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Betrayal - Obi-Wan Kenobi x Reader
Summary: months into the war and it's not as exhilarating as you'd hoped - not for your battalion, anyway. when the air conditioning in your compound blows, an old friend brings his tech genius of a padawan to fix it for you. while anakin is working, you convince his master to spar for old times' sake, and simple adrenaline gives way to a landslide of long-buried feelings neither of you should have for each other.
Contents/Warnings: smut, minors dni, fem!reader, jedi!reader, reader is a general, sweat kink (? they are really sweaty and i talk about it a lot), oral (m+f receiving), semi-public sex (risk of being caught), sparring, lightsaber use, throatfucking, messy kisses, scratching/marking, lotsa spit, obligatory 'had you said the word' (sorry satine i had to steal his line)
WC: 16.9K / navigation / inbox
A/N: sorry this took me so long to finish! i didn't have time to write for like two months but it's done now and i hope you enjoy it <3 this is set a couple months/a year into the clone wars, but i have chosen to fuck with their ages a little bit. in this, anakin is like 12-14-ish, even though he was older in AOTC when the war began.
feedback is greatly appreciated! comment, reblog, talk in the tags, send me a message, tell me what you think!
Neglecting the option of taking a padawan under your wing is what stuck you on this humid, blazing, hellish planet, and you almost regret it. You’d wanted more freedom in your duties, didn’t want a youngling clinging to your leg begging for help with their rudimentary saber drills, so instead you swapped it for what you thought would be constant battle, exhilarating speeder chases, and the glory of proving yourself. Unbecoming of a Jedi to wish for, yes, but you’ve never claimed to be Council-worthy.
Now your butt is sticking to the chair you’re planted in, overlooking a very empty, very desolate, very boring outpost. It’s so hot that you think you’ve melted into the chair and fused with its fabric. Standing might tear your skin away from your flesh, leaving an imprint of you behind in your seat.
“General,” One of your clone troopers calls, sticking his head through the doorway to your station, “Nothing on my scanners.”
“Nor on mine,” You drawl lazily, “We’re scheduled to be inspected today. Any word from the crew?”
“None.” He laments, “I just hope they bring a droid that can fix the cooler.”
The base you’re stationed to isn’t always this disgusting. The structure is wired with an air conditioning system to keep the inside much cooler than the outside, but after a rather unfortunate incident with a freshly manufactured astromech droid with some crossed wirings, both lay broken and singed in the maintenance bay. Your clones don’t know how to tinker with droids or heating systems, and you’d probably wind up just as ash-covered if you tried.
“Alert me when they land,” You order the trooper, leaning your forehead against the cool metal of the scanner screen before you, “I want to have time to change into an outfit I haven’t soaked through with sweat.”
The scanner grows warm against your flushed skin far too soon. Everything is hot, and sticky, and gross, and you find yourself yearning for the cold showers you used to despise at the temple. Perhaps you yearn for the temple in general, for the familial atmosphere shared among overconfident Padawans and exasperated Masters. You think specifically of Obi-Wan Kenobi, a man you’d trained with, now Master to his apprentice Skywalker.
You haven’t seen the pair in years, but you remember Anakin’s blonde mop of hair, as well as his penchant for chaos. Watching Obi-Wan’s eyes fill with horror at whatever shenanigans his Padawan had gotten into that day was part of what helped you make the decision to decline one yourself, though you hold no distaste for the boy. He was simply young and untrained in the ways of the Jedi, and you were not a patient enough person to gracefully navigate that predicament then. You’re not sure you are now, either.
Even though you know you’re better suited on your own, you wonder if you’d have been more fulfilled with a Padawan learner of your own. Surely anything could be better than this, wasting away- rotting on a planet hot enough to boil your blood if you stepped outside without proper protection.
Your base is secluded and temperature-controlled, even if the contraption that the Republic had fashioned under pressure of time to keep you isolated is rather crude. It’s, in essence, a large dome, seals in place to ensure that vessels can land and takeoff without destroying the temperature control. It’s cooler within the dome than it is outside of it, but the hurriedly-designed system can only do too much, and you greatly depend on the air conditioning to do its job. Now that it’s not, you’re irritated from the heat, and you wish that the inspection team would just hurry up already. The patience you’d had drilled into you from your early years as a Youngling is nowhere to be found under the pressure of a heat wave, and your foot taps impatiently against the floor while you itch for some action.
You think it’s rather pathetic that you yearn for excitement so badly that you’re anxiously awaiting the inspection team. Their job takes barely an hour, a scan of your equipment and a survey of your troops. They’ll walk in and out without so much as a pleasantry, but you long for something new, something more, something exciting.
The call over your comms comes over an hour later, a time in which you remain at your post but begrudge it all the while. “General,” Your trooper barks, voice staticky and rough over the channel, “We’ve got visitors. Inspection team’s here. Initiating landing procedure.”
“Copy that,” You bolt out of your seat, barely remembering to lean over the microphone to reply, “Thank you.”
Finally.
Finally, someone new to talk to, even if they have the same face as everyone else you’ve spoken to on this long, dreary assignment. You’re friendly with your troopers, of course, but that itch for more is back in your brain, igniting you with vigor you don’t normally possess as you rush to greet the inspection team.
However, when you reach the landing bay, and the ship’s hydraulics hiss, clone troopers aren’t the only ones to disembark. Jedi robes make their appearance, shrouding the very man you’d just thought about, as well as the child by his side.
Obi-Wan wears the years that have passed since you last saw him, but time has treated him well. His hair is longer now, gone is that stiff Padawan buzz. His braid is missing as well, giving way to luscious strawberry blonde strands that he’s slicked back so that they drag against the back and sides of his neck. Longer hair looks good on him, just as it had when he was fifteen and had refused a haircut for months in a typical, if rather tame, display of teenage rebellion. Anakin is also significantly older than you’d kept track of, but he can’t be older than fourteen if his lanky limbs and awkward demeanor are any evidence.
Obi-Wan smiles at you, and you nearly forget to shove down that shameful part of you that wants to take more out of him than he can give you. Even as Padawans you’d always gravitated towards the man opposite you, sneaking out to roam the gardens after hours together or sharing sly glances across mission briefings. But he’s an honorable Jedi Master - a member of the Council itself, so you’ve heard - and you wrestle down your repressed feelings to grin at him.
“General Y/L/N,” He greets with a smile so charming you lament that the Jedi Order interrupted his chances of being a model.
“Master Kenobi,” You greet, but you know he’ll chide you for the honorific if you use it more than once, “I wasn’t aware you’d be on the inspection team.”
“We’re not. Technically.” Obi-Wan admits, arm coming to press against Anakin’s back and nudge him forwards, “We got word that your air conditioning system is out, as well as one of your new astromechs. Anakin here is still an excellent mechanic, I thought we’d come out to offer you some reprieve from the heat.”
Anakin looks embarrassed by the attention that’s fallen upon him, in typical pubescent fashion, and you take pity on the timid teenager, casting your glance back at his Master, “Maker, thank you. We’re melting out here.”
“I can imagine,” Obi-Wan laughs, and you turn again to Anakin who’s anxiously awaiting your orders.
“Anakin, if you could fix our air conditioning, that would be wonderful. Honestly, I’m not even sure I want the droid fixed, it’s what got us into this mess in the first place. But they’re both over there,” You point to the shorted out panels, “And my troopers will offer you any supplies you need, like tools or wiring or refreshments.”
“Thank you.” Anakin nods, hands clasped behind his back obediently even if he looks mortified to be the center of attention once more, “I’ll have things up and running as soon as possible.”
“I’m leaving you here,” Obi-Wan warns the boy, pointing an accusatory finger at him, “I don’t often leave you alone with machinery and tools, Anakin, for reasons we’re both aware of. Promise me you will not do anything reckless?”
“I promise,” Anakin mutters reluctantly, and you avert your eyes so he has some semblance of privacy.
“I mean it, Anakin. This is no time to experiment with your technical prowess. You simply fix their system and you wait for me back on the ship, understand?”
“Master,” Anakin pleads, “I understand.”
“Very well. Get to your duties,” Obi-Wan dismisses the boy, turning to you only after he sees his Padawan crouch by the singed panel.
“He shouldn’t take long. He most likely will try to tinker with the astromech, though.” Obi-Wan smiles sympathetically, “He’s not one to leave a droid unusable.”
“I remember he had a particular talent for mechanics,” You muse, starting off towards the main base intent on leading Obi-Wan to your rec room, “If I recall correctly, he figured out how to inconspicuously rewire his communicator to give you an ‘unavailable’ signal if he didn’t like what you were asking him to do.”
Obi-Wan scoffs as he lets you lead through the doorway, “Yes, my Padawan has always had very selective hearing. I’m sure you don’t mind not having one of your own.”
“That’s one of the reasons I justify my choice,” You chuckle, letting the door shut behind you as you make your way through the halls. The base that the Republic had granted you is spacious, even decked out with training facilities and rec rooms interspersed throughout your rows of quarters, but it’s unbearably hot and you’re tired of being cooped up inside of it.
“This isn’t bad for a base,” Obi-Wan muses, robes swishing behind him as he strides beside you, “But I hope Anakin fixes that cooling system soon.”
“Try being stationed here permanently,” You scoff, tugging at the sweat-soaked neckline of your tunic, “I have long since abandoned my robes.”
“Do you have somewhere I could set this?” Obi-Wan asks, fingers catching the front of his cloak as he slings it off. It falls gracefully from his shoulders, and he holds the garment up as he laments still having to wear the rest of his robes.
“You can leave it in my quarters,” You veer sharply to the right, letting him catch up, “They’re just down this hallway.”
There’s unmarked doors on either side of the corridor, and you’re still impressed that each clone trooper knows where their bed is at night. Your door has a plaque beside its frame that reads ‘General’s Quarters,’ and you’re not confident that you could navigate the halls without it. You type in your access code, and the door slides open with a hiss.
“Just set it on the bed,” You gesture towards your mattress, “If we have some time, I thought,” You reach into the closet, pulling out your seldom-used lightsaber, “We could spar.”
Obi-Wan laughs, discarding his cloak onto your bed as his eyes crinkle happily at the corners, “You’re lacking a bit of excitement here, aren’t you, Y/N? There’s no way you’d duel me willingly after I took you down the last time.”
You’d sparred together since you’d been handed a saber for the first time. Sure, your initial weapons were wooden, then training blades designed to be duller than their more advanced counterparts, before you’d finally been granted allowance to manufacture one of your own. But there were no more dedicated sparring partners than the two of you, and you can tell the man opposite you is fond of the reminder you’ve given him, even if he is trying to tease you.
“You did not take me down,” You gawp, “I mean- yes, I was on the floor, but I wasn’t done! You didn’t win!”
“Mm, yes. I didn’t win because no one did.” Obi-Wan sends you a sly grin, “Anakin interrupted us, don’t you remember? We never got to finish.”
“Then a rematch,” You insist, gesturing towards the open doorway, “Once and for all we’ll prove who the better duelist is.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’ll win. After all, I can tell you spend every waking moment practicing and making sure you lose none of your fighting abilities,” Obi-Wan’s hand darts out to switch on your holotable, revealing an in-progress game of chess. You’re losing.
“I’ve only been using that as of late,” You snap, defensive, “It’s insufferable to train without proper ventilation. And only when I’m not on duty. I don’t spend all of my time sitting and playing chess.”
“Losing at chess.” Obi-Wan arches an eyebrow, finally stepping out of your quarters so that you can shut it once more, “Come, Y/N, show me to your training grounds.”
The training room is just as hot as everywhere else on the base. You walk through the doors and humid air greets you, something that wrinkles Obi-Wan’s nose and rustles his mustache.
“God, I hope your Padawan knows what he’s doing,” You groan, rolling up the sleeves of your own tunic but jumping excitedly into action despite the heat. You ignite your saber, slightly embarrassed by the thrill that the weapon gives you as it thrums to life. You haven’t felt this in a long time, at least, not paired with the thrill of battle. It’s significantly less awe-inspiring to ignite a saber against a training droid you know wouldn’t be able to singe your tunics if you stood stock still. Obi-Wan brings his to life as well; blue and green lights bathe your faces.
“I’ll go easy on you.” He smiles infuriatingly, cocking his head slightly to one side, “Ready?”
“Ready.” You jolt right, a fakeout before you dart left instead. He catches on rather quickly, though, and his blade clashes against yours as you aim for his leg.
“Nice start,” Obi-Wan admits, “But you can’t rely on misdirection for your entire fight. You’ll have to overpower me.”
“I could easily overpower you,” You swing left, breaking the contact of your two sabers, then jabbing so that he has to move his foot out of the way to avoid the plasma. He stumbles, barely catching himself against his back foot, but it gives you time enough to bring your blade up and around to nick at his shoulder, a hole now slashed into his tunic.
“Okay,” He stands straight, eyeing the tear in his clothing warily, “I won’t go easy on you.”
“Never underestimate your opponent,” You tease proudly, saber still ignited, “That’s one for me, Obi-Wan.”
“That doesn’t count,” He scoffs, standing at the ready, “I told you I’d go easy on you. Now I’m serious.”
“All I’m hearing is excuses,” You gloat, feet light as you step around him, “You lead this time, Kenobi.”
He does. He swings downwards, and you block your face with your own blade to stop him. He nearly jabs at your gut before you can prevent it, and you feel the heat from his blade as your own comes to block his.
You fling his weapon away with yours, and he lets you. After such a long period of no action (and shamefully little meditation) your abilities with the Force have grown slightly weaker, as have your regulatory skills. You can still sense what he’s going to do when he squares his shoulders, but you’re almost not fast enough to interpret those senses, and you barely make it to block him from swinging his blade in a fiery circle that would clip the edge of your arm.
“You’re rusty,” He taunts, his own Force abilities stronger than ever as his presence seeps through the cracks in your mind. You try to force him out, but it takes effort, and it’s effort you can’t expend elsewhere. It means that you can’t foresee his intent to aim for your face, and his blade hums inches away from your cheek as he holds it there.
You freeze; you’re caught.
We’re even,” You grunt, sweat beading at your forehead, “But we’re not finished.”
“Hang on,” He disengages his saber, letting the apparatus clatter to the ground as he tugs at one of the outer layers of his robes, “I’m going to shed a few things.”
“Stripping will not help your cause.” You tease, “I’m not distracted by sex appeal.”
Clearly, he isn’t expecting your jab, and he lets his mouth fall open as he slings off one of his garments, an incredulous laugh filling his throat.
“Y/N. You’ve obtained a foul mouth somewhere along your career. It certainly wasn’t in the temple.”
“It’s the clones,” You groan, “Try being stationed with a troop of grown men who went through puberty in record time. They’ve got the appetite of an adult with the filter of a teenage boy.”
“They’ve never tried anything with you,” Obi-Wan narrows his eyes questioningly, and you try to avoid looking at the sweat glistening against his tanned neck as he strips to his base layer.
“No, they’re respectful.” You assure him, “Just crass.”
“Yes, well,” Obi-Wan frowns distastefully, “They haven’t had Jedi training. I suppose I’m not surprised.”
He stands there for a moment with only his undershirt covering his chest, then decides that it’s still too warm, tugging at its hem to raise it over his head.
You feel your insides ignite with a fire you haven’t felt in a long time when his bare chest is exposed, skin marred and riddled with coarse, wiry hair. His stomach is flat but not as tight as you remember in your youth, softer now. You can tell there’s an impressive layer of muscle beneath the milky white skin, though, even if it’s not outwardly visible. He uses his tunic to wipe the sweat off of his face so you’re granted a moment to ogle him, your mouth watering as you try to conceal your thoughts.
“Okay. Enough with this child’s play.” You shake your head, letting Obi-Wan have just enough time to toss aside his tunic before you plant your feet against the mat. Obi-Wan stands at the ready, both of your sabers ignited, “I want a real match. A long one, now that we’re warmed up. Best two out of three, Kenobi. Winner takes all.”
“Winner gets to stand in front of the air conditioning vent when Anakin gets it up and running,” Obi-Wan suggests, sweat trailing down his neck and over his chest. You avert your eyes, lest the fraile state of mind you’re in betrays you.
“Fine.” You shrug, reaching for the hem of your vest. It’s tactical, good for keeping with you on duty, but it’s etching lines of sweat into your back now. You sling it off, letting it land in a heap similar to Obi-Wan’s robes, and exposing the tank top you have on beneath it. “I know just the one I’ll pick. In my room, there’s one just above the bed. Maybe I’ll let it hit my back while I win at holochess.”
“I think the heat might be getting to you,” Obi-Wan cracks, a slight heave to his chest as he tries regulating his breathing. It’s hard when you’re as hot as you are to get enough oxygen, and you’re doing the same. It’s awfully difficult not to indulge in the view of his bare chest rapidly rising and falling, and you feel a tug below your gut as a vision flashes through your mind. It’s of what else could make him pant in such a way, and you can’t afford to entertain the thought, not around him. “I’m not sure which outcome is more delusional; that you’ll win this duel, or that you’ll win at holochess.”
“You’re wasting time,” You croon, charging with your blade poised for battle so that you have no more time to fantasize, “I think you’re scared.”
“Do I feel afraid?” Obi-Wan laughs, blocking your attack with little effort and redoubling to launch one of his own. The clatter of your sabers almost drowns out his words, “Reach out, Y/L/N, all you’ll feel is confidence.”
“I’m not sure I could feel you if I tried,” You lament, chest heaving as you block one of his swings, “Not while my mind is occupied with our duel. I am rusty, you were right.”
“Practice more,” He chides, “Less chess, more meditation.”
“One is a lot more boring than the other!” You groan, barely managing to get your arm up in time to take a shot at his own, “And the less boring one is chess, so that’s really saying something.”
“It may be boring but it is beneficial,” Obi-Wan lectures you, and you wonder if he thinks you’re still a Padawan. You fight with heaving breaths and monumental effort, the heat sucking your energy out through the sweat that drips down your skin. He turns and his back is glistening, which is really not a sight that helps you to stay focused.
“Now I’m starting to see why Anakin tinkered with his communicator,” You call, as Obi-Wan whirls around your left side, “You’re very dull as a Jedi Master!”
You have to throw yourself onto the floor to avoid a swing at your head, your right shoulder aching as you do so. But you scramble away from him, righting yourself and miraculously avoiding the blade of your saber coming into contact with the training mat.
You stumble to your knees, driving the forward momentum you have against Obi-Wan as he tries blocking you. You nearly get a nick out of his pants, but he pushes you backwards with the threat of his blade, and you fall with your back to the mat.
Your stomach drops when a blue blade hums hot and bright near your throat, its tip directed at your jugular. It doesn’t matter that it’s on its training setting; it’s inescapable and daunting when it’s an inch from your skin. You’re done for.
“I may be dull,” Obi-Wan pants, beard glistening as sweat streams down his neck. His chest heaves as he speaks, bare and open for your eyes, and his pink tongue pokes out of the corner of his mouth to dart along his lips, “But I am victorious. Does this remind you a little bit of the last time we fought?”
It does. He’d been standing over you then as he is now, and you’d had to fortify your mind back then not to let slip vulgar thoughts about being on the floor below him. His thighs, meaty with muscle and strong from training, are hidden behind loose pants, but their crotch has tightened slightly, a chub to what should be a relaxed surface.
A pang of arousal shoots down your spine, and suddenly the lightsaber near your throat isn’t the most daunting thing in the room. It’s Obi-Wan.
He swallows, his adam’s apple bobbing as you lay beneath him.
“Your thoughts betray you,” He observes, and you feel his invasive presence in your mind, sucking out the private thoughts coursing through your brain. They’re of panting breaths, heaving chests, wandering hands, and meshing tongues; passionate embraces, intimate attachments. Things no Jedi should fantasize about, not under the code. Things that should bring shame to you, and maybe they do, and maybe you like it.
“Your body betrays you,” You’re able to muster, swallowing the saliva pooling in your mouth as you glance pointedly at his bulge. It’s only grown since you’d last glanced at it; evidently your visions did something to him too.
He sees, or perhaps, feels what you see, freezes, then clicks his saber off. The blade retracts with a hiss and there is a distinct vacuum of sound where its humming once was. He breaks the unnerving silence with a clatter as he tosses it aside, feet still firmly planted on either side of your hips.
“It’s natural.” He weakly supplies, a poor defense, “It’s adrenaline-fueled, nothing more.”
“Really? So when you duel sith lords, when you chop the heads off of battle droids, you walk away with a stiff dick?” You carefully observe his body language, feet poised like he might bolt if you make any sudden moves. He’s flighty, and you have to make your next moves carefully.”
“Y/N,” He begins, his voice weak, “I wish you wouldn’t use such foul language.”
“Is it the language that bothers you?” You push your elbows against the mat, hoisting yourself up at an obtuse angle to meet his eye better, “Or is it the truth it carries? Obi-Wan, you were right. It’s natural. And it is not something to be ashamed of.”
“It is against the Code,” He reasons, his voice still fighting to sound resolute. He offers no other reasoning, and you know it’s because he has none.
“It’s not.” You insist, “The Code is ancient and rigid. And celibacy is not required, only a level head.”
“That’s the problem,” He chuckles weakly, “I don’t have a level head when it comes to you, Y/N.”
“You seem as though you do.” You press cautiously, careful not to push your luck, “I’ve never felt anything unprofessional about your feelings towards me.”
“That’s because I haven’t been around you in a long time,” He admits, “Not consistently. I was better at controlling it- no, hiding it when we were Padawans. I had to do it every day, it was natural to me. But I am out of practice now, and I have been since you were stationed here. I barely have the ability to hide how I feel about you, Y/N. And- and it is not something the Council would approve of.”
You sit up now, fully straightened. You’re still between his legs, but you’d need to rise to your knees for your face to be level with his bulge. You plan to.
“The Council is not here. Nor can they see us, or hear us, or feel us. They will not know what we do, Obi-Wan.”
“I will know.” He breathes, his voice growing weaker each time he tries raising it against you, “Y/N, I will never forget a thing we do together on this base. If we… If you touch me, I will remember every brush of your skin against mine for eternity. If you- kiss me, I will never be able to put the thought of your lips on mine out of my head. And I would not know how to live without it for the rest of my life.”
Your heart sinks in your stomach like a stone in water. He’s loyal to the Order, he always has been. But you’d been so blinded by isolation, so convinced by your own delusions, that you’d assumed his loyalty to you would be stronger. But it’s not, and you can’t earnestly be angry with him for it.
You swallow what little saliva has accumulated around your tongue to give yourself something to do, then rise to your feet.
“It sounds like you should walk away.” You mutter regretfully. His eyes hold the same feelings, strikingly painful. He nods, almost imperceptibly, but before he can follow your orders, you continue.
“But will you forgive yourself if you do?”
You feel it, his swell of emotions. Every single one is unbridled, yearning, heartache, fondness, want; all of them unleashed from the man whose mind is usually a fortress. They’re washing over you like waves, invading your brain and turning your thoughts their colors.
“No. I couldn’t,” He admits, “But-” and there’s always a but, “The Council would never forgive me if I didn’t.”
“They won’t know.” You insist, but it’s lost on him, “Obi-Wan, please make a decision. Who is more important, you or the Council?” Then in a more timid, soft voice, as his soft eyes bore into you and beg for mercy, you give him the opposite, “Who is more important… me or the Council?”
He kisses you. There is no warning, no shift in his Force signature, only his hands on your face and his lips on your own. There is strength in his touch, his hands firm where they pull your cheeks ever-so-slightly towards his face as if he’s trying to mash them into his own. His beard is rough and grating against your face, but it’s not unpleasant, especially when it brings with it his lips. His lips, which are much softer than you’d have imagined them, merely frame your own. The kiss is sweet but chaste, and the only indication you have that he wants more is the way that he holds you against him. Otherwise you’d mistake his courtesy for disinterest, and you tilt your head slightly sideways to encourage more enthusiasm from him.
When your lips reconnect he sighs, a breath from his nose that fans over your top lip. He’s letting you lead, letting you dictate whether you want to keep kissing him or whether you’ll suddenly switch positions; it’s like he’s afraid that you’ll rip off a mask and reveal yourself to be Master Windu, scolding him for his reckless passion. But of course you don’t, and you lick gently against the plush of his bottom lip instead.
He hums at the feeling of your tongue against his mouth, but he’s suddenly pushing against your cheeks instead of pulling.
“Are you absolutely sure,” He starts, but can’t seem to resist the temptation to steal another kiss from your spit-slicked lips, “That you- mm, that you want this? Because I cannot-” He breaks off with a weary, pleading, defeated look in his beautiful eyes, “I cannot turn back if we go further. If we proceed… I will not be able to forget what we do. If you’re not interested… please tell me now, so that I may save myself from loving you for an eternity that you do not wish to share with me.”
You scoff, moving in for another kiss at his lips. He doesn’t reciprocate, only pushing you back so that you can respond.
“I just spent five minutes,” You pant, desperate to reconnect your lips, “Bargaining with you to get you to forget about your nerves. And you don’t think I want this?”
You try surging forwards again but he holds you back, eyes still begging for your words.
“Please. I need to hear you say it.” He seems almost self-conscious, worried you’re not interested in him the same way he’s interested in you. But you have been since you can remember, and you’re more than willing to work around the unconventional aspects of your relationship if it means you can have him, even just for today.
“I want you,” You breathe, the exhale hitting his lips, “Please- Obi-Wan, I want you. I want you no matter what the Code says. No matter what the Council says; I want you.”
He looks like he could cry. He is devoted to the Order, far more than you have seen most Jedi, and to hear you choose him over the Code must mean a great deal. He pours passion into the kiss you share, chest filling with oxygen that he gulps just to be able to keep his mouth on yours for longer. He consumes you, fingers pulling at your cheeks and tugging you closer still, like he thinks you might fuse if he tries hard enough.
He groans into your mouth, his tongue more exploratory now that you’ve pledged your devotion to him. He’s not afraid of taking now, of getting his hopes up only to be thrown down, and he swipes the wet muscle in a hot stripe over your own tongue. He rolls it against your lower lip, so wonderful to kiss for someone with such lacking experience.
“No one is coming,” You breathe, exhaling against his mouth as your hands wander to his waistband, “No one- no one can see us.”
“I want you in your quarters.” He protests, grabbing your wrists when your hand sinks to his bulge and ghosts over it. He jolts at the unexpected contact, but holds you back, “I want to lay you down, Y/N, I want to indulge in every part of you. Worship you.”
“I will let you,” You moan, tilting your forehead against his and mouthing at his lips in a sloppy kiss, “You may have me any way you want, Obi-Wan. But here, I- I want to have you. I need to have you now,”
“Impatient,” He notes, sounding suspiciously close to lecturing you. But he lets your wrists go, and you sink to your knees instantly. He hears them hit the training mat, knows they must ache, but he can’t find any part of him available to worry about it, not now that your hands are prying greedily at the waistband of his trousers.
He’s a near stranger to physical pleasure, at least in recent years. He’s a grown man, he has urges, but he also has responsibilities, and the constant pressure of an ambitious (read: reckless) young Padawan under his supervision mixed with a quickly-rising rank within the Jedi Order leave him with little time nor interest to indulge in his barest desires. Your hand gently squeezing his clothed bulge as you wrestle with his pants nearly knocks him off of his feet, and he’s not sure he’ll be able to handle having your warm mouth envelop it.
Finally you tug loose the drawstring within his pants, and yank them down his thighs. They’re seldom bare, you see from the milky white tone of the skin there, but they are muscled and thick like he does not neglect them.
You can’t help yourself when you lean forwards, tongue already protruding from your mouth to lick a fat, wet stripe around one of his thighs. It’s sturdy beneath your tongue that dips into the crease between his skin and the parts of it that are covered by his briefs. His muscles tense like you’ve struck him with a fatal blow, and an open-mouthed groan escapes his lips.
His skin tastes of the sweat that’s currently moistening every inch of your bodies, salty and tantalizing. There’s no escaping it in the brutal heat, but it makes him all the more sexy, his skin glistening before you even get a chance to smear it in your saliva.
You’re guilty of impatience as he accuses, and you can’t resist mouthing at his covered bulge. He’s half-hard, but when your lips purse around the outline of his cock in his briefs he twitches, and you feel him stiffen against the restraints of his underwear on your tongue.
His knees give out with no warning, and he barely has the foresight to grab desperately at a bench press behind him for stability. He falls quickly to its surface, perching on the edge of it while you desperately chase his cock. You fit your mouth again over his briefs and drool against the fabric, surely soaking it through with your saliva. His cock, though restrained, is heavy and thick on your tongue, making your mouth water and produce enough drool to soak through his entire ensemble. His hands clutch the bench beneath him with white knuckles, and he grits his teeth to stop himself from shouting as you suck at his clothed cock.
“Oh, Y/N,” He pants, voice strained as you get lost in your task and forget that you need to actually pull his briefs down. He reaches for your head, gently nudging you away with his knuckles against your temple.
“Darling, please, I can’t- I won’t last for very long. Please, have me properly.”
He grips at the waistband of his underwear, tugging them down hurriedly and letting his cock spring free. It’s of decent length, but slightly thicker than average, its base shrouded by a patch of curled hair at his groin. It’s a similar caramel color to the rest of his hair, and his sweat has accumulated particularly within its wiry constraints, leaving him musky. The smell might bother you if it were anyone else, if you were anywhere else, but here and now, on your knees for Obi-Wan in the training room, it’s the most disgustingly tantalizing thing you’ve ever smelled in your entire life.
That’s why you bury your face into it, the hair tickling at your skin. His hips jolt as you inhale deeply near the base of his cock, groaning and letting your tongue fall to drag against just the shaft of his erect dick. He’s painfully hard, embarrassingly seconds to orgasm, and your spit now glistening on his length doesn’t help. Or it helps too much; either way, he’s close to cumming and you haven’t even had a chance to put him in your mouth.
“Darling,” He begs, pushing at your forehead once more, speaking through an eternal shortage of breath, “Please, I- it all feels too good. I can’t take it. I won’t last long.”
“That’s okay,” You pant, your breath falling over his cock as it practically pulses with pleasure, “We’re here for a good time, not a long time.”
“Terrible,” He manages to chuckle weakly, but any further chiding he has planned for your cheekiness is cut short when he stops breathing. He actually forgets how when your wet mouth closes around the head of his cock, your tongue licking flat over its head and covering most of its surface area. It’s so much sensation so fast that Obi-Wan has to clench his hands around the bench not to cum right then and there, and he feels pinpricks of pain over his skin that he realizes are from his fingernails digging against his palms. When you draw your head back off of his cock with a slick sound, then move in again to take more of his length into your mouth, his lungs suddenly remember their function, and heave within his chest.
His groans are filthy and they only pool more slick wetness between your thighs as you kneel for him. You don’t care about the ache in your knees, nor the pain in your neck from the slightly awkward angle you’re indulging in him at. All that matters is his cock, heavy and thick on your tongue, sweat and precum alike flooding your taste buds.
His restraint is put to the test. He’s a member of the Jedi Council, for Force’s sake, and he should have a little more control over himself than this. But it takes almost all of his energy not to buck his hips forwards and plunge the length of his cock down your throat, and it means that he’s not able to devote as much restraint to delaying his orgasm as he’d like.
He’s twitching in your mouth, and even with your faded Force abilities, mental muscles weakened by disuse, you can feel the tension coursing through his veins, hot and wild. You don’t need to look at his strained, white-knuckled grip on the edge of the bench to know that he’s devoting all of his energy to restraining himself, and you take pride in being able to undo Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi with merely your mouth. You indulge in his painful hardness, tongue smoothly caressing the underside of his length as you bob your head back and forth around him. Each time you draw back you flick your tongue up and over the ruddy, leaking head of his cock, something that makes that fiery tension in his body glow even hotter.
“I’m going to-” He warns you, voice petering out weakly as he tries controlling himself, “I can’t- I can’t help it, I’m going to cum.”
“Cum,” You speak in unison, your word coming out muffled as you speak it against his cock. You smooth your hands up his thighs, feeling his muscles impossibly tight beneath your fingers. You stroke them soothingly, encouraging him to unclench his jaw that’s wired so tightly that you’re sure his teeth are on the verge of cracking, “Cum, Obi-Wan, please.”
Even if you hadn’t asked him so kindly, he’s sure he wouldn’t have been able to withhold any longer. Not with your pretty eyes gazing up at him from between his legs, lashes latticing the tender emotions swirling in your gaze. Your fingers slide calmly, sweetly over the expanse of his thighs, and the mere thought of you digging your nails harshly into them and leaving marks is what elicits the final twitch of his dick on your tongue.
Evidently, you’re more in tune with his thoughts than he’d expected. You’d caught the quick image that had flashed through his mind, now completely unguarded to you, and you curl your fingers quicker than he can comprehend, carving searing marks into his thighs that will show up red for at least a week. Paired with the movement of your fingers, you suck hard at his cock, plunging your face forwards to nestle against the base once more. His tip hits the back of your throat with force and it makes you gag, and Obi-Wan isn’t sure what sensation is more overwhelming: the vivid burning at his thighs, the way the tip of his dick nestles so securely into the warm, wet sleeve of your throat, or the way that you’re breathing in his sweat-marred scent like it’s the purest oxygen you’ve ever had in your lungs. All he knows is that together, they’re his undoing, and he lets out a rugged cry; he can’t control himself any longer when pleasure roars through him with a fury he’s almost frightened of.
He’s always calm, collected, in control. But now he’s grabbing your face with shaking hands as he pumps warm spurts of cum down your throat, holding your jaw steady so that you can’t back away, not that you want to. He holds you in place while his thighs begin to tremble, your tongue continuously smoothing over the underside of his cock while it twitches in your mouth. He keeps himself fully nestled into the back of your throat while he cums, and if he had energy to be embarrassed about cumming as much as he was, he’d be apologizing. But he can’t, not when you’re swallowing him so eagerly, throat convulsing around the head of his cock and only milking more out of him. There’s obscene groans coming from his mouth, the kind that bring heat to your own core, and you think you could get off to the sound a thousand times over if you recorded him now. They’re deep, throaty, and desperate as he holds your face around his cock, gagging you on his dick as his orgasm takes control of him.
A part of your training that hasn’t left you yet was your extensive disaster training, in which you were taught how to extend the time for which you could hold your breath. That comes in especially handy when Obi-Wan’s hands cradle your jaw, keeping you snugly choking around his dick. You have to fight not to draw back at the strange sensation of your throat being plugged while his cum splatters against the back of it,, and you use all of your strength to keep yourself from panicking at the lack of airflow. You’re only slightly ashamed to admit that you’d willingly die like this, a fucktoy for his cock.
Once his orgasm has worked its way through him he seems to remember you can’t breathe, all of the tension having leaked out of his muscles. He inhales with a start, pushing against your cheeks and tugging his cock out of your mouth, “Oh, Y/N, darling- Y/N, are you-?”
At the sight of your spit-soaked lips, tongue desperately running over them to collect any of the sweat that had accumulated there from being pressed against his pelvis, he lunges forwards to meet his lips with your own. He can taste the slight savory hint of his own release, your tongues meshing wetly and messily. He’s hunching now, even though you’ve straightened up on your knees, and he feels you clumsily palm at his dick, tucking him back away into his briefs. It makes his lips go slack with a gasp even though he’s just finished, and he’s more than eager to take you by the wrists and help you to your feet. You toss his undershirt at him with careless speed, and he nearly gets lost in its beige expanse from the way that his arms shake as he pulls it over his head.
“My quarters,” Your voice is thick and ragged, still recovering from your prior lack of oxygen, “We can- it’s soundproof, no one will know.”
“Yes,” He breathes, legs shaking slightly as he gathers the rest of the clothes he’d shed while sparring with you, “Um- we can... Anakin still hasn’t gotten the air conditioning running.”
“Uh-uh,” You shake your head, feeling nothing from the vent to your left, “Hurry, let’s go before-”
“General,” The door slides open, and you both startle, much less in tune with the force presences of those around you than you’d like to admit. One of your troopers sticks his head through the door, “The kid needs a multitool.”
You blink once, registering a slight soreness at the back of your throat, “Get him a multitool, then.”
You’re sure he can see your haggard appearance, and all apart from the glossy look of your lips looks like you’ve been sparring. Which you have, technically. You just hope Obi-Wan’s trousers don’t look like they’ve only just been hitched up around his waist again, or his shirt barely pulled down over his chest.
“I lost mine, general,” The trooper admits sheepishly. There was an abundance of the supplies that were offered to you before you’d been shipped out to this battle station, and more had been stocked for a long time in one of the supply closets, but your troopers are bored more often than not, and you shudder to think of all of the times they’ve used them as target practice by standing them on the balcony and opening fire. Apparently, you need to request some more from the next inspection team, as well as impress upon your troops the difference between an abundance of resources and useless clutter begging for a blaster wound.
“I have one in my quarters,” You sigh wearily, “Let’s see to it that we don’t misuse our equipment anymore, soldier.”
“Yes, General,” He nods vigorously, stepping out of your way to offer you the open door.
“Obi-Wan,” You turn apologetically, “We’ll have to continue our sparring match after I retrieve the multitool for your padawan. You’re welcome to follow us, though I’m not sure it’s any cooler out there than it is in here.”
“I’d like to stash my clothes somewhere, if you don’t mind,” Obi-Wan holds up the outer garments he’d shed, “I think it gives you somewhat of an unfair advantage if I’m liable to trip over my own tunics.”
You grant him a good-natured laugh as you pass your trooper in the doorway, and all in all, you think that the two of you have done a fantastic job at pretending his dick wasn’t in your mouth only minutes ago.
Your trooper makes the wise decision to stand outside of your quarters when you enter them, although any initial disappointment you’d felt at his poorly-timed request has well worn off by now. That’s all he’s guilty of, anyways; you find their antics amusing despite their destructive nature. It’s not his fault that you’re canoodling with the Jedi master, so you forgive him his abhorrent timing. You beeline for a locker in your closet, punching in the numeric code and letting the squeaky hinges reveal your small weapons store. It’s a multipurpose space, blasters on a rack that’s affixed to the back, a mount for your saber, and a drawer of various other mechanical supplies down below. You throw it open, and Obi-Wan watches you dig for the multitool where he stands by your bed, his tunics laid on your bedspread.
You realize all too late that one of your other mechanical supplies is in full view of the Jedi master standing behind you, black in color for subtlety but unmistakable in shape. It’s phallic and has a second prong that shoots off of the base to vibrate against your clit, something you only use when you're absolutely certain no one can hear. Besides, the sound could very well be mistaken for one of your troopers shaving their scruff, so you have ample opportunity. You snatch the multitool out of the drawer and slam it shut, making your trooper’s shoulders twitch in a quickly concealed wince. You’re thankful that only Obi-Wan was a temporary witness to your lack of organizational skills.
“Here,” You rush to hand it off, forcefully locking the cabinet and thrusting the tool towards the trooper, “Take it- uh, keep it, I’ll put in a request for more supplies tonight.”
“Thanks, General,” He nods warily at you, and you pity the way he’s taken your context clues and misarranged them to view your behavior as standoffish and exasperated with him, “My apologies again.”
“No worries,” You try not to snap at him, unnerved by the abnormal lack of mental pressure from Obi-Wan behind you. He used to tease you abundantly in your youth, prying at your mental shields and slipping snide remarks through the cracks while you fought to keep a straight face, but now that he’s laid his eyes on possibly the most embarrassing item you own, he’s completely still, completely silent.
“Goodbye.” You shut the door with a hydraulic hiss, and stand facing it until Obi-Wan speaks, pretending to fuss with the control panel.
“It seems you overlooked another multitool in that drawer,” His voice finally reaches over the silence, carefully bundled so that the underlying mirth is something you can only guess at, “Now I wonder if your battalion is really the cause of your foul mouth.”
“Shut up!” You whirl on him with cheeks blazing on opposite sides of your face like Tatooine’s twin suns, “Don’t tease me-”
“I’m not teasing you!” He insists, voice sounding aghast, like it’s out of the question, like he’s offended by the accusation, taking your arms into his grip when you look like you might shove him. His face is split into a smile - not a grin, which is reassuring - but a warm smile, even if there is amusement twinkling in his eyes.
“Yes you are,” You scoff, and you have half a mind to pull away when one of his hands releases your arm and anchors itself against your face instead. It’s warm, rough from wear but impossibly gentle. You fight leaning into it for as long as you can, pride still bruised, but he leans in to press his lips against your forehead in a chaste kiss.
Typical.
You’d gagged on his dick ten minutes ago, and he’s kissing your forehead.
“Darling,” He hums sympathetically, tucking your face against his chest so snugly that you think it was engineered for the curves and bumps of your skin. You relish the hug he traps you in, the tender hold even though you’re interested in something more carnal, feral, hungry. His voice is strong and soothing as he speaks, and the vibrations thrum through his chest and against your face “You had my cock in your mouth not ten minutes ago. I’m not going to make fun of you for having a toy.”
Oh. Perhaps he hadn’t forgotten.
“Such a foul mouth,” You admonish him, tucking your grin away between the haphazardly-righted folds of his tabard.
He pinches at your side, fingers greedily prying at the soft flesh of your belly through layers of clothing you wish weren’t between your skin and his, “Yes, well, it’s because I’ve had yours all over me.”
His hand, similarly bold to his mouth, flattens out along the curve of your side, tucking into the space above your hip bones. The other stays in place against your cheek, finger running idly across the underside of your jawline. You don’t know whether the shiver that shudders down your spine is due to the ticklish nature of his touch, or the sensual area he’s chosen, but he feels your spine thrum, and he presses further into you like it was an invitation.
“Darling,” He starts, back to that well-practiced hesitancy, “If you still want to…”
“I do,” You nod, feeling sweat drip down the back of your neck and soak into the fabric of your tank top, “Do you think we have time?”
“Anakin can occupy himself with scrap metal and multitools for hours,” Obi-Wan recollects with a smile on his face that isn’t committed to fondness or resignation. You’re sure he’s proud of his padawan’s abilities, but not of the havoc he wreaks with them.
“Hmm, that might be cutting it close,” You pretend to debate it, gnawing at the inside of your cheek, and he lets out a laugh as warm as the runoff heat from his saber with none of the bite of its blade.
“You’d occupy yourself with me for hours?” He teases, but when you nod, it’s earnest.
“I’d occupy myself with you for the rest of my life, Obi-Wan.”
The breath that he draws in when you begin speaking is the last one he draws for a while. Instead he holds it there, letting it burn and sear at his lungs while he wonders if any words he could produce with it would contain even a fraction of the yearning he feels roll over him in a nauseating wave. Very little has ever made him want the life of a civilian - his home is between the opulent walls of the Jedi temple, but any walls he shared with you would be infinitely more grandiose if only for your place within them.
“Had you said the word,” He elects to speak the truth, even if it isn’t even a chip away at the trove of feelings he keeps locked tightly away in his mind for you, “I would have left the Jedi Order.”
Would have.
You know why he won’t now, and you’re not upset with him for the reasons. You understand them, even if you don’t relate to them.
“But Anakin…”
“I know,” You nod against his chest, fingers taking hold of his undershirt’s fabric edge and fastening there, “You made a promise to your master. And to him. And he needs your help. I wouldn’t ask you to leave.”
“Would you have? When we were younger,” He idly strokes down the length of your spine, arm wrapping comfortably around your waist.
“Maybe…” You admit, “Maybe if I’d known your trip to Naboo would bring about such change. Maybe if I’d known I only had a few years left with you as we were. But I didn’t. So I never asked. And I never will.”
He doesn’t react verbally or physically after your confession, but the silence that ensues isn’t an awkward one. Instead, he maintains his hold on you, and you feel a gentle wave of affection flow from him through the Force. Affection, appreciation, love, which you feel so broadly through the Force, but rarely so devoted to you yourself rather than the galaxy in its entirety. You’re no stranger to the feeling, but it’s different channeled privately between two people than it is as a way of life.
“Let us pretend,” Obi-Wan finally musters, his voice thicker than usual, though if you were not so in tune with him you wouldn’t have perceived it, “For the next few fleeting moments, that we are still young. That we don’t have responsibilities other than those to ourselves, and to each other.”
Though your youth may have escaped you, your mind weary with resignation and Obi-Wan’s eyes darkened with the perpetual exhaustion of adulthood, his touch does not feel tired or incapable. It feels strong, firm, and mindful where it slips from your chin to your waist. His other hand sandwiches you between them, and you’re tilting your chin up to kiss him before he gives any indication that he’ll do the same. But he does, his boldness almost reset from the interruption you’d suffered. Like you need to coax him out of his shell again, like he’s worried you’ve somehow changed your mind.
You take the back of his neck in your hand, finding it slick and tacky with sour-smelling sweat, and pull him down so that his lips smash messily to your own. It’s a move he’s not expecting, and a startled groan escapes his lips as proof. You drink it, sucking it down your throat and pulling him towards the bed with the same backwards momentum. He’s nimble even if he’s unprepared, probably to do with his extensive agility training. You’re more than ready to fall back onto your bed when your calves butt against the frame but he lowers you down gently, with ease, drawing back from your kiss despite your fervent protests to watch you look up at him.
“Obi-Wan,” You beg, your voice weary, “Why are you hesitating?”
“I’m not hesitating,” He answers, and you feel it to be truthful, “I’m admiring you, darling. I’m not unsure, I’m more sure than I’ve ever been in my life.”
“Prove it,” You plead, already pulling at the hem of your tank top. You peel its sweat-soaked binding off of your skin, showcasing the equally stained garment beneath it that keeps your chest closer to your neck than your stomach, “Please, Obi-Wan, take me like you want me. Not like you feel bad for having me.”
“I do not feel bad for having you,” He promises, mouth barely parting from yours to utter the words. His lips are pink-tinted, glistening with spit, probably a mixture of his and yours. He pants slightly, cheeks similarly ruddy, “Perhaps later I will. When I stand in front of the Council and tell them we conducted routine maintenance. When I lie, when I guard my memories of you from them. But I’m not occupied with that now, darling. Only with you, I swear it.”
“Oh, well, that’s good to know,” You hum, kissing an inch lower than his mouth, the apex of his chin that’s marred by the scruff of his beard. It’s prickly and rough beneath your lips, and when you draw back they glisten with transferred sweat, “I’m glad you’re not thinking of Master Yoda while dipping a knee between my thighs.”
“Oh,” Obi-Wan ducks his head, advances on pause as he plants his forehead against your shoulder, “That’s awful. Really, truly vile.”
You laugh, and despite his disgusted bravado, so does he. His chest shakes against yours and you relish the sound, hand still planted firmly on the back of his neck. You briefly consider breaking out your rusty Yoda impression, ‘kiss me, you must’, but decide against it, instead choosing to press his head closer to your torso, letting his forehead lay flush and sweaty against your shoulder. It puts the scruff of his beard on the curve of your tits, and you feel it burn your skin as he kisses along it lightly.
His mouth is soft, and his beard is its abrasive opposite. They trail in tandem along the slope of your breasts, first the soft lips and then the burn of the beard, until he’s lit a fiery trail across your skin to the padded edge of your bra. When his lips meet fabric instead of skin he noses beneath it, surely smelling a morning’s worth of sweat accumulated beneath the weight of your chest. You’re self conscious, for only a flash, then he takes a deep drag of air, inhaling until his chest seems fit to burst.
“I’m sorry,” You find yourself humming, regardless of his clear interest, “I wish a shower would help. Even the cold water doesn’t prevent sweating.”
“I don’t want you to shower,” He muses, pushing his face between your breasts to kiss at the skin between them. He mouths gently, tongue sliding over your skin with little form and too much spit that blends well with your sweat, “Sex is not sterile, darling. Soap and water defeat the purpose.”
You’re not sure whether it’s his insistence on the natural state of your body or the way that his knee gently prods against your center, but whatever it is, your fingers itch and you fling them up to cup the underside of your chest.
“Take it off,” You beg, and Obi-Wan shows no hesitation in complying, his hands sliding beneath your back, rough and weathered from work. They’re gentle as they slide over the clasp of your bra, and you push yourself up onto your elbows on the mattress so that he can maneuver the stretchy fabric easier.
“Does it hook or button?” He nudges his nose against yours to ask, and your stomach flops at the question. Both the fact that he doesn’t have enough experience to know, and the way that he feels comfortable enough admitting that to you by asking so earnestly only make you want him more, and you’re barely able to mumble ‘clasp’ before pressing your lips to his own once more.
“Three,” You add later, against his lips, when he unhooks one and still doesn’t have the garment undone, “There’s three.”
He takes your orders with unfailing patience, a trait you’d admired even in your youth. While you’d been more prone to hotheaded outbursts, he’d take you by the arm and speak for the both of you, usually resulting in far less severe of a punishment than you’d have gotten if you’d spoken your mind. Then the two of you would share sneaky, fleeting glances at each other while scrubbing the floors of the refectory, trying not to laugh loud enough for the Knight unwillingly supervising your punishment to hear.
You’re pulled out of your reverie when he finally unhooks the garment and slips it off of your shoulders, meaning you have to draw back from where you’d tucked your face over his shoulder, giving him a view of his work. As your faces pass each other he offers you the same grin he’d worn all those years ago, his pretty eyes alight with the love you feel seeping from his fingertips. You see a glimpse of the boy he was through the man he’s become, and both are equally endearing to you. The first, because you’d grown with him, like ferns tangled together in sticky, clinging tendrils. The second, because he wears his accomplishments on his face, crows feet at the corners of his eyes from laughing at his padawan’s wayward antics, and frown lines for scowling at the same incidences only moments prior. He’d laughed at you in your youth, and frowned just the same at your more uncouth ideas for adventure, and now those expressions are etched into his face, like layers of makeup no longer dissolvable with remover. He’ll wear them forever, and you want to see him display them even in his old age.
He watches the way that your body moves when he peels the sweat-soaked garment away from your chest. He watches your breasts succumb to gravity’s harsh pull, sloping sideways and downwards rather than maintaining their tight compress towards your chin. He watches them sag, watches them fall to their natural state and declares, “You’re beautiful, darling.”
He takes them in his hands, their mass in his palms as he rolls his thumb over the skin of your nipples. They’d usually pebble in the cold but now they’re pulling taut beneath his touch, and when he brushes his thumb over their peak you stifle a gasp.
“Beautiful,” He repeats, and leans down to meet one with his mouth. He gravitates towards the right one first, and the embrace of his hot mouth against your skin tempts your back to arch. His tongue presses flat against your nipple, then drags up its surface, and his lips kiss over the stripe of saliva he’d left behind.
His beard rubs against your skin and it’s not rawing, not yet, but you know it will be the more he mouths at your breast. He’s licking, sucking, pulling, but never biting, teeth merely grazing your flesh rather than indulging in it. His tongue does that instead, flattening out over your raised flesh and dragging hot, wet stripes over the bud of your perked nipple.
“Obi- Obi-Wan,” You gasp, dragging desperate, heaving breaths into your lungs as your hands fly to his lengthened hair. You’d ruffled it many times when it was short and spiked, but now you’re able to get purchase in the strawberry-blonde locks, curling your fingers around the soft, sweat-darkened strands and pulling.
You don’t pull hard, but it’s unexpected, and you feel the momentary pinch of Obi-Wan’s teeth around your breast. It floods heat to your already-pulsing core more than you’d have thought possible, considering the sweltering temperatures you’ve been in the whole time, but the soft groan that then ripples through your skin from the depths of his throat only makes you more desperate. All of a sudden the long-suffering heat is tepid by comparison, and you yank at the material of his undershirt so hard you nearly rip the fabric.
“Off,” You pant, “Please, take it- get it off, Obi-Wan.”
In a fluid, crouched movement Obi-Wan tears his undershirt off with one hand at its hem, his muscles flexing as he swings the arm up and over his head. He discards the shirt carelessly beneath him and it droops to the floor, no longer covering the bare skin of his chest that you’d admired earlier.
You have half a mind to do to him what he’s been doing to you, to sink your teeth into the flesh of his chest and suckle on his sweat-soaked skin. But he dips his face back to mouth at your tit once more, so you settle for running your hands greedily, desperately over the layer of soft skin that blocks his muscled chest from view. When he was younger, what seems like an eternity but must only be five years, his build was more defined. You’d gotten plenty of eyefuls of his bare, heaving chest during a particularly intense sparring match, or down by one of the large pools that were definitely supposed to be used more for reflection and tranquility rather than the chaos you’d wreaked upon them. But years of planning someone else’s schedule before his own has meant that he’s softened out around the middle, muscles still prominent when you dig your fingers into his skin, just not starkly visible anymore.
Age does that to a person; pushes them harder than ever before to achieve a less-defined result than they’re used to, but you find that you want to grind down onto the thin layer of pudge he’s accumulated just as much as you’d have wanted to drag yourself over his defined abs. The thought of doing both, either, anything makes you dizzy with desire that you express by scratching your sharpened nails down his skin, feeling his muscles shudder beneath your fingers.
“Darling,” He groans, choking on the word like it’s gagged him, “I- I think we ought to- are you ready?”
You marvel at his sincerity, at the idea that he’s not aware of the throbbing, slick mess that your core has become. You’d been ready twenty minutes ago, sprawled out on the floor beneath him, and you’ve only gotten more eager since then. His concern makes you want him more, and you use your grip on his soft hair to tug him upwards to meet your lips in a kiss.
“I’m ready,” You breathe, laying the words out in a hazy moan over his tongue, “I’m ready, Obi-Wan, please- please take me.”
A groan melts from his mouth like molten butter, dripping over your tongue and down your throat. He pants, lets you suck his tongue into your mouth in a long, eager drag, then mumbles clumsily, “I want you. I want- I want to have you, darling, I want to take you.” His hips roll experimentally against your own, the tight pressure of his clothed cock digging into your panties as he nearly loses the function in the muscles that are holding him up above you.
He lets out another moan as you drag your hips up to meet his premature thrusts, and this time it’s a weaker sound, more strangled and mottled. It’s satisfying, knowing that you’ve reduced the ever-stoic, prized Jedi negotiator Obi-Wan Kenobi to a heaving mass of sweat and desire. His undershorts are rucked up around his meaty thighs, but he hasn’t yanked them off to free his stiff cock yet, so for a moment, all you do is grind against each other.
The layers of clothing between you, one covering you and two covering him, provide frustrating boundaries but much-needed friction, and the scrape of his rough undershorts dragging against your thin panties makes your fingers curl into his back once more. You suspect that when he wakes tomorrow, your marks will still be there, and you take pride in knowing that he’ll have a very hard time forgetting you.
“Obi-” You really do intend to say his full name, but your breath leaves your lungs too quickly for it, and you revert back to the nickname he’d loathed as a teenager. Too juvenile, he’d protested greatly at the clipped diminutive, but he leans into it now. He licks the word right off of your tongue, his own plunging past your lips and dragging over your teeth in a messy, imprecise fashion. You get the sense that this is not about sex to him, it’s not about mechanics or equations or the perfect formula. It’s about you, and him, and you and him together. He doesn’t kiss you like a storybook prince because he kisses you like Obi-Wan, and Obi-Wan wants to lick the spit out of your mouth and suck on your tongue. Obi-Wan wants to feel, not think, for once in his life, so he does.
“Obi-” You falter again, hands traveling from his muscled back to his hips. Your fingers dip beneath the waistband of his undershorts, then his briefs where they lay against the same stretch of skin, “Off. Off, please- Obi-Wan, off, take ‘em- off.”
He grunts his approval into your mouth, obscene squelching sounds coming from where his spit pools between your teeth and your tongue. He reaches down with a blind, clumsy hand to tug at his waistband, but when it doesn’t provide immediate results, he finds himself getting frustrated. It’s an unfamiliar feeling, not the frustration itself but his inability to control it, and he feels his brow crease in irritation as he reluctantly parts from your mouth to focus on the task at hand. All he needs is a little extra leverage to slide his shorts off of his waist, briefs bunched together, and as soon as they’re out of his way he’s reaching for your own underwear.
You crane your neck downwards to watch him, and the glimmering mess of saliva in your mouth practically doubles in volume at the sight of his red-tipped, rock-hard cock. It’s curved slightly up towards his stomach in its desperation, and there’s precum oozing from its tip, foaming and all too appealing. You want to suck him off again, to really choke yourself on it this time and never draw back for air, but there’s no time when he tugs swiftly at the elastic band of your panties, tearing them easily away from you. They drag beneath your thighs but he merely pulls harder, until they spring free and bunch up around your knees.
“Up,” Obi-Wan taps at your left thigh, and you struggle to bend your knees amidst their relentless trembling. He helps you, strength having stuck with him even when composure has abandoned its post. You get your left thigh up first, exposing your glistening cunt, smeared sticky with your own slick. His breath catches, you feel it stutter to a stop in his chest that you’re groping, and his eyes glimmer in the warm lights above you.
“Darling,” He breathes, taken by the mess of your drooling cunt. He reaches out, touches it carefully, with only the pad of his pointer finger. He ghosts it along the side of your slit, and even the infuriatingly chaste touch is ultra erotic. At the way you writhe beneath a single one of his fingers he brings his thumb up to stroke down your slit, catching wetness on his thumb that his mouth opens to accommodate.
He sucks your release clean off of his thumb, you’re almost certain he scrapes his teeth along his skin just to get it all.
He leans into his own thumb, chases after it like he’s not the one taking it out of his mouth. He hesitates no further in clamoring backwards on the mattress until his knees hit the floor below, and he thanks the Force that the beds you were given are low enough for him to lean over the edge and bury his face in your cunt.
“Obi-Wan, no!” You plead, fingers tangling in his pretty blonde hair, “You’ll- you said- don’t cum yet, please, I- I want it in me!”
“I will cum in you,” He pledges, voice deep and determined as he nudges his nose against your wet cunt, “My darling, I’ll do whatever you ask. But I need you here, now. Please,” He breathes, his exhale shaky and warm as it heats your cunt, “Please, Darling, I want you here.”
“Have me,” You whimper, squirming your hips from side to side to propel yourself down the mattress. Your cunt bumps messily against his face that he doesn’t bother moving, and you buck your hips once, twice against his nose, riding his face, “Please, have me, Obi-Wan, you can have me.”
Your consent is all it takes. His mouth is open and his tongue is out the second you say the word, licking wet, tantalizingly slow stripes up your slit. He doesn’t breach it, doesn’t delve his tongue into your entrance, he laps at the slick smeared on the outside, as well as the wetness that has thoroughly soaked your thighs. Your skin is tacky with it even when he’s replaced it with his spit, and your cunt throbs at the meticulous approach he’s taken to appreciating every drop you give him.
It’s too meticulous.
After another slow, careful, nearly chaste lave of his tongue over the crease between your thigh and your cunt, probably just as soaked with sweat as it is with slick, you retighten your now-loose grip in his hair. You’d let go of the strands when he’d given you what you wanted, but now you want more, and you lead him straight to your core where he’d been lapping at your thighs instead.
“Here,” You beg, pulling his face against your drooling cunt until you’re certain he’s unable to breathe. You feel his nose breach your slit, nudged into your cunt by your insistent tugging on his hair.
“I need you here, inside, please.” You beg, pussy aching with abandon. His slow, careful ministrations had driven you mad, and now you are teetering on the edge of insanity as you nearly howl, “Please!”
His response is white-hot and wet. His tongue prods gently from between his lips as his jaw widens, and he watches your reaction as he fills your cunt with his slick tongue. A gush of your own wetness greets him, and as insistent as he is at meeting your eyes, his own flutter shut at the taste.
“Force,” He breathes, and the exclamation is uncommon from him. The muffled, garbled word sends vibrations straight into your cunt, and after the initial shock of his tongue inside of you, you feel his beard.
It scrapes abrasively against the sensitive, licked-over skin of your inner thighs, and prickles deliciously at the base of your leaking cunt. You feel sharp hairs prod at the curve of your ass, and his mouth moves fluidly, tongue wriggling with surprising prowess through the mess of slick you’ve accumulated in your cunt. It slides wetly along your inner walls that have made way for his tongue, and that will stretch eagerly to accommodate his cock.
His cock, oh, you’d forgotten the thick weight on your tongue, and your jaw aches with the ghost of it. Your cunt aches, too, and when his nose softly bumps your clit you gasp as your hips jolt upwards. He catches your thighs with Jedi agility, his muscles not straining at all to hold you to the mattress. The casual, easy display of strength makes your thighs quiver, and something inside of you tighten like a knot.
He licks you out like he’s drinking ambrosia, the glistening substance smeared over his face and starting up the bridge of his nose. The noises that he makes are hungry and wild as he licks more, sucks more, takes more. He’d moderated himself at first, lapped the sticky spillings of your wet cunt like he was rationing a meal. Now he feasts, tongue losing focus from inside your pussy and rapidly licking over your clit. His lips suction on and his beard burns tantalizingly at your sloppy cunt. You feel stimulation everywhere, the knot below your belly tightening ever-stronger until you feel the beginnings of a fray. It’s a step you take, an incline that you scramble up, and each pedestal you achieve gives way to a higher one. You let yourself climb, climb, climb, against every pulse of his suctioned lips around your sensitive bundle of nerves, and you breach the clouds as Obi-Wan broadens his sucking mouth to half-latch to your clit, his tongue delving back into your drooling cunt. You leap for the final pedestal and a surge of pleasure hits you, soaking wet like a wave that you ride back down to the surface.
You tremble, you whimper, you love. Your thighs shake, the muscles in your stomach stuttering as your hips jolt and jerk. Your mouth produces such feeble sounds, whines and moans and ‘Oh, please, yes’s, and ‘Obi-Wan- kriff!’s. Your fingers in his hair latch tight but cling gentle, holding him to you as you lose control of yourself in the Force. All of the love, all of the passion, all of the attachment, all of the terrible-horrible-no-good-very-bad-un-Jedi-like things that you’re not supposed to feel surge through the Force and hit Obi-Wan like Coruscant’s train, knocking the wind out of him, though he never stops sucking at you.
Obi-Wan licks you through your orgasm, tongue pressing tight and hot and wet to the quiver of your cunt, letting it spasm against his mouth. He sucks up every last drop of slick that you’ll give him, greedily mouthing at your cunt long after it’s begun stinging from oversensitivity. You want his mouth off, and his cock in, although that first part sounds like a heinous thing to wish for. His tongue is perfection, slippery and knowing you well enough to hit just the right spots even though it’s never had you before. You only push his mouth away to beg for his cock, but you’re tempted to let him white out your vision and lick at you until he passes out.
“Obi-!” You gasp, pushing instead of pulling at his golden hair, “Obi-Wan, no- no more! Here, up- here, please, and I want you inside of me.”
He lets you unlatch him from your pulsing cunt, rife with the sting of stimulation. You need only a matter of seconds to come down from your high, but they’re seconds you can’t afford to spend on Obi-Wan’s tongue, or the clock won’t ever start. He licks at a smear of slick over your thigh that he’d missed earlier, and his brain seems to register your begging.
“Alright, darling,” He pants, out of breath from the way he’d spent it all in your cunt. His voice is ragged, drowned in slick and thick with want.
He clamors back onto the mattress, all humbly-forged muscles and greed. He hovers over you, and dips down to claim your mouth the way he had your cunt: with broad, sweeping swipes of his tongue. He licks your slick across your tongue, letting you taste yourself on him.
“I’m here,” He soothes, his voice a notch deeper than usual and his words malformed due to the open ring of his mouth. He licks against your tongue once more, sloppy and hot, as his hips grind down against your thigh. He knows you need time but he doesn’t have long, and he grinds against your hip until you’re ready. You feel his stiff cock digging into your flesh, and it sends pulses of energy to your recovering cunt that make it beg to be filled. He’s not composed the way that he normally is, but he’s managing to hold himself together through grunts and groans into your mouth. If you don’t act fast, he’s going to splatter your stomach with cum, which wouldn’t be distasteful by any means, but you’d rather him paint your insides with it.
“You are intoxicating,” Obi-Wan proclaims, speaking directly into your mouth, an addict that can’t wean off of his drug, “I don’t know how I am supposed to pretend like this never happened.”
“Don’t,” You beg breathlessly, “Don’t forget me. Keep quiet around others, and- and when you are alone,” You reach down to take his cock into your hands, heavy and thick and waiting, “When you lay in bed at night, when you touch yourself-” He lets out something teetering on the edge of a whimper as you stroke your hand along his flushed length, an angry red coloring the tip that exposes how much self-control he’s composing, “-touch yourself, and- and think of me. Think of my hands, of my mouth, of my cunt. Think of me, Obi-Wan.”
“I will,” He vows, his voice holding like a frayed rope with one thread remaining, strained and pulling and clinging together, “Please let me have you. Please,” He braces his forehead against yours, his cock throbbing in your palm, “Please darling, let me in. I want to be inside of you, I want to have you, please.”
You’ve never seen him babble before. Not when he’d been seven years old, bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked, caught with a stray tooka cat in his robes halfway back to the creche. Not when he’d been fifteen and a warrior, his side split open in a gory mess of blood and flesh and lymph and bone. Not at his old master’s funeral, the light from the pyre’s flames dancing upon his stoic features. Obi-Wan Kenobi is a master at composure, but he is breathless now, sacrificing it to the dewy-warm crease where your neck meets your shoulder, and sucking up your sweat-salty scent in return.
You place your free hand on his back, sticky and flushed beneath your touch, and use it to help guide him into you. Your other hand, still wrapped around his cock, lines it up with your entrance and he needs little coaxing from there. He pushes himself into you slowly, courteously, but loses himself to some deep, primal urge that he’s buried beneath layers of meditation and balance.
He comes undone.
His muscles surge and his hips buck in what begins as a steady pace, but transforms into a wild rhythm that pins you against the mattress. He lets out a groan into the sweaty juncture of your neck, something that sounds like it could be from a beast and not a man. You feel the scrape of his beard against the seldom-touched skin there and you’re sure it’s growing raw, but you couldn’t care less. He’s not holding your hips up - his hands are plastered to your side and holding you there with a force carefully and pointedly short of bruising - but you angle your pelvis up anyway, allowing him to hit that much deeper inside of you. The tip of his cock never hurts where it connects briefly each thrust with your cervix, but you feel it intimately, every vein and ridge and curve that his body has to offer.
You’re grateful for the sound-proof walls of the military compound because you realize after a moment that you’re making noise just the same as he is. It’s softer, quieter, but it’s there, the underlying harmony to his leading grunts and groans.
All the while he is soft and gentle, because what he wants is not sex, it is you. Perhaps if he were a lesser man, he’d squeeze you, or bend you, or break you, all to take you the way he wants. But it is the soul inside of you that he’s after, and he takes great care with the vessel it’s enclosed in. He holds you, but he does not squeeze you. He kisses you, but he does not bite you. He moves with you, not against you. Your hips surge upwards to meet the thrusts of his cock and he latches his mouth to yours desperately, pleadingly. Your breathing is short and staccato through your nose, fanning against his top lip as he mashes it messily to your own, and you’re much easier to bring to a climax the second time around, sensitivity still roiling in your blood from your previous orgasm.
“Obi-Wan,” You beg, the words spilling languidly into his mouth, as you move in tandem, in, out, in, out, forwards, backwards, everything, nothing.
“Obi- I’m gonna- ooh, I’m gonna cum,” You cry, overwhelmed by the consistent drag of his cock against the walls of your soaked cunt. You’re slick again, gushing enough to replenish however much Obi-Wan had licked out of you. It squelches as he drives his dick into your pussy, foamy from the repetitive motions that are only creating it at faster intervals.
“Please- please do,” He moans, his dick twitching inside of you, “Force, I- ah, there’s nothing I want more than to feel that, darling. Please- please cum, please-”
“Kiss me,” You plead, even though he’s never stopped, if the way that his mouth moves against yours can still be considered a kiss. It’s far from any conventional peck on the lips, mostly tongue and drool that seeps down the side of your mouth and into your neck, mixing with the sweat already lingering there from your workout.
He tries kissing you more neatly, his lips tightening and suctioning around your own, but the closer you both get to your impending orgasms, the sloppier his thrusts are, and the more slack his mouth goes, smothering your own instead of truly kissing it while his tongue continues its dogged pursuit of your own. It’s no matter; his spit leaks uncontrollably into your mouth and you relish the taste. You don’t need perfection, you need him.
You can’t help your wandering hand from snaking down to his waist, curving just below his cock to cradle his balls against your palm. They’re heavy and warm as you take them into your hand, and doing so elicits a gasp from the man chasing his release inside of you, his hips stuttering in their pursuit of the wet warmth of your cunt. You squeeze them, not harshly, just a gentle compression, and Obi-Wan melts. A whimper escapes his lips, still slack and pressed to your own, and though his thrusts momentarily slow, they resume at double the pace. He’s rapidly bucking his hips now, barely containing himself enough to lift one hand off of your side and bring it to your chest. He fits his palm over one of your breasts, your stiff, sensitive nipple caving against his palm. You gasp at the prickling sensation and your fingernails momentarily dig into his back, but when his dick twitches once more inside of you, desperate, fit-to-burst, you drag them down his back in searing red lines.
If you hadn’t been able to feel Obi-Wan cum inside of you, you’d have known it was happening from the cry he releases alone. It’s abrupt, like his orgasm catches him off-guard even though he’s been pursuing it. But you can feel it, you can feel his warm cum ooze out of the head of his cock, momentarily stationary as it’s snug against your cervix. You feel it gush from his dick, filling any and all available space in your pulsating cunt before flooding outwards, dripping down your ass and thighs in an obscene display that soaks right into your bedsheets. Obi-Wan rides out his climax at a pace rapid enough to coax your second one out of you, and you welcome the now-familiar sensation of cumming around Obi-Wan. It’s mind-numbing, your ears ring for a faint moment, and your cunt rapidly clenches and unclenches around his cock that’s all too happy to continue occupying the space.
He grunts, moans, and groans as his sloppy thrusts finally slow, and your cunt appreciates the reduced pace. You’re well and truly spent, difficult to achieve for someone who’d gone through endurance training since childhood, and you’re not surprised that Obi-Wan, too, needs a break. He lowers himself to your chest with a slow, shaky exhale, eyes closed and face glistening with sweat just as your own does.
His beard grates roughly against your skin, shifted with every ragged breath that he draws in. His hair spills over the breast that his mouth isn’t nestled beside, and you stare down at his face, marveling how beautiful his barely-fluttering lashes and heaving chest are.
Before he opens his eyes he angles it towards you, so that the first thing he sees is your flushed, sweaty, open-mouthed expression. He’s in the perfect position to kiss the side of your breast, and it tingles with the phantom sensation of his palm flat against your perked nipple barely minutes before. His beard scrapes your skin like it has since you first kissed him, and you wonder if you’ll ever be able to live happily without the scratch of it against your cheeks, or thighs, for that matter. The skin between your legs is still raw, stinging with the friction of Obi-Wan’s coarse hair against your flesh..
“You look beautiful, darling,” He hums, his voice grated raw from fatigue. His breath fans hot over your chest, but he pushes himself up on his tired biceps to hover over you. His weight against you had been comforting, but his gaze is even more so, and you let him loom over you.
His chest, peppered with auburn curls so fine they glisten in the poor lighting of your quarters, rises and falls deeply in front of you. You have half a mind to bury your face in it; you might if his face wasn’t impossibly more captivating.
His eyes search yours, for what you’re not sure, but you realize that his breathing gets more shallow until his chest stills completely. He only releases his breath when you reach up to thumb gently at his sternum, loosening his lungs again.
“Do you regret it?”
You suppose you didn’t have to ruin the moment so harshly, but you want to know the truth. You want to know if this was worth it, or if you’re going on the list of regrets that Obi-Wan pours over obsessively.
He takes a moment to answer, but you suspect it’s because he’s been caught off guard by your question. He shakes his head, dipping his face down to kiss the swell of your cheek.
“No, I don’t.” He mumbles against the dewy skin of your face, hiding his words there in self-preservation. You kiss the fleeting scruff of his beard as he pulls away, and your eyes find the blue of his instantly.
“You needed convincing at first,” You recall warily, something sinking in your chest now that you’re not puppettered by lust, “Are you certain it was the right thing to do?”
“Not at all,” He admits, “In fact, I think it was wrong of me. But I’ve done it anyways, and I am happy for that.”
“Why wrong?” You ghost your knuckles against his cheek, and he leans into it like he used to do when you’d clean scrapes and cuts he’d acquire while sparring.
“I am more attached to you now than ever,” He offers simply, but it doesn’t seem like it pains him to confess. He seems lighter now, less embroiled in his own anxiety. “And I’m not certain I can keep my personal feelings- well, personal. I don’t know that I could think rationally about you. That’s not desirable to the Order, or to the war effort.”
You bite your tongue, teeth digging softly into its muscle.
“All the same,” He continues, “Jedi are not without attachments. Younglings form friendships in the creche, and their minders love them. Padawans love their Masters, and vice versa. Masters engage in relations,” He acknowledges, then his brows tick up and he considers, “Ki Adi Mundi has four wives. Perhaps I’m not the most blasphemous Jedi they’ve ever seen.”
A laugh comes tumbling from your lips before you can stop it, and Obi-Wan’s face softens into a grin of his own.
“Five,” You correct him, “He has five wives.”
“Force, he’s a heretic,” Obi-Wan exclaims, but it’s all for show; he holds no ill opinions of the council member.
“I’m happy for his wives,” You hum, the sound just short of a giggle, “But I prefer your beard over his.”
“Oh, but he’s got a better mustache than me,” Obi-Wan settles on his side facing you, a smile etched permanently into his features as he plays along with the banter you’ve started. He relishes its lighthearted nature compared to the hesitance of moments prior, “Maybe I should grow it out and curl it like his.”
Before you can offer him another round in exchange for a promise to never shape his facial hair around Master Mundi’s, the walls of your compound give a creaky grinding sound, then a rumble, and air whooshes through the vents you’ve come to loathe for their uselessness in the recent past.
“He did it!” You gawk, sitting up excitedly, nearly forgetting that you’re topless, “Oh Force, Anakin’s a wizard! He really is, he’s a mechanical wizard, and I’m going to buy him a speeder for this.”
“Do not,” Obi-Wan groans, sitting up beside you and tugging you easily to fit your back against his chest, “The last thing that boy needs is the ability to go faster.”
“He did it,” You sigh happily, leaning back and pressing your lips to Obi-Wan’s. He reciprocates easily now, unlike before when he’d run himself ragged with doubts.
“That means we’ll be off soon,” Obi-Wan reminds you gently, and you deflate slightly in his hold, “But I don’t think comming each other should be any issue.”
“Every night?” You suggest, kissing at the prickly cleft of his chin.
“That’s- ambitious.” He chuckles, but it’s not meant to tease, “Every night, darling.”
“You can send me dirty videos,” You gush, scrambling to free yourself from Obi-Wan’s hold when he tries locking his fingers onto your sides, nipping sharply at your shoulder.
“I will not!” He insists, voice firm but chest trembling with barely-withheld laughter, “Force, if I pressed the wrong button…”
“Perhaps Master Mundi could share it with one of his wives,” You laugh, scrambling back into your underclothes and heading for the fresher to clean yourself up, “Hurry up and get dressed, Obi-Wan, one of my troopers is probably on their way to tell us the good news!”
Your suspicions are confirmed only moments later, thankfully, after you’ve both had time to right your appearances. You look flushed and sweaty, if anything, but the cool air hasn’t managed to flood the entire compound yet, and you’ve been exercising, so it’s excusable. No one but you two needs to know that exercising didn’t mean sparring for longer than ten minutes.
“Anakin, you’re fantastic,” You call, rushing through the empty hangar where he’s standing near the ramp of the ship, “You’ve saved us all. I’m fairly certain my troops would have resorted to fratricide if we’d had to melt here for any longer.”
The padawan gives you a valiant effort at a polite chuckle, and you press on, “For the record, I told your master I’d get you a speeder for helping us today, but he said no.”
“Y/N,” Obi-Wan starts, exasperated, but catches himself on the use of your first name. Perhaps it feels different now, coming out of his mouth much more measured than it had only twenty minutes prior. He doesn’t speak further.
Anakin’s eyes briefly glint at the fantasy of his own speeder, but he controls himself quickly. He’s a credit to his master, who manages to look convincingly like he hadn’t just broken a very long streak of celibacy. Still, you appreciate that war hasn’t managed to suck the most basic of excitements out of the child, and you reach up to pat his cheek in a gesture distinctly un-Jedi like.
“Take care of yourself, and don’t let Obi-Wan bore you with a million lectures on economics, or politics, or the two combined.”
Anakin nods, but bites his lower lip to refrain from smirking, saving himself a lecture on sass later on. You hear Obi-Wan exhale huffily behind you, and you turn your attention to him when Anakin retreats onto the ship.
“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t add to my apprentice’s willfulness,” He grouses, but the corner of his mouth twitches upwards in fondness for you both, “He’s got enough of that on his own.”
“Take care of yourself,” You ignore his teasing, your voice tender and sweet, slightly more than it had been for Anakin, “I know they don’t send you out much, because he’s only fourteen, but- but please take care of yourself, Obi-Wan.”
Perhaps if Anakin hadn’t been lingering on the ramp of the ship, perhaps if there weren’t five clone troopers stationed in the hangar, perhaps if you were the only two people in the world, like it had felt less than an hour ago, Obi-Wan would have kissed you. But he doesn’t, all he does is nod,
“We will,” He vows, and you nod, satisfied.
“I mean it,” You continue, more threatening than your earlier sentiment, “Comm me.” And you think back to the request you’d made earlier, breathlessly, the words fanning out against his sweaty skin, “And… think of me.”
You know he’s recalling the same moment in time when his cheeks tinge pink.
“I will,” He promises, singular this time, confirming your suspicions that his mind is flashing with visions of your flushed skin beneath his hands, “And please take care of yourself, too, General.”
Something hard and aching tugs at the back of your throat at the honorific, such a far cry from the intimacy you’d shared. But now you are General Y/L/N, and he is Master Kenobi, and that is the way things must be in the presence of others.
“Master Kenobi,” You bow, bending at the waist and noting the soft tug of soreness there.
“General Y/L/N,” Obi-Wan mimics your gesture, hands folded neatly into the sleeves of his robes.
He turns. He pivots on his feet and strides up the ramp of the ship they’d taken, Anakin waiting until he’s passed through the doorway to follow behind him. The door hisses shut, concealing them both, and the mechanical whiz-kid has the engines powered up in no time. You watch their ship take flight and navigate the narrow entrance to your hangar with ease, waiting until they’ve passed each temperature-isolating layer of defense that enshroud your compound and disappear into the planet’s heat-hazy atmosphere to turn away.
“General,” One of your troopers lingers behind you, “Is everything alright?”
“Yes,” You put on a convincing show, smiling serenely, “I’d just forgotten how much of a challenge sparring with Master Kenobi is. I’m fatigued; I think I’ll retire to my quarters for some rest.”
“General,” He nods, stating your title like a vow of loyalty, standing at attention as the hangar doors finally shut you in.
You walk the familiar path to your sparse quarters absentmindedly, feeling that same twinge of achiness each time you take a step. Only once your door hisses shut do you release the prim tension in your shoulders, slumping and slouching like you’d just escaped the throes of battle.
There is a shirt on your bed.
It’s white, though it’s been worn thoroughly, so the color is muddied ever so slightly with the tan tinge of sweat. It’s rumpled, from a hasty removal. It’s laid over your poor excuse for a blanket, cream-colored against the starkly contrasting black fabric. It’s impossible to miss, which means it had to have been placed there deliberately; it wasn’t forgotten.
It’s Obi-Wan’s.
You overcome your momentary stun and pad towards the bed, reaching for the shirt with a hesitant hand. You take it, feel it ever-so-slightly damp with lingering perspiration, and your stomach flips.
It’s Obi-Wan’s; it’s yours.
The shirt winds up snug around your pillow, tucked beneath the Republic-issue linen. It’s invisible to the outside eye, but when your nose is pressed gauchely into the pillowcase you can smell Obi-Wan through it, a mix of natural and artificial scents.
The musk of cologne and the acrid smell of sweat. Composure and lust. What is right and what is wrong.
You and Obi-Wan.
feedback is greatly appreciated! comment, reblog, talk in the tags, send me a message, tell me what you think!
#obi-wan kenobi x reader#obi-wan kenobi smut#obi-wan kenobi fanfiction#obi-wan kenobi imagine#obi-wan kenobi fluff#obi-wan kenobi oneshot#obi-wan kenobi one-shot#obi-wan kenobi one shot#obi-wan kenobi headcanon#obi-wan kenobi headcanons#obi-wan kenobi hcs#obi-wan kenobi hc#obi-wan kenobi fan fiction#obi-wan kenobi fanfic#obi-wan kenobi blurb#obi-wan kenobi drabble#obi-wan kenobi dialogue#obi-wan kenobi x y/n#obi-wan kenobi x you
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You’ve made allusions to an android AU, may I venture a hc?
König (my beloved) is the most likely out of all of the guys to just. Literally not have a face. This boy was built exclusively for heavy combat - he’s probably got five cameras for eyes on a composite ceramic face. There is no synthskin. Briareos from APPLESEED vibes.
OK Android au is a Ghost au because that's my husband. I love the idea of König as a heavy duty mech. Let's run through what my thoughts on the au are and then never speak of it again
So Ghost as an android. Military grade, top of the line. I mean literally irreplaceable, no one knows how they made him, where he came from, or how he's able to think and do the things he does. It's almost unbelievable. You, the 141's mechanic, don't believe it. You've fixed up plenty of androids, you'd rerouted circuit boards and rewritten enough code to know that Ghost should not be doing the things he's doing. You think he's thinking. He shouldn't be thinking. Not the way he seems to be, at least.
Androids think, to a certain degree, but artificial intelligence is... well it's not exactly real. It's pattern recognition and computers running simulations. It's math. Complicated math, but still math. Ghost isn't doing math, he's making decisions. The 141 lets him out, free range, in the field and trusts him to think and act within the parameters- Fuck do they even set parameters for him?
He comes to see you the same way the men go to see the doctor. Reluctantly. Another thing he shouldn't be doing, that he's hiding from the rest of the unit, feeling. That's what first tipped you off that he was thinking, the way he lingered in your doorway when other androids would be marched in by their COs. Ghost stood in the door to your workshop and hesitated, like he didn't want to see you, or was hoping you wouldn't be in. When you'd made eye contact with his cameras, the red glow behind sculpted bone, he'd marched right in and sat down in front of your work bench.
"Need some maintenance," He's said, the transmitters for his voice box warm and rumbling behind the slight static. You'd never heard false vocal cords like that.
He's a wonder of mechanics. His back plate is dented, the synth-skin charred and bullet ridden, and when you take too long poking around trying to figure out how to get it off he reaches back and presses a button at the top of his spine. The black composite plates lining his spine -what a human would call a spine- release with a hiss and the back plates on either side pop up with a quiet click. You could spend hours looking at the motors running his muscles, like cogs in a clock. They spin silently, just on the edge of warm when you touch them, expanding his synthetic muscles almost like he's breathing. A cooling system you assume, or exhaust exchange. You grab a few tools from your bench and tug your safety goggles on to get started.
It's strange, you feel like a proper doctor working on him. Ghost sits like a rock for you, but he's sitting, he's active. You glance at his face like you'll catch him flinching away from the laser you drag against powder burns, or think he'll roll his shoulder to test the fit when you tighten one of the millions of tiny screws. You'll have to come up with something new to use on the tight coils of synthetic muscle he has. You've never seen anything like it, you'll need something custom if he comes in with anything bigger than a bullet wound. He's patient as you reshape his back plate, banging the dent out and soldering a patch over the hole.
"You'll need a new one of these," You tell him. He makes a noise almost like a hum, you chalk it up to motors whirring. Strange when they'd been so quiet before.
"Battle scars," He jokes, and you freeze, "That's what Soap calls them." He covers, but- He made a joke. He's covering, it's a good cover, but- He made a joke. Androids don't make jokes, they approximate jokes.
You're still thinking about it when he leaves. You're a good mechanic, a great one, but you can't explain Ghost away as subroutines and ai. You stare down at your diagnostic report, your repair report. You hesitate and mark "functioning optimally" before jotting down the repairs you made. It's probably nothing. No reason to snitch on the 141's prized android just because you're a little spooked.
#cod x reader#x reader#simon ghost riley x reader#simon ghost riley#ghost x reader#ghost mw2#simon riley cod#simon riley#simon riley x reader#ghost call of duty#ghost cod#android!ghost#or is he.....#“Do androids dream of electric sheep” is one of my favorite books#I think about it all the time#think about the implications of an android completely indistinguishable from human#but never quite human#that's a big thing#my favorite part of the book really#that humans will always be human and you can only approximate humanity in code#but that's not what's happening here#sorry for hijacking a konig hc in favor of my favorite boy Ghost#I do have konig thoughts as well
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08:25pm | yoon jeonghan
SYNOPSIS. in which your fiancé comes back home tired after a meeting.
PAIRING. yoon jeonghan x gn!reader
GENRE. fluff, comfort, tiny bit suggestive, established relationship
WARNINGS. kissing, terms of endearment (love, angel)
WORD COUNT. 1.01k
notes: a jeonghan drabble because it's all i can write atm while struggling on this larger fic ;-; i'll try my best to have his meet cute out this upcoming week tho!! yes this is kinda inspired from that one scene in heartstopper because it was too cute
It's easy for Jeonghan to get burnt out.
The moment he steps out of his car, he already feels the yawn bubbling out of his system and into the cool, evening air. He had just gotten home from a two-timed post-poned meeting that seemed to have wasted more hours of his time than he expected. The information could have been sent in a simple email.
He feels the tired smile creep up his face upon walking up to the front door of your home, grabbing the jangling keys from his pocket and unlocking the door. Stepping inside, he lets out a sigh of relief to the familiar comfort of your home wrapping around him, letting his gaze roam around the dimly lit house to notice its quietness.
Jeonghan slips off his shoes and places them neatly by the entrance, his steps almost soundless as he walks through the space. The soft ambiance of warm lighting and the subtle scent of your favourite candles greet him, instantly dissipating away some remnants of exhaustion (by exhaustion, he means sitting in a stupid seat for four hours straight) from his long day.
As he trails inside your shared bedroom, he's drawn to the soft glow coming from the cracked bathroom door, the pale light spilling out onto the room. Intrigued, he quietly approaches the bathroom, brows knitting together in curiosity. He stops just outside the door, the corners of his lips curling upward as he recognises the source of the sound that has been humming gently in the air. Hearing your voice puts his heart to ease instantly.
Deciding not to interrupt you, he steps back into the bedroom and lets himself fall on the bed, sinking into the comfort of the mattress. He leans his back against the headboard, legs crossed together and takes a deep, contented breath. He closes his eyes for a moment as he waits patiently for you to emerge from the bathroom.
It takes no longer than ten minutes later for you to finally come out of the bathroom. His ears catch the soft creak of the bathroom door opening, and his eyes flutter open, a fond smile tugging at his lips as he watches you enter.
You're wrapped in a plush robe that Jeonghan had gifted you a few months back, your hair slightly damp from the shower. The soft glow from the bathroom lights still lingers on your skin, and Jeonghan swears you take his breath away each time he sees you. You look up, your eyes meeting his, and a delighted smile spreads across your face as you see him waiting there for you.
"Hey," You greet him quietly. "I didn't hear you come in."
"I didn't want to disturb you," he replies softly, gaze filled with warmth as he watches you move gracefully towards your vanity.
"You know I would've offered you to join me, right?" You say, and you can already sense the faint smirk etching across his features at your words.
"Oh, I'm well aware of that," Jeonghan chuckles amusedly. "But I thought I'd let you have your moment to unwind. Perhaps, next time though..."
You turn to face him as you reach for your skincare products, a playful glint in your eyes matching his. "I'll be looking forward to it."
As you go about your skincare routine, you catch Jeonghan up with your day, and he quietly listens to all the words falling from your mouth. Then you listen to him go on a bit of tangent about the meeting he had attended and how much he'd rather spent the four hours of listening to nonsense being with you instead. The thought makes you laugh𑁋he's burnt out from the meeting and burnt out from being away from you for too long.
Finishing up the remains of your skincare routine, you hardly notice Jeonghan rising up from the bed from behind. His arms come to encircle around your waist, landing a kiss at the exposed skin of your shoulder where the robe had ridden down. A soft sigh leaves your mouth as his lips brush against your skin, the touch sending a shiver down your spine. You feel his warm breath against your neck as he nuzzles closer, his arms pulling you snugly against his chest, fingers toying aimlessly with the tie to your robe.
You bring your hand to meet his, the engagement ring on his finger caressing against your palm.
"Hannie, love..." You mutter out. "What are you doing?"
That was enough for him to pull back from trailing his kisses up your neck. He rests his head on top of your shoulder as he takes a moment to admire your form in the mirror, before letting his eyes close.
"Mmh..." he sighs. "I'm just... recharging."
Your heart swells at his words, feeling the gentle rise and fall of his chest against your back as he holds you close, and you let yourself relax in his embrace as well. His lips find your neck again, leaving soft, feather-light kisses that send a tingling sensation through your skin.
As the quietness lingers, a low rumble suddenly emanates from Jeonghan's stomach. Both of you pause, a moment of surprise passing between before you burst into laughter. His ears turn a faint red as he chuckles sheepishly, arms around you tightening as if to shield himself from embarrassment.
"Well, once you've recharged a bit," You turn around to face him, your arms looping around his neck as his hands come to rest on your hips. "How about I treat you at the ramen place across the street?"
All he does is peer his fluttering eyes into yours, answering your question with a sweet kiss to your lips. It's soft and lingering, enough to leave you yearning for more, but you know that can happen later on. Your fingers gently cup his cheeks as you pull away from him.
"I'll take that as a... yes?" You whisper, fingers kneading the fabric of his shirt.
Jeonghan's lips curve upwards lovingly, letting his hands slide from your hips to your lower back as he holds you close. "Of course, my angel. Ramen sounds perfect."
taglist (open) ʚɞ @enhazen @haowrld @ylliris-hanniehae @icyminghao @slytherinshua @jeonride @lockburn-castle @vrnism @weird-bookworm @mhlsymlysn @ryuwonieebae
#kflixnet#k-labels#seventeen imagines#seventeen fluff#seventeen drabbles#seventeen x reader#jeonghan imagines#jeonghan fluff#jeonghan x reader#yoon jeonghan imagines#yoon jeonghan fluff#yoon jeonghan x reader#svt imagines#svt fluff#svt x reader#svt drabbles
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warm covers, sick cuddles
synopsis: you managed to get sick in the summer, what would be better than your dear boyfriend comforting you?
word count: 0.7k | genre: fluff, hurt/comfort, established relationship | pairing: wonwoo x gn! reader | warnings: mentions of symptoms of a common cold, wonwoo calls reader ‘sweetheart’
it was early in the morning when wonwoo woke up in your shared bed, the rain from a few hours ago still present on the sidewalks and trees. after sitting up he checked the time on his phone - 6:34 AM - then projected his attention in the direction of the other side of the bed; towards your sleeping form. the crisp morning evident on your skin in the form of goosebumps alarmed him to pull the blanket further above your body, as it had slipped away during the night. he was getting ready to leave the bed to make a surprise breakfast for you, but not without kissing your forehead. his lips touched your skin, and he halted his movements, furrowing his brows. your skin was too warm despite the chilly morning. he brushed away the hair which stuck to your face during your slumber, then placed his hand on your forehead properly, to his dismay sensing the same warmth he hoped was a fluke of his imagination.
when you awoke the sun was already up and shining, the emptiness of the bed next to you making wonwoo’s absence settle into your sleepy brain. you felt shivers run up your spine despite being under multiple layers of covers. just when you thought of getting up a tall figure appeared in the doorway. it was wonwoo, in his hands a fuzzy blanket; the one you bought together and loved the most, holding so many memories of cuddling while watching a movie, or draping it over each other when you waited patiently late into the night to welcome the other home, falling asleep on the couch in the process.
”good morning baby” you said, noticing how your voice sounded hoarse and strained. he left you without an answer, instead walking up to the bed and spreading the fuzzy material on the already existing layers of covers, crouching beside your tired form. “how do you feel sweetheart? you were cold weren’t you?” he asked in a gentle tone.
“how did you know?” you whispered, surprised.
“oh sweetie” he placed the back of his palm on your burning skin again “you are still quite warm, i think you are coming down with something, perhaps a flu. you were shivering when i checked on you, but i thought it was because of how early it was. guess it wasn’t the case judging by your voice and fever.” he stroked your hair gently, the way your face relaxed not going unnoticed by him.
“i don’t feel well wonwoo.” you said with a frown on your face. his eyes softened; he hated seeing you be so unwell. “my poor, sweet sweet baby.” he pouted, worry and care written all over his features. “i will bring you some medicine to help okay?”
“i should’ve expected it, i mean my immune system is not really resistant to the amount of ice cream i eat nowadays.” you joked, the pain in your throat getting stronger.
“i already set up some tea, it is still boiling hot, but when it cools down a bit i will bring it to you. what would you like for breakfast? i didn’t know if you would be up for it, but i made scrambled eggs and toast. i can make something different if that is what you would like.” he smiled, kissing your hairline. you grinned at this; he was so considerate, always taking such good care of you. “it sounds good, thank you.” it could’ve been anything he made for you, you still would’ve said yes. “then just wait here sweetheart, i will bring it to you with the medicine in a moment.” he was getting ready to leave when you grabbed him by the hand. “please, can you stay with me in bed for a bit before that? it can wait.” he kissed your hand and got under the covers, opening his arms, motioning for you to get closer. you landed in his arms, getting sleepier already, the sickness wearing your body out after being awake for such short amount of time. it didn’t take 5 minutes and you were already asleep, being protected by him and the blankets. he looked at your face, kissing your warm cheek, smiling to himself.
“i guess breakfast will be for lunch then.”
#seventeen imagines#seventeen scenarios#sick!reader#sickfic#seventeen fluff#svt imagines#sick#wonijinjin#wonwoo#jeon wonwoo#wonwoo x reader#comfort
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*ੈ🌩️‧₊˚— count to five + mirio togata.
૮˶ᵕ ༝ᵕ˶ა synopsis — when your job as your teacher takes you halfway across japan, you don’t expect a little boy and his father to change your life nearly as much as they do. or the five times in which you encounter mirio togata and his son, yoshi.
⭑ warnings — please read + mdni ! characters aged up to 20s, fluff, smut, strangers to lovers, single-parenthood, mention of hospitals, mentions of reader being smaller than mirio, unprotected sex, rough sex, exhibitionism, choking, dacryphilia, auralism, scratching, biting, creampie, squirting, fingering ( f!receiving ), praise!kink, daddy!kink, size!kink - fem!reader, teacher!reader, single-dad!mirio.
⭑ words — 6.3K.
⭑ notes — hi !!! it’s been a while! thank your being patient with me! here’s a little commission written for the lovely @roses-and-whisky who has given me permission to post. i hope you all enjoy !! - m.list ✩
the first time you meet mirio togata, it’s oddly warm for the season— the usual bite to a late autumn’s day nowhere to be found. sunshine beats down on your back, only adding to the heat simmering and rushing through your body as you work to unload moving boxes from the van you’d hired. though, you’re sweaty, and tired from hours of travelling across the cities of Japan, you’re excited for your fresh start. a degree hanging from your belt, plenty of experience behind you— the world is now your oyster.
cardboard filled with knickknacks and memories from your parents, childhood and all your school years sits heavy in your palms before you place it on the sidewalk— knowing that your host in this city will help you move into the gated community nearby, a room with your name painted into the blank white walls already set up for you.
“thas’a cool snow globe!” a childish, boy-ish voice squeaks from beside you once you’ve set the box down— daring to tug your gaze upwards to meet a child who perhaps embodies the same sunshine that’s giving you warmth today. his eyes are a brilliant blue, gaps in his teeth where his adult ones just about break through the gums. the boy points a finger tip covered in blue marker, no doubt, towards the trinket in your box with glimmering matching eyes.
smiling softly, you take it out of your box, thumbing the embossed logo of your university before shaking it and handing it to the tiny blonde. “isn’t it?” you whisper to him like you’re sharing a secret, leaning in real close and cupping his hands in your own. they’re warm. “if you hold it up to the sky, just right…” you add, pushing your hands upward with his to hold the snow globe under the sun. “the light catches on the glitter inside, making a snowy little rainbow!”
“woaaaah! that’s even cooler!”
the boy grins, eyes scintillating like the pearlescent flecks mixed into the water of your snow globe— little bits of white covering the two happy caricatures stuck inside.
“yoshi! how many times do i have to tell you not to run ahead, buddy?” the little boy, that you now know as yoshi, freezes in place— candescent azure eyes shooting over to his father as if he’s been caught in the act. he knows they’ll be late for swimming if they don’t keep walking…but your snow globe is just so cool. if you thought the kid was bright, the man before you is even brighter…the centre of your solar system, a warm heart lodged between his two juicy pecs and a chiselled jaw. he looks like he’s walked straight out of a movie, sending your brain into a tizzy.
he’s stunning and your words come out jumbled as you address him. “is he yours?” you ask, body struck with the heat of the pro hero before you, the sun above you too.
you feel a bit silly for asking the question, the uncanny resemblance between the two becoming even more obvious— as with the fact that it’s lemillion you’re talking to. the elder blonde’s hearty laughter echoing between you both on the side of the street. “yes, he’s mine. all my own flesh and blood,” mirio responds proudly. you’ve always loved children, but you never thought the pro hero would have one of his own.
and you never thought you’d wanted to mother someone’s children as much as you did his. mirio togata, desirable, handsome and good with kids.
“introduce yourself buddy, be polite.”
the little boy nods eagerly, bowing to you with respect after beaming at you warmly. “i-i’m yoshi togata! nice ta’meet you ma’am!”
you giggle and mirio grins. you’re cute, endearing almost— and he finds himself laughing with you.
“it’s lovely to meet you too, yoshi,” you reply, sticking your hand out to shake his tinier one as you give them both your name kindly.
sweet, just like you. mirio likes the way you interact with his son. he likes you, so far.
before mirio can introduce himself back, the driver in your mover’s van honks loudly. “move it lady! i’m not waitin’ out here for you all day or i’m uppin’ the price of your service.” you give the pair an apologetic look in response, offering a high five to yoshi and a shy wave to his dad, scurrying off to finish unloading the van.
and mirio watches you go, for more than one reason.
the second time you encounter mirio togata, is after a disaster— his very reason for existence, his sunshine, little yoshi, nearly loses his light.
you had always wanted to teach. nurturing children into the faces of tomorrow was your calling— guiding them to be good and help others without question…and as it turns out, the graduate teaching position you’d been hired for took in a lot of students who were the children of pro heroes, and the little blonde raised by his almost identical father just so happened to be a student in your kindergarten class. yoshi togata had taken an instant liking to you as his teacher, a child-like wonder akin to magic from fairy tales emitting from the little boy whenever you looked at him, helped him along in reading and solving calculations in the dreaded maths classes.
yoshi absolutely adored you.
he wanted to sit with you at lunch time, tucked himself into your side during nap time and screamed your name the first time his quirk ever activated. as much as the darling boy looked like pro hero lemillion— his quirk was scarily similar to it as well.
yoshi wails the whole way to the hospital, the lack of air he received after slipping through the concrete in the school yard while scraping his knee, a little beyond the school nurse’s jurisdiction. you’d already gotten someone to cover your class, speeding to the nearest emergency room with hope that someone had alerted his father of the situation.
when mirio arrives, yoshi’s cheeks are luckily smeared with chocolate pudding cups instead of saltine tears and he’s surprisingly cheerful for a kid attached to a small IV drip— dressed in his own red-riot themed hospital gown, with you resting beside the bed in his ward.
“how ya feelin’ buddy?” lemillion whispers, tone on the edge of worry as he slips off the cape to his hero costume. “heard you got your quirk today.”
the bouncing baby boy with sunshine in his eyes shuffles onto his knees, wobbling over the edge of his bed before being snatched up by his dad, bright laughter bubbling on his lips when he nearly slips through the beefy man’s arms. “uh huh! an’ miss got me puddin’ cups! said i was real brave.”
“you were kid, but we gotta get this quirk under control! dad’s gonna have to teach ya!”
togata turns to you next, appreciation evident on his matured features— radiating around you warmly. “h-he really was brave,” you say sincerely, sitting up and a little more awake now the pro hero of your dreams is looking deep into your soul. “i was so worried! but yoshi behaved just like a pro.” you cringe a little at your choice of words, but the strapping blonde before you only takes your hand, lips brushing across the back of your knuckles in such a way that tingles run down your spine.
sapphire orbs flick upwards to make yours as you feel the heat of the sun simmering underneath your cheeks.
“thank you for looking out for him,” he says, voice cheerful and like honey in your ears. “i never got to properly introduce myself, even after all this time. i’m—“
“lemillion, i-i know.”
“mirio. togata, actually. and it’s a pleasure to meet you.” mirio cuts you off but the gentle smile never leaves his handsome face, and you’re sure you might pass out— embarrassed by his forwardness and flirting in front of his son, your student ( who’s too occupied by pudding cups and old cartoon reruns to actually care. )
there’s a knock to the door before it opens as the two of you share a moment. “mrs…togata and lemillion, sir! i have an update on your son’s vitals and quirk—“ suddenly, the doctor enters the room like a hurricane disrupting a quaint little farm.
and you jump back from the pro hero, bashful and shy. “o-oh! no. i’m not…we’re not!” gesturing between yourself and mirio, you shake your head— trying to dispel any wedded-couple vibes the pair of you might give off. “i’m just the teacher.”
the doctor raises a brow, looking up from his sheets on the young togata’s vitals and then hums. “my apologies then,” he turns to mirio. “your son seems to be doing extremely well— considering the circumstances and shock to his body he must’ve experienced….”
the doctor’s words fade into nothing but static as you attempt to calm your beating heart— sending reassuring smiles in yoshi’s direction from time to time while his father and the medical expert discuss the next steps to take regarding his quirk.
but you don’t think you’ll get your heart to calm down tonight… not with the way mirio still holds your hand, thumb brushing over the back of it fondly.
your third memorable encounter with mirio togata falls on the day of your school’s winter fundraiser.
lemillion had made himself a permanent fixture in your humble little life as a teacher—somehow acquiring your number from the school offices to constantly text you throughout the day. you knew that the pair of you were crossing the boundaries of professionalism, parent and teacher, but it couldn’t be helped. your heart fluttered at every message you exchanged, pictures of yoshi enjoying himself at school and some of mirio on patrol being sent back and forth.
and so, you were beyond excited when the winter fate rolled around, the children of your class volunteering with their parents to help out at different stalls— yoshi had been sure to sign up to help you with the bake sale, roping in his dad as well. the two stayed up all night prior, baking pro hero themed cupcakes decorated with hundreds and thousands and dollops of tubed colourful frosting to sell, though messy, it only warmed your heart having their company.
“remember yoshi, i don’t want you phasing through the tables to steal the merchandise from the bake sale!” you remind the younger togata sweetly as he helps you set up the various baked goods for display. he shakes his head in affirmation, golden curls bouncing over ocean eyes and freckled cheeks despite the crumbs residing on them— evidence of his crimes. “though, i’m sure your dad will boost our donations! since he’s a pro hero and all.” not to mention all the mothers and single teachers are ogling the hell out him right now, you’re sure that they’re plotting your murder too.
wiping yoshi’s mouth, you shift your attention to his father— rolling your eyes amusedly at the bags under his own from staying up late to bake. “i certainly must be givin’ you an ego boost helping out too, having a pro hero do all your dirty work.” lemillion teases, voice lowered and husky— though grateful when you pass him a hot coffee.
“oh please mister togata,” turning on your own flirty charm, you send a wink the pro hero’s way. “you adore being my little helper, i’m sure you’ve missed having a woman boss you about like you need.” the second half of your words are whispered, almost sultry as you cross more boundaries in your unique and blossoming relationship.
mirio flushes, and in the tight space of your bakesale booth— presses his broad and molten-warm chest against your back, coffee in one hand while the other sits in a calculated manor on your hip.
“oh, i do love a woman in charge, miss.” the way he utters your name, sounds like and is as sweet as melted chocolate— far too risqué for a school fundraiser, and it’s your turn to shy away from the heat of the moment.
you allow yourself to be distracted by the children, yoshi included — who must have snuck off using his quirk— playing dangerously close to a heavily decorated Christmas tree that threatens to topple over as they weave around beneath it, and rush off to stop them— leaving the darling lemillion to deal with a swarm of hungry mothers and staff, desperate for a slice of his pie and not the cake your booth has to offer. he can’t help but watch you longingly, the way you bend down to speak soft to the children, holding their chubby little hands while giving them a gentle reprimand.
you’re so good with kids, good with yoshi— and mirio would be lying if he didn’t say you were good with him too.
you didn’t judge him for having a child before marriage, when he was still making a name for himself— you were kind to him, sweet and oh so understanding.
and perhaps he’d come to like you for reasons more than just being good with his son.
though his fantasises of having you close, having you to himself and making you a part of his family are promptly cut short by the intrusion of his long time friend…izuku midoriya. when the number one, his competion from way back when, seems to appear from nowhere— joining you with the now squealing children, giving them a lesson ( no doubt ) on how to be a good hero. or some mushy crap like that.
you seem impressed, smitten at how good deku is with your students, ruffling their hair and holding them up high above the green ringlets that make everyone go crazy…including you. mirio doesn’t miss the way your eyes light up brighter than those on the Christmas tree as izuku plays with your kids, puts his hand on the small of your back and whispers way too damn close to your ear.
since when did that shrimp have moves? the blonde can’t help but wonder. why do you like him so much?
your smile is near blinding when you return back to the bake sale booth with izuku on your arm— rambling about how much it took to get him to come, how good for the school it will be… as if togata hadn’t been standing right there the entire time. it bothers mirio a little bit, just how bright you shine when this other man is around, despite the budding romance you both might be sharing.
so he really can’t help himself, jealousy boiling over, when he blurts out. “are you two dating? am i missing something, number one?” in a strained, faux happy voice.
“o-oh! god no!”
“w-what? mirio no! midoriya is my cousin.” you’re quick to dismiss the idea, shaking your head while the number one hero turns bright red. “i invited him along today because he’s obviously a hit amongst single parents— freckles like this are sure to bring in the big bucks.” you cheer, punching your relatives star spotted cheeks.
izuku is rendered embarrassed for the remainder of the fundraiser, mirio absolutely mortified and you extremely amused but the rest of the bake sale goes without a hitch until closing and clean up time. yoshi sleeps on a bench behind your booth ( ultimately crashing from a sugar high ) as your cousin serves the very last of your eager customers trying to tempt him with their cookies instead of buying the ones izuku‘s girlfriend makes for a living.
as though not to disturb his sleeping son, the elder blonde shoots you a quick text.
mister togata - 5:45PM : I definitely was not jealous earlier.
mister togata - 5:46PM : So pls disregard me making a fool out of myself in front of your cousin.
you stifle a breathless chuckle like music to mirio’s ears, before looking back to see if yoshi is still resting peacefully and shoot another text in response.
yoshi’s pretty teacher lady - 5:49PM : oh i dunno, don’t think i can forget you mistaking my cousin for my boyfriend.
yoshi’s pretty teacher lady - 5:49PM : but maybe i can make an exception for you.
that familiar crack of heat flitters in the air when you both look up from your phones and catch one another’s gaze— suddenly aware of how small the space in booth is, how close you both are…how if you stood on your tiptoes you might be able to…
to kiss him.
to kiss one another.
but the moment is soon lost, wanting energy dissipating within the air as yoshi stirs to mumble tiredly. “don’ get too close to daddy miss!” the baby boy utters your name once, rubbing his eyes. “he’s got cooties.”
it’s only then that you truly realise how close you to the man…to this pro hero whose son is someone that you teach. it’s wrong, unprofessional… and losing your career isn’t worth kissing togata, no matter how much you want it.
so you back away— treating mirio togata as if he really does have cooties, putting up a wall between you both.
the fourth time you cross paths with mirio togata, you’re wet.
and not because of him.
the rain from an unexpected storm after work soaks you to the bone as you desperately call out to deku from your shared front porch— pleading and begging with the gods for him to be home since you’d forgotten your house keys back at your office on campus.
neither of you had realised it at the time, but when you’d first met mirio on your move-in date— you’d made arrangements to bunk with your cousin, izuku, in the same gated community that mirio lived in. the one where he just so happened to be neighbours with the top hero too.
the sunshine-like pro hero had spotted you shivering like a purse dog outside while home with a sickly little yoshi and despite the frosty awkwardness that built up between you both after the bake-sale, mirio knew it would be cruel of him to just leave you outside like that. “come inside,” he frowns, as if to scold you the same way you’d do with your students. “you’ll catch a cold like this if you don’t. and i’m not taking no for an answer, deku is on patrol, won’t be home until late.”
you look defeated, like a kicked puppy as you trudge into the togata household, clothes heavy with water. “i’m sorry,” you pout, as cute as ever— stealing mirio’s heart right from where it beats in his chest.
“don’t be, head upstairs and take the first right into my room. you can grab a change of clothes and stay here until your cousin comes home. i’ll fix you something to eat.”
it has the man’s stomach in knots how easily you follow his command, how beautiful you look with raindrops clinging to your skin. you’re even more so when you come back down dressed in an old sir night-eye shirt of his, heading over to join a pleased yoshi on the couch who can’t stop talking about how how he hated missing school and being sick and how glad he is that you came to visit.
yoshi trusts you so much, and that’s more than enough to drive mirio insane…but seeing you in his shirt too? it’s icing on the cake.
the rest of the evening is spent with you making funny shaped homemade pizzas with the younger togata and picking a book for him while his father and lemillion draws him a bubble bath. after washing up, you read yoshi the story until his eyes droop… and you can’t help but be a little jealous of how long his golden lashes are as they brush the freckles on his chubby cheeks. mirio spends that time avoiding eye contact, staring at your bottom when it peeks out from under his shirt and thinking of you in the most unholy ways.
when the time comes, you tuck the darling yoshi into his dinosaur and suneater themed sheets alongside his father before letting the elder togata guide you to the guest bedroom just one floor up and two doors down from his own. “sleep tight,” you murmur to the man, just a breath’s width apart in the doorway. “i-i’ll head back to midoriya’s in the morning. s-so thank you for tonight…”
he wants to say thank you back, for spending time with his son and teaching him so well, but lemillion’s words are lost on the way you look up at him with such bright doe eyes and a sleepy sweet smile. you chuckle breathlessly and slip away into the room, leaving mirio a flustered statue in place.
neither of your nights end there, however.
crossing the lines of professionalism once more, surrounded by all of his scents— hazelnuts and burning wood…you’re overcome with desire, there’s a familiar twitch between your thighs and a throb at your clit that you have to soothe. every neuron in your brain screams at you to stop, though your fingers circle your nub from over the crotch of your panties and thoughts of mirio above you, inside of of you and all over you ebb at your moral judgement.
it’s wrong, to moan mirio’s name into his sheets that smell like him…for you cunt to drool selfishly through your night clothes against the warm blanket he’d provided you with. the blonde hears you through the paper thin walls, cock swelling more and more with every mewl you let out. ones that are promised to him and him alone.
mirio chokes on groans, fists his cock and spreads his precum all over his expensive bed linen, humping his duvet as he imagines your supple, heated flesh beneath him. you’re like the sun, pulling him into your orbit and incinerating him from the inside out. he calls your name like it’s a prayer, half hoping you can hear his wanton for you echo across the hall, too busy jacking off to burst into your room and pump you full. make you a mother to his second and third child.
it’s far from appropriate, the pair of you getting off to one another in the middle of the night like this— but neither of you can think to stop, minds clouded by lust and orgasms that breach the horizon of the early morning… the tastes of each other’s names like sins on your tongues.
the filth and final time you encounter mirio togata like this, you’re like a lamb being sent to the slaughter.
pretty prey walking into the lion’s den.
you learn from yoshi during pick-up time that his father had fallen sick with the winter’s cold…explaining why you hadn’t seen him much between the special encounters after your night of sin. suneater— or mister amajiki, a close friend of the togatas, picks up yoshi under the guise of a play date while mirio recovers from a particularly serious cold and flu he caught on patrol.
“you should go see daddy!” yoshi babbles before bounding down to his uncle’s car. “he calls out for you a lot!” the cluelessness yet enthusiasm of a child will never cease to amaze you, and you have to control your stutter when hesitantly agreeing with your student. you know why mirio calls your name so much, that night hadn’t been the only time you’d gotten off to one another, nor would it be the last. you’d even walked in on the pro hero fisting his cock with your name wet on his tongue but neither of you had said a word at the time.
once all of your students have been sent off with their parents and carers, you make sure to swing by the closest mart to make somewhat of a care package for mister togata. some cough drops, cold medicine, heating pads for his hands and several tins of soup— all with the hope of helping him feel better.
you’re not nearly prepared for the sight you’re given when knocking on mirio’s door later on.
he says your name as soon as he opens up, hoarse and almost sultry,, and the man is half naked too— golden skin radiating with heat, coruscating with sweat and a slight flush from the fever. “fuck, pretty girl. you’ve come t’take care of me, hm?” mirio slurs in a slow and sexy way, swaying on his feet and collapsing onto you right on the front porch. “wha’d’are ya doin’ here gorgeous?”
embarrassment floods your veins, tangling with the heat burning from mirio against you. “l-lets get you inside, you’re sick.”
“lovesick, baby, been missin’ you all week.”
his words shouldn’t send your brain into a flurry as you push the pro hero back into his house but they do. you struggle with avoiding how he slobbers all over you like a horny dog, how he smirks cockily while you push him to sit against the livingroom couch. “we need to bring down this fever,” dismissing the blonde, you rush to his kitchen for a tall glass of water and boil the kettle to make him one of those medicated hot drinks. “you’ll be better soon, mister togata.”
blinking over at you with reddened lined eyes, lemillion keeps a predatory gaze on you despite how ill he is. “using formalities with me, sunshine?” he coos in response, distracted when you return by attempting to tug off more of his clothes…or his pants, rather. “that’s not what you were calling me the other night when you phoned to let me watch you shove your tiny fingers into that tight…pretty pussy…moaning my name—“
“mirio!”
“just like that gorgeous… fuck, say it again, baby.” you know that the man is delirious with his flu, but the low voice he drops deep, dripping with honey, filling you with that familiar lust you got off on whenever the two of you met up in secret. “‘mirio, m-mirio…oh fuck! mirio!’ you get so cute when you whine for me like that.” he’s playing you for a fool and you’re falling for it— like an easy game of cat and mouse, mirio coyly flirting with you as you desperately try to keep his sweatpants on. bundling him up in blankets and filling him up with cold water to calm down his fever.
you’re about to check his temperature again while pressing the back of your hand to his forehead when large and calloused hands grip the fat at your hips— tugging you straight into mirio’s lap like a lion dragging around its prey before the kill. “d-doesn’t look like you’re hot anymore…” you squeak, quivering in his grip and feeling every ripple of his thighs and abs beneath your fingertips as you steady yourself against him.
“fever went down ages ago baby,” he grins, all toothy and pearly white— pinching your waist, slender fingers cupping the curve of your ass to pull you back and forth over the growing bulge in his lap. “you’re just so fucking cute, dotin’ all over me, sunshine.” biting your lip, you fall apart easily— bearing witness to tousled golden locks and a smirk that sets a fire alight in your lower belly. “you wanna kiss me, don’t you?”
then you’re nodding your head, any logical thought cleared from your mind ( even the ones about not spreading germs that you usually tell to your students )— you want to know what the sun tastes like, if it’s as warm or as hot as science makes it seem. a heavy hand cups your throat without squeezing and brings you down for a passionate lip lock, your own finding the thick tresses of light and fiery hair as mirio’s tongue glides over the seam of your lips after pressing against yours. you moan at the sweet taste of honey and ginger on his lips, whimper in the form of begging for the man to let you in and consume you whole until you’re nothing but stardust.
neither of you part, lungs burning for oxygen like you’re lost in space with no air to breathe— grinding and kissing like your lives depend on it. everything is sloppy, spit-slicked and full of the admissions of feelings— you like each other. need each other like the earth needs its light and the sun needs something to shine down on. mirio sucks on your bottom lip, takes it between his teeth and slowly pulls away from you, but you follow him, chasing your own personal ecstasy.
“so needy, sunshine,” mirio coos, a certain deep rasp caught in the ridges of his throat. “so pretty like this too, so cute, all small in my lap. with my hands around your darlin’ little neck.” cobalt eyes, as luminous as the skies on a clear day flicker up to meet yours, swimming with tears of desperation— a craving for more of mirio togata carved into each fleck, drowning your dilated pupils. “do you want me to fuck you?”
you nod again, the world around you spinning and your thoughts intoxicated with the golden boy hero beneath your thighs that tremble with each compliment he feeds to you. “yes— god, please.”
“please, what?” togata asks you, voice stern as he works on pulling you out of the layers of your clothes— blouse and bra gone before you can even register it.
pouting, you whisper a needy. “m-mirio?”
shaking his head as if chastising a child, the man tuts and mocks your pout all while working on plucking off your skirt next, leaving you in nothing but your innocent cotton panties. “that’s daddy when i’m with you,” he tells you like it’s a promise with his fingers once again fumbling between your bodies and underwear to toy with the pearl between your puffy pussy lips, dragging the newfound wetness over your clit. clear strings of your arousal seep through your panties and leave a dark spot on his sweats. “daddy, when i have you like this, you got that?”
“y-yes,” you mewl eagerly, shifting on your knees so you’re better spread over mirio’s lap— giving him better access to prep your sweet hole as it flutters around his thick digits, earning a breathless chuckle from his wet lips. “yes, daddy.”
“good fucking girl,” he says proudly, gaze fixated on between your pretty thighs— watching you quiver from the praise before mirio relents, easing two fingers past your soaked entrance and scissoring them immediately. stretching you wide to take his girthy cock. “oh fuck, my little sunshine’s so warm, so wet for me.” he groans, drawing his name against your silken walls, thumb painting wide sloppy circles into your clit.
your face feels hot with tears, something that mirio enjoys seeing, especially when they clump in your eyelashes. “please…i want more,” i want you. is what you mean, nails lightly cutting into mirio’s shirtless shoulders as you ride the digits pumping in and out of your slick cunt, squeezing tight around them as you gush into the seat of his palm. “d-daddy!”
“shhh, i know little sunshine, daddy knows,” he hums softly after pressing down on your g-spot, carefully pulling his fingers out of you to push you onto your back on the couch. “be good f’me and don’t cum yet, kay? want you to hold onto that until i’ve got you on my cock. yeah?” mirio’s words are tender, though domineering, while he shifts to hover over you, hot tongue burning against your skin as he licks a trail from the hem of your panties, between your arching back, bare breasts and budding nipples until he meets your lips— drooling into your eager open mouth as you pant out for more. “so fucking perfect, sunshine.”
cool air rushes over your pulsating, glistening pussy— mirio having pulled your underwear aside, only causing you to cry out from the lack of stimulation. “don’t cry, pretty baby,” you manage to hear him over the blood pulsing through your ears, body tingling all over at the feeling of mirio’s girthy cock pressing against your inner thigh through layers of fabric. “‘m gonna fuck you now, don’t worry. daddy’s gotcha.”
he hikes a thigh of yours up over his hip, shoving down his boxers and sweats just enough to let his mushroomed and seedy cockhead press into the heat of your pussy. you dig your nails into mirio’s sweaty scalp, mouth hanging open and hips rising from the sticky leather of the couch covered in your juices. the man above you is the centre of your universe, you think. though your relationship may be somewhat taboo, you feel the care and affection he has for you in every single one of his touches. calloused hands moulding your body into the perfect shape to fuck, to make love to and makes you feel like jello as his fat, veiny dick pushes deeper into you— big for the slickness of your pussy to resist him.
“relax for daddy, sweetheart, let me in…c’mon, fuck. open up f’me,” mirio simpers, rolling his hips slow and sensual until your walls tremble around him— welcoming his dick home, bathing him in all of your arousal. he throbs inside you, finally sheathed in all your warmth as if you’re the core of his earth. “that’s it…my good girl, oh fuck. fuck, you feel better than i ever imagined. so fucking tight baby, gonna let daddy fuck you right, huh?” you can tell that he’s losing himself within you, now forcing your knees into your shoulders to put you into a mating press and wasting no more time setting a rough, feverish pace to his hips and pounding into your sweet cunt.
you cry and squeal and claw at togata, the world spinning on its axis around you while the blonde fucks you into a stupor— his tip smearing copious amounts of thick precum along your velveteen insides until there’s a white ring of your mixed arousals cuffed around the base of his blue veined cock. “d-daddy…s’good. so fuckin’ good,” your own juices splash up against the pro hero’s stomach and and every time his hips slam down against your own— wet skin slapping on skin in a rhythmic and sensual tune.
galaxies twinkle in your pretty eyes, your teeth sinking into mirio’s golden and broad shoulders while you scratch at his back. the sound of sex clinging to the air in the room is primal, animalistic as lemillion cups your throat again— tilting your head so that he can mark his claim into your sweat tainted flesh. the fabric of your panties pushed to the side rubs deliciously at his soaked, creamy shaft and the waistband of his pants rub your clit raw, the effect the clothing has on you both leading you to believe that neither of you will last much longer like this.
“‘m makin’ you see fuckin’ stars, aren’t i sunshine?” he asks you, each word punctuated by a harsh thrust—cum-loaded balls tapping against your ass, the sound mixing with your squeals to make a lustful song. “want this pretty pussy to cum for me. can you do that, my good girl?” mirio moans heartily above the couch squeaking beneath your bodies that dance together in rough and passionate movements.
he smiles again, nice and bright when you nod and start to circle your hips upwards as best as you can into his. “‘m close, can cum for daddy. wanna cum for daddy. please don’t stop, please—!”
“alright baby, i gotcha…look at you. so cute and needy for your daddy. for me.” mirio gunts back into your mouth, falling apart at the sight of your lovesick and teary face, crumbling at the way your cunt clamps down on him— refusing to let him pull out in an attempt to milk him for all his worth. you’re tight around him, practically choking mirio’s cock as his fat milky tip bullies your insides and harshly bares down on your g-spot— sending you headfirst into your orgasm. “that’s it…fuck look at that, pretty lil pussy cummin’ around daddy’s fat cock. s-shit.”
soft praises are expelled into the buzzing air between you both, with you gasping for breath and squirting on the blonde’s dick so hard that he’s forced out of your pulsing walls before he cums in hot waves over your raw mound— painting your ravaged pussy lips white with his hot and thick seed.
you’re both left panting and sticky messes on the couch as you come down from your highs— your mind running a mile a minute when you realise what’s just happened, what you’ve done with the father of your student. no less.
“m-mister togata, i-i’m—“ you start to apologise, coming too, heart rate spiking in your chest.
but mirio is quick to stop you, forehead and sweaty blonde locks pressed to your own with a dreamy and satisfied look on your face. “before you say anything more. i want you to know that this wasn’t just a hook up for me. nor were the times before that.” he explains,blinking up at you with unadulterated affection, perhaps even love. “i like you, a-and i like how you look out for my son. and i know our relationship has been far from appropriate, i’d like to take you out for a proper date— do things right instead of sleeping with you to work up my courage to ask you out.”
“mirio…” you smile, brushing back his hair. “i’d love that, a lot actually.”
“yeah?” he asks, timid for a man who just fucked you to the high heavens and back before linking your fingers. “say you mean it, or you’ll be breakin’ both mine and yoshi's hearts.”
“yeah…” you murmur through a laugh, leaning up for a sweet kiss to seal the deal.
the fifth time you encounter mirio togata, you walk into the lions den, but come out with him hand in hand— your hearts belonging to one another.
#mirio x reader#mirio smut#mirio togata smut#bnha smut#bnha x reader#mirio togata x reader#mirio imagines#mirio fluff#mirio x you#bnha imagines#mirio togata x you#mha smut#mha x reader#mha imagines#mirio togata fluff#tteokdoroki#✧ ₊˚੭ — writing
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Lost in the Dark (Part 2)
Pairing: Dark!Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader
Word Count: 673
Warnings: Dark content! Non/DubCon, and other dark elements. This fic contains dark themes and may include potentially triggering topics. You are solely responsible for your media consumption.
Summary: Bucky has been home for a few days, and you don't think you can take anymore.
A/N: Special thanks to my beta reader @whisperlullaby ! I'm not sure why Dark Bucky keeps rattling around in my brain, but while he's there I may do a few more snippets like this.
Part 1
Four days he'd been back and he hadn't left you alone for more than a few minutes at a time. It was as if he feared that you would disappear if he took his eyes off of you.
He had fucked you every way he could think of. The serum in his veins made his stamina entirely unmatched. You were exhausted and broken down. It had been almost four months since he had kidnapped you. For the last month, you hadn't spoken a word to him. The occasional sound slipped out but you refused to engage him in hopes he would grow frustrated and let you go. Instead, he was infinitely loving and patient.
Night had fallen and you laid on the bed waiting for him. He had fed you well but your entire body hurt, especially between your legs. You were more sore than you'd ever been. When you felt the bed dip, you braced yourself.
“Come here, baby,” Bucky pulled you against him.
You broke, you couldn't help yourself. It was all too much for you.
“Please,” you sobbed, “please, I can't. Not again.”
“What are you talking about, doll?” Bucky asks solicitously.
“It hurts. I'm so sore. Please don't make me do this,” your body began to wrack with sobs as he held you.
“Aw, baby, why didn't you tell me sooner? It's okay. If you're too sore we don't have to. Here, I'm going to draw you a bath so you can relax,” he kisses your head before swinging out of the bed.
You started shaking and you didn't know why. He was always so calm, it was terrifying. That he had been so understanding made it worse rather than better. He should be angry. He should be holding you down and fucking you without a care for your feelings, but not this man. He was kind and patient. He always made sure you came during sex which annoyed you immensely that your body betrayed you each time. He brought you little gifts and made your favorite foods.
You had smashed his first gift and expected him to go into a rage. He had simply picked up the pieces and said not to worry, he'd glue it back together. He was unwavering. His eternal calm was unsettling.
“Here we go, doll,” Bucky appeared and scooped you up. He carried you to the bathroom and gently laid you in the tub. Your favorite candles burned, all of your products were next to the bath and the water was perfectly hot. You let out a relieved sigh when the warm water enveloped your sore muscles.
“I put some Epsom salt in to help with the muscle aches. This is why you have to talk to me, baby. I can't take care of you well if you won't communicate,” he gently admonishes.
You simply nod. He hands you a glass of wine and then takes up the soap and a washcloth.
You should have known it would be too much to ask for a bath alone. He was always too keen on being with you. He rarely left your side when he was home and when he wasn't the security system still allowed him to keep close tabs.
You decided to just give in. You allowed him to wash you while you drank the glass of wine. He massaged as he cleaned and you found yourself relaxing more than you thought possible. By the time the water had cooled and you stepped out, you felt lightheaded. Bucky dried every inch of you down to your toes and then guided you back to the bed.
As you sat, you felt unusually out of it. The glass of wine had apparently gone straight to your head. You felt like you were in a dream. Bucky gently laid you down and your eyes began to flutter but before you lost consciousness, you heard him whisper, “You know I can't sleep until I've had you. But don't worry, doll, you won't feel a thing. Good night.”
Part 3
Updates and taglist: Due to the unreliable nature of tags, I no longer keep a taglist. Updates for series will be made on Sundays Central Time Zone. Please follow my sideblog @tuiccimfanfiction and turn on notifications for updates. All series and new stories will be reblogged to it. You will only receive notifications when a new part or story is out! Nothing else will be blogged to the page. I can’t thank you enough for your support!
#dark content#dark#lost in the dark#dark bucky barnes#dark bucky x reader#dark bucky x you#dark bucky smut#bucky barnes#bucky#marvel#bucky x reader#bucky x you#bucky barnes x reader#avengers#bucky fanfic#bucky barnes x you#captain america#bucky barnes drabble#bucky barnes fanfic#bucky barnes fanfiction#bucky barnes fic#bucky fic
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The Way Of A Criminal: Chapter 9
Genre: Mafia!AU, Criminal!AU, Angst, Romance
Pairing: OT7 x Reader
Characters: Normal!Reader, Gangster!Namjoon, Gangster!Seokjin, Gangster!Yoongi, Gangster!Hoseok, Gangster!Jimin, Gangster!Taehyung, Gangster!Jungkook
Summary: Your father was a stranger, you never knew who he was and what he did. But one day, someone knocks on your door, informing you of his passing. Now, you learn more about him, his life and the legacy you are expected to continue with the help of his 7 executives.
Story warning(s): This story will contain depictions of violence, blood shed/gore, death, mentions of abuse, smoking, alcohol drinking and gambling. This story is fictional and has nothing to do with real life events or the actual members of BTS. Please read at your own discretion.
“I shouldn’t turn up early when you guys are not ready, right?” You asked with a giggle as you walked beside Wonwoo.
“Don’t worry, if we’re not ready at this point, I don’t think we’ll ever be ready. Besides, I want to introduce you to my team.” Wonwoo smiled. You nodded with a hum. As you stood outside the studio, you heard music and chatter coming from the inside.
“Hey guys. I’m here.” Wonwoo knocked before entering. He held the door open for you to go in. There were so many people in Wonwoo’s team, 13 of them in total.
“Everyone, this is my best friend, (y/n). (y/n), this is my team.” Wonwoo smiled brightly as he introduced you, his hands resting on your shoulders.
“Nice to meet you all.” You bowed shyly.
“Any friend of Wonwoo’s is a friend of ours. Please, make yourself comfortable.” The boys all introduced themselves to you. It was a lot of names to take in at once but they were patient and kind.
“Better start warming up, Wonwoo.” One of them reminded. You waved Wonwoo off and took a seat at the corner.
“Jihoon hyung, is this the new track?” Chan held up a CD.
“It should be.” The shorter male nodded his head. You tilted your head as you looked at him. His complexion and features reminded you of Yoongi, you wouldn’t be surprised if they were related in some way.
“Yes?” Jihoon turned to you, having noticed you staring at him. Your eyes widened before you shook your head.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to stare. You just look like someone I know.” You explained. He chuckled and nodded his head, turning back to talk to another team member. You watched as Wonwoo warmed up, completely focused on what Mingyu was saying to him. At least you weren’t distracting him with your presence there.
This wasn’t an ordinary evaluation. Wonwoo had described it has having to plan a concert on their own, which not only tested their talents but also their stage management skills and teamwork ability.
“Which ever team is ready can warm up first.” Seungcheol announced to the others.
“Is there something I can help with? I can like play the music or something.” You volunteered, seeing the boys run back and forth to the music system.
“No need. You’re our audience!” Joshua smiled.
“I know how busy you guys are warming up and rehearsing. I don’t mind helping, I can still be the audience from where I am seated anyway. This way, you guys don’t have to take turns.” You giggled.
“Okay then. Thank you!” He patted your shoulder.
“Don’t worry about it.” You replied in English, guessing he could speak the language since he had an English name. Joshua’s eyes widened.
“You speak English?” He asked. You nodded your head, rubbing the back of your neck shyly.
“That’s cool. You speak well!” Joshua laughed. He explained that only him and Vernon could speak English in the team. And you told him how your mother wanted you to be a polyglot, thinking that it would help you in your future career.
Wonwoo watched you laugh and chat with Joshua in English. He hadn’t seen you open up so easily to a stranger you have just met before and it made him feel weird.
“(y/n).” Wonwoo called. His team was done warming up and were going to run their rehearsal first.
“I better get to my job.” You turned back to go to the music system.
“Of course. So this is play and pause, this is to go back to the start and this is to skip to the next song. Easy.” Joshua told you how to work the system and it was relatively simple. You nodded your head and sat down.
“Go.” Wonwoo gave you a thumbs up and you played the music. You watched Wonwoo and his team rap. They were all very charismatic and powerful with their raps.
“Pause. Sorry, I missed the beat. Can we start again?” Vernon said. You stopped the music and scrolled back to the start to play again.
“Thanks, (y/n).” Vernon said into the mic. You gave him two thumbs up and a smile. While they rehearsed diligently, the others made sure to keep their voices down to avoid distracting those that were practicing. You took your phone out to order some drinks from the school cafe to be delivered to the studio for Wonwoo and his friends.
*KNOCK KNOCK*
“Oh. Hang on.” You stood up and went to the door. Wonwoo momentarily looked away, eyes following your figure. Were you already leaving before the performance even started?
“Sorry about that.” You jogged back and stopped the music as the next song was going to play.
“I’m not sure what everyone likes so I bought iced americanos for everyone. Please help yourselves.” You told everyone with a bow as you carried in the coffee carriers. Wonwoo went over to help you take them.
“No worries!”
“You didn’t need to but thank you, (y/n)!” The boys all chorused as they handed out the coffees to one another.
“This is yours. Your regular order.” You took a specific cup out and handed it to Wonwoo. Of course you would know what his regular order was. He received the cup, taking a sip.
“Thank you, (y/n).” Wonwoo smiled softly, patting your head.
After that little coffee break, you helped the others run their unit routines. You made sure to clap for each of them. They were all so talented in their own way. Wonwoo sat beside you as he took his break, waiting for them to finish so they could all do the main performance together.
“Do you want to take a break?” Wonwoo asked, nudging your shoulder playfully. You shook your head.
“I’m good. It’s just pushing a button.” You laughed. Wonwoo was soon called and all 13 of them prepared to do their performance as a team. You were in awe, it was so mesmerising to see them all come together.
“Let’s do it sharper and cleaner.” Soonyoung said as they all panted at the end.
“Okay. Take a sip of water and we’ll run it one last time.” Seungcheol said to everyone. You scrolled the song back for them to rehearse again.
“Thank you for your help, (y/n). See you!” The boys all waved to you as you parted ways with them. They were going backstage while you were heading to where the audience sits.
“Good luck.” You wished them.
“You’ve been a great help. Thanks again.” Wonwoo smiled, placing a hand on your head as he looked at you.
“No need to thank, Wonwoo. Your friends are all really nice. All the best for your performances, I know you can do it. Don’t doubt yourself and your talent.” You encouraged him. Wonwoo laughed, nodding his head.
“I’ll see you in the audience?” He tilted his head. You gave him a thumbs up and walked away from him. Wonwoo had saved you a seat in the front row of the small auditorium. Down the row, you could see the professors and instructors there, ready to grade and evaluate all 13 boys. You hoped they could see how hard all of them worked on this.
“Alright, everyone. I’m sure you know that these performances will be evaluated so let’s not draw attention away from the performers.” One of the professors spoke to the audience.
“Begin!” One said into the mic and the lights dimmed.
“Go, Wonwoo!” You cheered along with the rest of the audience that was there, awaiting the boys to come out.
The performance began, it wasn’t a long show. There were two entire group performances, unit performances and some members played extra instruments. Like Wonwoo playing the guitar while Jihoon played the piano.
“Thank you all for making it tonight. We’re really grateful and hope you enjoyed the performance.” The 13 of them stood in a line and bowed.
“Thank you!” The boys all waved. Wonwoo looked down and saw your retreating back heading for the auditorium exit. He ran backstage to get his bag to try and catch you.
“(y/n)!” He was going to ask if you wanted to have dinner together to celebrate a successful performance. But you didn’t seem to hear him as you walked to the exit of the university. He jogged after you, smiling to those that congratulated him on a good show.
“Wow, look at him!”
“Who is he?”
Wonwoo saw you rush towards a buff guy, leaning against his Lamborghini. His sleeves were folded up, revealing the tattoo sleeve he had on one arm.
“Sorry for the wait.” You bowed your head as you approached. The guy shook his head, opening the door for you to enter the passenger seat. After that, he went to the driver’s seat and sped off, leaving the students to gossip.
“The show just ended. Did you wait long...? Uh...” You didn’t know his name.
“Jungkook. And no, I didn’t wait long. It’s alright, I was earlier than the time Taehyung hyung told me to come anyway.” He spoke without much emotion.
‘Sorry I had to rush off for a dinner appointment, Woo! But congratulations on having a great performance, you were amazing! Let’s have a meal soon to celebrate! On me. - (y/n)’
*read*
You assumed that Wonwoo was probably busy, which is why he didn’t reply despite having read your message. The show was good and you had no doubt that Wonwoo would receive a good grade. But at the same time, you could be biased. You tucked your phone away, looking out at the view as Jungkook sped through the streets and cars.
“We’re here.” Jungkook said as he parked the car in the basement. You came out, slinging your bag over your shoulder.
“Thanks for coming to get me.” You bowed your head. He hummed, walking in front of you. You followed him into the house, vaguely remembering the way to the guest bedroom you used.
“Agashi, the bathroom has been restocked for your use.” The butler informed.
“Thank you. I’m glad I still remember how to get there. This place is like a maze.” You chuckled. The butler nodded with a laugh.
“I’ll leave you to it then. If you need anything, just let us know.” He bowed deeply before exiting the room. You took out the outfit you planned and hung it up, not wanting it to crease any further.
“I’ve got an hour to get ready.” You checked your phone before hopping into the bathroom.
“Calm down.” You told yourself with your hand over your racing heart, knowing that your time was running out. After a nice shower, you played some music as you dried your hair, trying to style it with the hairdryer that was in the bathroom, and did some light makeup.
The outfit you chose was a black turtle neck with a plaid skirt and a dark brown blazer draped over your shoulders. For shoes, you went with black suede chelsea boots that had a small heel.
“You’re here.” As you were exiting the room, you bumped into Yoongi. He nodded, adjusting the collar of his shirt.
“Yes.” You bowed your head.
“Come on. We can wait for the others in the living room.” He nodded his head over to the stairwell. You slung your bag over your shoulder and followed him down to the living room area.
“Want a drink?” Yoongi offered, going to the bar area as you settled on the couch. You watched him pour some whiskey into a crystal glass.
“No, thanks.” You declined. He sat in the arm chair, quietly sipping his drink. You couldn’t help but think back to Jihoon earlier and how he looked so much like Yoongi.
“Something on my face?” Yoongi teased.
“Do you ever think you have a long lost brother out there?” You blurted out. Yoongi blinked, taken aback by your sudden question.
“Well, I never thought about that considering I can barely remember what my parents look like. That is really a question to think about. Do you think you have any long lost siblings out there?” Yoongi asked back. He obviously thought your question was more rhetorical and reflective rather than a direct one that had ‘yes’ or ‘no’ to answer.
“Sorry. I just... I just met someone that looked like you, that’s all. So I just blurted it out.” You rubbed the back of your neck in embarrassment. Yoongi burst out laughing.
“You’re peculiar.” He snorted.
“I didn’t mean it as a joke.” You face palmed. One by one, the other 6 streamed into the living room. They were all very handsome and well dressed.
“You look great.” Taehyung smiled, as if he heard your internal worry of being underdressed compared to them.
“Thank you. All of you too.” You used your hand to gesture to all of them. Namjoon stood next to you, holding his arm out to you. You blinked for a few minutes before you registered what his intentions were.
“Thank you.” You said meekly with a bow of your head as he walked you to the front. There were 3 big vans waiting with drivers.
“Uh...” You weren’t sure which van to go in as the boys naturally split into their usual seating arrangement. Seeing that Jimin and Jungkook went into the last van, you decided to go to one of the ones in front. You had a feeling the two didn’t like you very much.
“Are you just gonna stand there?” Yoongi tilted his head.
“Yah, Yoongi ah. Don’t speak like that. Come, (y/n), ride with us.” Jin smiled as he held his hand out to you.
“O-Okay.” You slipped your hand into his and stepped into the van. Yoongi wasn’t going to move to the back so you just squeezed between their two single seats to the third row.
“Are you nervous?” Jin suddenly turned around to face you.
“N-No?”
“Is that a question?” Yoongi voiced out, not looking up from his phone screen. At this point, you knew his was teasing and flattened.
“Stop being a bully. She’s already a wreck.” Jin slapped his arm. Being the oldest meant that Jin could do anything to Yoongi and Yoongi would think twice before retaliating.
“If you’re worried about Jimin, don’t worry about him. At most, you guys can just avoid one another for now and wait for another time to talk things out. Plus, the rest of us are there, he won’t do much.” Jin assured with a kind smile.
“But he’s right though. Everything he’s said, I agree with. It’s a hard pill to swallow but the truth, nonetheless.” You forced a smile.
“Doesn’t mean it’s the truth means he gets an excuse for acting the way he is now and the way he did before. A lot of people can tell the truth without the screaming, yelling and guilt tripping.” Yoongi spoke and Jin actually nodded his head in agreement. You chewed on your bottom lip as you fell back onto the seat to look out the window.
“Sir.” The van came to a stop and someone opened the van door. It was one of the doormen of the place you were going to for dinner. Jin and Yoongi came down. They held their hands out to you to help you down.
“My apologies for not noticing you, ma’am.” The doorman bowed deeply.
“It’s alright. Thank you.” You turned to Yoongi and Jin, pulling your hands away from theirs.
“I thought you said it wasn’t going to be a fancy place?” You asked Taehyung who came to walk beside you. The building sure looked fancy.
“It isn’t. Serious.” Taehyung held his hands up.
“It sure does look fancy...” You mumbled. You followed them in quietly, kind of walking between them so you wouldn’t feel like all the attention was on you. The 7 seemed used to it as people stared and whispered about them.
“Mr Kim. Right this way.” The hostess smiled and bowed to Namjoon. She was posh and pretty, even her posture as she walked was something admirable in those high heels.
“Please let us know if you need anything.” She said as she closed the doors to the private room, sealing you all in, away from the rest of the restaurant patrons. Hoseok handed you a menu and you flipped through it. Some of the items, you recognised because of the research you did prior.
“Are you alright, (y/n)?” Namjoon asked.
“Huh? Yes, I am.” You nodded. You were so focused on the menu that you hadn’t noticed the serious look on your face.
“We usually come for their dinner menu. The chef decides what to recommend, Dégustation in other words.” Jin helped you, flipping the menu to the back to show you.
“Okay. I’ll have that.” You decided. Most of the courses were fixed but for the appetiser, meat and the dessert, there were options to choose from.
“Do you have any food allergies?” Taehyung asked. You shook your head.
When the manager was called in, you listened and watched the 7 of them place their orders, all of them having their own combination of food based on their own preferences. Then it came to you.
“For the appetiser, I’ll have the dashi-poached crabmeat angel hair pasta. And for my meat, the 20-day dry aged hanwoo sirloin.” You ordered, learning from the boys’ order that dessert was ordered later after the rest of the meal.
“Of course, miss.” The manager bowed. Yoongi and Namjoon decided on a bottle of wine to order and share.
“You know your food.” Hoseok noted, impressed with you knowing what to order.
“No... I was really just guessing based on what sounded and looked good. I hope I ordered the right things” You lied, not wanting to reveal that you research common expensive foods prior to this.
“You chose good options.” Yoongi replied, assuring you. You let out a small sigh of relief. There wasn’t much conversation going on at the table as you waited for your food. They talked in smaller groups, like Jimin and Jungkook, who were seated opposite each other at the end of the table. You were at the other end, opposite Namjoon with Jin on your left.
“Did you pick a major yet?” Yoongi asked.
“No... I haven’t really thought about it actually. Every time I try to narrow down my options, it just ends up being more confusing for me.” You rubbed the back of your neck.
“Your father mentioned that you’re a polyglot. Why don’t you go into linguistics?” Namjoon pointed out.
“That is probably one of my top options. But I was wondering what I can do with a linguistics degree... Career wise.” You sighed.
“The demands of the industry is always changing. And in my opinion, a linguistics degree is less narrowed than a specific science degree, for example.” He shrugged. You nodded your head, he did make sense.
“And in our company, we do deal with foreign partners so having someone like you on hand would be useful.” Hoseok added on. Maybe now, there was a purpose for you to pick a major.
“But of course, that shouldn’t be your reason to pick the major.” Taehyung said, as if he knew what you were thinking.
~~
Series Masterlist
Ko-Fi
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#kpop#kpop scenarios#kpop series#bts#bts scenarios#bts series#bts x reader#bts x you#bts x y/n#poly bts#bts poly#poly!bts#poly!bts x reader#ot7#ot7 bts#ot7 x reader#mafia#mafia au#mafia!bts#mafia bts#ot7!bts
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A Pocketful of Sunshine
For @jasonsmirrorball my beloved (based on this, and building on this characterization)
ao3 link
He doesn’t tell you outright, but you’ve gotten good at reading the secret language of Jason Todd. You notice the thickness of his sweaters, his tendency to wear many layers, the way his boots are functional and warm. You take note of how his apartment is always a few degrees warmer than comfortable. Yet his hands when you hold them are always cool to the touch. On sunny days when you’re closer to a puddle of sweat than a person, his touch remains strangely cool. How sometimes you’ll go days without seeing him after a snap cold spell, Jason unwilling to explain and you reluctant to press. Your worry after returning late one night to find him staring out the darkened window, your routine kiss hello like pressing your lips to ice, something about it stirring him out of his statue state. The only thing you can conclude is that something about the cold haunts him. But something about the warmth will bring him back to you.
So you find a way to carry warmth with you. You take to carrying little hand warmers in your pockets. Stashes of them squirreled away in handbags, around the apartment, even in a small box in the closet. A reflective shock blanket, folded down to the size of a notepad, is always in your tote bag. You gift him lined leather gloves just in time for winter. A new heating pack finds a home next to the microwave. You’ll compliment his sweaters, envious over how cosy they look. Whenever you’re out together, more often than not you’ll wrap your scarf around him at the first sign of a shiver. It gets to the point that you joke about learning to knit so he’ll have his own scarf. The look of wonder in his eyes at opening a handmade scarf for Christmas spreads a different kind of warmth in your chest. (The way he starts calling you ‘sunshine’, leads to a different kind of heat)
It becomes a routine for you both. Slipping hand warmers into his palms when his grip becomes too icy. Tucking extras into the pockets of his jacket, a just in case measure. Getting used to the pile of blankets in your shared bed. Ridiculous matching fuzzy socks for afternoons reading together on the couch. On nights when his eyes go unseeing, wrapping his arms around a gently warmed heating pad. Every time he comes back to you, the warmth in his eyes is everything. You’ll never enjoy when he sticks his cold feet against your shins, but he’ll laugh when you grumble and that’s enough.
Jason starts to reach out more than he hides away. When the first signs of cold start pressing in, he’ll come to you. Ask where the heating pack is, or if you’ve seen his scarf. He knows perfectly well where everything is in the apartment, but it’s his way of letting you know he’s not all right. It’s an imperfect system, there’s still misunderstandings and petty fights, but it’s a start. You know now that whatever dark place the cold drives him to, he’ll always come back to you.
So you’ll be patient, slipping him hand warmers and wrapping him up, until the day he’ll tell you why. You trust that one day he’ll find the words to tell you about the places his mind traps him in, why the cold affects him so. But for now you’ll keep each other warm and that love will be enough.
#sorry i'm still not comfortable writing dialogue yet#but enjoy!#jason todd x reader#jason todd x you#I'm sorry but I love him best traumatized#jason todd my beloved#my writing#undead!jason#jason todd x y/n#jason todd x gender neutral reader#sunnie writes 🌻
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Thank you @thats-one-cool-dude for this commission, inspired by itsxroxannex's amazing art. Nothing quite like Nightmare himself <3
---
... You were in a dream.
The realisation hit you, the moment you became aware of yourself and your surroundings. Ironically, it felt like you had just ‘woken up’- snapping back to reality. But you couldn’t have been more conscious of the fact that this reality wasn’t yours.
You still felt like you were dreaming. Partly. It was hard to think, there was still that signature disconnect between your head and your body. And yet... you could feel things you didn’t normally feel in a dream, sensations that were usually either muted or entirely gone. Was this what lucid dreaming felt like? You'd never been able to do that before. You’d never woken up, and immediately known with every fibre of your being that you weren’t really ‘awake’.
... You looked up. There was a small table before you, draped in a spotless white cloth, and decorated by a single lit candle. Very gentle piano drifted through the air, jazzy and slow, like you were in the middle of a nice restaurant... two chairs pulled up on either side of the table.
... Someone occupied one of the chairs.
He was a skeleton. A tall skeleton, his bones were slick and dark, bluish black as a midnight sky, with the faintest iridescent sheen like the shimmer on a bubble or an oil spill. He looked as if he were made of tar. A clean smile of ice white teeth... one eye, a powerful, electric cyan blue, the other socket covered by that same tar-ish substance.
... He was wearing a suit. You didn’t expect that. A nice suit, it outlined him well, it made him look well-proportioned and tidy. Somehow, the liquid of his body didn’t stain the white cuffs or collar. Dream logic? You had no clue.
Were this any other situation, you probably wouldn’t have reacted as... calmly. But because you were in asleep, your mind felt far more forgiving of the bizarreness of the situation. Sure, a skeleton with inky bones and one glowing eye was waiting for you at a table set up like a date. Why not? You'd had weirder dreams.
That, and...
... Well, his face looked so... gentle. He simply stared at you, with a low smile, like you were the prettiest thing he’d ever seen. The candlelight flickered against him... he had a nice face. Strong curved cheekbones, a pretty defined jaw. His skull was handsome in a regal, timeless sort of way.
Your cheeks felt hot.
“ah. finally.” His voice was silky, low, and dark. Very pleasant to listen to, and exactly the kind of voice you expected to hear from a creature that looked like him. “i thought you’d never sleep.”
... You looked down at yourself. You were dressed for a date- an outfit you definitely didn’t normally wear.
“... come on, now. don’t be shy. i’ve been waiting for you.” He said, sweetly, patiently. “come sit with me.”
...
Well. It was just a dream, right? So you had nothing to lose. You shuffled over to the table, sitting down opposite him. His grin lifted, the flickering candle played with the shadows on his face... the gentle piano continued.
“i’m sans.” He shifted his elbows onto the table. The black parts of his suit, although it was clearly fabric, very faintly had the same iridescent sheen as his bones. “don’t worry, i already know your name.”
“... You do?” You asked. Was that something you needed to worry about?
He chuckled. The sound was handsome. “of course. it’s only a dream, right?”
“... Oh. Yes, right.”
Remembering that this was a lucid dream gave you a strange sense of... confidence. It made your chest puff up a little, it brought your hands out of their curled position on your lap, the anxieties you usually always carried finally melting off. Warm confidence flooded your system- he was right. You didn’t have to be embarrassed, or scared, did you? This was your dream, wasn’t it? You could do whatever you liked. Man, lucid dreaming was great.
‘Sans’ gained a slight twinkle to his beautiful blue eye. He kept looking at you like you were everything- it was making you feel warm. Important.
“i know it’s a boring question. but do tell; how was your day?”
“... Slow.” You replied. He had such a nice face. This was a nice dream. “Very slow.”
A knowing look. “sometimes a slow day is better than a frantic one.”
... You let out a little laugh. He leaned a fraction closer to you. “Yeah, I guess. I’d take a slow day over the kinds of days I normally get.”
“what would a normal day be, for you?”
“Like you said. Frantic.” He had instantly put you at ease. His dulcet tones, his impeccable sense of dress, his gentle aura... despite the fact that you were having a conversation with a skeleton, it felt like you were talking to an old friend. “I work a lot. Then on my few days off, it feels like I’m so exhausted I have no energy to spend on anything other than recovery. It sucks.”
“i think you aren’t alone in feeling like that. today is far too fast-paced.”
There was suddenly a wine glass in front of him. And in front of you, too. An expensive-looking bottle beside the candle, in the middle of the table- Sans picked up the bottle, offering it to you.
“shall i pour you something?” He asked, invitingly.
... You paused. “I... don’t really know if I should...”
“come on now.” He purred. “it’s a dream, right? you won’t have a hangover. when will there ever be a better time to have something to drink?”
“... Pft.” You felt... kinda silly for saying no. “Oh, alright then. I guess you’re right.”
Sans grinned. He poured you a generous serving, the liquid was a beautiful tyrian purple, and once he stopped pouring the candlelight in the wine made it appear as if your entire glass was filled with ruby. He filled up his own glass as well. It was good wine, too, it was exactly to your taste.
“... What is this, by the way?”
“... wine?”
“No, this.” You gestured around. “Are we on a date right now?”
“of course.” He placed his glass down and chuckled. Sans had such a warm gaze, despite the cold blue colour of his eye. It almost looked... adoring? He hadn’t stopped staring at you since the moment you woke up in this dream.
“Why?”
“because you’re wonderful.” He knitted his fingers together, using them as a cradle for his head. The ends of his phalanges looked sharp. “and i think you deserve a good date. none of those terrible, thoughtless outings you’ve been on recently.”
“How do you know I’ve been on dates?” You asked, but teasingly, drinking a bit more. Of course he knew, this was your dream. His eye flickered to your lips as they touched the rim of the glass, but they returned to your own eyes so fast you couldn’t tell if you really saw the movement at all.
“those fools don’t know what they’re doing. who tries to take someone back to their parents’ house on a first date?” He looked like he still couldn’t believe it. “despicable.”
You snickered at that one. Who wouldn’t?
“They weren’t so bad.” You said, softly. “Rough around the edges, sure. But they meant well.”
He leaned a little closer again. Every time you laughed, he seemed unable to stop himself from drawing nearer. The space was getting more and more intimate.
“you’ll realise how terrible they were when i show you how good dates can be.”
“I’m sorry, but...” You traced the rim of your glass. “am I going to get any more context on who you are? Or are you just too mysterious?”
“i’m nobody important.” He said, reaching the wine bottle across the table again and refilling said glass. “i haven’t any ulterior motives, dear, if that’s what you’re afraid of. i just want to get to know you.”
... You liked the way he said ‘dear’. It made you feel warm again. You swirled the wine around the glass, admiring the strange colour- huh, funny. Even though this was a dream, you could still feel that familiar sensation of being tipsy.
“... This is nice.”
“yes.” He murmured, gazing at you through a lidded socket. “it is.”
“I don’t really want to wake up.”
His eyelight flashed.
“... now. don’t go saying things like that, dear. someone might think you’re serious.”
///---///
You woke up with a lovely, soft, cosy feeling. Right down to your core. Far from your usual stuffy, too hot/too cold awakenings, the bed felt like a pair of arms around you- a comfortable pair of arms that made the thought of just closing your eyes and slipping back to sleep again all the more appealing.
...
You rolled onto your back, staring at the ceiling. Morning light was seeping through the curtains; as nice as it sounded, you couldn’t really go back to sleep right now. The day was starting.
... You could almost still taste the wine. You almost felt like its fuzzy warming effect was still thrumming through your body. And, in your mind’s eye, you could still see him- looking at you, smiling, like you were the prettiest thing he’d ever seen.
“i just want to get to know you.”
...
... Sans, huh?
///---///
“hello again, dear.”
The same feelings of ‘waking up’. The same knowledge you were dreaming. And, when you opened your eyes... the same skeleton in front of you.
No suit, this time. Just normal clothes, all toned as black as his bones, sharing his faint iridescence.
... This dream wasn't set at a table. It was on a sunny street corner, in a musical-looking city, bright blue sky and quaint cafes surrounding you, bicycles and colourful pedestrians and trees on every inch of available pavement. People busied past both of you, like you weren’t even there- like there was nothing strange about a large, ink-black skeleton holding the hand of a bewildered human.
... Holding your hand. You blinked, looking down... his midnight claws were entwined with your fingers.
You looked back up at his face. “Sans?”
He grinned, evidently delighted you recalled his name. There was so much you didn’t know, in his eye, so much he understood but you didn’t.
“surprised to see me? i said you i’d take you on more dates, didn’t i?”
Yes. You were very surprised. It took you a few moments to gather the words, mouth opening and closing again, dumbly.
“... I-I just... it was a dream.” You couldn’t tear your eyes away from him. “My dreams don’t normally...”
“repeat?” He squeezed your hand gently, brushing his thumb over the back of your palm. “perhaps they do. perhaps they just weren’t worth remembering before now.”
You flushed at the casual touch. “I didn’t expect to see you again.”
“well." He tilted his skull. "are you the good kind of surprised, dear?”
Again, yes. But you didn’t seem to need to say it, judging by the delighted softness his smile took on.
“... Where are we?”
“you're so cute. paris.” He replied, amiably. “i took the liberty of finding the nicest looking side. it’s a charming city, certainly... but not all of it is this pretty.”
“... I never thought I’d...”
“... be able to go?” His voice was a disarming, lulling purr. “i told you. i want to take you on real dates. we can go anywhere you want- anywhere at all. time and distance are no issue.”
“Why?”
“i said so before. i just want to get to know you.”
... You looked around. At the beautiful streets. You could hear people talking, smell baked goods and coffee. It was so romantic... so unlike anywhere you’d ever been.
...
“Could... we go somewhere high up, when the sun goes down?” You asked. “To see the lights?”
... A small laugh left his chest. Like your question had an incredibly obvious answer.
“... of course we can.”
///---///
Sans, whoever he was... he was quickly becoming a staple of your life.
He kept his promise. He took you on dates. Wonderful ones, hopelessly romantic ones- strolls through starlit woods, picnics on hills overlooking the ocean, scenic boat rides through canals and rivers alike, city tours that felt so impossibly vivid and real despite the fact that your feet never ached. Various delightful places across the world you were certain you’d never be able to visit in your own reality.
... Sans was charming. Charming in a sophisticated, cultured way, he had that lifted air to him that made you feel so important when he seemed to so much enjoy listening to what you were saying. He spoke sweetly, he was effortlessly funny, he knew precisely how to make you unwind. He already knew more about you than most people in your life.
Though you still knew nothing about him.
You’d never been so well-slept. Your dreams were starting to become your favourite place. Why wouldn’t they? Nobody in the waking world treated you so kindly. There was nowhere else where you felt so consistently cared for, listened to. If you ate together, you would wake up not hungry anymore. If you drank, you would feel the faint buzz even after your eyes opened.
... And you always felt warm.
...
You hadn’t researched Sans until now. There was just... something that felt prying about it? You had no reason to think that way. Today was the day you were going to try and find out something about your nightly visitor.
... It was worth researching. Dreams that recurred that often probably had meaning, right?
A few google searches wouldn’t hurt.
///---///
You saw him again the next night. Because of course you did.
... It was a much simpler setting than usual. Sans usually took you to places that would take your breath away... here, it was just a park bench in a flower garden.
“morning.” He said, with a teasing lilt to his voice. “how was your day?”
You sat down beside him. Your heart was starting to beat faster. “... Could I talk to you about something?”
He paused. Only for a moment. It seemed like... he could sense your apprehension.
“... oh. of course.”
“I... did some research today.”
A flicker of something in his face. He covered it quickly. “the fun kind of research?”
“Research about dreams. And nightmares.” You fiddled with your hands, looking anywhere but him. “It took some digging. But I found something eventually. Old legends, really old, about a being that can enter people’s minds while they sleep and influence what they dream about. A skeleton with black bones.”
...
“... interesting.”
“... A lot of stuff was different. Like... tentacles, ‘evil’ energy, making people have night terrors so bad they’d give themselves insomnia to avoid sleeping. But, I mean... a skeleton with black bones that enters people’s minds while they sleep?”
... Sans had gone quiet. You glanced at him.
“Are you... uh... are you ‘Nightmare’?”
...
As you held his blue eye, a strange sensation fell over you.
It was like... you had come home, and a door you were certain you left closed was wide open. The feeling of staring into a room and knowing, just knowing, there was someone in there that shouldn’t be there.
An interloper.
His face... suddenly didn’t look quite as inviting.
...
Had he always been that big?
...
“i see.” He said, softly.
...
Then you were awake. Staring blankly at your ceiling.
You didn’t feel warm. Not at all.
///---///
It was a normal dream, at first. A busy room full of people you didn’t recognise, a nonsensical list of reasons you had to be there that only made sense because your higher thought functions were locked away. Your head felt as though it were stuffed full of sand, and you had little care in the world aside from the base anxieties your brain was projecting onto the scene before you. A test, a missed train, you couldn't even recall.
A normal dream.
...
Something in the corner of your eye flickered. A shadow, moving the wrong way.
...
Just like that, you were aware.
The hair on the back of your neck prickled, the faces around you blurred and unfocused. You felt... singled out. Alone. A real person, in a room full of mannequins.
... You could tell he was there. You'd had enough dreams with him to know when he was nearby. But you couldn't see him- you turned around, only the rest of your dream behind you. But you could feel it... he was in there with you.
"... Sans?" You said.
... Nothing.
Your voice wobbled. “Are you... are you there?”
Silence.
...
“Nightmare?”
“no.” He said, softly, right in your ear. You jumped- it sounded as if he was standing behind you. “do not call me that.”
You didn’t turn around. Something told you there was a reason he was remaining out of view. “... Why did you disappear?”
He hissed. “i never wanted it to be like this.”
“Like... this?”
“it should’ve stayed a dream. it was never meant to be real.”
...
Your gaze dropped to the floor. The carpet, a product of your sleeping mind, repeated itself over and over.
... You suddenly felt... stupid. For a lot of reasons- but mostly for letting yourself feel hurt by that.
What did you think was going to happen, getting so attached to a random guy in your dreams that did little more than take you on a few pretty looking dates and say a few sweet words? All he had to do was feign interest in what you said, and you were like a fish on a hook. Idiot.
You wanted to wake up.
...
Hands pressed against your shoulders.
“ ... that’s not what i meant.” His voice was a lot softer, suddenly. Softer than you'd ever heard it before- softer, even than your 'first date'.
It was your turn to not respond.
“dear.” It felt like he wanted you to turn around, now. You didn’t. “i promise that’s not what i meant.”
When you spoke, your voice was sullen. This was the end of your nice dreams, wasn't it? “... What else could you possibly mean by that?”
He didn’t let go of your shoulders. “i... it was...”
... Him needing a moment to speak... it didn't exactly cheer you up, but it made you return to the moment a little. It made you listen. You were so used to him knowing exactly what to say at any given moment, silken words coming so easily- the fact that he needed time to gather his thoughts made what he was about to say seem a bit more genuine.
“... the waking world is so complicated.” He finally said. “dreams... are the escape. i didn’t want this to be complicated.”
...
“... Complicated.” Your tone had significantly eased. He wasn’t wrong. Things had definitely become more complicated, as soon as you brought the real world in.
“i wanted to see you.” His hands moved, from your shoulders to your torso. “i wanted to know you, but i didn’t... want you to have to think. i just wanted to be a dream, for you, someone you could escape to. i wanted to be a good dream for once.”
You didn’t reply. He was convincing. But you didn’t even know if you believed him.
“... don’t wake up.” He murmured. You felt his face press to the back of your head... his arms tucked around your middle.
“I don’t know if I can trust you.” You said. “I don’t know anything about you.”
“i didn’t want you to be afraid of me.”
“Should I be?”
“no.” Instantly, breathlessly. Like he couldn’t believe you asked that. “no, of course not.”
...
You sighed.
“What’re you willing to tell me?”
“whatever you ask.”
... It was an interesting way of wording it. You didn’t miss the specificity- whatever you asked him, he would answer. But volunteering information seemed beyond him for now.
“we should go somewhere. to talk.” He offered. “where do you want to go?”
You paused.
...
“Well. How about... somewhere you want to go, this time?”
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do you have any tips on color harmony and the colors of the rainbow? I'm trying to draw a 10 color rainbow but I'm struggling to make the colors match and any color system like RYB, RGB, CMYK or Munsell doesn't work (Usually green doesn't go well with the transition to blue or purple and yellow get stronger shades than other nearby colors)
Color harmony is a really complicated subject, so definitely remember to be patient with yourself.
Colors are significantly affected by how they interact with each other. A red next to orange will look different than a red next to green, which will look different next to blue... etc.
This is really important when it comes to making a color palette, because the colors you use WILL play with eachother, so you have to be sure they're playing nice.
This piece, for example, is entirely red. It's all the exact same hue, but the value and saturation makes the colors still distinct from eachother.
When making a rainbow, especially with 10 distinct steps, you have a lot of potential with your colors.
Personally I use HSB/HSV sliders when I'm illustrating. Hue, Saturation, and Black/Value. This lets me be as precise as possible when I'm selecting my colors.
I'll be explaining everything with these terms! (Hue, Saturation, and Value)
1: These colors vary only on hue
2: These colors vary on hue and saturation
3: These colors vary on the hue and value
You can see how much each of these will affect the colors and how they look next to eachother. Manipulating these factors can give you a lot of control over your palette.
Now, I'm varying which color is the "focus" of the palette. I'm also modifying every aspect of HSB to make them play nice.
4: This palette has a lot more yellows and oranges than the rest, and barely any/no blues
5: This palette is an even spread, 5 colors are warm and 5 are cool.
6: This palette focuses mostly on green
7: this palette focuses more on the purple and blue side of the spectrum.
If you're finding you're struggling well with green transitioning to blue and purple, then you can just have some more greens to make it feel smoother.
When manipulating all three sliders, you can make rainbows that are entirely tinted to a certain hue. This can get you really cohesive palettes.
8: tinted yellow
9: tinted blue/green
10: tinted pink/purple
When your palette is like this, you'll find that putting in a contrasting color will pop significantly more.
(These contrasting colors are pulled from the original fully saturated rainbow that I put together, #1. Notice how different the colors look here than they did in their original palette!)
You can use this effect as you please or avoid it as much as you like!
As always with art more information is key to making your decisions.
Exercises I suggest to understand color theory better:
Making pieces without using specific colors (try to make something look "Green" without using green)
Make a cool toned rainbow and a warm toned rainbow (every color has a cool and a warm variant) and draw something with each of them (one drawing cool, the same drawing warm)
Use red for shadows and green for light, and then draw the same thing with green for shadows and red for light (or any 2 opposite colors
Copy art and photography that has colors you like, but DON'T color pick until you're done to see how close you were (don't post pieces where you copied someone else's work without explicitly saying you did so, it's for study)
Paint from life
Take some colored pieces of paper and shine lights on them and watch how the light reflects off of the paper onto different objects
Here's some studies I did for one of my classes in school. They're old, I can't paint traditionally anymore without pain. But what I learned was still important whether or not the art is old!
I also suggest keeping these timed, All of these were under 1 hour (traditional) or under a half hour (digital). The more practice you get, the better!
And, if you can practice in different media (I understand it can be expensive, take up a lot of space, or even be painful), I personally find that each media has different pros and cons and forcing yourself to work within the limitations of a particular medium will teach you a lot!
(digital still lifes)
(gouache studies)
(Acrylic studies)
(digital copies)
I hope something in here helps!
Good luck!
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i feel like #11 from the physical guestures list would fit rulti...maybe swiss trying to distract rain while he's restringing his bass?
any inaccuracies about restringing basses are on me, I was a percussionist and the last time I touched a string instrument was like 14 years ago and god knows they wouldn't have let me restring a rental violin lmao. Hope you enjoy!
prompt from this prompt list: placing kisses on your lovers shoulder and nape as they are bent down, trying to focus on their work though they're very hot and bothered
"Hand me the knife, honey?" Rain asks, not looking up as he extends a hand, focused on the fretboard of his personal bass. He sits on the edge of his bed, dressed casually in a black binder and basketball shorts, hair loose and falling against his shoulders.
Swiss hums, pulling his utility knife out of his pocket, flipping open the wire cutters, and setting it gently in Rain's palm. He's sprawled out on his back, lounging on Rain's bed in a similar state of dress, watching Rain work.
He loosens each string, fingers almost reverent on the tuning peg as each string goes slack, clipping it near the pickups and carefully unwinding it from the guitar. Once the fretboard is bare, he grabs a cloth he had set aside, cleaning the guitar with gentle, back and forth motions.
Swiss whistles low, gold eyes lazily tracking the up and down motions of Rain's hand, wrapped around the neck of his bass as he cleans the fretboard. Rain snaps out of his reverie, looking over his shoulder at the multighoul, an easy grin twisting his lips. "Alright, enough, you guitarfucker," Rain teases, laughter spilling into his tone as he smacks Swiss's shoulder with the rag.
Swiss scoffs, matching Rain's grin. "I'm sorry I'm bored and I find you attractive, Rainbow."
Rain rolls his eyes, but he's still smiling softly. "You and I both know that you're not sorry. Be patient and I'll give you attention."
Swiss grins wider, baring his bright white fangs as he crosses his arms behind his head. "You promise, Rainy?"
"Yes, you needy, needy ghoul," Rain says, jabbing his webbed fingers into Swiss's flank, making the multighoul squeal in laughter. "Let me finish this and then you'll get your attention."
Swiss settles back against the mattress as Rain turns back to his bass, starting to thread the new strings through the bridge. Rain lips are pursed as he focuses, the tip of his forked tongue peeking out from his lips, an adorable little furrow in his brow as his hair hangs in his face.
Swiss stares, watching the water ghoul's expression as he works. He sighs as his gaze trails down to Rain's shoulders, bare blue skin spattered with silver, iridescent freckles. On impulse, Swiss sits up behind him, resting his big, warm hands on the cool blue skin of Rain's waist, thighs bracketing Rain's own.
"Patience," Rain says, not even bothering to look back at him as Swiss's body heat rushes into his system.
"I'm being patient, Rainy," Swiss promises, even as he bends down to press a kiss to one of the silvery freckles on Rain's shoulder.
Rain chuckles, pausing his work to run his fingers over Swiss's tight curls as he starts to press a kiss to each freckle. "This doesn't seem very patient to me, Swiss."
Swiss laughs, the sound melodic, his lips right against Rain's finned ear. "I'm not stopping you, Rainbow."
Rain shivers as his breath hits his fin, ear twitching against his hair. Swiss noses against the blue black waves as his kisses migrate to the nape of his neck. "Swiss," Rain breathes, warning in his tone.
"Tell me to stop, Rainbow, and I swear I will," Swiss says, lips pressed to the back of Rain's neck, breathing in the scent of his tea-tree shampoo.
There's no response, and Swiss just grins against Rain's skin, teeth pressed harmlessly against that first vertebrae, the spade of his tail smacking against the rumpled bedspread. Rain huffs, turning back to his bass, laid out precious in his lap, and continues restringing it.
Swiss grins even wider as Rain's tail curls slowly around his thigh. He purrs, chest rumbling against Rain's spine, his dorsal fin pressed against Swiss's warm skin. Swiss lets go of Rain's lithe waist, instead wrapping his arms around the water ghoul, careful not to knock into his arms as he works. He trails his kisses around the side of Rain's throat, kissing just at the edge of one of his sensitive gills, and Rain swears.
"Swiss, the longer it takes me to finish this, the longer it'll be before I can give you my undivided attention," Rain says, starting to thread the last string in place.
Swiss laughs again, rubbing his stubbled cheek gently against Rain's gills, grinning as he feels the gust of breath from Rain's throat and hooking his chin over Rain's shoulder. "Take your time, Rainbow. I like watching you work."
Rain hums, tilting his head to press his cheek against Swiss's horn, tightening the tuning key and plucking at the thinnest metal string, humming a note and trying to match pitch.
"You're sharp," Swiss breathes, humming slightly lower.
Rain rolls his eyes, knocking his horn against Swiss's as he loosens the key. "Show off. Not all of us can have perfect pitch."
Swiss just grins. "Trying to be helpful."
"And I appreciate it," Rain says, finding the right pitch, plucking the string several times. "I trust your judgment."
He nuzzles against Swiss's cheek as he finishes up, handing the multighoul back his utility knife.
"You done?" he asks, smile growing brighter as Rain pushes at his arms.
"Let me up, Swiss, gotta put her back," Rain says, successfully getting the multighoul to let go of him as he stands, taking his bass in gentle hands and setting it back on its stand.
Swiss's tail wags rapidly as Rain turns back towards him, smile easy as he stands between Swiss's legs. He cups Swiss's cheeks in his hands, smoothing a thumb over his stubble as the multighoul grins up at him. "Is it time for attention now?" Swiss teases, turning his head to kiss at the webbing between Rain's unglamored fingers.
"Yes, you needy ghoul," Rain says, shivering as he kisses the sensitive membrane. "You have all of my attention. Kiss me."
Swiss surges up, eager to oblige.
#did i give swiss a swiss army knife? yes. im so funny lmao#dot's writing#fic request#kkaisarion#swiss ghoul#rain ghoul#swiss/rain#the band ghost fanfiction#the band ghost
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Ask game: 9 and 17?
A story from my childhood:
Hmm I've told quite a few good ones on here. I think I've never talked about this one on tumblr before.
When I was in 2nd grade, I had a truly evil teacher. She hit us, scratched us with her nails, came up with cruel games and crueler punishments. She mostly targeted myself, a Korean girl, and the boys (the girl and I were the only poc in the class). When I say truly evil I mean it- she would grab us by the back of the neck with her deliberately sharpened nails and squeeze hard enough to leave marks. One day she did that to a boy with short enough hair that his parents noticed- they called the other parents of the class who checked their kids' necks and found similar marks. She'd always told us that our parents knew about what she was doing and told her it was okay, and that we'd be punished worse for telling anyone because then everyone would know we'd been bad. Surprise: our parents did not know.
ANYWAY that's not the story but rest assured she did get fired for this after all the parents raised a huge stink about this woman.
In 3rd grade my school was aware that they now had a bunch of incredibly traumatized 7-9 year olds who needed some extra help because they'd been terroized for several months, and devised a buddy system with the school's nicest teachers. Mine was my actual 3rd grade teacher and she was such a beautiful and lovely soul.
I spent many weekends working on homework sprawled out on her kitchen floor, eating fruits and sweet treats she made herself, chasing her very fat orange cat around, helping in her garden. She- I feel- embodied what an elementary school teacher should be. Genuinely, I don't think a nicer person exists. I have one particular memory of sitting with her on her patio, me covered in dirt due to whatever garden activities I'd been up to, eating cool watermelon and drinking iced water, asking her a million questions about all the different things I'd learned in class and seen in the garden and heard on the news etc. And her ever-present patient smile as she answered my questions in her own gentle way.
The year after, she went on extended leave due to "a health problem". She never came back during my time at that school. Later, in high school, I was at a Christian camp thing and bumped into her there. She looked like she'd aged about 25 years. I called out to her, and she heard me say her name and told me in a very wobbley and halting voice "I know you were one of mine, but I'm sorry, I can't remember your name. It's the cancer, you see."
She died a few months later. She had brain cancer. I cried when my mom handed me her obituary. I was just talking to my mom about her the other day, how I remembered chasing her cat around during that summer.
The moral of the story is, I guess, that you never know the impact you'll have on someone's life. I don't know if Ms Metzler ever thought that I'd be sitting here thinking of her more than a decade after she passed. Or if she knew just how much she helped me recover from the woman before her. Or if she knew that her garden, her patio, her bright orange cat, and the cool tile of her kitchen floor would make such an impression on me that I still remember them vividly even after a brain injury. She didn't remember me at the end. But I'll remember her forever.
3 things that make me happy:
Vanilla or cinnamon scented candles
Lofi playing softly in the background
The warm pressure of a dog laying on me
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IF you are taking requests... could I get a sick Henny Schneeplestein/silent actor Schneeplestein. Maybe with the stomach flu. It can be a sickfic or a drawing. Which ever you'd prefer! Or both. 😄
(I’m working on some Henrik and Dr.jj related stuff! Mostly how Henny first found himself in this time! So this was before Dr. J meets Alt, and before Henrik meets Bro and Alt! Dr. J doesn’t know that magnificent exists either or the existence of magic- well except whatever the well brought Henrik to this time. so wahoo! Also I got a lot of sick fic requests for Henny so I just lumped a bunch together and then made it worse~ >:3c)
Dr. J had his phone pressed between his head and neck as he bent down next to the actor’s bedside. “Yes… Henrik is poorly again-“
“Again?” The surprised voice of Jackie echoed on the other line. “Damn… that’s been like what… 3 times already? It’s only been a few months since you found him, right?”
The good doctor frowned as he draped a cool wash cloth over Henrik’s forehead. The brunette’s eyelids fluttered and he mumbled something incoherent out in German but he seemed to relax some.
“I suppose the poor boy just has a weak immune system…” Of course, Jameson knew it was a bit more than that… Henrik came from a different time… he was more prone to sicknesses and Dr. J was still scrambling to get him records and vaccines and shots… but he wasn’t going to spill that out to Jackie. He didn’t know- and well… Jameson always kept his patients’ secrets.
“Poor guy…” Jackie sighed. “What do think it is?”
“I think it’s the flu this time unfortunately…” Jameson checked the actor’s pulse then temperature then frowned more. He was very warm… “I’m worried I might need to take him to hospital… but maybe if I’m early I can just take him to the urgent clinic…”
“I mean- how out of it is he?”
“…this morning he tried to make coffee and help me make breakfast for Alice… but he poured milk in the stainer and coffee grounds in her cereal.”
“… maybe urgent care is a good idea-“
Jameson gave a weak chuckle but then sighed, pushing Henrik’s damp hair away from his eyes. “I suppose… I’ll keep a close eye on him… if his temperature rises anymore I’ll take him straight away.”
“Sounds good, dude. Just- if it’ll cheer him up, tell him the kids miss him. They keep asking when they can see Uncle Henny and his puppets again!”
Dr. J smiled and nodded, “That would make him very happy… thank you, Jackie.”
“Anytime Jem! I’ll catch you later.”
Jameson hung up the phone then looked back to check up Henrik.
He was still so pale and thin… thick bags under his eyes and veins so stark they looked almost… purple. Especially around his wrists and neck. If Jameson didn’t know any better- he might could say they even glowed. But, that was impossible.
Henrik’s eyelids fluttered again and he finally opened them enough to see Jameson. He smiled dazedly, despite his fatigue.
“Oh… hullo doktor…” He muttered weakly.
Jameson smiled weakly. “Hello, Henrik. How are you feeling?” He signed to him.
Henrik looked up at the ceiling and knit his eyebrows together as if trying to think.
“Not… good- mmm weak and… and… wackelig-“ He pressed his eyes shut and bit back a whimper. “Is hot… and- my head is super hurting and my… Mein Magen…”
Damn the hardest part of Henrik being delirious was him switching to German… Jameson knew some but he had to rack his brain to remember. “Okay… shaky and- and your stomach hurts-“
Henrik nodded, “Ja.”
“Alright… anything I can get you?”
Henrik slowly shook his head. “I am… just tired I think… thank you, my friend.”
Jameson smiled and nodded, “of course, Henrik… if you need anything just shout and I’ll be there.”
————
It was only about an hour later when Jameson was startled from his paperwork, hearing screaming coming from Henrik’s room.
He raced down the hall and threw open the door- finding Henrik tossing and turning in the bed, sobbing out in German.
“nicht mehr! nicht mehr! Ich möchte nach Hause gehen!”
Jameson’s heart sank as he quickly walked in and then gently tried to rouse the actor awake. It took a second but slowly he started to quiet, breath coming out in shaky weak bursts. He struggled to open his eyes to look at Jameson. His irises were glazed with fever.
“Doktor…” He wheezes, “careful- Vorsicht mit den Saiten…” He gritted his teeth then gripped at his head. It was pounding so bad- it felt like his skull could break in half. “…hurts… s’hurts…!” He quietly sobbed, curling up in the bed.
The good doctor just watched Henrik thrash with worried eyes. He has no idea what to do…! He quickly went to take his temperature but… it wasn’t worse.
He hummed in thought then resigned to do what he did best. He found Henrik’s hand and started to lightly tap a steady rhythm as he pulled out his pocket watch. The actor’s tear filled eyes looked up and caught onto the sight of the watch almost instantly. He relaxed quickly… maybe too quickly. That was also concerning him. But, the least Jj could do was try to calm Henrik down.
“It’s okay Henrik… you are safe… just breathe with me and try to relax okay? I won’t let anything hurt you…”
———
The rest of the night went by in a flash. Always busy, the good doctor was. The nanny brought home Alice and they made dinner together. Alice helped him take in some soup to Henrik- but he didn’t seem all there. Jameson was just glad he ate… then Jj spent the night with his little one, reading her stories and sending her to bed. Shawn was out at a gig so- the house was quiet as the tired doctor flopped onto the couch and leaned his head back. He felt exhaustion weighing down on his limbs- and that force pulled on his eyelids before he could even fight it.
He woke up in a dark living room to the sound of a huge crash. Thunder. Jamie started awake and then fumbled for his phone- turning on the flashlight.
Caught in the light, like an animal caught in infrared was the ragged body of Henrik. Even his eyes seemed to glow green in the dark. The sight sent shivers down Jameson’s spine, especially as lightning crashed behind them, lighting him even more in an eerie glow.
He fumbled for the lights and then looked at the sick actor. “Henrik… what are you doing out of bed?”
Henrik didn’t answer. He was still in his sick clothes, hair ruffled from sleep, glasses missing, barefoot. He stared blankly at the doctor as if he couldn’t understand what he said.
Then, Jameson could just faintly hear a sound. It sounded like… static. Something Henrik wouldn’t be able to hear. He could hardly hear it himself over the distant sounds of rain and thunder.
He walked closer and spied something in Henrik’s tight grip. A… a phone- showing nothing but the offending static.
“Henrik- where did you get that? I… I hadn’t gotten you one-“
Again, the actor didn’t answer- but this time he pushed past Jameson, roughly clipping his shoulder. He staggered slightly but then continued on, despite his shaky limbs and ragged feverish breath. Jameson was thrown off guard and was about to shout out- just as Henrik threw open the door to the storm outside.
He walked out without even hesitating, shambling mindlessly through the rain.
Jameson’s feet moved quickly as he dove after him, pausing just briefly to guard his face from the harsh falling droplets. But then he’s roughly grabbing Henrik and struggling to get in the actor’s face, trying to get him to read his lips.
“Henrik! This- this is insane! You need to get inside right now!”
Henrik blinked sluggishly at the doctor then tried to move out of his grip. “Got… to… h-have… have to….” He’s mumbling, almost too quiet to hear.
Jameson lashes out, going to grab both sides of the taller man’s face so he can focus on him. His eyes burn with concerned anger. “No! Henrik please- wake up! You’re only going to make this worse!”
For a scary few seconds, Henrik’s expression remains blank and empty. But, slowly, that sickly glow seems to fade and his bright blue eyes gain some clarity.
“…d…doktor… Jackson…?” He slurs in confusion. Jameson slumps his shoulders slightly in relief. The actor pushes himself out of Jj’s grip to look around- noticing now where they are.
“We are… outside…” he breathes, as it confused. Then he looks up at the sky and laughs distantly, “it is… raining-“
He shivers and then shuts his eyes. “Mmm… it… fühlt sich gut an…” He sighs. Then, he starts to pitch forward, face and body suddenly falling limp- making Jameson scramble to catch him. They fall into a heap on the wet grass.
Henrik almost immediately starts to wheeze again as his head falls against Jameson’s legs, painful gasps of air coming from his throat. His face is scrunched up in pain. Jameson fumbles to feel his forehead- and even with the cooling rain he startles back from the burning warmth. Jameson frowns then sighs and starts to load up Henrik into his car. It was time to see Dr. Doom again…
Henrik briefly stirred and blearily looked out at Jameson as he was sat up and buckled in. “Doktor… juwel?“ He mumbled.
For a second, Jj smiled. He adopted Jackie’s nickname for him it seemed. “Yes, Henrik… I’m right here.”
Henrik reached out and Jameson was quick to find his hand and give it a gentle squeeze. Through, his fuzzy vision and soaked bangs, Henrik found Jameson’s eyes. He looked terrified, which sent a spike through the good doctor’s heart.
“Bitte, Juwel-lass nicht zu, dass er mich mitnimmt…”
His grip in Jameson’s hand then fell limp again as he slumped back against the window in the car. Jameson’s heart spiked- because he now knows that phrase too well… Henrik had mumbled it over and over in moments like these.
‘Please… don’t let him find me…’
The strange phone that Henrik held was left in the rain- the static flickering with green light.
#sorry this took so long!#I like to use these requests to flesh out story parts I haven’t gotten to#and I finally got ideas!! hooray!!#silent film Schneep#Henny von schneeplestein#dr. jj#sick fic#requests#swapboys#Jackie mann#this is all kinda a sneak peek to more stuff I’m working on!#I’m just buzzing with swapboys ideas rn guys it’s great!#readswapboys
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(i hope this isn't overstepping in some way but the image came to me and i wanna share so)
clearing my throat
idk if vance would just let anyone dig around in his cyberware and inner workings but i think tiger would be very fascinated by the high tech he's going on in there.. all fancy and packed full with more cyberware most anyone could handle
he may be no ripper or even an expert in netrunning cyberware but you'd have to be a gonkbrain to not recognize the beauty of all this tech
oh no worries you're perfectly fine !! i always love it when people tell me they (or their ocs) wanna dig around in vance's mechanical guts :3
tiger...he's got a soft touch. even with his physical prowess and heft during his and vance's friendly scuffles, there's a gentle side to him. it's cautious; it's especially careful when it comes to machinery.
(gotta be, if you're working on less than preem truck engine's bits and kibble with such big, beaned paws)
trade in a mechanic's tools for a ripper's kit. i think vik would lend tiger his, so long as he brings them back clean.
vance's tattoos conceal the realskinn seams on his torso; even if he had unmarked skin, you'd have a hard time finding the seams just by looking. touch him--gently, of course. notice how goosebumps rise in the wake of your touch. how he watches your every move, not out of fear--but interest.
he's used to being studied; poked; prodded; adjusted.
this soft appraisal...he's not sure how to feel about it yet.
so, keep going; make him forget how to decide.
there's a specific tool in a ripper's kit tiger's gonna need. it's a flat-headed wedge; vik uses to pop open the panels of his patient's cyberware.
wedge it here, in the line where vance's torso ends and his arm socket begins. do the same on the other side. easy now. don't brute force it; it'll open if it's meant to open.
congrats! the front of his torso should pop off now. yes, it should come off--it's gonna look weird. don't think about it too hard.
you have now peeled vance back to the first layer of his machinery.
his biomonitor hums red and organic-like from within his titanium ribcage. his pulmonary implants--which are vaguely lung shaped and black, covered in a white, hexagonal cooling mesh--start rising and falling that much faster.
apart from his mechanical biological necessities, his guts are a mass of thick, red, braided wires; open and occupied ports and free data shard storage units; white biolights blinking almost sleepily; arasaka's name and logo embossed or carved or branded into each individual piece of tech.
if tiger pressed his paw pads against any of those parts, they'd hum, warm, in response.
if tiger ran his fingers up and down the wires that constitute vance's central nervous system, vance would shiver.
the layers of his machinery go two more, up to his spine. tiger would find more wires, lights. vance's cyberdeck, also, a spidery, kitbashed thing comprised of golden microchip lines and little silver messages for arasaka techie eyes only.
he's less than comfortable with people accessing him that deeply, though, so the first layer will have to do for now.
he is a beautiful piece of technology, that much is true. he's top of the line; the be-all-and-end-all of arasaka's dedicated netrunning tech; horrifically unique.
while messing around in there--unplugging shit willy nilly, slotting random shards and cables into his free ports, that sort of thing--is extremely dangerous, a little curiosity would never hurt vance.
if anything' he'd encourage it; he's a big nerd for tech, especially of the netrunning kind. he could go on for hours and hours about efficiency and cyberspace and deep diving (even if he can't do that last one anymore).
if tiger wanted to lean over vance like he was another engine in need of observation, box him in on a ripper's chair, or wherever they're doing this appraisal, if tiger thought his parts beautiful...
keep looking; make him remember how to preen under close examination.
#asks#vance#my writing#OH PLEASE TELL ME IF *IM* OVERSTEPPING NOW#you haunted me with tiger mechanic images so i have to haunt you with this too#i love the eroticism of the machine. snif#WHOOF. mr fag reporting for duty HOORAH
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for Wednesday’s writing prompts, can I have something based on the song Little Boy in the Grass by AURORA?
i'd never heard this song and it was so lovely and melancholy and bittersweet and so i hope you enjoyed this, i quite enjoyed listening and writing.
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Magnus lets them get away with six hours of putting him off — six hours too long — before he ignores them all and portals in.
He’s not supposed to be there, Cat is there with a team specializing in healing and his magic could have affected whatever drug had been unleashed, but Magnus doesn’t care anymore.
If there is one thing his magic won’t do, its bring more harm to Alexander and so Magnus refuses to just sit around any long.
“Where’s your Commander?” He asks the first stable nephilim he sees and they look at him and shrug, all of them do when he asks.
He gets to Cat in a fury and he’s seething. “Did you know he was missing?”
“What? Who is missing?”
Alexander!” Magnus snarls and Cat stops what she’s doing, using a spell to stabilize and ignoring that her patient only has one working lung.
This is more important.
“Magnus, his siblings told me he was fine. I haven’t seen him once.”
Magnus murmurs an apology that Cat nods at, understanding how frustrating it can be to be told to wait only to find out you’ve lost something while waiting.
Izzy and Jace seem confused, almost amused by his worry and assure him that Alec is probably just working. That they’d seen him and he’s seemed fine. The poison elevated fear, anxiety, and paranoia. Alec hadn’t been showing any symptoms.
“Since when does your brother let the weight he bears fall on the shoulders of others, especially you too?” Magnus asks harshly and he feels his heart beat triplicate with anger.
Izzy and Jace wince and start to speak but he holds up a finger and they stop.
“I’ll find him myself,” Magnus says and turns in a storm of his coat whirling around him.
He finds the signature of Alexander’s soul, the connection echoing his own and portals to him. Magnus has to take a quick breath and use his reflexes to steady himself. He’s up high, in the beams of the Institute’s greenhouse ceilings. Where it’s dark and cool despite that it should be warm.
He spots a form, huddled and curled on a small wooden loft, the structure overflowing with grass, moves and vines and Alexander tucked tightly away. Hidden from view from the covering of plants.
“My love,” Magnus murmurs, “what do you need?”
“I didn’t think I’d have to feel this way again.” Alexander whispers hoarsely, “I thought it was done. That I’d never have to remember so vividly.t Sometimes I just wanted to run Magnus, but I couldn’t. Because I had to protect Izzy, my parents were counting on me and then Jace needed someone so very badly. But I wanted to flee, to run and never look from the hands that reached out. It wasn’t the training, it was the inbetween. When I was supposed to be safe, because I was never safe.
“Not here, not where there was only disappointment and pain and bearing the weight of a sin I didn’t commit. Why Magnus? Why do I have to remember this? I thought it was over. I thought I was over it.”
“Oh, Alexander.” Magnus breathes out and he moves over and slowly brings Alexander into his arms. “My sweet, precious darling. You need to heal to be able to move on from something like that. And you’ve never truly had the chance to.”
“Then when will that happen for me? Because I thought it had, Magnus. I thought I was doing better, feeling better. But now it’s not, like I’m right back there in the middle trying to protect everyone else when I’m breaking and I don’t know how to stop. When am I supposed to heal?”
“Right now, darling.” Magnus promises and he extends his magic, purging the poison from Alec’s system in a way that his magic would never work with another. He lets his magic dim the greenhouse and lights it with little fireflies of magic that float and buzz around them instead as the door locks.
Alexander is calmer now, breathing easier but his voice is wet and he gives a hoarse chuckle at the sight.
“Just us beloved, now tell me. Of all your wishes that you locked away, when it became too much, when it was bearable. I will listen to you and keep you safe. This is where you ran, wasn’t it?”
“No one thinks to look up, but it was the first lesson I learned as an archer.” Alexander smiles, lopsided and raw. “So I used my training for myself, it was the first time I ever had.”
Magnus mourns in his heart and hides the pain he feels, because it is his choice to bear this burden, in order to help Alexander carry his because his hurt is born from Alexander’s pain.
#shadowhunters#writing wednesday#writing wednesdays#lumine writes#malec#magnus bane#alec lightwood#shadowhunters au#my fics#my fanfics#my ficlets
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