Chapter 35: He wants one
The cantina's entrance was a crooked durasteel door that had been blasted open and welded shut so many times it no longer fit its frame. A permanent crease of pale yellow light bled through the gap, casting a sickly stripe across the uneven duracrete floor. Inside, the air hit like a physical presence—thick with smoke from half a dozen species' tobacco equivalents, the greasy tang of frying something unidentifiable, and the electrical ozone of a malfunctioning cooler unit that had been malfunctioning for the better part of a decade.
Charlie leaned against the bar, his position carefully calibrated to look casual while actually being the only spot where he could see both entrances and the back booth. His dirty blond hair was still damp from the humidity outside, curling slightly at the temples. He'd pulled his Jedi robes off at the shoulder, tying the sleeves around his waist in a deliberately sloppy knot. The effect was less "rogue Jedi on a mission" and more "college student who'd overslept and grabbed the wrong shirt."
"You're doing that thing again," Shaak Ti said, materializing beside him without a sound. Her presence was a warm pressure at the edge of his awareness, familiar as his own heartbeat. She ordered something amber from the bartender, a Rodian with more scars than expressions, and didn't flinch when the glass came back sticky.
"What thing?"
"That thing where you're trying very hard to look like you belong somewhere you absolutely don't." She took a sip, her montrals catching the neon light. "You keep touching your belt. The lightsaber gives it away."
Charlie's hand dropped from his belt as if burned. "I'm blending in. This is blending."
"Darling, you're the only person in this establishment who's had a shower in the past week. You're not blending. You're glowing." Her lekku twitched with amusement as she surveyed the room. "Though I suppose you're not the only one who stands out."
She nodded toward a corner booth where Ahsoka had somehow convinced a group of Ugnaughts to share her table. She was showing them something on her datapad—likely the holorecording of Bultar Swan's wedgie, if her gleeful expression was any indication. Barriss sat across from her, nursing a drink that was probably just colored water, her serene expression cracking slightly with each laugh from the table.
Charlie's jaw tightened. "She's still holding that over me."
"The wedgie incident? I thought you found that quite funny at the time."
"I found it funny when she did it to Bultar. I found it considerably less funny when she tried the same trick on me during the retreat last week." Charlie's hand drifted unconsciously to his lower back. "My underwear is still stretched out. I had to borrow a spare from—" He stopped, caught by his master's knowing gaze.
"From whom?"
"Doesn't matter."
"You know," Shaak Ti said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur, "I've noticed you've been rather… testing lately. Sassing Ahsoka at every opportunity. Mouthing off to Master Unduli during that briefing. Even I received a rather impressive eye-roll during meditation that I chose to overlook."
Charlie's cheeks flushed. He hadn't realized he'd been that obvious. "I'm just—it's been a long deployment. The Rampage incident didn't help. Barriss and Ahsoka got all the credit for embarrassing Bultar, and I got stuck cleaning droid coolant off the training mats for a week because someone"—he shot a pointed look in Ahsoka's direction—"may have implied I was involved."
"Were you?"
"Not in the fun part."
Shaak Ti laughed, a low musical sound that drew glances from the nearby tables. She set down her glass and turned to face him fully, her posture shifting into something more intimate, more focused. The cantina noise seemed to recede around them.
"You've been sulking for days, Charlie. And I've noticed you only sulk when you want attention." Her hand came up to cup his chin, tilting his face toward hers. "Don't think I don't know my own Padawan."
He tried to pull away, but she held him gently, firmly. The contact sent a familiar thrill down his spine. "I'm not sulking. I'm strategically retreating."
"Mmm." Her thumb traced his jawline. "And all that sass? All that temperament? What would you call that?"
"I'd call it honest feedback."
"You'd call it being bratty," she corrected, her smile sharpening. "You'd call it asking for something."
Charlie's breath caught. She'd seen through him—of course she'd seen through him. She always did. He blamed it on the maternal bond they'd developed, or the Force, or just the simple fact that she'd spent four years watching him grow from a terrified initiate into the lanky, smart-mouthed Padawan who now stood before her, pulse quickening.
"I don't know what you mean," he managed.
"Liar." She released his chin and stepped back, but her eyes never left his. "You've been pushing every boundary you can find. You've been testing my patience with your attitude. You've been practically begging for consequences." Her voice carried a weight that transcended the casual setting. "The question is, what kind of consequences are you hoping for?"
Charlie swallowed hard. The cantina suddenly felt both too crowded and too empty. Across the room, Ahsoka laughed at something, the sound sharp and unselfconscious. Barriss looked over, her dark eyes briefly meeting his before sliding away with deliberate disinterest. In that moment, he realized she knew. She always knew. That Mirialan saw everything and said nothing, and her silence was heavier than any judgment.
He made a decision.
"Maybe," he said, pitching his voice low enough that it was just for her, "I've been hoping you'd take your responsibilities as my master more seriously." His tone was light, almost mocking, but there was a tremor beneath it. "All this deflection and discipline for others. When was the last time you actually put me in my place, properly?"
Shaak Ti's eyebrows rose. The amused curve of her lips deepened into something more calculating. She set down her glass with a deliberate click.
"You're asking for a punishment."
"I'm pointing out that I deserve one."
"You're pointing out that you want one."
Charlie's skin tingled. The smoke in the air seemed to cling to him, and the sticky floor seemed to grab at his boots as he shifted his weight. "And if I am?"
The silence that stretched between them was electric. Shaak Ti's presence filled his awareness, pushing against the Force with centuries of accumulated discipline and barely contained playfulness. She took a step closer, and he automatically backed up until his shoulders hit the wall, his heart hammering in his chest. She reached out and grabbed the collar of his robes, pulling him forward just enough to make him stumble.
"Then you should know better than to ask for things in public," she murmured, close enough that he could feel her breath. "But since you've apparently forgotten your manners, perhaps I should remind you of them somewhere more private."
She didn't wait for an answer. Her grip on his collar tightened, and she began pulling him through the cantina, weaving between tables and ignoring the curious stares from the assembled patrons. Charlie stumbled after her, his face burning. He could feel Ahsoka's gaze on him, feel her amusement radiating across the room. Even Barriss's composure seemed to crack slightly, a knowing smile ghosting across her features.
"Master—" he started, but Shaak Ti cut him off with a sharp glance.
"Not a word. Not one single word until we're somewhere I can properly address your behavior."
She pushed through a beaded curtain at the back of the cantina, revealing a narrow hallway lined with storage rooms and employee-only spaces. The music was fainter here, the smoke less thick. She picked a door at random, found it unlocked, and shoved him through.
The room was small, cluttered with crates and old equipment. A single glowlamp hummed overhead, casting a sickly green light across the space. It smelled of grease and old spice and something vaguely floral. Charlie stumbled to a stop in the center of the room, turning to face his master with a mix of trepidation and anticipation.
Shaak Ti closed the door behind her. The click of the lock was impossibly loud.
"Now," she said, folding her arms across her chest. Her orange skin seemed to glow in the dim light, her white facial markings sharpening the angles of her face. "Let's discuss this attitude of yours."
Charlie crossed his arms defensively—then uncrossed them, knowing how petulant it looked. He settled for shoving his hands in his pockets. "I don't have an attitude."
"You've had an attitude for three days. Since the Rampage, if I'm being precise." She began to circle him slowly, her footsteps soft against the grimy floor. "Since Barriss and Ahsoka pulled that stunt on Bultar and you weren't included."
"That's not—"
"You're jealous."
"I'm not jealous."
"You're jealous," she repeated, her voice carrying an absolute certainty, "that you weren't part of the prank. That you weren't included in the fun. That your friends did something exciting and embarrassing and left you out of it." She came to a stop in front of him, meeting his eyes. "And instead of expressing that, you've been acting like a brat."
Charlie's jaw set. "I'm not a brat."
"You've been a brat," she said calmly. "You've been sassy and disrespectful and you've been pushing buttons deliberately, hoping someone would push back." She paused, her lekku twitching. "Hoping I would push back."
The accusation hung in the air between them. Charlie tried to deny it, but the words wouldn't come. Because she was right—of course she was right. She was always right. And the worst part was, he couldn't even be embarrassed about it because she was right and she knew he knew she was right.
"I want you to say it," she said softly. "I want you to acknowledge what you've been doing. I want you to say 'yes, Master, I've been acting like a brat.'"
Charlie's teeth ground together. "And if I don't?"
"Then we'll be here for a while." Her smile was gentle, almost maternal. "I can be very patient when I need to be."
The glowlamp flickered overhead in that exact moment. Charlie held out for a long moment, feeling the weight of her presence pressing against his stubbornness. His eyes pricked with frustration and something else, something that he didn't want to name. Finally, he let his shoulders slump.
"Yes, Master," he muttered, the words sour on his tongue. "I've been acting like a brat."
"Thank you." Her tone was warm, understanding. "I appreciate your honesty. And now, I think we need to address this." She reached out and took his wrist, her grip gentle but unbreakable. "You've been pushing for consequences, darling. And I think we both know what kind of consequences you're looking for."
Charlie's breath hitched as she guided him toward a nearby crate—a sturdy, reinforced shipping container that rose to about waist height. Her other hand found his shoulder, pressing down with just enough force to communicate expectation.
"Over my knee or over the crate?" she asked conversationally, as if asking whether he preferred tea or caf. "I could go either way, but I want you to have some agency in your own correction."
The question was so absurd that Charlie almost laughed, but the sound died in his throat when he realized she was serious. His face was burning, his heart hammering, his body caught between embarrassment and something else entirely.
"The crate," he managed.
"Good choice." She released him and gestured at the container. "Bend over."
He moved slowly, deliberately, trying to preserve what little dignity he still possessed. But he knew—they both knew—that dignity was a distant memory when he positioned himself over the crate, forearms resting on the rough metal surface as he presented himself to his master.
Shaak Ti's hand settled on his lower back, tracing patterns through his robes. "I want you to know that I adore you, Charlie," she said, her voice soft and maternal. "I adore your spirit, and your humor, and your willingness to push boundaries. But I also have a responsibility to make sure you remember your place."
Her fingers found the waistband of his trousers.
Charlie heard his own sharp inhale as she tugged, pulling the fabric down over his hips. The cool air hit his skin, making him shiver as his bare bottom was exposed to the dim cantina light. He clenched his fists, but didn't move, didn't protest.
He didn't want to protest.
"Such a good boy," Shaak Ti murmured, almost to herself. "Shy and bold all at once." Her hand rested against his bare cheek, warm and grounding. "Now. Let's discuss what happens when you forget your manners."
She brought her hand down hard. The impact was a sharp, stinging slap that echoed off the metal walls.
Charlie gasped, his hips bucking forward involuntarily.
"That first one is for the eye-roll during meditation," she said conversationally. "You're lucky I didn't address it then—you'd have been pink for a week."
Another slap. Then a third on the other cheek.
"These next few are for the sass during Master Unduli's briefing." Her voice was calm, measured, carrying an authority she rarely displayed. "You may disagree with tactical assessments, but you will express that disagreement with respect—or you will express it afterward with a warm bottom."
Charlie whimpered. The stinging was spreading, radiating outward from each impact, turning his pale skin increasingly pink. He gripped the crate's edges, knuckles white, as her hand continued to fall. The rhythm was steady, punctuated by purpose.
Four more impacted in quick succession, and he heard himself yelp, his legs shifting restlessly.
"The attitude toward Ahsoka," Shaak Ti said, landing a particularly sharp slap on his sit spots. "Whatever rivalry you have with her is between the two of you. You don't get to punish her through your demeanor. You don't get to sulk because she had a moment of mischief that you were excluded from."
"I'm sorry," Charlie gasped, the words tumbling out unbidden. "I'm sorry, I've just been—I've been so—"
"I know." Her hand paused, resting against his inflamed skin in a gesture that was almost soothing. "I know you've been struggling with feeling left out. And I know that you express your frustration in ways that are... challenging." She stroked the hot skin lightly, making him shiver. "But I also know you respond well to clear consequences. And I love you quite dearly, which is why I'm giving you these consequences."
She resumed her methodical spanking. Her hand fell with precision, warming each cheek, deepening the color until it was a uniform pink across his entire backside. The room filled with the rhythmic slaps, punctuated by his increasingly desperate breaths and the occasional whimper.
"Tell me," she said, landing a particularly stinging impact on his undercurve, "what did you learn?"
"To—to not be a brat?" His voice cracked.
"That's not quite the lesson I was hoping for." Her hand continued, relentless. "Try again."
"To—to express my feelings instead of acting out?"
"Closer." Slap. "And?"
"To—" His voice broke into a moan as she landed a volley of quick slaps across his sit spots. "To be grateful for consequences because they show someone cares about me!"
She stopped. The silence after the relentless spanking was suddenly deafening.
"Very good." Her hand rested on his welted bottom, warm and approving. "That's exactly right." She stayed there for a moment, letting him catch his breath. "Now, I believe we still have the matter of your broader attitude to address."
Charlie barely had time to process the words before she was sliding something out of her own robes—a strip of crimson fabric that he recognized with a jolt as the spare set of elaborately embroidered panties that had mysteriously vanished from his quarters during last week's laundry cycle. He'd blamed Ahsoka.
"You didn't think I'd let your attire choice go unnoticed, did you?" Shaak Ti asked, holding up the garment. It was scandalously small, clearly tailored for a Twi'lek dancer, with tiny bows at the hips. "You've been wearing these under your robes while you pretend to be so modest. So reserved."
Charlie's face was so hot he thought he might combust. "I—that's—"
"I'd say your interest in feminine underthings is something we should explore in a healthy, constructive way." She held the garment in front of him, and despite his embarrassment, he noticed something that was impossible to ignore. "But first, I think you owe it to these panties to wear them properly."
She reached down, and Charlie felt her fingers hook into the waistband of his trousers, guiding them the rest of the way down his legs. The air was cool on his bare, aching skin. Then, with careful deliberation, Shaak Ti slid the crimson panties up his legs. The silk was impossibly smooth, adjusting to the curve of his hips with devastating efficiency.
"There," she murmured, letting her fingers trace the edge of the fabric where it cut against his thighs. "Such a pretty sight. And such a naughty secret."
Charlie looked down. The crimson silk hugged his form scandalously, the cut revealing more than it concealed. He was acutely, painfully aware of his own physical response—the way the fabric stretched across him, the way the contact made everything worse.
"Now, I believe you mentioned something about a wedgie being administered as well?" Shaak Ti's voice was light, conversational, as if they were discussing the weather. "Given how badly you've been craving one since watching Ahsoka and Barriss work on Bultar?"
He should have denied it. He should have said something defensive or dismissive. But the word that came out of Charlie's mouth was a strangled, undeniable:
"...Yes."
Shaak Ti smiled—a warm, knowing, devastating smile. "I thought so." She reached down and hooked her fingers into the waistband of the crimson panties, gathering the silk in her grip. "But I suppose there's something satisfying about the physical reminder of your place, isn't there?"
Before he could gasp an answer, she pulled.
The wedgie was a revelation. The silk, already thin and delicate, compressed into an impossibly focused band as she hoisted it upward. He felt a sharp, wrenching pressure as the fabric locked into the gusset between his cheeks, riding high with each inch of slack she gathered. Shaak Ti pulled until the waistband was level with his own, then gave a final, brutal tug that lifted him onto his toes.
Charlie made a sound that was half gasp, half keening cry.
"Look at that," Shaak Ti observed, stepping back to admire her handiwork. "Lovely." She let him dangle there for a moment, the strain of the wedgie pulling against him from every angle, before she unexpectedly released the waistband.
The snap-back was thunderous. The silk recoiled with a force that made him cry out, the waistband cracking against the base of his spine with sickening force. He staggered forward, catching himself on the crate, trembling.
Shaak Ti stepped in close and pulled him gently upright, gathering him against her. The contrast was dizzying—the sharp sting still blooming across his bottom, the tightness of the wedgie still riding him, and her warmth, her comfort, wrapping around him like a blanket.
"I love you," she murmured into his hair. "Even your bratty, sassy, desperate parts." Her hand stroked his back. "Especially those parts."
Charlie sank into her embrace, feeling the embarrassment and the arousal and the relief all churning together in his chest. He was mortified by the crimson wedgie, mortified by the punishment, mortified by how much he wanted it—but he was also warm and held and safe and she was telling him she loved him.
"I'm sorry," he mumbled into her shoulder.
"If you weren't sorry, the lesson wouldn't have worked." She pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. "Now, I think we should get out of this cantina before someone decides to investigate what all that noise was about. I believe I owe you a drink. And perhaps some time to recover before we debrief."
Charlie nodded, reaching behind himself to adjust the wedgie. Shaak Ti caught his wrist.
"No," she said firmly. "You'll wear that for the journey back. Consider it a reminder of the lesson you learned today."
He opened his mouth to protest, but the words died when he looked at her expression—tender, certain, full of love.
He nodded.
Shaak Ti smiled and kissed his forehead, and then they were moving, slipping out the back door into the humid Tatooine night. The wedgie rode him with every step, a constant reminder of his master's lesson. And despite the embarrassment and the sting and the impossibility of it all, Charlie found that a small, secret smile was spreading across his face.
Behind them, in the cantina, Ahsoka raised an eyebrow at their retreating figures. "Did you see the look on his face?" she asked Barriss.
Barriss's lips twitched. "I saw it." She raised her glass of colored water in a quiet toast. "To another successful lesson."
Ahsoka clinked her glass against Barriss's, and they both drank to the mystery of how a boy who so clearly hated getting punished also seemed to find such joy in it.