#You've been sorely missed these past three seasons
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II ! Once there was a way to get back homeward, (you're gonna carry that weight for a long time.)
✎ Synopsis ! You've been thrusted to carry the burden of the eldest after his passing. ( First | Second )
Content & warning: Jake sully x Daughter!Reader, Sully kids x Sister!Reader Neytiri x Daughter!Reader. Mentions of death and violence! Purely angst, trust me it does not get better. Neteyam died in the forest (the scene were quaritch first holds everyone hostage)
The tension in the air was palpable, heavy with shame as Jake Sully and his children returned from their failed mission. They dismounted their ikrans stiffly, faces heavy with exhaustion and anticipation. Three of them trailed behind their father, each lost in their own thoughts.
“Sir, we were just trying to help–” Lo’ak tries to discern the suffocating atmosphere, only to be immediately cut off by his father’s grim expression. Jake was a seasoned warrior, but in terms of being a father, he knew he could still learn a thing or two. He felt his heart plummet when the jet plunged to the ground when he realized that both his sons weren’t on their Ikrans– his anger was misguided, but he couldn’t help but reprimand them.
“It doesn’t matter what you meant to do! You’re supposed to be spotters. Spot bogeys and call them in– from a distance! Do you have any idea,” He paused, flexing his jaw painfully tight that you were sure his teeth would shatter from the pressure. Jake was boiling in anger and it threatened to seep through his words, but he knew very well that the frustration was rooted in nothing but fear– the mission ended terribly and the wounds they carried back was enough evidence. “Do you have any idea what could have happened if your sister didn’t call in the incoming airship, huh? We would’ve been blown without notice, Jesus Christ, you could’ve been coming back here missing a limb. What’s wrong with you boy?”
“Sir, it’s my fault. I take full responsibility.” You shot Neteyam a glare, but his head remained hung low.
“Yeah, you do– that’s right. You’re the eldest here and you gotta act like it, you hear me?” He continued to berate him, “You’re not supposed to enable this knucklehead’s carelessness!”
“Dad, please.” You interrupted the heated argument, “Neteyam is actually bleeding.”
Jake’s expression softened slightly, but his tone remained harsh as he gave them nothing but a sharp dismissive nod. “Go patch yourselves up.”
You entered the hut once you knew it was clear of anyone but Neteyam. You approached his unmoving figure that seemed to stare at complete nothingness, fingers ghosting over the scratches of his skin. He hissed when you nudged him, still sore and aching from the wounds his grandmother just tended. “You really ought to shut your mouth when you’re not being spoken to," You said sternly, putting your weight on the table of scattered pastes and medicine. "You know what I mean."
Neteyam looked up at you, his expression already defensive as he knew deep down what was to come again. “I don’t need this right now,”
“You’re not listening.” You abruptly took a step forward, placing your hands on his shoulders, “You can’t keep covering for him! This isn’t about you being brotherly, it’s about him taking responsibility for his actions. You almost got yourself killed.”
“I’m not covering for anyone,” Neteyam replied, his voice tight with irritation. “Lo’ak is just young, __!”
“And you forget that you are a child yourself, Neteyam! The age difference between you and Lo’ak is not even that great of a gap, who are you fooling?” Your voice rose, seething with frustration. “What more could father take if you keep taking the blame off Lo’ak’s shoulders? You aren’t thinking! Do you not want him to trust you anymore? Do you want being olo’eyktan to be taken away from you before father could even step down to rest?”
“And who will be clan leader– you?” Neteyam let out a scornful snicker, his tone eerily calm that you would rather want him to scream at you over and over– but here he was, gaze so unforgiving that in that very moment, you wished you could’ve just swallowed your tongue instead; didn’t pry him over the edge beyond his composure. “You are soft, __. Instead of bones and muscles, you show your flesh naked. You do not bare your teeth enough to show even a glimpse of hostility. You are all but what the clan needs.”
Your eyes widen in hurt, feeling the sharpest of pain you've never felt before spiral in the deepest pits of your stomach, clawing your heart whole. Tears prickled at the corner of your eyes, mouth agape and embarrassed. “You don’t mean that.”
“If I didn’t, I would not have carried this much already,” He stands up, wanting nothing but to puke out the unsettling lump on his throat. “Tsmuke, I see you, but you don’t hear me sometimes.”
“And I wish not to anymore!” You tried to retort in the same ferocious tone, but the way your voice cracked had only made your brother’s expression soften. Hurt simmered inside you, filling in every fibre of your skin. You had always been the closest to Neteyam– he was your ally, your confidant, and you were his too. “Toruk Makto is still just our father and you mean more than a warrior to him; you’re his son and neytiri’s— My brother. To think that you look at me that way, so belittling and unkind, means that you don’t see me at all.”
“Maybe all that training did pay off. I barely recognize you anymore.” You stormed off that night, leaving him and his guilt to eat him away.
You wished you hadn’t left it like that. If you knew that that very argument would be the last conversation you'd have with him, you would have been more softer, more understanding. You would have listened.
Now that he was gone, it was harder to unlearn, harder to digest. Every corner lurked his very shadow, still committing to his duties, still looking out for his family; his bloodied bow next to yours, the crafted hand-me-down trinkets, his hammock– it burned brightly, almost out of spite.
You wished to tell him that he was the best brother– that he was enough, that he never had to prove himself. You wanted more time. As you sat there, lost in thought, memories of your brother flooded your mind. You remembered the way he would always protect you, how he was always there for you no matter what. Perhaps you took him for granted, never truly realizing how lonely it was without his presence to fill in the spaces– he would probably be near Tuk, calming her down, or crouching beside Lo’ak and humoring the heavy atmosphere away. He would be with Kiri, supporting her newfound medicines, telling her how it was better than Mo’at’s even.
But he wasn’t here and right now, the place was a ghost town.
You felt your entire world crumble before your eyes as he turned limp in your hold. Every inch of skin felt eerily cold in contrast to the warmness seeping out of his form and down the grassy soil– eyes held nothing but a dull ache and the sky raged with its storm. You were surrounded by your kin not long after, but you’ve never felt more alone when his chest rose no more. Your words have only been out of anger and in that very second, you wanted nothing more than to swallow everything said. The last thing you’ve told him was of hatred and the next was mournful; that must be the most heart-wrenching ache the great mother could ever bestow. You couldn’t even muster an apology, there was no time for that.
You could barely process your parents' arguments, still sitting idly at the corner while your siblings eavesdropped. You couldn’t be bothered. Their voices slurred together, leaving only bits of coherent pieces– leave home. Those words echoed in your mind loudly; you were to leave, do something. Kiri paced back and forth, her hands wringing nervously.
Finally unable to bear it any longer, Kiri moved towards your unmoving figure and nudged it awake, “Sister please, do something.” She said, her voice shaking slightly. “Please, you have to interject– change father’s mind!” Only now did you focus your sight, gaze shifting to your sibling’s scared faces. What the hell were you doing? You were the eldest now, and while that label left a rancid taste on your tongue, you had to act immediately– You had to be like Neteyam.
You stood up, legs wobbling a bit, and made your way over to where your parents were arguing. You knew better than to interrupt, but hearing the argument unfold had put a weight on everyone. “You’re not thinking of actually leaving home, right?”
The room fell silent, their narrowed eyes slightly softening. “Stay out of this, __.” Frustration already boiled over, Jake could not handle his daughter interjecting right now.
“This is our home– Neteyam’s! And the crown you are to bestow upon Tarsem is his to inherit,” You retorted, tone challenging. Neteyam had trained all his life for that, only to be taken away by a single bullet. It wasn’t fair.
“Quaritch has Spider and that kid knows everything. He knows our whole operation, he can lead them right in here.” His voice cracked upon hearing his son’s name. Jake could only palm his face; couldn’t bear to see his daughter nor his mate. How does he recover from the loss of his own blood? He could never, he thinks– no, he knows. His eldest was gone and no compensation could ever soothe the ache of burying their own child.
The moment he had presented Neteyam to the clan, lifting him high for everyone to see, the feeling was indescribable; how he had held him in his arms for the first time, and how he had promised to always be there for him, to protect him at all costs. He had grown to be so full of life, so full of promise. Absolutely eager to grow in his father’s shoes– He was his first son! And Jake never once thought that he’d be the first to go too; never once thought of cutting his son’s songcord so early.
“Your brother, he,” A pause, “He’s already gone, __. How many more would you risk before you say enough is enough? Kiri? Lo’ak? heck– even Tuk?”
There and then, you knew you couldn’t change his mind. The decision was final and you’ve failed everyone again.
You weren’t at the ceremony– couldn’t bear to see Tarsem being crowned olo’eyktan. It was gone, all of it. What Neteyam worked so hard for, trained endlessly all his life, gone before he could even get a sense of recognition; an I see you, or a job well done from his father. It was gone, all of it. Your family thought you were just staying behind, waiting until it was over– but you stood in front of the hometree, queue in your hand.
“I need to hear you one last time, Neteyam. Tell me what to do, tell me,” You whispered under your breath, “Tell me how to be like you. I am so lost, brother.” Without him, there were no footsteps to follow nor any hand to guide you towards a slippery path. It was just you now, confused and so lost.
The closer you got to the tree, the more you felt the weight of your brother’s absence. Your eyes stung with tears as you kneeled in front of it, fingers tightly grasping the bark. As you shut your eyes, your mind was painted however of different scenarios. What if Eywa only replays that night? To reprimand you– to remind you that you are to blame? You fear that you’d be only greeted with an anguish so ugly.
You feared he wouldn’t want to actually talk to you.
The horns blasted in the distance and you knew you had to return. The glint of hope that flickered in your chest had been blown out in an instant– all the apologies melting on the tip of your tongue. With a heavy heart, you ran away, never to return.
You would never see your brother again and there was no coping from that.
☆ mauve here! i'm taking my final exam tomorrow so yipee. BEFORE ANYTHING ELSE, i want to dedicate this entire series to @eywas-heir! she's literally heaven sent yall;(( improved the plot of this series TREMENDOUSLY (my supplier of angst) thank you bubba ilysb
Tags: @aonungsmate ♡ @cappsikle ♡ @minkyungseokie ♡ @wwwellacom
© avatarkv, do not repost.
#mauve writes ☆#know its for the better#jake sully x daughter!reader#neytiri x daughter!reader#neteyam x sister!reader#lo'ak x sister!reader#kiri x sister!reader#tuk x sister!reader#family angst#angst#avatar#avatar the way of water#sully family x sister!reader
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bad idea, right? (obi wan kenobi x f!reader) part ii
tags: same as before except more unhinged, (slightly sith coded obi wan, no use of y/n, my unhinged take on regency era, (blaming bridgerton and pride and prejudice), probably historical inaccuracies, SMUT), idiots in love, friends with benefits though it is more than that, oral sex (fem and male receiving), fingering, piv sex, overstimulation, thigh riding, dom!obi?, ANGST AT SOME POINT(S), tension so high that they should be on medication, me shortening every uncle-in-law phrase to uncle bcs english sucks in family terms, overuse of commas because editing 42 pages is hard
a/n: HELLO AGAIN, thank you all so much for all the love you've shown, i couldn't be more grateful. sorry for the *long* wait, i just thought the story needed a little longer than a week to do its trick, and frankly i am a busy person so 7 day gap wouldn't work for me. but i hope you can forgive me with this beast of a chapter, it is my first time writing such a long one. hope you enjoy it, and see you all again soon!
also not so fun fact: i totally misunderstood the "season", thinking it should be around summer- early autumn but it was the other way around, sorry, all the historical babes (i can no longer call myself that) for the frustration. but this timetable suits this story much better, does it not?
likes and reblogs are very much appreciated, and i can't wait to hear your opinions! i am also crossposting on ao3, feel free to interact there as well.
part one | part two | part three
enjoy!!!
word count: 19.7K
chapter two: it's a bad idea, right?
The morning or to be exact, the noon, is when you finally feel refreshed, ready for the challenges of the day. Lucky, because your relatives are more than understanding, has always been. They would scold you for going about your day as a ghost rather than miss breakfast or join only halfway to their other activities. You always try to honor their kindness, not to take advantage of the privileges as a guest, and do your best to spend time with your cousin Carolina, (The young girl has all the benefits of her young age, full of energy and excitement, fascinated by the stories she hears (from you, mostly)), and also avoid bringing a man into your room under their roof and absolutely ravaging each other-
The last one is an exception, which you are not proud of, yet not a single drop of guilt muddies your soul. None, considering the enjoyment or strengthened bonds.
Speaking of it, something tells you that you'd have been late anyways if you woke up early, thanks to him. There's indeed a mark on the side of your neck, just where it meets your shoulder. Also, your thighs share the same fate, though lightly, a few small bruises and red, irritated areas thanks to his neat beard. Thankfully, they're quite hidden except the one that's not that has you cursing at him. For how good it felt, and for his daredevil nature.
You're scared to admit your fear for your future with him, not in the romantic expectations aspect, you would never, but for the simpler stuff like how are you going to look at his face and not be reminded of its presence between your legs. Or the unending tease he’ll become, even more so than usual, rightfully so. Make no mistake, you had pretty high expectations, and an overall picture of your relationships past it. Yet, last night was its own entity, reducing you to a mess in the most beautiful way, plucking every thought from your mind, yet dropping seeds of doubt like this.
Still, there’s a foolish smile on your face, and some soreness in between your legs, a welcomed ache.
Nonetheless, you’re not sure how to react when you descend the stairs, and he’s there, sharing tea with your aunt and uncle.
Obi Wan stands up in a blink, even before your aunt has the chance to react to your entry.
“Oh, here you are, sweetie! Just in time to join us in the gardens, and look, who’s here!”
“Hello, auntie. Uncle.” For what’s worth, you like being here, with them, and nothing changes that. You can feel the adamantine warm cloud of love in your chest. The reason you never doubted coming here.
“Lord Kenobi.” You greet him as well, though not with that big smile and sincerity you’ve just shown.
“My Lady.” His indifferent tone is interesting. Indifferent, yet indifferent as any other time, respectful and overly sympathetic. Maybe the situation isn’t as bad as you think? Yet, he’s here, isn’t he? His very presence is questionable enough.
“How good of the young man to join us, don’t you think? Though I fear it’s only due to work issues, and not out of courtesy.”
Yes, how good! And definitely not out of courtesy.
“You hurt me, Madam.” He objects, frowning his brows. “I must say this house, with its amiable hosts, has always had a great place in my heart. Last night once again proved it right, it was the best ball I’ve ever been to all summer. In fact, I was thinking of learning your contacts for the band and the cook, you inspired me to throw my own.”
You really, really try to not roll your eyes, and drop the tea that’s being offered to you now.
“Oh, no problem at all! I’ll write them down when we finish the paperwork in my study.” Your uncle says, and the absolute charmed look and excitation in his eyes have your stomach sinking. “And how are you, my dear? Haven’t you shaken out the morning chill yet?” He points to your shawl, wrapped tightly around your neck. You powdered the marks, and put on a big necklace, but then decided you couldn’t be too careful, and put on the fabric too.
“Yes, I think the weather change wasn’t quite easy on me this time.” You reach for the honey, making a show of it so they don’t put you in the center of attention.
“Did you sleep well last night?”So, it doesn’t work. And that’s about the one question you hoped to avoid.
“Despite the exertion taking place-“ Kenobi’s eyes widen, exaggerated by the teacup basically covering other parts of his face, and for a second you think he may choke on his tea. “downstairs, I say it was the best sleep I could’ve ever had.”
You hope your acting inspires the same in him too. He suppresses that little cough well, and the blush settling in his cheeks is faint, easily blamed on the warmth of the drink.
Strike one.
Irritation grows in you, rather than anxiety. Does he really think you’re that crude? That dumb? You make a point of not looking his way after that, an attitude clearly noticed by him in no time. It’s not like he has any chance of talking about it, but the alarm bell in his head rings continuously, busying his mind ‘til the opportune moment comes to talk about it.
Then, a gleeful screech of your name fills the room. In a blink, your cousin is right next to you, wrapping her arms tightly around your shoulder that you can’t properly stand up and hug her back in a normal way.
“I’ve been waiting for you to wake up all day long!” She says, hands reaching to hold yours, almost causing you to lose control of the fabric covering your neck. “We’ve got so much to do! And you were going to tell me all about Naboo! Did you really get to see the lions?”
“Sweetie-“ Despite the wildness of the affection you are given, there’s a huge smile on your face, and you almost make her sit on your lap- an old habit from her younger years.
“Come now- you promised to go riding with me. I want to show you how much I improved.”
“Well-“ your poor, poor legs are in no condition for that kind of activity. “I think it’s best if we do that tomorrow. You see, I had enough of it yesterday, I’ve been in a carriage all day.”
His smirking, twinkling eyes.
Strike two.
Your furious gaze kills that gleam quickly though. The faint smirk disappears, and he straightens his back, clearing his throat.
“Carolina, can’t you see we have a guest? Where are your manners? And give your poor cousin some space, for God’s sake!” Your aunt exaggerates like any mother of her generation, that high pitched voice screeching every ear in the room.
You should be glad to see the subject changed, but the condition of it is bitter. She bows her head down, taking a few steps away from you, but you hold onto her hand, keeping her near.
“Hello, young lady. I am Obi Wan Kenobi.” He sounds- sympathetic, though not overly. It is this sweet balance between respecting their being without the prejudices of age, but compassionate enough not to crush them under expectations they are yet to achieve. Interpreting this from just a couple of words seems a bit of a stretch, you know, still, his whole attitude screams he’s got some experience talking to kids, or considerable knowledge about the human psyche.
“He’s a friend of mine.” You explain further, trying to ease her.
“Welcome, Lord Kenobi.” She curtsies, yeah, she’s perfected that, you observe with proud eyes.
“I didn’t see you at the ball last night, I’m afraid.” Like he was there longer than an hour.
“It was past my bedtime.” The look she gives her parents tells him all he needs to know about her character, or precisely who influences her. He wonders if it was any similar to yours. “I hope you had a wonderful time. You must’ve, because she’s an excellent dancer.” She turns at you, smiling so innocently that you can’t blame her for complicating things. “She taught me all about it, even better than my tutors.”
“Oh, no, we didn’t-“ The sentence synchronically rolls from both of your tongues, but you stop as you realize. There’s an abrupt silence in the room for a few seconds, causing anger to bubble up in you once more, and forcing you to make up an excuse to break free from this atmosphere.
“Hey,” You tug on her arm, “I’ve brought candy.” And just like that, she’s jumping all over you, bouncing with joy, “Sshh,” You warn. “First we need to go somewhere unseen.”
===
You see him again, days after, when he’s clearly learned his lesson, and gave you a window to breathe, calm your fury. The worst thing? It works. You can imagine (or in other words daydream) the next time you two see each other, which you desperately wish for it to be soon, and picture keeping yourself from stepping onto his feet, or shoving your finger into his chest. It all could not be forgotten but worked out through little warnings and explanations. Communication, basically.
And it turns out, you don't have to imagine any longer, and have the perfect opportunity to test your temper.
In a cafe. Where you sit alone. Blissfully ignorant of the couples (or to-be-couples) surrounding you. But most importantly, unchaperoned. (You had your tongue to defy any unwanted presence, and it's not like people came here alone like yourself. They came here for dates. And if anything, your presence was a litmus paper. What was to happen in marriage, if one couldn’t even keep their eyes from others in those little flirtatious rendezvous?)
(Though you knew some didn’t see it that way. A temptress, their choice of word to describe you.)
Obi Wan walks up to your table in quick, big steps that somehow don’t capture the attention of anyone but you. A further proof of that magic dust he sprinkles. He’s dressed in browns today. It is a welcomed change. The smile on his face is unbeatably prominent, even as he follows the guide of manners, bowing his head and removing his hat before he sits in front of you. There’s no indication of his previous whereabouts in his looks and you wonder how he found you. Was he simply passing by the establishment before noticing your presence, or did he inquire about your engagements today, asking around?
"You shouldn't be here." It’s that sweet tone of yours, an alarm said in the softest of inclinations. “I have no company.” While it is redundant to both of your mindsets, the need of a chaperone for every conversation you have with strangers, you like to be cautious.
Then let me be it, he would’ve said, if it wasn’t literally the first time after your distasteful encounter. He’s not going to throw away that lesson for a shot of comedy. Or the fact that it’s hardly a request, but again- It’s not worth it. “I just wanted to say how sorry I was for the last time. It was- unadvisable to say the least.”
That- feels so good to hear, somehow. Far better than expected. You lean back in your chair, a sly smile on your face that you can’t help, and a subtle blush, a total contrast to your attitude.
“What can I say though? I don’t know if it’s still possible to be unsatisfied, but I sure felt like that if I didn’t see you again.”
Your fingers grasp the fork far too tightly, considering you have no appetite left for the desert in front of you. It’s the flashbacks from that night, and the undeniable effects it had on both of you.
“Well, apology accepted.”
He releases a breath after your words, visibly relaxed, amusing you further. You focus your gaze on the plate, in hopes of blending this conversation into the atmosphere around.
You add. “Then again, don’t take my forgiveness for granted. None of my partners were this careless, and I seriously expected better from you.”
(You're quite aware this is not the sort of conversation fit here.)
The interruption of “Oh, that will never even cross my mind.”, turns into “Partners?”, thankfully in a whisper, but sharp enough that it holds the same value as a shriek. He plays it off like it’s a frivolous question, a part of your ongoing banter, a mere thread to spin the conversation.
As if you gave the perfect impression of a blushing virgin that night. You flutter your lashes, as you take a bite. The silence is absolutely deafening, before you can continue. “There’s a reason I like traveling that much. Naboo. Correlia. Alderaan. God, even Hoth.” The discomfort in his face grows, and you fight it with an explanation, hoping that’s the reason. “Never at the same time, though, if it wasn’t obvious. It was just about having good company if I was to spend months in a city.”
“Yes, yes of course.” He shakes his head, an act of his nonjudgemental nature. “So, am I the Coruscant part of your little play?”
“No. You're the exception.” You laugh. “I haven’t- not here. I wouldn’t dare. Too little privacy. No trust. Above all, not a single soul that felt like a match of my own. Til I met you.” He deserves to hear that, right? “However I must say, the rules would be a little different here. Requires more caution. Fine work. For example, you couldn’t come and see me like this whenever you desire."
"Fair enough." He agrees, though makes little effort to follow the lesson. Actually, not even little, none. He just sits there, moulding into his chair further, a pleasant grin as he takes the world in, entertaining himself with the surrounding people. And you, of course. His piercing gaze travels back to you, every time.
Well, right. Not like you wanted him off of your table. "What do you want, Lord Kenobi?" And how did you know I would be here anyway?
"Are you coming to the picnic on Saturday, in the Perlemian Park?"
You were certainly thinking about it. "Possibly."
"I'm only going if you are joining too." He wets his lips, an action you don't miss, and you continue to watch it long after he's done and see the next words coming out, before your brain can comprehend their meaning. "So, I'll need a better answer."
The same lips that mapped out your entire body, whispered all those dirty things, tasted your hidden corners, drinking in the pleasure it provided…
He clears his throat, and you break out of the trance. He looks at you with a brow lifted, but the twinkles behind his blue eyes tell you it's not out of boredom. More like the exact opposite.
"I'll be there."
This is his cue to leave, with excitement for the said event, and a tinge of sadness for this interaction ending. You mirror his manners as he bids you a good day.
Then, you're left alone, exactly as merely half an hour ago. Yet, the dessert in front of you is unsavory, nowhere near enough to satisfy your sweet tooth.
It is still completely the same.
===
Comes Saturday, and does it come slower than possible… The weather seems like it's making one last show before the summer ends and scorches the earth, leaving everyone a sweating mess, little to no words coming out of their mouth, sprawled on the nearest surface. You seriously debate whether calling the offer off, the choice of fanning yourself to a lazy nap sounding better and better. It is in these extensive relaxations that you uncover the horrid truth- your fingers fell short in bringing you pleasure now, making you an even more sweaty, frustrated mess rather than the relaxed, drowsy mess you want to be. It is an awful revelation, bringing along many questions that haunt your every waking hour. You fear it's got something to do with him- and the best prescription for you is to stay away.
Alas, you keep true to your promise and show up.
Thankfully the air has calmed down on said day, and sorbets are refreshing, making it more than a bearable experience. Bearable is actually an insult in this case, for it is more than that. These people are some of your oldest friends, close to your age, and share your opinions. It is hard not having fun when you are allowed to be free (just a little more than normal, though it is enough). None cares about the obscene gossip, or juices of fruit staining faces, dripping onto the expensive fabrics you all are adorned in. Laughs are loud and constant, never letting three minutes go without them. Hands are all flying around, hitting each other as a joke, reaching for the last piece of cake, taking the very dangerous road back without spilling a drop of the drink (which is, once again, a target of pranks).
Obi Wan enjoys it as much as you do, despite the fact that he doesn’t know them like you do. His life doesn’t allow much leisure time, and his choice of friends is mostly unfitting to these kinds of events, but he doesn’t have a problem finding joy in these kinds of events. Maybe it is mostly due to you, watching you in your nature, admiring the way you handle yourself among the crossfire of jokes, or what foods you prefer the most, making silly expressions as the taste of them hits just right. With every little thing he learns about you, he’s drawn closer to you. Once, he would name you a mystery, yet that would indicate the thrill was all in revelation. Now, it is the exact opposite. He gets more excited with each new question, like what is the actual story behind the “donkey joke” you are hinting at, or why do you pick some of the seemingly perfectly looking strawberries aside and pick others- or why you blush when you catch him looking at you, only to do the same yourself?
It is only in the afternoon that the buzz leaves its place for something serene. Conversations diminish, replies take longer, bodies sag and lean on the nearest surface, be the tree trunks or picnic baskets or their loved ones.
C’mon then, let’s take a walk. One proposes, and others follow, albeit slowly and with protests. You are among the latter, every cell in your body refusing to produce or use energy.
Maybe that’s one of the reasons you end up at the very back of the group with Lord Kenobi, and while you manage to stick with him unlike your friends, the distance between you and them grows and now, you can safely say that you’ve lost the sight of them. Twenty minutes ago.
So yes, you’ve been walking alongside him in silence. Far away that you don’t brush hands, yet so close that it would raise questions if someone were to see.
“I don’t think this is doing much for my somnolence.” He basically yawns.
"Should I take that as an insult, my Lord?"
"Why would you- what did I say to make you think so?" He shakes his head, as stubborn as he's apologetic, ready to accept the accusation if your reasons are firm. Still, his heart is already pacing up, distressed. That must be the wine taking over.
"Well, am I not the only reason for your presence? And I must be boring you, if you are still feeling drowsy."
"No- Absolutely untrue- “ He stutters, a panic to find the right words, not to be buried under your claims, he is not going to lose his chance to be by your side- only to realize the grin on your face too late.
"You little minx." He breathes out, and is rewarded by the sound of your tempting giggle.
"Seems like I successfully rid you of your problem." You take pride. "And now, I suggest walking by the lake, to ensure its permeance."
"You mean to dip my feet in the water?" Again, he shakes his head, already rejecting the proposition.
"If you don't do it I shall." You skip, prancing like a nymph before he grabs you by the arm.
“I don’t think that is safe.”
“It perfectly is.” You state, bewildered by his anxious urge. One look into his hand, and he remembers to let you go. The said hand flies to his hair, with an exasperated sigh.
“Okay, but – let me be by your side. And make it quick.”
The fact that he thinks you need his approval is downright funny, though you’d take issue with it any other time. Now, you are amused by his good intended worries and don’t have it in your conscience to break his heart over it, or bring up a quarrel.
So, you start undressing. Only your socks and shoes.
Still, the blush settles on his cheeks, and the light behind his eyes burns brighter as he sees the skin just above your knees naked. Not for the first time- still, he feels like turning his back on you, but does no such thing. And that is not because it defeats the purpose of his presence.
God, how could you even make you believe he wasn’t planning on having these impure thoughts?
You feel your temperature rising, and it has nothing to do with the sun. You meet his hypnotized eyes, and can still feel it focused on you. After days of dissatisfaction, its effect is multiplied by ten, making your heart race. You pray none of it is visible on your face. the last thing you need is for him to know.
He laughs when you lay the white fabric in the old woods of the docks, like the spoiled child you are. It is more than likely to stain, but more importantly, it is definitely old, creacking under every step, hence his aversion to sit beside you with a head shake. You shrug in return, and pull your skirt slightly above your knees, swinging your legs back and forth.
“Oh, this is lovely!” You say, sprawling your toes in the water. “Truly, you are missing out.”
“I believe you, my Lady.” His tone is joyful, just the right combination of trust and mockery.
You turn to look at him, a big mistake. The excess part of your dress brushes the surface, wetting the fabric, though it is the last thing you care. He is looking at you, with that charming grin, and subtle hunger etched into his gaze, screaming worship, in complete awe of the scene he's beholding, the prettiest girl he’s ever seen, holding his hand, her dress bunched up like in those ancient paintings of fairies, and endless passion for the leading role of it. It swirls the emotions deep inside your belly, the only reaction you want to avoid. Yet, you’re not immune to it. your heart skips a beat, the tingles overtaking your skin.
“Look- I see fishes!” You whip your head, the one thing you can do in hopes of breaking the tension. You lean forward, trying to get a clear view, or try to do so because you are stopped by his grip.
“That’s enough.” The command sends a shiver down your spine. “You shouldn’t go any further.”
“Fine.” You huff, the simplest protest you can manage. His touch softens as he realizes you’re going to follow his words, though takes long to let go.
A few minutes pass in the silence of nature.
“How long are you going to stand like this?” You ask, exasperated that this isn’t going anything like you imagined.
“What?”
“I feel like I’m also standing, this is hardly fun.”
“That is only the result of your own choice.”
Narrowing your eyes, you huff and climb back on your feet, disregarding the objections of the offended dock. Then, you push past him-
He suddenly pulls you back, promptly disrupting your balance, a tactic he uses to pick you up into his arms. You scream as your feet meet the air, hands grabbing anything they can reach which ends up being his clothes.
“What are you doing?!” You yell, burying your fingers into him. With how strong your grip is, you can feel every muscle tensing under your touch.
“I’m not gonna let you walk in that mud, after all.” He explains like it was the problem you were referring to.”
“My shoes! – and-”
“Don’t worry, I’ll get them.”
He adores the pout you have as he fetches them.
He leans his back on the tree, and you rest your arms on your knees, propped up.
“So, we are to sit here and sulk?”
“If you name it so.” His smile is borderline insulting, ear to ear. With one look, he points at the reason- your wet feet. There’s literally no choice but to wait for them to dry up. But by proposing the only solution, he infuriates you further.
“Very interesting.” You snark. “I would’ve just stood back if I knew this was what we would be doing.”
“And now it is I who might take those words as an insult. Have I somehow proven my companionship to be loathsome in the times we spent together?”
Times you spent together… The flashbacks are, as implied in their name, flash before your eyes at such great speed that by the time you realize it is not something you should ponder upon now, your heart rate is already up, the flame deep in your belly ignited once again, and even the sounds of the past are echoing in your ears. You turn your head away from him, cursing at the color blooming on your cheeks.
Oh, but the action is enough to let him know exactly what you are feeling, a song of “I thought so” on his tongue- yet he doesn’t sing it yet, realizing the underestimation of his own emotions. He brings it upon himself- a glance at you, taking in your red face (as much as possible) and bare legs, let out to the sun to dry up.
“Well, I’ll think that’s the case if you don’t say anything.” He opts to say this instead, loving to taunt you further.
“It’s not.” You mumble, still turned to the other side, fingernails digging at your palm.
“I can’t hear you, dear.”
“I said-“
The moment you move your head, you are met with his face, so close to yours, a distance he promptly closes by placing a hand at your neck, and tugging at it, ‘til your lips crash. You lose your balance once more, gripping his collars to not fully crush him with your weight. You gasp, the only protest you have in yourself, because for all your resolve to stay away, here you are, falling right into his arms. And it feels so damn good.
You gasp, pushing him. He laughs as his back hits the tree, never once breaking eye contact.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” You whisper-scream, suddenly aware of the fact that while you are all alone on this field, your friends are still very much around.
“Oh, what am I doing? It is you, darling, don’t think I haven’t noticed the way you were looking at me.”
You direct your gaze to the ground, embarrassment getting the better of you.
“What is it?” He questions your lack of defiance. “You had no problem before. Don’t tell me you’re scared of being seen. They should at least be like, a mile away.”
Yeah. That’s absolutely correct. Besides, you’re shielded from any unwanted visitors by the thick line of trees, and the sheer distance between there and the path. It is a secluded corner of the lakeside.
“Or is there something else that’s bothering you?” This, is said in a more suggestive tone, and its effect is only amplified by the way he holds your chin to refocus your attention. You burn under his grasp and insistent watch.
Say farewell to your pride.
You let yourself fall over him once more, kissing him with a whimper you can’t quite suppress. You feel his smirk at that, but neither of you dwells on it, for he too lets out a sound of desperation, panting as he pulls you close, placing you on his thigh. (You hear your dress positively rubbing against the grass, and dare not to imagine the green blotch that may appear.) You don’t know whether to celebrate your newfound closeness or chastise your weak will, for it creates a new wave of desire in you as you delve your fingers into his beard. Your skin lights up against his coarse hair, so familiar yet so unyielding under your touch, and to be holding his face in your hands like this only blinds you more. So blind that you only realize the movement of your hips, seeking pleasure, when he holds them.
“See? That’s what I’m talking about.” A kiss right on the left corner of your lips. “Are you haunted by that night so deeply that you are unable to satisfy your needs on your own, like me? Or hell, with another?” Even in the midst of haze, you don’t miss the way his eyes darken at the mention of a third party.
“No- only you.” You whisper, too afraid of things ending.
“Fuck.” He can’t help but burst at your surrender. “That’s my girl. Lift your hips a little for me, darling.”
You oblige without question, raising yourself on your trembling thighs. Holding your breath, imagining all the things he can do to you… He is bewitched by your neediness, the way you moan at the first contact his hand makes with your skin after lifting your skirt just above your knees so you have more freedom to move, and can directly sit on his thigh.
Speaking of it, why? Your eyebrows scrunch as he pushes you down like that, though the actual questioning part comes a second after your clit rubs against the fabric, not his cock, the first jolt of true ecstasy you experienced in a while, but that can’t be the case for him, right? “What are you-?”
“Trust me.” He takes his sweet time to relish the expense of your neck, so close for his taking, partly to ease your nerves, and frankly it is too much fun for his own good to feel you twitch in anticipation, and your breath getting stolen away at his open-mouthed kisses, panting when he lingers on a spot for too long at the fear of him leaving a bruise. “No marks, I perfectly remember.” He has to confess after a point, and only after that point, you begin to truly relax, and have your heart beating so fast at the same time, noticing your wetness is positively seeping into his clothes.
Your jaw hangs open with a silent pant as he decides it’s enough, and guides your body, rocking onto his. It’s not something you haven’t done before, but there’s something so unique about now, maybe the scandalous location, or your depraved state, or simply everything regarding him, that you are convinced it looks like your first time. Shit, it may even be your first time, considering the previous examples are nowhere close to this, the stakes, the desperation, the payoff… You’re holding onto his shoulders like a fucking virgin, pressed so close to receive every bit of affection he's giving. It’s the damn heat, the greatest excuse on your lips for the last couple of weeks, invalidated by the nonexistence of space between you and him. It only causes sweat to pour out of both of you, like the constant drip out of your cunt, sabotaging all your attempts to gain control, and create the slightest of frustration.
“Obi Wan.” You chant his name, unable to form any other word, and he drinks it all in, valiantly ignoring the ache in his cock. It is a hard task, a growing challenge as your knee brushes against it from time to time, especially when you try to take initiative and escape the rhythm he’s trying to create.
“Ah-ah-ah- Let me take over. You know we’re short on time, darling.”
Then, he does justice to his words as he bounces his leg, the added pressure claiming a gasp from you.
“Do that again.” What your efforts can't get you, maybe your pleads can. After all, you're just as stubborn as him, giving up easily is not on your book.
“Only because you asked so nicely.”
You roll your eyes, though it is totally due to annoyance, and let out a moan, throwing your head back. The fresh air does nothing for your lungs anymore, just an outlet for your scandalous noises. Which, he has no complaints too, your erratic breaths warmed his neck enough, and blessed him with those sweet sounds, right under his ear. Oh, but in any other case, this was anywhere else, and he had to silence you, also which he has no complaints too. Perhaps the sole problem is missing the blissed out expressions of your pretty face, and the light in your eyes, burning for him.
“Are you close?” Like he even needs to ask, like he’s not aware of your moans turned whimpers.
“Hmmh.” Is all the answer he gets, and that’s enough for him, laughing quietly, as you feel the vibrations of his chest.
When you cum, it is indeed an earth-shattering moment, and an end to your misery, the first drop of water after thirst- so much so that you don’t care about it happening in such a short time. Your legs squeeze his firm thigh, shaking over them like the rest of you. His one hand travels to your waist, holding you steady and pressed against him. You swear you can feel every aspect of his hand over three layers of fabric, yet he’s not actually exerting that much power, treating you like a delicate flower, afraid to crush the silky petals.
You sigh as the trembles die down, your senses coming back to you one by one- the first and foremost the tension in the body beneath you. Your fingers loosen from his collars, and travel the expanse of his torso slowly, a kiss to his throat in the meantime.
“Don’t you worry about me.” His voice is slightly shaky, though it may very well be due to his exertion.
“I think I should.” Its trueness is further proven when you palm him, and he groans. Though he is insistent.
“Look at you, you sweet thing, concerned with me walking around with a hard-on.”
That has you rolling your eyes, and removing your hand. Removing your entire body, even. You settle on the grass, leaning on your elbows. Your dress is already ruined, so you’re past the point of worrying.
“On the other hand, you may want to think about this.” He points to his wet trousers, the dark stain visible even though the fabric is black.
Uh oh. That is indeed a problem, if you are to return soon. Unfortunately, your brain can’t grasp the danger, coming up with solutions like soaking him entirely in the lake…
So, it’s no wonder that your next words are a joke.“You marked me, I marked you. We're even.”
To your surprise, it works. His laughter fills the entire forest, yours a whisper in comparison. The idea that maybe, just maybe this can be repeated every now and then, that it wouldn't harm anyone fills your chest with a different kind of cheer, a hopeful sensation that suits the summer. He's proven his carefulness, making the best of the situation without risking either of you. The rising hope in you should scare you, but it doesn't. It only makes you sprawl under the sun like a cat enjoying the heat, and join his laughter with a big grin.
“Fair. Absolutely fair.”
===
The next time you see each other again, things seem to cool down a bit. It is entirely a civil dinner, always at a respectable distance, the number of times you lock eyes are countable on one hand (though some border the edge of being a little too long), and it is all not so surprisingly, plain. Maybe it is about both of you trying to contain one’s self, so much so that the other core aspect of both of you, the humorous side is buried that night and no other person can live up to its ghost. Perhaps it is due to the upcoming end of summer, bringing out a tinge of melancholy, already mourning the past, thus your impulses dwindle down, the sparkles absent.
That is, ‘til, you are the only occupants in the saloon, after the other guests have left, and your aunts retreated to their rooms. You are reading a book, barely aware of the fact when he, sitting next to you in that single armchair drops whatever pen he’s holding, just by your feet. You’re pulled out of your trance by the sound it creates, raising your gaze from the page just in time to see him bending over to retrieve it or- ending up completely kneeling in front of your legs.
He raises his head, and you watch the way his face softly being illuminated by the candlelight, a smile you can’t decide whether charming or devilish, long abandoning his mission.
That’s the moment the air shifts, and the room feels hotter like the cheminee is lit, the heat wave has returned, and taken both of you to that lakeside, and the week before it, the frustration and despair that came with being unable to take care of yourself. You haven’t felt such a thing after, perhaps, it’s due to your fulfilled state and therefore lack of trial, but now, the need returns, like adding more to an already full cup, realization only hitting after the drops spill from the sides. The cup demands to be emptied, - translation: your soul demands whatever pleasure you can get your hands on- and the image of him causing it is certainly a preference.
(Again, it is your soul that’s demanding it- your brain would very much like to lock you away in the furthest corner of this house, or kick him, if that’s all you can manage.)
“Excuse me?”
“I just remembered how I failed to say how beautiful you look tonight.”
“Thank you.” Your mouth speaks before you can protest the improperness of your situation. Color settles on your cheeks for accepting his compliment first. “What are you doing?”
“Collecting my pen.” He shrugs, and demonstratively takes it to his hand, yet it is once more left to the ground instead of the nearest table, with the rest of his papers. He adds, “I admire how you are an expert in navigating every social situation, whether it's a boring dinner like this, or a ball.
Your eyebrows raise at the boring part, after all, it's hosted by your relatives, and it wasn't exactly boring, maybe a little uneventful. “Not every occasion has to be full of adventure, Lord Kenobi. Slow nights like this are beneficial for the soul. Gives the mind some rest.”
He purses his lips, like he’s been told on his bluff, the one part he emphasized to sound strong. Because, he is. He had fun tonight, the type that fills one’s heart with sweet lethargy. “I suppose you’re correct. But you’re missing out on an important detail.”
“And what is that?”
“The right company.”
You’re glad that your hands were pressing against the book, holding the page, because if they weren’t, they would be visibly shaking.
“I have underestimated how much I missed you, that much is clear to me now.” Barely speaking, or barely speaking anything important with you throughout the evening, yet he feels rejuvenated, the ache in his chest becoming prominent as it starts the heal. He doesn’t say the last part, but the sentiment is reflected in the soft sparkle behind his eyes, the hypnotic storm, pulling you towards unknown chaos, but beautiful, and promising safety in its center. That’s why you don’t protest as his hand reaches for yours, brushing your knee (he wanted to do that for some time, to feel the soft fabric that basically decorates your body), interlocking fingers, and reluctantly retreating them in favor of taking the book that sits in your lap, setting it aside. You don’t protest, despite the screams in your head, saying he’s right there why is he still there-
“And the other thing I missed terribly, the sight of your legs.”
Your shaky inhale echoes.
His fingers gently close over your ankles, and travel upwards slowly, lifting your dress alongside. “Though I’ve only seen them twice, they might be my favorite view, ever.”
“Is that so?” You are perplexed by the confession, with a lazy grin, very much enjoying the seduction. His way with words seems like a constant threat to your sanity, but damn do you adore it dearly, a voluntary victim to its spell.
“Why would I ever lie to you?” He whispers, hands tightening. “I like them very much. But I think I would like them better around my shoulders.” He pulls your knees slightly, causing you to yelp as your back caves in, and grasps your ankles once more, proceeding to demonstrate exactly his words.
“What are you doing?” You ask, like you don’t know the answer. It is a statement, an acknowledgment, the last chance to bring some sense into any of you. You’re in the living room, in a house that is not your own, filled with people who are still very well awake, and can just decide to come in.
“Having a second dessert, if I may?” And how can you refuse, after the image is served to you on a golden plate?
“But at the lake - You were-”
“You think I'm doing this for recompensation?”
“No, I didn't mean to imply that.” God, this is embarrassing. “I just wanted to say I might miss having my way with you.”
“I’ll be glad to take that as a promise.”
Then, it is settled.
Still, he waits for your small nod and takes in the way you bite your lip, wishing he was the one to do so, but- priorities. Time is a valuable asset, especially now, and he has to honor his offer. That’s why he opts for a few small, open mouthed kisses to your inner thighs, actively fighting the desire to leave bruises, evidence, a memory. Judging by the rapidness of your breath, it seems he has reached his goal in some way. It’s the beard- scratching your skin even when his mouth is not doing something, sensitizing the flesh and making it all too susceptible to the incoming assault. Your hand flies up, absentmindedly reaching for his hair, yet stopping a second before, landing on the couch instead- if you messed up his hair, there’s no coming back from it. He chuckles at your struggle, the warm breath making you squirm. Even if you don’t, he’s maddened by action, despite the laugh. He has you- but not really. He’s enveloped in your heat, taking in your scent, and seconds away from tasting you, but is not able to be blessed with the slight pain he'd felt if you tugged on his strands, or the untamed sounds you’d have sung in a more private setting.
So yes, he’s as torn and desperate as you. Slow nights, you said?
Truth be told, it doesn’t matter what adjective comes before the word; slow or fast, boring or exciting as hell, freezing or hellishly hot; if it is with you, it is a good night. Otherwise, it is lacking. The world may be painted gray forever, considering you two mostly don’t get the chance to spend more than two occasions together in a week, but there can be no comparison to colorful scene of those moments.
And this is the night Obi Wan admits that fact.
You both moan, when his tongue finally meets your cunt, licking a messy stripe. It is more of a vibration than a noise- possibly for the best. It makes you jolt, and his hold tightens, and again, it is for the best, because when he decides to pay attention to your clit after his time exploring your folds is done, your limbs start to shake, threatening to fall. Your eyes roll back when things settle, and pleasure starts to build up, your juices flowing, and he drinks it all in before they have the chance to make a mess of your dress.
That is the first time he takes a break. “Eyes on me, darling.”
What is with him and that special request?
Your whine doesn’t mean anything to him, except make his cock twitch in his now tight trousers- but that has other reasons too. He waits ‘til your eyelids open once more, and you meet his gaze, and a second longer, unable to resist the urge to get lost in your hazy expression. Then, he dives back in, swirling the muscle around your bundle of nerves. In any other circumstance, you’d have thought this would be too indelicate, so straight to the point, no fun or respect, yet his way to do so is anything but those qualities. His movements are precisely designed for you, slow enough to not cause discomfort, fast enough to make the best of your unknown time limit. You’re afraid to deduce that one time was enough for him to learn you, one time to turn your world upside down, and leave you to deal with the memory of it.
“Sweetie?” That’s the first time your eye contact is broken. The world freezes for a second before it does, and your head whips to the direction the sound has come from, to find your aunt by the door. Miraculously, she continues to stand there, unbothered by the long and protective distance which compromises of the dining table and the back of your couch, a perfect cover for the scandal that is taking place. Obi Wan stills, perhaps even stops breathing, yet he’s the one to snap you out of your shock with his grip around your skin. It is ridiculously encouraging, knowing he's not abandoning you on your own, even at the expense of getting caught, and the dread it would surely follow.
“Yes, auntie?” You gulp. Trying not to sound breathless is a clear effort.
“Have you seen Lord Kenobi?”
Your reputable smartness lags, the answer of yeah, he’s right here IN BETWEEN MY LEGS, occupying your mind. “I think he went out to get some air, I haven’t seen him for some time.”
“How odd.” She comments, “And what are you doing there on your own?”
“Reading my book.” You smile, and hope your cheeks’ tremble isn’t too noticeable. “It’s quite good- couldn’t tell the time.”
She scorns. “Oh, now I see- he must’ve gotten bored as you were buried in your book. You truly should work on your guest etiquette, dear. And Lord Kenobi, of all people!”
“Auntie!” Your eyes widen, and you squeal a little, and feel Obi Wan giggling quietly.
“I’m just saying, that you should treat him better- he’s a good person, and obviously fancies you.”
“Auntie!”
“I mean, I like him? Don’t you like him?”
The urge the scream has never been stronger.
To escape the subsequent questions should you answer otherwise, you give in, and sag.” I do.” And the worst thing is, you actually do. Objectively, you like him, all his little jokes and sweet tongue (no pun intended), the elegant form he carries himself in, and the kind nature he never fails to live up to. Except for the dangerous extent your relationship is getting into, there’s nothing about him that you don’t like. And truthfully, even that is barely a matter you care about, proven by your current situation.
You can feel him smile, the coarse facial hair biting into your skin, rubbing like a cat, and the sensation is followed by a kiss on your thigh.
“Then you know what I am saying is the truth.” She raises her eyebrows in a motherly manner, a loving attempt of intervention. “Don’t stay up too late, no matter how absorbing that book is. We are invited for breakfast to the Mon’s Estate.”
Thankfully, she’s gone like that, saving you the act.
When you turn to your front again you find the need to come up with a warning to make him shut up unnecessary for he kisses you, silencing both of you. The action brings color to your cheeks more than ever in this entire evening. The fact that you can taste yourself on his tongue aside, he’s so gentle about it, like congratulating your success, or admiring your talent, pouring out his affection for you. You can’t help but wrap your legs around his wide torso, it is how good it feels. When you two part, the lack of breath gets the best of you, only then do the swarming butterflies in your stomach begin to disturb you again.
But you’re not so quick to forget the last couple of minutes. Perhaps you've spoken too soon back then at the lake, thinking this could be continued. You’d imagined the rest of this scene a little differently, letting him follow you to your room, returning the favor, but that scare has only helped you to brew a storm inside you.
“Obi Wan…” You whisper, brows cinched in concentration as he towers over you, claiming all your senses. “We can’t- we have to stop…”
“Sshh, calm down.” His thumb draws circles on your skin, trying to soothe you in one aspect, if not every. He’s not going to let you go to your bed shaken like this, for starters. “Take a deep breath.”
You try, twice before you can manage to fill your lungs in their entirety, and your achievement is rewarded with a peck to your neck. Some of the air leaves you in an abrupt exhale because of it, and he curses himself for it.
“Follow my lead.” He tries again, reclining on his knees, giving you space. It is another challenge to look into his ocean eyes, and match his pattern, but you manage, your heart beat semi-regular after a minute or so.
Semi, for said eyes and your bare pussy are face to face, and all common sense loses its importance, burned by the fire inside you.
“Obi Wan- please…”
“You sure?” He will be very disappointed if you change your mind, but he has to ask, play the sensible part. And ignore the constant throb in his trousers that has become even more unbearable after you confessed your feelings.
“Just… make it quick.” Oh, are you seriously requesting an orgasm like ordering a cake in a café?
“As you wish, love.”
He starts out the same, just playing his game a little faster, and he holds your hand as he does so, the small detail as efficient as his moves. But, the final blow is his other hand, prodding against your entrance. The flood of memories doesn’t help either, as you remember that night. A loud moan threatens to leave you, and you slap your palm against your mouth. He stops ‘til you are secured, praise in his eyes, and pushes the two digits in, stretching you out in the way. Your fingers are nothing in comparison, and he notices it immediately, the way your walls hug him.
Though, he’s an expert, and can absolutely manage to take care of you properly, so there’s nothing but pleasure, your slick channel welcoming the intrusion. It is not long before he feels the resistance fading and returning in a new form, as your climax approaches, and your muscles begin to quiver.
With your noises secured in your throat, the only form of communication is your connected hands, squeezing each other sometimes enough to risk breaking fingers. He understands what you mean perfectly, reaching up to a certain speed, then keeping it the same ‘til you start trashing, legs violently shaking around his body, and juices dripping, this time more than he can clean up. If any other time, he wouldn’t stop ‘til he feasted on every drop of it, but he withholds himself, respecting the clouds of danger. He’s glad to have helped with your anxiety, yet he doesn’t want to carry the ease to dangerous level and make you susceptible to be swayed in whatever direction.
Well, the image of his messy, wet beard certainly sends you through the wrong one, but already your nerves are not able to take more risks tonight, so you just bite your lip hard enough to draw blood, and lower your legs to the ground as he starts by cleaning out his fingers. It is hard to believe any man would try this much to indulge in your every aspect, but here he is, careful about even the smallest part.
Damn, you want to take him to your room and let him have his way with you so bad- but this is enough adventure for a night.
“Good night, Lord Kenobi.” You say, fixing your skirt, and standing up on shaky legs with your book clutched in the tightest grip against your belly.
“Good night, darling.” He nods, a content smile. “Send my compliments to the chef. “
===
“Lord Kenobi?”
You’re justified in your shock, enough to express it out loud in the middle of the jewelry shop, the last place you’d expect to run into him. Of course, he’s a neat and subtle man, and his appearance reflects his statue, though in a very calculated yet effortless manner. His pocketwatch is a family heirloom, so you’ve been told, a chic piece he takes great care of, and while his cufflinks are always elegant, it is never that eye-catching. It only compliments its wearer, you dare say, a final addition to an already completed painting.
(You never denied his handsomeness, and this is an objective opinion. Don’t read much into it.)
His supposed loneliness coupled with the fact that he looks utterly lost and bored, your curiosity is aggravated further.
Also, bumping into each other? What is this, a trick of fate?
“Madame.” He bows, and moves to press a kiss to your hand, the tradition not forgotten. His shock is easily ridden, unlike yours. The small blush on his cheeks and the wide grin on his lips tell contradictory stories, not that you’re judging, but the evident thing is his excitement.
“What are you doing he-”
“What a coincidence-“ His interruption is most unexpected, along with the high pitch in his voice.
You tilt your head, further dazed, but before the suspicion creeps in (you would be terrified to turn your gaze and find women’s accessories laid out for his picking on the table, for somebody else or for you; the latter being the lesser evil, but still disturbing), another joins, though he doesn’t seem to notice you at first.
“How helpful you are being, Obi Wan!” The tall young man with light brown hair calls out, necklaces hanging from both hands. You have a feeling that if he wasn’t busy, there would’ve been a physical reaction as well, a friendly pat on his shoulder, perhaps. “Don’t you know this is important? I need-“
His sentence is broken when he catches your attentive gaze, and realizes you are a part of this conversation as well. You’re amused by how glass-like he is, full of emotions and not afraid to show them. He looks at you, and back to Obi Wan, who finally decides it’s time for an introduction. The expression of recognition flashes through his face in a second as your name is revealed, but you can’t reflect it back fully. You have heard of Kenobi’s best friend or as some call it, brother, although barely from the man himself. You've witnessed how Kenobi's eyes lighten up with pride whenever Skywalker was mentioned, and stories- summaries of their adventures together that he told. The shortness of them wasn't a result of his unwillingness to tell them, but the circumstances of your company, never long or alone enough to visit them in their deserved entirety.
To be honest, Anakin doesn't know much about you either. He and Padme prefer the countryside by the sea, especially during the summer, thus he and Obi Wan hadn't had the means to talk often lately. He senses the situation, by the slight tension in the older man's voice; this strong, confident man crumbling into pieces for some unknown reason.
“Pleased to meet you, my Lady.” He makes a small cursty, which you mirror.
“Likewise, Lord Skywalker.”
“I’m afraid I’ll need my friend back to keep his promise.” The chains in his hands shake as he speaks, reminding the absurdity of it all. You’re not disturbed by it though, for all is concealed under his charismatic voice and mimics. He’s pretty and he knows it, which gives him all the tools to captivate others. Now you understand why people speak about him like that, moved by hearing his name alone.
“Oh, not a problem at all. We were just saying hello.” Entertained by the interaction, your anxiety is somewhat diminished, enough to let him go without an explanation. Also, the way that he rolls his eyes, and clenches his jaw is very cute, you dare say.
“Promise? I never promised anything.” He murmurs, but it is still audible for you as he follows his friend. And the rest, which makes you laugh whenever you remember it. “Anakin- she's your wife, you know her better than me. How exactly do you expect me to help you?”
“You always had a vision when it comes to beautiful things. Not like my eyes, which are only accustomed to the dirt and grease of machinery.”
You have to bite the inside of your cheeks to stop grinning, while you start talking with the salesman about the bracelet you’ve given them to restore. They make you sit and wait for a couple of minutes, all of which you spend trying to not spy on them. Fortunately, the shop is quite crowded, and their conversation is a part of the low grumble. A cup of tea is placed in front of you, as well as some new pieces they think you might like.
The one that catches your attention is not among them, however. It is a ring with a blue stone, the tone too similar to something you can’t put your finger on. It is too big to be for a woman, clearly designed for the other sex, but you admire its elegance nonetheless.
“Here is your piece, Madame.” The young salesman returns with a package, just in time to stop you from reaching it.
“Thank you.” You take the precious item back into your hands and inspect the handwork. It is shining once again, polished, and the place you accidentally broke it is now attached, the handwork barely visible.
You release a deep breath, praying graces. You would’ve never forgiven yourself if the family heirloom was forever damaged from the incident. You almost cried when it happened, a stupid game you were playing with Carolina before a ball, when you had already gotten ready and she was counting the minutes to her bedtime.
“That is beautiful.” Obi Wan joins you once more, now looking more relaxed. Your eyes search for Anakin and find him waiting for a package, reaching for his wallet. Mission accomplished. “May I?”
The chain slides into his hands, and wraps around your wrist under the watch of the young boy with a wholesome smile. He must think you two are engaged in some way, and there’s no turning back from it.
“Would that be all, Madame?”
“Actaully I-“ You remember about the ring, and even if you just want to unravel the mystery around it, the words have already left your mouth, and the entire tray is placed on the table.
Oh. Oh. With him next to you, suddenly it all makes sense. You’re holding the color of his eyes on your palm.
“That is beautiful too.” He remarks, embracing his role a little too much.
“I think it would suit you.” Now it is your turn to accessorize him. He is silent while you do so, taken aback by the unorthodoxty of it all.
“I’m not sure-“ Is all he manages to say, though can’t stop looking at it. It is ridiculously so well fitted around his finger, the fate pulling all strings to give a message.
“It compliments your eyes.” You defend yourself, perhaps a little too lively but you have no shame. It is the truth.
“The Lady is correct.” The boy joins your side, or does his job. “It is a most excellent match.”
“I might think about it.” Is how far he budges, returning it, and checking up on Anakin from where he’s standing.
“How much do I owe you?”
“Please, allow me-“
The audacity? The though is reflected in your face, which makes him blush at his unnecessary offer.
“With the ring.” You add, and it is all said and done ‘til he has time to get rid of his embarrassment and intervene.
Then, you make him take the package from you, your fingers wrapping around his. “You’re allowed to have nice things, you know?” There’s not an ounce of sarcasm in your tone, only gentle suggestion. “You don’t have to wear it, but I want you to have it.”
“Thank you.”
And you’re gone before Skywalker can catch up.
===
You truly don’t expect to see him wearing it, you really don’t.
But you’re proven wrong so, so badly.
He doesn’t take it off.
When he takes on his promise, and actually starts working on the ball he’s supposed to throw, the first thing he does is request for your uncle’s help. Then your uncle entrusts the job on you, and you’re spending hours with him like that, securing the musicians, bargaining for the food supplies, preparing invitation lists… Truly, that’s it. You too are surprised to accompany him that much and engage in nothing outside of the mission. Truthfully, a little concerning in the grand scheme of things, the inevitable result of your relationship improving, real sincerity. Although you have zero problems with the fact, enjoying it far too much. You don't care about how your contributions are secret, for your efforts surpass the limits of help that are considered friendly, and fully acknowledge that it is gonna be a damn good ball.
Also, while you hate to see him distressed, it is a look on him that you are guilty of adoring. The nervousness is like a little crack in his shell, a way to see a part of him that rarely sees the daylight. And it is for something so feeble? Only half of his effort would be enough for a wonderful ball, and he still tries to do more, and gets agitated over that? You are cruel for laughing at that, you confess. But it is more of a balancing act, rather than a mock. Somebody's gotta play the sane part, lower the tension.
You're ready to help with that, too.
“Do you think I should hire-”
You're at his study, the place you've been sitting since the morning. Time flies with every cup of tea, and plates of biscuits, but after a while, things inevitably get boring. For you, at least. He's quite focused, brows scrunched, tie slightly loosened. You see him looking at the list that you've put together in the beginning, the possible ways to entertain his guest.
You've already arranged the services of more than half of them. Twice the amount that would be considered enough.
And he's still going over it?
“That's enough!” Your open palm lands on the surface.
Obi Wan doesn't expect your outburst. He doesn't flinch, but his mimics change in an equivalent way. His lips part, causing him to relax that clenched jaw -oh, you might have a point.
“You. Need. To. Relax.” You’re now less frantic, due to his irresistibly clueless expression, though still firm in your cause. Fuck, how can he look at you with those doe eyes and expect you to… do anything!
You get up, and reach for the papers, sending them in a far corner of the desk. While you do so, you are basically halfway in between him and the table. Putting the teacups and the pot back on the tray (it has grown cold a long time ago), you turn to him, almost sitting at the desk in order to fit that narrow space. The bashful smile on his face (as if he wasn’t enjoying the perfect view of your ass seconds before) breaks your heart once more.
Putting your hand on his shoulder, you mirror his emotion. “It’s gonna be a splendid night. The kind that people will talk about it for years. And I’m not exaggerating on that one. I would’ve said the same thing days ago, all before the last additions, too.”
It is a challenge to feel the warmth of your skin, and not lean against it. “You’re right.” He tugs on his collar, taking a deep breath. “But you know- I’ve never planned a ball in my life, and- I just need it to be perfect.”
You giggle, and replace your hand on his cheek that is colored with the confession of his little perfection obsession. You welcome the slight sting of his beard, like a habit, and caress his cheekbone. He dares not move, or even take a breath, only watching your pretty face focused on his, and relish the feeling of your thumb across his features.
“It’s going to be just that.” You might’ve said, or a joke about his troubles, but words scurry off of your mind as you stay like that, squished in place as you try your best to comfort him.
“Can you kiss me?” The thought seems lunatic when uttered on a whim, but it has crossed your mind too, you must admit.
“Only because you asked so nicely.” There's an undeniable urge to use his words back at him.
Your back has to bend in an uncomfortable way for your lips to touch, but you have no complaints about it. The touch is so soft, laden with affection in the purest kind. It is obvious in every way, the movement of your mouths, determined to preserve the sweetness and sweetness alone, and the itch in your palms, mapping each other out over and over again, and the determination of your lungs, using every last drop of oxygen before demanding an exchange.
“T-thank you for that, dear.” His eyes open after a few seconds, with a sheepish smile that causes him to speak in whispers.
It’s about to get real dangerous for you, if he keeps being this cute.
“I’m not about to say we should've done it sooner, for it is a complete waste of our time repeating a truth well known, and I've already used that trick before, but maybe we should do it again.”
Okay, but how does that kind of sass sound cute from your perspective?
“Don't push your luck.” You say, fingers smoothing his hair, and his complaint dies on his throat visibly. He purrs, eyelids closing. That's the moment you decide to press a small peck to his lips for all his troubles. It lasts longer than intended, and while it's definitely different than the previous one, him gripping your waist telling a different story. The weight of them is welcome nonetheless, and it serves as an anchor, like you two could be molded into a statue if he held it long enough.
However, he is the one to break the stillness, shifting in his chair- first of all, how dare he, you're doing the acrobatics here-
Oh.
He notices that you've noticed it. Clearing his throat, Obi Wan lets his hands slide to the table, just a centimeter away from your body. “It’s been some time.” His face remains focused on the floor.
Didn't he even take care of himself?
You push his shoulder back, and he takes it a step further without a blink, sliding away with his chair.
What he doesn't expect, is for you to stay exactly where you are, only this time on your knees. He has to gulp once, then twice, because he finally looks at your face, smiling back at him.
“May I help?” Admittedly, your fluttering gaze was unnecessary, and tips him even more. You don't miss the way he stabilizes his hands.
“By all means.”
You start by unfastening the buttons of his tan trousers, letting your forearms rest on his thighs. He aids your quests by lifting his hips a little, being freed from the constraints of the fabric-
There he is.
You bite your lip at the sight, and the sight is not just his huge cock, already hard and weeping for you. It is about him, and the redness that creeps up his neck, the way he hisses and bites his knuckles at the cool air hitting his sensitive skin, how he claws at the armrest waiting for your touch. His head nearly hits the back of the chair when you finally do, a small moan leaving his exposed throat.
Well. You really should’ve done this sooner.
Your thumb swirls around his head, more fluid leaking out as you do so. Thus your fingers slide down his shaft easily, and he is coated in his slick in no time, along with your palm. It twists around him without rush, leaving him to wander in that dream like state without mentioning a finish line. You want to ask him, ask him how he likes it, or make him cover your hand with his, guiding you, but you also want him to stay just like this, eyes fixed with that heavy lidded gaze, partially obscured by that infamous strand of hair that refuses to be tamed like others. His mouth hangs open with loud breaths and sometimes graces you with sounds of his pleasure.
“Harder.” The only instruction you need.
You clasp tighter and shudder like him, taking pride in your work. He can feel the strain in his muscles fading second by second, the problems in his mind are plucked out one after the other, replaced by your soothing words you repeated constantly for days at this point, and expert hands, creating the same effect on his body.
“Like this, Lord Kenobi?” You require you still acquire his opinion, a feedback, and his title rolls off of your tongue unintentionally. Honestly, there’s no explanation you can make even to yourself, but you are already over it as his cock twitches under your palm, and his groan fills the room.
“Y-yes. You’re doing- so good.”
That must be some sort of karma, for he is above the concept of revenge, but you’re left with an itch to grind your legs together at his praise. If you do that, you’ll probably feel your wetness smearing all over your skin, you’re sure of it.
And you’re determined not to be distracted.
Your other hand joins the game too, starting to massage his balls. That makes him tense under you for a moment, but the tension dissolves quickly, leaving him dizzier.
“Fuck-“ Even the simplest swear word sounds hypnotizing on his lips, “you’re perfect. Don’t stop.”
Like you had any intention to do that.
On the contrary, your intentions evolve in the direction after his words, perhaps even a little bit further. You lean in and lick a stripe up his length, the tip of your tongue dancing around his head, fully tasting him, before you take him to your mouth fully.
His hand flies up, shaking as it comes down, held back by the strongest of wills from delving into your hair. Instead, it inches closer to your cheek, and returns to the position before (because he may have just lost five years of his life feeling the way you swallow him), half-stabilized over the armrest. His head rolls back once more, unashamed to release his moans with your every move. The most sinful one comes out when you use your throat, gagging around his thickness. You repeat it, and he whimpers, earning an equal sound from you too.
This time, you don’t have to ask him anything. The eye contact as you recover your breath, and continue to stroke him tells you everything you need to know, tells how much he enjoys it.
“Please- darling-“
You don’t try to choke on him again, but keep a rhythm with your tongue and your palm. He reaches climax quickly nonetheless, throbbing in your mouth and coating it white. Obi Wan feels sorry for not warning you, a sense of guilt rising alongside that pleasure, but it once again came over with lust as you gulp it down without a blink. He even fears he might go hard in a second, against all the rules of nature. You provoke that in all ways possible, pressing small kisses to his shaft, occasionally licking it, and letting your head rest on his thigh.
“Thank you.” It is so out of place to say that for this kind of act, but it is the sentence that is spoken, breaking the silence.
“You’re welcome, my Lord.” Thankfully, you raise your gaze just in time to miss the way his cock moves. You straighten your back and throw your shoulders back, stretching like you’ve just woken up.
So cute and so filthy.
“I’d like to return the favor.” He says, the action fueled only by his kind and generous soul.
“Some other time.” Your smile reflects the acknowledgment, not mocking his advances. “I am expected from home.”
“Ah, pity. Send my regards to your family.” He can’t help but feel envious of them. Do they know to treasure your company, not take a second of it for granted? Do they know what you did to him, before joining them? Would they be as accepting as ever, aware of your scandalous affairs?
Of course not.
But even then, you’d deserve much better than what they would treat you like. Your courage alone is enough to make the world bow down to you.
And what if your family means something other than your blood, your relatives? What if it was a stranger, a man undeserving, but had you to himself every night, when you returned home from your daily activities? A lucky fool who had the blessing of knowing you’d be by his side soon, every damn day.
His fingers turn into fists as you clean yourself up, so pretty in your ignorance to his gaze, brows slightly furrowed as you smooth out the wrinkles on your dress.
“Shall do.” And with your cheery voice, he doesn’t even notice his grip is unclenched.
===
Red isn’t his color. Some say it suits him well, that the stark contrast is eye-catching, but he doesn’t like to carry it. At this point of his life, it’s not even about his clothing choices, he prefers anything over that pigment in every possible scenario; the sheets, the carpets, the flowers… He makes a point of avoiding that powerful color.
Not today, though.
He has no word over how you dress and for once, tries very hard to stay neutral, not verbalize his choices when you mention the outfit you’ll be wearing in his ball, and it is a successful endeavor. (Knowing you and your stubbornness, it would probably only damage the bond between the two of you, something you’ll quip for years, or God forbid, keep you from attending at all.)
In the end, you wear it, and he ends up where he doesn’t want to be. Drowning in that bloody cloud. Without remorse, for the first time in his life.
For once, he finds himself chasing after it, taking joy in its liveliness, surrendering to the dangerous promises it makes. Your presence brings energy to every room you enter. The candles seem to burn brighter, and the warmth in his chest is not solely a result of both of your accomplishment of the spectacle. Obi Wan smiles ear to ear, eyes almost closed because of it, and he wants nothing more than to dance with you all night long, bury his hands in that expensive fabric and feel the burn in your cheeks, painted with the same color. He doesn’t even mean it in a perverse way. He wants to celebrate the payoff of your efforts, let the pride be felt, and enjoy the treats like all the guests, or even more than them (it would be more than fair to do so), together.
Alas, the society you both live in isn’t the type to accept such things. In order to not taint the event with the bitterness reserved for that principle, he doesn’t ask for more than six dances, or follow you around the saloon like a lost puppy. While it is never enough, he counts and cherishes the accidental eye contacts, and your hands holding his in dances, or the different circles you ran into each other and have snippets of various conversations. He accepts every compliment with your name tied behind his tongue and feels relieved with each passing hour, realizing how perfect everything is going, thanks to your pieces of advice and restrictions. He is light as a feather underneath all those layers he had to put on for the evening, without the pressing intention of taking it all off as soon as possible.
But, there are two sides to every coin, and here comes the other side, halfway through the night, the prejudice he had returning sinisterly.
He does a decent job of suppressing his jealousy, for all the purposes he’s thought of before. He can glance over when you dance with a stranger, or two, ricocheting on the stage and putting on a show for everyone. He chooses to admire the beauty you’re radiating, shining like a rose after the rain. It keeps him occupied for a while. But when an hour passes and you’re not even looking at his general direction, way too engulfed in your conversation with them, he feels a distaste rising in him. The red bleeds into his heart, poisoning him. It slowly takes over, and by the time you throw your head back with a burst of laughter that echoes in the room, he’s entirely filled with it. His hands twitch with every dream of ripping the source of that poison from your skin in a cove meant for just the two of you, away from all the vultures that eat and drink and savor his doings and yet ready to crucify him at his slightest flaw.
Obi Wan is one step away from sending everyone to their homes when you escort that man to the garden. Honestly, the only reason he doesn’t is because you return in a minute or two, the tip of your nose giving away all he needs to know- it’s chilly.
And he didn’t even give you his jacket?
On the second thought, it’s best that he didn’t, because then Obi Wan wouldn’t even bother to get rid of the crowd to have his way with him.
“Lord Kenobi.” You manage to catch him alone, on the balcony. He’s up there to calm his nerves, over you, unbeknownst to you. Unfortunately, his progress is lost the second he hears your voice, and it is truly an effort to act otherwise.
The night is on the brink of ruin for him, and it doesn’t have to be that way for you. This is why he tries so hard.
“I must congratulate you on this beautiful ball. It is a night to remember.”
“Don't say it like the honor doesn't belong to us both.”
You shrug, as if whisking all the credit away. But your eyes twinkle with pride.
“I haven't had this much fun in ages,” You chirp, “I would've begged for another one already, if I hadn't witnessed the toll it took on you.” He covers his face at the mention of the state he has been in for the last couple of weeks. “Oh God, don't.”
“Oh God, you just didn't expose yourself like that! When will you start enjoying this?” Your laugh is a hidden giveaway of how many glasses you had tonight. “Don’t worry, my lips are sealed for those who may inquire.” Your lips. Wrapped around his cock. Mapping out his neck. Keeping his secrets. “Remember that every word that comes out of my mouth is said by a person who attended all types of feasts all over the continent for a decade now. I grew up around these circles.” Shrugging, you add. “Perhaps that was my undoing.”
“Undoing? I could never call you “undone”.” Ironic, how you make him forget about before and continue to concern him with totally different subjects.
“You’re right.” Thoughts come out a little slow, but your effort is evident on your face. “I just had too many opportunities to start over in new places, experience everything that I was curious about, and that all led me to discover exactly what I liked, what I wanted from life.”
“How’s that a bad thing?”
“I’m not willing to let that go anytime soon.” You can’t help but notice that it sounds like some sort of prison of your will, but that’s not a discussion you can have tonight. “Anyways, Obi Wan. I must be going now, just wanted to pay my compliments and wish you good night.”
“I thought you’d stay the night-“Well, that’s definitely not the case, “But it is so early?”
“You know our houses are not so close, any later than this and I’m going to fall asleep on the road out of habit.”
Yeah, that’s why he thought it would be perfectly reasonable for you to stay over.
“I see.” And he wishes he had gone blind and deaf. “Then, allow me to bid you good night, my Lady.”
He takes your hand, placing a kiss you can very much feel despite the fabric. What he doesn’t expect, is for you to press your palm against his chest in return, because he doesn’t know of the urge you have to not leave. It is a split second of override, before you can command your feet to move again, blissfully unaware how tender that moment was.
===
A day. A full day. That’s how long he can refrain from seeing you. Funny, the meetings have become a habit for him, and although he needed you back then, he needs you more now, for completely different reasons, and you’re not there that morning- and why would you be? There’s no arrangement that demands your assistance anymore. Your praises are all said and done, and if to be repeated, it wouldn’t certainly be a matter that required urgency for you to show up at his door.
And maybe, you have other places to be, other doors to knock. Perhaps you’d enjoy a change of air.
So, he has come to yours.
Naboo. Aldreaan. Correlia. The cities churn in his mind, alongside your image in every one of them. The flowers in your hand as you roam the fields of Naboo, the coat that doesn’t do much for the redness on the tip of your nose while you lodge in the mountains of Alderaan. The exquisite jewelry you wear to a Correlian masquerade, outshining every debutante in the room. He imagines the people hypnotized by your presence (what can they be, other than blessed), or you gliding among them (after all, discretion was your powerful suit). And the worst of all, he thinks of the man escorting you, claiming their dances, bringing you a glass of their rare wines, walking with you in the natural scene, their savage arms around you, their hands groping your curves, pulling sweet sounds from you.
(No, the purpose of his visit was not that. )
He invites himself in from your open balcony, catching you as you start your nightly routine. You’re taking off your hairpins, when he does the courtesy of knocking on the glass, startling you just a little. You jump, but thankfully do not scream, the reflex somehow suppressed. Truth be told, it’s not because your shock actually dwindles. If anything, it is redirected into a different question, going from “What the fuck was that?” to “Why the fuck is he here?”
“Good night, darling.” He gestures for you to sit again, and you do, returning to your chair in front of the vanity. Your head has to crane in a strange way for you to see him, but thankfully, he comes closer and solves the problem, eyes meeting through the mirror. And his face lights up as he sets foot in the room, like he too has forgotten everything but this moment, his jealousy and desperation left behind the walls. That’s how the question of “What are you doing here?” is not immediately articulated.
Instead, you say, “Good night, Obi Wan.”
“I see I managed to visit you just in time.” Look at him, fixing his beard, laughing nervously. He just climbed to the second floor, and his heart only got racing now.
“Lucky you.” Honestly, you don't think there's a “wrong time” in his perspective, at least when it comes to you. A few minutes later, and he'd see you in your nightgown. Would that deter him from setting his foot in here? Most, most, most likely, no. Don't dwell on that thought, though. “And what do I owe the pleasure?” You try not to focus too much on the fact that you have him and your bed in the same frame, through the reflection.
“I thought I would see you today.” Is that sarcasm in his tone, or a little bit of self-humiliation?
This must be some sort of a Shakespeare play, right?
Oh my God, it is.
“Ah.” You fiddle with your hairbrush, the eye contact broken, your attempt to stop any matter from escalating this night. Any matter. Not that you had any questions when it came to his morals, he probably was the one person you’d never doubt, but in terms of his intentions to be here tonight startled you in a much different light. “I slept in late today. Didn’t even leave the house.”
Oh. That makes quite the sense.
“Actually I still feel a little bit exhausted.”
“That’s because you had too much fun without me last night.” A treacherous scoff falls from his lips as he shakes his head. The moment that the tides turn. The one that brings back all the crude questions.
“What? No? What do you mean?” For all your effort to remain calm, you look alarmed, that tired face with doe eyes showing it all, and he feels sorry for a second, troubling you over his overthinking ass.
Then, he spots the bracelet you wore last night, lying haphazardly over a piece of paper on the corner of the table. It looks very much like a letter.
It’s not hard for him to advance his speculations.
“I think you know it already.”
“Obi Wan.” You twist to actually face him, your arm on the back of the chair. “Why are you here?”
He takes a few steps back, as if the air is stolen from the short distance between the two of you. He runs a hand through his hair, undisturbed by its messy result. You can see him biting into his cheeks, trying to select the right words. In the end, all that effort seems unnecessary, because when he speaks, the sentence can’t be any simpler. “Who was the man you spent an hour with last night?”
Wincing, you take a few seconds to process. It’s not about the answer, but his motive, his audacity that irks you. You stand up and speak. This time, your voice is sharp as ice. “That’s none of your business.”
He blinks a few times, so sure of his righteousness, and determined. “You were in my house, at our ball, dancing and talking with strangers and not even glancing in my direction for the better half of the night. I think it’s some of my business.”
“I was by your side for much longer than it is acceptable, Kenobi, do I need to remind you? We danced six times and greeted the majority of guests together.” You’ll not let the truth be ignored. “Any longer than that and there would be rumors all over the society today, and even I would’ve heard about it despite staying here all day. I didn’t come this much by pushing boundaries at every fucking chance I get. I picked my battles, the thing you seem incapable of.”
“So, am I to understand, this thing between us,” The look on his face dares you to deny the existence of it, “is not worth picking?”
This is the possibility that scared you. And for good reason, it seems. You close your eyes, in order to not roll them, and purse your lips. He uses the moment to reach for your arms, like he could appeal for an answer from you. “Don’t you love what we have?”
You couldn’t feel any worse under the warmth of his hands, affection pouring out of them despite the rage in him. “I love what we had.”
“Had?”
“It’s obvious that we can’t keep doing this, is it not?”
Confusion leaves its place to anger once more, for all the wrong reasons and his face darkens. “Oh, I see. You secured yourself a new entertainment, and now you have to get rid of the old one.”
You shrug out of his hold, distancing yourself from him. The source of the problem is not what he claims it to be, and it infuriates you, along with the accusations he taints you with. “Don't you dare reflect your own degeneration on me like that! It’s not about my damn cousin’s damn friend, it’s about you!” It is nearly a scream, the highest pitch that wouldn’t grab attention. Still, reflectively, you turn your head to the door, which you had luckily locked. “Leave now, you bastard!”
Honoring the part he was assigned in that theatre play, he focuses on the wrong part of the words, the crumbles of information giving him hope, and dim his doubts. “So there's nothing between you and him?”
Seething, you are red with fury, taking a sharp breath, pointing your finger at him like a gun. “Get. Out.”
“Is there?”
Your tongue is determined not to let him hear your words, despite the truth in them. It will not lead to any good.
But so will his closeness.
When did he get so close?
The moment you look into his ocean eyes, the decision to say anything is deemed impossible. The decision to do anything, actually. His arms cage you against the cluttered table, and yours end up on his chest, though without any intention of pushing him away.
“Answer my question, and I will.”
How could you? How can you be able to resist his utmost sincerity, the desperation in his behaviors and the brutality of his words contrasted in the way he looks at you, the caging without actually touching you. Your suffocation is only a result of your inner turmoil, the desire to spit out the truths, clear his heart and give in to the love he's handing out, but terrified of the places it will take the two of you.
“I’m waiting, darling.” You can’t help but watch his perfect lips move, his voice licking your skin.
You gulp, an action he doesn’t miss, and dares to laugh at it. Obi Wan can see the exact moment your gaze returns to being that of an eris, though the flames remind him of a different time.
A very different time.
“I hate you.” It is perhaps the most childish thing you’ve ever said in years, and it shows.
So, that’s his cue to kiss you.
For all your claims, still, he doesn’t miss the small moan you let out, swallowing it with pride. Your soft lips move against his like a habit, anticipating every move and the next, a choreography you both know all too well albeit in a much swifter tempo. Your hands wrap around his neck, pulling him closer but his stay in the same spot, afraid to disturb you, though gripping the edges hard enough to turn his knuckles white. Though, when he tugs at your bottom lip, asking for more, you grant him that, your tongues joining the dance. You whimper, the action triggering your inhibitions to loosen up, like each second wipes the doubts away. It is a sugared water, only serving to increase the thirst instead of quenching it. So you don't stop drinking it.
Not til you absolutely have to.
“No, you don’t.”
Two seconds have to pass for you to understand his response. With his breath still warming your cheeks, even brushing them with his nose, yes he dares now, the statement is the undeniable truth.
However, not that you're ready to admit it. He already knows too much, all the things you like, all your weak spots, all of your soul.
“Yes, I- oh” And he's not the one to endure your lies. His fingers delve into your scalp, putting traction into your hair ‘til you have to tilt your head back to release the tension, forcing you to look at him through your lashes. Still, eye contact is not what he seeks, for he has as much a chance of getting lost in it as you. He uses the expanse of skin you offer, and dives in for that specific spot that has your legs going limp. It has two consequences: Firstly, you are stuck between him and the table, the latter supporting you too little that the weight rests almost entirely on his body, every plane of him touching yours. Secondly, the angle puts the mirror in the corner of your sight, and you have a maddening view of what’s happening. It is enough to make old ladies screech and faint, and artists to slave to immortalize the scene.
“You’re a bastard.” You murmur the last bit of objection, solely for the object of throwing it out of the tip of your tongue. He hears, though quite unbothered, the retort to break you further leaves his mouth readily.
“Call me whatever you want, dear, you’re the one begging for it.”
Of course, you only pant in return. Even when he threatens to nip and bite at the sensitive nerves, you don’t stop him. Furthermore, your calf twists around his as much as it is able in that impossible posture. An invitation.
“And what else would you let me do to you? Would you let me take you to your bed?”
You nod, frantically. “Yes, please Obi Wan- take me”
That’s a sentence straight out of his dreams.
The second your feet touch the ground, both of you gather the ends of your dress, yanking it out to throw it haphazardly on the floor. Your stays and chemise follow the same fate, then it is his jacket and shirt. He taps on your thigh, like he would let you walk the five meter distance between there and the bed, you jump, a little shakily (not that you ever had questions about his strength). Fuck, it excites you how easily and softly he lands you on the edge of it. You reach for his trousers, but he stops you and urges for you to scoot back, and lay down.
Because that’s the best way he can rid you of your shoes and stockings.
Your knees stick together as he works on one foot, and the other. The shoes drop with a loud thud, making you bite your lip, close your eyes for a moment and pray nobody investigates. It’s no wonder that after that small break, your pupils meet once more. How ironic that it is the cause of your concern, and the only solution.
You can feel his fingertips skimming the top of the only clothing left on you. While the touch is stimulating enough, it is the fact that you have to spread your legs a little to allow him to undress you, giving him a view of your wet pussy.
Nothing that he hasn’t seen before, but that doesn’t affect the way you tremble.
Throwing your head back, you let him slide the stretchy fabric down. Slowly. Like his piercing gaze isn’t enough. You’re squirming by the end of it, all thoughts of getting him out of his outfit gone (-or delayed, should you still believe yourself.)
Thankfully, he takes care of it, the sounds of his buttons unfastened echo in the room.
Though he has no rush to join you.
You turn your face to search for what's taking him so long, a whine in your throat when he kneels. That's unlike him.
You feel cold without his body looming over yours. And he has a hard time not to do that, not falling for the flush of red and your hard nipples. Especially when you're so gone that you may come undone just from that.
He'd like to see that.
But he has to make you understand how you keep him in that state, ignorant of his troubles, even as the solution is obvious and wanted by both sides, however the other can't accept it out of simple stubbornness.
Thus, he plays the deaf now, as he grips the supple flesh of your thighs, squeeze and move as he pleases, exposing your core to air while he busies himself with other parts. He claims you with his lips, mapping out, pushing you down to the mattress every time you jolt because he’s so close just a little to the left- But perhaps the worst is his vulgar taunts, whispered, to himself mostly, a way to speak out the anger.
“Are you this wet for all the men you hate?”
“No.” You cry, not able to stand the accusations. “It’s you.” And it is the truth. There are no other men on the planet that you would bear being treated like this by, or attempt to change their opinion of you. But now, you need him to know that. You can’t imagine a future with his back always turned to you, or be subject to his very much forced small talk with empty, or worse, hatred filled eyes. It is a reveal of a side of you that you had to keep hidden and downplay, to be free at the end of the day, give both of you an opportunity to walk out, but it doesn’t matter if the said fallout leaves his judgment of you sour. You care about his perception, and would do your best to change it should it be mixed with lies. Truth, and nothing less, is what he deserves.
A wave of relief floods his heart, that simple answer is all he wishes to hear. There’s also a bit of rage, for knowing you’d never admit it in any other circumstance. Alas, the smile appearing on his face is unstoppable. Even as he finally begins to eat you out.
A moan leaves your mouth at the first contact, which is nothing more than a small kiss. That bad, uh? As he licks everything he can reach, it turns into a whine, because it is evident he has no concern about making you cum quickly, or in a normal amount of time. He just continues to do whatever he was doing before, exploring every nook and cranny, and marking, like he intends to commit this moment to his memory. It may not have been his first time, (or the second), but he’s doing it for himself now, your desperation sadly not a priority. You also suspect he’s doing it to drive you mad, using his previous experience and remembering how sensitive you got when his beard rubbed against your skin.
“Obi Wan-“ Your back arches, a hand reaching for his hair. He stops it all by jostling your legs with a hold that could leave imprints. It takes half of your willpower to stay in the place he put you in, and that means you only have the other half to process the indescribable pleasure he’s giving. It is gonna be fast, whether he plans it or not.
“Could you actually throw this away? How can you pick anything else over this?” You knew it would be a hard transition. The magic he created is haunting and ready to jump on you in those dark corners, even after many years. There is no cure for ghosts, after all. The thought now seems impossible, the last thing that could cross your mind. Simply impossible. He emphasizes by nudging your clit, every single movement forcing a sound out of you. “That's right. I’m going to remind you how good we are together, make you feel so good that you'll forget anything but us.”
The passion in his words scares you, but it would be a lie to say they don't excite you in some way, making your heart flutter in your chest at his devotion and to be able to still feel safe only supported by the honest bond you two have. You chant his name as he smothers himself in your folds, sucking and flicking your raw bundle of nerves. He loves to feel you twitch when you are overwhelmed, but not enough to climax.
Then, he scrapes your clit with his teeth, and you're gushing, head thrown back, a silent scream in your mouth. The hot lava inside you doesn't cool down, paying its visit to every part of you, making stars explode behind your eyes and body trash against the sheets. To be perfectly honest, he didn't expect this much either, his strong muscles tightened to keep you from closing your legs, a string of curses muttered at the obscenity of it all. As always, your bliss only augments his own, especially at the sight of your essence flowing out of you. He has to drink it all in. Thus, he doesn’t stop, unbothered by the subtle sway of your hips, or the slight tug at his strands. He has no objection to them, on the contrary, he would encourage them if he didn't have to abandon his task to say the words. The slow movements of his tongue create constant stimulation in your already delicate nerves. Your second orgasm crashes you like a clap of thunder, leaves you sobbing and shaking. It uses all the energy in your already spent muscles, wipes every argument from your mind and removes those troubling emotions from your soul. The interesting thing, is that you have no oppositions to the matter. Why would there be? Could there be a sweeter arrangement? Isn’t it better than a dream? You speak the truths, and he worships you. You pay him the respect he deserves, and he tries to honor it in every chance. You don't complete his personality, you enhance it, and in return, he uses everything in his power to make your day better.
It is not that simple, a voice speaks from the back of your head, but it's too silent to have an importance.
Likewise, some of his ideas are dismayed just as easily. Pity. He had every intention of taking you from behind, not letting you get away before painting your ass red, and watch you crawl back to him still even when he teased you that badly, but you seem too gone, too weak to lift your hips up. And it is not a big deal anymore, because he's equally excited to have you like this, lying on your back, legs hugging his torso. Like your first time. The parallel is unintentional, but more than welcomed. How much and how little has changed since then? He leans in for a kiss, and fuck, your mouth is greets him too purely, like he's not covered in your slick. There's something more than lust that drives you, evident in the way you move, like you’re carving out a promise on his lips. The sounds that you produce are not in desperation, but gratitude, not weary of the periods of suspense but glad that it is over. His fingers travel the length of your abdomen, all blame on him for the coldness of your skin and the way you shiver. When he circles your nipples with his thumb, you sigh, and press yourself to him.
“You take care of me like no other, Obi Wan.” You whisper as you cup his cheek. You should’ve told him sooner. It was the least you could do.
He has no answer, and he doesn’t need one. Holding your wrist at the sides of your head angrily and meeting with your tongue is more than enough of an explanation, just like the one you made a little too late, beautiful controversies. You both are unaware of how your hips rub against each other, without hurry, ‘til his cock catches your entrance. Your breathing becomes erratic, considering you didn’t get a prep or had any in some while, and he’s big.
“Are you gonna let me in, sweetheart?”
“I need you.” You almost wail, despite knowing it will be too much. It’s not about pleasing him, either, for these things are not given up as sacrifices, ever. What matters is that you’re together, and that is always good. “Please, I want you.”
Could he ever refuse?
He takes his time, relishing the surrender of your tight walls, and brave noises, replied with his own moans. Your pants are guiding as much as they are troubling, making him even harder. He swears he’s about to burst when you outright sob while he brushes your areolas. Your back raises, an attempt to get his fingers a little higher, and your eyelids flutter close with the movement.
Make no mistake, your face scrunched up in delight is a sight to behold, but he can’t compromise having your eyes closed, sparing him from that glossy, burning gaze you have when he tears you apart. He needs to see them lose all coherent thought, see those doubts fly away and light up with pleasure.
“Look at me, dearest.” Right, aren’t you more than acquainted with his most important wish? He pleads, the softest tone that spilled from his lips tonight. Your heart skips a beat although you’re not exactly capable of processing that information. Needless to say, you don’t oblige to his wish, not when you are so spent.
Obi Wan groans, his hand flying up to turn your chin. At that moment, all fall silent. You get lost in his stormy eyes, and so does he. Though his cock twitches in your quivering channel, that’s not the point.
“I can’t get enough of you.” He blurts. Then, the other truths demand to be told too. “I don't like the way they look at you. I don't like how they don't know how blessed they are by your presence. Shit, I hate it when they know it too. I hate to think those who got to memorize you this closely, even those you knew before me.”
Even those you knew before me. “Obi Wan, you're-”
“Crazy? I'll admit, I am crazy when it comes to you.”
“I never-” You have to drown a whimper as he continues his deep, slow strokes, “asked for any of it.”
“Of course, dear. I know, I know it's not you, but them. But I can hardly stop myself from reaching out and pulling you out from their sigh. Or wrap my hands around you, let them see what we share. They wouldn't dare anymore, if they knew the lines you left on my back.” It takes an incredible amount of will not to thrust into you faster, with where his ideas lead him to. “Would you let me mark you from the inside?”
Fuck, why does his words make their way into your heart without ringing those alarm bells you have ready at all times? How does he move past them so easily?
Or do you let him, and take those rings as a cheery tune of his nearing presence, and not a warning as they must be?
“Yes!” The feeling of him finishing anywhere but in you suddenly sounds so disgusting. You want his warmth, even though you're burning already.
His lips find yours, kissing you so hard that you'd thought he wanted to silence you. But surely, you know better, that's definitely not the case. You get to drink his sweet moans as his hands envelope you further (like it's possible). In return, he's right there to swallow your gasps, the proof of how you push yourself for him. The rest of the world stops, the urge to fill your lungs no longer necessary, nothing but the rhythm you've created, and clouds you've climbed on.
He senses your peak before you do and gives you a brief space to breathe, praises falling from his lips that you can't hear, as you shake and let out whimpers, quite loud, for you've grown used to him muffling them. He follows suit, not able to resist your walls clamping down on him, painting your insides with a heavenly moan.
It takes a second for both of your bearings to return, for the night to evolve into a chilly summer night it was simply meant to be. The coldness is especially remarkable as sweat cools down. A towel wipes them rather quickly, but it's never as warm as having the other around. Your usual remedy, a nightgown, is no use either, even if he helps you put it on. It is such a whiplash that makes you question everything about the last hour. You're left with burning cheeks as he collects your clothes from the floor, hanging them on the divider, then his- but he does the same to them?
“What are you doing?” You croak, a minute of silence for your vocal cords. “I don't cuddle.” That's a harsh sentence, but it's the truth.
“And I don't leave the person I love in the middle of the night to freeze.” He's holding a candle, the only lit candle in the room, and his face is illuminated beyond anything else and it could be said that he is the source of light.
The person I love. His words break down the last resolve you have, and you're left to figure out how you feel about it as he kills the flame, and slides into the sheets behind you. You'd think the sensation of his chest pressed to your back would keep you wide awake, but no, it's weirdly new yet familiar, enough to lull to sleep. Also, his scent is mesmerizing, and you never had it this close and constant.
And for him, he had no trouble whatsoever from the start, but this is far better than expected, that he is sure he is living the best moment of his fate. The softness of you, in his arms, drifting into heavy dreams. It is a treasure for him to see that you can relax beside him, allow him to feel the regularity of breaths, showing your most natural self.
But the morning is anything like the night.
You wake up from the orange lights of the rising sun, when he gently combs your hair out of your face. There's a fatigue in your muscles, alongside that sweet tinge of pleasure still lingering, making it all bearable. Your skin runs hot where he holds you, your back, your waist, your intertwined legs… The slight prickle of his beard is not pronounced when it's rolling on your shoulder, especially as it's followed by small pecks. He's unable to resist, your intoxicating smell pronounced in the cove of your neck, right under his nose. Only when he feels somewhat satisfied, and you seem a little more conscious, the tonus of your body increasing, he talks.
You weren't ready for his morning voice.
“Good morning, love.” His hand rises to soothe the redness rising where his chin was pressed. Delicate all over. “I’m afraid I must get going, for both of us’ sake.”
You give an affirming hum, and swiftly roll out. Your body betrays you without delay, a shiver seizing you, protesting the lack of his heat. You shake your shoulders, not so subtly but it's not like you can cringe. It is your band aid, and you're ripping it out.
You reach for a robe and put it on rather easily for your questionable nerves and state of mind.
“Darling?”
“Yes, you should really get going, Obi Wan.” Fuck, that sounds still more aggressive than you are, or you ever intended, a mirror of the storms in your mind.
“What's the matter?” He's awfully quick to put on his trousers and come near you once again. He looks into your eyes, unobscured by your hair, and then there's that look of reveal on his face, the point of no return. He says your name, a final plead and a warning.
“You must leave soon.” This time, you’re a little softer, but it is nowhere near normal, considering what you shared.
“You think last night was a mistake.” He’s never sounded colder, and you have to focus not to bite your lip. The stern expression on his face is unbecoming of him, but it’s also a great reflection of his fidelity. Now, the other side of the coin shows itself, with his icy eyes and clenched jaw.
“I never-“ said that. Though, is there any possibility of you explaining what you feel? The doubts, the unfamiliarity of these feelings. Could you say, I’m not sure about this thing in between us, without creating the same effect of his claimed words?
There’s a second of silence, as he’s giving you one last chance to speak up. You know, you know that the moment you try, he’s going to break that heartless look, and put his loving hand out.
“For someone who thinks it was a mistake, you don't seem regretful at all.”
“Because it's not, and I don’t!” The confession is for him, but it is hard on you. But that doesn’t mean you’re willing to repeat it. “But it can become one. This has to stop. We can’t go further than this.”
“Why?” He’s trying his best not to raise his voice in this quiet, quiet hour.
“Because this is just- just an infatuation. It will go away. And to remember this time as a good one, we have to be careful, and we’re starting to lose that sense.”
An infatuation. That is the strangest insult he’s ever heard, but the worst nonetheless. An infatuation. The more he repeats the word in his mind, the more his anger grows, with a goal to show you otherwise.
“This is not what happened last night, and you know it.” He was as clear as day, and you honored that likewise. There was no lie. “If this is about you getting pregnant, I swear -”
“No, that's not it.” For once, you show something about the bond you have. “I have no concerns about you, or the whole society, should that happen. I’d even happily move away somewhere nobody knows my name and raise them.”
Why is that option uttered, when there are far easier choices to make? “You’d rather build a new life than marry me?”
You remain silent once more, owning the coward you are. This is exactly why this wouldn’t work, anyways. He shakes his head, catching himself still thinking of ways to convince you, to work through the problem. He even thinks of walking out of the main door, and running into your father's study, forcing your hand in marriage.
You can see that thought play in his head as his gaze becomes fixated on the door.
"See. That's why.” You beg. “This is just an obsession, and you are maddened with it. You can't see reason, or listen to the sound of it, and I can't watch you make decisions like this. Is this how you actually want to treat me? Blackmail your way into marrying me?”
“So, this is what you think of me.” Blackmail.
“No, Obi Wan, are you even listening to me?” You cover your face with your hands, a moment to recollect yourself. “Do you know when my next trip is scheduled?”
Oh. You and your infamous life on the roads.
“In three days. And do you know I already postponed it once?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean we have very different lifestyles, and they are not compatible.”
“Or maybe, you are running from something so long that it has become a habit.”
“I do it because I like it. Because I promised people that I would see them before the end of autumn.” The latter part of your answer is not in your favor, but his, a product of overthinking. You discover that a little too late. He sees it too, along with the fragile curl of your lips, but doesn’t use it against you. Not anymore.
“I wish you a safe trip, then.” That’s the closest you’ve ever gotten to regret your preferences, as he takes a step back, and dresses himself in a blink with perfection. It causes you to feel vulnerable, like his stoic face and impeccable outfit which somehow looks even more put together than yesterday, when he was helped to put it on, paints him like a statue of a Greek god who is putting you on trial.
A trial that you fail.
Yet, by not punishing you, he gives you the worst sentence: Incarceration with your conscience.
#star wars#star wars imagine#star wars fanfiction#obi wan kenobi imagine#obi wan kenobi x reader#obi-wan kenobi x reader#obi wan x reader#obi-wan x reader#obi wan smut#obi wan kenobi smut#obi-wan smut#obi-wan kenobi smut#obi wan x you#obi wan kenobi x you#obi wan kenobi fluff
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hi hi !! can i request a karina imagine/drabble with a short girlfriend who she loves to tease a lot, with the quotes:
“you're really adorable, you know?”
“you're so obsessed with me, love”
home . karina x fem!reader (no specific pronouns)
about . 620 words, fluff
warnings . reader is shorter than karina!
it's been a whole three weeks since you've seen karina, and you're starting to go nuts without her.
being in the middle of comeback season means you see karina lesser than often. she comes home at ungodly times, and you're lucky if you can even feel her weight dip into the mattress as she passes out. but even if you wanted to make her schedule a little bit easier by giving her a nice massage or helping her wake up in the morning, she's gone before you can even open your eyes.
it's not her fault, and you know that. your texts are littered with apologies, ones she's probably sent in breaks of long hour practices and recordings, and the mere thought that she cares enough to send a message of her missing you in her hectic schedule is enough to warm your heart. she doesn't know that in reality, those words are enough for you.
it's why you're so hellbent on making a nice, home-cooked meal for her when she comes back from practice today. she's being let off early, and you'll finally be able to spend time together, time that's been missed these past few days. she deserves it more than anyone.
the only problem with this is, to put it simply, you're a little too short to reach the ingredients you need. the items you use daily are scattered between the lower shelves where you can obtain them easily, but karina is the one that likes to experiment with less common ingredients on the nights you both stay at home together. she's always teasing you for not being able to reach things you need, but it's okay since she's usually there to get them for you.
unfortunately, that isn't the case today, and the only thing you can do is stack two stools upon each other in order to grab the romano cheese at the top of the drawer. fettuccine alfredo has never been this physically challenging, but you think it'll be worth it when karina lights up at the taste.
"aww, my baby is so tiny. you're really adorable, you know?"
the voice startles you, and suddenly you feel the two stools toppling under you as you fall off the edge. luckily, it's not too high of a distance and the kitchen mat is plush enough to cushion your fall, but the impact is still painful enough to make you groan.
"oh my god, i'm so sorry are you okay?" you hear as you're lifted up, familiar hands feeling your waist to see if you've bruised yourself heavily.
"karina? why are you home early?"
you have to tilt your head up to see her concerned eyes, and even in her worried state, she manages to look beautiful.
"we finished recording early and i wanted to surprise you. but enough about me, are you hurt? do you need an ice pack? why were you even on two stools?"
"i'm fine, just a little sore. and i was trying to get the romano cheese at the top of the drawer since you like fettuccine alfredo."
the concerned look on her face shifts into one of amusement.
"you're so obsessed with me, love."
"hey!" you protest, hitting her shoulder, "i just wanted to be nice and make you dinner since you've been working hard."
"and you could've made any meal. but my little midget girlfriend decided to make my favorite pasta as a reward, huh?"
she tucks you into a hug, not even letting you respond as you're squished against her chest. her fingers find the tips of your hair to play with, and you breathe in the familiar scent of her warmth.
and finally, you feel at home.
#apologizing on every post for being late is becoming a habit lol#but i am rly sorry for not writing sooner and going off track#just fyi this req made me crazy bc im so in love w karina 🧎♀️🧎♀️#also im rly bad with establishing gender but i tried. so#text#aespa x reader#aespa fluff#aespa blurbs#aespa scenarios#aespa imagines#aespa drabbles#karina#karina x reader#karina fluff#karina imagines#karina blurbs#karina scenarios#yoo jimin#yoo jimin scenarios#yoo jimin x reader#yoo jimin fluff#yoo jimin imagines#yoo jimin blurbs#kpop#kpop x reader#kpop fluff#kpop scenarios
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blog entry 10
happy 404 day!
i'm baaack. it's been a minute since I felt inspired (i don't know if that exactly the word but its good enough for now) to really take the time to write out my life lately, but i hope if you have been watching you've enjoyed the visual journey to spring. i'm listening to my discover weekly intentionally for the first time in a minute. i really like the song that was just played [at the door by ILYICH and Takuya Nakamura]. i have been fighting for my life over the past few days. going toe to toe with something that was not quite covid and not quite the flu but it definitely sat in my body and forced me to care for it very deeply all the same. the first few days i spent on the threshold of sleep and waking which is much harder as the days grow longer. today is the first day that my mind has been awake enough to really even begin to tackle the mountain of tasks i had set out for my first week off in what feels like months.
it scares me sometime. how quickly i lose myself in the heat of all the work i can bury myself in. someone recently reassured me that in those moments i actually become so much more certain of who i am. that perspective shift has defintiely helped. march was truly a marathon. i hosted my first black clay meetup. vended my first market of the season. went to my first nceca and meet so many incredible potters. started a new job as a dance instructor. got a slot in my first art show and almost missed the art drop off because the acceptance email ended up in my trash somehow. my bestie flew in for a wild 56hr stint. we saw amaarae. she took one of my wheels classes. we frolicked around fayetteville and then she was gone. leaving behind a sore throat and aching body to remember her lol.
[update absolutely hating my discover weekly fuckkk lol]
honestly after reflecting on march. i know that i should been really proud of all that i've accomplished. i am finally getting my art up on walls. have started preliminary conversations with so many clay folks that I am excited to continue to expand, but i can't help but feel overwhelmed by the multitude of options and the simultaneous lack of current funds.
[discovery weekly currently on redemption arc.. what a rollercoaster. jk it was short lived. i think its pissing me off bc it feels like a bunch of white folks making black music so immediately its just wack to me lol}
anywho back to life lately. i ebb and flow between patience and impatience in my process. working on relying on community and not just building. allowing the folks around me to really show up and shine as well.
just binge read octavia bulters kindred today. like i deadass read almost all it today. i could not put it down. nobody really compells me to read quite like octavia. i never tire of the way she puts words together. i quite literally could not stop until i was done. i love the way that i can escape into a book but seldom dedicate the time to escape into the literary space because digital space just comes at such a greater convenience. i have been trying to make an honest effort to read way more. i am three books down for the year and i think its a reasonable goal to finish a book a month. so far i've literally only read octavia butler but its been a minute since ive been so obsessed with an author. i dabble into a bit of james baldwin. i love how full and wandering his sentences are. but honestly my next read will probably just be another octavia read because why stop a good thing.
i don't really have more to say so until tomorrow
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Denim & Mistletoe Desires
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JC and Justin have been separated for far too long during the pandemic. With the world slowly falling back to what can be considered normal, it's the holiday season and they finally are able to be with each other again.
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I know you like it
I know you like it it it
I know you like it
I know youI know you like it it it
When you walk in it’s as if the world slows down around me. Like magic, the sea of people between us parts, and all I see is you. Perfectly dressed as always; black on black with a hint of Christmas red at your breast. You wore your glasses that you hate because I love them and I asked you to wear them. My fine ass man that I haven’t seen in over a year because of the pandemic.
We didn't need to stay apart but it was the best choice. When your dad injured his back for the second time this year and unfortunately needed surgery to help recover it was clear that you were the best person out of your siblings to make the sacrifice and go all the way to Florida to help your mom out. Although we knew we’d miss each other we ultimately decided that you’d stay put with family after your father recovered rather than risk contact trying to get back to each other. Trains were just as risky if not riskier than planes and I didn't want to ask you to drive the 42 hours between us. As the days turned to months then turned to years the 2,780 miles between you and me felt further and further away but finally tonight my eyes can behold you without the guise of a computer screen between us.
Don't know why, but girl, I'm feeling close to you
Maybe is this ocean view, I'm so emotional
And all these stars been dancing on my head
Too long, too long, too long
You haven’t seen me yet as you are greeted by the people you know closest to the door. I’m all the way across the room but I can still enjoy watching you from here. Almost everyone knows you; by association or by fame. The ones you worked with that beautiful year you spared to work with me greet you with surprise and exclamations. Mike from accounting who you used to talk about traveling with. Leslie, whose position you had temporally filled after she left to get married, hugged, and kissed you around her baby bump. It's been so long since anyone has seen anyone and everyone is a sight for sore eyes this year at the company holiday party.
David, the one who you trained to replace you, hugs you warmly and his now almost three-year-old toddler grabs on to you with joy from his fathers’ arms although he’s never met you. This does give me a chance to see you in the rare but beautiful element of you with a child. Although you've told me time and time again that you never wanted to be a father it’s always been clear that you are the best with children. Even my son, now our son cracked through your iron-clad door to parenthood. A soft smile finds my lips as my heart warms to see you take the toddler in your arms with a soft toss in the air and hug him sweetly to your body. His giggles are like music even from where I’m standing and many heads turn to see the happy child.
I wrote a song for you, I wanna sing to you
But every time I'm close to you
The words wanna come out, but I forget
It's so strong, it's so strong, it's so strong
Moving closer to where you are I am stopped by Marcella and Johan. I lose sight of you as I stop to speak with them, passing along holiday wishes and hopes for the new year but the chimes of your laugh reach my ears through the cacophony of the largest group anyone has been comfortable to be around in a while. Thankfully we’re a small company and we were able to rent out a large space to keep everyone comfortable and stress-free. We’ve had a good year despite the total shift to work from home. Lots of other brands had suffered during the past two years but WilliamRast was thankfully not one of them. Our sales dropped slightly but this year we nearly cracked the hundred million so obviously, we had to celebrate.
The other people in the group with Marcella and Johan ask me about my year, about our son but my answers come automatically because my mind is only on you. My heartbeat picked up the moment I caught a glance of your now long, gray-streaked hair. Bless your mother for keeping you from dying your gray away and keeping your luscious chestnut lock from getting too long. You look like something out of my dreams as I spy you now closer to me talking to a new group of people. We both gained and lost, and lost some more weight while we quarantined. Not that I could complain before but the return of your perfect strong, sturdy form had me wishing for your return more and more each day. Your back is to me so I take full advantage; eating up just how toned your already beautiful ass has become.
Didn't I seem like I'm catching something
That's because it's true
I can't deny it, I won't try it
But I think that you know
I look around and everything I see is beautiful
Cause all I see is you
And I can't deny it, and I stand by you
And I won't hide it anymore
I don’t want you to find me too soon. I’m enjoying watching you work the room. Not one to spoil a good show, I excuse myself from the group that had pulled me in under the pretense of needing a refill. Unfortunately, I have to turn my back to you as I head off in the direction of the bar. Our son, now almost seven years old flys by me with his cousins on his tail. He’s been just as excited to finally see you as I have been and had barely wanted to sleep the night prior.
He's not the only one that aches for you. My hand and lips were hungry to hold and taste you as my eyes were to see you. Each day we've been apart a dull ache has built inside of me that after all this time feels like it's meant to be there. For the first time in so long, it's gone and I almost feel lost without it. With each step away from you, my mind says ‘ turn around’. Accompanied with each heartbeat I hear 'he's just over there’. I'm going against my body's instinct to reclaim my place by your side but as you’d taught me the anticipation is just as sweet as the beholding. You've already been here just a few miles away from our home taking the appropriate time to self-quarantine after traveling back to me. Your last day of quarantine couldn’t have come sooner.
Our son signaled to me that I was going the wrong way, that you were behind me but I placed a finger on my lips signaling to him to not say that he’d seen me to you. I sealed our silent agreement with a wink as he giggled and continued at high speed towards you. I heard his exclamation of joy as he careened into you. Peeking over my shoulder once I reached the bar I see you crouched down hugging him and gesturing at how tall he’s gotten. You’ve missed almost half a foot of his life all this while. Even from here, I can see the disappointment under the joy on your face. I feel a pang of sadness in my chest but quickly think that you still have at least his full body height more to go and there will be time to make up for the lost six inches.
Soon you're complimenting my nieces on their dresses and I see you twirl the youngest of the two causing the light to play off the sequins on her skirt. She’s pulling your hand, probably saying she wants to dance with you. You expertly swing her up into your arms and glide across the floor in your usual effortless way. We're all a family here and there are many children here tonight but the co-founders’ children are the center of the attention. Many eyes turn your way as you waltz across the dance floor with my business partner and best friend’s youngest to the music softly playing in the room; spinning and dipping her high and low causing her to giggle and the spectators to clap as they look on.
You're in the best of moods tonight. I'm sure it wouldn't take me long to guess why...
Read the rest of the story on my AO3
#christmas#happy holidays#holidays#xmas#jc chasez#justin timberlake#joshtin#fan fiction#fanfiction#ff#read on ao3#writers on tumblr#writing#ao3#ao3 writer#writeblr#song fic#one shot#drabble#slice of life#don't worry the cap fic is coming#i was just feeling kinda down#holiday season and all#happy christmas#and#thank you#as always
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Stardrop Valley
Fandom: Five Nights At Freddy's: Security Breach X Stardew Valley
Rating: Mature
Tw: 1st person, Lots of dead characters, Child Death, Missing Children, Graphic Violence, Stockholm Syndrome, Alternate Universe, Magic is Real, Monsters are Real, Not Canon Compliant, Different situations mean different behaviours, characters in distress, Kidnapping, Torture, thalassophobia
AO3 Link
Chapter Four: Day Three, Spring
While you do wake up warm and comfortable, you can tell instantly that your face is swollen. Your nose and upper lip feel puffy and sore. Your eyes open with difficulty, a pain sparking between your eyebrows. That kid really did a number on you.
You pull back your blanket and sit up, head heavy with fog. Remembering what the last time you woke up was like, you lean out of bed and look for your shoes. Gone. You try to frown and wince. Guess you're not emoting today. Looking the other way you notice that the doors at the top of the stairs are wide open.
How the hell does he do that without waking you?? It would be impressive if it wasn't so terrifying.
You slip out of bed and go to grab your phone from your jacket, anger flaring when you find that missing as well. Well, the jacket is missing, as is your pile of dirty laundry, but your phone is sitting atop your dresser, plugged in and charging. You really can't be angry and it's getting harder and harder to be anxious about this 'Attendant' when all it seems he's doing is attending to you.
You grab your phone and run a hand through your hair. Hold on. Where's your hat?
You groan, but just chalk it up to the Attendant doing whatever he likes and move on. You're not sure if you lost it yesterday or if he took it, but you let it slip to the bottom of the things you need to worry about.
It's just before 8am, a decent chunk of sleep, though you wish you'd been up earlier. You pocket your phone, not bothering to change out of your pajamas with the door wide open, and start slowly up the stairs. You step with care, avoiding any boards that try to creak under your weight, until you reach the top and can look into the living room.
The lights are on, bathing the room in warm light. Among the plants you noticed before, you notice the walls are decorated with several paintings, all of them sun, moon, or star themed. A large woven lavender rug, decorated with white-threaded images of wolves and rabbits chasing stars, stretches the space between tall bookshelves and a cozy-looking blue armchair. Directly across from you is a large fish tank, maybe 100 to 125 gallons, with a dark blue lunar theme. Though from where you stand, the tank appears empty.
You hear a clink of silverware from the kitchen and step forward quickly, peeking from around the corner and past the yellow couch and multitude of plants. The kitchen is empty, but there's a plate, a glass, and a folded note at the place setting once again. Your stomach clenches with hunger as you cautiously approach the table.
Six strips of bacon, two slices of toast with some orange jelly on it, and a well seasoned omelet mixed with diced red pepper, mushrooms, and onions. There's even a glass of what looks like orange juice. You pick up the note, another smiling sun drawn on the front, and flip it open.
'Good morning, Starlight
I hope you like eggs and bacon more than pancakes
Breakfast is important!'
You…don't really know how to feel. You think maybe you should be afraid, grab your things, and run away as fast as your legs can carry you. You still have a good chunk of money, you could easily start new elsewhere.
But…
This feels kinda nice. Not safe, just nice.
You set down the note and eye the plate. You've had several near death experiences in the last twenty-four hours, what's it to you to risk one more?
With a nervous glance around the area you can see from where you are, you make sure The Attendant isn’t hiding nearby before you plop down into the chair and pull up to eat. The juice stings a cut inside your upper lip you didn't know was there and the crunch of the bacon makes your nose burn with pain. But damn, it's so fucking good. You can feel tears threatening to fall as you chew, your stomach so happy for a good home cooked meal that isn't stale beef ramen with week-old store bought green onions. God how you wish you could smell it.
When your plate is empty and your juice is gone, you pick up your dishes and carry them to place in the sink.
Now. You have a giant creepy monster to find.
You don’t really WANT to find him, but you have questions and he hasn’t tried to kill you yet. Well, not on purpose anyway.
You're sure he's not in the house, but you're not sure if he's going to be all that friendly if you start breaking into other buildings trying to find him. By the front door you find your shoes on the rug and your jacket hung up on a hook, donning both you try the door and find it unlocked. Stepping outside you're greeted with the same beautiful sight as before, the sun barely up over the edge of the forest, casting a warm glow over the farm. You step out onto the porch and sigh, cupping your hands and taking a deep breath. You hesitate.
Do you reeeaaaally want to draw this thing’s attention? It might not actually know you’re awake yet. You might be able to get away and go look for those kids on your own. It’s early morning. Now would be the safest time.
You suck in a deep breath again and shout out over the fields.
"HEY! I KNOW YOU'RE OUT HERE!" You yell. "YOU SAID I WOULD SEE YOU!"
No reply. You feel a twitch of irritation behind your eye and put your hands on your hips.
"IF YOU WON’T COME OUT, I GUESS I'LL JUST GO BACK INTO TOWN-"
"We would really prefer it if you didn't."
You jump and spin around and look up as the creature that grabbed you last night ducks under the doorway and steps outside with you. Even in your shock, you manage to stop and actually look at him. You start at the bottom and go up.
He stands at least eight feet tall, more or less given how he stands with a hunch and slightly bent legs on his tip-toes. His feet are the same split colors as his hands, one pale yellow and the other dark grey. He appears to have cloven hooves in place of toes, the pale one's hooves are an almost golden yellow like the claws on his pale hand, while the others are a striking blue. Around his waist is a bright red sash that matches the red ribbons wrapped around his wrists and ankles. The way the tattered ends dangle almost looks like blood at a glance. He's dressed in a barely off-white pair of matching shirt and pants that are tucked into his wraps.
Draped in layers around his shoulders and hips are two different orange fabrics, a lighter orange with a burnt orange over it. The collar and skirt both cut into multiple sharp-curved points from which unnaturally glowing little stars hang. Atop his head is a burst of yellow petal-like pieces stuck out around his face, attached to a blue nightcap-style hat with another burst of smaller yellow petals at the tip that hide a small silver bell.
All this and it's his face that draws you in. The side you saw last night, his right, your left, is a pale yellow like his hand, with a round golden-yellow spot on his cheek like a bit of blush and a brightly glowing white eye surrounded by that black starburst. His smile on this side is gentle, sweet even, as this pale side is shaped like a crescent moon that splits his face..
The other side is a stark contrast.
A hollow black eye with a burning white pupil stares at you, you're reminded of Chica's soul-scorching glare. This side has no lips, instead it's almost skull-like with oversized teeth so sharp you're sure he could bite straight through your arm if he wanted. The little blue circle of blush on his cheek is distracting enough that you do not flinch when he moves.
"It's rude to stare, Starlight." He chides, gently teasing. You can't help but notice that while the light side of his face smiles, his mouth doesn't actually move when he speaks.
"You nearly smothered me last night." You balk, indignant that he could possibly call you rude after trying to suffocate you.
"We did not," He straightens up, but it's not aggressive, more surprised. "We were very careful not to cover your nose-"
"I can't b r e a t h e out of my nose right now." You motion to your clearly bruised and swollen face and watch his right side droop in dismay as he inspects you and realizes the extent of the damage.
"Oh goodness," He moves forward too fast to dodge, an arm wrapped around your back to pull you close. "I'm so sorry, Starlight, I didn't know."
"Hey-!" You press your hands against his chest, trying to keep him away and lean your head back when he lifts his other hand toward your face.
"This'll only hurt for a moment." He promises as you struggle to dodge his encroaching hand.
"Now hold on-!" You try to turn your head and yelp when he grabs your nose and gives it a hard squeeze. You’re not sure which is louder, the crunch or your scream. Bright lights dance in your vision and the way you're being cradled close to his chest takes your attention. You try to push away and take a sharp breath to scream at him, only to find that you can breathe through your nose again. It doesn't hurt any less, but being able to breathe helps.
"Stop touching me!" You snap, flailing your arms and wriggling out of his grip. "You keep grabbing me and touching my stuff! Stop it!"
You flinch at the sad look on his face and the way he crouches with his hands folded in front of him. It would be pitiful if he wasn't so much stronger and larger than you.
"Just…ask first next time! That hurt!" You gently touch your face, pouting at the way he brightens slightly.
"Of course! We did say it would hurt. Silly me! We're so used to just doing, I suppose we forget you haven't been here in so very long!" He clasps his hands together and stands up a little to match your height.
"What-?" You frown at him, no matter how painful it is.
"We've missed you terribly," He continued. "We weren't sure you were ever going to come back, but now you're home-!"
"Whoa whoa whoa," You put your hands up in his face and wave to get his attention. "Home? Back? The fuck are you talking about?" You want to grab his face and shake the answers out of him, but he gasps and holds his hands over his nonexistent ears.
“Language!” He gasps, eyes wide and face in a frown. You groan loudly and step backwards, trying to put distance between you. You feel your foot slip off the top stair and yelp as you tip backward. You jerk to a stop, The Attendant’s claw hooked in the bottom hem of your shirt. His arm is stretched out as though he’s trying so hard not to touch you.
“May I-?” He starts, but you grab his wrist and drag yourself back to solid ground on the porch, making sure to unhook his claw and step sideways to get a few feet between you.
“Look,” You cross your arms defensively. “I appreciate how much you seem to want to help me, you’ve been very kind so far, but I don’t know you and you keep doing some very weird sh…stuff.” You catch yourself from swearing again. “Who are you? Why are you here? What was that Chica monstrosity last night? Why are the kids in town so afraid of you?”
"Well," He tilts his head, arms sagging at his sides. "I guess it has been a very long time and we're not quite…'us' anymore."
"That answers absolutely nothing." You growl, glaring at him as best your broken nose will allow.
"Mm." He bends down to reach for your hand and freezes when you flinch back, realizing that he was going to touch you without asking again, instead he holds his hand out to you and waits. You really shouldn't and you don’t want to, but after a long moment you put your hand in his and feel a weird tingle when his smile turns oh so sweet.
"I'm Sundrop," He says. "I was…I am the Sunnyday Farm Attendant."
"Sundrop." You echo. Why does that sound familiar?
"I belonged to your grandfather before he passed," He puts his other hand over yours to hold your hand so tenderly. "Now I'm yours. I look forward to taking care of you."
Oh.
That's a feeling.
You turn your eyes away, unable to handle the way he's looking at you.
"Okay, Sundrop," You grip his cold hand briefly and then take your hand back. He stands up fully, looking beside himself with delight. "So, what about all the locked doors?" You ask as he steps past you and off the porch.
"Locked doors?" Sundrop taps his chin with a claw in thought. "Oh, you mean the greenhouse?"
"Yeah," You hop down the stairs after him. "And the gates and-"
"Oh! I keep those locked to keep monsters from wandering around or getting into what they shouldn't." Sunny leads the way towards the greenhouse, while you struggle to keep up with his long strides.
"And the doors in the house?" You press, practically jogging. It feels like he’s trying to escape your questioning.
"To keep you safe!" He chirps.
"From the monsters?" You scoff, but are met with silence. It feels heavier than it should, leaving you looking up at Sunny's back with a weird feeling in your chest. The click of a lock draws you out of your thoughts, realizing you've reached the greenhouse as he opens the door. He holds it open for you, smiling down at you as you look up at him with a wary look. Eventually curiosity gets the better of you and you slip past him and step inside. The farm outside is lovely, but the greenhouse takes your breath away. You count no less than eight different types of fruit, two of each type of tree, resulting in sixteen trees with branches hanging heavily with the weight of their fruit. The space around the trees is packed with summer spangle flowers of all different colors.
You breathe a small gasp of awe and step up to the edge of the dirt, looking up at a tree heavy with bright red pomegranates. You want to reach for one, but don't want to risk stepping on the flowers.
"Sunny-" You barely turn your head before Sundrop has joined you and is reaching up to grab the largest pomegranate he can find. He plucks it from the tree with a sharp twist and turns it in his hands, claws dragging over the skin. You watch as he cuts it open and turns it inside out, a few of the red seeds dropping to the ground as he hands it to you.
"Thank you." You mutter, taking it from him and plucking at the tasty little seeds within.
"Um," You clear your throat, Sundrop looking down at you. "The kids in town," Oh god, you don't know how to talk about this with an eight foot monster farmer. "Why did you save me and not them? They seem to think you're dangerous. They're afraid of you." Hell, you also think he’s dangerous, you’d be hard pressed to say you weren’t afraid. Your eyes meet Sundrop's and you look at each other for a moment. That heavy silence starts to creep back in before Sundrop breaks it with a softer tone.
"I…keep trespassers and thieves out." He says, tilting his head slightly. "I would never hurt them."
Okay. That's good to know. As long as he’s not lying.
"But,"
BUT?? BUT WHAT??
"My twin, Moondrop, is much more dangerous. It’s not safe for them here." Sundrop looks away as he touches the darker side of his face.
"How dangerous?" You grip your snack to your chest.
"…He would pull even you apart if given the chance." Sun looks at you with a sad smile.
‘Even’ you? That's not good. Very not good.
“…Why is it safe for me, but not the kids?” You press, your snack forgotten as you turn it nervously in your hands. Sundrop is quiet. He stands there in silence, a growing silence that makes your heartbeat pound in your ears, your breathing becoming difficult to control. So you change the question.
"Where IS your brother?" You ask, your hands shaking a little as you consider how unsafe you might actually be.
"He only comes out after sunset," Sunny assures you. "You're safe with me. During the day he can't get you."
You're not sure how much you believe any of that, but with how Sundrop has treated you, you really can't think of a reason to question him.
"I would…like to find those kids again," You say, popping a few more seeds in your mouth. "They might need food or a place to stay-"
"They can't stay here." Sundrop says firmly, turning his head toward you again.
“Why not?" You huff. “You still haven’t explained-”
"It's not big enough to keep that many people safe, they're safer where they are." Sundrop sighs, plucking another pomegranate from the tree. You pout a little, but shove a handful of seeds in your mouth.
"I still want to help them however I can," You puff up defiantly. "They're just kids and there's plenty of food to share."
Sundrop hums as he brings the fruit to his mouth. He opens his mouth for the first time since you've met him and you see the inky blackness that is the inside of his throat. He bites the pomegranate in half with a solid crunch, jaw snapping shut like a bear trap, and swallows it without chewing. You shudder when you remember how close his face was to yours last night.
"If that's what you want, Starlight." He purrs, tossing the other half back before stepping away to a small stack of supplies in the corner. He digs around a bit before turning back with a few wicker baskets in his grip.
"Shall we pick something for your friends then?" He smiles as you brighten and nod eagerly.
"Absolutely!" You bound forward and jut your hand out for a basket. Sundrop covers his mouth, muffling a giggle as he holds it down where you can take it from him.
You're going to grab as much fruit as you can carry to give to Haley and the boys. If Sundrop won’t answer your questions, maybe you’ll manage to get some more answers out of the kids in exchange for food.
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inbreeding.
Chapter 5: His Master, Ashamed
Chapter Text
Two days after Marchioness Midford and her daughter visited Phantomhive Manor, they had another visitor; one whom they had known well in advance would be coming that day, though they didn't go to any great lengths to please her. Quite the opposite:
At the sound of the front door knocker being vigorously banged, Sebastian strode into the foyer and opened the door, and then frowned down at the visitor. "Miss Hopkins, I've told you before, trades people such as yourself are expected to arrive at the rear entrance."
"And a good morning to you, too, Mister Hardhead," Nina Hopkins retorted, frowning up at the butler's face. "As for the rear entrance to the manor, that is for servants! And Nina Hopkins, the tailor who announces the seasons, is not a servant, but an artiste!"
"Referring to yourself in the third person is a sign of narcissism and mental illness, Miss Hopkins," Sebastian said with clear exasperation. "I am sorely tempted to close this door and insist that you go around to the rear, but the master is already waiting for you in the drawing room, and it would not do to keep him waiting further."
Once inside and heading into the drawing room, Nina called out gaily, "And what daring new outfit do you need this time, my little earl? Are you going on another adventure to distant lands? After the delight of designing your outfits for exploring Africa on Her Majesty's business, I can hardly wait to find out what my new challenge will be!"
Seated in his favorite chair with a detective novel, as he'd been reading to pass the time while waiting for her to arrive, Ciel looked up at Nina with an arched eyebrow and wry expression. "Your 'challenge', Miss Hopkins, will consist solely of making a respectable wardrobe for me. For a growing young gentleman," he added as he stood up, his lips quirking in a blink-and-you-miss-it smile.
Nina Hopkins went from leaning solicitously over the earl's seated figure, to drawing back with a startled frown as he stood up from the chair and stretched to his full height in front of her. "You... you've grown! At least a full inch, in just the three months since I saw you last!"
"A full inch and a half," Ciel informed her, no longer able to hold back his smug grin. "And I believe my shoulders are a bit broader than before as well; you'll need to do a full set of measurements today."
As Miss Hopkins began working with measuring tape and clipboard, frowning in concentration and perhaps something more, Mey-Rin quietly approached Sebastian at the entrance to the drawing room. "Mister Sebastian, perhaps while she's here, Miss Hopkins could see Dahlia as well?" the maid suggested hesitantly. "Dahlia will be needing a holster under her uniform for her pistol, yes she will. And... and begging your pardon, Mister Sebastian, but Miss Nina's designs for concealed holsters are, um, a bit more comfortable for the female figure than your design, I'm so sorry to say."
Sebastian frowned at Mey-Rin, but chose not to comment on her remark concerning his own tailoring abilities. Instead he asked, "Has she finished deciding on the long-distance weapon she'll be using, then?"
"Not yet, sir, but it should be soon. When last I looked out at the firing range, Bard had narrowed it down to three weapons for her, yes he had..."
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Even as Mey-Rin was speaking to Sebastian indoors, back in the fields behind the mansion, Bard was looking through a pair of binoculars at a target twenty yards away from where he and Dahlia were standing, Dahlia with a short-barreled revolver in her hands. "Damn good grouping; all but one shot within an inch of the bulls-eye," he commented past the smoldering cigarette dangling from his lips; lips that twitched up into a smile as he added, "Ain't nobody gonna expect that from a gun that's normally used for close-in fighting!"
"Precision aiming is required for throwing weapons, too," Dahlia commented with a wry smile as she lightly touched the braided coil of hair piled atop her head, in which she kept two hair-sticks that doubled as daggers, and over a dozen tiny throwing blades hidden within the long braid.
"Yeah, and that damn strong grip you got from strangling people makes it easy to handle a Webley Bulldog's recoil, just like I figured," Bard said almost smugly. "Yeah, you'll do fine on the Bulldog. Convenient, too, if you and the master use the same gun; there'll be less chance of grabbing the wrong type of ammunition from the armory in a crisis."
"The young master fires one of these?" Dahlia said, blinking down at the small but powerful revolver in her hands. "I wouldn't have thought..." her voice trailed off, and she seemed to shrink in on herself.
"Lemme guess; you thought he was too small and prissy to handle a Bulldog?" as Bard gave her a lopsided grin. "You should've seen him last year, before he started really growing; such a scrawny little thing that you'd expect him to be knocked on his arse by the recoil from an itty-bitty derringer! But even before I got hired on here, he carried a Bulldog when he went out on the Queen's business, and he'd go bird-hunting with a full-sized shotgun too."
"Indeed he did, and still does," Sebastian said from directly behind them, making them both jump a little before they spun around, to be confronted with his stern expression. "And the master would be singularly unappreciative of your descriptions of him, Baldroy... do you perhaps need another one of my lessons on holding your tongue?"
"No!" Bard said quickly, a bead of sweat trickling from his forehead. "Come on, Sebastian, I was just explaining to the new girl about how the young master is a lot tougher than he looks!"
"That he is," Sebastian conceded, and a little of the dark, dangerous aura that seemed to surround him eased up, as he looked past them at the target. "And that is a decent grouping, Dahlia; enough to satisfy the current requirements for a distance weapon, though of course you are expected to practice and further improve your marksmanship."
"O-of course, Mister Sebastian," Dahlia agreed with a hasty nod.
"I suggest you take your weapon into the house with you, to be measured for a holster by our visiting tailor. I shall retrieve your target to show the young master your efforts, as he had exhibited a moment of curiosity on the matter this morning," as Sebastian strode forward, towards the row of targets.
"But—!" as Dahlia started to reach out to catch the butler's jacket sleeve, only to be pulled back by Bard and urged towards the house.
"But what about all those beehives only a few yards away?" the laundress protested, looking back over her shoulder at where Sebastian was heading; the series of posts and hay bales that supported targets were indeed bracketed on either side by beehives, a cluster of six to the left and seven to the right. "You said the firing line was also our minimum safe distance; any closer and they might feel threatened and attack!"
"Yeah, and you and I would both regret it," Bard said with a vigorous nod, still tugging Dahlia towards the house. "And so would Mey-Rin, or Snake since not all of him is scaly. But Finnian's got some tough skin; beestings only make him itch a little, though he still goes out mostly at night to change the targets because he's such a softy towards any animal, even them. And Sebastian... he just doesn't get stung, period! Which is good for him, considering how often he has to go out there for honey; the young master's got the world's biggest sweet tooth."
00oo00oo00oo00oo00oo00
Weeks passed as the latest servant-soldier to join the Phantomhive household settled into her duties. Weeks that saw the ruin of five of Master Ciel's shirts, three pairs of pants, two fancy tablecloths and even an ironing board, before the new laundress finally got the hang of ironing. But under Sebastian's stern tutelage, Dahlia eventually did learn to do all of her duties properly, just as she eventually found her place and comradeship amidst the manor staff.
After giving the matter due thought, Sebastian allowed Dahlia and Mey-Rin to have the same evening off, provided they performed their duties flawlessly beforehand and were always back home at the proper time. Both ladies were happy to have the time off together, having become comfortable and friends with each other, and would often spend their weekly evening off exploring the nearby village. The rough shepherd lads and other locals that had once bothered Mey-Rin so much that she had gotten in the habit of staying in her room to practice reading with children's books instead, were less troublesome when the serving women went out together.
But for the rest of the week, when no laundry needed collecting, washing, hanging, folding, ironing, mending or putting away, Dahlia could often be found in the kitchen with Bard, even when the meal preparations required little to no assistance. Sebastian actually subtly encouraged the behavior, after he noted that there were almost no explosions or incidents of flash-burned food on those days, because Bard wasn't as impatient to get the food ready for eating quickly if he had Dahlia to talk to while working. Dahlia would do some easy but time-consuming task like shelling peas or stirring a thickening gravy while good-naturedly teasing the chef about his rough American ways, smiling when he sassed her right back, and occasionally sneaking his cigarettes.
Just under a month after her arrival, Dahlia was hard at work in scrubbing a set of particularly stubborn grass stains out of Finny’s pants, when Sebastian came in with an armload of bed linens that looked to be of the finest quality and asked politely, “Pardon me, Dahlia, but do you have any matches?”
“Ah, no, sorry,” Dahlia told him, wondering why he had thought she would have any in her pockets; the laundry room had no stove for heating water, so when she needed hot water for washing the whites, she lugged a few kettles’ worth in from the kitchen. She held her arms out for the bedsheets, fully expecting Sebastian to hand them over, but instead he held them up out of her reach. Puzzled, she watched him stride past her and towards the door leading outside to the clotheslines… and then pause and look over his shoulder at her expectantly, in a wordless command to follow him.
Dahlia followed Sebastian outside, far past the clotheslines, and clear over to the burn pit where Finnian burned the most noxious weeds. Then she watched with astonished dismay as the butler dumped the high-quality linens right atop the ashes. “What on earth?! Sebastian, why…?”
“I’m sorry, but the master has forbidden me to tell you anything about this increasingly regular occurrence,” Sebastian said coolly, before walking back to the manor.
Dahlia did not consider herself an exceptionally clever woman, but neither was she a blind fool. She spent only a moment frowning at Sebastian’s retreating back before pulling the sheets out of the burn pit and laying them out to look them over, searching for whatever the Phantomhive butler had been forbidden to tell her but wanted her to know about regardless.
By the time Sebastian came back out with a box of matches from the kitchen, Dahlia had found the stains in the sheets, determined their origin and bundled the sheets back into the burn pit, though with the stains conspicuously exposed instead of hidden in the folds. She asked quietly, “Mister Sebastian, even though you’re forbidden to tell me anything about this… could you nod or shake your head in response to questions I ask after making this entirely coincidental discovery?”
“Why yes, I am physically capable of nodding and shaking my head,” Sebastian said while giving her an approving smile, as he struck a match and set it to the base of the bundle. And for the next several minutes as the fabric slowly burned, he proceeded to either nod or shake his head in response to the questions she asked… though there were a few times when he gave her an inclined head and piercing stare, which she eventually figured out meant that while the question could be answered with a simple yes or no, the real answer was more involved than that and she should make a more specific inquiry.
As the bundle of linens burned to ashes, and after voicing a suggestion for how she could approach the situation and receiving Sebastian’s nod of approval, Dahlia excused herself and went to see the young master.
0oo00oo00oo00oo00
Ciel had finished reading the newspaper and was preparing to make the first of the day’s telephone calls to his business managers when he heard the knock on the door to his study and Dahlia’s voice asking quietly, “Young master, may I come in?” He gave permission to enter, and she came to stand before the desk, dropped into a deep curtsey and said plaintively, “Young master, how can I prove to you that I am not a complete failure as your laundress and seamstress?”
“Eh?” as he stared at her in surprise.
Dahlia kept her head bowed as she said in a voice heavy with misery, “I know that I have failed to live up to the household standards in regards to ironing, though I swear to you that I am trying my best to improve with Sebastian’s firm lessons in technique. But truly, I do have some knowledge of how to properly wash and clean various fabrics, and I do sew a tidy seam when mending. Will you not give me the opportunity to prove my worth?”
Ciel cocked his head at her, as a suspicion began to form. “And what, exactly, have I or a member of the staff done to make you believe I doubt your capabilities?”
Still staring at the carpet, Dahlia told him, “Earlier today, my lord, I was hanging the first of the day’s washing to dry when I saw Sebastian taking a bundle of fabrics to the burn pit, and burn the lot to ashes. His manner at the time did not encourage questions, but Finnian said afterwards that it’s not the first time he’s done that since my arrival. My lord, for your butler to burn your belongings before even giving me an opportunity to see how they are stained or torn, let alone attempt to remedy… how else am I to interpret that, except that you think me utterly incapable of performing my duties?”
Ciel sighed and rubbed at his forehead, swearing he could feel a headache coming on. Damn that demon butler, he’d probably deliberately timed that burning to coincide with her hanging clothes to dry… “Dahlia, so far I’ve been given no reason to doubt your capabilities at washing or mending. Nor are Sebastian’s actions intended to cast aspersions on your abilities. Those sheets are being burned because I want them burned, that’s all.”
Dahlia curtseyed again, even further than before, and her voice was strained as she asked timidly, “Would my lord be so kind as to inform this humble servant why he desires the sheets to be burned, rather than mended or washed and donated to the orphanage nearby?”
Sebastian was nowhere in sight, but Ciel could still somehow feel his butler smirking at his discomfiture. He finally growled out, “Because they’re an embarrassment, that’s why! Now return to your duties!”
Dahlia hastily curtseyed again with a hurried, “Yes, my lord!” And she proceeded to back out of the room, still babbling, “I apologize for giving offense, my lord; I did not mean to—oof!” as she turned to hurry—straight into the still-closed door, hitting it so hard she rebounded and fell to the floor.
Ciel wondered for a split-second if Mey-Rin’s more unfortunate habits were catching, as he reflexively got up from his desk and hurried over to where Dahlia lay sprawled, her hands over her face. “Are you all right?”
“Mon nez,” Dahlia moaned, and he could see blood starting to seep out from between her fingers. Having seen plenty of broken noses over the last few years, he recognized the signs too well; he hissed a curse while whipping out his handkerchief for her to use, and said aloud, “Sebastian, come!”
Sebastian appeared in the doorway a moment later, taking in the scene at a glance, and crouching down beside them while giving Ciel a raised eyebrow. “My lord, what precisely did Dahlia do to earn such a mark of displeasure?”
“What?! I didn’t hit her; she ran right into the door!” Ciel protested.
“I was stupid,” Dahlia moaned, as Sebastian whipped out his own handkerchief to give her to hold over Ciel’s, which was already staining red. “I’m so stupid… I’m going to be let go…”
“I hardly think that is the case, Dahlia,” Sebastian said reassuringly as he effortlessly lifted her in his arms, but took her over to a chair in the study instead of back to the servants’ quarters. “Here, lean forward onto your elbows, and keep your head bowed. You don’t want the blood to run back and down into your throat or lungs; that would be quite unpleasant for you… Young master, before she begins truly panicking, perhaps you could reassure our laundress on her continued employment?”
“Sebastian’s right, Dahlia; you aren’t going to be let go just for breaking your own nose,” Ciel told her, and offered a crooked smile. “The other servants could tell you stories of all the things they’ve broken, burnt and ruined, and they’re still here! I told you, you were hired to be not just a household servant, but part of my private army to defend my estate. You proved you were lethal enough back at the House of Flowers, and as far as your servant capabilities, from what Sebastian has told me, you’re doing far better than my other servants did for their first few weeks here! You’re in no danger of losing your position.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Dahlia whispered, keeping her head down as ordered by the butler.
“Young master, it would be best if Dahlia stays seated there and holding her nose for roughly ten minutes, to ensure the bleeding has stopped before she returns to her duties,” Sebastian said with concern written on his features. “Will it be too terribly inconvenient for you to work with an additional servant besides myself present in the room?”
Ciel had been about to tell Sebastian to take Dahlia back to her quarters… but given the way the butler had phrased his question, he’d look peevish and petulant if he said anything but that it wouldn’t be a bother at all. So he did, but he gave Sebastian a glare just on principle as he went back to his desk.
Both servants were silent as he flipped through the ledger he kept on his desk until he found the telephone sequence for connecting to the Funtom confectionery factory in Belgium. He picked up the receiver, started to dial the number… and then set the receiver down, staring first at Sebastian and then at Dahlia, until he finally demanded, “You put her up to this somehow, didn’t you? So damned clever at working around my orders… Did you actually tell her to contrive to break her own nose if I didn’t tell her everything right away?”
“I did not, my lord,” Sebastian said with a smile and bow, though it was unsure whether the smile was for his master’s intuition or for Dahlia’s cleverness. “That delaying action was an inspired bit of quick thinking on Dahlia’s part.”
“It’s not actually broken, young master,” Dahlia said as she tilted her head up just enough to peer at him, with what might have been a wry smile peeking out from under the handkerchiefs. Her voice was somewhat muffled and nasal in quality, but still intelligible as she explained, “I get nosebleeds rather easily; it’s come in handy at other times that I needed a reason to stay in place instead of leave, or keep a gentleman’s attention focused on me in a completely platonic fashion. But it did hurt quite a bit, banging my face like that… and I will continue to bleed for several minutes, my lord; that is an unfortunate truth.”
“I see,” Ciel said grudgingly. “You understand of course that the ruse will never work on me again, and if you try it, I’ll order you to run back below stairs, dripping all the way.”
“Of course, my lord,” Dahlia said quietly.
Ciel sighed and admitted, “And the equally unfortunate truth is, those sheets are being burned because they’re stained. It’s a stain that you’re likely familiar with from your prior profession, and I didn’t want you to have such an unpleasant reminder of your old life when you’d barely begun your new one.”
“I see. Young master, thank you for showing such consideration to a humble servant. But perhaps I could mention two minor issues? The first being that I still see sheets with such stains on them—”
“What?!” as Ciel gaped at her in outrage.
“On sheets from the servants’ quarters, my lord.” Dahlia’s look at him from underneath her lashes was definitely wry. “You have five healthy males on staff, three of them in the prime of life and one of them still growing…”
“But which one—no, forget I said that, I don’t want to know!” as Ciel buried his face in his hands.
Hiding his face did nothing to hide the amusement in her voice. “I don’t try to ascertain which bed the stained sheets came from, my lord; I simply wash and dry them. In any case…” Her voice grew serious again. “My lord, may I speak freely?”
Too aware that he was blushing hotly, Ciel nonetheless lowered his hands, looked at her and sighed. “You may.”
“Thank you, my lord. May I ask, what is your favorite fruit?”
That got not only Ciel but Sebastian staring at her in wary confusion, wondering what she had in mind. But Ciel answered honestly, “Strawberries.”
“Thank you, my lord. As it happens, I do an excellent dessert with strawberries, which I’d be delighted to make for you someday. But to use strawberries as a metaphor… The world is filled with people who like them, and why not; they’re very sweet. But someone isn’t apt to like them much at all, perhaps even loathe them, if their first experience with strawberries was being fed them before they were ripe… and having the fruit forced on them.”
Ciel stiffened in his seat, while Sebastian went very still. But looking down and apparently unaware of their reactions, Dahlia continued, “And even if their first experience was not so … very unpleasant, if someone was fed strawberries with every single meal, for year upon year, whether they wanted it or not… they would eventually get tired of that fruit as well. But it would be a truly selfish person who denied others the pleasure of eating strawberries, which most do indeed regard as a delicious treat, simply because they themselves didn’t like them. No, a decent person would simply and politely decline to eat any strawberries offered, and pass the bowl down the table to others waiting for them.”
Looking up at him through her lashes again, Dahlia finished, “Young master, I would never willingly ‘eat a strawberry’ again, but I do not begrudge others their enjoyment of it. And washing sheets with ‘strawberry’ stains on them will not offend me at all.”
After an uncomfortable pause, Ciel finally said, “Your consideration for others is commendable, Dahlia; thank you.” He added while looking down at his desk, “You can stop burning the sheets, Sebastian.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Sebastian said with a smile and bow. “Come along, Dahlia,” as he gestured to her.
But Dahlia remained seated, her eyes downcast. “My nose is still bleeding,” she said softly. “Young master, may I continue to speak freely while it does?”
Ciel’s loud sigh made it clear he was beginning to find this tedious, but he still told her, “You may.”
“Thank you, my lord. And may I begin by thanking you again, for sparing my life when you tore down the House of Flowers. It's quite likely that I would have been dead within a fortnight if you had not come; after it became plain that the facial wound inflicted on me by the last man I strangled to death would not heal cleanly but leave a blatant scar. A flower that is no longer beautiful, is soon plucked from the garden; when you spared me, you saved my life twice over. But now I must ask, why did you decide to do so, and hire me as a laundress?”
Ciel hadn’t expected that question either, but he was ready to answer it. “Partially on Sebastian’s recommendation; he said that you whispered an apology when you tried to kill him, but you still went about it quite thoroughly.”
“Indeed,” Sebastian said with a smile, evidently not at all bothered by the memory. “I dare say that between first strangling me with your braid, and then stabbing at me with your hair ornaments, you would have succeeded in killing nearly anyone else. Fortunately, I am of rather hardier stock than the average human.”
“Rather hardier stock, indeed,” Dahlia agreed emphatically, sparing the butler a rather suspicious glance. “Mister Sebastian, may the young master and I have privacy for the next few minutes?”
Sebastian gave her another wide-eyed look of surprise, that started to turn into an offended frown—but instead became a professionally blank expression, as he bowed to Ciel with a smooth, “With your permission, my lord.” When Ciel nodded assent, he left the room and closed the door behind him.
After several seconds of silence, Ciel prompted the laundress, “Well?”
“Given his exceptionally sharp hearing, I believe Mister Sebastian is still within listening range outside the door, young master,” Dahlia said without looking up. “Would you kindly tell him to move out of range?”
Ciel gave a quiet half-chuckle, and then said without raising his voice in the slightest, “You heard her, Sebastian; the rest of the staff is catching on to you. Go keep Bard company in the kitchen until I summon you.”
Both master and laundress faintly heard a set of footsteps walking away from the door, and thumping down the stairs with a definitely offended air. Ciel informed Dahlia, “You’ve likely just made the next few days harder on yourself, you know.”
“Yes, sir,” Dahlia said quietly. “But I thought you’d prefer he not be present for what I have to say.”
Ciel frowned at her. “I’d prefer it?”
“Yes, master. Because I am not an exceptionally clever woman, but as a Black Rose I was trained to observe, to spy as well as seduce, steal and kill. And I have made some observations that I feel it necessary to voice now, while no one else can hear.”
Here it comes, Ciel thought to himself with resignation. With each servant-soldier that he hired onto his staff, there was a risk that the newcomer would figure out that Sebastian was a demon, and then the newcomer would have to be quietly gotten rid of before they could cause serious trouble. They’d been fortunate up till now, in that Bard knew the value in keeping his mouth shut (and frankly, wasn’t really that smart when it came to matters outside his military expertise,) Finny was just too blindly loyal to question anything Sebastian did, Mey-Rin couldn’t see past the not-so-secret crush she had on the butler, and Snake apparently knew better than to say anything that might risk his position at one of the few places in the entire world that would accept him and his poisonous friends.
But Dahlia was reasonably intelligent, able to blend in with the general populace if she wished, and too jaded by her past experiences to have a blind crush on any man. After nearly a month of observing the butler at close quarters, it would be no real surprise that she had determined Sebastian’s supernatural origin. Now he'd have to take her on ‘a trip into town’, and then have Sebastian bury her remains where no one could find them, while he told the staff that she'd found a new employer or a long-lost lover or something.
Ciel expected Dahlia to start listing all the things Sebastian had done lately that no human could accomplish—the first being surviving her successive attempts to kill him. But instead she said, “The first observation is that Hyacinth tried and failed to kill Sebastian too, but the two of you did not spare her as you did me, long before offering me a position here. And given that we were trained to kill in similar ways, I cannot help but feel that the greatest difference you saw between myself and Hyacinth, is in how we behaved towards you personally. Before we were given the orders to kill, Hyacinth tried and failed to seduce you. But I did not, because I wasn’t assigned to do so.”
Ciel gave her a sharp look of warning, and was about to tell her that the greatest difference was that she had quietly apologized while attempting to kill Sebastian—his soldiers had to be ready to deal out death without hesitation, but truly bloodthirsty people eventually began killing just for the fun of it, and he would have none of that on his estate—but Dahlia kept her gaze focused firmly on the floor as she added, “And I know too well the effects of the Passionflower Potion, how men usually behave when under its influence. ”
His mouth suddenly dry, Ciel shut it and swallowed convulsively as she continued, “You didn’t behave that way at all when you were drugged with it, even when you were thrown afterwards into a room full of Flowers who had been ordered to couple with you until you were comatose. You channeled all that drug-induced passion into rage, instead of desperately seeking carnal pleasure as the Madame had expected. I had more than enough time to observe your actions and reactions, both as you and Sebastian killed the Master and Madame and tore down the House, and afterwards on the journey to your manor. And your iron self-control, that which kept you from pouncing on me or on any of the women or pretty young men you saw on the long journey back here… that iron control was forged from more than just a sense of decency.
“And in all the occasions since my arrival here that I’ve seen you interact with people besides your staff… My lord, you never asked about my past history, nor have I ever asked about yours. But as you surely deduced from my metaphor earlier, I started my ‘career’ at the House of Flowers by being raped by a well-paying client, when I had barely begun to blossom as a woman. Nor was I the only one to be initiated that way over the years, though we didn’t all start that way... and after a while, I learned to recognize the signs of those who had.”
She almost whispered, “There’s… a hesitation, a slight stiffening of the body, whenever we’re touched by anyone that we’re not already deeply familiar with and trust implicitly. There’s a certain look in the eyes; the look that speaks our first thought and fear of ‘how much is this person going to hurt me?’ And often there’s a flush of anger, at anything that makes us remember what we’d like so much to forget. Most of us at the House of Flowers learned quickly to hide the look and the hesitation, the fear and the anger, because our masters told us we must give every impression to our clients that we enjoyed being bedded by them… Except for the ones that came there precisely because they liked hurting women.”
Keeping her eyes firmly on the expensive Persian carpet, Dahlia continued, “Life at the House was terrible, but those of us who survived it chose to endure because we knew what would happen if we tried to escape. Nearly every year, someone tried… and when they were caught or hunted down, the Master and Madame made an example of them before everyone. And then made us bury the remains afterwards. But there was one time, roughly twelve years ago… one of us didn’t escape, she was rescued. I remember…
“Her name was Alice when she was brought to us, before the Madame named her Gentiana. She was thirteen, a few years older than I was when I’d been sold to the House, but her first time was even worse than mine, because they gave her to two clients together; I heard her screams and sobs, and helped her clean herself up after the bastards left. And afterwards, she showed the same hesitation and the same subdued fear and anger that so many of us did until we learned to hide our true selves. But roughly three months after she was brought there, a Danish nobleman visiting the country with his son came to the House of Flowers, saying it was time his boy became a man. Gentiana was chosen for the boy, while Chrysanthemum went with the father, and he’d paid for a full night for each.
“The next morning the father was found dead, having died in his sleep of a heart attack. Well, Chrysanthemum swore that it had been an entirely natural heart attack, even after the Madame put her in the Flowerbox for it, and it’s true that the baron had been overweight and had a somewhat unhealthy complexion the evening before. Anyway, the Master and Madame made their apologies to the boy, the new baron, and at first he seemed to accept them without question. But later that evening he came back with twenty strapping men, the entire crew of his father’s ship to act as his bodyguards, and he demanded to see our masters again.
“The new baron told the Master and Madame that there would be a price to pay for his father’s death; a price for his silence, to keep him from warning all the men of peerage that he had ties with to steer clear of the House’s deadly women… and he named his price as Gentiana. He demanded they release her to his custody, and forswear all claim to her thereafter. Aster witnessed the meeting and she told me that he even offered them a small sack of gold, to compensate them for the loss of her future services. The Master was ready to refuse him and have the Black Roses take care of him and his entire crew, but the Madame privately told her husband to accept, that Gentiana was proving too fragile for the work and she didn’t expect her to last the year anyway; they’d get far more money for her from the baron now than they’d get from regular clients later.
“So the new baron took Gentiana away to his ship, and no one at the House ever saw her again. But six years later, on an assignment that took me to Denmark, I saw Alice. I saw the baron on an outing with her and their children, and she was laughing. She was happy. And we were in the middle of a crowd, there were men all around her and some of them were acting quite boisterous, but I could see in her eyes that she was unafraid. Unafraid, and unashamed of herself; even when her husband kissed her cheek, as much affection as could be shown in public, she just smiled and accepted it. I can’t say that Alice had forgotten entirely her terrible time with us, but it wasn’t casting a shadow on her anymore.”
Ciel had occupied his hands during Dahlia’s story by clenching a pen in his white-knuckled fingers, though his grip had loosened as time went on. When she seemed to have finished, he made sure his features were schooled to impassiveness before commenting dryly, “A nice little story. Let us all rejoice in happy endings. But why did you think it important enough to tell your master?”
“I told that story because… I was a Black Rose for far too long; there can be no such happy ending for me,” Dahlia said as she lifted her head, though not looking directly at the earl, and took away the handkerchiefs; her nosebleed had stopped. “I am a humble laundress, but it’s honest work and I’m alive to do it, and I’m content with that. As your servant and out of gratitude for your having spared me and hired me, I just want to say that… that for some people, happy endings may still be possible. That there is still hope, for people who have others who truly care for them, as that Danish youth cared for Gentiana and as… as some other people’s fiancées obviously care for them. People like that, even if they were forced to eat unripe strawberries once, can still learn to like the fruit and enjoy it without shame.”
After a moment of frozen silence, Ciel said heavily, “Congratulate yourself, Dahlia. You came perilously close to an outrageous level of impertinence, but by your wording you’ve managed to avoid the charge by a hair’s breadth.”
“Y-yes, my lord.”
“However, if I ever hear of you speaking to anyone else, even the other servants, referring to me in even the remotest of connections to one of your fellow enslaved whores—except in my role as the Queen’s Watchdog who tore the House of Flowers to pieces—if I ever hear of any talk even remotely like that, you’ll be sacked immediately and without references. And possibly deported, to whichever remote corner of the world I happen to be thinking of at the moment.”
Dahlia wisely did not ask how he would accomplish that last threat; she simply repeated meekly, “Yes, my lord.”
“Having said that…” Ciel found to his self-disgust that he could not look Dahlia in the face just then; he stared down at his desk instead of at his servant, even though she’d been carefully not looking at him the entire time. “I appreciate, on just this one occasion, your attempt to offer comfort and hope about… about disliking strawberries. Not that it was at all needed; I’ve been slowly improving on my own over the years since… since then.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Sebastian won’t be burning the sheets anymore. And I can see now, the link between my ordering him to do that and… back then. But don’t expect me to start bloody announcing to all and sundry when the sheets need changing!” as he abruptly gave her a fiercely defensive look. “There’s such a thing as common decency!”
“Of course, my lord!” Dahlia hurried to assure him.
“All right. Now return to your duties, and tell Sebastian to bring me a fresh pot of tea and some sweets when he comes back up; something with chocolate.”
“Yes, my lord,” as Dahlia rose to her feet, curtseyed again and left the room, this time without running into anything on the way out.
After she left, Ciel brooded over her words and the horrible memories of That Month that they had dredged up. Dahlia's suspicions had hit the bull's-eye; among the many other tortures the Satan-worshipping secret society had inflicted on him, he'd been raped repeatedly, by men and by women equally as depraved as the men. For nearly a full year after his rescue, he could hardly stand to be touched by anybody except Sebastian, who was bound by an unbreakable contract to protect him at all costs... and when waking up from nightmares of being their captive again, he couldn't stand even Sebastian being within arm's reach.
During that awful time in Germany when he'd been stricken by the werewolves' "curse" of mustard gas, the incredible pain he'd been in had brought the memories and nightmares back full force, and even paralyzed his mind when he was awake. He'd been literally struck blind from shock, and had gone into utter hysterics if he'd thought any adult was even in the same room with him. If it hadn't been for Finny, a youth far more childlike than Ciel in many ways but who had gladly stepped up to take care of him, Ciel would either have starved during that terrible week, or thrown himself out the nearest window in a blind panicking attempt to get away from his servants’ caring(hurting!) hands and end the torment forever. Once he'd finally snapped out of it, he'd been so humiliated by his behavior... even when Bard had informed him that even seasoned soldiers sometimes had episodes like what he'd suffered, after being wounded unexpectedly and worse than usual.
Those nightmares of the ways he'd been so foully violated by his captors were relatively rare now, though he suspected they'd be visiting him again tonight. But after listening to Dahlia, he realized that even though the nightmares were rare now, the grooves worn into his psyche by his tormentors were still affecting his daily life. He still unconsciously avoided being touched by anyone but Sebastian, when he could manage the avoidance without giving offence. And even all these years later, the thought of sex was still more apt to make him panic than anything else.
And the way his own body had been betraying him of late, with what the medical texts politely referred to as ‘nocturnal emissions’... even after two full months of such happenings, he still felt burning shame with a dash of raw horror every time he woke up to find the sheets sticky and stinking of that.
He told himself that he shouldn't feel ashamed of such things, which Sebastian had assured him over and over were actually quite normal for boys his age. But telling himself that did not stop the feelings of degradation at all. Surely a normal boy would be over such feelings and feel no more than mild embarrassment by now...
But then, Ciel knew to the core of his being that he wasn't normal.
Normal boys didn't agree to make contracts with demons, knowing full well that it would cost their souls in the end.
Normal boys did not become heads of household and acknowledged by the Queen as titled nobles when they'd barely turned ten.
Normal boys didn't become business tycoons even before becoming teenagers, amassing wealth and influence in the business world... and all to taunt those who had killed his parents and sold him to the Satanists, basically daring them to try to end the Phantomhive line once more.
Normal boys would scarcely even dream of becoming the Queen's Watchdog of the Underworld, with all the terrible burden implied.
Instead of being curious or outright eager to experience sex as so many boys his age were, if being perpetually ashamed, afraid and disgusted by even the idea of sex was just one more way that he wasn't normal, then so be it. Normality was for the common folk, not a Phantomhive.
Dahlia had tried to offer him hope that becoming married to Lizzie would change his views on the matter, but he refused to touch that hope and instead did his best to banish it from his thoughts forever. Really, given the life he led, how likely was it that he would even survive till his twenties and a decent marrying age? He fully expected to have his revenge against his tormentors fulfilled, and his soul to end up in a demon's belly, years before that could happen.
The young earl's broodings were thankfully interrupted by Sebastian coming back into the study, pushing a fully laden tea trolley. “As requested, young master, fresh tea and some sweets with chocolate.”
The tea was Darjeeling, and was received with due appreciation. But the sweets Sebastian uncovered with a flourish were chocolate-covered strawberries... and the butler got those pitched back in his face.
00oo00oo00oo00oo00
To be continued...
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Why I, a Rumbeller, have no compassion for entitled CSers
This won’t be a long essay but it is something I want to get off my chest.
I’m a multishipper & part of several shipper communities on here.
SWEN. We never got anything beyond “coincidence”, queerbaiting and heartbreak.
Stable Queen. Literally murdered. Apparently a good man like Daniel wasn’t “worthy” a second.....oh wait........OH WAIT!
Outlaw Queen. Literally MURDERED to save CS. And again, another good man dead who didn’t get Hook’s second chance. Huh.
Rumbelle. Literal SEASONS of angst, loss, heartbreak, betrayal, hurt......unlike both of the privilege clad toxic people in CS Rumbelle suffered consequences, losses, abuse (Even by both Hook AND Emma, tee hee, how quaint) & extremely limited screen time.
Snowing. Did they have ANY arc post having Neal and being Hook’s tittering, meddling future in laws or?
Swanfire.....Literally MURDERED so CS could BECOME a thing because it wouldn’t have worked otherwise. Robbed the show of its essential narrative thread (That’s when it switched from family focus to ship focus..er...CS Focus) and destroyed a lot of potential pretty much everywhere else.
Need I go on?
With these experiences in mind, I usually always offer support to hurting shippers, even ships I don’t ship (Frankenwolf, Gremma etc.).
But CS? They’ve burned their bridges. They got EVERYTHING these past three seasons, alienated other shippers by calling us deluded and what not, their entitlement is off the charts and their “Once Upon a Hook” show being GONE is a relief. Nvm their history of bullying, abuse and hate. I have no sympathy for them. They’ve made their own bed and that’s that.
#OUAT#Fandom critical#Anti CS#The CS Show IS OVER#May it stay dead forever#WB OUAT#You've been sorely missed these past three seasons
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The Keeper of the Grove (Part 41)
Elsewhere in the Dreamscape, Ruby and Yang were in a copy of the former's room in Keeper's Hollow, lounging on the cushions and pillows as they talked.
<… So Weiss is getting stronger because of all that farming, training, and Valley food, right? One day, she asks us to start training her for agility, so she can past The Grinder's Boop Test. I asked her if she wanted to do some reps on the dummies, and she goes, 'No, I want you to do the test on me, but a lot slower.'>
Yang grinned.
<I go, 'Okay, I'll go get Blake! She's the best at that!' and Weiss is like, 'Why can't you do it?' I tell her I don't want to hurt her, and Weiss just goes, 'Ruby, I trust you won't hurt me if you can help it, just hit me with the absolute lightest touch you can,' and I say, 'Okay, but don't say I didn't warn you!>
Yang leaned forward. <And then what happened next?>
<I booped her on the nose. Turns out, the bones in human noses are a LOT more fragile than I thought, and I think I inherited dad's 'Finger Death Punch' skills...>
<Oh, shit! Was there blood?>
Ruby nodded. <Lots. She started screaming, so I asked her, 'Weiss, are you okay?' and she said, 'Nhow, GET PHENNY!'
<So now Blake is in charge of her agility training. She's trying to teach her how to climb and use a hookshot, too, but it's kind of hard for Weiss seeing as she can't completely balance on her toes like she does.>
<Is she getting any better at the Boop Test?>
<Nope! Blake just gets her every single time, and she's going so slow, it's so funny!>
<Man, I wish I could see that!>
Ruby nodded. <Yeah. Me too...>
Yang looked at Weiss' hammock in the corner. <You're all getting along really well with Weiss, aren't you?>
<Mhmm! It was all rough at the beginning, because she was pretty useless at everything, and she forced the Council to take her in after she faked killing herself in front of her dad.>
<Shit, if I didn't know that was you behind that mask, I would have thought it was real, Rubes! You were fucking savage with that speech, too.>
<That was Weiss' work, actually! She's really good with words. Penny's actually surprised at how quickly she's picking up on Actaeon, but that could be because Blake is helping her learn now, too.>
<Out of the goodness of her heart?>
Ruby smirked. <Nah. Weiss is slowly taking over cooking from Uncle Qrow; butchering and cutting aside, she's a lot better at it, plus she grows ingredients for all of Blake's favourite recipes.>
Yang laughed. <Should have known… she trying to make her own tofu now, so you guys don't have to hunt so much?>
<Nah. Penny says everyone but Weiss are 'obligate carnivores' and can't survive without actual animal meat. Still, her garden's REALLY useful; cheaper AND we don't have to compete with all the Makers and their assistants that snatch up the good stuff straight from the Tubes, the delivery carts, or right from the planters.
<Plus, the Watchers say that if she can seriously ramp up her production, they might start subcontracting her for supplies—healing salves, burn creams, sore-stiff ointment, that kind of stuff. She says she won't try until she gets one or two Tenders helping her, though.
<'I'm not planning to be a farmer full-time,' she said.>
<Sure seems like she's getting there whether she likes it or not...>
<I know, but she doesn't like folks pointing it out. It's taking her time to get comfortable with the idea, you know? Kind of like how dad dated your mom, had you, and well… all that stuff happened before he and my mom got together...
<… Sorry.>
Yang waved it off. <It's fine. Dad keeps telling me that short version every once in a while, ever since I said I wanted to try out dating.> In Nivian, “Don't rush into a relationship, young lady! You might just find yourself being part of a big, messed-up Life Goal!”
The two of them laughed, but not for very long.
<I miss dad...> Ruby muttered. <I mean, can I miss him, since I was just a baby when we got separated?>
<'Course you can!> Yang's face softened. <You miss Summer, too, don't you?>
Ruby nodded. <Do you think the Council will ever change their minds about us?>
Yang sighed and rolled over on her back. <Doubt that! Aside from The Shit that went down and who my parents are, all my run-ins with the human branches of law enforcement have pretty much proved their fears of me being a bad influence right—with documentation, testimonials, and holos to back it up, too!>
<What if I tell them I won't try to run away like mom did? I'm fifteen now, they can probably believe that I'll do as I say!>
Yang rolled back on her stomach. <Yeah, sorry, but she pretty much ruined all of that for everyone when she told them the same thing, then did it anyway. Besides, those Soul Eaters still roaming around?>
<We get one like once a season, yeah. We Keepers have killed most of them, or they've just gotten REALLY good at hiding. Whenever they do show up pretty much everything grinds to a halt, though...>
Yang nodded. <Man, isn't this whole thing fucked up? All the Valley's screw-ups were 1,000 years ago, and here we are, the great-times-whatever grandchildren, still paying for it. You shouldn't have to deal with shit that wasn't your fault, it's just not fair!>
<But if we all acted like that, then all of us would probably be dead by now from all the mess-ups that went unfixed, just because it wasn't your fault. Besides, can you imagine what would happen if YOU had to fix all the stuff you've broken?>
Yang winced. <Okay! You've got a point, that's enough poking holes into my rage against the system with your logic.>
<The Wise Ones save The Foolish Ones from their folly, for the Folly of Fools can doom us all,> Ruby hummed, quoting a well-known Fae saying.
<Let's talk about happier things…. Eve of the Ether is coming up! You going to that big party in Candela?>
Ruby shook her head. <Probably not. Between all the seeds, equipment, and groceries we've been buying for Weiss, we're pretty broke! Well, broke-er than usual. And it's not like we can go pull some Urochs from Weiss' old accounts...>
Yang grinned. <Well you might want to change your mind, because me and dad are going there this year!>
Ruby blinked. <Wait, what? Seriously? How?!>
<One of his old students decided to send us a thank you gift! The letter was unsigned, but those round-trip tickets to Candela are oh-so real—business class, too! Plus, I reread dad's copy of his sentence, and it precisely mentions just Fae Territory, and nothing about the human cities nearby.>
<Elder Goodwitch is going to be SO pissed when she finds out about this.>
<I know. But they can't exactly ban us from entering Candela, can they?> Yang said, waggling her eyebrows.
<We are going to get in big much trouble for this. They'll probably cut us off from ever talking through the Honey Dens ever again!>
Yang leaned in. <Will it be worth seeing your big sister in person after all these years?>
Ruby smiled. <Hell yes. Oh: can I bring the others with me?>
Yang frowned. <Are you and Princess Snowflake REALLY not--?> she made a sexy animal noise.
<We're just friends! And I think she might love it, you know, getting to be back in Candela, even if it's in costume and under an assumed identity.>
Yang nodded slowly. <Okay, but on one condition: if it turns out you can only afford just you, then she stays in the Valley, alright?>
<Deal.> Ruby paused. <Hey, do you guys have any idea who could have sent those? I mean, this is Eve of the Ether; even if you guys are flying in from Valentino, the price of admission isn't exactly cheap…>
<Nope! But come on, Rubes, this is Avalon: weirder things have happened! The series of events that led to you being born aren't exactly believable, even with the proof in front of your face...>
Ruby shrugged. <Suppose you're right!>
<You're getting worried over nothing, Rubes; not every good deed comes with an ulterior motive...>
Two weeks earlier, in the real world…
Jacques Schnee sat on the deck of his particular slice of tropical island paradise, sitting stock straight in his chair and fully dressed in a warm-weather three-piece suit, as if he were having a business meeting at sunset than being permanently “on vacation leave.”
His mind drifted back to his last board meeting, in the Schnee Power Company's own corporate headquarters.
“This is the last straw, Schnee!” Kovacs cried. “There is no recovering from this! Forget the media, the history holos will have all of our heads for this!”
“What did you want me to do, negotiate with terrorists?!” Jacques shouted back.
“Yes,” Kovacs replied flatly. “Those 'terrorists' had been sending us all a very clear message: stay out of the Valley.
“But you just couldn't let them go, could you? Never you mind the stories about the Keeper, the failure of those expeditions and all the casual break-ins to your home should have been proof enough that you were facing something far beyond your power!”
“Don't get on your high horse with me!” Jacques yelled as he rocketed up from his seat. “You all authorized the expeditions—I have the holos, the communications, and the signed documents giving me your blessings to journey into the Valley, all three trips!”
“We won't deny that, and we are all prepared to face the consequences of it,” Kovacs said. “But the crux of the matter is that you were the one who could have saved your daughter.”
Jacques gritted his teeth, fire raging in his eyes.
“The lives of all those mercenaries? No one could say they didn't know they were risking death and dismemberment. Collusion with criminal organizations? Nothing we couldn't have covered up, or turned in our favour! But the deaths of even more of your own family...?”
Kovacs sighed and shook her head. “Sekhmet? Sekhmet we recovered from. Who could have expected that killer fungus to have been feeding off the wellspring for all this time? But this, Schnee?
“I'll be damned if anyone thinks you were trying to call a bluff, that you didn't know they would actually do it.”
Jacques glared at her. “May I remind you who is CEO here?!”
“And may I remind YOU who are the Directors that put and keep you in that position?” Kovacs snarled as she stood up from her seat. “Who now have to pay dearly for your mistake?”
The air grew tense as the two stared each other down; some of the weaker-willed directors found it hard to breath, the rest were indifferent, or calmly summoning the security teams and drones in.
“Take a vacation, Jacques,” Kovacs said flatly. “If the Schnee Power Company is going to have any chance of recovering from this irreversible screw-up of yours, it would be best if you made yourself scarce, had someone else at the helm of this sunken ship.
“In fact, there's a jet waiting to take you to your new bungalow in Paradiso—all paid for by us, for we don't want to saddle you with financial concerns in your time of 'grieving...'” she spat as the security teams entered the room.
He glared at Kovacs as they escorted him out of the building, mustering all the fury and malevolence he had within him, but she paid him no mind.
Like he had taught her so many years ago, the only effort you should give to a total, unsalvageable liability was cutting them off, and no more than that.
A drink was laid on the table beside him—a Mai Tai. Jacques looked up and glared at the waitress with long hair the colour of ash, and eyes the colour of a raging fire.
“I didn't order anything,” he said flatly.
“Compliments of my colleagues, no charge,” she replied, smirking.
Jacques narrowed his eyes at her, read her name tag—Cinder Fall—cross-referenced it with his administrator and memory implants. “You're not one of the regular staff. Who are you—a reporter, or an assassin?”
“Neither,” Cinder replied. “We share a common enemy, you and I, Mr. Schnee. I have information and connections you sorely need, you have the resources my people can use to do great things...”
“Ah, so you're terrorists, just like the Keeper and her ilk.”
“We prefer the term 'Rebels,'” Cinder replied flatly.
Jacques rolled his eyes. “Why should I trust you?”
“Because, you've got nothing left to lose, and everything to gain. We both know this 'vacation' is just their way of firing you without the PR stink, and that they're already imagining how they'd look like in that throne of yours, now that the King is in permanent exile.”
She smiled as she leaned on the table beside him. “So, what do you say, Mr. Schnee?”
“I want my Company back, and full knowledge of what you are doing with my assets. Don't think for a second that I won't know if you're trying to keep me in the dark.”
“And we want two seats for a round-trip flight from Valentino to Candela—business class, preferably—plus two tickets for the Eve of the Ether festival.”
“What are you planning?”
The waitress smirked. “Even terrorists have loved ones, Mr. Schnee.”
Jacques hummed. “That they do. You have a deal, Ms. Fall.”
“Shall we drink to it?” Cinder asked, gesturing to the Mai Tai.
“Not until I see it made in a fresh glass right before my eyes by someone I can trust,” Jacques replied.
Cinder chuckled. “This is going to be the start of a very fruitful partnership, Mr. Schnee. You won't regret this.”
“Just show me some results.”
Cinder smiled. “Oh. We will.”
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