#did i have cody in mind as the model for the reader? yes. do i kinda ship her and ghost now? YEAH

[darkworkcourier]

You’re doing Ghost!! Can I request an exercise in sharing body heat in cold conditions that turns into *other* forms of exercise? Preferably a non-military female reader if that tickles your fancy. So excited to see you back on tumblr, I loved your RDR2 and FC5 work back in the day 💕💕💕

Hi yes I’d like to apologize that this tiny prompt turned into EIGHT THOUSAND WORDS OF PORN OH GOD

(Also, try and find all the Far Cry 5 references. :3c As a thank you for hanging out with me all this time!)

Reader works for the National Park Service and gets pulled into a mission involving guiding Ghost to go after a (wink) paramilitary organization in (WINK WINK) Montana. Things go awry.

---

“Piss poor excuse for a shortcut, Ranger,” Ghost says to your back.

Your mid-back, actually, since you’re about two feet above him on the hillside which is way steeper than you remember. You could have sworn there was a trail cut through here, or maybe that was a half mile down the ridge, or maybe— Maybe it’s good to not second guess it when you think Ghost’s about a full thirty seconds from ditching you and going off on his own.

“You wanna get shot at?” you ask over your shoulder, voice slightly muffled in your scarf. “Because if you took the main road, that’s what you’d get.”

“I would do just fine,” he replies dryly.

Right, he’s got a tactical vest on. You have a down jacket that would just make for a really interesting display of flying feathers if you got shot. The best defense you have is the handgun he gave you for protection, and a Park Service badge that would elevate the threat of killing a federal employee. Not that Ghost’s targets would care, but it makes you feel better.

The two of you trudge through waist-deep snow, thick even on the incline. You’re practiced enough with winter weather hiking to approach it fairly spryly, but you’re also not lugging an incredible about of gear like he is.

“It’s not that far, anyway,” you tell him, just to make conversation. “It’s this ridge, then the Beaver Dam River, and then the lookout tower.”

“Real walk in the park,” he replies.

“Literally,” you say brightly.

His grunt isn’t very amused.

The biggest problem is the cold. It’s northern Montana in the depths of winter, and every shrieking sickle of wind that cuts through the mountains physically hurts. You’re prepared enough for the temperature drop, but you worry more about what happens after dark, when it goes from tolerable to goddamn polar. If it wasn’t vital for you to be out here, you would have stayed in.

For lack of anything better to do as you finish ascending the ridge, you think on the whole situation. A paramilitary extremist group hiding out in the mountains, some multinational task force you’d never heard of swooping into the park, and you getting swept up into it all and taken on as a guide. It sounds like something straight out of an action movie, but here you are and there Ghost is.

Hell, even his name and whole look makes the reality of all this seem that much out of pocket. He’s dressed in winter tactical gear, white and gray mottled camo, hood pulled down low over the skull-plated balaclava that you’re fairly sure he never takes off. He blends in with his surroundings, but at the same time, he really sticks out.

You get to the top of the ridge, pausing for a moment to take in your surroundings. Sure enough, by your reckoning, you’re about a quarter mile off from the actual trail. It’s easy to remedy, leading Ghost down the relatively level ridge to where the trail appears as a shallow divot in the snow.

Of course, he points it out.

“Got lost, did we?”

You roll your eyes. “Not lost,” you correct. “Just slightly askew on the directions. Everything looks the same in the snow.”

“Thought you knew this place like the back of your hand.”

“I do,” you say, stepping down onto the trail and grimacing when the snow goes up to your hips. Ghost is so damn huge that it probably barely goes over his knees, but you don’t turn around to look. “And I wasn’t too far off!”

“Slightly off is still off,” he retorts.

You really wish they would have sent the nice, happy Scottish guy with you instead.

Once you clear the ridge’s treeline, you see the lookout tower poking above the trees straight ahead of you. Grinning, you point it out to Ghost.

“Affirmative, Ranger. I see it.”

“You can just say ‘yes’.”

You can hear him sigh, and then, “Yes,” said like he’s punching the word out of the air.

The trail crosses over the river, cutting through at its shallowest section for this part of the park. The only problem is that the Beaver Dam River doesn’t freeze, so there’s a very real risk of soaking through your boots and defeating the purpose of having moisture-wicking socks. With any luck, you’ll have some downed trees or rocks to cross over, and the river won’t be too high.

That’s with any luck; the opposite being the luck you currently have, as the river’s clearer than you’ve ever seen it once you reach it. You hiss out a curse under your breath, glancing up and down the banks to see if there’s any easier way to cross.

Nada.

“Shit,” you mutter.

“What’s shit?”

“River’s clear, but it’s... well, it’s fuckin’ cold is what it is,” you say, watching the glacially-fed water happily rush by you.

He shrugs. “Looks shallow enough.”

“It is, except—” You look down at your boots, cringing at the thought of all the fun ways water can get in them.

Beside you, Ghost looks down at them as well. “They’re not waterproof?”

“They are, but probably not for walking through a river.”

“Jesus,” he murmurs, then steps right into the water. You see it course around his ankles, protected by his thick boots that probably cost more than a month of rent back home. Once he’s on the other side, he turns back to you, dark eyes peering out through his mask, making him look like a bizarre death motif hanging out on the banks of a very chilly River Styx.

“Damn it,” you hiss. You’ll have to be quick, not settling long enough for the water to leach into your boots and socks.

It’s probably comical to Ghost to watch you hopping across the river, up until your boot hits something—loose gravel, a slimy rock, or just a pocket of underwater bad luck. Whatever it is, it sends you right on your ass and into the water. The only good thing is that it’s not deep, but that does shit to negate the cold shock that knocks the wind right out of you. Cold pierces right through your clothes, hitting your skin like dozens of tiny knives. You gasp first, then yelp, and finally scramble out of the water and right into Ghost’s arms.

To be fair, in the shock, you didn’t see his sudden movement toward you, so you yelp again—right into his ear—when he scoops you up. His head jerks back, but he holds you steady regardless.

“Jesus fuck!” you gasp, already shivering hard. Parts of you are too numb to register on your brain’s running docket of limbs and appendages, but others hurt like shit.

“You okay?” Ghost asks, sounding a little breathless. His hands are on your shoulders, holding you in place.

Great question; you don’t have a good answer. You nod, but you’re pretty sure the uncontrollable shivering is telling another story.

“Let’s get you to that tower,” he says. His voice takes on the command form you only heard back when you sat in on the task force’s meeting. It’s solid, and strangely comforting to hear him take charge. “Sooner we’re inside, the better.”

“C-couldn’t agree m-m-more,” you manage, crossing your arms and digging your hands into your armpits.

Ghost takes the lead up the trail, which is good because your legs feel pretty damn numb. You don’t think it’s frostbite yet, but you know that’s a very real risk, especially as the clouds overhead start to darken with the oncoming evening. Because of the tower’s high perch, the trail snakes back and forth up the hill—a half hour’s walk in good weather and a steady pace, but longer in your state.

Ghost’s surprisingly patient, purposefully slowing his pace so you can keep up. He looks over his shoulder again and again, like he’s making sure you’re still there and not face-down in a snowbank. On your end, you keep your eyes fixed on his backpack, determined to keep it in your sight.

Halfway up the hill, Ghost decides to change tactics. He stops, shouldering off his backpack, then handing it to you. “Put it on,” he says. “Then get on my back.”

“What?”

“Just do as I say,” he says, brooking no argument in his tone. “It’ll be faster.”

You put on the backpack, not surprised that it weighs a metric ton. At the same time, your vision swims a little, dark shapes appearing in your vision before fizzling out like little firecrackers.

Oh, we’re in trouble, you think.

Ghost makes sure the backpack’s secure before turning around and going down on a knee to give you space to climb up. Non-hypothermic you would find this a great opportunity to make a down-on-one-knee joke, but you’re way too fucking cold to do much more than shiver and hang on to him for dear life. His hands go to the back of your thighs, supporting you while you cling to his neck, pressing your face into the back of his coat.

“You good?”

You nod.

“Need a verbal confirmation, Ranger,” he says, not without a hint of humor.

You manage a stifled, shuddering laugh and say, “Yep.”

“Good enough.”

He carries you up the hill, the incline steep enough to make the backpack feel heavier somehow. You don’t know how he’s managing it as well as he is, except for whatever freakish training they probably do in England. In your swimming, dizzy mind, you imagine Ghost hoisting crates of tea over his head, and that sends you into a giggling fit.

“What’s so funny back there?” he asks. However, you can’t miss the sliver of concern in his voice.

“H-how d’you train in Eng-g-gland?” you ask, the middle syllable briefly caught in the back of your throat.

“How do I what?”

“B-back where-e-ever you come f-from-m-m,” you say, shivering harder even though you can feel his body heat close to your core. “W-what do th-they make you d-d-do?”

He’s quiet for a long moment, and all you hear are his boots crunching in the snow and the wind snapping through the trees around you.

“Vigorous biscuit lifts,” he says.

You snort against his coat, and then cling tighter, feeling your limbs prickle in the cold.

You’re silent the rest of the way up the hill, shivering and sniffling as Ghost carries you. Finally, you reach the top, and you glance up to see the lookout tower’s staircase which until now has never looked so fucking tall.

“Sh-shit,” you say.

“Just hang on,” Ghost says. “You’ll be fine.”

“N-n-no, I th-thought I’d l-l-let go,” you joke, but your arms do feel like they’re going to fall off, and you’re starting to lose feeling in your fingertips.

He grunts and adjusts his hold on your thighs, then starts the ascent up the stairs. You really do have to wonder about his physical training regimen, because you’re pretty sure you’d be dead before you reached the top in your state. He’s only panting, breaths coming out in thin clouds in front of his balaclava.

“S’it locked?” he asks.

“No.”

“Good,” he says, letting you down onto your numb feet so he can open the door. He goes in first, hand close to his thigh holster, quickly scoping the single room before letting you in. "Clear.”

Your steps waver a little as you walk in, then quickly fall onto the bed without much ceremony. You’re a shivering mess, every part of you that you can still feel trembling with the cold. It’s not much warmer in the tower, but at least the wind’s blocked out. Ghost walks over and helps you shoulder off the pack, then leaves your line of site, his presence indicated by heavy footsteps, the sound of the backpack’s zipper being opened, and then soft clanking and thumping.

Your consciousness wavers on a very dangerous precipice, and you know you really need to get out of your wet clothes. You’re not at the paradoxical undressing stage of hypothermia, which is a good sign. But that also means you have no strong desire to strip, either.

Somewhere in your half-doze, you hear Ghost working on the potbelly stove, opening it on its whiny hinges, loading its gullet with wood left over from the last restock, then striking a match. It doesn’t take long to hear the throaty crackle of burning wood, and that’s a comfort in of itself.

Ghost is back at your side, gently shaking your shoulder. “Hey, Ranger,” he says. “Let’s get you out of those clothes.”

“Mmn,” is your best response, and not a particularly eloquent one.

“C’mon,” he presses, then manhandles you up into a sitting position. Your muscles give a pretty passionate protest, and you blink wearily up at him as he helps you take off your gloves, then unzips your jacket. His eyes flicker up to yours, assessing you. “You still with me?”

You nod, lifting your stiff arms for him to help you out of your sleeves.

“You know the signs of hypothermia, right?”

“Y-yeah,” you say, squeezing your eyes shut as a fresh rush of pins and needles goes down your right arm.

“Alright, let me know if any of ‘em get worse.” He drops your coat in front of the stove, then gestures to your half-soaked sweater. “Can you get that off by yourself?”

You nod again, then start the suddenly grueling work of getting out of it. It’s heavy wool, designed specifically to be as thick and warm as possible. That also means that it’s a bitch to get out of when your arms feel like cooked pasta. Still, Ghost’s already doing a lot for you, so the least you can do is prove that you’re better at a toddler than taking your clothes off.

Oh. Yeah, there’s that. You’re taking your clothes off in front of Ghost. That’s a whole thing to parse through.

But you manage to get out of the sweater, and that’s a victory. You drop it next to the bed, then start undoing the laces on your boots, fingers fumbling the whole time.

“Need help?” Ghost asks.

You look up at him, and then feel a very welcome heat rush to your face.

He’s ditched his coat on a chair next to the stove, tactical vest laid aside on the lookout’s desk. He’s down to a skin-tight black long-sleeved shirt that does wonders in showing off his musculature, and his hand are— Holy shit, he’s undoing his belt.

“W-what are you d-doing?” you ask. Bonus points for you that you’re not shivering as hard. Lack of bonus points that you’re openly ogling the lieutenant like he’s a prime beef steak (and he is).

He gestures back to you, one boot off, the other half-undone. “Getting undressed,” he says very plainly. “Fastest way to warm you up. You know that.”

You do, is the problem. It’s in every survival manual you’ve read and every class you’ve taken for your job. At the same time, it’s in at least four romance novels you’ve perused. And you’ve spent nearly four full months without coming into contact with any human being for more than an hour at a time; getting naked with a gigantic, musclebound man nearly sends your addled brain into a tailspin.

You quickly undo the other boot, trying to will your hands to stop shaking.

This isn’t the time to get shy, especially as your limbs ache in new and profound ways and you feel like you’re never going to be warm again.

The boot comes off, then you peel your wet socks off and drop them on the floor with a very telling plap sound. Your feet prickle and ache as the chilled air hits them and your shivering renews in spades. The faster you get undressed and under any kind of cover, the better it is for both of you.

Snow pants go next, then your work pants, until you’re down to a t-shirt and long underwear.

And Ghost is—

Fuck.

If there was any blood left in your suffering arms and legs, it must redirect right up to your face, making your head swim in a whole new body of water. Ghost’s stripped down to his boxers and (of course) his balaclava. His back’s to you, but that means it’s on full display as he puts all of his clothing in a semi-neat pile. When he turns back to you, you see his eyes widen a little as he lifts his brows.

“Still wearing too much, Ranger,” he states.

You know that, but there’s a pretty firm disconnect somewhere in your synapses, body firmly resisting any higher command to do literally anything useful.

He seems to register that issue, because he’s at your side in an instant, tugging on the hem of your t-shirt to help you out of it. You squawk in surprise, almost falling back onto the bed. 

If you could read masked expressions a bit better, you might think he’s amused.

“I— I can d-do it m-m-myself,” you stutter out. Fighting down any urge to be bashful in a survival situation, you get out of your t-shirt, then maneuver yourself enough to take off your long johns. At the end, you’re down to just a sports bra and panties. Pointedly, you don’t look up to see Ghost’s reaction.

“Take this side of the bed,” he says, gesturing to the edge you’re sitting on. “It’s closer to the stove.”

You do so, feeling him get on the bed and go over to the far side closest to the window. He pulls up the blanket and quilt, then slips underneath them before holding them up for you.

With your back to him, you lay on your side and shimmy under the cold blankets. Behind you, Ghost grunts in what sounds like irritation.

“Turn around,” he says. 

You swallow hard, worrying that he’d say that. Reluctantly, you roll over to face him. Or, rather, face his chest, which is alarmingly close. And it’s a good chest, all muscle-y and firm, with a fine dusting of light blond hairs on his pectorals. When you look up, he’s still wearing that balaclava. You squint at him.

“H-how come y-y-you’re still wearing th-that?”

“Doesn’t come off, Ranger,” he states, although the corners of his eyes crinkle like he’s smiling.

“Ever?”

“Affirmative.”

You groan and lean your head forward until it touches one of his collarbones. “Just s-say yes-s,” you complain.

He actually laughs this time, a low, rumbling sound deep in his chest, before you feel his arm wrap around you, pulling him close to him. It’s startling, and damn embarrassing, but you definitely can’t argue with the results. Almost immediately, his body heat seeps into your skin, first warming your hands pressed in between your chests. One of his feet brushes over one of yours, causing you to jump, and then settle with your eyes squeezed shut in mortification.

But that mortification gives way to blissful comfort as everything warms up. The stove radiates heat as the wood crackles and shifts, and Ghost is a stove in himself. The little space beneath the blankets is a pocket of glorious heat, and you start to feel the ache in your limbs recede and your head clear of its chilly fog.

You don’t know how long it is before he speaks again, but his voice comes in close to your ear. “You doing alright, Ranger?”

You’re relaxed enough that you nod and smile with your eyes closed. “Yeah,” you say.

“You ever do this in survival training?”

You scrunch up your nose a little. “I read about it. We never actually practiced stripping down and cuddling.”

He snorts. “It’s not cuddling.”

You crack open an eye, looking up into his greasepaint-ringed gaze. Feeling emboldened by the fact you can feel your arms and legs and nothing hurts, you gently shove his chest. “What do you call this, lieutenant?”

“Hypothermia prevention.”

You roll your eyes. “Just say it’s cuddling. It’s easier. Less syllables.”

He doesn’t say a word.

Before long, the crackling of the fire and Ghost’s steady breathing lull you into a doze. You go in and out of sleep, deeper and deeper as the sky darkens outside and causes the fire to make strange shadows around the room. You wake once to find your arm around Ghost’s waist, your chest pressed against his, the crown of your head under his chin. You’re sleepy enough that this doesn’t strike you as odd or something you should remedy. It’s way too easy to fall asleep after that.

You wake again to Ghost moving against you, getting out from under the blankets and crawling across the bed until he steps down on the floor. You groan and roll over to watch him as he crouches in front of the stove, opening the door to add more wood to the fire.

He stands back up and looks down at you, shadows making his face look like an eyeless skull. You admire his body cast in the warm light, more than happy to openly stare at him when he walks back to the bed.

“You feelin’ alright, Ranger?” he asks.

“Mm. I’d be better if you got back in bed,” you say, heart outrunning your mind by leagues.

He lets out a soft laugh and shakes his head. “Things that sound better outside of a survival situation,” he says.

As he crawls over you and back under the covers, you do manage to parse that sentence out through the thick haze of sleep. You turn back to face him, looking up into the dark sockets of his mask.

“What does?” you ask.

“Hm?”

“What sounds better?”

He’s silent for a thoughtful moment before he breathes out through his nose. “Nothin’. Forget it.”

Nope. You’re not forgetting it, especially as you wake up a little more and take in the sight of him laying next to you.

Briefly, you think back to the meeting back at the ranger station, when Captain Price outlined the mission to gather intel on the extremist group. You stood across the table from Ghost, watching him as he stared down at the topography map, then at the dossier in front of him. But then he looked up at you, eyes striking in his mask. After that, you felt his eyes on you all afternoon, and again in the morning when you set to head out.

At the time, you thought he was just observant. He needed to know he could trust you to lead him through the wilderness, assessing you in depth and measuring you up against the other rangers at the station.

But now? Well, now you’re not so sure. You could test it, though. Now that you have all your faculties pretty well in check, you’re tempted to see how he would react to you.

Besides, it’s dark and the two of you are isolated in the Montana wilderness. The only bad thing that could come of this is a very awkward morning.

So, in line with Ghost’s whole vibe—go big or go home.

You pull yourself into a sitting position, tucking your fingers up and under the elastic hem of your sports bra. The second you pull your bra up, you hear Ghost’s breath hitch. He doesn’t make a sound as you take your bra off, sighing in relief and dropping it off the side of the bed.

Behind you, Ghost’s voice is a dry, hot rasp. “Feel better?”

Nervousness flutters around in your chest as you shimmy back under the covers, bare chest now just a suggestion in the fabric. You force a smile. “I hate wearing a bra to bed, and you’re not wearing anything.”

“Thought you’d be warmed up enough by now.”

Taking in a breath to steady your nerves, you don’t answer but raise one of your hands to brush over his chest. He doesn’t move back, or seize your wrist. Instead, he holds still, letting your fingers explore the textures of his skin—scarring and all. One particularly rough scar catches your attention, and you run your fingers around its circumference.

“What’s this one?”

You don’t look up, but you feel Ghost’s eyes burning on you. “Bullet wound from an insurgent. 2017. Laid up in hospital for three weeks.”

Your hand goes lower, finding a raised scar as long as a pencil above his navel. “And this one?”

His breathing is steady, but you’re more aware of it now, of the rise and fall of his chest, your shadow cast across his skin. “Hunting knife to the gut from a drug trafficker in London.”

“When?”

“2012.”

“How long were you in the hospital?”

“Two and a half weeks. Most of it was from surgery.”

You nod, getting bold enough to scoot closer until your breasts press against his chest. His breath hitches, which feels like some kind of success. Something you should report back to Captain Price.

Then, one of his hands brushes over your side, fingers tracing the curve of your waist, down to your hip. Goosebumps rise on your arms and a shiver runs up your spine, thrilling you. His hand goes back up, then follows a line downward over your stomach to a set of small scars on your right side.

“Appendectomy?” he guesses.

You smile. “2019,” you respond. “In the hospital for two whole days.”

“How did you ever survive?”

“Ibuprofen and HBO,” you reply.

You see his mask move with a smile, and then his hand goes up to your chest, following the divot of your sternum. Below his hand, your heart beats deceptively quick, threatening to upend your calmness. Ghost notices, of course, moving his hand to rest over your left breast, your heart threatening to break right out of there like an escaped prisoner.

His voice is like liquid heat in your ears when he says, “Do you want this?”

You could ask him to clarify—play dumb, like you have no idea what you’re insinuating. But the darkness is so all-encompassing, so protective. The world outside doesn’t know about the world in this room, in this bed. You feel safe here, and there’s an opportunity literally laying in front of you.

You smile, and say, “Affirmative.”

He doesn’t jump into action. Instead, his left hand moves down, massive palm covering your breast, pressing gently as he leans his head down close to yours, hard shell of his mask pressing against your forehead.

You look up at him, reaching to tug at the bottom of his balaclava. “Can you take this off?” you ask. “Or at least pull it up over your mouth?”

Another thoughtful silence, and then he does something a little more unexpected. He pulls you close to him, chest to chest, and bodily rolls you over until you’re on the far side of the bed and his back’s to the stove. This way, you can’t see his face, his mask disappearing in his silhouette. You see him reach up and pull the balaclava off, some of his short hair clinging to the fabric before falling away. He sets it down behind him, probably within arm’s reach.

“That better?” he asks, his voice clearer now, hotter, like he’s removed a physical and emotional barrier.

You grin. “Is there anything stronger than ‘affirmative’?” you ask.

“Hard copy,” he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice.

“Well, then, hard copy, sir.”

And you lean in, pressing your lips to his. In the dark, you miss a little, kissing somewhere closer to his chin; Ghost corrects the approach and kisses you in full. His kiss is like him—strong, solid, an undercurrent of ferocity as he catches your bottom lip with his teeth. Your left hand goes to the side of his face, reeling yourself into him and deepening the kiss. In a word, it’s exhilarating. Maybe it’s in part because of what you’ve gone through today, but you go at him like you crave him, and he returns the favor.

His right hand cups the back of your neck, a gentle but firm pressure. His other hand moves down to your chest, thumb brushing over right nipple, drawing a gasp out of you against his lips. You feel him smile against you, then tweak the nipple again. A small, hot shock of pleasure follows a current down your spine, relaying right into your core and sparking a small fire.

If that’s how he’s going to do it, you’ll do the same.

Pressing your hand to his chest, you bring up one of your knees in between his legs, pressing gently against his crotch and making him bite back a curse. You’re quick to kiss him harder, shutting him up before he can say anything about it. In retaliation, he drops the hand on your neck to palm your other breast, massaging both simultaneously as you moan into his mouth.

Where you were freezing before, it now feels like the room can’t get any hotter. That spark lit by Ghost’s first few touches fans into a fully-fledged flame, threatening to burn right through you. You begin rocking your knee in between his legs—alternating pressure, then no pressure—until his hips begin to move against you, his cock growing hard against your thigh.

You tilt your head back and grin. “Well, isn’t someone an eager beaver?” you tease.

He groans and presses his forehead against yours. “Your pillow talk needs work,” he replies.

Your response to his complaint is to reach down and stroke your fingers over his tented erection, earning a surprised grunt and a hissed, “Shit.”

“What’s shit?” you ask, echoing his words by the river.

His voice is all irritation and arousal in equal parts, “The fact we still have clothes on, that’s what’s shit.”

“Oh. Easy fix.”

Again bypassing ceremony, you curl in on yourself enough to pull your panties off, wiggling out of them before tossing them somewhere in the direction of the stove and hoping they don’t get burnt. Then you hook a leg over his still-clothed hip, grinding against his thigh.

“Jesus Christ,” he groans, reaching up to run his fingers through your hair, then forming a half-tight fist so you’re forced to look up at his silhouette. “Now who’s eager?”

“I think it’s a firm tie,” you say, feeling another thrill of victory as Ghost reaches down to shove your leg off and pull down his boxers. Once they’re gone, all the proverbial bets are off. Aside from the shadow he’s wearing like a second mask, he’s completely exposed to you, bare and vulnerable to every touch. It’s like a drug to you, intoxicating and really fucking addicting.

Apparently, Ghost thinks about the same of you. His hand is back on your hip, but trails down to your sex, palming your mons, fingers just brushing over your labia.

You feel him look at you. “Can I?”

No further question from you, especially when your arousal is threatening some serious whiteout conditions in your head. “Yeah. God, yeah.”

One large finger slides against your slit, and you hear yourself, the slick, wet sound audible above anything else in the room. Ghost curses again, drawing his finger back and forth, listening to that sound like he can’t get enough of it.

“Fuck, Ranger. You’re so fuckin’ wet.”

“You kinda have that effect,” you manage to say, before the pad of his finger brushes over your clit and draws out a moan that you bury in his chest.

But his other hand finds your shoulder, pushing you back, before he nudges up under your chin. “No. It’s just us two out here. I wanna hear you,” he says, his voice so hot, smoldering in your ears.

He rubs your clit again, and there’s nothing to hide behind, no muffler to conceal the gasp and moan that follow. Your pleasure is completely on display, and Ghost seems more than happy to draw it out further, admiring it from every angle. He draws circles around your clit, teasing you, adding more fuel to that particular fire—the irony of feeling this way in a tower meant to watch for fires isn’t lost on you.

His finger goes lower, trailing down to your opening, going back and forth several times. The friction is damn near unbearable, and it takes every iota of self control not to grind on his hand. But your hips roll outside your control, and he catches the movement with another low rumble of a laugh.

“There somethin’ you want?” he asks, index finger running a low, lazy circle around your entrance.

You nod, shuddering when he only just dips the tip of his finger in. “Ghost, please.”

“Please what?”

You hear yourself whine, a sound you never thought to hear coming out of your own damn mouth. This man makes you feel ridiculous. And he also probably gets off on hearing you say stuff like this. “Finger me,” you say, exasperated and aroused. “Please, for fuck’s sake.”

“That’s not very pretty,” he teases, and you’re very close to shoving him off the bed. But then he pushes his finger in, and any retort you were set to say or do dies immediately, consumed in the wildfire he’s ignited and fed. He presses his lips to your cheek as you moan, now very unapologetically rolling your hips against his hand as he fingers you, per request. You feel a second finger insinuating against you, and then hear Ghost whisper, “Okay?” against your ear.

“Yes. Oh my God, yes, please.”

“Much prettier,” he says, and the second finger joins the first.

The thought that he’s done this before only just brushes your thoughts as he hooks his fingers in a ‘come here’ gesture, sending hot sparks of pleasure running through your body, using your nervous system like an electrical conduit. You rock against his hand, moaning and gasping as Ghost kisses your neck, scraping his teeth over your tender skin.

“Good girl,” he says, breath hot over your shoulder, before he presses a kiss against your clavicle. How his kisses can feel so chaste while he relentlessly fingerfucks you is beyond your comprehension. The praise just makes it better, making that hot coil inside of you turn tighter, ready to be sprung on a hair trigger.

Ghost picks up on that, too. He suddenly doubles down on the effort, fingers thrusting into you at a much more rapid pace, the wet sound of his hand against your pussy practically deafening. Only his murmurs of praise against your ear register above that.

You’re reduced to a repetitive litany of ‘god’, ‘fuck, ‘please’, and Ghost’s name. All those months without seeing people and having only your hand to keep you company make this oncoming orgasm all the more vibrant and bright, a flare launched high into the air with a huge charge set to explode.

Your hips arch up, and Ghost hooks his fingers again, saying, “Come for me,” in a firm command tone.

And you are not one to ignore a command.

You come hard, crying out and arching off the bed, toes digging into the mattress, hands grasping for literally anything solid, including Ghost. He fucks you through it, coaxing your release out with the finesse of someone defusing an explosive. You come down in fits and starts, catching on little plateaus of pleasure along the way, moaning all the while. Finally, you go practically boneless on the bed, and only then does Ghost relent and pull his fingers away.

You hear him chuckle, a dry and throaty rasp of sound that makes you feel hot all over.

“What’s so funny?” you say, although your words are slurred as endorphins run relay races through your body.

He holds his hand up so that the firelight catches it, and you very plainly see how wet his whole hand is. To show it off, he presses his fingers together, then spreads them out, showing thin strings bridging between them.

“Oh, God,” you squeak, covering your face with your hands and fighting back a round of giggles. “I am so sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for, sweetheart,” he says, clearly pleased. He reaches somewhere behind him, presumably to wipe his hand off on the side of the bed.

And sweetheart. This man is going to kill you, and it has nothing to do with his occupation.

You tilt your head up to kiss him again, sighing against his lips and pressing yourself close. His right hand finds the side of your face, residual dampness from your orgasm still very present. Except he treats it like a trophy, dragging it down to your neck so you can feel it.

It’s also impossible to ignore his arousal prodding against your hip. Not that you intended to ignore it.

Before you can think and reason out an appropriate response, your primal brain takes hold. “Can I ride you?” you ask, and only after it’s said do you feel any kind of horror at outright asking. He purposefully arranged the two of you so you couldn’t see his face, like a Montana wilderness version of Eros and Psyche. Now you’re asking for him to lay on his back, exposed to you in every way.

He’s silent, and you’re about to apologize and suggest spooning or something when he says, “Sure.”

You blink, almost certain you misheard. “Say what?”

“You can, yeah.”

“What about the—”

It’s his turn to kiss you quiet, taking the opportunity to pull you close again and roll on his back. You meet the movement with your own, straddling his hips and feeling his erection press against your sex with insistence. You keep kissing Ghost with your eyes closed, finding his hand next to his head with your own and weaving your fingers together. His grip on your hand is firm—a solid, warm reassurance.

You turn your head, keeping your eyes closed. “I can keep my eyes shut if you want,” you tell him, only to feel his other hand come up and run over your back.

“You can look,” he says.

It feels like a point of no return now. Seeing his face, knowing that a person who this morning was still a stranger with a codename is now going to be very real—you’re almost breathless at the thought.

Slowly, you sit up while astride him, and open your eyes.

He’s— Well, handsome doesn’t seem like a well-rounded enough word. You were more on the mark with the Eros and Psyche metaphor. Firelight and shadow play across sharp features, making him look otherworldly. There’s still greasepaint around his eyes, which makes his gaze all the more intense. But the intensity is mitigated by a plush mouth, a distinctive nose, and a firm jaw. His light hair catches the warm ember-gold hue from the fire. All his features put together make for a face that you want burnt into your memory.

“Jesus, Ghost. You hide this on purpose?” you ask.

He smiles, and it’s only hearing him speak that connects the Ghost you know to the man underneath you. “Yes,” he says. “And it’s Simon.”

You must look owlish, eyes wide, blinking, damn sure you misheard again.

Ghost seems pleased by your reaction, reaching up with his free hand to brush hair out of your face. “That’s my name. My actual name.”

“Simon,” you repeat. A human name to a human face. There’s some poetry in there, but you’re too dazzled to work through it.

“Sounds good when you say it.”

You preen a little, then lean down and kiss him, savoring the sensation for everything it’s worth. And you know he read your name on the dossier, heard it from the other rangers—still, you whisper it into his ear like a secret, and he repeats it back to you in his low voice, accent curling around it perfectly.

Yeah, you’re absolutely going to ride this man until sunrise.

You reach down and take his cock into your hand, stroking it a few times and pressing your thumb up under the exposed head. Ghost—Simon moans and tilts his head back, watching you under half-lidded eyes. Carefully, you go up on your knees and align yourself with him, slowly lowering down and adjusting as needed. He’s big, which you expected from everything else about him. But it’s not a painful fit; if anything, it feels damn good.

“Fuck,” he breathes, hand stroking over your hip as he looks to where you’re joined. “You have no idea what you look like right now.”

“Neither do you,” you reply, very much enjoying the angle. He fills you up completely, the strain of him just a pleasurable ache. You moan at the sensation as you experimentally rock on top of him. “Ohhh, I am so glad you got me off first.”

“What can I say? I’m chivalrous,” he replies, although it sounds a little strained as you move your hips again.

“That’s what you call it?”

Another roll, and he looks like he’s seconds from thrusting up into you. But he’s being conscientious, letting you adjust and go at your own pace. His eyes flutter closed, and you almost want to ask him to keep them open so you can enjoy their expressiveness.

“Something, something about being a British gentleman,” he mutters, and you can’t help but laugh. Apparently, that sensation’s pretty good for him; he shudders beneath you and keeps his hand braced on your hip.

Without his mask, you want to put him through the paces of reaction, committing each expression to memory, cataloging them for future use. So you go up on your knees again and come off his cock, then bring yourself back down. You do it a few more times, watching Simon’s expression with enormous interest, the pleasure and arousal doing fabulous things to his face.

He moans your name, and you’re definitely going to use that as fantasy fodder in the future.

Your earlier orgasm gives you plenty of lubrication to work with, and so you start to fuck yourself on him in earnest. In return, you’re rewarded with a low moan and a quiet, “Fuuuuck.”

The friction feels way too goddamn good, setting up another explosive charge inside of you as Simon starts meeting the bounce of your hips with thrusts of his own. Two opposing forces working toward the same goal, and it feels incredible.

You start to rock back on his cock, using his upward thrust as momentum to hit you just right. It’s the perfect angle, apparently for both of you, as Simon’s now breathing heavily, sweat a fine sheen on his skin.

“Yes, Simon, fuck me,” you whisper, beyond turned on at the wet sound of him fucking into you. You can’t tell if it’s hearing his name like that, the command, or both that make him really lean into this, but he’s pushing up hard, groaning and pulling you down so you’re pressed to his chest.

You wonder how long it’s been for him, too—briefly thinking oh god what if he’s got someone back home and I’m a fucking homewrecker before one particular upward thrust makes you cry out, clenching down on him in a way that’s audibly very good for him. You turn your head enough to see your joined hands, and when you squeeze his hand, you don’t feel any rings on his fingers. He does squeeze back, though, and it just feels like another reassurance.

There’s no way to keep track of time, and you really wish this could go on forever. The heat generated between the two of you is scorching, all-encompassing, a forest fire caught on the cusp of the lookout tower and reported to no one but yourselves.

His pace stutters a moment, the first hint that he’s very close. He releases his grip on your hand to grab at your other hip, pushing you up and off of him before you resolutely sit down, taking his cock in full and drawing a sharp gasp out of both of you.

“No,” you pant. “No, I have an IUD. You can— Ah, fuck— You can come inside me, Simon.”

“Oh, bloody fucking Christ,” he breathes, eyes wide and beautiful. “You’re sure?”

In response, you rock back against him, squeezing hard around his cock. “Affirmative,” you say, then lean down and kiss him again. “Very hard copy.”

And that’s enough to tip him right off the edge. He thrusts once, twice, and then he moans against your mouth, one of his hands going up to card through your hair, pressing you so close to him that you can feel his heart beating against your chest. You feel him come inside you, a pulse of heat, a sense of fullness. The room seems to take on new, brighter colors, and when you look at Simon, he looks fucking euphoric. The firelight gives him a look that’s like a touch of divinity, a golden cast over his face and body.

You take your time getting off of him, enjoying the feeling of him inside you too much. That, and there’s no bathroom, no shower—the comedown also means that reality’s a little too close at hand.

Simon catches his breath, hand loosely stroking your hair, and he presses a kiss to your temple before letting his head fall back onto the pillow. “Holy fuck,” he says.

You grin and nod against his shoulder, then slowly pull yourself off his softening cock, causing both of you to groan, albeit far weaker than before. You collapse onto the narrow bed beside him, nuzzling up close to him, hand on his chest, as he pulls the blankets up over you and wraps an arm around your shoulder. Your foreheads touch, and you listen to his breaths even out, his heart rate firm and steady under your hand.

“Probably too late to ask if you have a partner, huh?” you say, smiling as you run your thumb over his skin.

“If it’s any consolation, I don’t, and I also feel stupid for not asking.”

You look up at him, the orange line of firelight tracing his features. “I don’t either. You’re good.”

He smiles, and you set that expression in your memory, drawing it in great detail. “My job kind of gets in the way.”

“Mine, too,” you reply, tracing spirals over his chest with your index finger. “It’s hard to get a date when you live out in the middle of nowhere.”

“Didn’t want to go check out the paramilitary extremists next door?”

You grimace and hide your face against his chest, shaking your head. “Gross. No.”

His chest shakes with laughter, and it’s wonderful.

---

Morning comes too quick, dawning cold and gray, reminding you that there’s a whole weird world outside the confines of the lookout tower. You and Simon get up, both aching very pleasantly, exchanging one too-brief kiss before his radio goes off.

“Ghost, how copy?” Price’s voice comes through in a crackle.

“Fuck,” Simon hisses, getting up and crossing the room to his radio. You at least can enjoy that he does so fully nude. He picks up the radio and keys it, scratching at his stubble as he responds, “At location 29-B and holding, Captain,” he says, his voice a dry scratch of sound. “The ranger had a medical issue.”

“Is she alright? Do you need a med evac?”

“Negative,” he replies. “We’re moving in about an hour.”

“Rog’. Keep me posted.”

“Will do, sir.”

An hour. You groan and fall back on the bed, staring up at the bare wood ceiling, decades worth of cobwebs in the corners. Simon falls back into bed beside you, cupping your face and drawing you into another firm kiss. Then, something dawns on you, and you lean back, looking over his handsome face in the morning light.

“When you say we’re moving in an hour, do you mean moving out, or just moving?”

His brows go up, slightly crooked smile on his face. “I think I didn’t specify, Ranger,” he says. “Do you have a preference?”

You laugh, leaning in close and pressing your forehead against his again. “Affirmative,” you say.

Simon laughs and shakes his head. “You could just say yes.”

[unstoppableforcce]

always

—CHAPTER THREE: careful

pairing: obi wan kenobi x princess! reader

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a/n: oof long wait but I think you’ll agree that it’s with it? or at least I hope you do !! bc I do !! let me know what you think !! and I apologize for any obi wan hyphen errors :))

(side note, this update came bc I love and adore @freyafell, so say your thanks)

The whole morning had been this hot. This disgustingly hot.

The second the sun rose above the horizon, it had you tossing sleeplessly in your exquisite sheets. Drifting off for a minute and suddenly you were shooting up, chest heaving out of breath as you wiped a bead of sweat from your brow and kicked your sheets off your legs.

Maybe it wasn’t solely the heat in the air that was keeping you up, maybe it had something to do with the steaming thoughts plaguing your mind.

Maybe the heat boiling within your chest was separate from the one outside...

You wiped at your brow again before sliding out of the sheets entirely and stripping your night robes to the cooler marble floors. Hanging off your mirror was the thinnest gown you owned, hand stitched with flowers from the hem to the low hanging neckline.

Fresh air was what you needed, you told yourself as you pulled it on, that would set your mind straight.

Wandering out in the gardens was the best place to find that fresh air, the orchard teeming with maids picking the vibrant red apples down from the trees.

The perfect distraction.

At least it should have been, you thought as you climbed up the ladder into the shaded leaves of the tree. But nothing was ever perfect.

From this height, above the treeline, you could see out into the adjacent open field, your stare landing on the royal guards out for training under the boiling hot sun. Specifically, onto the shirtless General with his dull long sword drawn, battling it out with the younger recruit across from him.

The sight alone enough to drop the perfectly crisp and delicious apple bite you had taken straight from your mouth, all princess-like decorum leaving you for the briefest moment.

The royal guard had been out training since before the sun rose in a desperate attempt to get some of the more strenuous training in before the heat settled. But it was no use. It was barely morning and they were all stripped of their tunics, drenched in sweat and glistening under the early morning sun as it glared down onto them.

Sweat dropped off every sharp angle of Obi Wan’s face, even his hair which had grown longer than he typically preferred it was drenched and stuck to his forehead, forcing him to swipe at it between nearly every lunge of his sword.

How long had he been living the high life of being your personal guard? He was exhausted and it was barely morning. He had a whole day left training the new recruits and Stars, he wiped at his brow once more, if it kept up like this, he’d be dead by the day’s end.

His battleworn body just wasn’t used to the strenuous days work anymore, yet none of his soldiers, new or old, dared to call him on it. With his chest and arms coated in scars, he had seen enough fighting to secure his reputation even as his chest heaved for every breath.

And you couldn’t pull your eyes away once you caught sight of him, prudent or not.

It was a hot morning in more ways than one.

“Your highness?”

Glancing down the ladder, you found one of your most trusted garden maids waiting for you with a full basket of apples in hand, her hair tied back in exquisite braids.

“Yes, Padme?” You called back, taking a bite into your apple to hold it as you climbed back down, jumping the last few rungs to land with a barefooted thud in the grass.

“You zoned out, your highness...” she smirked, her stare cutting through the final line of trees to steal a sly glance of her own out to the guards on the field.

“Seems it afflicts us all.” You laughed out some as you saw most of your maids sparing glances to the field between picks. And that was when an idea sparked in your heat stricken head, one you had no business having. “Are these apples meant for something, did the kitchen ask for them?”

“No your highness, would you like them sent to your chambers—“

“I have a better idea.”

With a wave of you hand, you created a small pack of garden maids, apple baskets in hand, to follow you as you made your way towards the field. The length of your gown was just long enough to tickle the grass around your ankles as you walked through it, warmth coating you head to toe.

And it showed in your smile, shining bright enough across the field that you and your group quickly caught the attention of the sparring guards as you drew closer. One by one, they all froze, each catching on in their own time, the strawberry haired man they looked to lead them being the last to turn and spot your approach.

But when his young opponent froze, lowering his own dull sword, Obi Wan finally caught on, turning and wiping his sweat soaked locks from his face in one swift motion.

His stare landing on you and only you as you stopped at the edge of the area they took over for training.

“Good morning General Kenobi!” You shouted through the group as they began to part, giving you a direct line of sight to the man you had seen in your dreams no less than an hour ago.

“Your highness,” he shouted back with an almost playful use of your title as he bowed his head, the rest of his men following suit in the show of respect.

Though your stare leveled on him and him alone.

“I hope we’re not causing too much of an intrusion,” you smirked, gesturing back to the baskets of freshly picked apples and the women holding them. “But we’ve got extra and you looked hungry.”

His guards looked to him with expectant stares, ones he couldn’t ignore.

He was as famished as they were.

And looking from the bottom hem of your thin gown up to your eyes, much bolder in his scan than he ever allowed himself to be, he figured himself famished in more ways than just one.

It was a terribly hot morning.

He bowed his head, matching your smirk with his own, not afraid of his guards looking on as he answered with an easy, “always, your highness.”

The guards jumped at that. Moving in the most respectful wave their eager and towering figures could muster, the guards fought towards the apples while you carved an easy path moving the opposite direction. Kenobi held his ground, leaning on his sword tipped down into the earth, waiting for you.

“Pardon the disruption...” you mused playfully as you passed him a fresh apple. “I had imaginary fruit overlords to appeal to...”

He laughed at that, a true and genuine laugh, one he hadn’t managed in what felt like years, yet it flowed so easily when it was you it was flowing for.

Maybe it was his full body exhaustion, the fact that he was feeling his mortality in ways he hadn’t since he was a fresh faced recruit himself, or maybe even just the heat, but he felt loose. Loose enough to let the laugh slip, loose enough to even let you step closer than he should have.

Close enough to catch a few of his guard’s stares as they bit into the freshest fruit they had likely ever tasted.

And he didn’t care. Stars, he even enjoyed it.

Moreso than he should have allowed himself to.

Taking the apple from your grip, he tipped it to you easily and took a bite, not even minding the fresh juices that slipped from his lips. He only mindlessly wiped at his chin with the back of his hand and nodded. Once swallowed and not a second before, he smiled, “a welcomed intrusion.”

“Please tell me you won’t be out here in this heat all day,” you said, the heat easily tripled from what you had been feeling in the orchard now that you were out on the field. “It’s deadly.”

“I assure you that I can handle it, your highness.” He mocked back simply, now hyper aware of his bare chest as you stole a glance down to his scar covered skin.

“Never doubted it, General.” You bravely took another step closer, letting his title slip off your tongue more charged than it had ever been before. “These young recruits are truly learning from the best.”

“They are quite young...” he sighed, glancing around to see his training partner off flirting with your garden maid. “Anakin more than the rest.”

You hummed as you looked over your shoulder, “well at least he has good taste.”

“As do you.” He said easily, pulling your attention back to him as he took another bite of his apple. This time as the juices beaded on his lips, your stare followed closely, tracking his tongue as it darted out to contain the mess.

It stole your attention for longer than you would have liked, only the interjecting voice from behind you snapping you out of it.

“I couldn’t tell you the last time I had a fresh apple, your highness.”

Turning quickly over your shoulder, you found the familiar tan face and broad chest of Obi Wan’s second coming around to settle in next to him with a firm slam of his hand onto his General’s shoulder.

With a laugh, you easily replied, “I don’t know when my gardens became so exclusive, Commander Cody, but you should consider yourself welcome any time.”

“You may not have any apples left if that’s the case.” He countered and your laughter easily continued out of you.

“Then we’ll plant more trees.”

Obi didn’t have nearly enough resolve to hide his laughter, he barely even had time to muffle it by dropping his chin to his chest. What was up with him? He was the model for respectful composure around you even in his weakest moments, but throw in a little sun and your bright smile and he was what? A giddy idiot?

The heat must have been getting to his head. Or maybe it was the way you were looking at him, it was downright dangerous.

Too dangerous...

“Well, we should resume, hopefully we can finish before the heat become unbearable.” Obi nodded to Cody and he quickly began rounding up the troops, leaving the two of you just a foot or so from one another.

“It’s already unbearable,” you countered, brushing your hair back behind your ears, your favorite nervous tick. “Promise me you won’t kill yourself out here?”

He just couldn’t stop smiling, not as you radiated such a happy gravity, pulling him in and brightening everything around you as you shined under the sun.

Even if he knew better.

“I wouldn’t be much help in keeping you safe if I died, would I?” He countered.

“Well I care about you more than just your position as my protection, Obi Wan...” you hummed slyly as you took a hesitant step away. “But you’re right, neither dead men nor those with heatstroke make for very good bodyguards.”

He nodded, the smile never disappearing from his lips. “I keep my men safe, your highness, no need to worry.”

You hesitated as you backed away, stopping and taking a step forward instead, bringing you as close as was safe with nearly every pair of eyes in the field turned towards the two of you.

“I have to worry. You keep your men safe but who watches you?”

He froze at that, more than he had when you had suggested so easily that you cared about him more than just as your personal guard. He froze and you wore a look of victory, the effortless back and forth between the two of you coming to a close with a smirk on your lips.

“Kenobi! Let’s get back to work!” Cody shouted from back in the fray of guards, snapping him from his you-centric haze and allowing you to take another step away.

“Thank you for the apples, your highness.” He added softly, just loud enough for your ears only. “And your company.”

With one last laugh, you turned away, but your head turned back as you walked away to add, “Always, Obi-Wan.”

And from there, his stare followed you and the rest of the maids back into the garden.

You were radiant against the green of the grass, your exquisite gown sparkling and still not coming close to the shine you were emitting. Radiant. Absolutely radiant.

“Kenobi!” Cody shouted, snapping his attention back to the resuming chaos around him, the clank of swords and the show of sweaty chests taking over his attention now. And as Cody jogged back to his side, he added carefully, “you are playing a dangerous game, General.”

He knew better than to steal a glance back to you now, his throat going dry.

“I’m not playing any game, Cody.”

Cody has the audacity to laugh at him as he fought back, not even stopping as Obi passed a stern glare his way. “Sure, I’ll just pretend I saw none of that.”

This time, Obi Wan dared to steal a glance over his shoulder back to where you were retreating to the garden, and his heart fell when he found you looking back at him over your shoulder as well. The maids around you were bubbling with excitement, and you were still glowing, a decadent design as you floated back up the gentle slope of the hill.

And you were looking at him, your bubbling happiness shifting to a smirk as you caught him looking.

“I’m not playing a game.” He sighed, bringing his stare back to his commander.

“Does she know that?”

—

The dull blades for training were meant to protect those using them, that was the whole point of having dull blades.

Yet, here Obi Wan sat, at his desk in his small living quarters, trying to read by candle light to distract himself from the sharp pain radiating out from the gnarly gash Anakin had delivered to his shoulder earlier.

It had been a slip, nothing even a practiced soldier hadn’t done a thousand times, but this one caught his bare skin and left a bruised gash along his skin. It wasn’t bad, not even close to bad, but it was just painful enough to be annoying.

An apt description of his apprentice Anakin as well.

Especially as a knock came to the door of his quarters, surely Anakin coming by again to check on him despite having been sent out on night guard duty in the East wing with the rest of the recruits.

“I swear to the stars, Anakin, I am okay—“

Swinging the door open, his words fell dead on his lips as his stare landed on you.

You in your short night gown, the bottom hem of the navy fabric only dropping as low as your knee, and with a similarly silky robe in a matching shade of blue, wrapped tight around your body.

It was out of place on you, he was all too used to seeing you in your exquisite royal gowns. And you were out of place down in the guard chambers, out of place enough to concern him deeply.

“Is something the matter, your highness?” He lowered his voice, careful going steal a look around the common room behind you, grateful to find it empty.

If being alone with you in your gardens was dangerous, having you alone in his personal chambers was toeing the line of an execution on his end. You had to know that.

So why did you just quirk your smile back to him and lean casually into his doorway.

“Nothing’s the matter,” you hummed, “can I come in?”

“You shouldn’t be down here, your highness, if you needed me, you could have hailed me to your—“

“Let me in, Obi Wan.”

Against his better judgement, he took a step back and did just that. What was more treasonous? Letting you into his meager living quarters or denying your requests...

He’d feel safer with the door open, at least he could defend you being there professionally if he kept the door open, so why was he closing it? Why was he firmly securing his fate?

Maybe it was just the power you had over him, the power he should have never let grow to the tremendous size it now occupied within his chest.

“One of the men at dinner mentioned you were hurt...” you hummed as you paced around the small square room, moving over to his desk to drag your fingers along the close spine of the book he left by the candlelight.

“It’s nothing, your highness.”

You chuckled at that, somehow managing to be just as bright as you had been this morning on the open field under the glaring sun in the dark confines of his musky room. “Will I ever get you to call me by my name?”

“Your highness, I—“

You raised your hand before he could continue. “Just, don’t call me anything if you won’t use my name, please.”

He nodded even if his heart was screaming in opposition where it pounded in his chest. Your title was his last line of defense, it was the last thing keeping him away from you, keeping the relationship between the two of you professional.

And now you were stood in his room, letting your fingers dance over the rough blanket covering his bed, and he had no defense to mount against your dangerous game.

Especially as you turned back to him, stepped directly in front of him, and reached out for the neckline of his tunic, pushing it aside to reveal the small wound. “You didn’t get it looked at?”

“It’s nothing, your—“ he stopped himself, swallowing the rest of your title down. “It’s nothing.”

“Doesn’t look like nothing...”

“You don’t need to worry about me.” He sighed, carefully reaching up to nudge your hand away but you were persistent. “Please, I’m fine—“

“Let me worry about you, Obi...”

He opened his mouth to protest again but you dropped your hand and moved past him, pushing into the small bathroom attached to his room.

What the hell was he doing? He sighed as he sat back against his desk and waited for you. He couldn’t run over his face enough to snap him out of it, he was trapped inside this dream and he didn’t trust himself.

When you came back out, he’d have to tell you to go. He’d have to—

With a wet towel in your hand, you emerged from the bathroom and crossed the room in two steps to land yourself directly in front of where he sat. Laying the towel down on the desk next to him, you moved the candle over for better light and began working the injured shoulder out from under his tunic.

And he couldn’t find it in himself to tell you to stop. He just didn’t want you to.

He reached up and helped, pulling the tunic the rest of the way off for you to survey the whole wound.

“You know how to clean a wound?” He hummed carefully as you brought the towel to the cut and he swallowed his grunt.

“Don’t tell me you think I just pick fruit and look pretty all day?” You laughed, the sweet sound on a direct wavelength into his ears. “I know how to make myself useful.”

He turned his head to carefully watch you, closer than he had ever allowed himself to be to you. He could see every curve of your face, every line from your hairline to your chin, from your neck to the dangerously low neckline of your dress and every inch of skin in between.

“I would never doubt it.” He sighed breathlessly.

You shook your head, a playful smile toying with the edges of your lips. “You respect me too much, Obi...”

He grunted as you pressed harder into the wound, biting his bottom lip to keep quiet as you turned to watch him.

“Given the men you spend your days being courted by, I thought that would be a welcomed change.” He hummed, dangerously aware of your dutiful hands slowing in their motions. Your head quirked to him and he quickly caught himself, “Allow me to apologize, it’s not my place to say—“

“You don’t get it...”

You had that right, he didn’t understand any of what was happening as you dropped the towel and turned to face him completely. You were close now, close enough for him to feel the gentle touch of your silk dress dancing against his pant legs.

“Your highness—“ he tried to recoil, terrified of over stepping, but you just recovered the distance back as you leaned forward.

“For once, can you please just disrespect me...”

What kind of soldier would he be if he didn’t follow orders...

Your hands, still slightly damp from having held onto the damp towel, dug into his fluffy locks in the same second that his hands found your silk covered hips and tugged you in even closer than you were already standing. He didn’t know what he was doing but at the same time, he had never felt so confident doing something so wrong.

Inhaling a sharp breath from the twist of his shoulders into you, he ignored the pain and pressed the last inch into you, your lips finally meeting his.

Your sweet, sweet lips... sweeter than the freshest apple of your exquisite orchard.

Even after an exhaustive day out in the sun, he had never felt thirstier than when your lips met his. He needed you. More of you. You were an oasis in the desert that was his loneliness and he couldn’t pull you any closer if he tried.

And he tried.

Stars, did he try.

His calloused and rough fingers dug into the pure fabric of your dress, cinching the loose fabric around your waist as he pressed every inch of your front into his bare chest. Never in his wildest dreams could he have ever imagined feeling you like this.

And he had dreamed about it, ever since he had been assigned to your personal detail. But you were the princess and he was your bodyguard and this was all so wrong.

But it was all so real...

You were so real under his touch, so addicting on his tongue. How could he be expected to let go?

One of your arms draped over his shoulder, his uninjured shoulder, and fully pressed yourself into him as he pulled the silky robe down your arms and onto the hard comcrete of his floor around his feet. He could feel your heart threatening to beat of your chest in time with his own.

Best after beat as his lips dropped to your neck and your fingers began to pull at his hair, tugging sections between each knuckle to drag a groan from his lips as his tongue on your neck pulled one from you. He couldn’t get enough of you, he would never get enough of you.

“Obi...” you moaned out as the straps of your dress began to slip off your shoulders, tugged down from his clenching grip around your hips. “Please...”

He would do anything for you. Anything in the world you could possibly ask for, you had to know that.

He ventured out to let one of his hands trail even lower down your body, down your ass to hold you in between his legs even tighter now. He wanted his hands on every inch of you, he needed—

“General Kenobi!”

You flinched back from him the second you heard the violent scream from out in the common room. It wasn’t the scream of a man in any situation other than his most desperate and it shot Obi Wan onto his feet instantly.

His stare moved frantically to you but you just grabbed his tunic and pushed him to the door, “go, I’m okay.”

“Your highness—“

“Go.”

Opening the door as he slipped the tunic on and reached for his sword, he saw one of his new recruits out of breath, huffing in the entry way to the common room.

“What’s wrong?” Obi asked with a similar level of desperation in his voice while he moved with practiced fingers to strap the sword onto his hip. “What’s going on?”

The young recruit struggled for every breath.

“There’s...” in and out, “there’s an incursion...” in and out again, “in the East Wing....” in and out one last time as he doubled over, “Commander Cody hit... they need help...”

No. No this wasn’t happening.

Not with you in his quarters, the definition of unprotected.

“Wake everyone up, get them to the East Wing, reinforced every inch of the wall.” He ordered, waiting for him to leave the room before slipping back to his own and opening the door up to find you waiting close on the other side.

With your robe back on, your arms crossed tight over your chest, your hair back behind your ears and your lips still swollen, his heart began to break in his chest.

“I need to—“

“I slipped down here, I can slip back up, don’t worry about me.” You said quickly, glancing out to ensure the coast was clear before walking out with him. “You need to go.”

“I need to make sure you’re safe—“

“You have fresh recruits on the East Wing tonight, you need to be there.” You fought easily, “go, Obi.”

He glanced to the door to see the shadows of his few sleeping guards moving from their quarters out into the hall and the commotion just kept getting louder. He had no choice, you were right.

Anakin and all the young recruits were there. He had to get out there.

“I’ll come check on you when it’s safe,” he sighed, pressing a weak kiss to your cheek before taking off in the direction of all his guards.

Leaving you, your silky robes and you swollen lips standing alone in the guards room.

—

tags: @none-of-your-bullshit @elizzysnow13 @binaryssunsets @pennyllanne @mistermiraclee @haztory @dark-academics-and-florals @obi-wan-kanboneme @cyarikaaa @catsandbats13 @justrunamok @voidmonny @ravenclawbitch426 @lysawayne @thinemineours (open + if I forgot you, please let me know)