#absolutely spiffing

[ineffableigh]

Rewatching S1 and uhhh what is this second book in the Bentley?

I'll have to rewatch to pay attention better but when Aziraphale finds the Agnes Nutter book after they hit Anathema, there's a second one covered in his tartan lol. I wonder what he brought to read on the drive. xD

He takes it with him when he goes to hide in the bookshop in a panic and we don't see it again.

[5iceroy]

lil' WIP of titanic au! charles. this natural dramaturgical wunderkind will be going thru Trials i can tell u that much >:]

[sweet-as-an-angel]

Maybe Ghost Konig and any other cod characters you write for with an s/o who’s very insecure about their stretch marks? Thank you very much

MW2 w/ an S/O who is Insecure about their Stretch Marks

Warnings: Hurt/Comfort, No Pronouns used for Reader except for 'You', Implications of Smut, Knife Play, Insecurity, Anxiety/Upset, Minor Implications/Spoilers about Ghost’s Past, Mention of a Strap-On, Brief Mention of Murder/Killing, Angst, Fluff, Possessiveness, Protectiveness, etc.

Ghost:

Has absolutely zero clue as to why you're insecure about your stretch marks.

Genuinely never even thought of them before now, even though he’s seen them many a time.

However, when you expressed concerns over the way you looked - the way you felt - because of these marks, he set about trying to make you feel better immediately.

He’s not the most emotionally mature person; having to grow up as quickly as he did at such an early age definitely stunted his emotional growth, making it difficult for him to feel and express emotions clearly.

But for you, he’ll try his best.

He starts nuzzling into your thighs and stomach more often outside of sex; just tender moments between the two of you, with him showcasing how much he loves you and your body.

He’d try words of affirmation, saying how he thought you looked “Positively spiffing” (he was using the term humorously but meant every word) in your outfit.

Whenever you cracked a smile, he’d feel triumph bloom like solid gold in his chest, casting him in a glow of pride.

Eventually, he’d showcase to you the parts of himself he would never show another soul.

One evening, Simon had his hoodie off, his back and chest fully exposed to you. And all the scars that seared across them. You tracked your finger along them, creeping from one gash to another. All the while, Simon rhymed them off to you: when, where and how he’d gotten them.

You traced one on his shoulder blade. The warm glow of the room belying the horrific means through which the scar was attained.

“Paris, terrorist attack, twenty-ten.”

“I never heard of an attack in Paris then,” you said, tone questioning.

Simon cast a lopsided smile over his shoulder at you. You caught it.

“That’s the point.”

He turned to face you fully, placing a hand on your waist, beginning to hike your shirt up. You placed your hands over his, shaking your head, a wide-eyed expression overtaking you.

“No, Simon,” you said quietly. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him. His head tilted.

“Why not?” He said. “Have I done something to upset you?”

At that, your eyes snapped up and found his, dark and gleaming. You shook your head, vehement in your judgement.

“No, God no! Simon, it’s not you, it’s-”

“Don’t say it’s you - don’t you dare say it.” 

The authority in his tone made you ache in places you didn’t want to think about right now. You shifted.

“But…it is me, Simon.” You felt your eyes and throat sting with tears. “It’s always me.”

“Love–” Simon’s movements were stutterish as he took your chin in his hand and inched your face up to meet his. You tried resisting, but he wasn’t going to let this rest. “Tell me what’s wrong. Please.”

There lay a desperation in his voice you’d never heard before, and neither had Simon. You sniffed, and, your eyes shimmering with tears, you looked up at him. Only sincerity painted his features, no trace of condemnation or judgement hanging upon a single point. You swallowed.

“It’s just that…I appreciate what you’re doing for me - believe me, I do ! - but…”

“...But…?”

“But your scars mean something; you got them through protecting people, fighting for them - caring for what matters most–” You choked on a sob, tears starting to roll down your cheeks. “And mine are just…” it burned your tongue to say it, “there.”

Simon went quiet for a moment.

“(Y/N)...” His voice was a rumble of thunder, the cleansing storm rising over the tainted hill. He took your hands in his, abandoning your shirt. He rubbed reassurances into your hands, tracing the veins, the valleys of muscle and the alleys of life which pumped through them. His eyes seemed to turn down at the ends, round, doe-like.

“Your marks are not ‘just there’.” He wiped a stream of tears indenting the heather face of your cheek, and his hand remained there, collecting those which followed. “They are evidence of how you’ve lived, how you’ve survived,”

His hand dropped to your chin, bringing your face up to his once more, shining his moonbeams upon you.

“They show how you’ve grown. How you’ve lived and enjoyed a life you made for yourself. Your marks succeed where mine have failed; yours scream life, while mine whisper death - a life loved, and lives taken.”

Your mouth fell open. You were aghast, unable to conjure anything in your vocabulary that was either expansive or emotive enough to convey all that you felt. Your chest broke out into warmth, the dawn of a new perspective shining upon you as Simon did now.

Before you could form a sentence - as blubbering and elementary as it would be - Simon pressed a kiss to the corner of your lips. It was warm, all-encompassing, musical and low in the ringing silence of your desolate ocean.

He parted, cautiously, lips peeling from yours as if you were attached there, and looked upon you. Your cheeks were beginning to sting with the salt of your tears, vaguely chemical against your skin. You clambered into Simon’s arms, wounded and healing, and encompassed as much of him in your arms as you could.

“Your scars are beautiful, Simon,” you whispered into his chest. “No matter what you think - no matter what you say - I’ll always find them so.” You nuzzled into his neck. “I’ll always find them you.”

You heard Simon sniff, felt his chest rise with the sudden influx of air - emotion. You didn’t look up. You allowed him emotional anonymity.

“And I’ll always love your marks, (Y/N),” his voice strained, whispering and wisping. “I’ll always love them on you–” he pressed a strong, permanent kiss to your head, “--I’ll always love you.”

The evening consumed you, whisking you from the mortal coil to that of the metaphysical, that which was hidden to all but you and Simon, where you joined once again, physical bodies bound in a tight embrace, slumbering, dreaming.

König:

You actually came to König, sliding into his lap as he read a book, unable to keep what was eating you alive a secret any longer.

“Maus?” he said, putting Pride and Prejudice down and turning his full attention to you. “Is something the matter?”

You kept your head down and nuzzled into his chest, hoping his shirt would soak the tears staining your cheeks.

König tried to crane his neck down to see your face, but you hid it further into the cotton of his jumper.

König sighed, then began rubbing your back with a large hand.

“Whatever it is, we can fix it,” he said softly, gently. “No matter what.”

Maye thirty minutes passed, maybe it was only five, and König remained quiet for the duration, occasionally squeezing you and pressing a kiss to your head.

“I hate them,” you muttered, voice muffled by König’s chest.

Immediately, his back was up, like a cat’s. If he had the ears, they’d have been pricked.

“What?” he said, voice hard and thin, like a spear. You jumped in his lap and he sank back down, patting your head, a silent apology for his outburst.

His voice sounded as if it were spread thin, trying to conceal something far bigger than itself.

“Who has upset you so, maus?” He was careful with his words, trying to keep the extent of his bubbling anger at bay.

Finally, you looked up into his large, soft gaze. His eyes widened.

Your face was red in places, a map of countries in a continent called Sorrow.

Your eyes glistened, and König’s breath caught in his throat.

Before he could ask what was wrong, you shuffled off his lap and stood before him. You lifted your top and held it in your limp hand.

König’s eyes moved across your body as if searching for an injury, and when he turned up nothing, he looked you in the eyes.

“Maus, my lovely– I don’t understand,” König said as he shifted to the edge of the sofa, ready to jump up at your command.

You sighed deeply. “Don’t you see?” you said, folding your arms across your chest. “Don’t you see them, König?”

“See what?” His tone was becoming gradually frantic.

You huffed. “My marks, König! My– ugly– disgusting–”

“Hey, hey–” he slid off the sofa and enveloped you in his arms, holding you close to him, “--they are not ugly! Just– listen to me, maus–

“How do you deal with them?” you said, quiet as your namesake. Exasperated. “Your scars, Köni…how do you live with them?” Your voice croaked with tears, and the lump in your throat grew, bobbed up and down. It burned, reminded you of why you were here to begin with.

König thought for a moment, going quiet, his arms still wrapped around you. His hand squeezed your shoulder, fingers pressing soft, repetitive circles into your skin, a cycle of comfort. His warmth - his scent of pine - filled your senses, held you as he did now.

“There was a time,” he said, finally, his voice a whisper, “not too long ago, when… they made me hate myself, hate what I’d become.” He took your chin between his fingers and inched your face to meet his. He smiled, eyes crinkling. “But then I met you, and you told me how pretty you thought they were; ‘like tattoos,’ you said.” The memory tickled your mind and you couldn’t help but smile at the image of you sat on König’s chest, trailing a light finger just below his scars, afraid to touch them - their history - for fear it would hurt your dear König. He urged you to feel them, to make himself entirely transparent to you.

 “And that’s how I have grown to like - to love - them. Because your opinion means more to me than mine does.”

The stinging sensation in your eyes strengthened, and you couldn’t help but let a tear slip. Though, not of your own despair, but of your love for König, and his apparent adoration for you. König could tell your tears were not of sorrow, and he pressed a slow, light kiss to your lips.

“Unless you’re planning on leaving me for another man, I suggest you only listen to me from now on.” His smile made his cheeks round and full, his eyes turn into half moons.

“And what makes you sure I could leave you for someone else?” you said, speculatively, jokingly. Inquisitively. König gave an honest chuckle, taking your face between his hands and squishing your cheeks.

“With a body like that, you could have any man you wanted.” His tone was light yet held a hidden weight, a seriousness, perhaps an insecurity, he didn’t want to address. “I’m just glad you chose me.”

He punctuated his claim with another kiss, deeper, hotter this time.

Soap:

You were turned over in bed beside Soap, who, despite your best efforts to conceal yourself, heard your soft chokes of tears.

His initial, instinctive reaction had been to envelop you in his kisses, slip his arms around your waist and pull you flush against him, to implore you to tell him what had made you so upset.

But, as he lay on his side of the bed, listening to your silken sobs into your pillow, he felt his chest break out into weighted feeling of dread, tree roots digging through the skin and into his very being, tinging his blood with a most negative sensation of blackened lightning.

Empathy, one might call it. He was feeling what you felt.

He couldn’t take it, your tears, your despair, and so he turned, gently, onto his other side and faced your back.

He placed a hand on your shoulder, and you flinched.

“Oh!” you said, patting your face with your sleeve. “Sorry, Johnny– I didn’t mean to wake you,”

Your voice was deceivingly light, airy - a front to throw Soap off your scent.

Soap didn’t bother with the formalities. His only priority now was you.

“What’s wrong, darlin’?” he said. He pulled your shoulder back, willing you to at least look at him.

You didn’t move.

You refused to.

“Nothing, love,” you said, hushed beneath the tension in the room.

You turned, offering only a peak of your facial silhouette, sacrificing it to the sliver of moonlight peeking through the blinds.

It was wet, despite your best efforts to conceal any evidence of your upset.

Soap restrained a sigh and watched you try to burrow your way back into your pillow before he started asking any more questions. Without warning, he forced you to look at him, pulling you so you lay on your back. He sank down on top of you, knees bolted to your sides - one of which sat dangerously close to the edge of the bed, threatening to slip off at any moment.

His gaze was direct and impenetrable as he searched your eyes, hands pinning your wrists beside your head. His strength was unrelenting, unmoving. He wasn’t going to let you off easy on this.

“Now, then,” he said, voice low and dyed an erotic tone of resolution with his accent. “Are ye gonna tell me what’s upset you, or am I gonna have to force it out of ye?”

You knew he was joking, and you shared the knowledge that this was his way of trying to make you feel secure - that you could trust him. But of course, you already knew that.

You gaze drifted down to where yours and Soap’s thighs met, and the weight that had been pressing on you for weeks jumped down onto your chest again, urging a fresh set of tears to emerge. You looked away, off to the side, hoping you could hide the dried streaks your tears had left behind.

“Hey, Sweetie, look at me– look at me.” Soap’s voice grew stern, and, when you refused to cooperate, he took your chin between his fingers and made you look at him, grip decidedly firm yet gentle.

“Angel, baby–” his eyes pleaded with you for an answer. “What’s wrong?”

You couldn’t hold it anymore and burst into tears, trying to keep your sobs quiet. Soap remained atop you, caressing the side of your face. Your tears were thick, almost viscous with all that had caused them, as if they, too, bore the weight of what plagued you.

“My marks,” you said, your voice merely a sound rather than a sentence. Soap’s head tilted as he looked down at you.

“What was that?” he said, unsure as to whether he’d heard you correctly. You sniffed, fortified your voice.

“My marks,” you repeated, clearer now.

Soap looked at you as if you were speaking another language, and you mistook his silence for perhaps the oncomings of a laugh. Or worse yet, agreement.

Soap scoffed alright, but he didn’t laugh. Instead he rearranged so he sat further down your body. He lifted your shirt, which you tried to pull down. He growled and practically tore it off you. And you let him. He stared down at your abdomen, your thighs, and sighed deeply.

“Why on earth are you worried about your stretch marks?” he said, absolute and firm, as if it were the most obvious question in the world. You almost wanted to shrug and apologise for wasting his time, but you remained quiet.

“These marks,” he began, lowering his face to your stomach, “are part of you. You know what that means?” His gaze flickered from your abdomen to your face. When you shook your head, Soap gave a huff of a laugh, his breath hot and circling against your skin.

“It means that they’re not the burden you think they are; they’re not unsightly, or ugly, or anything else you can think to call them. They’re beautiful because they are you.”

Your tears were still welling, and Soap pressed a soft kiss to your stomach. Then another. Then another. He linked a chain of kisses, inching further down your body, reaching the band of your underwear. He looked up at you beneath heavy lids. He dipped his tongue beneath the band, making you jolt. He laughed.

“I mustn’t have been doing a good job of showing you how beautiful you are,” he said, lowly. His hands slid to your hips, hooking his fingers over the edge of your underwear and tugging them down.

“It’s time I changed that.”

Price:

He’d picked up on your off mood every day this week, but he’d wanted you to come to him when you were ready, rather than him chase you up about something you didn’t necessarily want to talk about.

You never cracked, though. Not even once.

You’d kept your thoughts to yourself, yet your body betrayed you.

Whenever Price had initiated something in the bedroom, you’d shied away, putting your hands against his chest and giving a weak, watery smile.

“Maybe another night?” you’d say, and Price respected your wishes.

But, he was growing agitated.

It wasn’t his sexual frustration which urged him to act, but his frustration at himself for not being able to tell what was troubling you.

He was your protector; it was his duty, his pleasure to look out for you in any way you needed him.

And he felt like he was failing.

Eventually, he asked you outright what had gotten you so upset, and when you reluctantly told him it was your stretch marks, Price sat there. Flabbergasted.

“That’s it?” He couldn’t help himself saying. But when he saw how much the topic meant to you after you gave him a stormy look, he changed his tune.

Consoled you well into the night, holding you, burying kisses into your skin, drawing lines against your marks, saying how he found them beautiful because they were “Part of you.”

Never lets you go a day without feeling appreciated - more so than he did prior to this discovery.

“You know, Darling,” Price began, laying in bed with you in his arms, “I can’t remember what my life was like before you came.”

You looked up at him. He nuzzled the tip of his nose against your hair.

“And I can’t imagine what it would be like without you in it.” The smile in his voice was more than a mere tone, but a feeling, deep and sincere, the epitome of love itself.

Your face broke out into a grin, beams shining through the clouded sky. “Oh?” you said, bringing your thigh over his middle. You slid on top of him, knees either side of his waist. You planted your hands on his chest, rubbing slowly. His chest rumbled, the beginnings of a purr. His eyes gleamed, his lips curled up beneath his moustache, pinched as raised theatre curtains

“How about I show you how much you mean to me?” Your request was more foreshadowing than anything else, but, in a plot twist, John gripped you by your thighs and rolled so that he was now on top of you, your wrists pinned beside your head.

He brought his face down beside your head. “Last I checked, that was my job,” he rasped, his beard scratching the side of your face. He slid a hand down to the hem of your night shirt, raising it over your stomach. “And I don’t plan on retiring.” 

Alejandro:

Is on the offensive immediately.

Thinks somebody’s said something to you that made you upset.

“Who was it, mi amor? Who do I have to kill?”

It would take all your strength to keep him from storming out the house and popping a cap in the first person he suspected as being the perpetrator.

You’d have to explain to him that nobody’s said anything to hurt your feelings, and that your insecurity about your stretch marks has been with you since you were young.

“It’s just the way I am, Love,” you’d say, casting a diluted smile Alejandro’s way. “‘Ts just the way things are.”

This shocks Alejandro; sends him into a catatonic state, even.

Not once had he even considered your stretch marks a point of insecurity: not for you, or him.

In fact, he thought they were cool, and whenever he’d show you his scars, he’d smile. “Now we’re matching!” He’d say.

After you’d expressed your insecurities about your marks, he’d never let you go a day where he’d remind you you’re beautiful (though, that isn’t saying much; there isn’t a day that goes by where he doesn’t make you feel worthy and loved. He just tries even harder).

Man’s a body worshiper if ever I saw one (and I have seen many).

When you’re laying down together and he has his head on your thighs, he’ll randomly turn around and start kissing your marks.

Only does this in private, and with good reason.

Definitely the type to use tongue, even if it’s on the surface of your skin.

Will not let you leave until he’s convinced you’re feeling better about yourself.

Tells you that his mission in life is to “Make you realise how beautiful you are in everyone else’s eyes, even if you don’t see it yourself.”

You can definitely use the insecurity card to request - ahem - ‘snuggle time’ with Alejandro.

If you say to him in your whiny voice: “Baaabe, I’m not feeling too good about myself today,” he’ll be on you like a rash.

You may think you’ve got one over on him, but don’t be fooled.

He knows what you’re doing, but he’s not going to stop you.

After all, why would he ever pass up the opportunity to show the person he loves most in all the world how beautiful they are?

“There will never be a day where I will not worship you, mi corazón,” he panted, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your thighs. “You are my god - my religion.”

His eyes gleamed as he looked up at you from between your legs. “My life.”

You screwed your eyes shut and whined when he licked a stripe against your underwear, catching you where you needed him most.

“Alejandro,” you whispered, his name a prayer on your lips. “Please,”

“Say it.” He slid a hand over your stomach, feeling your skin, your marks, beneath his warmth. “Say what you want me to do and I’ll give it to you.” There was no hint of a lie in his words, only the inescapable truth of his undying love for you and everything your body had to offer.

Between glistening eyes and an open mouth, you let him in. “You.”

Alejandro left many bruises and bites on you that night, all borne out of love. And, afterwards, as he looked upon your sleeping form, all he could think was of how ethereal you looked, and how lucky he was to have managed to find someone like you.

Valeria:

She simply won’t hear of it.

She’s quite an aggressive woman, and she expresses her love and adoration likewise.

Therefore, when you end up confiding in her that there is even a single part of yourself you’re insecure about, she flips her lid.

Not at you, of course. At who or whatever has made you feel this way.

She throws her hands up and curses in Spanish, saying how only she’s “allowed to make you feel that way.”

And she means it.

She won’t let you feel bad unless she wants you to (and even then it’s because you’ve whined and moaned for it).

Trust that she’s watching you like a hawk 24/7 after that.

If she finds you looking at your marks with anything less than adoration, she’ll drag you into the bedroom and force you to say you do, otherwise she’s not relenting with that ten inch strap-on.

She’s sensitive, however.

When she can tell that a quick therapy session isn’t going to change your mind, she’ll just sit with you and listen, make you a drink and hold you when you cry.

She’ll come up with the idea to name them - so they “feel like friends rather than enemies,”

Places warm, soft kisses along your marks, christening them with her love when you’ve decided on a name.

If you name one after her, she’ll be honoured.

“Now I’ll be with you forever,” she’ll say, wrapping her arms around your waist. “On you forever, I should say.”

Valeria dragged you into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her. One of her men guarded the other side, frightening off other club-goers.

Valeria’s eyes were heavy, dark and all-consuming with a feral rage that only occurred under rare circumstances, those being her jealousy. She gave you little time to protest as she hiked you up onto the counter, the tap digging into your back.

“I’ll murder him,” she said, voice rasping with drink and the need to mark you - to take you. “I’ll kill them all - all those bastards that looked at you.”

“Valeria, please,” you gasped when she cut the lining of your jeans open, making the button pop and recede into a dark, grimy corner of the tiled room. Valeria brought the knife to your throat, her voice snarling and serious as death.

“I am the only one who can look at you.” The tip of her knife began its slow descent to the collar of your shirt, which she separated from your body with a long, ripping tear. Now, chest exposed, you yelped. Valeria forced your legs apart and crouched between them. Her knife sat at the waistband of your underwear.

“You’re mine,” she promised. “And if I need to mark you myself–” she trailed the tip of her weapon along the marks on your hips, “–then so be it.”

Gaz:

Will look at you like you’ve just asked him to recite Pi.

What???

What do you mean you don’t think your stretch marks look good?

Gaz thinks they look perfect!

He can’t imagine you without them; he’s genuinely emotionally attached to them.

You should’ve guessed as much when you felt him tracing them as you lay in bed.

Fr though, Gaz understands why you feel insecure, but he doesn’t understand why, if that makes sense.

He knows certain things get to you, thus making it plausible that you would become upset with something you found on your person, but he doesn’t understand why you’re insecure.

He can feel himself getting angry whenever he hears you talking - or even thinking - bad about yourself.

He’s not mad at you! Not at all.

He’s simply aggravated by the fact that something or someone has made it so you can’t see yourself the way he sees you.

To cheer you up, he’ll start relaying extremely specific compliments to you.

“I’d love you if you were a two foot tall worm with a receding hairline.”

“Uuuh…thank you?”

Though, if he found those didn’t work or, God forbid, made you feel worse-

“So you’re saying that you only find my personality attractive and not my body.”

– He’ll find another way of lifting your spirits.

“I would commit arson if you ever tried to get rid of your stretch marks.”

“...Why?”

“Because I love them and they’re my friends 🥺.”

Btw he’s fr about that - he sees your stretch marks as individual, sentient beings.

And he begins to tell you the backstories he’s made up for them.

And you can’t help but get attached to them, too.

“Hold on, why does Antonio get to be seen today and not Felicity?” you asked, holding the sleeveless vest to your torso. Gaz returned, throwing a pile of yet more sleeveless shirts, vests and other variants onto the bed.

“Because I haven’t seen Antonio all week and I’m starting to think you’re playing favourites.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Poor guy’s probably suffocating under all those jumpers you wear!”

“Oh?” You raised and eyebrow, looking at Gaz in the mirror. “And what are you going to do about it?”

Gaz threw you a devilish smile, the corners of his lips pointing up like horns, sharp and curled. He came up behind you and wrapped his arms around your waist, holding the vest against you.

“Put the vest on and you won’t have to find out.” He pressed a constellation of kisses to your shoulder, up the connecting junction of your neck and shoulder, until he reached your jaw. “Unless you want to.”

Graves:

When you initially told him, he wasn’t sure how to respond.

Genuinely thought money would make all your problems go away.

He threw a wad of rolled-up George Washingtons at you and told you to “Buy something nice - do yourself up pretty.”

Obviously, not the best thing to say to somebody who’s insecure.

And when you didn’t talk to him for days afterwards, he realised where he’d gone wrong.

You wanted reassurance, not a solution.

See, he’s so used to using money to make his problems disappear that he thought it’d be a quick fix for you, too.

Pokes his head round the bedroom door like heeeyyy~ before taking a  seat beside you on the bed.

“Look, I’m sorry for what I said. I didn’t realise you just wanted to talk rather than have me fix the problem.”

His wording’s still very off, but he’s working on it with gentle guidance from you.

He genuinely never realised your stretch marks were an insecurity for you, though, hencewhy he’s not so good at the whole ‘reassurance’ thing.

He learns quickly, though.

It starts off with small gestures; putting a hand over your marks, looking at them fondly, telling you how gorgeous you were every single day.

And, eventually, when you’re being more…intimate, he’ll refuse to let you cover yourself up (unless you really want to, ofc).

Trying to hide your marks? Not for long - Phillip’s got a PHD in cloth tearing, and you’re his first job.

“I don’t remember telling you you could do that.”

Aggressive love. Full-on laving his tongue over your marks.

“Just markin’ what’s mine, Angel.”

Doesn’t give you even a second to feel insecure anymore.

Encourages you to wear clothing that reveals your marks if he thinks it’ll make you feel better.

Again, won’t force you to; if you don’t like revealing clothing overall, he’ll make sure to find other ways of empowering you.

Gets very territorial whenever he catches someone staring at you because he firmly believes that, 100% of the time, it’s because they’re checking you out.

Will glower at them with his eyes until they look away, cowering.

And all the while he’s looking at you, thinking God damn, I can’t believe I managed to pull you <3

“Love, why did you stare at that man in the bar earlier?” You asked, not looking up from your book. In the dim light of the bedroom, you saw Phillip’s head turn, looking at you. In your periphery, you saw his cheeks lift. He crept closer.

“Ain’t it natural for a man to want to protect what’s his?” His voice carried with it a weight you recognised as rhetorical. You put your book down on the bedside table and resisted a knowing smile.

“I don’t know,” you said, crossing your arms over your chest. “Is it?”

A sly smile crossed Graves’ face, and, in an instant, he was on top of you, his weight definite and promising of something. He wrangled your arms, pinning them above your head. And you only smiled up at him as he beamed down at you.

“Oh, I think you know it is.” His eyes gave no way to humour or jest, possessing within their oyster shell colour a pearl of the rarest, most valuable material: love.

Graves leaned down, and, biting the shell of your ear, pressing a kiss beneath it, whispered.

“And you know how much I hate sharin’.”

Reblog for more content like this! It helps creators like myself tremendously :-)

Masterlist Masterlist [Continued] Masterpost Modern Warfare AI Masterlist

AO3 Wattpad

[rae-writes]

dirty secret(s)

Levi x cam!reader

wc : 0.7k

warnings : nsfw

synopsis : Levi had a dirty secret. You had an even dirtier one.

a/n : honestly don't know how this thought popped into my head but my gods am I fucking glad it did-

While Levi usually thought of himself as scum of the Devildom at most normal hours of the day, he thought he was even scummier when he locked himself in his room, headphones pressed snugly against his ears, with his sweatpants kicked off to the floor. 

The slick sounds filling his ears were absolutely vile— in the best kind of way. Plastered over his main monitor, lighting up his flushed and sweaty face, was the sight of someone bouncing on a pretty dragon dildo; it’d become his guilty pleasure to get on the site and watch them get off- someone he found by complete accident as he was scrolling online. 

The only thing he knew about them was they never showed their face, they always had a blank black sheet as a background, and they never talked. 

But it didn’t really matter when he was fisting his cock at the pace they were riding their toy, biting down on his tongue harshly to hide his moans when they came, forcing him to paint his abdomen white as he came right after. 

No, it didn’t really matter— especially when it was just Levi’s dirty secret. 

Until it wasn’t. 

You weren’t supposed to swing by his room that day, but you had some time and thought it would be best spent with Levi- only he wasn’t in his room. 

The only active sound that had been in his room was the whirring of his desktop. You only meant to shut it off- you weren’t supposed to see the way the screen lit back up with the sight of someone bent over, faux cum spilling out of their hole. 

You weren’t supposed to find out his dirty secret— but you did. And it became your dirtier secret.

Because the person on the video was you. 

It started off as a joke- just a little bet you lost with Asmo. When your first video got so much attention, you curiously did another, just to see what would happen; the money sent in as tips and donations made you make another video, and then another, and another. 

After a while, you spiffed up your page and made it all pretty and official— it became fun. Alluring. 

And then you found out Levi was watching and it changed everything. Suddenly, there was a particular heat constantly pooling in your stomach that wouldn't go away and your videos became centered around what you thought Levi would like. 

He was none the wiser. 

He didn’t suspect a single thing, not even when his favorite (and only) porn creator began making videos in anime cosplay of his favorite characters or began using tentacle related toys instead or made videos of them trying to not cum while they played his favorite video games. 

It all flew right over Levi’s head— right up until their latest video, posted only a few seconds ago. 

For the first time ever, they weren’t using a black backdrop. It was eye-catching— dark, but with bright leds. The shimmer of what seemed to be water washed over their bare lower half as high-pitched moans left them, hand desperately shoving a new toy in and out of their hole; it was another ‘tentacle’ but it was plain, dark colored, with scales carved in to create ridges for extra friction. 

The more he hyper fixated on them, the more things he started to notice: their toy kind of looked like his tail, the lighting looked exactly like his room’s, and the hoodie they wore…

With a choked moan, Levi’s eyes nearly pop out of his skull as he finally realizes he’s watching you— you in his room with his hoodie on, getting off on a toy that was meant to replicate his tail. 

And as the increase of your moans flowed through his headphones, getting louder and whinier until you were cumming with a choked cry of what could’ve been his name had you been just a little bit louder, Levi was practically sprinting through the halls of the house before slamming open the door to his room. 

And there you were, phone tossed aside on his bed as you laid back on his pillows with your legs spread and shiny with your cum, toy tossed aside to the ground. 

“Was waiting for you to figure it out...wanna feel the real thing, Levi…come play with me?”

[may-darling]

My Inprnt order came in today and… just look at these absolute beauties. I am so happy to finally have physical prints of these two artworks I have admired for so long now! 🥺

A very cute and beautiful Jooster smooch drawn by @idanit . Isn’t the lighting of this drawing just absolutely spiffing? Also Bertie looking all wanton *fans herself*

Go check out idanit‘s shop! There are some cute Good Omens artworks too if that is more your cup of tea:

Second artwork is this amazing piece by @verkomy . I mean what can I say? This drawing reminds me daily why I love this ship so much. Just look at Thorin‘s soft eyes. For more verkomy goodness (she also draws for other fandoms!) check out her shop via this link:

[buckets-and-trees]

Navy, Navy, Navy...

You dropped this man in my askbox at the beginning of the week, and I knew I knew him, but it took me a couple of days to figure out exactly which Steve he was...

And then I realized he's absolutely Buck's Eleven Steve...

Fandom: MCU Collection: Buck's Eleven Title: Bookings and Rings Characters/Pairings: Steve Rogers x Female Reader Word Count: 650 

Summary: Our first glimpse of Steve's girl in this AU. Can be read as a standalone, you only need to know Bucky and Steve are putting together a big heist job for New Year's Eve 1960.

Content Warnings: hints of 1960s societal views, movement toward smut at the end (fade to black)

Logistical Notes: Thank you @vonalyn for spiffing this up and making sure it was up to snuff. This ticks off my first box in my @the-slumberparty Bingo Card B4 "Proposal."

↠ Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

You lock and close the door behind you, letting out a happy sigh. You’re home. You drop your keys on the table in the entry and step out of your heels, clutching them in one hand and your travel bag in the other, then make your way down the hall into the living room.

You pause and grin at the sight in front of you.

Steve is sitting in one of the armchairs, relaxed, reading the paper, the bright afternoon sun streaming in from the window behind him. You can tell he’s had a fresh haircut since you saw him last week. He’s in a brown tweed sport coat and black shirt. He always looks good.

“You’re home early,” you say.

“Is that a complaint?” he asks, returning your grin as he lowers the paper to look at you.

“Well, you’re also in my home, not your home.”

“Until you agree to call my home your home, sometimes I just can’t help myself when I want to see my girl.”

You roll your eyes and shake your head, but the grin is still on your face. “Good thing you’re handsome, Rogers.”

“And you know I’m good for other things, too,” he says as he folds up the paper and sets it aside. “Now come over here, tell me about your day. Where were you?”

You deposit your heels and your sleek blue Pan Am duffel on the couch, then sit on the coffee table in front of Steve. “Rio de Janeiro.”

“Long flight then, let me take care of my girl.” Steve gestures for you to rest your feet up on his thigh, and as you do, he immediately takes one of your stocking-clad feet in his strong hands and begins pressing his thumbs deeply into the sole. You moan and some of the tension in other parts of your body starts to melt away. Steve smiles at that. “Tell me about your day.”

You do. While you talk, he listens, asks a few questions, moves to rubbing out your other foot completely, and then starts working up your calves.

When you’ve caught him up on the relevant pieces of the things that have happened the past few days, shared the frustrations as well as the funny stories, you finally ask him, “What do you want ��� I get the foot rubs when you want something.”

“You’d get this regularly if you’d accept my ring, honey,” you open your mouth to protest, but he shakes his head and continues, “I know, I know, you’re not ready to give up your explorations.”

“No, I’m not.”

“But you remember I’ve always got that ring with me. You say the word and it’s yours.”

You lean forward and kiss him, then say, “I’m not saying no, I’m just saying not now.”

“I’ll take you everywhere you want to go.”

You lean back a little and tilt your head. “I know.” You rest your hand over his heart. “And I am yours… just not your wife yet.”

“Yet,” he echoes.

You laugh then kiss him again. It’s a long kiss this time, one that has him eventually pulling you into his lap, and your arms are wrapped tightly around each other, lips and tongues dedicated to nothing more than connecting and expressing the feelings between the two of you.  

It only ends when you’re both completely breathless.

“What do you need from me?”

“Two things… I need to get a team into Vegas. Can you book them in?”

“Sure, leave me the list of their names and departure cities before you leave, I’ll put them in.”

“Thank you, honey.”

“What else?”

He grins and his hand slips between your thighs, moving right up to your mound. “Let me take you to bed and give you more reasons to make it hard for you to hold out on finally becoming my wife.”

[thebigsartorialist]

POV: walking around exclaiming posh British words to confuse people: Poppycock! Chuffed! Jolly Good! Cheerio! Absolutely Spiffing!

_

Suit: Martin Greenfield

Tie: London York

Hats: Bates

Socks: Falke

Shoes: Allen Edmonds

_

[saradika]

OH MY GOD YOURE A GODSEND IVE BEEN LOOKING FOR DEVIDERS EVERYWHERE.

ahh thanks so much! so happy they've been useful! 💖

if you are looking for dividers, I absolutely have recs! These creators are all incredible and have some amazing resources for spiffing up your masterlists and fics! Please check them out and send some love their way 💕:

@cafekitsune

@firefly-graphics

@inklore

@samspenandsword

@sweetxmelody

@jaysdividers

@eloquentmoon (star wars)

@freesia-writes (stars wars/tbb)

[fromthemouthofkings]

Jeeves and the Fox Hunt

Chapter 2

The Prod residence was a big, gloomy old house–or perhaps it only appeared so because I was gloomy and afraid. But the gray skies reflecting dully off the dark windows, the dead ivy rattling ominously against the panes, and the icy wind all added up to a distinctly unwelcoming experience.

Mr. and Mrs. William Prod shepherded me into their home with many a “What-ho!” and a “Ho there!”

I was in my element–as you no doubt know, Bertram Wooster can what-ho with the best of them.

“What-ho, what-ho, what-ho,” I said, bounding up the steps and into a dimly-lit front hall.

Mr. Prod grasped my hand firmly. He was a sprightly older fellow with a surprising lot of strength left in his rangy limbs and a spectacular silver mustache. “Absolutely spiffing to meet you, young man. My niece has been so looking forward to your visit. It is so long since we had such a fine specimen of manhood here for a hunt!”

“Ah, well!” I said. “That’s me. B. Wooster, finest specimen you could wish for.”

Read More on AO3

[malachitegrey]

New WIP Tag Game!

thank you @thescholarlystrumpet !

Give me three lines/paragraphs that you've written that you love [fiction, non-fiction, from different works or the same, from completed stories or poems or WIPs, from yesterday or ten years ago]. If that seems hard, even one will do. It doesn't have to be perfect. It can just be something silly that gives you joy.

And give me three lines/paragraphs that you've written that you dislike and find shitty. Anything at all as long as you wrote it. If you think it's ridiculous or absolute fucking garbage, even better! That's the point of this game. To see that we all write good things and bad things. Yeah? You can do this. And remember that both these categories are subjective.

okay these are all from wips (all different ones, because i have gone insane). bad lines first, but this is more like just...not RIGHT yet.

“Well, yeah, that’s the whole point!” the angel sputters. “I dunno why they want to do this nonsense with Earth, but if they want these ‘people’ to be able to see something marvelous, they’ve gotta be able to—to see it, right? Nevermind that it’s not even the point of the nebula, forget it, I’ll survive, but spending all these resources on making it and then sticking it in some corner somewhere? It’s madness!”

“I’ll have you know I’ve been far too busy to go—fishing!” Aziraphale sputters indignantly.

The flames are reflected in the demon’s eyes. He’s entranced. Aziraphale can’t help watching him.

good lines!

The City of Elua—that rancid cesspit filigreed in gold and pearls—was never more itself than on Longest Night. The nobles wore their most delicately embroidered gowns and doublets to fuck drunkenly in corners, highlighted all their most beautiful features with cosmetics made of bugs and soot, and pranced through intricately planned streets alongside rivers of sewage.

It is so hot that Crowley has worn his squash shorts, and Aziraphale is very much looking forward to accidentally placing his hand on Crowley’s thigh whilst they participate in enthusiasm for sport, but being so close to the hopeful answer to the pollen riddle is overriding even the levels of distraction offered by Crowley’s spiffing pins, and he finds himself giggling in anticipation of whatever is about to occur beyond the gates of this athletic nirvana.

Even more than usual, he looks like he’s barely keeping all his nerve endings contained within his body, like he could start shooting sparks at any moment, start a chain reaction that would set every electric candle and shard of glitter alight like a supernova.

tagging some people who i think have not yet been tagged? @adverbian @crowleyslvt @gaiaseyes451 @ineffable-rohese @andromeda4004 and YOU

[disappointedart]

I think it's time for you to meet the main character of my (kind of fantasy and still in the planning phase) comic! Not only Lewis W. Walker is an absolutely spiffing chap, but also the walking (eheh) answer to the question "which English roundhead accidentally gained the gift of immortality without permission?"

Slooowly, in the next days, I'm going to post about the other characters. For now, enjoy this!

[thebeautyofasilentquartertime]

I've developed a strong reputation at my footy club as a snappy dresser, and after the game this arvo a bunch of my teammates were all speculating what I was going to wear to Cocktail Night this evening, but I was giving absolutely nothing away about my spiffing smoking jacket 🌟

Just guys being dudes.

[samspenandsword]

Kinktober 2022/23 Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Summary: Kinktober Day 7 — Costumes with Obi-Wan Kenobi Pairing: Obi-Wan Kenobi/Reader; fem!reader with no mentions of her appearance other than a vague costume description. Rating: Explicit, 18+ (Younglings, foundlings, and cadets BEGONE!) Warnings: Explicit sexual content, smut; Costumes, unprotected PIV (PRACTICE SAFE SEX), creampie, mention of fingering, mention of biting kink, Jedi!reader, flirting overload, necking like horny teenagers, inappropriate use of the Force. Word Count: 3.6k

Sam's Pen and Sword Kinktober 2023 Taglist Form

So in Legends, the Jedi go ape for Halloween, and what Kinktober is complete without a good Halloween piece 😉

Also, let me apologize for Tumblr eating the original version of this yesterday 😑 and that it took me longer than I thought it would for me to rewrite it 😬 but I hope everyone enjoys Day 7!

It would surprise most of the general public, but the Jedi Order was in the habit of going, what the academic community called, batshit, for Halloween.

"It's tradition," any Jedi would say to anyone who asked, adopting the most sagely voice they possibly could, all while internally thinking about the costume they'd been designing for half the year. "The younglings enjoy it."

And they did, but any master or knight who claimed it was just the younglings and padawans who enjoyed Halloween was a bold-faced liar.

Every year, the Temple was decorated and spiffed out to the extreme. Fake cobwebs adorned the doorways, carved gourds and harvest plants guarded the thresholds, candles and fake bats hovered through the halls, the scent of spicy and cinnamon crusted treats wafted out from the kitchens through the entire Temple. And there was, of course, no shortage of Halloween pranks. You remembered fondly the year you'd gotten Master Windu good by rigging his mirror to drip fake blood and read "LEAVE THIS PLACE" while fake cockroaches crawled out of his sink. His yell had been heard through half the Temple.

He'd gotten you back. Your master was nothing if not serious, dedicated, and thorough. And with a flair and gift for theatrics too, he'd gotten you back good enough that you'd almost considered never messing with him again.

Almost.

But beyond the pranks and decorations and special treats every year, actual Halloween night was always a time of great cheer for the Jedi. Kind of an unofficial day off for everyone. The younglings could trick-or-treat, go on scavenger hunts, play games, find their way out of the "haunted" maze that the Room of a Thousand Fountains got turned into every year. And at night, after all the little ones had gone to bed, masters and knights could enter costume contests, go to each others' parties, drink spiked cider, go through the haunted maze Master Yoda and Madame Jocasta designed every year. The little troll and strict archivist could come up with some of the creepiest things every year.

And the day before Halloween was also one of the only days of the year where the public could fully visit the Temple. For certain hours of the day, the Temple opened themselves to the public to come visit the mazes and games and even trick-or-treat themselves.

It never failed to amuse you how many people came by expecting some dull, boring Halloween snooze fest only to find themselves faced with giggling, costumed younglings, knights with cider and rosy-cheeks, and masters with ornate and beautiful costumes and proud smiles, and uncomfortably authentic-looking decorations.

The Clone Wars had changed the way the Jedi handled Halloween. Not a ton, as the Jedi had tried their absolute best to go all-out, for everyone needed a good break from the way, but it wasn't quite as all-out as the years before. The younglings didn't really seem to notice, so you supposed that was good. But many knights and masters weren't able to lend their hand to help in the decoration process, or they couldn't spend as much time, if any, working on their costumes. Madame Jocasta, the healers, and the creche masters had really stepped up that first year, helping to keep life at the Temple as similar as possible to before the war broke out. If only for the benefit of the younglings.

But it was to the benefit of everyone, really, to come home to the Temple and see the candles and gravestones and spiderwebs everywhere. It had given you a sense of peace and normalcy you'd not experienced since the start of the war.

Rather than fully design a new costume this year, you'd borrowed pieces from all your old costumes to cobble together something new. You were quite proud of it. And anything that hadn't been reused was donated to your clone troopers, who the Jedi had openly invited to the Temple to join the celebrations. You'd had bins of materials and fabric and makeup and wigs and old costume pieces to give to them. Some of them had been quite thrilled at the sight, having never had a real Halloween before.

And no one did Halloween like the Jedi.

You were, in short, a pirate. And not a pirate like Hondo Ohnaka, the menace. But a traditional sea pirate, with a compass, a cutlass, a big feathered hat, tall buckled boots, a sweeping red coat, and sparkling gold jewelry. You'd had to alter some of your items, like adding the feather to the hat, and adding some extra buckles to your boots, but overall, you were proud of how you looked.

Someone else seemed to be appreciating how you looked as well, judging by how he'd rarely taken his eyes off you since you'd come into the room.

The people who said Obi-Wan Kenobi was subtle had obviously never made an effort to pay attention any time he even opened his mouth, because the man was not subtle. Refined, yes. Precise, yes. Distinguished, sure. Subtle?

No.

Everyone who was anyone knew that the reason Anakin Skywalker was so flashy was because he'd learned from Obi-Wan.

The man himself looked very distinguished right now. He always did. But right now he was dressed in a form-fitting, tailed suit of black with red trimming. It had a high collar, and his copper hair was slicked back into a more severe swoop than usual. Though, you noted with amusement, there always seemed to be one strand that refused to stay in place. That strand was currently being brushed back by Obi-Wan's fingers, encased in black leather gloves. His other hand grasped a simple black cane, and he wore stylish boots of shining black.

It was not a usual look for Obi-Wan, who you were used to seeing in beiges and tans and tabards. But Force, if he didn't look frustratingly handsome in the fitted black.

He looked paler than normal, and more tired, but you guessed that was because of the dim, colored lights of the mess. At least, until you got closer and saw he was wearing makeup. Nothing extreme. Just enough to give him a paler complexion and dark circles under his eyes.

Obi-Wan's eyes remained locked on you as you grew closer, his mouth quirking into that charming half-smile, half-smirk of his.

The sight of it always made your insides flutter, and you smiled back as you reached the small group congregating by the dessert table.

"Not eating, Master Kenobi?" you asked, eyeballing Anakin and Ahsoka as they crowded around the table.

Obi-Wan flashed a grin. A grin that showed a pair of shining, white fangs. "While it looks delicious, the feast tonight is not quite to my tastes, my dear."

It took a lot for you not to burst out laughing. "Yes, not quite rich enough in iron, I suppose."

Obi-Wan's grin flashed more genuinely.

Ahsoka caught sight of you.

"You look great!" she cheered. So did she, with grey makeup and shredded clothing, she looked like an incredible zombie. She even had done her montrals to look like they were rotting and decomposing.

"You too, 'Soka," you said. It was nights like tonight that reminded you of just how young she was. And how much she needed tonight to help her feel like a child again. You side-eyed her master, who was young himself. He wore brown leathers not wholly unlike his usual clothing.

"And what are you supposed to be?"

"Uh, I'm a pilot?" Anakin stared at you like it was the most obvious thing in the galaxy.

"I told him it was a stupid costume," Ahsoka said.

"Hey!"

"Rex agreed with me."

Anakin ignored her, saying to you, "I'm a fighter pilot from Naboo."

"Reliving your glory days?" you teased. Anakin had told the story of the Battle of Theed more times than you could count.

Obi-Wan spoke before Anakin could think of a response. "Doesn't the Naboo Royal Space Fighter Corps wear orange?" he asked, innocently.

Anakin scowled, and you and Ahsoka just about fell over laughing.

Obi-Wan's eyes never left you for long. He felt magnetized to the sight of you, whether you were wearing a costume or not. But something about this... The collared, white ruffles of your poet shirt dipped tantalizingly over your cleavage. Nothing considered immodest, but enough to attract Obi-Wan's attention like a fly into honey. The jaunty sit of your hat and fluttering of your lashes seemed entirely more seductive than you usually were, and Obi-Wan couldn't get enough of you even on a regular basis. Your jewelry glittered in the low lights like the kyber of the Ilum ice caves, every glow and shine drawing him further and further in, ready to receive what you would give him. And with the way your skintight leggings curved over your legs, framed by that coat and tucked into those karking boots, Obi-Wan thought you looked more like a siren than a pirate.

Obi-Wan blinked, and found that you were looking at him.

"You look amazing, Obi-Wan," you said, smiling that breathtakingly gorgeous smile at him. "Very classic costume."

Kriff, you were just so beautiful. And tempting.

There was a touch of mischief to Obi-Wan's returning smile. You wouldn't know it was there unless you knew that Obi-Wan could be a little shit when it suited him.

"And you, my dear, look... dangerous."

Your core instantly tightened and your breath hitched. And judging by the continued, pleasant, mischief-edged smile on Obi-Wan's face, he knew it.

"You're only saying that because you know I can beat you in lightsaber combat."

Obi-Wan continued to grin, entirely too charming for his own good.

"That's part of the reason, yes."

You smothered the smile that wanted to grow, instead saying, sternly, "I am not sharing."

"But, my dear —"

"No! Senator Organa gave me that bottle of wine as a gift, you are getting none of it. I know you, Kenobi. You'd drink the entire thing before I even got a drip. It is being saved for a special occasion."

Obi-Wan swept his gaze around the room, observing the festivities and celebrations. "And tonight's not special enough?"

"Your charm hasn't worked on me in years, Obi-Wan," you said. It was a lie. His charm had worked on you from day one and continued to do so. You'd stopped fighting it long ago.

And he knew it.

"Are you quite sure about that?"

Whatever response you could give was cut off by an impressively petulant groan from Anakin.

"Maker, would you two stop? I'm trying to eat."

Your mouth stretched into a grin, one that made Ahsoka cackle and Anakin try to backpedal.

"I take it back, Obi-Wan. I was lying before. Your charm does work on me. In fact, it works so well that I have a confession to make."

You turned to him, draping yourself to his front and your lips falling into a lovelorn pout.

"I have fallen madly in love with you, Obi-Wan. And I can no longer bear it. Tell me it is returned, my love. Tell me and spare me the pain of living without you any longer. Tell me, my love, and let us depart at once. I know someone on Alderaan, and though I know it's rushed and unorthodox, they would be happy to marry us this night!"

"Oh, Force, spare me —"

Obi-Wan ignored his former padawan, locking his amused, but oddly fervent gaze with yours. The hand not holding his cane wrapped low around your hips.

"A love like ours cannot be denied. A love so pure is surely written in the stars." He flashed his fanged smile. "Join me, my love. Let me give you all the freedom the seas have to offer, and an eternity to spend with me. The eternal night will not be so cold when we have each other to spend it with. You shall be mine, and I shall be yours. Forever. Welcome my bite, and share in our immortal love."

You couldn't keep in your laughter anymore, ducking your head down to burst out into furious giggles. Ahsoka wasn't much different.

"Eternal night? Immortal love???"

"You didn't like it?"

"I think I threw up in my mouth a little, but otherwise I loved it. Use that next time you flirt with Ventress, she'll be so caught off guard you can capture her."

"That's not a bad suggestion."

Ahsoka collapsed into giggles again when she saw that Anakin was simple staring into the distance, an agonized grimace etched on his face.

"Shuts him up every time," You nodded to Anakin and bumped your hip to Obi-Wan's.

Obi-Wan gave you an amused smirk, slowly shifting until your hips were touching again. Your skin was set alight where you touched.

"Like nothing else."

You laughed.

* * *

“Obi-Wan…” 

The gasp left your lips, quiet and hushed in the glow twilight streaming through the windows. His beard felt exquisite against the skin of your neck, and you sighed at the kisses he placed along its length. 

His cock felt exquisite, buried as it was so deep inside you, pumping tenderly, almost teasingly. 

Obi-Wan’s fangs had long been discarded, but he was still latched to your neck as if he were looking for a place to latch on. 

You almost wanted him to.

As if sensing your desires, and he probably could, Obi-Wan sucked your skin into his mouth and nibbled it gently with his teeth. You gasped in his hold. 

“That’s it, darling,” Obi-Wan cooed. He released your neck with a lewd suck and kissed your jaw. “Let me hear you.”

You and Obi-Wan had lasted exactly one hour before needing to sneak away from the festivities to enjoy each other. The combination of having not seen each other much in the last months, both busy as war generals, the calming normalcy of the Halloween celebrations, and the rare sight of each other in costume was intoxicating to the both of you. Obi-Wan could barely keep his eyes off of you, so gorgeous and alluring in the way you flitted around, visiting with friends and family you hadn't seen in months, complimenting the younglings on their costumes, making sure your men were having fun. And the way you always looked back at him, periodically, and just often enough that no one but he would notice your desire. And your focus felt laser-trained on him, constantly aware of his presence and how it related to you: how far away from you he was, whether he was facing you or not, even when he was blinking or flicking away that bothersome piece of hair that never stayed in place. You were aware of all of it, and the curve of his back, and the way his hands looked in those gloves, and the way the dark colors of his costume made his hair more red than usual.

And combined with the way his signature in the Force kept pulsing, wafting over your skin and mind in a tease of a caress, you both could barely stand to not sneak away after an hour.

And now, with Obi-Wan buried as far as he could be inside you, you pressed against the bookshelves of his Temple apartments with those tight leggings rolled down to your knees, and his costume unfastened to reveal the muscled expanse of his chest, pressed tight to yours, you caressed each other with the Force as much as you did with your bodies.

Obi-Wan's signature normally felt like he did: steady, calm, deliberate, with a layer of mischief and humor hiding underneath it all. But right now, it rippled across your awareness with a sort of insistence, an insatiableness, and it only made you keen into him.

"Let me hear you," he encouraged again, lips dragging from your jaw to your cheekbone.

"Obi-Wan," you gasped, and your presence in the Force wrapped around him as firmly as your arms did.

The urgency from earlier had calmed a little. Where earlier you and Obi-Wan had nearly scrambled, removing just enough clothing to where you could feel his chest and that he could slip his fingers inside you to discover you didn't need much prep, the haste had calmed into something more languid. Now with his cock inside you, you could take the time to enjoy the feeling of it. It had been so long since you'd felt him. You could take the time to bask in the way it dragged in and out of you, and simply enjoy the weight and stretch, in no rush to reach your high.

And you could relish in the way Obi-Wan kissed you. The soft scratch of his beard on your skin, the tickle of his wayward strand of hair on your cheek. Obi-Wan kissed you how he handled his lightsaber: beautifully. Precise, deliberate, with enough push and pull to let you know he was having fun with this. That he enjoyed kissing you.

That he was as much a master at this as he was at Soresu.

And all the while he continued to thrust into you.

"So beautiful," Obi-Wan murmured, breaking away from the kiss with a little suckle to your lower lip. You sighed into him, closing your eyes and leaning your head back as his thrusting sped up just the tiniest bit.

"Missed you," you said, voice breathy from the embrace of his presence. It suddenly overwhelmed you, like you were only now realizing that yes, he was here, he was with you.

He was inside you.

You clenched around him with the sudden rush of emotion, making Obi-Wan moan.

"Darling..."

He began to thrust faster.

The long coat you wore barely did anything to cushion you against the press of the bookshelves on your back, but that was the last thing you cared about right now. Right now all you could think of was the heat building inside you, the rush of arousal, and the weight of Obi-Wan's presence and own arousal, rising around you like the rising of the tide and you were the beach it would inevitably crash into.

You welcomed it. You wanted it.

Obi-Wan sensed it, grunting and thrusting hard into you.

Time began to pass in a haze of pleasure, your mind absolutely spinning with it. The pressure inside you built like a storm, gathering and compressing into a molten center that would eventually snap and release. And at the center of the whirlwind was Obi-Wan. Absorbing and giving you everything you wanted. Everything you needed.

You wanted to absorb and give everything back to him too.

So as your feelings began to rise, it brought you closer and closer to your high. And Obi-Wan could feel it, groaning with each wave that washed over him. It brought him closer too, and his pumping grew faster, and harder.

"Obi-Wan!" you gasped, clutching hard to his back.

His head had fallen back to your neck, and his lips brushed the skin of it with each encouragement he murmured.

"Beautiful," he said. "Let go, darling. I've got you."

You needed nothing else, your body seizing in the most intense and steady climax you'd ever experienced.

As you came, your presence in the Force swelled and glowed, like a beacon for his own release. And Obi-Wan rushed to meet it, thrusting only a few more times into your fluttering walls until his own end crashed over him.

The seed he spilled inside you was incidental compared to the tangling of his presence in the Force with yours, the way it crashed into yours and wrapped around it like they could merge into one. It made you gasp, feeling like every part of you, from the blood in your veins to your mind to your heart was ignited into starlight. And it along with the warmth splashing against your walls reignited your orgasm.

For several minutes, the room was full of nothing but moans of ecstasy and the warmth of the Force. Until finally, in unison, yours and Obi-Wan's bodies relaxed, and the air settled into a calm. Your Force presence still mingled with his, a steady, rhythmic, comforting embrace.

Obi-Wan kissed you. You smiled into it.

"Glad you took out those fangs," you murmured into him, never fully parting your lips.

He smirked a little into you, capturing your lips once again before responding. "Thought you liked the costume."

"I do." You stroked your hand up the fabric on his back and over his shoulder, fingers trailing across the copper hair of his chest. "But knowing me, I was going to catch my tongue on one of those things, dislodge it, and accidentally swallow it. And that would've really ruined the mood."

Obi-Wan burst out laughing. The sound of it was so warm that you couldn't help your soft smile.

Obi-Wan gently pulled out of you, and you could feel the sticky mess of both your releases begin to smear across your thighs. Obi-Wan disappeared briefly, grabbing a towel from his refresher. He cleaned both of you up, and after you both fixed your clothing and you fitted your hat back on, all evidence of what had transpired was hidden.

Until the both of you could bask in each other once again.

Likely later tonight. You and Obi-Wan were insatiable.

"Ready to go through the haunted maze?" you asked, grinning.

Obi-Wan kept a neutral expression. "Of course."

Your grin widened teasingly. It was no secret that the haunted maze was not Obi-Wan's favorite Halloween tradition. "Don't worry, Obi-Wan. I'm sure Anakin will be more than happy to hold your hand."

Obi-Wan's lips quirked. "You're assuming Anakin will actually want to go in there."

It was no secret that Anakin didn't exactly like the haunted maze either. You and Ahsoka, on the other hand, loved it.

"Are you kidding?" you scoffed. "All I have to do is call him a chicken and he'll be running in there."

Obi-Wan smiled fully now. "I bet that Alderaanian bottle of wine of yours that he only lasts five minutes before screaming."

You smirked. "Three minutes."

Taglist: @twistedstitcher27 @rexxdjarin @frietiemeloen @fivedicksinatrenchcoat @jedimastersovi @hnnybee @sleepingsun501 @virginoliveoil @HeyHawtDogs @rosmariner @sunshinesdaydream @adikas-world @theroguesully @dangerousstrawberrypie @kraytclaw @lindsaygallof @misogirl828 @thefact0rygirl @mxkyrie

Sam's Pen and Sword Kinktober 2022 Taglist Form

To folks who wish to be tagged in my works, make sure to double check your visibility settings. I can’t tag you unless you have made your blog visible.

[ink-and-dagger]

me reacting like some old timey nobile enjoyig my host's sets of wine. "Another fine fic! most excellent! You truely spoil us all with such gifts as this!" For real lovely as always hon!

Jolly good what what! Absolutely spiffing news that you should enjoy the fruits of my labour my fine fellow. You are most welcome indeed 💜

[a-teacup-of-golden-cracks]

It's been alright. Just got hit by a wave of tired, so I'm in bed in my comfy and watching comfort youtube.

Absolute mood, who are your favorite YouTubers for comfort? I like Russian Badger, Spiffing Brit, Let's Game it Out, Lythero and Gotham Chess

[tacticalvalor]

«────── « OOC » ──────»

GETTING TO KNOW YOU — answer the questions below, then tag nine others that you would like to know better.

tagged by: @mayxthexforce , tyvm!

tagging: you!! if you would like to do this, or haven't, then feel free to tag me when ya do ♡

𝐅𝐀𝐕𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐑(𝐒): blue, pink, and black

𝐅𝐀𝐕𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐅𝐋𝐀𝐕𝐎𝐑(𝐒): salty & sweet (one of my fave things is sea salted caramel)

𝐅𝐀𝐕𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐂: rock & metal; favorite bands at the moment are Grandson, Rammstein, and Slaughter to Prevail.

that said, i am absolutely an "all genres" guy, i'm just going through my "loud noises" phase skdjdkdkdk

𝐅𝐀𝐕𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐕𝐈𝐄(𝐒): Boondock Saints (1999), Hitman: Agent 47 (2015), Anastasia (1997), Who Framed Roger Rabbit (1988), Inglorious Basterds (2009), Attack of the Clones (2002), and Revenge of the Sith (2005)

𝐅𝐀𝐕𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒: His Dark Materials (2019-2022), Better Call Saul (2015-2022) & Breaking Bad (2008-2013), Hannibal (2013-2015), Love Death + Robots (2019-2022), and The Clone Wars (2008-2020)

𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐓 𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐆: Give it to Me // Northern Boys

𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐓 𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒: M*A*S*H (1972-1983)

𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐓 𝐌𝐎𝐕𝐈𝐄: Resident Evil Death Island (2023)

𝐂𝐔𝐑𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐋𝐘 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆: nothing; finished Fahrenheit 451 and haven't thought about what to tackle next.

𝐂𝐔𝐑𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐋𝐘 𝐖𝐀𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆: The Spiffing Brit (YouTube)

𝐂𝐔𝐑𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐋𝐘 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐍: GTA Secret Santa fanfiction 🙂