the jostling of his arm was making his chest throb with pain. So, Alastor did as requested and released his grip, letting the King drop onto the floor face first.

“Gah!” Lucifer yelped—an appropriately silly sound for a clown—and Alastor hummed as the fallen angel rolled onto his back with an offended expression plastered across flushed cheeks. Well, under the round pink spots on his face, that is. “Whatchu do dat for?!”

Alastor allowed his grin to widen. “For fun, of course.”

“Ugh, yaknow what, fuck you, Bambi!” Lucifer grumbled, pulling a rubber duckie out of nowhere and lobbing it at him.

The yellow thing squeaked when it hit Alastor's arm and bounced away. His grin sharpening at the inebriated King's poor aim, Alastor simply watched as Lucifer struggled to get to his feet.

What a funny fellow their King was. Both Lucifer and his daughter really were the least human creatures he'd encountered in Hell. Most humans were either the privileged assholes who had the opportunity to live a life pure enough to go to Heaven, or the unlucky assholes who had to dirty themselves to live. Like Alastor himself.

Lucifer and Charlie were neither.

The princess was something special. Loving the cruel with her eyes wide open, not looking away from their darkness, yet loving anyway. Love was probably the hardest means of attaining control—real control, the type born of selfless, boundless, reciprocal loyalty—but after watching Charlie for a year, he had to admit that she was the closest he'd ever seen come to achieving it.

He may not have much regard for her goals and little patience for her weaknesses, but he could respect how much she'd achieved despite everyone's scepticism and against all odds. If she could just dispense with her tendency for self-loathing, she would be quite formidable.

The King, on the other hand, was childlike in another way. He didn't think very far ahead, was petty, and stupid when it came to family. But he did share her single-minded conviction and his power was vast enough to mitigate his naivety.

More fascinating, however, was that, unlike his daughter, Lucifer didn't even attempt to gain control.

Perhaps he simply didn't need it by sheer virtue of his power and indestructible nature. Perhaps he saw little point in control. Perhaps he really only loved his daughter and cared for little else. A curious enigma that defied all his expectations for what the King of Hell would be like.

And that made him the second most fascinating creature in this Hell hole, right after the princess.

“Arrgh.” Lucifer groaned as he struggled and wiggled comically on the floor in an effort to stand.

All the while, Alastor simply leaned against his staff and watched with a grin. The longer he got to know them, the more interesting the Morningstars became. And now that he was free, Alastor was finally also free to be himself, to work towards his own ends and do whatever he wanted, without worrying about incurring Rosie's wrath.

Ah, the sweet relief of freedom.

“I don– hic– don't need help!” Lucifer grumbled, glaring at him with glassy red eyes.

Alastor chuckled. “I'm sure you don't. You're doing so well, after all.”

The King growled, a little sound, like a lion cub trying to be intimidating. Even though both he and Lucifer knew well that the King of Hell couldn't act on any threat he made towards a sinner. It was almost cute. Almost.

Rolling onto his front again, the short King crawled up the stairs and right up to the door, reached up, grabbed the curly golden doorknob, and pulled at it, only to seemingly remember the concept of keys and locks. He began searching through his pockets, though he seemed to have some difficulty remembering which pockets he'd already checked.

By the time Lucifer finally got his key out of his pocket and into the lock, Alastor was perched on the windowsill and sipping from his fourth glass of whiskey, enjoying the relief from the constant sting of the gash on his chest and the slight buzz in his head.

He could help, or leave and let the King fumble his way into the room, and probably pass out on the floor.

But, well... ever since Alastor himself had successfully broken his deal with Rosie, gotten to vent all his frustration on Vox, and had his staff fixed, he'd found himself feeling a bit more tolerant of Charlie and her merry band. And, oddly enough, he was enjoying himself watching Lucifer struggle with such persistent determination, slowly but surely edging towards success.

That determination was perhaps something he had in common with the Morningstars. Though the King and his daughter were certainly more... animated characters. Always making funny sounds, fitting since they looked like clowns.

It was hard to believe, looking at the pitiful fallen angel, that dumb duck had enough power in him to blow up half the Pentagram and blast Heaven's pearly gates right off their hinges. Alastor tipped the last of his whiskey down his throat, feeling it burn all the way down to settle nice and warm in his bones.

Oh, the thought of having that much power.

Only, he wouldn't waste it, the way Vox had on silly things like ruling Heaven. Who cared if they were loved or worshipped by the public as gallant heroes? The only thing that matters to Alastor is being feared.

Far easier than love since he could simply enforce it while letting off steam. One could argue that it was slightly less comprehensive than love, but fear was more than enough to ensure he is always treated with respect and never questioned. Not to mention, more broadly effective. Fear is contagious, after all.

“Aha! Take thatcha fuggin–” Lucifer barely had a second to gloat over his victory before the exertion of kneeling before a door for so long while drunk seemed to catch up with him. And His Majesty was thus promptly regurgitating the contents of his stomach onto the carpet.

“Hm.” Alastor hummed, slightly impressed that the King was managing to hold himself up on his arms so far, but from the way they trembled, that was clearly not going to last... “Oh, fine.”

Grumbling to himself, Alastor caught the collar of Lucifer's coat again with his shadows, preventing the fallen angel from falling into his vomit and potentially drowning in it. Immortal though the King may be, it wasn't pleasant, and more importantly, everybody looked disgusting drowning in vomit. Might even bring Alastor's own rye back up if he thought about it too hard.

Alastor had certainly been drunk often enough as a human to remember the experience, and from the way His Majesty was blubbering like a child, Lucifer probably didn't get drunk very often. Perhaps because he couldn't seem to use his magic while drunk? Or he was holding back from using any magic to avoid damaging Charlie's precious hotel? Both felt like equally plausible reasons.

“Well, that's disgusting.” Alastor commented mildly, shifting along the walls and into Lucifer's room with the help of his shadows to avoid the mess. Gleefully zipping past the ‘No Alastors Allowed’ sign, he reappeared in front of the King—still hanging by his coat—to quip. “Oh, what would dear little Charlie think if she could see you now. Why, you're lucky that I'm here to assist.”

“...ugh...” Lucifer merely groaned and flipped him a bird without lifting his head.

“How rude.” Alastor gasped in mock indignation. “I should drop you right now.”

This time, the King did lift his head to glare at him through watery tear-filled eyes, and Alastor chuckled lowly as he leaned down to breathe. “Oooor, I could... help you to your bed. But! ...only... if you say... please.”

Lucifer's glare intensified, though that wasn't saying much since he'd started out looking like a kicked puppy, and it seemed that he was in enough distress to actually concede. That or the alcohol had stripped away some of the pride that would have otherwise inhibited it. “...pluh– urp– please...”

Alastor cackled at the petulant pout on the King's face, twirling his staff with relish. Oh, to witness a brand new expression that he hadn't seen in the year or so he'd spent at the hotel. “Ah, how delightful. Entirely worth the wait.”

With a wave of his staff, Alastor's shadows lifted the King over his puddle of vomit and to his... bed. Which was covered in ducks. Small yellow ducks. Actually, on closer inspection, the entire room was covered in ducks. Small... yellow... ducks.

“Hmmm.” Alastor casually flicked a finger, sending half the ducks flying off the bed and dropping the weird clown in the middle of the space he'd cleared. “I see your obsession with ducks is more... unruly than I'd assumed.”

The sulking King promptly clutched an armful of duckies to his chest protectively, declaring. “Fuck off, there's nothing wrong with them! They're cute!”

“Mhm. If you say so.” Alastor grinned. Well, he supposed some people might agree, but he wasn't sure it'd be because of the ducks. More likely the absurdity of an immortal godlike being swamped in a sea of rubber ducks.

At least till Lucifer coughed and the ducks went flying, one of which smacked Alastor right in the face. His ears flattened, and he shot the blasted King a glare that would terrify most of Hell, but Lucifer was too busy hacking his lungs—or whatever was in his chest—up.

Alastor wasted several moments glaring menacingly, eyes ticking, antlers out, and everything, before giving up and deciding to flicker downstairs to get the damn clown some water.

Mildly annoyed that the first time he had the privacy to unleash his intimidation, Lucifer wasn't in any condition to be intimidated, he considered dumping a cup of water on the guy's head. But then the King would still be coughing, and that wasn't very practical or entertaining. Plus, the alcohol had left Alastor comfortable enough that he wanted to find something soft to relax on more than he wanted to be difficult.

So, he filled the mug, zipped back into the room, and shoved it in the King's face.

Lucifer frowned at him suspiciously as he coughed, and Alastor's grin tightened. “I expect your undying gratitude for this water the moment you're capable of giving it.”

With a glare, Lucifer snatched the mug and took a deep drink from it, which surprised Alastor a little. There weren't many people who would accept anything from him so readily. Clearly, Lucifer didn't fear him enough. A year of being forced to play nice at this hotel had obviously left an impression.

He should get around to correcting that.

One of these days.

Perhaps it was simply his good mood, but the sigh of relief from Charlie's bumbling buffoon of a father gave Alastor the slightest bit of satisfaction. This would be a fun memory to dredge up every time the King mocked him or tried to show him up.

As the dumb duck slowly emptied his mug and vigorously rinsed his mouth, Alastor looked about the room. Spotting a long sofa, he sent shadows to drag it across the floor, planted it beside the bed, and settled into it. It was surprisingly comfortable and with the nice warm buzz from his drinks, Alastor was in quite a good mood indeed. Until something crinkled under him.

“Ah, don't tell me you like that Hell-produced musical theatre rip-off?” Alastor chuckled as he pulled a crumpled pamphlet out from under his bum.

“Hey! The Great Quacksby is a stunning performance!” Lucifer snapped, glaring at him with slightly clearer eyes over the empty mug. Seemed like the water and vomiting had sobered him up some. Wonderful.

“Hmm, come now, it's hard to beat an original. Surely one as powerful as you could simply pop over to the mortal world to watch it?” Alastor drawled tauntingly.

“Ugh, gross, why would I want to watch humans when I can watch ducks instead?” Lucifer grumbled, brushing the back of his hand over his mouth. Then he paused, frowning and then narrowing his eyes at Alastor with a strange expression.

“What?” He cocked an eyebrow in response.

“Nothin’, just...” The King mumbled, setting the mug down on his side table before tucking his knees up to his chest and peering up at him. “...thanks by the way... for– for protecting Charlie from that TV guy while I was... you know.”

“Mhm-hmm, you mean while you were being used as a battery because you walked into his trap with both your eyes open?” Alastor asked in return, buying himself time to conceal his surprise at the sudden, unsolicited gratitude. He'd demanded gratitude for the water, not... that.

“Hey! I'm tryina do somethin’ nice here!” Lucifer snapped, his cheeks flushing again.

Alastor chuckled, propping an elbow on the armrest and resting his chin on his fist. “And what makes you think I did it for either of you?”

This time, it was the King who was scoffing, flashing him a roguish lopsided grin that made Alastor's hackles rise and itch to bare his teeth.

“Well, you're here now, aren't you, asshole?” Lucifer chuckled, and before Alastor could retort and set the record straight, the King's grin dropped, and he murmured more softly. “...why are you helping me? You know what I think of violent sinners like you, right?”

Alastor released a breath slowly, his hair smoothing down again, and his grin relaxing somewhat as he crossed his legs. “Of course. And?”

“You... don't care?” Lucifer raised an eyebrow.

“Why would I?” Alastor laughed, allowing his grin to become sharp and his eyes to darken. “It's not wrong, after all. We really are quite terrible.”

Oddly enough, despite Alastor's tone and words, Lucifer simply stared at him for several long and increasingly uncomfortable minutes.

“...well, maybe not all of you, I guess.” The King muttered under his breath, and Alastor stiffened at his words. Where’d that come from? The idea that a single night after months of antagonism would be enough to carve out an exception was laughable.

Unless... his eyes narrowed and his grin tightened. The meaning behind those strange looks the King had been giving him finally clicked. Perhaps he'd been too nice, perhaps that was why Lucifer thanked him for a mere side-effect of his schemes in the pursuit of freedom. The last time he'd been looked at that way...

The mere memory was enough to irritate him. The way that entitled coward Vox had tried to win him, Alastor the Radio Demon, for a partner, gazing up at him through non-existent eyelashes, making himself look small and timid, eyes full of expectation. That same pathetic expression he'd received so many times, and always from people who wanted to leverage any goodwill he'd granted them for free favours.

The noisy picture box even put his hands on Alastor's shoulders—the same way the man did every person he wanted to win over with his influential power and assert his dominance over.

Using his cult leader bullshit on Alastor of all people, the audacity.

Alastor knew what type of person Vox was, self-serving, like himself. The very idea that Vox thought he would be so stupid as to enter a committed relationship with someone who used and discarded every single person around him was offensive in and of itself.

Even if Vox had been genuine, to believe that Alastor was naive enough to simply trust a known exploiter and manipulator was ridiculous. That he would submit to being tied to someone barely his equal, with no benefit offered to him for such a sacrifice. He’d thought the damned TV was someone who understood him, his goals and priorities, but he’d been wrong.

Vox had lost his respect that day.

He was a fool who mistook Alastor’s respect and polite decorum for weakness. Disappointing. That fucking TV's hurt expression in response to Alastor's rejection and mockery had been all the proof he'd needed that the entitled bastard thought he had a shot. Had expected Alastor to accept. Had expected Alastor to barter his wealth of power and experience for so paltry a price as flattery and the worthless love of a fellow heartless sinner.

Such an arrogant hope deserved to be crushed.

The last thing Alastor wanted was for that to happen again. For someone that he actually had developed some modicum of respect for to underestimate him—disrespect him like that—again. For Lucifer to think that Alastor’s respect, courtesy and tolerance were a sign that sweet words would be enough to earn the loyalty of he who only served himself.

That he could be exploited.

“Ahaha!” Forcing out a laugh, Alastor bared the sharp edges of his teeth and growled. “Flattery won't get you anything from me, your Majesty.”

It was a relief when Lucifer immediately spluttered indignantly. “From you!? What could I possibly want from you!?”

Now there was the Lucifer he knew. Good. He wasn’t responding like Vox. This was more true to form, this was how they’d always been. Antagonistic. With him pissing off the overly emotional King. The tightness in Alastor's shoulders began to relax, his jaw loosening and hackles settling.

But then said King folded his arms, crossed his legs, and continued. Laughing loudly and lifting his chin defiantly, voice pitching as high as the flush on his cheeks, Lucifer declared. “I don't– In fact, I don’t even want anything to do with you!”

“Now, now, is that any way to speak to your own daughter's faithful hotelier?” Alastor chuckled with a renewed sneer, mildly annoyed at the bald-faced lie. “Surely there's something you want from me.”

Did the damn clown think Alastor was blind? How worthless to deny when it was plain from Lucifer’s searching looks.

And who didn’t like being envied, coveted, admired? With a healthy dose of fear in there, of course. Having leverage—something someone else wanted—was an advantageous position to be in. Alastor simply didn't work for free, and anyone who thought he did would learn that the hard way. Lucifer might as well come out with it so Alastor could state his price or reject him.

Being lied to so poorly by someone he’d studied so thoroughly was insulting.

“Pfft– faithful, right. Says the one who quit and came back.” Lucifer scoffed, bracing his hands on the bed behind him and leaning back on them with a smirk. Well, at least the fallen angel wasn’t as stupid as he seemed to think Alastor was. “And I'm the fucking King of Hell, what could you possibly offer that I can't get elsewhere?”

Oh, that's it.

Grinding his teeth together, blood and alcohol pulsing through his body, Alastor sprang from the sofa.

A step towards the bed, a knee braced on the mattress, and then his hands were on the King's knees, and Alastor leaned into the angel's personal space. “Don't think you know the first thing about me, your Majesty.”

“Oh yeah?” Lucifer's voice came out breathy, his face now sporting a most infuriating grin under its renewed flush, one that made Alastor tighten his grip on the devil’s knees and struggle not to curl his claws in.

He hadn't thought anyone could get him this incensed so quickly.

Alastor's mind crawled through the sludge of his own frustrated inebriation, scrambling for something he could offer. To refute the challenge to his worth. To prove to one of the only two people whose integrity he respected that Alastor wasn't a failure like Vox, like every blasted sinner in this garbage pile.

But what could he present that Lucifer could get from nobody else?

What use had power for the most powerful being in Hell? He had only ever amassed fear in the century he'd spent here. What had he that was coveted? That was exclusive to him.

“You want something special?” Alastor bit out through clenched teeth. “Very well, I'll give you a taste of something even Vox has killed for.”

He moved before he could even ask himself if it was worth it, if it was a good idea.

Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was how unsettled Lucifer's uncharacteristic gratitude had made him. Or maybe it was the indignation of being challenged after all the restraint he'd exercised throughout the night. Maybe he just wanted to shut the fucking King up and wipe that smug grin off his face. Maybe it was the way Lucifer had peered up at him from behind his knees moments ago.

The air was silent and still, like his mouth against Lucifer's.

The King's eyes were wide with shock, the devil’s lips surprisingly soft against his own. It felt nothing like Vox's constant touching, none of the irritation and impulse to hiss. Strange as it was, the warmth could almost be described as pleasant. Perhaps not something he would actively seek out, but it wasn't bad, though the permanently upturned curve of Alastor's mouth made the fit a tad awkward.

In his defence, he hadn't done something like this before.

So, he kept it brief and withdrew before the King could recover, chuckling lowly at the dumbstruck expression on his face, satisfied to have turned the tables and regained the upper hand. “I'll expect payment for that soon.”

Grinning, he sank into the shadows as Lucifer seemed to remember how to move his mouth and shrieked. “Pay for– I DIDN'T EVEN ASK FOR IT!”

Perfect.

“Arrrrgh!” Lucifer shoved his face into his pillow.

Stupid Alastor and his stupid smarmy grin.

What the fuck was the damn sinner thinking!? Kissing a very married angel! It wasn't even a good kiss, just a peck! What was he supposed to take away from that!?

Wait, that wasn't the point.

Lucifer shook his head vigorously. Married! He's married! 

...right?

A sob caught in his throat at the mere thought of Lilith. Of the ache in his chest that still hadn't faded even after decades apart.

After being together for thousands of years, after she tried to pull him from his depression by having Charlie, the day she'd walked out with their baby girl had felt worse than losing a limb. He had already been struggling to find the will to even dream, and then she'd taken the last shred of light in his life and left with it.

All for those damned sinners. The beings that betrayed them, took their dreams and made them nightmares. It had hurt like nothing he'd ever felt before. She chose them. Over him.

He'd been trying to temper his rage, trying to be nice to sinners, for Charlie. Because his daughter had been right, sinners could be saved. Could be Redeemed.

Unlike him.

Even though he hadn't hurt anyone, even though all he'd ever done was dream and love. Somehow, these filthy mortals—who had betrayed every hope he’d had in them—somehow, they were the ones who could be forgiven if they so much as tried.

The bitterness that flooded his mouth at the mere memory was disgusting, sharp and acrid. Like the alcohol he'd downed last night, trying to forget his anger, trying to hold on to the light of his daughter's presence and her brilliant hope for a better future. To the memories of love, of shared dreams with his beautiful wife. To forget that she'd abandoned him at his lowest.

He didn't remember much of the party, but he did remember Alastor. That tacky piece of shit, the way he'd grinned down upon him, fluffy ears twitching, making Lucifer itch to run his fingers through the soft fur and hair. It was completely unfair for that sadistic asshole to look so pettable. The warmth that had left his cheeks returned at the thought.

Not that Lucifer would ever tell him that.

His stomach churned with the nausea that came after a night of too much alcohol and he took a deep breath, trying to keep himself from vomiting again. Last night, after avoiding the mortal radio since Vox’s defeat, he'd finally been forced to stop running and do what he'd known he should from the start.

Because, honestly, Lucifer was... grateful that Alastor had stopped Vox from doing any more than place his hands on Charlie's shoulders. And for the Radio Demon's part in freeing Lucifer from the weapon of mass destruction that Vox had tastelessly named after Lucifer's own wife—The Might of Lilith—there was some irony in that.

A strangled huff was swallowed by the fluff of his pillow. That’s right. He'd been so grateful, as frustrating as it felt, to be grateful to a sinner. Grateful and ashamed. Because his power had been used. Used by that filthy, mouthy mortal. Used to kill.

Rolling onto his side, Lucifer stared at his trembling hands. He hadn't truly understood what Vox had done using him till he saw the ruins, till he saw the bleeding wing of the young seraphim Emily, till he watched the footage of the horrors that Vox had unleashed. Saw the gates of Heaven that lay broken on Hell's floor, his fists shaking with rage and disgust.

It wasn't enough for those insolent mortals to pervert his dreams and defile his gift of free will. That sinner had used him, violated him—stabbed wires and cables into his body—drawn his blood and put even more blood of others on Lucifer's hands.

Afterwards, when Lucifer watched the footage of the stage—where Vox dared to touch his daughter—he'd whooped and cheered as Alastor bitch-smacked the TV man right off the platform. Then he'd felt guilty. He hadn't known that the damn deer had surrendered his freedom to Vox in exchange for Charlie's protection when they were briefly reunited in Vox's captivity. That Alastor was only in there with him because he'd sacrificed himself for her.

Sure, Alastor's deal with Vox had been meant literally, and he seemed to have some sort of personal beef with the TV man, but the result was the same regardless. By tricking Vox into thinking that 'couldn't lay his hands on Charlie' meant he couldn't hurt her, Alastor had nevertheless ensured that Vox hadn't tried to harm her physically at any point. Which was more than Lucifer had managed.

Lucifer sighed, tucking his knees up against his chest. He'd almost killed his own daughter. If the Overlords of Hell hadn't succeeded in containing and destroying the Might of Lilith, if the overloading weapon had exploded, half of the Pentagram and his own daughter would have died. Wiped off the face of Hell by his own power.

The thought of that, of living with the knowledge that he had killed his own daughter, was too nauseating to even imagine.

So, he knew that he had to thank Alastor. He'd already sent the other Overlords some cards to thank them for their parts, but Alastor deserved more than that. Especially after Lucifer told Vox that sinners were garbage, failures in life and in death, right in front of Alastor while they were both in the Media Overlord’s chains.

Lucifer groaned and pulled at his hair. He'd thought it made sense that Alastor would protect Charlie. She was the brightest and most beautiful and inspiring being in all of creation. Lucifer's baby girl was a miracle. So, of course she—who had done the impossible and led sinners to repent and even gain forgiveness from God—of course she would have the loyalty of a demon as sadistic and vicious as Alastor.

What, if anything, would gratitude from Lucifer be worth to that guy?

He thought he would just get mockery, which he supposed he also did.

But then–

He–

Lucifer swallowed as his face started to feel hot. He just hadn't thought the demon had even the slightest bit of interest in him. After all, all Alastor ever did was compete with him over which of them was the better father figure in Charlie's life. The damned sinner was constantly trying to undermine Lucifer, mocking and taunting him. Insulting him and picking on him since the day they met.

How could someone– why would someone like that kis–

Lucifer grabbed his pillow and shoved his face in it again. “Arrrrrrgh!”

When the sound of taps on the door came, followed by a familiar voice. “Dad?”

“Ch– Charlie!?” Lucifer ripped the pillow off and tossed it aside, throwing himself off the bed and tripping on two duckies before he finally made it to the door. Darting around the puddle of drying and disgusting vomit near the entryway, he threw it open and leaned an arm against the frame with the brightest grin he could manage. “H– hey, what's, er, what's up?”

Charlie smiled that beautiful smile of hers, the one that made his sad and empty heart swell with love. “I brought you some of Husk's morning-after brew, I promise there isn't anything too weird in it.”

Tears sprang to his eyes as she offered him a steaming mug of dark liquid that smelled sweet and salty at the same time. “Wha– for me? Aw, thanks, sweetheart!”

Accepting the mug, he blew on it lightly before taking a sip as she continued. “Yeah, sorry I didn't come check on you last night, I was so exhausted after all the interviews–”

Lucifer almost choked on his drink—coughing to clear his throat—at the thought of Charlie coming by the night before. Of her catching him on the bed with Alastor kneeling between his crossed legs, the radio demon's hands on his knees and his grinning mouth pressed against Lucifer's.

“Oh no! No no no, it's– aha ha ha– it's fine! You didn't– there's no– I mean, I was fine! Just– just fine! Peachy! Absolutely no reason for you to– to check up on– er, on me, ha ha ha–” Lucifer laughed loudly, just barely avoiding dumping the entire steaming cup down his front, though it probably still wouldn't burn as much as his face.

Charlie stared at him with a raised eyebrow for several awkward moments, before asking. “Did something happen? Alastor offered to bring you to your room– did he do something to you!?”

Charlie's eyes began to glow red and Lucifer shook his head frantically. “No no! Nothing! Nothing at all!”

He would absolutely die if Charlie found out that he'd betrayed her mother, and with Alastor of all people.

Though, he paused, did it count as cheating when Alastor had been the one who kissed him? Plus, his wife had remained in contact for many decades—trying to encourage him to return to his duty, his throne, despite taking Charlie away—but did her complete avoidance and ghosting of his calls and messages for the last eight years mean she'd finally given up on him?

Was it cheating if he wasn't sure if he is even still married anymore?

“Uhuh.” Charlie scrutinised him with narrow eyes as he chuckled nervously. “Are you sure about that, dad?”

“Of– of course!” Lucifer nodded his head, looking around for any way to change the topic. “Er...”

“Can I come in?” Charlie asked rather abruptly and Lucifer blinked.

“Oh, oh, yes, of course!” He stepped aside, waving her towards the cleaner path with a sheepish grin. “Mind your step, I er, kind of made a mess on the floor.”

Charlie walked carefully around the spot of vomit, giving him a reassuring smile. “Don't worry, dad, I'll ask Nifty to clean it up as soon as she can. I guess you don't drink often.”

“Ha ha... yeah, not usually a fan, last night was just...” Lucifer trailed off awkwardly.

Charlie, of course, his wonderful daughter, placed an understanding hand on his shoulder. “Yeah, the reporters’ questions were really mean, I'm sorry for putting you in that position, dad.”

“No no, it's– it's fine. I'm the one who wanted to be there to support you during the party.” Lucifer placed his hand over hers apologetically. “I'm sorry I failed to hold up under pressure.”

Despite promising her his support, he'd kept to himself after rebuilding the Hotel, and as a result, he'd been blindsided. Blissfully unaware as a dangerous man made her his target. He can't let that happen again. As difficult as it was, he wanted to stand by her side.

“It's more than enough that you tried.” Charlie shook her head and hugged him tightly. “Thank you, dad.”

Heart warm with boundless love, Lucifer returned the embrace for several long moments, careful not to spill his drink and make the floor even messier.

When they parted, he cleared his throat and waved her towards the sofa. “Come, tell me how the party wen–”

Lucifer paused when he realised that there was an empty spot in the sea of duckies where the sofa normally was. Then, he followed Charlie's gaze to the bed...

And the sofa that was placed beside his bed.

“Er, did Alastor... stay after bringing you here?” She asked, sounding suspicious once more.

“Who– wha– why in Hell would he do that?” Lucifer gave a strained laugh, though he really did want someone to answer that question.

There was a long stretch of silence as Charlie stared at him, and Lucifer felt sweat bead on his forehead, struggling with all his might to hold the truth in under her gaze.

Until finally, she sighed.

“Dad, I know Alastor can be... difficult. He's competitive and he likes to get under people's skin.” She placed a hand on his arm, her expression concerned and serious. “But if he did something you didn't like, you have to tell me. It's important that we have boundaries, otherwise everyone gets hurt. I... learnt that the hard way with... with Angel.”

The grief in her voice was painful, and Lucifer sighed, jaw tightening as he forced himself to examine the complicated feelings churning inside him. Did he dislike it? Thinking of the way his heart had pounded in his ears when he felt Alastor's tight grip on his knees, the way the grinning demon leaned in close... Somehow it had felt nothing like their usual fights.

He'd always found it somewhat... interesting that Alastor would neither back down nor dismiss him, unlike most Hellborn and sinners. But getting up close and personal had never felt the way it did last night before. He didn't know what had changed, if it was he or Alastor, but...

“He didn't– well, he didn't do anything I hated...” It was hard to say, Lucifer swallowed, but not because it wasn't true.

“Then...?” She prodded gently. “Talk to me, dad. You've supported me so much when I needed it, let me help you too.”

Shaking his head, Lucifer summoned and waved his staff, bringing the sofa back to its usual spot before taking her hand and guiding her to sit with him. Running a hand through his hair, he struggled to put his thoughts into words.

Because while what happened between him and Alastor wasn't something he was ready to share with his daughter of all people, he could confide in her about his other concerns. “I just... I was thinking about your mother last night, that's all.”

“Yeah, I could tell.” Charlie chuckled lightly and he returned it with a sheepish smile.

“I first saw her in the Garden of Eden... I wasn't supposed to be there.” Lucifer shook his head. “But I was curious, and... and I guess... lonely. I followed her when she fled the Garden and well, that's when I finally got to talk to her.”

“Mom said you fell out of a tree.” Charlie giggled, that bright and silly sound he so loved.

“Yeah, she laughed at me too. Teased me about it all the time.” Lucifer grinned, the memory fond and painful at the same time. “I wasn't supposed to talk to her, wasn't supposed to be there at all, but she was so strong and clever, dazzling really. Standing beside her, faced with her fierce independence, I just didn't know what to do with myself.”

“She does have that effect.” Charlie's smile became tinged with pain and Lucifer felt it reflected in his heart.

“Yeah... I just– after we were cast down, we were all each other had for so long...” Lucifer sighed. “Even after all these years... I still don't really know what to do without her.”

There was a complicated expression on Charlie's face, and when she spoke, her voice was slow and cautious. “Mom once told me that sometimes... she wondered if being with her kept you from looking for other companions. You were so lonely before her... and after the Garden, all you seemed to bother with was her, and she felt like you only ever let her in."

“Wha– who could possibly be more worthy of my time and effort than her?” Lucifer scoffed, before wincing. “I mean, you hadn't been born so–”

Charlie laughed, shaking her head. “Dad, it's not about worthiness or capability. Love is about compatibility.”

“Well, we shared the same dream, so we were compatible.” Lucifer folded his arms.

“...do you still share the same dream?” Charlie asked with a strained smile.

Lucifer opened his mouth to declare that he did, only to stop. Did he even know what Lilith's dreams were anymore? When they met, he'd wanted to share his dreams and make them a reality, so did she. When they were condemned to Hell, his dream changed. He wanted to protect his wife and home, and keep the realms orderly, so did she.

Then Charlie was born, and he changed again. Now it was her dreams he wanted to make reality, her happiness and life that he fought to protect.

And Lilith wasn't even here.

Where did her dreams lie? Were they still the same?

“She's said that she felt like you needed to... get out more.” Charlie continued. “Meet more people, have more experiences.”

Lucifer blinked at her in surprise. “Me?”

“Mhm.” Charlie nodded. “Maybe you should try finding someone who can give you what you need.”

What he needed?

What did he possibly need besides Charlie? As long as he had her, he could...

Gazing at his daughter, the memory of the footage of that filthy mortal with his hands on her shoulders flashed through his mind. How close he’d come to losing her.

To Vox, to a sinner, to someone he couldn’t protect her from. Lucifer's own ignorance and belief that no sinner could ever present any real danger to him or his daughter. Content to ignore the small nuisances, unaware of the danger that the creativity he'd granted humanity posed. He'd continued to underestimate them even in Vox’s shackles.

He won't make the same mistake again.

And now that the Overlords were aware that their combined powers could fend off a massive angelic bomb, it would probably be good to get the strongest Overlord on his side.

Right now, he needed to protect Charlie. From everyone. Even sinners. He needed the power of someone who can, and is willing, to hurt sinners.

Someone like Alastor.

Maybe it was actually a good thing that the Radio Demon seemed interested in him?

Lucifer swallowed. He can only hope that the damn deer hadn’t just kissed him to mess with him. He’d never recover from the humiliation if that turned out to be the case.

His face felt hot again as Lucifer forced a laugh. “That's– er, I guess I'll think about it.”

Taking his daughter's hand, he pulled her into a tight hug before releasing her to smile. “Thanks for listening, sweetheart.”

“Anytime, dad.”

“How long are you gonna keep pacing in front of my bar?” Husk drawled, the bartender glaring from behind the counter as he scrubbed at a glass with a towel.

“I'm not pacing.” Alastor snapped back with a tight grin, waving a hand at his mug. “I'm simply helping this cool down faster.”

“People usually just blow.” Husk smirked.

“Yes, I'm sure you miss that, now that Angel isn't here.” Alastor chuckled darkly, pleased when the leashed Overlord flinched and averted his eyes with a scowl.

Good, he wasn't going soft.

Alastor took a gulp of Husk's morning-after brew. He didn't normally need it after so little alcohol, but he'd woken up with a killer headache and was hoping the drink would help a little. Perhaps he might heat up some of his leftover jambalaya for dinner, his mother's recipe was always a comforting dish to have when he was feeling out of sorts.

It wasn't like him to give things away. He hadn't demanded payment first. Hadn't even thought of what he wanted from Lucifer. Going into anything without a goal was stupid. An amateur's mistake.

It must have been the alcohol.

His tight smile tightened even further. It's fine, he'd won that exchange anyway. Even if the only thing he really got out of it was the dumb duck's stunned, flushed expression and then his usual indignant squawking. It wasn't easy to get anything besides condescension and spluttered anger from the angel, which he did enjoy too, so that wasn't the worst way to end a confrontation.

A sinner like Alastor trampling over marriage vows was nothing special, and at least he could be sure that the King wouldn't take it too seriously. Nobody loved family quite as much as this guy seemed to. So, he didn't have to worry about Lucifer expecting more. Besides, he'd only offered a taste, not the whole dish. ...whatever that might entail.

He shook his head and took another drink from his mug. This would simply become something he could use to fluster the fallen angel from now on. Alastor would just have to live with it if Lucifer tried to invert the situation and use it to jab at him instead.

He'd suffered far worse humiliation over the course of his game with Vox, playing at being a defeated captive. Though in that case he'd had a long-term goal, Alastor still isn't exactly certain what he's going for here. Not to mention, using those means, of all things. There was a reason that, in all his years, he'd never used his body for anything, and now he'd just wasted it showing up a stupid clown.

Though... Lucifer's flushed cheeks flashed through his mind, and his tight grin relaxed ever so slightly. It had been pretty entertaining.

Finishing his drink, Alastor tossed the empty mug at his pet gambler and stalked off towards his room while Husk scrambled to catch the cup.

Ever since he'd been freed from his deal with Rosie, he'd been at a bit of a loss as to what he should be doing. After almost a century of doing her bidding it was a bit disorienting to be free.

Now that Charlie's plans had succeeded and her power had grown, she'd become someone advantageous to maintain ties with. So, he'd come back to take advantage of the unique position he'd gained in Charlie's growing regime over the course of serving Rosie, but he hadn't quite worked out how exactly he wanted to make use of what he'd learn–

“H– hey, red guy.”

Alastor stopped, pulled from his thoughts, and his grin widened at the sight of the King leaning against the wall just down the hallway with a plainly deliberate relaxed air projected about him.

“Why hello, your Majesty.” Alastor greeted with a snide chuckle, slipping into the shadows and reappearing behind Lucifer, startling the angel enough to lose his balance. “How's your head? After last night's embarrassing performance, I'm sure it must hurt terribly.”

Bracing a hand against the wall, Lucifer huffed, looking like he was about to throw a familiar snarky comeback, before seemingly catching himself with a grimace. Taking and releasing a breath, he finally muttered hesitantly. “...thanks... for... getting me back to my room.”

“Hmm, you're welcome.” Alastor chuckled, surprised that the King was thanking him. Again. And without the aid of alcohol this time. Though the flush high on the angel's cheeks was more along the lines of his expectations, and it was convenient that Lucifer's inability to meet Alastor's eyes made hiding his surprise unnecessary. “Have you come to ask what I'd like in payment?”

“No.” Lucifer promptly glared at him, though he was only able to hold his gaze for a second.

“No?” Alastor's grin tightened.

“I didn't ask for... what you did.” Lucifer shifted uncomfortably, and it was surprisingly fun to watch the angel act so flustered. “So you don't get to choose your payment either.”

“Is that so...” Alastor purred. Clever. “Fair enough. Tell me then, what were you planning to offer for something nobody else has ever been willingly given?”

“That was–” Lucifer's eyes were wide, staring at him with that amusing dumbstruck expression, before he cleared his throat and huffed. “I– I guess that's why it was so bad, huh.”

“What.” Alastor growled, hair bristling at the insult.

Lucifer swallowed, the flush on his cheeks slowly creeping down his neck, before meeting Alastor's gaze with a surprisingly steely look. “Alright, I've decided how to repay you.”

The King placed his hands on Alastor's shoulders, pushed him back against the wall and—while Alastor was distracted by the angel's wings sprouting from his back and beating once to lift him up to Alastor's height—muttered. “I'm gonna show you how it's done.”

Then Lucifer's mouth was on his.

Now, really, Alastor would normally have stopped the King before he even got that far, his reflexes were something he was quite proud of. However, the fact that Lucifer had to fly just to reach his height was really funny and by the time he was done being tickled by that, there was a tongue between his own parted lips.

It was... strange. Very strange. About as strange as it'd always looked. Sure, he's had people try to kiss him, but he's never let anyone get this close or for this long. Strange texture, strange sound, strange feeling. Especially since the King's tongue was forked like a snake's.

But it wasn't exactly bad. There was heat and every time Lucifer's slim tongue dipped inside to touch his own, it made him shiver. It wasn't quite as disgusting as some of what he'd seen. Lucifer wasn't shoving his tongue down his throat or anything uncouth, just light, fleeting touches between the firm press of the King’s lips.

Curiously, Alastor moved his own stiff tongue to prod at Lucifer's and the angel made a soft sound. Well, Lucifer seemed to like it, so he must be doing something right.

Pushing back, Alastor tried to force Lucifer back into his own mouth, chasing that slippery strip of muscle and nudging it aside. A soft huff of air escaped the King's throat and the intruder began to retreat.

A thrill rushed through his veins at the victory, and, pressing his advantage, Alastor tried invading instead. He couldn't be on the back foot all the way. He wasn't some boy to be schooled.

It seemed, however, that Lucifer's skill was definitely higher and more impressive than he'd initially assumed, because Alastor promptly felt a pinch of pain on his tongue as it caught on the sharp tip of one of the King's teeth.

Hissing at the sting, Alastor withdrew and glared at Lucifer when the angel chuckled breathlessly at him, and it was only then that Alastor realised that he was short of breath as well.

“Careful there.” Lucifer's hot breath fanned across his lips.

“Fuck you.” Alastor growled through gritted teeth, glad that his ever-present grin remained in place, even if that was because his muscles had forgotten how to release it.

“That's a little fast, don't you think?” Lucifer smirked, and Alastor felt his face warm.

Then, his back stiffened and a full-body shudder ran down his spine, followed by a sudden swath of sensation rolling down his neck while goosebumps rose on his skin.

It was so shocking that it took Alastor a moment to understand what was happening, to realise that the King's fingers were in his hair. And then a thumb was tracing slowly over the fuzzy side of his ear, causing a melting warmth to spread through his veins like molten lava. Fingertips scratched lightly at the base of his ears, sending zings of mind-numbing sensation sizzling through his skull and weakening his knees.

Too much. What the fuck–

A gasp escaped him as Alastor struggled to force down the more humiliating sounds that wanted to leave his throat, quite upset that Lucifer had somehow discovered something he hadn't even known about himself. Something that made his body react like a marionette with its strings crossed, limbs refusing to obey his commands.

“Never thought you'd look so pretty like this, Bambi.” Lucifer murmured, his eyes half-lidded and swimming in heat.

“Don't you dare talk like that about m–” Alastor hissed indignantly, though it didn't come out quite the way he'd intended because he was cut off by his own groan.

It was only when Lucifer released a grunt of his own that Alastor realised his claws were digging into the angel's side, that his hands were on the King's waist at all. His body was betraying him.

Alastor clenched his teeth, locking up his muscles and forcing them to still, struggling to get ahold of himself, to figure out what the hell Lucifer was doing. But the angel's damned fingers caressing him were making it hard to think, and Alastor really didn't know why he wasn't just forcing the King off him.

He should. He really should.

But he couldn't decide if using force was wise or not, if it would be a show of weakness, reveal to Lucifer that he'd found a vulnerability that could be exploited. His list of pros and cons kept getting upended by those nimble fingers caressing his ears. Disrupting his ability to evaluate the situation or decide on the most prudent course of action like little else ever had. Even the threat of imminent death had never disoriented him like this.

“Quit touching my ears–” Alastor finally just growled, tightening his grip threateningly.

“Oh, guess you'd rather I touch elsewhere?” Lucifer's chuckle was infuriatingly smug as his fingers finally left his ear to trail down his neck, tracing across his collarbone. Somehow, he could feel the heat of that touch even through his clothing. “Maybe you'd prefer somewhere lower?” 

When Alastor gasped, he felt the angel's hot tongue swipe over his lower lip. It should have felt disgusting—the very idea was disgusting—and it did. But as Lucifer's fingers trailed down his chest, there was another feeling warring with that disgust. Something more–

Then Lucifer's hand reached his chest, and not simply pushing him back like before or caressing, but feeling.

Which meant that the King's fingers eventually found the gaping gash Adam had left on Alastor's chest months ago.

Hissing in pain when Lucifer's fingers pressed into the wound that refused to heal, Alastor flinched back, too surprised by the sudden burst of pain to hide his reaction.

“Huh? Bambi?” Lucifer leaned back and frowned down at his hand. “Are you hur–”

Fuck.

Alastor growled, taking advantage of the King's surprise to shove the angel back. As Lucifer's wings beat frantically to stabilise him in the air, Alastor quickly fell backwards into his shadow.

Fleeing the scene.

“Charlie?” Lucifer called out as he rushed into the crowded lobby, looking about for his daughter frantically. She would know where Alastor’s room was, right?

“Sir?”

He spun around on the spot, face lighting up at the familiar voice of Charlie's girlfriend. “Oh, Vanessa! Do you know where Alastor's room is?”

“Er, it's Vaggie, sir.” The angel smiled wryly at him from behind her clipboard. “It's on the third floor, room thirteen. Why?”

“Nothing! No reason! Thanks, Vanny!” Lucifer shouted as he sprinted off to the kitchens immediately.

Sure, he could conjure up the required supplies, but he needed the busy time running about getting a tray, a bowl, a cup of water, a few strips of bandages, and clean towels.

Of course he would mess this up. He'd just been so delighted that Alastor was responding, that the demon hadn't pushed him away. That he could make the smarmy asshole look so–

Had he gone too fast? Pushed too far?

What Lucifer just did was enough to make Alastor’s light peck last night feel innocent in contrast. He’d thought the man had just been shy when he protested. The idea of a sinner in Hell never having kissed properly was so absurd that he hadn’t really considered that there might be a good reason for that.

He'd never thought he'd ever see that look on the Radio Demon. Ears lowered and pupils dilated as he pushed Lucifer away, the look of a cornered animal.

Alastor's words from last night kept running through his mind, 'I'll give you a taste of something even Vox has killed for’. Had the filthy mortal done something to Alastor before? Nausea churned in Lucifer's stomach at the mere thought. At the idea that Alastor could be anything but indestructible and unflappable.

He'd been too caught up in his own feelings.

After thousands of years stuck in Hell, completely powerless, it had been so satisfying to hold power over a sinner. Alastor, no less. One of the most powerful Overlords of Hell. He'd had the Radio Demon falling apart under his hands. Had him panting and gasping, shivering and shuddering against the wall. Even had his shadow melting into a soft-edged wiggling blob.

It felt so good to feel powerful again. Like he could make any sort of impact on a sinner. A sinner who knew about the curse placed on Lucifer that prevented him from harming sinners no less. Alastor had kissed Lucifer first, and then he'd responded so adorably when Lucifer returned the favour.

He could still feel the warmth of those soft ears in his hands, the fine strands that parted under his fingers, the way Alastor ears twitched and struggled in vain to flick within Lucifer's gentle grip, the heat of Alastor's breath against his mouth. He’d been so sure that Alastor was into it, but maybe he’d been wrong?

Had Alastor fled because Lucifer accidentally hurt him or because Lucifer accidentally hurt him?

Not knowing was driving him mad, and the idea of finding out one way or another was even more terrifying. But Lucifer knew he had to fix this while he could. At least if Alastor had been injured, that was something Lucifer could do something about.

It was possible that Alastor had been injured by Vox—a thought that made Lucifer want to kill the vile mortal even more—but it was also likely that it had been from an angel weapon. The deer had been defeated by Adam during the final Extermination. It was hard to imagine that Alastor might have spent so long nursing a wound without anyone noticing, but it wasn’t out of the question.

Either way, Lucifer could mend almost any injury.

He could only hope that Alastor would allow him to, that he hadn’t pushed the demon too far too fast, that Lucifer hadn’t been overeager and ruined everything before it even had the chance to start.

It was only when he stood before Alastor's door that the anxiety and fear that always followed him around glued Lucifer's feet to the ground.

Would Alastor even acknowledge his attempt to help?

Lucifer swallowed, fighting the urge to flee back to the safety of his soft bed and his ducks. To retreat to the comforting familiarity of despair. Hope was the most painful thing in all of Creation. If there was no hope of success, it didn't matter how much effort was put into it. If there was no hope, failure would say nothing about him.

It was just easier to assume the worst. To believe that there was no point. To eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we shall die. When had his hopes ever come to fruition? Over ten thousand years, and when had he ever done anything but destroy when he wanted to create? Hurt when he wanted to heal. Break what he wanted to save.

Offer only to be rejected.

He'd thought that he could help Heaven, they'd spurned him. He'd thought that he could help Lilith, she'd left him. He'd tried to help Charlie, and so far, he hadn’t even been able to stand by her side in front of some measly reporters demanding to know why he hadn't punished Vox like he'd intended. Like he'd said he would so publicly.

Such humiliating questions.

Questions he couldn't answer without revealing his curse. Instead, he had to endure the knowledge that most of Hell thought him a spineless coward who had the power to defeat an archangel, yet chose to allow Vox to talk shit about him and his wife in front of all of Hell.

The impotent King who'd let a sinner appropriate his crown without a fight.

In the end, it had been Charlie who defended him by declaring that Lucifer didn't hurt Vox because sinners were his people. All of them. Even if they were rude to him. Which at least was a better look. Even if Lucifer didn't really like being seen as the sinner-loving benevolent King of Hell. That was Charlie's thing. Any mercy anyone, even Adam, received from him was because of her.

He was so proud of her. Charlie had apologised to him—as he recovered after Vox's defeat—for lashing out at him when he tried to help her. She'd taken the entire ordeal of Vox's slander and become stronger in the wake of it. She'd endured despite literally nobody believing in her dream besides her girlfriend. Not even her own father.

He could still feel the even and unmistakable bumps of stitches against his fingers, even through the cloth of Alastor's shirt. Could still see how the demon had hissed and flinched, the pain that made his perpetual grin tremble and his shadow recoil.

Taking a deep breath, Lucifer clutched the tray in his hands tighter, took a step forward, and knocked on the door with the tip of his shoe.

He could be brave.

Like Charlie.

Notes:

I just realised that I wrote Alastor's reaction to getting ear pets the way I do to my partner giving me a massage lol. Look, my beloved muse has magic hands, and I bet Lucifer does too.

And I got pieces from Vivziepop's lore drops outside the show to construct Alastor's background, like him having had a creole mom and a white dad, owning no territory in Hell etc

Honestly, while Alastor was waaay more cruel than necessary, I do believe his baseline rejection of Vox in the Season 2 flashback was the strategic and justified choice.

I mean, in the flashback we see Vox literally pull the same hands-on-shoulders scam-artist cult leader bullshit that he uses on the unnamed girl in Hazbin Guarantee/Trust Us. Vox said they were “close” for several years (probably in a political ally sense), so Alastor’s definitely seen Vox do his manipulation/exploitation routine before, I think he might have recognised it and was understandably offended that Vox would use it on him.

Now, obviously that doesn't mean Vox wasn't genuinely emotionally invested in successfully winning Alastor and genuinely vulnerable, he clearly was. But unfortunately, he defaulted to using the methods that have always worked for him because he wanted it too much to risk failure.

Though I do wonder how much staying power that authenticity has though. We see in Brighter that Vox is never content, once he gets what he wants, he wants the next best thing and neglects or even discards what he has. He uses/discards allies who trust him with no remorse, even killing his show guests for good television while alive, and that makes him an unreliable ally. As Valentino and Velvette see in Season 2.

Alastor calls it out too, “You'll never fill your cup. You're broken from the start, no victory will ever be enough.” in When I Think About The Future.

At the end of Season 1, we see that Alastor wants autonomy and control, to be the one pulling the strings. Meanwhile Vox is always chasing the next big thing, copying people around him (he copies Sera's wings when she uses her full Seraphim form and he copies Lucifer's King of Hell song tune, etc).

I agree with Charlie, anyone can be Redeemed and I would say Vox deserves the chance to fix his mistakes or make reparations if he wants to, but that's not the same as putting my life in Vox's hands in faith. That's just foolish, and Alastor ain't nearly as gracious.

Like, sorry Vox, but this is why character matters. In the end, his own actions, cruelty and historical pattern of exploitation are the reason Vox got burned so hard. Casual exploitation of others invites casual dismissal of authenticity.

Karma sucks. Not saying that Alastor is much better, but while Alastor dissing Vox might be the pot calling the kettle black, that doesn't mean the kettle ain't black.

Plus, I think Vivziepop saying Alastor doesn't care about angels kind of shows he's not as greedy as Vox. Alastor only cares about things that affect him or he’s forced to interact with, kind of like a character I wrote for another fic (the Keeper), survivor mentality basically.

Alastor's response was also bad of course. Dehumanising people who do evil only makes them worse, we can take the necessary measures to stop/restrain them without becoming ideologically like them. In one act of mockery, Alastor took the last scrap of humanity in Vox and killed it.

Though I do think that said mockery was both defensive and strategic. By being mocking, Alastor ensures that Vox thinks he's immune to emotional sway and also creates a wound that he can use to manipulate Vox.

Now that I think about it, Vox taking Alastor's deal to be a captive to “protect Charlie” shows that Vox still thinks Alastor would be “weak” enough (by Alastor's definition) to sell his freedom in a purely selfless self-sacrificial act. Alastor must have been so offended (even as he took advantage of it) lol

Vox is like Mammon, I swear. Like, Alastor insults him with “stroke my friend's ego, he needs it” and Vox is still smiling and still eager for Charlie to do what Alastor told her when Alastor is being so suspicious.

And considering that Alastor's victims in life were motivated by retribution (like the white guy who accidentally splashed wine on him and continued to splash purposely once he noticed). Maybe Alastor just doesn't think he or Vox deserves the type of wholesome relationships people like Charlie do. Alastor isn't bothered by Charlie's suspicion of him when he made a deal with her, nor hesitated to humiliate her while using her favour, and he does seem to respect that she has the ability to be cautious of him while still caring about him.

With Vivziepop saying Alastor admires people like Charlie who can smile/persist through shit, I think this is a fun possible Alastor personality to imagine and butterfly effect along, even if Season 3 ends up proving my read wrong.

Notes:

Warning: Sort of partial smut?

Sorry I haven't updated anything in a while, I was so tired after my Japan trip and then there was Christmas season and new years and I started writing a Radioapple fic for Hazbin Hotel too, fuck.

“What do you think you're doing!?”

“Stand down, Obi-Wan.”

“Have you all lost your minds!?”

Anakin blinks, his mind feels groggy and his vision is strangely hazy. He struggles to focus, recognising the Jedi Temple's landing pad beneath them from his spot on Obi-Wan's back. Had they already arrived at the Temple? Seeming to realise that he had awoken, his Master sets him down and draws his saber.

“Look at him, Obi-Wan! He's a monster!” Windu's blistering glare burns into Anakin with all the barely concealed disdain he's always known the Jedi Master harboured for him, and behind him are the rest of the Council. Even Master Yoda is glaring at him, a look Anakin never thought he'd see on the normally cheerful elder.

“Monster?” Obi-Wan gapes, turning incredulous eyes on him, and Anakin flinches instinctively, but his Master merely frowns and returns his gaze to the other Jedi. “It's just Anakin, he's sick and needs healing!”

“Clouded your vision is.” Yoda shakes his head gravely, and Anakin clutches at Obi-Wan's arm. “Come, young Kenobi. Clear your eyes, I will.”

Anakin gasps, coiling his tendrils tighter. “No! Don't go!”

“It's alright, Padawan. I won't let anybody hurt you.” Obi-Wan murmurs, patting him on the head gently. “I'll talk to them and we'll get this all sorted out.”

“No, Master! You can't– don't leave me.” Anakin shakes his head, pleading, begging. If his Master sees–

He blinks, and then suddenly, Obi-Wan is gone, arm slipping from his grasp despite his best efforts, and Anakin can do nothing but watch in terror as Obi-Wan kneels before Master Yoda.

He watches as the grandmaster waves a hand over Obi-Wan's face, scarcely able to breathe from the fear clogging his throat. Watches as his Master straightens and turns to face him.

When Obi-Wan's eyes open, the horror that warps and twists his handsome face till it's barely recognisable is the most painful blow Anakin has ever been dealt. No no no–

“Master–” Anakin pleads, stumbling forward, reaching out desperately.

“Stay back!” Obi-Wan raises his blade towards him, but Anakin continues anyway, frantically searching those blue eyes for the gentleness he's always craving, but finds only disgust.

Pain lances through him. His Master promised. He promised.

The ice-cold blue of his Master's eyes seems to pull him in, filling his vision. And when Anakin blinks, he finds himself on his side, curled up around something. Something cold and stiff.

He sits up slowly, looks down at what he is resting on, and a horrible sound leaves his throat. His Master lies beneath him, skin pale and cold, those eyes he loves empty and lifeless.

“Master?” Anakin wheezes, reaching for Obi-Wan, only for a bright purple saber to ignite between them.

“Get away from him, monster.” Windu's voice is hard. “We should never have allowed you into our ranks.”

“A mistake it was.” Yoda nods sagely beside him.

“One we must correct.” Master Plo agrees, drawing his saber as well, flanked by the other Masters.

Anakin backs away, crawling on his inhuman limbs, low to the ground and struggling to wrap his mind around... any of this. It doesn't make sense. Obi-Wan can't be–

He feels the edge of the platform under his tendrils, and when he looks down, his heart skips at the sight of the Chancellor standing on one of the lower platforms. Palpatine would help. His friend would help him, right?

“Anakin!”

He startles at the shout from behind him. It sounded like Obi-Wan. Anakin glances back at the platform, but his Master still lies motionless on the floor, and the menacing Jedi now stand between them. He wants to stay, wants to go to Obi-Wan's side, but he's scared.

Anakin takes a deep breath and throws himself from the edge, straining with the Force to pull himself to the platform that Palpatine stands on.

But it does not respond.

Fear envelops him as he careens through the air, and Anakin squeezes his eyes close, bracing to meet his end on the hard concrete that lines Coruscant's streets. Only for something warm to wrap around him right before he feels impact rock through him, cushioned by whatever had caught him, binding him and holding him in place.

“Anakin!”

“Anakin, wake up!”

His eyes snap open, and for a moment, he struggles in fear. Only to see his Master's flushed face over him, his warm arms wrapped around his body, not a hint of disgust in his blue eyes.

“Master?” Anakin wheezes as he stills, and the relief he feels when Obi-Wan smiles at him brings tears to his eyes.

“Oh, good, you're awake.” Obi-Wan sighs. “You were having a nightmare, dear one.”

A nightmare? Anakin releases a slow breath and looks around. Realising that they are on the floor at the foot of the bed, that he is sitting in Obi-Wan's lap, and that his body is still as alien as it was when he finally fell asleep. The last discovery brings some disappointment with it, but his confusion about the first two takes precedence.

“What–” Anakin looks up at his Master, the lingering fog of sleep making it difficult to form words.

“You didn't seem to recognise me, backed right off the opposite edge of the mattress.” Obi-Wan explains. “I had to rush around the bed to catch you.”

“Oh...” Anakin ducks his head in embarrassment. “Sorry.”

“It's quite alright, Padawan.” Obi-Wan chuckles, soft and familiar. The low rumble of his fond laughter is soothing and manages to help Anakin calm his racing heart. “How are you feeling?”

Anakin thinks for a moment. In all honesty, he's surprised he'd managed to fall asleep at all. Obi-Wan had been snoring within moments, while Anakin had lain on his bunk, resisting the urge to climb into his Master's without permission.

It helped, knowing that Obi-Wan was not holding back because attachment was forbidden for Jedi or because he didn't care, but out of fear of hurting Anakin. It had been enough to give him the motivation to stay still, to keep fighting his body's demands.

Obi-Wan had fallen asleep so easily, trusting him to stay in his own bunk, the speed of which lent credence to his Master's words when Anakin might have doubted them otherwise. And Anakin wasn't going to betray that trust.

He must have passed out at some point, however, and he finds that the itch is still present, but slightly duller, like an ache. And while his skin prickles, raw and sensitive, the bacta seemed to have done its job at least. The pain is barely noticeable now, and the dulling of his senses allows him to think with more clarity than he's had since he stepped into the sonic.

Which isn't great, because Anakin feels even more shame when he recalls how humiliating his behaviour had been. Begging desperately for relief as his Master emptied an entire bottle of bacta for him.

Anakin pauses at that thought. That's right... he hadn't really thought about it till now, but Obi-Wan had touched... everywhere. If his Master still thought he was normal, then... he'd been willing to touch even there? Anakin isn't sure how to feel about that. Hopeful?

He bites his lip. No, Obi-Wan was just being a good and responsible Master, making sure Anakin received treatment, even his privates. Even if Obi-Wan said he couldn't help because he's worried about hurting Anakin, he'd felt his Master's disgust. Obi-Wan just didn't see him that way. He’s just a child to the man.

A bitter taste fills his mouth at the thought. He's seen Obi-Wan with other people. Usually beautiful people. People who looked at his Master like he was delicious. Even though Obi-Wan is his Master. Anakin isn't stupid. He knows what his Master does when he doesn't come home at night. Spending his nights with others when Obi-Wan should be with him, with the Padawan he'd sworn to take under his care.

Doctor Nema had taught him and the other Padawans about the things adults could do together, had taught them how to spot when someone is being hurt that way. As if Anakin needed that class. His mom had already taught him about the terrible things masters would do to their slaves, why he needed to be good and useful, and never give Watto a reason to sell him. To separate them.

He doesn't really understand why his Master would want to do that sort of thing at all. But maybe it felt good, knowing people wanted you to do that type of thing to them, willingly.

Then again, the relief from his strange itch had felt good when Obi-Wan was touching him, like getting a massage, maybe it also felt like that? He's sceptical about that though, since this itch only began when his body started changing. It was more likely related to the change than to anything normal people experienced on an apparent regular basis.

Anakin has wondered so many times, what it would take for his Master to choose to stay with him instead. To make him stop letting every handsome man or gorgeous woman lure him from Anakin's side.

Even telling himself to look on the bright side—like Palpatine suggested—telling himself that it was good that Obi-Wan wasn't around to lecture him or control him... hadn't helped very much.

Though he appreciated the effort from the Chancellor to comfort him, it only served to make him feel more angry and bitter, reminding him that Obi-Wan sometimes seemed more interested in holding him back. Cautioning him to restrain himself, rather than helping Anakin become stronger.

Always telling Anakin to let go of his need for victory, something that just didn't make sense to him. Isn't the point of battle to win? Isn't the point of trying hard... to succeed? Why would the Jedi—his Master—want him to try less hard? All while still expecting him to succeed too, because ‘do or do not, there is no try’ and anything between success and failure was then an indication of whether he’d been committed enough or wanted to win too much.

Though... Anakin sighs, it isn't like he has much room to think that anymore. He might have lost any claim to the title of human now. He’s not sure he even counts as a humanoid at this point.

Even the Chancellor had agreed that it was strange, so it wasn't like Anakin was the only one who thought it weird. He’d been starting to wonder if the Jedi way was even human.

“Alright, I guess.” Anakin mumbles softly. He misses his mom. She would've loved him no matter what he did or didn't do, no matter how he looked or sounded. He wouldn't have to worry about being abandoned if Obi-Wan ever truly sees him.

“That's good.” Obi-Wan sighs, patting him lightly—almost absently—on the head, and Anakin resents how nice it feels. It's not fair, for everything his Master does to feel good, when the man is hurting him so much. It's confusing.

Especially when Obi-Wan flinches and averts his eyes, taking a deep breath, before asking. “Do you think your skin feels recovered enough to wear clothing? You’ve been asleep for almost a rotation.”

Anakin blinks in surprise. Had he slept that long? He supposes he had been rather tired after everything that'd happened. And it's only then that Anakin realises that, on top of lying sideways in his Master's lap with his face pressed into his broad and firm chest, he is also still naked.

Somehow, the first thought he has is that he wishes Obi-Wan was too. Then Anakin could feel his Master’s chest hair again rather than the scratchy and irritating cloth that he's lying against. It had been... nice, a comforting sensation as they fell asleep in that cave on Dagobah.

The second is that he actually feels a little hungry. Perhaps not enough to hurt, but enough that he would normally be trying to get Obi-Wan to let him have a snack.

Maybe his Master would be willing to let him have a snack this time too?

Anakin swallows, eyes gravitating to Obi-Wan's shoulder. Suddenly, he feels very aware of how nice his Master smells and the thought of getting to taste him again only makes the gnawing ache in Anakin’s stomach grow. But... asking for a snack isn't the same as asking if he can have some Mantell Mix before dinner. Not anymore.

A part of him wants to ask anyway, wants to test Obi-Wan. To see if his Master would really be willing to let him eat him.

“Anakin?” Obi-Wan asks, making Anakin jump slightly at the suddenness. As he speaks, his Master's blue eyes finally flicker down to meet Anakin's for a moment, before snapping away again.

Realising that he hadn't answered his Master's question—probably for long enough to make him uncomfortable too—Anakin drops his gaze, swallows again and takes a breath, trying his best to keep his voice steady. “It still hurts, but I can try. Maybe something loose?”

“Good, good...” Obi-Wan's voice sounds slightly strangled, and he clears his throat before suggesting. “How about the blanket? We can wrap it around your shoulders again.”

Does what he has even count as shoulders anymore? Anakin bites back the returning bitterness at the reminder that his Master can't see him properly. But he sits up anyway and allows Obi-Wan to drag the blanket he'd been lying on off the bed and wrap it loosely around his body.

It stings with even the slightest movement, and Obi-Wan looks sad and apologetic as he asks. “Is this alright?”

“I guess.” Anakin winces when talking causes the cloth to rub against his neck, fighting the urge to shimmy free of the rough fabric. “Scratches when I move.”

“I see.” Obi-Wan sighs, reaching a hand towards his head again, only to catch himself halfway and stop.

“Doesn't hurt when you do that though.” Anakin blurts out, and has to add the impulse to squirm in embarrassment to the urges he's fighting, when Obi-Wan blinks at him questioningly. “Feels nice... when you pat... me.”

“I... see.” Obi-Wan mumbles, looking a tad dazed as he lets his hand complete its journey and rest on Anakin's head again. “Are you...”

Anakin hums in confusion when his question trails off, doing his best not to move when he feels his Master's fingers drag slowly across his sensitive skin. The slight pinch that comes with it mingles with the heat spreading from each fingertip along his cool skin and makes him quiver from its pleasure.

He has a brief moment to feel glad that the strange itch inside him had dulled enough for him to enjoy this sensation, when the itch promptly resurges. He flinches away from Obi-Wan's touch before it can take hold, and the look on his Master's face is awful enough that he quickly explains.

“Sorry it– it came back.” Anakin wheezes, fighting the urge to squirm again, though for a different reason this time.

“Ah.” The hurt clears from Obi-Wan's expression, and Anakin wonders if he's imagining the slight flush on his Master's cheeks. He clears his throat, and a moment passes, before Obi-Wan says. “I'm sorry that– that I can't help you with that...”

Anakin doesn't really want to hear that again. All the apologies in the world didn't make it any better, but he freezes when his Master continues.

“...but are you hungry?” Obi-Wan finishes, his voice rough and thick with something. Something Anakin can't quite identify.

The question takes a moment to process, and when it does, Anakin can feel his mouth water almost immediately. It had been hard not to ask for it. It's impossible to refuse when offered.

“Yes.” Anakin doesn't know why his own voice comes out hoarse, even under the weird garbled sound that it's become, but Obi-Wan swallows and begins to remove his jacket.

His Master folds it neatly and sets it down on the floor, before turning to the side as he rolls up the sleeve of his inner shirt, revealing his left upper arm. There's an awkward pause as Obi-Wan seems to struggle with deciding how to approach this, but he soon raises his arm towards Anakin, muscles flexing under his skin.

“Here, it should be safe if you take a few... bites out of– out of this part.” Obi-Wan gestures to the side of his bicep and Anakin feels, for a moment, just how absurd this all is. His Master is offering his body as food, as though it wouldn't have been a ridiculous notion not even a week ago, but that's not the reason that his reaching tendrils hesitate.

“What if–” Anakin swallows, struggling to restrain himself despite the dull throbbing in his teeth, fighting the rising need to sink them into warm flesh. “What if I lose control?”

He remembers how it felt to tear into the swamp monster. How his body had lunged for it. How he'd gorged himself on its innards till there was nothing left but skin and bones.

He can't do that to Obi-Wan. The very thought of it is enough to make him nauseous with fear.

Obi-Wan smiles, warm and reassuring. “Then it's better to eat before you get too hungry.”

Anakin hesitates a moment more, and Obi-Wan's eyes soften. His Master takes his hand and places it on his arm. “I trust you, Anakin. I know you won't hurt me.”

Wetness gathers in Anakin's eyes, and his heart hurts, as though it'd been stabbed with a needle, but its pain is sweet, the ache of it warming his very soul.

Obi-Wan releases his hand, and Anakin traces his tendrils through the fine hair on his Master's skin, feeling the enticing warmth beneath. His Master’s pulse flutters under his coiling tendrils, calling to him, begging for a taste. Before he realises it, Anakin finds himself pressing his tongue to his Master's skin. His grip tightens instinctively when he feels Obi-Wan jump, and a soft sound escapes his throat when he tastes the faint salt of his Master's sweat.

It's so good. Anakin desperately wants to bite down. He drags his tongue over the bump of his Master's muscle, catching the oil of his skin and sucking it in greedily. He can't even begin to imagine what it'll feel like, having Obi-Wan's hard-won strength and power between his teeth again. Fully conscious this time.

He raises his eyes to meet Obi-Wan's once more, checking that he can really do it. His Master’s eyes are hazy and half-lidded, swimming with something that feels hot, and his breath is short. But Obi-Wan gives him the slightest nod and that's all the permission Anakin can wait for.

There's a brief moment of resistance, like the surface tension of a drop of clinging water, a faint echo of pain before Anakin's teeth pierce skin.

The burst of ecstasy exploding on his tongue is overwhelming, and he could not possibly help the sound that escapes him when his mouth is flooded with an indescribable flavour. A sweet and rich, slightly rusty aroma layered over a savoury musk. Springy and tender, a texture that feels more juicy and satisfying than the most expensive bantha beef steak he's ever had the fortune to sample during their bodyguard missions.

He suckles at the oozing fluid, slurps up as much as he can, trying not to let any of it go to waste. It's too good to waste. He chews on the small bite that he'd taken between gulps, pushes the piece around with his tongue, reluctant to simply swallow such a succulent treat.

It's incredible, so much so that he very nearly forgets that this is his Master's body, until he hears Obi-Wan release a shaky breath.

When Anakin looks up, his lips wrapped around the place he'd bitten, he finds his Master's heated gaze fixed on him. He swallows, fighting not to squirm under such an intense expression.

Strangely enough, Anakin can feel the itch coming back, even though he isn't being touched.

Underneath his beard, his Master's cheeks are flushed a ruddy red that's gradually spreading down his neck. It's... somehow different from the reaction Anakin would have expected to pain. Though, when he checks, Anakin doesn't find much pain coming from his Master's side of their bond.

Perhaps in response to his curious prodding of their bond, Obi-Wan brushes the back of his knuckles against the side of Anakin's face. “I'm alright, Padawan... just– you can continue. Don't worry about me.”

His Master's voice is deep and husky, in a way that makes the itch feel worse. Makes him want to inch even closer to Obi-Wan, to seek more, to find total satisfaction. Whatever that means. But with his mouth full of delicious ambrosia, it's hard to focus on anything beyond heeding his Master's invitation. Beyond taking more of it between his teeth and tearing another strip loose.

He tilts his head at an angle, trying to nibble at a corner that still clings to his Master's arm. Of course, with such a strong body, Anakin would have to work for his morsels. He's quite happy about that, that his Master isn't easy to eat. Hopefully that would dissuade anything else that might want to try.

So engrossed is he that Anakin almost misses the slide of the blanket wrapped around his shoulders as it drops to pool around his middle. Until he hears his Master release a choked sound, and raises his eyes to Obi-Wan's. His Master's pupils are blown wide, and he doesn't recognise the look on his face.

Anakin finds himself growing dizzy from the waves of heat rolling through their bond. From the intoxicating wine of his Master's blood soothing his dry throat and settling inside him. From the simple joy of his stomach feeling comfortable and warm.

His Master's touch, cupping the side of his face, is something that Anakin distantly notices, lost in the weight of Obi-Wan's heavy gaze.

He nuzzles into that warm palm, letting his lips slip from around his Master's flesh to blink drowsily at Obi-Wan. Is this what being drunk feels like? He releases his tendrils’ grip on his Master's arm obediently when those fingers on his face tilt his chin up, and Anakin's lips part naturally as he breathes deeply through them.

His Master's blue eyes feel molten on him, hot enough to scald, his side of the bond absolutely drenched in thick and syrupy want. Anakin shivers at the feeling. He hadn't even thought his Master could feel like that. Like the endless need that Anakin has always borne, and he has all of a second to wonder what it is that Obi-Wan desires so desperately.

Then he feels something soft and warm press against his mouth. It takes him several moments to realise that it's his Master's lips, sealing Anakin's mouth with his own. It's his Master's tongue pushing past his lips to lap at his insides. His Master's beard, rough and prickly against his skin.

Anakin doesn't even freeze in spite of his surprise. It feels so natural, so right, that he simply melts into it.

And good. It feels good. So good. So much more than he'd ever imagined. A delighted giggle bubbles in Anakin's chest at the realisation. A kiss. This is a kiss. His head is a mess, but somewhere inside that mess is happiness. Happiness that his Master would touch him this way. That he would have his first kiss with the one person he needs most in this vast galaxy.

A soft sound of surprise and joy escapes Anakin as strong arms wrap around his middle, pulling him back into his Master's lap. Back where he belongs. Where his strange new body fits perfectly, slotting into place as though he was made for the position. Made to be held this way. His tendrils thread through the soft hair curling at his Master’s nape, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath, clutching at and coiling in his clothing.

The place where his itch comes from—the core of him where it burns—flares white-hot, brighter than ever before when it presses against his Master's body. Against something even hotter and harder than the firm muscles he's crushed against, something rigid, something prodding insistently at him through layers of cloth.

A moan forces itself from Anakin's throat when his core opens again with a sticky sensation, and he can't help but press it against his Master's heat, rubbing it against that hardness, feeling it drag against his opening through the dampening cloth.

The friction of that rough cloth chafes against his barely recovered skin, almost enough to hurt, but the feeling of his Master's hardness against his core—firm pressure right where he needs it—sends pure pleasure shuddering through him every time he rolls his hips.

He can feel echoes of pleasure rippling to and fro across their bond, as his Master rocks back up to meet him with each downward grind, and it only makes his itch burn fiercer. More insistent.

He whines desperately into his Master's mouth, pleading without words for more, whatever more meant. Clumsily but eagerly pressing his tongue back against his Master's, Anakin explores the slick warmth, the strange and foreign texture, and the wonderful taste of his Master's essence mingling between them.

A groan rumbles in his Master's chest, and joy swells in his heart at the sound. At the proof that Obi-Wan is enjoying this too. That he's not alone in wanting, in needing, in burning.

When his Master eventually releases his mouth, Anakin gasps for air. Finding that, apparently, he does, in fact, still need to breathe, as Obi-Wan's lips trail hot and wet down the side of his face to mouth at his throat. Lips and tongue pull at his skin, sucking hard enough to sting, and Anakin whimpers at the hunger in his Master's greedy kisses. It almost feels as though Obi-Wan shared the same need that was consuming him.

For a moment, Anakin wonders—through the haze of pleasure and need—if he was not the only one who had transformed. Wonders if his senses were also obscured and Obi-Wan is actually like him. Another shaky moan leaves his mouth at the thought. He wants it, wants his Master to eat him too. Wants his body to become a part of his Master, to be absorbed and held inside him forever.

He tilts his head back further, exposing more of his throat for his Master, shuddering as Obi-Wan's beard tingles and tickles against his sensitive skin, and Anakin wheezes softly. “Master–”

Then, he feels Obi-Wan's body stiffen under his own. A flood of horror pours through their bond like a cascade breaking free from the confines of a dam. The world spins for a split second before Anakin feels his back hit the floor hard enough to drive the air from his lungs.

He blinks up at his Master in confusion as Obi-Wan lurches backwards and stumbles to his feet.

His Master's face is plastered with devastation, and then Obi-Wan is gone, fleeing through the door without a single word.

And Anakin is left blinking up at the ceiling, body still thrumming with unfulfilled need, blanket pooled around him. Blood and saliva drying on his chin. His core still open, still aching, still throbbing.

His burning itch once more unsatiated.

Obi-Wan's hands tremble violently against the refresher sink, his knuckles white as his fingers dig into steel. Blood soaks the bandage he’d hastily wrapped around his arm, running sluggishly down to the aforementioned fingers, and he is tempted to simply plunge them into his sockets and rip his eyes from his skull for the sinful sight they have beheld. For the way they still see it, burned into his vision like an afterimage he can't blink away.

The image of his boy, his Padawan, lying on the floor. Those kiss-swollen lips flushed red and wet from Obi-Wan's own, the panting mouth that he'd defiled with his own tongue, with his desire. Those long lanky legs spread wide, barely anything covered by the cloth of the blanket draped low across his narrow waist. And even now, drowning in shame, his traitorous erection twitches and throbs against the confines of his pants, aching at the mere memory.

At the phantom heat of Anakin's body against his own.

He covers his mouth with one shaking hand to muffle the sob in his throat. What has he done? He'd touched his apprentice, kissed him, held him, ground against him like an animal. He'd sullied their sacred bond, broken his vows, and proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was a failure of a Jedi Master.

His teeth grind together, breath hissing harsh and fast through clenched teeth. He'd been overconfident, foolishly and dangerously so. He'd thought he would be able to endure it after successfully getting Anakin covered. He should have left after making sure his Padawan was awake and wouldn't hurt himself, but his heart had still been aching to hold him.

Hearing his boy call for him in his sleep so mournfully, so desperately—like Anakin would as a child—had reawoken the need to cradle him close. The aching need to pull him from his nightmares and soothe all his pains and fears, to hold him safe. The need to touch.

He'd thought satisfying Anakin's hunger would make it easier for his Padawan to endure the remaining journey without touch, and that the pain would mitigate his own shameful need. That he could focus on the act of feeding, on providing sustenance, rather than his Padawan's maddening allure. But the numbing properties of Anakin's saliva must have become stronger—or perhaps he'd become weaker to it, more susceptible to it with each exposure—because he'd only felt the sharp pain of his initial entry. Of teeth breaking skin.

After that, all he could feel was wet heat, the sensation of his Padawan's tongue lapping at his skin, those soft lips sealed around the open wound. None of his sense of touch had been numbed, only the pain. Every other sensation remained sharp and overwhelming. The slick warmth of Anakin's mouth, the gentle pressure of his tongue, the vibration of small, pleased sounds against his skin.

It had been unbearable, scandalous, to see and feel Anakin's kittenish licks, the blissful pleasure on his boy's face as he fed. It had been impossible to look away, impossible not to imagine. And the sounds—Force, the sounds he'd made, soft moans and wet suckling—it had been far too easy to envision those lips around his cock, slurping and moaning in precisely the same way.

When Anakin's blanket slipped, sliding down to drape low across his lap, covering just enough to torment, he'd looked even purer, more angelic and beautiful. Somehow, even more enticing than when the boy had been naked in his lap. The need to have, to touch, to taste, had become physically painful to resist. Impossible to resist. Something primal inside him screaming that this was his. His to care for, his to protect, to satisfy in every way. His to have.

He'd been enraptured. His Anakin followed his every touch, receptive and adoring. Those gorgeous eyes, blue as ocean waters and flecked with glowing speckles of light. So ethereal and accepting, looking up at him with such absolute trust, his soft lips parting for him in invitation. How could Obi-Wan say no?

Not even the sharp copper of his own blood could dissuade him, and it had barely registered amid the elation that filled his body and soul when he captured those perfect lips. So soft and pliant beneath his own, yielding to him completely. His Padawan had slumped like putty into his arms, boneless and trusting against his chest, pleasure, joy, and desire pouring from him through their bond in waves.

When he held Anakin against his body, Obi-Wan had felt more at ease, more at peace than he can possibly describe. All his fear and anxieties, his need for control in a life that he'd had little say in. All of it had dissolved in the fire of this one child's passion, dissolved as Anakin came alive in his arms, moving against him with such desperate desire.

He'd always known, somehow, that his little Padawan would become a consuming lover. That anyone who should be so lucky as to receive the honour of Anakin's love would be graced with the heat of his apprentice's fire. With that single-minded fixation that Anakin gave everything he did, taking and grinding against him, hungry and greedy.

Anakin had been more than he could have ever dreamt, writhing against him with eager abandon, small hips rolling and seeking friction with unwavering persistence. Ever a quick learner, his brilliant apprentice, meeting him with equal fervour, rising to the challenge as Anakin always does. That combination of natural talent and passionate determination that oft stirred both admiration and frustration in Obi-Wan.

Though in that moment, suffocated under the heat of his Padawan's body, he’d felt only pride and want.

He’d been overcome—utterly consumed—by the need to demonstrate his adoration, to show his beloved how irresistibly desirable he was, how much Obi-Wan wanted him, how badly he craved him. Overcome with the urge to press his mouth to every inch of skin, to shower his dearest with the worship he deserved. To map every curve and hollow with lips and teeth till Anakin knew beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he was loved. To imprint himself on every part of his Padawan, to pepper him with marks that would linger, because Anakin was his.

His to hold, his to love and cherish forever, wasn't he?

The memory of it now makes his heart ache with its futility. Brings mournful tears to his eyes with the wrongness he knows it is, and the pain that came with labelling something that felt so right as such.

For he is not simply a man, free to love Anakin in whatever way he wants to. He's a Jedi, Anakin's Master, his teacher. Were they anything but what they are, perhaps such a thing could be, but they are not. Sixteen years and their vows stand between them. Yet he'd allowed himself to forget this. To believe for one sweet moment that they could be anything more.

Anakin is still a child. He doesn't know, doesn't understand what he wants, what he's offering. It's just the transformation, the change that had come over Anakin. He was simply a victim of his own body. It's not real, Obi-Wan vehemently tells himself. His Padawan wants to be a Jedi and this... giving Anakin what he thinks he wants at the moment would destroy that dream.

And Obi-Wan himself has a promise to keep, to his late Master Qui-Gon. He'd sworn that he would train Anakin. That he would ensure that his apprentice would become strong enough in the ways of the Jedi to fulfil his destiny as the Chosen one. Obi-Wan cannot possibly let these selfish desires stand in the way of something so important, so much greater than he.

So, he takes a deep breath, swallows his grief, chokes down the pain, balls up these problematic emotions within him and releases them into the Force with his breath. There is no emotion, there is peace.

A peace that feels little like what he'd tasted while lost in his Padawan, but a form of peace nonetheless.

He straightens and raises his gaze to his reflection in the mirror. His hair is dishevelled, mouth stained with his own blood. He tries not to think of that same sick mix of fluids glistening on Anakin's lips as he washes his hands in the sink and wipes his own face clean. He runs his fingers through his hair, pushing back his bangs and tidying himself.

When he looks down, however, he realises that the dampness he feels on the front of his pants isn't just from his own shameful lust.

He reaches a hand down to touch the strange viscous fluid soaked into the crotch of his pants. It feels slimy and slick, almost like the consistency of bacta. Though when Obi-Wan raises his stained fingers to inspect them more closely, holding them up to the light, he finds that there is a slightly blue sheen to it instead.

It is then that Obi-Wan realises that a pleasant smell is coming from the mysterious fluid, and he brings it closer to take a cautious sniff. It's clean and almost refreshing, akin to the mild aroma of his favourite Chandrilan mint tea, yet inexplicably warm and sweet, like honey had been stirred into it. There's something else too, the slightest tinge of static, like the crackle of ozone before a storm, and underneath it, the faintest hint of musk.

Obi-Wan swallows, his throat feeling oddly dry all of a sudden, and despite knowing that one should never put unidentified substances into their mouth, he feels an overwhelming urge to taste it. But what is it? His thoughts feel sluggish, the enticing scent calling to him, promising to quench a thirst he hadn't even known was present.

It's when it touches his tongue that it hits him, both the strange tingling sensation that spreads across his tongue—cool and indescribably pleasurable—as well as the realisation of what it is. Its cloying sweetness slides down his throat. Guilty pleasure floods his body as his mind's eye conjures up that damning image of his Padawan spread on the floor, legs open and looking up at him with flushed cheeks. Far worse a sight, now that he knows how Anakin would taste.

Shame and arousal blend and blur within him, tangling until he's unable to separate them.

His cock throbs, and he grinds the heel of his palm against his erection urgently. His need so pressing that it almost hurts. Obi-Wan groans when he feels more of the slick that his pants had absorbed coat his fingers. Even if he wanted to—which he doesn't—he couldn't possibly stop himself from bringing it up to drag his tongue through the liquid, from tasting the obscene mix of Anakin and his own arousal.

Force, his boy had been wet. Wet for him.

Obi-Wan bites his lip but feels none of the pain he'd sought to ground himself, finding it slightly numb between his teeth instead. It doesn't help, discovering that the slick that Anakin's transformed body produces also numbs pain. His mind cannot help but follow the thought through to its logical conclusion.

Anakin's body as it is now seems practically designed to receive. Part of him wonders if this is simply happenstance, or if Anakin had been reshaped into this new configuration to receive him. No other but him.

The part of Obi-Wan that is but a starving man before a banquet shudders and aches at the thought that he might be free to feast without restraint, that he could give his beloved Padawan his cock without causing him pain. That he could bring his little one pleasure. That he could take and take, and Anakin's body would welcome it, the brilliant star of his Padawan's presence in the Force shining with joy and ecstasy.

Obi-Wan grits his teeth together as he scrambles to free his aching erection from the confines of his clothing. The need for relief feels like it will drive him insane. Surely this is better? Better than giving in to the urge to return to Anakin’s side. Better than seeking to satisfy both himself and the agonising need he can still feel emanating from his Padawan in the neighbouring room.

The slick makes his palm glide effortlessly, obscenely smooth, and there's that strange tingling sensation too, spreading along his length and making him more sensitive, until each stroke feels better than it has any right to.

With Anakin's wetness coating him, it is too easy to wonder and imagine what it would be like to have his Padawan around him instead. How tight he might be, how hot inside. Wet, ready and wanting. How his boy—his Anakin—might whine and beg the way he had, rocking desperately on his cock, those blue eyes glazed with pleasure and pleading.

Master–

A groan rips itself from Obi-Wan's throat as he comes hard, harder than he can ever remember, ropes of fluid spurting into the low sink. He shakes from the force of it. Sweet satisfaction pulses through him, making him dizzy with relief.

Finally.

He slumps against the sink counter, bracing himself on its edge as he gasps for breath, basking in the afterglow, his limbs weak and ebbing pleasure rippling through him.

Obi-Wan wonders through the haze, why this release would bring him satisfaction when he'd found none the day before. He stares into the sink, distantly noting that he'd released a rather lot of spend—more than he can ever recall producing—thick globs sliding down its surface and circling the drain. Was it because of Anakin's slick? That was the only difference.

He swallows. Was this too yet another property of his Padawan's new bodily fluids? Had Obi-Wan become addicted to Anakin's presence somehow? His body? Ruined for anything else. For anyone else.

His hands tremble as he stares at the evidence of his failings. The horror that had been buried under his desire—that had been drowned out by the twisted fantasies of his mind—comes flooding back as his satiation fades.

How could he have done this? Again. And worse this time, because not only had he reached completion with shameful thoughts of his Padawan, this time he'd actually touched Anakin without even the excuse of healing him.

Obi-Wan lowers his trembling hands into the sink, hastily—desperately, frantically—cleaning the fluids from his palms and the metal surface, each breath a struggle to pull into his lungs.

It's escalating. This... obsession. His desire.

He can't keep doing this. He's proven already that he cannot control himself and doing the same thing over and over is the definition of insanity. Allegations of which, Obi-Wan doubts he would be able to allay at this point. He certainly feels like he's going insane.

It will hurt. For both of them. But Obi-Wan cannot simply continue his failing attempts to control himself while comforting Anakin. He doesn't know how many times he can push his luck before he breaks and does something even more deplorable.

A sob chokes in Obi-Wan's chest. After years of struggling to keep up with his Master, trying and failing to be the Padawan he wanted. After he'd failed to remain by his Master's side, in his weakness, left Qui-Gon to face the Sith alone and be struck down. After years of fruitless effort to shape Anakin into a proper Jedi, only serving to hurt both his Padawan and himself.

Perhaps it is no wonder that he would fail to fulfil his Master's dying wish. Perhaps it was inevitable that he would fail the boy that Qui-Gon had wished to train, so much that he was ready to kick Obi-Wan from the nest to make room for Anakin. The boy that became Obi-Wan's instead, doomed to flounder under the care of an unworthy Master.

His Padawan who wasn't to blame for being too old to be trained, for having been a slave, yet had to be punished for it in his Master's attempts to mould him and protect him. Obi-Wan laughs bitterly. Only for he himself, the Master, to fail to live up to the standards he'd held Anakin to.

With a deep breath Obi-Wan stares at his reflection and steels himself for what he must do. He never thought he would even consider breaking his promise to Qui-Gon, but it would be far worse if he were to harm the boy his Master had so wished to train. If he were to defile the child Qui-Gon had so believed to be the Chosen One, and in such a heinous manner no less.

His Master Qui-Gon had always trusted his feelings, rushing blindly into things without preparation or care for protocol, but he was a good man. And though Obi-Wan isn't surprised that his maverick Master's whimsical decisions would land him in this awful predicament, he can't quite bring himself to hate the man for it.

He sighs. How pathetic, that even at this point, in this position, corrupted to blackness with such a stain upon his soul, such guilt and shame he must bear... Obi-Wan cannot bring himself to regret the years he'd spent with Anakin. With the bright and beautiful boy by his side. His Padawan's ingenuity, his passion, his kindness and life.

Obi-Wan swallows, already able to imagine how devastated Anakin will be, how much this will anger his apprentice.

He will do what he must, but no matter what happens, no matter how much his boy will hate him, Obi-Wan will forever cherish the time he has had with Anakin.

The soft taps of his tears on the sink counter echo along the walls of his prison, and Obi-Wan smiles bitterly. If this is what love and attachment feel like, then well...

He can see why the Code forbids it.

Anakin stares blankly at the ceiling, his blood pounding so hard he can feel his pulse in his throat, in the aching emptiness of his core, as he struggles to understand what just happened.

A whimper passes through his lips as his insides clench—sharp and sudden, like he's having a stomach cramp—and embarrassment floods him when he feels the spreading chill of wetness under his bottom.

There's a puddle, a puddle of something slimy pooled beneath him, cooling rapidly against his bare skin, sticky where it's started to dry at the edges. He struggles to prop himself up on trembling limbs, craning his neck just enough to examine his core. It's still open. The flesh around the entrance is flushed and swollen, and he can see a strange liquid oozing sluggishly from the opening, catching the light with an increasingly familiar blue sheen.

Gross.

Was this why his Master had looked so horrified? Anakin flushes. Well, he supposes he can understand being grossed out by weird ooze getting all over you while kissing someone. He tries to sit up, but the movement causes his sensitive opening to press against the metal floor—a sharp bolt of sensation that's too much, oversensitive and raw—and he finds himself collapsing back down with a choked whimper, his core clenching reflexively at the sudden cold.

The wetness reminds him of the feeling he would get sometimes, when he woke up with dampness in his pants and the vaguest sense that he'd dreamt of Padme or his Master.

Anakin never paid much mind to it. Doctor Nema had said it was natural and there were always more pressing things to worry about, like trying not to get into fights with the other Padawans. It never mattered who'd started it. The fact that he always won seemed to be a problem of its own.

But this... Anakin's core clenches again when pleasure abruptly surges through him, hot and molten, thrumming across his nerves like electricity till his back arches involuntarily off the floor. A moan rips from his throat, and it takes him several moments to realize where the sensation is coming from, that it's not coming from him.

“Mast–” Anakin chokes on the word as heat floods his body, white-hot and centred low in his belly. He gasps for air as it builds—rising and bubbling—as the faintest echo of sensation ghosts across his core, fluttering and tingling down his skin, leaving trails of ember in its wake.

He blinks the haze from his eyes, and a faded silhouette flickers like a mirage over his vision. Of large, familiar, and warm hands gripping him around the waist. The lingering impression of strong fingers pressing into his flesh, and friction—rhythmic and insistent. It takes a moment for him to recognise the shapes in the eye of his Master's mind and their stilted movements, to map it to the things he'd glimpsed as a child in the dark corners of Mos Espa.

Things that never seemed very good, not when he could feel—through what he now knows to be the Force—how much agony his fellow slaves were in, regardless of the empty forced smiles plastered across their faces and mechanical moans. But this feels different. His Master's presence is soft like velvet, warm as the morning sun, and thrumming with satisfaction, cooing gently despite the rough and urgent movements he glimpses.

Through their bond, Anakin feels need and desire, thick like honey and just as sweet. Protective fire, fierce and bright, and something he could almost mistake for awe, like something precious cradled in worshipful hands. The same tangle of feelings he's carried for years when watching his Master move through forms or whenever he laughed at a joke Anakin had made.

He'd never thought his Master was even capable of emotions like these. A spike of jealousy lances through him, sharp and bitter in his throat. Who could possibly make his Master feel this way? Was it Master Qui-Gon?

Then a breathless sigh whispers through the bond, sick with longing.

...My Anakin...

Shock and ecstasy pulse through Anakin's body, searing through him like he'd touched a live wire. Joy floods every corner of his being—a dazed wonder that chokes in his throat, hits hard enough to crack his heart right open—to realise that it is he who his Master's soul is singing for.

A keen leaves his throat, and Anakin whines, happiness now warring with the sharp bite of need within him. He'd been right, Obi-Wan had been enjoying what they were doing. His Master had wanted this, wanted him.

His core throbs, empty and aching, and he moans at the memory of how it'd felt to rock against his Master's cock. He can't believe it hadn't occurred to him at the time, what it was that he was rubbing against—too overwhelmed to think, to process anything beyond pleasure and need—but in all fairness, he doesn't think his brain had been working very well.

Would it feel good? Would it feel good if his Master were to put it inside the new opening that had formed in his body? The thought makes him shudder, core clenching around nothing, almost as if in response.

Some of his fellow Padawans had made it sound like it felt good to be filled, but Anakin had been sceptical. Not to mention, he'd never really imagined himself being in that position before, not as a male human, though he does know that men can be in that position too. But... he's not exactly human anymore. Maybe the position he'd be in is different now too?

Curious, Anakin prods at his opening with his tendrils, shuddering periodically as Obi-Wan's pleasure washes over him, emboldening his exploration. His Master had never seemed to want to hurt him. Obi-Wan always came across as painfully unaware of how he was making Anakin feel when he did. Which made it hard to really stay angry at him for very long.

If Obi-Wan wanted to put his cock inside him, did that mean that it would feel good for Anakin too? His Master was always careful with his training and never pushed him into something that would hurt him. So, maybe. Just maybe, it would feel good for him too? The grinding had felt good, the pressure and friction and heat. Maybe his Master's cock would feel even better.

Anakin tentatively slips a tendril inside his opening, just the tip to test, and gasps at the sensation. It's warm, much warmer than the rest of his body, and the slick liquid leaking from deeper inside makes it easy to slide in further. His inner walls are soft and yielding, gripping gently at the intrusion, and to his relief, Anakin immediately feels a slim fraction of his burning itch ease. Something like pressing on the skin around an itch, though not quite reaching the right spot or scratching it.

He's delighted with the progress anyway. It was really coming from this place! Anakin eagerly slips another slim tendril inside, and it feels sort of comfortable, like the beginning of satisfaction, a promise of greater relief.

He relaxes with a sigh, tension easing from muscles he hadn't realized were straining. That persistent and annoying cramping becomes a little less painful as he carefully wiggles another tendril inside, experimenting with the fit. He tries to add another but stops when he feels the discomforting stretch of his opening. Three, huh? It feels... kind of nice.

Not nearly as good as what his Master is feeling on the other side of their bond, however.

For a moment he wonders what he'd have to do to make it feel better, to chase the pleasure he feels flowing from his Master's side of the bond. He tries pressing his other tendrils into his side, attempting to mimic the way Obi-Wan had gripped him around the middle, but touching himself doesn't spark the same heat. It's not as good as his Master's hand had felt, broad and warm. Strong.

He focuses on his Master's side of the bond, on the faint and flickering shapes moving in his mind's eye. Right, movement, that could be it.

Flexing his tendrils does feel good, a mild yet pleasant pressure. But it's not enough. The rubbery softness of his tendrils doesn't feel right, and he doesn't know how else to move them. The itch is still there, duller now but insistent, and the accompanying cramping remains despite the slight relief. Anakin whines in frustration, his bottom shifting restlessly against the floor.

He wants to feel what Obi-Wan is feeling. Why did his Master leave when they could do this together? Isn't his Master supposed to teach him? To guide him and help him reach his full potential?

Anakin rubs his tendrils against his insides, trying to make it feel better, to find some relief. But nothing he does seems to work, and coming so close to scratching his itch only makes him more desperate to satisfy it.

On the other end of the bond, he can feel Obi-Wan's pleasure mounting and a pathetic whimper escapes Anakin's throat. It's not fair. He wants to experience that too. He wants to be able to give his Master nice feelings back in return, wants to see his Master's expression, not just feel the echoes of his pleasure. He wants to be with Obi-Wan.

“Master–” Anakin moans desperately, begging for this sweet suffering to end.

And that's when he feels it—a lurching sensation surging across the bond, a release of pressure that makes Anakin's head swim and his ears ring.

His core clenches in response, inner walls clamping down rhythmically around his tendrils, squeezing tightly around his soft appendages. But they're too springy and jelly-like, and his body finds them completely unsatisfactory. His muscles continue to squeeze, trying to wring something from his tendrils, seeking what isn't there with such desperation that they cramp painfully in his abdomen.

A feeling of aching emptiness and unquenched thirst bites at his insides, sudden and inexplicable, and Anakin is once again confused. Hadn't he just eaten barely an hour ago? His body, however, seems to see nothing strange about this new demand and complains at him incessantly, pleading for something he can't provide.

Through the painful cramping, he struggles to understand it. It feels different, unlike the pangs of hunger he'd felt. His core feels hollow. Empty. Even though his soft tendrils are surely filling up as much space as they possibly can. Was it something else that his body needed?

A sob of frustration chokes in Anakin's throat. He's so tired. Tired of not knowing. Of never knowing what he needed to fill the aching emptiness within him, both before and after the blasted change that had come over him. Of being powerless to satisfy himself. To even make himself happy. Always failing to be more than a slave to needs and desires that not even he understands.

Powerless to do anything more than groan and shudder as Obi-Wan's cresting pleasure washes over him in waves, a second-hand bliss that only makes his microcosm of relief pale further in contrast. Able to do nothing but wait, trembling, as the tingling sensations gradually begin to ebb, leaving him gasping and boneless on the cold and sticky floor. Empty. Unsatisfied. Awash with disappointment and an ache that's somehow worse than before, now that he knows what pleasure feels like.

Anakin can only lie there for several long moments, biting back the tears stinging his eyes and wishing that his Master hadn't left him.

When he's caught his breath, Anakin swallows and gingerly pulls his tendrils out of his body with an embarrassingly wet sound. The strange opening of his core closes behind them, flesh sealing itself once more.

He wishes he could be glad that his itch doesn't burn nearly as much as it did before, but the strange new thirst has more than succeeded in surpassing it. Sharp and gnawing in the pit of his belly, yet dry like his throat in the desert sands.

Struggling to push himself to his feet, the only coherent thought that Anakin can cobble together is that he wants Obi-Wan. He needs to find him, needs to understand. To know why his Master left. Why he'd fled, even though Obi-Wan wants this—wants Anakin—the same way Anakin wants him. He'd felt it through their bond, plain as day and undeniable. So why run? Why hide away and seek his pleasure alone when they could do so together?

His legs threaten to buckle beneath him, cold wetness trickling down his skin as he stumbles across the room towards the door. It takes more effort than it should to reach for the button to open it, and he almost forgets to check that the officers aren't outside before venturing out into the corridor, drawn to his Master's presence like a moth to flame.

Fortunately, the hallway is empty, and he makes the ten or so steps to the refresher door without interruption.

Once there, however, Anakin finds himself at a loss for how to proceed, because in the few minutes that it'd taken to get there, the feelings on his Master's side of the bond have somehow gone from good to painful.

Emanating through the door are pangs of unbearable sorrow, a grief that feels almost like how Anakin had felt when Master Qui-Gon told him that he'd only been able to free Anakin but not his mother. A longing that makes no sense because he's right here. Anakin's right here.

As much as he wants to beg Obi-Wan to help him, to fill his need and quench his desperate thirst, Anakin can't bear to feel such pain coming from his Master. He wants it to stop more. Wants Obi-Wan to stop hurting.

“Master...” Anakin calls out tentatively as he taps his tendrils against the door, his voice hoarse and rough in his throat as he struggles to think of what to say. “Are you alright, Master?”

Guilt surges through their bond, and Anakin doesn't understand any of it, doesn't understand why his Master is hurting so much.

“I'm alright, Ana–” Obi-Wan chokes off strangely, his voice sounding strained through the door, thin and exhausted. “You should... you should go back to the room, Padawan.”

Frustration bites at him. His Master is not alright. Anakin can feel that clearly through the bond. Neither of them is alright. But what can he do? If Obi-Wan won't be honest with him, won't let him in, what can he possibly do?

“Can we...” Anakin trails off. How does he ask? He's not even entirely sure what he's asking. Is he asking if they can talk? If they can have sex? Finish what they started? Does he even need to ask? He already knows Obi-Wan wants to. Wants him.

“Master, you– you kissed me.” Anakin blurts out, pressing his tendrils against the door beseechingly.

He's not sure where he's going with this, but standing here, naked and trembling before a door that his Master is hiding behind, he's suddenly afraid that Obi-Wan will pretend that nothing had happened at all. That he hadn't taken Anakin's first kiss and first... everything else. Terrified that Obi-Wan would say it didn't mean anything.

What he hears next is worse.

“...I shouldn't have done that...”

Obi-Wan's words are so soft and hoarse that Anakin isn't sure if he's hearing them through the door or through their bond, but it hurts anyway. It hurts like nothing he's ever felt before. He doesn't want to hear his Master say that. Tears burn in Anakin's eyes again.

“But– but you did!” Anakin grits his teeth tightly, struggling not to fall apart. The way his world is falling apart. “You can't just– please, Master, I need– I don't know how to–”

“I can't help you, Padawan.”

Obi-Wan's voice is firm and hard now, and those words—words that he has never heard from his Master before—hit him in the chest with all the force of a boulder. Obi-Wan can't help? What is that supposed to mean? He can. Anakin knows he can. This isn't a ‘can or cannot’, so all that remains is ‘will not’. A choice not to.

“Why!?” Anakin wails, slamming his tendrils into the door hard enough that they would have bruised if they weren't so soft, so inhuman, desperately grasping at anything he can think of to stop his Master from acting like this.

This is worse than any punishment he has ever endured. Worse than being left behind in the Temple. Worse than the disappointment in his Master's eyes whenever he'd been caught fighting with the other Padawans. Worse than Watto's anger. Worse than watching Qui-Gon's body burn alongside the future he'd thought lay before him, simmering in the embers of fear and uncertainty.

Obi-Wan had been the man Anakin turned to then, asking what would happen to him now, and Obi-Wan had assured him that he would train him, had promised to.

He clings to that promise, has clung to it for almost seven years. Anakin pleads brokenly. “Please, you've taught me everything I know! You can't just start and then stop! You promised, promised to train me. Aren't you supposed to teach me?”

A dull horror pulses through their bond again, and Anakin doesn't understand why Obi-Wan keeps feeling that way. When did his Master start to feel such revulsion toward him? He can't even see Anakin's monstrous form. So what is it? What's making his Master feel such horror?

“Please Master, I know you want to, please, I want it too–”

“It's not real, Anakin.”

At those words, Anakin rears back like the door had become hot iron, tears finally slipping free from his control and spilling down his face once again. He wants to hide, to cover his ears, but he's not sure where they are, and his Master just keeps driving the knife in deeper.

“Those feelings... they're not real, it's just–”

“You're lying!” Anakin shakes his head frantically, wrapping his limbs around himself. His voice cracks, raw and desperate. “They're real! I know they're real! I need you, Master! I want–”

“You shouldn't.” Obi-Wan's voice is cold and unnatural, flat like a machine. “You shouldn't need me. Attachment is forbidden for us. I should never have allowed it to foster between us. Return to the room, Padawan.”

For a moment, Anakin freezes, shame flooding through him when he remembers why he has never said he needed his Master up till now. Why he's always hidden this truth, buried it deep where even he would not look. Because he's always known, always known that Obi-Wan would condemn him for it. How had he forgotten? In his desperation—his thirst and hunger and strange new body—he'd forgotten that his Master was the quintessential Jedi. That Anakin was meant to be one too. Made to be one.

“It's not–” Anakin hastily scrambles to cover up his mistake, to take back those damning words, his voice thin and shaky. “It's not attachment! It's just– I just– I just need your help, then– then everything can– everything can go back to the way it was.”

It hurts to say. Hurts to imagine even. His Master holding him, filling him, giving his body what it needs, touching Anakin the way he aches for, and then going back to being distant, professional and proper. Like nothing happened. Like Anakin didn't matter.

But Anakin is desperate enough to accept even that. He'll take anything at this point. Any scrap of affection, any touch, any acknowledgment. He just can't lose Obi-Wan.

A bitter and broken chuckle slips through the door. “We can't go back, not after that. Not after this.”

They can't go back? Anakin's breath catches, then becomes short with panic. What does that mean?

He opens his mouth to ask, to insist on an explanation, when he hears the sound of laughter and footsteps from the door on the other end of the hall.

A different sort of fear courses through him now, fear of being seen, of being attacked while in this state. Naked. His disgusting body completely visible, his limbs still weak and without even a weapon to defend himself.

Without thinking, Anakin turns to the person he's always turned to. “Master! The officers! Let me in, pleas–”

“I can't–” His Master's voice is strained again, pained, and somehow, Anakin still manages to be shocked.

Shocked and angered.

Obi-Wan would rather risk him being seen, being attacked, maybe even killed, than open the door right in front of him. Would rather force Anakin to stumble back to the passenger compartment and wait for the door to open, than to let him into the refresher for even just a moment.

Is that how little his Master cares about him now?

The tears rolling down his face no longer sting just with hurt but burn hot with anger. Anger at his abandonment. At the silence from the other side of the door that might as well be a wall, from the man who had sworn to protect him.

“Fine!” Anakin spits, pushing himself away from the refresher door.

His anger coils itself around him, and he lets it. Lets it enfold him inside its burning embrace. Lets it drown out the pain. Lets it lend strength to his shaky legs, to stabilise them. Uses it to propel himself forward, with only the aid of the wall that he leans on.

The only support he has now.

The anguish he feels from the other side of their bond only infuriates him further. What right has his Master to be hurt when Obi-Wan is the one doing the hurting? When he was the one who'd chosen this. If he was going to put the Code before Anakin, the least he could do is not burden Anakin with his feelings.

He presses the button beside the door, and waits. Each second stretches on for an eternity as he watches the metal begin to slide aside. His heart is pounding so hard that he can hear it in his ears, can feel it in his throat, in his head, threatening to burst from his chest.

Anxiously urging the machinery to move faster, Anakin eyes the gap, ready to slip inside the second it’s open wide enough for him to fit.

The hiss of the officers’ door about to open comes just as the gap seems wide enough, and Anakin squeezes through it sideways.

His tendrils fumble for the close button on the other side, quickly hammering on it the second he's clear. The door grinds to a slow and stuttering halt. There’s an aggravating pause, one that stretches on and on, before the door finally reverses course and begins to slide shut once again.

He can hear the footsteps of the officers as they approach. He listens to their voices, casual and relaxed, as he presses himself against the wall beside the door. Holds his breath as it moves agonisingly slowly, hoping that their tones won't change. Praying that they won't notice the closing of his door just ahead of them.

The door seals with a hiss.

The footsteps continue past the door without interruption, and Anakin releases a sigh of relief. His trembling legs finally give out under him, and he slides down to the floor, wincing when the cold against his bare bottom reminds him that he's still naked.

That his legs are still stained with streaks of drying slick, that his face is still stained with his Master's blood. Evidence of everything that had happened. Of everything that had been rejected.

Anakin is too tired, too angry, too heartbroken, too empty to care. He drags himself across the floor. Crawling on heavy and reluctant limbs, till he reaches the blanket that lies abandoned on the floor. He wraps it around himself, hauls himself up, and drops onto his bed, curling into a tight ball with a sob.

He doesn't know what will happen to him now. What will happen when they return to Coruscant. If Obi-Wan will report to the Council that his Padawan suffers from deep attachment. If he'll be expelled and abandoned. The way he'd abandoned his mom in slavery.

But right now, all he wants to do is sleep. To escape this waking nightmare, escape the thirst still gnawing at his insides, the emptiness that has nothing to do with his core.

And if he's lucky, maybe he'll never wake up.

Notes:

Alright, in case it needs to be said; even if Anakin clearly would've benefited from Obi-Wan giving him what he wanted, there's two problems with that that make Obi-Wan's decision to abstain so far technically correct, just poorly executed.

#1 Even if he were to read Anakin's mind, Obi-Wan can't ascertain for certain—in a crisis state like the one they're in—that Anakin is providing enthusiastic consent of his own volition, rather than being influenced by the situation, his hormones or funky new body, or fear of abandonment.

Though this is a problem they only have because they don't bloody talk OUTSIDE the crisis situation! That's why it's important to get clarification on where you stand with someone BEFORE shit hits the fan. When things are calm is the best time to talk about the difficult things, before it all blows up in a big mess and you can't be sure if you can trust what they say.

Though to be clear, there's nothing wrong with self-care or taking a step back to regulate before engaging with something difficult.

Obi-Wan's actions (leaving to stop himself and jerking off to calm down and get his brain cells working) COULD have genuinely been the best thing to do IF he'd actively been planning to then go back to Anakin and at least TRY to help Anakin calm down enough to think, exchange information and discuss how they're going to move forward. But, alas...

#2 Anakin's jealousy/possessiveness/inferiority are due to his attachment trauma and abandonment fears, which makes Obi-Wan's advances inherently coercive, even if unintentional.

Intermittent reinforcement/kindness from abusers can create the same sort of experience in their victims that Anakin is going through now (neurochemical dependency), where the only way a victim's body can create dopamine and achieve emotional regulation is via the abusers approval.

And while Obi-Wan isn't doing so intentionally, the combination of Anakin's trauma and the irregularity in the kindness Obi-Wan can't help but give Anakin (because of his love) and the distance Obi-Wan retreats behind when he feels afraid and Jedi guilt (because of his love), both inadvertently cause the same abusive effect regardless. The carrot and the stick.

You could almost say the spectre of Anakin's past trauma is the stick, punishing him when Obi-Wan distances himself. While Obi-Wan's kindness is the carrot that keeps Anakin addicted. Unintentionally coercing Anakin into feeling like he must give himself to Obi-Wan, must claim Obi-Wan, to be safe.

And while I'm writing Anakin, who may think it all rather romantic in his head, it's really not, he just knows nothing better. And I'm not here to romanticise this tragic lack of familiarity with the joy of a truly secure and content relationship.

But don't worry, I promised a fic that answers Saya no Uta and the Obikin tragedy. And while I must start equally as fucked as those canons were, for it to be a valid answer, I do intend to guide them to a better place. Eventually. x’)

Now, some things Obi-Wan got correct thanks to social conditioning and education; the potential for harm. The power dynamics between them are legitimately concerning and Anakin's age, history of abuse and slavery makes it hard to be certain how he feels. From the outside. Because mind reading is not a thing irl. In real life, we always have to assume the worst, provide as safe of a space for someone to be honest as we can and then all we can do is trust/pray that they are being honest. Otherwise, it's assault—as I wrote in another fic Heavy Is The Crown.

But mind reading IS real in Star Wars. Obi-Wan can literally feel Anakin's happiness, that bitch. So the problem here isn't the actual goddamn harm, it's societal shame and fear of moral failure. (Yes, I structured this situation specifically to strip away the complications that discussions of these topics face irl, so that I can talk about and illustrate the points I want to yap about.)

Now, imagine if a parental figure isn't educated or thinks something their kid NEEDS is harmful? Like believing accommodations for learning disabilities will make their kids “lazy” or that gender affirming care or being gay is inherently wrong/harmful. Well, then they experience the same feelings Obi-Wan does. But for the wrong things.

While, obviously, sexual attraction to a minor one raised is an extreme example with AMPLE grounds for fear of harm, there are many parents who go through a similar struggle when something their kid needs is something they or society sees as wrong. The feelings are stupidly similar between a good parent who has been raised to believe that they shouldn't allow their kid to be trans, and Obi-Wan’s feelings as he struggles not to give Anakin what he needs, because that feeling isn't isolated to legitimate concerns like Obi-Wan's.

Unfortunately, you can’t just trust vibes!

In a way, I used the transformation and bond to force vulnerability from Obi-Wan. Mentorship needs a willingness to be human and vulnerable in front of your student, to be able to confront discomfort and shame, being willing to stay and be hurt rather than flee or detach, all things that the bond forces upon Obi-Wan.

Stoicism impedes growth and prevents leading by example, something that canon Obi-Wan doesn't learn until Anakin Falls.

Republic-Era Jedi—despite good intentions—tend to prioritise civility and peace pacification over genuine resolution. A peacekeeper's job is to prevent the need for conflict, but that’s something you do with fair laws, education, equity, and therapy.

While Republic-Era Jedi called themselves peacekeepers/diplomats, they functioned more like firefighters, they come after the fire has burned the house to the ground, save the people in it and then peace out while the survivors are left homeless. As depicted in the Trace and Rafa arc in The Clone Wars Season 7, and as called out by Satine all the way back in Season 2 Episode 12.

When inequality exists, smoothing over conflict almost always ensures that the victims are forced to swallow their suffering and be silent. Good intentions are rather futile when one doesn't understand the very people that they're trying to help, as I'm (hopefully successfully) depicting with Obi-Wan's struggle to help Anakin.

They also unintentionally foster conditions for unhealthy attachment to develop. Their mentorship system is an absurd emotional balancing act. They're supposed to have deep personal investment in a student while also forbidding genuine emotional connection. A Master must care intensely about their Padawan's growth, protection, and development like a parent, yet simultaneously remain emotionally disconnected.

Sure, a person who never discovers what they don't have might be able to do this, but the requirements to do so without external emotional support are so high that it only takes exposure to fail them. Throw in Obi-Wan's untreated trauma from the murder of Qui-Gon and a solid crisis like this early-on in his relationship with Anakin and you get a disaster.

If you want low levels of attachment to any one specific person, the “it takes a village to raise a child” should continue even after leaving the Crèche. There shouldn't be one-on-one personal training where a single Master spends over a decade being the most significant authority figure in a child's life. There should be multiple stable adults with an equal amount of access to the kid.

The Jedi's approach, with their fear of attachment, ironically undermines healthy emotional development by creating environments of isolation, shame, suppression, and opportunities for abuse. Denying acceptable outlets for the expression of natural human emotional responses and providing no constructive framework for processing and integrating (rather than expelling) complex feelings, create the very attachment that they hurt themselves so hard to prevent.

Things like addiction or compulsive behaviour or trauma responses can’t usually be willpowered through. Most people NEED support. Where do we benefit from insisting that they are just not trying hard enough? The point of Anakin's tale is how all his effort and passion was twisted and used against him by Paperplane. But who gave Paperplane the opportunity and ammunition to do so? The Jedi and the broken system they defended.

Like, yes, Paperplane is evil and a snake that twists the truth, but that truth is important to note. Paperplane's manipulation of Anakin, the Senate and the Jedi only works because he IS identifying real institutional failures. He's just directing the response toward his own ends rather than genuine reform or improvement.

While the Jedi and Senate were intended to help and protect people, that's no reason to let its flaws fester and rot till the whole basket of apples is fossilised.

The Jedi's failure to meet Obi-Wan and Anakin's needs is the reason for their dysfunction. The crisis merely causes their coping mechanisms to fail and the rot beneath to surface. Bit more realistic to how people "snap". It's usually not a single sudden traumatic event but compounded preexisting issues. This fic is about how institutional failures create vulnerable individuals who can't withstand crises.

Which is, imo, the same story that Star Wars was telling.