#but im also not as overwhelmingly positive as i seem
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#just realized im jumpy and cheery when im around people to the point where i could come off as a kind of emotional person#but like. most of it is just masking? like most of the time its just my trained response to what i think is a social cue#and trying to figure out tone based on how people talk. so i tend to add an excessively positive tone so that i don't come across as mean#but like. my natural self is a lot more subdued.#of course there are highs and lows and a lot of the time im just zoning out and forgetting anything or anyone exists#and usually when i am hyperactive it's less the stereotypical adhd jumpiness and more... anger and frustration#i get jittery and idk what im talking about and it's not. fun.#and because i feel like it takes this additional work to kind of... be around people i tend to really enjoy my time alone#and i also. kind of suck at making friends irl. i just cannot approach people first#anyway idrk where this was going but being on tumblr all these years n especially now that i have such wonderful friends here im realizing#that im actually not as introverted as i thought. im just discouraged at the thought of having to decipher shit out with people#im truly a yapper at heart xD#but im also not as overwhelmingly positive as i seem#i just want people to know i love them. even if i really do overcompensate to show it#yeah. some self awareness stuff ig#megumi in the tags
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i can't beelieve that people actually say "woke mind virus" like out loud for real unironically? it's like hearing someone say skibidi ohio rizz in the wild
#also im so sick of these sorts of reviews#i genuinely think if I didn't add pronoun labels to NPCs that APICO would have overwhelmingly positive#i didnt even think it was that big a deal at the time just seemed natural to do#they also always act so betrayed like I'd secretly hidden it and then they bought the game and then i dropped a curtain like#SURPRISE ITS THE GAYS#but no its literally in the second screenshot of the store page front and center#and its not like pronouns are inherently a queer thing but we all know thats what it's been turned into#but thats a whole other discussion#I've had to get a friend to come help be a moderator for steam forums now#because if i see another forum thread about it I'll lose it#just game dev things#just queer things#xoxo
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im gonna do a lil sadpost, as a treat. if u dun wanna read that or interact or anything there's no harm done <3 it kinda feels nice sayin stuff into the void tbh, cause i know as i look out ill always see myself at minimum, and im still thankful. im alive. if someone can relate or whatever then thats a neat bonus ★
I'm not super sure how to formulate these thoughts, cause lots of it is just incompressible /feeling/. I've been on HRT for close to two years now, and modifying my internal physical landscape alongside the work I put in with the ways I've learned sharing benefit so far, like therapy and self-directed exploration of my emotions and the simple but vital practice of being more open with others about how I'm feeling, has uncovered a lot.
It's been overwhelmingly positive in so many ways. I don't have any regrets for starting this set of changes, even with full knowledge of the difficulties I've had rise as a result and that more are on the horizon, and also full awareness in that I will need to continue putting in the *good* work to care for myself and learn how to navigate the parts in my mind I'd kept hidden or obscured for so long. It's not /bad/, I feel so grateful to have this opportunity at all and I feel bounteous joys in this trove of beautiful experiences that, up 'till not too long ago, I never thought I'd be able to experience -- though I absolutely still dreamed of having them so vividly.
I have a lot of good graces in my life re: my transition. In a lot of ways I feel I've been exceedingly lucky. Canada has its fair share of problems without a doubt, but I also know full well there are a lot more places on our planet where it's much more difficult to be openly trans, let alone dangerous or lethal. I don't take that as an opportunity to rest, either, because having cracks forming in the firmament, letting in light to my dream of a world where trans experiences are accepted (and to note most thoroughly, I'm learning more of a lot of cultures in days gone by, /including some aspects of my own heritage/, having extended gender representations ingrained in their societal norms, some as far even to revere the dynamic and unique experience of existing beyond the gender binary in whatever way they saw as such) for **everyone** spurs in me an even deeper and impassioned drive to work in the ways I'm able to foster communication and connection while rebuking hostility so more and more beautiful, valid trans folks can experience respite and respect and safety as well.
I'm not wanting necessarily to change minds and upend the posture of society with this particular post, though, and so I hope you'll forgive me in my expressing my small, localised set of emotions in this moment. At the root of everything I experience I'm starting to get better at reminding myself that I'm a valid *individual person* in addition to being a contributor in the push for good and kindness for all.
It's probably telling that I feel the need to offer ~4 paragraphs as a disclaimer that I spend time learning about the global scale and am effortful in enacting progress there before just getting on with what I'm even feeling sad about. I don't see myself as a holy martyr for being nervous about expressing myself, but it seems more and more common evidently rather than by my hypothesis alone that many trans individuals would get by prior to exploring their gendered identity with burgeoning self-acceptance with a marked self-exclusionary behaviour when it came to opening themselves to emotional experience, regardless of any given instance being gendered or not. Until it becomes unmanageable, it feels easier to lock away senses of joy, sadness, etc. cause you can keep gettin on by in a sort of functional state and you tell yourself thats enough.
This is far from the worst thing I've come across so far, but I am feeling confused and the confusion is unique in its own way to the extent that I'm not even able to pin down how I /feel/ about feeling it. At its heart I can't seem to muster the right formulation of words to explain to others these particular experiences I'm having in my transition. Painting in broad strokes can be such disservice to the nuance for any individual's cluster of experiences, but tumblr if anything *for me* has brought much happiness in finding threads of commonality with others. Stark contrasts to my feelings of loneliness and seclusion from the world around me give me so much hope. I'm writing this partly in hopes that there is another one of those threads people might appreciate seeing. I do more than my fair share of journaling, but this one feels special and worth sharing right now, and so decadently I write these words for a community beyond myself.
To be blunted, perhaps I might phrase it by saying 'i feel sad about being happy.' It's that sort of absurdist perspective that helps me wrap my head around it a little better with how little sense it makes to my normal machinations. I'm not sad that I am having these new and thrilling experiences of adding or or changing parts of myself to live in the way I best see fit for who I am, but I feel sad because I don't know how to.
I get locked up at the slightest things. Someone compliments my nails, and its so hard to communicate efficiently the impossibly depthed importance this literally surficial act has for me. They aren't even painted well, but I painted them /myself/, I felt catharsis in exploring my love of artistic expression in the choice of colours, I rode high on the thrill of watching this new skill form in my own hands. The coat is uneven and I can't quite keep myself from getting knicks in places as they dry yet and I'm still practicing the nail care associated with maintaining healthy and resilient nails, but if I can be so bold to say, god forbid women do anything.
This person obviously wasn't chastising me for partaking in a traditionally "femininely-associated act", let alone that so thoroughly most things people take for gendered in no way innately are, the whole binary supposition is a damned myth. But because of how I was brought up and the mindset I was taught to have before I fought to think for myself instead, this was a joy I'd always admired but felt I was abhorrent for wanting to partake in. Absolutely anyone who feels otherwise can irrevocably go fuck themselves if they aren't willing to examine the falsity of the foundational thoughts they 'think' they have leading them to ever want someone to abstain from such a viscerally unobstructive and innocuous form of self exploration and creativity bexause it's "for girls". This goes for anything. For anyone. Idc who you are or what label you wanna use at any given moment, go explore. Live life. God fuck do we need people to just experience joy in some ways so we aren't so incorrigible and hostile towards eachother.
But you don't stop whoever took 15 seconds out of their say to mention to you they like the colour and wanted you to know to discurse at length upon the structural bastardisation of who people are allowed to be, cause more than any of that I just want to feel happy about it.
I literally stutter out whatever form of thanks my malformed emotionally-communicative faculties can muster in this surprise and try not to start sobbing in the grocery store aisle or whatever. It's so /good/, and it's so frustrating that I don't even know how to just process and appreciate that it is.
I was so much an absentee in my own bodied self that I could not fathom an understanding of what gender euphoria was until it snuck up smashed me in the teeth. I didn't have any basis of understanding for what it was really like to be happy about some part of myself.
Despite my loneliness I have still had the experiences of friendships, people caring about me, and relationships where a partner genuinely appreciated parts of me, physical, mental, emotional, whatever. More now than ever I am having those experiences as I learn to come out of my cloister inside my head. But this time I'm not just numb to everything. Sure, as I'm learning to not just be unilaterally numb until my bastion of self-isolation fails and I break there is abundance of pain, but the pain I honestly prefer. It's more vivid than it's ever been before, but I can benchmark that I'm still alive by its contrast to neutrality. It's familiar, and my mechanisms of clutching my emotions into my soul can still carry me forward as I try to figure things out. But fuck me is it ever hard to have a happy experience and not know how to communicate that it tore my sense of stability in those moments to shreds. To lose the composure that carried me for so many years because someone sought to share something with me they thought I'd appreciate because they care about me feels so counterproductive to just enjoying the absolute gift that experience is.
Abstractly, as I'm wont to do to a remarkably self-apparent fault, I can tell myself that these things take time. Human emotion is so complex, and its panoply of shifting lights glinting as the facets move their positioning relative to the light of being alive is what drives me to do art, and it always has been, contradictory so fully to my desire to lock everything away. I can't circumnavigate multiple decades of trauma and be free and unfettered in my senses in an instant just because I'm aware it's possible. And so I try so fucking hard not to just sit down and cry in that grocery store aisle, cause it hurts so bad to be happy.
How dare I find glints of good in the polluted landscape we live in. But that mindset helps nothing. People striving to live amidst turmoil is what makes life worth living. There will always be strife, but there will always be the possibility for hope alongside it.
Without fail, each night I'll self-soothe myself into a mode of somewhat-restfulness imagining what it would be like to trust myself enough to be imperfect and let someone hold me. It's the only thing I do anymore. It even backfires sometimes and I just waking-dream my way through countless blissful scenarios about what it would be like if that cute girl I've been starting to become friends with mentioned she wanted to hold my hand for hours until the sun comes up and I know I won't have any sleep at all. It's so goddamn worth it. I revel in it, because at least in the theatre of my mind I can find small ways of letting myself feel those joys. They aren't really happening. It's my own hand rubbing a thumb gently along my collarbone in a faux affection. But it's the only way I've found that's not so obstructively blinding in intensity for me to practice what it would be like to be close to others.
I still lose my sense of self so often. I find bruises from where I bumped into things and wholesale didn't notice until the tiredness sets in and I can't autonomously ignore how sore I am. I dive effortlessly into the placid waters of dissociation when someone gives me a hug, despite that being what I have dreamed of for so many years during my self-imposed isolation. Someone tells me they like an art piece I've made and I stopper any sense of pride or appreciation for their kind words despite pouring however much time channeling my slowly uncoiling understanding of reality into every particle of it and wishing that my experiences could convey any amount of any feeling whatsoever to another living being with the entirely selfish act of wanting that I feel like I had a real connection.
I can't get by with chainsmoking and shelf-set pain medications and blind ignorance any more. I can't ignore how badly I want to feel. I am figuring it out instant by instant and it scares me horribly. One day my yearnings for closeness will be actualised because I'll be ready to open when they come. My selfsense-extracted mutterings of the hypothetical joys of being pressed down into sheets and kissed because someone deigned to gift me with attention for they hold appreciation of this newly forming, ill-configured, but ultimately revelatory feminine self I'm becoming will no longer be fiction and prose but the rawness of experience that I, once, and then more, can lose myself into without terror thay I'm inadequate and never truly worth it. Someone will touch my breasts and love me for loving them myself and I'll give in to the annihilating instant where I am no longer a sense of self but just am. This body is not me but my, and I will scrape and fight however I can muster to live vicariously thru it because that is what I am meant to do by being here alive at all. If anything ever again I want to feel what love is like.
I'm not even reading this back to see if it conveys properly let alone makes sense at all. I'm exhausted and in so much pain. If you read this, thanks, and, if you can, go hug someone you love today.
#acceptance#love#kindness#affection#expression#long post#tldr#hope#trans#transgender#trans femme#trans girl#transition#hrt#hormones#mtf#pride#self love
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It’s time for another doll review!
today, i’m unboxing venus mcflytrap, the newest in the series of core students for monster high g3. she’s been showing up in targets sporadically, though my targets tend to be late on the pickup so i ended up ordering her for delivery as soon as she was up on the website.
she was delivered a few days early and i sent her to my moms house, so i was dying to go back there to open her up for those few days. here’s her in box! she’s quite tall, though without an abbey to compare im not sure if she’s about the same size as her?
freed from the box! once again the star jar is my prop-up instead of a proper stand, though venus is actually sturdy enough to stand on her own without too much trouble.
of course we’ll take a look at the shoes. g3 loves a gradient boot, and i’m a fan here. the look like concrete planters before they fade to pink, and the teeth are just hilarious.
the vines are rubbery and removable. the bottoms of them have a peg that secures them to the boots.
another detail i wanted a close up on is venus’s molded vine details. i love that g3 is going more in with the monsterey details, and these are awesome. they peek out just above her mismatched legging pieces
the face: venus’s mold and makeup are both great. instead of the shaved side of her g1 version, she has molded braids, which still give her that asymmetrical look. her ear mold also has a leaf look to it as well. her hair is some kind of yarn, i believe. i’m not sure how durable the ends are, though, so i may see if there’s a need to seal them to preserve them. (in addition, one minor defect i have seen people have with their venus rooting is that the larger yarn plugs seem to sometimes tear her scalp slightly, so it may be something to check for if you’re buying her in person.) i’m a very big fan of the black features they’ve added to venus this generation, which i think has been the general consensus on her design that i’ve seen online. her reception has been overwhelmingly positive, and she is the doll that has many people warming up to g3. and id have to agree! i’m a little picky with what dolls i want (unless they’re draculaura dolls, lol) and she was an instant note on my wantlist as soon as those stock photos were out.
accessories! venus comes with a clear open backpack, icoffin, energy bar, water bottle, a hair product bottle (if someone knows specifically what product it is please let me know, im not sure off the top of my head), sunglasses shaped like venus flytraps (of course) and her pet, chewlian.
chewlian is well… definitely a pet! he does come out of the pot, though. i said this in a previous review, i think core lagoonas, but i’m continually baffled and amused at the ability of g3 to turn every pet into a dog or cat version of it. while the pets have never been a draw for me, this is just comical. i think i’ll stick by a previous joke i made that chewlian just ate someone’s dog, and that’s why he looks like that.
the backpack can hold one (1) chewlian or all of her other accessories. something about the way this backpack sits on her or the silhouette or something is awesome to me, i love it a lot. it’s super cute, and i want to display her with the bag instead of storing the backpacks like i usually do.
one last little thing, while i don’t have abbey, my draculauras, or even twyla to compare her too, i think venus is about abbey height, though i think she’s got a slimmer body and hips. here’s her next to frankie. venus also uses the clawed hand mold.
of course, we have to have the obligatory .5 shot
and that’s venus! one last note i want to make is there’s been a lot of fomo around her, but i want to remind people she is going to be widely available as abbey and clawd are. she is going to stick around for a long time compared to other lines, so there’s no need to pay scalper prices for her (i know i say this as someone who bought her as soon as i could, but that was as soon as i could for strictly retail price. i’m just saying i get it, lol.)
i also recognize that that’s a bit america-centric, but she also did start showing up in person in the UK before the US, so hopefully her international release isn’t as frustrating as other lines and characters.
thanks for reading! big g3 venus fan now and forever, and i’m excited to see her eventually show up in other lines, too!
#dux doll tag#dux doll review#monster high#monster high g3#venus mcflytrap#long post#im so obsessed with her like actually
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i rlly kinda need fat liberation or body positivity or whatever to be so so so So much better about includong masculine folks in their resources and conversations.
ive rarely been femme even before i knew i wasnt a woman so its not like ive really had a bountiful access to fat resources aimed towards femme folks but god damn i have felt my options shrink even smaller the less comfortable i am with femme aimed resources and how out of place my body seems within so many of those spaces and resources. ESPECIALLY ones that can accomodate my trans body, tits (that i don't hate! and don't foresee going anywhere anytime soon!) and all.
i know how few plus sized clothing brands there are (not even getting into affordable + ethically made etc etc) but if the ones that exist its an OVERWHELMINGLY femme aligned majority that i feel miserable wearing without a lot of extra styling and modification work. or the amount of masc clothes in stock at plus size resale stores vs femme clothes. or if i am looking for style inspiration or folks speaking about fat liberation finding fit insp for fat women is easy! but i have a much smaller pool of fat masculine folks (who i treasure dearly!) that ive found and return to their content regularly because its so valuable to me because its often hidden under content that, while important, has limited usefulness for me
i find this extra prevalent in body positivity spaces, where it often feels like resources and information is shared with the assumption that its been shared to other femme folks and women without specifying that is who its usefulness is aimed towards. what triggered this post right now (although its honestly always lurking around the corner, watch out if you have a single conversation with me about fat liberation) was a post about body positivity where someone shared a resource of a website where you can put in your height, weight, other info and see people who might look like you (and make it easier to appreciate their body where you find it difficult to appreciate your own). and i thought thats a cool resource! i dont get to see people who look like me, hardly ever! lets check it out!
unfortunately what wasnt included was that the subtitle for this site is "what real women look like" so while there wasn't any info stating identities of the people shown on the photos, of the few i clicked through they all were femme and while they looked great, i didnt see anyone who i felt looked like me to get what i hoped out of that site. this would have been fine if the person had posted it had stated its target audience up front, but this isnt the first time, and wont be the last time, that i got excited about a resource only to learn it actually has very little that applies to me.
if you are someone who shares content about fat liberation, PLEASE consider how much content and resources you share that can be utilized by your masculine followers as well - and at the very least, please don't state something as universally beneficially if its not. i understand why there is such a focus on this considering the history of beauty standards applied to femme folks (and more). however im unlearning those too and now also dealing with new ones as i transition that are far less talked about and i just ask we give some space for fat men, masculine people, butches and more to also create space to deal with these struggles within fat liberation spaces. especially especially especially for fellow folks larger than small fats because the need only grows.
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YES! EXACTLY! nymphia is an actual ray of sunshine and pj always look at her with such adoration in her eyes <33 they’re very close, i think everyone around them can see that. even pj in one of her subscription chats said that only nymphia (and mirage) are her besties :’))
(if any artist is interested in drawing that moment, it was for the m&g in Chile, in case they want to draw them in the clothes they were actually wearing 👀)
nymphia is insanely more beautiful in person and i’m still shocked how pj have the sweetest eyes i’ve ever seen 😵💫 she seems intimidating on screen but she’s a literally angel on earth
i could scream. thank u for this… i am devouring the details…. i love that their closeness is so evident - that’s clear through the internet, but i love that it’s so obvious irl :’) plus nymphia IS such ray of sunshine, i can’t imagine anyone not being completely enamored by her!
i’m sure they r both overwhelmingly pretty irl…i cannot even imagine. i also love that u had such a positive experience with peej…. from what i’ve gleaned from the 1st class passengers chat on insta (which…i do pay to lurk in LMAOOO) there r a lot of really sweet interactions with fans.. always seems happy to say hi to ppl :’) i know after she missed the m&g for toronto pride she stayed after to take pics with every person who asked, which is nice of her :( cute stuff, im so so happy u had a good time anon :’)
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HIHI CHRIS!!!!! IM BUSY SO ITLL PROBS TAKE ME A WHILE TO REPLY TO THIS but may I req ∅ w Ashi??? 👀
[Ask game]
Cloche’ thoughts on…
Ashi
“I can’t say Master Ashi is a friend… but we get can along.”
• Cloche is very lukewarm about Ashi. She doesn’t harbour a strong like or dislike, as Ashi seems to be one of the more normal individuals— albeit a little too overwhelmingly energetic for Cloche. Despite this, Cloche commends Ashi’s cheerfulness, and respects the strength she has to never show a frown. Admittedly, Cloche thought Ashi’s bubbling positivity to be annoying at first, until after noticing how… static it was. As a skeptic who hates leaving stones unturned, Cloche can’t help but feel like there’s something more.
• Another artist, huh? Cloche would follow Ashi’s art account on Magicam (or whichever social media). She’d enjoy being able to converse with another artist and ask for Ashi’s thoughts on things, regarding designs or palette choices. Cloche is also intrigued in what Ashi would bring to the table. Each artist has their own interpretation after all.
• Cloche doesn’t mind seeing Ashi and Ace show off a little in public. Key word, a little. With Binding Bells, Cloche can feel like a third-wheel when she’s not even in their vicinity.
• In the end, if Cloche takes Ashi at face value and dismisses her own suspicions, Ashi’s lack of a concise opinion tick her off a little. She can understand how there may be some “go with the flow” kinds of people who genuinely doesn’t mind doing anything, but Cloche thinks the ambiguity is a hindrance that may slow down or complicate communication.
“That’s a nice pen colour you have there, Master Ashi.”
#it’s finally here !!!#I wonder what cloche is showing her#twisted wonderland#twst#twst oc#oc: cloche🎊#ashi tamadai#mutuals 🎊#ask 🎊#ask game#ask meme#oc ask#oc ask meme#oc ask game#oc interactions#cat scribblez 🌸
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hiii i hope ur having a great dayyy i would like to participate in ur tarot game <3
my initials are rm, im a libra sun, pisces moon and gemini rising
im choosing two and eight
also im super obsessed with ur whole aesthetic and account !! I love ittt and im definitely turning the notifications on bc ur last post was EVERYTHING
thank u for the game <<33
hi sanny🤭 apologies for the long ass wait bae and tysm for your super kind words! hope this resonates mwah
no. 2🍹 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐱𝐮𝐚𝐥 𝐝𝐲𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐜
🃏6op. 6os. 6ow. the lovers. justice. ideation. comfort. fear.
the sexual dynamic between the both of y’all feels safe and comforting, it’ll be gentle and adoring despite passion’s intensity. bedroom pleasure is soft, very baby or vanilla ice cream—sweet but not overwhelmingly. y’all leave the impression of doing for each other instead of simply just doing, there’s appreciation over the bond before and above everything else. actions that apply to this sentiment could be fluffing pillows for a better prop up, massaging shoulders or feet, whispering love affirmations, washing each other’s bodies after etc. self care is a ritual when it comes to sexual regime, but with the number 6 (virgo’s house in astro, schedule and routine) being prominent in the cards y’all could practice self care religiously.
y’all will spoil each other for sure, the 6op indicates that this connection will include balance or give and receive. very libra energy, the scales are even when it comes to y’all’s happiness and pleasure together (ideation in this sense). this can symbolize shopping for sex toys together, suggesting new positions for both partners (think 69), deciding to spend longer in bed for another round, etc. because i sense saturn’s presence a bit im guessing that this type of solidification was earned. there’s restriction around either intimacy or relationships, maybe love in general? it’s even possible all three could’ve caused a delay in having sex, or at least withheld it longer than intended. the fear card represents that, but it seems to heal whenever y’all are together.
✞
no. 8🍸 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐞
🃏 knaveoswords. 8op. knightocups↺. the tower↺. stop. pain↺. balance↺.
drink number eight is my favorite and this is exactly why lmao. before i even started writing, “come run your hands through my hair” and “that’s why it’s there” was a constant. these are lyrics from ariana grande’s song “my hair” and this translates into someone being a ‘lip bite, finger plunge into their scalp to keep from screaming’ person—on the occasion it’ll be yours too. it keeps them from acting clinically insane, i even heard “outrageous”. tossing their head backwards with a stifled moan, or blowing out tufts (tufts) of air before pulling their lip into their mouth. this fs is someone that tends to present themselves as grounded even if they actually aren’t, they’re not a fan of the vulnerable or weak state at all. it’s the same when it comes to sex, if not stronger, so an idgaf war is bound to happen (they’ll lose drastically).
animated or expressive faces are here, but with a piscean nature to them (emotional, deep thought). them being in pleasure is the literal textbook definition of being in awe, just add knitted brows and a slack jaw instead. their pupils will be blown as well, half-lidded and fucked to pieces because “wow”—it’s resemblant of a puppy’s, when they’re either shining with sadness or gleaming with excitement. 8op here, this person has a (specific) quirk that they’ll act on to keep from releasing early. for example, there’s this p-star that i (used to) watch and his restraint tactic was biting the side of his finger so he wouldn’t cum. your partner has that same habit, except it’ll be during a certain act (oral, kissing, foreplay etc). this person is prob sensitive hence the need to retain composure.
with the tower being a major arcana card (catalysts, major events in life), this fs will always have a buildup of emotions when they’re experiencing gratification. “getting worked on” came in, this could def point to them receiving head especially since i mentioned that they’re prone to sensitivity (could be down there specifically). this also means explosive orgasms or “big” finishers, moments that’ll leave them shaking or clenching. “tumultuous.” it starts off quiet then ends off loud, or strong in their case. it’s literally reminiscent of an actual tower falling, the slow crumble before it comes crashing down.
✞
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noel changed from being social to private because of parasocial fans and the one that can’t accept he’s not gay but married to a woman. same thing goes for noel. @ anon i don’t know how long you’ve been following him but due to him leaving after s5 there was so much drama happening. everyone in the cast commented on socials and fought with fans that harassed the cast for not bringing back noel (as if it’s in their power) i think cameron would have smacked everyone in the face if he could have, he really was having none of it (which is why i was very surprised he returned for s10/11 and noel too.) it puts everyone in a very awkward position. noel seems very down to earth and i guess the moment he realised he can’t use socials like he’s talking to many friends, he stopped using it cause anything he would say or do was met with nasty comments towards him, his wife, complaining about gallavich deleted scenes, their actual scenes, out of characters moments etc. even tho he might love that character im sure he would like to focus on other things without being reminded about one role for the rest of his life. i don’t blame him if i were him i would have flipped a long time ago. it’s silly to say but he’s older than the original main cast and his acting roles have always been chill (fame wise) so he’s just your usual guy that who likes to chill and joke around, the moment it becomes too much you take a step back, that’s all to it. i really don’t think he has the will or patience to care about the negativity he gets online, he reads a lot and spends his time in the garden and working out (for what we have gathered) honestly his life seems pretty cool this way. take his 40th birthday pictures, the moment cameron shared layla ones or her with noel everyone went insane saying she’s always attached to him and being angry about the cam/noel moments being ruined. he can’t even enjoy his birthday with the people he love that he’s going to be judged. for his clothes, his hair, the way he ages. i’m also confident layla archived so many pictures of the two together cause of rude comments. they need to be respected as we truly don’t know anything about them so experiencing something that awful and deciding to take a step back to focus on what’s in front of you seem the best idea. (not that im not sad we don’t see his face or his funny jokes like back in the days, but i would rather have him chilling at home than stressing over anything not important)
This is a topic that comes up a lot—the Shameless fandom being a volatile, toxic horde that attacked everyone and essentially sent Noel into hiding. However, the show has been off the air for years. The emotional levels aren't running nearly as high anymore. Not even close.
People do say rude things on his posts, especially the ones with Layla, but the comments on most others are overwhelmingly positive. What you're reading and reacting to is stuff that's said on accounts and platforms Noel isn't visiting. For example, clothes, hair, and the way he ages. That's all content restricted to spaces he doesn't see.
Anyway, it's absolutely his right to scale back on social media. Elise, Kate, Isidora, Emmy, Steve, Bill, Dennis... a lot of the Shameless core cast is similarly silent on instagram most of the time and they don't seem to catch flack for it (that we see). I can't speak for their fans, but I'm thinking they're just not nearly as rabid a bunch as we are.
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Shoreline Cafe - In the land…
In the mood for a latte, american breakfast, and skipping class, I (guiltily) dragged julian to shoreline cafe before (during) class a wednesday morning.
Being one of the only walkable food spots in the cc area, (who knows when sushi gogo will return?) It is a frequented cafe of ours.
Staffed by what seems like exclusively twenty-something college students, Shoreline Cafe usually offers iffy service, but good food.
It’s best feature is easily the view, being literally beachside but nicely protected from the sun, wind, and sand.
Starting with our quintessential espresso, we both got vanilla lattes. Mine oat, of course. Truly unbelievable that julian didn't get a mocha. Really solid flavor, but not jaw dropping. We have previously had their hot lattes, also great. Interestingly, always served in a different style of cup.
Moving onto the mains, i got the two egg breakfast. julian got the chilaquiles. A bit sloppy on the presentation of mine but not a huge concern. I am a huge fan of full breakfasts, i love just picking at like five different things. It's hard to mess up toast, but it was good. The potatoes were also great, cooked well and seasoned beautifully, crunchy but soft inside. The sausage is positively to die for, at least for me. I could have eaten a plate of like, twenty sausage patties. The eggs were... Eggs. Never my favorite, but I smothered them with ketchup.
As mentioned before, service here can be a bit spotty. It seems the waiters disappear for decent chunks of time. They're all kind, but julian and I were sitting at the table, plates very obviously demolished, for a good 20-30 minutes sans check. Eventually it arrived, pretty standard prices around $25 per person.
All in all, I do love the shoreline cafe. Something about it, perhaps the sunshine, feels comforting. Food is actually good, and worth the ok service. I will continue to look forward to more irresponsible breakfasts.
★★★ 1/2 / 5
Until next time,
pj
Read julian's thoughts on his food below ⬇️
shoreline cafe on its own is just a fine little thing that i probably wouldnt go out of my way to eat at if given the choice but paired with a morning college class that im too tired to attend and a cripplingly empty stomach (plus pjs manipulation) my brain suddenly turns it into the most gourmet and extravagant of meals i could possibly ingest. pjs on the money when it comes to the slow service but if you get a seat on the deck its not really much of an issue considering the gorgeous view of the beach and ocean that keeps you occupied, only really becomes a problem if you show up with your stomach acid already burning a hole through your abdomen like we do. i always try and spot some dolphins or something on the horizon but theyve never come, only boring shit like seagulls and swimmers but still pretty beautiful nonetheless.
ive always gotten a burger or something else lunch-oriented every time weve gone here but this time i decided to switch it up and got chilaquiles instead to prove to everyone in the restaurant that i was a #realmexican despite my light skin and broken spanish. the chilaquiles came with eggs and a bowl of fruit which was appreciated, i typically prefer a fried or over easy egg on top of them but i got scrambled in case they were on the side and they were. no big deal just not really my preference, i guess i couldve asked the waiter to put them on top but like i dont know i didnt really want to inconvenience them. like i didnt want to be that guy who asks for the eggs on top yknow. and then the chefs are all annoyed cause they gotta put the eggs on top for the little gay kid skipping class. anyways besides that the chilaquiles were good, not the best ive ever had but still good. liked the salsa had a kick but not overwhelmingly spicy either. the little fruit cup was a welcome addition it had pineapple in it and im not the biggest fan of pineapple but any fruit with breakfast is good to me.
overall shoreline cafe isnt really all that on its own but if youre a student looking to kill time or just down by the beach in general and wanting to grab a bite then its not a bad pick, even just for the view alone. id give it 3 and a half stars.
thats the facts,
julian
Shoreline Cafe: 3.5 ★
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Hey totally normal couple of posts you just made there but also WHAT. COULD I HAVE A CRUMB OF CONTEXT THAT IS SO FUCKING FUNNY DUDE
Ahsmaksnk alright I was planning to just say shit without context but since you asked for it, prepare to hear about the worst fucking person!
So context for this story, Thomas Sanders has been struggling with a skin condition that has (among other things) been causing him to lose his hair. He's made a couple of videos, the most recent one coming with the announcement that he was shaving his hair off and changing a few other things about his look as a way to feel more confident in himself. I will say that the reactions I've seen from most fanders has been overwhelmingly positive and I'm getting the impression that he's been much happier since
And I only find this because I'm looking the roleslaying with roman tag, and certain fanders have the unfortunate tendency to tag unrelated Thomas Sanders stuff with the roleslaying tag
So he did a photoshoot with the new look recently. And I find edits of the photo shoot to put his old hairstyle back on, with a caption like "I think the old hair really ties it together 😍".
This is pretty damn insensitive and I have a tendency to go fucking feral when people are assholes about hair so naturally I go to the roleslaying server to bitch about this. Apparently I'm not the only one who's encountered this person, because I didn't even say a url before everyone is like "ugh god this fucking person".
So we're all morbidly fascinated by this person and we start looking through their blog. It's fucking vile in there. Just a whole lot of "wow Thomas is so sexy" coupled with "his new hair is gonna make me stop loving him :/" to make it really clear that they apparently think of him more as an object rather than a person with the right to look how he wants.
Turns out that they've been told directly that this is making Thomas uncomfortable and they haven't stopped. Their response to being criticised about this is genuinely hilarious. It includes some real gems like "I know it may seem like my love is conditional but it's not" (do you know the meaning of conditional) and "I just have some genuine concerns and criticisms" (you don't get to have genuine concerns about other peoples bodies) and "im not body shaming him" (this is absolutely body shaming. Honestly after hes been so vulnerable about his hair I'd say its worse than those other people) and "fanders can't handle even the slightest criticism towards Thomas 🙄" (maybe a fair criticism but what you're doing here is not criticism at all it's just being an asshole)
Apparently they got cancer as a kid or something and thought they were gonna lose their hair, so they get triggered by other people shaving their hair. And there was something about being afraid of change in there too. They described in great detail about how Thomas shaving his hair left them hyperventilating, and how when their irl crush said she wanted to shave her hair they kept dropping hints about how much they hated the idea until she left.
Honestly I'm concerned about them, other people's hair should not be leaving you this distressed. Like they need some help and I don't mean that in the "I don't like them so I'm gonna make jokes about them going to therapy way" I mean that entirely genuinely. I'd feel worse for them if they weren't such an asshole about it though. Like idgaf about your sob story if you're using it to justify asserting your own desires about how someone looks above their comfort and boundaries
Anyway yeah that's the reason I'm never gonna think about the silly fight with the bald guys in the same way every again. I mean I'm exaggerating but yeah
#tbh i think this person really upset me i couldnt sleep last night bc i was thinking about Hair Stuff#i was in a thinking about my hair mood (terrible and the worst) anyway and this probably didn't help#ask#uhh how do i even tag this??#ts discourse#love how often im using that tag considering i have it blocked#making this unrebloggable bc i dont really want it to spread at all
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hope you dont mind me chiming in, this just really resonates with what ive been thinking about lately. partly about the ways that somehow the (overwhelmingly het) narrative about "sucks that women have to take care of mens emotional needs in unfair unequal ways" has shifted to "fuck men and fuck taking care of people" instead of "relationships of all platonic and nonplatonic stripes should work on being more recipricol" which doesnt make sense to me. (and also some unarticulated thoughts about how it doesnt seem to factor in the ways that gay men, and other gender-weird men dont dont do the het relationship dependecy and are Also incredibly lonely and struggle to work out how to be social with each other. ive been out for ~12 ish years, on t for over 7 yrs, but still read weird gender-wise, both for fag reasons but also inescapable trans-body reasons, which gives me a weird position to see 1) how i get read changes drastically on the smallest changes in context 2) seeing overlapping trans issues w/ the social in-and-apart-from how much nontrans gay mascs of varying genders struggle in the social and lonliness areas) i also think there's an added layer of Trans, where, because gender is so baked into every single social interaction, even if people ARE cool about trans people, theyre also often unsure and uncomfortable. so you get the male-lonliness plus the all-gender trans lonliness.
& whats one of the hardest things, in my experience, are the ways that people (especially, in my experience, women who used to be in solidarity with me-as-a-girl) resent trans men for transitioning.... despite the fact that. being trans of any stripe is a marginalized gender. still more in common than not. the terf-lite "betrayer" narrative is really hard for people to square with, i think. the shift of being taught to be loud & stop apologizing as a feminist, but then, when i stayed the same but suddenly had a deeper voice and more hair, i actually need to be quiet--doesnt make sense? also feels alienating and increases self-reflective censorship.
slightly off course maybe but. hmm. the older i get the more im attuned to the narratives cis people have set up to Allow transness. relegating trans women to Traditional Womanhood (evil hypervisible pedestal) and men to Traditional Masculinity (deragotory, be silent) even though like... marginalized genders continue to have more in common with each other than not, including lack of social support. and i think we (trans people) repeat a lot of it (at least i have, and im trying to train myself out of it) because as a trans person, you want to be good! theres a lot riding on you, representationally, in the face of transphobia, to be seen as Being Good by cis standards. even when cis standards dont fit for trans people--and honestly dont fucking fit for cis people either it seems.
there was a take on my dash earlier that was basically 'wdym men aren't allowed to talk about their feelings, all men do is talk about their feelings, have you ever heard A Podcast, what loneliness epidemic shut the fuck up about it'
and yes, being a woman in Society is worse and more limiting in any number of ways, but as a trans man I gotta say I didn't understand just how bad and lonely it is for men until I transitioned.
it was really eye-opening seeing the way people reacted to me changing. friends I had previously exchanged emotional support with became more closed off. strangers became more indifferent or cautious. this is beyond the transphobic response of losing family and friends because I was trans - this was because even the people who were supportive of my transition had a set response for how to treat men in their head, and were acting according to that. and as someone who transitioned late and got to go through Sexism Hell, I can't fault that avoidance and arm's length distance.
still, at the same time, transitioning has been the loneliest thing I've ever done, and it feels taboo to say that in no small part because of 'lol who cares about men' narratives. it's been to the point where I've questioned whether I should have transitioned at all, now that I've smacked face-first into this wall. I can't imagine what it would have been like to grow up with it. I probably would have made a podcast as well just to talk to somebody without feeling like I was inflicting my presence on the unwilling.
I dunno. the further I get into transition, the more :S I feel about 'men need to shut up' narratives, but maybe that's just male privilege coming into play. maybe this is a post that should have stayed unposted because it's just a man whining about his feelings! but I've been having ~trans feels~ about this for a while now so it gets to go on my blog.
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hmm if i do this im gonna NEED to have a space to put together zine bundles huh...
#im excited! i found a printing service that has overwhelmingly positive reviews#and seems fairly cheap overall?#AND i also found a service to do charms/pins/stickers through as well#cj.txt#look out world ladybug zine coming after the holidays
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Hey bestie (can I call you that?) have you ever been through the anti-byler tag, not the like mikhail posts or anything, but actual anti-byler stuff? what did you think? it made me rather sad :( like i get we can be really opinionated but that doesn't make us delusional or obsessed
you guys are all my besties so yes ofc <3
first of all, im so sorry to hear it made you sad! be sure to look after yourself <3 watch something happy, spend time w friends/fam/pets, read some fluff, hang out in the byler tag and post some memes with us :-)
yes omg…….i went in it once like a month ago……..honestly, the arguments lacked compassion and were also weak af just narratively, the vibes were really annoying and bad so i forgot most of what i saw LOL !!
the main thing i saw was that 1. bylers are misogynistic towards el, 2. bylers are making something out of nothing essentially, and 3. that it’s unhealthy for will to be so attached to mike and he needs to move on.
i laughed so hard at these arguments when i saw them bc i’m a walking contradiction of all 3:
1. i didn’t give af about byler till s4v2, because literally all i cared about was el and nancy and max and joyce……i adore the female characters on this show w my entire soul……….so bylers being misogynistic? my lie detector test determined that was a lie !
2. i didn’t even know byler was a ship that existed till s4, and the only reason i noticed it was bc while watching s4, mike and will had several romantic moments LOL……the duffers byler’d me! i wasn’t searching for an mlm ship and grasping at straws just to make that happen, which is what a lot of antis seem to think we’re doing (aaand the tone with which they express that is often homophobic/condescending).
3. before i was a critical thinker i kinda agreed with this i guess?………but then i rewatched s1&2, and watched the van scene & milk monologue. so basically, i’m convinced antis just do not watch the show. mike’s love for will is already life affirming as it stands, even pre requited feelings—“you make (me) feel like i’m better for being different.” aka mike literally makes will feel okay about being different and being gay when no one else in the show has made him feel that way outside of joyce & jonathan. that’s amazing, and i’d argue that mike has an overwhelmingly positive effect on will 24/7 (except during their fights). he defends him against homophobic bullies in s1 even when he’s not around. he never leaves his side in s2. even in s3, once he learns the mindflayer is back, he drops everything and becomes the Party leader again all bc he trusted what will told him. and in s4, we find out that he makes will feel good about being different. please lmk what’s unhealthy about that.
sorry this is so long, but in conclusion: you’re correct, we are not delusional or obsessed. we are just enjoyers, and smart watchers, of media :-) much love my dear !!!!! <3
#byler#narrative tag#<- look thru that tag if u need encouragement btw#byler positivity#<- also just started this one
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Anon pls.
Ye for anyone worried, just go on twitter and look up the #unchartedmovie . People are loving the movie. I'm a part of an uncharted subreddit, I've been a fan of the games for years, and it was filled with skeptical people that hated to movie coming out and im so pleased to see their reviews in the subreddit and the average is about a 7.5/10. Theyre quite happy with it and like tom at lot. Its sully I see consistent complaints about. That's why it's so funny seeing these critics complain about the casting and say gamers should skip it because I'm a part of said community and for the most part they like it. Which just goes to show toms star power. The way his casting was the most hated but he proved a lot of people wrong is incredible. The movie was good for an action movie but I genuinely mean it when I say tom was the glue. If he didn't star in it, it would have been a completely different boring movie but his charisma and charm just draws people in. What makes it even more impressive is how he outshines Mark who once was a boxoffice darling. Those kinds of actors are going extinct and although we will have to wait on the boxoffice, it seems he might by one of the few boxoffice movie stars Hollywood's produced wince Jennifer lawerence. Also i think its important that fans have their expectations realistic. We're still in a pandemic and just cause NWH did amazing doesn't mean cinemas are back to normal. Nwh is an anomaly. Anyone who is savy the the boxoffice rn will know if it gets $250M thats a great success which i know a lot of fans will be upset by. BLockbusters breaking even right now is an achievement in itself and then sony will continue to make money through their ad placements in the movie, car commercials, increased game purchases and selling their slots to streamers/vod after its theatrical run. Sorry to bore but I've seen some of his fans with way too high expectations when it comes to boxoffice
therealc3 asked:
About the Uncharted reviews: I actually didn’t/don’t expect much from it beyond an entertaining time so the reviews are consistent with that. It’s still early (only 19 people at time of writing on RT) but I think critics reviews have actually been more mixed rather than “negative” as people keep trying to emphasize. I think it’s because some critics have been giving a score as it relates to being a great movie rather than if they enjoyed watching it. Unlike looking at just the scores I’ve actually been READING the reviews and they are pretty overwhelmingly saying it’s entertaining AND Tom is great in it. Similarly, Venom isn’t a great movie (imo) and is scored pretty low on RT but audiences (and I) were entertained and Tom Hardy is great in it so its audience score is higher. Time will tell once the AUDIENCE reviews roll in more. I just hope that the negative critics review SCORE don’t deter people from seeing the movie for themselves and deciding. It’s been annoying people eager to see Tom & Uncharted to fail run with “Tom Holland’s Uncharted is a fail! Or people hate it and it’s panned by critics!” when it’s actually barely been reviewed by many and they say it’s entertaining and Tom’s good in it.
moi:
I’ve seen plenty of positive reviews on Twitter, IMDb, and Google... and I especially loved seeing the change of heart on Reddit.
After appearing on their 500 podcast, Empire did Tom dirty. x It’s a shame gamers may forego seeing Uncharted in the theater because of these types of reviews. If so, hopefully the audience’s reviews will change their minds.
I agree Uncharted is a popcorn flick and should be reviewed as such. Last time I checked, RT was up to 21 reviews with a 48% average. Hopefully that will change once the movie is released in additional locations and there are more reviews, but if it doesn’t, I’m optimistic we can count on the audience to do better.
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Dove
Part 2 of 2 of The Locked Door Series
Rating: Explicit
Word Count: 19.7K i apologize for NOTHING
Warnings: DUBCON ELEMENTS, SMUUUUUUT, religion kink, virgin kink, authority kink, degradation kink, praise kink, age gap, ohhhhh the list goes on y’all been here long enough
A/N: I have nothing to say for myself this time im sorry
***
Obi-Wan feels like he’s going to be sick.
Dinner in the grand hall was difficult enough, forking down mouthfuls of expensive food he’s sure was absolutely marvelous, if he could’ve tasted it. The s’Ziscari clearly splurged on the celebrations—expensive food, expensive decor, expensive everything, down to the silk napkin he studied and fiddled with under the table as he awkwardly waited for you to finish your plate.
He felt uncomfortable, absolutely. He’s felt uncomfortable ever since he shuffled into this blasted, Maker forsaken robe not long after he left your quarters earlier.
Not black, no. Not like yours. Not like what appears to be an overwhelmingly vast majority of the people he’s encountered so far this dreadful evening.
No, his robes are blue.
A strong, eye-catching royal blue, covering his body in waves of fabric—softer than anything he’s ever worn before and leaving him feeling incredibly exposed. The far more practical robes he traded for these atrocious garments are made of a thick, scratchy wool, a testament to the Jedi’s philosophical rejection of fine or expensive materials. And, against all logic—to somehow make matters even worse, the sash tying this uncomfortable piece of attire closed has no place to clip his saber, unlike the leather belt he usually wears. As a consequence, he’s left simply carrying it around by his side.
Granted, for some unknown reason, his robes are still far thicker and longer and more protective than the… stars, the ultra-thin black silk wrapped around your body, but Obi-Wan is so self-conscious about his appearance that he’s not even allowing himself to look at you. Obviously that doesn’t stop him from refusing to leave your side the entire night, and he finds himself rather grateful that only a very few number of s’Ziscari are fluent in Basic, if only to provide him with a valid excuse to socially detach.
Of the very few people he’s noticed wearing robes resembling his, they’re all far younger than him—much closer to your age than Obi-Wan’s, and stars, everything about this celebration is unbelievably unnerving to him—including, if not most of all, your response to it. One of the reasons he knows the food was grand, apart from the immaculate plating and lavish dinnerware of course, is because you momentarily excused yourself from the seat next to him to dish yourself out a second helping.
Even now, even in the skybox seats of this distressingly packed arena, Obi-Wan struggles to keep down what little food he could eat while you stand tall next to him and seem completely unbothered by the situation—and by the Maker, it bothers him. He isn’t used to this. He’s used to you being the emotionally turbulent one, the one whom he has to pacify, and it twists his stomach with the way the roles have suddenly found themselves reversed.
“I think the blue looks nice, by the way,” you lean sideways to mention casually to him, and he knows. He knows you’re just jesting, just trying to lighten the mood, but he feels the bile rising up his throat at the fact that you even commented on it aloud. “Fitting. Matches your saber. Your face, though.” The smallest hint of a smile tugs at your cheeks. “It’s beginning to match the color of mine.”
“Thank you for that, young one; your sense of humor is positively delightful,” Obi-Wan gripes, clutching the metal hilt tightly in front of him with both hands while he gazes out at the stadium before him, bustling with black hooded figures and a rare flash of blue. It does not escape his notice that in complete contrast, your arms are loosely meeting behind your back, your saber dangling in one hand while the other lazily holds your wrist. Your body is… open. Draped in garments somehow equally as opaque as they are revealing, presented to the wide panoramic view of the audience and stage with no qualms whatsoever.
“Wonder who I got it from,” you ponder with a tilt of your head, and… fair point. “How long is this thing supposed to last anyways?”
“Stars—‘this thing’ can’t get over with soon enough,” Obi-Wan grumbles, his eyes anxiously flicking down at the empty stage in the center of the audience. He’s struggling with butterflies and nausea like he himself is meant to have a starring role in this debauchery. “They’ll have… acts. Plural.”
“Heavens,” you sigh under your breath, and oh yes. He agrees.
He’s also painfully aware that he should be using this free time to continue contemplating his decision about… matters concerning later this evening with you, but he’s already feeling massively overwhelmed as it is. Right now, it’s all he can do to just breathe and attempt to face one trial at a time.
But then, as if the Maker is feeling just particularly malicious this evening, Obi-Wan’s stomach drops when something quiet flashes in the Force and the roar of the enormous crowd instantly falls to dead silence. The ominous sign rockets through him and while a Jedi should not know fear, this might be the closest he’s ever felt to truly terrified.
“Ooh, dramatic,” you whisper, but regardless of your laissez-faire attitude, his heart is positively pounding as he watches the figures of robed Force sensitives slowly file out onto the stage, and everything inside him lurches at the realization that—
They’re all wearing blue. Every single one of them is clothed in fabric that matches his current attire, the one that made him feel like a blot on the landscape the entire dinner and subsequent mass pilgrimage to the arena. A bright splash of color in the midst of an almost inescapably giant ring of black.
You’ve stopped talking. Truly, he has no idea if that’s a good or bad thing, not right now. The Force sensitives join hands and create a ring in the center of the stage while every single person in the arena sits in perfect silence, and Obi-Wan feels dizzy. He’s not getting enough air right now, but he doesn’t even want to breathe too loudly and somehow draw even more attention to himself.
Two of the blue robes break off from their fellow acolytes and meet in the middle of the circle, and to simply avoid having a heart attack, Obi-Wan very purposefully chooses to ignore—like he’s done multiple times this evening—the subtle flicker of curiosity he experiences at the significance of the color blue and what it symbolizes to the s’Ziscari. He can’t even bear to watch the way the two of them slowly lean in and allow their lips to touch from under their hoods.
Maker, if he turned his saber on and stabbed himself with it, could he convince you it was an accident? Probably not—no, definitely not, what a stupid thought to have—
“How does she wipe?” He hears your voice whisper, and Obi-Wan’s facial expression immediately screws up in confusion.
He turns to you, his tone equally hushed but the bewilderment sharpening his consonants. “How does who what—?”
Only—you’re not even looking at the scene unfolding in front of you. Your expression is just as confused as his is, but instead of looking down, your chin is lifted and you’re staring directly across the arena at the viewing booth opposite to yours. He still has no idea what you’re talking about though, not until he follows your line of sight and sees the way s’Zerthia has her jaw propped up in her hands on her throne, looking bored as usual, and how the length of her newly manicured fingernails curves halfway up her scalp from this angle.
“That’s dangerous,” you remark quietly. “They’re like talons. Gaudy little weapons she always has attached to her that she decorates, makes them seem less vicious than they actually are. I see them. I certainly don’t envy whoever she picks tonight to—”
You cut yourself off with a bit lip smile and turn your face away from him, and Obi-Wan is almost mystified by how casual you’re able to be about this.
“Whomever she picks to…?” He trails off with a sigh. “Do I… Do I want to know?”
“Never mind,” you tell him quickly, lifting your chin once more while still clearly trying not to laugh. You’re trying not to laugh, while… while that is happening in the center of the audience. “It was, uh… tasteless.”
He blinks, wondering what that could possibly mean. Everything about this is tasteless, the entire thing is just an absolute nightmare coming to life.
Though, after a moment of silence, Obi-Wan soon realizes he much prefers it when you fill the void.
“Members of the Royal Court take turns doing it for her,” he eventually replies, decidedly looking anywhere but where the man is slipping the blue robe from the woman’s body. It takes you a second to register to what exactly he’s referring, but when you finally do, you snort. It’s too loud. A few heads closest to your isolated seats turn as Obi-Wan very quickly thrusts his elbow into your ribs. “Quit being disrespectful,” he hisses under his breath.
“You just—!” You quickly clamp your mouth shut and face forward again, trying not to smile in an appalled sort of way. But then—“Oh,” you blurt, not loud enough for anyone else to hear in this open setting but still loud enough for him to glance around and be slightly anxious about it. “Oh. Wow. I wasn’t… expecting…”
Obi-Wan’s eyes automatically flick down to the couple, only just long enough to catch a quick glimpse of stark nudity in the center of the arena before his gaze immediately bounces back up again and focuses on the incredibly interesting steel beam currently propping up the Queen’s viewing box, clearing his throat. “I… did warn you.”
“Well, yeah, I expected them to…” Your hushed voice trails off and you stay quiet for too long, too long to imply you’re still formulating an end to your thought. You’re distracted by something, but then you appear to snap back to your senses and immediately clear your throat. “I just wasn’t expecting… the, uh. The… positioning.”
He says nothing in response. It… it doesn’t give him great comfort, wondering how you could possibly know enough about this type of profanity to have expected a different sort of positioning. The stark contrast between the color of his ceremonial robes and yours still remains completely unspoken, but it quietly pulls at the back of his mind nonetheless.
“What about it?” Obi-Wan immediately hears himself prompt and oh, no, this is completely inappropriate. Not only should he not be encouraging this kind of talk with you, but he also shouldn’t feel so… so negative, not about something so personal to you and something that’s certainly none of his business. Regardless, he… still has this buried, unexplainable desire to know the truth about it. Regardless of the indirect way he’s attempting to go about it, he wants to know the truth about whether or not you broke your oath, and while he recognizes it’s completely improper of him, the urge is still strong enough to manifest itself using his vocal cords.
“Oh, I don’t know, it’s just… It’s…” He doesn’t even have a visual reference for what you’re attempting to find the words to describe. He doesn’t want to. He just wants to know what you think about it. “…Bold,” you finally settle on.
Bold. It’s bold. Perhaps Obi-Wan wouldn’t be analyzing your verbal responses so closely if he had something more interesting to look at besides the general coliseum-like structure of the large outdoor stadium, but there’s a certain horizon he just won’t let his eyes dip below right now and unfortunately for him, being so high up above the crowd, the upper hemisphere of his visual field remains relatively dull.
“Who would've thought,” he eventually sighs, blinking up at the star-splattered sky now and attempting to see if he can use the Force to break off a piece of a satellite and have it impale him in a tragic accident. “Considering the s’Ziscari are such a conservative bunch.”
His eyes soon wander back to s’Zerthia, and—Obi-Wan startles to find her staring directly at him with a thin eyebrow dangerously quirked. She motions two long fingers in a V shape at her eyes and then points down towards the stage, her expression expectant and waiting.
Obi-Wan’s teeth hurt at how hard he clenches them together, his jaw flexing but the thick blanket of his beard doing well to conceal it. She’s playing with him, he realizes; he can see the hidden smile on her lips all the way from here.
Maker, maybe she’s right. Maybe he’s—maybe he’s being ridiculous about this. This is fine. This is fine. His stomach feels like it’s all his food might come up at any second, but he’ll do it, he’ll look. He can at least just look, right?
His gaze slowly begins lowering, trying to take in just a few things at a time so as not to overstimulate himself. Thousands of s’Ziscari lining the seats of the arena, almost every single one of them dressed in black. Lower still—the platform leading up to the stage. A perimeter of blue figures now sitting down in a circle and then, at its center, a… a naked man and woman.
Obi-Wan’s heart pounds as he struggles to comprehend the sight, never having laid eyes on a nude woman before. She’s on her elbows and knees, forehead lowered and resting against the floor, and the man kneels behind her, one hand holding her hips and the other wrapping around his—
Stars, Obi-Wan wants to end it all. Right here. His aim will be true.
But then… oh, no, he’s an idiot. He’s a complete dullard, because he forgot. Consumed by his own sheer anxiety and unease, Obi-Wan stupidly forgot an extremely crucial detail of the incredibly little he’s been told about the Sh’inzith.
—the projecting.
All at once, he’s nearly knocked over by the strength of the two Force sensitives at the center of the arena as they deliberately cast their minds out across the entire audience, presenting every sensation and fleeting thought they’re experiencing in all its intensity. Obi-Wan immediately works to reinforce his mental shields as soon as he feels the shockwave about to hit, but there’s thousands of Force sensitives present—all of them congregated into one relatively small area, all of them tuning into the same two signatures and then suddenly… amplifying them back until it’s impossible for him to shut out.
“Oh, uh—” he just manages to hear you mutter through the whirlwind, just the slightest hint of panic in your voice peaking through the symphony of whispered thoughts and pulsing sensations coming from the stage, “—that isn’t good—”
Obi-Wan abruptly stumbles backwards and gasps at the awful, wretched feeling of something brunt pressing up hard against somewhere elusive, somewhere he’s never felt before towards the lower part of his body, and his mind fights viciously against it as he feels you spin around and reach out for his rapidly retreating figure.
“Wait, no—it’s okay, M-Master, it’s okay, it’s—” your voice cuts off and your hands suddenly fist into the robes at his chest, your forehead dropping to his shoulder against the sharp sting just continuing to push and push and push, “—i-it’s okay, it’s oka—”
He trips over his feet in the chaos and falls back on complete instinct and you’re so tightly attached to him that you’re yanked forwards with the momentum, the two of you plunging to the ground in a clumsy heap of grunts and tangled limbs. Obi-Wan immediately starts crawling backwards across the floor underneath you, still trying to escape the horrible, inescapable sensation digging into a part of his body that doesn’t seem to exist, but it’s like you’re of the same mind—you’re scrambling forwards in the same direction trying to get away from the same thing, frantically attempting to calm him and simultaneously deal with the agony yourself, and then suddenly—
Oh—oh, Maker—
Suddenly something gives and surges in, and then Obi-Wan gasps—his elbows buckling under him and as the both of you drop down onto the floor because stars, it’s nearly blinding with impression. Not only the aching, hard fullness stretching sharp and deep somewhere in his lower abdomen—but now a new sensation. A tight, wet silk he feels swallowing him between his legs, concentrated on a part of his body that… does exist, a body part that’s currently pressed up right between your spread thighs.
“Fuck,” you moan hot against his throat, trying to find somewhere to brace yourself next to his shoulders and push yourself up off him, and he tries—Maker, he tries so hard not to, but his hands shoot out to grab your hips before he even knows what he’s doing and then he’s dragging his lower body up into yours on instinct alone, clamping his eyes shut and groaning out a desperate sound he’s never heard himself make before as his head drops against the floor.
It’s staggering. It hurts. He can't even hear your muffled noises anymore, not over the roaring encompassing his mind and body. All he knows is that your hips quickly jerk back and grind down into his in response, sending Obi-Wan reeling while you bury your twisted cry of pleasure and pain into his neck.
The sound of it breaks through everything else.
Obi-Wan’s hands shake violently as they suddenly release you and then frantically shove at your shoulders, trying to push you off without hurting you. He can’t think, he can’t see, he needs to leave—
“Get away,” he rasps desperately up at the sky, blinking his eyes wide but somehow not seeing anything in front of him but blackness. “St-stars, get away from me—”
Suddenly you’re flipping off his body and onto your back next to him, too quick for it to be a mechanical movement alone, and he doesn’t even have the space in his mind nor the processing capacity to figure out if he Force pushed you off him or if it was you who did it to yourself. He just clambers to his feet and stumbles away in a terrified, graceless retreat, bent in half, limping and gasping and fighting for every step he takes.
***
Your Master was right to leave as soon as possible, you think. You were wrong to linger here for just a second to try and gain your bearings, because the more you work to grasp and attempt to organize them, the more mindless and disorienting they become.
You eventually have to heave over and drag yourself after him.
The further away you get from the arena, the easier it becomes to block the projection, but Maker, it’s exhausting. You’re resigned to start out with a crawl—one of those Jedi Core crawls you haven’t had to do since the Academy but this one exponentially slower, forehead dropped down and eyes closed, just focusing on alternating shifting your elbows and your knees forwards and dedicating the rest of your mental energy to just isolating your mind from the debilitating assault.
Consulars don’t usually see much of war—you tend to do absolutely everything in your power to avoid it. It’s the Guardians who experience the horrors of combat most often, who deal with ambushes and onslaughts from enemies of the Republic. But Maker above, every merciless thrust into that poor little virgin at the center of the arena is like a blaster shooting directly at you, but then couple it with the thousands of reflections and ricochets in robes lining the bleachers? You’re in the trenches of a deadly battle you had no idea was even about to break out and you have no weapon of defense besides retreat.
When you finally get far enough away to be able to push yourself upright as much as possible and continue staggering back to the palace on two feet, you have no concept for how long it’s been. You can still feel the projection vibrating and clawing sharply at the edges of your consciousness, but at least the majority of your thoughts are your own now, and it gradually becomes easier and easier to focus and speed up to a clumsy run.
Though, no matter how successful you eventually are at muffling the vibrant sensations and thoughts of the two Force sensitives behind you—when they cum, you stumble down to your knees again and have to bite the back of your fist to keep from screaming.
Maker, it takes you a minute to recover. You don’t even cum, you just feel it—the burst of energy from the Force in every direction, the violent explosion from the stadium that feels like it should fracture the ground beneath you.
You’re able to get up after a moment, if only because they decide to take mercy and finally cut off the projection. You know that it’s a temporary relief, that they’ll likely be at this all night, but you hope the palace will be far enough away from the arena to block out the sensations completely. You wonder if Master Kenobi felt that through the Force or whether he was too determined to block it out that he was able to simply ignore the nuclear missile that just detonated less than a few miles away from him.
You force yourself forwards and you want to hurry, you do—but strangely, in your wild state of exhaustion, stark reality is almost as debilitating as swimming through that endless madness was. It’s quiet around you but the noise of still air pulses deafeningly in your eardrums after breaking free from such a thick mental filter separating you from your surroundings. You still have your lightsaber clutched in your hand, Maker rejoice, and your thin robes are skewed awkwardly across your body, but you eventually find your way to the doors of the palace.
Though, trying to navigate the empty halls back to your Master’s chambers takes you longer than it should. His signature is cloaked spectacularly, concealed to a mere speck you wouldn’t even know was there if you weren’t so closely acquainted with it for more than a decade. You follow the flickering pixel of blue light through the obstacle ridden darkness, adjusting the front of your robes with one trembling hand while you wipe your brow with the other, closing your eyes and doing your best to take deep breaths. He’ll be spiraling right now. He’ll need a boulder to cling to in this tsunami, solid ground to stand on while the stars are falling out of the sky.
You… find him in your quarters instead.
The door is open and his handsome profile is to you, the thick fabric stretching over his broad shoulders now an agreeable light cream, familiar and telling of his intentions. His hands are moving. Setting something down on your bed—your robes, you soon realize. He’s laying out your Jedi robes neatly for you across the fur blanketing the large mattress.
Master Kenobi begins speaking as soon as you step foot into the room, the tone of his voice very clearly impatient after having waited for you for so long.
“Change out of those ridiculous garments,” he tells you hastily, neatly laying out your leather belt across your dark tunic without even turning his head to look at you properly. “We must leave. Quickly. Also—tell me you didn’t forget your saber at the arena, because if so, I’m afraid it’s lost to us forever now. Ilum is only three days from here, perhaps we can stop there on the way back to Coruscant to find you another kyber cryst—”
You drop the hilt of your lightsaber on the floor and step forward, cautiously reaching out for his figure as he continues to ramble. “Master, I—”
Your hand is thrown to the side with a subtle flick of his wrist and you instantly jerk to an abrupt halt, holding your palms out in front of you and keeping completely still while he spins around, his jaw slack and staring at you wide-eyed. He takes a few steps away from you in shock.
“I’m sorry—” he immediately gasps, reaching out towards you even though the rest of his body is still desperately evading yours. “Stars, I’m so sorry—that was just… That was excruciating, young one. Why would anyone ever willingly—?”
“It—it doesn’t always—” you cut yourself off just in time, clamping your jaw shut before you can finish your sentence.
“We must leave,” he says once more as he turns back to your mattress, not appearing to hear you at all and shaking his head, far too frantic to sound like he’s just reminding you alone. “We can’t do that. I can’t do that—”
“It doesn’t always have to be—” Maker, what is wrong with you? Your heart kicks up in your chest and somehow stutters to a halt at the same time. It’s the lingering effects of the assault your mind just experienced coupled with your desperate urge to console him that’s making you so utterly careless, you realize, it’s making your tongue loose.
“Stars, what do you mean?” Master Kenobi finally snaps, and your blood runs ice cold. “How do you know that?”
It takes the sum of all your years of training to keep the raging hurricane of emotion from showing in any capacity. You feel like he’s holding his saber to your neck with how dangerously little you’re even allowing yourself to breathe right now, how utterly and completely still you’re holding yourself in front of him.
Lie, a little voice in your mind supplies quietly, the little voice you keep locked inside an impenetrable box of everything you are but have never been allowed to confront, haven’t been allowed to openly think just in case someone is listening too closely. Lie. Lie, right now. Your silence is giving you away.
Only—you can’t. You shouldn’t. It’s not fair to keep this from him, not when you’re asking him to do something so structurally compromising to his belief system. If… if you tell him the truth, perhaps he won’t judge you too harshly. Perhaps he’ll feel… reassured, knowing he’s certainly not the first Jedi to break a sacred vow when he felt times were desperate enough.
Besides. This might be the only secret that could potentially get you kicked out of the Order, but… it still isn’t your worst one.
“Because.” The word is out of your mouth before you can rethink it, barely above a whisper. “I… know.”
He doesn’t respond, and no.
No, you were wrong. You were wrong to tell him the truth, and the look on his face immediately shoots panic through your whole body.
He doesn’t look reassured.
He looks… alienated.
“‘It doesn’t always?’” Your Master eventually repeats back to you, and fuck—the implication is instantly clear. The implication is made so clear from the sharpness in his tone, the hard edge to it as he rounds out the vowels in the last word that makes your heart twist and throb in your ribcage. He might as well have just asked you how many times you must’ve violated your code of honor to know the difference.
“It’s not.” You clear your throat and flick your gaze up to the ceiling, feeling like he’s using the Force to squeeze your chest in on itself. “That was the absolute worst possible sensation that can be felt during… It’s—it’s not like that. It won’t… be like that. Not.” Are there tears coming to your eyes? “Not… with me.”
Utter quiet. So quiet that if you really concentrate, you can hear the distant sounds of the arena continuing on with the Ritual without you. You bite hard at your lip and wait for him to say something, anything. Yell at you, tell you how disgusted he is, banish you from the Order.
Instead, Master Kenobi quite suddenly… deflates. He sighs—not a heavy, exhausted one, but a soft one. A quiet, accepting sort of sound.
He slowly lowers himself to the edge of the mattress and closes his eyes, running both hands through his hair, and it’s just enough to give you pause. You glance over at him, trying not to let tears fall beyond the plateau of your lower lids with the frantic downward movement of your eyes, and you’re only just barely successful at it.
“It’s alright,” he says gently. “It’s… it’s alright, young one. I… suppose I am in no place to judge. Quite… quite literally,” he murmurs, gesturing to the space around him with a lazy wave of his hand. Maker, his figure is too watery and unfocused to make out his facial expressions, but you don’t want to blink to clear your vision just in case a sudden downpour escapes. “It’s none of my business and I shouldn’t have asked. You’re… not my Padawan anymore. I should have no reason to… even care at all, really.”
There’s something that feels… major in that, something monumental yet incredibly well hidden, but you’re still too full of blind panic to interpret it further. Your breathing is shaky and you wonder, quite stupidly and not for the first time in your life, if it’s somehow possible to use the Force to evaporate the water in your eyes before it turns into tears.
“I am certain it took place in your younger years, a long time ago,” he continues calmly when you don’t immediately say anything. “You did always have a… a rather unconventional relationship with the rules.”
Your only response is a quick jerk of a nod. Yes.
“Yes,” you immediately agree, hoping your tone sounds convincing enough through the lingering tremors. “It was… a long time ago. I’ve changed, since then. Grown up in many ways.”
It’s his turn to nod, and you manage to calm down just slightly. You’re still breathing too hard and you’re a bit too braced, too much of a stance to truly feel like relief, but your heart rate is beginning to settle back into a somewhat acceptable rhythm.
Master Kenobi looks over at you, and he says absolutely nothing about the traces of water still glistening along your eyelashes. He just smiles softly and pats the space next to him.
You cautiously make your way over to him after a moment, feeling more unsure now than you’ve felt this entire mission. You leave at least a half a foot of space separating the two of you once you carefully sit yourself down on the mattress, and you can’t even look in his general direction. You just focus on the long, draping sleeves of your black robe as you look down at your hands and wait for him to speak first.
“Sometimes,” he eventually sighs. “Sometimes I… feel like you’re the person I know best in the entire galaxy, you know. I’ve… I’ve known you far longer than I ever knew my own Master, young one. I picked you out of thousands, and I’d do it thousands of times again. Sometimes—especially since the day of your accolade and subsequent absence, I feel like I can know exactly what you’re thinking, even from across an entire star system. And yet somehow, you… always surprise me. Even after all these years, I am just. Consistently surprised by you.”
You don’t know how to take that. You just sit there in a guilty silence, still unable to turn your head or offer any sort of response.
“I chose you as a Padawan because you surprised me, you know,” he reminds you quietly. “I had certain expectations for you, and you did not meet those expectations. Instead, you presented an alternative I’d never before considered, an alternative that forced me to reevaluate you—and by extension, myself—far beyond what I had previously. That is not a bad thing. It has never been a bad thing. As is made blatantly obvious by the fact that I’m the one currently standing in the way of saving lives, and you’re…not.”
Maker, this is thin ice. You don’t know what to say that’ll express hesitant agreement with his sentiment without making it sound like you’re not apologetic for breaking your oath. You’re… well, you’re not, not really. His response itself is causing you to feel far more turmoil than any legitimate regret for your actions.
“It was—” On instinct, you almost say it was a mistake regardless of the conflicts you’re just so happening to encounter on this mission, but something stops you. You suddenly remember your place here, your goal. To save the galaxy from the Separatists’ reign. And, by extension… sleep with your Master. You can’t call it a mistake if you’re going to ultimately try to convince him to do the same thing. So instead, you scramble to finish your sentence with a different thought, knowing his full attention is pinned to you right now. “…A long time ago,” is all your exhausted mind is able to come up with.
“Yes,” he gives you a small, companionable smile. “It’s alright. Your prior lapse—or, well… lapses in judgement… will forever be safe with me.”
And still, you don’t feel relief. Not when Master Kenobi very quickly appears to look uncertain.
“I… apologize,” he offers after a moment, “if. If I ever made you feel like… like you could not confide in me about any struggles or… or urges you may have been experienc—”
“Maker,” you suddenly interrupt with a frantic wave of your hands, everything cringing inside you, “Maker, we don’t have to do this. None of it, it’s okay. Know what? Let’s just go home—screw the galaxy, I don’t care, just stop talking.”
He snaps his eyes over to you, a sudden bark of laughter escaping him before the rest of his face even seems to register something was funny.
It evolves. Eventually he’s covering his face and stifling ridiculous little snorts behind his hands, trying to apologize in between the chuckles but laughing even harder. It’s almost like… just a form of pure stress relief for him. So far beyond traumatized that it’s revealing itself in a slightly hysterical way, even if what you said wasn’t hysterical at all.
“Now you have a mere glimpse into what my experience has been like today,” he finally tells you with a sparkling grin once he composes himself, lifting his chin as he looks at you and scratching his beard with a quiet flicking sound. “Shall I keep going? If this mission has taught me anything, it’s that no matter what, things can always get worse.”
“They don’t have to.” You say it without thinking, the gentle reprieve caused by his laughter flowing through you in waves and making you throw caution to the wind. The four words serve to shut him up quite quickly however, even though it was the opposite of your intent, and your smile drops. Maker, just freely conversing with him about these things is navigating a minefield for his mental state.
“You… you say that, and yet even—” Master Kenobi eventually responds, cutting himself off with a cough. “Even the things I’ve heard are meant to feel… pleasant, were just.” He shakes his head and blinks his crystal blue eyes over at you. “By all accounts. Agony.”
“I know,” you nod. “I know. Projecting that specific situation was… sadistic of them. A distortion of the truth. Probably rooted in deep tradition, but also a great scare tactic if I ever saw one, playing with us by presenting the absolute worst of it before anything else. It won’t hurt. At all. I promise. In fact—I-I can make it feel—”
Maker, you don’t even finish your sentence, but you must think the general idea loud enough for him to understand. You don’t actually have a specific word in mind—good, great, amazing, euphoric?—and yet, something quiet settles over you two at the silent implication, the mere whisper of the possibility of you pleasuring him.
And him… allowing it.
“Master, I—”
“Don’t,” he quickly tells you. “Don’t call—You don’t have to… call me that. Just for right now, it’s. I don’t—” he takes a breath that sounds shakier than it looks, and then he paints an easy, fake smile on his face following the exhale. You recognize that smile anywhere, though. While you’ve never seen him wear it before, it’s the smile that politicians make when they’re about to present a lesser truth to you, a smile shown to you in negotiations all the time that signifies something… hidden. He’s hiding something, something important, and you have no idea what it could possibly be. “I don’t feel like I even deserve to be called that right now, young one. Perhaps you should be the Master, and I the learner.”
“Ah yes, the circle is now complete,” you can’t help but jest in return, wanting to keep the tone light even though the subject matter is heavy. “Is now when we trade lightsabers?”
“Indeed,” he smiles, this time more sincere, and… you can’t pinpoint when exactly it happened, but it appears you’re physically closer to each other now than you were when you first sat down.
“Do they, uh… actually expect us to…” You clear your throat and wave a hand around, “…Project the entire time like that?”
Master Kenobi quickly shakes his head. “No. s’Zer—Queen s’Zerthia informed me that. Ah. For us, projection will only be necessary during the… well, she called it the ‘closing ceremonies.’”
Your eyebrows shoot up and you nod. “I… see.”
It’s like you can physically feel his body start to break out into a cold sweat next to you at the sudden… realness of it all, the realization that it has to be getting late. Close to midnight, if you’re not already pushing it. It’s come time to make a final decision, you both know it. You want to console him, offer him some kind of solace or reprieve, but stars, you just don’t know how, not when you’re this much of a mess about this, too, but for entirely different reasons. You don’t have a single clue how to make him feel better about any of this.
“I just,” you rush before you lose the nerve, “I want you to know that—e-even if you feel like you’re somehow alone in this, you’re not. Okay? I’m… I’m really nervous, too. I don’t… I don’t actually know what to do at all right now. I don’t know whether to respect your apprehension or tell you it’s unfounded. I don’t know if I should remind you what’s at stake here or whether I should avoid mentioning it at all costs. I have no idea what position I should take, but I’ll—I’ll take whichever one you want me to.”
And it’s odd, because when you first launched into your confession, Master Kenobi gradually began to look more and more relieved, but at a certain point, something just goes horribly wrong. You don’t know what you said, but whatever it was, it seems to rocket through your Master and suddenly his breathing stutters.
For a moment, you think he’s going to reach back, yank your neatly folded Jedi robes up from the mattress and push the dark fabric into your hands. Tell you he’ll meet you at the docking bay posthaste, tell you not to linger, tell you that the mission was a failure. But then—
“Before,” he suddenly says, the word almost startling you with how abrupt it comes out sounding. Almost like he wasn’t quite expecting himself to say it either. “Earlier today, you asked… you asked if there was anything you could do to… make this easier.”
“Yes,” you prompt immediately. He won’t look at you, and for some reason your heart begins beating faster and the inside of your thighs are getting warm.
“I… I’m not sure I’ll be able to go through with this,” he admits with a whisper, his voice sounding so quietly reluctant, like he doesn’t want to say the words aloud but is forcing himself to. “But… the Council put you in charge of negotiations.”
Your eyebrows furrow, trying to understand his implication. What does that have to do with anything? Is he saying that you’re supposed to be in charge, and therefore he’s defaulting to you? “I’m not sure I—”
“The Galactic Republic…” Master Kenobi enunciates very, very pointedly, still unable to look at you, “…put you in charge of negotiations.”
Specifying—or in this case, generalizing—doesn’t help much. “I’m still not—”
“Maker, for—for the good of the Republic, young one,” he presses under his breath and finally flicks his gaze up to meet yours, sounding urgent and torn in equal parts. “Negotiate.”
Stars, negotiate with who? With—with him? For the good of the…? Is he asking you to somehow reason with him beyond what you’ve attempted to do already, or persuade him to do what’s right for—?
Maker—Master Kenobi is asking you to seduce him.
Shock paints your expression blank and his eyes instantly evade yours once more. You have to sit there for just a second and double-check that you’re not dreaming. None of this seems real. All of it seems like an incredibly elaborate illusion of the Force, ever since you first laid eyes on him at the start of this mission. You know you missed him but stars, did you truly miss him this terribly? Your longing must rival something fierce to unconsciously conjure this wild of a scenario. Is he actually here right now? Have you been speaking to a ghost? Are you actually here right now? Are you going to wake up any second and remember he’s thousands of lightyears away and has been for years, risking his life on the front lines of galactic war while you’re left to play politics and negotiate treaties behind the scenes?
These thoughts aren’t safe to have in normal interactions with him, but nothing about this situation is normal, and while you know Master Kenobi has years of experience reading your signature, he most likely won’t be able to gauge the specific details of your thoughts when you can sense how intensely he’s focused on guarding his own chaotic mind from you.
So you let yourself think. If only for a second, you sit next to him and allow yourself to just… think about him. About how much you care for him, how desperately you ache for him—you let all these improper longings finally have their moment with you. You let yourself confront it, crack the lid of the hidden box tucked away behind your consciousness and brave it, because if there was ever a moment to do so, it’s right now.
Your heart starts slamming up against your ribcage and your hands feel like they’re tingling. He wants you to convince him to have sex with you. He’s asking you to corrupt him. He wants you to negotiate the galaxy’s survival with the last man standing in the way of its prosperity—a good man with strong, immovable morals, a man who understands the consequences that follow integrity around and won’t be easy to tempt.
“This was a bad idea,” suddenly comes Master Kenobi’s voice, quickly backpedaling after too long of a silence. “I shouldn’t have said that. Forget I said that, we should just g—”
“Would you like to meditate?” You immediately ask him on a complete whim, shuffling back towards the middle of the mattress for the second time today. You’re careful to make sure he doesn’t see you carelessly flick your neat robes to the floor with the Force, clearing the top of the large mattress. “Let’s meditate.”
“Stars,” he breathes, shyly his head turning to follow you, “I’d love nothing more, but there truly just isn’t any time—”
You find it easier than you thought it’d be to pull a playful face at him, crossing your legs and straightening your spine. “Please, you’re a Guardian. You blue sabers practically invented battle meditation, did you not?”
He looks skeptical for a moment, as he has a valid right to be. “Is this a battle?” He eventually asks over his shoulder.
You say nothing in response to that, instead using the Force with a flex of your finger to tug at the loose cream fabric of his robe at his elbow. “Come on, it’ll do us good.”
He looks conflicted for a second, but then ultimately decides to humor you. “Alright,” Master Kenobi finally agrees, turning around and crawling towards you on the mattress, and you’re just quick enough to stamp down a flicker of arousal at the mere sight of it. “It won’t hurt.”
“Of course it won’t,” you agree with just a bit too much air in your voice, but he doesn’t seem to notice it. He just seats himself directly in front of you, facing you, crossing his legs close enough to yours that your knees barely touch, and—
—Maker, he’s lovely.
You purposefully let yourself think it as his eyes slowly fall closed and he takes a deep breath, beginning to tame the wild tempest of his mind. You let the word flitter around your thoughts without instantly repressing it like you always do, and just the mere act of allowing yourself to acknowledge the truth is freeing. He’s lovely. He’s lovely. You could scream it.
Your eyes trail down the lines of his ever softening, tranquil expression, not even bothering to pretend to meditate for his benefit this time. Your gaze roams shamelessly across his face, the way his hair is combed back away from it. The sandy, masculine beard leading down to the thick column of his throat, the broad lines of his shoulders draped in pale fabric, the way his chest slowly moves as he breathes. Lovely. Lovely.
And then you go… lower.
His abdomen is stretched long with how upright he’s sitting, his flawless meditation posture. His thighs are spread wide in this position, pants stretched tight into an elusive drum over his crotch and preventing you from truly seeing anything—but stars is it a thrill even just letting yourself look.
Especially knowing that the more his mind works to compose itself, the easier it’ll be for him to hear you.
You keep thinking, growing bolder the more you’re left alone with this box wide open. You think about how lithe and strong his body is, how it would feel under your hands. You think about all the different things you want to show him, all the… the mind shattering pleasure you can give him if he’ll allow y—
Master Kenobi says your name without opening his eyes.
It doesn’t sound the way you expect, though you don’t really know what you expected it to sound like. A sharp, frustrated bark? An exasperated, pleading attempt to get you to stop?
No—none of those. It’s a quiet, low growl of a sound, and the clear warning in it absolutely burns a hole through you like he picked up his lightsaber and used it instead.
You take practiced breaths, trying to calm yourself down. Stars, he just said your name, he’s said it so many times before, and yet hearing it in his mouth with that tone in this context feels like he just strapped rockets to your ankles and told you to stay put. You’re impatient. You’re turning yourself on, working yourself up, trying to get to where you can actually make a move on him after dedicating so many years to desperately repressing the longing to do so. Once he told you to negotiate this deal with him, however, it’s as if every ounce of the impeccable self control you’ve practiced so spectacularly throughout most of your life slowly started to unravel.
Reaching out tentatively so as not to startle him, you wrap both of your palms around the bend of his knees and squeeze gently. Master Kenobi displays no physical signs of—well, anything really, keeping his body completely rigid under your hands with no noticeable alterations in his breathing pattern. Biting your lip, you begin to slowly rotate your thumbs, making sure to keep your movements slow and perfectly symmetrical. Complete relaxation is your ultimate goal here—coaxing your Master into a serene state where physical contact is desired, not obligatory. He's so uncomfortable with the concept of intimacy in and of itself though, from the way his eyebrows start to furrow and his spine begins gradually tilting back and away from you, it's almost as if your ministrations are dampening rather than fueling.
“Relax,” you murmur, and stars, even though you make it sound quiet and gentle, it’s like the melodic lull of your voice appears to startle him more than if you’d just spoken normally. Maker—it’s counterintuitive; how are you supposed to turn someone on when the mere state of being turned on turns them off? “Relax with me, it’s okay—”
“But I just can't, young one,” he suddenly implores, his voice pressed up tight in his throat, his cerulean eyes popping open in frustration and something else—an honest, heartfelt emotion that's strikingly less familiar to you, even after years spent by his side: deep, hot, stomach-wrenching guilt. You watch your Master’s palms run the length of his thighs; back and forth, back and forth—almost like a nervous tick, you think—and it’s oddly endearing, if not increasingly concerning. “I just can't, this is all so wrong. Don't you understand? E-Even if the Council did provide a—well, a rather admittedly ineluctable blessing for this downright ludicrous endeavor, i-it’s… I don't…” He takes a deep breath, and visually, it looks like he's attempting to collect his thoughts and composure, but you know your Master all too well. You know what he's really doing, and at this point, it's almost… frustrating.
“What are you so afraid of?” You clutch his knees and whisper quietly, interrupting him before he can verbalize whatever perfectly logical reason he's trying to formulate as to why you both should leave the planet immediately, what he's going to say to the Council if they ever inquire as to why negotiations ultimately failed. He jerks his head up sharply to look at you.
“The Jedi fear nothing,” is his automatic response, though his previously intense gaze strays slightly from yours after a second of too much eye contact. “Fear is the path to the Dark Side, you know this.”
“And yet you are afraid,” you remark calmly, studying the way he’s turned his face away from you completely now, how you can still see his jaw clench under the thick beard with his profile shown to you like this. “I—I’m trying to understand, Master, but I—I don’t. Even if this mission were half as important as it is, your loyalty to the Order would follow you right into an early grave. But this?” You remove a palm from his knee to gesture between the two of you, the mattress beneath the both of you, “fulfilling this mission and these terms to save the entire galaxy is too ‘downright ludicrous’ for the Great Negotiator? I don’t believe it. Tell me what you’re really afraid of.”
Only, he’s suddenly moving—away from you. Turning and planting his palms to fur, beginning to climb to the edge of the bed and sweep his legs around under him, and your voice has an unintentional edge to it when you address his back.
“Do you know how many lives over I owe you?” You ask, and he jerks to an abrupt halt, feet just shy of stepping on the floor. “Do you have any idea the stockpile of mortal gratitude you’ve amassed from me? How many times you’ve risked your death to save me from mine over the years—can you count them? I have. I know my debt to you, I know the weight of my life piled on top of itself over and over again. I remember each and every one of them like they happened yesterday, and not once did you hesitate even slightly, let alone the way you’ve hesitated today.”
”And?��� Master Kenobi quite suddenly snaps over his shoulder as he grips the edge of the mattress, sounding sharp but not necessarily directed towards you. “What is your point?”
“My point is that if you’d so readily trade your death time and time again to prevent that of even one other person, let alone a difficult Padawan who caused the Order nothing but grief for years, then what is it that makes the deaths of trillions—” you nearly say preferable to bedding me before you realize how incredibly harsh that would sound, but something about the way he seems to tense his shoulders and curl inwards implies he was following the general cadence of your agitated signature more than the specific content of your words.
He says absolutely nothing, but he doesn’t move to drop his feet to the floor, either. If only you could punch a proverbial hole through his practically indestructible mental barriers, you'd see the real reason he's so flustered, why he's purposely attempting to deceive you. Unfortunately for you though, they feel like they're made of triple-reinforced beskar, a countermeasure gradually increasing in strength the more you try to probe.
But then—all at once, something clicks. Something… fundamental. An understanding.
Your Master is a gifted negotiator, yes. But more than that.
He wields a blue saber. Not a green one.
He’s a Guardian. A warrior. He fights. It’s something that has never truly been part of your nature, no matter how much you struggled with it over the years—but it is a part of his, no matter how exceptionally he’s been able to mask it for even longer.
So, all at once, you stop pushing. Your signature abruptly pulls away from him, gives him room to breathe and simply hovers within your own personal space, unassuming and careful not to disturb him. You see your Master lift his chin and straighten his spine slightly, immediately noticing your absence and the constant pressure you’d been applying, and you honestly can’t tell if he relaxes or tenses up even more because of it.
Finally, when you feel like it’s been long enough, you slowly reach out and gently place your hand on his arm. This time, there’s no underlying motivation attached, no inherent desire for him to fulfill any sort of obligation. Just a warm, companionable gesture to reinforce the simple knowledge that you’re both in this together, for better or worse.
Please tell me, Obi-Wan, you quietly whisper to him through the Force, allowing your tone and energy to transfer through your open palm and into his troubled spirit as softly and gently as you possibly can—a caress more than anything even close to a sentence or inquiry. Your usage of his first name is entirely unprecedented however, and your Master sucks in a sharp breath in response.
I don't… But then the subconscious, half-formed thought fades away almost as quickly as it’s offered to you from behind the solid, unyielding fortress of his mind. “W-what are you doing?”
You bite your lip, wondering how honest you should be with him right now. Though, you suppose, if you truly want him to confide in you, you should at least meet him halfway.
“You’re the locked door,” you finally settle on. “This is me knocking.”
Obi-Wan turns around and blinks at you, looking for all the stars in this galaxy like that was quite possibly the last thing he expected you to say. You can see the frantic thoughts pass through his eyes almost as if the clear blue was completely transparent, likely remembering all the times you’ve leaned on him for guidance, listened intently and learned from his wisdom and experience. And now you’re a fully grown woman patiently offering him your ear, wondering if you’ve earned enough of his trust for him to do the same.
“I’m afraid I’ll form an attachment to you.” The words tumble from his mouth even though his body all but whips away from you in the process. “It’s unreasonable for the Council to expect this from me. From us. I’m afraid our relationship will forever be tarnished from this, that neither of us will ever be able to go back to the way things were before. I’m afraid that regardless of whatever decision I make, I won’t be able to carry the guilt on my conscience and continue to call myself a Jedi and Guardian of the Republic. But mostly, I just—I-I—”
Your heart is pounding as Obi-Wan buries his face into his hands and his muffled voice groans raggedly, “—I’m afraid I’ll like it. I’m afraid I’ll want it again, and again. I’m afraid it’ll follow me back to Coruscant, that I’ll save the galaxy but spend the rest of my days aching for something I’ll never be able to keep, and that’s petrifying. Desire, passion, selfishness, possession; all of them lead to Darkness, and I can—I can feel it right now. Your soul is so gentle, so peaceful, and yet you… you inspire such Darkness in me, dove.”
Maker, you’re trying so hard. So hard to keep your legs from clenching together at the utter desperation in his tone, how his breathing has picked up now that the words have ripped themselves out of his throat, like the whole thing was physical agony even just to say. You have to take a second. You’ve been so patient this entire time, but stars—this one makes you need a moment. You’re so glad his eyes are clamped shut behind his fingers right now because yours lose focus trying to mask the absolutely debilitating wave of arousal that sinks down hot through your stomach.
Even when you regain the ability to speak, the ability to form a safe and proper response to the bombshell he just dropped on you completely evades you.
You purposefully don't say that you're already helplessly attached to him, that the colors of the galaxy somehow lost their brilliance the day you graduated to Knight, the day you left his side. You don't say that you want this so badly you can feel it in your neck, that it would probably break you in half if he said no to this now. Though it's the honest-to-Maker truth, you know discovering this information will only cause your Master to further distance himself from you, and somehow that thought alone is a million times worse than being denied the opportunity to be this close to him. Even… even if what you end up sharing is more emotional than physical.
So you take a deep breath to center yourself, and choose your words very carefully.
“A compromise, then.”
Obi-Wan suddenly raises his head, turning around to look at you and blinking twice. “A what?”
“You told me to negotiate. What do we do as negotiators, hm?” You raise an eyebrow, giving him a gentle smile and trying not to curl your fingers into the fur underneath you with how hard it is to conceal your burning arousal. Do it for him. Do it for your Master, you’re in l—you… care about him, and you care about the things he cares about, even if doing so feels like it’ll rip you apart. “We compromise. Yes? So, let’s find one.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t see h—”
“If you were to…” You cut him off and look down, trying to find the most delicate way to phrase this. “If you were to… find other means to bring yourself to completion, would you be able to convince anyone listening that I was the one doing it?”
Obi-Wan doesn’t even blink this time. He just stares at you, holding himself like a statue in front of you. Finally, he seems to find himself. “I… I don’t—I don’t know if I can.”
“You’re stronger in the Force than anyone on this planet, Master,” you encourage softly, placing a hand back on his arm and squeezing this time. “I’ve felt it.”
“N-No,” he practically hiccups. “No, I mean I-I… I don’t know if… if I can.”
Your eyebrows narrow, a mixture of confusion and concern coloring your expression. “If you can…?”
He looks back at you almost desperately, his eyes practically begging you to figure it out so he doesn’t have to say it. Finally, Obi-Wan sighs, seeming to collapse in on himself with its intensity. “I—I’ve never… purposefully reached completion before,” he admits. “I’m—I’m not sure how to.”
Your eyes widen, wanting to kick yourself for making assumptions. Of course. Of course he’d follow his oath to its strictest interpretation, why would you ever think otherwise? “Oh, y-yes, of course not,” you stutter, sounding incredibly stupid and perfectly mirroring the embarrassed flush also painting your Master’s cheeks, “I didn’t mean to imply—”
“It’s alright,” he holds up a hand. “We simply… view such things differently. So long as you do not pass judgment, then neither shall I.”
You nod and look down at your hands, wondering how else you can attempt to tackle this predicament. “What if I…” You blink slowly, almost wanting to keep your eyes closed in case he’s offended by the idea but figuring you should have them open to read his responses. “What if I… don’t touch you?”
Now he just looks confused. “I’m sorry?”
You blush and clear your throat, obviously phrasing this wrong. “If you can modify the context of your projection, then I can… get you there. Without touching you.”
“How could you accomplish such a thing without tou—” Obi-Wan immediately cuts himself off when you lift your hand and close your eyes.
His thigh. The right one—you focus on it. There. Right above the bend of his knee folding over the edge of the mattress, you concentrate all the energy from your fingertips and reach out, connecting the two together. And then you take a deep breath and begin to draw your attention slowly upwards.
Your Master’s breath catches in his throat as you use the Force to delicately trail further up his leg, not laying a single hand on him as his muscles start to visibly tighten and quiver.
“Young one, I—” His breathing stutters when you keep your hand raised but let your head tilt and drop down towards your shoulder with your energy, slinking down the inside of his thigh like water and getting dangerously close to his— “Stars, hang on—”
You blink your eyes open at him and continue concentrating right there, letting your focus melt warm and thick along the muscle and squeeze it—
“Maker—” Obi-Wan gasps and drops his head back, his legs nearly spasming apart. “Maker, hang on, I…”
“Do you…” You breathe tightly, flicking your eyes down to the way he’s fisting the fur under his hands and subconsciously flexing his hips up just the slightest bit. Even though the Force, his body feels good. Strong, sturdy, and braced tight under your attention. “Do you want me to keep doing this? I can… go higher.”
“You can…? The—the Force isn’t—” Obi-Wan groans, his eyes clamping shut, “—isn’t meant to be used in such… in such… If I’m to break my oath, young one, it needn’t be so… so blasphemous—”
Trying to conceal the hot sparks of arousal deep in your stomach, you simply allow your metaphysical hand to continue resting right at the juncture of his hip and thigh, waiting for a real answer. You bite your lip and wait for him to tell you to either cut it out or to keep going. He doesn’t even have to say it out loud if he doesn’t want to—he can just slide it under the impassable door still separating him from you, the door you’re eventually going to get him to unlock himself.
His back is to you, so you can only see a bit of his face from this angle, but you can hear him loud and clear when he opens his mouth and whispers to you, barely louder than a breath. “Go higher.”
Adrenaline rockets through your veins and slowly, your fingers curl in thin air while your gentle energy wraps itself around his cock.
Both of Obi-Wan’s hands instantly fly up to his face and he releases a tight, longing whimper into his palms, and you feel almost as desperate as he sounds. You can sense the ghost of his thickness in your hand, and the way he’s already throbbing for it is like pure spice to you.
You can’t stop your crossed legs from shuffling and rotating your body to face his hunched spine more directly, just taking a second and allowing him to adjust to the sensation of you just holding him between his legs like this. Your fingers rest gently along his pulsing skin while he hides from you, and if only to get a little bit more of a reaction for your own sake, your thumb just barely angles to delicately brush up under his frenulum.
Obi-Wan shudders and makes a choking noise behind his palms, and oh good Maker, you really want to see his face. You know it’ll probably never happen unless you take your own initiative, but you also don’t want to overstep and snap him out of this blissful reverie. Still, something compels you to be so gentle about it that he hopefully won’t even notice.
You start to slowly work the length of him and squeeze his cock a bit more firmly, but a tendril of your energy slowly slithers upwards, so quiet and full of caution that it hardly even counts. Very carefully, you start to flatten the lifeforce from your other palm over his stomach and trail it up, gradually urging him to stretch his slouched figure upright and then eventually start to tip backwards, never once letting your focus on his throbbing erection falter.
Your courageous efforts bestow prosperous rewards. Obi-Wan’s hands drag down the length of his face and he makes it almost too easy to keep pressing him back—back back back until his muscles give up what little fight they were putting up against it and his shoulders are dropping down to the mattress, his head falling into your lap.
“There we go,” you whisper under your breath, just loud enough to softly encourage him if he’s listening but avoiding a break in his focus if he’s not. “That’s not so bad.”
“It isn’t,” Obi-Wan gasps up at you, his eyes tightly closed but his jaw slack and his handsome features screwed up in rapture. “Oh, no, it’s… it’s really… rea—good.”
You bite your lip and your cunt flexes hard between your legs without your permission, feeling so empty. If you’re being honest, only touching him through the Force causes your hand to become increasingly bold, also feeling too empty. Obi-Wan’s head rolls to the side and he pants hot air against the thin black fabric covering your thighs as you tighten your hold around him just slightly and start to move up and down his cock in earnest.
“Fuck,” he whispers, the dirty word and rasp in his voice contrasting brilliantly with the proper Coruscanti accent and the crisp enunciation behind it. “Fuck, this feels so good, I—”
His fingers grab at the fur covering the mattress top and pull at it, his adam’s apple bobbing sharp along the arching column of his throat as he groans and twists his head around in your lap. He confesses it like it’s so wrong, but it can’t be wrong when he fits so perfectly in your hand? How can this be wrong when it’s the only pleasure you can possibly give him that’s anywhere near close enough to match the way you feel when he’s around? Even then, it’s but a fraction.
Your gaze flickers briefly from his face to check your progress with his body, and—stars, there’s a startling wet spot staining the front of his pale trousers, his cock tenting up shameless and needy for you to ache and throb just as desperately for in return. Fuck, he deserves this, he deserves more—
“I can—I can make it better—” you can’t help but gasp, your eyebrows slanting upwards with need. “Oh fuck, I can make it so much better than this for you, Obi-Wan—”
“You…?” He blinks his stormy eyes open and sounds like he’s about to explode. “This can be—” he chokes out, “—better?”
You can’t stop yourself. Your pussy is clamped up so tight between your legs and Maker, you want to reward him for being so good to you, give him true adoration instead of phantom touches. You don’t think before you’re moving out from under him and slinking down onto the floor, slipping in between his spread thighs. You use the Force with a bend of your finger to tug his pants down just enough, just enough to let the swollen tip of his cock peak through the waistband, and then your head is dropping into his lap as you let it slide into your hot mouth.
Obi-Wan lifts his head and snarls at you—and something across the room shatters as you widen your throat for him and slowly sink down his length, curling your finger to stretch his hemline further as you go. His fingers aren’t gentle when they fist into your hair and neither is the way he immediately twists it sideways, feeling like he’s trying to pull you off and shove you down on him at the same time.
You’re stuck between going as slow as you physically can to drag this out and giving him the best oral you’ve ever given to make him dream about this for the rest of his life. You want him to want this as badly as you have for so many years. You want him to fall into this Darkness with you, to crave you and what you can give to him so much that he’ll never want to leave you again.
So you make it wet. You make it soft and slow and wet, switching between sucking gently at the tip and swirling your tongue around it, and then inching his length down your throat and swallowing around the thick girth of it once you can’t fit anymore in your mouth. Obi-Wan is just an absolute mess about it—he can’t sit still, he’s tugging uselessly on your hair, whimpering out his bliss into the quiet room while you close your eyes and ignore his squirming, just taking your sweet time enjoying him and the way he feels.
He tastes exquisite. Maybe it’s just because all your broken, stupid brain can think right now is slightly varying forms of my Master’s cock is in my mouth and it’s fucking leaking while you slowly nurse from it with your tongue, but stars—he tastes exquisite.
He’s swollen. Throbbing. Aching for you. Releasing precum from the tip like his body is producing way too much of it after decades of neglect and just needs to get it all out at once. Shifting and writhing underneath you but managing to never move his hips or cock a single inch away from the soft attention you’re giving him. You can feel his smooth skin pulse against your tongue as you continue your lazy pleasuring, finally giving him what you’ve both been denied for so long and steadily swallowing down the spoils of your endeavors.
“—Wait, wait, Maker—stop,” you faintly hear gasped from above you not long after you even begin, and it takes the sum of all your efforts to unlodge his throbbing cock from your throat and pull away from him.
“I’m sorry,” you exhale automatically, trying not to slur your words as a bit of drool slides down your chin. “I’m s’sorry, Obi, I should’ve asked before I—”
“Something’s… n-not right,” Obi-Wan interrupts you and lifts himself up to his elbows, his abdominal muscles heaving and a wild, frenzied look in his startlingly bright eyes. “My stomach was—I-I felt—”
Heat blooms through you along with a realization, and your eyelids begin to droop slightly at just how sexy it is—the fact that this man, this fully grown, red-blooded, warrior of a man is currently teetering on the precipice of his very first ever orgasm, and you’re the only one with the power to give it to him.
You shuffle backwards slightly, grabbing hold of his thighs and squeezing to get his attention. “Hey. It’s okay, relax.”
Obi-Wan nods his head vigorously down at you, the exact opposite of relaxed.
“Listen to me,” you urge quietly, trying to ignore the sight of his thick, swollen cock twitching restlessly against his abdomen, precum still steadily dribbling at the tip. Is your mouth watering? “This is it. You’ll need to start projecting when you’re ready. It’ll be tricky, but not impossible. You’ll just have to imagine you’re inside me when it happens.”
Obi-Wan shakes his head vigorously from side to side, vehemently opposed.
“No, I don’t—” He croaks, “—I don’t know what it’s like, I won’t be able to—”
“Doesn’t my mouth feel similar at least?” You ask, looking down at his cock once more.
“I-I—” Obi-Wan sputters, “I don’t know, young one—you tell me!”
Okay, well. He… makes a valid point.
You settle back on your knees even further, gazing at your Master thoughtfully. His chest continues to rise and fall with heavy breaths, a thin sheen of sweat coating his temples and a mild flush high in his cheeks, but his eyes have regained a bit of their focus. “You can just try to imagine the, uh,” you try, your cunt nearly convulsing with burning need at the mere sight of him, “the same positioning and sensation from… earlier?”
“Alright, I can…” Obi-Wan nods, though his hands are shaking. “I’ll do the best I…”
You can’t help but lean forward to press a soft, encouraging kiss to his thigh, and he jerks under your touch. You try it again, receiving the same result, and it makes you pause for just a minute longer.
“I’m nervous,” he blurts unceremoniously after a moment of stillness, as if you hadn’t noticed. “Oh stars, I’m nervous, I—”
“Obi-Wan,” you let your voice lull, your hands squeezing gently around the bend of his knees once more. “Calm down. Clear your mind.”
He hiccups and you wait. You wait with your mouth a few inches away from his cock, waiting for his breathing to slow and for him to follow your lead.
Can you hear me? You murmur through the Force, and he quickly whimpers and nods. Focus your thoughts.
You gently kiss at his tensing thighs once again, and he doesn’t flinch away from you this time. His breathing slows into a calmer, steadier rhythm, letting you trail your lips gently along the curve of his leg.
Will you let me try something? You ask after a moment, opening your mouth just the slightest bit to brush your tongue out and taste his skin.
“Y-Yes,” Obi-Wan says quietly, his breath stuttering through the word.
And—perhaps you shouldn’t have, but you give him something; a suggestion, more than anything else. You give him a… visual. A reference to guide his mind through the Force.
You, still in your black robe, slowly standing up from between his legs. Widening your stance to straddle his lap, pull you robes up just enough, and then adjust your hips just slightly over the head of his cock.
Obi-Wan inhales sharply at the vision, his eyes clamping tightly shut against it in vain. He can close his eyes, turn away, hide his face all he wants—he can’t escape the way your body looks as it slowly begins to sink down on his.
At the exact same time, you lower your mouth around his cock once more, and you try to make it as close to the sensation as possible. You don’t even move your tongue, you simply lift your soft palate and close your lips around his girth, beginning to carefully bob up and down along his length in time to the image you’re conjuring of you riding him.
Only, you already feel his balls tightening up and his body starting to go rigid with tension once again, and you can sense him still wanting to resist his approaching orgasm. It’s okay, Master, you encourage quietly through the vision, it’s okay, just let it come easy.
“I—I’m not—” he shakes his head back and forth against the bed frantically, his breathing getting shallower and almost immediately picking back up to where it was before you stopped. “I d-don’t want—”
Stop fighting, you tell him, continuing to mimic the sensation of him thrusting into your aching, neglected cunt with slow and steady movements of your throat. Don’t run from it, let it take you.
He grits your name tightly in response and subconsciously begins to rock his hips up to match your unhurried pace, his ragged breathing gasping out into the quiet room and gradually increasing in volume and desperation the longer he stubbornly tries to hold out against it.
You know not strong enough to use the Force to coax it out of him. You can’t alter your technique and break the illusion, either. So you have to resort to desperate measures.
There’s enough remaining wherewithal to your mind that prevents you from permanently damaging his clothing when you tear his robes open with the Force and allow the metaphysical image of yourself to rip them apart with your hands. Obi-Wan gasps when both versions of you reach up his bare torso at the same time and dig your nails into his chest.
Master—you demand, taking his cock down your throat as far as you can go and then clawing hard down his stomach—cum.
And thank everything good and right in the universe that he remembers at the very last second to start projecting, because being this close to someone as strong in the Force as Obi-Wan when he finally succumbs to his first taste of the Dark Side is just a fucking atomic missile straight to your nervous system.
It’s all you can do to just remember to keep swallowing.
The projection he casts out through the shockwave is utterly flawless—brilliantly composed, looking and feeling so authentic and overwhelming even from this distance that there should be no issue at all convincing any s’Ziscari in the wide vicinity who are tuning in right now.
Except—then you hear it. Through the roaring pleasure of his thoughts, a flicker of his subconscious he’s unable to mask through the mind blowing bliss.
Is she…? Maker above, she’s drinking it—
A ragged groan tears through the silence of the room, his cock pulsing spectacularly on your tongue. He just keeps cumming, and cumming, and so you just have to keep swallowing, and swallowing. You suppose you should’ve expected this from a fully grown man who lived a life of celibacy, but what would typically be a rather short moment with anyone else subsequently goes on long enough to where Obi-Wan is actually able to lazily raise his head up from the mattress and simply watch you continue to swallow his load, dazed and reverent in his stare, glassy blue eyes trained on the hypnotic movements your jaw and throat make around him. The remaining traces of whatever visual he attempted to maintain immediately flicker out of existence, replaced instead by the sight of your mouth around his cock, diligently taking down each rope of cum he gives you.
When he finally stops throbbing, you reluctantly let his cock fall from your mouth and slowly stand up as the botched projection fizzles out completely. His gaze eventually follows the movement like he’s on a five second delay.
“So, uh…” Your voice is hoarse. “We… need to have sex.”
“Alright,” he agrees dreamily, his eyes lazily dragging down your body. “Alright, we can have… I… Wait, what?”
“You, uh. I know it wasn’t intentional, but you might’ve, uh…” You shuffle awkwardly from side to side, wondering why you’ve chosen now of all moments to become shy with him. You’re literally still savoring the taste of his release in your mouth. “You might’ve accidentally projected a very specific thought towards the end there and let everyone know that we weren’t actually doing what we’re technically supposed to be doing.”
“What did… what did I think?” The question would likely be nonsense in literally any other situation, but you understand. And truthfully, for the life of you, you can’t find it within yourself to feel even a little bit mad about it, not when it means you can continue doing this together. You can’t even conjure up a single shred of disappointment in his failure, it’d just be a lie.
“Doesn’t matter,” you assure him, your heart continuing to pound. You know you should make your next move now while he’s still so loopy, the post-orgasm bliss causing his signature to vibrate with pulsing endorphins as he blinks up at you slowly from the bed. “Though we won’t be able to do it for a little bit, just uh. Just for general… anatomical reasons. But that should’ve at least counted for… initiating the Ritual, so I don’t think we have to worry about time anymore.”
Obi-Wan just stares at you, his Force signature feeling more serene and spaced out than you’ve ever sensed before. Oh Maker, how you wish you felt the same. You swallow thickly, still tasting his hard orgasm on your tongue, and then try not to clamp your thighs together with how embarrassingly turned on you are. Anyone with any experience whatsoever would know exactly what you’re going through with just a mere glance—you’re biting your lip with your entire body is subtly crumpled in towards your swollen, neglected pussy—and your Master has been watching you struggle through it this entire time.
“Are you alright?” He asks dumbly, finally managing to at least push himself upright, still completely unaware or unconcerned at his softening cock on full display for you and your starving libido. “You’re… shaking.”
“I—won’t die,” is the only serious assurance you can make to both him and yourself right now that’ll ease your suffering the smallest bit. The last thing you want right now is to come on too strong and snap him back to his senses, bringing everything back to square one. “Just, uh… r-really worked—worked up. Trying to just. C-Cool it?”
Your fingers flex at your sides because no matter what you try, you just can’t stop thinking about his. They’re right there. They’re so close, so strong and thick and—
“Aren’t you…” He trails off, letting his head tilt and then drop to his shoulder with a combination of confusion and exhaustion. “Aren’t you going to…?”
“To what?” You prompt shortly, your hands suddenly clenching into fists to deal with another violent wave of arousal at how unbelievably drunk he still looks. Maker, you did that. That’s all you.
“s’Zerthia said all—” Obi-Wan murmurs, blinking long lashes lazily up at you, “—all Jedi must… participate.”
Fuck. Just hearing him provide you an excuse to give into the boiling arousal causes you to suddenly break out into a sweat. You don’t know if he wants you to get yourself off or if he’s indirectly implying he wants to help, but you’re so far beyond desperate that you jump at the chance as soon as he so much as hints at the opportunity.
Very slowly, you move forward and lift one trembling knee to brace next to his thigh on the mattress, and then carefully swing your other leg over his lap, lowering yourself into a straddle in the same exact position he attempted to project earlier. You’re so unbelievably cautious about his cock, making sure you don’t accidentally touch it and jolt him awake. Instead of your newfound proximity scaring him away like you feared though, he stays so… docile. Still so relaxed from his very first orgasm that he even rests his large palms over the thin fabric covering your thighs, letting the loose silk drape and fold over his hands as he drags them up and down.
His eyes follow your trembling fingers as you work at the knot tying the material around your body, your cunt throbbing between your legs at how he’s just… staring. His eyelids are dipped slightly, breathing so calm and slouched under you, pliant and waiting.
The thin fabric slowly parts only enough to reveal the valley between your bare chest to him, and you watch his eyes fall down the thin strip of skin and catch on the dark line of your panties riding low on your hips. Maker, you can’t help but remember his terror at even glimpsing the two acolytes taking off their robes earlier—the way his eyes bounced around and how his cheeks lost whatever color they had left to them as soon as he finally made himself look. Now, though. Now he can’t seem to drag his eyes away from the soft flesh of your tummy, the way your nipples are still covered by the thin fabric of your slightly parted robe but are impossible to miss while your breasts subtly move with your breathing.
You gently call one of his wrists to your hand with the Force and Obi-Wan is either mentally or physically too weak to resist your will. He allows you to catch his hand and slowly lead it downwards with both of your smaller ones to the part of your body that’s longed for his attention for years, though now it’s absolutely weeping for it.
You don’t want to scare him. You don’t want to scare him. Oh Maker, you need him to be brave for you right now, or at least just continue to be stupefied. You can work with stupefied, but you cannot work with panic, especially when you feel your own wanting to rise up the more you drag this out.
When the tips of his fingers brush against the waistband of your panties, Obi-Wan’s hand pushes under it without your guidance.
You’re throbbing. It’s been years in the making. Unable to stop the way your thighs contract and you lift your hips against his palm as it steadily curves down the slope of your soft curls, the sight of the finish line so within reach makes you reckless and too quick. You can’t help it. When he gets hesitant and eventually slows down to a halt right above your slit, you don’t even think before you’re suddenly giving his wrist an abrupt shove with the Force, pulling his hand down before he’s ready and forcing his middle finger deep through the soaking cleft of your pussy.
Your shameless moan of his name comes out sounding so grateful—you pour everything you have into it and sag into Obi-Wan’s chest at the feeling, but he startles and all but rips his hand out of your underwear before you can stop him. He was a hair’s breadth from touching your clit and the denial of it—the sudden turnaround from your goal is just so massively overwhelming that tears suddenly spring to your eyes.
You can just barely make out the sight of him staring down at his trembling hand between the two of you, your slick shining wet and hot along the length of his finger.
“Stars,” he rasps, blinking his wide, sapphire gaze up to yours—and then he quite suddenly looks alarmed. “Did I—Did I hurt you?” Obi-Wan gasps, his energy beginning to outright seize with distress while you blink rapidly and try not to crumble on his lap.
“No—I’m sorry, it’s just—I’m just… oh, fuck, I n-need it,” you stammer. “Oh fuck, I need it Master, I’m so sorry—I’m trying to be calm but—”
“What is it, little dove?” He urges, reaching his hand up to your face and flicking his eyes back and forth between yours, sounding almost as panicked as you do from your desperation. “What do you need?”
“Oh stars, Obi-Wan, I need you to just—” You can’t fit anything into words, a tear finally making its way down your cheek when you clamp your eyes shut in frustration. You just need him to understand, to give you what you’ve been craving for so long—but when you blink your eyes back open, his troubled expression has suddenly resolved itself.
Your Master’s hands immediately grab tight to your hips and twist you around, easily tossing you back up onto the mattress. The jostle of bouncing back into the soft fur startles you, but not nearly as much as when he climbs over your body and braces an elbow next to your head, gently placing the tips of his fingers to your temple.
He pushes carefully but firmly against your natural mental barriers, flexing the energy shields inwards gently enough to not hurt you but with enough force to let you know he’s entirely capable of breaking through should you refuse to let him in.
So you do. You let him in without a single thought, never mind a second one. Obi-Wan gasps as your shields all but collapse for him that easily, and then he’s finally breaching the surface of your thoughts.
“Oh—Maker above, little one,” he grits almost immediately, his forehead dropping to your shoulder and his other hand wrapping tight around your arm as he struggles to acclimate to the blinding distress you’re experiencing. “Collect—” he groans as your cunt clamps down at the rasp of his broken voice, “—collect yourself. I can’t—can’t think—”
Oh, no, it’s too much. It’s way too much, even just having him inside your head without being able to read him in return—it’s too much for you. You start hyperventilating and instead of wanting him out, you just want to drown out the sensation of everything else. The endlessly pulsing, aching throb between your legs that you’ve been dealing with for so long, the way you can feel his cock dragging against your tummy from this angle and how much you already want it in your mouth again, the way your nipples are so hard right now that even this soft fabric feels so rough and sharp against—
Your robe suddenly rips itself off your chest, and you whimper up at the ceiling as you dig your fingers into thick fur and writhe under him, almost completely naked and just desperate for him to do something, to at least just use his hands or his mouth to make you feel bet—
Obi-Wan’s head drops and his blazing mouth opens hot around your nipple, his tongue rolling soft and slick up under the hard bud.
You choke out the first part of his name and you barely even have a flicker of a thought—a brief flash of a rabid, baser desire you’re not even able to consciously recognize before you feel his jaw opening and his teeth closing gently around it, biting down just hard enough to make you spasm bright and urgent between your legs. “Oh, fuck—”
As soon as you feel the pleasure and twisting ache spark deep in your core, Obi-Wan flutters his eyes shut and wedges his hand back into your panties, humming low in his throat when your legs jerk apart for him.
This time, your clit is the very first thing he touches.
He zeroes in on it. The tip of his finger starts to rub it exactly how you’d do it to yourself, exactly the right angle and speed and pressure that your body suddenly feels massively overheated and dizzy from it. It blindsides you. It makes sense he’d be able to do this, after all, but for some reason, the whole thing just absolutely blindsides you.
“Maker,” you whimper at the ceiling, soft and pitched high in your throat, eyes rolling back when Obi-Wan gently bites down on your nipple again and continues to work to relieve you even as every muscle in your body feels like it’s tightening up.
“Stars—” he whispers when he pulls away, “This—this feels incredible, Padawan.”
You moan and roll your hips against his hand, on cloud nine at just how he’s slowly allowing himself to become filthier with you, to lower himself in all his righteous beliefs and descend into delicious sin with you, and—
—wait, did he just…?
Your cunt clamps down hard with realization as he continues massaging your clit better than you’ve ever even done it yourself. Maker, it shouldn’t turn you on so much but it does, hearing that word in this context. Padawan. Padawan, holding her legs open while her Master explores her pussy. Padawan, moaning desperately as her orgasm buzzes deep down inside with a rising, threatening resonance. Padawan, Padawan, Padawan—
“Oh, you liked that,” Obi-Wan remarks tightly, taking a second to tug on your clit. You nearly start to cry again, your insides pulling up and going rigid at the sensation. “I heard it, little one. You like it when I call you that?”
“Oh I like it when you do f-fucking anything,” you choke out helplessly, your words starting to slur together. “Oh fuck, you’re so amazing, you’re so good at everything, you’re the best Jedi in the whole entire galaxy Master, you’re so much better th—”
“My, you’re agreeable like this, aren’t you?” Obi-Wan grits, his touches growing stronger and quicker and rocketing you straight to the edge of madness. “Shall I take that to heart, my darling little Padawan? Or did you say such flattering things to the oth—”
“Wait!” You suddenly exclaim, desperately trying to push his hands away. “Oh, nonononono—wait, wait, wait, I—I-I’m about to cum—I need to—”
His hand yanks itself out of your underwear once more and you take giant, gasping breaths and try to compose yourself at least somewhat, but then your Master is quickly scrambling down your body and using the Force to rip your panties down your hips—
“Obi-Wan, wait—” you choke out, “that isn’t—you don’t… h-have to…”
He looks up at you, dark brows furrowed in confusion.
“I’ll be able to—y-you don’t—” You have to take a few gasping breaths and remember how to speak Basic. “I used my mouth on you before because I… I wanted to. If—If you don’t want to do that, you don’t have to. It’s not… oh fucking stars above, it’s not n-necessary.”
“Are you telling me this because you don’t want me to?” He immediately asks, though you both already clearly know the answer to that considering how exposed your wild thoughts are to him right now.
“Ah, no I, uh… I just.” You try to clear the thickness from your throat and you feel your body tremble while you focus as much effort as possible into trying to explain. “I just want to be sure I’m not taking advantage of you, that’s all, I—I want you to know the truth about these things. It’s not… necessary, b-but.”
“But.” He repeats the word meaningfully as he glances back down at your weeping cunt, nodding slowly to himself.
And then your Master leans in, flutters his eyes shut, and slides his warm tongue deep into the seam of your pussy with absolutely no hesitation whatsoever.
“Obi—Wan—!?” You gasp, somewhere between a squeak and a squeal, your entire upper body launching upwards around his head as your clit is immediately enveloped into a slick, dexterous furnace.
Hold still, you hear his voice warn through the Force, sounding so much closer than you’ve ever heard him before. Whether that can be attributed to the fact that the command came directly from wherever he is inside your head or whether it’s simply because his tongue is now tracing gentle circles around your clit as you whimper pitifully into the quiet of the dimly lit room, you’re not sure. All you know is that his mouth feels like velvet between your legs and his beard is scraping across your thighs and your fingers have buried themselves in his hair without your conscious permission.
Hold still, young one, he urges once more, but you just close your eyes and moan shamelessly at it this time, opening your legs wider for him. His voice, it’s… it’s maddening like this, coming directly from your own thoughts. Deep, precise, somehow sounding so true, so much clearer and full-bodied without your pesky ears in the way. Your hips are subconsciously rolling slowly against the lower half of his face when Obi-Wan apparently decides he’s had enough.
An invisible energy wraps around each of your individual limbs and snaps them against the mattress without any warning. You whimper high in your throat, arms and legs held so firmly against the bed with the Force that your internal struggles aren’t able to be translated outwardly; he doesn’t allow your body a single centimeter to move under him, no matter how hard you fight it. Which means you have to lay there and just take the way Obi-Wan’s hot mouth continues to lick and kiss at your clit slowly, taking all the time in the universe to properly explore you between the legs he’s forced apart.
“Obi—” you croak breathlessly at the ceiling, feeling a familiar heat start to burn hot and tight through your core, “Obi, I—I have to p-project—before I—ah!—before you—before you ma-make me cu—ugh, f-fuck—I have t-to—”
Then project, he encourages simply, gently fluttering his tongue over your clit. You gasp and he hums, murmuring through the Force once more to you. We’re not hiding anymore. They’ll all know I’m using my mouth on you like this. It’s alright. Let them know.
You realize you’re going to cum the second you hear your Master’s voice say the words using my mouth on you like this while he slowly sucks on your clit, and you barely have enough wherewithal to gulp in a giant breath and begin projecting your signature as far across the palace and surrounding city as physically possible before your body shatters hot into searing euphoria under him.
Obi-Wan groans deep in his throat and holds you perfectly still under him as you cum with a ragged, hoarse wail of his name, giant waves of white hot bliss beginning to radiate through the Force from you with spectacular power. The contractions are so much more pronounced when it’s one of the only sets of muscles in your body he’s granted permission to move. It’s like everything is concentrated and multiplied there because of it. You can feel each individual spasm your floor muscles make as they convulse against his tongue, how each blazing shot of ecstasy that shatters through your body wrings more and more wetness from your cunt into your Master’s mouth.
Never. Ever ever ever. Has anyone done something so mind blowingly sexy to you. Nobody. Ever. He’s a virgin, you frantically remember as Obi-Wan purrs softly into the folds of your pussy while it cums all over him.
Your thoughts, young one, you can just barely make out his voice remind you gently, just as gently as he sucks on your clit through the aftershocks, somehow sounding even more aroused than he did before.
After allowing your projection to flicker out of existence with a putter, you’re completely dazed. Incapable of moving regardless of the way he keeps you pinned with the Force long after he pulls away, slowly moves back up your body and waits while you work to regain your bearings. You don’t even want to open your eyes right now, knowing he’s looking down at your peaceful expression while you work to catch your breath. You’re too stupid with pleasure you almost don’t even process the soft touch of something against your lips.
You’re lovely.
The thought is so quiet you don’t even recognize it isn’t your own. Not until he keeps pressing his lips to yours so sweetly, not knowing to do anything else when your mind is too fractured with ecstasy to unconsciously act as his compass like before. Everything is innocent and gentle and not reminiscent of the fact that the robes you’re both wearing are wide open and your mouths tasted of each other even before he kissed you.
Instead of melting into the soft touches, though, they just start to burn you alive, the thick fog of your orgasm clearing more and more with each gentle press of his lips and your need for him steadily growing. He’s kissing you. Master Kenobi is kissing you for a few precious, heart stopping seconds at a time before pulling away, pausing to look at your face each time to make sure your eyes are still closed, before leaning down and carefully pressing his lips to yours again.
The only part you can’t stand is that he won’t even let you move your jaw to kiss him back.
Kiss me, Obi-Wan, you urge desperately through the Force, not wanting to interrupt to speak.
“I am, little one,” he replies between kisses, and the sincerity in his tone tells you he’s not purposefully teasing you. No, this is him kissing you, genuinely, the only way he knows how to.
Let me— you start to struggle in earnest against his hold on you, —please, let me—
The warm breath from his nose puffs softly against your cheek with a quiet little sound from far back in his throat, and then you suddenly gain the ability to move from the neck up.
You immediately part his lips with yours and Obi-Wan pulls back just the slightest bit in response, but your neck lifts up to compensate as you lick deep into his warm mouth. He gasps at the foreign sensation and loses his concentration for a split second, enough for you to break free of it completely. Your hands quickly fly up to cradle his face as soon as they can move and your fingers hook around the thick beard blanketing his sharp jawline, urging him back down into you.
Your legs come up to wrap around his lower back and he sags against your strong will with a needy groan, dropping down closer and obediently keeping his mouth open for you to taste. As soon as he presses his body into yours, his cock strains and drags against your lower stomach, already throbbing hot and leaking precum along the soft hills of your skin.
Maker, you want it but somehow you… you don’t. You just want to savor tonight as long as you physically can, keep holding him and kissing him like this for another few hours at least before you try to take his cock, but he’s unintentionally grinding it against you while his tongue shyly dances with yours, needy and already raring to go in his own timid way.
Do you want it, Master? You finally murmur to him, running your fingers through his hair and gently biting his bottom lip, scooting your hips up to let him rub himself against something better than your tummy. You feel… ready.
The only response you get from him is a shuddering, helpless moan into your mouth and you hold him tighter to you, grinding your still sensitive cunt up against his cock while he pulls hard at the soft fur next to your head. Your feel your soaking pussy lips part around the solid curve of his length and gradually coat the underside of him in slick with every gentle circle and roll your hips make, and Obi-Wan finally pulls away from your mouth to drop his forehead to your neck.
“Yes, I—” he moans into you skin, “Oh stars, I want it.”
With a gentle wave of your hand, you use the Force to drop his hips down to the proper angle and tilt the head of his cock to line him up perfectly.
And now this is the part you don’t want to rush. This is when you take Obi-Wan Kenobi’s virginity. You’ll savor just being able to remember this for the rest of your fucking life. You’ll see him in Council meetings years from now and be reminded that you’re the only person in the galaxy to know the thickness of him as he rests heavy up against your entrance, the way his voice presses deliciously tight in his throat as he gasps out into the quiet room. You’re the only one who will know that sound, that sound is yours, that sound belongs to—
“Padawan,” he grits, hips stuttering into you while you wrap your arms around his shoulders, “your thoughts—”
You groan up at the ceiling and your pussy tightens at the reminder that he can still hear you, but your body is just too bold and desperate for it. Your thoughts begin to flare bright, growing more possessive by the second, and you can’t even wait for him this time. Every single muscle in Obi-Wan’s body goes rigid when you tighten your grip around him and roll your hips up into his cock, letting it break you open nice and slow.
It stretches you wide with a deliciously sharp fullness and pleasure rips through you as Obi-Wan instinctively tries to lift off you and away from it, but you’re clinging too tightly to him. Your whole body hovers off the mattress to stay with him.
“You said—” he gasps, “—it wouldn’t h-hurt—oh—”
“It doesn’t,” you groan, continuing to tighten your legs and hoist yourself up, lifting your hips to take his cock deeper inside you. “Oh, Maker, it feels so fucking good, Obi—feel it—”
His elbows shake where they’re locked and braced against the mattress but he drops his head and holds strong like this while you work your muscles to take him as far as you can from this shameful angle. Your body feels like it’s on fire while you desperately cling to him and the length of your robe brushes against the mattress while you just keep trying to get him deeper inside you—
Suddenly something grabs hard at your hips and tries shoves you downwards and off his cock, but you want it too badly. You summon the hidden strength of your energy and then channel it into your legs where they’re hooked around the curve of his lower back.
Obi-Wan chokes at the unexpected resistance and his elbows buckle, dropping you both down to his forearms with a jolt, but you’re too busy mentally clashing with each other for it. The result is… well, it’s maddening.
Every time your pussy is able to swallow him more than halfway, you pull back and let his energy shove you down his length—but then dig back in right before you drop completely and use the Force to bend your legs and fight the uphill battle to his cock once more. Your Master gasps, beads of sweat gathering at his temples while you fight him with every ragged breath in your body to keep fucking him.
Except—he’s the fighter. And you should’ve known.
You’re no match for the sudden blast of energy from him, easily hinging your legs apart from around his back and then ripping you down off his cock with a wet sound, bouncing back down into the mattress once more.
In order to stop the desperate tears of defeat from coming to your eyes, you immediately clamp them shut and twist your face away from Obi-Wan’s, but he makes a low growl and uses the same ferocious royal blue energy to keep your knees pinned open and wide against the bed.
And then drops his hips and rocks back into you, giving you those last few precious inches of his thickness you weren’t able to get at before. It hits sharp nirvana up inside you with his thighs pressed tight to your hips like this. His name rips itself from your throat while Obi-Wan clenches his jaw and starts to lose himself in the pleasure, holding you down into the bed with the Force while he allows your desperation to guide him to the perfect angle and speed to sate you.
He’s so gifted, so strong in the Force, he’s able to use your mind as his anchor and give you pleasure beyond anything you’ve ever experienced. And in return, you want to do the same to him. You want to read his thoughts, instantly be able to give him everything he never knew he needed—
“You do,” your Master chokes out, “darling, you already—”
Everything inside you surges up at the admission, aching that much harder to hear him, to hear everything the way he can hear you. The tips of your fingers find his temple, slick with sweat, and you press just hard enough to tell him your intent.
“Let me in,” you whisper, wicked arousal swirling tight in your lower muscles as they start to bear down on his cock.
“I—I can’t—” Obi-Wan gasps breathlessly, “I can’t—”
“Open—open the door, Master,” you beg, “please, open th—”
“Fuck,” he cuts you off, his voice rising in pitch while his his hips snap just a little harder against yours and his rhythm falters, “—It’s too good, Padaw—I’m going t-to—stars, are you—are you r-ready?”
Some terrifying, swirling darkness manifests itself deep in your thoughts. It rises up, part of the desperate, hidden subconscious that you’re typically capable of stifling. No, it says, don’t let this be over. Not yet. You don’t want to go to sleep alone, wake up and remember you’ll never have this again. You need there to be a next time, and a time after it.
You try your hardest to push the longing downwards when you recognize it, but your Master is too quick, too talented to deceive when he’s this close to you. He easily plucks it from your mind and expands it, enlarges the chaotic string of thoughts until you feel them pulsing at the edges of your consciousness.
And then Obi-Wan sees it all, immediately playing out in your memories as you helplessly watch on. Every desire you buried for him unearthed, every whimper you stifled with the back of your hand when you touched yourself at night and thought of him amplified. The years of repression, the blind hope that simply ignoring it would make it go away. How hard you worked to deaden the burst of affection that radiated through the Force when you finally saw him after two years apart. The circumstances behind the night you lost your virginity—not a long time ago, as he suggested before, but only just last year. So desperate in your loneliness and longing for his presence that you began routinely sneaking around and fucking other Knights—Guardians with blue sabers whose souls were just marginally close enough to Obi-Wan’s, and you thought of him the whole time. Every time.
But, perhaps, worst of all. The… fantasies.
He sees himself dropping to his knees and congratulating you for passing your trials by burying his tongue inside your warmth and telling you how proud of you he is. He sees you opening his trousers and slowly licking his cock while he meditates, trying to get him to break his concentration. He watches the two of you fucking in every conceivable position, how incredibly ready you always are to take him when he needs it. Most importantly, he recognizes your inherent, blazing desire to drag this out as long as physically possible, to permanently brand every moment in your memory to get you through his impending absence.
And then… then Obi-Wan does something unexpected. Something incredibly uncharacteristic.
You watch as he morphs the fantasies right before your eyes. He's still on his knees with his head between your legs, but now he’s telling you how proud he is of you for negotiating the mysterious, confidential deal that ended the Clone Wars. You’re licking his cock as the ship autopilots itself through the week-long journey back to Coruscant from s’Ziscari, letting him slowly cum in your mouth as he sprawls lazily in the captain’s chair. He’s taking you against the wall of your quarters after a mindless and dull Council meeting; you’re riding him quietly in his bed after lights-out at the temple; he’s rubbing your clit while he sits behind you and advises you on matters concerning your own Padawan you’ll be choosing sometime soon, two fingers deep and squeezing a bared nipple when he whispers in your ear how much he absolutely adores you.
Thoughts that aren’t your own begin to fill the empty spaces of your mind, a lovely pale blue tenor to harmonize gorgeously with the soft green alto of your own consciousness. The resulting color of your combined energies fills your soul with Light, a stunning turquoise of a color you’ve never loved more, one you wish you could live in for the rest of your life.
For every debased thought of yours he sees, he shows you one even more revealing. The way he used to dream of you at night, especially after a close battle where many Jedi and Clones fell, and then he’d wake up in a cold sweat with an erection pulsing feverish and so terribly shameful between his legs. How he tried to shove a pillow down there once to somehow relieve himself of the aching hardness, and then had to rip it away and launch it across the room with the Force when he realized he’d been dragging himself against it and thinking of you.
“I’m gonna—cum—” your voice scrapes across your throat, and you can already sense him throwing his beautiful consciousness out like a net. You match him with what little mental strength you have remaining, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and your ankles around his lower back and pulling him down into you.
Obi-Wan’s energy keeps swirling a brilliant aquamarine with yours, presenting his every subconscious thought to you, one right after another, so quick you can barely keep up. How he’ll always be with you, no matter what. How the Maker himself won’t be able to drag him away from you now. How quiet jealousy still tugs at his heart just thinking about the fact that you broke your oath—before you both could do it together.
Everything swells up inside you and you scream when it finally crashes over, your blended signatures sealing themselves together permanently and then detonating in a debilitating shockwave that ripples the air around you. You’re blinded and deafened by its vivid energy, powerful and dazzling every shade between blue and green and Light and Dark, all balanced perfectly together.
You lay there in the gentle afterglow afterwards and feel your pussy still clamping tight to him, pulsing in random intervals while Obi-Wan slouches into you and every muscle in his body trembles with the comedown. Everything is right. Everything in you sparkles.
“Stars, Obi,” you start chuckling up at the ceiling, the sheer joy overwhelming you and bringing tears to your eyes. “Stars, did we just—”
“We just won the Clone Wars, my dear,” he slurs into the crook of your neck while his cock still throbs inside you, and you can feel the exhaustion creeping up his spine, every single thought in his mind completely dead at the moment.
“How long do you… do you think it’ll take before it’s over?” You ask quietly, brushing your fingers through his hair. Obi-Wan groans and buries his face deeper into your neck.
“Few months, maybe. Time for s’Ziscari…”
He stays like that for just a second, and you press your nose to him and breathe him in, marveling at how utterly gorgeous his signature is right now. Clear blue with the lightest touch of teal, rippling like quiet water in a crystal calm riverbed.
Lovely.
You keep softly playing with the hair at his nape, and then quickly wrap your arms around him when he goes to try to brace his forearms next to your shoulders and lift up just the slightest bit.
“Wait, don’t—it’s—” You bite your lip and feel him sink back down into your body without another word, clearly having only attempted it for appearances. “This is good, let’s just… stay for a second.”
He doesn’t respond, he doesn’t even move, and—a few months, you think. A few months of his absence, of wondering where he is but never being able to ask. It burdens your heart, but you understand it’s necessary.
The Council may… grant me a position with a more permanent location after this mission, he responds quietly to your dip in the Force after a moment, too tired to even talk anymore and exhaustion weaving his every thought. On Coruscant.
Your heart pangs with sudden hope, and you know he can feel it. “They would do that?”
I could ask to oversee the s’Ziscari’s assimilation into our ranks, he offers alongside a stifled yawn into your collarbone.
He’d… request that? To be closer to you? But why?
He doesn’t hesitate before offering the words to you simply, not even considering them before they’re the only thought in his mind. Because I care for you more than there are stars in the sky. I always have.
Lovely.
No, no, not even, that’s just. Love. By itself.
“Yes,” Obi-Wan murmurs softly into your neck, and your soul feels like it grows wings.
You both lay there in silence for a long time after that, and it takes you even longer to realize he hasn’t succumbed to sleep yet, even as the aching fatigue weighs heavy on his back. He’s resisting it, keeping his eyes purposefully open against your neck while yours are blissfully shut.
“Master,” you eventually whisper up at the ceiling, and his cock twitches inside you. Oh stars, you’ll have to remember that. “Go to sleep.”
I have one more confession. The thoughts are slurred and distorted, barely conscious as he desperately tries to outlast the sleep trying to pull him under. I didn’t even want to mention it before because I didn’t know how this was all going to go, but… He blinks slowly against your neck even as his eyes droop, only just a few seconds from passing out with exertion. The Sh’inzith lasts six days, dove.
Your eyes pop open in shock just as his finally fall shut, and Obi-Wan stops fighting.
#WE OUT HERE#obi-wan kenobi x you#Obi-wan Kenobi X Reader#obi-wan X reader#obi-wan x you#smut#fanfic#no-droids
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