#hand woven fabric is expensive and they would not have that many clothes!

[derinthescarletpescatarian]

Hi Derin!

Recently I came across one of your long posts about clothes, and it was a long long branching thread but it basically amounted to " the only way to stop humanity from man-made extinction caused by the fashion industry is to start wearing outfits made of many high-quality layers where every single piece down to your bra is made out of high quality materials that are EXPENSIVE but designed to last for decades, and in order to do that we need to start wearing underwear that covers bigger percentage of our skin than just a bra and a g string ,the way our ancestors did" and while I agree with that, I am wondering about something- JUST HOW do we adapt this kind of underwear that our ancestors wore to modern fashion, bc there are some very big differennces between " modern fashion" and " the fashion of yore" namely

Modern fashion includes many, many different styles of "tops" and "bottoms" ,from long jackets to tank tops cropped just under your nipples and full length trousers to miniskirts, while the fashion of yore was basically " you wear a cultural equivalent of a nun's habit every single day of your life, from the day you were born until the day that you die, no ifs or buts" (yeah yeah a MASSIVE oversimplification but bear with me here)

Modern fashion "strives" to be gender neutral, while the fashion of yore was basically like " there are two sexes, and if you wear clothes designed for the 'wrong' sex we're legally allowed to murder you with extra cruelty" ( YES I KNOW EVEN BIGGER OVERSIMPLIFICATION)

so yeah that's something that I was wondering for the past couple of days and I was wondering if you have any good ideas about how to solve those problems

My opinion on the matter is that fabric was just fine twenty years ago. Those clothes can last a long time under normal use and washing without being painstakingly hand-spun and woven to be part of a wardrobe that costs as much as a small home.

But if you did want to go back to protective layering, it's not hard. I do it, mostly because I can't stand the cold, so if you live in a cold climate you don't even have to change your fashion; just put the softest, thinnest tracky daks and long-sleeved tshirt you own on under your other clothes. Boom, skin layer. If you live in a warm climate, then do that with smaller clothes, I guess, shorts and skivvies or whatever, whatever fits under the clothes you like to wear.

To answer your broader question, you've got it entirely backwards. Never once in the history of clothing have the materials and industry adapted to the fashion. The fashion is an expression of the materials and the industry. The creation of the industrial loom alters the fashion, not the other way round. The availability of elastic changes the fashion, not the other way around. The changing climate and changing needs of the wearer (hard-wearing clothes for labourers, etc.) changes the fashion, not the other way around. Fashion is an intersection of culture, environment and industry; it can be used as a tool for politics and market demand, same as any cultural artefact, but it needs to be practical within its environment. If wearing barrier layers became popular again, then the clothing that people wore would be clothing that they find comfortable and good looking over barrier layers.

From the context of this post I assume you're alluding to European feudal and pre-industrial clothing, although high quality fabric has existed for most of human history in societies that did and did not wear barrier layers, but I'm not sure what you mean by 'the cultural equivalent of a nun's habit'. A nun's habit had the cultural equivalent of a nun's habit. I'm not a historian but I can't think of any society of the type you're alluding to where everyday clothing would be equivalent to a nun's habit in any way beyond being, y'know, clothes. What do you mean by this? (Also, people back then also wore a great many styles of clothing; I'm not sure why you list that as a specifically modern thing.)

Modern fashion, on the whole, absolutely does not strive to be gender neutral, but if it did, this would not in any way restrict fabric quality or the use of barrier layers. Men's and women's clothing of yore were both looked after.

[kurithedweeb]

What if there was actually a lot of overlap in Wanderer and Khasian fashion but the meanings associated with the fashiosn were wildly different. In O'khasis, you can read exactly who a person is and what their standing with others are from the clothes and ornamentation, like you can guess how old someone is and where on the social ladder they stand from the way someone wears their hair because there are sets of acceptable styles based on those things, but the meanings behind Wanderer braids are all in emotion and recent personal events and can be reliant on what you weave into the braids whereas for Khasians ribbons and things woven into braids are just ornamentation, and Wanderers will tie their hair with whatever it often doesn't have a meaning besides something personal if it's a gift but what you die your hair with and what it's made of is important to Khasians in part because it's a clear way to show allegiances and in part because things like ornamental combs are common courting gifts and to wear one means you're considering the gifter's courtship.

The knotting on a sash is anything thing that gets lost in translation. You almost never see a Wanderer without a waist wrap, usually tied with the kinds of knots you'd see on a ship or use when camping, and it's usually very simple and detailed only around the edges except on special occasion because they're usually repurposed for carrying children or cargo or used as an arm sling in a pinch. This is just an everyday staple to them, and sometimes a Wanderer will actually cut a strip of fabric from the end of their sash as an offering and mend it in a specific way that others will recognize as "they cut this part away as a trade of offerings." On the other side of things, a Khasian will almost never wear a sash in everyday life and they are folded very carefully to ensure crisp lines and a pleasing silhouette, with the knot and tail on the front of the hip on whatever side the wearer's non-dominant hand in on, and these knots are always ornamental and made to match the rest of the ensemble, never with the kinds of knots you'd see on a ship, with those of a lower class often having a loop of fabric from where they tucked the tail back into the sash because cutting and tailoring is expensive. On the other, other side there are some cultures who don't knot or cut their sashes at all, like in Tu'la where a sash will often be as long as you are tall when you buy it and be wrapped many times around yourself before looping it or putting it into a neat bow behind your back, with the tail left to hang only so far as halfway down the thighs so it doesn't get in the way.

Zianna would wear her sash the Tu'lan way, and it would get a lot of looks in O'khasis for how simple it seems. @warlocks-and-phoenixes's Kiran, if at a Khassian party, would probably wear a wider sash than her usual with richer color but not more heavily adorned, with the knot at the front of her non-dominant hip but tied with the most common knot seen on the ships in the Khassian harbor as a nod to the ocean she came from. Laurance might go full-Khassian styling with the sash but have it folded to be more easily untied as he usually would wear it and likely would use a sash he himself cut and mended for offerings.

Something I like making important in Khassian fashion is earrings as an indicator of status. Garroth glances at people's earrings all the time expecting to be able to read whether they have siblings or children, whether they're heir to the family and who you would have to ask to consider courting them in the arrangement and shape of them, and constantly gets humbled and reminded that's not a thing they do here when what he sees is nonsense he knows for a fact isn't true. Laurance will wear whatever he wants on a day to day basis with such a variety that one day his earrings pronounce him a widower with a stepchild and a baby on the way and the next day just a clearly mark him as the third child of seven who has forsaken all links to his family, and Garroth is so thoroughly confused by it for weeks. Garroth himself used to regularly wear five to seven earrings depending on his setting and the event, sometimes with an additional faux clip for symmetry when needed, and now still wears four that read out who he portrays himself as (loyal to only his lord, not considering courtship, a father but unspecified on of how many) even though no one ever sees them and if they did wouldn't understand it.

Laurance is not allowed to pick his own earrings for Khassian parties. What he might be allowed to do however is wear a set of Garroth's earrings to show his loyalty and courtship to him - in fact, the whole of Garranzomau would likely wear a matching or complimentary set of studs or a singular ear cuff to represent that they are tied to each other if not by courtship then by children. If you're sharing earrings you don't split one set, you wear sets individually that share designs and inlays but one of you will wear one metal and the other will have a different metal, let's say Laurance wears gold and Garroth silver, and you would wear studs using the other's metal that match the sets as a whole in the second lobe piercings. Garroth has six lobe piercings, so the golden set of studs would be in the middle of his silver earrings on the lobe.

Another thing I think people would get confused over is ornamental combs. To Tu'lians, they're a symbol of allegiance and ranking to and within your specific clan and will most often be made of colored glass spun into a delicate arrangement of pseudo-latticework and the clan's symbolic flowers in the clan's colors, or in the color of the gifter's clan if it's a betrothal gift from someone outside the clan. To Wanderers, they most often represent a specific memory of their or their loved one's travels, made with materials from that travel. Hayden might have one made a driftwood or seaglass from somewhere Joh visited for instance, or Laurance would have one from the pine trees outside Brightport from during his time at the guard academy there. In O'khasis, they're very often custom made on special commission in silver, electrum or waxed copper and set with stones reminiscent of the gifter's eyes in a lacework-esque pattern. The symbol of the house the lower-ranked of the couple would be marrying into may be incorporated into the design if it's a betrothal gift, but that's not appropriate if an initial courtship has not been officially and publicly accepted.

Nicole may have a comb supposedly sent from Garroth stowed somewhere in Scaleswind, or a hair cuff with the Ro'meave symbol engraved which was sent to her along with the marriage treaty. Dante definitely has a glass comb Nana gave him as a wedding gift, but it's more useful than ornamental considering he keeps his hair short.

[sashiavi]

im salivating for more of your kaveh x puppy girl!reader x alhaitham. puppy girl in heat maybe?? and her sweet boys help her throughout her whole heat cus they love her so much <33 im begging on my knees pleASE

✿𝙰𝚕𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚖 𝚡 𝙺𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚑 𝚡 𝙿𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚢𝙶𝚒𝚛𝚕!𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛✿

𝙸 𝙷𝚘𝚙𝚎 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝙸𝚜 𝚃𝚘 𝚈𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝙻𝚒𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐! 𝙴𝚗𝚓𝚘𝚢 𝚈𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝙼𝚎𝚊𝚕 ;>

𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝙵𝚘𝚛 𝚁𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙰𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗! 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝙺𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝙼𝚢 𝙸𝚗𝚋𝚘𝚡 𝙽𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚗 𝙵𝚞𝚕𝚕 ♡

𝙻𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝙸𝚜 𝙰𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚃𝚘 𝙱𝚎 👁👁

𝙼𝙳𝙽𝙸 - 𝙸 𝙳𝚘 𝙽𝚘𝚝 𝙲𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚃𝚘 𝙼𝚒𝚗𝚘𝚛𝚜 𝙸𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚆𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝙼𝚎 𝙾𝚛 𝙼𝚢 𝙿𝚊𝚐𝚎 - 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝙵𝚘𝚛 𝚄𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐.

•·················🍑·················•🍑•·················🍑·················•

♡𝙲𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝙳𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗♡

Alhaitham and Kaveh Help Their Puppy Girl Through Her Heat ♡

𝙿𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐: 𝙰𝚕𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚖 𝚡 𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚡 𝙺𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚑

𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝙸𝚗𝚏𝚘: | 𝙿𝚄𝙿𝙿𝚈𝙶𝙸𝚁𝙻!𝙷𝚈𝙱𝚁𝙸𝙳! 𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 | 𝚂𝚑𝚎/𝙷𝚎𝚛 𝙿𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚜 | 𝙰𝙵𝙰𝙱 |

𝚆𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝙲𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝: 3680

𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜: | 18+ | 𝚂𝚖𝚞𝚝 | 𝙷𝚢𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚍 𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚛 | 𝙷𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚜 - 𝙰𝙱𝙾 𝙸𝚏 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚂𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚗𝚝 - 𝙽𝚘𝚝 𝚂𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝙼𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚍 | 𝙱𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 | 𝚃𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 | 𝙿𝚘𝚕𝚢 | 𝙳𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚒𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 | 𝙼𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚎 𝙿𝚕𝚘𝚝 | 𝙳𝚘𝚞𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝙿𝙸𝚅 | 𝙿𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝙷𝚞𝚖𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 | 𝙳𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚢 𝚃𝚊𝚕𝚔 | 𝙿𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚜𝚎 | 𝙳𝚘𝚖/𝚂𝚞𝚋 | 𝙲𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚢, 𝙲𝚞𝚗𝚝 & 𝙿𝚞𝚜𝚜𝚢 𝚄𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝙳𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚆𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜 |

The life of a puppy hybrid was high maintenance.

The grooming of ears and tails, said appendages twitching and wagging, putting one's every emotion on display for everybody to read. Silly little instincts to chase a squirrel or fetch a ball from some unsuspecting children's game. Becoming overly excited around snacks and foods, pestering Kaveh for just one little taste of whatever he was cooking. Getting so easily distracted from important projects assigned to her by the Akademiya, subsequently having Alhaitham breathing down her back to ensure she was on track.

Neither of the boys minded though, Alhaitham welcomed her into his home with open arms. Kaveh absolutely doted on her any way he could, assisting in grooming her pretty ears and ensuring her tail was soft and shiny, genuinely pampering her with more care than he gave himself. (Which was already an endless list of methods and products taking up his side of the bathroom)

Alhaitham was a little more subtle, wordlessly leaving her favourite treats around and ensuring that she had her own keys on her. He gave her quiet time when she needed and sometimes indulged in her zoomies, gently tossing a ball or cushion back and forth in a little game of catch while he flicked through his novel.

Still, the life of a puppy girl was high maintenance. Especially the secondary genders associated with many hybrid folk. Although not often acknowledged socially within society, many poor little puppygirls experienced the most horrible, terrible, achey, ouchy heats.

Everything was so, so hot. The air was thick and cloudy, humid with sweat and hurried breaths, heaving from the poor puppy girl's chest. Hot slick ran from her achey puppy cunt down her thighs, messing up all the comfy blankies she spread out. She laid in a messy nest of duvets, pillows and clothes owned by her roommates. Kaveh would surely squawk at the lack of structural integrity she put into her creation. She buries her nose into a decadent red throw blanket, carefully hand woven and incredibly expensive, she inhales the soft floral scent of her forementioned blonde roommate. Her puppy cunt clenches and drools down her thighs. She whimpers into the fabric, her cunny aching, her head foggy, throbbing with a pressing headache.

The poor little puppy girl grinds forward, trying to catch her cunny on something, anything to soothe the ache. She cries out, frustrated with how hot and humid the room felt, her naked skin sticking to the fabric below, her blood felt ice cold and the sensation difference made her head spin. She writhes around, her fingers pulling the threads of the blanket, her nose still buried into the fabric. She gropes around her nest, yearning for another familiar comfort. Her hand rests upon a pillow, silky and cool to the touch, she brings it to her chest, wrapping her arms around the plush material and hugging it to her warm body. It smelt woodsy, akin to the mahogany furniture found within the Akademiya library, certainly Alhaitham's pillow she managed to snatch before her heat truly set in.

She cradles the pillow tight, breathing in the exotic concoction of her roommate's scents. Her ears twitched deliciously, their scents driving a shiver down her back, her chest feeling fuzzy and heavy. For whatever mental clarity she gained from the sweet smell, the ache in her cunny grew worse. She howls out, whimpering softly into Kaveh's blanket, rubbing her face red and raw against the woven fabric. She hugs the pillow firmer, wrapping her thighs around the plush material, the satin cover cool on her skin. The silky material brushes over her bare clit and she gasps through her teeth, a whine crackles out of her throat.

She moves and straddles Alhaitham's pillow hastily, hands fondling the cover, her nails digging into the plush material. Her fluffy puppy tail wags, her brain fogged and her cunny aching. She couldn't care less about how naughty this was, how upset Alhaitham could be if she made a mess all over his belongings. Her skin was burning, her head aching and her puppy cunt needed something, anything to take away her ouchy heat. Her brain screamed at her, she needed them, she needed Kaveh and Alhaitham, needed them to breed her full of puppies. Her clit throbbed, the scent of Alhaitham's pillow present in her brain, this was the next best thing to the man himself.

Her pretty clit drags over the silky smooth fabric of Alhaitham's pillow, her cunny gushes, and clenches around nothing. She whines pathetically, breath caught in her throat, fluffy ears pinned to her head. She bites into the plush material as she humps her puppy cunt into the pillow, pretty ass up in the air as she chews and drools into the fabric. High pitched whimpers and cries choke through the material in her mouth, in time with every little pathetic hump against the pillow. Her slick messes the cushion below her, a clear wet spot beneath her drooling puppy cunt seeps into the fabric and across her thighs. Kaveh's decadent blanket, though nearly forgotten, tangles around her fingers, threads digging into her skin, she clutches it once again like a lifeline.

The poor puppy girl drowns in her heat, delirious and hot, brain fogged, the only thing on her mind being Alhaitham and Kaveh. Thinking about just how nice they would treat her, how sweetly Kaveh would cradle her and how good Alhaitham would plow her sweet puppy cunt. The poor puppy girl chokes out a sob, simply out of pure desperation, her mind betraying her and falling victim to her heat. She squirms against the pillow below, her pathetic humps growing sloppy and uncoordinated, barely squirming in place. She was so, so tired. Her cunny burned, hot, wet and sore, overstimulated even without the sweet release of an orgasm.

She couldn't help but keep trying, outwardly crying, sweet little puppy whimpers warble out of her throat. Any attempt at easing the achey heat in her tummy all by herself was futile, her every attempt only making the matter worse. It felt like the end of the world, everything burning hot as if it was on fire. The poor puppy girl couldn't stop, couldn't stop crying, couldn't stop her hips from squirming, couldn't stop her achey ouchy puppy heat. She had fallen far into her own mind, completely fogged and hysterical, distress finally implanting itself into her sweet little head. The poor puppy nearly misses the soft, sweet caress on her fluffy ears, accompanied by the overwhelming scent of mourning flowers. Or the firm, cool hand running down her back, gripping her hip, steadying her frantic body. A loud whine creeps out of her chest, vulnerable and yearning.

"Awh.. I know Baby, I know.. it's alright... We're here now Sweet Girl.." She hears, their tone kind and soft, grounding her into the present. She lifts her head, opening her eyes and nosing up at the man before her. Kaveh strokes his sweet puppy's ears, scritching and scratching her soft fur. He peppers kisses against her forehead, nosing against her skin, a pleased chirp ripples from her throat. Kaveh's touch is gentle, addicting, laced with candied tenderness so sweet she could cry. Carefully, she's moved; by Alhaitham, she barely registers, lifted out of her messy nest. The puppy girl moans in discomfort, her joints feeling creaky, the hands on her feeling ice cold on her bare skin. She misses the candid look Alhaitham shoots to his other half, to which Kaveh responds with a small shake of his head.

The puppy girl chirps out, feeling open and exposed, the frigid air of the room making her skin feel tight. Her tummy churns, thick with anxiety, scared that she's been naughty, afraid of their reaction, she had made a mess. Her ears fold and her tail curls inward, she can't help the little warbles that bleed from her throat, the soft 'm sorrys' chanting into the room. Alhaitham carefully noses into his little puppy's neck, mouthing at her skin, setting the spot alight, burning so nicely down her shoulder. Goosebumps prickle down her back, the fur on her ears and tail stands up, a soft rumble ripples from her chest. The puppy girl settles slightly, her chest feeling gooey and fuzzy, her instincts quieting down.

Alhaitham moves, lowering his sweet puppy back into her plush nest, now tidy and neat, the aforementioned blanket and messy pillow are shifted out of sight. Kaveh lays instead, his naked back against the soft structure, somehow he had managed to strip down without her noticing; not that she was even half aware of her surroundings. The puppy girl sits, perched prettily in Kaveh's lap, her skin warm against his own, her chest heaves gently, her breaths short and panting. Her lips wobble, her eyes shine with fresh hot tears, slowly trickling down her cheeks. Kaveh is quick to comfort his sweet girl, rubbing one hand down her side and cupping her face, wiping away her tears with his thumb. The puppy girl hiccups, her tummy burned and her head hurt, Kaveh's floral scent flooded her mind making her dizzy. She could feel the heat from Kaveh's cock against her skin below, her body pulsed, her silly instincts practically screaming at her. She tentatively wriggles her hips against Kaveh's lap, her hands braced on his chest.

"Pretty Girl.. You're so needy aren't you?" Kaveh coos, his hand massages the flesh on his puppy girl's hip. She whimpers, half embarrassed and in desperation, her cunny ached badly, she needed something, any kind of relief. She noses at Kaveh, nuzzling into his cheek, pitiful chirps squeaking into his skin. He breathes out a chuckle, kissing into her skin.

"Is your cunny ouchy Baby..? Yeah? Awh…" Kaveh pokes at his sweet puppy, she nods, her face a muddled mess of emotions. Kaveh 'tuts' affectionately, caressing his hands across her hips, slowly itching his hand towards her achey puppy cunt.

"Here sweetheart?" He circles her puffy clit, eliciting a sweet mewl from his silly little puppy girl. She nods again, her fluffy tail wags and her hips squirm, Kaveh's touch just felt so, so nice. Kaveh hums, his fingertips gentle on her cunny, slowly rubbing her pretty clit.

".. More~.. M-more!" The puppy girl wails, wriggling her hips into Kaveh's fingers. She pushes against them, doing anything to make them slip into her little puppy pussy, she wanted more, needed more. Kaveh coos, his brow pinching sympathetically, his hand leaves her pretty clit, favouring his own cock. He grips the base, sliding the head of his length up and down his puppy's fat pussy lips the keens out, her slick dribbling from her cunny and onto his cockhead. He smears the sweet mixture onto her clit, tapping his length against it teasingly, making her cunny spike in pleasure. Kaveh slips his cock down, inline with his puppy's cunny hole, slowly, he slips in, pushing his cock up with his hips. Her puppy cunt gushes all over Kaveh's cock, creamy and wet, drooling from her heat, making a sticky mess all over Kaveh's lap. Not that he minded, his hands leveled his puppy's hips, helping her bounce and grind on his length. Over her shoulder, he spots Alhaitham, naked and slowly stroking his own cock, his breaths huffing steadily through his lips. A groan erupts from Kaveh's chest and his pretty puppy cries aloud, fat tears roll down her cheeks, her lips fold into a wonky grin. Kaveh's cock felt so good in her cunny, fucking her so, so well, his scent, his grip on her hip and his length all turning the poor puppy into mush.

"..'Veh… Kaveh.. 'S good!" She croaks out, finally finding her voice. The puppy girl grinds hard on Kaveh's pelvis, her pretty clit catching on to his skin. She mewls, her tail wagging hard, her tummy burned and bubbled, her cunny clenching deliciously around Kaveh's cock. Kaveh's grip tightens, he brings his sweet puppy down and kisses her pretty lips, dipping his tongue into her mouth. She licks at his tongue, swirling them together, breathlessly moaning into his throat. Her hips pick up, slapping against Kaveh's own, her puppy cunt squeezes his cock. She bites at Kaveh's lips, her puffy clit zapping deliciously everytime she brings her hips down, her puppy cunny clenches, and she sobs into Kaveh's mouth. The poor heated puppy creams sweetly on Kaveh's cock, her hips stuttering with her release, pulsing and clenching Kaveh's length. She humps against him, riding out her sweet orgasm on his cock, humming airily as she grinds and wiggles her hips against him. Kaveh exhales, his chest pounding, he peers behind her once again, spotting Alhaitham. The other steps forward, his eyes raked over the silly puppy girl in Kaveh's lap, still squirming on his length.

"Shh.. Settle…" Alhaitham quips, his hand finds the puppy girl's hips once again, steadying them in place. The puppy sniffs and chirps, her puppy cunt still ached, her heat not yet satisfied. She tries to wriggle out of his grasp, tries to grind down on Kaveh's cock, tries her very best to work his length with her sweet puppy cunt. Kaveh hisses through his teeth, his composure crackling, nearly falling too far into his sweet puppy's cunny. Alhaitham's fingers tighten, he presses the puppy girl down into Kaveh's lap, his cock kisses her cunny so sweetly it makes her feel high, she keens and her tail wags quickly. Alhaitham props himself behind his sweet puppy, peppering firm kisses up the canvas of her back, all the way up to the juncture of her neck. She stifles a noise, pitched somewhere between pleasure and desperation, her brain confused at the ongoings happening in that moment.

Alhaitham hushes her once again, gentle but direct, he squeezes her hips and plants a firm kiss to his puppy's skin. She warbles, growing impatient, her tummy burns, her cunny drools and her instincts ring in the forefront of her mind. The scents of the two men only making matters worse, Kaveh's thick cock in her puppy cunt, Alhaitham's large hands and lips planted on her skin. It was all too much to handle for one poor little puppy. She felt frustrated, no amount of squirming or crying would make the man behind her let go. She needed it, needed them, needed their cocks in her puppy cunny, fucking her dumb and breeding her good.

"..'Haithm.." She manages, turning her head to him, her eyes glassy and her brow pitched, she pouts prettily. Kaveh caresses the skin on her waist, in an attempt to settle the poor puppy. Alhaithm hums, his hands drag from her hips, one inching down to her pretty clit and the other across the plump cheek of her ass. His thumb slowly drags over his puppy girl's clit, circling her slick over the swollen bead. She gasps out, her legs flexing and her puppy cunt clenching sweetly on Kaveh's cock. Kaveh sighs out, his hands continuing to tickle and pet her skin, narrowing his eyes at Alhaithm, he was being greedy, meanly teasing their poor little puppy. Alhaitham's other hand drags over the skin of her ass, down to her cute little puppy pussy, already stuffed full of Kaveh's length. Slowly, he pokes at her heat, coating his fingers in wet slick, admiring the sweet ring of cream dribbled around Kaveh's cock. The two make a noise from their throat and Alhaitham 'tuts' affectionately, his hand on her clit speeding up, egging the puppy girl to squirm and hump against Kaveh once again. She cries quietly, sweet little noises bubble from her lips.

".. You're very needy, sweet Pup.." Alhaitham half teases, his tone nearly unreadable, his puppy girl whines irritably. Alhaitham abruptly slides two deft fingers into her pretty puppy pussy, stretching her cunny out with Kaveh's cock. Both Kaveh and their puppy stutter out in surprise, taken aback by the sweet press of Alhaitham's fingers. He curls his digits, fucking into her heat, her slick dribbles down his knuckles, messing his hand. He stretches her puppy pussy, his other hand pinches down on her clit, making her gush wetly on both of the men. The puppy chirps and cries, Alhaitham's thick fingers squelching into her puppy cunny so sweetly, egging Kaveh into grinding his cock into her little cervix. It felt so good, her skin burnt with pleasure rather than pain, her head span deliciously, high on the thick wave of desire that coursed through her veins. She fucks back into Alhaitham's fingers, subsequently rocking Kavehs length deep into her puppy cunt. She mewls, wriggling her hips in time with Alhaitham's skilled hands, her cunny still felt achey, she needed more, she needed so much more, needed to be bred, needed their thick cocks, needed their sticky cum in her tummy.

".. m.. 'need more~.. 'Haithem 'n Kaveh… want more!" The silly puppy spurs out. Alhaitham hums, the sound rumbles deep from his chest. His fingers spread her drooling hole, she feels something press against her puppy pussy, blunt and warm. Slowly, Alhaitham pushes his fat cock into his puppy's sweet little hole, alongside Kavehs own length. The stretch was intense, Alhaitham's fingers never left her pretty clit, slowly pressing his fingertips into her swollen pussy. The puppy cries, her fluffy tail wagging haphazardly against her back, her puppy pussy on display for Alhaitham to see, stretched prettily and stuffed full of cock. Below, Kaveh lets out his own keening whine, breathy and soft, he bites on his bottom lip. Alhaitham slips his fingers out of his puppy girl's cunny, his hand slick and covered in puppy cream. He half smirks, grinding his hips against his puppy's ass, sliding his cock deep into her cunny, dragging against Kaveh's own. The two below him sigh out and Alhaitham begins a steady pace, fucking in and out of his puppy's pretty creamy cunt. Kaveh bumps his hips upwards, his hands sit on his puppy's legs, holding her still for him to drill into her.

"Fuck!~ Such a good little p-puppy aren't you..? Taking two cocks at once..? Yeah~? We'll make your cunny feel better baby~" Kaveh babbles, fucking himself stupid in his puppy's cunt, so tight thanks to Alhaitham's fat cock rubbing against his own. He can't stop blubbering, spouting sweet debauchery into the air of the room, keening filthy praises to his sweet little puppy. Alhaitham growls, his pace quickening, hips clapping roughly against his poor puppy's. He reaches down, his slick covered hand pressing to Kaveh's lips, he presses in, silencing his pussy drunk blabbering. Kaveh eagerly sucks Alhaithams digits in, swirling his tongue around his thick fingers, drooling over the sweet taste of his puppy's cunt. Alhaitham leans forward, mouthing at his puppy's neck, kissing and biting into her sensitive scent marker. Their Puppy Girl keens, her cunny felt so full, just as she needed, two pretty cocks fucking her stupid, riding out her heat on her roommates' laps. Alhaitham's hand on her clit burns hot, rubbing and pinching at her pussy, his cock rubs and grinds deliciously into her creamy cunny. Kaveh's cock stuffs her full, bullying her cervix and bulging behind her tummy. The sweet puppy keens, humping against the two men, grinding her sweet pussy into Alhaitham's fingers, her cunny gushes wetly, leaking down their lengths.

The air was thick with musk, heated from the warm bodies in her comfy nest, bodies shined in sweat and slick, sliding against each other. The sweet puppygirl fucked dumb on her roommates' cocks, stretched so well, they fucked into her as a duo. The slide of their lengths bumping into each other's, aching and pulsing hotly into her puppy cunt. The puppy girl writhes, her body feeling electrified, her clit feeling spiky with pleasure, her cunny clenches around the fat cocks pressed inside her. It was too much, too stretched, too hot, just the way she needed, her joints felt gooey, her head blissed out. Her sweet puppy cunt felt hot, aching and clenching, creamy around the long lengths inside of her.

Vaguely she could hear Kaveh's slurred babbles, praises and filthy words tumble from his stuffed mouth, wet around Alhaitham's fingers. Alhaitham scrapes his teeth over her neck, biting down into her skin, his hand rubbing her sore clit so sweetly. Her head spins, her cunny clenches, her legs ache so good against Kaveh's hips. The fucked out puppy girl barely whimpers out a 'cumming!' before she cries. Her puppy cunt clenches around the stretch inside her, her clit throbs against Alhaitham's fingertips, her hips stuttering against their cocks. The silly puppy shakes, her pretty pussy squirts all over the thick cocks in her heat, hot and wet, messing all over Kaveh's lap. She bumps and grinds against them, riding out her orgasm, egging the two on themselves. Kaveh moans against Alhaitham's fingers, his pretty cock pulsing into his puppy, cumming into her pretty puppy cunt. Alhaitham presses deep into her cunny, his fat cock drags against Kaveh's, the thick squeeze of his puppy's walls milking his cockhead so sweetly. They fuck and hump against eachother, their two cocks pulsing together, breeding their sweet puppy full of milky, creamy cum.

Eventually, they pull away, carefully sliding their slick cocks out of their puppy's pussy, wet with each other's cum. Their puppy wriggles her hips teasingly, humming softly from her throat. Kaveh breathes out deeply, pulling his puppy into his arms, cradling her sweetly in her plush nest. Alhaitham pets both of their heads, planting a soft kiss upon their skin, nosing into their sweaty foreheads before making his way out of the room. Distantly, the splash of running water can be heard from the bathroom, surely Alhaitham drawing a bath for the three of them to share. A little more doting was due for their sweet puppy girl, and they were more than willing to help her through the rest of her heat.

After All, The Life Of a Puppy Girl Was High Maintenance.

𝙸𝚖- 𝙸 𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚗𝚔𝚢? 𝙸 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝙸 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚖𝚢𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚊 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚑𝚊

𝚁𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜, 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝙵𝚘𝚛 𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐!

𝙲𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚆𝚎𝚕𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚍! 𝙸'𝚍 𝙻𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚁𝚘𝚝 𝙼𝚢 𝙱𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚆𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚈'𝚊𝚕𝚕 😩

•··························•Shameless Plug•··························•

♡More Kavehaitham x HYBRID!Reader♡

•●Alhaitham&Kaveh Play With Their Puppy Girl

•●Alhaitham&Kaveh Punish Their Kitty Girl

𝙿𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝙳𝚘 𝙽𝚘𝚝 𝚁𝚎𝚞𝚙𝚕𝚘𝚊𝚍 𝚆𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝙿𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗!

•·················🍑·················•🍑•·················🍑·················•

[the-uncrafting-table]

Silk

silk has been prized for centuries. Originating in China, the first silks were made from wild-collected moth cocoons, which needed to be pasted together to form a fabric as their short, torn fibers and mineral coating prevented the proper spinning of thread. Eventually though, cultivated farms of larvae such as the Bombyx Mori or Domestic Silk Moth were created.

because a proper silk thread cannot allow for tearing of the cocoon, pupating silkworms are killed by boiling and their fibers carefully unwound by hand. the dead larvae aren't always wasted though, as many will be eaten later.

the resulting fabric is truly stunning, with a signature sheen caused by the prismlike structure of the fiber proteins. This beauty, along with the at times difficult nature of its production, has led silk to be widely considered a sign of luxury and status, even to this day.

it also lends itself quite well to some absolutely marvelous embroidery and pattern work, such as this Japanese kimono from 1860, this 18th century Persian rug, or this fantastic example of double-sided embroidery, where two weavers make a matching simultaneous pattern on either side of the cloth.

I also have to appreciate this Quran, made in sheer black silk and hand-painted gold by Azerbaijani artist Tunzala Mamazadeh.

in the 1940s, following WWII many dresses were made from the reused silk of soldier's parachutes, such as this beautiful wedding gown.

This gown, however, is made from an entirely different material. It's not just moths making silk of course! We've all seen a spiderweb before, in real life or pictures. Spider silk, secreted from the spinneret glands in the abdomen, is much harder to obtain as it's pulled bit by bit straight from the spider's themselves. With time and effort though, a piece like this golden orb weaver dress can be made. The dress took 5 years, millions of spiders, and cost almost $40,000.

spider silk is incredibly strong, with a tensile strength five times stronger than steel when compacted into cables and bundles. This has lead to it being used in high-capacity ropes and a material known as dragon silk, which uses silkworm-spider hybrids to made a form of ballistic armor.

on the gentler side, cobwebs were once used in the Tyrolean Alps of 16th century Italy as a delicate canvas for tiny paintings.

moving back to the moths, I'd be remiss to not include Fairy Feather silk, the world's thinnest with threads about 1/6 the diameter of a human hair.

lastly, I'll take this opportunity to showcase two silk-adjacent fabrics: Sea silk and Lotus silk. The first is made from the anchoring threads of the Pinna Nobilis or Noble Pen shell, and nowadays is only woven by a handful of artisans on the island of Sant'Antioco in Italy.

Lotus silk, as the name would suggest, is made from the thin strands of fiber that can be extracted from broken lotus stems. Each plant only produces a handful of threads, which must be unwound by hand, so the resulting fiber is very rare and expensive, with a single scarf costing $200.

Well I suppose that's a long enough thread for one day. I'll spin you a fresh tale tomorrow, but for now this is Uncraft signing off. See you next time!

[d34dlysinner]

so I’m a compulsive crafter (sewing, knitting, nalbinding, jewelry-making, etc.), and i know that w/ all that time on my hands in between… “freeing” those demons that i’d be chomping at the bit to continue my craft-scepades in hell.

i personally would want to ask the devils to collect some of the clothes from the dead angels after a battle so I can wash them & cut them into strips to make extra bandages, or to use thin strips of the material to make items (thick nalbinded wrist cuffs for better protection, woven belts, etc.) that might help the devils (or just as gifts). this way, i’m scratching a creative itch and feeling a little more helpful than i would otherwise. (plus i feel like some devils would get a kick out of wearing stuff made from angel cloth in battle, like andrealphus, for instance.)

how would the kings react to such a request and to receiving such an item?

(sorry if this ask is too weird/abstract, lol.)

(It's okay, I can see where you're coming from XD)

Satan heard your request and had the biggest grin plastered on his face. "This is a really weird request coming from a human who should have morals, but it would be a waste to leave it all to rot on the battlefield." He was excited to see what you would create and thus gave commands to collect whatever seemed salvageable. At times you would have Leraye or Sitri visit you with a lot of chunks of fabric. Other times you would see Paimon giving you some bloodied fabric while also being covered from head to toe with blood. Satan would probably admire your talent with how much it can help them during the war. "Seems like you have multiple ways to help us after all.", he'd say as he happily receives one of your self-crafted items. Mammon would look at what you made with a mix of interest and amusement. Why make armor for a group of devils that are known to be physically strong? Eligos, despite being the little one of the group, is known to withstand a lot of impact. Bimet didn't want to wear something that had anything to do with angels. So the group couldn't care too much about what you made, but your abilities did make them interested in what else you could craft. It would result in Mammon even asking if you can make jewelry and giving you some expensive fabric for any future projects. If you want any rare fabric or metal you could always ask Mammon. He'd be happy to give you some instead of using the angel's fabrics. "Believe me. What I have in Tartaros is better than any fabric those angels could give you." Leviathan needed a moment to think about what you said. He honestly was interested in your crafting abilities and wanted to help, but the thought of going into a swarm of demons and angels was way out of his comfort zone. He would send one of his nobles to search it for you, but some would refrain from doing so because of the gentlemanly standards they have in Hades. There's one demon that wouldn't mind collecting the scraps you wanted. Glasya would love to do so. He's even amused by your thoughts. Leviathan really didn't have to say much. But he was at a time jealous of what the angels had so he would appreciate what you'll make for him and his army of devils. Beelzebub just handed you materials before you could ask. No, he didn't predict that you wanted them, but he and his team sometimes just collect scraps in case another problem arises in Avisos while Beelzebub is absent. Many weird and unexplainable things happened there. That is the power of Beel, so it wasn't a surprise to most demons when Beelzebub asked you to store the scraps. When you tell him if you could use some for your ideas, he will let you. "See! I told you this would come in handy once.", Beelzebub said to his nobles. The nobles never really understood why he collected scraps. They know that a lot of strange things can happen, but Avisos isn't poor or anything. They just never had the courage or the energy to ask Beelzebub why he collected from the dead angels. They just blamed it on him being mysterious 24/7. Even Bael would sigh at times when he had to move the scraps into a storage room. At least someone can use them now.

[rist-ix]

Sadly I did NOT manage to write a word basically all week so I’m sorry to say the sparklet I promised u remains unfinished. BUT. Have this snippet for christmas:

To be feared is a power many underestimate. A power almost as great as magic itself, and in some situations even greater — a comparison he does not make lightly.

Fear is shield and sword at once, a spell with unlimited range, its only boundary the speed at which word-of-mouth can travel.

But fear, like any weapon, requires ammunition.

For a man like Valtor, there is certainly no lack of reasons to fear him. But he is intimately aware that to sustain his greatest ally, he needs to sustain his reputation.

To be untouchable, he has to seem untouchable.

To be feared, he has to look the part.

“That’s all very nice,” Solaria's Royal Seamstress comments, unamused. “But that still doesn’t tell me why I should accept your comission.”

He sighs, feigning irritation, and leans against the counter of her shop.

“Such indifference in the face of my plight!” he laments, before propping his chin up on his hand. “I knew I liked you for a reason, Telaseta.”

“Charm won’t help you this time, fiend. You have yet to pay me for the last time I fixed your wardrobe, and my kind has an excellent memory.”

Madame Telaseta, master of her craft and champion of holding grudges, clatters past him on her eight spindly legs. He looks after her with a hearty shrug, turning to inspect her latest handiwork instead.

“I would have gladly done so,” he insists over his shoulder. “Your work is without equal, and I was more than satisfied when I received that coat of yours. Unfortunately, I took a quite involuntary detour to Omega shortly after, and did not have the opportunity to compensate you until now.”

There's noise coming from the clothing racks to his right, and when he looks over, he sees Telaseta gut an expensive looking gown with even more expensive looking shears, emerging victoriously with a blue silk ribbon.

“Pah! Did not have the necessity to, you mean! I know you wizards, with your tricks and flatteries. You only come crawling when you want something from Old Telaseta. If only I were still young, ah, still that handsome linphean debutante…”

She sniffles theatrically, and he rolls his eyes before dutifully patting her hand in comfort.

“But Madame Telaseta,” he chides her, appalled. “In all the years I have known you, you have only ever grown more beautiful. No one in their right mind would disagree with me, I know it!”

She sniffles once more, the colorful jewelry she's draped all over herself clinking.

“I have, haven’t I? Well, I suppose we can’t all be ageless like you, fiend.”

Deciding she's had enough sweet talk for the day, she drops his hand to climb vertically up the wall and grab another roll of fabric, comparing the color to her newly cut ribbon. He follows her on her crusade through the labyrinth of clothing on display, all the way into the entrance of her opulent atelier.

“Let's say I were inclined to forgive you your negligence, young man,” she titters, seemingly satisfied with her choice. “What would my payment look like, this time? I’m afraid I’ll have to demand it upfront.”

“My generous, benevolent Telaseta,” he proclaims humbly, before opening his hand and summoning a little velvet satchel to his palm. “I thought you might say that.”

She drops from the wall after a moment, her arachnid lower body catching her fall with ease.

“Gemstones from Isis,” she purrs with an impressed look inside. “You always did know how to make the right friends.”

“What can I say? I have many talents.”

“As do I. Now, show me that poor coat of yours.”

A snap of his fingers summons the garment in question, in all its tattered glory.

“There were a good few dozen protection spells woven into those seams,” his tailor of trust mutters under her breath as she inspects the damage. “Gotta redo all of that. And the singe marks, dah! What kind of dastardly devil did you tangle with this time, to ruin all that hard work?”

He would answer with a friendly quip. Something charming, undoubtedly. But before he can even think to do so, there's a warm, familiar tingle at the back of his head, and then the door to the main room swings open with a ring of the bell.

“Hello?” a voice, that voice, calls into the shop, and he feels his hackles rise at the sheer presence filtering into the room, feels every fiber of his being seize with anticipation. “I'm here to pick up an order for…”

Her gaze meets his.

Lovely, dazzling blue eyes wide with surprise as she stands there, frozen mid-movement. He feels transported, moved all the way back to the last time he'd seen her in person. When her lips had been swollen and her hair disheveled, when his touch had been etched into her skin with pale red marks. When he had been ecstatic at simply holding her; already reeling with the loss of her, knowing she'd slip through his fingers yet again.

But here she is, here they are.

Reunited, the two of them. As it always should have been.

“Ah,” Telaseta chirps. “A customer!”

And then Bloom's eyes shift to her and she jumps, squealing like a child in a horror house.

“Never heard that before,” the seamstress deadpans, rolling her eyes. “Children these days. In my youth we had some respect for our elders, or we'd be spun in silk and digested!”

Valid as her point may be, she uses two of her spindly black spider legs to underline it with gesturing, and Bloom's entire scalp catches on fire in response.

Telaseta looks from her to his coat.

“Huh,” she says.

Then she scrambles on to find a fire blanket, leaving him and Bloom alone.

The latter is still staring shell-shocked after the arachne by the time he reaches her, though that might in part be due to his speed: he is unwilling to bear even an inch of distance between them, now that she's here.

“You should consider to stop staring, little fairy,” he tells her, guiding her eyes back to himself. Cannot help but smile when he brings his hand to her forehead and brushes her hair back over her scalp, stifling the flames below his palm as he goes. “It's quite rude.”

She has just enough time to open her mouth in indignation before his own descends on her, swallowing her no doubt outraged reply.

He cannot wrap his head around it.

That she is here, as if the Stars themselves wanted to drop her in his lap once more, and that he could have gone so long without her. His fingers are splayed out against the side of her jaw, preventing her from pulling away, her own hands grasping the collar of his shirt for balance, and he can’t believe it’s been almost an entire month since the catacombs.

Bloom's lips are softer than silk as she gasps into his mouth, presses back against him with a tentative little shove. When he pulls back to look at her, glassy eyed and out of breath, he's all but drunk on affection. For his elusive, coat-burning, dastardly little devil.

“Hello,” he smiles against her forehead, pulling her against him.

“You're here,” is here stunned reply, and he all but preens at the happiness coloring her voice.

Cannot believe it is here, in the brightly-painted shop of a solarian tailor, that he finally meets her again, when he expected some grand battle or a scandalous, secret encounter, hidden from prying eyes. No, when they should have never been separated in the first place. He buries his face in her hair and breathes in the fire and magic still clinging to her, the floral scent of her shampoo and the electric, prickling traces of a recent teleportation.

He should have kept her with him like a pocket watch on a chain; tied to him, never out of reach. To feel her with him at every small movement, every step he took. Now, with her spell-heated little body in his arms and her breath fanning out against his neck, he cannot fathom how he ever let her leave.

Before remembering that he did not have his powers, that day, after so narrowly evading his death.

He cannot help but notice that he does have them now. His grip on her tightens, just marginally, a nearly imperceptible tension seeping into his hands.

But something about that idea must have translated through their traitorous tether, happily spilling all his thoughts for her, because he blinks and she is gone, almost across the entire room.

Bloom raises her chin. A clear, obvious challenge.

“Try it,” she says. “See what happens.”

Oh. Oh how he yearns to.

Hungers to bare his teeth and answer her demand in determination and raw magic, wants to see her eyes spark with the thrill of a fight. But he's painfully aware that Madame Telaseta's shop is very, very flammable, and not likely to survive their little sparring match.

And he really wants that coat back.

“Try what?”, he asks, innocently folding his hands behind his back. “Always so suspicious, Bloom. I thought you knew me better by now.”

[kynmoonlight]

Bard's Broken Heart

I present: 1 motif of what I’m calling “Bard’s Broken Heart Lace”

OK, not quite, but still a cool design. Inspired by this post from Tumblr user @loki-is-my-kink-awakening https://www.tumblr.com/loki-is-my-kink-awakening/723753602720661504/oh-my-gods-are-these-the-hearts-hidden-on?source=share Who noticed that the trim on Jaskier’s shirt in Season 3 Netflix Witcher is little hearts! And a reply (sorry OP, I can’t find it now) noted that they’re very symbolically, hearts that are divided!

So anyway, I got crafting-obsessed and had to try to figure out how it was made and attempt to recreate it.

Which lead to research on historical lace-making and needlework.

[Disclaimers: this is all my best guesses as an amateur crafter, not a historical expert. I know my stitching is uneven, especially the pin-picots, which I just learned last week]

by the way, crafters or fic writers looking for historical fibercraft reference, check out Project Gutenberg’s (free!) The Encyclopedia of Needlework by Thérèse de Dillmont https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/20776/pg20776-images.html SO much fascinating stuff!

First, based on the clearest photos I can find (ie not very) I’m guessing the actual trim was machine-made, because a) the stitching is really even and smooth and tiny, b) handmade lace would be extremely expensive, and c) TV/Movie costuming needs multiples of every garment, especially for something like a delicate chemise Jaskier wears running all around the continent for a whole season. 

My first guess and attempt was crochet, which wasn’t it, then thought it might be tatting or bobbin lace, which also weren’t right once I looked up images. 

I finally settled on whitework cut-work embroidery with some needle lace techniques for the edging. Which I think gave me a kind of close facsimile. This one is about 1-½ x the size of what he wears (because that’s the limit of my aging hand steadiness, crafting magnifiers, and the materials I had.)

This one motif took me probably two hours, including many screwups and tangles. Not including drafting, blocking and snapshots. With the right materials and one done for practice (as it was only my second project in whitework and first try at needle lace!) one heart would take around an hour. For someone whose lifelong job, all day every day, was embroidering lace trim, they’d probably manage a meter/yard or two of the actual size trim, which I’m guessing is how much is on that shirt.

So in-universe, this still wouldn’t be a cheap piece of clothing, with at least a full day of skilled craftswomen wages for just the lace, plus finely woven, printed fabric that (I think, historically, that would have been block printed by hand), and additional seamster time to make it up. Modern-day equivalent would probably be easily USD $1000 if not 2x that. Our boy is making good money as a now-famous bard! (I suppose in a universe with magic, it could have been magiked, or magically duplicated after an expert created a template, but I suspect that would cost as much as handcrafting anyhow)

If I get bored and the crafting bug hits me again, I might try to make a whole edging this, maybe on a handkerchief. 

Now, what do I do with one lace heart? I settled on starching it and attaching a safety pin back, so I guess if I ever go to a convention I can wear it as a pin so fellow Witchercrafters and Jaskier fans know how much of a nerd I really am.

I could write up direx with step by step pictures if anyone else really wants to try it.

[darkandstormydolls]

I made a quilt recently. It was twin sized, tied, and made out of three-inch plain squares to use up assorted scraps because my scrap bin was getting out of hand

It took me months. To be fair, that was on and off between other projects. But still, months. And that was for a small, simple, quilt with no actual quilting.

I am going to make another one, because the scraps are still out of control. Would I ever sell them? Heck no. Firstly, I’m not good enough that anyone would want to buy them. But also, no one would be willing to pay for them

I gave the first one to my grandparents. I’ll probably keep the second for myself. These quilts are extra special to me because they contain a record of so many of the projects I have sewn

You need to understand that patchwork quilts are treasures. Absolutely treasures, that require an insane amount of labor to create

I’ve been asked before if I do commission, when I tell people that I make my clothes and costumes. My response is generally that I haven’t, but I absolutely could. No one has gone any further, but if they did, I would immediately tell them that, before anything else, they would have to understand that it was going to be expensive, because fabric is expensive and sewing takes a long time

I’m still working on getting the confidence to charge more than minimum wage for that, or for when I sell the scarves that I’ve woven. Because yes, I wouldn’t work for a boss that paid me that. And it is skilled labor

It’s just hard to get the confidence to do that

I was curious about what my wage and time, plus materials, would bring the cost of a foundation paper pieced and handquilted king size quilt to...and...

Okay, anyone willing to pay this amount will be enough to convince to make something this...outrageous. it'll close commissions for a year or two, and require frequent breaks so I don't burnout.

$23,800 USD.

$27× 900 hours + cost of materials (batting alone will be $200, 25 yards of fabric will be about what i need, i'll kill several rotary blades with all the cutting, and likely go through at least two spools of thread) = final cost

That amount of money will be what it takes to convince me to make this. If you're willing to pay for one of these now, hmu. I'll make the listing.

If you want just a king size quilt top, that's still $6150 USD. I'll need around 25 yards of fabric, a couple spools of thread (or a cone), and two to three rotary blades. This will take around 200 hours for traditional piecing. Foundation paper piecing will add another 100-200 hours easily because I have to print each section of each block, cut them out, fold along the seam lines, cut all the fabric, sew the fabric to the paper, press each seam, trim, rinse and repeat many times, sew the blocks together, remove the paper (sooooo many pieces), make the rows, and sew the rows together. So foundation paper piecing will bring the top to $11,650. For just the quilt top.

If you're 100% certain you want a king size quilt, and you're able to pay, let me know. I'll put the commission listing up for you, and promptly close commissions until further notice.

Money is good incentive.

[ltwilliammowett]

The Beginning of the Naval Uniforms

Until 1748, there were no uniforms for officers in the Royal Navy. They dressed according to the prevailing male fashion of the upper classes, especially the French fashion. For even if one would like to believe that they were sailors, like the Sailor, they wore useful and weather-protective clothing (thick breeches, coats made of kersey, a water-repellent woollen fabric, thick woollen caps, waistcoats made of densely woven fabrics). Waistcoats made of tightly woven fabrics, etc.), then you are wrong. Officers, especially those acting on commission, such as the Midshipmen, were gentlemen. They were said to have a certain masculinity and even sexual attraction, and the gentleman in question could not dress like a rogue.

Captain Richard Chadwick, d. 1748, by George Knapton 1744 - You can only tell that this is a captain by looking at the ship in the background. 

Elaborate fashions with expensive fabrics, lace, shoe clips, silk handkerchiefs and wigs were expected, and the higher the rank, the higher the quality. Because the outfit stood for rank, relationships, self-expression and social standing. Since the officers of the time came from higher social ranks, the gentlemen were also expected to be able to pay for these clothes. But that was not the case for everyone. Some people got through life more badly than well, because even if they had a good name, they didn't necessarily have the money. And so the second-hand trade flourished, more or less under the table, where it was customary to auction off the belongings of a deceased comrade in front of the mast. And yet none of the officers wanted to be seen buying someone else's cast-off clothes and having them altered, and yet it was often practised. Not only were such clothes insanely expensive, they were also impractical. For while the gentleman looked good, weather protection was rather less so.

Lord George Anson, 1697-1762, by Joseph Highmore 18th century (x) - He is is not wearing the official naval uniform. He wears a breast plate with tasses, a blue coat frogged with gold, a red sash, and a grey-bottomed wig.

Therefore, one would think that the Admiralty would come up with the idea of introducing a uniform. But this one was not. It was in 1746 that a group of officers, the Navy Club, met regularly at the Coffee House in Scotland Yard to discuss important matters such as payments, battles, and so on. Among other things, the club felt that it was important that there should be uniforms for commissioned officers. They wanted the Navy to stand out from other navies and to be immediately recognisable as Navy officers and not as ordinary gentlemen, because the club was very annoyed at always being thought of as such and not as officers, which they were.

A long-sleeved dress waistcoat of a captain, over three years seniority, 1748- 1767 pattern (x)

The Admiralty agreed and Captain Philip Saumarez and Captain (later Admiral) August Kepple were commissioned to design a uniform. They were assisted by Timothy Brett from the Navy Office. Both wanted a uniform that was both masculine and military, and that expressed taste without being opulent or luxurious. They knew that it was difficult for many people to buy such expensive clothes, even if they came from the upper class.

A dress coat of a lieutenant, 1748-67 pattern (x)

The undress frock of a lieutenant, 1748-67 pattern (x)

In April 1748, the Admiralty introduced two uniforms, one dressed and one undressed, both made of blue wool, with the Navy in mind and the idea of having something weatherproof as a fabric. The facings were white with different variations of gold lace or metal thread embroidery depending on rank. And for the first time, differences in rank were made visible. :

Whereas we judge it necessary, in order the better to distinguish the rank of sea officers, to establish a Military Uniform Clothing [... ] for Admirals, Captains, Commanders and Lieutenants; and judging it necessary, that Persons acting as Midshipmen should likewise have a Uniform Clothing in order to carry the Appearance which is necessary to distinguish their Class to be in the Rank of Gentlemen, and give them better Credit and Figure in executing the Commands of their Superior Officers; You are hereby required and directed to conform yourself to the said Establishment, by wearing Clothing accordingly at all proper Times; and to take Care, that such of the aforesaid Officers and Midshipmen, who may be from Time to Time under your Command do the like; and it is our farther Direction, that no Commissioned Officer, or Midshipman, do presume to wear any other Uniform that properly belongs to his Rank.

This order not only clearly defined the individual ranks but also put an end to dressing above one's station. It also regulated the use of the dressed and the undressed uniform. While the dressed uniform was worn for formal or court occasions, the undressed uniform was used informal or as a day dress.

Admiral Sir Peter Warren, 1703/04-52, by Thomas Hudson 1748-52 (x) - Here he wears the dressed uniform of an admiral according to the 1748 pattern. Rear-Admiral Sir Charles Holmes, 1711-1761, by Nathaniel Dance c. 1758 (x) - He is shown wearing flag officer’s undress uniform, 1748–67.

This first uniform was based on the current fashion of 1748, a blue wool coat, but cut according to court fashion, this dressed uniform was considered a hybrid of court fashion and working clothes. Which wool fabric was used was up to the officer and what he could pay. The wide sleeves had white cuffs to match the white waistcoat. The trousers were blue breeches with black shoes and white stockings. Depending on the rank, the coat was decorated with elaborate gold embroidery or lace. The Undressed Uniform was purely working dress and was modelled on the British Country dress, which had originally been worn as frock in the working class.

A frock coat of a midshipman, 1748-58 pattern (x)

From this uniform a whole band of uniforms was established in the course of time and brought many changes with it, so that every member of the Navy was also recognised as such. Just as the members of the Navy Club had wished.

@acrossthewavesoftime​

[vinceaddams]

Thanks for your fascinating and entertaining writeups on the costumes in OFMD! I wonder if you can speculate on if the number of clothes Stede has says anything about his wealth. I have the idea that (esp. with the labour cost of making things by hand) all those suits would have been E X P E N S I V E, and he seems to have so many! Is that normal for a man of his means, as he's depicted?

Thank you! (Link to the costume writeup.) I don't know all that much about how many garments people would have, but judging from the closets we saw and how many costume changes he got, yeah I'd say it's a lot. Much more than a believable 18th century amount of suits. (Especially with the two identical white ones, but we'll ignore that because the second one only existed for Lucius to borrow it.)

It's not the hand sewing that made clothing expensive back then though, the labour to make clothes up was actually a pretty small portion of the price. What was expensive was the materials, because when the industrial revolution hasn't happened yet and everything is being farmed, cleaned, processed, spun, woven, and dyed by hand, fabric is really goddamned expensive.

That's why clothing was altered and remade so often back then! You really want to get as much use as possible out of that precious fabric. If you've got a dress that's a few years out of date, you can pick it apart and change some stuff, and now you've got a fashionable dress again without having to buy any new material. Waistcoats typically had the nice fabric just on the front and the backs made from cheaper material for the same reason.

It's why you see so many reports of stolen clothing in old court records, and also why giving your pirate crew a huge pile of fabric and letting them cut it up for flags is a silly thing to do.

[sofiadragon]

I accidentally posted instead of putting in a new heading, this next bit is magical theorycraft about repair spells and why people might have patched up clothes when Repairo is right there. Also a bit about clothing durability, fast fashion, and the cost of hand woven fabric.

We know magic can instantly repair things. We know many spells and enchantments don't survive their caster's death, and we know Grimmauld Place, despite having a house elf in residence, went from an opulent home decorated to impress visitors with ostentatious wealth to a molding old heap with carpets worn through in ten years or less of disuse depending on when exactly Sirius' parents died.

So, I suspect that while a simple charm might work in the short term, it doesn't work indefinitely. The thing isn't really fixed, it is just taking on the properties of something that has been fixed, and as additional wear and tear accumulates the damage eventually outstripps the cast spell. You could cast again, and perhaps some specific repair and Transfiguration spells will layer nicely. However, just like using glue to repeatedly repair my Grandmother's cookie jar as my kid handles the delicate porcelain "butterfly on a cat" shaped lid roughly in excitement, the layers start to build up and cause their own issues. The carpets in the Black townhouse were likely charmed to look perfect and to look like the latest fashion over and over. Layer upon layer of magic... and then all the family died or was in prison and it was left to unravel into it's natural state: a hundred years old and worn down to the floorboards.

For clothing specifically: It might distort or disfigure the garment to repair it too many times in a way worse than the apparent damage. At that point there is nothing for it: you have to dispell the magic and start fresh. Now, all those layers are undone at once, and it isn't a frayed seam it's got a great hole you can fit your fingers through. A patch of new fabric sewn onto the elbows and knees or other wear points will do the job, which takes time and materials.

The Materials

The wizarding world is not industrialized and seems to have limited international trade. I imagine you can only apperate with so much, ever-expanding bags must still be pulled along by one's magic, and the statute of secrecy makes large gatherings and large shipments difficult to do unnoticed. The Hogwarts Express implies a few things related to this. Some people just aren't good at long-distance teleportation or taking someone with side-along apperation in canon, and all methods of magical travel seem to be regulated somehow. All the students gather to take a train since they have to move not only children who can't travel alone but also luggage. Inconsistent details aside, some things don't take well to shrinking or improper storage either. I think it makes the most sense to say the Floo is newer than the tradition of gathering at set locations for portkeys or other travel methods (the train itself may be newer than the Floo Network, but gathering for a caravan of some kind likely isn't given even the most cursory look at a population density map.) These days with better travel options for individuals everyone leaves from London, but in the past I think students would join along the way. In modern day the Floo makes traveling with children and a small amount of goods so much easier that most parents take their kids along using it, but large amounts of imported goods are much, much less common than in the muggle world of cargo container ships.

This means that most things are made nearby, by hand (or by wand,) and the market prices of goods will reflect that. A full outfit of clothing used to be considerably more expensive before the advent of fast fashion and mass importation of goods made cheaply in other countries by slave labor. I have a very old fashioned off-white cotton sheath made of high quality (high weight) cotton fabric that I use to sleep in. I wear it like my great-great-grandmother might have: six days a week every week for two years. (☆cough cough autism texture ick solution hem hem☆) People in general did not have closets full of clothes. Just like Harry's first year list asks for him to get three uniforms, people tended to wear the same few items until they fell apart.

Fabrics these days are generally lower weight than they used to be - to the point that our foremothers would say very nasty things about the cheapskate weaver. You can't even buy sheets based on thread count anymore, the threads and the weave used to make fabrics are so thin and skimpy that companies have to cut and weigh a section to make sure they aren't being cheated. Thin = low durability. Fast fashion clothes are made a thin, cheap, and quickly as possible so you just can’t wear them too many times without them falling apart. Heck, sometimes they don't have the hems properly finished and you have to trim the trailing thread yourself. There are a lot of articles about this from a lot of sources. TL;DR: modern western culture includes a closet full of mostly cheaply made clothing you only wear a few times because if you wore them once a week or more they'd fall off you.

There is no indication that Magical Europe has the same kind of industry. Harry's school uniform is hemmed and finished on the spot: the clothing on the racks in Madam Malkins is likely unfinished with basted seams, and will be sewn to order based on the measurements of the patron.

Meanwhile, Remus Lupin is likely wearing a robe he got as a graduation present from James because with proper care a durable fabric really won't dissolve into gauze even after 200 days of wearing it. I have quality towels that are 10 years old, wedding gifts, that are not even fraying on the edge, but the cotton athletic clothes I bought last year are getting worn through already after two summers of use. The hand-spun, hand-woven, wand-stitched clothing Professor Snape is wearing every day, assuming he owns an extravagant five outfits (not including his gray nightshirt and sundries) due to the nature of his work with chemicals and athleticism (man outran a hippogriff, he's not the one skipping leg day) likely means he only buys one new robe once every couple years to keep looking well-dressed at a prestigious position. That robe likely costs a good portion of his annual salary, and Hermione really should have apologized for burning his cloak - an outerwear piece like a jacket one would likely expect to get more than half a decade of daily use from. Looking at the historical prices of day/work clothing it used to be a significant investment and the idea of buying an outfit that you would only wear once used to be a laughable thing even for the very rich who could afford such an extravagant and wasteful practice. Far more likely that a one-off outfit would have some adjustments made to it instead of it being discarded entirely.

So how do these expensive handmade clothes get repaired by Molly?

It is also possible that Snape and others who are desperatly scrambling up the social ladder out of poverty learned muggle mending techniques due to his upbringing, where Lupin or even someone like Molly Weasley (who were both born into well-off or middle class families) may not have learned such things or even think to learn them due to their upbringing. Knitting and embroidery, fiber crafts in general, can and do overlap with knowledge of sewing and mending, but they don't have to. I could easily see Molly sitting with one of Arthur's nicer robes, looking at a tear baby Charlie caused and using embroidery to cover it because it works and she doesn't know how to do it without making it obvious that there was a repair.

On the flip side, I was an accountant but when I finished my paperwork I'd often be found repairing the formal dresses we had in store that were damaged by customers. Yes, even with gentle handling those fancy formal dresses people try on in stores are getting completely ruined. Pulled seams, pulled threads, torn lace, damaged beading, and all sorts of damage gets done (especially during prom season.) I can't knit and have only just begun to crochet recently, but I can repair a damaged formal gown such that nobody can tell it was ever dirty or torn. Saved the business $100-$500 per repair by making those gowns saleable again. The skill is related, but not interchangeable.

That rip? Tree branch now. The burn from the twins having a snit over nap time including accidental magic? Pair of stars. It's incongruous and sometimes she'll use a circle cut out of something else to cover a hole before she embroiders over it but nobody told her you have to align the fabric grain, so people know they are patched. They go as long as they can between using mending spells so they don't layer badly, because once they go wrong you're stuck needing a patch or something newer.

🪡

So the people who know to use (likely proprietary) spells that work like a sewing machine, mechanically moving the needles around, are the ones doing real lasting repairs. The books are light on the sort of everyday jobs done by the lower classes, nearly everyone is a schoolchild or an academic or a member of the social elite. Bill Weasley's job as a cursebreaker comes the closest to the kind of maintenance-man trade that simply must exist in a functional society. A wizard who knows enough about crafting without magic to make and fix items permanently - meaning in a way that is real and not a transfiguration or charm. Spells that shape wood physically, that drive pipes into the ground to make a well, that cast iron and pewter into cauldrons, that fix malfunctioning magical objects... the information about that kind of trade skill type of employment is pretty much nonexistent in the books because Harry isn't interested in the trades, including tailoring, but it must exist for a functional economy.

And the thing about skilled trades is that they know their worth and charge by the job, not the hour.

Wizarding clothing and fashion

This meta/list of HCs has been sitting in my drafts for a while. But here is my meta about wizarding fashions. 

1.0 An insular culture with its own unique dress

No shade to people who enjoy seeing and drawing characters in muggle clothing, but I think that the majority of wizards and witches dress in wizarding clothing. 

Indeed, the fact that most wizards can’t dress as muggles and are quite conspicuous is mentioned in the first chapter of the series: 

“People in cloaks. Mr. Dursley couldn’t bear people who dressed in funny clothes — the getups you saw on young people! He supposed this was some stupid new fashion.” PS 

And then becomes a sort of running joke: 

“Both were dressed as Muggles, though very inexpertly: The man with the watch wore a tweed suit with thigh-length galoshes; his colleague, a kilt and a poncho” GoF

And in DH it is (partly) how Harry recognises that people are watching Grimmauld Place: 

“The lurkers were never the same two days running, although they all seemed to share a dislike for normal clothing. Most of the Londoners who passed them were used to eccentric dressers and took little notice, though occasionally one of them might glance back, wondering why anyone would wear such long cloaks in this heat.” DH

Side note: it is peak Londoner to barely take notice of something odd. And this also implies that robes and cloaks are all year wear and that wizards potentially don’t have seasonal clothing.

Given that wizarding culture is very insular (with its own economy, government, and education system), it would make sense that while it may occasionally borrow trends from the muggle world, wizarding fashion and clothing are unique. 

In fact, only the younger generation are seen in muggle dress, with Harry commenting: 

“Their children might don Muggle clothing during the holidays, but Mr. and Mrs. Weasley usually wore long robes in varying states of shabbiness.” GoF

2.0 Class and generational differences in dress

The previous quote demonstrates two things: much like in real life, there is generational and class stratification of dress. The condition and quality of wizarding clothing serves as a non-verbal cue about a character's economic status. This disparity is not just a background detail but is frequently brought into focus, such as through Draco Malfoy's derisive comments about Professor Lupin's tattered robes.

“ Malfoy gave Professor Lupin an insolent stare, which took in the patches on his robes and the delapidated suitcase.” PoA

“Look at the state of his robes,” Malfoy would say in a loud whisper as Professor Lupin passed. “He dresses like our old house-elf.” PoA

Even Harry comments on his robes and observes that: 

“Professor Lupin looked particularly shabby next to all the other teachers in their best robes”

The patched and frayed nature of both Lupins and Weasley’s robes seem to indicate that robe repairs can’t be done by an individual (or when it is done, it is really visible). Another example of this is when Ron removes the lace from his dress robes and leaves: 

“...the edges still looked depressingly frayed as the boys set off downstairs.” GoF

Additionally,  in Padfoot returns Sirius’s prison robes still appear tatty despite him having had a haircut and left the country. This indicates that he either can’t obtain new robes or can’t/hasn’t bothered repairing his Azkaban robes. 

This is interesting, given that Molly Weasley is able to make jumpers and scarves yet can’t seem to alter robes. While knitting and sewing are separate skills, it seems odd that there aren’t means of repairing robes. 

This suggests that robes can only be repaired and bought at official vendors such as Madam Malkins/Gladrags/Twifitt and Tattings. 

 It is also interesting that both Fred and George buy clothing when they become successful (also a parallel to the real world). They gift their mum:

“….a brand-new midnight blue witch’s hat glittering with what looked like tiny starlike diamonds, and a spectacular golden necklace.”  HBP

However, things being ‘frayed’ aren’t always an indication of poverty. Tonks is first introduced wearing an outfit that is a mix of muggle clothing but with something that is distinctly wizarding: 

“Tonks stood just behind him…. wearing heavily patched jeans and a bright purple T-shirt bearing the legend THE WEIRD SISTERS.” OoTP

This outfit is heavily reminiscent of Sirius and James in the Elvendork prequel: 

 “Both were dressed in T-shirts emblazoned with a large golden bird; the emblem, no doubt, of some deafening, tuneless rock band.”

3.0 The underwear question

Something that gets bought up a lot is whether wizards wear underwear. 

Harry (who was raised by muggles certainly seems to): 

“He was just piling underwear into his cauldron when Ron made a loud noise of disgust behind him.” GoF 

And:

“He was shivering now, his teeth chattering horribly, and yet he continued to strip off until at last he stood there in his underwear…”  DH

So does Neville (in the UK, Pants means underwear)

“He broke off as Neville entered the dormitory, bringing with him a strong smell of singed material, and began rummaging in his trunk for a fresh pair of pants.”

And infamously, so does Snape: 

“Snape was hanging upside down in the air, his robes falling over his head to reveal skinny, pallid legs and a pair of graying underpants.”

Also we get some information about witch’s underwear from Sirius’s very Freudian joke: 

“Sirius looked slightly disconcerted for a moment, then said, “I’ll look for him later, I expect I’ll find him upstairs crying his eyes out over my mother’s old bloomers.”

Bloomers are a type of historical, baggy underpants (think boy shorts, but make it victorian). 

In conclusion, Archie, who wanted a breeze around his privates, was probably an outlier.  

4.0 Materials and accesories

So what is wizarding clothing made of? 

For robes and cloaks the materials most mentioned are silk/satin and velvet: 

“ She was dressed from head to foot in black satin, and many magnificent opals gleamed at her throat and on her thick fingers.” GoF

Additionally in GoF, we learn that even witches and wizards from other countries wear robes and cloaks: 

“Now that they had removed their furs, the Durmstrang students were revealed to be wearing robes of a deep bloodred.” 

And 

“...Bulgarian minister loudly, who was wearing splendid robes of black velvet trimmed with gold.”

Other materials include Dragon hide which appears to be used to make practical gloves and boots but also fashionable jackets. 

“... followed by Fred and George, who were wearing jackets of black dragon skin.” HBP

Additionally, robes can be embroidered: 

“ The man’s scowling, slightly brutish face was somehow at odds with his magnificent, sweeping robes, which were embroidered with much gold thread” DH

“Harry glimpsed Slughorn at the head of the Slytherin column, wearing magnificent, long, emerald green robes embroidered with silver” HBP

“Madam Rosmerta scurrying down the dark street toward them on high-heeled, fluffy slippers, wearing a silk dressing gown embroidered with dragons.” HBP

Interestingly, both men and women appear to wear heels: 

Dumbledore: 

“He was wearing long robes, a purple cloak that swept the ground, and high-heeled, buckled boots” PS

Madame Maxine: 

“Then Harry saw a shining, high-heeled black shoe emerging from the inside of the carriage..” GoF

Monsiour Delacour: 

“However, he looked good-natured. Bouncing toward Mrs. Weasley on high-heeled boots, he kissed her twice on each cheek, leaving her flustered.” DH

Madame Rosmerta: 

“ Next he saw another pair of feet, wearing sparkly turquoise high heels,” POA

Furthermore, witches carry handbags: 

“Mrs. Weasley now came galloping into view, her handbag swinging wildly” COS

“ She was wearing a thick magenta cloak with a furry purple collar today, and her crocodile-skin handbag was over her arm.”  GoF

“Professor Umbridge pulled a small roll of pink parchment out of her handbag”  OoTP

“Ron was rummaging through the little witch’s handbag.” DH

5.0 My HCs

When I imagine what male robes look like, I imagine something akin to a Morrcan thobe or an Indian Sherwani.

I imagine robes to be enchanted to move and in my fic Pietas, I describe my OC Aeliana’s robes as follows: 

“She smiled slightly, smoothing the front of her dress, which was decorated with embroidered flowers and birds that had been enchanted to flutter their wings.”

I also HC some cultural variance in robes- with certain countries using different cloth or the skin of magical animals that are native to their countries. With hotter countries, having lighter robes and cooling/anti-perspiration charms.

[writerpeach]

Hot & Cold

LOOΠΔ Kim Lip x Male Reader

9836 words

---

Read on AFF

Read on AO3

masterlist

The stars shined bright as you wandered through the downtown streets aimlessly, taking in the cool crisp air of the nighttime sky. Music filled the streets and your ears as you passed through a variety of stores, each one with its best wares on display to tempt you.

You were searching for a gift for Choi Yerim’s upcoming birthday, clueless on where to even start looking for ideas. It had been several weeks since you had been introduced to her, and while you knew a little about what her likes and dislikes were, buying the perfect gift that would make her special day seemed a daunting challenge.

The three of you were inseparable lately, spending most of your time outside of work at your favorite lunar themed cafe and the cutest barista that worked there who always threw in free drinks. Lately though, Hyejoo had spent more time than usual preoccupied with her new job until the late hours of the night, leaving you without her help and on your own for your quest.

There were the obvious choices of flowers and candy, and while you had to start somewhere those were boring choices. You wanted your gift to be special and worthy of the girl who you had spent so much time with lately, a girl who brought nothing but happiness and positivity into your life.

Walking past dozens of places, you waited for a store to catch your attention as most failed to offer anything substantial. One in particular caught your eye. Maybe it was the mannequins in the window wearing cute dresses that you easily pictured Yerim wearing, but this place spoke to you.

There wasn’t anything special or out of the ordinary as you walked in, a small looking boutique with high ceilings and bright lights, shelves filled with meticulously folded shirts and pants in diverse sets of colors, while plentiful dresses and accessories lined the walls.

You carefully looked around, not wanting to knock anything out of place as you browsed, unsure where to even begin. There didn’t seem to be anyone else in the store, which wasn’t surprising given it was rather late in the evening, approaching nearer to closing time than you expected.

“Oh, hello, sir! Welcome to Lippington’s Exquisite Clothing,” you heard a soft husky voice call out in the distance, breaking the silence as you craned your head to see a slim blonde heading in your direction.

The clack of high heels on the wooden floor grew louder with each step as she approached, her hips swaying as she sauntered through the clothing store to close the distance, forming a small smile on her lips.

When the blonde woman stepped into frame you were met with her beauty at point-blank range. It was fairly unmistakable that her golden locks weren’t natural, not that it made her any less beautiful, not a hair out of place and there must have been a lot of effort put into maintaining such a wondrous shade. You didn’t know a thing about fashion, but the black sequin dress she had on sparkled in the light, doing her small body wonders and fitting perfectly.

It seemed a little risque for a place of employment, showing off bare shoulders and barely covering up her upper chest, but you weren’t one to judge, especially when she pulled it off flawlessly. It wasn’t too tight nor was it or too short, leaving part of her body to the imagination and above else it looked expensive. You’re pretty sure it wasn’t something that could have been picked up off one of the many racks.

Her fingernails were painted dark black, something you always loved on a woman as the color matched her dress, topping it all off with a light shade of red lipstick that made her small lips pop out.

You had to snap out of your haze as you caught yourself staring, frantically darting your eyes around the store in an attempt to not appear rude.

“My name is Jungeun, can I help you find anything?”

“Ah, actually, yes. I’m looking for a present for a woman. She’s young, about your age.”

“Of course, I’d be happy to help. Is she your girlfriend?”

“Uh, not exactly. She’s a good friend of mine,” you said, stumbling over your words as true as they were. You still hadn’t formed any type of relationship with Yerim, and hearing those words out loud brought out several feelings.

The beautiful woman sensed your hesitation in answering her simple question but was eagerly happy to help anyways.

“We have several sections for women to choose from. Is there a style that you think she would be interested in?”

You found yourself caught unprepared by all her questions, even though they were just to help out. Now, whereas Hyejoo was often a sweatpants and t-shirt type of girl, Yerim loved to put in effort into her outfits, even if it was a simple trip to a convenience store.

“She wears dresses a lot. Mostly cute ones.”

“I see. Let me show you some dresses that I can help you pick out that you think she would like.”

The woman led the way as you followed, trying not to focus your attention on her backside as much as you would have liked, stopping at the front of the store in a section with several racks of dresses surrounding a giant mirror.

“Do you know what size your...friend is?” she asked, and you’re pretty sure she was teasing you. You definitely didn’t know Yerim’s size. Hell, you didn’t even know how dress sizes worked.

“No, I don’t,” you said, having a brief moment of panic. You could have asked Hyejoo, but calling her at work was an option if you could have gotten ahold of her.

“I could show you a picture of her, would that help?”

“It’s a start,” she coldly said. You grabbed your phone and looked through several pictures trying to find a suitable one that showed her body off the best, making sure to not accidentally click on the folder of private pictures Yerim had sent for your eyes only.

You came across one of your favorite pictures of Yerim, wearing a cute white flowery dress standing in front of the mirror, looking adorable as usual. You handed Jungeun your phone who stared at it intently for several moments as if she had just seen a ghost.

“Yerim…” she muttered under her breath.

“Oh, do you know her?”

“Yes,” she simply stated, handing you back her phone. “We met at Girl Front Academy and studied together for three years until we went our separate ways. I haven’t talked to her since then, but it seems she’s still sickeningly cute,” Jungeun said, and you couldn’t tell if her reaction was of annoyance or not.

“Her body isn’t too far from mine, but she’s much curvier than I am. She always had better thighs than me,” she said, and this time you could definitely tell she was annoyed as if she were lacking in the body department.

“I’ll show you a few things that should fit her.”

The smile faded from her lips as she went through several clothing racks, picking out a dress from each one that stood out in a completely different look.

“Some of these may not be her style. This one is a little frilly, and this one is maybe a little too revealing,” Jungeun said, letting you see them all. They all had their appeal, and while you could have just gone overboard and bought them all, you didn’t want to seem desperate. You needed to find the perfect dress and had confidence that this woman would help you do just that.

“I like these two,” you said, choosing one that was casual and one that was formal. Jungeun was right, one was too skimpy, too gaudy, and one was too...you couldn’t find the words but there were much better choices. They all looked nice, but the dresses left behind didn't really didn’t match Yerim’s style.

“Both excellent choices,” Jungeun said, holding them up side by side. To her left was a simple purple cocktail dress with a wide neckline and thin straps, which seemed to be about knee-length, ruffled and slightly see-thru at the base. You selfishly wanted it to be much shorter, knowing her luscious thighs being covered up was a crime but remembered this was a gift for her and not you.

The other dress Jungeun held was colorful to say the least. Lace with black at the top, dark red at the end and woven colorful fabric in the middle, equipped with a multitude of gemstones. The dress was much longer than the previous one, given Yerim’s height it would practically be touching the floor, but also had a more elegant touch to it.

To say you had trouble deciding between the two would be an understatement. Given your ignorance, you would have picked the dress on your left based on color alone.

It was a good thing you had someone who seemed to be rather informed on the subject of clothing given that it was her job as she sensed your indecisiveness as your eyes wandered back and forth.

“This one would be good for any occasion, it's thin and comfortable without being too skimpy,” Jungeun said as she held it up higher than the other.

“Now, this one is better suited to dinner parties, weddings, ceremonies, that type of thing. It’ll flatter her body more but she’ll look out of place at a cafe obviously.”

“You have a knack for this, Jungeun.”

“Ah, well, thank you,” she shyly said. “You don’t own your own store for several years without knowing a little something about fashion.”

“You own this place?”

“I do. This’ll be the third year running this place. It’s been a little dead lately, but it’ll kick back up when spring comes.”

Jungeun let out another small smile, and you’re pretty sure her arms were getting tired from holding both dresses up.

“They’re both really nice dresses, but if you still can’t decide I could help out and try them on. I may not have the body that Yerim does, but it’ll look better on me than on a mannequin.”

“You’d do that? That seems like a lot of trouble, you really don’t have to, I’m sure you have plenty of other things to do.”

“It’s not that much trouble, there’s not much else to do as you can see. Might just close up early tonight if nobody else shows up.”

“Thank you, that would be appreciated.”

“It’s no problem. I’ll be back in a bit,” she said, heading towards the fitting room in the corner, taking both dresses with her. You waited just outside the door, taking a seat on the bench not unlike the same way you had for both Hyejoo and Yerim the dozens of times you were dragged away shopping with them.

She didn’t take that long to change into the first dress, walking out of the dressing room looking ready to take the runaway.

“What do you think?” she asked, as she spun around, letting you see every aspect of her in the casual dress.

“It’ll hug her body better, but it fits me nicely. It’ll look nicer with heels of course,” she said, taking note of the fact that she was barefoot. She did look rather nice in it, the dark color offset the brightness of her blonde hair, giving a glimpse at her luscious long legs as she modeled it for you.

“I like it.”

“Don’t choose until you see the other one. I’ll be right back.”

You gave a gentle nod as she disappeared back into the dressing room, and you eagerly waited for her return wanting to see a more close up look of the other dress. You had all but chosen this dress already, the formal dress had its work cut out for it and had some stiff competition.

More time passed than was expected while you waited for her to try on the other dress, not that you felt the need to complain. Maybe she was doing something different with the second dress that required more time as you sat there patiently, wasting time on your phone.

“Hey, uh. I could use some help,” you heard her call through the dressing room stall. You got out of your seat and headed over to her direction to check it out.

“What do you need?” you asked through the other side of the door.

The woman took a second of hesitation to respond. “I think the zipper’s stuck. It won’t budge. It’s unlocked, you can come in. I won’t bite.”

You’re not sure why she added that last part, but you opened the door and stepped inside to see her back to you, the zipper caught at the top of the dress. You grabbed it carefully and inspected it, pulling it down several times to no avail as it refused to work with you, unable to move like when you woke up in the mornings. Nothing worked, and you didn’t want to be too forceful with it.

“It’s not moving.”

Jungeun sighed loudly. “I should have designed this one better.”

“You designed this dress?”

“Yes, most of the clothing in this store is my own design. Anything that’s not is from other designers I know or collaborations.”

“That’s impressive.”

“It’s nothing really, I’ve been doing this my whole life,” she said nonchalantly. “Now, if it’s not going to unstuck itself you’re just going to rip it open.”

“You want me to rip it? There has to be something here we can fix it with.”

“It’ll take too long. Just be suck it up and rip it, I can fix it later.”

“If you insist,” you said, holding on to both sides of the dress you tugged hard on it, tearing the zipper down the middle as the sounds of fabric being torn filled the room as the dress became collateral damage.

“Impressive,” Jungeun said as your attention was on the now ruined dress, the zipper all the way down and dangling off to expose her back.

“Thanks, now let’s hope this other dress doesn’t give us the same type of trouble.”

“I’ll step out,” you said, heading towards the door when Jungeun’s eyes stopped you.

”What, have you’ve never seen a woman undress before?”

“Of course I have, but-”

“But what? It’s not a big deal, but if you’d prefer to wait outside, be my guest. I won’t be long.”

Well, you couldn’t let this opportunity pass you by now.

“I’ll stay then.”

“Good. Enjoy the show.”

With your back flat against the wall Jungeun began undressing, pulling the purple thin straps down her shoulders and hesitating, teasing you for a moment as your eyes met. Taking her time, she slipped her arms out of the purple cocktail dress and slowly peeling it down her body just past her waist, exposing her tight toned midriff.

Jungeun never kept her eyes off you, inching the rest of the dress off her body and wiggling her hips until gravity did the rest. The discarded garment draped around her ankles, leaving her in an alluring pair of simple white underwear, sheer in enough places that still let your imagination run wild. It was quite an unexpected sight.

“Fuck,” you muttered under your breath, trying your best to keep your mouth closed as you let out an audible deep exhale at such a gorgeous woman. Her complexion was beautiful, her skin fair and immaculate and you desperately wanted to reach out and touch her body.

“Judging by the way you can’t stop drooling over me, I’m going to guess you like what you see?”

If seeing her tight body on display wasn’t enough, she had positioned herself (perhaps even strategically so), in front of the mirror, giving you the perfect view of the white thong nestled in between her firm buttcheeks.

“Your turn,” Jungeun said, snapping you out of your trance as she placed her hands on her hips.

“What?”

“It’s not very fair for me to be the only one who’s undressed is it? Come on, I wanna see what you’re packing,” she said, her lips curling into a smirk as she crossed her arms.

Things had certainly escalated. When you walked into this store you hadn’t expected to be seeing the owner in her bra and panties, and you certainly didn’t expect you were about to match her level of nudity.

If you needed any further encouragement, her round dark eyes let you know that she wasn’t joking, and when a woman in her underwear tells you to do something you didn’t dare disappoint.

Taking a deep breath you began unbuttoning your shirt, removing each button until you had stripped it off and tossed it on the ground. Jungeun eyed your bare chest like you were a piece of meat, not unlike the way you had gawked over her earlier.

“Keep going,” she urged, and bit her lip deeply, showing her approval as you unbuckled your belt and unzipped your pants, not wasting time in yanking them off and kicked them away. It was difficult to process. There you were, standing across from a beautiful woman that owned the clothing store you had spontaneously picked, obviously ogling your mostly naked body while you were doing the same in return.

The whole series of events had gotten you so aroused that you hadn’t realized that your shaft had become full mast, sporting an unavoidable bulge through your boxers.

“Do you usually get this hard just by seeing a woman in her underwear?” she teased, as you looked down in embarrassment as your package dying to poke through, your cheeks instantly reddening.

“There’s no need to be embarrassed, it’s perfectly natural,” Jungeun said as she approached your side of the small changing room, closing the distance and cupped your crotch, causing your body to tense up.

“I’d be a little disappointed if you weren’t getting excited,” she said, continuing to squeeze your crotch through your boxers.

"How would you like it if I took everything off?" Jungeun asked, using her free hand to run her hands through her golden locks, ruffling her perfectly styled hair seductively.

“I’m not that easy, you’ll have to at least buy me a drink to get my panties off. But I’ll give you a little something to hold you over,” she said as she slowly dropped to her knees on the stack of clothes that had piled up in the middle of the floor.

Jungeun wanted one thing as she grabbed your boxers and swiftly yanked them down to your ankles, your hard cock throbbing as it was released from its frustrating restraints. Her eyes lit up in excitement as she grabbed your cock and squeezed it with a gentle pressure, delivering slow pleasurable strokes as her thumb rubbed your sensitive swollen tip, making you leak over her slim fingers.

“It’s been so long since I’ve had some good cock. Too long,” Jungeun said as she flattened her tongue against the base of your shaft, slowly drawing upward and taking her time. You let out a soft moan as her pink tongue reached your swollen cockhead, swirling around and planting a wet kiss on your tip that made you shiver in delight.

“You’re so fucking hard,” she said as her wet tongue explored every inch, lapping up every drop that escaped from your leaking slit. Her lips pressed deeply against your throbbing shaft, moving from base to tip and not letting a spot go without a wet kiss that sent tingles up your spine.

“You did this to me,” you replied, and Jungeun answered not with words but with actions as her pouty lips parted with your shaft as it entered her warm mouth, her soft lips squeezing tight around your throbbing flesh as her cheeks hollowed.

“F-fuck, that’s good,” you moaned, leaning back into the dressing room’s wooden wall, as you watched Jungeun work your cock, bobbing her head up and down as her tongue followed, playing with your sensitive underside.

Jungeun’s mouth felt heavenly, her soft cherry lips wrapped tightly around your cock as she pleasured you, focusing on the first few inches of your flesh as she enveloped it with warm and wet sensations that overwhelmed you.

“That feels amazing, d-don’t stop,” you said, as the blonde woman who was practically still a stranger never ceased her oral assault on your cock. Her warm lips left a trail of warm saliva as you felt more of her throat, watching the deep lust in her eyes as she slowly sucked you off.

Shortly after you felt Jungeun’s mouth pushing deeper, her full lips sliding down your wet shaft with ease, distracting you and making you forget everything else. Jungeun wasn’t kidding as she seemed to be deprived of the taste of cock as she hungrily slurped on your shaft, voicing her satisfaction in giving you such a wonderful blowjob.

You couldn’t just stand there and watch the action unfold as you ran your fingers through Jungeun’s pretty blonde hair, guiding her movements as you placed a hand on the back of her head. She took the hint in stride, taking more of you down her throat as she gave your shaft deep satisfying strokes from base to tip, sticking her tongue out to please every inch of you she could.

“Jungeun…fuck,” you moaned, unable to control yourself any longer and grabbed a handful of hair, forming a tight fist around a makeshift ponytail as you used it to assist her into a faster rhythm that she didn’t seem to mind.

You kept Jungeun’s mouth busy, using her ponytail as your personal set of reins to force her mouth to the very end of your base repeatedly, using her mouth without mercy. She gave no sounds of discomfort, if anything she voiced the opposite as she slobbered all over your needy shaft, covering it with her messy drool as her throat was kept filled.

You kept this up for as long as you could, savoring Jungeun’s wet and hot mouth and occasionally gave glances towards the mirror to distract you with her delicious backside as the sounds of her slurping on your cock filled the room that caused you to moan even louder.

“F-fuck, Jungeun, I’m about to cum,” you said, releasing the tight grip you held on her hair as it fell back onto her beautiful shoulders.

“I wonder what you’ll taste like,” Jungeun said as she withdrew your cock from her wet mouth with a loud pop, using her tongue to frantically trace around your swollen tip, pushing you even more over the edge.

Jungeun could sense your climax wasn’t backing down as she took control of your cock, furiously stroking it as she opened her mouth and stuck her pink tongue out as she prepared to finish what she started.

You were almost there as your breathing shallowed, every long stroke from base to tip Jungeun gave your shaft made your balls tighten even more, her tongue flicking against your dripping slit to expedite your impending orgasm.

“J-Jungeun, I’m cumming!” you cried out as her grip tightened, her eyes laser-focused onto you as your throbbing cock shot cum directly onto her wet tongue and into the back of her mouth as she emptied you.

Multiple thick spurts of cum fired from your tip that caused you to moan with need, each feeling better than the last as a milky white pool collected on Jungeun's wet tongue as she worked your shaft, making sure to drain your balls thoroughly.

Jungeun made sure she squeezed out every drop as she kept her mouth open, making a show of swirling your fresh load, sloshing it around before she closed her mouth. You watched the beautiful sight of Jungeun's throat gulping as she swallowed it all.

“Not bad, I guess,” she said, displaying her now empty pink tongue and licked her lips, sucking the sensitive tip of your depleted shaft to make sure there were no more remnants left, forcing a reaction that made your entire body shake.

Jungeun stood back up and gave your cock a few final strokes, making sure she kept a tight grip with every twist that drove you crazy.

"Okay, get out,” she abruptly said, as you leaned back against the wall in exhaustion.

“W-what?” you replied, trying to catch your breath as you picked out which clothes were yours from the discarded pile.

“I have to close this place up, it’s late and there are a lot of things that have to get done. You can leave after you get dressed.”

“What about the dress? I still need to buy Yerim something.”

“You can pick it up tomorrow, I'll hold it for you. You wanted this one didn’t you?”

“Y-yes, it’ll look good on her.”

“No, it’ll look great on her. We close at ten, show up anytime before that.”

“Can I at least get your number?”

“Ugh, fine I guess,” she said as you dug your phone out of your pants that you hadn’t bothered to put back on.

“Hope you enjoyed that. I don’t do that often, I just felt bad,” she said as she keyed in her number into your phone.

“You felt bad? That must be why I can see that wet spot on the front of your panties, Jungeun,” you said, and she quickly broke eye contact, embarrassed by her obvious enjoyment.

“You can let yourself out.”

Jungeun grabbed her clothes and left without another word, giving you one last glance at her perfect rear as she left the dressing room. You got dressed in a rush, not wanting to stay any longer and excited the clothing store, still feeling the fatigue setting in.

✦✦

Work kept you at the office longer than you had planned to be, which always seemed to always be the case, something that couldn’t be helped. After finishing tedious paperwork and last minute preparations for the next day you didn’t step out of the building until roughly after nine p.m and headed straight towards Jungeun’s clothing store, not bothering to change your clothes.

You made your entrance as quiet as possible, which wasn’t that difficult given she was finishing ringing up a customer as patiently waited for their transaction to finish up, casually browsing the clothing selection in the meantime.

“Didn’t think you were going to show up,” you heard, the unmistakable husky voice of Jungeun as she approached your area of the store. Her outfit was a little less flashy today, wearing a tight white top that showed off the outline of her breasts and very short jean shorts that showed off her amazingly long legs.

“Had a lot of work to finish before I could come here.”

“I know that feeling,” she said as she grabbed the purple dress you had decided on from behind the register.

“Don’t worry, this isn’t the same dress from yesterday, that one has been repurposed. This size should fit her, but if it doesn’t feel free to return it.”

“I’m sure it’ll fit her just fine. You know what you’re doing,” you said.

“I’d like to think so. You can go ahead and swipe your card now.”

“It’s cheaper than the price tag was yesterday,” you said as you inserted your card back into your wallet, putting in your pin number and completing the transaction.

“I threw in a discount. Think of it as a present from me to Yerim,” she said, batting her eyelashes as her lips formed a sweet smile.

“Thank you, Jungeun. That was very generous of you.”

“It’s not what you think. I’m just doing this as a favor, I don’t like you or anything,” Jungeun said as she bagged your gift for Yerim and handed it to you.

“I’m sure she’ll love it. Have a good night, Jungeun.”

You took your next step but before you could even finish placing your foot down Jungeun grabbed your wrist, keeping you in place.

“Aren’t you going to buy me that drink?” she asked, gently squeezing your arm with her small hand as you looked down at her pretty fingernails.

You didn’t typically drink on a Thursday night, but you also didn’t typically get a blowjob in a dressing room from a beautiful woman. It’s not like you couldn’t use it either, work continued to pile up and you hadn’t even had a chance to depressurize from it all.

“Okay, I’d like to buy you a drink, Jungeun.”

“Good, because I could certainly use one. Maybe even two.”

“I know the perfect place.”

“I’ll need to finish up here, looks like nobody else is showing up so I can get started on closing. Send me the address, I’ll meet you there in an hour.”

✦✦

Just a little over an hour later you pulled up a chair in a familiar place, taking a seat at the counter in your favorite dive bar you had been to dozens of times - both yourself and with the company of Yerim and Hyejoo. Taking a look around there was both familiarity and a lack thereof to the place.

New paintings had been hung, the walls painted with a fresh coat paint that made the place pop, and the rickety wooden stools had been replaced with fancier black ones, adding a hint of sophistication to the joint. It still needed tons of work but it was a start.

“Hey stranger. Haven’t seen you in a while,” you heard a distinctive deep voice speak out, one that could only belong to your favorite bartender Heejin. Your eyes met as she flashed a beautiful smile as she wiped down the counter.

“Work has kept me away from this place,” you said, as Heejin’s lips formed a deep out on her features. It was difficult to see in the dim lights, but her hair had been dyed a lighter shade of brown, making her more beautiful than the last time you came here.

“You here alone? I’m used to seeing you with those two cute girls,” she said, putting up bottles of alcohol and restocking clear straws on the counter.

“I’m waiting for someone. Met her yesterday.”

“Ooh, how exciting. Tell me all about her,” Heejin said as she leaned forward, capturing your attention.

“I don’t know that much about her yet other than she’s a fashion designer. She owns her own clothing store downtown by the pier.”

“Wow, that’s impressive. I’m sure she’s lovely. Can I get you started on anything while you wait?”

“I’ll just take a beer for now.”

“Coming right up!”

No more than a few seconds later Heejin placed down an ice cold mug directly in front of you filled to the brim with just a touch of foam. You slipped a few dollars in her stuffed tip jar, earning an ear to ear grin as she excused herself.

Moments later the seat next to you became occupied, the familiar perfume wafting through your nostrils that could be one person, Jungeun.

“Sorry I’m late, I had some last minute customers I had to deal with,” she said, placing her large purse on the bar counter in front of her.

“Oh, don’t worry about it. I’m glad you could make it,” you said, taking your first sip of beer and wiping the foam from your lips.

“This place is a bit of a dump, isn’t it?” Jungeun bluntly said, not mincing her words.

“I don’t come here for the atmosphere.”

“Why do you come here then?” she asked, as Heejin came back and bent over to grab something off of the lower shelf, her tight pants doing her body justice as she flashed a smile as she rose up.

“Oh I see why,” she said, letting out a loud chuckle as she covered her mouth with her hand.

“That’s not it,” you insisted. “I like the drinks here. It’s not as bad as it used to be.”

“Well, I’d hate to see how bad it looked before,” she said, rolling her eyes as she signaled Heejin over.

“Hi there! What can I get you?”

“A glass of red wine please.”

Heejin was nothing but diligent and before you could blink Jungeun was inspecting her half-filled glass of dark red wine, determined to find something wrong with it before indulging. For some reason she didn’t seem like a wine girl to you, but to be fair you didn’t know much about her other than she gave a spectacular blowjob.

“You’ve slept with her, haven’t you?” Jungeun said out of the blue, swirling her glass around before taking her first taste.

“What?” you said, nearly choking on your malty beverage.

“The cute girl with the brown hair. The way she looks at you makes me think she’s done more than serve you a drink,” Jungeun teased, crossing her legs.

You sighed loudly. “What are you a mind reader? Yes, I may have seen her naked on an occasion...or three.”

“No, it just seemed rather obvious. Who you sleep with isn’t my business though,” Jungeun said, and you swore there was a hint of jealousy in her tone as she swirled her drink in the dim light and watched the red liquid sloshing around.

Jungeun looked around, unsatisfied at what she saw. Clearly she was used to a higher stand of establishment. Her wine glass was already half-finished, she quickly threw her head back and poured the rest down her mouth, and you can’t say you ever saw someone drink wine like that.

“I’m tired of this place. Let’s get out of here.”

“We just got here-”

“And I know a better place we can go that doesn’t have bad music. ”

“Where exactly would that be?”

“My apartment,” Jungeun replied, flashing seductive bedroom eyes.

“If you were that eager we could have just skipped this part.”

“What, and miss out on a free drink? That’s the only reason I showed up.”

“Oh, and here I was thinking it was because you enjoyed my company.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. I-It’s not like I wanted you to fuck me,” Jungeun said, making a show out of fixing her hair as she left her chair and grabbed her purse.

“I’ll meet you outside, thanks for the drink.”

Jungeun became harder to read with every minute you knew her. One minute she was batting her eyes and flirting with you and touching your shoulder, the next she barely seemed interested in you. It didn’t matter too much as you just had a personal invitation to her place and that was your golden ticket. You had barely touched your drink but that didn’t seem as important anymore as you paid your tab and left Heejin a generous tip as always.

“Guess someones getting lucky tonight,” Heejin teased as she waved goodbye, and you weren’t quick sure what you were getting yourself into.

A short ten minute taxi ride and you were following Jungeun up a set of stairs and waiting for her to unlock her apartment door.

“It’s not much, but it’s cozy,” she said as she bent down to remove her heels as you slipped your own shoes off and gently placed them carefully on the ground.

“I’ll give you a quick tour,” she said, gesturing for you to follow her as you took a quick look around. The living room was small but decorated with various paintings and a white leather couch big enough for multiple people, with small black throw pillows on either end. Underneath the glass coffee table was a huge blue rug and a pink makeup pouch left behind.

“Here’s the kitchen. I don’t cook much,” she said as her bare feet walked through black marble tile floors that looked spotless. It wasn’t the fanciest kitchen, but you would have loved to make a meal here sometime. In the center was a small kitchen island and a few stools, the counter wiped clean and a bowl of delicious looking fruit that you couldn’t tell was fake or not.

Jungeun led you past the kitchen as you looked at the various appliances she had gathered, a high-end blender caught your eye that rivaled those you had seen at cafes.

“Here's the bathroom,” she said, a huge assortment of various types of makeup lined the counter, once again perfectly clean as if she was expecting a visitor. Her shower was quite spacious, it was definitely the first time you’d seen one large enough to have two showerheads. The wall was patterned with black tile that contrasted nicely with the rest of the white bathroom.

“Last stop,” Jungeun said as she took several steps ahead of you, giving you the chance to take in her body as her hips swayed and you watched her long legs.

“And this is where you’ll be fucking me,” Jungeun bluntly said as she stopped at her bedroom.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Miss Jungeun.”

“And why’s that?” Jungeun asked as she took a step towards you, closing the distance as she placed her hands on your shoulder.

“Who says I’m going to fuck you here? You’ve got a nice kitchen, a living room…”

Jungeun leaned in and planted a deep kiss on your lips, the taste of her lingering as she pulled back and you could see the lust in her eyes.

“You’re convincing me.”

“Then let me convince you a little more,” she said as she spun around on her heels and walked away from you, disappearing into the bathroom and shutting the door, leaving her out of sight. She didn’t spend much time inside, dramatically opening the door and came out in a luxurious white bathrobe as she appeared back in view.

“You should have a seat for this,” Jungeun said with a mischievous smile on her features as you did as instructed, taking a seat on her bed and feeling her silk sheets as you leaned back.

Jungeun made sure she had your full attention as she slowly began to untie the cotton belt around her waist, opening up as she draped it off her broad shoulders as it fell to the carpet underneath her.

The sight displayed in front of you was nothing but breathtaking, causing your jaw to drop as Jungeun’s perfect tight body was dressed in the sexiest pair of lacy red lingerie that left very little to the imagination.

“Red looks amazing on you.”

“It happens to be my favorite color,” Jungeun said, as your eyes feasted on her stunning body, unable, nothing could lose your focus. The dark red color contrasted perfectly with her milky skin. Her breasts were pushed up nicely, showing off her wide hips and delicious legs that never seemed to end.

“Are you just going to sit there and stare, or are you going to come touch me?”

That was the only invitation as you lifted your body off the mattress as your hands were practically magnetized to her body. You started at her thighs, feeling how soft they felt against your palms as you moved to her deadly hips, nothing but satisfied at how good they felt to grip.

You couldn’t help yourself one bit as you snaked around her waist and squeezed her ass with both hands, pulling her towards you and grabbing as much as you could, thankful for the fact that Jungeun loved to wear skimpy thongs. Your palms were full of her soft flesh as you kneaded them, giving her beautiful backside a loud slap that echoed and made her gasp.

“F-fuck,” Jungeun said, her words light and airy as you moved to the front of her body, up her toned midriff and up to her chest, squeezing her perky breasts through the annoying piece of fabric keeping you from them.

“Jungeun,” you said with a lowered voice as you tempted her with the idea of kiss, tilting your head as you licked her neck and whispered in her ear.

“I’m dying to fuck you.”

“P-please. You’re making me so wet,” she whimpered desperately as you buried yourself in the crook of her neck, sucking on the soft skin there with no intention to stop. Jungeun was giving herself to you in no time, letting out soft erotic moans as you nibbled on her beautiful neck.

“God, you’re so gorgeous.”

“T-thank you,” Jungeun replied as her cheeks blushed a shade of faded red as she anticipated what was next.

“Can I take this off?” you asked as you slipped a finger underneath one of her bra straps, as it practically screamed to be let loose.

“Y-yes, please take everything off me. I want you to see every inch of me.”

Her voice was just the ticket you needed as you found the clasp of her bra and unhooked it, keeping eye contact with Jungeun as you slipped the thin straps off her shoulders and tossed it out of view.

Your pants tightened as you saw Jungeun’s exposed breasts for the first time, small yet powerfully perky, not unlike Yerim. You gave several teasing licks on her nipples, causing a series of whiny moans to leave her lips as you focused on one breast, pinching the other as your lips slurped and nibbled freely.

“G-god, just fuck me already,” Jungeun begged, and it seemed she didn’t share your patience in wanting to take your time with her.

“You need it that bad?”

“Y-yes. I want you to ruin me,” she said as she looked at you doe-eyed, lips quivering as she wanted to give herself to you fully.

“I’ll be happy to then,” you said as you tilted her chin up and gave her lips one deep tender embrace, rubbing your hand across her soft cheek.

“Hold on, one more thing,” Jungeun said as scurred into her huge walk-in closet and disappeared inside it. She emerged after a few moments with something unseen in her hands as she came back into view.

Jungeun grabbed your wrist and flipped it around, dropping a bundle of red braided rope onto your palm as she shyly smiled.

“What do you expect me to do with this?” you asked, playing dumb as you felt the soft fabric of the rope.

“I want to be tied up and fucked. What else would you do with it?” she asked, biting her lip in anticipation.

“Only if you want to of course,” she added.

“I want to,” you said. You definitely wanted to. You had Heejin to mostly blame for unlocking this side out of you.

You stared into her eyes intently for one intense moment before abruptly grabbing her hips and spinning her around, admiring her naked back and her barely covered asscheeks. Jungeun’s breath hitched as you grabbed her delicate wrists and pulled them behind her back, wrapping them both in beautiful red rope as you bound them together tightly,

“Too tight?” you asked, resting a hand against her toned back and caressing her skin.

“Not at all,” she replied as you spun her back around as your eyes met, and you couldn’t help but smile that Jungeun was now at your mercy. You took advantage of this right away and roamed her body with your hands, squeezing her breasts and moving downward as you brought two fingers against her clothed heat, confirming the wetness of her cunt that was soaking through her panties.

“Safe word?” you asked as pressed two fingers against her clothed core as her legs twitched.

“Eclipse.”

“Good, then let’s get started,” you said as you helped her lower to her knees as she pressed into the carpet as you began undressing, scattering clothes around Jungeun’s body until you were left in your boxers. Your bulge poked through the material desperate to be freed, a stark reminder of the previous day

“Look what you did, Jungeun,” you said with a smirk on your lips, admiring her half-naked body as she was at your whims. Her skin grew warmer as she knelt patiently as you removed your underwear, slick dripping down her thighs and making the only piece of clothing left on even wetter.

Jungeun admired your cock with a hunger like no other as you grabbed it and slapped her pretty face with it, letting her suck your swollen tip for several seconds before removing it, causing a cute pout to form on her features.

“Don’t be greedy,” you said, caressing the side of her cheek and watching the need in her eyes.

You couldn’t help admire how pretty Jungeun was as you rubbed her soft lips with one finger, and without asking she instinctively sucked on your fingers sensually. She had a wanton need for anything inside her mouth as her lips and tongue wrapped around your fingers with the same amount of desire she had given to your cock.

Jungeun slurped hungrily on your fingers as you pushed them in deeper, moving past both knuckles and creating a slow rhythm as she gagged but her eyes begged for more as you felt her warm messy saliva seeping everywhere, making a mess everywhere.

You waited just a little longer, letting Jungeun continuously suckle on your fingers until you felt she had enough, wiping her leftover saliva down her neck and chest as you gave her stiffened rosy nipples one more pinch.

“That’s all you get for now,” you said as you helped her stand upright and lifted her frame onto the bed. Jungeun did what she could to assist as you positioned her on her knees with her ass raised as her face plopped down on the sheets, resting her chin on the mattress.

You took your position behind Jungeun’s bent over body, the thin piece of fabric nestled between her ass being the only barrier between you and nirvana. The flimsy piece of underwear was almost as dark as blood but did little to hide the wet spot soaking through, and it was hard to focus your eyes on a single part of her tight body, or the way her hands were tied behind her back.

Your hands explored Jungeun’s backside, her skimpy thong was a poor excuse to cover up any skin as you fondled her cheeks. You almost didn’t want to remove such a daring garment from her body, it looked too good on her. The thought occurred to push it to the side, giving you the best of both worlds but your animalistic urges took over instead as you grabbed the thin piece of fabric and tore it right off her body.

Jungeun gasped loudly as you tossed the ruined pair of underwear away, every inch of her body now exposed for you and all it took was one look down at her beautiful pink pussy to make your erection even stronger than you thought was possible.

Taking one more look down, Jungeun had already spread her legs for you as you grabbed your shaft and lined it with her entrance, rubbing her pink pussy lips with your swollen tip as you felt her wetness collecting on it.

“P-please, just fuck me, already. Use me!” Jungeun begged, which only motivated you to keep up the teasing, slipping yourself dangerously close to entering her and withdrawing at the last moment just to hear her whimpering moans.

“F-fuck, please!” Jungeun continued to plead, and you felt a hint of pity for her desperation and nudged yourself against her pussy, the heat radiating off her body begging you to enter her.

Just a few more seconds of teasing was all you could take - you needed her just as bad, and in one perfectly smooth movement you popped your hips and entered her, both of you overwhelmed by a hundred different sensations.

“Oh god,” Jungeun said as you moaned simultaneously, watching your tip being swallowed up by her suffocatingly tight pussy. You took a moment to let it all sink in before moving, the initial warmth and wetness surrounding your cock taking your breath away.

You didn’t remember how long you took, it could have been just a few seconds or several minutes to get used to the intense sensations as you started thrusting inside Jungeun, her silky warm flesh clinging tight as you grabbed her hips and found a rhythm, picking up speed gradually.

“F-fuck, your cock feels so good, stretch my pussy out, p-please ruin me!” Jungeun begged, her naked body at your mercy. There wasn’t much point in taking your time when both of you wanted the opposite, Jungeun’s intoxicating warmth enticing you to not keep your sluggish pace for long.

With a bruising grip on her satisfying hips, you no longer felt the need to be gentle with her and intensified your pace with every stroke, bottoming her out every time as her delicious cunt squeezed your throbbing shaft, keeping her pussy plenty filled.

The rhythm grew and grew as did the lust and desire in the room as your hips hurled against Jungeun’s ass, leaving the harsh sounds of flesh smacking against flesh that was music to your ears.

“P-pound me, f-fucking pound my pussy,” Jungeun said, her words now muffled into her pillows as your pistoning hips gave powerful thrusts as deep as you could fit your cock.

“I need to hear you, Jungeun. You’re so wet, you like being fucked like this?” you asked, grabbing a rough handful of golden hair and tangling it around your fingers, tugging back on it harshly to free her head from the comfort of her pillows.

“F-fuck yes, please keep using me!”

Her lustful words washed away any worries you were being too rough with her as you gripped a fistful of hair tighter, keeping her head upright as her pussy clenched in approval. Jungeun moaned even louder as your vigorous thrusts continued, her juices spilling out of her cunt so freely as the arousal was heavy in the air.

Jungeun’s moans turned into loud husky screams as you kept a handful of pretty hair clenched, pounding into her hole carelessly as you glanced down at her bound wrists and releasing one of your hands from her hips and without warning slapped her tight ass.

Her flesh rippled hypnotically, encouraging another slap to her behind on the other side as her walls pulsated in response.

“Harder, make it hurt,” Jungeun said, a mixture of demanding and begging and you weren’t going to back down as you winded back your arm and swung hard against her cheeks, the delicious echo of your palm striking her cheeks until the color began to match the restraints around her tied wrist.

Jungeun let out deep satisfied moans after each smack against her now tender flesh, the clench of her cunt matching the rhythm of your forceful strikes of her backside. The color of her cheeks grew darker and tears formed in her eyes from such pleasurable pain. WIth every few slaps you gave her sensitive red flesh a squeeze, rubbing out the sting until you upped the impact of flesh on flesh.

Your only regret was you were unable to see the satisfaction in Jungeun’s gorgeous eyes, but if the way her pussy was dripping all over your cock you knew she was loving every second of it.

Giving Jungeun’s bright red cheeks a break, you used your hands to explore what skin you had access to, running your hands up and down her back, feeling the sweat dripping off it as you fucked her mercilessly, the hard smack of the headboard slamming into the wall with every thrust.

“Does that feel good, Jungeun? Do you like being fucked like a little slut?”

“Y-yes, I love when you fuck me like a toy, please don’t stop,” Jungeun said with strangled words, too lost in the pleasure to think of anything else.

You released the grip on her hair, letting strands fall to her shoulders that stuck to her sweaty back as you prepared for your next step, grabbing her hips and pushing her down until she was flat on her stomach and her knees pressed into the sheets.

Your thrusts came fast and loose as your legs were spread onto either side of Jungeun's body as you fucked her senseless in this position, able to achieve a deeper sense of penetration that drove you crazy.

It didn't take long to become unhinged, your pace wild and reckless as you held on to the sides of her ass for leverage, slamming repeatedly without any concern as the room filled up with her needy moans.

"Oh my god, you're so deep! Fuck me just like this, please fuck me just this, oh fuck, oh fuck!"

Jungeun's cries threw gasoline on the flames of passion as you used more power in your hips, and you were content to make sure she couldn't walk for a week as you railed her into the mattress.

You swore the bed was about to give out, and you didn't give a damn and only focused on the hot dripping flesh you were spearing yourself into.

"You fuck me so well, holy shit! I'm so close!"

“Good, cum for me you greedy slut. Cum all over this fucking cock,” you said, as sweat drenched your forehead, the air in the room growing harder to take in. Jungeun could barely remember where she was, her mouth constantly agape as drool spilled out of her lips, moaning breathlessly as the fire in her abdomen grew and grew.

“Ah! I-I’m cumming!” Jungeun said, barely able to form words at this point, powerless to do anything else. Her pussy pulsated uncontrollably around your shaft as you kept the same relentless pace as she creamed all over you, the warm flood of juices spilling onto your crotch as she came hard, toes curling behind you and her thighs visibly shaking.

Jungeun let out a slew of profanities as her orgasm hit her like a train, and you didn’t let up one second and fucked her through every intense second, the loss of her limbs to grab hold of anything drove her insane as her labored breathing filled your eardrums, every moment of pleasure almost causing her to black out.

“H-holy shit,” Jungeun managed to say as her high gradually faded, the aftershocks in her body firing off every so often that she could hardly catch a breath, her thighs flushed and stained with slick, overflowing on her silk sheets underneath your sweaty bodies.

Jungeun’s wonderful orgasm came to a close, and now it was your turn as you grabbed her bound wrists and held them tight, steering yourself towards your much needed bliss as you gave it your all. Her pussy was so deliciously wet after her climax, lubricating your harsh movements inside her thoroughly fucked cunt and sending spikes of pleasure everywhere throughout your body.

You gave her the final pounding she deserved, her pussy stuffed with every inch of hard flesh as you moved furiously inside her, wringing out all the pleasure out of her body that you could take until you felt that familiar and welcome tightness in your core that signaled the end.

“Jungeun, I’m about to fucking cum,” you growled, endlessly fucking into her warm hole to coerce your orgasm on a path to pleasure with no brakes.

“Cum wherever, on me or in me, please just cum for me,” Jungeun said, and you took no time to figure out just where you wanted to do that.

Savoring the final moments, you gave a few more hammering thrusts into Jungeun’s body before you withdrew from her warmth, pulling her up and helping her off to the side of the bed as she took position on her knees, her arms still tied behind her as she anxiously awaited the finale.

You had Jungeun just where you wanted her as she had the biggest grin on her features as you stroked your cock from base to tip, and she knew just where your load was going and licked her lips.

“Are you going to paint my face?” she asked, already knowing the answer as you stroked furiously in response, planning on using her as your canvas.

“Give me your cum, please cum on my face, please. Cover me in your thick load, please please please, cum all over my face, I need it so fucking bad,” Jungeun desperately begged, her needy words being the one last thing that set you off.

It took less than a few strokes for you to erupt as you unloaded all over Jungeun’s gorgeous face. You let out loud satisfied groans and fired your first thick shot of cum that landed on her forehead, ending up in her disheveled hair.

You emptied your balls all over her cheeks, her full lips, her cute nose and chin as you squeezed out every last drop, not letting anything go to waste as her face was covered in pearly white, the look of satisfaction in her eyes as you were drained.

Jungeun licked what she could, frustrated with her hands still tied up and out of commission as the mess you had just deposited on her stunning face began to drip down slowly, spilling off her chin and onto her chest as you collected yourself and tried to regain your breath.

She had never looked more beautiful.

Jungeun leaned forward as you guided your cock one more time into her mouth as she cleaned you off, gently sucking your sensitive tip dry with your load staining her face. You took one more moment to admire your handiwork before untying her wrists.

“You okay?” you asked as she regained the use of her hands, the first thing she did with them was to stroke your softening cock, giving one more wet kiss.

“I’m great now,” she said, heavily breathing as you exchanged tired smiles.

“You really covered me. I don’t think I’ve ever felt such a huge load,” Jungeun giggled as you sat on the edge of the bed, nearly collapsing on it.

“I only have you to blame for that,” you said.

“I’ll go get cleaned up. You can join me if you want, or you can rest here. Either way you better be ready for another round,” she said, slow to stand upright as she turned into her now ever familiar pose, her hands on her hips with a stern look in her eyes.

“You’re insatiable, Jungeun,” you said, still struggling to find your breath again.

“N-no, I’m not. It’s not like I enjoyed your cock inside me,” she scoffed, spinning on her heels as she disappeared into her bathroom.

You still felt the tingles of your intense climax as you looked around the room, sinking into the sheets and wondered what else she Jungeun wanted, or rather what she wanted you to do to her.

You’d just have to be patient and find out.

[faytelumos]

Ulterior

cw: a lot of blood

---

The sidekick grunted as they awkwardly laid the villain down on the bed. They gracelessly pulled their arms out from beneath the villain's limp frame, their back already aching now that the weight of an entire person had finally been taken away. The sidekick stepped back, watching for signs that the villain had been disturbed in their brutal slumber, but the fallen made no additional sounds.

Right, then. On to step three.

The sidekick hurried to their ensuite, yanking open the medicine cabinet and grabbing their first-aid kit. They came back into the bedroom and pushed the pack down onto the bed, unzipping it jerkily and flipping it open. They reached for the scissors and gave them a testing snip as they turned to grab the villain's costume. Suddenly remembering that just about anyone could walk in on them right now, the sidekick turned to the door. They crossed the distance in a few anxious steps and flicked the lock on the handle, watching for a moment as if someone would try to bust it down any second. After a beat of silence, they returned to the villain and carefully began cutting.

The villain's costume was sturdy, armor woven in with the fabric, but these sheers were made to cut through super suits. It was rough going and it left the sidekick's hand sore and cramping, but it wasn't nearly as bad as the sight that greeted them when they pulled the suit open. Blotches of red and blue and purple swirled around the villain's abdomen, but there was so much blood sticking to their skin and the inside of the uniform it was hard to tell where they even stopped. How had so much blood been contained inside the costume? But then the sidekick realized it hadn't, looking at their bloody hands, at the villain's blood-soaked legs, at the sidekick's dark red clothes. Oh, God, and the smell. How hadn't they noticed it before?

They shook their head as if it would dispel the odor. They set the scissors aside and then gently, carefully began to peel the villain out of their suit. It took a few more cuts and more than once the sidekick had to reach in between skin and suit to dislodge the stick and slime of drying blood. They lost count of how many times they stifled a gag.

Once the villain was undressed, the sidekick rushed to the bathroom and grabbed a washcloth, impatiently flicking the water running from the faucet as they waited for it to warm. Once it was finally of temperature, the sidekick soaked and wrung the cloth and fled back into the bedroom.

The bruises were surely ugly, hard to see under all the red as the sidekick gently wiped at them. They honestly couldn't tell where the blood had come from, and were hoping to find the wound as they cleaned the villain's skin. But then they weren't cleaning, they were just smudging, and they folded the cloth and kept going, and then it was happening again. The sidekick let out a pained whimper, lifting the cloth to look at it in their trembling hand, and their eyes widened to see how red it was.

God, this was not their job. Was this what they looked like after a big fight? And what about the hero? How often had the medics had to cut them out of their ridiculously expensive suit and wipe all of the blood off of their unconscious body? Shit, this was miserable.

The sidekick ran back into the bathroom, ringing and rinsing and scrubbing the cloth under warm water. It would never be white again they decided, and they hurried back to the villain to continue their task.

In the middle of wiping what must have been a broken rib, the sidekick flinched when the cloth came away and left a big, bright, angry red line. Fingers trembling, they held their breath and leaned down, inspecting the wound. It was… a stab. Thin, somewhat long, deliberate. And it was — it looked deep. What organs were there here? It was too low to be the lungs, on the right side of the body… oh, God. No wonder they had lost so much blood! They had been stabbed in the liver! The sidekick could feel the blood draining from their face. They reached out with sticky hands to the villain's neck, pressing and pinching for a pulse. The villain was still breathing, soft and shallow, and the sidekick found their pulse after a moment of panic. It wasn't strong by any means, but it was steady, and it wasn't too fast. The bleeding seemed to have stopped as the sidekick looked to the wound again, but they carefully pressed on the area under the villain's sternum, trying to see if it was hard beneath their ribs. It… didn't feel like it? Okay… maybe they were okay for now. But the sidekick would have to keep an eye on this.

They kept up the task of cleaning the villain, and were relieved and disgusted to see the stab was the only bleeding wound. They didn't seem to have any other broken bones, and a few more rounds of palpations failed to yield any areas that were hard or swollen from internal bleeding. Once the sidekick was done cleaning and inspecting the villain's front, they flipped them carefully over and did the same on their back. The rag had become disgusting long before they were done, but it managed to finish the job. The blanket, the comforter, and the sheet the villain had been laying on were all toast, though.

The sidekick grabbed a spare blanket and laid it over a chair in their room, planning to set the villain down on it. But when they reached to lift the villain's still limp body, they saw the red on their arms, the rusty brown all down their clothes. Panic rose up and squeezed the sidekick's heart for just a moment; they'd let their guard down after getting all of the blood off of the villain, and this new wave of disgust and anxiety dug its claws in unhindered.

The sidekick yanked their shirt off and ran to the bathroom to wash their arms. They scrubbed and scratched and rinsed and scrubbed, that anxiety making it hard to breathe. How was the villain still alive? How had they survived that wound — who had stabbed them?! There had been no knives in that fight. Had there been a stab in the costume?

No, no, these questions could wait. The villain was naked and damp and missing a significant amount of blood — if the sidekick didn't get them under some dry blankets, they could become hypothermic.

They hurried back into the bedroom and threw on a shirt before carefully gathering the villain up in their arms. They were a little heavy, but it was fine — the sidekick gingerly set them down in the chair. The villain settled without a sound and the sidekick hurried to strip the bed. They dug through their armoire for spare sheets, but all they had was their mom's afghans. Damn! It was fine; the mattress already had countless bloodstains on it. With the bed bare and three choice blankets pulled from the stack, the sidekick returned to the villain. They were shaking as the sidekick lifted them up, and a whimper of pain escaped their pale lips.

"Shh, shh, one last move," the sidekick promised. Laying them down flat was hard, and after a moment of thought the sidekick carefully arranged them on their side with one leg bent, their head pillowed on one arm. Then the sidekick carefully arranged the blankets over them.

The sidekick watched the rise and fall of the villain's chest anxiously. It was hard to see, but every now and then they spotted the movement. As their mind slowed, they looked down at themself, seeing all of the blood they still had on them. The villain was cleaned and now they should be warm, and the sidekick needed to wash off all of this blood before it really made them sick. Before leaving the villain entirely alone, the sidekick grabbed one of the kits from under their bed and set it on the bedside table, opening it quietly. They pulled a sleeve of cookies, a juice pouch, three ibuprofen, and a bottle of water out and set them on the table before returning the kit to its hiding place. They watched the villain once more, waiting for any sign they couldn't leave just yet. The villain was still quiet, still breathing, and the sidekick slipped into the bathroom for a very hot shower.

next

[lilyofthestyx]

Headcanons about each of the lords (+the Duke if you're writing about him) if they ever happen to adopt a little child?

THANK YOU ANON MY THE UNIVERSE BLESS YOU WITH PILLOWS THAT ARE COLD ON BOTH SIDES

okay okay okay okay this has definitely been on my mind so lets get into the thick of it

Alcina Dimitrescu

(im starting off with alcina for obvious reasons)

Alcina would be on the way to the church with the slimy moron, the demented doll, that disgusting manthing and Mother Miranda

She'd kiss her daughters goodbye and head off through the snow, quietly muttering about how cold her ankles were

while Moreau is literally up to his chin in snow but its fine

as she gets closer to the church she keeps hearing this. thing. it sounded familiar but she couldn't exactly put her finger on it.

she strays from the path to find it because it was just so familiar

as she weaves her way through the snow, her dress gets caught on something. she leans down to get her dress unstuck when she realises its this tiny basket.

like seriously. just a little woven basket in the middle of the snow. and it doesn't look like its been there for that long- there's hardly any snow on it

when she tugs at her skirts again, the basket makes the same noise she's been hearing

she stands back up to her full height, staring down at the basket with narrowed eyes

this cannot be a good idea, can it? opening a strange basket in the woods after being lured out here. it's probably some village manthing's trap.

she's about to step away when she hears the sound again- much more intense and much more clear

Alcina leans down and opens the lid of the basket

inside is this tiny thing- all soft and warm in a padding of blankets

a baby

she stands and looks around

who on earth would be so moronic as to leave their baby in the snow? it's much too cold for a baby to survive-

oh

she sighs, getting onto her knees to pull the baby from the blanketed basket

the meeting will have to wait. it's too cold even in the church for this tiny thing.

when she finally makes it back home, she's greeted by her daughters in a swarm of buzzing flies.

as they manifest in their true forms, they're asking what- or who, rather- their mother brought for dinner

Alcina smiles and shakes her head, unwrapping the small bundle clinging to her breast

"this... is your new sibling" she announces, "they'll be staying with us from now on."

and the sisters are ecstatic. a new sibling!

Daniela especially is happy that she is no longer the youngest. she usually is the one to parade around the castle with her sibling on her shoulders, showing them the coolest hiding spots for hide-n-seek and the windows with the best views

Bela is incredibly protective. like. incredibly.

she smelt blood from across the castle and when she found her little sibling sniffling about a skinned knee earned from a game of tag with Angie, she lost her shit and almost broke the damned thing with her sickle

And Cassandra has been caught reading bedtime stories by nightlight multiple times. she tries to play it off but everyone knows that she loves- absolutely adores- her newest sibling

we all know Alcina is such a wonderful mother to the girls so adding another baby to the mix was a guaranteed success

she's so doting and careful (a little overprotective at times but she means well) as she is with her girls

as the child grows into a teen, she panics a bit because "my beautiful baby is growing into such a beautiful, talented adult" so expect a lot of late night visits when she just sits on the edge of her bed and just admires how much you've grown

Salvatore Moreau:

now this one is an easy one too if i'm 100% honest

think Moses type beat

(if you don't know, Moses was found in the riverbank in a little basket)

apparently i really like baskets

anyways

Moreau was so out of his element when he found this tiny, screaming, writhing piece of soft flesh

the first few weeks were rough

but he eventually got the hang of it (with Alcina's help of course)

he would take his child fishing every now and then- just the two of them out on a boat for a few hours

the kid would literally swim more than walk and that little fact would make Moreau so freakin proud

also this kid would be so well-versed in movie and film history it's stupid

like expect this little 4 or 5 year old babbling not about toys or snow or how many sticks they found but instead about the copyright war over the film Nosferatu and the destruction of its copies

Moreau, as the child gets older (like 11 or 12) would have just a tad of trouble trying to keep the kid out of the village

he'd wake up one day and go out onto the lake, expecting his child to be swinging their legs off the dock and watching the sun rise over the water

and when he finds that they were not, in fact, swinging their legs off the dock and watching the sun rise over the water, he p a n i c s

i mean, full blown red alert

all of the lords are summoned to help Moreau look for his missing kid, the lycans are given an article of clothing to help find the scent, Mother Miranda goes to search the village herself- the whole shebang

and when the kid is found playing with the village children, Moreau bursts into tears

needless to say, the kid isn't allowed to go to the village anymore

until they're fifty (Moreau's words, of course)

but the kid sneaks off more and more as they get older, using Alcina or Donna or Karl as an excuse to be away

and Moreau knows but he never says a word

seeing his child happy and free with the kids their age makes him happy, even if he is a tad, a tad, a tad bit nervous

Donna Beneviento:

when Donna found this child huddled up against the base of the stairs leading up to her front door, she at first thought it was a doll of hers

it was only when she actually walked outside that she realised it was this shaking, shriveled child in tattered clothes

she spent a good five minutes just staring, wondering how on earth she's supposed to react

that's when Angie jumped in and pulled at her skirt, telling her to "let the kid inside, already!"

Donna went immediately to work on some clothes- why on earth were they wearing such ragged things?! it's freezing outside!- while Angie entertained in the parlour

honestly, it didn't go well

the kid was a little bit unsettled by the floating doll that moved and spoke on its own FOR GOOD REASON

and when Donna walked back in with her measurement tape and some fabric, the kid backed themselves into a corner of the room with their gangly legs tucked into their chest

Angie sighs from the opposite side of the room, letting her little feet fidget as she gestures to the kid. "they're no fun" she pouts, "wouldn't even let me know their name"

Donna puts her materials down slowly and lifts her veil back before attempting a small smile

it takes a while but upon the offer of food, the kid finally lets Donna make them some clothes while Angie makes conversation

she works in silence, only offering small awkward smiles

Angie finally brings up the topic of where their parents are when the kid's clothes are done

when the child goes silent, Donna nods in understanding before hurrying off to make a room for them

as Angie helped tug the blankets up to the child's ears, they promised they'd be gone in the morning

Angie was the one to tell them off.

"You'll stay as long as you need, you silly goose!"

and the child did

Donna would let them tag along for meetings so long as they promised to keep quiet and help keep Angie out of trouble

most of the time, it didn't work and they both would end up in trouble but Donna let them come nonetheless

and when the other Lords question where on earth this little kid came from- all dressed in black fabric that matched Donna's dress, she just shook her head and let Angie chase them off verbally

she'd spend literal HOURS locked in that workshop making new little friends for her child and when they were old enough, she'd let them into the workshop

and when they were even older, she'd walk them through making their very first doll on their own

she'd just watch with pride as they carefully painted the freckles with a shaky hand while Angie danced around their ankles singing of how excited she was to have another friend

The Duke:

he would be setting up shop near the base of the Dimitrescu castle when he catches a kid trying to steal some his wares

he wouldn't be terribly upset, more concerned

it wasn't something shiny or expensive that they were trying to steal

it was some of the steaming-hot food he had left to cool in the wintry air

he confronted the child gently and with a warm smile

"That's cordon bleu," he says, gesturing to the steaming plate. "I can make you some if you'd like"

and as the child eats, the Duke continues tidying up his shop for any future customers

the child, through a mouthful of food, points to different items and asks their purpose, their price, their possible enhancements

the Duke answers each question with patience, happy for the company

but he doesn't just let the questions go one-way

"How about a trade?" he asks as the child asks about the strange-looking bottle of green liquid. "An answer for an answer."

the child agrees and the Duke starts to peel back layers of why the child was here looking for food

they had been orphaned by the last lycan attack, only barely making it out by fleeing into the woods

they tried to forage off of berry bushes and successfully managed to kill a pig- only for the blood to attract lycans before they could properly eat it

the Duke nods and continues busying himself with his shop, feeding the horse that pulls the wagon

the thought had hit him when he watched the child petting his horse

that horse hated everyone. including him at times.

maybe...

when he offered to take the child in, the kid nearly burst into tears and thanked him repeatedly, swearing to earn their keep

and they did, seven times over

what started off as a purely business venture morphed into something more as time went on

when the child would come back from selling smaller household items like gasoline and the occasional package of bullets, the Duke would have them climb onto the roof of the wagon and watch the sun set together with a plate of food

speaking of which, like Moreau, the Duke would raise the most cultured child

this kid would know how to prepare and identify different dishes and their ingredients just by looking at them or smelling them

and their palate would be far more sophisticated than most adults

the Duke, as the child gets older, would eventually allow them to choose destinations to set up shop- even outside of the village

wherever his child wants, the shop would go

it allows them to see the world and its earthly wares together- something the Duke had lacked in his life before the child was brought into the picture

Karl Heisenberg:

listen to me very very carefully

this man would be the most chaotic father ever to walk this earthly realm

when he finds this kid in the elevator of his factory, he's kinda standing there like 🧍 "what the hell-"

and when the kid starts spamming the button while maintaining eye contact, he kinda snaps out of it and starts chasing after them as they drop down to a different floor

it goes on for a solid twenty minutes before he finally managed to track them down in the corner of his office

and when i say this man is confused, i freaking mean it

i mean

why the HELL would some random kid be in his factory? don't they like... play with ponies or something at this age?

to be fair, this man literally has never been allowed a childhood so

obviously he starts scolding the kid ("what the hell are you doin' in here? it's dangerous and there's some really freaky shit here, kid"), dragging them to a nearby sink because "holy shit kid, you're filthy"

the kid is silent essentially the whole time, just kinda staring into his eyes

and of course Karl's gonna be like "...the fuck're you doin'?"

the kid's face is cleaned off and Karl sends them back out towards the village with a scratchy blanket he pulled out of the bottom of his desk drawer

he's working on his 'equipment' one day when he starts reaching for a wrench, keeping his focus on the body on the table

when i say this man jumps skyhigh at the kid asking a question, i mean it

he drags the kid back out, yelling about how dangerous it is and how "you shouldn't do that! you're gonna get yourself killed! go back home!"

the kid doesn't listen

it becomes a regular thing- Karl finds the kid wandering around the factory, Karl brings the kid out of danger, Karl tells them to get lost

eventually (day thirteen of this) he asks why the child keeps coming back

and he hates the answer he gets

it was something along the lines of "it's warm and there's nowhere else for me to go"

so Karl reluctantly eagerly lets them stay

it's a lot of rules at first (a kid shouldn't be allowed to just wander around a bunch of mindless cyborg killers, let alone a factory) but eventually the child learns to mind Sturm and the others

doesn't mean Karl does not have a fullblown heart attack when he walks into his workspace to find the kid tracing their finger along the center of the battery for the Soldats

after a very long talk (and some deep breathing) Karl reluctantly eagerly lets them sit against the very far wall to watch him work on the machinery- not, under any circumstances, the actual bodies

as the child blossoms into a young adult, they start to help out with certain aspects of Karl's work

exclusively machinery because Karl could not physically handle having his kid watch him get elbow-deep into a corpse

and Karl is so freaking proud of it

when the Soldat is kicked to life, he's got his kid in his arms and cackling like the proud dad he is

yeah. paternal Heisenberg>>>

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Long Live the Queen

“A special spell”, as @panacea-wishes would say, but this time for the Sorceress herself!

***Warning: Mild chapter 5 spoilers!***

Imagine this...

Any affair hosted by Pomefiore was sure to be an opulent one—but today, the dormitory was decked out even moreso than usual. Decorations dripping with gold, tablecloths of shimmering silk, gourmet catering, a private orchestra, and immaculate outfits for each attendee... No expense was spared for the special occasion.

You were but one face in that shining sea, dressed in your finest garb—the only outsider invited to join the festivities. To your left and to your right, strangers in long robes and ties drifted about. They moved so fluidly, cutting across the polished floor like swans upon a lake of glass.

You shifted your feet uncomfortably, feeling a bit out of place in such a glamorous space. You took an anxious sip from your flute of sparkling apple juice. Bubbles danced up and tickled your nose as the beverage went down.

“Did you hear?” a nearby mob student said—not to you, but to a few of his friends. “Schoenheit-sama will be interning with Potions & Lotions, that famous skincare company from the Land of Pyroxene.”

“I heard, I heard! He’s going to be working with their prestigious Research and Development deparment, isn’t he? His proficiency in magical pharmecuticals will serve him well there.”

“Amazing, as expected of Schoenheit-sama! He makes me proud to be a student of Pomefiore!”

You took another swig of your apple juice, trying to avoid eavesdropping. But your curiousity got the better of you, and the mob students’ words floated over yet again.

“What of Hunt-senpai?”

“I heard he will be interning at a detective agency in Pyroxene’s capitol! He was scouted by the police chief himself for his eye for detail.”

“Wow... I hope we’re able to get fancy internship offers like that when our fourth year arrives.”

That’s right. People are moving on. Growing up. Advancing in the world.

Good for them.

You took a third sip—this time, the juice was somewhat bittersweet. Your eyes flitted about, seeking a familiar face, not gossip, to latch onto. Luckily for you, you did not have to search for very long.

“Your attention, please.” A clear, commanding voice announced—and at once, the orchestra silenced. All heads, including yours, turned to the peacock throne at the head of the room.

There stood Vil, in all of his beauty. Today, he wore a form-fitting suit, woven in the colors of green, blue, and violet—the colors of a peacock. His golden hair was up, held in place by a jeweled pin with feathers that jutted out. Vil’s eye makeup mimicked the colors of his suit, cool hues flaring out and making him seem even more bold and imposing than before.

He nodded in satisfaction at those in attendance. “Thank you for being here for the ascension ceremony this evening. As you all know, I will soon be departing to complete an internship—as will your vice-dorm leader, Rook. Therefore, the time has come to crown a new queen for Pomefiore. He will be responsible for selecting a new vice-dorm leader... as well as leading you potatoes to greater heights.”

A mob student before you started to clap. Then a few others joined in.

You wondered if you should set down your class and join in the applause, but Vil was quick to bring a hand up. The beginnings of clapping ceased.

“Hold your applause for your new dorm leader,” he insisted. Vil raised his voice. “Epel Felmier.”

“Yes.”

You swallowed hard at the mention of his name, at the swell of his soft voice.

He stepped up from the crowd, which parted to make way for him. Epel had grown several centimeters in the past few years, now only a bit shorter than Vil. He maintained the delicate beauty he had held in his time as a first year, those wispy lavender locks, long lashes, and full lips. But his eyes—they had sharpened into sapphires circled with makeup moonlight, and he walked with a newfound confidence.

Pomefiore’s dorm leader uniform fitted his new form well. Flowing cloth cascaded over his long arms and legs, and formed a train of fabric wherever he walked. Click, click, went his boots, the cords that bound his waist falling in time with his steps.

All that he was missing was the coveted crown.

“Vil-senpai.” Epel stopped before his dorm leader—soon to be ex-dorm leader—and knelt.

“I am entrusting you with the safety and the security of Pomefiore’s students—and the dorm’s future,” Vil declared, chin raised. “Are you prepared to take on the responsibilites of a dorm leader?”

“I am,” Epel replied with quiet conviction. “I swear...!! I will lead Pomefiore to greatness, just as you and Rook-senpai have before me.”

“Hmph. Don’t let me down, then.” Vil smirked before turning and calling out, “the crown.”

Rook, in a violet suit and crimson bowtie, approached with a plush cushion—and upon it, an intricate crown. The same crown Vil had once worn himself, wrought of gold. A sword piercing a heart as the centerpiece.

The huntsman kneeled, bowing his head and holding out the cushion to his queen. He didn’t need to look to know that Vil had nodded to him before plucking the accessory up.

“With this crown, I pass the torch to you. With this crown, you are Queen undisputed.” Vil recited, raising the glittering diadem over Epel’s head. He brought it down upon the boy’s hair. Gold dug into lilac locks, finding a new home nestled on his head. “You may now rise.”

Epel slowly stood—his back to the crowd, to you. He lifted his head and looked Vil right in the eyes.

Sapphire and amethyst colliding.

“May you carry on the unrelenting efforts of the Beautiful Queen in my place.” Vil took his junior by the shoulders and spun him around. “Pomefiore—your new dorm leader, Epel Felmier.”

The crowd erupted into applause and whistles, cheers and elated well wishes. You, too, were swept up in the frenzy. What little remained of your sparkling apple juice had been set aside in favor of clapping.

Clapping, clapping—one palm hitting the other in rapid succession. Hard, loud. Until your hands were red and swollen and raw.

Raising a dainty hand, Epel waved back.

“... Hey.”

You jumped at the familiar voice that greeted you as you picked up a new flute of apple juice. You dared to look—and there was Epel, in his full, regal dorm leader regalia. Crown and all.

“O-Oh... Hey!!” you stammered, trying to play off your nerves (and failing). “Nice party, huh? Thanks for inviting me as your plus one... I don’t think I’d ever be invited to a shindig as fancy as this one if it weren’t for you.”

Epel offered a gentle smile. “I wanted you to be here. I should be the one thanking you for coming.”

“Of course I’d come. I wouldn’t want to miss your big coronation,” you reached out to give him a playful shove on the arm—but paused midway and let your arm fall. It wouldn’t be appropriate to act so casual with a dorm leader, you scolded yourself.

“You’re all grown up now, Epel,” you whispered, clutching a hand to your chest. “Congratulations, Mr. Pomefiore dorm leader.”

“Ah, well...” Epel rested a hand on the back of his neck. “It’s a new title, but... I like to think that I’m still ‘just Epel’, the Pomefiore student. I’ll always be that farm boy that tried to pick a fight with Vil-senpai—Great Seven knows how many times.”

“Don’t sell yourself short. You’ve come a long way since your first year. Especially during VDC—you shone really brightly on that stage.”

“That’s true, but I’ve still got a long way to go. Vil-senpai helped me to realize that.” Epel glanced to the surrounding Pomefiore students. Eating, chatting, laughing. “I just hope I can live up to the legacy he left behind. It’s some pretty big shoes to fill in.”

“You’ll do just fine. You always do,” you reassured him with a pat on the shoulder—before quickly jerking your hand back.

Too familiar, too causal.

Epel raised an eyebrow. “Is... Is something the matter? You’ve been a little jittery all evening.”

“I...” Your voice trailed off as soon as you gazed into his curious blue eyes. Like the ocean, welling up with sincerity. You couldn’t lie to him—you just couldn’t. “I’m just worried that we’ll grow apart now that you’re a dorm leader.”

“Why would you think that?”

“Because!” You gestured vaguely to the celebration. “A dorm leader has more important things to do than hanging out with people like me. You have students to lead, events to plan. I... I think I’d only get in the way of your progress.”

“... Don’t say that,” Epel pleaded, suddenly grasping your hands. “Please, please don’t say that.”

You stared at the contact—where his hands met yours. “I... I don’t understand...”

“I couldn’t have made it this far without your support, either. You picked me up when I was down, and you cheered me on when I was at my lowest and about to quit.” Epel’s delicate featured hardened—from glass to diamond. “So don’t ever say those awful things about yourself.”

“But... You’ve made it so far, and I’m still—“

“A farmer never forgets his roots,” Epel said mysteriously, a finger taped to his lips, “and it’s not just me. We all flower one day. You may just be a late bloomer—but when you finally do bloom... I bet you’ll be the prettiest apple blossom in the whole orchard.”

Your cheeks flamed. He laughed, giving your hand a squeeze, and pulling you close to him. You fell against his chest—sturdy and secure and warm—and glanced up at him in shock.

“What are you...”

“Dance with me,” Epel suggested with a light-hearted smile, “and I’ll show you that you’re worthy of this queen.”

The orchestra had started up again, the strings to a new song flowing like water. Turn, twirl, dip, went the pairs on the dance floor, in time with the music. All of this, set in golden lamplight.

Outside, the sky was a dark blue, the starlight reflected in his sapphire eyes. And here he was, offering his outstretched hand to you.

He was still the same sweet, loyal Epel you had always known. The same young man that set your heart aflutter, whether he was soft-spoken or brash. He was both—just as he was both a dorm leader and your beloved.

You melted, and your hesitation dissipated like the winter snow.

You slipped your hand into his and beamed. “Long live the Queen.”

[penfullofwordsaheadfullofstories]

No Matter How Many Skies Have Fallen

A/N: I really have nothing to say for myself at this point. 

Sequel chapter to this fic here, if you’d like to catch up. 

Thank you to @caffeine-in-an-iv​ for being my incredible beta and to @maybege​ for letting me rant to you and giving me so many wonderful ideas when I hit my walls. Also to the Obi-Wan fandom in general: Y’all are some of the kindest, most supportive people I’ve ever encountered on this hell site. Thank you for your support and your content! 

Pairing: Obi-Wan Kenobi x Force Sensitive! Fem! Reader (no Y/N)

Word Count: 11.9K (I lost all control) 

Warnings: SMUT!!! Soft Dom! Obi rights, Also, Sub! Obi vibes, Foodplay (but not how you’d think), Inappropriate use of the Force, Voice Kink, Obi-Wan Kenobi’s Hands Appreciation Society, As Usual: Too Many Feelings For Porn, Emotional Competence Kink, Trust Kink, TW: Pregnancy, TW: A character draws blood on themself unknowingly

Title from one of my favorite quotes:

“Ours is essentially a tragic age, so we refuse to take it tragically. The cataclysm has happened, we are among the ruins, we start to build up new little habitats, to have new little hopes. It is rather hard work: there is now no smooth road into the future: but we go round, or scramble over the obstacles. We’ve got to live, no matter how many skies have fallen.”

-D.H. Lawrence

What infinite irreverence the galaxy has for Obi-Wan Kenobi. 

As if his master and only semblance of a parent wasn’t taken from him when he needed him most.

As if a boy who needed a father wasn’t entrusted to Obi-Wan quickly following, far too young and full of his own loss. 

As if he wasn’t thrust onto the pedestal of parenthood when he really only wanted to be a brother. 

As if that isn’t what they became anyway, and as if that wasn’t the exact cloud that hung over the atmosphere of your lives ever since you’d arrived on Tatooine. 

As if the being whose life signature resided in your abdomen didn’t throw a punch into each of those blooming bruises by its very existence.

Which is why, you knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that you couldn’t tell him yet. 

Normally, it’d be no small feat to keep something of this scale from him. But these days, he’s so focused on having his shields up around you, keeping you from both being hurt by or helping with his torments. 

You have to take great care to control your body language, because even when he’s shut off from you in the Force, his keen perceptiveness will pick up on something being off anyway.

The art of a convincing lie is having layers. If he senses your feelings and decides to dig, then only give up one layer, and he’ll stop looking.

 In this case, it’s your worry over him. It is true you’re trying to shield him from feeling that, not wanting him to carry the burden of it on top of having to work through his own pain.

  But it’s not everything you’re trying to hide from him. So you let a small projection of your fear over his well-being escape, like you’re losing control of your feelings. It’s enough to convince him, and something critical inside you dies at the victory every time.

 He deserves your honesty, and you’ve never given him anything less until now.

 You hate how well your strategic deceit takes root. Because only part is due to your talent as a liar. The rest comes from how much he trusts you.

  You’re not stupid, though. You know it’s only a matter of time before the biological changes in your body betray you. 

Obi-Wan said he needed time, and you’re going to give him as long as you possibly can before dropping this anvil on him, hoping the further he gets from it all, the better off he’ll be. 

You could kick yourself for not being more careful. You hadn’t missed any dose of your herbal Ho’Din contraceptive. It was one of the few things you shoved in your bag with the mere minutes you had to leave Coruscant for good. It was from a reliable medicinal shop, and there’s no good reason it should have failed in any way.

But here you were anyway. 

Of course, there are options that free you from the obligation of carrying the child to term. All are expensive, and Tatooine is sorely lacking in any trustworthy medical facilities. The alternative methods could put your own life in danger as well. 

Even if it wasn’t, you’d feel so strange making that kind of decision without Obi-Wan. Not that he wouldn’t support whatever decision you needed to make for yourself if you did, but going behind his back is something you’re not sure his trust could recover from. 

And really, far too much has been decided for him in his life. 

The worst reason why you can’t bring yourself to move towards any solution that ends the pregnancy now, the reason you abhor, is because somewhere within you, despite the awfulness of the time and place, you want this baby. 

You couldn’t give a definitive explanation for yourself, but you did. Undoubtedly

Obi-Wan doesn’t press when you ask to cease your combat training for a time, asking to start learning the new offerings of the Jedi texts instead. 

He’s concerned when you tell him, but if he’s suspicious as for your reasoning, he doesn’t show it outwardly, at least. 

The way he doesn’t even ask about why, though: It makes you wonder if he had a reason all of his own why he’d rather not fight, even in imitation.

The Jedi writings given to Obi-Wan by Master Yoda are often more cryptic and mystifying than logically applicable without deciphering, which you are at first annoyed by, but then strangely thankful for, as Obi-Wan verbally processes his understandings of it, knowing what he does of the Jedi way, and you adding your thoughts from the stance of fresh eyes. 

The conversations distract wonderfully, and you savor any way you still get to connect with him.

You don’t push for the ways he doesn’t allow you to connect with him anymore. The way he won’t let you in his mind. Because now, you too have a reason to not let him in yours. 

*******

When it’s time to go into town for supplies again, you make up some feeble excuse which you know Obi-Wan sees through as a lie, and this time, he does pry, eyes soft and concerned. He knows you love going to the markets. You simply explain that you’re tired, which is true enough to satisfy him, leaving you behind with a kiss on your forehead before you watch him saddle up your eopie and ride off.

You sigh, sagging against the closed door once he’s disappeared into the horizon. You do love the markets. They’re the most colorful thing the planet has to offer, textiles and rugs and shiny, hanging things. 

But the spices. Fragrant and potent, usually so appetizing and intoxicating, you know would turn your stomach alone. And that doesn’t even account for the strange meats being cooked at different vendors, and Maker help you if anyone was selling raw meat of any sort today. You’ve done your best to keep your nausea at bay, at times even tapping into the Force for centering when the world felt like it was rocking. But you know the market would be too much, too many variables.

It’s not a fast journey, even on the eopie, and you don’t expect Obi-Wan to be back for hours. Which is why when you hear a knock on your door, the tool in your hand clatters to the floor, as does the remnants of your project. 

You quickly grab one of the long staffs you and Obi-Wan had only begun to use in your defense training, trying to recall the lessons as adrenaline begins to rush through your veins. Tatooine isn’t known for its pleasant company, and if anyone was going to try to rob your home, now would be as good a time as any. 

The knock sounds again, and you shout from the inside, “What do you want?!” 

“A peace treaty in the form of baked goods,” comes the feminine voice, one you recognize. 

Opening the door, you lower the weapon in your hand as Beru Lars blinks at you.

“I’m sorry, I thought you were…” You step aside, gesturing for her to come in.

She waves a hand, dismissive. “I understand.”

You lead her over to the small living area as you fix two glasses of water from the kitchen. 

When you set them down on the table, Beru speaks. “I apologize for the intrusion, if there was another way of contacting you before coming here…”

“It’s absolutely fine, I’m glad to have you.” You smile in what you hope is an assuring way.  “Although, I’m surprised at it just being you. Where’s Owen?”

Her eyes flick to the stone floor. “He um… doesn’t exactly know I’m here. He’s out on a business deal today.” 

You feel your eyebrows go up at that, waiting for her to continue. But instead, she changes the subject. “Where’s Ben?” 

“In town. We needed some things from the market.”

Awkwardness settles in as a conversation topic evades you. 

She breaks the beat of quiet. “Here, I brought these for you.”

You take the basket in her hands from her, peeling back the thick woven cloth to reveal a simple form of bread. It looks so appetizing your stomach clenches, and you instantly realize you haven’t had anything since breakfast. 

But then the smell hits you, hard and powerful, and stars, it’s just bread, there’s nothing that should do that about bread, but you’re on your feet in a minute, forsaking the basket on the ground as you bolt to the fresher, barely making it in time to the sonic sink before you start heaving. 

In a moment, you feel soft hands at the nape of your neck, gently holding back the fabric of your shirt and blowing cool air as you continue to wretch. 

By the time everything has settled again, you’ve dealt with the aftertaste in your mouth, and splashed on your face with a precious cup of cool water, hot shame rises in your cheeks at how this must seem to Beru. 

You wipe at your face with a rag, half muffling your words when you address her. “I’m so sorry, I’m sure they’re absolutely delicious, It really has nothing to do…” 

“How far along are you?”

Your spine straightens instantly, and you let the cloth drop to the floor.

“I… what?”

Now she’s the one to flush. “My apologies, it’s just that it’s known for being a very gentle bread, it’s one my mother used to feed me when my stomach ached. If that smell turned you... I just assumed, and I shouldn’t have.” 

Your lips purse as you consider your options. It’d be easy to say nothing, or just to nod. 

“Two months,” you hear your own voice answer despite yourself. You’ve never been one for easy anyway.

A surge of emotion wells up in you at even being able to speak it aloud, aloud to another human, and next thing you know, to your absolute horror, you’re crying into your hands as your shoulders crumple in on themselves. 

Why now, of all times? In front of Beru Lars? Whom you know accepted Luke with her husband without question because they couldn’t biologically have any children of their own? 

“I’m… so… sorry,” You manage to choke out through the sobs, disgusted at your own lack of control.

At some point Beru must join you on the floor, patting her hand soothingly on your back. “Shhh, it’ll be alright. You’ll see. It’s not so bad having a young one around, you and Ben have so much to look forw…”

“He doesn’t know.” 

Her hand pausing briefly on your back is the only indication she gives of shock.

“Would he not be happy?”

You take a steadying breath in, trying to calm yourself. “I don’t know,” you whisper, small and almost frightened to let the room hear you say it.

It falls silent again, but it echoes around in your brain, bouncing against your thoughts until you feel the onset of a headache.

After you’re to a numb enough state to enjoy yourself, you and Beru make tea and bring it back to the living area. 

She lifts her glass to yours, clinking them. “To secrets kept from men and the mischievous company they bring.”

Your head now throbs with pain, but you smile anyway. “Thank you,” you say to her, and you mean it so very much.

********

The next time Obi-Wan goes into town, you’re feeling well enough to go with him. 

You’re not visiting the food portion of the market, after all, so you’re not as much of a risk to set your stomach off. He’s taken to fixing small machinery for trading with the Jawas recently, the extra income helping with the projects around the house. 

There’s a trap door that you found within the first day of being there. The staircase carved out of the bedrock beneath the hut leads to a small room that has now served as additional storage and a place for Obi-Wan to work. It’s also quite cool during the day, so if you can stand the smell of the various meats hung to dry, you’ll sit down there with some sort of project, or even reading material if you come upon it.

So today, he’s looking for a few specific tools that will streamline his working. 

It doesn’t take long to find a promising stall among the maze of shopkeepers, selling everything from trinkets to weaponry of questionable legality. Obi-Wan finds what he needs easily enough, and it looks like the trip is going to be as efficient as it is successful as you walk through alleyways with him. 

At some point, he takes your hand in his, squeezing it gently, projecting an assuring strand of affection toward you. It’s such a small gesture, but you’ll never tire of the feeling of his hand clasped in yours. 

You’re almost back to where the eopie, Rooh, as he named her, is stabled when Obi-Wan abruptly slows his pace, dropping into a stall. An alarm goes off in your head when you watch him pick up a frivolous trinket on a table that you know he has no interest in. 

You open your mouth to inquire at his actions, but it answers itself once you see him glance out of his peripheral vision to where the holonews plays in the stall adjacent. 

Battle footage on what you recognized to be Kashyyk at the presence of the many Wookies plays with the Emperor addressing the viewers in a very two-dimensional, sugar-coated, thinly-concealed threat to any other world that would try to resist occupation.

There’s wreckage and uncensored violence, and you turn your head away. 

“May it be known that Lord Vader is quite capable and willing to help those into compliance that require assistance... “

The item in his hands crushes, ceramic tile cracking into his hands, breaking the skin and drawing out drips of red.

But he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even seem to register the glass he’s pushing into his own hand. His eyes are wide and he makes a wounded noise from the back of his throat, eyes peeled to the holonews now, not even trying to feign disinterest.

His signature sparks, giving a flash and then a severe cry of anguish, and it hits you then. Pieces of information coming together as you feel Obi-Wan tear apart at seams. 

Anakin Skywalker turned to the Dark Side, and Obi-Wan thought him dead. There’s a new Sith Lord now; the correlation and timing can’t be coincidence. 

The Toydarian male behind the stall shouts something about paying for it in full, and you quickly hand over the credits with a glare.

You start to pull Obi-Wan’s other hand off the table, but you quickly realize your mistake in that.

The moment it isn’t holding his weight anymore, his knees start to give, and you’ve only a second to react, jamming your body under his arm to keep him upright. His momentum nearly pulls you forward, but you plant your feet and remember at the last second to call on the Force to assist you.

He seems to come to himself enough to walk somewhat as you steer him to the nearest alley away from the vendors.

He braces a hand on the stone wall, but even it isn’t enough as he drops to his knees. He doesn’t even seem to have the will to stand.

Crouching beside him, you place one of your hands on his chest. 

“I…. I…” The tremor in his usually so crisp wording and steady voice crushes your chest, making it hard to breathe. “I failed him. I failed him.” 

“Obi-Wan,” you start, trying to grasp at anything, everything to comfort him, not even thinking of how you can’t call him that here, even if there’s no one in sight.

If he registers your call, he doesn’t let on, continuing in his whispers to the wall.  “He was burning. Burning, but I couldn’t do it. It would have been mercy to kill him, it was my mandate to do it, but I could not...” his voice gives out on the last word, and his shoulders fall forward in a shuddering inhale that transforms into a cut-short sob on its exhale.

“And now…” as the words pour from him, his shields fall, and so do the floodgates on his emotions, and it takes all the training you know to not be washed away in the torrential current of his grief. Does he even know he’s doing it, or has the insurmountable weight of his burden finally overridden his innate control over them?

“I’ve sentenced him to a fate worse than death.” He’s only barely choked out the end of his thought before his shoulders start to shake in earnest and he crumples in on himself as he begins to weep for his brother.

Giving no heed to the odd angle, you throw your arms around him. Trying to get your arms around his body is exactly the embodiment of the feeling of the moment, this anguish you don’t even begin to be enough to cover. 

What could you say? What could you do? What would even begin to… 

When you press your fingers to his temple, it’s light, a show of how unforced this is, how much he can say no if he needs.  Because this isn’t for you. No, it’d be so much easier to not know the exact depth of his pain and rip your chest open with that knowledge. But you’re offering it,  meaning it absolutely, desperate for him to take the hand offered to him. “Please let me in. Don’t do this alone. Let me…”

Then he’s pulling you in, not just letting you come in yourself, clinging to you like a person drowning. You remember to steady, to try to keep your own head above the water as wave after surging, overpowering wave of soul-crippling agony like you’ve never felt it engulf you in their surge.

You can’t hold out against it no matter how hard you try, so you refocus from centering yourself to pulling his signature into yours as you wrap your arms tighter around his torso. 

 And you begin to weep with him.

 *********

 The suns are drifting low by the time both of you have any intelligible thought, far too late to start the journey back to the hut. 

At the inn, as Obi-Wan falls into the beginnings of a restless sleep, a thought emerges, clear and crisp in its awful truth. 

 You cannot tell him for a long while still. 

 *******

 It’s different now. Because when he wakes in the night, he doesn’t give you falsehoods you see right through. He lets you into the terror and distortional dreams that all reside over one theme.  

There’s silence in the first days after. Just silent tears and still embraces and the way time seems to freeze when grief is at its worst.

But then he starts talking. It comes in little pieces, then in larger ones.  

The loudest thing his signature screams is guilt.

You tell him how it isn’t his fault, how Anakin is responsible for his own choices, but he just gives you a new reason every time as to why it is his fault, how he could have stopped it. 

Because even in what he considers his worst failure, his verbiage is indicative of how it’s not his own image and pride hurting that he’s even considered. All of his thoughts, all of them, are on what Anakin needed that he didn’t give.

 At first, it’s just impressions from his mind, unsorted, blurry thoughts and feelings, but it eventually begins to become words. 

“After his mother died… I know that he blamed me. How couldn’t he? He told me of his dreams, dreams he knew were foresights, but I dismissed them, multiple times, at that. And the council… advised me against comforting him, but he… I… I did anyway.” His shoulders are forward, body sagging with unsureness that doesn’t fit him right in the slightest. “But it was far too late. I know there was something pivotal about the death of his mother, and I am...” he hesitates, seemingly not because he doesn’t know what to speak, but because he does. “Terrified. Terrified it’s all because I didn’t validate him sooner. If I had not...” His voice breaks off, as he shuts his eyes.

Fear is not something admired by the Jedi, you know. When he speaks of his own emotions, he speaks them like he’s confessing them.

 And as he confesses and confesses, you comfort where you can, cry with him when you cannot.

 *****

 The swells of sorrow ebb and flow in their intense bursts and receding stillness, and despite the moments of not being able to breathe under the weight of it, there are miniscule, almost violating, hysterical intervals where smiles and life spring to the surface, gasping for air. 

Or in this case, the inexplicable desire to dance. 

You don’t even really know when you start, simply going about cleaning clothing in the sonic washer, and the next, some ridiculous, repetitive tune sweeps you to move your hips and feet, uncoordinated and graceless. The tune itself played from a datachip, scrapped with some pieces Obi-Wan was repurposing to make repairs. You’re not even familiar with the type of music, and it’s hardly the type of music you’d normally choose, but you find that today, it’s an improvement on the quiet that falls upon the house as Obi-Wan works outdoors. 

The song swings into a bridge, and you slide across the stone floor, imitating something you saw in a music holo years ago, as you do, your foot catches on the rug you recently added, sending you fumbling for your footing. You eventually catch it before you fall, but as you look up, you decide to lower yourself to the ground anyway at the sight of Obi-Wan, leaning up against the door frame, watching you with an amused expression, the fingers of one hand tracing between his lips and chin.  

You sit splayed as tactless and gangly as you danced and let out a short, startled laugh. 

“Please, don’t stop on my account. I was quite enjoying myself.”  

Maker, could you just hide under the rug you tripped over? “Please tell me you haven’t been standing there long.”

He pushes off his lean on the wall, crossing the room to you. “I won’t tell you lies, my love.” 

Shame twists in your gut at his words, chasing the laughter in your throat away. But Obi-Wan extends a hand down, and you take it, letting him draw you to your feet. 

He kisses the back of your hand before taking it in his, extending the clasp out to the side of your bodies as his other hand rests hot on the small of your waist. 

“But I will join you, if you don’t mind a style change.” 

“I don’t know how to dance like this,” you say, factually.  

“Then allow me to teach you.” When you look in his eyes, they’re lined with the etches of heartache still, but there’s something else too, brimming to the surface. 

“What, to this music?” You give your last, unconvincing protest.  

He simply drops his forehead to yours, and the small sounds of the room fade to white as a sweet, moving melody replaces it. It’s not perfectly clear, and it takes a moment to realize that it’s because it’s coming from Obi-Wan’s memory.  

The music has a distant, foggy quality, and it has potential to be eerie, but instead, it just lifts you into an ethereal feeling.

He steps, and your feet follow, not as graceful, but he makes it easy for you, the steps hinted out in his thoughts before taking them in actuality. 

When you start to feel confident enough in the movements, you look up at him. “Does this mean I can teach you my dances next?”

He laughs, laughs, unabashed and with no emotion harbored under it, and some torn piece of your heart mends at the sound.

“Certainly not.” 

You laugh too, even at the thought of him trying. The laugher rolls into a smooth quiet, and you let yourself bask in the feel of his body against yours, the press of his hand on your back as you rest your cheek against him. 

Obi-Wan cradles you to him, forsaking the pattern of the dance as he encompasses you in his arms, lowering his lips to your cheek, then your mouth in a blazing kiss. 

He takes your hand in his, lifting it above your head. Then you’re guided into a spin, and the room spins double with it as you abandon all endeavors of trying to get the dance correct. Your hand drops protectively to your belly before you can even think better of it, and by the time you know you’re not going to throw up, it’s too late. You already feel Obi-Wan’s unmistakable concern right before he asks, “What’s wrong?” extending an arm out toward you. 

His complexion is ashen with worry, and when you don’t respond, you feel him start to reach out to your mind; a spike of panic zaps down your spine, and you’re suddenly not sure you’re not going to throw up after all. 

Your shields crash down, not enough time for subtlety, and he retracts both his hand and inquiring tendril of energy as hurt and confusion shape his features. 

You can’t do this. You can’t keep up this facade or cover this moment with a lie you know he’ll see through. But you can’t tell him either. After all the weight he’s carrying, the weight of the being that grows in you should be yours alone. You can’t thrust that upon him. 

But it’s a delusion that you can keep this from him forever. You’re going to hurt him one way or another, and the weight of your silence and lies multiply every day you insulate him from the truth. 

You take in a shuddering breath as dread settles into your bones. You know what you have to do.

Even as you slowly lower your shields, opening your signature, your mind screams at you in opposite directions, ripping you in half, and your hand shoots out to the nearest wall to stabilize yourself. How could you be so sadistic to tell him this? How could you not tell him? After all the trust you have in each other?

But he doesn’t take the invitation. “I will not touch your mind if you are still unsure you want me to,” he says softly but resolutely as he approaches you, but stays an unthreatening distance away, as if approaching a frightened animal. 

No, no, no. You won’t have him being the one to sturdy you through this. You need to be strong, be ready, don’t force him to coddle you through the blast to his own chest. 

So you dial down your own emotions and switch your absorption to amplifying the still tiny, barely recognizable life you’ve been carefully censoring ever since you heard it yourself.

You want to close your eyes, blockade the pain of both how it impacts him and how it will impact you, but that’s not how you two do things.

Summoning every iota of bravery and resolve running in your veins, you force yourself to look up at him as you watch understanding coat him. 

His eyes go wide, and his hands clench and flex at his sides in an erratic, nervous pattern. 

You can’t keep your signature open to his mind’s reaction, you just can’t. He’s seen enough, and you can put your shields up again. His face is enough to confront all on its own.

Obi-Wan steps toward you, slowly, dazed in a completely uncharacteristic way. With the way he seems to ever be prepared for the blows life throws at him, you hate how you have to be the harbinger for the second one that’s knocked him off his feet.

When he stops in front of you, he places his hands on either of your shoulders and looks into your eyes, searching for confirmation, and you nod, trying to not let fear seep into your expression.

One of his hands covers his mouth as he takes it in. 

And then he’s sinking in front of you, off of his feet indeed, and onto his knees. You want to follow, ready to hold him through the heartache sure to follow, at the second child he didn’t ask for while he still grieves the loss of the first. 

But his hands instead take purchase on your stomach, tightening the fabric of your tunic around the barely-visible bump before bunching it up and lifting, just enough so he can tilt his forehead against the skin there. 

You can feel him reaching out, not taking him long at all to find what he’s searching for, and curiosity beats self-preservation at the last moment, prompting you to open your mind again, just for you to be able to catch elation coursing through Obi-Wan.

You don’t even bother trying to stifle your confusion as he looks up at you with glassy eyes.

Sinking to your knees to meet him, you take his face in your hands, trying to make sense of it all as he takes your hand in his. “I never... “ when his voice comes out unsteady, he clears his throat and tries again. “I never thought I’d have... That we could… didn’t occur to me that now...stars above, how long have you known?”

You don’t recall when you start crying, but tears are falling freely down your cheeks as you shake your head. “I’m so sorry. I… I would never want to keep something like this from you, Obi-Wan, but I couldn’t tell you, not with everything, not with all you already have…and i’m so sorry.”

“Oh, heavens, no. You should not have to do this alone. Please don’t keep things from me, even if you think it to be for my sake. We can…”

You fix him with a pointed, unamused stare. He exhales as he must notice his hypocrisy. 

“Your point is well-put and taken, but the sentiment still stands. We’ll not keep secrets from each other anymore. Do we have an accord?”

Despite it all, you smile at his overly-formal phrasing, something you’d normally have a quip about if it weren’t for the concern still nagging at you.

“Are you not angry then? Or disappointed?” you watch him carefully, praying to any deity listening that he doesn’t concoct some half truth to placate you. His first instinct is always to protect, but you’d never want it at expense of his authenticity. 

Bafflement marks his brow at first, then he takes your face in his hands. “Darling, no.” He says your name, gathering every bit of your attention. “I dreamt of you. During the war, when I was away. I did not sleep well, even then, but when I did, I’d sometimes dream of you, holding a child that I knew to be ours. When I woke, I would remember it so vividly, so painfully, because I never thought that was an attainable future for us.”

But that doesn’t need to matter if you… do you want this child?” His eyes are so full of hope, and it was the last thing you expected, but here he is laying it down on the altar of your preference, and maker, are you glad those two things aren’t opposing each other. 

Because his hope and yours are one in the same, and once he knows it too, at your whispering, choked, “yes,” he’s clutching you in his arms.

And for the second time in a month, you’re both huddled on the ground in tears. The first, bowing under the mass of catastrophe. Now, at the glowing relief of the sprouting of a dream sown in tears, too tender before to even say aloud.

But now? You’re saying it, back and forth, from him to you as your walls fall, permitting him into your mind as he welcomes you into his, and finally you take true comfort once again in the home you’ve built in each other. 

*******

The night after, you lie side by side, hand in hand, on a blanket splayed not far from the hut. The suns have sunken, but the pinks and oranges of their palette still paint the sky where it hasn’t yet turned to midnight cobalt. The light of the lantern gives off a similar hue, dousing everything in your reach in soft, warm hues.

It has taken Obi-Wan some convincing, being so out in the open with everything he had to worry about wasn’t his first choice, but you compromised for a small alcove in the rock formations which surrounded you on two sides. More easily defensible. Not that he needed it, but if he was cautious before, it was borderline unbearable now. With the added danger of the Empire knowing without doubt that he lived.  With more than ever to lose. 

So, he was in charge of safety, you were in charge of snacks. And if they so happened to be almost entirely comprised of those melons you couldn’t quite get enough of lately? That was no one’s business except yours. You brought a few things you knew Obi-Wan liked too, of course. 

What little remains of the miscellaneous spread you push to the edge of the blanket so you can both lie down. 

“I dare say it’s almost pleasant out tonight.”

You turn your head to him, a snort ready at him discussing the weather of all things, but it instead forms a cloud in your throat at the sight of him. 

His eyes are closed, hair rustling in the slight evening breeze, a tranquil ease over his profile. 

The small patches of grey in the part of his beard next to his ears catch the first glints of moonlight in a way the rest of his hair doesn’t, giving them away. 

The mellisonant lowness of his voice brings you back to yourself, cheeks heating. 

“I can feel you staring, little one.”  He opens his eyes, leisurely rolling to his side. “Some say it’s quite impolite.” Slanting over you, he lifts a brow, daring your response.

“And is that a problem?” You look up at him through your eyelashes, feigning innocence. 

Obi-Wan’s gaze follows back up to the stars, as he plays right along, pretending to have to think on it. “I suppose it depends.” 

“On?”

“On whether or not you allow me to return the impropriety,” he responds with a coy smile, moving back to you, so close now you can feel his exhales on your cheek. 

Warmth blooms through you as you answer back, “You can always look, Obi-Wan.” You lift yourself to close the short distance between your face and his, pressing your lips together, which he deepens right away. Using the hand not supporting half his body off of you still, he fans out his fingers across your belly, towing the line between caressing gently and clutching protectively. 

You pull your lips back from his as an uninvited slither of insecurity slips into your chest. 

He senses it, of course, so you speak before he even needs to ask. “Are you really, truly, certain this is what you want? Now? I don’t want you to just say so because…and we could wait, we have...”

“I am,” he says, adamantly, before you even have a chance to finish. His eyes flash to the side. “I…” He rolls back onto his back, looking straight up as he talks seemingly half to you, half to himself. “There is not much I know for certain these days. Some days… I scarcely can remember who I am anymore.” 

He turns his eyes back to you, unwavering. “There are seldom few things I haven’t questioned of late, and my love for you isn’t one of them. And from the moment I’ve known, from the very first instant you let me feel the life within you, my love for them hasn’t been one either.” 

Your thoughts split into two, one wanting to lean into it, to take him for his word that’s always true, and the other cautioning you, telling you to keep distant and watch for the surface level honesty he gives that hides the brutal one he safeguards you from. 

But you’re not hiding anymore, feelings unconcealed in your energy and on your face, so he leans back into you, grasping your arm in his hand, squaring your shoulders to him. You cringe at yourself when you know he’s heard the impression of you questioning. It’s redundant, but self-doubt always is. “Know, please know, my darling.” Taking your hand in his, he brings it up to his temple with an insistence that you have no desire to counter. 

And it’s there. Right there and sparking in its clarity, right at the threshold of his mind as you enter it. How much he means his words, no holds barred, no cleverly crafted glazes to an unly underbelly of reality. His reality was this, how severely he craves starting a family with you. How much he already loves the being within you, how he looks forward to the day he gets to hold them in his arms. 

The fear is there too, quiet, but not kept from you. The fear of failing as a father, unsure of assuming any role that resembled a mentor again, all-too-familiar with the ghost that will float over him in every lesson he teaches. 

What shocks you there is his faith in you. In how much he’s already learned from you about the impact of open affection, in how you don’t let your feelings lead you, but you let them breathe, not suffocate them. It’s part of how he even can acknowledge his fears to himself and to you without berating himself under the too-simple phrase “fear leads to the dark side.” There’s truth in it, but also inaccuracy. 

Because he’s afraid, and yet, there is so much light in the acknowledging of it to himself, and in that very act, it loses much of any power it could have had over him. Oh, how deeply he wishes he could have articulated that understanding to Anakin. 

The pain is fresh, but so is his anticipation for the future, swirling together in a potent drink, and his throat bobs with the effort to swallow them down simultaneously. 

He knows you’ll help ground him through it, he trusts you, even in his uncertainty in himself.

It breaks your heart but also warms it: the knowledge that he lets you into that place where he keeps the questions of himself, the place only you and the man who’s caused most of this doubt have been permitted. 

 With a thankful short farewell, you part from his mind as you know exactly what you want to do.

The remains of your snacks still rest on the edge of the blanket, including the shells of the deep purple-pigmented melons. The one draw-back to their delightful taste was how badly they stained your fingers. You had to break them into tiny pieces, plopping them into your mouth without allowing them to touch your lips unless you wanted your mouth to stain too. 

But right now? The staining quality was just what you needed. 

Although first you needed a blank canvas. 

“May I take your tunics off?” you ask, sitting up. 

Despite a short twitch of confusion and then interest, Obi-Wan follows, raising himself up into a kneel, slightly lifting his arms in compliance. 

The paleness of his skin catches all the light of the lantern, highlighting your view as you slowly slide the fabric up and off, gliding your hands up the line of hair dipping below his navel as it becomes more exposed. It grants you a quiet, steep intake of breath from him and you suddenly give halt momentarily, distracted by the alluring appetite you’ve created. 

No, you won’t give in. Not yet. He needs to know this. 

You take one of the broken pieces of melon rind in your hand, where little tart bits of the fruit still cling, dribbling pigment, but before your finger makes contact with the taut skin of his chest, you pull back at the realization you might have bitten off more than you can chew. 

How do you even begin to describe him? Obi-Wan is so many things at once, so many attributes, and every descriptor that comes to mind falls blatantly short of him. 

Then you recall Obi-Wan going through the motions of Alchaka, watching his body fight to maintain the poses at times. Being such a personal practice, you felt honored that he let you see him go through the exercises, and even more honored that he opened up to you about the purpose behind it later. It was an exercise of both physicality and Force use, and the goal was absolute exhaustion. That was the destination. Trying, knowing from the start that he’ll fall short in the end, but doing it all the same. Because there’s so, so much to be said for the trying.

So you do. You bring the messy fingertip to his clavicle, smearing the first word you know to absolutely be true of him, as if starting the premise with a whisper of I know you’re even more than the sum all of these singular praises. 

The word “complex” appears in your penmanship on his skin as you drag it to life. You look up to his eyes, and his curiosity is clear there, but also so is the tenderness that is elemental to any time he looks at you. And just like that, you have your next word.

Kind.

And at the way he flushes so lovely for you at that?

Beautiful. 

You feel his protest before you see it, the objection in his signature, and you know you’re going to have to switch methods. 

Just then, a droplet from where you’ve written the last word on his pectoral falls, down, down, threatening toward the hem of his trousers, but you’re fast, dropping your mouth down and catching it all on your tongue before it can stain the bleached beige of his remaining clothing. 

When his stubborn revolt at the affirmation quiets in his mind in exchange for a flash of searing lust, you know exactly how you’re going to continue. 

Because Obi-Wan Kenobi, general, warrior, negotiator, Jedi Master, legend, has rarely ever been affirmed as such, and he squirms under the thick blanket of his humility and deprivation anytime someone endeavors. 

So you need his mind to be preoccupied enough, guards down low enough, so he can even hear the message get through.

When you place your hands over his waistband, locking eyes in inquiry, stopping when he hesitates, scanning the area around you, vigilant as always. Overly so now. 

“We’re alone. And wouldn’t you be able to sense it if we weren’t?” 

He looks down at you as he answers. “If I stay mindful enough to do so, yes.” 

Good, he’ll be even less prone to fight you if he has some of his mind sensing outward.

You look back up at him with the facial equivalent of asking “well?” to which Obi-Wan sighs in response. “Very well then.”

With your familiarity with ridding him of clothing, it only takes moments before you can finally taste him where you want to, where he’s already hard and swollen for you. 

 You know you won’t be able to take him as much as you want, a recently-developed overactive gag reflex preventing you. But it just so happens to be convenient tonight, as the resulting taunt should have him right where you want him.

A gentle kiss, right to the head of his cock is all the warning you give him before taking the whole tip in your mouth, swirling your tongue around him, pulling a choked hum deep from his throat. 

Oh, oh, Maker, have you done a grand miscalculation, because you forgot an entire factor in this equation: the way you have been borderline hysterical in hunger for him.

You’ve kept so much from him, and part of how you’ve even managed is starting to convince yourself of less than fact. Facts like how many times you’ve had to change underthings recently, physical evidence of desire unwilling to comply to your head’s demands. Facts like how you’ve literally had to bite your finger to keep the feelings at bay. 

You’d expected changes in your body even before your belly grew, but this was one you hadn’t anticipated. In some ways, it wasn’t that different than usual. You never knew you could want someone with the breadth that you want Obi-Wan. 

But this? Of late? It feels like it’s been amplified tenfold. 

You’re not keeping any cards close to your chest anymore, but you do have to ignore your own body’s screaming cries as you complete this.

He needs to know. 

Nerves still serenading his brain with feedback, you re-wet your finger with the purple juice and write the next words across his abdomen. 

Wise.

Perceptive.

He’s caught on to your scheme by now, cued by the all-too appropriate addition of the last word, and he lets you know it, an impression projected, speechless but still unobstructed. He’s still powerless against it. Or rather, letting himself be powerless. Trusting you with the control he has left, trusting you in his vulnerable places. The places where he’s weak.

Strong.

The word spread over his right upper arm, where he’s obviously just that. But may the tint of the word bleed through his skin, may it run through his veins, because that’s how deep and deeper still that his strength runs. It’s in the way he doesn’t flaunt it. It’s in the way he chooses to wield it. 

Gentle. 

He closes his eyes, flinching at the onslaught of acclamation, and you dip your head down again, wrapping your lips around his cock, letting him slide to where you can take him comfortably, just starting to build a pace as his hips squirm in harmony with his suddenly erratic breaths. Oh, how you’d love to let him deeper, allow his cock past your lips beyond the teasing amount you can take now, but the little writhes his body gives in protest are enough to almost make you okay with how your mouth won’t agree with your ambitions. He says your name, groaned out in bliss as he cups a hand on your cheek.

His barriers are down, so it’s easy to hear when his deprecating thoughts quiet again, and you switch back to coloring him again. 

You know the moment you look up at him that it’s a mistake, because he’s flushed, so torn, suspended in the limbo of your give and withdrawal, mouth ever so slightly open, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip. 

You’re only human, so before you draw anything else, you bring your lips to his, which is yet another mistake, because among the many things Obi-Wan is, he is a deep kisser, and as his tongue delves into your mouth, your will power takes a devastating blow. 

You pull back, reeling at the reminder of how easily he can take back control, knowing you have to complete this before you let him. 

Stars, how you want to let him. 

For now, you need that control back, so you take him into your mouth again, filthily wet and not nearly long enough as you quickly pull back, watching in satisfaction as he heaves forward at the loss, correcting himself quickly back into straight posture. 

With a smirk, you drag your slippery, pigmented finger across his lower stomach. 

Disciplined.

There’s so many more words, so much more he needs to know, and if you covered every inch of his skin in the smallest writing it still wouldn’t be sufficient of all that he is. 

Or you could whisper it all through the Force, embed it all in his mind. 

But because you’ve been there, know his mind inside and out, you know every time he sees his own skin, all he sees is the red of blood on his hands. The blood of his brother. 

And that’s exactly why you’re going to stain it in your own colors. Take back territory and push back the front lines that the army of guilt has taken over on him. 

Your Jedi, ever-adorned in unassuming beige, now drips in the color of royalty.

Charming.

Humble. 

Confident. 

Steadfast. 

You’re only left with enough space for one more word, and you want some sort of conclusion to it all, something to summarize the expanse of the man kneeling in front of you. 

Nothing can. 

But maybe, just maybe, one word encapsulates what he is to you. 

Treasure. 

This time you do chant it across his thoughts, prompting him to open his eyes and look at you.

Cerulean blue blinks open, slowly, almost painfully and nearly overflowing with emotion. 

Thank you, is all he says, unable or unwilling to say it out loud, much too heartfelt and newly-budded for that.

You know his pain has older roots than those tended to in this moment, but you vow to yourself that you’ll never stop trying. 

Lowering your mouth around him once again, you don’t tease him anymore, at least not intentionally, even though you still can’t take more than half of him. 

“Look at you, you’re…” he hisses in a breath as you swipe your tongue against that vein on the underside of him. “Stunning. You’re doing so well, little one.” 

The taste of him compels you as much as his words, seizes you in spice-like addiction, and how interesting it’s going to be explaining that taste craving to him, among your sudden adoration for those damn melons. 

“Darling, I’m…” 

You feel it in his energy before he says it, already pulling off, replacing your mouth with your hand, dropping your lips down even lower, mouthing at his balls, and the feedback is instant. An outpouring crest of his pleasure blasting outward as he lets out a depraved moan, netting his hands into your hair.

Your hand is wet and so is where he’s spilled on his still flexing and releasing stomach, clear white maring the lettering halfway through “disciplined.” You’d clean it with your tongue if you weren’t sure how your overly sensitive taste buds would react now. 

It’s not the first time you’ve had sex since you’ve known you were pregnant, but it’s the first time since he’s known, and it’s the first time you’re not hiding the symptoms. Before, you carefully shied away from anything that might give you away, and between the preoccupation of everything on his own mind he was trying to keep from you and his respect for your boundaries, he never pressed. He had questions in his eyes, but you knew how to carefully reveal partial vulnerabilities to keep him off your trail.

Your chest flares at the memory.

We’re not hiding now. 

It’s your chant, your reminder, your comfort. How nothing of this caliber will be kept between you again.

His eyes confirm it, sincere and exact as they fight to break through their dazed slipping. 

Never again. His voice in your head is home, so consoling it can and has put you to sleep before. 

Right now, it wakes you up in a different light, dowsing you in heat as Obi-Wan takes your hand in his, wiping it on a piece of his discarded clothing before wiping the spend off himself. 

Then he’s taking your face in both his hands tilting you up before kissing you soundly. 

I love you, he says across the wire that ties your minds, the wire that keeps growing stronger every day. So, so very much.

You say it back, a fact as simple as breathing. You love him.

You want him, borderline need him the way you need your next inhale, you don’t say, but he must hear it anyway, because that cocky little smirk that’s been gone far too long is back.

“Shall we do something about that?”

You’re about to just lift your shift dress up and off in response, but he halts you, grasping your wrists. 

“Allow me.” 

He pulls you into another sultry kiss, completely neglecting the task of ridding you of clothing.

Or so you think.

There’s buttons all the way down the dress, and you’ve never used them, always wondering at their purpose if it can so easily lift over your head. 

At first, you don’t even know he’s doing it until you start to feel the coolness of the night air on your nipples. Opening your eyes, you pull back from him to watch as seemingly in thin air, your buttons undo themselves. 

“You needn’t seduce me further. You already know how much I need you,” you gasp, breathless from the kiss.

Obi-Wan just gives a small smile as he drops a hand, dragging it down your side, then down your thigh. “Hm. So impatient. All this from just pleasuring me?”

Maker, he knows! He knows that you are. You always have been, and it’s not as if you weren’t projecting your feelings too.

When he reaches a hand between your thighs, parting them and making a single, tempting stroke through them, his fingers come back glistening. 

“I should think you could feel that I am.” You let the tide of your frustration spill over into your connection to his mind. 

You know he had to hear you, but he gives no indication that he did. 

“Mm. Desire needn’t always be indicatory of impatience,” he punctuates his statement with a hand at the base of your skull, tipping your head back to expose your neck. “I need you to be patient, little one. Let me savor you.” And with that, his mouth makes contact with your neck at the same time his other hand plays with one of your exposed nipples. 

You whimper at the attention, quietly pleading with him for more. Among the still slight changes to your body, this has been the most notable one. How sensitive your breasts have become to even the scrape of the fabric of your clothing. 

And with the rough pads of his fingers working only one, leaving the other to pang in want...

“Obi-Wan,” it’s a prayer, a request. He doesn’t need his hands to cause sensation, and you’d beg him right now if he asked. 

He lets up on your neck, only barely, lips moving against the now throbbing skin. “Answer me first.” 

Clearing your throat, you give the most cogent response you can muster. “Depends on if you’re definition of savor is synonymous with torture.”

He locks eyes with you then, gently grasping a breast in each of his hands, dragging his thumbs over the nipples as you moan out your assent.

His chuckle is far too self-satisfied to be becoming of a Jedi, but you’re already too far gone to call him on it. 

“Is that what you want, little one? For me to torture you so?”

An affirmative whimper is all the response you can give, and Obi-Wan reacts quickly, taking your chin in his fingers and tilting your eyes up to his again. 

“Then you will be patient for me. Because I’m always happy to stop, and we can begin again when you decide to adhere.”

Your brain short circuits on the spot, and all energy is redirected much, much lower. His voice, stars above, his voice when it takes a commanding tone. 

It’s intimate, it’s personal, and yet this game is almost inappropriately playful for how sincere the moment is. 

But such was being loved by Obi-Wan. Full of dissimilar feelings that shouldn’t fit, but moved together in liquid consistency. Like metaphors that didn’t rhyme but still somehow gave their own life-giving rhythm, not dissimilar to the sound of his heartbeat when you lay your head against his chest at night. 

Making quick work of the remaining buttons of your shift and underwear, he beckons you to join him as he lies back down, large, warm hands guiding you to turn around so you’re facing away from him. 

You know that the purple stickiness of the fruit will smear from his body to yours like this, but you can’t at all bring yourself to care. 

You gasp a sigh of relief as one of his hands finds your breast, brushing a knuckle over the too-sensitive nipple. 

“Please.” Your whispered beg sounds pathetic, even to your own ears. But as you arch against him in a frenzied attempt at skin contact, Obi-Wan juts his hips forward, grunting into the exposed column of your neck, and stars, yeah, maybe he didn’t find that so pathetic after all. 

“What do you want, darling?” His voice doesn’t divulge any desperation, and for only the hundredth time do you envy his immaculate self-control. 

“You know, don’t pretend you don’t.” Leaving any doubt to the wind, you push your chest against his barely-touching hand. 

“Specificity can be a virtue; that I also know.” 

You change techniques, driving your hips back softly into where he’s hard and insistent against your ass, hoping it compels him. 

Then you simply… can’t anymore. You’re frozen, unable to move your lower half at all. 

Tangling your desires into a knot and tucking it away, you find the mindfulness to reply. “Yeah, so is mercy.” 

“Indeed it is. I shall concede when you do.”

You won’t win a battle of the wills with him. You’re not sure anyone could.

So you bring his hand over to your nipple. “Touch me here.” 

You feel his smile without even seeing it as he starts tweaking the bud. “Like this?”

It’s so much sensation, all concentrated on such responsive flesh, that you want to beg for him to switch to touching you between your legs.

You haven’t even finished the thought when you feel his unmistakable metaphysical brush against your thigh.

Extending a tendril of your own energy, you invite him in, and he takes it eagerly, ever as eager if not more to be entwined with your mind as with your body. 

He hears it all, the besottment, the arousal, the neediness. The panic that he might drag this out longer, that you’ll have to go a single minute longer without...

“It’s alright. It’s alright.” He sends soothing waves through your connection, and he swaps the positioning of his hand with the curl of power. He turns his hand so that the back of it runs through where you’re aching for him, gathering up your slick on the backs of his knuckles. You have to contort your neck to see what follows when he takes the hand back behind you, and your mouth goes dry when he sucks the knuckles in between his lips. 

You want to hear, you want to know what he’s…

He’s welcoming you in, navigating you to the brink of his mental barriers, letting you take that final plunge into the unsuppressed fullness of your bond to each other.

Now it’s your turn to hear it: how his carefully constructed unaffected persona is not at all a match for his naked, wanton need for you. 

And under that, the foundation on which that desire is built, not the product of it, is his love, his unyielding, unashamed, iridescent love for you. 

It’s all you can do but to pour it back, affirming and soothing and calling his love into action with your own. 

You both don’t want anything else except the most complete of entanglement, and that’s exactly what he moves to do, situating your bodies, hiking your top leg in the crook of his arm as you feel the initial breach of his body into yours, and all breath leaves your lungs in an exhilarating evacuation.

His audible gasp is an echo of his emotions, how he thinks he’s prepared for this onslaught of feeling, but how you take him off guard, how his equilibrium threatens to teeter every time. 

The web of his consciousness enveloping you, it’s easy to pick out a single thought blaring within him: How much he adores the way you fit together. Your back against his chest, how your breast fits in his hand, how the snug joining of where his cock presses into your body sends you into trembles, how comforting your very presence is to his soul when he lets you in like this. 

Tears, without warning, seep out of your eyes as he starts to move against you, slow and deep. You close your eyes, willing the powerful emotion away, but glimmers of light flash out behind our closed lids the moment you do, and how the kriff does he stay composed? 

Anchor. Anchor against me. 

He stills, letting you have a break from the barrage of pleasure blinding you as you search him out, looking for the cords of his intellect that seemingly both steam downward and beam upward, grounding him.

You find it, and you clasp on tightly.

But the moment he starts moving again, you lose sight of it all over again.

Your heightened hormones make your flesh so susceptible, and the tears start to fall again. Obi-Wan rolls your nipple in between his thumb and index, and he’s so good, and you’re so full, and you can hear his pleasure as your own, adding, doubling everything…

Scorching, electrifying heat speeds through your veins, hitting hard and fast, leaving you astounded and even more sensitive than before. 

Obi-Wan’s signature spikes as your climax resounds through him, and you can feel the vibration of the wanton noises he’s making right where his beard scratches against your neck. 

But he doesn’t allow it to overtake him, letting it run through him without resistance, making himself pliable but unmovable, keeping himself back from the edge. 

You still have much to learn.

Because that control? Gives him the ability to not even stop, not even hesitate once, even at both yours and his own ecstasy flowing through him.

When he starts striking his hips hard into yours, the weight of him inside you dragging exactly in the right place, you start to cry in earnest. Obi-Wan stops for a millisecond, concern radiating off of him, even when he can hear how much you want this so clearly, has access to every little passing thought. 

“Don’t stop, I’m fine, I pro…” He does just as asked while moving his hand down to your belly again, a soothing touch to his rough thrusts. Your eyes are blurred with wetness, overwhelmed with him. 

He’s listening to it all, applying every micro-feeling of feedback into action against your desperate, post-orgasmic skin, hand switching back and forth from your nipples to loosely clutching your neck, Force energy focused on applying pressure to your clit. 

“You’re doing so well, so good for me,” comes the wisp of his sultry tone, lips pressed against your ear. 

Since you aren’t even thinking about changing position, you know it’s his own preference that has him withdrawing, guiding you onto your back. 

There’s no inhibition this way, not the way there is when you’re on your side, no separation from your bodies being flush when he pushes into you again. You have to anchor in him, both mentally and with your fingernails clawing at his shoulder blades as your body starts into tremors.

He’s keeping the weight of his chest off of you, even though your belly is still barely swollen into distinguishable roundedness, and as much as you miss the contact, you can look into his eyes like this, can see the unfiltered attachment and all the weight of all the emotion he wills his body to not cave under. 

But then the tremoring transforms into series of contractions throughout your body, centering through your slick core, and you thrash your head to the side catching a glimpse of Obi-Wan’s fingers clenching into white knuckles, grasping into the exposed sand from the blanket being bunched up. 

He projects his thoughts across the tether to you,  how thoroughly impacted by the very fact you’re carrying his child, how affected he is by every little thing about you, honored that he’s allowed to touch you like this. 

You roll your hips back up into his, and that’s what it takes. His stuttering body is the lightning, and the searing, molten pleasure across your connection is the thunderous repercussion. 

It completely overthrows you, and your body bows against him as his high instantly cues yours again.

You can feel him throb inside you at the very moment you do, his turn to experience the secondary sensory white-out of your mate’s climax through the Force, his shuddering shout meeting your breathy whines in the close distance between your mouths. 

And he does kiss you then, soundly but with the haze of afterglow slowing it. 

“Have you any idea how bewitching you are to me?” He breathes it out, and despite all the ways you’d normally scoff at such words, his eyes tell the story, and you listen to it’s truth. 

His eyes hold that constant infiltrating study of you, the one that could be unnerving if his mind, still tethered to yours didn’t hold such amor, heart bleed such fondness that settles in the creases around his eyes. 

How interesting it is watching someone as knowledgeable as him having such an inquisitive outlook on life, and being so frequently the object of those investigations. 

Did the galaxy know her debt to him? Did she know the sum owed to inflicting the worst of life’s pains on someone who refused to let it build anything except an even gentler man of himself? When does she plan on repaying him? What does she offer in exchange for her cruelty of the hand she’s dealt Obi-Wan Kenobi?

Then the whisper comes, soft but crisp, from somewhere in the threads of existence around you, “Can’t you see? It’s you, child.” 

You could argue it. You could scream how it’s not enough, how you’re not enough,  how he deserves so much more from some dark insecure place inside you. Or how love shouldn’t be treated as currency in exchange for pain, how the galaxy could still have your fists if that was how it tallied. 

But the finality of it settles in your soul, more impressionistic than in solid wording: there is no easy conclusion that ties the suffering of life into purpose, no experience that erases or mends its pain. But love. Love makes the complicated endeavor of trying to find purpose in the madness worthwhile.  

Obi-Wan’s hum of agreement resounds in your ears and through to your head. His Force signature feels so familiar, so at home within yours and yours within his, that you’d briefly forgotten he could still hear you. 

With all the strength still left in quaking limbs, you wrap your arms around him, and he melts into it. 

The compassion of his soul hardly matches his war-ravaged skin, his guilt-ridden memories. Every good thing here came to be with a war waged, refined and not burnt away in fire at his sheer tenacity. 

It’s a growing thing, blooming in the desert. The beliefs in both of you. Your love for each other. Your own trust in the Force. 

Healing is no short journey, but her two sojourners here are determined.

And if that tender hope can blossom here?

Then maybe, just maybe: Tatooine is exactly the place for a baby after all. 

*********

In the valley beyond the hut, a boy jets quickly away in some mechanical contraption he recently motorized, a girl in a similar vehicularized compilation of junk not far behind. 

On the cliff’s edge stands Obi-Wan, eyes scanning the landscape intermittently for any sign of threat between longer affectionate looks at the children before him.

He turns, feeling your approach in his keen awareness as you set a hand on his shoulder from behind. His temples are now even thicker with sun-bleached silver, and his eyes wield the lines of laughter around them. 

And you? You’re as roped in by his gravitational pull as you’ve always been. 

He puts a hand over yours, clasping it to bring you in front of him, where he can still watch the children and encase you in his arms at the same time. 

“Slow down, Luke! You’re going too fast!” comes the distressed cry of your daughter, Ahlina, drawing your attention away from admiring Obi-Wan and back to the valley. Her vowels curl in the same way her father’s does, but her more casual phrasing was certainly thanks to you. Luke shouts back at her, “Come on, keep up!” while he races on ahead.

Obi-Wan smiles, seemingly amused at a secret joke. 

“They are much too young for this nonsense still,” he speaks, muffled slightly as he hides his lips in your hair. 

“Probably,” you reply with an airy laugh.

Not long after, the engine on Luke’s small contraption gives out, jutting him off and tumbling forward into the sand. 

“I told you!” Ahlina yells, her own machine coming to a halt not far away from Luke. 

When they make it back up the cliff, Obi-Wan couches and opens his arms, and they both come running with smiles. They’re still young enough to be unshy about affection, and Obi-Wan knows to soak it up, closing his eyes in relishment. 

Luke is the first to wiggle down, waving before running over to hug your leg, which you happily return, brushing some of the blonde mop of hair from his forehead. You adored the nights that the Lars let him sleep over. 

Although the nights that Ahlina slept over at theirs certainly had their allure too. 

“Can we have a snack, Daddy?” Ahlina asks, still happy to be hoisted up on one of his arms. 

“Hm. Perhaps I can make some of those ahrisa sweet breads again?”

She wrinkles her nose. “Can Mommy make them?”

“Why not mine?”

“Because you always burn them.”

He bops a finger lightly on her nose with a smile. “Cheeky.”

She goes to bop him on his nose in return, but he catches the finger, holding it. 

“Give it back!” she screeches through a giggle. 

“No, no. I think I’ll keep it now.” 

The suns are dipping low as you retreat into the hut, the two children running ahead, racing to gather the ingredients to help you bake the bread. Luke especially was an enthusiastic sous-chef. 

You step to follow them, but Obi-Wan grasps your hand. You turn back to him, and he barely gives you a second before he joins his mouth to yours. Sliding a hand into the auburn beard, you open your mouth to him, letting his familiar taste permeate your senses. 

He reluctantly breaks after a long moment, and you take his hand in yours. When you turn back to the horizon, the suns are dipping, blanketing the landscape in the most celestial light of the day. 

The planet’s eyes aren’t harsh in the way you used to see them. They’re still intense, and frequently unforgiving. 

Perhaps they never changed. Maybe only you did.

But as they sink now, you give a silent, partial farewell, knowing they’ll greet you again in the morning. 

Because if Dark’s patience is infinite? 

So is the promise of the return of the Light. 

Tagging upon request: @million-dollar-legs