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split-spectrum · 2 days

Text

Concessions

Chapter 3

Pairing: Obi Wan/FemReader

Tags: SMUT (MDNI), oral sex (male receiving), orgasm denial, dubcon, noncon, Obi Wan gets chained to the wall and edged within an inch of his life

Description: Obi Wan chooses to undertake a trial that prevents him from sex for one year, and asks you to serve as his witness. As his close friend, you don't mind helping him.

☆☆☆

You should end this.

For the sake of your friendship. For the promise you'd made to help him finish the Nikkama. For your own sanity. You should really end the call. But it seems too cruel, now, after what you've done.

When you'd sent the pictures, the most you'd expected out of him had been irritation. Your goal had been to disrupt his thoughts; possibly to ruin his day with distraction, the way he'd ruined yours. Revenge may not be the Jedi way, but sometimes with Obi Wan it's so difficult not to give in to the urge to tease; to toy with him. Now, the only question left is how far you're willing to go to atone.

The right thing to do would be to shut off your commlink. To look into his glassy eyes, ignore his indecent, combative gaze, and click that impossibly merciful button. But no matter how long your finger rests at it, you can't bring yourself to press down.

Obi Wan hasn't said another word. He's hardly moved. But what little patience may have remained in his expression when he'd answered is now gone. The deep blue of his irises is hidden within the gradient of the hologram, but the black of his stretched pupils is easy to pick up when he widens his eyes accusingly. As if to say, "Well?"

He's waiting, against his will, to be put out of his misery. Cut him loose; end the call, or...

"Give me a moment."

You shut off your commlink before he can respond, then dress yourself, tying your robes with clumsy, hurried fingers, and slip quietly out into the hallway.

Trying to remain true to your promise of only a moment while keeping your footsteps soft enough not to wake any of the other Jedi in their quarters, you reach Obi Wan's door, rapping twice before he opens it. You find him in a state of half-undress, trousers fastened at his waist, but mid-section still bare. He's pulled his arms through his light undershirt, still working on wrapping it around his torso and tucking it as he steps back from the door to let you in.

"You're dressed," you say, struggling to keep your voice steady as you walk forward, closing the distance between you. "I said I would only be a moment."

He finishes tucking his shirt, the open neckline still giving ample view of the soft curls that are begging you to run your hands over his chest. "Yes, but a moment for what, you didn't quite say."

You look down his body, backing him toward the corner of a wooden dresser near the doorway. You line your hips up with his, watching as he mirrors you, either consciously or subconsciously. "You're awfully clever, Obi Wan. Let's not pretend it wasn't obvious."

His bright pink lips hang slightly open when he stares down at your hands, traveling upward. The blush begins to creep into his face. "I... couldn't possibly be so presumptuous."

Your hands find his stomach, your noses now inches apart, and the soft smirk on your face evaporates when you draw your gaze back up to his. Using your thumb to peel open his shirt, you loosen it from his waistband and slide your other hand across the warmth of his skin, feeling him shudder at the contact.

Your lips naturally gravitate towards his, when suddenly a thought stops you painfully short: This isn't a passion-soaked tryst between two lovers. This isn't the closing of a romance that's long been harbored beneath the working partnership of two friends. This is you, helping him find relief, and nothing more.

You drag your eyes away from his mouth, down to his neck, and the urge gushes to taste the skin there, too. Instead, you pull back while turning your hand down into his waistband. His eyes, which had been fixed on your face, roll to the ceiling.

"You shouldn't-" He shifts, rubbing up against the dresser. "This is hardly-" he tries, not finishing either thought.

One of his hands comes up to the small of your back, touching you with a respectful lack of weight or pressure, somewhere between holding you closer and warning you off. When you slither your palm between his legs and stroke it over the hot, dribbling length of him, though, he changes his grip. He grabs your waist and squeezes, looking down between your bodies, watching you touch him.

You hadn't realized until now just how much you'd wanted his hands on you. Feeling him grip you hard, pulling you closer as his hips start to shallowly draw up with each pull of your hand - you're starting to ache. Bending the fingers of your other hand around the fabric, you start to pull down his trousers.

His hand flies to your wrist, and you freeze. His eyes are closed, his breaths shallow. He shakes his head, almost imperceptibly.

"No," he pants. "No, we- we can't."

He opens his eyes and you nearly pull away before you catch the way he's looking at you. It's clear he's being serious. But there's also... something else. A certain kind of frustration; almost desperation.

You flatten your hand, grazing it over him, watching his eyes go foggy and his brows knead tight. He doesn't let go of your wrist, but he doesn't pull away.

Suddenly, it all makes sense - why he chose you to help him in this; to be his witness.

He trusts you. And more importantly, he knows you. He knows that when he needs it, you'll find a way to bend the rules, while allowing him to keep his lofty ideals intact. Because you've done it in the past, time and time again.

Though he'd never admit it, your willingness to compromise has often been an asset to him. You could skirt the rules, blurring the edges of the safe, moral choices, while he got to feign uninvolvement. Whether intentional or not, he'd chosen you because some part of him knew this.

And lucky for him, you know a path you can take, just as you always do.

"Obi Wan, let me ask you something," you say, enjoying the unsteady breath he takes when you slide your thumb slowly up and down his shaft. "Do you trust me?"

You graze his head, then slip your hand away, and he drops your wrist, immediately gripping the edge of the dresser behind him. He gathers himself, and eventually, he nods. "Yes. Of course."

You straighten up, fixing his clothing back in place. "I hope you're not about to change your mind. Because I have an idea."

A few minutes later, after you've convinced him into one of the small cargo ships the jedi temple keeps on hand for communal use, Obi Wan is no further enlightened on the details, and he's starting to lose patience.

"And why can you not just tell me the location?"

You force an easy smile, though your stomach is buzzing with anticipation. You need him to have faith that you know what you're doing. And you do. You convince yourself that you do. "I already gave you the coordinates."

You'd sent them directly from your commlink to the navicomputer, yet Obi Wan had insisted on flying manually. He glances down at the screen in front of him, with glowing numbers and no map. "Yes, somewhere in the Federal District. Very helpful. Is there a reason you haven't chosen to be more specific?"

With a smirk, you answer, "As I said before, you're clever enough to know the answer to that."

He glances out the window, clearly suppressing a scowl, then brings his attention back to the lane in front of him, shifting a hand to adjust his speed. "In other words, I won't like it."

You press your lips together, watching the shadows roll over him as you speed through the flashing lights of Coruscant nightlife.

"I never said that." You pause. "But you certainly wouldn't approve of it."

He shoots you another look, then brings his gaze forward again as you reach your destination. He can't take his eyes away from the monitor since he's in the middle of landing, but his scowl grows more pronounced. The Center for Republic Military Operations looms in front of you.

"What in blazes are we doing here?"

"I thought you were trusting me."

He follows you down the ramp, keeping his voice low. "Yes, but the extent of my trust is rather proportional to the circumstance." He nods at a passing Coruscant Guard solider, then catches up to you. "And at the moment, they're about even."

You just smile. "Good. I can work with that."

You turn to enter the main building, Obi Wan trailing close behind. More soliders pass you on either side of the hallway as you make your way to security check-in. You walk past the manned stations and head straight to the automated keycard wall. You find the number you're looking for and enter your security code.

"You've dragged me here to work an extra shift in the detention cells?"

At that, you can't help but smile wider. You pick up the key card when it appears in the slot, then brush past him to head down the hallway. "In a manner of speaking."

You get the attention of one of the guardsmen as you near the end of the cell block. "Officer, we're conducting an investigation and we need to inspect cell 98. Please tell the other guards we are not to be disturbed."

The guard accepts your orders, assuring you they'll be passed along, and continues on his way. You swipe the keycard and, hesitatingly, Obi Wan follows you inside. You look both ways down the hall before closing the door, double-checking the lock.

"Well, if you were looking for privacy, you've certainly found it, but that wasn't-"

"I wasn't looking for privacy," you interrupt, stepping toward him and reaching out. He looks around warily, but allows you closer. You take his wrists in your hands, walking him back. "I thought about what you said."

He raises his brows, saying nothing as you clasp around him gently at first, then start to firm your grip. "I do want to help you through this."

His eyes widen and he glances behind you to the empty walls of the cell. "You don't need to-"

"Oh, I know that," you tell him sweetly, then press his arms upward.

He pushes back, shaking his head as his back hits the wall. He hisses your name in admonishment. "The cams."

"Are broken," you assure him, lifting his arms above his head as his resistance lessens. "And the cells are soundproof, as you know."

"How do you-"

You activate the switch on the wall beside his hands. "I was down here last week with Master Sinube. We had to move some prisoners and we couldn't use this cell for that reason." The binders glow softly above Obi Wan's head. "Cams won't be fixed until next week."

He follows your gaze upward and a beat of silence passes. You wait for him to protest. You wait for him to rip his arms down and push you off. But all he does is drop his gaze and let out a low breath of air. The sound he makes, sighing softly through his nose, is disapproving, but the intensity of his stare betrays what he really wants.

You press the button, locking the binders around his wrists, then stare back at him, watching the emotions swirl in his eyes. It's like you can see him traveling through all the same thoughts you'd had when this idea had come to you back in his quarters.

In any other scenario he would be giving in. He'd be at fault for not stopping you. But now... You've taken away his choice. You've lifted that burden from his shoulders. All he can do is protest. And you're ready to see if he's willing to do so, or pretend innocence as he's done so many times before.

You sink to your knees in front of him, sliding your palms down to his thighs, then running your hands up beneath his tunic. Your fingers curl at his waist, slowly dragging his clothes down, and you feel his cock twitch when you graze your thumb over the bunched fabric. You snap your eyes up, waiting from him to say the word.

His chest is rising and falling with quick, shallow breaths. His eyes are piercing you with an aching, tight-jawed, guilty look. But he's silent.

Overwhelmingly, obliteratingly silent.

You finally free him, staring with an obscene lack of restraint at the glossy river of precum soaking down the side of his dick.

"Oh," you murmur softly. "Obi Wan..."

At the edge of your view, you see his eyes flutter heavily when you say his name. You gently settle your fingers around him, enjoying his soft breath of relief. Sliding your thumb up along his shaft, you spread out the slick, coating more of his skin.

This should be a utilitarian exercise in urgency. You should be using your hand to get him off, hard and fast. But you left 'should' behind a long time ago. So you slowly turn your wrist, pumping your hand a few times, not with any real pressure, just for the pleasure of running up and down the full length of him. Then you lick your palm and do it again, listening to him suck air above you.

You swallow, caught gazing up at him, and have to urge yourself to keep going. You want to go slow; wring out of him every carnal desire he's pent up for the last several months. But you're already pushing it by drawing it out this long, and part of you is still afraid he'll ask you to stop.

When you finally lower your mouth to his pulsing, straining cockhead, you suck at the tip, flicking your eyes up to look at him again. His hairline is dark with sweat and he's panting like he's losing an agonizing battle. You lock onto his gaze and flatten your tongue to lap slowly at the slit of his cock, watching his eyes widen as your mouth drops open to swirl lazy circles.

"You taste so good," you drawl before slipping your lips around him, suckling softly.

"Ah- hmm..." That earns you a sound something like a sudden, abrupt hum. Like he's trying to get ahold of himself before words begin to fall out.

You drag your lips back up to the tip, then spread them wide and push his head inside the wet heat of your mouth. He goes rigid. Closing your eyes, you focus on giving him all the warm, soft pressure he needs. You engulf his thick head like he's going to pull away at any moment, hollowing your cheeks to suck him sweetly, realizing to your dismay that you could do this for hours.

When you open your throat and take him deeper at last, he rewards you with a loud, plaintive groan. He hits the back of your throat, making you gag for a moment, tears springing to your eyes. You squeeze your legs together, soaking between them, and swallow his twitching cock. You make a small sound in the back of your throat as you wrap your hand around him and start to bob your head, one hand pushing into the back of his leg to bring him closer and the other hand drowning in your own spit, pressed tight below your mouth and running over the length of him as you find your rhythm.

"Stars-" he grinds out. You open your throat and take him even deeper, watching his mouth fall open at first, and then watching him snap it shut to look down at you, face screwed up in a pained expression. His eyes crinkle hard at the edges and his brows pin together, a deep line creasing his face between them.

"This feel good?" you pop your mouth off for a moment to ask him. "You can tell me."

You slide him back in, falling right back into your rhythm, waiting for an answer. But he says nothing. You want to be generous. You want to keep going. In fact, nothing could possibly make you want to stop. But you need to hear him say it just once. You won't be doing this again, and you can't pass up your one chance to hear him say that he liked it. That he wanted it.

You feel his cock throb beneath your tongue, but he doesn't answer. You pull away again, pumping him with your hand.

"Come on." You lower your voice. "You can say it."

His teeth are just visible when he opens his mouth, almost baring them at you. His gaze is somewhere between warning and pleading.

"Tell me it feels good, Obi Wan." You're practically suffocating him with your mouth between interrogations, now. You squeeze him with your slippery hand, lips gliding over him in punishing, repetitive strokes.

You gasp off, panting, "Does it feel good?"

"Yes," he moans.

You're practically dripping, pulsing between your legs at the hoarse groan he lets out. You can't help it. You want to hear more. You pull off again.

"Would you like me to keep going?"

His head lolls to the side and a harsh sigh escapes from deep in his chest, as if to say you know the answer. As if he's scolding you for asking it, and desperate not to reply.

So you relent, and you give him back the slick, perfect heat of your mouth until he's bucking his hips softly with each dip of your head to meet you, and you look up again to see the wrecked look on his face. His cock is pulsing, his breath wild and ragged. It's like he's ready to come, but for some reason, he's holding back.

Then you realize it. You haven't told him, and he can't ask.

"Mmf," you mumble, pulling his cock free of your mouth one last time to tell him, "You can come in my mouth, just like this. Please. Come down my throat."

"Oh, fucking-" he spits out, then seems to melt into your grip, hips falling out of rhythm as his head tilts up-

...only to snap it back down, his body curling in and shuddering violently to a stop when the door lock clicks open.

His cock pops free of your mouth, bouncing when he jerks away, and you're already standing up and scrambling to put his clothes in place before your mind can fully register what's going on.

The door swings open just as you desperately slap the button to free Obi Wan's hands and straighten your own clothes. A pair of soldiers look extremely surprised to see you.

"Master Jedi," one of them says, trading his looks between you and Obi Wan, clearly not sure whom to address first. "I... I didn't know this cell was, um, occupied."

You take a step to the side, trying to block anything unprofessional in Obi Wan's appearance. "Yes, I checked in and gave orders not to disturb us. We are... investigating the... presence of the criminal who occupied this cell last week."

"I see," the guard answers. He doesn't seem suspicious to find you here. They both just seem put-off by your jumpy demeanor.

"Yes, so if you would be so kind as to-"

"I'm sorry, ma'am, no one told us the orders. I've escorted the security technician down here to work on fixing the cams. I'm afraid you'll need to come back later."

"Oh, I..." you trail off.

"That's quite alright, gentlemen," Obi Wan finishes for you. "We can report our findings thus far. Have a nice evening."

He gestures calmly toward the door and you obediently join him in leaving, grateful for the end of the conversation.

It's a long, stiff, quiet walk down the hallway. Thankfully, you don't cross paths with anyone else on the way out. You're nearly at the other end of the hall before you dare to lean in and whisper, "We can, um... We still have the ship."

He gives you a quick head shake in response, and you can feel the frustration in it. "For thirty more minutes before Master Fisto will be looking for it. We need to have it back at the dock before the next shift."

You take a breath, realizing that wasn't a 'no'.

"Well," you say slowly; carefully. "We still have your quarters."

Back at his quarters, he can't pretend innocence anymore, but perhaps you've pushed him past that.

You wait. And wait. And he doesn't answer.

And you board the ship. And he doesn't answer.

And when you land back at the dock a few minutes later, you realize: He's given you his answer.

A/N: The next chapter might be the last; possibly two more, depending on how long it ends up. Please feel free to comment or message me to be added to the tag list. :)

Taglist: @slinkygail @wheres-mylove @millercontracting @cacti5539 @b0xerdancer-writes

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#obi wan x reader smut #star wars #star wars fanfiction #obi wan kenobi #fanfic #obiwan #obi wan x reader

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split-spectrum · 3 days

Text

Lmaooo RIP Penchar was not the takeaway I expected but that has me dying. So true. He's probably halfway down the nexus route refreshing his texts like :/

"Who was Reader's master? I have questions for the Council."

And if I said Rael Averross? 🤔😏 KIDDING no but for real this reader is absolutely questionable

"I keep recalling things we never did

Messy top lip kiss

How I long for our trysts

Without ever touching his skin

How can I be guilty as sin?"

I'd never heard that song before, but wow you're so right! Thank you for the rec! Funny enough there's a line in the upcoming chapter where I use the word 'tryst' which I normally never would, so that's gotta be some type of psychic link haha

Anyway ugh you spoil me so much with your thoughtful comments, and I can't thank you enough!! 💛💛💛

Concessions

Chapter 2

Pairing: Obi Wan/FemReader

Chapter Length: 3.4K

Warnings/Tags: edging, orgasm denial, sexting, masturbation, dubious consent

Description: Obi Wan chooses to undertake a trial that prevents him from sex for one year, and asks you to serve as his witness. As his close friend, you don't mind helping him. The rules of the trial are very clear. You make it your personal mission to find every exception.

☆☆☆

Sweeping a towel around your body, you smirk as your personal commlink chirps again.

Hm, eager this time, you think, tucking the towel around your chest and watching the holoscreen illuminate with a text reply.

It's not entirely a bad thing, his eagerness. Penchar is on world very infrequently, and your last meeting a year ago was rather to-the-point, which works well for both of you. His career as a merchant brings him to every corner of the galaxy, while the same goes for you as a Jedi. When your paths cross, you can usually find some no-strings enjoyment.

[if i make it into port next week, will you be around?]

You tap the side of your commlink with your finger, thinking over your schedule. You send back a non-commital response. It would be nice to make the time for it, but you can't be certain.

[can i have a little preview, just in case?] his message reads in reply.

You press your lips together, staring down at the message, dripping wet and naked beneath your towel. His timing is impeccable. Taking only a short moment to think it over, you decide to indulge.

You set the cam to auto, placing it across from your bed, on your nightstand. Then you peel away the towel and lie back, easing yourself into the soft blankets covering your bed. You fold an arm across your chest, pressing your breasts in close and giving a sultry smile. When you're satisfied with the handful of clicks the commlink emits, you pick it back up to look over your work.

You find the one you like - smile soft and eyes half-lidded as you brush the soft, dewy skin of your forearm arm against your nipples. You can't see much; only the tops of your breasts, but the angle is perfect and the light catches the curve of your cleavage nicely.

You select the file, scroll down to his name in your contacts list, and press send.

When you finish dressing a few minutes later, you check your commlink - no new messages - and blink in surprise. It's a little odd since he normally responds quite quickly, but you shrug it off and pick up your datapad, settling in for a night catching up on your work. There's an excursion Master Plo has planned for a group of Jedi knights to some of the planets along the Shaltin Tunnels and you've been tasked with charting the fuel stops. As usual, you've left it until the last minute and you finally have some spare time to get it done. You cross the room and lie back on your couch, flipping through some of your files and messages, determined to keep your concentration where it belongs.

When an hour has passed, you raise an eyebrow and finally allow yourself to stand back up and check your commlink. He might have gotten busy, of course, but this is a bit excessive.

No messages.

With a slightly furrowed brow, you pull up the file.

Sent

Mentally shrugging, you set the commlink back down and you're just about to return to your work when a message chimes.

[i guess youd rather make me wait ey?]

There must be a bad connection where he is at the moment. Hovering your finger over the file briefly, you press down on resend.

Many long minutes later, you pass the device again, eyeing it as you pace around your kitchen, making yourself a cup of tea. The screen remains blank and silent.

By the time you have a hot drink in your hand and ease back into the cushions of your couch, you decide to let it rest. This has happened before; he'll either call when his reception is better, or he won't. If not, you'll catch one another next time he's in the quadrant.

Stretching your legs, you take a sip of your tea and settle in for more charts and maps.

The next thing you know, the beeping of your commlink wakes you, and you take in a heavy breath through your nose. It's morning.

Peeling yourself from the couch, you drop the datapad, still in your hand, on a side table. So much for getting caught up on your work. Standing up and rubbing the sleep out of your eyes, you yawn as you bend over to look at the commlink. You squint at the glowing screen. It's just one word; your name. And it's from Obi Wan.

You blink to focus your eyes, scrolling up in your messages from him.

The soft edges of your sleep-soaked mind are sharpened into stark, bright reality all at once when you see the previous message you'd sent him.

Stars above, no - please, no, you think desperately.

Then another message comes through.

[If this is a joke, I am not laughing]

The minutes of every activity have seemed to crawl punishingly slowly from sunrise to sunset. You've been checking your commlink so often it's become irritating, and yet... you pick it up again.

Still nothing.

You'd decided not to respond back, after attempting to type several explanations through text that had been woefully inadequate. Calling him seemed impossible at the time, and eventually you'd come to the conclusion that speaking in person would be the best way forward.

When the time finally comes and you're knocking at the door to his quarters, you realize that having all day to rehearse what you'd wanted to say has done absolutely nothing to help you.

"Hello."

Seeing his face at last, you fail completely to come up with anything.

You decide to try your best at an honest apology anyway. The words come out jumbled, and too quick.

"Look, I just need to say, I am so, so sorry."

He gives the faintest of smiles, and he steps to the side, allowing you in.

"That was... incredibly inappropriate. A stupid, clumsy mistake on my part. Alright? And I'm really sorry," you finish, not able to meet his eyes until you're done talking.

The light in his quarters is warm and the glow of Coruscant's sun paints his sparse furniture. Obi Wan is still wearing his tunic, belt and boots. He must have just finished his duties, as you have. He waves a hand toward one of his chairs, inviting you to sit as you enter, but you give him a look that says you prefer to remain standing.

"There is no need for apologies, I assure you."

With that, your shoulders finally lose some of their tension. "Thank you. But for what it's worth, I'd still like to offer one."

His faint smile turns deeper, spreading over his face. "You needn't worry. We have all been a shot of spotchka past our better judgement from time to time."

Your words stop short of your mouth, brain reconfiguring. "It wasn't... that isn't what happened."

He doesn't miss a beat. "Right. Well, in any case, apology accepted."

Then he turns from you, casually removing his belt and lightsaber and placing them on the table nearby. Something about his easy demeanor makes you feel the need to clarify.

"Obi Wan. It was an accident. I hope I'm making that clear."

His smile drifts into a smirk, and then he makes a show of dropping into a serious expression. "No, of course."

"You don't believe me," you say softly.

"I never said that."

His words stun you, and you need to gather yourself before trying again. "It was an accident."

He raises his brows, making it clear he thinks you're the one being obtuse. "Oh, certainly. Those commlinks can be so tricky; I can't tell you how many times I've tried to send a simple message, only to find that my clothes have come off."

Your face heats. You wouldn't have minded him being entertained by a stupid mistake. But his implication that you would try to cover it up is getting unexpectedly under your skin.

"That's not what I meant."

"I know," he says, still not fully dropping the amusement from behind his eyes. "I know; I'm sorry. But, come now. We are friends, are we not? We can be honest with one another."

The nerve. You release a slow breath. "So you do think I'm lying."

"There is no need for such harsh words."

"Listen, I'm sorry you got that picture, but I really didn't send it to you on purpose."

"Ah. Surely you meant to send the schematic for my new ship. Instead, you must have tripped, taken this photo, and sent it. Twice."

That's it. You've tried to be generous.

"No. Taking the picture wasn't an accident. And sending it wasn't, either. I just didn't mean to send it... to you."

The easy smile is gone. "Oh."

He holds your gaze, never faltering before he turns his attention back to the table. "I see. My apologies."

He begins unclipping his lightsaber from his belt with quick, deliberate movements.

"I really didn't mean to make things more difficult for you."

"You haven't."

His answer is much too quick. There's a pause where you wait for him to soften the blow, but he just looks up at you, holding his belt and saying nothing. Then he crosses the room to hang it up.

"You haven't," he reiterates. "You needn't worry about that."

If there's one thing Obi Wan does not like, it's appearing foolish. He pretends not to have an ego, and while he's proven his humility time and time again, you also know the younger, sharper, harsher man he used to be. And you see glimpses of him now and then.

"Good," you affirm. "Because I hope we are friends, after all, and I didn't mean to... rub it in your face. You know, having someone to-" You let the statement hang. "...when you don't."

He blinks at you. "What makes you say that?"

That stings. Not the idea that he could have someone else, but the idea that he would keep it from you. Or, worse yet, that he would let his wounded pride lead you to believe he does.

"Just because I have chosen not to partake at the moment doesn't mean-"

"You're right. I shouldn't have assumed." You cut him off, shaking your head, and start to back toward the door. "I'm just happy to hear you haven't been affected by my... lack of better judgment."

He walks after you. "Wait; there's no need for you to go. You have nothing to be embarrassed about."

Your eyes widen. "Oh, I'm not embarrassed. Believe me, I'm not the one who should be."

He follows you to the door, and as you exit, you promptly close it in his face.

Embarrassed?

Jedi should not allow petty, small feelings of annoyance to grow into the frustration you're currently feeling. And knowing that he's likely suffering from months of depriving himself a certain outlet should really allow you to give him more grace.

But, embarrassed?

You finish your meditation for the evening more irritated than when you began. It's almost impressive.

Getting into bed, you scroll back in your messages to find the picture you'd sent. No, you absolutely have nothing to be embarrassed about.

You chew your lower lip, and in spite of your attempts to think of anything besides Obi Wan, you can't help but imagine his face when he'd opened it.

In fact...

[Since that picture didn't seem to bother you, you probably wouldn't mind another?]

Still rubbing your bottom lip between your teeth, you hesitate before slipping off your outer robe and committing to your decision.

You're still wearing your undergarments, and you pull down the bodice you usually wear beneath your tunic, just until your breasts are lifted and squeezed deliciously tightly. Your nipples are barely visible, starting to spill over the top of the dark fabric, and you take a few pictures in the dim light, popping your mouth open slightly for good measure. You review the pictures, then lick your lips and take another.

There - the one with your cheeks flushed and saliva shining, almost as if your mouth is watering for something to be pressed inside.

You press send, and you get no response. But you go to sleep with a satisfied smirk.

"And during the latter half of the temple visiting hours, please be mindful that the docking bay area is restricted to 40 percent landing capacity due to..."

The Coruscant municipal enforcement officer drones on, entering the third hour of the mandatory annual community guidelines seminar. Your eyelids would normally be struggling to stay apart by this point in the day, if it were not for the golden-haired Jedi currently pretending to absently scratch at his short beard as he glances downward.

You check your commlink again, making sure your settings are silenced.

[if you got my last message, it's rather rude of you not to reply] you'd sent him shortly after he'd walked through the door.

He'd looked around until he'd spotted you. Then he'd pretended not to.

[i can only guess you didn't get it, then. don't worry. i took a few more]

He still didn't answer, but you watched as he slowly seemed to look down into his lap more often. After a few more moments without reply, you'd carefully covered your screen with your sleeve and sent him another angle of the shot from last night - this one leaning forward more, with the soft curve between your breasts on prominent display.

You'd been stealing glances ever since. And so had he.

[i think you're right, by the way. don't think i have anything to be embarrassed about. do you?]

You watch as he looks down again, then looks back up as if giving his rapt attention to the presentation on imported fruit. The lights lower, and you see his screen glow as he receives another message from you.

[if you want me to stop, just say so]

His hand swipes over the message, closing it. The screen goes dark.

You look over your shoulder casually, shifting in your seat, and you take a very long time before sending one last message.

This one is closer - much closer. It's an image of your nipple, peeking from between your two fingers. Your hand is cupping the bottom of your breast and your index and middle finger gently fix themselves on either side of your stiff bud, coaxing the sensitive tip to harden for him. You swallow and quickly press send, closing your screen again and casting a sideways glance to ensure only your eyes had seen. Thankfully the eyes surrounding you are half-closed in boredom.

When you chance a look in Obi Wan's direction, you see his screen illuminating the inside of his sleeve, and no reaction as he turns it off again. He remains completely motionless, looking back up at the presenter.

But you catch it when the muscle of his jaw clenches, hard. You also catch the way his adam's apple bobs in his throat with a swallow. And you absolutely catch the way he turns his head to look at you, then suddenly flicks his eyes forward again, unblinking, and doesn't look back for the remainder of the day.

You're starting to soften a bit by the time you're back in your quarters that evening, finally beginning to feel that the punishment has outweighed Obi Wan's offenses, as you look back through your very one-sided conversation. Despite yourself, you smile, taking a bite of your jogan fruit snack before bed, and decide to relent.

[just checking if i've made another error in sending... you are getting these, yes?]

You aren't really expecting an answer, just trying to lighten the mood. But you get one.

[yes]

[i see. i'm glad i haven't embarrassed myself further. what do you say we call it even?]

You get no response. Perhaps he's more irritated than you'd realized. You smirk. The thought really shouldn't be so pleasing.

Then your commlink chimes. [it would take a greater fool than i to refuse a fine gift, freely given]

The fruit juice drips down your chin. You scramble to wipe it, as caught off-guard as you are. Is he... asking for more?

[who says these are gifts? i considered them more as punishment]

You stand up to wash the fruit from your mouth and face, then cross the room to stare at the screen again. This was the last response you'd expected.

He doesn't reply back. You could leave it here. You could have mercy and respect the trial; make it easier on him. But then, he always seems to want to make things harder for himself. You might as well help him.

Leaning back and spreading out on your bed, you send another picture. Then another. Minutes pass without any response, so you send another. You get creative.

You're talking to a wall - he doesn't answer. But you're starting to get wet, thinking about why he might not be.

You dip your fingers into your own slick, and then a thought occurs to you. You send him an image of your glistening fingers. Then you set down the cam, closing your eyes and circling your clit, sucking in a breath through your teeth as you play with yourself, imagining searing blue eyes and the weight of his body on top of yours.

You're close. It's now been several long minutes since your last message and still nothing from him. So you decide to send one final message. A sign-off for the evening.

You tip the cam down between your legs and take a dimly-lit shot, touching yourself for him to see.

It feels like you've been holding your breath, right at the edge, for hours. But it can't have been more than a minute before your commlink chimes.

It's an image. You open the file.

Thick fingers grip like death around the base of a hard, leaking cock.

You choke, pussy twitching wildly as you stop yourself from tipping into an orgasm at the sight of it. He's dripping; a mess. You can see every vein in his hand bulging with the effort of strangling his swollen, drooling dick.

Dialing. Now.

The hand you aren't using to call him is still wet, but you manage to pull it from between your legs, covering yourself with your bedsheets.

The chimes come to an end. He didn't pick up.

You realize you're incredibly stupid for dialing again, but your brain took its leave the moment you opened that file.

His holoimage glows bright and blue before you, and it strikes you all at once that he's actually answered. You sit up straighter, covering your chest with your bedding, and stare at him.

He's staring right back, shoulders bare, muscles tight. You can see a hint of dampness at his temple.

"Wh- why did you send that?" you ask, blurting the first words that come to mind. "We can't..." You try again. "What was that for?"

His eyes seem to cut through the hologram and straight into you, burning down to the pit of your stomach. "Presumably, to show you've achieved your goal."

He doesn't sound pleased. In fact, he almost sounds... frustrated. Defiant. You notice his right shoulder clenching. Your eyes are roving hungrily over every bit of his body, bathed in the dim blue glow of the hologram. You lick your lips, panting out, "My goal? What would that be?"

The muscles of his neck tense as he swallows, but he stays silent. Then, slowly, he clicks a button which expands the screen and shows where his other hand is.

It's dark between his legs, but you can definitely see the outline of his pulsing, dripping cock. And you can see how hard the muscles of his hand are working to choke himself off. No movement. Just the shadows trailing over his clenched stomach as he breathes in and out.

"I imagine," he grinds out, "this is what you wanted, is it not?"

You drag your gaze back up from his center, trying to force a cool, detached tone in your shaky voice. "And... what are we going to do about that?"

He looks almost furious at the question, and his answer seethes out between his teeth.

"You tell me."

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