Chapter Text
"If thou remember'st not the slightest folly
That ever love did make thee run into,
Thou hast not loved."
—As You Like It, William Shakespeare
~~
Few wonders in the galaxy can match the beauty of Felucia during the summer solstice. The longest day of the year marks a new beginning for this planet of eternal warmth, celebrated by vibrant displays of native flora that decorate every inch of the tropical jungle, from lush leaves of sky-reaching canopies to the damp, grassless earth beneath.
Passionflowers extend their bright, lance-shaped petals, ornate like the jeweled crowns of kings, while vines of bleeding hearts dangle between moss-coated branches, attracting small, feathery pollinators that rival their crystalline vibrancy. Even the most shadowed curves and crooks of ancient trees shelter fragrant, night-blooming orchids and glittering Birds of Paradise—too stunning to be true and certainly must bear poison in their thorns.
But the Felucian elders do not warn Kenobi and Skywalker of the Birds of Paradise and their noxious thorns. Instead, it is the angel-tipped begonias with their ice-blue petals and golden spores that cast fear into the hearts of the small, reptilian villagers.
“They roam like creatures, forming blankets over the soil overnight and disappearing just as quickly. We cannot tell you which regions to avoid, because we simply do not know where the wind has carried their seeds.”
“And what are the consequences if we do fall victim to the poison?” asks Obi-Wan.
“One whiff of their pollen can drive a being mad with lust, a slave to his or her most basal of needs.”
“Does a cure exist?”
“Only time, and the repeated completion of the task,” the elder coughs meaningfully.
The cruiser carrying Ventress has crashed among the densest canopies of the Felucian jungle, and no aphrodisiacal flower is going to deter Anakin and Obi-Wan in their pursuit of the Sith apprentice.
“We thank you for your concern,” Obi-Wan responds politely, “And we will take these cautions to heart.”
With a curt nod, the two Jedi depart from the gates of the small, rustic village, traversing the jungle quickly and with efficiency, the black tower of smoke from the crash site their only beacon to the Dathomirian Sith. Sparing only a fragment of his concentration, Anakin notes the passing foliage from the corners of his eyes—yellow orchids and broad dew-laden leaves, speckled lilies budding from stagnant puddles, spidery vines that snag his trailing robes, perturbing his otherwise perfect equilibrium.
No icy-blue begonias, as far as he is concerned, but the Felucian elder did warn that these flowers propagate in swarms, sprouting like weeds in areas easily overlooked like damp ditches, rotting trunks, and shady corners below canopies—
“Sith-hell!” comes a strangled cry behind him, and Anakin breaks so abruptly, nearly catching himself off balance as he halts on a high, arching branch.
He looks around to find Obi-Wan gone, lost somewhere among the dense greenery. Anakin leaps to the soil beneath, worry knotting in the depth of his gut.
“Obi-Wan!” he shouts, “Where are you?”
“Anakin!” his former Master returns, his voice much closer than before. “Stay where you are!”
Anakin shoves impatiently passed the foliage obstructing his path, only to find the older Jedi sitting inside a damp, murky ditch, surrounded by a flowerbed of icy blue. Obi-Wan sneezes, the sudden movement casting a small dust storm of golden pollen into the air around him.
With tremendous effort, Anakin keeps his expression blank. “Are you hurt, Master?”
“I-I don’t think so,” Obi-Wan stammers, an uncharacteristic fear flickering in his stormy blue eyes. He smiles weakly, almost apologetically at his former Padawan as he smudges a blotch of yellow high on his right cheek. “I am afraid these are the very flora that the elder has warned us about.”
Not often does Obi-Wan falter so haplessly from grace, and even rarer is Anakin allowed to bear witness. The younger Jedi watches his flustered Master with an unholy glee thinly veiled by a mask of calculated concern. He had privately hoped—against beleaguering morality and daunting odds—that something like this would happen to Obi-Wan.
How much time must pass for the effect of the pollen to take hold? Will a faint blush spread across Obi-Wan’s cheeks, reaching beneath his ginger beard, his neck, and even his shoulders and chest? Certainly, Obi-Wan will try to preserve his dignity and muffle his soft moans with the back of a gloved hand, but not even the perfect Jedi is above the most basal of human needs when intensified a thousand fold. Anakin just needs to be patient, unassuming, and approachable when that resolve of steel finally crumbles, and Obi-Wan would beseech him with stormy, lust-filled eyes and the word ‘please’ hanging ever so tantalizingly on the tip of his tongue.
Obi-Wan’s wellbeing would still be Anakin’s primary concern, of course. The poison must be washed off before any real action can be taken. Anakin would carry his former Master in his arms, whispering words of comfort as the older man trembles weakly against his chest. Once they reach the nearest river bank, Anakin would gently lower Obi-Wan to the wet pebbles beneath, unclasping the older Jedi’s robes with gentle reverence while batting away whatever resistance his former Master might muster. Once Obi-Wan is bare—flushed and beautiful beneath the setting sun—Anakin would undress himself with efficiency and haste, aiding his former Master into the cool, rippling water.
Obi-Wan would cling to him—Force, Anakin can dream—face buried in the younger man’s shoulder, chest pressed against chest, his helpless erection prodding along Anakin’s muscled thigh. Anakin would grip Obi-Wan beneath the water, twisting his wrist in measured strokes without teasing too much, bringing Obi-Wan to completion as quickly as possible.
Repeated completion of the task, the Felucian elder had said, so there would be plenty of opportunity to draw out desperate of pleas and wanton moans from; Anakin need not to rush. Obi-Wan, above all else, deserves to feel good.
Anakin sighs inadvertently, the brief pipedream alone is enough to make him go from flaccid to full salute in mere seconds. He shifts from foot to foot, discreetly repositioning his robes to conceal his arousal. The two Jedi watch each other for what feels like an eternity, every muscle in their bodies string tight from anticipation.
Eventually, Anakin breaks the silence. “You seem fine.”
“I feel fine,” Obi-Wan responds, moving gingerly beneath in the mostly settled pollen. “Strange. Maybe the begonias do not have the same averse effects on Jedi as they do on Felucians.”
Obi-Wan rises to his feet, brows furrowed in thought as he brushes at the yellow dust tinting his clothes.
How disappointing, Anakin sighs, his mind very lucidly in the present now. “Perhaps it is still best to wash off the pollen. Come, Master, I hear rushing water ahead.”
They reach a riverbank just as the sun touches the gray silhouettes of distant mountains, casting splendid stripes of red and orange to the stormy underbellies of clouds. Anakin finds a resting place on a smooth, flat rock as he watches Obi-Wan strip by the pebbled beach, wading into the glistening water before him.
Obi-Wan halts once the surface obscures his lower half, scooping up water with his palms and splashing his flat stomach, his defined chest, his smooth shoulders faintly dusted in freckles. The setting sun behind him limns his copper hair with a soft halo of gold.
Beautiful, yet unobtainable, like sunbeams in your palms, Obi-Wan washes himself in silence and with quick, thorough efficiency, wholly unaware of Anakin’s aching heart inside his too-tight chest.
~~
Perched high atop a jagged rock with the morning sun illuminating her ashen skin, Ventress waits for Kenobi and Skywalker in her hidden alcove behind a small waterfall.
“My, my, Obi-Wan,” the Sith apprentice greets in a seductive drawl, “And here I was thinking you’ve forgotten all about me.”
Ventress rises to her feet, arms open and palms raised, as a small army of battle droids emerges from the shadowed corners of the cave, firing their blasters at the Jedi duo. Obi-Wan’s scoff is barely audible as he lights his weapon, completely indifferent to Ventress’ taunting, flirting—or whatever in Sith-hell the Dathomirian is trying to play at—Anakin can never tell.
“And here I was hoping for a more creative ploy since the last time we met.”
With a vicious snarl, Ventress ignites her twin sabers, lunging at Obi-Wan as she did during numerous battles prior. Anakin lets his former Master handle the Sith apprentice, resigning himself to grunt-work as he thrashes his way through the line of battle droids.
Ventress attacks, and Obi-Wan matches her every move, red and blue clashing in a violent but intimate tango. Obi-Wan is holding himself back, Anakin can tell. It’s one of his favorite tactics against Ventress—allowing her the upper hand in the beginning and prolonging the duel for as long as necessary, until the Dathomirian’s movements become frenzied and careless, her frustration overshadowing her judgment and training. Only then, does the experienced Jedi switch to offense.
But Ventress is not taking the bait this time, enjoying their skirmish way too much for the lack of results so far.
“Oh, how I missed you, my darling,” she taunts with a savage smile, “And how I will miss this when I finally kill you.”
“Do not be so sure of yourself, Ventress,” Obi-Wan replies smoothly, turning to deflect the rays of harsh red crashing down on him. “Unbecoming of an apprentice to succumb to pride.”
With a strangled cry, Ventress hoists herself away from the Jedi, allowing both of them a brief respite to regain their footing. A shadow falls over her cruel features, but it is not the same hatred and barely-contained rage that Anakin had anticipated. The young Knight watches with morbid curiosity as he overruns the last of the battle droids.
“I changed my mind,” Ventress says, circling Obi-Wan in an almost predatory fashion, her hips swaying in a sultry display. “Actually, I would like to keep you, chained and stringed up, naked, begging…”
Anakin inwardly gags, his stomach stirring with equal jealousy and disgust. With a face like hers, Ventress is better off casting nightmares to younglings than to seduce Anakin’s Master in such a vulgar manner.
“Jedi do not beg,” is Obi-Wan’s only response, but Anakin can sense a touch of uneasiness in his voice.
Ventress flashes a vicious smile, before throwing herself at Obi-Wan once more. “Then, I accept your challenge, Jedi!”
They strike and parry with even greater intensity than before, Ventress’ eerie grin almost as unsettling as her uncharacteristic poise. “How I would love to have you as my pet—a collar around your neck, a ring around your cock.”
She turns, her black robes rippling as she dips to her knees, her low swing forcing Obi-Wan to jump, staggering backwards as he struggles to maintain his balance.
“I would have you tied to my bed, blindfolded and gagged, spread open and tantalizingly helpless as you beg for release…”
A strike to the left sends Obi-Wan dashing to the right, bemusement etched in his features as he licks at his drying lips. Ventress’s gaze falls almost immediately to the Jedi’s parted mouth.
“And I would put that mouth to good use, especially that clever tongue of yours. When I’m done with you, pleasure and pain would be one and the same.”
Obi-Wan closes his eyes, inhaling deeply as he clears his mind. Once stormy blue returns to durasteel gray, Anakin feels nothing but calm and determination resounding within their shared bond.
Another brief skirmish ensues before Obi-Wan finally disarms the Sith apprentice, but Ventress is not depleted of her tricks just yet, using the Force to shove against Obi-Wan’s chest before twirling into his open arms. With her back against the Jedi’s front, Ventress takes a hold of Obi-Wan’s wrists, wrapping his arms around her smaller frame in a mocking embrace.
Obi-Wan struggles weakly, unsure of how to respond to their surprisingly intimate position. Ventress shifts in his hold, turning to nuzzle against Obi-Wan’s beard and pressing her lips against his chin.
Anakin disentangles himself from his pile of droid parts, the cybernetic hand holding his lightsaber shaking with rage. Before he can free his Master from this wretched ensnarement, Ventress separates herself from Obi-Wan, leaping over Anakin and towards the exit where a ship has arrived to aid her escape.
Obi-Wan and Anakin chase after her, only to see her retreating figure as the ship launches into the sky.
“Goodbye, my Obi-Wan!” Ventress shouts over the noise of the engine, her long dress sweeping in the wind. “Next time, my love, I will be sure to bring you to your knees.
~~
In hindsight, Anakin has found their encounter with Ventress infuriating, but not entirely surprising. While his former Master is not strikingly handsome, he eludes a certain refined, sensible, and unassuming charm that seems to effortlessly draw the attention of female admirers. And Ventress—despite her cold-bloodedness and frightening exterior—is nonetheless a female, subject to the same desires as all other females, whose preferred bed partner happens to be those of the opposite sex.
So why should it matter if Ventress has a crush on Obi-Wan? So did Master Tachi and the Dutchess Satine—two fair-haired, gentle beauties whom both Obi-Wan had politely refused in the end. No way in Sith-hell would Obi-Wan fall for Ventress, considering the surfeit of options he has before him.
The memory of his former Master in the arms of Ventress plagues his sleep, but Anakin has little time to quell his nerves before a distress signal from Dagobah sends them rushing back to the Outer Rim. Anakin and Obi-Wan storm though the colossal Separatist spaceship, leaving behind a simmering trail of lightsaber burns and metal scraps. When they finally reach the control room where Grievous awaits, the Separatist General already has his weapons ignited, revolving his four lightsabers like the rotor blades of a grotesque helicopter.
“Take care of Skywalker,” he rasps to his minions, “Leave Kenobi to me.”
Anakin sighs as he detaches from the older Jedi, redirecting his focus to the small army of droids entering from a side compartment. He can never quite understand this ridiculous obsession with Obi-Wan that seems to rankle the hearts of their most fearsome enemies.
Anakin makes short work of the battle droids, soon rejoining Obi-Wan in countering Grievous. He blocks the saber aimed at his lower left, just as Obi-Wan fends off two to the right. Anakin huffs indignantly, as he falls in sync with his partner’s movements, swinging and dipping to the rhythm that Obi-Wan has dictated. Even with Anakin joining their battle, Grievous spares only one weapon to fend off the young Knight, appearing determined to impale the impertinent Jedi Master with his other three.
Following through on a wayward swing, Anakin manages to skid his weapon across the general’s chest plate, leaving behind a superficial trail of burnt black.
That captures Grievous’ attention, as the cyborg commander howls with rage, crashing all four of his weapons towards Anakin. The young Knight manages to deflect two, before the third disarms him. He slides onto the metal floor of the control room to avoid the fourth, turning onto his back only for the general’s durasteel foot to crush painfully against his sternum.
“Anakin!” Obi-Wan shouts, faltering as Grievous takes advantage of this distraction, gripping onto Obi-Wan’s wrist and twisting until the Jedi drops his saber.
“Ah,” Obi-Wan gasps, wincing in pain.
But instead of dealing the final blow, Grievous releases his weapons as well, connecting his metal appendages to Obi-Wan’s forearms and nearly lifting the Jedi so he may be at eye level.
They stay like this for a long time, with Obi-Wan trapped in durasteel hands and Anakin beneath a durasteel foot. Meanwhile, Grievous stares at Obi-Wan long and hard, as if trying to decipher his soul through the windows of blue-gray eyes.
Grievous is the first to speak, rasping through his inorganic lungs in an uncharacteristically measured tone. “Never in half a millennium have I felt my heart beat with such life, such fervor inside this metal cage that suddenly feels too small.”
Obi-Wan grimaces as the grip along his forearms tighten. “P-Pardon me?”
“With eyes that glow like winter’s dawn break,
Pure and tender as the hope of spring.
My heart rises to your whispered name,
For thee, Obi-Wan, my soul dares to sing…”
Grievous rambles on through his two-hundred-and-eighty-two-line epic poem directed towards Obi-Wan, halting only to cough the sickly buildup inside his artificial lungs. Still trapped beneath a metal foot, Anakin is paralyzed with shock, cringing as the cyborg general layers praise upon praise of Obi-Wan’s outward beauty and his inner strength, while he himself laments the loss of his own body, which makes it impossible for him to feel even the most desperate touches or the warmest embrace.
“Cyborgs can love, I promise it is true.
Allow me one chance, Obi-Wan,
and I will be honored to show you.”
“This is not happening,” Anakin releases a strangled cry, squeezing his eyes shut as he summons an abandoned lightsaber. “I’ve had enough! I’m not listening anymore! Shut up! SHUT UP!”
With a reckless swing, Anakin amputates the metal appendage trapping him, rolling onto his side and springing to his feet. Grievous roars as he teeters off balance, forced to release Obi-Wan in order to break his fall. An explosion in some distant part of the space ship causes the entire chamber to shake, just as Aayla Secura’s voice floods through Anakin’s receiver, urging them to abandon the ship.
Anakin grips onto the older Jedi’s elbow, pulling him away once they both retrieved their lightsabers. “We have to go, Obi-Wan! This whole ship is going down!”
They race down the corridor of the collapsing ship, sparks flying in all directions while steam pours from ruptured pipes. Grievous’ voice echoes hollowly against the durasteel walls, whirring like the wail of a tortured ghost.
“Don’t leave me, my love! Come back! Come back!”
Only when Anakin and Obi-Wan reach the safety of the Republic’s cruiser does either of them dare to address the unsettling events that have unfolded in the past few days. Breath still heavy from their narrow escape, Obi-Wan is the first to speak, just as Anakin drops tiredly onto the thin medical cot beside his former Master
“I’m afraid the Felucian begonias are not without their averse effects, after all.”