Star Wars Guys x Reader

Number 72: Obi-Wan Kenobi x Reader

A/N: requested by marvelgirl11111111 - i'm sorry this took me so long, i've been slowly working through the requests <33

Warnings: dad!obi wan, swearing, the jedi council are kinda bitchy, mention of panic attacks, sorry most of this fic doesn't even have obi wan in it, no proof reading whatsoever,

Word count: 1662

You run your hand through your hand through your short hair, staring at yourself in the mirror. This is a part of you that no one sees - the part that refuses to please others, the part that is only for you, the part that is only a number - 72. That's what is emblazoned on the back of your obsidian and navy motocross suit. That's the only thing you answer to nights on these. That's the only thing you can hear when the crowd roars, sitting forward eagerly in their seats to catch sight of number 72, weaving her way expertly through the off road courses on her jet black Harley Davidson, not pausing to look back.

They know your face, but not your name.

They've seen you remove your helmet, eyes glowing with a kind of joy that occurs rarely in the Jedi Temple, and you're unrecognisable. Not one of the people in the crowd would be able to identify you with your wig on, because what would the Council say if one of their padawans engaged in such a dangerous, often corrupt sport? Worse, what would the Council say about what something as small as your haircut could imply about the Jedi?

They infuriate you, actually. Master Kenobi, your master, and Master Skywalker are the only exceptions. Sometimes, you glimpse the burning fury in the latter's eyes, and you wait with bated breath to see what he'll say, what he'll do, whether it will have any impact on the Council, yet it never seems to do so. They're stuck in the old ways, obsessing over minute details and failing to see the bigger picture. Or that's what you tell Master Kenobi in your weakest moments, when you can't do anything but let the words out, and he'll hold you close to his chest, just listening as you blurt out words that in any other situation would be considered treasonous.

To be honest, you can't remember the last time someone who didn't know you as 72 saw you without your wigs. You're sure Master Kenobi would be able to recognise you, but there's no way he'd know about your secret, just as there's no way he knows where you're headed tonight - a motocross tournament, with thousands of spectators from the lower layers of Coruscant, eagerly awaiting number 72's appearance on the course. You managed to worm your way out of training this afternoon so you could prepare and arrive on time, which is a miracle in itself. There's nothing that makes your heart race more than the roar of the crowds as they catch sight of your face - easily recognisable due to the cloth tied over the lower half of your face. In the Jedi Temple, that cloth is removed to reveal shining beskar, a wonderfully crafted prosthetic for the half of your face that was burned off by a Sith's lightsaber before Master Kenobi saved you.

Sighing, you glance to your left. A golden hawk perches on your window sill, and you smile and nod in greeting. You've learnt how to shape and mould the Force around you to allow you to communicate with animals, and although their brains work differently from your own, they've become the brothers and sisters you lacked in the Jedi Temple. You can confide in them, and trust that they won't rat you out to Master Windu or Master Yoda.

The hawk blinks, cocking it's head at you. Going flying again?

Flying is the word you've substituted for motocross. It's too hard to explain to a bird how you can't simply just launch yourself out of a window and not risk death at the bottom of your fall, and it's even harder to explain that as a Human, you're forced to rely on machines to reach speeds that a hawk can easily achieve, so you don't. You're sure that the elation that hits you during motocross is extremely similar to the feeling of warm air beneath your wings, ruffling your feathers.