#Seating System Manufacturers
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digitalm45 ¡ 7 months ago
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Best seating system manufacturers
Seating system manufacturers specialize in designing, producing, and distributing a wide range of seating solutions for various industries. They engineer ergonomic chairs, sofas, benches, and other seating options tailored to specific needs, such as office environments, cinemas, stadiums, and public transportation. These manufacturers leverage advanced materials, innovative designs, and cutting-edge technology to ensure comfort, durability, and safety in their products. Additionally, they often provide customization options to meet clients' unique requirements, adhering to quality standards and regulatory guidelines. Through meticulous craftsmanship and efficient production processes, seating system manufacturers cater to diverse markets, enhancing comfort and convenience in various settings.
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vinarsystems ¡ 1 year ago
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Finding seating system manufacturers in India
VINAR SYSTEM PRIVATE LIMITED, based in Kolkata, India, is widely recognized for its exceptional excellence in seating system manufacturer. The company has earned a prominent position in the industry, serving as a leading manufacturer, distributor, and marketer of high-quality Storage Solutions, Mobile Compactors, Office Furniture, and Chairs. Their dedication to delivering superior products is reflected in their address at 2/20, Ansari Road, Daryaganj, New Delhi, Delhi 110002, showcasing their commitment to providing outstanding solutions across the nation. Vinar Systems, situated at 2/20 Ansari Road, Daryaganj, New Delhi, Delhi 110002, is a trailblazing manufacturer of seating systems renowned under the ALONG brand. They are celebrated for their innovation in crafting comfortable and cutting-edge seating solutions, positioning them as dominant players in the industry. Vinar Systems upholds a strong commitment to offering top-tier products that prioritize both comfort and quality, reinforcing their reputation as a leader in the seating system market.
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varun121 ¡ 1 year ago
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Top seating system manufacturers in India
VINAR SYSTEM PRIVATE LIMITED is a best seating system manufacturer in India, renowned for its excellence. Based in Kolkata, the company is a prominent player in the industry, excelling as a manufacturer, distributor, and marketer of top-quality Storage Solutions, Mobile Compactors, Office Furniture, and Chairs. Their address at 2/20, Ansari Road, Daryaganj, New Delhi, Delhi 110002, reflects their commitment to delivering exceptional products across the nation.
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storageracking ¡ 1 year ago
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Seating system, Multi-tier, racking system Manufacturers
We “Vinar System Pvt. Ltd” are India's leading Seating System Manufacturers in India. The highest quality stadium seats, green landscaping, and vertical gardens are all part of our product line. All of the product lines are made in accordance with the high standards of quality that are generally recognized. Seating system Manufacturer, Vinar System Pvt. Ltdchairs and garden furniture are well-liked by our customers because of their secure usage, flawless finishing, and resistance to cracking.
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Our Products
Mezzanine floor manufacturers
School furniture manufacturers
Hostel furniture manufacturers
Modular furniture manufacturers
Seating system manufacturers
Multi-tier racking system manufacturers
Cantilever Racking System manufacturers
Asrs manufacturers
Mobile racking systems manufacturers
Racking systems manufacturers
Office furniture manufacturers
Work station manufacturers
CONTACT INFO Address : 2/20, Ansari Road, Daryaganj, Daryaganj, New Delhi, Delhi 110002 Telephone : +91 9350050005, 9310693033, 9310709075 Email : [email protected]
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modularplatemanufacturer ¡ 1 year ago
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vrofficeauditoriumfurniture ¡ 5 months ago
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Best Auditorium Chair Manufacturers in Chennai
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Are you looking for high quality Auditorium Chair from top Auditorium Chair Manufacturers in Chennai? Then you can look at VR office. You can obtain any kind of chairs that are theatre Chair, Visitor Chair, Office Chair, College Auditorium Chairs, you can check out @ https://www.vrofficeneeds.com/
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markalison231 ¡ 8 months ago
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Top Auditorium Chair Manufacturers in Chennai
VR Office Furniture’s are of best quality and every of these is vastly relaxed and robust. We are the top Auditorium Chair Manufacturers in Chennai. We manufacture and supply a broad variety of office chair, seminar chairs, theatre Chair, Visitor Chair, auditorium chair and College chairs in trendy, contemporary and attractive designs. Auditorium and theatre chairs are important components of venues intended to host events, performances, conferences, and presentations. Refer www.vrofficeneeds.com
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mostlysignssomeportents ¡ 24 days ago
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Blue states should play “constitutional hardball”
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NEXT WEDNESDAY (October 23) at 7PM, I'll be in DECATUR, GEORGIA, presenting my novel THE BEZZLE at EAGLE EYE BOOKS.
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Nothing's more frustrating that watching the GOP smash norms and decency to advance policies that harm millions of Americas, unless it's that, plus Democratic officials stamping their feet and saying, "C'mon guys, play fair."
The GOP's game is called "constitutional hardball." Think: Mitch McConnell refusing to hold confirmation hearings on Obama's federal judiciary appointments, not never for Merrick Garland's Supreme Court seat – then filling the Federal judiciary with the least-qualified, most FedSoc-addled lunatics in US history, all for lifetime appointments.
As bad as this is at the federal level, it's even worse at in the states, especially the Republican "trifecta" states where the GOP holds the governorship and the state house and senate, where shameless gerrymandering and legislative attacks on hard-won ballot measures are the order of the day. GOP-held state governments engage in rampant interstate aggression, targeting out-of-state abortion providers, publishers, and journalists.
This is a one-sided Cold Civil War, because state Dems, for the most part, are unwilling to play hardball in return (the closest they come is when, say, California sets strict emissions controls and manufacturers adopt them nationwide, rather than making special cars for the giant California market). Republicans engage in constitutional hardball and Dems refuse to fight back, a phenomenon called "asymmetrical constitutional hardball":
https://columbialawreview.org/content/asymmetric-constitutional-hardball/
Writing for The American Prospect, Arkadi Gerney and Sarah Knight make the case for symmetrical constitutional hardball:
https://prospect.org/politics/2024-10-18-playing-hardball/
The pair argue first, that the best way to get Republican state houses to play fair is to credibly threaten them with retaliatory action. They cite the recent attempt at a last-minute change the way that Nebraska's Electoral College votes are apportioned, which would have given all of five the state's EC votes to Trump. Maine threatened to effect the same change to its Electoral College system, which would have given all four of its EC votes to Harris. Nebraska surrendered.
But there's also a second advantage to playing Constitutional Hardball: it makes blue states better. For example, Minnesota gives free college tuition to exceptional low/middle-income students. Neighboring North Dakota got tired of losing all its smartest kids Minnesota schools and created its own subsidy. As Gerney and Knight point out, Minnesota (and other blue states) still has a huge advantage when it comes to attracting top talent, because attending university in a state with legal abortion is vastly preferable (and safer) than doing a degree in a forced-birth state.
Red states are bent on making life horrible for some really great people. The hardworking, talented Haitian migrants caught in the Springfield pogroms that Trump incited would be a fine addition to any blue state town – anyone who's got the gumption to haul ass out of a failed state and make their all the way to Springfield is gonna be a fantastic neighbor, citizen and worker, just like my refugee grandparents and father, who endured a million times more hardship than their neighbors ever did, getting to Toronto, finding jobs, and starting their family.
Influxes of young, hardworking immigrants are especially good for rural towns with dwindling populations. No wonder rural towns with above-average net migration swung for Biden in 2020.
All over America, families are despairing of their lives in red states. Whether you're worried that you or someone you love might need to terminate a pregnancy, or you're worried about gender-affirming care for you or a loved one, you can put your worries to rest in a blue state. Same goes for nurses and doctors who are worried they can't do medicine unless it accords with the imaginary dictates of Bronze Age prophets as claimed by pencil-neck Hitler wannabe Bible-thumper with a private jet and a face from Walmart. Fill the blue states with great schools, libraries and hospitals, and invite everyone who wants to do their job in a free country to come and work at 'em. Line every state border with abortion and mifepristone clinics, and set up billboards advertising the quality of life, the jobs, and the freedom in blue state America.
Every blue state public pension fund should ban investments in fossil fuels, and invest like crazy in renewables, especially in Texas, to hasten the bankrupting of the petro-kleptocracy that controls the state. Blue states should tack surcharges on goods imported from "right to work" states where unions are effectively banned, to compensate for the additional product testing needed to ensure that scab products are safe to use (ahem, Boeing).
Create joint occupational licensure rules across blue states: if you're certified as a teacher, nurse, hairdresser or auto-mechanic in New York, you should be able to carry that certification with you to Minnesota, California, or Maine. Create multi-state funding pools to build public housing. Offer med-school scholarships to the smartest red state kids, at universities where they'll learn evidence-based obstetrics rather than the Lysenokist nonsense taught at the Roy Moore College of Pediatrics and Obstetrics.
Dems have to get over their fear of "states' rights" and start playing state-level hardball. This doesn't mean escalating cruelty. Quite the contrary: every cruel measure enacted as red state red meat is a chance for blue states to extend a kindness, and capture even more of the best, brightest and kindest of the nation, creating a race to the top that Republicans can only win by abandoning their performative cruelty and corruption.
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Tor Books as just published two new, free LITTLE BROTHER stories: VIGILANT, about creepy surveillance in distance education; and SPILL, about oil pipelines and indigenous landback.
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If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:
https://pluralistic.net/2024/10/18/states-rights/#cold-civil-war
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metamatar ¡ 11 months ago
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When electronics manufacturing took off in China in the 1980s, rural women who had just begun moving to the cities made up the majority of the factory workforce. They didn’t have many other options. Managers at companies like Foxconn preferred to hire women because they believed them to be more obedient [...]
Hiring a young, female workforce in India comes with its own requirements — which include reassuring doting parents about the safety of their daughters. The company offers workers free food, lodging, and buses to ensure a safe commute at all hours of the day. On days off, women who live in Foxconn hostels have a 6 p.m. curfew; permission is required to spend the night elsewhere. “[If] they go out and not return by a specific time, their parents would be informed,” a former Foxconn HR manager told Rest of World. “[That’s how] they offer trust to their parents.”
[...] the Tamil Nadu government sent a strong signal welcoming Foxconn and other manufacturers: Authorities approved new regulations that would increase workdays from eight to 12 hours. This meant that Foxconn and other electronics factories would be able to reduce the number of shifts needed to keep their production line running from three to two, just like in China. [...] Political parties aligned with the government called the bill “anti-labor” and, during the vote, walked out of the legislative assembly. After the bill passed, trade unions in the state announced a series of actions including a demonstration on motorbikes, civil disobedience campaigns, and protests in front of the ruling party’s local headquarters. The government shelved its new rule within four days.
Indian Foxconn workers told Rest of World that eight hours under intense pressure is already hard to bear. “I’ll die if it’s 12 hours of work,” said Padmini, the assembly line worker.
For the expatriate workers, the slower pace of the factory floors in India is its own shock to the system. A Taiwanese manager at a different iPhone supplier in the Chennai area told Rest of World that India’s 8-hour shifts and industry-standard tea breaks were a drag on production. “You have barely settled in on your seat, and the next break comes,” the manager lamented.
In China, Foxconn relies on lax enforcement of the country’s labor law — which limits workdays to eight hours and caps overtime — as well as lucrative bonuses to get employees to work 11 hours a day during production peaks [...] five Chinese and Taiwanese workers said they were surprised to discover that their Indian colleagues refused to work overtime. Some attributed it to a weak sense of responsibility; others to what they perceived as Indian people’s low material desire. “They are easily content,” an engineer deployed from Zhengzhou said. “They can’t handle even a bit more pressure. But if we don’t give them pressure, then we won’t be able to get everything right and move production here in a short time.” [...] At the same time, the expat staff enjoy the Indian work culture of tea breaks, chatting with colleagues, and going home on time. They recognize they are helping the company spread a Chinese work culture that they know can be unhealthy. [...]
On the assembly line, Foxconn’s targets were tough to reach, workers said. Jaishree, 21, joined the iPhone shop floor in 2022 as a recent graduate with a degree in mathematics. (With India’s high level of unemployment, Foxconn’s assembly line has plenty of women with advanced degrees, including MBAs.) [...] “At the start, during my eight-hour shift, I did about 300 [screws]. Now, I do 750,” she said. “We have to finish within time, otherwise they will scold us.” [...]
Mealtimes are an issue, too. In December 2021, thousands of Indian Foxconn employees protested after some 250 colleagues contracted food poisoning. In response, the company changed food contractors, and increased its monthly base salary from 14,000 rupees to 18,000 rupees ($168 to $216) — double the minimum wage prescribed by the Tamil Nadu labor department for unskilled workers. [...]
Working conditions take a physical toll. Padmini has experienced hair loss because she has to wear a skull cap and work in air-conditioned spaces, she said. “Neck pain is the worst, since we are constantly bending down and working.” She has irregular periods, which she attributes to the air conditioning and the late shifts. “[Among] girls with me on the production line, some six girls have this problem,” Padmini said. Workers said they regularly see colleagues become unwell. “The day before yesterday, a girl fainted and they took her to the hospital,” [...] Padmini, at 26, believes she is close to the age where the company might consider her too old. “They used to hire women up to age 30, now they hire only up to 28,” she said.
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saphronethaleph ¡ 3 months ago
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Midlife Crisis
In the year Fifteen of the Galactic Empire, Sheev Palpatine contemplated a glass of wine.
Proper wine. Wine from Naboo.
In his opinion, which was legally speaking the only one that mattered, he deserved this.
As he began to drink, however, Vader spoke. His dark shadow, his creation, his enforcer.
“Master,” the Sith Apprentice said. “When are you going to teach me the power to heal?”
“...what?” Palpatine asked, then put the glass down again. “What are you talking about, Vader?”
“I thought it was extremely clear,” Vader replied. “When are you going to teach me the power to heal? I realize that your memory may not be what it was, but I distinctly remember that you told me that Darth Plagueis had the ability to cause the Midichlorians to create life, and that he could even use it to keep those he cared about from dying. So. When are you going to teach me that power?”
“Why do you even want that power?” Palpatine asked.
Vader’s mask looked at him.
“I currently find myself with a great deal of time on what would be my hands if I had any,” Vader stated. “Travelling between star systems, for example. I appreciate that you are busy and do not have the time to heal me, but I would have the time to heal me if you could teach me that ability. Which is why I am asking.”
Palpatine frowned.
“If you recall, I said that, ironically, Darth Plagueis could save others, but not himself.”
“I recall that, my Master,” Vader stated. “It was very ironic.”
“There, you see?” Palpatine asked. “If you learned that power, you could save others, but not yourself.”
“I don’t think that really works, Master,” Vader said, thoughtfully. “Because Plagueis was killed in his sleep. He wasn’t using the Force, for the obvious reason that he was dead. However, I actually am alive, and consequently I can use the Force to heal myself.”
He paused. “Well, I can’t, but I could. If I were to be taught, which is… what I’m asking about.”
“You don’t like your cyborg body parts?” Palpatine asked. “I thought you’d appreciate those, since they’re manufactured. Or did I remember incorrectly that you like tinkering?”
“I would be more able to tinker if I had better hands,” Vader stated. “Master, I am beginning to suspect you are avoiding the question. When are you going to teach me the power to heal?”
“You still haven’t given me a good answer,” Palpatine said, snidely.
“I have,” Vader pointed out. “My reason is that I want you to. We’re Sith. That’s a good enough reason.”
“You have a point,” the Emperor admitted, very reluctantly. “However, I think you will find that you already know all I can teach you.”
Vader looked at him.
“I do not,” the masked Sith said.
“You do,” Palpatine countered. “The Dark Side is more about maintaining your life in a decaying husk of a body, clinging to life regardless of the cost to others or the degradation of your own physical condition, than it is about… healing.”
“Are you saying that healing would be a Light Side power?” Vader asked, and there was a dangerous undercurrent in his voice.
“No, no,” Palpatine replied, hastily. “It’s not a Light Side power either. The Light Side is about accepting the natural balance of things, like idiots, and the Dark Side is about violating the natural order of things. Using the Force to heal is unnatural.”
At that, Vader made a confused noise.
“So is healing a Light Side power or a Dark Side power, Master?” he asked.
“It isn’t either,” Palpatine replied, with a shrug. “The closest I know of is Plagueis’s ability to cling to life in a body that should be dead, which you’re already doing.”
“I see,” Vader said, thoughtfully, then turned and walked away.
“I hope you’re not disappointed, Vader,” Palpatine said, leaning back in his seat and picking up the glass of wine again. “You must realize, I never lied to you.”
“You also don’t know everything,” Vader replied. “I am taking a sabbatical.”
“A what?” Palpatine said, scowling at his wine glass because apparently he wasn’t going to get to drink it just yet. “What is one of those?”
“It’s when you leave work for a period of time,” Vader explained. “I am not expecting to be paid during that period.”
“Why are you leaving at all?” Palpatine asked, in some confusion and trying to work out what Vader was getting at.
Vader shrugged slightly.
“There’s got to be lots of Force users out there, and you’re only one Force user,” he said. “I am going to look for someone who knows how to heal. Then I will return.”
Palpatine swallowed down the order that sprang to his lips, because he was uncomfortably aware of the verbal minefield that talking with Vader could be. Especially when he’d nearly set the man off less than two minutes ago.
Really, he didn’t have much choice but to trust in Vader’s loyalty. A Vader who was angry at him would be far too dangerous.
In the year Eighteen of the Galactic Empire, Sheev Palpatine was significantly more aware of just how useful Vader’s brooding, deadly presence had been in holding the Empire together.
He hadn’t been able to just refer people to his enforcer (Vader) or his supreme commander (Vader) or his complaints department (also Vader). He’d had to do actual work, and he didn’t like it.
Becoming the ruler of the galaxy had not been something he’d done in order to do work. He even had to actually listen to Tarkin, who was a tedious little lickspittle whose only redeeming quality was his enthusiasm for the idea of blowing up planets.
Then, during a rare period of respite, he felt a familiar presence in the Force. It approached his private chamber, advancing steadily, and Palpatine actually felt something like pleasure at the idea Vader would soon be back.
Admittedly, mostly because he could offload work onto Vader again.
Then the door opened, and Palpatine smiled.
“My boy, you-” he began, then stopped.
He’d been expecting Vader still wearing his suit.
He’d been ready for Vader to be a man of about forty, fit and healthy once more after discovering some Force secret.
He had not been ready for a wolf. Especially not one ten feet tall at the shoulder, with black and red fur and scaled paws.
“...explain…?” he said, in what was supposed to be a command but which turned into more of a plea.
“I sought out many ancient Force spirits and wielders of lost and arcane arts,” Vader said, in a voice even deeper than he’d had before – which actually turned out to be possible. “Eventually, I found a way to gain a new body, unwounded and healthy, but the one who taught me only knew how to do wolf.”
He tilted his head a little. “Incidentally. I also visited my only remaining family, who are moisture farmers. I have a nephew; he likes me. I wish to tender my resignation, because I am going to kill you now and it seems only fair to give you warning.”
Palpatine sighed, because, really, this was in keeping with how the year was going.
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ddejavvu ¡ 11 months ago
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Betrayal - Obi-Wan Kenobi x Reader
Summary: months into the war and it's not as exhilarating as you'd hoped - not for your battalion, anyway. when the air conditioning in your compound blows, an old friend brings his tech genius of a padawan to fix it for you. while anakin is working, you convince his master to spar for old times' sake, and simple adrenaline gives way to a landslide of long-buried feelings neither of you should have for each other.
Contents/Warnings: smut, minors dni, fem!reader, jedi!reader, reader is a general, sweat kink (? they are really sweaty and i talk about it a lot), oral (m+f receiving), semi-public sex (risk of being caught), sparring, lightsaber use, throatfucking, messy kisses, scratching/marking, lotsa spit, obligatory 'had you said the word' (sorry satine i had to steal his line)
WC: 16.9K / navigation / inbox
A/N: sorry this took me so long to finish! i didn't have time to write for like two months but it's done now and i hope you enjoy it <3 this is set a couple months/a year into the clone wars, but i have chosen to fuck with their ages a little bit. in this, anakin is like 12-14-ish, even though he was older in AOTC when the war began.
feedback is greatly appreciated! comment, reblog, talk in the tags, send me a message, tell me what you think!
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Neglecting the option of taking a padawan under your wing is what stuck you on this humid, blazing, hellish planet, and you almost regret it. You’d wanted more freedom in your duties, didn’t want a youngling clinging to your leg begging for help with their rudimentary saber drills, so instead you swapped it for what you thought would be constant battle, exhilarating speeder chases, and the glory of proving yourself. Unbecoming of a Jedi to wish for, yes, but you’ve never claimed to be Council-worthy.
Now your butt is sticking to the chair you’re planted in, overlooking a very empty, very desolate, very boring outpost. It’s so hot that you think you’ve melted into the chair and fused with its fabric. Standing might tear your skin away from your flesh, leaving an imprint of you behind in your seat.
“General,” One of your clone troopers calls, sticking his head through the doorway to your station, “Nothing on my scanners.”
“Nor on mine,” You drawl lazily, “We’re scheduled to be inspected today. Any word from the crew?”
“None.” He laments, “I just hope they bring a droid that can fix the cooler.”
The base you’re stationed to isn’t always this disgusting. The structure is wired with an air conditioning system to keep the inside much cooler than the outside, but after a rather unfortunate incident with a freshly manufactured astromech droid with some crossed wirings, both lay broken and singed in the maintenance bay. Your clones don’t know how to tinker with droids or heating systems, and you’d probably wind up just as ash-covered if you tried.
“Alert me when they land,” You order the trooper, leaning your forehead against the cool metal of the scanner screen before you, “I want to have time to change into an outfit I haven’t soaked through with sweat.”
The scanner grows warm against your flushed skin far too soon. Everything is hot, and sticky, and gross, and you find yourself yearning for the cold showers you used to despise at the temple. Perhaps you yearn for the temple in general, for the familial atmosphere shared among overconfident Padawans and exasperated Masters. You think specifically of Obi-Wan Kenobi, a man you’d trained with, now Master to his apprentice Skywalker.
You haven’t seen the pair in years, but you remember Anakin’s blonde mop of hair, as well as his penchant for chaos. Watching Obi-Wan’s eyes fill with horror at whatever shenanigans his Padawan had gotten into that day was part of what helped you make the decision to decline one yourself, though you hold no distaste for the boy. He was simply young and untrained in the ways of the Jedi, and you were not a patient enough person to gracefully navigate that predicament then. You’re not sure you are now, either.
Even though you know you’re better suited on your own, you wonder if you’d have been more fulfilled with a Padawan learner of your own. Surely anything could be better than this, wasting away- rotting on a planet hot enough to boil your blood if you stepped outside without proper protection.
Your base is secluded and temperature-controlled, even if the contraption that the Republic had fashioned under pressure of time to keep you isolated is rather crude. It’s, in essence, a large dome, seals in place to ensure that vessels can land and takeoff without destroying the temperature control. It’s cooler within the dome than it is outside of it, but the hurriedly-designed system can only do too much, and you greatly depend on the air conditioning to do its job. Now that it’s not, you’re irritated from the heat, and you wish that the inspection team would just hurry up already. The patience you’d had drilled into you from your early years as a Youngling is nowhere to be found under the pressure of a heat wave, and your foot taps impatiently against the floor while you itch for some action.
You think it’s rather pathetic that you yearn for excitement so badly that you’re anxiously awaiting the inspection team. Their job takes barely an hour, a scan of your equipment and a survey of your troops. They’ll walk in and out without so much as a pleasantry, but you long for something new, something more, something exciting.
The call over your comms comes over an hour later, a time in which you remain at your post but begrudge it all the while. “General,” Your trooper barks, voice staticky and rough over the channel, “We’ve got visitors. Inspection team’s here. Initiating landing procedure.”
“Copy that,” You bolt out of your seat, barely remembering to lean over the microphone to reply, “Thank you.”
Finally.
Finally, someone new to talk to, even if they have the same face as everyone else you’ve spoken to on this long, dreary assignment. You’re friendly with your troopers, of course, but that itch for more is back in your brain, igniting you with vigor you don’t normally possess as you rush to greet the inspection team.
However, when you reach the landing bay, and the ship’s hydraulics hiss, clone troopers aren’t the only ones to disembark. Jedi robes make their appearance, shrouding the very man you’d just thought about, as well as the child by his side. 
Obi-Wan wears the years that have passed since you last saw him, but time has treated him well. His hair is longer now, gone is that stiff Padawan buzz. His braid is missing as well, giving way to luscious strawberry blonde strands that he’s slicked back so that they drag against the back and sides of his neck. Longer hair looks good on him, just as it had when he was fifteen and had refused a haircut for months in a typical, if rather tame, display of teenage rebellion. Anakin is also significantly older than you’d kept track of, but he can’t be older than fourteen if his lanky limbs and awkward demeanor are any evidence.
Obi-Wan smiles at you, and you nearly forget to shove down that shameful part of you that wants to take more out of him than he can give you. Even as Padawans you’d always gravitated towards the man opposite you, sneaking out to roam the gardens after hours together or sharing sly glances across mission briefings. But he’s an honorable Jedi Master - a member of the Council itself, so you’ve heard - and you wrestle down your repressed feelings to grin at him.
“General Y/L/N,” He greets with a smile so charming you lament that the Jedi Order interrupted his chances of being a model.
“Master Kenobi,” You greet, but you know he’ll chide you for the honorific if you use it more than once, “I wasn’t aware you’d be on the inspection team.”
“We’re not. Technically.” Obi-Wan admits, arm coming to press against Anakin’s back and nudge him forwards, “We got word that your air conditioning system is out, as well as one of your new astromechs. Anakin here is still an excellent mechanic, I thought we’d come out to offer you some reprieve from the heat.”
Anakin looks embarrassed by the attention that’s fallen upon him, in typical pubescent fashion, and you take pity on the timid teenager, casting your glance back at his Master, “Maker, thank you. We’re melting out here.”
“I can imagine,” Obi-Wan laughs, and you turn again to Anakin who’s anxiously awaiting your orders.
“Anakin, if you could fix our air conditioning, that would be wonderful. Honestly, I’m not even sure I want the droid fixed, it’s what got us into this mess in the first place. But they’re both over there,” You point to the shorted out panels, “And my troopers will offer you any supplies you need, like tools or wiring or refreshments.”
“Thank you.” Anakin nods, hands clasped behind his back obediently even if he looks mortified to be the center of attention once more, “I’ll have things up and running as soon as possible.”
“I’m leaving you here,” Obi-Wan warns the boy, pointing an accusatory finger at him, “I don’t often leave you alone with machinery and tools, Anakin, for reasons we’re both aware of. Promise me you will not do anything reckless?”
“I promise,” Anakin mutters reluctantly, and you avert your eyes so he has some semblance of privacy.
“I mean it, Anakin. This is no time to experiment with your technical prowess. You simply fix their system and you wait for me back on the ship, understand?”
“Master,” Anakin pleads, “I understand.”
“Very well. Get to your duties,” Obi-Wan dismisses the boy, turning to you only after he sees his Padawan crouch by the singed panel.
“He shouldn’t take long. He most likely will try to tinker with the astromech, though.” Obi-Wan smiles sympathetically, “He’s not one to leave a droid unusable.”
“I remember he had a particular talent for mechanics,” You muse, starting off towards the main base intent on leading Obi-Wan to your rec room, “If I recall correctly, he figured out how to inconspicuously rewire his communicator to give you an ‘unavailable’ signal if he didn’t like what you were asking him to do.”
Obi-Wan scoffs as he lets you lead through the doorway, “Yes, my Padawan has always had very selective hearing. I’m sure you don’t mind not having one of your own.”
“That’s one of the reasons I justify my choice,” You chuckle, letting the door shut behind you as you make your way through the halls. The base that the Republic had granted you is spacious, even decked out with training facilities and rec rooms interspersed throughout your rows of quarters, but it’s unbearably hot and you’re tired of being cooped up inside of it.
“This isn’t bad for a base,” Obi-Wan muses, robes swishing behind him as he strides beside you, “But I hope Anakin fixes that cooling system soon.”
“Try being stationed here permanently,” You scoff, tugging at the sweat-soaked neckline of your tunic, “I have long since abandoned my robes.”
“Do you have somewhere I could set this?” Obi-Wan asks, fingers catching the front of his cloak as he slings it off. It falls gracefully from his shoulders, and he holds the garment up as he laments still having to wear the rest of his robes.
“You can leave it in my quarters,” You veer sharply to the right, letting him catch up, “They’re just down this hallway.”
There’s unmarked doors on either side of the corridor, and you’re still impressed that each clone trooper knows where their bed is at night. Your door has a plaque beside its frame that reads ‘General’s Quarters,’ and you’re not confident that you could navigate the halls without it. You type in your access code, and the door slides open with a hiss.
“Just set it on the bed,” You gesture towards your mattress, “If we have some time, I thought,” You reach into the closet, pulling out your seldom-used lightsaber, “We could spar.”
Obi-Wan laughs, discarding his cloak onto your bed as his eyes crinkle happily at the corners, “You’re lacking a bit of excitement here, aren’t you, Y/N? There’s no way you’d duel me willingly after I took you down the last time.”
You’d sparred together since you’d been handed a saber for the first time. Sure, your initial weapons were wooden, then training blades designed to be duller than their more advanced counterparts, before you’d finally been granted allowance to manufacture one of your own. But there were no more dedicated sparring partners than the two of you, and you can tell the man opposite you is fond of the reminder you’ve given him, even if he is trying to tease you.
“You did not take me down,” You gawp, “I mean- yes, I was on the floor, but I wasn’t done! You didn’t win!”
“Mm, yes. I didn’t win because no one did.” Obi-Wan sends you a sly grin, “Anakin interrupted us, don’t you remember? We never got to finish.”
“Then a rematch,” You insist, gesturing towards the open doorway, “Once and for all we’ll prove who the better duelist is.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’ll win. After all, I can tell you spend every waking moment practicing and making sure you lose none of your fighting abilities,” Obi-Wan’s hand darts out to switch on your holotable, revealing an in-progress game of chess. You’re losing.
“I’ve only been using that as of late,” You snap, defensive, “It’s insufferable to train without proper ventilation. And only when I’m not on duty. I don’t spend all of my time sitting and playing chess.”
“Losing at chess.” Obi-Wan arches an eyebrow, finally stepping out of your quarters so that you can shut it once more, “Come, Y/N, show me to your training grounds.”
The training room is just as hot as everywhere else on the base. You walk through the doors and humid air greets you, something that wrinkles Obi-Wan’s nose and rustles his mustache.
 “God, I hope your Padawan knows what he’s doing,” You groan, rolling up the sleeves of your own tunic but jumping excitedly into action despite the heat. You ignite your saber, slightly embarrassed by the thrill that the weapon gives you as it thrums to life. You haven’t felt this in a long time, at least, not paired with the thrill of battle. It’s significantly less awe-inspiring to ignite a saber against a training droid you know wouldn’t be able to singe your tunics if you stood stock still. Obi-Wan brings his to life as well; blue and green lights bathe your faces.
“I’ll go easy on you.” He smiles infuriatingly, cocking his head slightly to one side, “Ready?”
“Ready.” You jolt right, a fakeout before you dart left instead. He catches on rather quickly, though, and his blade clashes against yours as you aim for his leg.
“Nice start,” Obi-Wan admits, “But you can’t rely on misdirection for your entire fight. You’ll have to overpower me.”
“I could easily overpower you,” You swing left, breaking the contact of your two sabers, then jabbing so that he has to move his foot out of the way to avoid the plasma. He stumbles, barely catching himself against his back foot, but it gives you time enough to bring your blade up and around to nick at his shoulder, a hole now slashed into his tunic.
“Okay,” He stands straight, eyeing the tear in his clothing warily, “I won’t go easy on you.”
“Never underestimate your opponent,” You tease proudly, saber still ignited, “That’s one for me, Obi-Wan.”
“That doesn’t count,” He scoffs, standing at the ready, “I told you I’d go easy on you. Now I’m serious.”
“All I’m hearing is excuses,” You gloat, feet light as you step around him, “You lead this time, Kenobi.”
He does. He swings downwards, and you block your face with your own blade to stop him. He nearly jabs at your gut before you can prevent it, and you feel the heat from his blade as your own comes to block his.
You fling his weapon away with yours, and he lets you. After such a long period of no action (and shamefully little meditation) your abilities with the Force have grown slightly weaker, as have your regulatory skills. You can still sense what he’s going to do when he squares his shoulders, but you’re almost not fast enough to interpret those senses, and you barely make it to block him from swinging his blade in a fiery circle that would clip the edge of your arm.
“You’re rusty,” He taunts, his own Force abilities stronger than ever as his presence seeps through the cracks in your mind. You try to force him out, but it takes effort, and it’s effort you can’t expend elsewhere. It means that you can’t foresee his intent to aim for your face, and his blade hums inches away from your cheek as he holds it there.
You freeze; you’re caught.
We’re even,” You grunt, sweat beading at your forehead, “But we’re not finished.”
“Hang on,” He disengages his saber, letting the apparatus clatter to the ground as he tugs at one of the outer layers of his robes, “I’m going to shed a few things.”
“Stripping will not help your cause.” You tease, “I’m not distracted by sex appeal.”
Clearly, he isn’t expecting your jab, and he lets his mouth fall open as he slings off one of his garments, an incredulous laugh filling his throat.
“Y/N. You’ve obtained a foul mouth somewhere along your career. It certainly wasn’t in the temple.”
“It’s the clones,” You groan, “Try being stationed with a troop of grown men who went through puberty in record time. They’ve got the appetite of an adult with the filter of a teenage boy.”
“They’ve never tried anything with you,” Obi-Wan narrows his eyes questioningly, and you try to avoid looking at the sweat glistening against his tanned neck as he strips to his base layer.
“No, they’re respectful.” You assure him, “Just crass.”
“Yes, well,” Obi-Wan frowns distastefully, “They haven’t had Jedi training. I suppose I’m not surprised.”
He stands there for a moment with only his undershirt covering his chest, then decides that it’s still too warm, tugging at its hem to raise it over his head.
You feel your insides ignite with a fire you haven’t felt in a long time when his bare chest is exposed, skin marred and riddled with coarse, wiry hair. His stomach is flat but not as tight as you remember in your youth, softer now. You can tell there’s an impressive layer of muscle beneath the milky white skin, though, even if it’s not outwardly visible. He uses his tunic to wipe the sweat off of his face so you’re granted a moment to ogle him, your mouth watering as you try to conceal your thoughts. 
“Okay. Enough with this child’s play.” You shake your head, letting Obi-Wan have just enough time to toss aside his tunic before you plant your feet against the mat. Obi-Wan stands at the ready, both of your sabers ignited, “I want a real match. A long one, now that we’re warmed up. Best two out of three, Kenobi. Winner takes all.”
“Winner gets to stand in front of the air conditioning vent when Anakin gets it up and running,” Obi-Wan suggests, sweat trailing down his neck and over his chest. You avert your eyes, lest the fraile state of mind you’re in betrays you.
“Fine.” You shrug, reaching for the hem of your vest. It’s tactical, good for keeping with you on duty, but it’s etching lines of sweat into your back now. You sling it off, letting it land in a heap similar to Obi-Wan’s robes, and exposing the tank top you have on beneath it. “I know just the one I’ll pick. In my room, there’s one just above the bed. Maybe I’ll let it hit my back while I win at holochess.”
“I think the heat might be getting to you,” Obi-Wan cracks, a slight heave to his chest as he tries regulating his breathing. It’s hard when you’re as hot as you are to get enough oxygen, and you’re doing the same. It’s awfully difficult not to indulge in the view of his bare chest rapidly rising and falling, and you feel a tug below your gut as a vision flashes through your mind. It’s of what else could make him pant in such a way, and you can’t afford to entertain the thought, not around him. “I’m not sure which outcome is more delusional; that you’ll win this duel, or that you’ll win at holochess.”
“You’re wasting time,” You croon, charging with your blade poised for battle so that you have no more time to fantasize, “I think you’re scared.”
“Do I feel afraid?” Obi-Wan laughs, blocking your attack with little effort and redoubling to launch one of his own. The clatter of your sabers almost drowns out his words, “Reach out, Y/L/N, all you’ll feel is confidence.”
“I’m not sure I could feel you if I tried,” You lament, chest heaving as you block one of his swings, “Not while my mind is occupied with our duel. I am rusty, you were right.”
“Practice more,” He chides, “Less chess, more meditation.”
“One is a lot more boring than the other!” You groan, barely managing to get your arm up in time to take a shot at his own, “And the less boring one is chess, so that’s really saying something.”
“It may be boring but it is beneficial,” Obi-Wan lectures you, and you wonder if he thinks you’re still a Padawan. You fight with heaving breaths and monumental effort, the heat sucking your energy out through the sweat that drips down your skin. He turns and his back is glistening, which is really not a sight that helps you to stay focused.
“Now I’m starting to see why Anakin tinkered with his communicator,” You call, as Obi-Wan whirls around your left side, “You’re very dull as a Jedi Master!”
You have to throw yourself onto the floor to avoid a swing at your head, your right shoulder aching as you do so. But you scramble away from him, righting yourself and miraculously avoiding the blade of your saber coming into contact with the training mat.
You stumble to your knees, driving the forward momentum you have against Obi-Wan as he tries blocking you. You nearly get a nick out of his pants, but he pushes you backwards with the threat of his blade, and you fall with your back to the mat.
Your stomach drops when a blue blade hums hot and bright near your throat, its tip directed at your jugular. It doesn’t matter that it’s on its training setting; it’s inescapable and daunting when it’s an inch from your skin. You’re done for. 
“I may be dull,” Obi-Wan pants, beard glistening as sweat streams down his neck. His chest heaves as he speaks, bare and open for your eyes, and his pink tongue pokes out of the corner of his mouth to dart along his lips, “But I am victorious. Does this remind you a little bit of the last time we fought?”
It does. He’d been standing over you then as he is now, and you’d had to fortify your mind back then not to let slip vulgar thoughts about being on the floor below him. His thighs, meaty with muscle and strong from training, are hidden behind loose pants, but their crotch has tightened slightly, a chub to what should be a relaxed surface.
A pang of arousal shoots down your spine, and suddenly the lightsaber near your throat isn’t the most daunting thing in the room. It’s Obi-Wan.
He swallows, his adam’s apple bobbing as you lay beneath him.
“Your thoughts betray you,” He observes, and you feel his invasive presence in your mind, sucking out the private thoughts coursing through your brain. They’re of panting breaths, heaving chests, wandering hands, and meshing tongues; passionate embraces, intimate attachments. Things no Jedi should fantasize about, not under the code. Things that should bring shame to you, and maybe they do, and maybe you like it.
“Your body betrays you,” You’re able to muster, swallowing the saliva pooling in your mouth as you glance pointedly at his bulge. It’s only grown since you’d last glanced at it; evidently your visions did something to him too.
He sees, or perhaps, feels what you see, freezes, then clicks his saber off. The blade retracts with a hiss and there is a distinct vacuum of sound where its humming once was. He breaks the unnerving silence with a clatter as he tosses it aside, feet still firmly planted on either side of your hips. 
“It’s natural.” He weakly supplies, a poor defense, “It’s adrenaline-fueled, nothing more.”
“Really? So when you duel sith lords, when you chop the heads off of battle droids, you walk away with a stiff dick?” You carefully observe his body language, feet poised like he might bolt if you make any sudden moves. He’s flighty, and you have to make your next moves carefully.”
“Y/N,” He begins, his voice weak, “I wish you wouldn’t use such foul language.”
“Is it the language that bothers you?” You push your elbows against the mat, hoisting yourself up at an obtuse angle to meet his eye better, “Or is it the truth it carries? Obi-Wan, you were right. It’s natural. And it is not something to be ashamed of.”
“It is against the Code,” He reasons, his voice still fighting to sound resolute. He offers no other reasoning, and you know it’s because he has none.
“It’s not.” You insist, “The Code is ancient and rigid. And celibacy is not required, only a level head.”
“That’s the problem,” He chuckles weakly, “I don’t have a level head when it comes to you, Y/N.”
“You seem as though you do.” You press cautiously, careful not to push your luck, “I’ve never felt anything unprofessional about your feelings towards me.”
“That’s because I haven’t been around you in a long time,” He admits, “Not consistently. I was better at controlling it- no, hiding it when we were Padawans. I had to do it every day, it was natural to me. But I am out of practice now, and I have been since you were stationed here. I barely have the ability to hide how I feel about you, Y/N. And- and it is not something the Council would approve of.”
You sit up now, fully straightened. You’re still between his legs, but you’d need to rise to your knees for your face to be level with his bulge. You plan to.
“The Council is not here. Nor can they see us, or hear us, or feel us. They will not know what we do, Obi-Wan.”
“I will know.” He breathes, his voice growing weaker each time he tries raising it against you, “Y/N, I will never forget a thing we do together on this base. If we… If you touch me, I will remember every brush of your skin against mine for eternity. If you- kiss me, I will never be able to put the thought of your lips on mine out of my head. And I would not know how to live without it for the rest of my life.”
Your heart sinks in your stomach like a stone in water. He’s loyal to the Order, he always has been. But you’d been so blinded by isolation, so convinced by your own delusions, that you’d assumed his loyalty to you would be stronger. But it’s not, and you can’t earnestly be angry with him for it.
You swallow what little saliva has accumulated around your tongue to give yourself something to do, then rise to your feet.
“It sounds like you should walk away.” You mutter regretfully. His eyes hold the same feelings, strikingly painful. He nods, almost imperceptibly, but before he can follow your orders, you continue.
“But will you forgive yourself if you do?”
You feel it, his swell of emotions. Every single one is unbridled, yearning, heartache, fondness, want; all of them unleashed from the man whose mind is usually a fortress. They’re washing over you like waves, invading your brain and turning your thoughts their colors. 
“No. I couldn’t,” He admits, “But-” and there’s always a but, “The Council would never forgive me if I didn’t.”
“They won’t know.” You insist, but it’s lost on him, “Obi-Wan, please make a decision. Who is more important, you or the Council?” Then in a more timid, soft voice, as his soft eyes bore into you and beg for mercy, you give him the opposite, “Who is more important… me or the Council?”
He kisses you. There is no warning, no shift in his Force signature, only his hands on your face and his lips on your own. There is strength in his touch, his hands firm where they pull your cheeks ever-so-slightly towards his face as if he’s trying to mash them into his own. His beard is rough and grating against your face, but it’s not unpleasant, especially when it brings with it his lips. His lips, which are much softer than you’d have imagined them, merely frame your own. The kiss is sweet but chaste, and the only indication you have that he wants more is the way that he holds you against him. Otherwise you’d mistake his courtesy for disinterest, and you tilt your head slightly sideways to encourage more enthusiasm from him.
When your lips reconnect he sighs, a breath from his nose that fans over your top lip. He’s letting you lead, letting you dictate whether you want to keep kissing him or whether you’ll suddenly switch positions; it’s like he’s afraid that you’ll rip off a mask and reveal yourself to be Master Windu, scolding him for his reckless passion. But of course you don’t, and you lick gently against the plush of his bottom lip instead.
He hums at the feeling of your tongue against his mouth, but he’s suddenly pushing against your cheeks instead of pulling.
“Are you absolutely sure,” He starts, but can’t seem to resist the temptation to steal another kiss from your spit-slicked lips, “That you- mm, that you want this? Because I cannot-” He breaks off with a weary, pleading, defeated look in his beautiful eyes, “I cannot turn back if we go further. If we proceed… I will not be able to forget what we do. If you’re not interested… please tell me now, so that I may save myself from loving you for an eternity that you do not wish to share with me.”
You scoff, moving in for another kiss at his lips. He doesn’t reciprocate, only pushing you back so that you can respond.
“I just spent five minutes,” You pant, desperate to reconnect your lips, “Bargaining with you to get you to forget about your nerves. And you don’t think I want this?”
You try surging forwards again but he holds you back, eyes still begging for your words.
“Please. I need to hear you say it.” He seems almost self-conscious, worried you’re not interested in him the same way he’s interested in you. But you have been since you can remember, and you’re more than willing to work around the unconventional aspects of your relationship if it means you can have him, even just for today.
“I want you,” You breathe, the exhale hitting his lips, “Please- Obi-Wan, I want you. I want you no matter what the Code says. No matter what the Council says; I want you.”
He looks like he could cry. He is devoted to the Order, far more than you have seen most Jedi, and to hear you choose him over the Code must mean a great deal. He pours passion into the kiss you share, chest filling with oxygen that he gulps just to be able to keep his mouth on yours for longer. He consumes you, fingers pulling at your cheeks and tugging you closer still, like he thinks you might fuse if he tries hard enough.
He groans into your mouth, his tongue more exploratory now that you’ve pledged your devotion to him. He’s not afraid of taking now, of getting his hopes up only to be thrown down, and he swipes the wet muscle in a hot stripe over your own tongue. He rolls it against your lower lip, so wonderful to kiss for someone with such lacking experience.
“No one is coming,” You breathe, exhaling against his mouth as your hands wander to his waistband, “No one- no one can see us.”
“I want you in your quarters.” He protests, grabbing your wrists when your hand sinks to his bulge and ghosts over it. He jolts at the unexpected contact, but holds you back, “I want to lay you down, Y/N, I want to indulge in every part of you. Worship you.”
“I will let you,” You moan, tilting your forehead against his and mouthing at his lips in a sloppy kiss, “You may have me any way you want, Obi-Wan. But here, I- I want to have you. I need to have you now,”
“Impatient,” He notes, sounding suspiciously close to lecturing you. But he lets your wrists go, and you sink to your knees instantly. He hears them hit the training mat, knows they must ache, but he can’t find any part of him available to worry about it, not now that your hands are prying greedily at the waistband of his trousers.
He’s a near stranger to physical pleasure, at least in recent years. He’s a grown man, he has urges, but he also has responsibilities, and the constant pressure of an ambitious (read: reckless) young Padawan under his supervision mixed with a quickly-rising rank within the Jedi Order leave him with little time nor interest to indulge in his barest desires. Your hand gently squeezing his clothed bulge as you wrestle with his pants nearly knocks him off of his feet, and he’s not sure he’ll be able to handle having your warm mouth envelop it.
Finally you tug loose the drawstring within his pants, and yank them down his thighs. They’re seldom bare, you see from the milky white tone of the skin there, but they are muscled and thick like he does not neglect them.
You can’t help yourself when you lean forwards, tongue already protruding from your mouth to lick a fat, wet stripe around one of his thighs. It’s sturdy beneath your tongue that dips into the crease between his skin and the parts of it that are covered by his briefs. His muscles tense like you’ve struck him with a fatal blow, and an open-mouthed groan escapes his lips.
His skin tastes of the sweat that’s currently moistening every inch of your bodies, salty and tantalizing. There’s no escaping it in the brutal heat, but it makes him all the more sexy, his skin glistening before you even get a chance to smear it in your saliva.
You’re guilty of impatience as he accuses, and you can’t resist mouthing at his covered bulge. He’s half-hard, but when your lips purse around the outline of his cock in his briefs he twitches, and you feel him stiffen against the restraints of his underwear on your tongue. 
His knees give out with no warning, and he barely has the foresight to grab desperately at a bench press behind him for stability. He falls quickly to its surface, perching on the edge of it while you desperately chase his cock. You fit your mouth again over his briefs and drool against the fabric, surely soaking it through with your saliva. His cock, though restrained, is heavy and thick on your tongue, making your mouth water and produce enough drool to soak through his entire ensemble. His hands clutch the bench beneath him with white knuckles, and he grits his teeth to stop himself from shouting as you suck at his clothed cock.
“Oh, Y/N,” He pants, voice strained as you get lost in your task and forget that you need to actually pull his briefs down. He reaches for your head, gently nudging you away with his knuckles against your temple.
“Darling, please, I can’t- I won’t last for very long. Please, have me properly.”
He grips at the waistband of his underwear, tugging them down hurriedly and letting his cock spring free. It’s of decent length, but slightly thicker than average, its base shrouded by a patch of curled hair at his groin. It’s a similar caramel color to the rest of his hair, and his sweat has accumulated particularly within its wiry constraints, leaving him musky. The smell might bother you if it were anyone else, if you were anywhere else, but here and now, on your knees for Obi-Wan in the training room, it’s the most disgustingly tantalizing thing you’ve ever smelled in your entire life.
That’s why you bury your face into it, the hair tickling at your skin. His hips jolt as you inhale deeply near the base of his cock, groaning and letting your tongue fall to drag against just the shaft of his erect dick. He’s painfully hard, embarrassingly seconds to orgasm, and your spit now glistening on his length doesn’t help. Or it helps too much; either way, he’s close to cumming and you haven’t even had a chance to put him in your mouth.
“Darling,” He begs, pushing at your forehead once more, speaking through an eternal shortage of breath, “Please, I- it all feels too good. I can’t take it. I won’t last long.”
“That’s okay,” You pant, your breath falling over his cock as it practically pulses with pleasure, “We’re here for a good time, not a long time.”
“Terrible,” He manages to chuckle weakly, but any further chiding he has planned for your cheekiness is cut short when he stops breathing. He actually forgets how when your wet mouth closes around the head of his cock, your tongue licking flat over its head and covering most of its surface area. It’s so much sensation so fast that Obi-Wan has to clench his hands around the bench not to cum right then and there, and he feels pinpricks of pain over his skin that he realizes are from his fingernails digging against his palms. When you draw your head back off of his cock with a slick sound, then move in again to take more of his length into your mouth, his lungs suddenly remember their function, and heave within his chest.
His groans are filthy and they only pool more slick wetness between your thighs as you kneel for him. You don’t care about the ache in your knees, nor the pain in your neck from the slightly awkward angle you’re indulging in him at. All that matters is his cock, heavy and thick on your tongue, sweat and precum alike flooding your taste buds. 
His restraint is put to the test. He’s a member of the Jedi Council, for Force’s sake, and he should have a little more control over himself than this. But it takes almost all of his energy not to buck his hips forwards and plunge the length of his cock down your throat, and it means that he’s not able to devote as much restraint to delaying his orgasm as he’d like.
He’s twitching in your mouth, and even with your faded Force abilities, mental muscles weakened by disuse, you can feel the tension coursing through his veins, hot and wild. You don’t need to look at his strained, white-knuckled grip on the edge of the bench to know that he’s devoting all of his energy to restraining himself, and you take pride in being able to undo Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi with merely your mouth. You indulge in his painful hardness, tongue smoothly caressing the underside of his length as you bob your head back and forth around him. Each time you draw back you flick your tongue up and over the ruddy, leaking head of his cock, something that makes that fiery tension in his body glow even hotter.
“I’m going to-” He warns you, voice petering out weakly as he tries controlling himself, “I can’t- I can’t help it, I’m going to cum.”
“Cum,” You speak in unison, your word coming out muffled as you speak it against his cock. You smooth your hands up his thighs, feeling his muscles impossibly tight beneath your fingers. You stroke them soothingly, encouraging him to unclench his jaw that’s wired so tightly that you’re sure his teeth are on the verge of cracking, “Cum, Obi-Wan, please.”
Even if you hadn’t asked him so kindly, he’s sure he wouldn’t have been able to withhold any longer. Not with your pretty eyes gazing up at him from between his legs, lashes latticing the tender emotions swirling in your gaze. Your fingers slide calmly, sweetly over the expanse of his thighs, and the mere thought of you digging your nails harshly into them and leaving marks is what elicits the final twitch of his dick on your tongue.
Evidently, you’re more in tune with his thoughts than he’d expected. You’d caught the quick image that had flashed through his mind, now completely unguarded to you, and you curl your fingers quicker than he can comprehend, carving searing marks into his thighs that will show up red for at least a week. Paired with the movement of your fingers, you suck hard at his cock, plunging your face forwards to nestle against the base once more. His tip hits the back of your throat with force and it makes you gag, and Obi-Wan isn’t sure what sensation is more overwhelming: the vivid burning at his thighs, the way the tip of his dick nestles so securely into the warm, wet sleeve of your throat, or the way that you’re breathing in his sweat-marred scent like it’s the purest oxygen you’ve ever had in your lungs. All he knows is that together, they’re his undoing, and he lets out a rugged cry; he can’t control himself any longer when pleasure roars through him with a fury he’s almost frightened of. 
He’s always calm, collected, in control. But now he’s grabbing your face with shaking hands as he pumps warm spurts of cum down your throat, holding your jaw steady so that you can’t back away, not that you want to. He holds you in place while his thighs begin to tremble, your tongue continuously smoothing over the underside of his cock while it twitches in your mouth. He keeps himself fully nestled into the back of your throat while he cums, and if he had energy to be embarrassed about cumming as much as he was, he’d be apologizing. But he can’t, not when you’re swallowing him so eagerly, throat convulsing around the head of his cock and only milking more out of him. There’s obscene groans coming from his mouth, the kind that bring heat to your own core, and you think you could get off to the sound a thousand times over if you recorded him now. They’re deep, throaty, and desperate as he holds your face around his cock, gagging you on his dick as his orgasm takes control of him.
A part of your training that hasn’t left you yet was your extensive disaster training, in which you were taught how to extend the time for which you could hold your breath. That comes in especially handy when Obi-Wan’s hands cradle your jaw, keeping you snugly choking around his dick. You have to fight not to draw back at the strange sensation of your throat being plugged while his cum splatters against the back of it,, and you use all of your strength to keep yourself from panicking at the lack of airflow. You’re only slightly ashamed to admit that you’d willingly die like this, a fucktoy for his cock.
Once his orgasm has worked its way through him he seems to remember you can’t breathe, all of the tension having leaked out of his muscles. He inhales with a start, pushing against your cheeks and tugging his cock out of your mouth, “Oh, Y/N, darling- Y/N, are you-?” 
At the sight of your spit-soaked lips, tongue desperately running over them to collect any of the sweat that had accumulated there from being pressed against his pelvis, he lunges forwards to meet his lips with your own. He can taste the slight savory hint of his own release, your tongues meshing wetly and messily. He’s hunching now, even though you’ve straightened up on your knees, and he feels you clumsily palm at his dick, tucking him back away into his briefs. It makes his lips go slack with a gasp even though he’s just finished, and he’s more than eager to take you by the wrists and help you to your feet. You toss his undershirt at him with careless speed, and he nearly gets lost in its beige expanse from the way that his arms shake as he pulls it over his head.
“My quarters,” Your voice is thick and ragged, still recovering from your prior lack of oxygen, “We can- it’s soundproof, no one will know.”
“Yes,” He breathes, legs shaking slightly as he gathers the rest of the clothes he’d shed while sparring with you, “Um- we can... Anakin still hasn’t gotten the air conditioning running.”
“Uh-uh,” You shake your head, feeling nothing from the vent to your left, “Hurry, let’s go before-”
“General,” The door slides open, and you both startle, much less in tune with the force presences of those around you than you’d like to admit. One of your troopers sticks his head through the door, “The kid needs a multitool.”
You blink once, registering a slight soreness at the back of your throat, “Get him a multitool, then.”
You’re sure he can see your haggard appearance, and all apart from the glossy look of your lips looks like you’ve been sparring. Which you have, technically. You just hope Obi-Wan’s trousers don’t look like they’ve only just been hitched up around his waist again, or his shirt barely pulled down over his chest.
“I lost mine, general,” The trooper admits sheepishly. There was an abundance of the supplies that were offered to you before you’d been shipped out to this battle station, and more had been stocked for a long time in one of the supply closets, but your troopers are bored more often than not, and you shudder to think of all of the times they’ve used them as target practice by standing them on the balcony and opening fire. Apparently, you need to request some more from the next inspection team, as well as impress upon your troops the difference between an abundance of resources and useless clutter begging for a blaster wound.
“I have one in my quarters,” You sigh wearily, “Let’s see to it that we don’t misuse our equipment anymore, soldier.”
“Yes, General,” He nods vigorously, stepping out of your way to offer you the open door.
“Obi-Wan,” You turn apologetically, “We’ll have to continue our sparring match after I retrieve the multitool for your padawan. You’re welcome to follow us, though I’m not sure it’s any cooler out there than it is in here.”
“I’d like to stash my clothes somewhere, if you don’t mind,” Obi-Wan holds up the outer garments he’d shed, “I think it gives you somewhat of an unfair advantage if I’m liable to trip over my own tunics.”
You grant him a good-natured laugh as you pass your trooper in the doorway, and all in all, you think that the two of you have done a fantastic job at pretending his dick wasn’t in your mouth only minutes ago.
Your trooper makes the wise decision to stand outside of your quarters when you enter them, although any initial disappointment you’d felt at his poorly-timed request has well worn off by now. That’s all he’s guilty of, anyways; you find their antics amusing despite their destructive nature. It’s not his fault that you’re canoodling with the Jedi master, so you forgive him his abhorrent timing. You beeline for a locker in your closet, punching in the numeric code and letting the squeaky hinges reveal your small weapons store. It’s a multipurpose space, blasters on a rack that’s affixed to the back, a mount for your saber, and a drawer of various other mechanical supplies down below. You throw it open, and Obi-Wan watches you dig for the multitool where he stands by your bed, his tunics laid on your bedspread.
You realize all too late that one of your other mechanical supplies is in full view of the Jedi master standing behind you, black in color for subtlety but unmistakable in shape. It’s phallic and has a second prong that shoots off of the base to vibrate against your clit, something you only use when you're absolutely certain no one can hear. Besides, the sound could very well be mistaken for one of your troopers shaving their scruff, so you have ample opportunity. You snatch the multitool out of the drawer and slam it shut, making your trooper’s shoulders twitch in a quickly concealed wince. You’re thankful that only Obi-Wan was a temporary witness to your lack of organizational skills.
“Here,” You rush to hand it off, forcefully locking the cabinet and thrusting the tool towards the trooper, “Take it- uh, keep it, I’ll put in a request for more supplies tonight.”
“Thanks, General,” He nods warily at you, and you pity the way he’s taken your context clues and misarranged them to view your behavior as standoffish and exasperated with him, “My apologies again.”
“No worries,” You try not to snap at him, unnerved by the abnormal lack of mental pressure from Obi-Wan behind you. He used to tease you abundantly in your youth, prying at your mental shields and slipping snide remarks through the cracks while you fought to keep a straight face, but now that he’s laid his eyes on possibly the most embarrassing item you own, he’s completely still, completely silent.
“Goodbye.” You shut the door with a hydraulic hiss, and stand facing it until Obi-Wan speaks, pretending to fuss with the control panel.
“It seems you overlooked another multitool in that drawer,” His voice finally reaches over the silence, carefully bundled so that the underlying mirth is something you can only guess at, “Now I wonder if your battalion is really the cause of your foul mouth.”
“Shut up!” You whirl on him with cheeks blazing on opposite sides of your face like Tatooine’s twin suns, “Don’t tease me-”
“I’m not teasing you!” He insists, voice sounding aghast, like it’s out of the question, like he’s offended by the accusation, taking your arms into his grip when you look like you might shove him. His face is split into a smile - not a grin, which is reassuring - but a warm smile, even if there is amusement twinkling in his eyes.
“Yes you are,” You scoff, and you have half a mind to pull away when one of his hands releases your arm and anchors itself against your face instead. It’s warm, rough from wear but impossibly gentle. You fight leaning into it for as long as you can, pride still bruised, but he leans in to press his lips against your forehead in a chaste kiss. 
Typical.
You’d gagged on his dick ten minutes ago, and he’s kissing your forehead.
“Darling,” He hums sympathetically, tucking your face against his chest so snugly that you think it was engineered for the curves and bumps of your skin. You relish the hug he traps you in, the tender hold even though you’re interested in something more carnal, feral, hungry. His voice is strong and soothing as he speaks, and the vibrations thrum through his chest and against your face “You had my cock in your mouth not ten minutes ago. I’m not going to make fun of you for having a toy.”
Oh. Perhaps he hadn’t forgotten.
“Such a foul mouth,” You admonish him, tucking your grin away between the haphazardly-righted folds of his tabard. 
He pinches at your side, fingers greedily prying at the soft flesh of your belly through layers of clothing you wish weren’t between your skin and his, “Yes, well, it’s because I’ve had yours all over me.”
His hand, similarly bold to his mouth, flattens out along the curve of your side, tucking into the space above your hip bones. The other stays in place against your cheek, finger running idly across the underside of your jawline. You don’t know whether the shiver that shudders down your spine is due to the ticklish nature of his touch, or the sensual area he’s chosen, but he feels your spine thrum, and he presses further into you like it was an invitation.
“Darling,” He starts, back to that well-practiced hesitancy, “If you still want to…”
“I do,” You nod, feeling sweat drip down the back of your neck and soak into the fabric of your tank top, “Do you think we have time?”
“Anakin can occupy himself with scrap metal and multitools for hours,” Obi-Wan recollects with a smile on his face that isn’t committed to fondness or resignation. You’re sure he’s proud of his padawan’s abilities, but not of the havoc he wreaks with them.
“Hmm, that might be cutting it close,” You pretend to debate it, gnawing at the inside of your cheek, and he lets out a laugh as warm as the runoff heat from his saber with none of the bite of its blade.
“You’d occupy yourself with me for hours?” He teases, but when you nod, it’s earnest.
“I’d occupy myself with you for the rest of my life, Obi-Wan.”
The breath that he draws in when you begin speaking is the last one he draws for a while. Instead he holds it there, letting it burn and sear at his lungs while he wonders if any words he could produce with it would contain even a fraction of the yearning he feels roll over him in a nauseating wave. Very little has ever made him want the life of a civilian - his home is between the opulent walls of the Jedi temple, but any walls he shared with you would be infinitely more grandiose if only for your place within them.
“Had you said the word,” He elects to speak the truth, even if it isn’t even a chip away at the trove of feelings he keeps locked tightly away in his mind for you, “I would have left the Jedi Order.”
Would have.
You know why he won’t now, and you’re not upset with him for the reasons. You understand them, even if you don’t relate to them.
“But Anakin…”
“I know,” You nod against his chest, fingers taking hold of his undershirt’s fabric edge and fastening there, “You made a promise to your master. And to him. And he needs your help. I wouldn’t ask you to leave.”
“Would you have? When we were younger,” He idly strokes down the length of your spine, arm wrapping comfortably around your waist.
“Maybe…” You admit, “Maybe if I’d known your trip to Naboo would bring about such change. Maybe if I’d known I only had a few years left with you as we were. But I didn’t. So I never asked. And I never will.”
He doesn’t react verbally or physically after your confession, but the silence that ensues isn’t an awkward one. Instead, he maintains his hold on you, and you feel a gentle wave of affection flow from him through the Force. Affection, appreciation, love, which you feel so broadly through the Force, but rarely so devoted to you yourself rather than the galaxy in its entirety. You’re no stranger to the feeling, but it’s different channeled privately between two people than it is as a way of life.
“Let us pretend,” Obi-Wan finally musters, his voice thicker than usual, though if you were not so in tune with him you wouldn’t have perceived it, “For the next few fleeting moments, that we are still young. That we don’t have responsibilities other than those to ourselves, and to each other.”
Though your youth may have escaped you, your mind weary with resignation and Obi-Wan’s eyes darkened with the perpetual exhaustion of adulthood, his touch does not feel tired or incapable. It feels strong, firm, and mindful where it slips from your chin to your waist. His other hand sandwiches you between them, and you’re tilting your chin up to kiss him before he gives any indication that he’ll do the same. But he does, his boldness almost reset from the interruption you’d suffered. Like you need to coax him out of his shell again, like he’s worried you’ve somehow changed your mind.
You take the back of his neck in your hand, finding it slick and tacky with sour-smelling sweat, and pull him down so that his lips smash messily to your own. It’s a move he’s not expecting, and a startled groan escapes his lips as proof. You drink it, sucking it down your throat and pulling him towards the bed with the same backwards momentum. He’s nimble even if he’s unprepared, probably to do with his extensive agility training. You’re more than ready to fall back onto your bed when your calves butt against the frame but he lowers you down gently, with ease, drawing back from your kiss despite your fervent protests to watch you look up at him.
“Obi-Wan,” You beg, your voice weary, “Why are you hesitating?”
“I’m not hesitating,” He answers, and you feel it to be truthful, “I’m admiring you, darling. I’m not unsure, I’m more sure than I’ve ever been in my life.”
“Prove it,” You plead, already pulling at the hem of your tank top. You peel its sweat-soaked binding off of your skin, showcasing the equally stained garment beneath it that keeps your chest closer to your neck than your stomach, “Please, Obi-Wan, take me like you want me. Not like you feel bad for having me.”
“I do not feel bad for having you,” He promises, mouth barely parting from yours to utter the words. His lips are pink-tinted, glistening with spit, probably a mixture of his and yours. He pants slightly, cheeks similarly ruddy, “Perhaps later I will. When I stand in front of the Council and tell them we conducted routine maintenance. When I lie, when I guard my memories of you from them. But I’m not occupied with that now, darling. Only with you, I swear it.”
“Oh, well, that’s good to know,” You hum, kissing an inch lower than his mouth, the apex of his chin that’s marred by the scruff of his beard. It’s prickly and rough beneath your lips, and when you draw back they glisten with transferred sweat, “I’m glad you’re not thinking of Master Yoda while dipping a knee between my thighs.”
“Oh,” Obi-Wan ducks his head, advances on pause as he plants his forehead against your shoulder, “That’s awful. Really, truly vile.”
You laugh, and despite his disgusted bravado, so does he. His chest shakes against yours and you relish the sound, hand still planted firmly on the back of his neck. You briefly consider breaking out your rusty Yoda impression, ‘kiss me, you must’, but decide against it, instead choosing to press his head closer to your torso, letting his forehead lay flush and sweaty against your shoulder. It puts the scruff of his beard on the curve of your tits, and you feel it burn your skin as he kisses along it lightly. 
His mouth is soft, and his beard is its abrasive opposite. They trail in tandem along the slope of your breasts, first the soft lips and then the burn of the beard, until he’s lit a fiery trail across your skin to the padded edge of your bra. When his lips meet fabric instead of skin he noses beneath it, surely smelling a morning’s worth of sweat accumulated beneath the weight of your chest. You’re self conscious, for only a flash, then he takes a deep drag of air, inhaling until his chest seems fit to burst.
“I’m sorry,” You find yourself humming, regardless of his clear interest, “I wish a shower would help. Even the cold water doesn’t prevent sweating.”
“I don’t want you to shower,” He muses, pushing his face between your breasts to kiss at the skin between them. He mouths gently, tongue sliding over your skin with little form and too much spit that blends well with your sweat, “Sex is not sterile, darling. Soap and water defeat the purpose.”
You’re not sure whether it’s his insistence on the natural state of your body or the way that his knee gently prods against your center, but whatever it is, your fingers itch and you fling them up to cup the underside of your chest.
“Take it off,” You beg, and Obi-Wan shows no hesitation in complying, his hands sliding beneath your back, rough and weathered from work. They’re gentle as they slide over the clasp of your bra, and you push yourself up onto your elbows on the mattress so that he can maneuver the stretchy fabric easier.
“Does it hook or button?” He nudges his nose against yours to ask, and your stomach flops at the question. Both the fact that he doesn’t have enough experience to know, and the way that he feels comfortable enough admitting that to you by asking so earnestly only make you want him more, and you’re barely able to mumble ‘clasp’ before pressing your lips to his own once more.
“Three,” You add later, against his lips, when he unhooks one and still doesn’t have the garment undone, “There’s three.”
He takes your orders with unfailing patience, a trait you’d admired even in your youth. While you’d been more prone to hotheaded outbursts, he’d take you by the arm and speak for the both of you, usually resulting in far less severe of a punishment than you’d have gotten if you’d spoken your mind. Then the two of you would share sneaky, fleeting glances at each other while scrubbing the floors of the refectory, trying not to laugh loud enough for the Knight unwillingly supervising your punishment to hear.
You’re pulled out of your reverie when he finally unhooks the garment and slips it off of your shoulders, meaning you have to draw back from where you’d tucked your face over his shoulder, giving him a view of his work. As your faces pass each other he offers you the same grin he’d worn all those years ago, his pretty eyes alight with the love you feel seeping from his fingertips. You see a glimpse of the boy he was through the man he’s become, and both are equally endearing to you. The first, because you’d grown with him, like ferns tangled together in sticky, clinging tendrils. The second, because he wears his accomplishments on his face, crows feet at the corners of his eyes from laughing at his padawan’s wayward antics, and frown lines for scowling at the same incidences only moments prior. He’d laughed at you in your youth, and frowned just the same at your more uncouth ideas for adventure, and now those expressions are etched into his face, like layers of makeup no longer dissolvable with remover. He’ll wear them forever, and you want to see him display them even in his old age.
He watches the way that your body moves when he peels the sweat-soaked garment away from your chest. He watches your breasts succumb to gravity’s harsh pull, sloping sideways and downwards rather than maintaining their tight compress towards your chin. He watches them sag, watches them fall to their natural state and declares, “You’re beautiful, darling.”
He takes them in his hands, their mass in his palms as he rolls his thumb over the skin of your nipples. They’d usually pebble in the cold but now they’re pulling taut beneath his touch, and when he brushes his thumb over their peak you stifle a gasp.
“Beautiful,” He repeats, and leans down to meet one with his mouth. He gravitates towards the right one first, and the embrace of his hot mouth against your skin tempts your back to arch. His tongue presses flat against your nipple, then drags up its surface, and his lips kiss over the stripe of saliva he’d left behind.
His beard rubs against your skin and it’s not rawing, not yet, but you know it will be the more he mouths at your breast. He’s licking, sucking, pulling, but never biting, teeth merely grazing your flesh rather than indulging in it. His tongue does that instead, flattening out over your raised flesh and dragging hot, wet stripes over the bud of your perked nipple.
“Obi- Obi-Wan,” You gasp, dragging desperate, heaving breaths into your lungs as your hands fly to his lengthened hair. You’d ruffled it many times when it was short and spiked, but now you’re able to get purchase in the strawberry-blonde locks, curling your fingers around the soft, sweat-darkened strands and pulling. 
You don’t pull hard, but it’s unexpected, and you feel the momentary pinch of Obi-Wan’s teeth around your breast. It floods heat to your already-pulsing core more than you’d have thought possible, considering the sweltering temperatures you’ve been in the whole time, but the soft groan that then ripples through your skin from the depths of his throat only makes you more desperate. All of a sudden the long-suffering heat is tepid by comparison, and you yank at the material of his undershirt so hard you nearly rip the fabric.
“Off,” You pant, “Please, take it- get it off, Obi-Wan.”
In a fluid, crouched movement Obi-Wan tears his undershirt off with one hand at its hem, his muscles flexing as he swings the arm up and over his head. He discards the shirt carelessly beneath him and it droops to the floor, no longer covering the bare skin of his chest that you’d admired earlier.
You have half a mind to do to him what he’s been doing to you, to sink your teeth into the flesh of his chest and suckle on his sweat-soaked skin. But he dips his face back to mouth at your tit once more, so you settle for running your hands greedily, desperately over the layer of soft skin that blocks his muscled chest from view. When he was younger, what seems like an eternity but must only be five years, his build was more defined. You’d gotten plenty of eyefuls of his bare, heaving chest during a particularly intense sparring match, or down by one of the large pools that were definitely supposed to be used more for reflection and tranquility rather than the chaos you’d wreaked upon them. But years of planning someone else’s schedule before his own has meant that he’s softened out around the middle, muscles still prominent when you dig your fingers into his skin, just not starkly visible anymore.
Age does that to a person; pushes them harder than ever before to achieve a less-defined result than they’re used to, but you find that you want to grind down onto the thin layer of pudge he’s accumulated just as much as you’d have wanted to drag yourself over his defined abs. The thought of doing both, either, anything makes you dizzy with desire that you express by scratching your sharpened nails down his skin, feeling his muscles shudder beneath your fingers.
“Darling,” He groans, choking on the word like it’s gagged him, “I- I think we ought to- are you ready?”
You marvel at his sincerity, at the idea that he’s not aware of the throbbing, slick mess that your core has become. You’d been ready twenty minutes ago, sprawled out on the floor beneath him, and you’ve only gotten more eager since then. His concern makes you want him more, and you use your grip on his soft hair to tug him upwards to meet your lips in a kiss. 
“I’m ready,” You breathe, laying the words out in a hazy moan over his tongue, “I’m ready, Obi-Wan, please- please take me.”
A groan melts from his mouth like molten butter, dripping over your tongue and down your throat. He pants, lets you suck his tongue into your mouth in a long, eager drag, then mumbles clumsily, “I want you. I want- I want to have you, darling, I want to take you.” His hips roll experimentally against your own, the tight pressure of his clothed cock digging into your panties as he nearly loses the function in the muscles that are holding him up above you.
He lets out another moan as you drag your hips up to meet his premature thrusts, and this time it’s a weaker sound, more strangled and mottled. It’s satisfying, knowing that you’ve reduced the ever-stoic, prized Jedi negotiator Obi-Wan Kenobi to a heaving mass of sweat and desire. His undershorts are rucked up around his meaty thighs, but he hasn’t yanked them off to free his stiff cock yet, so for a moment, all you do is grind against each other. 
The layers of clothing between you, one covering you and two covering him, provide frustrating boundaries but much-needed friction, and the scrape of his rough undershorts dragging against your thin panties makes your fingers curl into his back once more. You suspect that when he wakes tomorrow, your marks will still be there, and you take pride in knowing that he’ll have a very hard time forgetting you.
“Obi-” You really do intend to say his full name, but your breath leaves your lungs too quickly for it, and you revert back to the nickname he’d loathed as a teenager. Too juvenile, he’d protested greatly at the clipped diminutive, but he leans into it now. He licks the word right off of your tongue, his own plunging past your lips and dragging over your teeth in a messy, imprecise fashion. You get the sense that this is not about sex to him, it’s not about mechanics or equations or the perfect formula. It’s about you, and him, and you and him together. He doesn’t kiss you like a storybook prince because he kisses you like Obi-Wan, and Obi-Wan wants to lick the spit out of your mouth and suck on your tongue. Obi-Wan wants to feel, not think, for once in his life, so he does.
“Obi-” You falter again, hands traveling from his muscled back to his hips. Your fingers dip beneath the waistband of his undershorts, then his briefs where they lay against the same stretch of skin, “Off. Off, please- Obi-Wan, off, take ‘em- off.”
He grunts his approval into your mouth, obscene squelching sounds coming from where his spit pools between your teeth and your tongue. He reaches down with a blind, clumsy hand to tug at his waistband, but when it doesn’t provide immediate results, he finds himself getting frustrated. It’s an unfamiliar feeling, not the frustration itself but his inability to control it, and he feels his brow crease in irritation as he reluctantly parts from your mouth to focus on the task at hand. All he needs is a little extra leverage to slide his shorts off of his waist, briefs bunched together, and as soon as they’re out of his way he’s reaching for your own underwear.
You crane your neck downwards to watch him, and the glimmering mess of saliva in your mouth practically doubles in volume at the sight of his red-tipped, rock-hard cock. It’s curved slightly up towards his stomach in its desperation, and there’s precum oozing from its tip, foaming and all too appealing. You want to suck him off again, to really choke yourself on it this time and never draw back for air, but there’s no time when he tugs swiftly at the elastic band of your panties, tearing them easily away from you. They drag beneath your thighs but he merely pulls harder, until they spring free and bunch up around your knees.
“Up,” Obi-Wan taps at your left thigh, and you struggle to bend your knees amidst their relentless trembling. He helps you, strength having stuck with him even when composure has abandoned its post. You get your left thigh up first, exposing your glistening cunt, smeared sticky with your own slick. His breath catches, you feel it stutter to a stop in his chest that you’re groping, and his eyes glimmer in the warm lights above you.
“Darling,” He breathes, taken by the mess of your drooling cunt. He reaches out, touches it carefully, with only the pad of his pointer finger. He ghosts it along the side of your slit, and even the infuriatingly chaste touch is ultra erotic. At the way you writhe beneath a single one of his fingers he brings his thumb up to stroke down your slit, catching wetness on his thumb that his mouth opens to accommodate.
He sucks your release clean off of his thumb, you’re almost certain he scrapes his teeth along his skin just to get it all. 
He leans into his own thumb, chases after it like he’s not the one taking it out of his mouth. He hesitates no further in clamoring backwards on the mattress until his knees hit the floor below, and he thanks the Force that the beds you were given are low enough for him to lean over the edge and bury his face in your cunt.
“Obi-Wan, no!” You plead, fingers tangling in his pretty blonde hair, “You’ll- you said- don’t cum yet, please, I- I want it in me!”
“I will cum in you,” He pledges, voice deep and determined as he nudges his nose against your wet cunt, “My darling, I’ll do whatever you ask. But I need you here, now. Please,” He breathes, his exhale shaky and warm as it heats your cunt, “Please, Darling, I want you here.”
“Have me,” You whimper, squirming your hips from side to side to propel yourself down the mattress. Your cunt bumps messily against his face that he doesn’t bother moving, and you buck your hips once, twice against his nose, riding his face, “Please, have me, Obi-Wan, you can have me.”
Your consent is all it takes. His mouth is open and his tongue is out the second you say the word, licking wet, tantalizingly slow stripes up your slit. He doesn’t breach it, doesn’t delve his tongue into your entrance, he laps at the slick smeared on the outside, as well as the wetness that has thoroughly soaked your thighs. Your skin is tacky with it even when he’s replaced it with his spit, and your cunt throbs at the meticulous approach he’s taken to appreciating every drop you give him. 
It’s too meticulous. 
After another slow, careful, nearly chaste lave of his tongue over the crease between your thigh and your cunt, probably just as soaked with sweat as it is with slick, you retighten your now-loose grip in his hair. You’d let go of the strands when he’d given you what you wanted, but now you want more, and you lead him straight to your core where he’d been lapping at your thighs instead.
“Here,” You beg, pulling his face against your drooling cunt until you’re certain he’s unable to breathe. You feel his nose breach your slit, nudged into your cunt by your insistent tugging on his hair.
“I need you here, inside, please.” You beg, pussy aching with abandon. His slow, careful ministrations had driven you mad, and now you are teetering on the edge of insanity as you nearly howl, “Please!”
His response is white-hot and wet. His tongue prods gently from between his lips as his jaw widens, and he watches your reaction as he fills your cunt with his slick tongue. A gush of your own wetness greets him, and as insistent as he is at meeting your eyes, his own flutter shut at the taste.
“Force,” He breathes, and the exclamation is uncommon from him. The muffled, garbled word sends vibrations straight into your cunt, and after the initial shock of his tongue inside of you, you feel his beard.
It scrapes abrasively against the sensitive, licked-over skin of your inner thighs, and prickles deliciously at the base of your leaking cunt. You feel sharp hairs prod at the curve of your ass, and his mouth moves fluidly, tongue wriggling with surprising prowess through the mess of slick you’ve accumulated in your cunt. It slides wetly along your inner walls that have made way for his tongue, and that will stretch eagerly to accommodate his cock. 
His cock, oh, you’d forgotten the thick weight on your tongue, and your jaw aches with the ghost of it. Your cunt aches, too, and when his nose softly bumps your clit you gasp as your hips jolt upwards. He catches your thighs with Jedi agility, his muscles not straining at all to hold you to the mattress. The casual, easy display of strength makes your thighs quiver, and something inside of you tighten like a knot.
He licks you out like he’s drinking ambrosia, the glistening substance smeared over his face and starting up the bridge of his nose. The noises that he makes are hungry and wild as he licks more, sucks more, takes more. He’d moderated himself at first, lapped the sticky spillings of your wet cunt like he was rationing a meal. Now he feasts, tongue losing focus from inside your pussy and rapidly licking over your clit. His lips suction on and his beard burns tantalizingly at your sloppy cunt. You feel stimulation everywhere, the knot below your belly tightening ever-stronger until you feel the beginnings of a fray. It’s a step you take, an incline that you scramble up, and each pedestal you achieve gives way to a higher one. You let yourself climb, climb, climb, against every pulse of his suctioned lips around your sensitive bundle of nerves, and you breach the clouds as Obi-Wan broadens his sucking mouth to half-latch to your clit, his tongue delving back into your drooling cunt. You leap for the final pedestal and a surge of pleasure hits you, soaking wet like a wave that you ride back down to the surface. 
You tremble, you whimper, you love. Your thighs shake, the muscles in your stomach stuttering as your hips jolt and jerk. Your mouth produces such feeble sounds, whines and moans and ‘Oh, please, yes’s, and ‘Obi-Wan- kriff!’s. Your fingers in his hair latch tight but cling gentle, holding him to you as you lose control of yourself in the Force. All of the love, all of the passion, all of the attachment, all of the terrible-horrible-no-good-very-bad-un-Jedi-like things that you’re not supposed to feel surge through the Force and hit Obi-Wan like Coruscant’s train, knocking the wind out of him, though he never stops sucking at you.
Obi-Wan licks you through your orgasm, tongue pressing tight and hot and wet to the quiver of your cunt, letting it spasm against his mouth. He sucks up every last drop of slick that you’ll give him, greedily mouthing at your cunt long after it’s begun stinging from oversensitivity. You want his mouth off, and his cock in, although that first part sounds like a heinous thing to wish for. His tongue is perfection, slippery and knowing you well enough to hit just the right spots even though it’s never had you before. You only push his mouth away to beg for his cock, but you’re tempted to let him white out your vision and lick at you until he passes out.
“Obi-!” You gasp, pushing instead of pulling at his golden hair, “Obi-Wan, no- no more! Here, up- here, please, and I want you inside of me.”
He lets you unlatch him from your pulsing cunt, rife with the sting of stimulation. You need only a matter of seconds to come down from your high, but they’re seconds you can’t afford to spend on Obi-Wan’s tongue, or the clock won’t ever start. He licks at a smear of slick over your thigh that he’d missed earlier, and his brain seems to register your begging.
“Alright, darling,” He pants, out of breath from the way he’d spent it all in your cunt. His voice is ragged, drowned in slick and thick with want.
He clamors back onto the mattress, all humbly-forged muscles and greed. He hovers over you, and dips down to claim your mouth the way he had your cunt: with broad, sweeping swipes of his tongue. He licks your slick across your tongue, letting you taste yourself on him.
“I’m here,” He soothes, his voice a notch deeper than usual and his words malformed due to the open ring of his mouth. He licks against your tongue once more, sloppy and hot, as his hips grind down against your thigh. He knows you need time but he doesn’t have long, and he grinds against your hip until you’re ready. You feel his stiff cock digging into your flesh, and it sends pulses of energy to your recovering cunt that make it beg to be filled. He’s not composed the way that he normally is, but he’s managing to hold himself together through grunts and groans into your mouth. If you don’t act fast, he’s going to splatter your stomach with cum, which wouldn’t be distasteful by any means, but you’d rather him paint your insides with it.
“You are intoxicating,” Obi-Wan proclaims, speaking directly into your mouth, an addict that can’t wean off of his drug, “I don’t know how I am supposed to pretend like this never happened.”
“Don’t,” You beg breathlessly, “Don’t forget me. Keep quiet around others, and- and when you are alone,” You reach down to take his cock into your hands, heavy and thick and waiting, “When you lay in bed at night, when you touch yourself-” He lets out something teetering on the edge of a whimper as you stroke your hand along his flushed length, an angry red coloring the tip that exposes how much self-control he’s composing, “-touch yourself, and- and think of me. Think of my hands, of my mouth, of my cunt. Think of me, Obi-Wan.”
“I will,” He vows, his voice holding like a frayed rope with one thread remaining, strained and pulling and clinging together, “Please let me have you. Please,” He braces his forehead against yours, his cock throbbing in your palm, “Please darling, let me in. I want to be inside of you, I want to have you, please.”
You’ve never seen him babble before. Not when he’d been seven years old, bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked, caught with a stray tooka cat in his robes halfway back to the creche. Not when he’d been fifteen and a warrior, his side split open in a gory mess of blood and flesh and lymph and bone. Not at his old master’s funeral, the light from the pyre’s flames dancing upon his stoic features. Obi-Wan Kenobi is a master at composure, but he is breathless now, sacrificing it to the dewy-warm crease where your neck meets your shoulder, and sucking up your sweat-salty scent in return.
You place your free hand on his back, sticky and flushed beneath your touch, and use it to help guide him into you. Your other hand, still wrapped around his cock, lines it up with your entrance and he needs little coaxing from there. He pushes himself into you slowly, courteously, but loses himself to some deep, primal urge that he’s buried beneath layers of meditation and balance. 
He comes undone.
His muscles surge and his hips buck in what begins as a steady pace, but transforms into a wild rhythm that pins you against the mattress. He lets out a groan into the sweaty juncture of your neck, something that sounds like it could be from a beast and not a man. You feel the scrape of his beard against the seldom-touched skin there and you’re sure it’s growing raw, but you couldn’t care less. He’s not holding your hips up - his hands are plastered to your side and holding you there with a force carefully and pointedly short of bruising - but you angle your pelvis up anyway, allowing him to hit that much deeper inside of you. The tip of his cock never hurts where it connects briefly each thrust with your cervix, but you feel it intimately, every vein and ridge and curve that his body has to offer. 
You’re grateful for the sound-proof walls of the military compound because you realize after a moment that you’re making noise just the same as he is. It’s softer, quieter, but it’s there, the underlying harmony to his leading grunts and groans. 
All the while he is soft and gentle, because what he wants is not sex, it is you. Perhaps if he were a lesser man, he’d squeeze you, or bend you, or break you, all to take you the way he wants. But it is the soul inside of you that he’s after, and he takes great care with the vessel it’s enclosed in. He holds you, but he does not squeeze you. He kisses you, but he does not bite you. He moves with you, not against you. Your hips surge upwards to meet the thrusts of his cock and he latches his mouth to yours desperately, pleadingly. Your breathing is short and staccato through your nose, fanning against his top lip as he mashes it messily to your own, and you’re much easier to bring to a climax the second time around, sensitivity still roiling in your blood from your previous orgasm.
“Obi-Wan,” You beg, the words spilling languidly into his mouth, as you move in tandem, in, out, in, out, forwards, backwards, everything, nothing.
“Obi- I’m gonna- ooh, I’m gonna cum,” You cry, overwhelmed by the consistent drag of his cock against the walls of your soaked cunt. You’re slick again, gushing enough to replenish however much Obi-Wan had licked out of you. It squelches as he drives his dick into your pussy, foamy from the repetitive motions that are only creating it at faster intervals.
“Please- please do,” He moans, his dick twitching inside of you, “Force, I- ah, there’s nothing I want more than to feel that, darling. Please- please cum, please-”
“Kiss me,” You plead, even though he’s never stopped, if the way that his mouth moves against yours can still be considered a kiss. It’s far from any conventional peck on the lips, mostly tongue and drool that seeps down the side of your mouth and into your neck, mixing with the sweat already lingering there from your workout.
He tries kissing you more neatly, his lips tightening and suctioning around your own, but the closer you both get to your impending orgasms, the sloppier his thrusts are, and the more slack his mouth goes, smothering your own instead of truly kissing it while his tongue continues its dogged pursuit of your own. It’s no matter; his spit leaks uncontrollably into your mouth and you relish the taste. You don’t need perfection, you need him.
You can’t help your wandering hand from snaking down to his waist, curving just below his cock to cradle his balls against your palm. They’re heavy and warm as you take them into your hand, and doing so elicits a gasp from the man chasing his release inside of you, his hips stuttering in their pursuit of the wet warmth of your cunt. You squeeze them, not harshly, just a gentle compression, and Obi-Wan melts. A whimper escapes his lips, still slack and pressed to your own, and though his thrusts momentarily slow, they resume at double the pace. He’s rapidly bucking his hips now, barely containing himself enough to lift one hand off of your side and bring it to your chest. He fits his palm over one of your breasts, your stiff, sensitive nipple caving against his palm. You gasp at the prickling sensation and your fingernails momentarily dig into his back, but when his dick twitches once more inside of you, desperate, fit-to-burst, you drag them down his back in searing red lines.
If you hadn’t been able to feel Obi-Wan cum inside of you, you’d have known it was happening from the cry he releases alone. It’s abrupt, like his orgasm catches him off-guard even though he’s been pursuing it. But you can feel it, you can feel his warm cum ooze out of the head of his cock, momentarily stationary as it’s snug against your cervix. You feel it gush from his dick, filling any and all available space in your pulsating cunt before flooding outwards, dripping down your ass and thighs in an obscene display that soaks right into your bedsheets. Obi-Wan rides out his climax at a pace rapid enough to coax your second one out of you, and you welcome the now-familiar sensation of cumming around Obi-Wan. It’s mind-numbing, your ears ring for a faint moment, and your cunt rapidly clenches and unclenches around his cock that’s all too happy to continue occupying the space.
He grunts, moans, and groans as his sloppy thrusts finally slow, and your cunt appreciates the reduced pace. You’re well and truly spent, difficult to achieve for someone who’d gone through endurance training since childhood, and you’re not surprised that Obi-Wan, too, needs a break. He lowers himself to your chest with a slow, shaky exhale, eyes closed and face glistening with sweat just as your own does. 
His beard grates roughly against your skin, shifted with every ragged breath that he draws in. His hair spills over the breast that his mouth isn’t nestled beside, and you stare down at his face, marveling how beautiful his barely-fluttering lashes and heaving chest are.
Before he opens his eyes he angles it towards you, so that the first thing he sees is your flushed, sweaty, open-mouthed expression. He’s in the perfect position to kiss the side of your breast, and it tingles with the phantom sensation of his palm flat against your perked nipple barely minutes before. His beard scrapes your skin like it has since you first kissed him, and you wonder if you’ll ever be able to live happily without the scratch of it against your cheeks, or thighs, for that matter. The skin between your legs is still raw, stinging with the friction of Obi-Wan’s coarse hair against your flesh..
“You look beautiful, darling,” He hums, his voice grated raw from fatigue. His breath fans hot over your chest, but he pushes himself up on his tired biceps to hover over you. His weight against you had been comforting, but his gaze is even more so, and you let him loom over you.
His chest, peppered with auburn curls so fine they glisten in the poor lighting of your quarters, rises and falls deeply in front of you. You have half a mind to bury your face in it; you might if his face wasn’t impossibly more captivating.
His eyes search yours, for what you’re not sure, but you realize that his breathing gets more shallow until his chest stills completely. He only releases his breath when you reach up to thumb gently at his sternum, loosening his lungs again.
“Do you regret it?”
You suppose you didn’t have to ruin the moment so harshly, but you want to know the truth. You want to know if this was worth it, or if you’re going on the list of regrets that Obi-Wan pours over obsessively.
He takes a moment to answer, but you suspect it’s because he’s been caught off guard by your question. He shakes his head, dipping his face down to kiss the swell of your cheek.
“No, I don’t.” He mumbles against the dewy skin of your face, hiding his words there in self-preservation. You kiss the fleeting scruff of his beard as he pulls away, and your eyes find the blue of his instantly.
“You needed convincing at first,” You recall warily, something sinking in your chest now that you’re not puppettered by lust, “Are you certain it was the right thing to do?”
“Not at all,” He admits, “In fact, I think it was wrong of me. But I’ve done it anyways, and I am happy for that.”
“Why wrong?” You ghost your knuckles against his cheek, and he leans into it like he used to do when you’d clean scrapes and cuts he’d acquire while sparring. 
“I am more attached to you now than ever,” He offers simply, but it doesn’t seem like it pains him to confess. He seems lighter now, less embroiled in his own anxiety.  “And I’m not certain I can keep my personal feelings- well, personal. I don’t know that I could think rationally about you. That’s not desirable to the Order, or to the war effort.”
You bite your tongue, teeth digging softly into its muscle.
“All the same,” He continues, “Jedi are not without attachments. Younglings form friendships in the creche, and their minders love them. Padawans love their Masters, and vice versa. Masters engage in relations,” He acknowledges, then his brows tick up and he considers, “Ki Adi Mundi has four wives. Perhaps I’m not the most blasphemous Jedi they’ve ever seen.”
A laugh comes tumbling from your lips before you can stop it, and Obi-Wan’s face softens into a grin of his own.
“Five,” You correct him, “He has five wives.”
“Force, he’s a heretic,” Obi-Wan exclaims, but it’s all for show; he holds no ill opinions of the council member.
“I’m happy for his wives,” You hum, the sound just short of a giggle, “But I prefer your beard over his.”
“Oh, but he’s got a better mustache than me,” Obi-Wan settles on his side facing you, a smile etched permanently into his features as he plays along with the banter you’ve started. He relishes its lighthearted nature compared to the hesitance of moments prior, “Maybe I should grow it out and curl it like his.”
Before you can offer him another round in exchange for a promise to never shape his facial hair around Master Mundi’s, the walls of your compound give a creaky grinding sound, then a rumble, and air whooshes through the vents you’ve come to loathe for their uselessness in the recent past.
“He did it!” You gawk, sitting up excitedly, nearly forgetting that you’re topless, “Oh Force, Anakin’s a wizard! He really is, he’s a mechanical wizard, and I’m going to buy him a speeder for this.”
“Do not,” Obi-Wan groans, sitting up beside you and tugging you easily to fit your back against his chest, “The last thing that boy needs is the ability to go faster.”
“He did it,” You sigh happily, leaning back and pressing your lips to Obi-Wan’s. He reciprocates easily now, unlike before when he’d run himself ragged with doubts.
“That means we’ll be off soon,” Obi-Wan reminds you gently, and you deflate slightly in his hold, “But I don’t think comming each other should be any issue.”
“Every night?” You suggest, kissing at the prickly cleft of his chin.
“That’s- ambitious.” He chuckles, but it’s not meant to tease, “Every night, darling.”
“You can send me dirty videos,” You gush, scrambling to free yourself from Obi-Wan’s hold when he tries locking his fingers onto your sides, nipping sharply at your shoulder.
“I will not!” He insists, voice firm but chest trembling with barely-withheld laughter, “Force, if I pressed the wrong button…”
“Perhaps Master Mundi could share it with one of his wives,” You laugh, scrambling back into your underclothes and heading for the fresher to clean yourself up, “Hurry up and get dressed, Obi-Wan, one of my troopers is probably on their way to tell us the good news!”
Your suspicions are confirmed only moments later, thankfully, after you’ve both had time to right your appearances. You look flushed and sweaty, if anything, but the cool air hasn’t managed to flood the entire compound yet, and you’ve been exercising, so it’s excusable. No one but you two needs to know that exercising didn’t mean sparring for longer than ten minutes.
“Anakin, you’re fantastic,” You call, rushing through the empty hangar where he’s standing near the ramp of the ship, “You’ve saved us all. I’m fairly certain my troops would have resorted to fratricide if we’d had to melt here for any longer.”
The padawan gives you a valiant effort at a polite chuckle, and you press on, “For the record, I told your master I’d get you a speeder for helping us today, but he said no.”
“Y/N,” Obi-Wan starts, exasperated, but catches himself on the use of your first name. Perhaps it feels different now, coming out of his mouth much more measured than it had only twenty minutes prior. He doesn’t speak further.
Anakin’s eyes briefly glint at the fantasy of his own speeder, but he controls himself quickly. He’s a credit to his master, who manages to look convincingly like he hadn’t just broken a very long streak of celibacy. Still, you appreciate that war hasn’t managed to suck the most basic of excitements out of the child, and you reach up to pat his cheek in a gesture distinctly un-Jedi like. 
“Take care of yourself, and don’t let Obi-Wan bore you with a million lectures on economics, or politics, or the two combined.”
Anakin nods, but bites his lower lip to refrain from smirking, saving himself a lecture on sass later on. You hear Obi-Wan exhale huffily behind you, and you turn your attention to him when Anakin retreats onto the ship.
“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t add to my apprentice’s willfulness,” He grouses, but the corner of his mouth twitches upwards in fondness for you both, “He’s got enough of that on his own.”
“Take care of yourself,” You ignore his teasing, your voice tender and sweet, slightly more than it had been for Anakin, “I know they don’t send you out much, because he’s only fourteen, but- but please take care of yourself, Obi-Wan.”
Perhaps if Anakin hadn’t been lingering on the ramp of the ship, perhaps if there weren’t five clone troopers stationed in the hangar, perhaps if you were the only two people in the world, like it had felt less than an hour ago, Obi-Wan would have kissed you. But he doesn’t, all he does is nod, 
“We will,” He vows, and you nod, satisfied.
“I mean it,” You continue, more threatening than your earlier sentiment, “Comm me.” And you think back to the request you’d made earlier, breathlessly, the words fanning out against his sweaty skin, “And… think of me.”
You know he’s recalling the same moment in time when his cheeks tinge pink.
“I will,” He promises, singular this time, confirming your suspicions that his mind is flashing with visions of your flushed skin beneath his hands, “And please take care of yourself, too, General.”
Something hard and aching tugs at the back of your throat at the honorific, such a far cry from the intimacy you’d shared. But now you are General Y/L/N, and he is Master Kenobi, and that is the way things must be in the presence of others.
“Master Kenobi,” You bow, bending at the waist and noting the soft tug of soreness there.
“General Y/L/N,” Obi-Wan mimics your gesture, hands folded neatly into the sleeves of his robes.
He turns. He pivots on his feet and strides up the ramp of the ship they’d taken, Anakin waiting until he’s passed through the doorway to follow behind him. The door hisses shut, concealing them both, and the mechanical whiz-kid has the engines powered up in no time. You watch their ship take flight and navigate the narrow entrance to your hangar with ease, waiting until they’ve passed each temperature-isolating layer of defense that enshroud your compound and disappear into the planet’s heat-hazy atmosphere to turn away.
“General,” One of your troopers lingers behind you, “Is everything alright?”
“Yes,” You put on a convincing show, smiling serenely, “I’d just forgotten how much of a challenge sparring with Master Kenobi is. I’m fatigued; I think I’ll retire to my quarters for some rest.”
“General,” He nods, stating your title like a vow of loyalty, standing at attention as the hangar doors finally shut you in. 
You walk the familiar path to your sparse quarters absentmindedly, feeling that same twinge of achiness each time you take a step. Only once your door hisses shut do you release the prim tension in your shoulders, slumping and slouching like you’d just escaped the throes of battle. 
There is a shirt on your bed.
It’s white, though it’s been worn thoroughly, so the color is muddied ever so slightly with the tan tinge of sweat. It’s rumpled, from a hasty removal. It’s laid over your poor excuse for a blanket, cream-colored against the starkly contrasting black fabric. It’s impossible to miss, which means it had to have been placed there deliberately; it wasn’t forgotten.
It’s Obi-Wan’s.
You overcome your momentary stun and pad towards the bed, reaching for the shirt with a hesitant hand. You take it, feel it ever-so-slightly damp with lingering perspiration, and your stomach flips.
It’s Obi-Wan’s; it’s yours.
The shirt winds up snug around your pillow, tucked beneath the Republic-issue linen. It’s invisible to the outside eye, but when your nose is pressed gauchely into the pillowcase you can smell Obi-Wan through it, a mix of natural and artificial scents.
The musk of cologne and the acrid smell of sweat. Composure and lust. What is right and what is wrong.
You and Obi-Wan.
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wheelsgoroundincircles ¡ 7 months ago
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1969 Shelby Mustang GT500 Fastback
1969 was, effectively, the final year for the Shelby Mustang. By now assembly had shifted in Michigan from California where it was contracted out to A.O. Smith Corporation. Smith, an established Motor City contractor, had brought a level of serious manufacturing skill, supplier management, procedure and standards never seen at Shelby’s facility where LAX met the vibrant (and sometimes extreme) subculture of Venice, California.
Now largely designed and specified by Ford staffers, the 1969 Shelby Mustang was drastically different visually from the standard Mustangs, with a completely different nose and grille, a wide rectangular opening with blacked out grille flanked by 7” headlights and with Shelby’s characteristic driving lights now smaller rectangular pieces below the attractive, but largely ineffective, bumper. The special Shelby hood had five ducts, three NACA-style surface ducts replaced the complicated but entertaining shaker hoods of years gone by to supply cold air directly to the engine air intake and two extractors at the back of the hood relieving underhood pressure and exhausting heated air in front of the windshield.
A surface duct behind the headlights and a scoop behind the door and in front of the rear wheel arch that was ducted to the rear brakes continued the performance theme. The rear panel was completely different from the Mustang, housing a set of 1965 Thunderbird sequential taillights with the rear license plate placed between them and including a small ducktail spoiler. The area under the bumper where standard Mustangs carried their license plate contained two rectangular outlets for the Shelby’s dual exhaust system. Standard wheels were unique 5-spoke Mag Stars with alloy centers and chrome steel rims.
Under the hood lay the 428 Cobra Jet which had powered the ’68 Shelby GT500KR. Both Ford and Shelby recognized the superiority of the high performance CJ and made it the standard engine for 1969’s Shelby Mustangs. 
At the end of the 1969 model year 789 Shelby Mustangs were in-process at A.O. Smith. They were visually updated with black hood stripes and a chin spoiler and given new VINs. Otherwise the 1970s were exactly the same as the ‘69s making these two years essentially identical examples of the end of the Shelby Mustang series which had begun only a scant six years before.
Avidly sought by collectors and obsessively documented by the Shelby American Automobile Club, most Shelby Mustangs are well known and have well known histories. Occasionally, however, a example appears which has been out of sight for years. Even more rarely it turns out to have been little used and continuously maintained by a thoughtful and caring single owner for nearly forty years.
The Black Jade 1969 Shelby Mustang GT500 Sportsroof fastback offered here is one of those rare and highly desirable cars. It was delivered new to Ford’s dealer in Yokohama, Japan, Marubeni Motors K.K., and was sold thereafter to its first, and only, owner in Japan. It has been repainted in the original color once but is otherwise completely original, as delivered and has only 84,941km on its metric-calibrated export speedometer (52,779 miles.) Its sympathetic maintenance and care shows throughout in its clean, straight, rust-free condition.
Power of course comes from the 428 cubic inch Cobra Jet Ram Air V-8 engine which Ford and Shelby conservatively rated at 335 horsepower at 5,200rpm and a gut-wrenching 440 lb-ft torque at 3,400rpm. It puts the power through Ford’s highly regarded C-6 automatic transmission and Traction-Lok differential with high speed 3.00:1 gearing that takes full advantage of the CJ engine’s torque. In addition to the highly desirable drivetrain specification it is loaded with options including the Visibility Group, Goodyear white letter tires, Sport Deck folding rear seat, power front disc brakes, power steering, tilt steering column, Selectaire air conditioning, AM/8-track stereo radio, tinted glass, deluxe belts, tachometer and trip odometer.
It is finished in one of the Shelby Mustang’s most attractive colors, Black Jade. The interior and high back buckets seats are upholstered in black Clarion Knit/Corinthian vinyl that complements with Black Jade exterior.
It returned to the U.S. in 2006 but has never been titled by its current owner so it remains a one-owner car. Its absolutely clear history, one-owner provenance, highly original condition with known mileage and extensive options list are attributes shared by few Shelby Mustangs of this age. This is a rare opportunity for an astute collector to acquire a particularly significant, unmolested Shelby Mustang from the last, and most highly developed, series.
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1969 Shelby Mustang GT500 Fastback
Powered by a 428ci V8 engine mated to a C6 automatic transmission, this beauty includes the original #Shelby owner card, a copy of the Shelby work order and Window Sticker.
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1969 Shelby Mustang GT500 Fastback
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1969 Shelby Mustang GT500 Fastback
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vinarsystems ¡ 1 year ago
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Best Seating System Manufacturers Revolutionizing Modern Spaces
Enhancing Spaces with Premier Seating System Manufacturers - Vinar System Private Limited stands out as a distinguished seating system manufacturer, catering to diverse industries with a comprehensive range of seating solutions. Our expertise lies in crafting seating systems that prioritize comfort, safety, and ergonomic design, ensuring an optimal experience for passengers. With a focus on delivering top-tier client experiences, we seamlessly integrate exceptional seating, unparalleled service, and cutting-edge technology. Reach out to us at 2/20, Ansari Road, Daryaganj, New Delhi, 110002, and elevate your spaces with our innovative seating solutions
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storageracking ¡ 1 year ago
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https://vinarsystem.wordpress.com/2023/07/21/find-seating-system-latest-price-from-manufacturers-suppliers-in-india/
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modularplatemanufacturer ¡ 1 year ago
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talonabraxas ¡ 3 months ago
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Seat of Prana Talon Abraxas
What is Prana?
"He who knows Prana knows Vedas" is the important declaration of the Srutis. You will find in Vedanta Sutras: "For the same reason, breath is Brahman." Prana is the sum total of all energy that is manifest in the universe. It is the sum total of all the forces in nature. It is the sum total of all latent forces and powers which are hidden in men and which lie everywhere around us. Heat, light, electricity, magnetism are the manifestations of Prana. All forces, all powers and Prana spring from the fountain or common source, 'Atman'. All physical forces and all mental forces come under the category 'Prana'. It is the force on every plane of being, from the highest to the lowest. Whatever moves or works or has life, is but an expression or manifestation of Prana. Akasa or ether also is an expression of Prana. The Prana is related to mind and through mind to will, and through will to the individual soul, and through this to the Supreme Being. If you know how to control the little waves of Prana working through the mind, then the secret of subjugating universal Prana will be known to you. The Yogi who becomes an expert in the knowledge of this secret, will have no fear from any power, because he has mastery over all the manifestations of powers in the universe. What is commonly known as power of personality is nothing more than being successful in life, more influential and fascinating than others. It is all due to the power of this Prana. Such people manipulate everyday, unconsciously of course, the same influence which the Yogi uses consciously by the command of his will. There are others who by chance tumble unaware of this Prana and use it for lower purposes under false names. This working of Prana is seen in the systolic and diastolic actions of the heart, when it pumps the blood into arteries in the action of inspiration and expiration during the course of breathing; in the digestion of food; in the excretion of urine and faecal matter; in the manufacture of semen, chyle, chyme, gastric juice, bile, intestinal juice, saliva; in closing and opening of the eyelids, in walking, playing, running, talking, thinking, reasoning, feeling and willing. Prana is the link between the astral and physical body. When the slender thread-link Prana is cut off, the astral body separates from the physical body. Death takes place. The Prana that was working in the physical body is withdrawn into the astral body.
This Prana remains in a subtle, motionless, unmanifested, undifferentiated state during the cosmic Pralaya. When the vibration is set up, Prana moves and acts upon Akasa, and brings forth the various forms. The macrocosm (Brahmanda) and microcosm (Pindanda) are combinations of Prana (energy) and Akasa (matter).
That which moves the steam-engine of a train and a steamer, that which makes the aeroplanes fly in air, that which causes the motion of the breath in lungs, that which is the very life of this breath itself, is Prana. I believe, you have now a comprehensive understanding of the term Prana about which you had a very vague conception in the beginning.
By controlling the act of breathing you can efficiently control all the various motions in the body and the different nerve-currents that are running through the body. You can easily and quickly control and develop body, mind and soul through breath control or the control of Prana. It is through Pranayama that you can control your circumstances and character, and can consciously harmonise the individual life with the cosmic life.
The breath, directed by thought under the control of the will, is a vitalising, regenerating force which you can utilise consciously for self-development; for healing many incurable diseases in your system; for healing others and for other various useful purposes.
It is within your easy reach at every moment of your life. Use it judiciously. Many Yogins of yore, like Sri Jnanadeva, Trailinga Swami, Ramalinga Swami and others, had utilised this breath, this force, the Prana, in a variety of ways. You can also do so, if you practise Pranayama by prescribed breathing exercises. It is Prana that you are breathing rather than the atmospheric air. Inhale slowly and steadily with a concentrated mind. Retain it as long as you can do it comfortably. Then exhale slowly. There should be no strain in any stage of Pranayama. Realise the occult inner life-powers which underlie the breath. Become a Yogi and radiate joy, light and power all around you.
Pranavadins or Hatha Yogins consider that Prana Tattva is superior to Manas Tattva, the mind principle. They say, Prana is present even when the mind is absent during sleep. Hence Prana plays a more vital part than the mind. If you go through the parables in Kaushitaki and Chhandogya Upanishads, when all the Indriyas, mind and Prana fight amongst themselves as to their superiority, you will find that Prana is regarded as the highest of all. Prana is the oldest, for it starts its functioning from the very moment the child is conceived. On the contrary, the organs of hearing, etc., begin to function only when their special abodes, viz., the ears, etc., are formed. Prana is called Jyestha and Sreshtha (oldest and best) in Upanishads. It is through the vibrations of psychic Prana that the life of the mind, Sankalpa or thinking, is kept up and thought is produced. You see, hear, talk, sense, think, feel, will, know, etc., through the help of Prana and therefore Srutis declare: "Prana is Brahman."
SEAT OF PRANA
The seat of Prana is heart. Though the Antahkarana is one, yet it assumes four forms, viz., (i) Manas, (ii) Buddhi, (iii) Chitta and (iv) Ahamkara, according to the different functions it performs. Likewise, though Prana is one, it assumes five forms viz., (1) Prana, (2) Apana, (3) Samana, (4) Udana and (5) Vyana, according to the different functions it performs. This is termed as Vritti Bheda. The principal Prana is called Mukhya Prana. The Prana, joined with Ahamkara, lives in the heart. Of these five, Prana and Apana are the chief agents.
The seat of Prana is the heart; of Apana, the anus; of Samana, the region of the navel; of Udana, the throat; while Vyana is all-pervading. It moves all over the body.
SUB-PRANAS AND THEIR FUNCTIONS
Naga, Kurma, Krikara, Devadatta and Dhananjaya are the five sub-Pranas.
The function of Prana is respiration; Apana does excretion; Samana performs digestion; Udana does deglutition (swallowing of the food). It takes the Jiva to sleep. It separates the astral body from the physical body at the time of death; Vyana performs circulation of blood.
Naga does eructation and hiccup. Kurma performs the function of opening the eyes. Krikara induces hunger and thirst. Devadatta does yawning. Dhananjaya causes decomposition of the body after death. That man is never reborn, whenever he may die, whose breath goes out of the head, after piercing the Brahmarandhra.
THE COLOUR OF PRANAS
Prana is said to be of the colour of blood, red gem or coral. Apana, which is in the middle, is of the colour of Indragopa (an insect of white or red colour). Samana is of the colour between that of pure milk or crystal or of oily and shining colour, i.e., of something between both Prana and Apana. Udana is of Apandura (pale white) colour and that of Vyana resembles the colour of archil (or that of ray of light).
THE LENGTH OF THE AIR-CURRENTS
This body of Vayu is 96 digits (6 feet) in length as a standard. The ordinary length of the air-current, when exhaled is 12 digits (9 inches). In singing, its length becomes 16 digits (1 foot), in eating it comes to 20 digits (15 inches), in sleeping 30 digits (22 inches), in copulation 36 digits (27 inches) and in doing physical exercise it is much more than that. By decreasing the natural length of the expired air-currents (from 9 inches), life is prolonged and by increasing the current, duration of life is decreased.
THE CENTRING OF THE PRANA
Inhaling the Prana from outside, filling the stomach with it, centre the Prana with the mind, in the middle of the navel, at the tip of the nose, and at the toes, during the 'Sandhyas' (sunrise and sunset) or at all times. Thus the Yogi is freed from all diseases and fatigues. By centring this Prana at the tip of the nose he obtains mastery over the elements of the air; by centring at the middle of his navel, all diseases are destroyed; by centring at the toes, his body becomes light. He who drinks air through the tongue destroys his fatigue, thirst and many other diseases. For him who drinks the air with his mouth, during the two Sandhyas and the last two hours of the night, within three months, the auspicious Sarasvati (Goddess of speech) is present in his Vak (speech), i.e., he becomes eloquent and learned. In six months he is free from all diseases. Drawing the air at the root of the tongue, the wise man thus drinking nectar enjoys all prosperity.
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