Chapter One:

Auralism: Voice Kink

Obi-Wan Kenobi

Part One of Two

Hemlock Potter

Two words should not be able to ruin a person. Not a little, not a lot, and not at all.

Hemlock Potter, at twenty-three, could rattle off plenty of two worded sentences she had heard, and said, throughout her life. Succinct ones, contractions to save time, for she was always looking to save something.

Not really. It depends. Fuck off. Ate breakfast. Woke up. Too early. Read some. Got Bored. Go away. Leave me. Good Morning. Late night. Fuck off.

That one was a repeat, wasn't it?

Well, she was particularly fond of it.

Nevertheless, the point stood. Two words should not be able to ruin a person.

They could sound pretty, fancy prose all dabbled in gilt. Flakes floating. Snow drifting. Wars raging. Youth dying. Flowers blooming. Sighing breaths. Reaching hands. Sweaty skin. Tongues touching. Lips parting. Back arching. Blood spraying.

Certainly, they could sound lovely, they could make you feel things if strung together properly, stitched between meaning and value imparting images best left treasured and forgotten, but they shouldn't be able to ruin a person.

Your dead. He's dead. We're dead. Everyone's dead.

Indeed, two words could be threatening, confusing, prophesying doom and gloom and one's worst fears, but they could not, themselves, detached from the actions of the words, ruin a person.

It shouldn't be possible.

Words were just air held in a lung before being pushed through vocal cords humming at a certain frequency, from one throat to one ear.

Troubled air. That's what words were, Hemlock thought. Troubled air, and troubled air should not be able to ruin a person.

But then she fell through the Veil, and ended up in a galaxy far, far, far away, where men could be robots, and wizards now went around with light swords, and magic was called the Force and-

And there they were, two words, just two.

He was nothing special, Hemlock told herself.

A man with, perhaps, at a push, a decade on her, nothing to a Witch or Wizard, with a neatly kept beard, and bright blue eyes, and auburn hair, having a thing for gingers was apparently a Potter problem, and he smiled so brightly, and he spoke so gently-

Two words.

"Hello there."

Hemlock had been a goner ever since.

Hemlock Potter

If it wasn't the words themselves, it must have been the voice that did it, Hemlock surmises. Obi-Wan Kenobi has a… Voice.

All men did.

Everyone did.

Here, Droids did too, and robots were still something Hemlock was having trouble getting used to.

But there was something… Special in Kenobi's.

It was warm and inviting, and it felt as if he spoke from the chest rather than the tongue or the teeth or the lips, and they were pretty too, white and pink and-

Off track.

There was something sleek and smooth to the tones of Obi-Wan Kenobi's voice, like silk on skin.

It was easy to ignore in the beginning.

The Jedi were weary of her. Rightfully so, she supposes. She was a relic from the Order's ancient history, a member of the first race of Force users, Magic users, hurtling through their Shroud, her Veil, and they were not quite sure how to handle someone like that.

Someone who should have been dead thousands upon thousands of years ago, very much alive and willing to shove a boot up their pedantic arses.

The language barrier didn't help.

It took months to finally be able to sit down and have a half-way decent conversation with Master Yoda.

Yet, soon enough, they realized she wasn't a Sith, had, in fact, spent her life fighting Dark forces herself, and because she was made of magic-

Force, they called it Force here, she had a… Bit of a kick to her, should she say.

She's strong.

They were in a war.

They need help.

Hemlock had a saviour complex.

It seemed like a match made in heaven.

She forgot about those two words in the months she's living high in the Jedi Temple with Master Yoda, far away from her crash landing at Obi-Wan Kenobi's feet and his damning 'Hello there', and she had bigger problems to face.

Like how the hell she had ended up there to begin with, and how by Merlin she was going to get home.

But the Clone wars kicked off, and Hemlock did what she did best.

Tried to save as many people as she could.

And then, in all his infinite wisdom, Master Yoda put her on Kenobi's team with a whiny Skydancer and a scrappy teen called Ahsoka, and that damned, damned man and his sinful bloody voice.

He greeted her much the same in the council meeting as he had the first time.

"Hello there."

That was when Hemlock Potter realized it must have been the voice that ruined her.

Hemlock Potter.

It wasn't the voice.

It couldn't be.

Obviously, it was nice voice, gentle in a way no one had ever really been gentle with her before, soft and cosy and tickly in a way that felt like fingers skimming but stuck like static.

Like static, trying to brush it off only made it worse.

It was Kenobi's Force signature, the magical blueprint of his soul.

It must have been.

How else could she recognize him when no one else, not even Anakin, who was still a whiny bastard on the best of days but had wormed into a small, very small, place in her heart, could when Kenobi was going around with Rako Hardeen's face.

Hemlock had not cried at Kenobi's funeral.

She hadn't even attended.

She had been too busy prowling the streets, through the rain and the speeders and the towering fluorescent heights of Coruscant, tracking down the prick she had thought had taken Obi-Wan down with a single shot.

She had been…

Not angry. Not like she had been with Sirius, when she had wanted to injure Bellatrix, make her pay, make her hurt as Hemlock was hurting.

She wasn't teary as she had been with Dobby, holding him in her arms on Shell Cottage beach sobbing in the saltwater.

She hadn't been despondent, as she had been seeing Remus in the Great hall, detached from the cool, blank face that had once smiled toothily. Remus had been gone by then, what remained was nothing but a husk, and having died herself so recently at that point, she knew he was somewhere in the white, in the better place far away from the war and the death and the blood.

Obi-Wan was likely in the better place too, the do-gooder, but that better place was not with her, and that thought, that feeling-

It felt... Impossible. Not truly real. As if she had placed her hand in the fire, but she could not tell her limb to pull back out. As if all of a sudden every atom of her being had been desynchronized, and she was going to float away in ionized particles.

As if-

As if she, too, now, was somehow gone as well.

She wasn't angry. She didn't cry. Hemlock had simply been planning on tracking the bounty hunter down, and skinning his face off and force feeding it back to him strip by fuckin' strip.

She didn't know what emotion that was, but… There it was.

Kenobi was aggravating, confusing, a muddle of… Things Hemlock couldn't name, and he drove her up the wall, down it too, around and over, but… But he was her aggravating confusing tea-drinking befuddlement. Some arse-wit bounty hunter wasn't allowed to just come in and take him from her.

So, she had not gone to the funeral, instead she had hunted, and Hemlock had found the bastard responsible hiding away in the top floors of Moshi's bar.

She had cornered him. Jumped him. Leapt from the dark of his room and pounced, draped an arm around his neck and flung, cracking his head against the steel plate of the door he had walked through and-

And one touch, one look, one sense, and Hemlock had known.

"Obi-Wan fuckin' Kenobi?!"

He had smiled at her with another man's face, but she could feel him there, just below the surface. Extraordinary. Incomparable. A burning light that almost blinded her.

"Hello there."

He explained it all then. The hit on the Chancellor's life. The presence of Dooku and a band of rogue bounty hunters on the outskirts of Coruscant. The Jedi needing a man on the inside to foil the plot.

Hemlock, of course, had shoved him again for his trick.

Nearly swung for his head too.

She had thought him dead, lost, like so many others and-

And there he was, with his two words, and his soft voice, and that singular sense of Force.

"If Anakin doesn't kill you for this, I bloody well will. So you better come back, do you hear me? If I have to cart my sorry self across this mess of a galaxy to kill you, I'm going to be pissed."

He laughed at her, with her, light and breezy and utterly Kenobi'ly.

"I'll be back before you know it. Now, if you could be a dear, keep this just between us for a little while? The Order doesn't need Anakin being… Anakin right now."

Hemlock nodded, and left soon after.

But she never gave her word.

She told Anakin the truth as soon as she got back, Ahsoka too.

If Kenobi didn't come back, didn't keep his promise, she was going to need help finding the maddening-man and killing him.

Or reviving him if he had gone and gotten himself killed, so she could murder him herself.

A.N: This is a collection of short fics/two shots I've been hoarding since I've began writing Before Us, Cheap Medicine, and Edge of Yesterday. All of them are just smut. Plain, filthy smut. The plot is thin here boys, but the waters warm, so jump right in!

Hope you guys like this, and what is coming. Each short will have a Kink explored, this one is Voice Kink, and the real juicy stuff comes in the next as I wanted to give all first-time readers a heads up before it comes, and final part of it. I just posted this bit to put some feelers out and test responses.

If anyone has a pairing they want to see, along with a Kink, leave a comment, or a message, and I'll try my best to see it done.

As always, thank you for taking to time out to read this nonsense, hope you enjoyed it, and if you can, and want to see more, don't forget to drop a review! See you all soon.