Two Halfs of One Warrior • Obikin/Vaderwan One-Shots

I Feel The Rush, I'm Addicted To Your Touch

• Summary: “You won’t feel a thing, sir,” Kix assures him. He flicks the IV bag. “This right here? Full of Kashyyykian orchid juice. Second this stuff hits, you’ll be floating on a cloud.”

“Oh,” says Anakin. He grins. “What’s complicated about it, then?”

“It’s just that some people tend to get a little funny on this stuff. Nothing serious! But, well, try not to think too hard about any embarrassing secrets you might be keeping, yeah?”

Anakin swallows down the urge to look at Obi-Wan. Not that he’s embarrassed about it—but it is, well, kind of a big secret that he’s, you know. Fucking his former master. Hopelessly in love with his former master. Whatever.

Or, Anakin's mechno arm is damaged beyond repair. To remove it, Kix doses him with Kashyyykian orchid juice. High Anakin is both very sweet and horny for his master.

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The blast knocks Anakin off of his feet.

He’s stunned by the explosion, bones shuddering, teeth rattling in his skull. It means that he’s unable to do more than reach wildly for the Force, desperate, as his body tumbles gracelessly through the air. He only manages to slow himself by a fraction—too little, too late—before he slams full-force into the towering durasteel wall behind him. Debris rains down around him: shrapnel and droid-parts and chunks of impossibly heavy metal, all blown apart by the force of the Separatist bomb.

Anakin knows even before his vision clears that something is terribly wrong.

Pain, razor-sharp, lances through his right arm. It is intense enough that he barely feels the rest of the pain he knows he should be in—especially given how hard his head hit the wall. In fact, he’s dimly aware of something warm and wet trickling down the back of his neck. But his arm—it’s agony, red-hot, a ring of burning where durasteel connects to flesh. And what’s worse, he can’t move it.

The battle is still raging around him, though Anakin can hear other, distant explosions echoing through the facility. Evidently, the Separatists would rather bomb their own droid factory to ruin than allow the Republic a clean victory. At this point, he and his men just need to get out of here. But—

Anakin tries to lift his wrist again. It’s futile; his arm is caught beneath an enormous hunk of metal plating. Even the brief attempted movement sends another wave of nauseating pain roiling through him, intense enough to leave him lightheaded. Okay—okay, he needs another plan.

This is fine.

“Rex,” he manages to gasp into his com. It’s damaged and lightly smoking, so he can only hope it still works. “Can you hear me?”

The relief that washes over him when Rex’s voice crackles through—“I hear you, sir!”—is dizzying.

“I need you to get the men out of here,” he says. “This whole factory is going to come down.” As if to punctuate his point, another explosion rocks through the facility, rattling the walls.

“Yes, sir,” says Rex. “Rendezvous back at the ship?”

Anakin stares at his trapped arm, eyes narrowed. “Uh, yeah,” he hedges. “See you there.”

The com goes silent.

With a deep breath, Anakin lifts his left arm and focuses on the metal plating pinning down his right. He tries to shift it with the Force, to lift it just enough to tug his mechno hand free—but it only shudders a little in place, barely moving at all.