Junk in the Trunk

by Anonymous

Summary:

Anything can be sex if you try hard enough. Like rearranging your suitcases in the trunk of your space minivan.

Notes:

• For sky-kenobye (Kenobye).

This gets weird! I don't know how to even tag for it! I just came up with the very strange core concept, decided to see if it was something anyone might like for Smut Wars, and then modded it a bit to be more in line with some DNWs, and set it free.

That said... feel free to refuse the gift. I get it. It's not something anyone could reasonable DNW for because. Who would even think to include it? If it's just a gift for the exchange and not for you, then no hard feelings.

Chapter 1: Loading the Trunk

Notes:

You know, I thought this would be a common thing in Transformers fandom, but my friends who actually do that fandom have informed that it's pretty rare. So I feel even more insane.

Anakin is a spaceship.

He didn’t used to be.

Anakin was once a living, breathing human individual, with the Force, and then he was hurt, and in his dying state he did something he doesn’t quite remember, enlisting the help of a medical droid and his own insanity, and now…

Well, now he’s a brain in a spaceship.

It’s not the neatest solution in history, but at least he still gets to fly. He’s a bit larger than the average fighter, enough to sleep a night or two, but no real bed, or fresher, or galley.

A hand pats his hull over the nose. He shouldn’t be able to feel it, objectively, but the Force provides.

“We’ll be off soon, dear,” Obi-Wan assures him. Anakin revs his engine a little, like a hum of agreement. He wishes he were still capable of the kind of movement that flesh provides, where he could lean into the pressure and luxuriate in the closeness, but he can’t.

“I’m assuming you read the mission briefing?”

It took less than a second. He’s mostly droid now, after all.

“I suppose you must be quite excited.”

He is. Obi-Wan knows.

Padmé is coming. They’re taking her to Naboo for the birth of the twins. The war is over and Anakin is going-not-going to be a father, and Obi-Wan knows everything.

It’s not every day that a distraught senator demands to know what happened to her husband, if she’s a widow now, with babies on the way. And Anakin’s not entirely dead, but the end result isn’t too different.

He’s never going to be able to hold his children, not really.

“You’ll be fine,” Obi-Wan assures him with another pat to the nose. “She still loves you.”

--

Padmé is as beautiful as ever. Anakin has some wonderful cameras, by his own demands, but he can feel it. Her beauty radiates like the heat of the suns. He adores her.

She looks sad.

“And you’re… sure he’s in there?” Padmé asks Obi-Wan, one hand on her rounded belly and the other on a suitcase. “It’s not just wishful thinking?”

Anakin does not like using his speakers. He can sound like an approximation of himself, based on old recordings and his own self-perception, but it’s always just a little off. He prefers to communicate through text, with most people, or through the Force, with Obi-Wan.

For Padmé, though, he’ll do anything.

“It’s me, Angel,” he says, the sound just barely reaching her since the speaker is meant for inside the vehicle, and not to project out to the tarmac. “I’m still here. I’m different, but I’m me.”

Her eyes fill with tears, and she grabs Obi-Wan’s arm, gripping for dear life. “Oh, Ani…”

Obi-Wan pats her hand awkwardly.

“How about I start getting your luggage in the trunk?” Obi-Wan asks. “It might take some finagling, but I’m sure we’ll manage.”

Anakin’s hardly had use of the trunk yet. He’s really only ever flown by Obi-Wan—it’s an intimate thing, to be piloted—and they’ve only run missions where they don’t need a whole lot of supplies. A backpack, even a duffel, but never more than Obi-Wan can just toss into the passenger seat or, that time Rex came along, the back row.

There are eight seats. Padmé is only the fourth person to be in Anakin for travel instead of the initial whirl of panicked assessments by the medics and engineers, and then the healers and artisans. Obi-Wan, of course, and Rex, and Ahsoka.

(Ahsoka had been in the back, slumped over and napping.)

“I’ll admit it’s quite a lot,” Padmé says, an air of distraction to her words as she wanders closer and runs a tentative hand over Anakin’s frame.

The trunk opens, and Obi-Wan runs his hands over the felt padding that lines the bottom and sides. Checking to see if it’s laying flat, if there’s anything he needs to know—latches and pull-tabs—before he starts.

If Anakin were still human, with vocal cords tied to his emotions instead of speakers that weren’t at all intuitive to use, he’d have moaned.

It’s the Force, it must be. He’d known he could feel things, of course, but not like this. Not this—this sensitive, sensual thing that’s as much a caress as it is a patdown.

Obi-Wan lifts up a corner of the padding to check a latch that would lead to a secondary storage compartment, and Anakin feels that, too. Feels himself open and gaping, painless but so very exposed, under his Master’s hands.

“I think we’re good to start,” Obi-Wan says, utterly unknowing that his spaceship-padawan, is at least mentally, whining like the strill in heat. “I’ll handle the heavy lifting, Senator. You just tell me if something is fragile and needs to go on top.”

“Alright,” Padmé says. She, too, puts a hand to the felt padding and presses a little. Testing the safety, certainly, but it’s a tease to Anakin’s starving body.

He hasn’t been aroused since the accident.

“That one is the sturdiest,” Padmé says; Anakin’s doing his best to pay attention, though it’s hard with how surprised he is. “So it should probably go on bottom.”

“Alright,” Obi-Wan says. He lifts it, with a little help from the Force that Anakin can feel, and it settles in the trunk softly. Gently.

Heavily.

The sensation isn’t like anything Anakin’s felt before, because nothing he feels these days is like anything he felt as a human. If pressed, he’d have compared it to the first, probing, exploratory finger on the nights Padmé had her way with him.

The trunk isn’t his ass, but in this moment, it’s the only thing at all similar, because he feels suddenly, wonderfully full.

And still so empty.

Still needing more.

“Alright, these thinner ones,” Obi-Wan says, utterly ignorant of Anakin’s deep and visceral urge to beg him to be filled to the brim, “do they do best when stacked flat, or vertical and side to side?”

Vertical, apparently. There are three. They have wheels on those thin bottoms, and Obi-Wan slides them in, rolling on the felt, and if Anakin had a head, it would be dropping between his shoulders. He’d be begging. They’ll only need one more bit of luggage to fill out the whole width of the trunk, and—

“Ah, I think this one will fit,” Obi-Wan says, pushing a smaller case between the wall and the first four.

Anakin’s camera’s glitch for a moment. Perhaps this is how his soul and mind are approximating the sensation of his eyes rolling back as several fingers, two knuckles deep, stretch and twist him.

He’s not even halfway full yet, but he needs it.

“Along the front, there’s space… it can’t be anything too tall or top-heavy, we can’t risk it falling out when we open it up later.”

Can’t risk it falling out, because Anakin’s gaping hole is so slutty and empty and—

(Padmé had been better at dirty talk than Anakin’s own mind is. He wishes she were telling him these things. Dirtier things even. It’s fine if Obi-Wan hears. Anakin doesn’t mind.)

There is a bone-deep—chassis-deep satisfaction in having his storage spaces filled. In being used like he’s meant to be. In being useful to his wife and his Master.

And they’re taking such care with the luggage, too. Obi-Wan’s taken better care of Anakin’s new body, keeping him clean and neat, then Anakin ever did of his old one. He even vacuums.

“Oh, what’s this?” Padmé asks. She opens a panel in the side of the trunk, half-hidden in a recess behind one of the cases, and Anakin feels it like a nip of teeth right where it feels best.

“Looks like a power outlet,” Obi-Wan says. “Not universal, but we should have a converter somewhere. That’ll be useful.”

He’s useful.

The close the panel and start to debate the next bag to go in. Padmé is bringing some food, things easier to get on Coruscant than on Naboo, cravings she doesn’t want to do without or wait for someone to hunt down on a planet with fewer connections to the far reaches of the galaxy… and Obi-Wan hadn’t seen it before, hidden behind other suitcases.

He considers the bags and Anakin’s trunk, and then says, “alright, I think I’ll have to change a few things.”

He takes out the fifth case from Anakin’s side, and one of the thin cases, and Anakin feels the emptiness like it’s killing him.

Anakin may not be able to pant anymore, but he feels like his soul is. In the Force. Panting.

His metaphorical breath hiccups when Obi-Wan slides the cooler into place, and then pulls everything a little more forward—a little closer to out—and slips one of the thin suitcases all the way behind everything else, so it’s like a little wall against the seats. There’s enough room left to put the smallest case in the empty back corner.

They’re playing luggage tetris, and as Anakin is filled, he is also fulfilled.

He needs to be stuffed. Used. Filled up. He needs this so much. He didn’t even know it. He needs the suitcases and the boxes and the cooler to be arranged perfectly to fill every nook and cranny without pinching or prodding or—

What is wrong with him, and how can he get them to do this again?

“Hm,” Obi-Wan says, slipping a hand into the gap between the suitcases and the curved edge of the trunk. “Do you think we need to worry about anything slipping?”

“I think we’re fine,” Padmé says slowly, though she too puts a hand in to measure the gap of several inches.

Anakin’s gap. His gape. Fill it, please.

“Ah, I have a winter cloak on the back seat,” Obi-Wan says. “I planned to use it as a blanket if necessary, but we can use it as padding if you’d like.”

“Maybe,” Padmé says. “But let’s figure out the rest of the bags first.”

Several hatboxes are reserved for the end. Smaller boxes, of datapads and physical books and other work things that Padmé insists she’ll need even while on maternity leave, are set atop the larger cases and tied into place. The ties go to small hooks set into Anakin’s walls for just that purpose.

It’s like he’s being tied up. Like. Like they’ve wrapped something around his cock, and finished it with a pretty bow.

His engine revs a little. He needs to check his internal temperature. Is it safe for a human? Is it safe for pregnancy?

“I think Anakin’s feeling a little impatient,” Obi-Wan jokes. He smacks Anakin’s hull, light and joking. “We’ll be off soon, you overgrown speeder.”

In his current state, Anakin feels that smack like a slap to the ass. He groans, unheard.

“Well, all we really still need is the hats,” Padmé muses, “and… I have a bag of little odds and ends here, toiletries and the like, if we need to stop off for the night somewhere.”

“We’ll have to stop a few times for fresher breaks and the like, but we should make it to Naboo in under two days,” Obi-Wan says. “Plus, his seats go down. You’ll have room to nap, and the most dedicated autopilot in the galaxy.”

Anakin is the most dedicated autopilot. He’s her pilot. He’ll do anything for her.

Not that he says that. He doesn’t like his own voice much nowadays, and he’s a little distracted.

He’s so full. He’s stuffed like a nuna bird on life day. It’s all so perfectly arranged. They even got a few bags of baby clothes, gifted from friends and colleagues, in the spaces around the sides.

“Here, there’s some webbing up here to keep it from sliding,” Obi-Wan says, pulling the parts down to make sure the hatboxes and toiletry bag don’t randomly fall. “That should be it.”

He’s full to bursting. He’d be moaning with it if he were still human. Drooling. Begging and pathetic and flushed, waiting for Padmé to do whatever she wants.

It’s been so long.

They’ve been filling him, emptying and moving and rearranging the luggage, for the better part of half an hour.

“I think that’s it,” Padmé says, and all she has left is the purse on her shoulder.

“I agree,” Obi-Wan says. He pats Anakin’s hull again. “Thank you, dear.”

Then he slams the trunk door down into place and Anakin loses it.

He doesn’t explode, which would just be the cherry on this stupid cake, but he certainly feels like he does. He feels full, like everything is in its proper place, like he’s been treated just right, like he’s reached a climactic, triumphant moment.

He feels like he’s just orgasmed. Not physically, but emotionally… spiritually…

Anakin can hardly think.

“Darling?”

Oh, Obi-Wan’s in the cockpit.

Ha. Cockpit.

Obi-Wan’s inside him, after just bringing him to something that wasn’t technically an orgasm, but sure did come within spitting distance.

It’s so close, yet so far, to what Anakin fantasized about through the majority of his teenage years.

“Ani?” Padmé asks, still low and worried. Still thinking that maybe this is all some horrible trick.

He flashes one of the screens to get their attention.

[That was]

What can he even say? He flits through several hundred variations in a second, each discarded and modified as he goes.

[I felt the packing process], he writes. [It was more intimate than I expected.]

His cameras catch Obi-Wan’s furrowed brow and pursed lip. The man reads the words silently, lips barely moving, and then asks, “intimate?”

[Sexually.]

There’s no good way to explain it, is there?

“Ex-cuse me? Padmé asks, one hand to her chest. “How?”

She sounds more confused than offended. That’s a good thing, right?

[Well it’s not like I KNEW. I would have told you. Nobody’s used the trunk before.]

Obi-Wan’s flushed behind the beard, though it’s hard to tell, and there’s something faintly pink on Padmé’s cheeks, behind the cosmetics.

“That was sex to you,” Obi-Wan summarizes. “The… storage and organization, I suppose.”

[When you took things out and moved them around, it was a lot], Anakin explains. [You can do it again if you want. I don’t mind. But you should know in case you… don’t.]

Obi-Wan blinks. His heartbeat jumps—Anakin’s sensors pick it up easily—and he glances to Padmé.

“I don’t know that that’s quite… appropriate,” Obi-Wan says. “We’ll avoid the trunk when possible, I think.”

Anakin may not be a human anymore, but he’s still a person, and he still has the Force.

So, he knows that Obi-Wan’s heartrate wasn’t the only thing that jumped.

And Padmé… well. They had that conversation a long time ago.

Notes:

He's a minivan with armor and guns. Jetfighter with three rows, room for eight, and fold-down seats. Mostly because I needed him to be big enough for impromptu bed, but small enough that nobody tried to put a bathroom in him, because gross.

Also the original version had him being a container ship. The ocean-faring ones that carry tens of thousands of tons of cargo. But that wasn't Star Wars enough so I jumped back in and made him a spaceship instead of a cargo ship.

Things my friends said that are very validating for the madness:
F: .... I am. More into this than I anticipated.
God damnit
Just. 'sighs'. I guess I'm into this, now.
----------
A: Nice prose! Sexier than some actual sex scenes I've read

Chapter 2: Touching Some Junk

Notes:

This part is ostensibly more normal but also uhhh not.

Anakin lets Obi-Wan do most of the piloting to get them into orbit, and then hyperspace. It’s better that way; Anakin wants to rush forward at the highest of speeds and just skip all the red tape, but he can’t. It’s not allowed. It’s easier to just zone out and let Obi-Wan do the stop-start, hurry-up-and-wait, boring drivel.

Once they’re in the hyperlanes, though, Obi-Wan turns on the autopilot, which mostly just means he’s telling Anakin to stop cheating at card games with Hutt enforcers on the other side of the galaxy, and start focusing on flight instead.

Joke’s on him; Anakin can do both.

“Would it be easier on your back to lay down?” Obi-Wan asks Padmé, a hand on her arm to get her attention. They’d spent the better part of two hours in air traffic, even with Jedi and Senatorial authorizations, and Padmé’s got to be aching by now. They have a rest stop scheduled for about two hours from now, and every three to four hours after that, plus an overnight stay… but that’s a ways yet.

Anakin already turned on the heater in the seat, but he doesn’t think it’s doing as much to help as he’d hoped.

“Honestly, what I’d love is a nap,” Padmé admits. “Carrying around twins is exhausting, even when all I’m doing is sitting in traffic.”

“Well,” Obi-Wan says brightly, “that, we can do. Now that we’re out of traffic, at least.”

He urges Padmé to pull her seat forward, and before Obi-Wan can climb into the back to rearrange the rows into a flat surface, Anakin does it for him.

“Well, there we go. Now it’ll be a little awkward, but I’ll help. Just stand up and I’ll move the passenger seat, and—yes, just like that.”

The front seat folds down and slides back, and there is now a flat, though unpadded surface one can lay down on.

“There’s some bedding in a side panel,” Obi-Wan explains, as he clambers out of his own seat—the only one that can’t be pushed down like this unless fully shut down, unless it’s an emergency and Anakin’s doing everything himself—and into the back with Padmé. He arranges the thin mattress and blankets to her liking, which Anakin approves of. Padmé should not be doing any of the lifting and twisting that Obi-Wan’s engaging in right now.

Padmé settles in with a large pillow and the makeshift bed, while Obi-Wan climbs back into the front and starts to meditate.

Anakin will let them be. They’re tired. He can wait.

--

They get food at a rest stop.

It’s a refuel for Anakin—not dire, but appreciated—and a lunch for the humans. They’re far enough that he’s not entirely comfortable, but he assures himself that Obi-Wan can protect Padmé even in her current, particularly vulnerable state. He can still see them, after all. That’s enough.

“Not exactly your usual fare, is it?” Obi-Wan jokes.

“Well, it’s not my first foray into the food of the commons,” Padmé snips right back. “But I can stomach it, which is more than can be said for plenty of high cuisine right now.”

Obi-Wan tilts his head in acknowledgement. They eat. Anakin goads a member of the Pyke syndicate into betting it all on a losing hand.

“Is it worth it?” Obi-Wan suddenly asks.

“Hm?”

“With your situation, I’d imagine that it would have made much more sense logistically to take your personal ship. It has a proper bed, and a fresher, and snacks,” Obi-Wan says. “I know how frequent the fresher breaks are when one is pregnant, and how needed a good mattress is. You’re not the first friend I’ve seen deal with such things.”

Anakin feels a little guilty.

Padmé sighs. She sounds a little annoyed. “I am not going to make the trip home for maternity leave without my husband, Obi-Wan. The circumstances aren’t ideal, but people the galaxy over make do with worse all the time. Millions are probably traveling in the same conditions as we are, even as we speak. I can survive a bit of momentary discomfort for the sake of spending time with Anakin. It’s been months. Even if I’ve spent it mostly asleep, even if we can only communicate in half the ways we used to, it is worth it to me, that I get to spend time with him.”

Awwww. Ow. Anakin wants to hug her. He wishes he still could.

Obi-Wan smiles, soft and sad. “In that case, I’m glad I could facilitate such.”

Padmé’s stern look cracks, and she smiles back. She grabs Obi-Wan’s hand across the diamond perforated, thermoplastic table. “I’m glad, too.”

--

Some hours and another meal later, Obi-Wan properly joins Padmé in the back. He has an expandable mattress as well, and neither of them are particularly worried about the ship when the ship is Anakin.

No autopilot they’d trust more, they said.

“If you get cold, I’m sure Anakin will turn up the heat,” Obi-Wan says, “or down. I’ll adjust as necessary.”

Or you could hold her, Anakin thinks, throwing the idea to Obi-Wan in the Force, and getting batted away like a lothkitten.

Obi-Wan has a book. Padmé has a datapad, but her attention keeps drifting. She huffs or hisses every so often, rubbing at her belly, and Anakin wants to be there to cuddle her until the twins calm down.

Obi-Wan puts the book away. He starts a conversation with Padmé. It’s mildly interesting. Anakin decides it’s time.

He dims the lights a bit.

“Ah,” Obi-Wan says, “is it time to sleep already? I hadn’t thought—”

Anakin turns on the sexy music.

The entire holonet agrees. Spareless Whisper is the sexy music.

Obi-Wan, even in the dark, is blushing. His mouth is agape, his brow is wrinkled with horror, and his eyes are staring into the middle distance with clear disappointment.

“I see he’s about as subtle as ever,” Padmé laughs.

Obi-Wan whips his head around to her. “What?!”

Padmé shrugs and rolls from her back to her side. “Anakin isn’t very good at being subtle, as you well know. He is, at my guess, hoping that you and I will… be as intimate with each other as we were with him this morning.”

She gets him so well.

Obi-Wan’s flush intensifies. “But—I—this song? Really?”

“I didn’t say he had taste,” Padmé says. “I said he wanted us to have sex.”

Anakin presses his mind to Obi-Wan’s, projecting his approval.

Yes, yes, yes, Master, you can do it, we love you.

“I’m… I don’t know what to say.”

Anakin decides it is a good moment to use the speakers.

“Pregnancy makes people horny,” Anakin says. “I can’t fuck my wife, Master, but you’re here, and you want to.”

Obi-Wan splutters in afront. “Anakin!”

Padmé raises a perfect brow at Obi-Wan. “Do you, now?”

His master runs a hand down his face. “At this point, I don’t think either of you would believe me if I said no.”

Anakin presses himself into the Force, all along Obi-Wan’s own spirit. His mind is computer enough to keep them safe in space, but his soul’s eye is fixed on his wife and his master. He shows Obi-Wan a memory of Padmé, naked and with her head thrown back, breasts lovely and soft in his hands, glorious as she bounced in his lap.

He’d been tied up that time. No control over the pace but what he could beg from her.

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan hisses, “that is entirely inappropriate!”

Unhindered, Anakin presses the idea of himself along Obi-Wan’s back, and Obi-Wan between Padmé’s legs. If he still had hands, he’d be guiding Obi-Wan into her wet, waiting pussy, and rutting up against Obi-Wan’s back as he did so.

“Anakin, that’s—that’s enough,” Obi-Wan manages, suddenly breathing heavy.

“You can say no,” Padmé offers. “But I don’t think you want to.”

Obi-Wan swallows, staring at her, and then groans and starts taking his clothes off. “You two will be the death of me.”

“Just a little one, Master Jedi,” Padmé simpers. She then laughs at Obi-Wan’s peeved expression, and unties the front of her nightgown. She is much more simply dressed than he, at least for sleep. “Come on, then. Sex is meant to be fun.”

“Incorrigible, the both of you,” Obi-Wan grumbles. Now mostly naked, save for his underthings, he crawls closer to Padmé and tries to arrange himself as best he can to her current proportions.

It’s difficult to lay atop a woman so near birth, after all.

“Just kiss me, you silly man.”

It’s a lovely kiss. Anakin wishes he were part of it. He does the next best thing, which is to make a little more room for himself in Obi-Wan’s mind, getting the echoes of sensation and waiting for the right moment.

Kiss down, he suggests, her nipples are probably sore, so maybe don’t bite them. Careful of the belly, but you should definitely eat her out.

Obi-Wan pushes him away like the way he would an errant animal. That is to say: he does not try very hard, or expect it to work more than a few seconds.

Anakin bounds back into his mind and presses in close with a blinding metaphorical grin. Obi-Wan doesn’t bother to push him away again.

Pillow under the hips, Anakin says, and then realizes Obi-Wan was already reaching for a spare. Here, I’ll show you what she likes.

He burrows so deeply into Obi-Wan’s mind that he’s half-piloting Obi-Wan, the way Obi-Wan had been piloting him earlier in the day. It’s a giggle-worthy thought, except he’s a bit too busy manipulating Obi-Wan’s tongue to get at just the right angle to make Padmé go wild.

(Even if things look a little different from usual down here. Anakin checks the holonet to make sure that the blueish tint to her labia is supposed to be there. It is.)

“Oh!” Padmé gasps. “Oh, that’s—that’s exactly how Anakin does it?”

Obi-Wan kisses at her clit a time or two before he answers. “He’s showing me what to do to make you feel good. Let me know if he’s wrong about anything, will you?”

Rude. Rude! Master is rude.

“Oh,” Padmé says, before Obi-Wan gets back to it. Her tone is a bit odd. Anakin hesitates, and so does Obi-Wan. She’s up on her elbows and craning her neck something fierce to be able to see him past her stomach. “He’s… really here. He’s with you. He’s in you.”

She’s been doubting it this whole time, and it hurts, but Anakin gets it. She doesn’t have the Force. She can’t tell.

Bit odd that it’s Obi-Wan’s mouth on her cunt that seals the deal for her, but Anakin’s going to take his wins where he can, these days.

Padmé needs to feel better. Obi-Wan needs to comfort her. Now.

“He is,” Obi-Wan confirms. “And he’s very insistent that I either hug you or give you an orgasm, right now. Which would you prefer?”

Padmé drops back with a choked laugh. “Of course he does.”

Obi-Wan waits patiently. Anakin waits less patiently.

“Orgasm, then hug,” Padmé says. She widens her legs a bit more. “Get to it, Master Kenobi.”