#Coil Cutting Services

[tuskerchv]

Discover a wide range of high-quality steel products and services at Tusker CHV's Steel Service Center. Explore our inventory, including custom cutting and fabrication options, to meet all your project needs.

[alrama]

Industrial, Cleaning, Oil Field, Water treatment, Painting, Food, Mining, Construction, Power plant, Ceramic Chemicals Dubai, UAE | Coil cutting Service Dubai, UAE

The chemical industry in Dubai and the United Arab Emirates (UAE) is a vital component of the country's economy, as it is used in a wide range of industries such as construction, manufacturing, and oil and gas. The region is known for its high-quality chemicals, which are exported to various countries worldwide. However, with so many chemical suppliers in the market, it can be challenging to find the right one that meets your needs. This is why it is important to have a reliable and trustworthy chemical supplier that you can count on for all of your chemical needs.

In this blog post, we will discuss the role of chemical suppliers in Dubai and the UAE, the factors to consider when selecting a chemical supplier, and key players in the chemical supplier market. We'll also give tips on how to research and compare chemical suppliers in the region, so you can make an informed decision when choosing the right supplier for your business.

The role of chemical suppliers in Dubai and the UAE

The role of chemical suppliers in Dubai and the UAE is to provide a variety of chemical products to different industries in the region. These products include raw materials, industrial chemicals, and specialty chemicals that are used in a wide range of applications.

Construction industry is one of the major industries that rely on chemical suppliers in Dubai and the UAE. These chemicals are used in the production of construction materials such as cement, concrete, and asphalt. They are also used in the construction process, for example, as a waterproofing agent, fire-resistant coating, and for surface treatment.

Manufacturing industry is another sector that heavily depends on chemical suppliers. Chemicals are used in the production of various products such as plastics, textiles, and pharmaceuticals. These chemicals play a crucial role in the manufacturing process, as they are used as raw materials, catalysts, and intermediates.

Oil and gas industry is also a major user of chemicals. In the exploration, production, and refining process of oil and gas, various chemicals are used. These chemicals are used for drilling, production enhancement, and refining process.

Specialty chemicals are also an important part of the chemical industry in Dubai and the UAE. These chemicals have specific properties and are used for specific applications, such as in the food and beverage industry, personal care products, and agriculture.

In summary, chemical suppliers in Dubai and the UAE play a crucial role in supplying a wide range of chemicals to various industries, which in turn, enables the smooth functioning of these industries, and contributes to the overall economic growth of the region.

Choosing a chemical supplier in Dubai and the UAE

Choosing a chemical supplier in Dubai and the UAE can be a challenging task due to the large number of suppliers in the market. However, by considering the following factors, you can ensure that you select a supplier that meets your needs and provides you with high-quality chemicals at a reasonable price.

Quality: The quality of the chemicals supplied is of utmost importance. Make sure that the supplier has a good reputation in the market and that their chemicals meet the required industry standards.

Price: Compare the prices of different suppliers and choose one that offers competitive prices without compromising on quality.

Customer Service: A good supplier should provide excellent customer service, including timely delivery of products and prompt response to any queries or concerns you may have.

Certifications: Ensure that the supplier is certified by relevant authorities and that their chemicals have passed all necessary safety and quality tests.

Product Range: Check if the supplier has a wide range of products, so you can find all the chemicals you need from a single supplier, which can save you time and money.

Location: It is important to consider the location of the supplier, as this can affect delivery times and costs.

Environmental & Safety Consideration: Consider the supplier's environmental and safety policies, to ensure that the supplier is following the regulations and not impacting the environment negatively.

When researching potential suppliers, it is important to read reviews, check their websites, and ask for references from other businesses that have used their services. By thoroughly researching and comparing different chemical suppliers in Dubai and the UAE, you can make an informed decision and choose a supplier that meets your needs.

Key players in the chemical supplier market in Dubai and the UAE

Dubai and the UAE have a large number of chemical suppliers, but some stand out as key players in the market. Here are a few examples of major chemical suppliers in the region:

Al Rama International: Al Rama International Chemical Suppliers Company in Dubai, UAE. We are Specialized Chemicals Our Service Industrial Chemical, Cleaning Chemical, Oil field Chemical, Water treatment Chemical, Painting Chemical, Food Chemical, Mining Chemical, Construction Chemical, Power plant Chemical, Ceramic Chemical in Dubai, UAE. Al Rama has been a significant player in the G.C.C. & East African chemical trade, for over 20 years. We stock a wide variety of products ranging from food ingredients, oil exploration chemicals, sanitization chemicals, petroleum derivatives and industrial process raw materials. We possess extensive in-house expertise in blending and repacking of various products. Our facilities include open, closed ambient storage, as well as temperature-controlled storage. We operate our own fleet of road tankers, ISO tanks and pick-up trucks, to ensure full supply chain traceability.

Gulf Petrochem Group: Based in Dubai, Gulf Petrochem is a leading supplier of industrial and specialty chemicals in the region. They have a wide range of products, including petrochemicals, base oils, and lubricants. They also have a strong presence in the Africa, Asia, and Europe market.

National Chemical Corporation (NCC): NCC is a well-established chemical supplier based in Abu Dhabi. They have a wide range of products, including specialty chemicals, petrochemicals, and fertilizers. They also have a strong presence in the Africa, Asia, and Europe market.

Emirates National Chemical Industries (ENCI): ENCI is a leading chemical supplier based in Dubai. They have a wide range of products, including petrochemicals, specialty chemicals, and fertilizers. They also have a strong presence in the Africa, Asia, and Europe market.

These are just a few examples of major chemical suppliers in Dubai and the UAE. There are many other suppliers in the market, and it's important to research and compare different suppliers to find the one that best meets your needs.

Conclusion

In conclusion, chemical suppliers play a crucial role in the UAE and Dubai by supplying a wide range of chemicals to various industries. These industries include construction, manufacturing, oil and gas and specialty chemicals. When choosing a chemical supplier in Dubai, UAE, it is important to consider factors such as quality, price, customer service, certifications, product range, location and environmental & safety consideration. The key players in the chemical supplier market in Dubai and the UAE include Gulf Petrochem Group, National Chemical Corporation (NCC), Emirates National Chemical Industries (ENCI), and Al Rama International. By thoroughly researching and comparing different chemical suppliers in Dubai and the UAE, you can make an informed decision and choose a supplier that meets your needs and helps you to run your business efficiently.

[izvmimi]

cw: smut but softcore. hot spring. too much banter. reader is implied to have textured hair.

“Your hair’s grown long,” you murmur.

With the observation, your right hand wades gently in the steamy surface of the hot spring to rise to Tanjiro's damp cheek and pats it coquettishly before your fingers glide gently through the strands of his water-slicked burgundy locks. You’ve been submerged together, you to your collarbones and him just to the base of his pectoral muscles for the past thirty minutes, chatting idly with a short pause in conversation just moments before this to rest and relax, really letting the soothing waters seep into your skin. Traveling together has weighed heavy on you both and the few minutes to catch your breath have been welcome, but now that you're rejuvenated, you’re right back to teasing. 

“You think so?” he asks. He looks a bit surprised, his own rough fingers closing around a couple looser strands. The remainder stick close to his skin, framing his handsome face, his neck, and the slope of his broad shoulders, and you continue to run your hand through them at the forehead, gently scratching his scalp with your nails as you do so. 

“Yeah, not that I don’t like it,” you practically wink, and he smiles, pulling you into his arms so that you’re back pressed to chest again. You inhale softly and he sighs as if you were sharing one breath. 

“I must have not been paying attention,” he murmurs, kissing your ear. You laugh to yourself, a trickle of heat running down your spine with the nibble of his teeth..

“That’s why you have me,” you remind him, brightly. "To pay attention to you, that is." Your own hair is in a high bun, avoiding the water but reveling in the wafting steam to nurture your coils and he lets himself breathe deeply of the scent, then presses his lips to your neck. 

“Cut it for me?” he asks, tentatively. His hands wander again, gliding from your shoulders to your wrists, and the soft splash of the water parting accentuates the drop of your heart into your loins as he kisses the soft underside.

“I don’t know how to cut wavy hair,” you immediately answer, but he’s turning you to face him again in the water and his eyes look at you hungrily now, as if you’re having a conversation a lot more licentious than the simple act of snipping away with scissors.

“I don’t mind as long as you try your best.”

Tanjiro’s voice is coming out breathy and lower as he leans in, and he’s clearly asking for something more from you rather than this simple future act of service. Eyes darkening as you press your palm against his chest, right above the jagged scars, he asks if you think you’re up to it, and it’s clear he’s not talking about an impromptu haircut.

“And if I do a bad job?”

His hands are on your hips now, cupping the curve of your ass before they lift up, your legs reflexively finding their way in a hold around his waist. The warmth of the hard length pressed soft against your belly stands out so much more than anything in the world right now, enough to make your breath hold tightly in your throat.

“I won’t hold anything against you,” he teases.

You snort, but his bad joke has made him crack a smile. Pulling you with him through the water, he lets himself lean on the rocky wall as he supports you. 

“You’ll let me do whatever I want then?” you ask. He nods, biting his lower lip as you attempt to ease yourself around his cock. He’s good at flustering you, but easily forgets how quickly you can turn the tables on him, at a loss for words as you descend.

But then once you sink in, and take all of him inside, your arms reflexively wrapping around his neck, the temporary gain is lost as you adjust to his length, moaning as he stretches out your insides. Again. Just moments ago, you were like this, letting him slip in and out of you, fluid resistance meaning so little to him with every thrust.

“Of course,” he practically croons.

The push and pull between the two of you is always an endless wave of emotion, where even something as simple as telling your boyfriend he’s looking kind of shaggy ends up in being awash in emotion, but that’s the ebb and flow of your relationship and you wouldn’t have it any other way. 

[retroactivebakeries]

It is almost five centuries ago, and the girl who will one day be a swordswoman is lying in the red-tinged mud. She can't get up—broken bone? severed tendon? She can't tell. She's yet to cultivate her palate for pain. Her enemy towers over her, a cataphract mailed in screaming steel and poisoned light. His warhammer falls, and it is death, forever death, death unconquered and unconquerable.

"No," says a part of her. She is not even seventeen years old. Her body is mangled and broken, wound piled upon wound piled upon wound. A dull kitchen knife is her only weapon, though she lost that in the mud the second her grip faltered. Her enemy is no thing of this earth. And yet—

"No. It is not death, forever death, death unconquered and unconquerable. It is only a hammer, falling. It is only 'an attack.'"

And the girl understood.

~~~

It is the better part of three centuries ago, as best the swordswoman can reckon, and she is beset on all sides by foes. They are not monsters—just mountain bandits, or highland rebels, as one cares to see it. But they outnumber her by dozens, and even an exceptional swordswoman might struggle against but two opponents of lesser skill.

From in front of her, beside her, behind her they advance, striking from every angle with spears and blades and axes. Others fill the air with arrows, sling stones, firepots. It would be effortless, to parry any single blow. It would be impossible, physically impossible, to defend against them all.

"No," says a part of her.

"You are not outnumbered. You do not face 'multiple' foes. It would be impossible to defend against every attack — but there is no 'every' attack. Only one."

"Oh," the swordswoman said. And it was, in fact, effortless.

~~~

It is eighty years ago, or thereabouts. A coiling spire of stony flesh and verdigrised copper throbs like a tumor on the horizon, coaxed from the earth by spell and sacrifice. It is the tower of a sorcerer-prince, and a birthing place of abominations.

Seven locks of rune-etched metal are opened with her single key. Wretched shapeling beasts, grown by sorcery in vitreous nodules, flee wailing from her, absconding before she even draws her blade. Demons sworn to thousand-year pacts of service find the binding provisions of their agreements unexpectedly severed.

These things dissatisfy the sorcerer-prince. He waxes wroth. He makes signs of power and chants incantations. With a flask of godling's blood, he draws the binding sigil inscribed upon the moon's dark face. With cold fire burning in his eyes, he speaks the secret name of Death. It is a king among curses, all-corrupting, all-consuming, and it falls from his lips upon the swordswoman.

"No," she says, and she turns it aside with her blade.

The sorcerer-prince's brow furrows. How did she even do that?

"Parried it."

But—

"With my sword."

No—

"See, like this."

Stop—

"Well," the swordswoman finally says, "I figured that if I just...looked at it right, and thought about it, and construed your curse as a kind of attack...then I could block it."

That's not how it works at all!

"If you insist," says the swordswoman, shrugging, and decapitates him.

~~~

It is now. It is the end. Death couldn't take the swordswoman, not when she'd spent all her life cutting it up. At times, Death might sidle up to one of her friends, or peer down into a grandchild's crib, and she'd just give it a look. That's all it took, by then.

Heartache couldn't take her, either. Bad things happened to her, and they hurt, and she lived in that hurt, but if it was ever more than she could take...she'd just, move her sword in a way that's difficult to describe. And she'd keep going.

Kingdoms fell, and she kept going. Continents crumbled and sank into the sea. Her planet's star faded and froze. She started carrying a lantern. Universes were torn apart and scattered, until all that had been matter was redistributed in thermodynamic equilibrium. With one exception.

But now it is the end. There is no time left; time is already dead. The swordswoman has outlived reality, but there is simply no further she can go. This is not a thing that can be blocked. This is the absence of anything further to block.

"No," says the girl who will one day be a swordswoman. "This isn't the ending. And even if it was, it's not the ending that matters."

The swordswoman looks back at who she was, at the countless selves she's been between them. She looks forward, at the rapidly contracting point that remains of the future. She grasps the all of linear time in her mind, and sees that it is shaped like a spear.

[fanaticsnail]

Hair Pulling: Benn Beckman

Birthday Party Masterlist

Word Count: 2,600+

Themes: Benn Beckman x gn!reader, mdni, smut, 18+, NSFW, kink, hair pulling, insertion sex, oral sex, Sub!Beckman x Dom!reader. First-Mate x Barber.

Notes: It is @jintaka-hane's birthday! Happy birthday! I hope you enjoy your beautiful day, and may Beckman getting his hair pulled spark some joy and illuminate your celebration. So much love for you 🖤

Sitting at your workstation, you began rolling and folding the fresh batch of towels you purchased from the town the Red-Force was currently docked at. The fluffy material felt so foreign in your hands after using your well-worn and crusted cloths for your crew for so long. You couldn’t wait to spoil your crewmates with the new fabric, truly relishing in your job when you were not called to arms in defense of your captain, Shanks.

As the crew barber, it was your job to ensure your crewmates kept themselves as neat and tidy as they desired to be. Whether it was maintaining a goatee, some shadowing on their cheeks, a suave manicured lip and chin, or a rugged scruffiness suited to their liking: you were to keep them in perfect order. Haircuts and styling was also in your repertoire, and you wore that title well.

There was only one member of your crew that had yet to seek out your services for himself. Keeping in the quiet, shearing his own cheeks in the morning, neck and chin littered with small nicks and cuts at after a morning scrub in the bathroom, was the broody first mate.

Hunched over the itinerary captain Shanks had curated for their departure, he leaned his hips on the railing with a scowl on his lips.

Placing down the last folded towel, you withdrew your straight razor and leather hanging strop from your satchel. Checking over your blade for any notches or cracks in need of honing, you blow gently on the silver side of the knife. Holding your blade steady, you gently glide the silver along the stretch, conforming to its curvature along the surface with little resistance.

Benn Beckman was a friend to you, truly enjoying your company in the still of the night when the crew slumbered. As first mate, it was his duty to keep his captain and crew safe. He was both the first and last line of defense for the redhead, and often had little time to dilly dally with his crew. In that quiet, you would often recall small moments traveling together on the seas. Your soft laughter marrying his whispered chuckles was music to the crew, putting them at ease while they slumbered.

You would be lying to yourself if you said you were not attracted to him. Sure, your Captain and the Doctor had their charm, but Benn Beckman: first mate and dutiful death dealer was where your eyes found their perch.

Being simply friends, you assumed he would have approached you by now to do your job on his features. Just a quick tidy of his jawline, trimming his graying locks, giving him a treatment for the sea-sprayed ends - but he never did. Not once. Not a single time.

Narrowing your eyes at him and pursing your lips, you examined his recklessness littering his cheeks with drying blood and crusted sores. Almost scowling at it, you were yet to notice the approach of your crewmate taking a seat in your chair.

“Hey Barber, got a spot for me in your station?” Yasopp queries with a smile in every word, “Can I have a quick tidy up?”

“Course you can, Sharpshooter,” you laugh with him, gently brushing off your chair and reaching for one of the freshly rolled towels. “It's what I'm here for. Just a shave, or rerolling your coils?”

“Just a shave for now. The dreads can wait,” he nodded his head and eagerly plonked himself down at your station. “I've never had a shave as near as yours before. Even when it grows back, it's more manageable.”

“Thank you, Yassop. Now just shut your eyes, lay back, and let me do what I need to do on you.”

“Aye, Barber.”

Watching from his position reclining against the wooden panels, Benn Beckman’s lips drew slack. The filter end of his cigarette lay glued to his lips while they parted in awe. Each glide of the blade over Yasopp’s skin coincided with a gentle tug or maneuver of his scalp to guide him to an appropriate repositioning.

“You're doing it again, Becks.”

Shanks plopped himself alongside the railing beside the first mate, giving him a playful tap on the shoulder in the process. Beckman let's put a soft grunt and continues glaring at the scene unfolding in front of him. You were halfway through the shave now, gently holding idle chatter between yourself and Yasopp while you tidy him up.

“I'm not doin’ nothin’, Cap,” Beckman grumbles, taking a hefty drag of his cigarette. Shanks chuckles, following his eyeline and darting his gaze between Yasopp and you together.

“Why don't you just go up and take a seat,” Shanks suggested as if it was the easiest course of action to take for the big guy, “You really messed up your general scruff. Looks like you angered a pather. Go on. After Yasopp, it's your turn.”

Beckman snaps his gaze over towards Shanks at the thought, blaring into him with his darkened eyes filled with rage.

“You know damn well how I feel about my hair gettin’ touched.” Beckman warned him, his voice hardened with a mixture of warning and confession laden within, “I don't want our barber to do it for me, because I know it'll change the way they see me. Don't wanna do it to them.”

“Just focus on something else, Becks.” Shanks offered in a tone of jesting, index and middle fingers on his right hand walking up his forearm, “You know? Not like you haven't thought of ‘em tugging your hair when you're alone in your quarters.”

Beckman sends Shanks a glare that he has only ever seen a handful of times, who in turn raises his hands defensively. With a small chuckle, Shanks backs away from the broody first mate with a playful smirk.

The gray-haired first mate continues to watch you as you finish your work on Yasopp, wiping off the sharpshooter’s face with a towel. Giving him a playful trace of your fingers along his jawline, you send him from your chair and begin to sanitize it for the next use.

Looking over from your point above the deck of the red force, you could've sworn you caught the first mate’s eyes as he gazed over from his recline against the rail. His thumb met the filter end of his cigarette and pressed it in a sizzle within his iron ashtray.

“Beckman?” you gather your courage to call over to him, finally refusing to let this little dance go on any longer, “Come and see me tomorrow, you hear? Need to fix up your razor, and I've got a balm for you to use tonight.”

Benn Beckman freezes in place, a static-like shudder frizzing from the tips of his toes to the crown of his head. Without much force, he apprehensively sighs out a little, “Aye, that I will.”

Smiling to yourself, you prepare a cube of solid ointment in a tin for him, hoping the balm would aid in the healing for a closer shave, and to halt any scarring or pore blockages from occurring and getting itchy.

The following day, Benn Beckman found himself in your chair. A dark cape was casually draped around his neck, tucked in a towel and buttoned at his collar. The aroma of aftershaves and foaming cleansers lingered as you massaged his prickly scruff with your fingertips.

He could barely focus on your conversation. Whichever topic that graced past your lips was white noise to him. While he often found himself easily lost in conversation with you, he was now wholeheartedly focussed on one thing, and one thing only.

Trying not to cum.

Your hands so easily maneuver his head around, skilled fingers cleaning up his face and ridding him of his spindles protruding from his chin. In his head, it was an eternal argument as to whether he was to tell you how worked up he was, and how long he had been without coupling with a partner, or simply ignore how you made him feel while wholeheartedly enjoying the experience.

He had been to barbers before, and none of them made him feel this worked up over a simple pampering. Paired with the fact he adored you, and he was lost completely to the feeling of your fingers on his skin.

“You want a trim while I'm at it?” he hears you ask. He hadn't had the heart to decline, sparing both himself and you or his shameful joy at the touch. Instead, he closed his eyes and uttered a soft, “yes,” while his cock twitched against the crotch of his pants.

“You have such pretty hair, Becks,” you compliment him in earnest, reaching for the woven band holding his locks within, “If you don't mind me saying, of course.”

“N-Not at all,” he stuttered out, wincing as your hands dragged down the tight coil and freeing his strands from their confines. You take his small flinch as discomfort, but it could not be further from his experience.

Beckman was trying not to picture how you would look straddling his face, guiding him by those skilled hands. Tugging and pulling harshly to have him pinpoint your bliss, having him consume your ecstasy with his vigorous and unrelenting mouth while you held onto his hair.

Carding your fingers through his salted and peppery strands, you found yourself cooing at the way each fistful felt in your hands. He was so pliant, listening to your wordless directions as you angled him to find an appropriate position. Scissors handled carefully to chop at the damaged ends, you continued humming out your praise at the first mate.

His pulse quickened and breath hitched at the way your words and actions truly moved him.

Where your lips curved out: “Your hair is so volumous, I can't get over how you manage to trap it in that band,” Beckman heard, “Your hair feels perfect in my hands, let me trap you in my lap and fuck you.”

Spilling out gentle praise and manageable instructions: “Move to the side, good job. Just like that, Becks,” Beckman’s mind morphed it into, “Fuck, you’re doing such a good job for me. Keep going, good boy.”

Each roll of his neck guided by a tug to his scalp, his eyes rolled back beneath fluttering lashes. His cock continued to twitch and move against his seams at every motion, everything occuring below the belt against his will. He hated himself for reacting like this, for hearing your voice guide him and move against his skull so easily.

At one more sensual tug, his voice entangled in his jugular and caused him to shudder his jaw. You halted your actions immediately, truly believing you had caused him discomfort.

“I'm sorry. Did I hurt you, big guy?” Your concern was laden in your tone, only aiding in expanding his cock to a pulsating rod to pitch the tent in his pants.

“No, Darlin’, I'm alright,” he uttered with a breathy chuckle to follow, “Just not used to bein’ manhandled like this is all.”

“You're used to being in charge. I get it,” you chuckle down at him playfully, giving his hair a soft tug as you did with the others aboard your ship, “You're in my chair now, sweetheart. Gotta listen close to me, or I might accidentally pull on something I shouldn't.”

Both of you were surprised by the needy whine that fled from Beckman’s throat, your hands fleeing immediately from their grip on his hair and discarding your scissors in the tray beside you. You took a moment to steady yourself, your infatuation rising for him in your gut and swelling in need up to your throat. The way he moaned for you was pornographic, and your mind ran with that to a point where you personally had to halt your job to breathe through the feeling.

Beckman knows there's no disguising it now. He has a kink, and you had inadvertently made yourself subject to it by your actions. His mind was already attempting to accumulate an apology to you, thanking the stars that Shanks had conducted an away mission to enjoy a bar in town himself with the crew.

As you stepped towards him, he immediately drew his eyes to find your own. Expecting you to be peering into his soul, gaze filled with rage at the use of you pulling on his hair and fanning the flames of his lust, he saw your eyes immediately flung to his belt line.

Noticing your eyes draw down to his cock, shrouded by the dark covering laid on his lap, he was unsure as to where your mind found itself wandering.

“Benn Beckman,” you whispered softly, a softness rising in your tone. Reaching for the loose strand dangling over his eye, you tucked it behind your ear and purred at him, “You have a thing for hair-pulling, don't you?”

His apologies jumbled and merged into one large stuttery mess. His cheeks rose in hue and illuminance the longer he attempted to recover from your accusation. Each tumble and stutter he elected to present to you was met with a knowing and teasing look down your nose at him.

“Oh, Becks,” you cooed down at him, scrunching up your nose with a soft light in your eyes, “Is that why you haven't come to see me? Something as simple as a little tug on the ponytail gets you all hot and bothered?”

Beckman’s blush rose higher, his head practically seething with frustrated vapors. Just as he was about to open his mouth to growl at you for your comments, you hushed him with a few simple words.

“If you'd have told me about this earlier, we could've had some fun with it,” you shrugged, eyes immediately thereafter growing wide at your blazen disregard for indescression, “I-I mean, if you like me like that-... I mean… if you don't… I… I didn't-.”

“-Are you done with the cut?” Beckman immediately cut you off, his face no longer glaring with his uncertainty and fury.

“I… well, yes, sir,” you nodded, lips sucked into your mouth to stifle their quiver. Beckman reached up to the collar, tugging at the buttoned seam and releasing the cape from shrouding his broad body.

“Then what are we waiting for?”

Just as simply as that conversation began, you found yourself with the broody first mate tangled in his sheets and crying out beneath him. Your legs were over his hips, your entrance stretched and molding to his shape the longer he split you open with his thick shaft. Slow and sultry drags of his cock within your body propelled you to a higher plane of bliss. He huffed and panted in the crease where your shoulder met your neck, whining out as you tugged on his freshly trimmed and manicured ponytail.

His hips grew staggered in their languid thrusts, feeling his enevitable release finally stampeding towards the finish line. Your own need was pooling in the pit of your stomach, swelling up and beginning to bloom in your chest. Your breaths came out in heady pants, and you reigned him towards his unravelment by pulling hard on the back of his hair.

“Cum for me, big boy,” you whisper needily, Beckman’s resolve shattering as he unleashed his pearlescent ropes of thick cum deep within you. Calls of your name on his tongue spur you into your own ecstasy, riding through the coursing waves as he buried himself down to the hilt within you.

Both you and Beckman were once again thankful that Shanks and the remainder of the Red Force crew had left you both in isolation to enjoy exploring Beckman's preference for having his hair pulled.

From then on, he was adamant on having only you shave his cheeks and trim his hair to keep him pretty. Even better were the times you did it naked, his cock nestled deep within you and being told to keep still so you don't make a mess of his handsome features with a straight razor and your scissors.

Tag list: @mfreedomstuff @daydreamer-in-training @since-im-already-here @gingernut1314 @writingmysanity @i-am-vita @indydonuts @feral-artistry @the-light-of-star @empirenowmp3 @racfoam @sunflowersatori @carrotsunshine @skullfacedlady @jintaka-hane @thenotsofantasticlifestory

🎶Happy birthday to me🎶.

If you would like to celebrate by indulging my caffeine and bubble tea addiction, my Kofi link is here.

[teastainedprose]

Hi !

Can you do a Homelander x F!Reader with a blackmail situation ?

For the context, someone's blackmailing Reader to leave Homelander and because of the stress she did it when he was patrolling. Of course, Homelander wouldn't accept it and try to find her but he can't. So a few days later Vought brought him a new "girlfriend" to heal the pain Reader "created" only for them to (by mistake) imply that they are responsible for the departure of Reader. After dealing with the situation at Vought, he went looking for her again, eventually finding her at her favorite spot, where she was trying to forget Homelander.

You can change some parts if you want 😁

Thanks you if you do it ♥️❤️

Listen, Anon. LISTEN! I am grabbing you by the shoulders, I am gently shaking you, I am lovingly cupping your cheek and whispering, "Write the fic." - because it's clear that you've got the plot and I bet you've been daydreaming up the story route and I need you to write it. Spit out some bullet points. Scribble out a few scenes out of order, but write it!!

As I read this ask while rolling out of bed half awake and ran off in a slightly different direction while I brainstormed in the shower and I know you've got an idea there so WRITE IT!! So I can read it

Now have something similar, but not quite what you outlined. This kinda evolved into a companion/epilogue?? piece to Play With Fire, as Vought would have plenty of reason to not want Homelander dating a canned employee, especially if she's a fat little thing. Bad for the brand and all.

+1.5k words | Warning for violence/gore, Homelander can have a little murder. As a treat. Plus-Sized female reader, established relationship, no proofreading as I was possessed

The moment his boots drop onto the balcony and Homelander strides into the penthouse, he knows something is wrong.

First, there is the absence of you. Not just the lack of your body settled on the couch waiting for him as you often are, but everything you touched. The laptop you diligently type away at while working is gone. The vibrant throw pillows you insisted on getting to make the imposing couch more inviting are missing. The plush blanket you always coiled yourself into wasn't haphazardly thrown over the back of the couch as it always is when not in service. The lack of these items now makes the couch look barren and cold. Now Homelander can see how uninviting the whole thing looks.

There are other pieces of you missing as well. The trinkets and baubles you'd purchased on a whim and set about the penthouse, coloring the space with pieces of you. The discarded books, many with notes and dog-eared pages weren't haphazardly stuffed in strange places. Homelander would check the bedroom, but he knows the closet now has an empty space where your clothing hung.

There's a buzz starting up in his brain, an insistent worry that's setting his teeth on edge as Homelander's mind races across every possible reason why you're gone. You left him. Someone kidnapped you. You finally got tired of him. Someone stole you away. You hate him. Someone is hurting you. The buzzing grows in volume as Homelander's lip twitches up, feet taking him to pace across the floor before a movement in the corner of his eye cuts straight through the noise.

The buzzing goes silent. The colors are correct. Relief rushes over Homelander as he turns to face the figure in full. You, there you are and- 

No. Homelander blinks, drawing back a step as he takes in the woman standing at the entrance of his penthouse. She has your hair color; the cut has been styled like yours, but the texture is off. She's got something close to your complexion, your eye color even, and she's wearing clothing in your usual manner of dress, but everything is wrong. For one, she's thinner. Homelander sneers.

The woman smiles, uncertain as her heart races like a rabbit against her ribs. "Hi." One word uttered and it's all wrong. That's not your voice. That's not your smile. There is no sunshine breaking across this woman's face as she looks at Homelander. Her expression is quiet and expectant, waiting. Anxious.

He inhales slowly, rolling his neck as Homelander clenches his fists at his side. The scent on the air is bitter. She's afraid. She should be.

"No, no, no. Who the fuck are you?" Homelander snaps out, across the room in two long strides and now she's gasping. Gasping because Homelander has his fingers about her throat, gloves creaking softly as his grip tightens and lifts her. "Who the fuck are you?" He repeats, barking the words out.

"I-I'm Vicky," She stammers out as Homelander eases up enough to let her breath and set her feet back on the floor. That rabbit heart is trying to burst free within the woman's chest now, beating all the louder. "Y-your er, new girlfriend...?" Her words end in a panicked squeak as the woman tries to shrink away. 

"New- "Homelander cuts off as he stares at her, head tilted to the side and lip twitching as he digests this bit of information. He swallows and takes in a breath, reeling in his rage as his mind whirls. Vought had decided to replace you. Plucked up some stupid woman who only shares a similar color palette with you, but she isn't you. This woman is nowhere close to the beautiful creature you are.

Vought didn't approve of your secret relationship. They'd deemed you unmarketable. Not the image they wanted to project for the brand. Then there was the hope that Homelander would grow bored of you. To wait out his hyper-fixation on you. The months had crawled by and still Homelander kept you close. You'd moved in, burrowed yourself right into his life as Homelander wanted. 

For some fucking stupid reason, Vought thought a replacement would distract him. As if he's a child, or a dumb dog they've swapped a toy out on. 

"Vicky," Homelander smiles and it's the smile of a shark. All teeth and dead eyes. "How lovely," A purr now as Homelander slides his hand down her neck and brushes his thumb over her collarbone. Her smile is uncertain, but it's still there as she relaxes. The rabbit in her chest calms down. He digs his thumb in as Homelander sucks on his teeth.

Fucking idiot.

There's no warning when Homelander's fist buries itself into the woman's abdomen, only a wheezing hiss as the air is forced out of her. A wet sound follows under all that crunching and grinding of bone as Homelander twists his fist and pulls it back. He clicks his tongue, releasing the woman's corpse to topple across the floor.

Homelander exhales, puffing out his cheeks while looking down at his fist in mild disgust. The red leather hides fresh blood well, but he knows it'll congeal into a darker mess soon enough. Leaning over, he absently wipes it off on the fabric of the woman's sunshine colored dress. The sunshine would look better on you while the smeared red looks better on Vicky as far as Homelander is concerned.

It doesn’t take him long to hunt Ashley down, storming into her office with eyes flashing red. The only reason Homelander doesn’t fucking laser her in two is because she’s crying. Ashley is crying and blowing her nose into a tissue as she looks at Homelander, eyes filled with regret and tears. She’s grown fond of you, Homelander realizes and that’s reason enough not to cave her skull in. Homelander knows you like her well enough, too. Ashley blubbers the story out. They’d wanted you gone. Out of the picture and out of his life. You were an uncontrollable variable that refused to play ball and Edgar wasn’t one for loose strings. A replacement had already been found and was on her way earlier this morning. While Homelander was out on a mission, disposing of you had been easy enough. It only took thirty minutes to pack all of your things, revoke your access to the building and effectively lock you out. Ashley had managed a helping hand in the form of a plane ticket wherever you wished, knowing you no longer rented your own apartment after moving in with Homelander.

It had been a plot against you, he knows this now but why had you gone so willingly? Why weren’t you screaming outside of Vought Tower for him? Why did you take that plane ticket? Something rotten wriggles within Homelander’s heart. He knows he’s not an easy creature to live with and has worn your patience thin some days. The start of your relationship would have been considered rocky at best and there’s all that stalking he did that you still don’t know about. They gave you an out and you took it.

His trip to the airport is swift and no one would dare try to stop the Homelander as he seeks you out at your intended gate. Except you’re not there. You’ve not even checked in yet. He goes to your old apartment next, eyes scanning the building for your form. Your favorite restaurant is next. Then the place that makes your favorite tea. After that he’s hovering above the bookstore you’ve dragged him to. None of them contain you. Homelander is lost for a moment, mind frantic with worry now at where you could be. Then he remembers one of your favorite spots. A park close to where your old apartment is and it’s another place Homelander has been dragged to by you. This is a spot he enjoyed. It was quiet, even in such a bustling city. He always pretended it was a forest clearing you two were enjoying the peace of.

You’re there. Of course you are. You’re settled on a bench, head turned towards the trees as Homelander descends. “Sweetheart,” He growls. It comes out harsher than Homelander wants, but he’s on edge. Why did you leave him? 

You jump, head snapping round and he can see you’ve been crying. Your eyes are puffy, face pinched in pain as Homelander’s heart seizes at the sight. 

“What!?” You stare a beat, before anger rises. You’ve always been his little spitfire. “You had me cast out! They packed me up and kicked me out on your orders! You- You abandoned me…!” The fire smolders and dies as tears leak down your face.

"No, no, no. Not you, never you!" In an instant, all of Homelander's rage vanishes in the face of your sorrow. How could you ever want to leave his side? Foolish of him to even think it. Why would you ever want to leave? He’s beside you, he’s gathering you up in his arms, he’s crushing you gently in his hold. Your sobs are wet, loud, and there’s snot on his suit. Homelander doesn’t care. He shushes you, fingers combing through your hair as the arm about your middle squeezes just a bit tighter. The weight of you sinking against him and into him is a comfort, your flesh yielding under his grip on you.

“I came home and you were gone,” Homelander whispers against your ear as he nuzzles his nose into your hair. He inhales deeply, all of the tension leaving his body as he takes in your scent. “But I’m here now. It’s okay, I’ve got you,” He exhales, pulling back enough to look down at you. Homelander smiles. You’re here, you’re safe, he will never ever let you out of his sight again.

[muzzledhoundsheart]

On my knees, at your service

🕊️Benjicot „Davos“ Blackwood x Reader🕊️

His hands left searing prints on your skin. Every hair standing on edge and the small trickles of sweat were ever present in your mind. He was ungainly and breathless, muttering to himself in between desperate whimpers „just….i can’t….come on“. He was simply too clumsy, too inexperienced and, as always, just a tinge too timid. You wouldn’t expect it from someone so ferocious and bloodthirsty on the battling ground but for you, he would always falter. 

„Ben…let- here let me hel-“ you pant out trying to aid his hands, showing him which strings to unfasten first. But he cuts you off with another desperate kiss. You feel like your lungs would burst at any moment, it was all too much yet still not enough to satiate this searing desire. The kiss was, in all of its force, still so soft and loving. His right hand coming up from his unfruitful attempt at unlacing your bodice, to gently cradle your jaw while his tongue swept over yours, mingling your saliva together. He came up for air briefly, the aforementioned saliva now hanging in glistening strings connecting your lips still. Benji was torn between dipping down again and entwining your lips once more and telling you that this light be a bad idea. He thought that, maybe, him not being able to unlace you was a sign from the gods. Heed and refrain from going any further lest you will regret it. All these doubts were overwhelmed by sight of you though. So flushed and panting you looked like you would pass out at any moment. Your hair disheveled, curls and waves having left your braid and now sticking wetly to your blushed skin. Your eyes glossed over and your lips so deliciously swollen and plump.

He often wondered how they would feel all over his body but those were the thoughts he wouldn’t dare speak aloud to you. Benji would never want to treat you like his brothers treated the ladies of the night they frequented, he’s heard all the stories. No. You were a goddess divine and he was your ever loving devotee. This gave him an idea though. „I need… I want..“ he sputtered out helplessly. Your brows furrowed but before words could leave your mouth he sank to his knees and gently ran his hands up your shins. „Ben.. what?“ „hold this.“ he instructed having bunched up your skirts. You did as you were told, an amused grin spreading across your lips. „And what is your plan now, huh?“ you couldn’t help but tease him, it kept him humble. Ben’s eyes were almost black and so glossed over, it looked like stars were swimming in them. „I plan on devouring you whole my Lady.“ The air you sucked in to laugh at him was repurposed for a moan. Ben kept at your slit, parting it with his tongue over your silken slip. One of your hands let go of your skirts, hesitating to find solace in Benji’s hair.

Benji was occupied with sliding your undergoes down your legs, just enough so that they pool around your ankles themselves. He gently lifted one of your heels, completely slipping out of them now and sat it atop his shoulder. Satisfied with your position he dove in. His tongue licked in long strokes between your slit, gathering as much of your wetness as he could. Ever the impatient man he was though, his tongue soon grew restless. He licked and sucked making obscene wet noises, grunts and whimpers leaving him like he’s been starved for too long finally getting to feast once more. You were in shambles.

Your timid hand did find its way to his hair, pulling the root trying to find some sort of stability. Your legs soon began shaking and in vain attempts of staying quiet, you gulped down the thick air panting in staccato. The pleasure brought tears to your eyes, a feeling you’ve never experienced before coiled in your innards. And your head fell with a thud against the wooden wall behind you.

Between your legs Benji’s hands itched to to slip inside of you, feel the velvet slick wetness and be as close to you as was possible. He stuck to just using his mouth for now though suckling on your clit and sending shivers up your spine, not wanting to defile you more than he was now. He told himself that this was fine, you were allowed pleasure and he technically wasn’t taking your maiden hood in the traditional sense. His cock was pulsating painfully in his breeches now, weeping of its woes and aching to be sheathed inside of you.

But on his knees in front of you is where he belonged and he would feel all but blissful to be able to die between them like this. He needed not to die on the battlefield, he would drag himself back home to you and lap at your cunt until his last breath. He didn’t know if it were these thoughts or his aching cock that made him paw at your hips whispering pleas into your cunt, or the moans that slipped out through your desperate attempts at keeping quite.

He grew restless and soon you were sure that this was your end. He’s eaten you whole that much was sure. The coil in your innards thoughts until the tears streamed like glistening pearls down your face. „Benji please please please.“ his nose brushed over your clit once more and that was it. You were shaking and clenching around nothing, wishing his cock was sheathed deep within your weeping cunt. Benji just keep drinking up all the nectar dripping out of you.

When he came up again, his whole face glistened with your fluids. Even his thick lashes were coated and the realization made you even more bashful. His hands wrapped around you waits tightly, pulling you in flush against his hard body. „You look like you’re about to faint“ he chuckled. „I have faith that you will catch me then.“ you both grinned at eachother like mad men, your eyes filled with longing and adoration for eachother. „Maybe then you’d have all the time in the world to unlace me.“ „These things are worse than a bear trap dove. I might lose a finger next time.“ he feigned worry, muttering with his nose against your cheekbone. „What a shame that would be, I have hoped you could put them to good use next time.“ „Next time.“ he promised.

[daisyofwaterdeep]

Can you please write more soft cock zevlor? 👉👈 maybe with a male reader?? If thas not much to ask..... (Also thanks for ypur service to the society)

IT WOULD BE MY ABSOLUTE PLEASURE

Zevlor/cismasc!Reader

!NSFW!

-When you have sparring sessions with Zevlor, you always feel a spark between the two of you. Intense, lingering eye contact. Playful smiles. And when it's done, the hand on your back congratulating you for a job well done tends to linger far too long.

-But this session is different. It's more visceral, more teasing. Every word that Zevlor says spikes your adrenaline and coils heat in your stomach.

-"Come on, harder!" as you swing at him, "I can take it, so give it to me." Your cock is getting stiff as you continue swinging, the both of you starting to pant with strain, "Harder, that's it--harder, just like that!"

-Perhaps a bit too roughly, you knock the sword from his hand and are immediately on him. The flirting has finally reached it's boiling point, and you can't hold back and play naive any more.

-You grind your throbbing cock against his groin, the both of you breathing hard into each other's mouths.

-"Is this hard enough for you?" You ask, dropping your own sword to grab Zevlor's hips and pull him tightly against you, making sure he feels just how much he's worked you up.

-Zevlor seems like he's been expecting this all along, kissing you rough. It's hurried and desperate, like Zevlor's been holding back just as much as you have.

-You can feel that Zevlor isn't hard yet and try to rut into him to get him there, but instead, he steps back from you. You think he's about to cut this all off and say that it's a mistake, but instead he turns and places his hands on a tree, his tail thwipping against the ground excitedly

-If that doesn't make the invitation clear enough, Zevlor unfastening his pants and shucking them down is about as clear as things could get. You're behind him in an instant, grabbing handfuls of his taut ass and kissing the side of his neck

-But when you reach around to stroke his cock, a calloused but gentle hand grabs your wrist. "Don't worry about that," Zevlor breathes, "Just take me."

-It's clear that he's uncomfortable about his dick for some reason, so you don't push it. Instead, you kiss his neck again, letting your hands slip under his shirt to caress at the hard ridges of his ribs

-"Lube?" You ask, grinding your clothed cock against his ass

-"I've, ahh--" Zevlor arches his back as you nip at his neck, "I've already taken care of it," His tail wraps around your waist, pulling you closer, "So fuck me already."

-Your mind reels as you fumble your pants open. What does he mean that he took care of it?

-You only have to wonder for a moment, because as soon as you slide your cock between his ass cheeks you feel that his hole is already soft and slick with lubricant. You groan into his ear and ask him if he fingered himself before this

-"A good soldier is always prepared." You can't see his face, but you can hear the smile in his voice

-Knowing that he was expecting to be fucked by you is driving you wild. You pant out apologies as you inch into the impossible heat of him, your muscles twitching with the need to slam in but resisting as best as you can

-"I can take it," Zevlor groans, reaching a hand behind him to grab your hip, "So give it to me."

-Hearing him parrot back the words from your sparring earlier makes you laugh, and then buck your hips. "Like this?" Your cock pries him open, making both of you moan and pant

"J...just like that-" You can see the muscles of Zevlor's back flex as you begin pumping into him, "Fuck, just like that..."

-It's amazing. Zevlor's hole is impossibly hot and tight around you, and the sounds he grunts out with each thrust makes your head swim. There's no way you're gonna last long like this

-You know that you're going to cum in the next few pumps--the heat in your core is building to a manic degree, and your thrusts are getting faster and sloppier

-Instinctively, you reach around Zevlor and grab his cock to stroke him, hoping to bring him to completion too

-"N- wait, ahh--" Zevlor's body tightens and his hands grab yours, but they don't pull you away.

-His cock is still soft. You slow your hips before stopping altogether, feeling like a monster for being so greedy and inconsiderate

-"Don't..." Zevlor moves back against you, slowly fucking himself on your cock, "Don't stop...feels good, promise..."

-You wouldn't believe him if it weren't for the sheer amount of precum oozing from his tip. The sticky-slick fluid steadily leaks into your hand as Zevlor finds a quicker pace and arches his back, groaning and shivering as he finds his prostate with the head of your cock

-Understanding dawns on you. It explains why he didn't want you to touch him earlier. But with that realization comes a fierce adoration. To you, signs of age aren't anything to be ashamed of. It's something worthy of admiration--a testament to all you've been through. You've always loved the signs of Zevlor's age-- the thickness of his horns, the creases around his eyes, the faded scars along his chest. This is certainly no exception.

-You pull Zevlor tight to your chest, grinding into his prostate as quick and hard as you can, peering over his shoulder to hungrily watch his soft cock swing with your thrusts. Thick strands of precum dangle and fall messily from him, all the while Zevlor's moans grow higher and tighter-- he's getting close

-Your muscles burn as you fuck him with everything you have, your eyes fighting to not roll closed as you threaten to fall into your orgasm

-And then you see it-- The clear slickness of Zevlor's precum turns white and it drools thickly from his tip as he whines deep and gravelly in his throat. The sight and sound alone would've been enough to push you over the edge, if you weren't already there

-You ride out your orgasm, burying yourself deep in Zevlor's ass as you fill him with hot pumps of your cum. You could have stayed there behind him for an eternity, just relishing in the feeling of his strong back and tight ass, but kissing him is far more important in that moment

-You turn him around and lock him into a kiss, grinding your cocks together-- yours twitching and slowly softening, and his still steadily leaking

-"Fuck," You breathe into his mouth between a kiss, "I love you..."

-You feel Zevlor's muscles tighten at that, but after a moment he melts into your arms, a happy hum rumbling in his chest

[andbreakmynose]

sweat marks all on my clothes

tennis player! alex x tennis player! reader

heavily challengers inspired because i kept rewatching it while writing this lol

also fetus al

WARNINGS: SMUT, oral (m + f receiving), sweat, light body worship, semi public sex

WORD COUNT: 4.5k

Alex stood at the baseline; his feet were shoulder-width apart, and he could feel the texture of the court on his feet. His right hand gripped the handle of the racquet with confident familiarity, the leather-wrapped grip slightly worn from countless matches, molding perfectly to his sweaty palm.

The weight of the racquet felt like home—a precise extension of his arm. He bounced the tennis ball a few times with his left hand, the sound echoing in the quiet of the court—or maybe it was just in your ears. In your ears this sounded like the loudest anticipation you’ve heard. You needed him to win this for you.

Alex shifted his stance, leaning slightly forward, eyes narrowing as he focused on the service box across the net. His already sore muscles tensed subtly, a coil of energy ready to be unleashed. The air was static, thick with the lingering heat of the day, and he could feel a bead of sweat trickling down the back of his neck, slowly tracing the line of his spine that was still covered in your marks from the night before. Before he sent the ball in the air he made a millisecond of a glance at you, acknowledging the stakes here.

With a smooth, practiced motion, he tossed the ball high into the air, his eyes following its arc against the sky. His body moved in perfect synchronization—knees bending, torso rotating, and then, with a snap of his wrist, he brought the racquet forward.

The ball shot across the net, a blur of yellow as it cut through the air, skimming just above the tape. It hit the service box with a sharp, echoing thud, kicking up a tiny puff of dust as it struck the court and veered sharply to the left, barely skimming the sideline.

Alex straightened, eyes fixed on the ball’s trajectory, every sense heightened, already preparing for the next move, his body alive with the electric anticipation of the game before him. You tried to watch him, tried to keep your eyes on every move that boy made, but there was that damn camera shoved in your face, some reporter trying to get every angle of Alex Turner’s equally talented girlfriend.

You gave the camera a smile and a wave before turning your attention back on Alex, not wanting to miss a second of the action. He was playing against some guy named Tucker, you had done your research. Tucker was from Manchester and was born into a wealthy family. He had a similar track record to Alex but he lacked something your boy had; drive. You could tell he didn’t really care if he won or lost, that it was just a game to him. For Alex it was bigger, for Alex he had to win for you.

You met Alex when you were young, he was playing at the park by himself and you offered to help him out. Since then you were an unstoppable duo, he’d go to your games and cheer you on, you’d go to his games and cheer him on. You were both good, really good, especially for two people who only got formal training from the cheapest coaches in the city. Both of you started playing competitively at the age of 14 and became level one juniors at 16. Now you were both 18, in your last year of playing with the juniors until it was time for the big leagues. You really had to make your mark now and make it big.

That’s where the relationship stuff started; a mutual friend of you and Alex jokingly suggested that you two should pretend to date and become some sort of spectacle. That if the number one male junior player and female junior player were dating than you’d be worth more than your already impressive skills.

You laughed at first but eventually you and Alex decided it was a good idea, that if the attention was already going to be on you then there was no harm in manipulating it a bit. And it helped that there was years of mutual attraction behind the two of you already, it was almost a perfect plan.

So you and Alex started dating, kissing each other before and after games, going to events together, and mentioning each other in every interview. It seemed to work well, all the tennis publications were about the two of you. You two got dubbed the “Most Promising Couple in Tennis”, people started to talk about you.

You struck “the deal” when you first noticed Alex’s focus decrease. He had lost a few games here and there and sometimes it seemed like he wanted to party instead of practice. You couldn’t deal with that; he was supposed to go pro with you like he said he would when you were 12.

It was a simple deal but it worked:

If he won a game you’d suck his dick

If you won a game he’d eat you out

If you both won you’d fuck

Alex’s skills improved almost immediately, he was lovesick and would do anything for the opportunity to touch you (even if you were planning on giving it to him win or lose). He started winning all his games again, he made you proud.

And that led you back to where you were now, watching him against this Tucker guy. When you left his bed this morning you promised him the best blowjob ever if he won this for you, and it seemed like that put a fire in Alex’s step.

He was drenched in sweat by the end of the first set, pouring water down his throat to prepare for the next. He had won but not by a lot, he needed to be at his best to win the second and not have to go to a third set. Your eyes never left him, staring at him like a hawk.

He winked at you before the second set started, a cocky promise that he’d win and you’d be on your knees for him an hour later. That made the stakes higher, you hadn’t sucked him off in over two weeks and the idea of having him in your mouth was really appealing. You gave him a nod back and ushered for him to get back out there.

By the last half of set two you were tired of tennis ball green. You were tired of following it back and forth with your eyes. And you were really damn tired of Tucker. Somehow he had gotten better in the second set and was proving more of a competition to your poor Alex. You decided that even if he didn’t win you’d still suck his dick because he was putting up a really good fight.

You felt your heart sink when Tucker matched him at 5-5, you couldn’t let Alex lose to some posh boy with an ugly name. As if Alex could sense your nerves he turned around and gave you a thumbs up, letting you know that he had a plan. God you hoped he had a plan

In anxiety you began to down your water bottle, trying to distract yourself from the racing thoughts and the dull throb in your panties that always seemed to appear when he played. You were so distracted by the water that you almost missed the announcer making it known that the winner was Alex Turner, your Alex Turner.

‘Thank fuck’ was the thought in both you and Alex’s mind. You put your bottle down and ran to him, him pulling you into a tight kiss and covering your hair with kisses. He smelled like sweat and body spray, but he had still won. Proud was an understatement. You were always proud of him and you had been watching him win games for 8 years at this point.

He cradled you softly for a while, just savoring the moment. You could hear Tucker give a post match interview in the background but you couldn’t pick up on the words, he was probably complaining that he had lost.

“You gonna talk to these suckers?” You asked him, gesturing at the reporters behind you with raised eyebrows. You would’ve understood if he did, but also you kinda wanted to get to the blowjob part of the agreement. Alex looked at the swarm of them, most that he had already talked to. He considered it but ended up shaking his head, giving you a sly smirk.

“Nah, you’re the only sucker I want.” He teased, hand lingering around your ass. You laughed at his crude suggestions, but you also couldn’t complain. He took your hand and led you off the court, past all the other players lounging around, and into the locker room.

“Here?” You asked, a bit worried about a list of things. There were probably other boys in there first of all, and it probably smelled. You liked a lot about Alex but the smell of athletic teenage boy was not one of them. Alex peeked his head into the locker room to check and shook his head.

“No one else is here, won’t be for a while. Trust me girlie.” And then before you could speak he dragged you into a shower stall, pressing you against the wall and digging his hands into you ass.

“I won.” He whispered against your neck, his hands starting to trail up your body until they reached the hem of your shirt.

“You did win.” You responded, moving your own hands to help him pull your shirt off. You couldn’t tell if he was beaming in pride at his accomplishment or just really happy to see your boobs. You decided on the latter when he pushed your sports bra off too.

“Fuck, so glad I won so you could do this. Love your mouth, love you.” He groaned out, helping you shift onto your knees. The floor was hard, slimy, and uncomfortable on your knees. But that didn’t matter when his bulge was right in front of your face. You slid his shorts and boxers down to his ankles in one quick move, needing to see his cock free.

“I’ll tell you a secret…” you started, wrapping a hand around his base and causing him to groan, “I would’ve done this even if you had lost. You put up a very good fight.” As silly as your words sounded, you made sure to say them with the most seductive tone you knew how to do, looking up at him through your lashes before you darted your tongue out to kitten lick at him.

He leaned against the shower wall instantly, lacing his hand in your hair as he exhaled. He loved your tongue, he loved the little routine you always had when sucking him off. You gave him a few pumps, placing kisses and small licks around the head until you knew he was too worked up. He seemed to be needier today than he usually was, just a few licks and he was already starting to buck his hips.

You took that as your sign to wrap your lips around him and start to push him down your throat, his eyes rolling back shut at the feeling of your warm throat. You were his first blowjob and he was certain you’d be his last blowjob, he was utterly addicted to the feeling of your throat. You think you were addicted to the feeling of his cock down your throat too. He was such a responsive boy and you loved the way you could almost feel him twitch in your mouth.

You set a purposely teasing rhythm; you’d move forward when he breathed in and move backwards when he breathed out. It took him a second to realize why he was holding his breath, shaking his head at you.

“Please just-,” he groaned as he grabbed onto your hair, starting to move you himself. You didn’t mind the display of dominance, it was hot that he needed you that bad. And plus, the focus was usually on your place. He deserved to be the one seeing stars for once. He set the pace he wanted, somewhere in between fast and slow. Your mouth felt so full with him, he was making sure he took up all your senses. If anyone would’ve walked in they certainly would’ve heard the two of you; his loud groans and the sounds of choking coming from your throat. Neither of you knew anymore if you were alone, too involved in the actions.

When the twitching in his dick started to speed up he pulled you off, staring at you with lust-blown eyes.

“Where should I cum?” He asked, voice husky and breath still needing to be catched. Your brain was a bit fuzzy so you had to think for a second, you’d usually say your tits because you know he likes to see you covered in him but you still had to walk back to the hotel.

“Mouth.” You decided on, giving him big eyes and a big nod. He gave another groan at just how erotic the words sounded coming from your mouth and then pushed you back on his cock, picking up the pace.

To give him that extra, final edge you reached out to gently kneed his balls between your fingers, it was clear he liked this the way he thrusted at you. Thank god for your lack of gag reflex from the sheer amount of times you’ve sucked him off, you were used to deepthroating him at this point. He started to thrust with his hips and move you with his hand, movements becoming quick and fast.

His loud moan was the only warning you got before he spilled in your throat, his cum coating every wall of your mouth. He pulled out and grabbed onto a bar in the shower, trying to keep his legs from giving out. His eyes never left yours, he was waiting to see if you’d swallow. You didn’t really have a chance though, it was so deep enough in your mouth that spitting would be a hassle. Plus you liked the taste, it was a bit salty but it tasted like him. It was complete and utter Alex in your mouth. You swallowed with no complaint.

“You can’t do that you damn minx!” He giggled, still trying to catch his breath. You giggled back and he offered a hand to help you up, you were sure you could see the imprints of the tile on your knees.

“Well, maybe you should stop being so talented and winning all your games.” You bent down to grab your top and sports bra, they were slightly damp from the shower floor but you’d live. It was only 10 minutes to the hotel.

When you both had finished getting your bearings back he grabbed your hand, rushing you out of the shower to act like nothing happened. No one would ever know you were in there. He grabbed your hand and started walking you out.

“I need a nap.” He admitted, looking at you with a soft smile. He didn’t even have to ask anymore if you were going to nap with him. Of course you were.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You chuckled and gave his hand a quick squeeze, your eyes drifting to the court you’d be playing in the next morning.

“You know… win that for me and I’ll return the favor. And then we’ve both won so I’ll get to fuck you senseless.” He said bluntly, causing you to both blush and give a small laugh.

“I know. I’m anticipating it.” You winked at him, squeezing his hand again. You weren’t particularly worried about your opponent tomorrow, she wasn’t that great. Right now you were worried about cuddling up with him in bed, right now you were happy to be with him even if there was probably a camera following you.

Well, maybe you should’ve been more worried about your opponent. It turns out Vanessa Forester from Wales had been practicing her ass off. You were able to hold her off for the first set, but in the most embarrassing turn of events possible your knees were starting to kill you and you lost the second. God damn Alex.

When you were given the chance for a break before the third you quite literally poured your water bottle down your throat. The sweat had started to run into uncomfortable places and you were sure you looked like you had fallen into the river. You looked up at Alex, who you’re sure had already noticed you were lacking, who was snickering at your current state. Little bitch. You rolled your eyes at him, pointed down at your kneecaps, and flipped him off. That seemed to put him in his place as he suddenly looked a lot smaller in his seat.

You took a second to stretch and got back in your place, it was Vanessa’s serve. Your breath was trying to steady itself and you were trying to keep focused, all you could hope is that the adrenaline stopped the dull ache in your legs.

Thankfully it did, once you saw how determined Vanessa was the idea of winning crowded the rest of your thoughts. The back and forth became tantalizing, your eyes focused on nothing but that blur of neon flying between both sides of the court. The game was getting closer and closer and you were starting to grunt everytime you hit the ball. If it wasn’t for the game itself you probably would’ve passed out.

There was a quiet reminder of the score in the back of your head but you tuned that out to focus on the game, you had always told yourself that if you were too focused on the score then you wouldn’t remember your skills.

That worked, you guessed, because eventually a whistle was blown and you were crowned the winner. The adrenaline was still clogging your ears and your vision was still blurry so you didn’t even notice Alex coming down the stands to hug you. His arms enveloped you, your own arms wrapping around him to support your failing legs. He pushed your head up and wiped some of the sweat off your brows.

“Jesus… that was hell…” your voice came out breathy and tired. Alex could sense you didn’t want to talk to reporters either so he started to lead you back to the hotel.

“Yeah, hard game I could tell,” he starts, placing a few small kisses on your moist forehead, “but you still kicked its ass. You won.” His words brought a gentle reassurance into your head, you had won and you didn’t have another game to play. You would just be able to go back to the hotel and crash. You hummed against Alex’s shoulder and he continued to drag you to the hotel.

It was a nice hotel you had been given to stay in, there was a heated pool and a spa you had been meaning to check out. The room was spacious and the bed (you and Alex had fought for one bed instead of two) was comfortable. You couldn’t wait to shower and then crash out.

He got you inside and you smiled at him, starting to walk towards the shower.

“Wait-” he called out, making you turn around to raise an eyebrow at him, “I thought we were going to-” he didn’t finish his sentence. He got shy and started to rub the back of his head.

Oh right, the “reward.” You had won and that meant he got to eat you out and then you got to fuck. The idea sounded nice, but... after your shower. You loved him, and he had seen you in every capacity, but you still weren’t sure about him actually tasting your sweat.

“After my shower, I’m so fucking sweaty.” You admitted to him, wiping your hand through your eyebrows to really show him. Alex just kind of nodded and smiled at you, letting you do what you needed to.

The shower was nice; you didn’t feel slimy anymore, and some of the aches in your muscles were gone. You pulled a towel around your body and walked back into the bedroom. Alex was already perched on the bed, a shy smile and blush appearing on his face when you walked in. It was funny to see him this way when just last afternoon he was fucking your face in a shower stall. You sat down next to him, and he shifted closer to you.

“Are you sore?” You nodded; you were still a little sore, and you wanted him to go gentle. Sometimes you could get rough, but after a game you just wanted to lay down and have him take you.

He looked like he was about to say something else when you pulled him in for the kiss, attaching your lips against his. He was such a good kisser, always confident and sensitive in the way his lips mashed against yours. His tongue gently traced across your bottom lip, asking you for permission to take this a step further. You granted what he wanted, and you both parted your lips to deepen the kiss.

He brought his hand up to tangle into your hair, pulling you closer. He wanted you to feel safe and warm in his presence; he wanted to make you feel like the winner you were, just the way you did for him yesterday. In a single motion, you removed the towel from your body. That made this all easier—no messy clothes to take off.

He pushed you back on the bed so your head was against the pillow and started to trail his lips across your body, kissing every part of you that was sore from the day. A heat swirled in your lower stomach, and you let out a few brief moans at the feeling of his lips. He situated himself so he had easy access to your core. He wasn’t going to touch you yet but wanted an idea of the proper position to be in.

His lips continued to trail down your body; he grabbed your hand and placed a kiss on every single one of your fingers.

“You won with this hand. This is a winner's hand,” he mused, like just your arm was the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. He worked his way back up to your collarbone, sucking a small mark into the flesh there. “This damn body, you couldn’t have won without it.” His words would be cheesy if they weren’t turning you on so badly; it felt nice to be appreciated so intimately.

Without speaking, he wrapped his lips around your puffy nipple, making you wiggle and moan against him. He lapped around your breasts, breath heavy like he was the one getting pleasure from this. Every so often he’d suck into them, leaving small pink marks that were just for him to see.

“They’re your trophies,” he remarked with a small grin, pulling back to admire his work. You giggled at this, and he acted like it wasn’t the stupidest thing to say. It was, but it was also cute. He was always like this, your boy. He looked at them for a second longer and then down at your pooling heat, a smirk appearing on his face.

“I’m going to eat you out now,” he declared. And then he did it; he buried his face right into your cunt. The second he made contact, you let out a high-pitched whine, arching your back right into his face. He kissed and licked at your folds, taking you in like you were his favorite glass of wine. You brought your hand down to tangle into his hair, pulling him closer.

“Fuck! Alex! You’re so good!” You cried out, making him smirk against your cunt. He moved up just slightly to place a few kisses along your clit, the sensation causing goosebumps to trickle down your spine. All he wanted to do was make you feel good, and it was obvious he was doing that right now, so he kept at it. He created a pattern where he’d go between licking into your hole, slurping the skin of your folds, and sucking at your clitoral. It was absolutely obscene, but maybe the best thing you had ever felt. Your mind was already a bit hazy from the day, and he was just intensifying it. You’re sure that words you weren’t even aware of were tumbling from your lips.

He fucked you with his tongue like it was his dick; after all the time you had spent together, he knew every little move to make you come apart on his mouth. You kept your hand in his hair, making him stay as close to you as possible. He wasn’t allowed to pull away, not when he felt this good. He just pushed and pushed at all your senses until you were satisfied.

It seemed that the stress of the day had really made you wound up because you were already close. Alex must’ve noticed that because he started to budge his nose against your swollen clit as his tongue swirled around your hole. The added simulation drove you insane, with high-pitched noises coming out of your mouth while you shook around him.

It took only a second before it all became too much, and you came all over him, waves of pleasure taking over your whole body. Your back arched and fell back down just as fast, all of the stress of the day releasing directly from your body. Alex’s face must’ve been covered in your juices, but he loved that. He loved the amount of pleasure he had just brought you. You were still shaking a bit, but he brought his face up to kiss you on the lips; you could almost taste yourself against him.

“That good?” He asked gently, running a comforting hand down your stomach to soothe your hyperactive muscles. You nodded a few times, reaching over to grab the bottle of water from earlier this morning.

“That was good, goddamn. I don’t think my knees hurt anymore.” You both chuckled at this, your breath finally returning to normal. You shut your eyes, the tiredness from the day returning. Alex laid down next to you and ran a hand through your hair, making you smile at him.

“Do you want to go to sleep?” He asked gently, pulling you a little closer and pressing a kiss against your temple.

You weren’t going to respond, but you felt his hardness pressing against your back a bit, a reminder of the second half of your deal.

“But don’t you need to?” he cut you off, shaking his head.

“No, it’ll go down. You won, and now you deserve to sleep. We’ll fuck later when you’re less tired; it’ll be better anyway." He reassured you, placing another kiss against your head. You could’ve protested, but he seemed serious, and sleep was already starting to come. You nodded and curled up against him.

“Love you, Alex.”

“Love you too, winner.” You chuckled at this, turning around to look at him.

“You’re a winner too, remember?”

"Oh, I remember, that’s why I get to fuck you later!” He teased, bringing your lips against his for a quick kiss before you shut your eyes again.

A/N: this is shit! i had the first half done and then my power went out and i had to rush the second half in the middle of a library with an old man breathing down my neck!! i tried to write more smut but i got really paranoid with everyone around me in public lmaoo but i wanted to get this out

[sombrashe]

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆kinktober 2024⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

𓉸ྀི i love a man in uniform

𓉸ྀི Valeria Garza

𓉸ྀི content afab!reader, chubby!reader, christianity, church sex, readers religion is unspecified, uniform sex, yuri, bathroom sex, fingering, reader is called a slut

Leaning over you pluck at a button. The person it belonged to tries hard to ignore you. You were sitting in church in the furthest pew. It was a late Monday night so you could count the amount of people attending on one hand. Your hand had been patiently waiting on her thigh for over an hour now. Boredom has taken over you soon after the offerings were collected. It has only gotten worse especially with Valeria sitting there straight and tall clad in her uniform. Lifting your chin your lips barely scrape against her ear.

“Valeria, I’m bored.”

She scowls and squeezes your knee in an attempt to get you to act right. You don’t let up, though, and take a second to lick the shell of her ear.

“I need youuu~”

“We are in The House of God, knock it off.”

“Then take me out back where God isn't watching.”

Slightly turning her head to the side she quietly rasps at you to go take care of yourself. Huffing you shove past her and leave the middle of the sermon. Pushing open the door you enter the broken down bathroom. Disgust floods your features as you stand painfully still in the middle. The door is cracked and you fear touching the handle. Staying a few minutes you contemplate how you would annoy Valeria on your way back to your shared home. A few more minutes and you’ve formulated a plan. Not even a full five minutes later and you're ready to join the service again. Looking back as the door creaks open you're surprised to find her standing there anger brewing in her eyes. Quickly stepping her way into the bathroom she closes the door with a loud click. Another click and you're locked in with the pissed-off woman. Giving her a nervous smile you try to smooth things over. He immediately cuts you off and raises her hand trying to find the words.

“Valeria, this bathroom is disgusting. Let’s just go back.”

“Then you shouldn't have been such a slut.”

She’s found it. With a grunt, you cross your arms in defiance. Closing the already suffocating space in the room she pushes herself against you. She gives you no time to protest or even take in what's going on before her hand is shoved down your jeans. Buttons pop open to allow her more access. Huffing your head bounces off the peeling wall. Letting it rest against the yellow she takes this opportunity to chew at your neck. Two fingers slip their way under your waistband and find a home against your clit. Groaning, you attempt to keep quiet. As much as you want to be obnoxiously loud you know better. You want to cum like this. Those fingers leave their home and slip lower and into your soft core. Humming she sinks her teeth into your collarbone and you yelp in surprise at the intense burning that spreads through your chest. She hushes you as her fingers pick up pace. Clamping your lips closed your eyes water at the lack of pain relief. Pleasure mixed with the pain and you have to squeeze your eyes closed to remain in the moment. Letting her have full control you can only weakly hump against her palm hoping for more friction. She angles her hand so her fingers can still pump deep in you while her thumb presses against your clit, rubbing harshly. Whining softly she works you over for the rest of the sermon. You can feel the coil in your abdomen slowly start breaking as music floods the hallways. A signal that church was nearly over. Huffing the coil finally crashes as a bang is heard outside the small bathroom. The large doors have been opened and you can overhear muffled speaking as your orgasm crashes over you and you're soaking through your underwear. Peeling herself away from you she takes a few moments to wash her hands allowing you the chance to find your composure. A few paper towels in the trash later and she's gently buttoning your jeans and fixing your top enough to look presentable to the pastor. Helping you out of the bathroom she takes a moment to shake the pastor's hand and comment on the lovely ceremony.

Kinktober 2024 Masterlist | Valeria Masterlist

[winterrrnight]

hi! i was wondering if you could write relationship headcanons about zach maclaren from the other zoey? 🫶😊

I just have so many zach thoughts all the time because he's literally my dream boyfriend. thank you for this request anon!! I hope you love reading this <3

dating zach maclaren

— zach maclaren hearcanons

navigation || requests || join my taglist

warning: mention of accidently cutting while cooking

Zach is just about the most perfect boyfriend you could ever have.

His love language is quality time. No matter what, he will always find time in his schedule to spend with you.

He comes over to your place often, mostly surprising you because you weren't expecting him, but slowly over the course of time you get used to his random pop ins.

He loves to sit down with you and just, talk. About anything. He will listen to your rants, about what you ate today, a shitty day at your university, basically anything.

And he'll be listening very carefully, not missing any detail, and if you're ranting about something which is troubling you, he'll try to help you and almost 9 out of 10 times his advice is the best one you can get.

He'll take you to dates often, and he's definitely the kind of person who'll just take you on a long drive so you both can just listen and sing to your favorite album together.

Without a thought, I believe he has a second love language too, and that is acts of service.

You're hungry? He'll whip the best meal for you in under 15 minutes.

Your car has a flat tire? He'll fix that for you right up.

You accidentally cut yourself while making some food? He'll bandage you just the next second.

His family adores you, so you are often invited at family dinners at their place, and you always love to go.

Avery, his little sister, gets attached to you quickly and looks at you like her best friend.

You and Zach are the best team basically, anywhere.

If it's family game night at his place, you know you both will win.

If it's a game night with your friends, you both are going to win, it's decided.

I've said this before, and I'll say it again, Zach loves to kiss your hands; your palms, your knuckles, the back of your hand, he'll press kisses to your skin often.

He's also the most amazing book boyfriend ever. His gifts to you are mostly books, and they are definitely the books from your 'to be read'.

Since he's a part of his university soccer team, you absolutely love to go to his matches.

He will be pretty anxious before them, but a quick pep talk from you will cheer him right up, and he'll play with all his might.

You are always wearing a jersey with his name and number on it, he gives one to you each time his team wins a match (you have so many now it's hard to keep count).

Just as his team wins a match, you cheer out so loud for him, and he's quick to run up to you and hug you so tightly.

"I'm so proud of you," you will whisper to him, and he'll just melt on the spot.

You both don't argue very often, usually settling to talk out the misunderstanding and find a solution that suits you both.

But if the quarrel doesn't seem to find it's end and just goes on, Zach knows he hates being in this position, especially when it leads to him having to sleep in a different room than yours.

But your sheets are cold and empty, and you know you need him.

You would make your way to the room he's in, and he's lying in the bed, all coiled up because he also finds your absence to be cold.

You will snuggle in next to him and press a kiss on his arm, mumbling a 'sorry' as you realise how ridiculous your argument was.

His response would be to wrap his arm around your waist and pull you in impossibly closer.

But there's one thing he can't help you with, and that is studying.

He is the worst study buddy to have. He can't sit silently, he can't focus on his work for more than 15 minutes, so what is the next obvious thing to do?

Annoy you, of course.

He's tapping your arm to tell you the worst dad jokes ever, or to just distract you.

"But, I love you so much baby!"

"Shut up Zach."

You always accompany his family to their yearly winter ski trip. You learnt how to ski with them and now you're a pro.

You always have huge snowball fights with Zach, which always end in him picking you up and dropping you both on the ground as you try to stop laughing.

You would also make a huge snowman with him, and naming him 'Burt' because he said so and you can't convince him.

To sum it up, I think of Zach Maclaren as Phil Dunphy.

↶ೃ✧˚. ❃ ↷ ˊˎ-

TAGLIST: @runningfrom2am @saccharinesammie @maybankslover @totalswag @madelynie @chenslucy @ietss @elle-mp3 @viawritesstuff @wallsdreams @tahliac11 @sadfury @newsies-pape-girl @jamesbuckybarneswify @xxxlaura @thatsthewaythechrissycrumbles

[taintandviolent]

Hide & Seek - jpm x reader!

summary: You check into the Hotel Cortez for a little R&R, only to have nightmares. Some of which, are real. Run, little mouse.

warnings & word count: 3.4K! James being James, hide and seek elements, chasing, hunting, implications of murder/death.

a/n: this was a quick drabble that got longer. sorry that there’s no smut, I’m unwell enough that James chasing me is arousing enough. idea/requested by @garykingz

full fic under cut! ↓ / ao3 link here! /

On an impromptu vacation, you were going to be in Los Angeles for a week - visiting a friend for a few days. In truth, you'd taken the opportunity to get away from the humdrum of work for a little longer, wanting a relaxing escape from the drab nine to five lifestyle that you lived day in and day out. Initially, you'd picked the Hotel Cortez for its lower than usual rates, but were also charmed by its lavish interiors and intriguing history.

You'd checked in when it was sunny - a delicate, warm breeze floated through the Los Angeles streets, which was a stark difference once you got inside the doors; there was a damp chill that made your skin prickle. You chalked it up to bad air conditioning and made small talk about the weather with the lady who kindly took one of your bags. The rooms were outdated, but still possessed some charm. The lady, her name was Iris, had informed you that some of the rooms had been remodeled; this wasn't one of them.

You'd spent most of the night lazily unpacking, nursing a bottle of cheap champagne that you called up from room service. You'd called your friend, excitedly discussing the details of tomorrow's brunch at around 8 PM. When you'd finally fallen asleep, it was half past midnight and you weren't sure how long you'd slept before the horrible dreams started.

First, a haggard looking woman sat at the edge of your bed, her head in her hands as she sobbed hysterically. Though you tried desperately to comfort her, she shoved you off, muttering something about never getting out. After that, you tossed and turned, jostling that nightmare into something else. A man sewed into a mattress, gurgling and screaming for help as his body decayed, his slippery, slimy limbs clawing at the fibers, and women stood at the edge of your bed, covered in blood and laughing, angrily hissing words you didn't understand, judging you in their native tongue. The final dream was the worst, despite the unsettling nature of the last few, it was the most vivid, and the one that made your heart rate skyrocket.

Someone else was in your room with malicious intentions, watching you silently as you slept. Their inviting, persuasive energy drew you closer to them, scooting towards the edge of the bed. Your face contorted painfully in your sleep, head swishing back and forth on the pillow, sweat dotting your exposed skin.

James stood above you, watching you as frightening, troublesome visions plagued your subconscious and tormented your physical form. The Cortez effect still reigned supreme - good . Nobody slept well in these rooms unless he permitted it. And you... you, with all of your beauty, were thrashing about like a child. You were delightful, exquisite... everything he wanted in a victim. Skin flushed with fear, hair splayed out on the pillow in delicate locks. Your features, though you weren't, were vintage and reminded him of some of his favourite past kills. He leaned forward, hands reaching out your perfect, slender neck.

Cold, unsettling fingertips ghosted along the nape of your neck and you flinched away, throwing your leg from underneath the covers. When a hand came down on your mouth, your heavy lids snapped open. It wasn't a dream. A man - a very well-dressed man - hovered above you, his cool hand pressing against your lips, prepped for and successfully muffling the oncoming scream. Now realizing that you were awake, lightning fast, both arms wrapped around you, coiling around you like a snake and pulling you from your warm sheets. You let out a boisterous shriek and, surprising even yourself, wrestled free, throwing yourself back against the mattress. You climbed atop of it, standing higher than he was.

His hands slipped along the satin of your nightgown as you wrenched yourself from his arms; what a sly little thing you were . Your sudden departure from his grip surprised James, and unbeknownst to you, the element of surprise was deeply arousing to him. Ah, he’d picked a good one, yet again…. 

You let out a desperate yelp, tucking yourself into the corner where the walls met. “Get away from me! What the FUCK are you doing in my room?!”

“Ah, what a rarity you are! So lively!” His stance was challenging, anticipating your next move.

Your eyes peeled away from him for a split second, just to judge the distance between you and the door. It wasn’t far, not at all. Certainly, close enough that you could make it… with enough speed…. 

You decided to go for it; with a final breath and a desperate exertion of muscle, you leapt off the bed and charged towards the door, nearly collapsing against it. With fingers trembling, you threw the chain from its casing and unlatched the deadbolt before throwing the door open - running out so quickly that you almost stumbled into the barren hallway. Adrenaline coursing through your veins, you opened your mouth to let out a shrill scream, in hopes that someone, anyone, would hear you.

“Run, run, run!” From behind you, came his elated tone as he watched you bolt out the door, barefoot and clad in your silky, lacy nightgown. His joviality was disconcerting, to say the least.

It had been so long since he'd gotten his jollies with a good old fashioned chase. Nowadays, people were dull, heavy buffoons whose logic had diminished like their will to live, they possessed no natural instincts to hide, only scream and fall to the floor, flopping about like a dead fish. Naturally, he could’ve ended the game quickly, materializing in front of you and taking you into his arms at once. But there was hardly any sport, any fun in that idea…. 

So, he let you run. He let you run down the long hallway, shrieking for help. The door clicked shut, and through it, he heard your voice crack as you yelled, beating futilely on the door of some unsuspecting guest. Of course, no one would come to your aid. Everyone minded their own business in this hotel, and naturally no one would open the door to a screaming madwoman.

You tried the handle of a door. Locked. Fuck . You tried the one next to it, only to find it locked too. Shit. You took off down the hallway again, your bare feet padding against the ornately woven carpets. You hadn’t heard the door open, but didn’t want to waste any more time trying locked doors, so instead, you rounded the corner, finding that it looked just like the hallway from where you’d just come. The doors lined each side of you, seeming to go on forever. How people didn’t get lost in these god-forsaken hallways was beyond you; you nearly had when you checked in. Where was everybody? Was the hotel empty? Full?

You looked both ways and took off again, your muscles begging for relief as you ran to the left; the few moments of standing weren’t enough to soothe your aching legs. The fire burned your muscles as you ran, terror building in your stomach. You thought you heard the echo of his voice behind you…. But when you turned, there was nothing – nothing but doors. 

“Jesus christ,” you whimpered, tears welling up. No. Now’s not the time to cry, suck it up.

You sniffed hard, silencing the sobs. You looked at the neverending doors, and still trembling, you tried the handle of the one nearest you. To your surprise, it turned freely. You snuck in, making sure to shut the door quietly behind you -- no more than a click of the latch.

The armoire seemed too obvious and easy of a hiding place, so you opted to crawl underneath one of the beds, albeit also obvious. The carpet smelled old, and there was a sliver of viewing space underneath the bedskirt. Watching the door with terrified eyes, you pressed your fingers into your mouth hard, silencing any breaths. The door opened moments later, and his polished shoes could be seen.

James knew you'd gone in here. He'd heard you. But where you went remained to be seen. He'd check the usual places; in hopes of finding his little escapist. His shoes moved around the bed, and you held your breath, closing your eyes. Perhaps this had been a stupid decision...

“Come out, come out wherever you are! There's nowhere to run where I won't find you!" His voice reverberated in the bathroom and your eyes snapped open, in relief. He whipped away the shower curtain, the shower rings clattering loudly on the metal pole. He peered inside. Empty. Drat.  

Knowing he was momentarily occupied, you took that opportunity to crawl out from underneath the bed and run to the door, opening it as silently as possible. There was no doubt that he'd heard you again, as his footsteps clicked quickly on the tile. Directly opposite from you, there was a door without a placard, without a number. You raced across the small hallway, your breath coming from your mouth in delicate little pants. A few seconds passed as you stared at it, as though you were trying to view what was behind it. A potential option…

Nervously, you swallowed and leaned forward, trying the handle. To your delight; it gave way. Tentatively, you stuck your head inside; It was an unwelcoming empty room, nothing but cold, bare bricks inside. A strange, square shaped room that was too long to be a broom closet, but not wide enough to be a guest’s room. It looked like it ran parallel to the rest of the rooms, it too went on forever. A terrifying, bleak, unfinished hallway.

“Ahh, my little buttercup! Where have you run off to? I know this hotel like the back of my hand!. Afterall, I built it!”

Though slightly muffled, his syrupy, crooning voice was loud enough that it still bounced off the walls, seeming to come from all directions. Watching old films ardently, the Transatlantic accent was one that you found attractive usually, with its refined over-pronunciation, but this… you never pictured this scenario. Never pictured it to be…

Your head snapped in the direction from whence you’d come. The handle turned, which prompted you to shimmy inside, quietly shutting the door behind you. You were submerged in darkness and an odd moistness that made your nose itch. Wherever you were hadn't been utilized by anyone in a long time. A long, long time.

“...fuck…!” you hissed through clenched teeth. “...fuck, what do I do now ?” 

If you weren’t going to die at the hands of that man, you were going to die in this bizarre, desolate hallway, starved to death, sealed away to decay like some forgotten wax figure. Pinpricks of darkness took over your vision, and you could do nothing but blindly feel your way down the hall, stepping carefully as you did, arms out in front of you to protect against any obstacles.

The floor was dusty, you could feel your warm skin picking up particles as you walked. You didn't hear him though, so he'd chosen another direction. At least, you hoped.

Your hands flattened against a surface that differed from the walls. It didn't feel like brick, it felt like another type of wood; there was bevelling on the sides. Your hands bumped into a handle, which you twisted, pushing forward. It gave with a little push and you came face first with a hotel room - one that looked similarly to your own.

It wasn't empty; a stout woman in a modest maid outfit was bent over the bed, meticulously smoothing every crease from the top sheet. She paid you no mind, though she'd surely had to have heard you open the door; the hinges desperately needed oiled.

You took a step forward. Hesitantly. "E-excuse me? Ma'am?" 

No response from her. What the fuck was going on in this hotel? People dressed like they were from another time, ignoring desperate screams of peril...

“Please,” you panted, frustrated. “You have to help me. Hide me. There’s… there’s a man after me. He’s –” 

Acting almost startled, she straightened up from the bed, and turned to you, waving her hands as though you were speaking too loudly. “Shhhush, shush, it’s alright, dear. Do stop breathing in such a way, you’re going to hyperventilate!” 

You swallowed, wetting your dry mouth. “I’m… I’m sorry. I just, he’s… there’s a man… he tried to- to....” You scrambled. A phone. There was a phone on the table behind her. To call the police. Yes. That. Perfect. “Just let me use the phone and I'll -"

In a fluid, determinate motion, she stepped in front of the small table, blocking you from the phone. Your eyes narrowed, brows furrowing. She was too calm. Something was off about her demeanor as she dutifully approached you, hands clasped together, wringing them, and it made your teeth chatter. A small, but devious smile curled around her rouged lips.

“N-no, what're you doing....?” 

The door to your left opened abruptly. The man exhaled as he burst through it, tying an apron behind his back. He first made eye contact with the maid, then with you, his dark, inky pupils widening.

“Ahhhh. Look at that, my dear.” 

“No… no, no, no, no, no, no! NO! PLEASE!” You stumbled back around, falling against the door - the one you had just come from, which had swung shut. Although you'd just pushed it open moments ago, it seemed heavier than before. You put all your weight into pulling at it again, tugging with everything you had. From behind you, his dubose voice continued.

“It seems as though I’ve won this little game of yours!” 

Finally, it released and the hinges let out a painful wail as you yanked it open. Although it had already begun to swing shut, you gripped the handle hard, pulling it until the lock clicked into place. You weren't sure if they were coming; you couldn't hear them talking from behind the heavy wood. You imagined they would be. Eventually.

The cool, looming darkness was all that surrounded you, but at present, it was less terrifying than what was on the other side of the door. Squaring your shoulders, you bravely took long strides back into the pitch-blackness, hoping to feel a sense of familiarity. After a few moments, you began running again, wanting to put as much distance between you and him as you could.

You only got a few yards before a searing hot pain shot up through your calf muscle as something sharp and jagged tore through your soft flesh, causing you to yelp and clumsily stumble to a stop. Though you couldn't see anything, out of habit, you gazed down in the general direction, breathing shallowly. Deprived of sight, your other senses kicked in, and you felt the warmth that oozed from the bottom of your foot and smelled the hot, irony scent of blood as it seeped through the gash in your toughest skin. Though the pain was crippling, you had to keep going.

Now hobbling hurriedly down the dark corridor, you thought you were nearing the door. With both hands out in front of you, you waited to feel something. A harrowing thought settled into your psyche, but you shooed it away, promising yourself that it wouldn't happen. Your fingertips finally felt the smoothness of wood and you pressed both hands against the door, gasping in relief. In trepidation, you tried the handle, desperately yanking it down. You wiggled it furiously, panicking. Just as you'd worried. It was locked.

The hinges howled at the other end of the hallway and you froze, holding your breath. Stupid. Where else would you have gone? He knew you were in there. Like he'd said, he knew this hotel like the back of his hand and likely knew that the door would lock. He'd probably designed it that way. Slowly, you turned your head, staring pointedly behind you.

Lights flickered on; though covered in dust, the same wall sconces that were on the outside hallways were also on the inside. You winced, as your eyes adjusted to the change in light. You spotted him, fast approaching. He held something in his hand, though you couldn't make out what it was. His crunching footsteps neared closer and closer. You spun around, pressing your back against the door. You were cornered. This was it. 

“Now, now. There’s no need for that!” His voice echoed down the corridor. “Well,” he added. “Perhaps fear is... apropos. I've no intention of being quick with you.”

He was terrifying with his eloquence and debonair demeanour, albeit handsome. In a different setting, you might've accepted a drink from him, or perhaps an offer to dance. But now... with your hands in front of your chest, shaking like a cornered animal, you were anything but wooed.

He was mere inches away now, and all you could do was tremble like a fool. With a long, drawn out vocalisation, he closed in the distance, sandwiching your body between himself and the door. His fingers ghost over the curve of your thighs and hips, up to your waist, and finally, just beneath your breast. He pressed his hand underneath the weight of it, nestling it underneath the flesh. He could feel the sweat that had settled into the fabric of your nightgown, the heat that radiated off your body and most of all, he could feel your thumping heartbeat beneath your skin. It hammered away, pumping your blood through its arteries, keeping you living, breathing, panting.... quivering. Aroused, he nipped at the air, hissing through his teeth.

"Oh, don't look so surprised, my dear. Did you really think you'd be the one that got away from me? You gave me a good run, indeed. But deep down, you knew I'd find you."  

No... he was wrong. You really had thought that you'd get away. You'd always considered yourself to be... smart, quick. As it seemed, that was a foolish misconception. You weren't quick enough.

He leaned down, placing his lips against your flushed cheek. His moustache tickled your flesh, his breath was cool against your ear like the first warning breeze before a storm.

“Now,” he whispered into your skin. "Where are those screams you so boldly let free before? Why, you're as quiet as a mouse now."

"Please, please don't kill me..." You murmured, pulling your face away from his. James immediately caught your cheek with his hand, pulling it back to its starting position. He stroked the skin softly, tenderly, and whispered: "Oh, but I must... you're going to make it sound so good."

With tears streaming down your face, you let out a pleading moan, transitioning into a blood-curdling scream.

"Yes! Scream for me, my darling! Scream to your heart's content!" James said, slipping his hand round your waist. "Miss Evers!" He called over his shoulder. "Ready my tools!"

You heard her call back: "Yes, Mr. March!"

Mr. March , you thought. That's his name. Mr. March is going to kill me.

You had nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. The only place you could go was into his arms - his cool, strong arms with their enrapturing steadfastness, their chilly persuasiveness. They gripped you so lovingly, though the threat of death loomed over you like a cloud. He hoisted you up into his arms and over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. You were light, alive and easy to manipulate.

"P-please. I was here to see my fr-friend..." you whimpered into his back, though you doubt he cared. Seeing your friend seemed like such a trivial thing now when your life was at stake. He carried you back down the hallway with ease, avoiding whatever obstacles laid on the floor.

By the time your back hit the table, your vision was so clouded with tears that you could no longer see him, but you felt the way he caressed you, and heard the way he spoke about your body, monologued discomforting facts about the human body, and how good yours was going to look once it was splayed open for the world to see. 

The last thing you saw was the deep, crimson gash on his neck. Passively, you focused on it as he spoke, watching the gore as it glistened and moved with his words. You'd never thought about what your insides would look like until then. You wondered if yours looked like that, too. You supposed you'd find out soon enough. 

"Please..." you whispered. "Please... don't..." 

[witch-hazels-musings]

My Dearest Hazel,

It had been quite some time since our last correspondence, I apologize for that. Many things had changed for the better, some overwhelming, others miniscule.

My residence had switched from the amber leaves of Liyue to the clear blue lakes of Fontaine, for starters. Perhaps this is why your letters, if you had sent some, had not reached my new residence. Fear not, I shall let you know briefly of the new address you may send them to!

There were many trials and tribulations that we had encountered in the Nation of Justice--Getting used to Operatic Trials, learning the many different pathways of Fleuve Cendre, and learning how to explore the vast waters along with the creatures in it. The first time Childe had encountered one of the Local Legends, let me tell you how absolutely giddy he was at the challenge presented to him, I swear that man...

Speaking of him, once more I shall need your help in perhaps a dabble of witchery for this man's own good. Childe had encountered such troublesome things upon our arrival, you'd swear that he is a magnet for misfortune, tsk, tsk.

As such, I shall help you pick out what you need for the ritual, as per usual.

A dash of Black Torumaline, a pinch of Dalmation, and perhaps a spoonful of Wormwood to help balance out this man.

Attached to this letter is the mora for your service (do tell me if your rates had increased, I shall send another to cover the missing expenses!) and hopefully, I shall await your good reply just like old times.

Your friend from afar, F----

Black Tourmaline (safety, shielding), Dalmatian stone (loyalty, family), Wormwood (nightmares)  Childe x Gn Reader | Protection Ritual  Warning: nightmares (childe wakes from one), very fluffy, angst/comfort (extra dose on the comfort), childe's real name used

The cool air caressed your skin - gentle, lapping ripples of mountain streams, chilled by falling snow. You adjusted in bed and pulled the blankets around you, but before settling again, a strange noise drew your attention. 

A soft whimper, heavy breathing. The bed jerked, creaked. You rose, shivered at the rudeness of the night, and peered into the darkness of the bedroom. Another sharp breath and the room became washed in amber and shadows. 

Childe was on his back, one hand resting on his bare chest, the other twitched at his side. He turned his head away from you, then back, and bore pain on his face as he did so. Knitted brows, disheveled hair against a sweaty forehead, feathering jaw stopping only when he parted his lips to take in a quick breath. He mumbled something but you couldn’t make it out. 

“Ajax,” you called to him quietly but he didn’t respond. He just fidgeted, his fingers pressing into his stomach as his chest rose and fell like tormented waves. You twisted and slid your hand along his tense, twitching forearm until your palm covered the back of his scarred hand. “Ajax,” you said, whispered near his head as you pressed your face near his temple and ran your fingers through his hair. 

Whatever plagued him seemed to get worse. He turned into you and you could feel his breath against your skin. Closing your eyes, you wrapped your fingers around his hand and squeezed, brushed his hair from his forehead, and murmured reassurances near scrunched eyes. 

His body jerked and he pulled away from your face fiercely, his eyes wide and shimmering. Every muscle in his body went tense at the same time, his fingers like a vice-grip as he held your hand against his chest. 

“You’re okay, it’s okay,” you said calmly as you held his eyes while he searched for clarity in the torrent. “It was a dream. Just a dre-” Childe cut you off by pulling you against him. His arm coiled around your waist, desperate fingers digging into your back as his face buried itself in the crook of your neck. He was trembling. 

You’d seen him have nightmares before. Found him awake and standing next to the window, sitting in a chair with his head in his hands. Always alone, disconnected. At first, you thought it better to let him be. To leave him to settle in the ways he had before you entered his life but after the third time, you couldn’t bring yourself to stay in the warmth of a bed he was unable to lay in. 

So you moved to him, carefully, tenderly, slowly. 

He seemed surprised by your action. Almost in disbelief when you stepped in between the clouded blue window so you could cup his face. He tensed then too. His shoulders, his back, his hands. As if he were a wounded animal trying so hard to hold back the violence lying in wait. 

“Go back to bed,” he said, his voice strained and tight.  “I will when you do,” you replied, passing your fingers under his tired eyes.  He smirked and looked back to the window. “It might be a while,” he said in his usual, laid-back tone but you could feel the edges of his words and how they were laced with bitterness. You wondered then how many nightmares he had suffered through unaccompanied.  “Then I’ll wait.” Childe met your eyes, searched them as if looking for a break in your resolve. But you had none. “For as long as it takes. I’ll be here.” Childe’s eyes flickered back to the window. He breathed, swallowed, and then reached for you. Embraced you in a wash of blue, held you in the quiet of the evening and you held him back. For as long as he needed, you stayed with him and spoke nothing of the warm drops of water that fell against your arm. 

To Childe, the 11th Harbinger, nightmares were as common as the rising sun. But he rarely let them command him, so, when they did, when the bearable became too heavy, you vowed to carry the extra weight - however you were able. 

You pressed your cheek against the top of his head and wiggled your arm until you could drag your nails along his scalp, through his wild locks, and over his ear. “I’m here,” you said against him, hummed them like a song in the still air. “I’m here, Ajax.” 

Childe slid his arm out from under you so he could hold you tighter, closer. Your leg found warmth between his, your arm slipped beneath his neck and coiled to hold his head against your chest. And he turned into you, became lost in you as you reeled him in. 

The warm light filled the room as if it were fighting to keep the shadows at bay but, little did you realize, you were the same. In the darkest spaces of Childe’s mind, you were the barrier, the holder of life and brightness. Where once his world was saturated in hues of deep, midnight blue, you managed to bloom, and now, when the murk threatens to swallow him all he has to do is call out your name and there you are, blinding and radiant to guide him home. 

For you my dear friend, I see nothing other than the two of you. Love and adoration that holds no equal. Should there be a more perfect match for him, I dare the stars to show me - for it will always be you <3

To Ajax's wife, and my darling love, F.

Thaumaturgy Anthology (October 11-13, 2024)

This event is based on spells and rituals. Inspiration does not equal understanding; liberties have been taken. All content is owned by Witch Hazels Musings, theft of these images and stories will result in immediate action.

[split-spectrum]

Water and Rock

Chapter 12

Pairings: Obi Wan/FemReader

Warnings/Tags: (please read updated tags for this chapter <3) explicit content, i.e. SMUT, 18+ only - minors DNI. sex, oral sex, cum play, dubious consent, drug use, hair pulling, very slight violence

Chapter Length: 8K

Description: There are only so many excuses a master and padawan can make to kiss under "extenuating circumstances" before circumstances stop arising and start being created. You are an expert at your craft - a Jedi knight in service as a spy for the Republic. When your former master Obi Wan joins you on a mission, it's clear things aren't the same as they once were. The trials you face together may break your bond, or turn it into something else entirely.

☆☆☆

Thirty-Second Hour

When you sink back into the vision, you let out a slow, albeit shaky breath, to steady yourself. The instant that you can see again, it's clear the effort was wasted. 

He's brought you right back to the spot you'd left - the sudden, choked noise in the back of his throat letting you know he's close- so close. Everything in his body language is telling you he's seconds from spilling into you. 

But no matter how much the drugs may have altered his mind, Obi Wan is still Obi Wan, and he is nothing if not brutally controlled. 

He's dragging it out, you realize. The obscene sound of him fucking you has slowed into a steadier rhythm and you hear the first half of a desperate moan escape you before it's cut off. You watch your own hand fly up to cover your mouth. Your jaw looks tight from this angle. 

Obi Wan doesn't slow down, doesn't miss a beat of rocking his hips, releasing his hand from your throat and deftly sweeping up to uncover your mouth. He pulls your hand away, dragging it down and pressing his grip over yours until you're holding your own throat. 

"No, no," he admonishes next to your ear. "If it feels good, young one, you mustn't be quiet about it."

You hear the whining groan that answers him. You nearly mirror it, in the here-and-now. 

It's beyond you, how he's able to keep his voice so composed while the rest of him is nearly snapping, at the obvious precipice of his orgasm. Every muscle is taut, glistening with sweat as he pumps diligently into your body. Your thighs clench around him, a sign that you're close, too, and he notices. 

The hand he'd been using to hold your hip slides between your legs and though you can't see it, you feel the movement in his thoughts when two of his fingers drag the wetness from where you're dripping around his cock, spreading it over your clit. Your desperate noises turn strangled. 

"There we are," he soothes. "Be a good girl and show your master. Let me feel-"

The vision blurs, the Obi Wan in the room with you breathing unsteadily. You feel him shake his head, dropping the tips of his fingers away from you. "Forgive me, I-"

But you're aching now, and you don't hold back your impulse, lifting your hand to his head, brushing your middle finger gently up from the hair at his ear over to his temple, and resting it there. "Oh, don't stop. Please."

His aura is so thick with desire that when you open your eyes to look into his, you're not sure if the air around you has turned hazy. He relents almost immediately. 

"Let me feel you come," the Obi Wan in the vision purrs, the sound of his voice filling your mind again. The honeyed rumble of his command burns through your bloodstream and coils up hot in your stomach. You're about to come in the vision. You might come now, just from watching. 

Your body shudders on top of him, doing as he's told you, tumbling over the edge hard and fast, and crumbling against him with a mess of moaning and finally a high, keening sound that could be his name. He turns it into a choked whine, tightening his grip around your larynx and fucking into you even harder when your climax starts to taper off. 

Your voice goes quiet, and when your movements begin to slow, he pulls his hand from between your legs and folds you onto your side. His other hand finally releases your throat as you roll, and his leg hooks behind your knee, opening you up for him to reach even deeper. 

"That's it," he pants roughly, your body spasming beneath him and your voice pitching upward again. His mouth is pressed into the nape of your neck, where the marks from his teeth are starting to turn dark. 

One of his thumbs hooks down to brush your nipple, his lips meet your neck in a kiss that you remember feeling, and all at once, you recognize what you're seeing. This is the scene he'd shown you, back on the ship, during your meditation. 

But he hadn't shown you all of it. 

You can see the dazed, glassy look in your own eyes as he bears down on you, his thrusts turning ragged, grinding you into the floor. 

"Obi Wan," your plea comes out guttural, wrecked, and the sound of it it makes your head swim. You realize it's his reaction you're feeling, and suddenly it's like you're floating out of your own body. It's overwhelming and at the same time, not enough. It's you; it's him. You can't tell whose feelings you're having anymore, or whether they're a part of the vision, or something happening right now, in the room you're sharing. You don't know where the line is. You don't know if there is a line. 

"Fuck-" he says, hard and clipped. He leans into his forearm, pinning you down, and you bite the inside of your lip to keep from becoming a whimpering mess while watching the man you'd always known as tender, who'd never accepted anything not freely offered, bury himself into you. Watching him take and take and take exactly what he wants, losing himself in cruelty; in pleasure... 

This time, when Obi Wan brings the vision to an end, it's a slow stop. Like breaking the surface of the water and coming up for air. It's not as definitive and sudden as before. You can still feel it while you're gazing into his eyes. His lips are bright, pink, and slightly parted. He closes them into a hard line, to swallow.

You're so wrapped in the vision and in wanting to feel more of him that your consciousness keeps pressing up against his, at first. To the point where Obi Wan not only cuts off the contact between you, but actually begins to push back. The walls of his mind are rigid once again, and his presence is firmly closed off. 

It takes an eternity for you to gather yourself. You're too afraid to speak. Your hand is still at his temple, resting against the warmth of his face, and you stay there. You're not ready to break your connection with his skin.

"Obi Wan..." His name leaves your mouth before you're ready to talk, and the rest of your mind catches up clumsily as you realize your tone is too breathy and far too intimate. His eyelids dip deliciously, and it nearly sends you over the edge. But you swallow, vehemently tamping down your desires, and force yourself to even out your voice. 

"Thank you," you tell him simply. "For showing me. Now I know."

You shift in the bedding, bringing your noses just a bit closer. 

"Now you know," he says back. There's a long, loaded silence hanging over you. He's trying to remain unreadable, as he always does, but you'd caught that first look he'd given when the vision ended, and it was enough to tell you why he's still lying next to you instead of moving away. 

The wind howls outside, and it's the first time in hours that you've thought about the rest of the world existing.

"Was it... as you thought it would be?" 

His question catches you completely by surprise, and you have no idea how to answer. 

The silence that envelops you is perilous. The kind of silence that threatens to make you into a fool. The kind of fool that would lean in and close your lips over his. And you can't allow that to happen.

Because even as you're coming down from the high of watching him take you in ways you'd never even let yourself imagine, you know - you know that if you were to press your lips against his, he would stop you. He would do it gently, but the disappointment and shame would tear you apart. 

So, you allow yourself to bask in the feeling of this moment for just a little longer before you pull away. You feel numb when you speak, forcing yourself to operate on auto pilot. 

"I don't think there's a good answer to that question," you murmur, almost lowering your voice to a whisper.

His eyes betray nothing, but he smiles softly, and you see the tightness in it. 

"Right," he says. "Of course not."

A thousand words go unsaid. You want to tell him that it was nothing like you'd imagined because you can't allow yourself those kinds of thoughts for even a moment - even a second - or they'd seep into you so deeply you'd never be able to think of anything else. 

"I'm... going to get some sleep," you tell him instead, flatly, breaking your gaze apart from his at last. 

You roll over, putting some distance between your bodies. You close your eyes. But you can't find sleep.

Thirty-Sixth Hour

 

"Fuck-" he says, hard and clipped. He leans into his forearm, pinning you down...

You've seen this before. 

Obi Wan cums, and it fills you, and he fucks you through it. He keeps fucking you until the air has left your lungs, and until the room is silent, and until his muscles drop him to the floor, cock still wrapped inside you. He looks down, watching himself drip down the backs of your thighs. He moves slightly, watching himself ease out of you and then disappear inside you again. He's dripping. And still hard. 

"You-" your voice beside him sounds far away, delirious, blissed-out. Like any words are an afterthought. You can hear yourself panting, and after a long time, you try speaking again. "You... finished inside me."

Obi Wan's gaze flicks up to your face, looking at your closed eyes, your face pressed sideways against the floor. He's still moving in long, unhurried strokes, and after a while, he brings his eyes back to where he's slow-fucking you. 

Your body is still so pliant, so willing, beneath him. The noises you make are warm and soft, inviting him to stay exactly where he is. "I wasn't aware," he drawls, "we were in the midst of making careful decisions."

The filthy sound of him entering you again and again ends when he bends down and presses his hands around your waist, pulling himself out of you with a soft groan. 

"Turn over," he tells you, settling back, pants still around his legs. 

You sit up slowly and your hand wraps around his cock, keeping your connection as you start to turn around. He stands up, looking down at you, and you come up to your knees, bobbing your head forward to spread your lips eagerly around him. The warmth makes him stop still, easing the lower half of his body into your welcome embrace. 

His knees unstiffen for a brief moment while you swallow his cum, cleaning him dutifully with eyes locked on his. It only lasts a moment before he's snaking a hand behind your head. It's not clear at first whether he's pulling you closer or stopping you, but when his fingers tighten in your hair, the message is clear. 

He jerks your head up, your mouth still full of him.

"Did I say, 'get on your knees'?" His hand follows your head as you shake it gently back and forth, gagging on him. "No, I didn't. I told you to turn over."

He releases your hair and drags his hand down to your chin, pressing into your jawbone. "You don't listen." 

He pulls you off, your face pinched between his thumb and his knuckle, shoving you backward and sinking down between your legs all in one fluid motion. He crowds you, aligning his hips with yours, your body half-pressed against the floor and the wall of the ship. You dimly wonder how he could still be hard, but decide to simply attribute it to the drugs, not particularly caring about the cause so much as the effect.

Slowly pressing inside you again, he rubs his thumb tenderly over the spot he'd squeezed on your jaw. "What was all that training for, hm?" 

He pulls back, dropping his other hand to the juncture of your hip, and shoves his cock into you so hard it draws out a yelp, even as his hand gently cups your face. "So disobedient."

Obi Wan ends the vision like slamming a book shut. This time, when your eyes open to meet his, they're stormy, dilated. Dark.

You aren't prepared to mask your feelings when you're suddenly awakened and blinking back into consciousness. You just gaze back at him, not hiding your hunger. Not keeping your energy hidden, but letting it bleed out so that he can feel what he's done to you. The fire is all but gone, dying embers lighting the corners of the room. The air is sharp and icy.

"I'm sorry. That was not-" He breaks off, shaking his head. "I'm sorry."

"Don't-" you tell him, moving closer to his warmth. You try to calm your breathing, and into the cold silence you whisper, nerves raw, "Fuck." The obscenity escapes you before you can think to catch it.

He stares. Then he seems to gather himself and clears his throat. "In my sleep I... failed to guard my thoughts." You're silent, still reeling, and he lowers his voice. "Now you remember as much as I do. Or... nearly."

You're taking careful breaths, drinking in the way his mouth curves when he speaks. "Nearly?"

The muscles in his jaw tighten. "I would... prefer it if only I remember the rest."

Despite his somber tone, you can't help your body's reaction. You want to pull him to you. You want to beg him to take you further into this darkness. You're flushed with heat when you think about the things he did. Imagining him taking it further is driving you to the point of madness.

"I understand," you tell him instead, finding your voice weak. 

"I regret it," he says, more of a statement of fact than an apology. "Hurting you."

"And," you surprise yourself, speaking without thinking, "the rest?"

He doesn't say anything for several long heartbeats. 

"I wish none of it had happened," he says at last, with stark directness. Then his gaze softens. "But, if I could have chosen, it would not have been... like that."

Your heart thuds wildly. Your voice is barely audible. "No?"

His eyelashes dip once, then twice, as he seems to hold back his answer. He looks stunningly beautiful, pinning you under a deadly serious expression. "No."

It's a long time before you can bring yourself to say anything back.

"I should go." 

The spell over him suddenly seems to break, and he tilts a brow, watching you reach for the robe lying on the floor behind you. "Go? Where?"

It's late. Or it's early. But you've rested enough to call this morning, and though there's only darkness outside, you push your blankets to your waist and sit up. If you stay here even a few more seconds, you will try to have him. Looking at him like this - hair a mess, eyes wild - you stand absolutely no chance.

You wrap the robe around yourself, stepping carefully out of the makeshift bed you'd been half-sharing, and you back away slowly. "I think I should meditate," you tell him. "I think I should be... alone."

You can tell he's trying to read your expression in the dim light of the fire, and you turn away, after giving him a curt bow of your head to take your leave. It's so overly formal that your stomach turns in embarrassment. You don't know how else to behave. 

It's cold and dark inside your sleeping quarters, and as you turn the knob to close the door, you heave a sigh of relief. You won't be able to stay in here for long without any heat, but cold and dark is exactly what you need. You sit on your freezing sheets, pulling your legs up and crossing them with a shiver. 

But you know now that it doesn't matter how cold it is. He's burning through you, and it won't stop.

 

Thirty-Seventh Hour

 

When you emerge from your room, you find that Obi Wan hasn't gone back to sleep, either. He's lit another candle in the kitchen, and his hands are busy in the sink, washing one of the cups you'd used earlier. When he sees you walking up beside him, he finishes rinsing and sets it to the side. Then he turns to you, wiping his hands on a towel. His face holds some concern, but it's reserved.

"You don't need to do that," you tell him, nodding to the cup. 

"I thought it best to take advantage of the running water while we still can."

Sensible as always. 

He holds the towel, just looking at you, not making any move to come closer. He looks unbelievably handsome like this - wearing his bed clothes, a simple brown undershirt and pants, with his sleeves rolled up to keep from getting wet. 

"Are you alright?" He floats the question quietly to you. 

You nod, crossing the short distance between you and sitting down at the table to look up at him. "I'm sorry for leaving."  

"I understand. You needed time."

You nod again, not elaborating on his comment. "Can I ask you something?" you venture.

"Of course."

"Back on the ship, when we were... meditating," you begin haltingly. "You showed me such a... small part. Why didn't you tell me you remembered so much more?"

His features are contemplative for just a moment before the corner of his mouth turns up. "You didn't ask."

Your throat feels sticky as you try to push out your next words. "I wanted to tell you... Not that it matters now, but..." you sigh, then try again. "I'm on a contraceptive. I don't know if you worried about-"

"Yes, I know."

That catches you by surprise, and you stare at him for an explanation.

"You told me, later," he elaborates quietly. In your long silence, he adds, more seriously, "I would have spoken to you about it. All of it. I wanted to, for some time."

The pain his words cause you is unintentional, but you nearly wince anyway. While you'd been ignoring him, focused on dealing with your own feelings, you hadn't shown any concern for his. He'd wanted to be open and honest about everything. But you'd kept him alone, instead.

You open your mouth to say something - to apologize, or try to make it right. But he goes on, closing the subject. "But perhaps it was for the best. After all, what could it have changed?" He places the towel on the counter, looking down, then smiles back up at you. "Sometimes talking only complicates a simple matter."

You have no response. Just an aching feeling. Your chance to make this right is long gone, and anything you say would seem empty. Finally, dumbly, you glance over at the wood stove in the other room. "I should make us something to eat."

His smile softens, tapering off. A thousand thoughts seem to be playing behind his eyes, but he only answers what you've said. "Breakfast would be very nice. Thank you."

You stand up and busy yourself with the kettle, picking up the towel from the counter to dry it, and he begins washing another dish. You don't stop him this time.

--

"Would you mind if I borrow these?" He holds up a small pair of scissors, their golden shine twinkling in the dim light, pulling your attention from the simmering water you'd been checking.

You glance up from the fire, replacing the lid on the kettle. Then you look down at the table where he'd presumably found the scissors, sitting next to a plant. "Hm? Oh. Sure. What for?"

He brushes a hand over the edge of his beard. "I've been in need of a trim."

You turn to face him, quirking an eyebrow. "I use those to cut my plants. They might be dirty."

He gives you a smile. "Oh believe me, I've made due with worse." He turns toward the refresher. "Thank you. I'll give them a rinse."

You stand up from where you'd been crouching next to the fire, deciding to leave the water a little longer to come to a full boil, and go back to preparing the jogan fruit. 

As you finish cutting up the last of the fruit, you reach for a plate, and when your fingertips graze its edge, a cool, creeping sensation suddenly trickles down your spine. You stop, staring at the ceramic pattern in front of you. Stretching your mind into the Force, you try to capture the fleeting feeling, but it leaves as quickly as it came.

You stand there another moment, almost wondering whether you should ask Obi Wan if he'd felt it, too. But really, you aren't even sure it was anything in the Force you'd felt. You glance around one more time, and sensing nothing more, you place the fruit down on the plate and head back into the main room. 

Picking up the packet of polystarch portion bread and shaking it in one hand, you use your other hand to lift the lid on the kettle and check for a proper boil. Seeing the bubbles break on the surface, you reach down, using a cloth to move the kettle from the stove. 

...Bright red feathers. Scrabbling claws digging into the crevices of a rocky cliff face at a dizzying speed. A leap, and a blinding light...

Your hand slips, the kettle jolts forward-

...the teal of protective outer scales turn into the tan of a soft underbelly. The tan and brown of a Jedi's clothing isn't far behind. Hands grasp to reach leather reigns, a futile gesture as the creature and the Jedi are now falling, falling... His blue saber's light is extinguished and you can feel his pain and confusion as the explosion of rubble surrounds him, following him down into the endless abyss...

You bark out in pain and jerk your hand away, the boiling water splashing over your skin as the kettle crashes to the ground. Sucking air through your teeth, you instinctively grasp around your wrist and look down at your burned hand. 

Before you can get a good look at it, you hear the door of the refresher swing open and Obi Wan call your name with concern. 

You turn to face him, wincing. "Sorry, it was nothing, I-"

When you catch sight of him, you stop talking. The connection between your mind and your mouth has fizzled out. He crosses the room, trading looks between you and the overturned kettle, clearly trying to decipher what had happened, while you stand speechless, pain in your hand momentarily forgotten. He's bare-chested, presumably to keep his shirt clean while trimming his beard, and he's nothing but angled brows and perfect lines of hard muscle as he approaches you cautiously. 

You take a breath, embarrassed, and try again. "It's nothing, I just got distracted and I dropped the kettle."

His eyes slide to your hand, where you're still holding your own wrist. "Are you alright?"

You pull your hand up, inspecting it properly for the first time. It's a little red, just on the back of your thumb down to the start of your wrist, where the water had splashed. 

You shake your head dismissively. "I'm fine. I'll run it under cold water."

He gently reaches a hand out. "May I see it?"

Your heart is still racing from your... dream? Vision? Whatever it had been. But it doesn't slow down at all when he takes your hand in his, holding you still. He looks back up at you. "You should put something on this."

You make no effort to pull your hand back. "It's just a little burn."

"Burns can be deceiving," he tells you, then turns around, heading back to the refresher. A moment later, he emerges with some bacta gel and a gauze wrap. He's also carrying his shirt, but he doesn't put it on quite yet. 

His hand finds the small of your back and gently guides you into the kitchen, toward the sink. "Don't be difficult."

You try to ignore the way your mind turns immediately back to the same commanding tone he'd used in the earlier vision.

He turns the faucet on for you to run your hand under cold water while he twists off the cap. The cool relief does wonders for your hand, but it does nothing for the heat in your face as he stands in front of you like this, on display. 

His body has always been lithe, almost wiry, but it seems the war has made him a little bulkier. His shoulders are rounded, his ribs lined with lean muscle. You're doing your best to keep your eyes trained on the water pouring out of the sink, but when he turns around briefly to find a place on the counter to set down the cap, you drink him in from behind, trailing your gaze from the lines of his trim waist up to his shoulder blade, where the stark contrast of dark ink paints his skin. 

The symbol there has lived at the edge of your consciousness ever since you first saw it, back on Keoth. Watching his muscles move underneath the tattoo is making you weak in the knees, and your chest rises with a weighty breath when he turns back to face you. 

"Come now, it can't be that bad," he says with a half-smile. The way his eyes glitter in the candlelight sends a shiver through you, and you shake your head again, trying to remain in control of your thoughts, despite the way they're continually running away from you. 

"It isn't. Not that bad," you murmur. He puts his hand out for yours again, and you turn off the water and offer yourself over to him. He holds you carefully, tenderly turning your arm to the side and patting it dry with a dish towel. 

He pauses, holding your hand in his, drawing his eyes up to meet yours. For a moment neither of you speaks, and you both seem acutely aware of how close you're standing, how little clothing separates you, and how tenderly he's touching you. 

He lowers his gaze. "This will sting."

Normally, you'd make a sarcastic comment at that. You're both intimately familiar with using bacta to treat wounds. But he's filling the silence, and you know it, and since neither of you is going to comment on why this silence is so pervasive, you bite your tongue.

He swipes the gel onto his fingers, then gently dabs it across your skin. You try to concentrate on anything besides the feeling of his touch. Your eyes drift to his shoulder again, though you can't see the tattoo from this angle. He catches the glance and you lower your eyes quickly. 

He doesn't say anything for a moment, and you wonder if you've offended him by staring. But when he pulls back his hand to get more bacta gel, you find him looking more pensive than anything. He's using one hand to slick a finger over the top of the gel tube, and he's still holding your wrist with the other. "I've never told you what it means - that symbol of mine. Would you like to know?"

You flick your eyes up from his hand. You nod, half-opening your mouth to say "yes," but never quite getting the word out.

"It's an ancient dialect of Mando'a," he tells you, "When I was very young, Qui Gon and I spent some time on Mandalore. We were still finding our balance as master and padawan, and having some... difficulties."

He slides the cool gel across your skin again in a second layer, two fingers gliding flat over your wrist. "While we were staying with a small band of Mandalorians, I had decided to partake in their clan's tradition and get a tattoo. The design I'd chosen was the symbol of the Republic, as I felt there was nothing by which I could better define myself."

His finger traces along your thumb. "But when I told my master, he was not as enthusiastic as I had expected." He looks down, carefully using his own thumb to swipe away the excess gel from around your burn. "He told me to think carefully about the way I chose to define myself, and the ideals to which I committed. Of course, lacking any understanding of nuance at the time, I believed that he was disapproving what I'd chosen, and it led to a heated discussion."

He looks wistful for a moment, then melts into a smile with a shake of his head, and starts to unwind the gauze. "I said that I would never regret branding myself with the symbol of that which I held most dear. "

He finishes wrapping your wrist and uses the scissors to cut the gauze, tucking away the end, then draws his gaze up to meet yours. "And he, in turn, told me that the Force created living beings for a reason. That reason is simply to live. To experience all that the universe has to offer. Some experiences are worth a stain. Worth a scar." Obi Wan gently removes his hand from yours. "'We all carry scars in the end, but it's up to us to decide which ones are worth having.'"

You shift your arm back down to your side. "But, you got the tattoo anyway?"

He gives another smile. "Oh, yes. The next day, I returned to him with something I was very proud of. I'd gotten tattooed with their symbol for 'regret'."

You look at him in utter confusion and he goes on to explain. "You see, I thought I'd taken my master's words to heart. After our disagreement, I wanted to show him I understood. I now had a permanent reminder that any decisions I made about how to define myself would stay with me forever."

You raise your brows. "...and Qui Gon? What did he say to that?"

Obi Wan picks up his shirt from the countertop, then starts to pull it over his arms. Your eyes dart to his exposed stomach, then quickly dart away. "I believe it was the most disappointment he'd ever shown in me." He finishes pulling it over his head and down his stomach. "Which annoyed me to no end, of course. And we never spoke of it again."

You watch the candlelight play across his features, his thoughts seeming far away. Brushing your hand over your bandaged wrist, you lean your hip into the countertop and look down at the floor. 

His voice is very soft when he speaks again. "It wasn't until much later that I realized how I'd missed his point entirely." 

You look back up at him. "It's still a beautiful symbol."

He meets your eyes. "Yes, it is. And the lesson becomes clearer each day."

He holds your gaze a little longer, then picks up the bacta and the scissors, and leaves to put them away. You stare at the overturned kettle on the ground, and your thoughts linger on his words while you pick it up, and refill it, and while you finish preparing the food. You want to ask him what he'd meant, but you know. 

The way he'd looked at you - you know. 

Through breakfast, you talk about the war.

 

Thirty-Eighth Hour

You exhale, the Force rolling through you, and release your tension from your shoulders down to your fingertips. Your eyes are closed, the hum of your saber the only noise in the room. 

After breakfast you'd tried reading again in an attempt to distract yourself from the unbearable tension plucking at your mind, but had found yourself unable to sit still. After having pushed most of the furniture in the main room up against the walls, you're now standing in your makeshift dojo, practicing lightsaber techniques. 

You run repeatedly through your opening stance, then begin to move through more advanced forms, muscles glad for their use. As you bring your saber upright, you shift your body around it slowly and deliberately. It's a type of meditation you've practiced so much that it's second nature.

Sliding one foot backward, you glide into the next pose and you hear the door to the next room open, Obi Wan leaving the refresher, presumably finished with the trim that he'd started earlier. You can feel him watching you, saying nothing until he crosses the room.

"If that's meant to be 'circle of shelters', your left arm is a bit low."

Your eyelids open smoothly. "It's 'singing fortress'."

"Ah, well in that case, you would want to tighten your stance. Your knees should be aligned with your shoulders."

You drop your blade slightly, reforming your body around it and easing back into the same position, with an emphatically tighter stance. 

"Better. Now, your chin-" You look at him, and the rest of his sentence hangs in the air, then dissipates as he gives a slightly rueful smile. "I'm sorry. Old habits die hard, I'm afraid. I'll leave you to it."

Many years ago, when you hadn't known each other in the same way, you might have tensed under his scrutiny. But not now. For the first time since he'd arrived, his comments had made things between you feel almost... normal. He's always shown his affection, even what could be called compassion, through criticism. 

"Would you like to join me?" you ask suddenly, opening your stance back up, "Whatever guidance you have to offer, I'll gladly take."

It's meant as an olive branch to his intrusion. It is, just for a moment, like you're back in the temple, during one of the many times he'd found you running through exercises and stepped in. It's only courteous for you to invite him. It's courtesy that should keep him from accepting, now. But, surprisingly, it doesn't. 

He looks around. "There isn't much room."

You take that as your answer, tightly whipping your saber behind your shoulder with a bit of flourish. You face him. "Never been a problem before."

The tightness in his face sifts away, his eyes brightening. "True."

You had practiced in many a smaller space than this, although those spaces were designed for training in tight quarters and not surrounded by your personal belongings. Still, your blood is thrumming unexpectedly at the prospect of a spar after two days cramped inside, and you don't much mind if your walls get singed. 

Obi Wan reaches to his belt. Having changed out of his bed clothes, he has his lightsaber clipped back at the waist of his tunic. Unless asleep, even in this setting, he's still battle-ready. 

He illuminates his saber, then eases into a simple opening pose, arms raised, both hands on his hilt. "Perhaps this will do us both some good."

For a moment, you're silent, feeling one another's signatures.

You strike first. 

The burst of light and sound that erupts across the room is cathartic. Green and blue, groaning through the air, then exploding against the darkness. It makes your fingers tingle; your muscles tighten. 

You press in, then let him push you back, testing strengths, listening in the force for the hum of his aura. He winds his wrist casually around in a circle, grinning. "I see your hand has healed nicely."

Buzzing, you begin to circle him. "You'll go easy on me since I'm injured, won't you?"

He mirrors you, winding around the room in slow half-steps. "Have I done so in the past?"

You lunge, a quick swipe, and he crouches, hardly dodging. You'd anticipated the movement, using his shifted center to let you roll your blade in a semi-circle and drive back toward him. He meets it with a graceful side swipe, redirecting your attack to the ceiling. Whipping around, you stab at him and you feel a puff of air leave him as he cracks his blade against yours, pushing you back without so much ease as the first time. 

When you step back, his lightsaber comes crashing over you in ruthless, repetitive swipes. He knocks you back into yourself until your shoulders are tight and beginning to ache from the effort of rebuffing him. Relenting at last, he leaves you to catch your breath. His careful, slow steps around you are no longer playful. 

"Your speed has improved," he tells you. "I can feel you sensing my attempts as the thoughts form. Very good." As he finishes the word 'good', his blade crosses yours suddenly and he presses in until his face and the two blades are inches from your face. "You should be careful, though, when my thoughts are guarded."

He'd closed himself off and attacked so quickly, you'd barely had enough time to counter, let alone anticipate. Your eyes narrow. "You never tried that trick when I was a padawan."

He lets out a soft, breathy laugh. "There are many things I've learned since you were my padawan."

Shoving him back, you roll your shoulder and widen your stance. "I see. So this is new."

With a twinkle in his eye, he lets his shoulders drop into a deceptively relaxed pose. "You know me. I'm full of surprises."

You whirl on him again, and for a long time neither of you says another word, blades and muscles speaking for you. You're well-trained in defensive positions, so you make as many attempts as you can to bait him into attacking, but your few successes are hardly worth the effort. It's clear he's driving the fight from every angle. By the end, though, you're both panting. 

"You've practiced well, young one," he admits, swiping the back of his hand across his mouth as he straightens his back, ready for another round. 

You catch your breath, swallowing. "Not much else I could do with my time."

He slashes, you block. He slashes again. "That's not entirely true, though, is it?"

You take a step back, letting his next swipe pass, then raise a brow. "What do you mean?"

"You chose to come here. You speak as though the choice was someone else's."

You have to struggle to repel his next strike, caught off-guard by the remark. "I know. I know it was my choice."

"If you were bored by the assignment, you could have returned to duty."

"Yes," you say, your voice growing softer, but your returning thrusts becoming more ambitious, more intense. "I could have."

"Then why not come back?" He bats your attempts away with equal fervor. "After a year? Why not come back to Coruscant?"

Your wide eyes meet his. "What?"

He draws back from you, his arms spread, his saber to the side. Still on guard, but not locked into your aggression. "You heard the question."

You take one, then two breaths. Then you lunge at him wildly, pinning him against the wall. "You know the answer."

"Then tell me."

You're panicking, and you know he can feel it. You sink your blade downward in a futile attempt to rend his hilt away from him, but he blocks it easily. 

You force your expression to remain steady as you step away, pulling your shoulders back, hard. "The same reason you came here to tell me we can't work together."

His face drops, and he echoes your earlier heart-wrenched, "What?"

You shake your head slightly, confused at his reaction. When he stares at you, you raise your saber in defense, staring back. "Is that not the answer you expected?"

His saber is low at his side. "I... had thought it was fear that kept you here. I wanted to help you admit it. Face it."

"It was fear." You stand still for a moment, then remember your lightsaber and swing it. "What did you think I meant?"

He parries. Then he stabs at your side, forcing you to step left, where he pulls back his blade to meet your throat. "You told me you'd stayed because you could no longer trust in the Force."

He's won the round, in more ways than one. You've let too much slip. 

You raise your arms and concede the point to him. He backs off, but his gaze is still pinned on you, waiting for your answer. You admit as much as you can without admitting anything at all. "When you said we shouldn't work together - you were right." 

"Meaning?" He presses, and somehow you can still feel his blade at your throat. 

A long, slow, painful silence. You tighten your palm around your hilt until it hurts. "I think I've made my feelings clear." Anxiety ripples from you, the Force crashing around your aura erratically. You flick your wrist, swinging your saber down and behind your back, where you trade hands. Your left arm brings a surprise attack down on Obi Wan, who catches it at the last second. It isn't a particularly impressive move, but you know he wasn't expecting it from you, which made it useful in the moment. "Something I can't ask from you."

It isn't fair for you to turn things on him like this, but your goal isn't to be fair. It's too late to turn back. You can only redirect. He raises a brow, then spins to deflect your left-handed strikes backhanded. "And what does that mean?"

The words are pouring out of you now, thoughts half-formed as you jab and dodge, pulse pounding. "It means you can't expect me to talk about my feelings when you showed up at my door to tell me we'd never see each other again with hardly a goodbye."

He meets you blow for blow with ease, but the look on his face is disoriented. "I never said that."

You match his shocked expression. "You told me this was the last time we'd ever work together."

"The last time that I thought we should work together, yes, but certainly not the last time we should see one another."

It's as if you can actually hear the sound of your final shred of sanity being torn apart. Though your mind is racing in a thousand directions, you try to calm yourself enough to speak as your sabers meet. You hold still, and so does he. "And why did you say it?"

For the first time in your spar, his eyes are pleading for mercy. He says nothing. 

You grit your teeth, holding your blade against his, unable to pull away from the path you're set on. You need to know. "You told me not to pretend anymore. Please, Obi Wan. The truth."

"You already know the truth. Must I say the words?" He bends your arms back, putting more weight against you. 

You step back, put off-balance, and the back of your knee brushes against the chaise lounge. There's no room left for you to back away.

"Yes," you tell him, forcing yourself to keep looking into his eyes, and not to look away. 

He crushes his blade against yours, then relents, finally allowing you to push him back. He doesn't turn off his lightsaber yet, and neither do you. He stretches out his other hand toward you in the darkness. "For all of the reasons we work so well together." He lowers his hand, his body tense; frustrated. "Because you are... resilient, and remarkably clever. And passionate. Obstinate at times, and unpredictable. And because you are beautiful. Because I look at you, and I wonder what could be. Those are dangerous thoughts in the best of times. In battle, they're an unacceptable risk."

"Obi Wan..." you murmur, unable to come up with any other word but his name in reply. 

"But that is my burden to bear. And though I won't allow it to interfere with a mission, I cannot let it be the end of our friendship."

There's absolutely nothing you can say back. You're stunned speechless, but beyond that - to say anything truthful back to him would rip you apart.

Instead, you step toward him, leveling your blade in front of your chest. "You've been holding back."

The earnestness in his face drains away at your response. He drags his gaze down from your eyes to your lightsaber. His tone is guarded again. "Of course I have. Haven't we both?" 

It's obvious he isn't talking about the sparring. 

"Fight me." It's the only thing you can ask for that's real. "It's going to be the last time."

The silence bears down on you, and the room is so much darker, now. You let your emotions show on your face, and you let him feel you in the Force. But you can't bring yourself to say the words. When you meet his eyes, you know he can feel you burning. 

His shoulders come down, and his body takes a new shape. He seems almost more relaxed than before. It occurs to you, then, how much effort he was putting into keeping himself from dominating you. Then, all at once, he shows you why he's one of the most celebrated duelists of your generation. 

His speed is frightening when he lunges at you. It takes all your strength to keep from toppling over. Two of his brutal strikes rattle your arms bone-deep as you struggle to keep your lightsaber upright. You suck in a sudden gasp of air, letting him force you backward. You try to return a blow, but he catches you swiftly, knocking your saber wide and stabbing at you, making you hop back again. 

It's over before you can even fully register what's happened. He knocks you back with two more thrashes of his saber, and you lose your balance when your knees hit the furniture. You fall back onto the chaise in a seated position, legs splayed apart. You're panting and arching your back to get away from him, but he digs a knee into the cushion between your legs and reaches out with a hand to deactivate your lightsaber and pull it to him. He uses his other hand to bring his blade just below your chin. Yet again, he's caught you out. 

You tip your face up toward him, heart racing as much from his close proximity as it is from the duel you've lost. His chest rises and falls in front of you. He doesn't look triumphant. His eyes are penetrating. He's waiting for you to speak. 

You catch your breath. His hand is tightening around his hilt threateningly, but there isn't anywhere in the universe you feel safer than with his blade at your neck. You take your time, staring deeply into his eyes, and you finally find your words. 

"I said you were right that we shouldn't see each other, and I meant it. The boundaries between us are broken. Nothing can set that right. I don't want to set it right. But I can accept that. I can move on. I just can't do it with you." 

The light beneath your chin goes out. He holds your two hilts in each hand and simply looks at you. 

"I understand," he says then, quietly, and leans into you, setting down your two lightsabers on either side of your thighs. 

You inhale his scent, struggling to keep your eyes from closing. "Stars, Obi Wan..."

He knows he's too close. You both know it. He should have stepped back, and his knee shouldn't still be surrounded by the warmth of your body. You're half-lying down, one arm still spread over the top of the chaise, too afraid to shift a muscle. Too afraid for the moment to end. 

Instead of standing up, he stays close, eyes locked onto yours, and says softly, "What is it?"

The finality of it all truly sinks in, and you shake your head slightly, just drinking in every detail of him. There's no point anymore to lie. You'll never see him again. "Even now. I want to kiss you, so badly."

You watch the conflict on his face melt away, into something else. He whispers his reply against your mouth. "Then kiss me."

You blink. You close the gap between you, pressing your lips against his and opening up, giving yourself over to him. 

You don't care that he shouldn't have said it. You don't care that he might stop you. You want his mouth against yours. The feeling is as sweet as you'd imagined for over a year, while making every desperate effort to drive it from your mind. 

He tastes just as you remember, and as he lets you slip your tongue into his mouth, your body shudders with a mixture of desire and relief that leaves you dizzy. 

Please... Please... you silently beg him not to stop you. To let you feel as much of him as you can, and keep the memory of the softness of his lips, the feeling of his jaw working beneath your palm, and the gentleness of the sigh he lets escape when he opens for more of your tongue to slide in. 

He doesn't stop you. He tilts his head to the side, leaning in for more. When he presses his chest to yours, you finally regain enough of your sense to break your mouth away from his. Every part of you is screaming, but you claw back to sanity just for a moment, to breathe a weak, confused, "Why...?" against the corner of his mouth. 

He catches your lips in a searing kiss once more before answering, driving every last thought of stopping from your mind. 

"If this is truly the end..." he murmurs, then pulls back to look at you properly, and his eyes sparkle like sapphires in the dying light of the fire. "Let us be miserable for good reason."

--

A/N: Sorry for the missed promise of an update last week! Holidays really get crazy fast. Thank you, as per usual, for tolerating my schedule. Planning shorter chapters upcoming, in hopes of quicker updates. :) For anyone who has tagged me in recent posts, I appreciate it and I'll respond as soon as I can!

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Masterlist // Next Chapter >>

[gumnut-logic]

Ice

An idea I had in mind for FishTank Week but didn't manage to do anything with. Also, an attempt to write anything, just anything.

Rambly brothers out on the ice.

-o-o-o-

Ice.

Ice is water.

Rather ironic that the substance he loved so much was so capable of becoming that which he hated with an equal passion.

Ice had taken his mother. Stolen his chance to ever get to know her, yet leaving him with just enough to know the terror and pain of the days that followed.

He remembered the tears, his family’s pure anguish, the loss that echoed down silent halls in a home that had nothing but sunshine all the times before.

The scars that built up and festered over the years.

All because of ice.

But it was simply water. It didn’t think, only existed and was as innocent as any other rock on this watery planet.

Yet a nemesis it remained as he watched his older brother tackle his own demons.

“Virg, you okay?”

His heavy lifting brother turned towards him, his specialised boots crunching on the snowy surface of Lake Baikal. His raised eyebrow was far too predictable.

“Yeah, why?”

Gordon turned back to packing the pod.

Thunderbird Two was a mere green dot far off in the distance on the lake shore.

“You took your helmet off.”

“My nose was itchy.”

Gordon snorted. “Now that is worse than the last excuse Scott gave you.” He deepened his voice enough to give an uncanny resemblance to Virgil’s. “Would you do that in space? No? Then don’t do it here!”

That earned him a glare enough to melt the metres thick ice they were standing on.

“Hey, you said it, not me.”

The fact Virgil only grumbled and shoved his helmet back on rather than lighting Gordon’s pants on fire with a safety lecture was just proof that his big brother was feeling the mood.

Because it was a mood.

The landscape was eerily silent.

Not an absence of sound. More the monotone of the sharp breeze cutting across the flat wildness of the deepest lake in the world.

It was winter, cue the ice, but winter in Siberia on a lake many kilometres wide and long, and with the surface water frozen solid, it was a desert of white and blue-greys.

Such the opposite of the bright tropical island they called home.

Gordon returned to loading equipment back into the pod. The fishermen had been saved, Gordon hauling them out, not even needing Four this time, his girl still curled up snug inside her sister on the far shore.

It had been ever so fortunate that they had been close when the accident happened, flying home from London. It had only taken them a minute or two to drop the pod onto the ice with the ice cutter, and Gordon was in the water, so far down, pulling the men to safety.

Virgil had airlifted them all out and then returned, dropping himself onto the ice to help pack up.

Gordon was ever grateful for Thunderbird Five’s valet service where Two was too heavy to land right on the spot.

And really? Just grateful for his brothers as well.

“So, you wanna do pizza tonight?”

“Sure.” His brother didn’t look up.

Virgil was rolling up rope in such a fast and perfect coil Gordon was both admiring and annoyed. He shoved the hatch closed over the tangle of coils of his own making. Goddamned genius brothers, it was enough to give a guy a complex.

“We could do a movie.”

“It’s Alan’s turn.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

Gordon bit his lip. Okay, challenge accepted. At least Alan was easier to persuade than Scott. Or Johnny. Johnny picked the weirdest movies and was unpredictable as hell.

As for Virgil, his tank brother was little more than putty in his hands. Gordon knew his Virgil and knew exactly which buttons to press to get the results he needed.

“Try for a few less zombies this time. I want to be able to eat my dinner without regurgitating it.”

“You’re just a wimp.”

A fistful of snow clipped his helmet.

“Be careful what you start, Tankman, because I’m going to finish it.”

“You wish.”

Gordon bent down and gathered some snow into his hands. “Virg-“

He was interrupted by a sharp crack.

He froze.

The sound vibrated in the cold air and bounced across the ice.

The silence that followed was punctuated by his heart beat. “What was-“

But Virgil was looking directly at him, his arms suddenly out, eyes wide with disbelief.

And fear.

Another snap, another crack, splintering blurring them together.

His brother stumbled.

“Virgil?!”

But the ice groaned, rumbled…and moved. A visible crack split up the snow between the two of them.

“Virgil!”

He held up a hand. “Gordon, no!” Virgil’s eyes were on the ice beneath him, his perfectly aligned coils of rope unfurling to one side as the surface they were sitting on tilted.

Virgil moved, leaping towards Gordon.

But water spouted up between them and before Gordon could react, the ice tipped up on end before flipping entirely.

And his brother was gone.

-o-o-o-