Location: Outskirts of Mos Eisley, 6 months after Luke's arrival at the Lars farm.
The twin suns hung like blisters in the sky—fat, cruel things that beat down on the sand like war drums. The wind was dry and sharp, cutting through layers of armor and cloth as if trying to peel away whatever flesh remained underneath.
Obi-Wan sat beneath the bent skeleton of a collapsed vaporator, its frame half-swallowed by rust and time. The structure creaked faintly with every shift of the wind, groaning like it remembered better days.
He leaned against it with one knee drawn up, shirt half-unbuttoned, exposing a sweat-slick chest wrapped in stiff, sun-bleached leather—mismatched plates stitched crudely over black underskin. Armor not designed for him. Someone else's war gear, stripped off a dead man three jobs ago. He hadn't even bothered to clean the blood from the inner collar.
Nothing he wore belonged to him anymore.
Not the gear.
Not the alias stamped on his fake identity tag.
Not the name Obi-Wan Kenobi.
Even his face, reflected in a shard of broken mirror half-buried in the sand at his feet, looked like it belonged to someone else. The beard had grown out uneven, patchy and laced with gray. The eyes were dull. The lines deeper. Too much sun. Not enough sleep. Too much memory.
He looked like a man who'd died but kept walking out of spite. And within his canvas the lightsaber was wrapped, tied tight with rusted cord, shoved deep in the bottom of his weather-beaten pack. He hadn't touched it in over four months.
He didn't want to. For to him that weapon had been a symbol once. A symbol of hope, of peace, and discipline.
Now it was just a coffin nail—one more echo of a name he wasn't sure ever meant anything.
> Kenobi. Jedi Master. Defender of the Republic.
He almost laughed at the thought. A dry, cracked sound that never made it past his lips.
Instead, he carried a vibroknife strapped under his arm.
A loaded slug pistol on his thigh.
And a cracked bounty puck glowing red in the dirt beside him.
He tapped it once with a gloved finger. The image flickered.
A hologram—a grainy recording of the last target—projected into the air, stuttering in the heatwaves.
> KEMAK KORSH
Species: Devaronian
Charges: Sentient trafficking, minor ringmaster, escapee from Nar Kreeta slave auction
Obi-Wan's lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smile.
Korsh had worked out of Mos Espa, using sand runners to snatch orphans and street rats, shipping them off to the Zygerrian Syndicates for training, reprocessing, or worse. And those that didn't meet standards were either sold for meat, labor, or just dropped into the edge of a Sarlacc pit for sport.
It didn't though take him long to find the man. In fact he found him behind a burnt-out silo in Beggar's Dune the same day.
And then he took him apart in under sixty seconds, he asked no questions, did no Jedi techniques, and he gave no warning.
He shattered Korsh's jaw with a pistol whip. Broke his right leg with a stomp. And when the man tried to crawl away—muttering through blood and teeth—Obi-Wan shoved a half-used death stick into his mouth and left him in the trench, twitching.
No bounty claimed. No name left behind.
> "No witnesses. No lesson. Just... gone."
He sat there in the dirt for nearly an hour after that.
Just breathing.
Letting the sand soak into the folds of his armor. Watching the sun melt down the dunes like bleeding gold.
His fingers twitched occasionally—phantom memories of lightsaber grips and old forms.
But he didn't reach for it.
He hadn't earned it.
Not yet.
Maybe never.
That evening, in a Private Room, at Uscru District Outpost. Red velvet was everywhere, golden coloured lights lit the room, and shadows moved like ghosts.
The room was private—luxurious by Outer Rim standards. Soft synth-lanterns glowed from floor corners, bathing everything in deep red and gold. The walls pulsed faintly to the rhythm of distant music—slow, deliberate.
Obi-Wan stood shirtless, half in shadow, watching his reflection in the wall mirror. And no matter how he looked, he didn't recognize the man staring back at him anymore.
The beard was longer. The eyes—sunk, rimmed in red—looked hollow, as if something sacred had been scooped out and thrown into the desert. His chest rose slowly, the faint webbing of old scars catching the low light. Some he remembered. Others he didn't.
And then behind him, movement. The doors hissed open.
A Twilek and a Togruta entered together, hips swaying in sync, eyes trained, movements fluid. They weren't the finest, but they were young enough to be his daughter's, maybe 19 at best. But from the reflection in the mirror he could see that they'd done this walk a few times before. A few times too many in his opinion for their age, but life was hard and everyone did what they had to in order to survive.
He didn't move, he didn't speak, he just looked at the mirror.
The women hesitated, the Togruta felt it first—the chill behind the heat. A man who wasn't here for games.
The Twilek felt it next—the way his eyes lingered on them through the mirror. Not like most men. Not lustful, but like an angry predator, evaluating them.
They stopped just behind him and bowed in unison.
> "We were told you requested company," The Togruta said, keeping her voice smooth.
Obi-wan didn't move, he merely growled. "Didn't request, paid."
His voice was deep. Calm. Controlled. A touch of Coruscant elite with something wilder buried beneath, or that's what it sounded to the women.
The Twilek stepped forward. "You'll find we're very accommodating."
Obi-wan turned and his eyes drifted down her body, shapely, full breasts, small waist and nice hips just perfect. Then the Togruta, she too would do. Then he looked back to their collars and frowned, but he said nothing.
The Twilek girl approached then, her skin was the color of rich wine. Her lekku trailed over his shoulder as she slid her arms around his torso, her touch warm and practiced. "You're tense," she said softly, her voice laced with the faint purr of Zeltrosi-accented Basic.
Then a memory came to him, of Aayla at the temple.
He remembered smelling, Sandalwood and spice. Aayla, in the Temple courtyard. Sparring barefoot, laughing like the galaxy wasn't already falling apart.
His stomach turned at the memory of that.
"I'm everything but that," he muttered.
The Togruta then knelt before him, hand on his belt already. A Togruta woman—young, elegant, marked in soft white tribal patterns. Her eyes flicked up once, meeting his with lust. "You said no talking?" She asked.
Her fingers worked the fastenings of his belt with precision, practiced and patient.
He didn't stop her, didn't answer. He just remembered her.
> Ahsoka. Proud. Defiant. That last time she walked away, refusing to be anyone's padawan.
He looked down, not at the women, but through them.
They weren't them. They weren't anyone. Just shapes and warmth and breathing reminders that he was still alive, still here. Unfortunately.
Together they giggled as they pushed him onto the bed. He sat at the edge, sitting there he felt like sinking into something deeper than fabric. His arms trembled not from desire, but from how long it had been since he let anyone this close.
His belt was already on the floor now. Both women knelt without being asked, like obedient dogs. Their fingers hooked the waistband of his trousers. The Togruta looked up once, checking his face.
He just looked coldly down at her.
> "If you're going to kneel and do this, bitch," he said, voice like gravel, "do it like you mean it."
Her cheeks flushed, but she lowered herself fully, letting her knees part slightly on the soft carpet. The Twilek was already working beside her, blue skin glowing under the amber lights. Together, they worked the fabric down his legs, slowly, carefully, reverently.
The tension in the room coiled tighter, and then it happened. His cock sprang free.
Heavy. Thick. Arched upward, flushed and full. It bounced once—then smacked softly against the Togrutas cheek as it dropped.
Both women froze.
The weight. The size. The sheer heat of it pulsing inches from their faces.
> "By the force..." The Twilek whispered, her lips parted, breath shallow.
The Togruta didn't speak. She was too focused now, her hand slowly wrapping around the base, her fingers barely able to close.
Obi-wan didn't move, he grunted, and he just watched.
> "Are you both going to do it, or are you just going to watch all night?" He asked.
He leaned down, cupping their chins in each hand.
> "Do it well, and I promise you won't leave this room the same. I'll make sure of that."
They nodded, slowly, and then their mouths opened.
Neither woman spoke.
They didn't have to.
They had seen plenty of men, but nothing like this. Not just the size, but the way it owned the space. How he didn't gloat or blush. He simply, watched.
The Twilek leaned in first, lips parted, breath shallow.
She kissed the base—delicately, reverently. Her hands slid along his thighs as her tongue traced a slow path upward, savoring the warmth, the veined thickness, the subtle pulse beneath her lips.
Beside her, the Togruta mirrored her movements—trailing kisses up the opposite side, her orange skin glowing against his.
> "That's it," Obi-wan growled, voice like gravel smoothed by whiskey. "Show me how you worship something bigger than either of you."
Their hands moved in sync now, gliding up and down his length, slick with heat and breath. The Togrutas eyes stayed locked to his—defiant, but needy. Her pride clung to her like sweat, even as her mouth hovered just above the tip, trembling.
Obi-wan reached down and gripped her lekku—gently, but with meaning. A claim.
> "Do it together," he said. "One mouth. One tongue. No mistakes."
They obeyed.
Their lips met at his tip—flesh meeting heat, mouths joining, breaths mingling. Their tongues danced around him, soft and wet, eyes half-lidded, lashes brushing his skin as they tasted him in tandem.
His hips twitched once—just once—and they both flinched as the full weight of him slapped softly against the Twileks cheek. She moaned at the shock of it, eyes widening slightly before she smiled—hungry, dazed.
> "Good girls," Obi-wan murmured. "Keep going. Don't stop until I say."
They worked in rhythm now—hands sliding, mouths trading space, lips parting wider. They weren't just performing.
They were surrendering.
But soon Obi-Wan wasn't there anymore, not really.
His mind drifted—like a vapor trail in the sky—to the sound of a street vendor's voice on Coruscant so long ago:
> "You wanna buy some death sticks?"
He had laughed then.
Now he couldn't stop taking them.
A smile came to his face at the irony of it all.
And by the time he came back into reality he felt himself be close now to a release. The two women were panting and flushed, with sweat glistening between their sizable firm breasts and along their brows.
> "Now," Obi-wan said, voice lower. "On the bed. And on your knees. Side by side. Let's do this, no refunds."
They rose slowly and obediently. Because they weren't his companions anymore, they were his bitches.
The bed wasn't massive, but enough. Typical square shaped and surrounded by soft golden lights, cheap curtains that hung like blankets in the recycled breeze. Velvet sheets, dark crimson, stretched under the women's knees as they settled at the center, side by side, heads lowered, chests rising with anticipation.
He didn't speak, he approached slowly, his body towering over them, cock glistening with their worship, swaying with heavy promise. His hand reached forward—resting on the Togrutas shoulder.
She looked up, instinctively biting and her lip. Her lekku quivered as she met his gaze.
> "Who's are you?" he asked.
She didn't hesitate.
> "You."
> "Say it louder."
> "I'm yours," she whispered, breathless.
His hand slid down her back, fingers tracing the curve of her spine. Then lower—to her hips, her round, nearly perfect butt.
And then he chose.
He gripped the Togruta by the waist and pulled her closer with force—not cruel, but final. A choice had been made.
The Twilek just watched, silent but flushed, biting her lip as she remained on her hands and knees obedientli, body swaying slightly with arousal.
Obi-wan then pushed the Togruta, guiding her to all fours as well properly, her ass arched upward, tail of her lekku curling down her back. Her thighs trembled as she felt the weight of him rest against her entrance.
> "You've been waiting for this, haven't you?" he murmured, pressing forward—just barely.
She gasped—eyes fluttering closed.
> "Yes," she whispered. "Please."
He leaned down, voice at her ear.
> "I'll fill you. Break you open. Leave you dripping in front of your friend—and then I'll do the same to her."
His hips rolled back, and then he thrust forward with force and entered her wet folds. Fast, thick, absolutely overwhelming.
The Togruta cried out—a sharp, shuddering sound that echoed in the room. Her fingers clutched the sheets. Her legs spread wider without her meaning to.
The Twilek moaned softly just from watching.
Obi-wan grunted as her tightness closed around him—hot, wet, pulsing.
> "You're mine now," he growled, snapping his hips forward.
Each thrust rocked her forward. Her breasts bounced with every impact. Her eyes rolled. Her mouth hung open in a soundless cry.
The Twilek crawled closer, her hand resting on the other's back. She pressed a kiss to her friend's shoulder, whispering encouragement while her other hand drifted between her own thighs.
Obi-wan rhythm grew faster. Harder. Every slap of flesh a declaration, a relief.
By the time the Togruta screamed his fake name, her body shuddering, tears streaking her cheeks from overstimulation, Obi-wan pace didn't slow.
He reached for the Twilek next—grabbing her by the throat gently, lifting her chin.
> "You're next," he said, breathless but grinning.
She nodded—eager. Needy.
And as the Togruta collapsed to the sheets, thighs soaked and trembling, he pulled the other beneath him—ready to claim his second prize, and she didn't resist.
The Twilek merely lay beneath him, heart pounding in her chest like a war drum.
Her lekku curled around her shoulders, trembling slightly from the heat of the room and the tension in her body. Her breasts rose and fell, full and flushed, her thighs already slick with need.
Above her, he loomed like a alpha—body bronzed with sweat, veins bulging across his arms, his cock still hard and soaked with the Togrutas surrender.
He gripped her hips and pulled her closer and asked.
> "You ready?"
She didn't speak—she just nodded.
> "Use your voice," he growled.
> "Yes," she breathed. "I'm ready—please, I need it."
Their bodies then moved, and he just let it happen. He let his instincts take hold of him.
Both the women's breathing, their warmth, the rhythm of the lights on the wall—it all blurred into something primal and distant within him.
He gripped the Twileks small hands gently, his jaw locked. Not from pleasure. From memory, because in every blink he saw a different face.
Padmé the one he killed and betrayed. Satine his love. Anakin cut and on the platform and down the lava fall. Yoda saying "Failed him, you did." Luke crying for milk from a bottle Beru warmed on a scavenged vaporator.
He didn't close his eyes much. He just looked at them, town young women enslaved and made to work in such an industry, his jaw was trembling, he let his emotions wash over him like a tide.
He let the heat of the moment take him. Take the pain. Take the weight. Take the name Obi-Wan and burn it out of him like a fever. He didn't care about releasing his seed within the two, he just wanted to feel alive again, wanted to let go of the past and begin again.
When it was over, they curled beside him—silent, breathing, warm. Both seemed so innocent, so soft, so fragile and he knew he could help them, but he wasn't sure if he had the courage to do it. To care for another like he once did with Satine, only to have then lost her. He didn't want to feel that loss again, and yet he wanted to feel that feeling of belonging, that feeling of love, feel a baby within the belly of his woman, feel the future and hope again.
For a long while he just lay still, staring at the ceiling. The glitterstim had faded. His chest ached from a burn he couldn't place. The mirror caught the edge of his eye, and he turned away from it.
Slowly, he sat up.
Pulled on his trousers. Buckled his belt.
He didn't look at them.
Didn't kiss them. Didn't speak.
He left the credits on the side table—more than either surely expected, 600 credits, 300 hundred for them both and a tip of 200 hundred for releasing inside of them both. It was enough to make sure hey're owner would be happy and they could sleep in peace for a few nights at least.
At the doorway, he paused. The Togruta stirred, eyes half-lidded.
"Will we see you again?"
Obi-Wan hesitated.
Then turned just enough to answer.
> "Maybe, I have to think about it."
Outside, the Cold Air, and Burning Sky came upon him. The wind hit him like ash.
Obi-Wan lit a death stick with trembling fingers, inhaling until his lungs burned. The rush hit his bloodstream like a freight barge, and his knees buckled against the alley wall.
His hand brushed the satchel at his side.
Wrapped in cloth. Silent. Waiting.
His lightsaber.
He didn't dare touch it.
He wasn't worthy.
Not yet.
Maybe never.
That night in his camp, just outside town, the memories came again, and so did her voice.
> "Obi-Wan... come back to me..."
Satine's voice echoed through the dark like smoke—soft, velvet, dying.
He saw her again—not as she'd been, regal and fire-eyed—but broken, slumped in his arms, pregnant with his child that would not be given a chance, he saw her in that filthy Death Watch prison cell. Her lips were blue. Her skin was losing warmth. Her hand, once strong enough to sway a planet, barely clutched at his.
> "I loved you... always…"
He'd held her as the light faded from her eyes.
He hadn't screamed. He hadn't cried. Not then.
But now, months, and years later, the weight came back every time the spice hit his bloodstream. It wasn't just memory. It was a punishment.
He felt her in the cold.
He heard her in the flicker of lantern light.
And he tasted her name in the burn of every death stick he lit.
Then once more he woke up gasping. Not from the memory, but from the blade.
His hand had moved in his sleep, gripped the vibroknife on instinct. The same one he'd used hours earlier. The hilt was still warm from his palm. The edge still tacky with blood he hadn't bothered to wipe away. And some scumbag on the street who tried to rob him, was dead.
He sat up, heart pounding.
Dust clung to his sweat-slicked chest. The wind outside the tarp howled against the cliffside, a dry, low moan like the breath of something ancient and unsatisfied.
He didn't even flinch.
Pain didn't surprise him anymore, and he just looked around at his camp. Though the camp was barely worth being called that.
A tarp stretched between two shattered moisture spires. Sandbags against the wind. A bottle of lum half-empty and buried in the sand to stay cool. Two spice pouches. One open, one sealed with a promise he never kept.
And at the center of it all—like a shrine to something broken—lay a strip of leather cloth.
Worn. Creased. A child's name carved into it with a vibroknife tip, each letter carefully etched:
> LUKE
That was his altar now.
Not to the Force. Not to the Code.
To the only thing left that hadn't bled out in front of him.
Every bounty, every kill, every credit earned—the ones he didn't drink, didn't smoke, didn't lose in backroom sabacc—went to the Lars farm. Quietly. Anonymously. He left it in marked envelopes beneath the third vaporator's service hatch.
Beru knew, probably. She was sharp. She always had been.
Owen never asked. He didn't want to know.
That suited Obi-Wan fine.
He didn't want thanks. He didn't want recognition.
He didn't even want peace.
He wanted pain. Consequence. Repetition.
He wanted to bleed through his knuckles again and again until there was nothing left to remember.
Because as long as he was killing people worse than him, maybe—maybe—he wasn't the worst thing in the galaxy.
Not yet.
And if he kept Luke alive… if he could just do that one thing right—
Maybe that would be enough.
He stared into the flames of a low-burning fire.
It cracked quietly, licking the bones of an animal he couldn't name. The stars overhead were cold and sharp, mocking in their silence.
He didn't meditate. He didn't pray.
He just sat. Knife in hand.
Eyes fixed on nothing.
A shadow pretending to be a man.
Then in a hoarse voice he spoke.
> "Kenobi died on Mustafar."
He looked down at his reflection in the blade. Dull. Bloodstained.
> "I'm just what crawled out of the ashes."