#i just think it's neat that he does speak it and is proud of it

[ellewritesx]

incidental charges

(part four of the sugar, baby series)

Summary: He takes what he wants. You give what's left.

Warnings: sugardaddy arrangement, fingering, oral (m!receiving), unprotected sex, degradation, slutshaming, mild discomfort/pain, Harry's really mean, this is an angsty one i'm sorry

A/N: i'm lowkey very proud of this one but oh boy you guys are going to hateee me. i listened to ''i wanna be yours'' by arctic monkeys on repeat while writing this part so i'd 100% recommend listening to that while reading this if you'd enjoy that. let me know your thoughts when you're finished. enjoy (and good luck) x

Word Count: 3,585

...

You know something's wrong the second your phone buzzes. Come over. Now.

Not because the message itself says it, but because of everything it doesn't say. No teasing command. No filthy promise. Not even the ghost of a smiley face, like he sometimes uses when he's feeling particularly cruel. Just three words. Brutal. Unforgiving. Final.

You haven't heard from him in days, and this is how he chooses to reach out?

You shouldn't be this easy. Shouldn't feel your pulse quicken at the first sharp order he throws your way. But you're already tugging on the tightest, prettiest dress you own, already slipping into the shoes you know he likes for some reason, already rushing out the door like he's got a leash around your throat and a hand fisted in it.

You're already thinking about what you can give him, what you can do for him, to make whatever anger is coiled tight in his chest a little easier to bear.

When he opens the door, he barely looks at you.

No greeting. No dragging gaze over your body the way he usually does, savoring the little effort you make just for him. He just steps aside without a word, or even a simple acknowledgement, letting you pass like your presence is something he merely tolerates.

Your stomach drops, but you bite it down. You can handle this. You want to handle this.

Inside, the air feels electric, charged with something hot and volatile. His jacket is already off, thrown carelessly over a chair, like he hadn't even had the patience to put it away properly.

You frown. If there's anything you've learned about Harry since your arrangement started (which isn't much, honestly), it's that he's a very neat person. Never once have you seen his shirts wrinkled, or his tie crooked, or yesterday's clothes still on the floor. Never once have you seen dirty dishes in the sink, or crumbs on the kitchen counter, or even so much as a crinkle in his satin bedsheets.

His sleeves are shoved up to his elbows, veins bulging along the strong lines of his tattooed forearms. His jaw ticks once, twice, when he shuts the door behind you with a sharp, echoing click.

You turn to him instinctively, waiting for instruction, heart hammering against your ribs. But he doesn't say anything. He just stalks toward you with a hunger that's almost violent, yanks the strap of your dress down your shoulder, watches it slip halfway off your chest without even a flicker of appreciation.

It's not about how you look tonight. It's not about playing games. It's about need. About taking. About burning something off before it destroys him from the inside out.

You shiver under his hands but don't resist when he manhandles you backwards, walking you clumsily through the apartment toward the bedroom. You nearly trip over yourself, but he doesn't let you fall, just catches your hips in a bruising grip and drags you after him like he can't bear to waste a second more.

Still, you're so good. So desperate to soothe whatever anger he won't name. You don't even speak, just let yourself be pushed down onto the bed, legs falling open when he shoves at your thighs.

You want him to use you. You want to give him something real to anchor himself to.

Even if tonight, he's not reaching for you like a man reaching for salvation. Tonight, he's reaching like he wants to destroy something. And the worst part is, you want to let him.

You don't get a chance to breathe before he's crowding you on the mattress, pulling your dress up to your hips, baring your soaked underwear to his furious gaze.

''Course you're fucking wet,'' he mutters darkly, more to himself than to you, voice a low snarl. ''Knew you'd like being treated like this.''

Your breath hitches, but you stay still for him, let him strip you without so much as a whimper, watch your panties join the discarded pile of clothing on the floor. You spread your thighs wider when he forces your knees apart, giving him whatever he wants to take.

He doesn't even bother teasing you.

Two thick fingers shove inside you, rough and unforgiving, a guttural noise ripping from his throat when he feels how tight you clench down around him. You jolt with a soft cry, hips trying to squirm back from the abrupt stretch, but he's already got a bruising grip on your thigh, holding you down, open, forcing you to take it.

"Stay fucking still," he growls, curling his fingers viciously, seeking out that devastating spot inside you without an ounce of tenderness.

It hurts. It burns. But you take it, tears welling at the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming intensity, the sheer need to give him what he needs. Your hands clutch at the sheets, but you don't make a sound except the broken little gasps that slip from your throat when he pumps his hand faster, meaner, grinding the heel of his palm into your clit like he's trying to knock something loose inside you.

"You like that?" he sneers, watching your pretty face contort in helpless pleasure. "Like when I use you like a fuckin' toy?"

"Yes." You take a shaky breath, blinking up at him like he's the only thing that matters.

Something flashes behind his eyes, something sharp and vulnerable, but it's gone before you can catch it.

He pulls his fingers out roughly, shoving them into your mouth without warning, smearing your own slick over your tongue.

"You taste that?" he snaps. "That's what you're good for. The only thing you're good for."

The words land like a punch to the gut. You flinch, just barely, but he sees it. Sees the way your lashes flutter, the way hurt flashes in your eyes before you try to tamp it down.

He knows you don't like being talked to like that. He remembers. Knows exactly how much the insult must burn, sharp and humiliating on your tongue alongside the taste of yourself.

He wants it to hurt. Wants you to push him away, to finally shove him off and tell him to go fuck himself. Wants you to be angry with him, to look at him like he's the piece of shit he feels like tonight. It would be easier if you hated him. It would be safer.

But you don't.

You just suck his fingers obediently into your mouth, wide-eyed and willing, even as your throat tightens against the sting of his words. You take it, not because you don't feel it, but because you choose to stay anyway.

And that... that ruins him in a way he isn't prepared for.

Something almost like shame sparks behind his ribs, fast and unwelcome, but he smothers it down with the same furious instinct that made him lash out in the first place.

You don't fight him. You don't pull away, even when he fists your hair and drags you down to your knees on the floor at the edge of the bed.

"Open up," he orders, shrugging his pants and briefs off and tapping the thick head of his cock against your lips.

You do, without hesitation.

He groans brokenly under his breath as he drives himself into your mouth, too deep, too fast. Your throat strains around him, gagging, tears spilling hot and immediate down your cheeks, but you don't fight him. You dig your nails into his thighs and take it, blinking up at him through the wet haze clouding your vision, hollowing your cheeks even when you're fighting not to choke.

"Fuckin' perfect," he grits out, hips snapping hard enough to make you whimper around him. "Good little slut, lettin' me ruin you however I want. Aren't you, hm?"

The word slut cracks across your mind like a whip. You feel it hit, low and sharp, like scraping across an old bruise he promised he wouldn't touch. You'd told him. That night at the bar, when you first met, so many lifetimes ago, you'd told him that you don't like to be called names. That you take offense to it.

It makes something in your chest lurch, a bitter twist of hurt, betrayal, humiliation, and for one savage second you genuinely consider violently sinking your teeth into him.

You don't.

You dig your nails into your own palms instead, grounding yourself in the sting. You keep your jaw slack, let him fuck your throat, let him call you names you hate, because some wounded, stubborn part of you knows that's what he's trying to make you do. Trying to make you angry enough to leave. Trying to push you away.

He's picking a fight you refuse to give him.

And the longer you stay, the softer you look at him, tears slipping from your lashes, tongue still willing under the ugly words, the harder he fucks into you, like he can beat the tenderness out of you.

It hurts. It's messy and unrelenting and mean, but still, you look up at him with glassy, adoring eyes. You want him to know that you're here. That he can show you this side of himself. That you can be whatever outlet he needs you to be tonight.

You reach up, fingers mindlessly rubbing slow circles on the skin of his thighs, something to ground yourself, and him, while he uses your mouth like it's nothing but a hole to fuck.

And he feels it, the softness, the care threading through every touch. He jerks away suddenly, pulling out of your mouth with a wet, brutal pop, staring down at you like he doesn't understand you at all.

Then he's hauling you back onto the bed, shoving you down on your back so hard the air punches from your lungs. You barely catch your breath before he's wedging himself between your thighs, lining himself up, no teasing now, no patience.

"You want it?" he rasps, voice low and raw.

"Yes," you whisper, wrapping your arms around his neck instinctively, letting your legs fall open wider to invite him in.

He snarls under his breath like he hates how sweet you are to him. Then he drives into you with one savage thrust.

You cry out, back arching off the bed, hands clinging to him for dear life. He's huge, stretching you painfully wide, filling every inch like he wants to break you in half. He doesn't give you time to adjust, just sets a brutal pace immediately, hips snapping into you again and again, every thrust shoving you further up the mattress.

You cling to him anyway, one hand splaying against the sweaty plane of his back, feeling the muscles there bunch and flex with every furious movement.

You whisper to him between gasps, between whimpers. "It's okay, Harry. You can let go. I've got you. I'm here."

He groans low and vicious in your ear, fucking you harder to shut you up, but you swear you feel the tiniest shudder run through him.

You cradle his head to your shoulder, scratching your nails lightly over the short hair at the nape of his neck, murmuring soft praises between each wrecked moan.

"So good to me," you pant, kissing the shell of his ear, tightening your thighs around his hips. "You're perfect. Always so perfect."

His rhythm stutters.

Just for a second. Just a beat of hesitation. But you feel it. He buries his face in your neck like he can hide from it, from you, like if he just fucks you harder, he can fuck the weakness out of himself.

But it's too late.

You feel the anger melt into something messier, something achingly close to desperation, to want. You don't comment on it.

He slams into you harder, rougher, chasing his own release now, trying to outrun the gnawing ache swelling in his chest.

You don't stop touching him.

You don't stop whispering sweet nothings in his ear.

You just hold him, even when it hurts, even when your body is shaking from the force of his thrusts, even when you're barely holding yourself together at the seams.

And maybe that's what finally breaks him.

Because when he comes, buried deep inside you with a feral, broken sound, he doesn't even look at you.

And it stings.

It stings more than the bruising grip he's left on your hips, more than the ache between your legs where he's used you so carelessly.

Because Harry is always big on eye contact, he demands it. "Look at me, baby. Need to see you." "Eyes on me when you come." ''Show me those pretty eyes. There you are.''

He always wants you look at him. Needs you to, like the tether between you would snap otherwise.

But now, when you're lying underneath him trembling and cracked open, when you've given him every piece of yourself, he twists his head away, toward the wall, eyes screwed tight like he can't even stand the sight of you.

It guts you. Leaves you hollow and shaking, your orgasm wilting quietly inside you.

And somewhere, deep down, though he won't let himself feel it, it guts him too. Because he knows if he looks, if he really looks at the way you're still holding him, still whispering broken little praises under your breath despite your own pleasure fading, still caressing his skin like something sacred despite your own body tensing up.

So he looks away.

And it feels like the cruelest thing he's ever done to you.

He pulls out while you're still gasping for breath, yanks his pants up without a word, and disappears into the bathroom with the door slamming shut behind him.

The emptiness he leaves behind feels colder than any punishment he's ever given you. You blink up at the ceiling, heart splintering slowly in your chest, the mess between your thighs a humiliating, aching reminder that whatever has cracked open between you, he wants no part of it.

...

When he comes back, he doesn't say a word.

The bathroom light is still on behind him, casting a clinical glow across the floorboards, and his hair is a mess, cheeks blotchy from scrubbing. He won't meet your eyes.

He walks back into the bedroom like it doesn't belong to either of you, like it's a hotel room he's just checked into and you're the unfortunate occupant they forgot to remove first.

The air goes stiff.

You sit up slowly, the sheets pooling around your waist, heart thudding unevenly. You're not sure what you were expecting. Maybe a quiet, reluctant, apology, maybe an awkward attempt at a joke, maybe just for him to lie back down and act like it never happened, but none of it comes.

Instead, he leans down to grab his phone off the nightstand. His screen lights up his face in a wash of cold blue, making him look even more unreadable, if that's possible. You watch the way his jaw tightens. His shoulders twitch like he's chewing back something awful. He doesn't look at you once.

''Are you coming back to bed?'' you ask, voice hesitant and small, and you immediately hate yourself for how it sounds. Like you're begging.

The silence that follows is thick and sour. It curls between your ribs and settles there, anchoring itself to your shame. He doesn't even glance at you. Doesn't ask if he hurt you, physically or otherwise, doesn't acknowledge the way your hands tremble slightly as you pull the blanket up to your chest, covering yourself like you can shield yourself from whatever's happening between you right now.

''Did I do something wrong?'' you whisper nervously. You wish you didn't care. You wish you could swing your legs out of bed and leave first, say fuck you and mean it. But instead you just sit there, quiet and insecure and hurting.

He finally looks at you, just a flicker, a glance, eyes dark and unreadable.

''No,'' he says after a beat, and it's somehow worse than if he'd said yes.

Because if you'd done something wrong, at least there'd be a reason. A fix. A way back.

''No,'' he repeats, turning away, ''You were perfect.''

It should be comforting, but it sounds like an accusation.

You watch him tug on a hoodie from the floor, and you notice his fingers are shaking slightly, though he hides it well. Everything about him is tight, movements too stiff, face too blank, like he's holding himself together by force.

''Harry…''

''I think you should go,'' he says, and it's sharp. Clipped. Dismissive. And it hurts. So much.

You blink. ''What?''

He doesn't repeat it. Just tosses your clothes at you, like throwing you out after fucking you raw is part of the routine. Like your heart isn't currently trying to crawl out of your chest and disappear under the floorboards.

''You said I should stay,'' you remind him, because that's all you can cling to now, his own words, said so easily just days ago when his hands were still gentle and his voice was still kind. ''You said I should always stay after a night together. That it's the respectable thing to do. That you don't want to worry about me out alone at night.''

''I changed my mind.''

He still won't look at you. Like looking at you would make this real. Like your presence is something he has to ignore completely to make this easier on himself. Like he's already rehearsed this moment and now he's just waiting for it to be over.

You try again, your voice cracking, soft. ''Harry, please—''

''I'm not in the mood,'' he cuts in, leaving no room for discussion. ''Just go. I got you an Uber. Don't make this harder than it has to be.''

Panic flares under your skin. Instinct more than reason, you move without thinking, pulling your dress up your body in hurried motions, struggling to zip yourself up. It's something Harry usually does for you, always making a show of it, always making sure to kiss your shoulder before stepping away.

You give up on the zipper halfway. You just want to fix this, want to make it better, the way you always do.

Before he can tell you to leave again, you step forward, reaching for him, sliding your arms gently around his waist from behind. You press your cheek to the broad curve of his back, kiss the spot between his shoulder blades the way you always do when he's upset, when he's stressed, when he's somewhere you can't reach with words alone.

For a second, you think he might let you. But then his body stiffens under your touch, breath hitching, shallow in his chest.

And he flinches.

He jerks away from you like you've burned him, shoulder twisting sharply out of your grasp, shrugging you off like you're something repulsive he can't stand to have near him. You stumble back a step, arms falling uselessly to your sides, blinking at him in shock.

''Don't,'' he says, voice low and vicious. ''Just... don't touch me.''

The words taste like blood in his mouth. Everything inside him screams at him to take them back, to reach for you, to apologize, to fall into your arms the way he always, always, wants to when it's you. But his walls are up now, higher than ever, and he doesn't know how to tear them down without destroying himself in the process.

So he stands there, rigid and silent, forcing himself to feel nothing as he watches the hurt bloom raw across your face.

It's not just the words. It's the way he spits them out, like your touch is something filthy. Like you're some desperate, clingy thing he can't shake fast enough.

Your chest caves in on itself. You nod, even though it feels like your heart is physically tearing apart. You don't try again. You don't say anything at all.

He doesn't either.

There's something feral in his eyes. Not anger exactly, more like desperate frustration. Like he's trying to get you to hate him. Like he needs to burn this bridge before you get any closer to the parts of him he can't control.

He sees the heartbreak behind your eyes. You know he does. You see the flicker of guilt, tiny, barely there, before he crushes it down and tosses another dagger instead.

''You should be used to this by now,'' he mutters. ''Not like this is anything serious.''

It's the worst thing he could've said. And you know he knows it. You know because he still doesn't look at you. Because he throws the words like knives and doesn't wait to see where they land.

You swallow around the lump in your throat, nod slowly, eyes burning. Your body still aches, slick between your thighs, bruises blooming from where he held you down, and now he's pretending you're no one. Like none of it mattered. Like you didn't try to hold him together while he was falling apart inside of you.

You grab your phone without another word.

Your look for your bag, but you don't ask for help, don't let him see you search for it. You keep your head up. Refuse to cry in front of him. Not now. Not after this.

And when you walk out, heart in your throat, clutching your bag, you don't look back.

He doesn't either.

...

thank you so much for reading! i appreciate any and all support so remember to like, comment and reblog. requests are open! 💕

sugar, baby series tag list

@indierockgirrl @prettygurl-2009 @cherryflavoredbyme @dipmeinhoneyh @haliastyless @drewrry @maddiesalvatore1839 @robinsue87 @zoraaasyd @sincerely-yours-marsbar @m0mmyfromtarget @maudie-duan @hoolabalooba @hisparentsgallerryy @txmhxllqnd @harringtonhundreds @freddyselmstreet

general tag list

@2601-london @mads3502 @angeldavis777 @run-for-the-hills @postsexfistbump @hobireasns @madilee7802 @spinninc

...

[secretlysamcro]

Female reader x Jax Teller Explicit language & absolute smut If you're under the age of 18 please read no further.

Request: "Jax reacting to the new nanny walking in on him Jerking off"

Backstory: You’ve been helping Jax by looking after the boys for about 2 months now, finally getting the hang of things. You ask no questions, don’t pry, just keep things running smooth for Abel & Thomas. Your relationship with Jax is… normal. Most of him is still a mystery to you. You do as he asks, make sure his boys are kept safe and keep mostly to yourself, until tonight.

Jax throws his head back against the headboard, his breaths coming out in slow uneven pants as his fingers tighten around the thickness of his cock. He's too fucking wound up, too on edge to even bother pulling up something to watch, but he doesn't need it. Just lets the mental images do all the work.

He spits into his palm again, before moving his fist over himself. Slow at first, just a teasing pace. His thumb hovering over the tip, smearing the precum down his length. He can't let himself make a sound.

Especially because you’re here.

Just down the hall, asleep in the spare room like you always were when he got back too late. It’s almost routine at this point, him rolling back in at some ungodly hour due to club business. The first time he ever did it, you waited up only to be told it was stupid to leave that late, and you could just crash in the spare room, so that's exactly what you did. Exactly what you do whenever he gets back too late.

And now? you're just a few doors away, completely unaware that he's in his room, right now, barely holding back his moans as he strokes himself raw. "Fuuuuck" his voice is a harsh whisper, barely audible. His head tipping forward, eyes locking onto the way his own hand taunts himself. It turns him on even more, his free hand sliding down to cup his balls, squeezing just enough to make his hips jerk upwards. His legs are spread wide, his abs tightening as his whole body tenses. His hair, usually slicked back and neat, has come loose and now sticking to his forehead. He's so fucking close.

"Jax, I think Ab..."

His whole body jolts. "Jesus…fucking…christ!" He nearly falls off the bed, scrambling for the covers as his heart pounds against his ribcage. Jax is frozen for a second, his chest rising and falling as he runs a shaky hand down his face. "y/n what the fuck?" he heaves out, pushing his hair back.

The door clicks shut behind you, sealing the moment. You move slowly towards him, his gaze locked onto yours, the hunger in his eyes evident. As you crawl onto the bed, the mattress dips beneath you. You don't speak and neither does he.

The sight in front of you is fucking sinful. His cock stands thick and proud, his tip already glistening. That cocky, self assured way he walks around? yeah, he has every fucking right. You stop between his spread legs, settling onto your knees, your hands hover just above his body. You wait for something, a sign, permission, just something to tell you he wants this just as bad as you. He doesn't say a word though, his consent comes silently. His hand moves, wrapping back around himself, exactly where it was before you barged in, as if he was daring you to take over. His eyes stay locked onto yours, watching, waiting for your next move. You lay your hand over his, feeling the heat. He doesn't rush you, doesn't push just lets you feel. He guides you at first, moving beneath your touch, setting his desired pace and pressure.

Then, he lets go. Your hands keep moving, filling the warmth he left, his body reacting immediately. His hips lifting into your palm, as his hands drop to his sides, his fingers twitching, fighting the urge to grab you and take you right fucking there. His head tips back but not for long. He wants to watch you, wants to see you working him, just like he showed you. It’s affecting you more than you want to admit, your own thighs pressing together, containing the need between your legs. You watch him, absolutely transfixed as he leans forward just a little, to let out a slow thick string of saliva, landing perfectly onto the tip of his cock. You spread the wetness downwards, gliding over him effortlessly, your thumb working circles on the underside. His hips snap forward, fucking into your grip, trying to chase the inevitable. His teeth are bare and his chest is heaving as his eyes flutter shut, a sharp wince of pleasure crossing his face as his body tenses, every muscle pulled tight.

Your wrist is burning, the ache of holding on almost too much, but you know he's close, so you push the fuck through. His body jerks, his grip flying to your shoulders, fingers digging in deep as he steadies himself. Then, with a low groan, he erupts. Hot and thick, spilling over your hand as you feel him pulse in your hold, the warmth dripping down back onto him. A small stifled groan leaves his mouth, as he comes back down from his blissful high.

Is what could have happened, if you stayed.

But instead, you stand frozen on the other side of the door, your hand clamped against your mouth. You cant move, can't think straight. The only thing running through your mind is Jax, with that tight, desperate grip wrapped around his dick. His parted lips, messy hair and the way his body began to convulse under his own fucking touch. You ran out, shutting the door as fast as you opened it.

A warmth spreads through you, that familiar dull ache and it settles directly between your thighs. You can hear the movement from inside his room. Sheets rustling, a deep exhale and the quiet shuffle of him getting up. You need to move, need to focus, do something other than stand here replaying every little detail.

Abel. The reason you barged in, in the first place. Swallowing hard, you shake your head, heading to the boys room. Sorting out whatever it was that needed such rushed attention. As you're doing so, you hear the creak of his door open, then the soft sound of his footsteps moving toward the kitchen. Abel stirs once, then twice, then finally settles again.

You should turn around, go back to the spare room and bury yourself under the covers. Pretend this never happened, face it in the morning, when you’re not so worked up. But your feet move before your brain can even catch up.

Straight in his direction.

Jax is sitting at the table, his back to you, smoke curling around him. He’s thrown on a white vest and his grey sweats. The ones that have left little to the imagination before. But now? Now you know exactly what he’s been hiding underneath.

You walk past him without a word, grabbing a chilled bottle of water from the fridge, hoping it will cool the inappropriate thirst flowing through your body. But of course, it doesn’t. You lean against the counter, one leg crossed over the other, fully facing him now. He’s already looking at you. A joint hanging between his fingers, his jaw tight and expression unreadable, like he needed something stronger than nicotine to get past the awkwardness. Neither of you speak, you just stare, waiting for the other to break first.

The silence stretches, thick with something neither of you can understand, then out of nerves you let out the softest giggle. “Sorry” you breathe, exhaling hard, your lips pursed together trying to stop more laughter from escaping “I should’ve knocked, I thought Ab…” You stop the words when you see Jax’s Head tilt back, a silent chuckle making his shoulders roll. He drags a hand down his face, sighing like this is just another thing in his already chaotic life. Then, he holds out the joint to you. “Want some, darlin?” His voice is neutral, no shame, no anger, just Jax.

You hesitate just a little, folding your arms as you look at him. “Bit unprofessional, no?”

That familiar smirk tugs at his lips, lazy and cocky. “You just walked in on me jackin’ off. Pretty sure we’ve already crossed that line”

You push off the counter, crossing the room to the table. Plucking the joint from his fingers “yeah…can’t argue with that” you laugh, taking a seat in the chair across from him. His eyes dragging over you like he’s taking his time, seeing you properly for the first time.

“Abel good?” He asks, concern tainting his voice now.

You take a hit, letting it linger before blowing out again, nodding “yeah, just a nightmare… I think”

Jax leans back, tapping his fingers against the wood. “Sorry you had to see that”.

You shake your head, dismissing his apology “You don’t have to apologise Jax…” you pass the joint back “…that was on me, I should’ve knocked”.

He takes another slow drag, then starts twisting the rings on his fingers “Appreciate you dealin’ with Abel”

You bite the side of your cheek, trying to hold in yet another laugh. “Yeah, well I figured you had your hands full”

Jax’s gaze lifts slowly to meet yours. His jaw shifting like he’s fighting back a grin but trying to stay serious at the same time. He rises from the table, putting the joint out in the ashtray, looking at you with that playful fucking glint in his eye. "You should try and get some sleep y/n" His voice is low, almost teasing as if he knows exactly what's running through your mind. Then, without another word, he walks away. Leaving you sitting at the table, still reeling, trying to make sense of what the fuck just happened.

Gifs & photos do not belong to me 💀

Uggghhshahs this request killed me man, I had it going in so many different directions, but we got there in the end 🖤

Also, this was meant to be posted yesterday BUT I blame @puffins-muffins. Control got me fucking hooked I was up at like 2 in the morning reading the whole thing in one fucking go. Everyone go read it now if you haven’t, even if you have? go read it again 🤭🫶🏽

Love you all🐦‍⬛🖤 - also please remember, working through requests one at a time, you don’t have to send it 9 times, I see it the first time, I’ll get there eventually 🫶🏽

Jax Teller Masterlist

xoxo secretly samcro

[gremlinmodetweeker]

König Getting Tipsy

tw alcohol use

König is a big drinker, as is only natural for a big man. He'll usually have a lager in the afternoons when watching the news, and on weekends he'll have a beer with his lunch. He feels uncomfortable if he doesn't have a glass of wine to pair with his dinner. It's not to the point that it's out of hand by any means, but he does like to drink in his free time. If you're uncomfortable, he'll stop drinking in the home, but he will choose to drink when he goes out.

It takes a lot to make him start to slur his words. He mostly sticks to his beloved beers and ciders, but he's not one to turn down a shot of rum if he's offered one. He prefers drinking neat, complaining that mixed drinks ruin the flavour. He's a bit of a drink snob. Horangi will sniff and tell you that König doesn't know how to have fun, and Roze will tell you that König is just rather particular about who's mixing his drinks. Apparently, Horangi has been banned. König's a hardy man, but after one sip of what Horangi was slinging, he had thrown up in a water fountain. König is deeply ashamed by this incident.

When he does go out to drink, he just gets a bit more assertive. He already is so quietly self-assured, but now he's saying it in a voice that carries a bit too easily over the room.

König is a surprisingly pleasant drunk though, all things considered. He doesn't make messes, he mostly stays in one place and keeps his hands to himself (or on his phone as he plays Tetris. He's scarily good at playing Tetris, especially when drunk). He will compliment you if he thinks you've earned it, or tear you to shreds if he thinks it's in your best interest to hear it.

He's vocal about his opinions in a way he'd never be when he's sober. He'll tell you exactly what he thinks about you. He told Roze that she bitches about the MREs too much and she needs to take more laxatives, and he told Horangi that all his tiger motifs were corny and he needed to get a new bit. All the awful truths come pouring out of him in an unstoppable torrent.

Fundamentally, König just loosens up enough to say all the things he thinks but is too scared to say. He's confident in himself, and if you get him talking about himself he'll go on about how successful and wonderful he is. He's not wrong about anything he's saying, but it's a major surprise to see him talk so openly about being proud of himself. He's always been a bit cocky, but his pride shines when his tongue is loosened.

Things change when he looks at you.

He turns to you after having had a sixth shot at the bar and his face falls slack. You brace yourself, but no barrage of brutality comes forth. Instead, his voice softens and he clasps his big hands around your face.

"I have found happiness at last," he tells you as he presses his lips to your forehead.

He slumps over onto you like a sack of flour. He presses you close in a bone-crushing hug that never seems to end. The entire time, he's thanking you over and over again. For what? Only König really knows.

All the other KorTac agents are green with envy when they watch how König turns into a puddle of love for you. He showers you in compliments and thanks for things you'd long since forgotten about. He is so incredibly sweet when he's like this.

When he's sober, he's more reserved with his affections. He'll hold you close in private, but he doesn't speak all too often. His love language is mostly through touch and gifting. When he's drunk, all the words that pile up in his head come tumbling out.

Sometimes, going out with König can be nice.

[fakebatmanfan]

Can we got more Secret six NSFW headCanons?

That jervis is My fav and i'm so glad i could find someone else who also loves a that weirdo as Mich as i do, people don't appreciate him enought 😭

Secret Six Jervis - NSFW Alphabet

TW: NSFW, brief mention of drug usage and light BDSM

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Smug. After having sex, Jervis is either insanely smug or positively giddy with the high of orgasm. Even if he's made love more than a hundred times before, there's something special to him about laying claim over your body. He feels very proud of himself, either way.

Of course, he will ask if you're alright (and he may very well need to) in some mixture of genuine concern and pride. Something like:

"Was I too rough with you, dear? Oh, I'm afraid, terribly afraid I can't be anything but when you tempt me so."

Will he help you clean up? If you ask him to. But honestly there's a part of him that wants to bask in your sexual glory first. He may even suggest forgoing cleaning up all together and falling asleep with his penis in you, or something alike.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

This Jervis loves his hands and all the things he can do with them; making hats, groping you, pinching you, tea, fingering you until you cry real tears... The list goes on.

While he is canonically an ass man, I think Jervis would also love your sweet, kissing lips; how they whisper his praises without so much as a hipnotic suggestion, how they kiss him so tenderly...

Don't get me wrong, though, your ass gets plenty of attention from Jervis during and outside of sex. He'll definitely give you a little pinch or smack there to signal that he's in the mood.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Jervis will cum anywhere you want and will probably end up making some kind of comment about "upsetting the milk jug" onto where ever he's cum.

It's a little bitter, thick yet oddly runny. He's kinda into seeing you swallow after you suck him off, but he thinks it's just as cute when it dribbles down your pretty face and lands on your chest below.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

When he first caught feelings for you, he'd fuck his Alice blow-up doll and pretend it was you. I'm debating whether or not he'd have given the doll a make-over to look more like you, but he most definitely used to speak to it as if it were yourself.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Canonical body count of over 100. Believe me, you are in capable (cap-able?) hands.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

All of them? I mean, he looks like he's having missionary in this panel-

-But I really think this Jervis would be up for anything as long as he gets to fuck you. Physical closeness and being able to look at your face or ass is preferable, though.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

It really depends, honestly. Sometimes, Jervis can be very serious in bed, especially if he knows he as to be gentle with you for whatever reason or he's in a possessive or generally poor mood . However, if either one of you is high or he's simply in very high spirits, he'll be rather silly.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Jervis' pubes are a very dark red, pretty much the colour of his wet hair in this panel:

They're by no means very neat, especially if he's not been doing very well mentally and thus hasn't been taking care of himself. If he is doing better, he might trim for your sake.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Usually, Jervis can be very romantic, especially if the occasion calls for it. But, when he's in his sillier moods, he'll often come off as a little... zany(?)

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Before he has you, he either uses his Alice doll or one of his hats to relieve himself, thinking of you all the while. Like I said, he 100% pretends the doll is you.

He masturbates very frequently.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Where do I start? I've discussed my speculations about what Jervis is into canonically but, strictly headcanoning here:

Jervis would be super into having sex either when both of you are high or if you're high alone. Something about seeing you at your most vulnerable (which goes double if you've never used drugs before) arouses him very much.

Of course, if you're high together you're both being vulnerable with each other. Jervis finds it very intimate.

Kinda already spoken about this, but it bares repeating, I think Jervis would kinda be into spanking, being an ass man and all. Nothing too harsh, but he really enjoys seeing you react and being able to "punish" you for teasing him.

He'd 100% try to talk you into wearing one of his special hats while you fuck. Similar to the whole 'Jervis enjoys fucking you while you're high because he's seeing you at your most vulnerable', but seeing you experience pure bliss would be very erotic.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

In bed is only naturally, but Jervis'll gladly take you on the floor (specifically in front of the fireplace), in his armchair, at the tea table, on the tea table...

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Hat.

On a more subjective level, though, it arouses him greatly when you play coy or touch him excessively. Also, seeing you dressed like Alice would similarly do the trick.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

He could never hurt you (aside from the spanking, of course), and he certainly wouldn't degrade you in any way, shape or form and would expect the same from you.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Oral king. He can bite and suck and lick and slurp your vagina like a sweet cup of tea. He takes great pleasure in it, too, especially if you're very reactive.

As for receiving? He's also a big fan. Sometimes, he likes to hold your hat to your head as you suck him off, guiding you in a way.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Depends on his mood. If he's in a very bad or very good mood, prepare to be pounded into fast as he physically can. But, if he's actively trying to be more gentle with you or is being more sensual for whatever reason, he's slow as anything.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

You can have quickies as much as you like, though considering how much time you likely spend with Jervis, having proper sex makes much more sense 9 out of 10 times.

Jervis denies you nothing.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Oh, Jervis is all too glad to experiment with you. He'll do almost anything you like in bed so long as you do the same in return.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Jervis can go for quite a long time, experienced as he is. He can go for a good many rounds, too, usually 5 at most. He gets a kick out of seeing how many times you cum before he does.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

The only 'toys' you'll be using are his special hats, which he mainly likes to use on you. If you had other toys, he may be curious about them and opt to use them on you, but a part of him would still be a little jealous at the idea of you pleasuring yourself with it.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Jervis is an insufferable tease. He knows just where to touch you, where to kiss you, what words to say to get you needing him just as much as he needs you.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Jervis grunts a lot, especially during orgasm. He likes to talk to you, partially to be sure you're still there, usually in a whispery sort of voice if he's being gentle and his usual speaking voice if he isn't.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

When you were newlyweds, Jervis once made love to you nearly 10 times in one day. You were both exhausted afterwards and rather sore, but it's one of Jervis' fondest memories of you.

He also canonically drools and cries if the build up to an orgasm is particularly good.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Behold! Canon!

Dick wise, he's got a four inch grower, which is a little on the thinner side. Don't be fooled, he can use that thing like a weapon.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

So high. Maybe too high. If he has his way, Jervis'll have you 1 to 3 times a day, more on special occasions.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

If you've had sex in the evening and your both in bed, Jervis'll fall asleep after he's made sure you're alright. But otherwise? He's perfectly able to continue about his day after fucking you. Albeit, he finds in incredibly endearing when you need to rest afterwards when he doesn't.

[witchezandwonderz]

Letters in the Dark

Pairing: Aegon x Reader

Summary: Aegon finds a deep connection with someone through meaningful letters...

You voted for fluffy Aegon so here he is, loud and proud- likes, reblogs and comments are unbelievably appreciated x

The sound of steel clashing echoed faintly from the practice yards as she balanced a basket of freshly pressed linens on her hip. Being a seamstress in the Red Keep wasn’t a glamorous job, but it was steady work. Most days, she spent her hours stitching hems or patching cloaks torn by reckless knights.

Every day was just as busy as the previous, and Y/N was overwhelmed with tiredness and stress, for there was an upcoming event in which Queen Alicent had ordered her to ensure that the entire families clothes were perfection; this meant that her working day was even longer than usual.

Finally arriving at her quarters, she practically ran into the room and shut the giant door firmly behind her, pressing her back against the closed door and fluttering her eyes shut, briefly, taking a deep breath and appreciating a moment of silence.

When reopening her eyes, a stained piece of parchment that peeked through the gap under the door caught her eye. She squinted and bent her body in an attempt to gain a clearer view of the parchment.

"How curious." She whispered to herself as she moved closer- she barely spoke to other humans, or, more so, other humans did not speak to her, let alone send her letters. She reached out and gently guided it from underneath the door, being delicate in the hopes that it would not rip.

She unfolded it carefully, her brow furrowing as she read the neat but bold handwriting:

“To the one who works in silence, You must find your days tiresome, toiling away beneath the weight of others’ expectations. But remember this: no matter how unseen you may feel, your hands create things of worth. And that is more than enough.”

Y/N blinked. She read the words again, her mind racing. Who would send this to me? There was no signature, no name, only the mysterious words that somehow seemed to see her, to understand the exhaustion that clung to her bones. She shook her head. Strange.

Y/N found the letter strange, but she found the meaning even more curious- how did this person know of her feelings? How did this person know of her loneliness? Of her sadness? Of her longing to be noticed? She decided to reply- perhaps too quickly, indeed.

Excited by the circumstance, she quickly grabbed a fresh piece of parchment and a quill, frantically and carelessly dunked it into a pot of ink and began writing.

“To the one who writes in shadows, Your words are a rarity, a gift I did not expect. I often feel like a mere shadow, unseen in the vast halls of the Keep, and yet your letter spoke to something within me. It’s not often that I am reminded that my work, though unnoticed, matters.

I do not know who you are, nor do I know your intentions, but for once, your words have brought me a small comfort amidst the chaos. I wonder, does anyone ever truly see the ones who serve without question? You have, and for that, I thank you.

Yet, I must ask, who are you? And why do you choose to write to me, of all people? I will wait for an answer—though I do not expect one. Until then, The One Who Works in Silence."

She was aware of the difference in length between the two letters, that being that hers was significantly longer than the original senders- but she did not care. This was the first time in years that someone had spoken to her- really spoken to her. Y/N was beginning to think that she was seen as a walking piece of machinery at this point.

Unfortunately, she did not know where to send the letter too- so- she decided to put it in the exact spot where she had found the original note, in the hopes that the sender would return to find it. Y/N wedged the note in between the door and allowed herself to fall into a peaceful slumber, imagining all of the possibilities of whom would be writing to her.

Once waking at the crack of dawn, as usual, Y/N would normally get dressed immediately in preparation for her daily duties. On this occasion, however, her mind automatically flew straight to the prior nights events- the letter. She sprang out of her small, uncomfortable bed and lightly ran to the door- the cold floor boards stinging her bare feet as she moved. If she was completely honest, she did not actually expect the person in question to have responded within a mere night time.

Y/N bent down so that she was held up by her knees, and peered down through the gap in the door. She felt disappointment cloud her as she saw that her parchment was still in the exact spot where she had left it. Nonetheless, she looked closer, just in case. When noticing that the parchment was a slightly darker shade of beige, she smiled to herself. She was mistaken, for it was not her note. They had replied.

Y/N's hands trembled as she reached for the note, her fingertips brushing against the slightly rough parchment. She could not help but feel worried, for a secret exchanging of notes with a stranger may be seen as an act of traitorous events, in the eyes of the King, Aegon. She shook her head at the thought- she did have a habit of overthinking. For a moment, she simply held it, staring at the folded edges and the small blot of ink that marred the corner—proof of its hurried creation.

She sat back down on her bed, swiftly and quietly- the walls were thin and she did not want to wake anyone near. Carefully unfolding the parchment, she sat back slightly in an attempt to seek better comfort from her cold sheets.

"To the One Who Works in Silence, You searched for my reply, and here it is. I must confess, your response lingered in my mind long after I first read it. I am both glad and uneasy that my words have found their mark. Glad, because you deserve to know how deeply you are valued, and uneasy, because I fear my own words may fail to convey the truth of what I feel.

You ask why I write to you, and I wonder if I can provide an answer that satisfies us both. It began with admiration, perhaps—your quiet diligence caught my eye long before I found the courage to put quill to parchment. But it did not stop there. I saw a beauty in you, not just in your face, which holds a grace unmatched in these stone halls, but in the way you move, the way you dedicate yourself to your craft without seeking applause or acknowledgment.

You intrigue me, and I cannot help but feel drawn to know you more. In a world where so many feign sincerity, you seem so utterly and beautifully real. That is why I write to you. That is why I hope you will not turn away from my letters, though they come from someone you cannot yet see.

As to who I am, I am bound by duty and expectation. My name carries weight, and with it, chains I cannot yet escape. I will not lie to you—there may come a time when I must reveal my identity, but for now, I ask you to see me through my words.

Yours, with all honesty, The One Who Sees You."

Y/N felt her cheeks burn hotter and hotter as she read the letter, she read it once, and then twice, and then a third time. She wanted to find a deeper meaning, she wanted to know who this admirer was.

As to who I am, I am bound by duty and expectation. My name carries weight, and with it, chains I cannot yet escape.

So, whoever this is, is someone with a title- someone with a title who resides within the red keep, or at least is extremely close with someone who resides in the red keep. But who? It could not be the King, despite her hopes that it would be. Perhaps Aemond? She shook the thought away, for she had indeed met Aemond many a time, but in every one of their encounters he had offended her in one way or another. Y/N let out a deep sigh, for all she could think about was the fact that a man, for the first time in her life, regards her as beautiful.

The next few weeks involved many letters indeed, sad ones, happy ones, angry ones, emotional ones, you name it- there was a letter for it. Y/N felt naïve, but she honestly felt like she was in love with this secret person- she had never revealed so much of her life, of her emotions. Similarly, she had never experienced anyone being so open and honest with her, either. She burned with desire- all she wanted to know was who it was.

As always, she sat on the end of her bed re reading the previous letter that he had sent during the night.

A quiet knock on the door interrupted her deep and chaotic thoughts. Y/N cleared her throat and flung her sheet over the note before calling "come in."

The door opened and with that, the King's mother, Alicent, entered the room. Y/N had always quite liked Alicent- she was good to her. Especially when Y/N had been sent there to work when she was a child; Alicent saw that it was wrong, to have a child as a servant, so, arranged for Y/N to be taught how to make clothing. Hence, why Y/N was now the lead clothing maker for Kings Landing.

Alicent smiled brightly at Y/N. "Y/N, you are late." She said, walking further into the room, her smile now fading. "Get dressed, I need your help with the finishing touches for the banquet." Alicent barely looked at her, clearly riddled with stress about the anticipated events.

"I will wait for you outside, hurry up!" Alicent called out, before walking out of the room and pulling the door shut. Y/N let out a deep sigh, for all she could think about was the fact that a man, for the first time in her life, regards her as beautiful.

She quickly got dressed, laced up her boots and tucked the letter into a draw, where she kept all of the accumulated confessions. She sighed, realising that she would not have enough time to write a letter back, she would have to wait until she is released back to her room to get ready for the banquet. Never mind.

Moments later, Y/N followed Alicent out into the hallway. The queen walked briskly, her gown sweeping the stone floors. Y/N tried to match her pace, though her thoughts strayed again to the mysterious writer, as they always did.

As they turned a corner, the two nearly collided with Aegon, who stopped abruptly, a startled look flashing across his face.

“Mother,” he greeted, his usual nonchalance missing entirely. His hands twitched at his sides, and his gaze flicked nervously to Y/N before darting away just as quickly.

“Aegon,” Alicent said sharply, crossing her arms. “Shouldn’t you be preparing yourself?”

“I—yes,” he stammered, his usual glib tone replaced by something softer, almost uncertain. “I was… just heading there.”

Y/N curtsied quickly, her eyes fixed on the floor. “My King.”

Aegon’s response came slower than usual, his voice quieter. “Y/N.” The way he said her name sent a ripple through her chest. She dared a glance up, meeting his eyes for a moment before he looked away again, his cheeks tinged with a faint pink. She felt awful- she had always taken a liking to Aegon, but she had a lover now- well, technically anyway and loyalty meant everything to her.

Alicent sighed. “Come, Y/N. We have no time to waste.” She moved forward, but Y/N lingered half a step behind, waiting for Aegon to move aside.

He hesitated, his hand twitching slightly as though he wanted to reach for something—or someone. As Y/N stepped forward, his fingers brushed lightly against the back of her hand, barely a touch, but enough to send a shiver down her spine. Her head snapped towards him in confusion, but he had already begun walking away.

To Y/N's surprise, Alicent stopped suddenly, in turn nearly causing Y/N to topple over. Alicent turned instantly, calling after Aegon once again. "Actually, I have changed my mind, Aegon!" Her voice carried loudly and echoed throughout the stone walls. Aegon hesitated before stopping and turning back, causing Alicent to speak once more. "I think you should do your fitting with Y/N now, there may need to be some finishing touches."

Y/N panicked, she did not expect to have to see Aegon so soon after the awkward, yet satisfying slight moment of intimacy.

"Now?" He asked, his eyes looking around him. Alicent nodded. "Yes. Is there a problem?"

Aegon shook his head before walking towards the pair. Alicent gave them both a curt nod before turning on her heel and walking briskly down the corridor, her gown flowing behind her like a banner.

Y/N and Aegon looked at each other blankly for a moment before Y/N decided to fill the awkward silence. "This way, your Grace." She flashed him a small, nervous smile, before using her arm to gesture down the hall.

Aegon did not speak, and one of Y/N's downfalls, she thought, was that she was incapable of allowing a silence- she just had to fill it, always.

"My apologies, your Grace, as this may sound out of my bounds but all of my things are kept in my room." She breathed, as they walked briskly down the empty halls. "Would you mind doing the fitting in there? Or would you prefer me to gather the things and do-"

Her words were interrupted.

"Your room will be fine." Her head snapped up at him, but he was looking at the ground once more. She did not respond with words, but instead hummed quietly.

Y/N’s nerves thrummed in her chest as they reached her modest quarters. Her hand trembled slightly as she opened the door, stepping aside to let Aegon enter first. He hesitated for a moment, then crossed the threshold, his movements awkward and uncharacteristically cautious.

“Please, your Grace,” she said, gesturing towards the small space. “It’s not much, but it should suffice.”

Aegon nodded, his eyes sweeping over the room, taking in the neatly folded fabrics, spools of thread, and tools that spoke to her craft. He seemed strangely out of place, his royal attire a stark contrast to the simplicity of her surroundings.

Y/N busied herself at her work table, retrieving the measurements and pins she would need. The silence stretched between them, heavy and oppressive. She chanced a glance at him, only to find him staring at her with an expression she couldn’t quite place.

“Your Grace?” she prompted, her voice soft.

He blinked, as though snapping out of a trance. “Yes, of course,” he said hurriedly, stepping onto the small platform she had indicated.

Y/N approached him cautiously, draping the cloak over his shoulders. Her fingers brushed against his neck as she adjusted the fabric, and she felt him stiffen slightly under her touch.

“I trust the preparations are to your liking, my King?” she asked, trying to keep her tone professional despite the fluttering in her chest.

“Yes,” he replied, though his voice was quieter than usual. He shifted his weight, his hands fidgeting at his sides. “You’ve always done excellent work, Y/N.”

The use of her name, spoken so gently, made her pause. She looked up at him, her brows furrowing in slight confusion. “Thank you, your Grace,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Aegon opened his mouth to speak, and then quickly closed it again. Seemingly having changed his mind, it opened once more.

"Y/N, I know about the letters."

Y/N felt her heart leap in her chest, and her eyes visibly widened. She told herself to calm down, and act natural.

"I am unsure of what you mean, your Grace." She breathed, busying herself with a needle. Aegon let out a sigh. "It is ok Y/N I know everything." He said calmly. Y/N unhooked the needle from the garment and looked at him. "I am sorry, your Grace." Her words left her mouth unbelievably quietly- almost a whisper, although she had not intended them too.

Aegon's eyes softened. "Why are you sorry?" He asked, but before giving her a chance to answer, he spoke once more. "It is me that should apologise. You have been speaking with me." He stated, he had not intended for the confession to be so sudden, and so blunt at that. Y/N's brows furrowed in confusion, it couldn't have been him all along- the King himself?

Aegon could sense Y/N's inability to find the correct words, so took the chance to explain himself further. "I have never felt so close to someone, Y/N, these past few weeks have been." He paused, and then smiled. "They have been so enjoyable, getting to know you. You are the only person that has ever truly listened to me, the real me."

“You?” she whispered, her voice almost inaudible. “You’re the one who’s been writing to me?”

Aegon nodded slowly, his eyes fixed on hers, vulnerable yet unflinching. “I am,” he said simply, his tone earnest. “It was selfish, perhaps, to write to you as I did. To let you share so much of yourself with me without revealing who I was. But I couldn’t stop. Your words—they were like a light in a very dark place.”

Y/N opened her mouth to respond, but nothing came out. Aegon took a hesitant step forward, closing the gap between them. His presence was overwhelming, but she couldn’t bring herself to move away.

“I know it must come as a shock,” he continued, his voice quieter now, almost tender. “But everything I wrote, every word, was true. I meant it all. And more.”

Y/N looked up at him, eyes wide, like a deer caught in headlights. "I meant everything too." Aegon instantly relaxed at her words, almost as if all he needed was the slight indication that she was not too disheartened with discovering that it was him.

"From the moment that I saw you, I felt close to you. This may sound, slightly strange, but the words that we have exchanged have caused me to develop deep affections for you." His eyes, that were firmly gazed into hers, now fell to the floor.

Her breath caught in her throat. “Your Grace…”

“Aegon,” he corrected gently, his hand covering hers fully now. “Please, just Aegon."

Aegon’s gaze flicked down to her lips, his breath uneven as though caught between anticipation and restraint. “May I?” he asked, his voice trembling with uncharacteristic shyness.

Y/N nodded, her cheeks warming as she tilted her head slightly.

He leaned in, his movements slow and deliberate, as though giving her every chance to pull away. When their lips finally met, it was soft, hesitant, and achingly sweet. The kiss was not one of fiery passion, but of quiet devotion, a promise that words could never fully convey.

When they parted, Aegon pressed a small kiss to her forehead, his mouth then curving into a shy smile.

"I want you to be my wife, Y/N." He admitted, looking deep into her soul once again. Y/Ns heart panged, for she wanted to marry him, of course she did- but she knew that it was not possible.

"Aegon." She whispered. "I love you." Y/N leant up and pressed a lingering kiss to his lips. "But, we would never be accepted." She bit her lip slightly.

Aegon shrugged. "Accepted by who?" He asked, a smirk now creeping onto his expression.

Y/N playfully rolled her eyes. "Your mother, for one, your sister, your brother, the whole of Westeros? I started as a servant, Aegon." Y/N rambled, panic arising within her at the thought of potential judgement. Aegon watched her with amusement.

"I am the King, Y/N. You may have been a servant once, but not now. You will be the Queen." His fingers intertwined with hers.

Y/N sighed. "You really think that it is this simple, don't you?" She too now held a small smile on her face. Aegon mimicked her expression before placing a kiss on her nose.

"I have spent my reign thus far, terrified that my mother will force me to marry a random woman. I have finally found love, a woman who I actually see myself having a future with." His hands now found the back of her hair, as he pulled her close and embraced her in a hug.

"I will not let you go now."

[ruby-red-inky-blue]

Carrie watches Rogue One (again) Pt. 1

okay everyone, let's get back to basics. I am rewatching Rogue One. (Pt 1 because this ran so long it was getting crazy)

Stuff I love:

god, the music, the music! Michael Giachino, you are a king among men. The title music alone??? is so great??? how you think it's regular Star Wars but then it's not, but the music still sounds so quintessentially Star Wars, it's so good

Baby Jyn's casting remains incredible. She is so cute, and she looks so much like Felicity Jones!

Jyn clearly remembering the "everything I do, I do to protect you" and yet not giving that any credence for the first third of the movie is such a good and realistic choice, and it shows her jadedness so well. I wouldn't believe him either, if everyone just kept fucking me over!

Little Jyn's hideout is so cleverly hidden, and really speaks to their preparation in ways that the fact they wait so long to leave the homestead do not. It makes little sense to me how long they are taking to get out of dodge, and that they don't even seem to attempt to have everyone flee together. But that also speaks to how ruthless and prepared her parents were at this point - and how shitty little Jyn's life must have been in the grand scheme of things, even while she had parents who loved her at that point. Her parents are hardened people already - Galen clearly prepared to stall Krennic to let them escape, Lyra choosing to try and take Krennic down with her instead of going quietly, even to stay alive for her child...

Little Jyn with the lamp!!! I will never EVER be over the parallels of Jyn with her little broken lamp and the warm light on her face, and then Jyn with the light on her face in the elevator. It's so neat!

JEDHA. Goddd. It feel so tangible and massive, those eerie statues/mountain ranges in the desert, even Saw's rebels - everything feels so grounded and vivid here, while on Andor, their hideouts often looked like a set to me, especially in S2.

Bodhi trying so hard to look brave will never not get me.

I have yelled about Kafrene so much in the past weeks I have nothing to add except to reiterate this: Cassian didn't need to comfort Tivik. He was, in fact, wasting valuable time in doing so. That's what got me the first time watching, how this act is at the same time so kind and so incredibly callous. Like, how cruel to lie to someone you know you're going to kill - and how kind to take a moment, even in that situation, to make sure that person is not afraid.

I love how defiant and steely Jyn is. I wish they had played that up even more, especially in the beginning of her interview. But I LOVE the steel that comes into her posture and expression the moment they ask about Saw.

"I found it!" and "I find that answer vague and unconvincing" are still so funny

They are so good at establishing Cassian as a very good manipulator and handler with really small things in this script. Like him immediately ceding to Jyn's challenge of "trust goes both ways" - he instantly recognises that she expects him to take it from her and that she plans to be difficult, and recognises that he will lose her trust and possibly her cooperation forever if he does take it from her (even if he'd, you know, survive that). So he just cedes it to her, without another word. It's such a good, calculated risk - because yeah, she might shoot him now, but he needs her to trust him, and stick with him, and he only has until they land to make that happen, and they're all toast if he fails. So it's worth the risk! And he sees that immediately! Even though Kay doesn't! It's so great.

Love that we're letting the camera linger on Draven just long enough to see his sad little head drop before he turns away.

Bodhi meeting Saw my beloved. Where are the gifs of this scene?? Where is this moment in the fandom because it is SO GOOD. He's so scared and so relieved and so annoyed at all the time they're wasting, and you can tell how underneath all that he's genuinely so proud and almost shocked that he actually did it, that he actually defected and made it all the way to the Saw Gerrera. That he did deliver Galen's message, like he promised! I love this man so much he means the world to me. I want to punch whatever Disney clown had him edited out of the thumbnail. Fuck you. Bodhi is such a good character.

"I defected, I came here myself, they didn't capture me!" "I gave it to them, they did not find it!" and that dirty look he manages to give the men who are holding him on his knees, handcuffed! He deserves the world!!! Do you not see that!!!

Gareth Edwards, king of SCALE. The shot of "look, a tie fighter! and holy shit, that Star Destroyer looks massive behind i - holy shit look at the thing behind that!!" This is how you Death Star!!!

Ben Mendelsohn. Krennic is so compelling to watch, in all his small-minded, cringey, petulant, grandstanding glory.

Jyn's flashbacks are so poignant, it never feels like we're wasting time with them.

Jedha City is such a cool design, and again the SCALE with the Star Destroyer towering over the whole city!!

Cassian's friendly little pat of Kay as he walks past him. They're friends!!! Was that so hard!!!

Jedha feels so real, the narrow streets, the bustle, and kids! There are kids, not plot-significant ones, just running around! And the street food vendours and the janky-ass holo projector giving out Bodhi's picture, every metal on screen has patina and rust on it and the stone doesn't look freshly scrubbed, it feels so lived in.

The street ambush on Jedha is filmed so well, it feels really threatening and chaotic.

Jyn, Kay and the grenade he catches remain the funniest thing in the world to me btw.

The Slap is very funny, yeah, but can we talk about Kay's posture when he barely saves the "These are... prisoners." Alan Tudyk really killed even in the smallest moments.

Chirrut going off on those stormtroopers is just a masterclass. I love how he uses his cloak to blind some of them, or kicks dirt in their face, just some really good use of the environment, such a fun fight sequence!

Also, Jiang Wen's delivery on "only dreamers, like this fool" just sends me every time, it's so good <3

we've all yelled about it for many years, but Cassian's pissy little smile in Saw's cave at the guards is still. Very good. Also though I will say this is the first of those rare moments where Cassian really is a bit of a petty bitch - not that it's not earned, he was just manhandled and locked up, but. My guy. You're a spy. I'm sure you expected this might happen. (I still think they played this trait up way too much throughout the show, but. It is in here! Just in little, blink-and-you-miss-it exchanges. I guess one could argue it's something he got better at over time?)

goddd the cross-cutting between Jyn and the Death Star and Galen's hologram is so so good, like this is essentially an exposition dump but you don't even notice because the visuals lare so stunning and Felicity is giving a masterclass performance

also man I will never get over how insanely gorgeous the destruction of Jedha looks, the symmetry, the eclipse, the colours!!! I love how they show all that incredible visual off and then have Krennic go "Oh, it's beautiful", when you realise he's looking at this like you are, like a guy watching a movie in a cinema, it's so good! He sounds so pleasantly surprised, oh look, it's efficient and pretty! It's so awful in how incredibly casual it is, and Ben Mendelsohn's delivery on that line is *chef's kiss*

Bodhi seeing the city blown up :(

Much as I have beef with Whitaker's acting choices in this movie, his very last moments are choice, and "Save the Rebellion! Save the dream!" does haunt me still, it's such a banger of a line.

Chirrut's quiet little "Baze, tell me. All of it? The whole city?" guts me every time. He's been so full of showmanship this whole time, he wasn't entirely serious for a single line of dialogue, and here he's so subdued. It's so fucking sad!!! This movie is so so good about emotional impact on their characters, in a franchise that has a, um... spotty history with that (side-eyeing Leia having to comfort Luke after watching her planet get blown up...).

Honestly we talk so much about the scenes in the shuttle scene from Eadu to Yavin, we don’t talk enough about the one TO Eadu. Bodhi’s little monologue and his moment of recognition for Jyn is so good! We did not deserve Riz Ahmed, he killed this role and nobody ever talks about it. Baze’s cynicism in this scene is so good, this movie just keeps giving you people at different stages of the rage-resignation-devotion cycle of resistance and meet each other at really different points of it is so interesting.

Diego giving a fucking masterclass in the background at his communicator station too with next to no words. Yeah, if you got nothing from this character in this movie, it’s because you weren’t looking at the screen, sorry.

The mirroring of this exchange with the hangar scene later is so juicy, I’ll never be over it. And again, there’s a way to read an allusion to an SA victim’s type struggle in there that I’m not even sure was intentional but it means so much to me. But the way Cassian, very gently but with so much cynicism, immediately says she has no chance because she doesn’t have any concrete evidence and her word won’t be enough, and how it doesn’t matter if he believes her because he’s “not the one you’ve got to convince”… and then, when Chirrut says he does believe her, he dismisses that with a snide “that’s good to know”… yeah.

But crucially, whether intentional or not, the scene isn’t just that. It also works on its face, as political commentary on how the Rebellion is entrenched in allegiances and factions and paranoia and has become too big to act on hunches and that is almost their downfall. Because they will discount a terrible warning and almost throw away what eventually paves the path to victory because that warning comes from a person who isn’t one of them – even before the council does, Cassian, far and away the highest-ranking Alliance member on this shuttle, rejects it out of hand. It might be true but if there isn’t any proof it doesn’t matter. Jyn and Cassian have neatly traded places: First it was him wanting to act and projecting urgency and her being too cautious and not passionate enough about the issue to act, now it’s the other way around.

This whole harping on about proof, and how they’d believe her with proof, and how Cassian lets Jyn believe that they’re going to get her father for that proof is also so crucial for her reaction later to Cassian attempting to shoot Galen. I get how this went over some people’s head, frankly, it’s a little brief to really stick and there’s a whole big action set piece in the middle, but it’s so neat really. It’s not just that he tried to kill her father, it’s that they came all this way for his information and yet Cassian seems so hell-bent on following his orders he almost sabotaged his own mission completely (at least from the POV of someone who fully believes Galen at this point). His orders aren’t just morally wrong at this point, they’re also tactically wrong from Jyn’s point of view – because she believes her father, so she correctly realises destroying the Death Star now is a higher priority than neutralising a potentially interchangeable scientist who may build another threat later.

People bitch about this script so much, and honestly maybe I’ve just seen the movie too often at this point to judge how it flows because I’m so familiar with all the parts of it. But I think the writing is incredibly tight overall – the main arcs are all beautifully rendered and intertwined and reach satisfying conclusions, with no large logical gaps or thematic breaks. Maybe I think so highly of this movie because I care a lot about narrative structure and maybe less about ideal pacing for a blockbuster, because the distribution of time to the individual plots probably is a little weird at times, but that never bothered me. 

Stuff I never noticed before:

just how hardened the Ersos are, even in baby Jyn's earliest flashback on Coruscant!! The expressions on their faces, the way they act around Krennic even here... just this brief scene got me so intrigued I am finally picking Catalyst back up again.

Cassian all but admits he (or at least the Alliance) are responsible for Tivik! He tells Jyn "He has just gone missing, his sister will be looking for him". Not "His sister is looking for him and has told us he's gone missing." He fully admits he doesn't know this from her, he is warning Jyn that stuff may get hairy between him and Tivik's sister. I never caught that before lol

Questions:

Does Krennic believe Galen about Lyra being dead? I could read it either way, I wonder what Mendo believed when he played it.

I always thought it was odd that Jyn went with "Saw will be pissed if you kill me because I'm Galen's daughter" instead of "because he raised me". I guess it's her being cagey about her own connection to Saw? But it's such a gamble, she can't even be sure if Tubes knows who Galen is!

Quibbles & Complaints section:

I will say, Jyn getting liberated from Wobani is edited pretty choppily. There are a lot of cuts and they don't quite line up, it is a bit annoying to watch. But always worth it for the queen of my heart bashing Melshi in the face with a shovel. He really doesn't deserve it, but it's still glorious.

The Yavin hangar looks somehow less real than almost all the other sets, and I cannot place my finger on why. Maybe the weirdly uniform way the vines grow on the pillars. It's much better in the later shots, so maybe it's the lighting, too.

This is so nitpicky, but Diego's line read on "When was the last time you were in contact with your father?" always bothered me - he's shaking his head in the middle of the sentence, and it feels so inorganic to what he's saying? It's not a sarcastic question, or a leading one, and even if it was the headshake would go at the end - and it messes with the vocal delivery, too. Again, this is so so nitpicky, but in my perfect world they would have done another take on that lol

Some of Felicity's earlier reads on that scene also feel like they were dubbed over in post, or were mixed differently than the shots of everyone else - they are kind of off in cadence or volume for how far away she is from Cassian and the face she's making. I think some of these WERE re-shot, and you can tell. Again, super nitpicky, but I think the movie lost some people right here and they decided "oh this isn't good" - it's not super bad, but there's a weird uncanny feel about it.

It's kind of annoying how the conversation keeps switching and switching, Mothma and Cassian and Draven all finishing each other's sentences, and the way they're positioned around the table makes it really difficult to tell who Felicity is emoting at sometimes. Much as I love Cassian in this scene, I feel like maybe Draven and Mothma should have done the talking here, and switched off at a more organic point. I love that Mothma gets to talk a good deal, and I do love to joke about her and Draven being an item or otherwise weirdly in sync, but it is odd that they are literally talking like they are reading off the same script here. Or Cassian could have done the talking, and Draven watched from the shadows, looking progressively unhappy with the orders Mothma is giving to Cassian and Jyn, and then go after them on the airfield and give his conflicting orders. I feel like that would have felt far more natural than the weird "I get a line, you get a line" thing they're doing - and also we could have cut less, because. Boy.

The whole scene feels very choppy, it's so needlessly cut together for a stationary conversation. Again, I know why - they changed a lot of the dialogue in the reshoots, but. Idk. Just redo the whole scene. These really short shots are a little odd, like for example earlier when Mothma is talking the camera keeps jumping to different distances away from her, but it's a stationary camera every time, it feels strange on a subconscious level.

Forest Whitaker overdid it. There, I said it. I thought he was stellar in Andor (all script-based issues aside), but in Rogue One, he's... a bit much. Like, give us 20 percent less and it'd be perfect.

Bor Gullet my detested. This scene is so goofy and tonally off, and it would have been such an easy fix to remove it! Just have Whitaker re-record one line and have him say "lock him up" instead. Riz Ahmed doesn't even need to FILM anything new, he can do voiceover over the fucking phone if he needs to because they already had the bag over Bodhi's head. Bodhi still has reason to panic - he defected, he did what he was told, why are they locking him up? Does this mean they don't believe him? Where are they taking him? Then you cut the Bor Gullet nonsense and boom. All done. Maybe you can imply he did get, you know, conventionally tortured, but even if you don't - Bodhi in the catatonic state he is in when Cassian, Chirrut and Baze find him is perfectly sensible without that. He thought they don't believe him, he thought it was all too late, he thought he would never get out of this place again, he's a civilian, that would fuck him up! And he saw his city blown up with heretofore unknown weapon power, he has plenty of reason to be off kilter for the rest of the movie!

They really had something with only showing Tarkin from behind with his reflection in the glass!! Why didn't they stick to that!!! Like, does he look shockingly decent for what it is? Yes, but the dead shark eyes are horrifying, and I think his mouth isn't moving right, either.

For the first thirty minutes, Felicity's performance doesn't really click for me - at least not when she's speaking, there's something so prim and soft-spoken in the way she talks even in the first few scenes in Jedha City that seems kind of at odds with the character. I feel like Jyn doesn't quite lock in until Saw's rebels throw the first grenade (which seems fitting lol).

It's a little goofy how Saw's rebels swarm the transport going "Kyber! Kyber!" and nothing else. Like if they were speaking a foreign language and all we understood was kyber, that'd be fine, but make it complete sentences! I have a feeling maybe this was also added later, because people missed the (admittedly extremely brief) glimpse of a kyber crystal in one of the tubes they're taking out.

Cassian's "cracking" the door lock on Saw's cell is so dumb and funny, like the man just wiggles a wrench in there, that simply cannot be how that works lol

[sallowtheories]

So I've been on Etsy, looking at wands. Specifically Sebastian Sallow's wand, because a girl gotta add to her collection, and her is something I've noticed -

Sebastian's wand is noticeably shorter than Ominis'.

Wand length is Harry Potter means a few things. A very tall person may have a longer wand, or a toad like person may have the shortest wand I've ever seen (Umbridge). But length also says something about character.

One thing I noticed was when I look at Ominis' wand, I'm reminded of Draco Malfoy's wand. Neat with not to much added on to it. Ominis' wand is actually more black than Draco Malfoy's wand, and as we now know, a little bit longer than Sebastian's wand.

Sebastian's wand on the other hand, is not like any I've seen before. Yes, we've seen wand woods in that color before, but not with that kind of handle.

Ominis' wand is plain black, while Sebastian's has all sorts of different colors and metals. It looks like green marble on the handle. It's also quite clear from the pricing, that Sebastian's wand takes a lot more to make.

So what can we say about Sebastian and Ominis, based on the wands?

Ominis is very refined my character. We actually rarely see him use any magic, and when we do, it's mainly for guiding himself around the school. Other than in the catacomb with the inferi, and when you choose him as a companion with companion mod, I actually don't think I've every heard Ominis say a spell. So I decided to look up videos of Ominis casting spells, and I noticed right away how calmly he says them. It's so quite and calm, that I hadn't noticed it before now. Speaks volumes to how confident Ominis might be in his own strength and abilities, that he doesn't need to yell them out loud

We know nothing about the true length of his wand, nor the felxibility, wand wood or core, so all of this is just speculation.

Sebastian's wand is quite interesting. Not is not neat as Ominis' wands, and does say a lot about their different upbringings. But with the many details of Sebastian's wand, I think the length speaks more of what he lacks/his insecurities, instead of his personality as a whole. Because what is wand lacks in length, is made up for in details.

Sebastian is the stereotypical insecure teen boy, who needs some sort of power or control to feel comfortable. Power and control he does not have naturally, and will therefore have to teach himself. His defence is his charm - probably something he has build up, in order to hide the parts of him he's not too sure or proud about.

Compared to Ominis, Sebastian is a little bit louder when casting spells. It's not that he yells them out all the time, but it's louder and you notice it. Which is a funny contrast between their NPCs roaming around the castle. Find Ominis, and he speaks to you. Find Sebastian, and he says nothing.

In conclusion, Ominis is much more relaxed in himself. You would expect him to be much more closed off and insecure. And though he is a bit closed off, he's not that insecure. He is the one with a family or a dark nature, and though it makes him uncomfortable, he is very firm in his beliefs, which does not aline with his family.

Sebastian on the other hand, is not relaxed in himself, whatsoever. I would even go so far as to say, that he is never relaxed, and almost living in a constant state of tension. Sebastian is insecure in his own abilities, and without his sister being there as a comforting and nurturing support, he might as well be ticking time bomb.

It's while writing this, that I start to wonder, how on earth Sebastian and Ominis managed to become such close friends in the first place. Yes, they're both "loners" when we meet them, but there was a time when Sebastian wasn't a loner. He had his sister. But more on that another day.

[punkeropercyjackson]

do you have any piper hcs? if so id love to hear about them (especially any including her and drew siblingisms) /nf ofc !!!

I got you!!!!

She isn't half cherokee,she's just cherokee.Aphrodite took the form of a woman of his tribe for Tristan but also half cherokee isn't even a thing because the culture sees multiracial people as simply 'cherokee' even if there's other races in there

She's a trans soft butch lesbian!I know Rick tried to write her as 'unlabeled' but lbr,he's just a lesbophobe as a bi woman she's 100% not into dudes.Her getting bullied by white cis femgirls was only made worse by her transition and thus she was traumatized out of femininity and her arc in Hoo is learning to be a proper tfem butch over a tomboy

She is also autistic and i love my autistic sister so much🩷

Also no weird ass light hair and eyes,her hair is black and glows a warm dark,dark,dark brown in sunlight and she has big brown eyes like a baby strawberry cow.She usually lets it hang loose but eventually she starts wearing braids again to signify character development

She's a huge Sanrio fan and makes custom merch of it.Her favorite is Hello Kitty and she's a he/him lesbian Daniel truther and Frank instantly agrees when she brings it up.Her dream date is a Sanrio Store spree(Onyx take notes)

I think she would use scene extensions/dye styles but not actually identify as scene,she gives more punk rock princess.She's Avril Lavigne but not a poser and she plays the drums and has an energy drinks chugging time record and Gir stickers Grandpa Tom gave her to try to be a cool granddad(it worked)

She really likes cheetos,especially hot cheetos!!And corn based foods as they take her back to good times!Nobody is allowed to joke on that second part though or Piper or Lex will deck them for being racist

Tim Drake kinnie and both proud and embarrassed of it(FR SHE IS SO TIM-CODED).Lex got her into Batfam!!

Casual gamer when it comes to consoles but hardcore into arcade games and her bowling skills go crazy

'This is a scar i got from a scorpion on a beach day when i was 5,the bite was NARLY and i cried all over the place but now i'm so proud of it because it makes me look all cool and rugged,and this scar is from when i saved Annabeth from a Hydra and she was so mad she finished the job for me,and this one's actually not a gunshot wound but a burn i ended up with when i went sick-o-her mode on Hera and this one-'

Takes Onyx on dates for fairy bread,stunts and yap.Also reminds him to wear protection gear /silly

Valentine's Day and Halloween are tied for her ultimate holiday

Local party thrower and instigator

Anarchist

Can't do a handstand and it brings her misery.Can't pronounce the word 'french' itself properly despite speaking it from birth and uses it to torment Percy

Speaking of which,Piper and Hazel AND Frank torment her together through their widely different french dialects

Does vine compilations

Her and the rest of the Aphrodite Cabin including Silena who survived the acid and came out with burn scar disabilities are basically 'The Elite' at camp but Lex teared down their walls through their friendship with Drew starting in TTC so by the time Piper arrives,they're chill with her habits and over their internalized misogyny.Cabin 10 is the number one spot you go to for love advice and the number two spot for trans healthcare(number one is Mr D. since....well yeah lmao)and her and Drew are basically messy autism vs neat autism but it's purely comical with no beef and they work things out

Heavy into sea junk thanks to her Aphrodite kid status but also from tagging along on Percy and Lex dates(she exaggeratedly wolfwhistled whenever she caught them kissing or even just being physically affectionate)

Sit on her lap wether platonically or romantic or a secret third thing,she loves it when people do that to her and will even do your hair and squish your stomach while you do

[uyuartik]

bad idea, right? (obi wan kenobi x f!reader) part ii

tags: same as before except more unhinged, (slightly sith coded obi wan, no use of y/n, my unhinged take on regency era, (blaming bridgerton and pride and prejudice), probably historical inaccuracies, SMUT), idiots in love, friends with benefits though it is more than that, oral sex (fem and male receiving), fingering, piv sex, overstimulation, thigh riding, dom!obi?, ANGST AT SOME POINT(S), tension so high that they should be on medication, me shortening every uncle-in-law phrase to uncle bcs english sucks in family terms, overuse of commas because editing 42 pages is hard

a/n: HELLO AGAIN, thank you all so much for all the love you've shown, i couldn't be more grateful. sorry for the *long* wait, i just thought the story needed a little longer than a week to do its trick, and frankly i am a busy person so 7 day gap wouldn't work for me. but i hope you can forgive me with this beast of a chapter, it is my first time writing such a long one. hope you enjoy it, and see you all again soon!

also not so fun fact: i totally misunderstood the "season", thinking it should be around summer- early autumn but it was the other way around, sorry, all the historical babes (i can no longer call myself that) for the frustration. but this timetable suits this story much better, does it not?

likes and reblogs are very much appreciated, and i can't wait to hear your opinions! i am also crossposting on ao3, feel free to interact there as well.

part one | part two | part three | ao3

enjoy!!!

word count: 19.7K

chapter two: it's a bad idea, right?

The morning or to be exact, the noon, is when you finally feel refreshed, ready for the challenges of the day. Lucky, because your relatives are more than understanding, has always been. They would scold you for going about your day as a ghost rather than miss breakfast or join only halfway to their other activities. You always try to honor their kindness, not to take advantage of the privileges as a guest, and do your best to spend time with your cousin Carolina, (The young girl has all the benefits of her young age, full of energy and excitement, fascinated by the stories she hears (from you, mostly)), and also avoid bringing a man into your room under their roof and absolutely ravaging each other-

The last one is an exception, which you are not proud of, yet not a single drop of guilt muddies your soul. None, considering the enjoyment or strengthened bonds.

Speaking of it, something tells you that you'd have been late anyways if you woke up early, thanks to him. There's indeed a mark on the side of your neck, just where it meets your shoulder. Also, your thighs share the same fate, though lightly, a few small bruises and red, irritated areas thanks to his neat beard. Thankfully, they're quite hidden except the one that's not that has you cursing at him. For how good it felt, and for his daredevil nature. 

You're scared to admit your fear for your future with him, not in the romantic expectations aspect, you would never, but for the simpler stuff like how are you going to look at his face and not be reminded of its presence between your legs. Or the unending tease he’ll become, even more so than usual, rightfully so. Make no mistake, you had pretty high expectations, and an overall picture of your relationships past it. Yet, last night was its own entity, reducing you to a mess in the most beautiful way, plucking every thought from your mind, yet dropping seeds of doubt like this.

Still, there’s a foolish smile on your face, and some soreness in between your legs, a welcomed ache.

Nonetheless, you’re not sure how to react when you descend the stairs, and he’s there, sharing tea with your aunt and uncle.

Obi Wan stands up in a blink, even before your aunt has the chance to react to your entry.

“Oh, here you are, sweetie! Just in time to join us in the gardens, and look, who’s here!”

“Hello, auntie. Uncle.” For what’s worth, you like being here, with them, and nothing changes that. You can feel the adamantine warm cloud of love in your chest. The reason you never doubted coming here.

“Lord Kenobi.” You greet him as well, though not with that big smile and sincerity you’ve just shown.

“My Lady.” His indifferent tone is interesting. Indifferent, yet indifferent as any other time, respectful and overly sympathetic. Maybe the situation isn’t as bad as you think? Yet, he’s here, isn’t he? His very presence is questionable enough.

“How good of the young man to join us, don’t you think? Though I fear it’s only due to work issues, and not out of courtesy.”

Yes, how good! And definitely not out of courtesy.

“You hurt me, Madam.” He objects, frowning his brows. “I must say this house, with its amiable hosts, has always had a great place in my heart. Last night once again proved it right, it was the best ball I’ve ever been to all summer. In fact, I was thinking of learning your contacts for the band and the cook, you inspired me to throw my own.”

You really, really try to not roll your eyes, and drop the tea that’s being offered to you now.

“Oh, no problem at all! I’ll write them down when we finish the paperwork in my study.” Your uncle says, and the absolute charmed look and excitation in his eyes have your stomach sinking. “And how are you, my dear? Haven’t you shaken out the morning chill yet?” He points to your shawl, wrapped tightly around your neck. You powdered the marks, and put on a big necklace, but then decided you couldn’t be too careful, and put on the fabric too.

“Yes, I think the weather change wasn’t quite easy on me this time.” You reach for the honey, making a show of it so they don’t put you in the center of attention.

“Did you sleep well last night?”So, it doesn’t work. And that’s about the one question you hoped to avoid.

“Despite the exertion taking place-“ Kenobi’s eyes widen, exaggerated by the teacup basically covering other parts of his face, and for a second you think he may choke on his tea. “downstairs, I say it was the best sleep I could’ve ever had.”

You hope your acting inspires the same in him too. He suppresses that little cough well, and the blush settling in his cheeks is faint, easily blamed on the warmth of the drink.

Strike one.

Irritation grows in you, rather than anxiety. Does he really think you’re that crude? That dumb? You make a point of not looking his way after that, an attitude clearly noticed by him in no time. It’s not like he has any chance of talking about it, but the alarm bell in his head rings continuously, busying his mind ‘til the opportune moment comes to talk about it.

Then, a gleeful screech of your name fills the room. In a blink, your cousin is right next to you, wrapping her arms tightly around your shoulder that you can’t properly stand up and hug her back in a normal way.

“I’ve been waiting for you to wake up all day long!” She says, hands reaching to hold yours, almost causing you to lose control of the fabric covering your neck. “We’ve got so much to do! And you were going to tell me all about Naboo! Did you really get to see the lions?”

“Sweetie-“ Despite the wildness of the affection you are given, there’s a huge smile on your face, and you almost make her sit on your lap- an old habit from her younger years.

“Come now- you promised to go riding with me. I want to show you how much I improved.”

“Well-“ your poor, poor legs are in no condition for that kind of activity. “I think it’s best if we do that tomorrow. You see, I had enough of it yesterday, I’ve been in a carriage all day.”

His smirking, twinkling eyes.

Strike two.

Your furious gaze kills that gleam quickly though. The faint smirk disappears, and he straightens his back, clearing his throat.

“Carolina, can’t you see we have a guest? Where are your manners? And give your poor cousin some space, for God’s sake!” Your aunt exaggerates like any mother of her generation, that high pitched voice screeching every ear in the room.

You should be glad to see the subject changed, but the condition of it is bitter. She bows her head down, taking a few steps away from you, but you hold onto her hand, keeping her near.

“Hello, young lady. I am Obi Wan Kenobi.” He sounds- sympathetic, though not overly. It is this sweet balance between respecting their being without the prejudices of age, but compassionate enough not to crush them under expectations they are yet to achieve. Interpreting this from just a couple of words seems a bit of a stretch, you know, still, his whole attitude screams he’s got some experience talking to kids, or considerable knowledge about the human psyche.

“He’s a friend of mine.” You explain further, trying to ease her.

“Welcome, Lord Kenobi.” She curtsies, yeah, she’s perfected that, you observe with proud eyes.

“I didn’t see you at the ball last night, I’m afraid.” Like he was there longer than an hour.

“It was past my bedtime.” The look she gives her parents tells him all he needs to know about her character, or precisely who influences her. He wonders if it was any similar to yours.  “I hope you had a wonderful time. You must’ve, because she’s an excellent dancer.” She turns at you, smiling so innocently that you can’t blame her for complicating things. “She taught me all about it, even better than my tutors.”

“Oh, no, we didn’t-“ The sentence synchronically rolls from both of your tongues, but you stop as you realize. There’s an abrupt silence in the room for a few seconds, causing anger to bubble up in you once more, and forcing you to make up an excuse to break free from this atmosphere.

“Hey,” You tug on her arm, “I’ve brought candy.” And just like that, she’s jumping all over you, bouncing with joy, “Sshh,” You warn. “First we need to go somewhere unseen.”

===

You see him again, days after, when he’s clearly learned his lesson, and gave you a window to breathe, calm your fury. The worst thing? It works. You can imagine (or in other words daydream) the next time you two see each other, which you desperately wish for it to be soon, and picture keeping yourself from stepping onto his feet, or shoving your finger into his chest. It all could not be forgotten but worked out through little warnings and explanations. Communication, basically.

And it turns out, you don't have to imagine any longer, and have the perfect opportunity to test your temper.

In a cafe. Where you sit alone. Blissfully ignorant of the couples (or to-be-couples) surrounding you. But most importantly, unchaperoned. (You had your tongue to defy any unwanted presence, and it's not like people came here alone like yourself. They came here for dates. And if anything, your presence was a litmus paper. What was to happen in marriage, if one couldn’t even keep their eyes from others in those little flirtatious rendezvous?)

(Though you knew some didn’t see it that way. A temptress, their choice of word to describe you.)

Obi Wan walks up to your table in quick, big steps that somehow don’t capture the attention of anyone but you. A further proof of that magic dust he sprinkles.  He’s dressed in browns today. It is a welcomed change. The smile on his face is unbeatably prominent, even as he follows the guide of manners, bowing his head and removing his hat before he sits in front of you. There’s no indication of his previous whereabouts in his looks and you wonder how he found you. Was he simply passing by the establishment before noticing your presence, or did he inquire about your engagements today, asking around?

"You shouldn't be here." It’s that sweet tone of yours, an alarm said in the softest of inclinations. “I have no company.” While it is redundant to both of your mindsets, the need of a chaperone for every conversation you have with strangers, you like to be cautious.

Then let me be it, he would’ve said, if it wasn’t literally the first time after your distasteful encounter. He’s not going to throw away that lesson for a shot of comedy. Or the fact that it’s hardly a request, but again- It’s not worth it. “I just wanted to say how sorry I was for the last time. It was- unadvisable to say the least.”

That- feels so good to hear, somehow. Far better than expected. You lean back in your chair, a sly smile on your face that you can’t help, and a subtle blush, a total contrast to your attitude.

“What can I say though? I don’t know if it’s still possible to be unsatisfied, but I sure felt like that if I didn’t see you again.”

Your fingers grasp the fork far too tightly, considering you have no appetite left for the desert in front of you. It’s the flashbacks from that night, and the undeniable effects it had on both of you.  

“Well, apology accepted.” 

He releases a breath after your words, visibly relaxed, amusing you further. You focus your gaze on the plate, in hopes of blending this conversation into the atmosphere around. 

You add. “Then again, don’t take my forgiveness for granted. None of my partners were this careless, and I seriously expected better from you.” 

(You're quite aware this is not the sort of conversation fit here.)

The interruption of “Oh, that will never even cross my mind.”, turns into “Partners?”, thankfully in a whisper, but sharp enough that it holds the same value as a shriek. He plays it off like it’s a frivolous question, a part of your ongoing banter, a mere thread to spin the conversation.

As if you gave the perfect impression of a blushing virgin that night. You flutter your lashes, as you take a bite. The silence is absolutely deafening, before you can continue. “There’s a reason I like traveling that much. Naboo. Correlia. Alderaan. God, even Hoth.” The discomfort in his face grows, and you fight it with an explanation, hoping that’s the reason. “Never at the same time, though, if it wasn’t obvious. It was just about having good company if I was to spend months in a city.”

“Yes, yes of course.” He shakes his head, an act of his nonjudgemental nature. “So, am I the Coruscant part of your little play?”

“No. You're the exception.” You laugh. “I haven’t- not here. I wouldn’t dare. Too little privacy. No trust. Above all, not a single soul that felt like a match of my own. Til I met you.” He deserves to hear that, right? “However I must say, the rules would be a little different here. Requires more caution. Fine work. For example, you couldn’t come and see me like this whenever you desire."

"Fair enough." He agrees, though makes little effort to follow the lesson. Actually, not even little, none. He just sits there, moulding into his chair further, a pleasant grin as he takes the world in, entertaining himself with the surrounding people. And you, of course. His piercing gaze travels back to you, every time.

Well, right. Not like you wanted him off of your table. "What do you want, Lord Kenobi?" And how did you know I would be here anyway? 

"Are you coming to the picnic on Saturday, in the Perlemian Park?"

You were certainly thinking about it. "Possibly."

"I'm only going if you are joining too." He wets his lips, an action you don't miss, and you continue to watch it long after he's done and see the next words coming out, before your brain can comprehend their meaning. "So, I'll need a better answer." 

The same lips that mapped out your entire body, whispered all those dirty things, tasted your hidden corners, drinking in the pleasure it provided…

He clears his throat, and you break out of the trance. He looks at you with a brow lifted, but the twinkles behind his blue eyes tell you it's not out of boredom. More like the exact opposite. 

"I'll be there." 

This is his cue to leave, with excitement for the said event, and a tinge of sadness for this interaction ending. You mirror his manners as he bids you a good day. 

Then, you're left alone, exactly as merely half an hour ago. Yet, the dessert in front of you is unsavory, nowhere near enough to satisfy your sweet tooth.  

It is still completely the same.

=== 

Comes Saturday, and does it come slower than possible… The weather seems like it's making one last show before the summer ends and scorches the earth, leaving everyone a sweating mess, little to no words coming out of their mouth, sprawled on the nearest surface. You seriously debate whether calling the offer off, the choice of fanning yourself to a lazy nap sounding better and better. It is in these extensive relaxations that you uncover the horrid truth- your fingers fell short in bringing you pleasure now, making you an even more sweaty, frustrated mess rather than the relaxed, drowsy mess you want to be. It is an awful revelation, bringing along many questions that haunt your every waking hour. You fear it's got something to do with him- and the best prescription for you is to stay away.

Alas, you keep true to your promise and show up. 

Thankfully the air has calmed down on said day, and sorbets are refreshing, making it more than a bearable experience. Bearable is actually an insult in this case, for it is more than that. These people are some of your oldest friends, close to your age, and share your opinions. It is hard not having fun when you are allowed to be free (just a little more than normal, though it is enough). None cares about the obscene gossip, or juices of fruit staining faces, dripping onto the expensive fabrics you all are adorned in. Laughs are loud and constant, never letting three minutes go without them. Hands are all flying around, hitting each other as a joke, reaching for the last piece of cake, taking the very dangerous road back without spilling a drop of the drink (which is, once again, a target of pranks).

Obi Wan enjoys it as much as you do, despite the fact that he doesn’t know them like you do. His life doesn’t allow much leisure time, and his choice of friends is mostly unfitting to these kinds of events, but he doesn’t have a problem finding joy in these kinds of events. Maybe it is mostly due to you, watching you in your nature, admiring the way you handle yourself among the crossfire of jokes, or what foods you prefer the most, making silly expressions as the taste of them hits just right. With every little thing he learns about you, he’s drawn closer to you. Once, he would name you a mystery, yet that would indicate the thrill was all in revelation. Now, it is the exact opposite. He gets more excited with each new question, like what is the actual story behind the “donkey joke” you are hinting at, or why do you pick some of the seemingly perfectly looking strawberries aside and pick others- or why you blush when you catch him looking at you, only to do the same yourself?

It is only in the afternoon that the buzz leaves its place for something serene. Conversations diminish, replies take longer, bodies sag and lean on the nearest surface, be the tree trunks or picnic baskets or their loved ones.

C’mon then, let’s take a walk. One proposes, and others follow, albeit slowly and with protests. You are among the latter, every cell in your body refusing to produce or use energy.

Maybe that’s one of the reasons you end up at the very back of the group with Lord Kenobi, and while you manage to stick with him unlike your friends, the distance between you and them grows and now, you can safely say that you’ve lost the sight of them. Twenty minutes ago.

So yes, you’ve been walking alongside him in silence. Far away that you don’t brush hands, yet so close that it would raise questions if someone were to see.

“I don’t think this is doing much for my somnolence.” He basically yawns.

"Should I take that as an insult, my Lord?" 

"Why would you- what did I say to make you think so?" He shakes his head, as stubborn as he's apologetic, ready to accept the accusation if your reasons are firm. Still, his heart is already pacing up, distressed. That must be the wine taking over.

"Well, am I not the only reason for your presence? And I must be boring you, if you are still feeling drowsy." 

"No- Absolutely untrue- “ He stutters, a panic to find the right words, not to be buried under your claims, he is not going to lose his chance to be by your side- only to realize the grin on your face too late.

"You little minx." He breathes out, and is rewarded by the sound of your tempting giggle. 

"Seems like I successfully rid you of your problem." You take pride. "And now, I suggest walking by the lake, to ensure its permeance."

"You mean to dip my feet in the water?" Again, he shakes his head, already rejecting the proposition.

"If you don't do it I shall." You skip, prancing like a nymph before he grabs you by the arm. 

“I don’t think that is safe.”

“It perfectly is.” You state, bewildered by his anxious urge. One look into his hand, and he remembers to let you go. The said hand flies to his hair, with an exasperated sigh.

“Okay, but – let me be by your side. And make it quick.”

The fact that he thinks you need his approval is downright funny, though you’d take issue with it any other time. Now, you are amused by his good intended worries and don’t have it in your conscience to break his heart over it, or bring up a quarrel.

So, you start undressing. Only your socks and shoes.

Still, the blush settles on his cheeks, and the light behind his eyes burns brighter as he sees the skin just above your knees naked. Not for the first time- still, he feels like turning his back on you, but does no such thing. And that is not because it defeats the purpose of his presence.

God, how could you even make you believe he wasn’t planning on having these impure thoughts?

You feel your temperature rising, and it has nothing to do with the sun. You meet his hypnotized eyes, and can still feel it focused on you. After days of dissatisfaction, its effect is multiplied by ten, making your heart race. You pray none of it is visible on your face. the last thing you need is for him to know.

He laughs when you lay the white fabric in the old woods of the docks, like the spoiled child you are. It is more than likely to stain, but more importantly, it is definitely old, creacking under every step, hence his aversion to sit beside you with a head shake. You shrug in return, and pull your skirt slightly above your knees, swinging your legs back and forth.

“Oh, this is lovely!” You say, sprawling your toes in the water. “Truly, you are missing out.”

“I believe you, my Lady.” His tone is joyful, just the right combination of trust and mockery.

You turn to look at him, a big mistake. The excess part of your dress brushes the surface, wetting the fabric, though it is the last thing you care. He is looking at you, with that charming grin, and subtle hunger etched into his gaze, screaming worship, in complete awe of the scene he's beholding, the prettiest girl he’s ever seen, holding his hand, her dress bunched up like in those ancient paintings of fairies, and endless passion for the leading role of it. It swirls the emotions deep inside your belly, the only reaction you want to avoid. Yet, you’re not immune to it. your heart skips a beat, the tingles overtaking your skin.

“Look- I see fishes!” You whip your head, the one thing you can do in hopes of breaking the tension. You lean forward, trying to get a clear view, or try to do so because you are stopped by his grip.

“That’s enough.” The command sends a shiver down your spine. “You shouldn’t go any further.”

“Fine.” You huff, the simplest protest you can manage. His touch softens as he realizes you’re going to follow his words, though takes long to let go.

A few minutes pass in the silence of nature.

“How long are you going to stand like this?” You ask, exasperated that this isn’t going anything like you imagined.

“What?”

“I feel like I’m also standing, this is hardly fun.”

“That is only the result of your own choice.”

Narrowing your eyes, you huff and climb back on your feet, disregarding the objections of the offended dock. Then, you push past him- 

He suddenly pulls you back, promptly disrupting your balance, a tactic he uses to pick you up into his arms. You scream as your feet meet the air, hands grabbing anything they can reach which ends up being his clothes.

“What are you doing?!” You yell, burying your fingers into him. With how strong your grip is, you can feel every muscle tensing under your touch. 

“I’m not gonna let you walk in that mud, after all.” He explains like it was the problem you were referring to.”

“My shoes! – and-”

“Don’t worry, I’ll get them.”

He adores the pout you have as he fetches them.

He leans his back on the tree, and you rest your arms on your knees, propped up.

“So, we are to sit here and sulk?”

“If you name it so.” His smile is borderline insulting, ear to ear. With one look, he points at the reason- your wet feet. There’s literally no choice but to wait for them to dry up. But by proposing the only solution, he infuriates you further.

“Very interesting.” You snark. “I would’ve just stood back if I knew this was what we would be doing.”

“And now it is I who might take those words as an insult. Have I somehow proven my companionship to be loathsome in the times we spent together?”

Times you spent together… The flashbacks are, as implied in their name, flash before your eyes at such great speed that by the time you realize it is not something you should ponder upon now, your heart rate is already up, the flame deep in your belly ignited once again, and even the sounds of the past are echoing in your ears. You turn your head away from him, cursing at the color blooming on your cheeks.

Oh, but the action is enough to let him know exactly what you are feeling, a song of “I thought so” on his tongue- yet he doesn’t sing it yet, realizing the underestimation of his own emotions. He brings it upon himself- a glance at you, taking in your red face (as much as possible) and bare legs, let out to the sun to dry up.

“Well, I’ll think that’s the case if you don’t say anything.” He opts to say this instead, loving to taunt you further. 

“It’s not.” You mumble, still turned to the other side, fingernails digging at your palm.

“I can’t hear you, dear.”

“I said-“

The moment you move your head, you are met with his face, so close to yours, a distance he promptly closes by placing a hand at your neck, and tugging at it, ‘til your lips crash. You lose your balance once more, gripping his collars to not fully crush him with your weight. You gasp, the only protest you have in yourself, because for all your resolve to stay away, here you are, falling right into his arms. And it feels so damn good.

You gasp, pushing him. He laughs as his back hits the tree, never once breaking eye contact.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” You whisper-scream, suddenly aware of the fact that while you are all alone on this field, your friends are still very much around.

“Oh, what am I doing? It is you, darling, don’t think I haven’t noticed the way you were looking at me.”

You direct your gaze to the ground, embarrassment getting the better of you.

“What is it?” He questions your lack of defiance. “You had no problem before. Don’t tell me you’re scared of being seen. They should at least be like, a mile away.”

Yeah. That’s absolutely correct. Besides, you’re shielded from any unwanted visitors by the thick line of trees, and the sheer distance between there and the path. It is a secluded corner of the lakeside.

“Or is there something else that’s bothering you?” This, is said in a more suggestive tone, and its effect is only amplified by the way he holds your chin to refocus your attention. You burn under his grasp and insistent watch.

Say farewell to your pride.

You let yourself fall over him once more, kissing him with a whimper you can’t quite suppress. You feel his smirk at that, but neither of you dwells on it, for he too lets out a sound of desperation, panting as he pulls you close, placing you on his thigh. (You hear your dress positively rubbing against the grass, and dare not to imagine the green blotch that may appear.) You don’t know whether to celebrate your newfound closeness or chastise your weak will, for it creates a new wave of desire in you as you delve your fingers into his beard. Your skin lights up against his coarse hair, so familiar yet so unyielding under your touch, and to be holding his face in your hands like this only blinds you more. So blind that you only realize the movement of your hips, seeking pleasure, when he holds them.

“See? That’s what I’m talking about.” A kiss right on the left corner of your lips. “Are you haunted by that night so deeply that you are unable to satisfy your needs on your own, like me? Or hell, with another?” Even in the midst of haze, you don’t miss the way his eyes darken at the mention of a third party.

“No- only you.” You whisper, too afraid of things ending.

“Fuck.” He can’t help but burst at your surrender. “That’s my girl. Lift your hips a little for me, darling.”

You oblige without question, raising yourself on your trembling thighs. Holding your breath, imagining all the things he can do to you… He is bewitched by your neediness, the way you moan at the first contact his hand makes with your skin after lifting your skirt just above your knees so you have more freedom to move, and can directly sit on his thigh.  

Speaking of it, why? Your eyebrows scrunch as he pushes you down like that, though the actual questioning part comes a second after your clit rubs against the fabric, not his cock, the first jolt of true ecstasy you experienced in a while, but that can’t be the case for him, right? “What are you-?”

“Trust me.” He takes his sweet time to relish the expense of your neck, so close for his taking, partly to ease your nerves, and frankly it is too much fun for his own good to feel you twitch in anticipation, and your breath getting stolen away at his open-mouthed kisses, panting when he lingers on a spot for too long at the fear of him leaving a bruise. “No marks, I perfectly remember.” He has to confess after a point, and only after that point, you begin to truly relax, and have your heart beating so fast at the same time, noticing your wetness is positively seeping into his clothes.

Your jaw hangs open with a silent pant as he decides it’s enough, and guides your body, rocking onto his. It’s not something you haven’t done before, but there’s something so unique about now, maybe the scandalous location, or your depraved state, or simply everything regarding him, that you are convinced it looks like your first time. Shit, it may even be your first time, considering the previous examples are nowhere close to this, the stakes, the desperation, the payoff… You’re holding onto his shoulders like a fucking virgin, pressed so close to receive every bit of affection he's giving. It’s the damn heat, the greatest excuse on your lips for the last couple of weeks, invalidated by the nonexistence of space between you and him. It only causes sweat to pour out of both of you, like the constant drip out of your cunt, sabotaging all your attempts to gain control, and create the slightest of frustration. 

“Obi Wan.” You chant his name, unable to form any other word, and he drinks it all in, valiantly ignoring the ache in his cock. It is a hard task, a growing challenge as your knee brushes against it from time to time, especially when you try to take initiative and escape the rhythm he’s trying to create.

“Ah-ah-ah- Let me take over. You know we’re short on time, darling.”

Then, he does justice to his words as he bounces his leg, the added pressure claiming a gasp from you.

“Do that again.” What your efforts can't get you, maybe your pleads can. After all, you're just as stubborn as him, giving up easily is not on your book.

“Only because you asked so nicely.”  

You roll your eyes, though it is totally due to annoyance, and let out a moan, throwing your head back. The fresh air does nothing for your lungs anymore, just an outlet for your scandalous noises. Which, he has no complaints too, your erratic breaths warmed his neck enough, and blessed him with those sweet sounds, right under his ear. Oh, but in any other case, this was anywhere else, and he had to silence you, also which he has no complaints too. Perhaps the sole problem is missing the blissed out expressions of your pretty face, and the light in your eyes, burning for him.

“Are you close?” Like he even needs to ask, like he’s not aware of your moans turned whimpers.

“Hmmh.” Is all the answer he gets, and that’s enough for him, laughing quietly, as you feel the vibrations of his chest.

When you cum, it is indeed an earth-shattering moment, and an end to your misery, the first drop of water after thirst- so much so that you don’t care about it happening in such a short time. Your legs squeeze his firm thigh, shaking over them like the rest of you. His one hand travels to your waist, holding you steady and pressed against him. You swear you can feel every aspect of his hand over three layers of fabric, yet he’s not actually exerting that much power, treating you like a delicate flower, afraid to crush the silky petals.

You sigh as the trembles die down, your senses coming back to you one by one- the first and foremost the tension in the body beneath you. Your fingers loosen from his collars, and travel the expanse of his torso slowly, a kiss to his throat in the meantime.

“Don’t you worry about me.” His voice is slightly shaky, though it may very well be due to his exertion.

“I think I should.” Its trueness is further proven when you palm him, and he groans. Though he is insistent.

“Look at you, you sweet thing, concerned with me walking around with a hard-on.”

That has you rolling your eyes, and removing your hand. Removing your entire body, even. You settle on the grass, leaning on your elbows. Your dress is already ruined, so you’re past the point of worrying.

“On the other hand, you may want to think about this.” He points to his wet trousers, the dark stain visible even though the fabric is black.

Uh oh. That is indeed a problem, if you are to return soon. Unfortunately, your brain can’t grasp the danger, coming up with solutions like soaking him entirely in the lake… 

So, it’s no wonder that your next words are a joke.“You marked me, I marked you. We're even.”

To your surprise, it works. His laughter fills the entire forest, yours a whisper in comparison. The idea that maybe, just maybe this can be repeated every now and then, that it wouldn't harm anyone fills your chest with a different kind of cheer, a hopeful sensation that suits the summer. He's proven his carefulness, making the best of the situation without risking either of you. The rising hope in you should scare you, but it doesn't. It only makes you sprawl under the sun like a cat enjoying the heat, and join his laughter with a big grin.

“Fair. Absolutely fair.”

===

The next time you see each other again, things seem to cool down a bit. It is entirely a civil dinner, always at a respectable distance, the number of times you lock eyes are countable on one hand (though some border the edge of being a little too long), and it is all not so surprisingly, plain. Maybe it is about both of you trying to contain one’s self, so much so that the other core aspect of both of you, the humorous side is buried that night and no other person can live up to its ghost. Perhaps it is due to the upcoming end of summer, bringing out a tinge of melancholy, already mourning the past, thus your impulses dwindle down, the sparkles absent.

That is, ‘til, you are the only occupants in the saloon, after the other guests have left, and your aunts retreated to their rooms. You are reading a book, barely aware of the fact when he, sitting next to you in that single armchair drops whatever pen he’s holding, just by your feet. You’re pulled out of your trance by the sound it creates, raising your gaze from the page just in time to see him bending over to retrieve it or- ending up completely kneeling in front of your legs.

He raises his head, and you watch the way his face softly being illuminated by the candlelight, a smile you can’t decide whether charming or devilish, long abandoning his mission.

That’s the moment the air shifts, and the room feels hotter like the cheminee is lit, the heat wave has returned, and taken both of you to that lakeside, and the week before it, the frustration and despair that came with being unable to take care of yourself. You haven’t felt such a thing after, perhaps, it’s due to your fulfilled state and therefore lack of trial, but now, the need returns, like adding more to an already full cup, realization only hitting after the drops spill from the sides. The cup demands to be emptied, - translation: your soul demands whatever pleasure you can get your hands on- and the image of him causing it is certainly a preference.

(Again, it is your soul that’s demanding it- your brain would very much like to lock you away in the furthest corner of this house, or kick him, if that’s all you can manage.)

“Excuse me?”

“I just remembered how I failed to say how beautiful you look tonight.” 

“Thank you.” Your mouth speaks before you can protest the improperness of your situation. Color settles on your cheeks for accepting his compliment first. “What are you doing?”

“Collecting my pen.” He shrugs, and demonstratively takes it to his hand, yet it is once more left to the ground instead of the nearest table, with the rest of his papers. He adds, “I admire how you are an expert in navigating every social situation, whether it's a boring dinner like this, or a ball.

Your eyebrows raise at the boring part, after all, it's hosted by your relatives, and it wasn't exactly boring, maybe a little uneventful. “Not every occasion has to be full of adventure, Lord Kenobi. Slow nights like this are beneficial for the soul. Gives the mind some rest.” 

He purses his lips, like he’s been told on his bluff, the one part he emphasized to sound strong. Because, he is. He had fun tonight, the type that fills one’s heart with sweet lethargy. “I suppose you’re correct. But you’re missing out on an important detail.”

“And what is that?”

“The right company.”

You’re glad that your hands were pressing against the book, holding the page, because if they weren’t, they would be visibly shaking.

“I have underestimated how much I missed you, that much is clear to me now.” Barely speaking, or barely speaking anything important with you throughout the evening, yet he feels rejuvenated, the ache in his chest becoming prominent as it starts the heal. He doesn’t say the last part, but the sentiment is reflected in the soft sparkle behind his eyes, the hypnotic storm, pulling you towards unknown chaos, but beautiful, and promising safety in its center. That’s why you don’t protest as his hand reaches for yours, brushing your knee (he wanted to do that for some time, to feel the soft fabric that basically decorates your body), interlocking fingers, and reluctantly retreating them in favor of taking the book that sits in your lap, setting it aside. You don’t protest, despite the screams in your head, saying he’s right there why is he still there-

 “And the other thing I missed terribly, the sight of your legs.”

Your shaky inhale echoes.

His fingers gently close over your ankles, and travel upwards slowly, lifting your dress alongside. “Though I’ve only seen them twice, they might be my favorite view, ever.”

“Is that so?” You are perplexed by the confession, with a lazy grin, very much enjoying the seduction. His way with words seems like a constant threat to your sanity, but damn do you adore it dearly, a voluntary victim to its spell.

“Why would I ever lie to you?” He whispers, hands tightening. “I like them very much. But I think I would like them better around my shoulders.” He pulls your knees slightly, causing you to yelp as your back caves in, and grasps your ankles once more, proceeding to demonstrate exactly his words.

“What are you doing?” You ask, like you don’t know the answer. It is a statement, an acknowledgment, the last chance to bring some sense into any of you. You’re in the living room, in a house that is not your own, filled with people who are still very well awake, and can just decide to come in.

“Having a second dessert, if I may?” And how can you refuse, after the image is served to you on a golden plate?

“But at the lake - You were-” 

“You think I'm doing this for recompensation?”

“No, I didn't mean to imply that.” God, this is embarrassing. “I just wanted to say I might miss having my way with you.”

“I’ll be glad to take that as a promise.”

Then, it is settled. 

Still, he waits for your small nod and takes in the way you bite your lip, wishing he was the one to do so, but- priorities. Time is a valuable asset, especially now, and he has to honor his offer. That’s why he opts for a few small, open mouthed kisses to your inner thighs, actively fighting the desire to leave bruises, evidence, a memory. Judging by the rapidness of your breath, it seems he has reached his goal in some way. It’s the beard- scratching your skin even when his mouth is not doing something, sensitizing the flesh and making it all too susceptible to the incoming assault. Your hand flies up, absentmindedly reaching for his hair, yet stopping a second before, landing on the couch instead- if you messed up his hair, there’s no coming back from it. He chuckles at your struggle, the warm breath making you squirm. Even if you don’t, he’s maddened by action, despite the laugh. He has you- but not really. He’s enveloped in your heat, taking in your scent, and seconds away from tasting you, but is not able to be blessed with the slight pain he'd felt if you tugged on his strands, or the untamed sounds you’d have sung in a more private setting.

So yes, he’s as torn and desperate as you. Slow nights, you said? 

Truth be told, it doesn’t matter what adjective comes before the word; slow or fast, boring or exciting as hell, freezing or hellishly hot; if it is with you, it is a good night. Otherwise, it is lacking. The world may be painted gray forever, considering you two mostly don’t get the chance to spend more than two occasions together in a week, but there can be no comparison to colorful scene of those moments.

And this is the night Obi Wan admits that fact.

You both moan, when his tongue finally meets your cunt, licking a messy stripe. It is more of a vibration than a noise- possibly for the best. It makes you jolt, and his hold tightens, and again, it is for the best, because when he decides to pay attention to your clit after his time exploring your folds is done, your limbs start to shake, threatening to fall. Your eyes roll back when things settle, and pleasure starts to build up, your juices flowing, and he drinks it all in before they have the chance to make a mess of your dress.

That is the first time he takes a break. “Eyes on me, darling.”

What is with him and that special request?

Your whine doesn’t mean anything to him, except make his cock twitch in his now tight trousers- but that has other reasons too. He waits ‘til your eyelids open once more, and you meet his gaze, and a second longer, unable to resist the urge to get lost in your hazy expression. Then, he dives back in, swirling the muscle around your bundle of nerves. In any other circumstance, you’d have thought this would be too indelicate, so straight to the point, no fun or respect, yet his way to do so is anything but those qualities. His movements are precisely designed for you, slow enough to not cause discomfort, fast enough to make the best of your unknown time limit. You’re afraid to deduce that one time was enough for him to learn you, one time to turn your world upside down, and leave you to deal with the memory of it. 

“Sweetie?” That’s the first time your eye contact is broken. The world freezes for a second before it does, and your head whips to the direction the sound has come from, to find your aunt by the door. Miraculously, she continues to stand there, unbothered by the long and protective distance which compromises of the dining table and the back of your couch, a perfect cover for the scandal that is taking place. Obi Wan stills, perhaps even stops breathing, yet he’s the one to snap you out of your shock with his grip around your skin. It is ridiculously encouraging, knowing he's not abandoning you on your own, even at the expense of getting caught, and the dread it would surely follow.

“Yes, auntie?” You gulp. Trying not to sound breathless is a clear effort.

“Have you seen Lord Kenobi?”

Your reputable smartness lags, the answer of yeah, he’s right here IN BETWEEN MY LEGS, occupying your mind.  “I think he went out to get some air, I haven’t seen him for some time.”

“How odd.” She comments, “And what are you doing there on your own?”

“Reading my book.” You smile, and hope your cheeks’ tremble isn’t too noticeable. “It’s quite good- couldn’t tell the time.”

She scorns. “Oh, now I see- he must’ve gotten bored as you were buried in your book. You truly should work on your guest etiquette, dear. And Lord Kenobi, of all people!”

“Auntie!” Your eyes widen, and you squeal a little, and feel Obi Wan giggling quietly.

“I’m just saying, that you should treat him better- he’s a good person, and obviously fancies you.”

“Auntie!”

“I mean, I like him? Don’t you like him?”

The urge the scream has never been stronger.

To escape the subsequent questions should you answer otherwise, you give in, and sag.” I do.” And the worst thing is, you actually do. Objectively, you like him, all his little jokes and sweet tongue (no pun intended), the elegant form he carries himself in, and the kind nature he never fails to live up to. Except for the dangerous extent your relationship is getting into, there’s nothing about him that you don’t like. And truthfully, even that is barely a matter you care about, proven by your current situation. 

You can feel him smile, the coarse facial hair biting into your skin, rubbing like a cat, and the sensation is followed by a kiss on your thigh. 

“Then you know what I am saying is the truth.” She raises her eyebrows in a motherly manner, a loving attempt of intervention. “Don’t stay up too late, no matter how absorbing that book is. We are invited for breakfast to the Mon’s Estate.”

Thankfully, she’s gone like that, saving you the act.

When you turn to your front again you find the need to come up with a warning to make him shut up unnecessary for he kisses you, silencing both of you. The action brings color to your cheeks more than ever in this entire evening. The fact that you can taste yourself on his tongue aside, he’s so gentle about it, like congratulating your success, or admiring your talent, pouring out his affection for you. You can’t help but wrap your legs around his wide torso, it is how good it feels. When you two part, the lack of breath gets the best of you, only then do the swarming butterflies in your stomach begin to disturb you again.

But you’re not so quick to forget the last couple of minutes. Perhaps you've spoken too soon back then at the lake, thinking this could be continued. You’d imagined the rest of this scene a little differently, letting him follow you to your room, returning the favor, but that scare has only helped you to brew a storm inside you.

“Obi Wan…” You whisper, brows cinched in concentration as he towers over you, claiming all your senses. “We can’t- we have to stop…”

“Sshh, calm down.” His thumb draws circles on your skin, trying to soothe you in one aspect, if not every. He’s not going to let you go to your bed shaken like this, for starters. “Take a deep breath.”

You try, twice before you can manage to fill your lungs in their entirety, and your achievement is rewarded with a peck to your neck. Some of the air leaves you in an abrupt exhale because of it, and he curses himself for it.

“Follow my lead.” He tries again, reclining on his knees, giving you space. It is another challenge to look into his ocean eyes, and match his pattern, but you manage, your heart beat semi-regular after a minute or so.

Semi, for said eyes and your bare pussy are face to face, and all common sense loses its importance, burned by the fire inside you.

“Obi Wan- please…”

“You sure?” He will be very disappointed if you change your mind, but he has to ask, play the sensible part. And ignore the constant throb in his trousers that has become even more unbearable after you confessed your feelings.

“Just… make it quick.” Oh, are you seriously requesting an orgasm like ordering a cake in a café?

“As you wish, love.”

He starts out the same, just playing his game a little faster, and he holds your hand as he does so, the small detail as efficient as his moves. But, the final blow is his other hand, prodding against your entrance. The flood of memories doesn’t help either, as you remember that night. A loud moan threatens to leave you, and you slap your palm against your mouth. He stops ‘til you are secured, praise in his eyes, and pushes the two digits in, stretching you out in the way. Your fingers are nothing in comparison, and he notices it immediately, the way your walls hug him. 

Though, he’s an expert, and can absolutely manage to take care of you properly, so there’s nothing but pleasure, your slick channel welcoming the intrusion. It is not long before he feels the resistance fading and returning in a new form, as your climax approaches, and your muscles begin to quiver.

With your noises secured in your throat, the only form of communication is your connected hands, squeezing each other sometimes enough to risk breaking fingers. He understands what you mean perfectly, reaching up to a certain speed, then keeping it the same ‘til you start trashing, legs violently shaking around his body, and juices dripping, this time more than he can clean up. If any other time, he wouldn’t stop ‘til he feasted on every drop of it, but he withholds himself, respecting the clouds of danger. He’s glad to have helped with your anxiety, yet he doesn’t want to carry the ease to dangerous level and make you susceptible to be swayed in whatever direction.

Well, the image of his messy, wet beard certainly sends you through the wrong one, but already your nerves are not able to take more risks tonight, so you just bite your lip hard enough to draw blood, and lower your legs to the ground as he starts by cleaning out his fingers. It is hard to believe any man would try this much to indulge in your every aspect, but here he is, careful about even the smallest part.

Damn, you want to take him to your room and let him have his way with you so bad- but this is enough adventure for a night.

“Good night, Lord Kenobi.” You say, fixing your skirt, and standing up on shaky legs with your book clutched in the tightest grip against your belly.

“Good night, darling.” He nods, a content smile. “Send my compliments to the chef. “

===

“Lord Kenobi?”

You’re justified in your shock, enough to express it out loud in the middle of the jewelry shop, the last place you’d expect to run into him. Of course, he’s a neat and subtle man, and his appearance reflects his statue, though in a very calculated yet effortless manner. His pocketwatch is a family heirloom, so you’ve been told, a chic piece he takes great care of, and while his cufflinks are always elegant, it is never that eye-catching. It only compliments its wearer, you dare say, a final addition to an already completed painting.

(You never denied his handsomeness, and this is an objective opinion. Don’t read much into it.)

His supposed loneliness coupled with the fact that he looks utterly lost and bored, your curiosity is aggravated further.

Also, bumping into each other? What is this, a trick of fate?

“Madame.” He bows, and moves to press a kiss to your hand, the tradition not forgotten. His shock is easily ridden, unlike yours. The small blush on his cheeks and the wide grin on his lips tell contradictory stories, not that you’re judging, but the evident thing is his excitement.

“What are you doing he-”

“What a coincidence-“ His interruption is most unexpected, along with the high pitch in his voice.

You tilt your head, further dazed, but before the suspicion creeps in (you would be terrified to turn your gaze and find women’s accessories laid out for his picking on the table, for somebody else or for you; the latter being the lesser evil, but still disturbing), another joins, though he doesn’t seem to notice you at first.

“How helpful you are being, Obi Wan!” The tall young man with light brown hair calls out, necklaces hanging from both hands. You have a feeling that if he wasn’t busy, there would’ve been a physical reaction as well, a friendly pat on his shoulder, perhaps. “Don’t you know this is important? I need-“

His sentence is broken when he catches your attentive gaze, and realizes you are a part of this conversation as well. You’re amused by how glass-like he is, full of emotions and not afraid to show them. He looks at you, and back to Obi Wan, who finally decides it’s time for an introduction. The expression of recognition flashes through his face in a second as your name is revealed, but you can’t reflect it back fully. You have heard of Kenobi’s best friend or as some call it, brother, although barely from the man himself. You've witnessed how Kenobi's eyes lighten up with pride whenever Skywalker was mentioned, and stories- summaries of their adventures together that he told. The shortness of them wasn't a result of his unwillingness to tell them, but the circumstances of your company, never long or alone enough to visit them in their deserved entirety. 

To be honest, Anakin doesn't know much about you either. He and Padme prefer the countryside by the sea, especially during the summer, thus he and Obi Wan hadn't had the means to talk often lately. He senses the situation, by the slight tension in the older man's voice; this strong, confident man crumbling into pieces for some unknown reason. 

“Pleased to meet you, my Lady.” He makes a small cursty, which you mirror.  

“Likewise, Lord Skywalker.” 

“I’m afraid I’ll need my friend back to keep his promise.” The chains in his hands shake as he speaks, reminding the absurdity of it all. You’re not disturbed by it though, for all is concealed under his charismatic voice and mimics. He’s pretty and he knows it, which gives him all the tools to captivate others. Now you understand why people speak about him like that, moved by hearing his name alone.

“Oh, not a problem at all. We were just saying hello.” Entertained by the interaction, your anxiety is somewhat diminished, enough to let him go without an explanation. Also, the way that he rolls his eyes, and clenches his jaw is very cute, you dare say.

“Promise? I never promised anything.” He murmurs, but it is still audible for you as he follows his friend. And the rest, which makes you laugh whenever you remember it. “Anakin- she's your wife, you know her better than me. How exactly do you expect me to help you?”

“You always had a vision when it comes to beautiful things. Not like my eyes, which are only accustomed to the dirt and grease of machinery.”

You have to bite the inside of your cheeks to stop grinning, while you start talking with the salesman about the bracelet you’ve given them to restore. They make you sit and wait for a couple of minutes, all of which you spend trying to not spy on them. Fortunately, the shop is quite crowded, and their conversation is a part of the low grumble. A cup of tea is placed in front of you, as well as some new pieces they think you might like.

The one that catches your attention is not among them, however. It is a ring with a blue stone, the tone too similar to something you can’t put your finger on. It is too big to be for a woman, clearly designed for the other sex, but you admire its elegance nonetheless.

“Here is your piece, Madame.” The young salesman returns with a package, just in time to stop you from reaching it.

“Thank you.” You take the precious item back into your hands and inspect the handwork. It is shining once again, polished, and the place you accidentally broke it is now attached, the handwork barely visible.

You release a deep breath, praying graces. You would’ve never forgiven yourself if the family heirloom was forever damaged from the incident. You almost cried when it happened, a stupid game you were playing with Carolina before a ball, when you had already gotten ready and she was counting the minutes to her bedtime.  

“That is beautiful.” Obi Wan joins you once more, now looking more relaxed. Your eyes search for Anakin and find him waiting for a package, reaching for his wallet. Mission accomplished. “May I?”

The chain slides into his hands, and wraps around your wrist under the watch of the young boy with a wholesome smile. He must think you two are engaged in some way, and there’s no turning back from it.

“Would that be all, Madame?”

“Actaully I-“ You remember about the ring, and even if you just want to unravel the mystery around it, the words have already left your mouth, and the entire tray is placed on the table.

Oh. Oh. With him next to you, suddenly it all makes sense. You’re holding the color of his eyes on your palm.

“That is beautiful too.” He remarks, embracing his role a little too much.

“I think it would suit you.” Now it is your turn to accessorize him. He is silent while you do so, taken aback by the unorthodoxty of it all.

“I’m not sure-“ Is all he manages to say, though can’t stop looking at it. It is ridiculously so well fitted around his finger, the fate pulling all strings to give a message.

“It compliments your eyes.” You defend yourself, perhaps a little too lively but you have no shame. It is the truth.

“The Lady is correct.” The boy joins your side, or does his job. “It is a most excellent match.”

“I might think about it.” Is how far he budges, returning it, and checking up on Anakin from where he’s standing. 

“How much do I owe you?”

“Please, allow me-“

The audacity? The though is reflected in your face, which makes him blush at his unnecessary offer.

“With the ring.” You add, and it is all said and done ‘til he has time to get rid of his embarrassment and intervene.

Then, you make him take the package from you, your fingers wrapping around his. “You’re allowed to have nice things, you know?” There’s not an ounce of sarcasm in your tone, only gentle suggestion. “You don’t have to wear it, but I want you to have it.”

“Thank you.”  

And you’re gone before Skywalker can catch up.

===

You truly don’t expect to see him wearing it, you really don’t.

But you’re proven wrong so, so badly.

He doesn’t take it off.

When he takes on his promise, and actually starts working on the ball he’s supposed to throw, the first thing he does is request for your uncle’s help. Then your uncle entrusts the job on you, and you’re spending hours with him like that, securing the musicians, bargaining for the food supplies, preparing invitation lists… Truly, that’s it. You too are surprised to accompany him that much and engage in nothing outside of the mission. Truthfully, a little concerning in the grand scheme of things, the inevitable result of your relationship improving, real sincerity. Although you have zero problems with the fact, enjoying it far too much. You don't care about how your contributions are secret, for your efforts surpass the limits of help that are considered friendly, and fully acknowledge that it is gonna be a damn good ball. 

Also, while you hate to see him distressed, it is a look on him that you are guilty of adoring. The nervousness is like a little crack in his shell, a way to see a part of him that rarely sees the daylight. And it is for something so feeble? Only half of his effort would be enough for a wonderful ball, and he still tries to do more, and gets agitated over that? You are cruel for laughing at that, you confess. But it is more of a balancing act, rather than a mock. Somebody's gotta play the sane part, lower the tension. 

You're ready to help with that, too.

“Do you think I should hire-” 

You're at his study, the place you've been sitting since the morning. Time flies with every cup of tea, and plates of biscuits, but after a while, things inevitably get boring. For you, at least. He's quite focused, brows scrunched, tie slightly loosened. You see him looking at the list that you've put together in the beginning, the possible ways to entertain his guest. 

You've already arranged the services of more than half of them. Twice the amount that would be considered enough.

And he's still going over it?

“That's enough!” Your open palm lands on the surface. 

Obi Wan doesn't expect your outburst. He doesn't flinch, but his mimics change in an equivalent way. His lips part, causing him to relax that clenched jaw -oh, you might have a point. 

“You. Need. To. Relax.” You’re now less frantic, due to his irresistibly clueless expression, though still firm in your cause. Fuck, how can he look at you with those doe eyes and expect you to… do anything! 

You get up, and reach for the papers, sending them in a far corner of the desk. While you do so, you are basically halfway in between him and the table. Putting the teacups and the pot back on the tray (it has grown cold a long time ago), you turn to him, almost sitting at the desk in order to fit that narrow space. The bashful smile on his face (as if he wasn’t enjoying the perfect view of your ass seconds before) breaks your heart once more.

Putting your hand on his shoulder, you mirror his emotion. “It’s gonna be a splendid night. The kind that people will talk about it for years. And I’m not exaggerating on that one. I would’ve said the same thing days ago, all before the last additions, too.”

It is a challenge to feel the warmth of your skin, and not lean against it. “You’re right.” He tugs on his collar, taking a deep breath. “But you know- I’ve never planned a ball in my life, and- I just need it to be perfect.”

You giggle, and replace your hand on his cheek that is colored with the confession of his little perfection obsession. You welcome the slight sting of his beard, like a habit, and caress his cheekbone. He dares not move, or even take a breath, only watching your pretty face focused on his, and relish the feeling of your thumb across his features.

“It’s going to be just that.”  You might’ve said, or a joke about his troubles, but words scurry off of your mind as you stay like that, squished in place as you try your best to comfort him.

“Can you kiss me?” The thought seems lunatic when uttered on a whim, but it has crossed your mind too, you must admit. 

“Only because you asked so nicely.” There's an undeniable urge to use his words back at him. 

Your back has to bend in an uncomfortable way for your lips to touch, but you have no complaints about it. The touch is so soft, laden with affection in the purest kind. It is obvious in every way, the movement of your mouths, determined to preserve the sweetness and sweetness alone, and the itch in your palms, mapping each other out over and over again, and the determination of your lungs, using every last drop of oxygen before demanding an exchange. 

“T-thank you for that, dear.” His eyes open after a few seconds, with a sheepish smile that causes him to speak in whispers.

It’s about to get real dangerous for you, if he keeps being this cute. 

“I’m not about to say we should've done it sooner, for it is a complete waste of our time repeating a truth well known, and I've already used that trick before, but maybe we should do it again.” 

Okay, but how does that kind of sass sound cute from your perspective?

“Don't push your luck.” You say, fingers smoothing his hair, and his complaint dies on his throat visibly. He purrs, eyelids closing. That's the moment you decide to press a small peck to his lips for all his troubles. It lasts longer than intended, and while it's definitely different than the previous one, him gripping your waist telling a different story. The weight of them is welcome nonetheless, and it serves as an anchor, like you two could be molded into a statue if he held it long enough.

However, he is the one to break the stillness, shifting in his chair- first of all, how dare he, you're doing the acrobatics here-

Oh.

He notices that you've noticed it. Clearing his throat, Obi Wan lets his hands slide to the table, just a centimeter away from your body. “It’s been some time.” His face remains focused on the floor.

Didn't he even take care of himself?

You push his shoulder back, and he takes it a step further without a blink, sliding away with his chair. 

What he doesn't expect, is for you to stay exactly where you are, only this time on your knees. He has to gulp once, then twice, because he finally looks at your face, smiling back at him. 

“May I help?” Admittedly, your fluttering gaze was unnecessary, and tips him even more. You don't miss the way he stabilizes his hands.

“By all means.” 

You start by unfastening the buttons of his tan trousers, letting your forearms rest on his thighs. He aids your quests by lifting his hips a little, being freed from the constraints of the fabric-

There he is.

You bite your lip at the sight, and the sight is not just his huge cock, already hard and weeping for you. It is about him, and the redness that creeps up his neck, the way he hisses and bites his knuckles at the cool air hitting his sensitive skin, how he claws at the armrest waiting for your touch. His head nearly hits the back of the chair when you finally do, a small moan leaving his exposed throat.

Well. You really should’ve done this sooner.

Your thumb swirls around his head, more fluid leaking out as you do so. Thus your fingers slide down his shaft easily, and he is coated in his slick in no time, along with your palm. It twists around him without rush, leaving him to wander in that dream like state without mentioning a finish line. You want to ask him, ask him how he likes it, or make him cover your hand with his, guiding you, but you also want him to stay just like this, eyes fixed with that heavy lidded gaze, partially obscured by that infamous strand of hair that refuses to be tamed like others. His mouth hangs open with loud breaths and sometimes graces you with sounds of his pleasure.  

“Harder.” The only instruction you need.

You clasp tighter and shudder like him, taking pride in your work. He can feel the strain in his muscles fading second by second, the problems in his mind are plucked out one after the other, replaced by your soothing words you repeated constantly for days at this point, and expert hands, creating the same effect on his body.

“Like this, Lord Kenobi?” You require you still acquire his opinion, a feedback, and his title rolls off of your tongue unintentionally. Honestly, there’s no explanation you can make even to yourself, but you are already over it as his cock twitches under your palm, and his groan fills the room.

“Y-yes. You’re doing- so good.”

That must be some sort of karma, for he is above the concept of revenge, but you’re left with an itch to grind your legs together at his praise. If you do that, you’ll probably feel your wetness smearing all over your skin, you’re sure of it.

And you’re determined not to be distracted.

Your other hand joins the game too, starting to massage his balls. That makes him tense under you for a moment, but the tension dissolves quickly, leaving him dizzier.

“Fuck-“ Even the simplest swear word sounds hypnotizing on his lips, “you’re perfect. Don’t stop.”

Like you had any intention to do that.

On the contrary, your intentions evolve in the direction after his words, perhaps even a little bit further. You lean in and lick a stripe up his length, the tip of your tongue dancing around his head, fully tasting him, before you take him to your mouth fully.

His hand flies up, shaking as it comes down, held back by the strongest of wills from delving into your hair. Instead, it inches closer to your cheek, and returns to the position before (because he may have just lost five years of his life feeling the way you swallow him), half-stabilized over the armrest. His head rolls back once more, unashamed to release his moans with your every move. The most sinful one comes out when you use your throat, gagging around his thickness. You repeat it, and he whimpers, earning an equal sound from you too.

This time, you don’t have to ask him anything. The eye contact as you recover your breath, and continue to stroke him tells you everything you need to know, tells how much he enjoys it.

“Please- darling-“

You don’t try to choke on him again, but keep a rhythm with your tongue and your palm. He reaches climax quickly nonetheless, throbbing in your mouth and coating it white. Obi Wan feels sorry for not warning you, a sense of guilt rising alongside that pleasure, but it once again came over with lust as you gulp it down without a blink. He even fears he might go hard in a second, against all the rules of nature. You provoke that in all ways possible, pressing small kisses to his shaft, occasionally licking it, and letting your head rest on his thigh.

“Thank you.” It is so out of place to say that for this kind of act, but it is the sentence that is spoken, breaking the silence.

“You’re welcome, my Lord.” Thankfully, you raise your gaze just in time to miss the way his cock moves. You straighten your back and throw your shoulders back, stretching like you’ve just woken up.

So cute and so filthy.

“I’d like to return the favor.” He says, the action fueled only by his kind and generous soul.

“Some other time.” Your smile reflects the acknowledgment, not mocking his advances. “I am expected from home.”

“Ah, pity. Send my regards to your family.” He can’t help but feel envious of them. Do they know to treasure your company, not take a second of it for granted? Do they know what you did to him, before joining them? Would they be as accepting as ever, aware of your scandalous affairs?

Of course not.

But even then, you’d deserve much better than what they would treat you like. Your courage alone is enough to make the world bow down to you.

And what if your family means something other than your blood, your relatives? What if it was a stranger, a man undeserving, but had you to himself every night, when you returned home from your daily activities? A lucky fool who had the blessing of knowing you’d be by his side soon, every damn day.

His fingers turn into fists as you clean yourself up, so pretty in your ignorance to his gaze, brows slightly furrowed as you smooth out the wrinkles on your dress.

“Shall do.” And with your cheery voice, he doesn’t even notice his grip is unclenched.

===

Red isn’t his color. Some say it suits him well, that the stark contrast is eye-catching, but he doesn’t like to carry it. At this point of his life, it’s not even about his clothing choices, he prefers anything over that pigment in every possible scenario; the sheets, the carpets, the flowers… He makes a point of avoiding that powerful color.

Not today, though.

He has no word over how you dress and for once, tries very hard to stay neutral, not verbalize his choices when you mention the outfit you’ll be wearing in his ball, and it is a successful endeavor. (Knowing you and your stubbornness, it would probably only damage the bond between the two of you, something you’ll quip for years, or God forbid, keep you from attending at all.)

In the end, you wear it, and he ends up where he doesn’t want to be. Drowning in that bloody cloud. Without remorse, for the first time in his life.

For once, he finds himself chasing after it, taking joy in its liveliness, surrendering to the dangerous promises it makes. Your presence brings energy to every room you enter. The candles seem to burn brighter, and the warmth in his chest is not solely a result of both of your accomplishment of the spectacle. Obi Wan smiles ear to ear, eyes almost closed because of it, and he wants nothing more than to dance with you all night long, bury his hands in that expensive fabric and feel the burn in your cheeks, painted with the same color. He doesn’t even mean it in a perverse way. He wants to celebrate the payoff of your efforts, let the pride be felt, and enjoy the treats like all the guests, or even more than them (it would be more than fair to do so), together.

Alas, the society you both live in isn’t the type to accept such things. In order to not taint the event with the bitterness reserved for that principle, he doesn’t ask for more than six dances, or follow you around the saloon like a lost puppy. While it is never enough, he counts and cherishes the accidental eye contacts, and your hands holding his in dances, or the different circles you ran into each other and have snippets of various conversations. He accepts every compliment with your name tied behind his tongue and feels relieved with each passing hour, realizing how perfect everything is going, thanks to your pieces of advice and restrictions. He is light as a feather underneath all those layers he had to put on for the evening, without the pressing intention of taking it all off as soon as possible.

But, there are two sides to every coin, and here comes the other side, halfway through the night, the prejudice he had returning sinisterly.

He does a decent job of suppressing his jealousy, for all the purposes he’s thought of before. He can glance over when you dance with a stranger, or two, ricocheting on the stage and putting on a show for everyone. He chooses to admire the beauty you’re radiating, shining like a rose after the rain. It keeps him occupied for a while. But when an hour passes and you’re not even looking at his general direction, way too engulfed in your conversation with them, he feels a distaste rising in him. The red bleeds into his heart, poisoning him. It slowly takes over, and by the time you throw your head back with a burst of laughter that echoes in the room, he’s entirely filled with it. His hands twitch with every dream of ripping the source of that poison from your skin in a cove meant for just the two of you, away from all the vultures that eat and drink and savor his doings and yet ready to crucify him at his slightest flaw.

Obi Wan is one step away from sending everyone to their homes when you escort that man to the garden. Honestly, the only reason he doesn’t is because you return in a minute or two, the tip of your nose giving away all he needs to know- it’s chilly.

And he didn’t even give you his jacket?

On the second thought, it’s best that he didn’t, because then Obi Wan wouldn’t even bother to get rid of the crowd to have his way with him.

“Lord Kenobi.” You manage to catch him alone, on the balcony. He’s up there to calm his nerves, over you, unbeknownst to you. Unfortunately, his progress is lost the second he hears your voice, and it is truly an effort to act otherwise.

The night is on the brink of ruin for him, and it doesn’t have to be that way for you. This is why he tries so hard.

“I must congratulate you on this beautiful ball. It is a night to remember.”

“Don't say it like the honor doesn't belong to us both.”

You shrug, as if whisking all the credit away. But your eyes twinkle with pride. 

“I haven't had this much fun in ages,” You chirp,  “I would've begged for another one already, if I hadn't witnessed the toll it took on you.” He covers his face at the mention of the state he has been in for the last couple of weeks. “Oh God, don't.” 

“Oh God, you just didn't expose yourself like that! When will you start enjoying this?” Your laugh is a hidden giveaway of how many glasses you had tonight. “Don’t worry, my lips are sealed for those who may inquire.” Your lips. Wrapped around his cock. Mapping out his neck. Keeping his secrets.  “Remember that every word that comes out of my mouth is said by a person who attended all types of feasts all over the continent for a decade now. I grew up around these circles.” Shrugging, you add. “Perhaps that was my undoing.”

“Undoing? I could never call you “undone”.” Ironic, how you make him forget about before and continue to concern him with totally different subjects.

“You’re right.” Thoughts come out a little slow, but your effort is evident on your face. “I just had too many opportunities to start over in new places, experience everything that I was curious about, and that all led me to discover exactly what I liked, what I wanted from life.”

“How’s that a bad thing?” 

“I’m not willing to let that go anytime soon.” You can’t help but notice that it sounds like some sort of prison of your will, but that’s not a discussion you can have tonight. “Anyways, Obi Wan. I must be going now, just wanted to pay my compliments and wish you good night.” 

“I thought you’d stay the night-“Well, that’s definitely not the case, “But it is so early?”

“You know our houses are not so close, any later than this and I’m going to fall asleep on the road out of habit.”

Yeah, that’s why he thought it would be perfectly reasonable for you to stay over. 

“I see.” And he wishes he had gone blind and deaf. “Then, allow me to bid you good night, my Lady.” 

He takes your hand, placing a kiss you can very much feel despite the fabric. What he doesn’t expect, is for you to press your palm against his chest in return, because he doesn’t know of the urge you have to not leave. It is a split second of override, before you can command your feet to move again, blissfully unaware how tender that moment was.

===

A day. A full day. That’s how long he can refrain from seeing you. Funny, the meetings have become a habit for him, and although he needed you back then, he needs you more now, for completely different reasons, and you’re not there that morning- and why would you be? There’s no arrangement that demands your assistance anymore. Your praises are all said and done, and if to be repeated, it wouldn’t certainly be a matter that required urgency for you to show up at his door.

And maybe, you have other places to be, other doors to knock. Perhaps you’d enjoy a change of air.

So, he has come to yours.

Naboo. Aldreaan. Correlia. The cities churn in his mind, alongside your image in every one of them. The flowers in your hand as you roam the fields of Naboo, the coat that doesn’t do much for the redness on the tip of your nose while you lodge in the mountains of Alderaan. The exquisite jewelry you wear to a Correlian masquerade, outshining every debutante in the room. He imagines the people hypnotized by your presence (what can they be, other than blessed), or you gliding among them (after all, discretion was your powerful suit). And the worst of all, he thinks of the man escorting you, claiming their dances, bringing you a glass of their rare wines, walking with you in the natural scene, their savage arms around you, their hands groping your curves, pulling sweet sounds from you.

(No, the purpose of his visit was not that. )

He invites himself in from your open balcony, catching you as you start your nightly routine. You’re taking off your hairpins, when he does the courtesy of knocking on the glass, startling you just a little. You jump, but thankfully do not scream, the reflex somehow suppressed. Truth be told, it’s not because your shock actually dwindles. If anything, it is redirected into a different question, going from “What the fuck was that?” to “Why the fuck is he here?”

“Good night, darling.” He gestures for you to sit again, and you do, returning to your chair in front of the vanity. Your head has to crane in a strange way for you to see him, but thankfully, he comes closer and solves the problem, eyes meeting through the mirror. And his face lights up as he sets foot in the room, like he too has forgotten everything but this moment, his jealousy and desperation left behind the walls. That’s how the question of “What are you doing here?” is not immediately articulated.

 Instead, you say, “Good night, Obi Wan.”

“I see I managed to visit you just in time.” Look at him, fixing his beard, laughing nervously. He just climbed to the second floor, and his heart only got racing now.

“Lucky you.” Honestly, you don't think there's a “wrong time” in his perspective, at least when it comes to you. A few minutes later, and he'd see you in your nightgown. Would that deter him from setting his foot in here? Most, most, most likely, no. Don't dwell on that thought, though. “And what do I owe the pleasure?” You try not to focus too much on the fact that you have him and your bed in the same frame, through the reflection. 

“I thought I would see you today.” Is that sarcasm in his tone, or a little bit of self-humiliation?

This must be some sort of a Shakespeare play, right? 

Oh my God, it is. 

“Ah.” You fiddle with your hairbrush, the eye contact broken, your attempt to stop any matter from escalating this night. Any matter. Not that you had any questions when it came to his morals, he probably was the one person you’d never doubt, but in terms of his intentions to be here tonight startled you in a much different light. “I slept in late today. Didn’t even leave the house.”

Oh. That makes quite the sense.

“Actually I still feel a little bit exhausted.”

“That’s because you had too much fun without me last night.” A treacherous scoff falls from his lips as he shakes his head. The moment that the tides turn. The one that brings back all the crude questions.

“What? No? What do you mean?” For all your effort to remain calm, you look alarmed, that tired face with doe eyes showing it all, and he feels sorry for a second, troubling you over his overthinking ass.

Then, he spots the bracelet you wore last night, lying haphazardly over a piece of paper on the corner of the table. It looks very much like a letter.

It’s not hard for him to advance his speculations.

“I think you know it already.”

“Obi Wan.” You twist to actually face him, your arm on the back of the chair. “Why are you here?”

He takes a few steps back, as if the air is stolen from the short distance between the two of you. He runs a hand through his hair, undisturbed by its messy result. You can see him biting into his cheeks, trying to select the right words. In the end, all that effort seems unnecessary, because when he speaks, the sentence can’t be any simpler. “Who was the man you spent an hour with last night?”

Wincing, you take a few seconds to process. It’s not about the answer, but his motive, his audacity that irks you. You stand up and speak. This time, your voice is sharp as ice. “That’s none of your business.”

He blinks a few times, so sure of his righteousness, and determined. “You were in my house, at our ball, dancing and talking with strangers and not even glancing in my direction for the better half of the night. I think it’s some of my business.”

“I was by your side for much longer than it is acceptable, Kenobi, do I need to remind you? We danced six times and greeted the majority of guests together.” You’ll not let the truth be ignored. “Any longer than that and there would be rumors all over the society today, and even I would’ve heard about it despite staying here all day. I didn’t come this much by pushing boundaries at every fucking chance I get. I picked my battles, the thing you seem incapable of.”

“So, am I to understand, this thing between us,” The look on his face dares you to deny the existence of it, “is not worth picking?”

This is the possibility that scared you. And for good reason, it seems. You close your eyes, in order to not roll them, and purse your lips. He uses the moment to reach for your arms, like he could appeal for an answer from you. “Don’t you love what we have?”

You couldn’t feel any worse under the warmth of his hands, affection pouring out of them despite the rage in him. “I love what we had.”

“Had?”

“It’s obvious that we can’t keep doing this, is it not?”

Confusion leaves its place to anger once more, for all the wrong reasons and his face darkens. “Oh, I see. You secured yourself a new entertainment, and now you have to get rid of the old one.”

You shrug out of his hold, distancing yourself from him. The source of the problem is not what he claims it to be, and it infuriates you, along with the accusations he taints you with.  “Don't you dare reflect your own degeneration on me like that! It’s not about my damn cousin’s damn friend, it’s about you!” It is nearly a scream, the highest pitch that wouldn’t grab attention. Still, reflectively, you turn your head to the door, which you had luckily locked. “Leave now, you bastard!”

Honoring the part he was assigned in that theatre play, he focuses on the wrong part of the words, the crumbles of information giving him hope, and dim his doubts. “So there's nothing between you and him?”

Seething, you are red with fury, taking a sharp breath, pointing your finger at him like a gun. “Get. Out.” 

“Is there?” 

Your tongue is determined not to let him hear your words, despite the truth in them. It will not lead to any good. 

But so will his closeness.

When did he get so close? 

The moment you look into his ocean eyes, the decision to say anything is deemed impossible. The decision to do anything, actually. His arms cage you against the cluttered table, and yours end up on his chest, though without any intention of pushing him away.

“Answer my question, and I will.” 

How could you? How can you be able to resist his utmost sincerity, the desperation in his behaviors and the brutality of his words contrasted in the way he looks at you, the caging without actually touching you. Your suffocation is only a result of your inner turmoil, the desire to spit out the truths, clear his heart and give in to the love he's handing out, but terrified of the places it will take the two of you.  

“I’m waiting, darling.”  You can’t help but watch his perfect lips move, his voice licking your skin. 

You gulp, an action he doesn’t miss, and dares to laugh at it. Obi Wan can see the exact moment your gaze returns to being that of an eris, though the flames remind him of a different time.

A very different time. 

“I hate you.” It is perhaps the most childish thing you’ve ever said in years, and it shows. 

So, that’s his cue to kiss you.

For all your claims, still, he doesn’t miss the small moan you let out, swallowing it with pride. Your soft lips move against his like a habit, anticipating every move and the next, a choreography you both know all too well  albeit in a much swifter tempo. Your hands wrap around his neck, pulling him closer but his stay in the same spot, afraid to disturb you, though gripping the edges hard enough to turn his knuckles white. Though, when he tugs at your bottom lip, asking for more, you grant him that, your tongues joining the dance. You whimper, the action triggering your inhibitions to loosen up, like each second wipes the doubts away. It is a sugared water, only serving to increase the thirst instead of quenching it. So you don't stop drinking it.

Not til you absolutely have to.

“No, you don’t.” 

Two seconds have to pass for you to understand his response. With his breath still warming your cheeks, even brushing them with his nose, yes he dares now, the statement is the undeniable truth.

However, not that you're ready to admit it. He already knows too much, all the things you like, all your weak spots, all of your soul.

“Yes, I- oh” And he's not the one to endure your lies. His fingers delve into your scalp, putting traction into your hair ‘til you have to tilt your head back to release the tension, forcing you to look at him through your lashes. Still, eye contact is not what he seeks, for he has as much a chance of getting lost in it as you. He uses the expanse of skin you offer, and dives in for that specific spot that has your legs going limp. It has two consequences: Firstly, you are stuck between him and the table, the latter supporting you too little that the weight rests almost entirely on his body, every plane of him touching yours. Secondly, the angle puts the mirror in the corner of your sight, and you have a maddening view of what’s happening. It is enough to make old ladies screech and faint, and artists to slave to immortalize the scene.  

“You’re a bastard.” You murmur the last bit of objection, solely for the object of throwing it out of the tip of your tongue. He hears, though quite unbothered, the retort to break you further leaves his mouth readily.

“Call me whatever you want, dear, you’re the one begging for it.”

Of course, you only pant in return. Even when he threatens to nip and bite at the sensitive nerves, you don’t stop him. Furthermore, your calf twists around his as much as it is able in that impossible posture. An invitation.

“And what else would you let me do to you? Would you let me take you to your bed?”

You nod, frantically. “Yes, please Obi Wan- take me”

That’s a sentence straight out of his dreams.

The second your feet touch the ground, both of you gather the ends of your dress, yanking it out to throw it haphazardly on the floor. Your stays and chemise follow the same fate, then it is his jacket and shirt. He taps on your thigh, like he would let you walk the five meter distance between there and the bed, you jump, a little shakily (not that you ever had questions about his strength). Fuck, it excites you how easily and softly he lands you on the edge of it. You reach for his trousers, but he stops you and urges for you to scoot back, and lay down.

Because that’s the best way he can rid you of your shoes and stockings.

Your knees stick together as he works on one foot, and the other. The shoes drop with a loud thud, making you bite your lip, close your eyes for a moment and pray nobody investigates. It’s no wonder that after that small break, your pupils meet once more. How ironic that it is the cause of your concern, and the only solution.

You can feel his fingertips skimming the top of the only clothing left on you. While the touch is stimulating enough, it is the fact that you have to spread your legs a little to allow him to undress you, giving him a view of your wet pussy.

Nothing that he hasn’t seen before, but that doesn’t affect the way you tremble.

Throwing your head back, you let him slide the stretchy fabric down. Slowly. Like his piercing gaze isn’t enough. You’re squirming by the end of it, all thoughts of getting him out of his outfit gone (-or delayed, should you still believe yourself.)

Thankfully, he takes care of it, the sounds of his buttons unfastened echo in the room. 

Though he has no rush to join you. 

You turn your face to search for what's taking him so long, a whine in your throat when he kneels. That's unlike him. 

You feel cold without his body looming over yours. And he has a hard time not to do that, not falling for the flush of red and your hard nipples. Especially when you're so gone that you may come undone just from that.

He'd like to see that. 

But he has to make you understand how you keep him in that state, ignorant of his troubles, even as the solution is obvious and wanted by both sides, however the other can't accept it out of simple stubbornness.

Thus, he plays the deaf now, as he grips the supple flesh of your thighs, squeeze and move as he pleases, exposing your core to air while he busies himself with other parts. He claims you with his lips, mapping out, pushing you down to the mattress every time you jolt because he’s so close just a little to the left- But perhaps the worst is his vulgar taunts, whispered, to himself mostly, a way to speak out the anger.

“Are you this wet for all the men you hate?”

“No.” You cry, not able to stand the accusations. “It’s you.”  And it is the truth. There are no other men on the planet that you would bear being treated like this by, or attempt to change their opinion of you. But now, you need him to know that. You can’t imagine a future with his back always turned to you, or be subject to his very much forced small talk with empty, or worse, hatred filled eyes. It is a reveal of a side of you that you had to keep hidden and downplay, to be free at the end of the day, give both of you an opportunity to walk out, but it doesn’t matter if the said fallout leaves his judgment of you sour. You care about his perception, and would do your best to change it should it be mixed with lies. Truth, and nothing less, is what he deserves.

A wave of relief floods his heart, that simple answer is all he wishes to hear. There’s also a bit of rage, for knowing you’d never admit it in any other circumstance. Alas, the smile appearing on his face is unstoppable. Even as he finally begins to eat you out.

A moan leaves your mouth at the first contact, which is nothing more than a small kiss. That bad, uh? As he licks everything he can reach, it turns into a whine, because it is evident he has no concern about making you cum quickly, or in a normal amount of time. He just continues to do whatever he was doing before, exploring every nook and cranny, and marking, like he intends to commit this moment to his memory. It may not have been his first time, (or the second), but he’s doing it for himself now, your desperation sadly not a priority. You also suspect he’s doing it to drive you mad, using his previous experience and remembering how sensitive you got when his beard rubbed against your skin.

“Obi Wan-“ Your back arches, a hand reaching for his hair. He stops it all by jostling your legs with a hold that could leave imprints. It takes half of your willpower to stay in the place he put you in, and that means you only have the other half to process the indescribable pleasure he’s giving. It is gonna be fast, whether he plans it or not.

“Could you actually throw this away? How can you pick anything else over this?” You knew it would be a hard transition. The magic he created is haunting and ready to jump on you in those dark corners, even after many years. There is no cure for ghosts, after all. The thought now seems impossible, the last thing that could cross your mind. Simply impossible. He emphasizes by nudging your clit, every single movement forcing a sound out of you. “That's right. I’m going to remind you how good we are together, make you feel so good that you'll forget anything but us.” 

The passion in his words scares you, but it would be a lie to say they don't excite you in some way, making your heart flutter in your chest at his devotion and to be able to still feel safe only supported by the honest bond you two have. You chant his name as he smothers himself in your folds, sucking and flicking your raw bundle of nerves. He loves to feel you twitch when you are overwhelmed, but not enough to climax. 

Then, he scrapes your clit with his teeth, and you're gushing, head thrown back, a silent scream in your mouth. The hot lava inside you doesn't cool down, paying its visit to every part of you, making stars explode behind your eyes and body trash against the sheets. To be perfectly honest, he didn't expect this much either, his strong muscles tightened to keep you from closing your legs, a string of curses muttered at the obscenity of it all. As always, your bliss only augments his own, especially at the sight of your essence flowing out of you. He has to drink it all in. Thus, he doesn’t stop, unbothered by the subtle sway of your hips, or the slight tug at his strands. He has no objection to them, on the contrary, he would encourage them if he didn't have to abandon his task to say the words. The slow movements of his tongue create constant stimulation in your already delicate nerves. Your second orgasm crashes you like a clap of thunder, leaves you sobbing and shaking. It uses all the energy in your already spent muscles, wipes every argument from your mind and removes those troubling emotions from your soul. The interesting thing, is that you have no oppositions to the matter. Why would there be? Could there be a sweeter arrangement? Isn’t it better than a dream? You speak the truths, and he worships you. You pay him the respect he deserves, and he tries to honor it in every chance. You don't complete his personality, you enhance it, and in return, he uses everything in his power to make your day better. 

It is not that simple, a voice speaks from the back of your head, but it's too silent to have an importance. 

Likewise, some of his ideas are dismayed just as easily. Pity. He had every intention of taking you from behind, not letting you get away before painting your ass red, and watch you crawl back to him still even when he teased you that badly, but you seem too gone, too weak to lift your hips up. And it is not a big deal anymore, because he's equally excited to have you like this, lying on your back, legs hugging his torso. Like your first time. The parallel is unintentional, but more than welcomed. How much and how little has changed since then? He leans in for a kiss, and fuck, your mouth is greets him too purely, like he's not covered in your slick. There's something more than lust that drives you, evident in the way you move, like you’re carving out a promise on his lips. The sounds that you produce are not in desperation, but gratitude, not weary of the periods of suspense but glad that it is over. His fingers travel the length of your abdomen, all blame on him for the coldness of your skin and the way you shiver. When he circles your nipples with his thumb, you sigh, and press yourself to him. 

“You take care of me like no other, Obi Wan.” You whisper as you cup his cheek. You should’ve told him sooner. It was the least you could do. 

He has no answer, and he doesn’t need one. Holding your wrist at the sides of your head angrily and meeting with your tongue is more than enough of an explanation, just like the one you made a little too late, beautiful controversies. You both are unaware of how your hips rub against each other, without hurry, ‘til his cock catches your entrance. Your breathing becomes erratic, considering you didn’t get a prep or had any in some while, and he’s big. 

“Are you gonna let me in, sweetheart?” 

“I need you.” You almost wail, despite knowing it will be too much. It’s not about pleasing him, either, for these things are not given up as sacrifices, ever. What matters is that you’re together, and that is always good. “Please, I want you.”

Could he ever refuse?

He takes his time, relishing the surrender of your tight walls, and brave noises, replied with his own moans. Your pants are guiding as much as they are troubling, making him even harder. He swears he’s about to burst when you outright sob while he brushes your areolas. Your back raises, an attempt to get his fingers a little higher, and your eyelids flutter close with the movement.

Make no mistake, your face scrunched up in delight is a sight to behold, but he can’t compromise having your eyes closed, sparing him from that glossy, burning gaze you have when he tears you apart. He needs to see them lose all coherent thought, see those doubts fly away and light up with pleasure.

“Look at me, dearest.” Right, aren’t you more than acquainted with his most important wish? He pleads, the softest tone that spilled from his lips tonight. Your heart skips a beat although you’re not exactly capable of processing that information. Needless to say, you don’t oblige to his wish, not when you are so spent. 

Obi Wan groans, his hand flying up to turn your chin. At that moment, all fall silent. You get lost in his stormy eyes, and so does he. Though his cock twitches in your quivering channel, that’s not the point.

“I can’t get enough of you.” He blurts. Then, the other truths demand to be told too.  “I don't like the way they look at you. I don't like how they don't know how blessed they are by your presence. Shit, I hate it when they know it too. I hate to think those who got to memorize you this closely, even those you knew before me.” 

Even those you knew before me. “Obi Wan, you're-” 

“Crazy? I'll admit, I am crazy when it comes to you.” 

“I never-” You have to drown a whimper as he continues his deep, slow strokes, “asked for any of it.”

“Of course, dear. I know, I know it's not you, but them. But I can hardly stop myself from reaching out and pulling you out from their sigh. Or wrap my hands around you, let them see what we share. They wouldn't dare anymore, if they knew the lines you left on my back.” It takes an incredible amount of will not to thrust into you faster, with where his ideas lead him to. “Would you let me mark you from the inside?”

Fuck, why does his words make their way into your heart without ringing those alarm bells you have ready at all times? How does he move past them so easily? 

Or do you let him, and take those rings as a cheery tune of his nearing presence, and not a warning as they must be?

“Yes!” The feeling of him finishing anywhere but in you suddenly sounds so disgusting. You want his warmth, even though you're burning already. 

His lips find yours, kissing you so hard that you'd thought he wanted to silence you. But surely, you know better, that's definitely not the case. You get to drink his sweet moans as his hands envelope you further (like it's possible). In return, he's right there to swallow your gasps, the proof of how you push yourself for him. The rest of the world stops, the urge to fill your lungs no longer necessary, nothing but the rhythm you've created, and clouds you've climbed on. 

He senses your peak before you do and gives you a brief space to breathe, praises falling from his lips that you can't hear, as you shake and let out whimpers, quite loud, for you've grown used to him muffling them. He follows suit, not able to resist your walls clamping down on him, painting your insides with a heavenly moan. 

It takes a second for both of your bearings to return, for the night to evolve into a chilly summer night it was simply meant to be. The coldness is especially remarkable as sweat cools down. A towel wipes them rather quickly, but it's never as warm as having the other around. Your usual remedy, a nightgown, is no use either, even if he helps you put it on. It is such a whiplash that makes you question everything about the last hour. You're left with burning cheeks as he collects your clothes from the floor, hanging them on the divider, then his- but he does the same to them?

“What are you doing?” You croak, a minute of silence for your vocal cords. “I don't cuddle.” That's a harsh sentence, but it's the truth.

“And I don't leave the person I love in the middle of the night to freeze.” He's holding a candle, the only lit candle in the room, and his face is illuminated beyond anything else and it could be said that he is the source of light. 

The person I love. His words break down the last resolve you have, and you're left to figure out how you feel about it as he kills the flame, and slides  into the sheets behind you. You'd think the sensation of his chest pressed to your back would keep you wide awake, but no, it's weirdly new yet familiar, enough to lull to sleep. Also, his scent is mesmerizing, and you never had it this close and constant. 

And for him, he had no trouble whatsoever from the start, but this is far better than expected, that he is sure he is living the best moment of his fate. The softness of you, in his arms, drifting into heavy dreams. It is a treasure for him to see that you can relax beside him, allow him to feel the regularity of breaths, showing your most natural self. 

But the morning is anything like the night.

You wake up from the orange lights of the rising sun, when he gently combs your hair out of your face. There's a fatigue in your muscles, alongside that sweet tinge of pleasure still lingering, making it all bearable. Your skin runs hot where he holds you, your back, your waist, your intertwined legs… The slight prickle of his beard is not pronounced when it's rolling on your shoulder, especially as it's followed by small pecks. He's unable to resist, your intoxicating smell pronounced in the cove of your neck, right under his nose. Only when he feels somewhat satisfied, and you seem a little more conscious, the tonus of your body increasing, he talks. 

You weren't ready for his morning voice.

“Good morning, love.” His hand rises to soothe the redness rising where his chin was pressed. Delicate all over. “I’m afraid I must get going, for both of us’ sake.” 

You give an affirming hum, and swiftly roll out. Your body betrays you without delay, a shiver seizing you, protesting the lack of his heat. You shake your shoulders, not so subtly but it's not like you can cringe. It is your band aid, and you're ripping it out. 

You reach for a robe and put it on rather easily for your questionable nerves and state of mind. 

“Darling?” 

“Yes, you should really get going, Obi Wan.” Fuck, that sounds still more aggressive than you are, or you ever intended, a mirror of the storms in your mind. 

“What's the matter?” He's awfully quick to put on his trousers and come near you once again. He looks into your eyes, unobscured by your hair, and then there's that look of reveal on his face, the point of no return. He says your name, a final plead and a warning.

“You must leave soon.” This time, you’re a little softer, but it is nowhere near normal, considering what you shared.

“You think last night was a mistake.” He’s never sounded colder, and you have to focus not to bite your lip. The stern expression on his face is unbecoming of him, but it’s also a great reflection of his fidelity. Now, the other side of the coin shows itself, with his icy eyes and clenched jaw.

“I never-“ said that. Though, is there any possibility of you explaining what you feel? The doubts, the unfamiliarity of these feelings. Could you say, I’m not sure about this thing in between us, without creating the same effect of his claimed words?

There’s a second of silence, as he’s giving you one last chance to speak up. You know, you know that the moment you try, he’s going to break that heartless look, and put his loving hand out.

“For someone who thinks it was a mistake, you don't seem regretful at all.”

“Because it's not, and I don’t!” The confession is for him, but it is hard on you. But that doesn’t mean you’re willing to repeat it. “But it can become one. This has to stop. We can’t go further than this.”

“Why?” He’s trying his best not to raise his voice in this quiet, quiet hour.

“Because this is just- just an infatuation. It will go away. And to remember this time as a good one, we have to be careful, and we’re starting to lose that sense.”

An infatuation. That is the strangest insult he’s ever heard, but the worst nonetheless. An infatuation. The more he repeats the word in his mind, the more his anger grows, with a goal to show you otherwise.

“This is not what happened last night, and you know it.” He was as clear as day, and you honored that likewise. There was no lie. “If this is about you getting pregnant, I swear -”

“No, that's not it.” For once, you show something about the bond you have. “I have no concerns about you, or the whole society, should that happen. I’d even happily move away somewhere nobody knows my name and raise them.” 

Why is that option uttered, when there are far easier choices to make? “You’d rather build a new life than marry me?”

You remain silent once more, owning the coward you are. This is exactly why this wouldn’t work, anyways. He shakes his head, catching himself still thinking of ways to convince you, to work through the problem. He even thinks of walking out of the main door, and running into your father's study, forcing your hand in marriage.

You can see that thought play in his head as his gaze becomes fixated on the door.

"See. That's why.” You beg. “This is just an obsession, and you are maddened with it. You can't see reason, or listen to the sound of it, and I can't watch you make decisions like this. Is this how you actually want to treat me? Blackmail your way into marrying me?”

“So, this is what you think of me.” Blackmail. 

“No, Obi Wan, are you even listening to me?” You cover your face with your hands, a moment to recollect yourself. “Do you know when my next trip is scheduled?” 

Oh. You and your infamous life on the roads. 

“In three days. And do you know I already postponed it once?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean we have very different lifestyles, and they are not compatible.”

“Or maybe, you are running from something so long that it has become a habit.”

“I do it because I like it. Because I promised people that I would see them before the end of autumn.” The latter part of your answer is not in your favor, but his, a product of overthinking. You discover that a little too late. He sees it too, along with the fragile curl of your lips, but doesn’t use it against you. Not anymore.

“I wish you a safe trip, then.” That’s the closest you’ve ever gotten to regret your preferences, as he takes a step back, and dresses himself in a blink with perfection. It causes you to feel vulnerable, like his stoic face and impeccable outfit which somehow looks even more put together than yesterday, when he was helped to put it on, paints him like a statue of a Greek god who is putting you on trial.

A trial that you fail.

Yet, by not punishing you, he gives you the worst sentence: Incarceration with your conscience.

[crimson-lair]

MBCC DATING SIM: Reasons to Date Raven

Raven had always been curious about the "MBCC Dating Sim" the staffs had invented. As the second person to participate after Cinnabar, she was eager to see what all the fuss was about. However, when you were given the task to go on a date with Raven, you were hesitant to show her the piece of paper that outlined the reasons why you should date her.

The truth was, you were afraid of what Raven might do with the information on the paper. The last thing you wanted was for her to write about it in the newspapers and cause a stir among the other Sinners. You knew that the staffs had warned you not to let Raven see the paper, but her incessant pestering made it hard to resist.

As you hesitated, considering whether or not to let Raven see the paper, you could practically see her mind working overtime, trying to figure out why you were being so cagey. In the end, you keep the paper to yourself, much to her dismay.

Reason No. 1:

Raven can always spruce up your resume for free!

Raven's face twisted into an exasperated expression as she listened to you explain that you wanted her help with your resume. "A resume?" she repeated, her voice dripping with disbelief.

"After all the work I've put into crafting sensational headlines and exposing the dark secrets of the upper class, you want me to help with something as mundane as a resume?"

However, her disbelief was quickly replaced by a flicker of amusement, and she shook her head with a small grin. "What a waste of my talents. But since you asked nicely, I suppose I could help you out."

She pulled out a quill and a paper out of nowhere, scrawling down the details you gave her in quick, 'neat' strokes. "Let's see... What kind of position are you applying for? A receptionist? An administrative assistant? A... a..."

She stopped and frowned, her quill pressing down on the paper, leaving ink smudges on it. "Why can't you get a real job?"

Me: CUT! CUT! THAT'S SO OOC! DON'T BREAK THE 4TH WALL

Reason No. 2:

Raven's hair is green, and they say looking at green is good for your eyes!

Raven's confusion was visible on her face. Her long, seaweed-like dark green hair was indeed striking, but she wasn't used to receiving this much attention from someone. The intensity of your gaze made her couldn't help but wonder what was going on.

"Are you... staring at my hair?" she asked, her mouth hanging open slightly. "That's a bit intense, don't you think?"

Then, you surprised her even more when you mentioned that someone had told you that green was good for eyes. Raven raised an eyebrow, visibly confused. "What does that have to do with this?"

Suddenly, it dawned on her what you were getting at, and she couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity of the situation. "Oh, I see."

"Well, you're in luck then," she said, sending you a wink. "My eyes are also green, so you might as well take a look at them too."

Reason No. 3:

You'll get to learn how to raise ravens!

Raven was excited to show you the pet raven that made up from her abilities. She was proud of the fact that the bird had become quite proficient in speaking and even knew how to say a few phrases like a parrot. However, her excitement quickly turned to embarrassment when the raven suddenly squawked out the words, "Lemme smash."

Raven was completely caught off guard and immediately tried to shut the bird up. "Please excuse its crude language."

"I swear I never taught it anything like that. He must have picked it up from somewhere. Please, just ignore him."

Despite her efforts, the bird continued to repeat the phrase, "Lemme smash."

"Please."

In the end, Raven had to resort to a stern glare and a "Shhhh!" to get the bird to stop.

Maybe you're not destined to raise ravens.

Image by PathtoNowhereEN on Twitter/X

I've never heard of this lemme smash bird meme until recently thanks to some blogs, now I know 👍 but I don't think it's funny enough when I wrote it myself 😭 HELP

Next victim is Dreya >:) but not sure if it'd be comedy like.. hehe

[natasha-in-space]

Okay, okay, but can we talk about the implications of the RFA preparing us these gingerbread cookies? I know they made it look all neat and tidy for us (Saeran and Jumin wouldn't have it any other way), but there is definitely a story of a completely destroyed kitchen behind them.

I can see it going two ways: Either they each made a cookie individually, or they mitigated responsibilities between one another. For the sake of this being funnier, let's go with the first option!

Yoosung is likely to take a few attempts to complete his cookie. Not because he is bad at it (he was forced to help out making gingerbread cookies with his family almost every Christmas), but because he wants to make it perfect! After all, it's for their party coordinator! And he wants to impress you! Overall, he does a clean enough job, and his cookie turns out in a way that leaves him proud. If only Saeyoung didn't prank him once or twice in the process, that redheaded rascal!

Zen will definitely need some help. I'm sorry, I know he can cook and he is willing to learn for you, but as of now, he is rusty as heck. Surviving on nothing but salads, beer, and occasional snacks will not turn him into a good baker. He will try to follow the recipe, but he will either end up messing up, or he'll get all huffy about the cookie not looking right, and not representing his true beauty. He wants his cookie to be as handsome as he is! (Jaehee will enthusiastically agree to this statement) Actually, I can see Jaehee being the one to help him out. Maybe even in secret from everyone else, so he wouldn't get teased about it. Plus, Jaehee is just as motivated to make this cookie perfect!

Speaking of Jaehee, just like with everything else she does, she will do her job quickly and perfectly. No fuss, no muss. She'll be very clean about it too. It's like she wasn't even there in the kitchen. I don't even have much to say about her, because she's just too responsible and diligent for her own good. No silly gags, just a perfectly baked delicious cookie. She'll be very proud of it, too. Make sure to compliment her! She'll get all giggly about it for sure.

Jumin is... He can bake. In fact, he is a very good baker due to his natural ability to follow given instructions precisely. But, the problem with Jumin isn't that he can't cook or bake, as it's often assumed, it's that he gets too damn curious for his own good. He is like a cat. A creature of curiosity. Will try doing different techniques and adding new things, just to see what will turn out. He finds baking to be like a science and is captivated by it. Everyone in the RFA are horrified. It's like watching the ticking bomb go off. Everyone except for Jihyun. That man is just chuckling away in the corner and occasionally poking fun at his friend, because he knew it would end up that way. Although he will have to step in, once Jumin decides to try something a bit too crazy. Can't have their party coordinator shocked in a not so pleasant way! Jumin will still present you with an entire collection of gingerbread cookies later, though. He's too proud not to. What an absolute dork.

Speaking of Jihyun, I don't know why, but I always pictured him as a pretty bad cook and baker. I don't have any canon evidence for it, this is just pure headcanon territory. He will try. Dear Lord, he will try his absolute best for you. But, his gingerbread cookies will turn out looking just as sad and skrunkly as he is. It's like a curse. He might just come to terms with his cookie looking as miserable as ever, but I like to imagine Yoosung helping him out in the end! Just because I'd like to see them bond in a cute and happy way for once. Who knows, maybe this will become a new tradition of theirs! Yoosung teaching Jihyun an art of cooking and baking. And, I think Jihyun really does view it as an art. Then again, his artistic nature can make even the most mundane of things into a beautiful metaphor for something. He just needs someone by his side to watch out for any smoke.

Saeran is one step behind Jaehee when it comes to getting the job done. He's a bit more messy, because he likes to have fun while baking (especially when he's preparing something for you), and he will definitely prepare a good batch of different variations, before he decides on the final one. Funny thing about Saeran is that the kitchen will be squeaky clean, but he will be covered in flour, frosting, and other things. He doesn't know how it happened. No one does. But, it does give his brother some opportunities for playful teasing. Much to Saeran's exasperation (but there is a smile on his face as he huffs and puffs at Saeyoung's jokes, and it melts his twin's heart for sure). Also, he will prepare gingerbread cookies for Ray and Suit, but will leave them to give those two to you later in person. These are special.

And, last but not least, we have the final boss. The one who turns a cute idea to surprise you into a raging disaster. The man behind the slaughter. Saeyoung Choi. Boy, oh boy. It's true that no one wanted to allow him to bake. Everyone was aware of what was to come. But, once they saw that painfully familiar sparkle of inspiration in those golden eyes of his? That wicked grin that just screamed of mischief? His numerous babbles in the chatroom about 101 facts regarding gingerbread cookies? It was obvious. There was no going back. Only forward. He would bake that cookie with or without them. And, Saeran would much rather be nearby if something caught on fire. The cookie you see on the plate is adorable. It's perfect. Tasty. But, there is a story of true terror behind it. Dozens of fallen gingerbread cookies, lost at the hands of a mad redheaded genuis who was having way too much fun mixing ingredients that should never be mixed. How in the world did he get flour onto the ceiling? No one knows. Why is there a batch of Dr Pepper flavored cookies laying on the counter? Why, that's another mystery added to the pile. Did he create some kind of ungodly invention or a full on robo-arm to make cookies for him? Ask Vanderwood for that.

[solstices-dreams]

𝐦𝐲 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐝𝐫 𝐩𝐭. 𝟏.

𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭. 𝐦𝐲 𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞 𝐝𝐫. ᝰ.ᐟ

— 𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐚 𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐢.

16 years old (aug. 23), she/they, 5’4

She was my first friend ever, we’ve been friends since elementary school so we’ve been through alll the cringe phases with each other. She’s definitely my best best friend, no shade on my others but she’s the one who gets me. I think we’ll have matching bracelets, not sure what kind but we’re matching.

She has a hispanic mom who can be strict but she loves me and her food-!! omg!! Her dad’s black and he’s pretty tall and big and he likes me too, probably calls me by some nickname b/cuz i’m so close with Maria. And he’s the good cop, so if we ever get in trouble we’ll tell him, not her mom.

Her younger brother is Matteo, (NOT mattheo riddle). He and I are also close just bcuz of Marie. He loves food and is lokey a popular kid in his grade but he still hangs out around our grade and we text somewhat often.

Maria’s usual nicknames are Marie, Mar, Mari. She’ll be the type to call you out on your bs like Angie, she also makes a couple race jokes but she never means them. I’m her token white girl when she takes me to the bsu (black student union.) She also does volleyball for a sport. She’s somewhere on the bisexual/pansexual spectrum of liking a lot of genders.

She’s in all the same type of classes as me, honors and APs and she’s best at english and history. (not better than me tho, we tie or I do better… but no jealousy !) But she’s my fav, my homegirl and also a potential s/o… She also calls you “girl” regardless of gender, unless you ask her not too. And she also makes sure to switch up your pronouns if you go by a couple.

they remind me of : dark red, scarves, soft blankets, brown color palette, hello kitty, nose highlighter, a good book with a warm fire

— 𝐲𝐯𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐨.

15 years old (june 6), she/they, 5ft

She has two older brothers who are both blonde and pale like her. Her family is academically driven and she’s super smart, (honors & ap classes) especially in math. She’s pretty soft spoken and quiet and definitely a bookworm but you can have really indepth conversations with her. If you want to vent to her she’s awesome because she gives good constructive criticism and I have her sometimes check over whatever I’m writing for school or fanfic… b/c yes, i’m a fanfic writer in my teen life dr.

She’s super organized and has really neat notes, like angie, so if I ever miss a class I’m asking them for notes. We became friends in middle school, she was an 8th grade transfer then ended up going to the same highschool as me. I don’t really think she’s do any sports, maybe track? I think she might do yearbook or matheletes, a more strict club ig? Probably photography club and an Asian ethnicity clubs and she would def run a position, maybe secretary so she doesn’t have to talk too much. It’s not social anxiety on her part she just doesn’t like having to be told to speak up all the time. She’s also crazy levelheaded, all my other friends get passionate about stuff, but she’s chill.

She has cool pins on her bags too and she’s a thrift queen, i know me and the gals are gonna have so much fun thrifting !! And Yvette is aro/ace and rarely experiences attraction, also maybe demisexual-? I don't know a ton about nonattraction terms but she doesn't get crushes or feel attraction often and when she does it can be any gender.

they remind me of : light green, neat notes, mochi, organized pantries, sterile, white, pressed sheets, glasses with thin frames

— 𝐦𝐚𝐱𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐜.

15 years old (oct. 3), she/they, 5’6

Holy shit- this girl… she has energy constantly. I met her in highschool. We usually call her “moxie” instead of maxine and occasionally “max.” She’s also an emoji abuser and she def has cheesy pick up lines and she sends you a shit ton of tiktoks and she uses the tiktok [proud] emoji a ton. “What’s cookin good looking? [stomps light up sketchers] [proud]”

She’s the one jumping around at parties and saying “oh my god I love this song!” Not organized at all… miss gurl is always losing stuff so I make sure to take a copy of all my homework because no doubt she’ll come asking for an extra. She does soccer, softball, and basketball. She’s pretty smart, she’s in only honors or ap history or english, she hates math so she and yvette make a funny pair.

“Y’all i’m not even joking- i just flunked that test, the only thing I got right was my name-“

She has a dad who’s like… really rich. She doesn’t really care though but sometimes she can totally forget how rich she is compared to others in the group. I love whenever she invites to do stuff because it’s always cool and paid for. She has a step mom she doesn’t particularly care for and is a little blunt with her but she’s not a bad person, just doesn’t like the step mom feeling like a replacement. Unlabeled sexuality queen, girls, guys, if there’s a will there’s a way,

they remind me of : party girl, champagne glasses, sparkles, gold, energy, party city, gold/silver tinsel

— 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐚 𝐝𝐚𝐰𝐬𝐨𝐧.

15 years old (dec. 3), she/her, 5’7

She’s so annabeth chase and angelica schyuler. She’s so SMART LIKE OMG. She’s all honors and then AP lab classes so if I’m not doing well in a class i got to her. She’s the smartest in the groups (besides me 🌝) She is mother.

She’s such a queen and can explain stuff so well, she wants to be a doctor or lawyer to earn a lot of money and I have feeling she’d be really good at either. Argumentative feminist queen, I am her #1 fan girl. And she’d look so good in a lab coat, like, YES MOTHER! I trust you with my life.

She’s also very mature and she’s the tallest in our group of girls, she has so much patience for putting up with Moxie and Maddy and then me and marie’s out-of-pocket shirt and a Diego and danny’s gremelin behavior. NASTY SIDE EYE. she literally looks you out of the corner of your eye and you *knowww* you’re in trouble.

She does volleyball (she’s so gorgeous in the uniform) dive and softball with Max. She literally has amazing fashion sense, all dark and pretty with her skin tone and her MAKEUP? BARK BARK I’M SO GAY. (and she’s bi!) And she gets her braids done and humors me when I ask her a ton of questions about the process.

they remind me of : dark academia, annabeth chase, cabin 8, thought daughter, red lipstick, angelica schuyler

— 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐲.

15 years old (mar. 21), she/her, 5’4

I know her the least since she and angie are really close, also Moxie a bit. She’s got energy, not as chaotic as moxie but she’s usually talking and smiling. She does volleyball and softball, she’s not as accident-prone as Angie but rarely a week goes by without her saying she hurt something at practice.

she reminds me of light pink glitter and kind of like warm sunlight through windows, not quite the burning heat of the sun but how it warms the wood if that makes sense. She definitely gives youngest sibling vibes, cuz… she is!!

Like I said… know her the least but she’s still important to the gang.

Volleyball and softball. She and angie are pretty close.

they remind me of : baby pink, crayola markers, pink eyeshadow, white mice, alice in wonderland, peonies

[nogoodsheepstealing-greatgrandma]

Reviewing House Blackwood

Benedict Rivers/King Benedict Justman - a bastard of both Blackwood and Bracken who rises to become King of the Trident - pretty neat but loses points for going with the most boring name possible.

Shiera Blackwood - When it came to supporting Rhaenyra, I wonder if House Blackwood remembered how they would have been Kings and Queens of the Riverlands had the Riverlords just accepted a woman's rule?

Agnes Blackwood - Speaking of Queens of the Riverlands... vengeful Curse of Agnes Blackwood for the win

Royce Blackwood - Come on, Daella, girl, honey. He sings, he writes his own ballads, he's your age...

Samwell Blackwood - Shit at duelling, but unlike Amos Bracken he did not hold a grudge for his failed attempt to court Rhaenyra, so who's the real loser?

Alysanne Blackwood - Bisexual, archer, warrior, peacemaker, smells of woodsmoke... Cregan blushes and twirls his hair nervously. I will never forgive HOTD for erasing her in favour of... two random ocs for tumblr to ship, followed by a for some reason still-alive Samwell and Amos at the Riverlands Geneva Convention... we lost so much. Who else bets they're going to take her peacemaking role and give it to Alicent?

Red Robb Rivers - What is it with House Blackwood and iconic archers? Gave Criston Cole a very satisfying reward for being a loser.

'Bloody Ben' Blackwood - 11-years-old and an absolute mad lad... at least that's his reputation in battle. This shy little boy had to lead men into battle at 11 and wept to see the dead, he saw more bloodshed by 13 than most grown men see their entire lives... and come on I know AddamxDaeron is the more popular ship but I am an AddamxBenjicot truther. This little boy carried Addam's body from the battlefield and kept his bones at Raventree Hall for 8 years. 8 years.

Sarra Stark, Alys Stark, Raya Stark, Mariah Stark - we barely know you but I hope none of you died in childbirth

Melissa Blackwood - "ugh grrm is so biased against the brackens, waah I'm team barba" - how about Team Being Nice to Naerys? Clearly the more politically astute - at least she actually succeeds in maintaining influence at court. And guess whose kid actually gets to be King in all but name? Guess who gets to claim Mount Big Tits in the end? That is how you play your cards right.

Gwenys Rivers & Mya Rivers - I like to think these two are partially responsible for whatever the hell Brynden's deal is - I get witch vibes from both.

Brynden 'Bloodraven' Rivers - "How Many Eyes Does Lord Bloodraven Have? A Thousand Eyes, and One". Sorry Aegor girlies but do you have a riddle this cool? Yeah he set up a police state, lured Aenys to his death and is probably going to trap Bran in a tree... but if his alter ego Maynard Plumm is anything to go by dude could have had a solid stand-up career. I mean, "We'd all be bastard sons of old King Aegon if half these tales were true", "And who's to say we're not?" 😉 You fucking jester you're so proud of that one aren't you?

Quentyn Blackwood - Sorry, all we know about you is that Otho the Brute smashed your face in during a tourney. I guess they have to get a win sometimes.

Betha Blackwood - Spirited, stubborn, wilful... I am begging for either F&B part 2 or later Dunk and Egg stories to tell us more about her... but I salute her attempts to nudge House Targaryen away from incest.

Duncan Targaryen - joins Jacaerys Velaryon and Baelor Breakspear in the Beautiful Dark Haired Targ Kings Who Should Have Been club.

Jaehaerys & Shaera - yeah I just cannot justify their choices... the mistake was naming him Jaehaerys in the first place. I suppose their union did give us Dany eventually, but man the cost...

Daeron Targaryen - All of Aegon's sons married for love... 😢 We do need to come up with a moniker for him though. We've got Daeron the Daring, Daeron the Young Dragon, Daeron the Good, my personal icon Daeron the Drunken... Maybe Daeron the Devoted?

Rhaelle Targaryen - "Rhaelle, Egg’s little girl…she used to call me uncle maester" 😭 Real talk how devastated must Aemon have been to know it was his favourite niece's grandson who nearly destroyed his family? It was out of love for her that he allowed the possibility of Stannis being Azor Ahai, in his words even hoped it.

Alyssa Blackwood - very shit luck marrying Walder Frey and probably dying in childbirth. Anything to not marry a Bracken I guess.

Lame Lothar Frey - Much as I hate him for it I do have to credit him as a key mastermind in the Red Wedding, and it was his idea to play the Rains of Castamere. I'm intrigued to see him and Bloodraven share notes on deceit and presentation.

Tytos Blackwood - Dope ass cloak. "Grr GRRM is so biased against Jonos Bracken in favour of perfect loyal Blackwoods with their special magic old gods so basic waaah" - Jonos is a homophobic little bitch who tries to get baby Bethany taken hostage and he doesn't even have a cool cloak.

Tyta the Maid - Tyta the Lesbian more like.

Hoster 'Hos' Blackwood - "A weakling, this one. Water for blood. Never mind how tall he is, any one of my girls could snap him like a rotten twig" - said a jealous Jonos Bracken who doesn't even know how to read.

Bethany Blackwood - "Blackwood has six sons, but only the one daughter. He dotes on her. A snot-nosed little creature, couldn't be more than seven" - um Jonos did this 7-year-old call you names one time or something?

Big Walder Frey - You know what, I'm rooting for this little dude. I believe he'll inherit the Twins one day.

I could go on to list all of Aegon and Betha's descendants but to cherry pick a few:

Rhaegar Targaryen - Royce Blackwood vibes anyone?

Stannis Baratheon - Way too much to unpack briefly here if I'm honest, but as misogynists go he's my favourite

Daenerys Targaryen - Mother of Dragons, Breaker of Chains, Azor Ahai - Egg and Beth would be so proud.

Jon Snow - I'm manifesting post-resurrection albino Jon to match Bloodraven

Shireen Baratheon - I just want her and Hos to get together and talk books

Mya Stone - ok hear me out Shadrich is going to kidnap Sansa and Mya is going to go after them with her mules and she and Sansa are going to kiss and kill Littlefinger-

Gendry - Knight of the Hollow Hill, defender of orphans, captures the heart of a Stark... a true Blackwood legacy.

Ok now Brackens

Benedict Rivers/King Benedict Justman - Yeah ok house bracken gets to claim you too I guess

Lothar Bracken - So first this snake betrays Agnes Blackwood, and then Harwyn Hoare starves him in a crow cage anyway... you can't escape Lady Agnes Blackwood's curse.

Lyle Bracken - Participation award for an assist in knocking Maegor out for a couple of weeks, but that blow to the head probably made him worse.

Ser Olyvar Bracken - Hilariously part of Maegor's kingsguard, I would love to know more about his relationship with Lyle. Tried to lead a Faith Militant rebellion in the Night's Watch. In the North. Where people worship the Old Gods. Like most Brackens, he didn't think this through.

Amos Bracken - Beat Samwell Blackwood twice in a duel, but in the end was no match for my girl Black Aly.

Ser Raylon Rivers - In the end the supporter of Team Misogyny got lured away from Stone Hedge by a woman and a 10-year-old boy, leaving it for the taking. Classic Bracken failure.

Humfrey Bracken - I guess you supported Team Black in the end. Well done on the bare minimum.

Lord Bracken - Worst dad. Budget Otto Hightower (the bar is in hell). Openly talks about getting one daughter crowned while Queen Naerys was still alive, then grooms his other poor daughter to pimp her out to Aegon the Unworthy. Not even worth naming.

Barba Bracken - Got to love a girl with famous tits. Not as politically astute as Missy, but the commitment to a stint in the Maidenvault can't have been fun. Loses points for helping groom her poor baby sister, but perhaps that's just the history books talking. Did she blame her father, for feeding them to Aegon? Did she blame herself, for losing Aegon? Would her sister still be alive if she hadn't lost favour? Or is it easier to blame Melissa, that flat-chested bitch, it's her fault, it's her fault not mine- Do I ship Barbissy? (let's be real they would be way juicier than whatever they're trying to do with rhaenycent)

Bethany Bracken - My heart absolutely breaks for this poor girl. Also... her nephew founded the Golden Company... which was eventually commanded by Myles Toyne... exiled following the downfall of House Toyne due to Terrence Toyne's execution... how much do Bethany and Terrance haunt the Golden Company?

Aegor 'Bittersteel' Rivers - Ok I have to admit, 'Beneath the Gold, the Bitter Steel' is a baller war cry. And I wonder how much he dreamt of Naerys' death - if she had died, he'd have been Aegor Targaryen. Unfortunate though that his devotion to Daemon Blackfyre's family only goes so far, since he refuses to help Daemon II... classic Bracken homophobia.

Otho Bracken - The Brute of Bracken, responsible for reigniting the feud (though tbh that was always going to happen). Refuses to help Dunk, literally shrugs and says "sorry boy not my problem"... brutal. And frankly, rude.

Jonos Bracken - Homophobic loser. Can't read. Probably bullied by a 7-year-old girl.

Barbara Bracken, Jayne Bracken, Catelyn Bracken, Bess Bracken, Alysanne Bracken - I wish we knew more about you other than that one of you was raped. Though I'm sure you are all horse girlies, which is neat.

Harry Rivers - might not be a Bracken, which would be a win for him if he were alive to enjoy it.

Possible Bracken-Blackfyre descendants (if House Blackfyre is extinguished in the male line then remaining Blackfyres probably come from Calla and Bittersteel).

Varys - I fully subscribe to Varys Blackfyre theories. I doubt Jonos would approve of his perfume, but Brynden Rivers would surely give the dude a respectful handshake for disguises and shenanigans. Most Blackwood Bracken to ever Blackfyre.

Serra - so sorry girl you had to marry Illyrio Mopatis. I subscribe to the theory that she tried to escape with her son to get him away from Illyrio's machinations and that's why Illyrio still has her hands - a punishment for theft. I hope Illyrio chokes on his cheese.

Young Griff - I love that Varys's speech in no way describes this spoilt, bad-tempered, blue-haired mummer's dragon, but oh my god. This boy is so doomed by the narrative. His adoptive father must feel the truth deep down, but he will burn King's Landing to crown him before he faces reality - and probably Young Griff with it. It's the Bracken blood in him, he just can't win.

In Conclusion

To all Bracken-stans who complain of pro-Blackwood bias... Bracken loser energy is objectively hilarious and I have to ask, are you not entertained?

Also the realisation that Dany is a Blackwood and Faegon is a Bracken is exceedingly hilarious to me.

[66sharkteeth]

Weekly thoughts!

Hooboy, the big episode! First off, I think everyone knows by now that you probably shouldn't read these if you haven't read the latest episode, but I ESPECIALLY mean that this week! Talking about some way bigger than usual spoilers.

Phew, this was a big one, both from a writing and drawing perspective. I actually spent a full day on that last panel alone, but writing it took way longer than usual too. Going back and forth between Bell's speech and Jericho's backstory played perfectly like a movie in my head, but it was really hard to portray it as a comic and it was one of the few times I was struggling with the limitations of the format. I think I pulled it off though, since everyone seemed to follow along fine! So while it was probably just a neat scene to everyone else, I'm rather proud of that haha.

As for the actual contents of the episode, I'm also glad everything hit w/ the majority of the audience for the most part. I know a handful were confused about if that was Bell or Jericho who did that, but to those people, I remind you it's been loooong established Jericho can control his extensions (Bell, Charlie, and Claude. Remember, they all took injections of Jericho's blank space?). Also on that note, Bell does not have her own scion... Only Rex and Jericho do. Bell, Charlie and Claude all took injections of Jericho's blank space, thus get to borrow some of his power. I recommend re-reading ep 80 if you need a refresher.

I do consider this ep kind of a big reveal of Jericho's true colors. I mean, you guys have known he's the main villain for ages now, but this is the ep that reveals his "better world for blanks" act is kind of a façade and what he's really seeking is a worse world for humans. The fall of humans benefitting blanks is just kind of a bonus. I'm glad a few people caught onto this with the fact that one of the worst horrors he experienced was having his autonomy taken away from him, then he proceeds to do just that to Bell.

And speaking of Jericho's horrors- Before this season launched, I dropped a bunch of hints about upcoming things. One of them was that the most disturbing scene (in my opinion) was coming up. I was actually referring to what happened to Kallie. I'm not sure if it was as disturbing to everyone else (I totally get like if Claude's leg thing fucked people up more), but being evaporated into nothingness but not dying was an existential dread that really fucks me up haha. If it fucked even a couple of other people up, then I did my job.

I don't have too much else to say about the contents of the episode. It was so hard to bite my tongue for weeks as everyone predicted pretty much every character but Desmond was gonna get it. I'm sorry I don't have too much else to say about him right now given what happened, but I definitely will in the upcoming weeks.

I guess the only other note I have is I might as well address something that bugs me slightly- It's definitely a minority but there's a handful of people who seem done with the series because "too many things go wrong." To which... I'm not sure what to tell ya. I'm fine with critique and criticism to be clear, but honestly, this is one thing I'm actually really confident I'm good at balancing. I'm not sure where people are coming from with "nothing good ever happens in this series" when this season alone has had probably the cutest and fluffiest scenes. Rex has a canon girlfriend, he had his first kiss with her, Desmond was reunited with his sister and learned to accept himself, Lyss learned to move past her trauma and accept blanks, Rex was reunited with Shnee, Rex's scion turns out to be a puppy dog w/ a crush. I'm aware a lot of these got kind of crushed with this latest ep...but that's.. kind of. the. point??? That's how you write tragedy and impactful scenes??

I dunno, maybe this is personal to me because it's ALWAYS bugged me when someone tells me they think a show is bad because it's "too dark." Like no... It's not *bad* because it's too dark, you just don't like dark themes, and that's okay. I TOTALLY get if CoB has gotten too dark for some people- it's definitely hit some hard themes and subjects, but I don't like to accept that as a critique. It just means it's not for you and that's okay. There's a ton of other great comics that are more light-hearted! I think the TLDR of this is it will always annoy me when people say something is bad just because it's not their taste.

Now. That said... everyone is completely valid in their hate of Jericho. I, however, still love him.

[blackcoffeemania]

~ Random Wilson observations ~

He probably came from an upper middle class family (He mentions having a nanny with Mumsy and he managed to get to university despite being kinda crummy at science.)

He probably has no family ties anymore (He's designed to be an immigrant and a university dropout. He probably wasn't that close to his parents either since he needed a nanny and never really mentions them.)

His family probably doesn't mind that he's gone (Again, his family seemed to be at least upper middle class with both parents probably working since he needed a nanny. I don't imagine two decently successful people would be proud to have a son who dropped out. He also never mentions them.)

Crappy puns help distract him from the horrors in The Constant (It's a lot of his dialogue, even when his corpse is being reanimated by a hostile mob he makes a joke)

He never participated in PE or had a job involving physical labor (When he carries something he says 'lift with your back' and he complains about hurting his back with Wolfgang's gym equipment. This implies he doesn't know basic lifting techniques. He also dislikes sports and claims to have never been outdoorsy)

He actively chose a house in the middle of nowhere. (He seems introverted, awkward, and maybe even shy/socially anxious occasionally, which makes it harder to have friends. His eccentricity also probably drove people away. He also seems to have a bit of an ego in the original game)

The Constant humbled him and maybe even more anxious (In the original game he says stuff like "that'll teach him", "That really showed him who's boss" and "take that nature" which is not really seen in DST. He also visibly cowers away from things, like in the CoTL collab trailer)

The Constant also made him more compassionate, empathetic, and maybe even open (He grabs onto Wartox in the Terraria collab trailer when he's in fear. He also leaps into Wanda's arms in one of the animated shorts. He also actively defends the other survivors despite being visibly anxious, unathletic, and even when working on science with Wagstaff.)

He may have studied medicine at some point (Look at his Victorian skin, the fact he can help heal others during The Gorge, he also mentions being able to amputate a limb)

He's definitely one of the only survivors who try to keep things neat and tidy. (He complains about his hair being wet/getting hat head/being poofy when he's in the middle of the wilderness with only a few people. He also throws shade at Maxwell with the chess statues saying he just leaves them everywhere)

He sometimes does things just for the vibe (He says that he likes dust because it feels scholarly with the feather duster)

The biggest reason he's still hostile to Maxwell is because he used him to free himself (He canonically gets Maxwell off the throne. The stage plays implies it was an accident. He's probably aware that he could've ended up like Maxwell if left on the throne for too long and that Maxwell intentionally led him there. It's also implied by the stage plays that the survivors were made to suffer just for Maxwell's own amusement. He also tries to throw hands as soon as he sees Maxwell again.)

He has an accent he's learned to hide (He's supposed to be some sort of European immigrant and even the ones that speak English don't have the same accent as Americans. Even though he's been voice acted twice, both possibly not canon, neither have accents. Immigrants aren't really treated well in America, even back then, so he also has a reason to hide it. Also, Maxwell is canonically British and even he doesn't have an accent in Inevitable)

He likes breakfast food in general (It's easy/cheap to make and he sucks at cooking. Also his favorite food is eggs and bacon in game)

All of these are kinda obvious now that I think about it

[just-an-enby-lemon]

"Aha" Carlos exclaimed, holding two beer cans. "I knew they were here somewhere."

The mini-fridge was the least scientific part of the lab and mostly existed to make sure none of the scientists would get too distracted with science to eat. It had been Cecil's sugestion, 'it was a nightmare to get Station Manegement's permission but it was really helpfull', a tip that did not quite work for either as much as their later decision of all-week lunch dates but it was still very much usefull. Even if sometimes someone would end up putting their very secrety substances, creepy mini snow people and weird samples in the same place as the food.

"It was actually brew with the wheat and wheat by products replacement me, Dave and Nilajana made." He was genuinally really proud of that one, the lack of good replacements had been a bit of a strugle, besides it had also helped Dave's glutten alergic aunt outside of Nightvale. All in all huge victory. "And I think it is neat."

"Thank you." Ford says, grabbing the beer.

There's something tense in the air and neither man has any idea how to adress it. They had been friends, had been exchanging letters and theories for years now and the first week of the twins visiting had been great.

Carlos still hadn't fully understood what changed. But in a moment he was showing a nice floating tree with rainbow flowers that had just appearead close to the barista district and suddently Ford had a weapon pointed at Cecil. There was a conversation afrer, one that Carlos only understood bits, but whatever Stan had said had aparently solved it.

Cecil had only said it was a misanderstanding and to not have Cecil speak at a mile about whatever had happened was worringing all by itself. Instead his husband had asked him to go check on his friend and send his apollogies (Carlos had considered it was better not to mention that he hoped Ford apologized as well).

"Cecil asked me to tell you he was sorry."

Ford seems to think about it. Looking more at the unopen beer than at Carlos.

"It was a misanderstanding and I'll admit I overeacted a bit." The words where small, embarrassed. A part of Carlos that kept screaming 'childhood hero' everytime he looked at Ford hated it. A different part that kept thinking about how scared Cecil had looked felt vindicated.

"What happened?"

"He said something that made me think he was connected to an evil demon that tried to end the world. Except apparently reading the evil demon language is just an extracurricular class here."

It made sense. It was a very Nigthvale situation. Still... it doesn't answer all questions witch means he needs to find a subtle, polite way to ask the next thing.

"Makes sense." He can't find the next sentence but it's very clear he has one.

"Uh... The thing he read... and asked about... was of a personal nature. Hence the apology."

Oh! Oh. Yeah that would do.

"Yeah, Cecil does that."

Ford noded unconfortably.

"I'm also sorry for having pointed my disitegration gun at him. Everyone here has been very kind to me and my brother and is very clear it is at least partially because of how Cecil talked about us on the radio. He's been nothing but kind and I should not reacted that strongly."

"Tell him that." Carlos says still closed off. But after a second. "With words you don't mind being shared because he will narrate it word for word while on air."

The silence after that was still weird but not scary and after some quiet moments pondering if their friendship would take a blow for the incident...

"Soo wanna see our progress on the behavior of the whormhole goats?"

Ford smiled.

"Absolutly."

With that both scientists where back at being friends.