#in the line of duty: blaze of glory

[first-ex-wife]

Bruce Campbell as Jeff Erickson in In the Line of Duty: Blaze of Glory (1997)

[the-case-of-evil-dad]

Promo photos of Bruce Campbell and Lori Loughlin for "In the Line of Duty: Blaze of Glory", 1997

[ddejavvu]

Betrayal - Obi-Wan Kenobi x Reader

Summary: months into the war and it's not as exhilarating as you'd hoped - not for your battalion, anyway. when the air conditioning in your compound blows, an old friend brings his tech genius of a padawan to fix it for you. while anakin is working, you convince his master to spar for old times' sake, and simple adrenaline gives way to a landslide of long-buried feelings neither of you should have for each other.

Contents/Warnings: smut, minors dni, fem!reader, jedi!reader, reader is a general, sweat kink (? they are really sweaty and i talk about it a lot), oral (m+f receiving), semi-public sex (risk of being caught), sparring, lightsaber use, throatfucking, messy kisses, scratching/marking, lotsa spit, obligatory 'had you said the word' (sorry satine i had to steal his line)

WC: 16.9K / navigation / inbox

A/N: sorry this took me so long to finish! i didn't have time to write for like two months but it's done now and i hope you enjoy it <3 this is set a couple months/a year into the clone wars, but i have chosen to fuck with their ages a little bit. in this, anakin is like 12-14-ish, even though he was older in AOTC when the war began.

feedback is greatly appreciated! comment, reblog, talk in the tags, send me a message, tell me what you think!

Neglecting the option of taking a padawan under your wing is what stuck you on this humid, blazing, hellish planet, and you almost regret it. You’d wanted more freedom in your duties, didn’t want a youngling clinging to your leg begging for help with their rudimentary saber drills, so instead you swapped it for what you thought would be constant battle, exhilarating speeder chases, and the glory of proving yourself. Unbecoming of a Jedi to wish for, yes, but you’ve never claimed to be Council-worthy.

Now your butt is sticking to the chair you’re planted in, overlooking a very empty, very desolate, very boring outpost. It’s so hot that you think you’ve melted into the chair and fused with its fabric. Standing might tear your skin away from your flesh, leaving an imprint of you behind in your seat.

“General,” One of your clone troopers calls, sticking his head through the doorway to your station, “Nothing on my scanners.”

“Nor on mine,” You drawl lazily, “We’re scheduled to be inspected today. Any word from the crew?”

“None.” He laments, “I just hope they bring a droid that can fix the cooler.”

The base you’re stationed to isn’t always this disgusting. The structure is wired with an air conditioning system to keep the inside much cooler than the outside, but after a rather unfortunate incident with a freshly manufactured astromech droid with some crossed wirings, both lay broken and singed in the maintenance bay. Your clones don’t know how to tinker with droids or heating systems, and you’d probably wind up just as ash-covered if you tried.

“Alert me when they land,” You order the trooper, leaning your forehead against the cool metal of the scanner screen before you, “I want to have time to change into an outfit I haven’t soaked through with sweat.”

The scanner grows warm against your flushed skin far too soon. Everything is hot, and sticky, and gross, and you find yourself yearning for the cold showers you used to despise at the temple. Perhaps you yearn for the temple in general, for the familial atmosphere shared among overconfident Padawans and exasperated Masters. You think specifically of Obi-Wan Kenobi, a man you’d trained with, now Master to his apprentice Skywalker.

You haven’t seen the pair in years, but you remember Anakin’s blonde mop of hair, as well as his penchant for chaos. Watching Obi-Wan’s eyes fill with horror at whatever shenanigans his Padawan had gotten into that day was part of what helped you make the decision to decline one yourself, though you hold no distaste for the boy. He was simply young and untrained in the ways of the Jedi, and you were not a patient enough person to gracefully navigate that predicament then. You’re not sure you are now, either.

Even though you know you’re better suited on your own, you wonder if you’d have been more fulfilled with a Padawan learner of your own. Surely anything could be better than this, wasting away- rotting on a planet hot enough to boil your blood if you stepped outside without proper protection.

Your base is secluded and temperature-controlled, even if the contraption that the Republic had fashioned under pressure of time to keep you isolated is rather crude. It’s, in essence, a large dome, seals in place to ensure that vessels can land and takeoff without destroying the temperature control. It’s cooler within the dome than it is outside of it, but the hurriedly-designed system can only do too much, and you greatly depend on the air conditioning to do its job. Now that it’s not, you’re irritated from the heat, and you wish that the inspection team would just hurry up already. The patience you’d had drilled into you from your early years as a Youngling is nowhere to be found under the pressure of a heat wave, and your foot taps impatiently against the floor while you itch for some action.

You think it’s rather pathetic that you yearn for excitement so badly that you’re anxiously awaiting the inspection team. Their job takes barely an hour, a scan of your equipment and a survey of your troops. They’ll walk in and out without so much as a pleasantry, but you long for something new, something more, something exciting.

The call over your comms comes over an hour later, a time in which you remain at your post but begrudge it all the while. “General,” Your trooper barks, voice staticky and rough over the channel, “We’ve got visitors. Inspection team’s here. Initiating landing procedure.”

“Copy that,” You bolt out of your seat, barely remembering to lean over the microphone to reply, “Thank you.”

Finally.

Finally, someone new to talk to, even if they have the same face as everyone else you’ve spoken to on this long, dreary assignment. You’re friendly with your troopers, of course, but that itch for more is back in your brain, igniting you with vigor you don’t normally possess as you rush to greet the inspection team.

However, when you reach the landing bay, and the ship’s hydraulics hiss, clone troopers aren’t the only ones to disembark. Jedi robes make their appearance, shrouding the very man you’d just thought about, as well as the child by his side. 

Obi-Wan wears the years that have passed since you last saw him, but time has treated him well. His hair is longer now, gone is that stiff Padawan buzz. His braid is missing as well, giving way to luscious strawberry blonde strands that he’s slicked back so that they drag against the back and sides of his neck. Longer hair looks good on him, just as it had when he was fifteen and had refused a haircut for months in a typical, if rather tame, display of teenage rebellion. Anakin is also significantly older than you’d kept track of, but he can’t be older than fourteen if his lanky limbs and awkward demeanor are any evidence.

Obi-Wan smiles at you, and you nearly forget to shove down that shameful part of you that wants to take more out of him than he can give you. Even as Padawans you’d always gravitated towards the man opposite you, sneaking out to roam the gardens after hours together or sharing sly glances across mission briefings. But he’s an honorable Jedi Master - a member of the Council itself, so you’ve heard - and you wrestle down your repressed feelings to grin at him.

“General Y/L/N,” He greets with a smile so charming you lament that the Jedi Order interrupted his chances of being a model.

“Master Kenobi,” You greet, but you know he’ll chide you for the honorific if you use it more than once, “I wasn’t aware you’d be on the inspection team.”

“We’re not. Technically.” Obi-Wan admits, arm coming to press against Anakin’s back and nudge him forwards, “We got word that your air conditioning system is out, as well as one of your new astromechs. Anakin here is still an excellent mechanic, I thought we’d come out to offer you some reprieve from the heat.”

Anakin looks embarrassed by the attention that’s fallen upon him, in typical pubescent fashion, and you take pity on the timid teenager, casting your glance back at his Master, “Maker, thank you. We’re melting out here.”

“I can imagine,” Obi-Wan laughs, and you turn again to Anakin who’s anxiously awaiting your orders.

“Anakin, if you could fix our air conditioning, that would be wonderful. Honestly, I’m not even sure I want the droid fixed, it’s what got us into this mess in the first place. But they’re both over there,” You point to the shorted out panels, “And my troopers will offer you any supplies you need, like tools or wiring or refreshments.”

“Thank you.” Anakin nods, hands clasped behind his back obediently even if he looks mortified to be the center of attention once more, “I’ll have things up and running as soon as possible.”

“I’m leaving you here,” Obi-Wan warns the boy, pointing an accusatory finger at him, “I don’t often leave you alone with machinery and tools, Anakin, for reasons we’re both aware of. Promise me you will not do anything reckless?”

“I promise,” Anakin mutters reluctantly, and you avert your eyes so he has some semblance of privacy.

“I mean it, Anakin. This is no time to experiment with your technical prowess. You simply fix their system and you wait for me back on the ship, understand?”

“Master,” Anakin pleads, “I understand.”

“Very well. Get to your duties,” Obi-Wan dismisses the boy, turning to you only after he sees his Padawan crouch by the singed panel.

“He shouldn’t take long. He most likely will try to tinker with the astromech, though.” Obi-Wan smiles sympathetically, “He’s not one to leave a droid unusable.”

“I remember he had a particular talent for mechanics,” You muse, starting off towards the main base intent on leading Obi-Wan to your rec room, “If I recall correctly, he figured out how to inconspicuously rewire his communicator to give you an ‘unavailable’ signal if he didn’t like what you were asking him to do.”

Obi-Wan scoffs as he lets you lead through the doorway, “Yes, my Padawan has always had very selective hearing. I’m sure you don’t mind not having one of your own.”

“That’s one of the reasons I justify my choice,” You chuckle, letting the door shut behind you as you make your way through the halls. The base that the Republic had granted you is spacious, even decked out with training facilities and rec rooms interspersed throughout your rows of quarters, but it’s unbearably hot and you’re tired of being cooped up inside of it.

“This isn’t bad for a base,” Obi-Wan muses, robes swishing behind him as he strides beside you, “But I hope Anakin fixes that cooling system soon.”

“Try being stationed here permanently,” You scoff, tugging at the sweat-soaked neckline of your tunic, “I have long since abandoned my robes.”

“Do you have somewhere I could set this?” Obi-Wan asks, fingers catching the front of his cloak as he slings it off. It falls gracefully from his shoulders, and he holds the garment up as he laments still having to wear the rest of his robes.

“You can leave it in my quarters,” You veer sharply to the right, letting him catch up, “They’re just down this hallway.”

There’s unmarked doors on either side of the corridor, and you’re still impressed that each clone trooper knows where their bed is at night. Your door has a plaque beside its frame that reads ‘General’s Quarters,’ and you’re not confident that you could navigate the halls without it. You type in your access code, and the door slides open with a hiss.

“Just set it on the bed,” You gesture towards your mattress, “If we have some time, I thought,” You reach into the closet, pulling out your seldom-used lightsaber, “We could spar.”

Obi-Wan laughs, discarding his cloak onto your bed as his eyes crinkle happily at the corners, “You’re lacking a bit of excitement here, aren’t you, Y/N? There’s no way you’d duel me willingly after I took you down the last time.”

You’d sparred together since you’d been handed a saber for the first time. Sure, your initial weapons were wooden, then training blades designed to be duller than their more advanced counterparts, before you’d finally been granted allowance to manufacture one of your own. But there were no more dedicated sparring partners than the two of you, and you can tell the man opposite you is fond of the reminder you’ve given him, even if he is trying to tease you.

“You did not take me down,” You gawp, “I mean- yes, I was on the floor, but I wasn’t done! You didn’t win!”

“Mm, yes. I didn’t win because no one did.” Obi-Wan sends you a sly grin, “Anakin interrupted us, don’t you remember? We never got to finish.”

“Then a rematch,” You insist, gesturing towards the open doorway, “Once and for all we’ll prove who the better duelist is.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll win. After all, I can tell you spend every waking moment practicing and making sure you lose none of your fighting abilities,” Obi-Wan’s hand darts out to switch on your holotable, revealing an in-progress game of chess. You’re losing.

“I’ve only been using that as of late,” You snap, defensive, “It’s insufferable to train without proper ventilation. And only when I’m not on duty. I don’t spend all of my time sitting and playing chess.”

“Losing at chess.” Obi-Wan arches an eyebrow, finally stepping out of your quarters so that you can shut it once more, “Come, Y/N, show me to your training grounds.”

The training room is just as hot as everywhere else on the base. You walk through the doors and humid air greets you, something that wrinkles Obi-Wan’s nose and rustles his mustache.

 “God, I hope your Padawan knows what he’s doing,” You groan, rolling up the sleeves of your own tunic but jumping excitedly into action despite the heat. You ignite your saber, slightly embarrassed by the thrill that the weapon gives you as it thrums to life. You haven’t felt this in a long time, at least, not paired with the thrill of battle. It’s significantly less awe-inspiring to ignite a saber against a training droid you know wouldn’t be able to singe your tunics if you stood stock still. Obi-Wan brings his to life as well; blue and green lights bathe your faces.

“I’ll go easy on you.” He smiles infuriatingly, cocking his head slightly to one side, “Ready?”

“Ready.” You jolt right, a fakeout before you dart left instead. He catches on rather quickly, though, and his blade clashes against yours as you aim for his leg.

“Nice start,” Obi-Wan admits, “But you can’t rely on misdirection for your entire fight. You’ll have to overpower me.”

“I could easily overpower you,” You swing left, breaking the contact of your two sabers, then jabbing so that he has to move his foot out of the way to avoid the plasma. He stumbles, barely catching himself against his back foot, but it gives you time enough to bring your blade up and around to nick at his shoulder, a hole now slashed into his tunic.

“Okay,” He stands straight, eyeing the tear in his clothing warily, “I won’t go easy on you.”

“Never underestimate your opponent,” You tease proudly, saber still ignited, “That’s one for me, Obi-Wan.”

“That doesn’t count,” He scoffs, standing at the ready, “I told you I’d go easy on you. Now I’m serious.”

“All I’m hearing is excuses,” You gloat, feet light as you step around him, “You lead this time, Kenobi.”

He does. He swings downwards, and you block your face with your own blade to stop him. He nearly jabs at your gut before you can prevent it, and you feel the heat from his blade as your own comes to block his.

You fling his weapon away with yours, and he lets you. After such a long period of no action (and shamefully little meditation) your abilities with the Force have grown slightly weaker, as have your regulatory skills. You can still sense what he’s going to do when he squares his shoulders, but you’re almost not fast enough to interpret those senses, and you barely make it to block him from swinging his blade in a fiery circle that would clip the edge of your arm.

“You’re rusty,” He taunts, his own Force abilities stronger than ever as his presence seeps through the cracks in your mind. You try to force him out, but it takes effort, and it’s effort you can’t expend elsewhere. It means that you can’t foresee his intent to aim for your face, and his blade hums inches away from your cheek as he holds it there.

You freeze; you’re caught.

We’re even,” You grunt, sweat beading at your forehead, “But we’re not finished.”

“Hang on,” He disengages his saber, letting the apparatus clatter to the ground as he tugs at one of the outer layers of his robes, “I’m going to shed a few things.”

“Stripping will not help your cause.” You tease, “I’m not distracted by sex appeal.”

Clearly, he isn’t expecting your jab, and he lets his mouth fall open as he slings off one of his garments, an incredulous laugh filling his throat.

“Y/N. You’ve obtained a foul mouth somewhere along your career. It certainly wasn’t in the temple.”

“It’s the clones,” You groan, “Try being stationed with a troop of grown men who went through puberty in record time. They’ve got the appetite of an adult with the filter of a teenage boy.”

“They’ve never tried anything with you,” Obi-Wan narrows his eyes questioningly, and you try to avoid looking at the sweat glistening against his tanned neck as he strips to his base layer.

“No, they’re respectful.” You assure him, “Just crass.”

“Yes, well,” Obi-Wan frowns distastefully, “They haven’t had Jedi training. I suppose I’m not surprised.”

He stands there for a moment with only his undershirt covering his chest, then decides that it’s still too warm, tugging at its hem to raise it over his head.

You feel your insides ignite with a fire you haven’t felt in a long time when his bare chest is exposed, skin marred and riddled with coarse, wiry hair. His stomach is flat but not as tight as you remember in your youth, softer now. You can tell there’s an impressive layer of muscle beneath the milky white skin, though, even if it’s not outwardly visible. He uses his tunic to wipe the sweat off of his face so you’re granted a moment to ogle him, your mouth watering as you try to conceal your thoughts. 

“Okay. Enough with this child’s play.” You shake your head, letting Obi-Wan have just enough time to toss aside his tunic before you plant your feet against the mat. Obi-Wan stands at the ready, both of your sabers ignited, “I want a real match. A long one, now that we’re warmed up. Best two out of three, Kenobi. Winner takes all.”

“Winner gets to stand in front of the air conditioning vent when Anakin gets it up and running,” Obi-Wan suggests, sweat trailing down his neck and over his chest. You avert your eyes, lest the fraile state of mind you’re in betrays you.

“Fine.” You shrug, reaching for the hem of your vest. It’s tactical, good for keeping with you on duty, but it’s etching lines of sweat into your back now. You sling it off, letting it land in a heap similar to Obi-Wan’s robes, and exposing the tank top you have on beneath it. “I know just the one I’ll pick. In my room, there’s one just above the bed. Maybe I’ll let it hit my back while I win at holochess.”

“I think the heat might be getting to you,” Obi-Wan cracks, a slight heave to his chest as he tries regulating his breathing. It’s hard when you’re as hot as you are to get enough oxygen, and you’re doing the same. It’s awfully difficult not to indulge in the view of his bare chest rapidly rising and falling, and you feel a tug below your gut as a vision flashes through your mind. It’s of what else could make him pant in such a way, and you can’t afford to entertain the thought, not around him. “I’m not sure which outcome is more delusional; that you’ll win this duel, or that you’ll win at holochess.”

“You’re wasting time,” You croon, charging with your blade poised for battle so that you have no more time to fantasize, “I think you’re scared.”

“Do I feel afraid?” Obi-Wan laughs, blocking your attack with little effort and redoubling to launch one of his own. The clatter of your sabers almost drowns out his words, “Reach out, Y/L/N, all you’ll feel is confidence.”

“I’m not sure I could feel you if I tried,” You lament, chest heaving as you block one of his swings, “Not while my mind is occupied with our duel. I am rusty, you were right.”

“Practice more,” He chides, “Less chess, more meditation.”

“One is a lot more boring than the other!” You groan, barely managing to get your arm up in time to take a shot at his own, “And the less boring one is chess, so that’s really saying something.”

“It may be boring but it is beneficial,” Obi-Wan lectures you, and you wonder if he thinks you’re still a Padawan. You fight with heaving breaths and monumental effort, the heat sucking your energy out through the sweat that drips down your skin. He turns and his back is glistening, which is really not a sight that helps you to stay focused.

“Now I’m starting to see why Anakin tinkered with his communicator,” You call, as Obi-Wan whirls around your left side, “You’re very dull as a Jedi Master!”

You have to throw yourself onto the floor to avoid a swing at your head, your right shoulder aching as you do so. But you scramble away from him, righting yourself and miraculously avoiding the blade of your saber coming into contact with the training mat.

You stumble to your knees, driving the forward momentum you have against Obi-Wan as he tries blocking you. You nearly get a nick out of his pants, but he pushes you backwards with the threat of his blade, and you fall with your back to the mat.

Your stomach drops when a blue blade hums hot and bright near your throat, its tip directed at your jugular. It doesn’t matter that it’s on its training setting; it’s inescapable and daunting when it’s an inch from your skin. You’re done for. 

“I may be dull,” Obi-Wan pants, beard glistening as sweat streams down his neck. His chest heaves as he speaks, bare and open for your eyes, and his pink tongue pokes out of the corner of his mouth to dart along his lips, “But I am victorious. Does this remind you a little bit of the last time we fought?”

It does. He’d been standing over you then as he is now, and you’d had to fortify your mind back then not to let slip vulgar thoughts about being on the floor below him. His thighs, meaty with muscle and strong from training, are hidden behind loose pants, but their crotch has tightened slightly, a chub to what should be a relaxed surface.

A pang of arousal shoots down your spine, and suddenly the lightsaber near your throat isn’t the most daunting thing in the room. It’s Obi-Wan.

He swallows, his adam’s apple bobbing as you lay beneath him.

“Your thoughts betray you,” He observes, and you feel his invasive presence in your mind, sucking out the private thoughts coursing through your brain. They’re of panting breaths, heaving chests, wandering hands, and meshing tongues; passionate embraces, intimate attachments. Things no Jedi should fantasize about, not under the code. Things that should bring shame to you, and maybe they do, and maybe you like it.

“Your body betrays you,” You’re able to muster, swallowing the saliva pooling in your mouth as you glance pointedly at his bulge. It’s only grown since you’d last glanced at it; evidently your visions did something to him too.

He sees, or perhaps, feels what you see, freezes, then clicks his saber off. The blade retracts with a hiss and there is a distinct vacuum of sound where its humming once was. He breaks the unnerving silence with a clatter as he tosses it aside, feet still firmly planted on either side of your hips. 

“It’s natural.” He weakly supplies, a poor defense, “It’s adrenaline-fueled, nothing more.”

“Really? So when you duel sith lords, when you chop the heads off of battle droids, you walk away with a stiff dick?” You carefully observe his body language, feet poised like he might bolt if you make any sudden moves. He’s flighty, and you have to make your next moves carefully.”

“Y/N,” He begins, his voice weak, “I wish you wouldn’t use such foul language.”

“Is it the language that bothers you?” You push your elbows against the mat, hoisting yourself up at an obtuse angle to meet his eye better, “Or is it the truth it carries? Obi-Wan, you were right. It’s natural. And it is not something to be ashamed of.”

“It is against the Code,” He reasons, his voice still fighting to sound resolute. He offers no other reasoning, and you know it’s because he has none.

“It’s not.” You insist, “The Code is ancient and rigid. And celibacy is not required, only a level head.”

“That’s the problem,” He chuckles weakly, “I don’t have a level head when it comes to you, Y/N.”

“You seem as though you do.” You press cautiously, careful not to push your luck, “I’ve never felt anything unprofessional about your feelings towards me.”

“That’s because I haven’t been around you in a long time,” He admits, “Not consistently. I was better at controlling it- no, hiding it when we were Padawans. I had to do it every day, it was natural to me. But I am out of practice now, and I have been since you were stationed here. I barely have the ability to hide how I feel about you, Y/N. And- and it is not something the Council would approve of.”

You sit up now, fully straightened. You’re still between his legs, but you’d need to rise to your knees for your face to be level with his bulge. You plan to.

“The Council is not here. Nor can they see us, or hear us, or feel us. They will not know what we do, Obi-Wan.”

“I will know.” He breathes, his voice growing weaker each time he tries raising it against you, “Y/N, I will never forget a thing we do together on this base. If we… If you touch me, I will remember every brush of your skin against mine for eternity. If you- kiss me, I will never be able to put the thought of your lips on mine out of my head. And I would not know how to live without it for the rest of my life.”

Your heart sinks in your stomach like a stone in water. He’s loyal to the Order, he always has been. But you’d been so blinded by isolation, so convinced by your own delusions, that you’d assumed his loyalty to you would be stronger. But it’s not, and you can’t earnestly be angry with him for it.

You swallow what little saliva has accumulated around your tongue to give yourself something to do, then rise to your feet.

“It sounds like you should walk away.” You mutter regretfully. His eyes hold the same feelings, strikingly painful. He nods, almost imperceptibly, but before he can follow your orders, you continue.

“But will you forgive yourself if you do?”

You feel it, his swell of emotions. Every single one is unbridled, yearning, heartache, fondness, want; all of them unleashed from the man whose mind is usually a fortress. They’re washing over you like waves, invading your brain and turning your thoughts their colors. 

“No. I couldn’t,” He admits, “But-” and there’s always a but, “The Council would never forgive me if I didn’t.”

“They won’t know.” You insist, but it’s lost on him, “Obi-Wan, please make a decision. Who is more important, you or the Council?” Then in a more timid, soft voice, as his soft eyes bore into you and beg for mercy, you give him the opposite, “Who is more important… me or the Council?”

He kisses you. There is no warning, no shift in his Force signature, only his hands on your face and his lips on your own. There is strength in his touch, his hands firm where they pull your cheeks ever-so-slightly towards his face as if he’s trying to mash them into his own. His beard is rough and grating against your face, but it’s not unpleasant, especially when it brings with it his lips. His lips, which are much softer than you’d have imagined them, merely frame your own. The kiss is sweet but chaste, and the only indication you have that he wants more is the way that he holds you against him. Otherwise you’d mistake his courtesy for disinterest, and you tilt your head slightly sideways to encourage more enthusiasm from him.

When your lips reconnect he sighs, a breath from his nose that fans over your top lip. He’s letting you lead, letting you dictate whether you want to keep kissing him or whether you’ll suddenly switch positions; it’s like he’s afraid that you’ll rip off a mask and reveal yourself to be Master Windu, scolding him for his reckless passion. But of course you don’t, and you lick gently against the plush of his bottom lip instead.

He hums at the feeling of your tongue against his mouth, but he’s suddenly pushing against your cheeks instead of pulling.

“Are you absolutely sure,” He starts, but can’t seem to resist the temptation to steal another kiss from your spit-slicked lips, “That you- mm, that you want this? Because I cannot-” He breaks off with a weary, pleading, defeated look in his beautiful eyes, “I cannot turn back if we go further. If we proceed… I will not be able to forget what we do. If you’re not interested… please tell me now, so that I may save myself from loving you for an eternity that you do not wish to share with me.”

You scoff, moving in for another kiss at his lips. He doesn’t reciprocate, only pushing you back so that you can respond.

“I just spent five minutes,” You pant, desperate to reconnect your lips, “Bargaining with you to get you to forget about your nerves. And you don’t think I want this?”

You try surging forwards again but he holds you back, eyes still begging for your words.

“Please. I need to hear you say it.” He seems almost self-conscious, worried you’re not interested in him the same way he’s interested in you. But you have been since you can remember, and you’re more than willing to work around the unconventional aspects of your relationship if it means you can have him, even just for today.

“I want you,” You breathe, the exhale hitting his lips, “Please- Obi-Wan, I want you. I want you no matter what the Code says. No matter what the Council says; I want you.”

He looks like he could cry. He is devoted to the Order, far more than you have seen most Jedi, and to hear you choose him over the Code must mean a great deal. He pours passion into the kiss you share, chest filling with oxygen that he gulps just to be able to keep his mouth on yours for longer. He consumes you, fingers pulling at your cheeks and tugging you closer still, like he thinks you might fuse if he tries hard enough.

He groans into your mouth, his tongue more exploratory now that you’ve pledged your devotion to him. He’s not afraid of taking now, of getting his hopes up only to be thrown down, and he swipes the wet muscle in a hot stripe over your own tongue. He rolls it against your lower lip, so wonderful to kiss for someone with such lacking experience.

“No one is coming,” You breathe, exhaling against his mouth as your hands wander to his waistband, “No one- no one can see us.”

“I want you in your quarters.” He protests, grabbing your wrists when your hand sinks to his bulge and ghosts over it. He jolts at the unexpected contact, but holds you back, “I want to lay you down, Y/N, I want to indulge in every part of you. Worship you.”

“I will let you,” You moan, tilting your forehead against his and mouthing at his lips in a sloppy kiss, “You may have me any way you want, Obi-Wan. But here, I- I want to have you. I need to have you now,”

“Impatient,” He notes, sounding suspiciously close to lecturing you. But he lets your wrists go, and you sink to your knees instantly. He hears them hit the training mat, knows they must ache, but he can’t find any part of him available to worry about it, not now that your hands are prying greedily at the waistband of his trousers.

He’s a near stranger to physical pleasure, at least in recent years. He’s a grown man, he has urges, but he also has responsibilities, and the constant pressure of an ambitious (read: reckless) young Padawan under his supervision mixed with a quickly-rising rank within the Jedi Order leave him with little time nor interest to indulge in his barest desires. Your hand gently squeezing his clothed bulge as you wrestle with his pants nearly knocks him off of his feet, and he’s not sure he’ll be able to handle having your warm mouth envelop it.

Finally you tug loose the drawstring within his pants, and yank them down his thighs. They’re seldom bare, you see from the milky white tone of the skin there, but they are muscled and thick like he does not neglect them.

You can’t help yourself when you lean forwards, tongue already protruding from your mouth to lick a fat, wet stripe around one of his thighs. It’s sturdy beneath your tongue that dips into the crease between his skin and the parts of it that are covered by his briefs. His muscles tense like you’ve struck him with a fatal blow, and an open-mouthed groan escapes his lips.

His skin tastes of the sweat that’s currently moistening every inch of your bodies, salty and tantalizing. There’s no escaping it in the brutal heat, but it makes him all the more sexy, his skin glistening before you even get a chance to smear it in your saliva.

You’re guilty of impatience as he accuses, and you can’t resist mouthing at his covered bulge. He’s half-hard, but when your lips purse around the outline of his cock in his briefs he twitches, and you feel him stiffen against the restraints of his underwear on your tongue. 

His knees give out with no warning, and he barely has the foresight to grab desperately at a bench press behind him for stability. He falls quickly to its surface, perching on the edge of it while you desperately chase his cock. You fit your mouth again over his briefs and drool against the fabric, surely soaking it through with your saliva. His cock, though restrained, is heavy and thick on your tongue, making your mouth water and produce enough drool to soak through his entire ensemble. His hands clutch the bench beneath him with white knuckles, and he grits his teeth to stop himself from shouting as you suck at his clothed cock.

“Oh, Y/N,” He pants, voice strained as you get lost in your task and forget that you need to actually pull his briefs down. He reaches for your head, gently nudging you away with his knuckles against your temple.

“Darling, please, I can’t- I won’t last for very long. Please, have me properly.”

He grips at the waistband of his underwear, tugging them down hurriedly and letting his cock spring free. It’s of decent length, but slightly thicker than average, its base shrouded by a patch of curled hair at his groin. It’s a similar caramel color to the rest of his hair, and his sweat has accumulated particularly within its wiry constraints, leaving him musky. The smell might bother you if it were anyone else, if you were anywhere else, but here and now, on your knees for Obi-Wan in the training room, it’s the most disgustingly tantalizing thing you’ve ever smelled in your entire life.

That’s why you bury your face into it, the hair tickling at your skin. His hips jolt as you inhale deeply near the base of his cock, groaning and letting your tongue fall to drag against just the shaft of his erect dick. He’s painfully hard, embarrassingly seconds to orgasm, and your spit now glistening on his length doesn’t help. Or it helps too much; either way, he’s close to cumming and you haven’t even had a chance to put him in your mouth.

“Darling,” He begs, pushing at your forehead once more, speaking through an eternal shortage of breath, “Please, I- it all feels too good. I can’t take it. I won’t last long.”

“That’s okay,” You pant, your breath falling over his cock as it practically pulses with pleasure, “We’re here for a good time, not a long time.”

“Terrible,” He manages to chuckle weakly, but any further chiding he has planned for your cheekiness is cut short when he stops breathing. He actually forgets how when your wet mouth closes around the head of his cock, your tongue licking flat over its head and covering most of its surface area. It’s so much sensation so fast that Obi-Wan has to clench his hands around the bench not to cum right then and there, and he feels pinpricks of pain over his skin that he realizes are from his fingernails digging against his palms. When you draw your head back off of his cock with a slick sound, then move in again to take more of his length into your mouth, his lungs suddenly remember their function, and heave within his chest.

His groans are filthy and they only pool more slick wetness between your thighs as you kneel for him. You don’t care about the ache in your knees, nor the pain in your neck from the slightly awkward angle you’re indulging in him at. All that matters is his cock, heavy and thick on your tongue, sweat and precum alike flooding your taste buds. 

His restraint is put to the test. He’s a member of the Jedi Council, for Force’s sake, and he should have a little more control over himself than this. But it takes almost all of his energy not to buck his hips forwards and plunge the length of his cock down your throat, and it means that he’s not able to devote as much restraint to delaying his orgasm as he’d like.

He’s twitching in your mouth, and even with your faded Force abilities, mental muscles weakened by disuse, you can feel the tension coursing through his veins, hot and wild. You don’t need to look at his strained, white-knuckled grip on the edge of the bench to know that he’s devoting all of his energy to restraining himself, and you take pride in being able to undo Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi with merely your mouth. You indulge in his painful hardness, tongue smoothly caressing the underside of his length as you bob your head back and forth around him. Each time you draw back you flick your tongue up and over the ruddy, leaking head of his cock, something that makes that fiery tension in his body glow even hotter.

“I’m going to-” He warns you, voice petering out weakly as he tries controlling himself, “I can’t- I can’t help it, I’m going to cum.”

“Cum,” You speak in unison, your word coming out muffled as you speak it against his cock. You smooth your hands up his thighs, feeling his muscles impossibly tight beneath your fingers. You stroke them soothingly, encouraging him to unclench his jaw that’s wired so tightly that you’re sure his teeth are on the verge of cracking, “Cum, Obi-Wan, please.”

Even if you hadn’t asked him so kindly, he’s sure he wouldn’t have been able to withhold any longer. Not with your pretty eyes gazing up at him from between his legs, lashes latticing the tender emotions swirling in your gaze. Your fingers slide calmly, sweetly over the expanse of his thighs, and the mere thought of you digging your nails harshly into them and leaving marks is what elicits the final twitch of his dick on your tongue.

Evidently, you’re more in tune with his thoughts than he’d expected. You’d caught the quick image that had flashed through his mind, now completely unguarded to you, and you curl your fingers quicker than he can comprehend, carving searing marks into his thighs that will show up red for at least a week. Paired with the movement of your fingers, you suck hard at his cock, plunging your face forwards to nestle against the base once more. His tip hits the back of your throat with force and it makes you gag, and Obi-Wan isn’t sure what sensation is more overwhelming: the vivid burning at his thighs, the way the tip of his dick nestles so securely into the warm, wet sleeve of your throat, or the way that you’re breathing in his sweat-marred scent like it’s the purest oxygen you’ve ever had in your lungs. All he knows is that together, they’re his undoing, and he lets out a rugged cry; he can’t control himself any longer when pleasure roars through him with a fury he’s almost frightened of. 

He’s always calm, collected, in control. But now he’s grabbing your face with shaking hands as he pumps warm spurts of cum down your throat, holding your jaw steady so that you can’t back away, not that you want to. He holds you in place while his thighs begin to tremble, your tongue continuously smoothing over the underside of his cock while it twitches in your mouth. He keeps himself fully nestled into the back of your throat while he cums, and if he had energy to be embarrassed about cumming as much as he was, he’d be apologizing. But he can’t, not when you’re swallowing him so eagerly, throat convulsing around the head of his cock and only milking more out of him. There’s obscene groans coming from his mouth, the kind that bring heat to your own core, and you think you could get off to the sound a thousand times over if you recorded him now. They’re deep, throaty, and desperate as he holds your face around his cock, gagging you on his dick as his orgasm takes control of him.

A part of your training that hasn’t left you yet was your extensive disaster training, in which you were taught how to extend the time for which you could hold your breath. That comes in especially handy when Obi-Wan’s hands cradle your jaw, keeping you snugly choking around his dick. You have to fight not to draw back at the strange sensation of your throat being plugged while his cum splatters against the back of it,, and you use all of your strength to keep yourself from panicking at the lack of airflow. You’re only slightly ashamed to admit that you’d willingly die like this, a fucktoy for his cock.

Once his orgasm has worked its way through him he seems to remember you can’t breathe, all of the tension having leaked out of his muscles. He inhales with a start, pushing against your cheeks and tugging his cock out of your mouth, “Oh, Y/N, darling- Y/N, are you-?” 

At the sight of your spit-soaked lips, tongue desperately running over them to collect any of the sweat that had accumulated there from being pressed against his pelvis, he lunges forwards to meet his lips with your own. He can taste the slight savory hint of his own release, your tongues meshing wetly and messily. He’s hunching now, even though you’ve straightened up on your knees, and he feels you clumsily palm at his dick, tucking him back away into his briefs. It makes his lips go slack with a gasp even though he’s just finished, and he’s more than eager to take you by the wrists and help you to your feet. You toss his undershirt at him with careless speed, and he nearly gets lost in its beige expanse from the way that his arms shake as he pulls it over his head.

“My quarters,” Your voice is thick and ragged, still recovering from your prior lack of oxygen, “We can- it’s soundproof, no one will know.”

“Yes,” He breathes, legs shaking slightly as he gathers the rest of the clothes he’d shed while sparring with you, “Um- we can... Anakin still hasn’t gotten the air conditioning running.”

“Uh-uh,” You shake your head, feeling nothing from the vent to your left, “Hurry, let’s go before-”

“General,” The door slides open, and you both startle, much less in tune with the force presences of those around you than you’d like to admit. One of your troopers sticks his head through the door, “The kid needs a multitool.”

You blink once, registering a slight soreness at the back of your throat, “Get him a multitool, then.”

You’re sure he can see your haggard appearance, and all apart from the glossy look of your lips looks like you’ve been sparring. Which you have, technically. You just hope Obi-Wan’s trousers don’t look like they’ve only just been hitched up around his waist again, or his shirt barely pulled down over his chest.

“I lost mine, general,” The trooper admits sheepishly. There was an abundance of the supplies that were offered to you before you’d been shipped out to this battle station, and more had been stocked for a long time in one of the supply closets, but your troopers are bored more often than not, and you shudder to think of all of the times they’ve used them as target practice by standing them on the balcony and opening fire. Apparently, you need to request some more from the next inspection team, as well as impress upon your troops the difference between an abundance of resources and useless clutter begging for a blaster wound.

“I have one in my quarters,” You sigh wearily, “Let’s see to it that we don’t misuse our equipment anymore, soldier.”

“Yes, General,” He nods vigorously, stepping out of your way to offer you the open door.

“Obi-Wan,” You turn apologetically, “We’ll have to continue our sparring match after I retrieve the multitool for your padawan. You’re welcome to follow us, though I’m not sure it’s any cooler out there than it is in here.”

“I’d like to stash my clothes somewhere, if you don’t mind,” Obi-Wan holds up the outer garments he’d shed, “I think it gives you somewhat of an unfair advantage if I’m liable to trip over my own tunics.”

You grant him a good-natured laugh as you pass your trooper in the doorway, and all in all, you think that the two of you have done a fantastic job at pretending his dick wasn’t in your mouth only minutes ago.

Your trooper makes the wise decision to stand outside of your quarters when you enter them, although any initial disappointment you’d felt at his poorly-timed request has well worn off by now. That’s all he’s guilty of, anyways; you find their antics amusing despite their destructive nature. It’s not his fault that you’re canoodling with the Jedi master, so you forgive him his abhorrent timing. You beeline for a locker in your closet, punching in the numeric code and letting the squeaky hinges reveal your small weapons store. It’s a multipurpose space, blasters on a rack that’s affixed to the back, a mount for your saber, and a drawer of various other mechanical supplies down below. You throw it open, and Obi-Wan watches you dig for the multitool where he stands by your bed, his tunics laid on your bedspread.

You realize all too late that one of your other mechanical supplies is in full view of the Jedi master standing behind you, black in color for subtlety but unmistakable in shape. It’s phallic and has a second prong that shoots off of the base to vibrate against your clit, something you only use when you're absolutely certain no one can hear. Besides, the sound could very well be mistaken for one of your troopers shaving their scruff, so you have ample opportunity. You snatch the multitool out of the drawer and slam it shut, making your trooper’s shoulders twitch in a quickly concealed wince. You’re thankful that only Obi-Wan was a temporary witness to your lack of organizational skills.

“Here,” You rush to hand it off, forcefully locking the cabinet and thrusting the tool towards the trooper, “Take it- uh, keep it, I’ll put in a request for more supplies tonight.”

“Thanks, General,” He nods warily at you, and you pity the way he’s taken your context clues and misarranged them to view your behavior as standoffish and exasperated with him, “My apologies again.”

“No worries,” You try not to snap at him, unnerved by the abnormal lack of mental pressure from Obi-Wan behind you. He used to tease you abundantly in your youth, prying at your mental shields and slipping snide remarks through the cracks while you fought to keep a straight face, but now that he’s laid his eyes on possibly the most embarrassing item you own, he’s completely still, completely silent.

“Goodbye.” You shut the door with a hydraulic hiss, and stand facing it until Obi-Wan speaks, pretending to fuss with the control panel.

“It seems you overlooked another multitool in that drawer,” His voice finally reaches over the silence, carefully bundled so that the underlying mirth is something you can only guess at, “Now I wonder if your battalion is really the cause of your foul mouth.”

“Shut up!” You whirl on him with cheeks blazing on opposite sides of your face like Tatooine’s twin suns, “Don’t tease me-”

“I’m not teasing you!” He insists, voice sounding aghast, like it’s out of the question, like he’s offended by the accusation, taking your arms into his grip when you look like you might shove him. His face is split into a smile - not a grin, which is reassuring - but a warm smile, even if there is amusement twinkling in his eyes.

“Yes you are,” You scoff, and you have half a mind to pull away when one of his hands releases your arm and anchors itself against your face instead. It’s warm, rough from wear but impossibly gentle. You fight leaning into it for as long as you can, pride still bruised, but he leans in to press his lips against your forehead in a chaste kiss. 

Typical.

You’d gagged on his dick ten minutes ago, and he’s kissing your forehead.

“Darling,” He hums sympathetically, tucking your face against his chest so snugly that you think it was engineered for the curves and bumps of your skin. You relish the hug he traps you in, the tender hold even though you’re interested in something more carnal, feral, hungry. His voice is strong and soothing as he speaks, and the vibrations thrum through his chest and against your face “You had my cock in your mouth not ten minutes ago. I’m not going to make fun of you for having a toy.”

Oh. Perhaps he hadn’t forgotten.

“Such a foul mouth,” You admonish him, tucking your grin away between the haphazardly-righted folds of his tabard. 

He pinches at your side, fingers greedily prying at the soft flesh of your belly through layers of clothing you wish weren’t between your skin and his, “Yes, well, it’s because I’ve had yours all over me.”

His hand, similarly bold to his mouth, flattens out along the curve of your side, tucking into the space above your hip bones. The other stays in place against your cheek, finger running idly across the underside of your jawline. You don’t know whether the shiver that shudders down your spine is due to the ticklish nature of his touch, or the sensual area he’s chosen, but he feels your spine thrum, and he presses further into you like it was an invitation.

“Darling,” He starts, back to that well-practiced hesitancy, “If you still want to…”

“I do,” You nod, feeling sweat drip down the back of your neck and soak into the fabric of your tank top, “Do you think we have time?”

“Anakin can occupy himself with scrap metal and multitools for hours,” Obi-Wan recollects with a smile on his face that isn’t committed to fondness or resignation. You’re sure he’s proud of his padawan’s abilities, but not of the havoc he wreaks with them.

“Hmm, that might be cutting it close,” You pretend to debate it, gnawing at the inside of your cheek, and he lets out a laugh as warm as the runoff heat from his saber with none of the bite of its blade.

“You’d occupy yourself with me for hours?” He teases, but when you nod, it’s earnest.

“I’d occupy myself with you for the rest of my life, Obi-Wan.”

The breath that he draws in when you begin speaking is the last one he draws for a while. Instead he holds it there, letting it burn and sear at his lungs while he wonders if any words he could produce with it would contain even a fraction of the yearning he feels roll over him in a nauseating wave. Very little has ever made him want the life of a civilian - his home is between the opulent walls of the Jedi temple, but any walls he shared with you would be infinitely more grandiose if only for your place within them.

“Had you said the word,” He elects to speak the truth, even if it isn’t even a chip away at the trove of feelings he keeps locked tightly away in his mind for you, “I would have left the Jedi Order.”

Would have.

You know why he won’t now, and you’re not upset with him for the reasons. You understand them, even if you don’t relate to them.

“But Anakin…”

“I know,” You nod against his chest, fingers taking hold of his undershirt’s fabric edge and fastening there, “You made a promise to your master. And to him. And he needs your help. I wouldn’t ask you to leave.”

“Would you have? When we were younger,” He idly strokes down the length of your spine, arm wrapping comfortably around your waist.

“Maybe…” You admit, “Maybe if I’d known your trip to Naboo would bring about such change. Maybe if I’d known I only had a few years left with you as we were. But I didn’t. So I never asked. And I never will.”

He doesn’t react verbally or physically after your confession, but the silence that ensues isn’t an awkward one. Instead, he maintains his hold on you, and you feel a gentle wave of affection flow from him through the Force. Affection, appreciation, love, which you feel so broadly through the Force, but rarely so devoted to you yourself rather than the galaxy in its entirety. You’re no stranger to the feeling, but it’s different channeled privately between two people than it is as a way of life.

“Let us pretend,” Obi-Wan finally musters, his voice thicker than usual, though if you were not so in tune with him you wouldn’t have perceived it, “For the next few fleeting moments, that we are still young. That we don’t have responsibilities other than those to ourselves, and to each other.”

Though your youth may have escaped you, your mind weary with resignation and Obi-Wan’s eyes darkened with the perpetual exhaustion of adulthood, his touch does not feel tired or incapable. It feels strong, firm, and mindful where it slips from your chin to your waist. His other hand sandwiches you between them, and you’re tilting your chin up to kiss him before he gives any indication that he’ll do the same. But he does, his boldness almost reset from the interruption you’d suffered. Like you need to coax him out of his shell again, like he’s worried you’ve somehow changed your mind.

You take the back of his neck in your hand, finding it slick and tacky with sour-smelling sweat, and pull him down so that his lips smash messily to your own. It’s a move he’s not expecting, and a startled groan escapes his lips as proof. You drink it, sucking it down your throat and pulling him towards the bed with the same backwards momentum. He’s nimble even if he’s unprepared, probably to do with his extensive agility training. You’re more than ready to fall back onto your bed when your calves butt against the frame but he lowers you down gently, with ease, drawing back from your kiss despite your fervent protests to watch you look up at him.

“Obi-Wan,” You beg, your voice weary, “Why are you hesitating?”

“I’m not hesitating,” He answers, and you feel it to be truthful, “I’m admiring you, darling. I’m not unsure, I’m more sure than I’ve ever been in my life.”

“Prove it,” You plead, already pulling at the hem of your tank top. You peel its sweat-soaked binding off of your skin, showcasing the equally stained garment beneath it that keeps your chest closer to your neck than your stomach, “Please, Obi-Wan, take me like you want me. Not like you feel bad for having me.”

“I do not feel bad for having you,” He promises, mouth barely parting from yours to utter the words. His lips are pink-tinted, glistening with spit, probably a mixture of his and yours. He pants slightly, cheeks similarly ruddy, “Perhaps later I will. When I stand in front of the Council and tell them we conducted routine maintenance. When I lie, when I guard my memories of you from them. But I’m not occupied with that now, darling. Only with you, I swear it.”

“Oh, well, that’s good to know,” You hum, kissing an inch lower than his mouth, the apex of his chin that’s marred by the scruff of his beard. It’s prickly and rough beneath your lips, and when you draw back they glisten with transferred sweat, “I’m glad you’re not thinking of Master Yoda while dipping a knee between my thighs.”

“Oh,” Obi-Wan ducks his head, advances on pause as he plants his forehead against your shoulder, “That’s awful. Really, truly vile.”

You laugh, and despite his disgusted bravado, so does he. His chest shakes against yours and you relish the sound, hand still planted firmly on the back of his neck. You briefly consider breaking out your rusty Yoda impression, ‘kiss me, you must’, but decide against it, instead choosing to press his head closer to your torso, letting his forehead lay flush and sweaty against your shoulder. It puts the scruff of his beard on the curve of your tits, and you feel it burn your skin as he kisses along it lightly. 

His mouth is soft, and his beard is its abrasive opposite. They trail in tandem along the slope of your breasts, first the soft lips and then the burn of the beard, until he’s lit a fiery trail across your skin to the padded edge of your bra. When his lips meet fabric instead of skin he noses beneath it, surely smelling a morning’s worth of sweat accumulated beneath the weight of your chest. You’re self conscious, for only a flash, then he takes a deep drag of air, inhaling until his chest seems fit to burst.

“I’m sorry,” You find yourself humming, regardless of his clear interest, “I wish a shower would help. Even the cold water doesn’t prevent sweating.”

“I don’t want you to shower,” He muses, pushing his face between your breasts to kiss at the skin between them. He mouths gently, tongue sliding over your skin with little form and too much spit that blends well with your sweat, “Sex is not sterile, darling. Soap and water defeat the purpose.”

You’re not sure whether it’s his insistence on the natural state of your body or the way that his knee gently prods against your center, but whatever it is, your fingers itch and you fling them up to cup the underside of your chest.

“Take it off,” You beg, and Obi-Wan shows no hesitation in complying, his hands sliding beneath your back, rough and weathered from work. They’re gentle as they slide over the clasp of your bra, and you push yourself up onto your elbows on the mattress so that he can maneuver the stretchy fabric easier.

“Does it hook or button?” He nudges his nose against yours to ask, and your stomach flops at the question. Both the fact that he doesn’t have enough experience to know, and the way that he feels comfortable enough admitting that to you by asking so earnestly only make you want him more, and you’re barely able to mumble ‘clasp’ before pressing your lips to his own once more.

“Three,” You add later, against his lips, when he unhooks one and still doesn’t have the garment undone, “There’s three.”

He takes your orders with unfailing patience, a trait you’d admired even in your youth. While you’d been more prone to hotheaded outbursts, he’d take you by the arm and speak for the both of you, usually resulting in far less severe of a punishment than you’d have gotten if you’d spoken your mind. Then the two of you would share sneaky, fleeting glances at each other while scrubbing the floors of the refectory, trying not to laugh loud enough for the Knight unwillingly supervising your punishment to hear.

You’re pulled out of your reverie when he finally unhooks the garment and slips it off of your shoulders, meaning you have to draw back from where you’d tucked your face over his shoulder, giving him a view of his work. As your faces pass each other he offers you the same grin he’d worn all those years ago, his pretty eyes alight with the love you feel seeping from his fingertips. You see a glimpse of the boy he was through the man he’s become, and both are equally endearing to you. The first, because you’d grown with him, like ferns tangled together in sticky, clinging tendrils. The second, because he wears his accomplishments on his face, crows feet at the corners of his eyes from laughing at his padawan’s wayward antics, and frown lines for scowling at the same incidences only moments prior. He’d laughed at you in your youth, and frowned just the same at your more uncouth ideas for adventure, and now those expressions are etched into his face, like layers of makeup no longer dissolvable with remover. He’ll wear them forever, and you want to see him display them even in his old age.

He watches the way that your body moves when he peels the sweat-soaked garment away from your chest. He watches your breasts succumb to gravity’s harsh pull, sloping sideways and downwards rather than maintaining their tight compress towards your chin. He watches them sag, watches them fall to their natural state and declares, “You’re beautiful, darling.”

He takes them in his hands, their mass in his palms as he rolls his thumb over the skin of your nipples. They’d usually pebble in the cold but now they’re pulling taut beneath his touch, and when he brushes his thumb over their peak you stifle a gasp.

“Beautiful,” He repeats, and leans down to meet one with his mouth. He gravitates towards the right one first, and the embrace of his hot mouth against your skin tempts your back to arch. His tongue presses flat against your nipple, then drags up its surface, and his lips kiss over the stripe of saliva he’d left behind.

His beard rubs against your skin and it’s not rawing, not yet, but you know it will be the more he mouths at your breast. He’s licking, sucking, pulling, but never biting, teeth merely grazing your flesh rather than indulging in it. His tongue does that instead, flattening out over your raised flesh and dragging hot, wet stripes over the bud of your perked nipple.

“Obi- Obi-Wan,” You gasp, dragging desperate, heaving breaths into your lungs as your hands fly to his lengthened hair. You’d ruffled it many times when it was short and spiked, but now you’re able to get purchase in the strawberry-blonde locks, curling your fingers around the soft, sweat-darkened strands and pulling. 

You don’t pull hard, but it’s unexpected, and you feel the momentary pinch of Obi-Wan’s teeth around your breast. It floods heat to your already-pulsing core more than you’d have thought possible, considering the sweltering temperatures you’ve been in the whole time, but the soft groan that then ripples through your skin from the depths of his throat only makes you more desperate. All of a sudden the long-suffering heat is tepid by comparison, and you yank at the material of his undershirt so hard you nearly rip the fabric.

“Off,” You pant, “Please, take it- get it off, Obi-Wan.”

In a fluid, crouched movement Obi-Wan tears his undershirt off with one hand at its hem, his muscles flexing as he swings the arm up and over his head. He discards the shirt carelessly beneath him and it droops to the floor, no longer covering the bare skin of his chest that you’d admired earlier.

You have half a mind to do to him what he’s been doing to you, to sink your teeth into the flesh of his chest and suckle on his sweat-soaked skin. But he dips his face back to mouth at your tit once more, so you settle for running your hands greedily, desperately over the layer of soft skin that blocks his muscled chest from view. When he was younger, what seems like an eternity but must only be five years, his build was more defined. You’d gotten plenty of eyefuls of his bare, heaving chest during a particularly intense sparring match, or down by one of the large pools that were definitely supposed to be used more for reflection and tranquility rather than the chaos you’d wreaked upon them. But years of planning someone else’s schedule before his own has meant that he’s softened out around the middle, muscles still prominent when you dig your fingers into his skin, just not starkly visible anymore.

Age does that to a person; pushes them harder than ever before to achieve a less-defined result than they’re used to, but you find that you want to grind down onto the thin layer of pudge he’s accumulated just as much as you’d have wanted to drag yourself over his defined abs. The thought of doing both, either, anything makes you dizzy with desire that you express by scratching your sharpened nails down his skin, feeling his muscles shudder beneath your fingers.

“Darling,” He groans, choking on the word like it’s gagged him, “I- I think we ought to- are you ready?”

You marvel at his sincerity, at the idea that he’s not aware of the throbbing, slick mess that your core has become. You’d been ready twenty minutes ago, sprawled out on the floor beneath him, and you’ve only gotten more eager since then. His concern makes you want him more, and you use your grip on his soft hair to tug him upwards to meet your lips in a kiss. 

“I’m ready,” You breathe, laying the words out in a hazy moan over his tongue, “I’m ready, Obi-Wan, please- please take me.”

A groan melts from his mouth like molten butter, dripping over your tongue and down your throat. He pants, lets you suck his tongue into your mouth in a long, eager drag, then mumbles clumsily, “I want you. I want- I want to have you, darling, I want to take you.” His hips roll experimentally against your own, the tight pressure of his clothed cock digging into your panties as he nearly loses the function in the muscles that are holding him up above you.

He lets out another moan as you drag your hips up to meet his premature thrusts, and this time it’s a weaker sound, more strangled and mottled. It’s satisfying, knowing that you’ve reduced the ever-stoic, prized Jedi negotiator Obi-Wan Kenobi to a heaving mass of sweat and desire. His undershorts are rucked up around his meaty thighs, but he hasn’t yanked them off to free his stiff cock yet, so for a moment, all you do is grind against each other. 

The layers of clothing between you, one covering you and two covering him, provide frustrating boundaries but much-needed friction, and the scrape of his rough undershorts dragging against your thin panties makes your fingers curl into his back once more. You suspect that when he wakes tomorrow, your marks will still be there, and you take pride in knowing that he’ll have a very hard time forgetting you.

“Obi-” You really do intend to say his full name, but your breath leaves your lungs too quickly for it, and you revert back to the nickname he’d loathed as a teenager. Too juvenile, he’d protested greatly at the clipped diminutive, but he leans into it now. He licks the word right off of your tongue, his own plunging past your lips and dragging over your teeth in a messy, imprecise fashion. You get the sense that this is not about sex to him, it’s not about mechanics or equations or the perfect formula. It’s about you, and him, and you and him together. He doesn’t kiss you like a storybook prince because he kisses you like Obi-Wan, and Obi-Wan wants to lick the spit out of your mouth and suck on your tongue. Obi-Wan wants to feel, not think, for once in his life, so he does.

“Obi-” You falter again, hands traveling from his muscled back to his hips. Your fingers dip beneath the waistband of his undershorts, then his briefs where they lay against the same stretch of skin, “Off. Off, please- Obi-Wan, off, take ‘em- off.”

He grunts his approval into your mouth, obscene squelching sounds coming from where his spit pools between your teeth and your tongue. He reaches down with a blind, clumsy hand to tug at his waistband, but when it doesn’t provide immediate results, he finds himself getting frustrated. It’s an unfamiliar feeling, not the frustration itself but his inability to control it, and he feels his brow crease in irritation as he reluctantly parts from your mouth to focus on the task at hand. All he needs is a little extra leverage to slide his shorts off of his waist, briefs bunched together, and as soon as they’re out of his way he’s reaching for your own underwear.

You crane your neck downwards to watch him, and the glimmering mess of saliva in your mouth practically doubles in volume at the sight of his red-tipped, rock-hard cock. It’s curved slightly up towards his stomach in its desperation, and there’s precum oozing from its tip, foaming and all too appealing. You want to suck him off again, to really choke yourself on it this time and never draw back for air, but there’s no time when he tugs swiftly at the elastic band of your panties, tearing them easily away from you. They drag beneath your thighs but he merely pulls harder, until they spring free and bunch up around your knees.

“Up,” Obi-Wan taps at your left thigh, and you struggle to bend your knees amidst their relentless trembling. He helps you, strength having stuck with him even when composure has abandoned its post. You get your left thigh up first, exposing your glistening cunt, smeared sticky with your own slick. His breath catches, you feel it stutter to a stop in his chest that you’re groping, and his eyes glimmer in the warm lights above you.

“Darling,” He breathes, taken by the mess of your drooling cunt. He reaches out, touches it carefully, with only the pad of his pointer finger. He ghosts it along the side of your slit, and even the infuriatingly chaste touch is ultra erotic. At the way you writhe beneath a single one of his fingers he brings his thumb up to stroke down your slit, catching wetness on his thumb that his mouth opens to accommodate.

He sucks your release clean off of his thumb, you’re almost certain he scrapes his teeth along his skin just to get it all. 

He leans into his own thumb, chases after it like he’s not the one taking it out of his mouth. He hesitates no further in clamoring backwards on the mattress until his knees hit the floor below, and he thanks the Force that the beds you were given are low enough for him to lean over the edge and bury his face in your cunt.

“Obi-Wan, no!” You plead, fingers tangling in his pretty blonde hair, “You’ll- you said- don’t cum yet, please, I- I want it in me!”

“I will cum in you,” He pledges, voice deep and determined as he nudges his nose against your wet cunt, “My darling, I’ll do whatever you ask. But I need you here, now. Please,” He breathes, his exhale shaky and warm as it heats your cunt, “Please, Darling, I want you here.”

“Have me,” You whimper, squirming your hips from side to side to propel yourself down the mattress. Your cunt bumps messily against his face that he doesn’t bother moving, and you buck your hips once, twice against his nose, riding his face, “Please, have me, Obi-Wan, you can have me.”

Your consent is all it takes. His mouth is open and his tongue is out the second you say the word, licking wet, tantalizingly slow stripes up your slit. He doesn’t breach it, doesn’t delve his tongue into your entrance, he laps at the slick smeared on the outside, as well as the wetness that has thoroughly soaked your thighs. Your skin is tacky with it even when he’s replaced it with his spit, and your cunt throbs at the meticulous approach he’s taken to appreciating every drop you give him. 

It’s too meticulous. 

After another slow, careful, nearly chaste lave of his tongue over the crease between your thigh and your cunt, probably just as soaked with sweat as it is with slick, you retighten your now-loose grip in his hair. You’d let go of the strands when he’d given you what you wanted, but now you want more, and you lead him straight to your core where he’d been lapping at your thighs instead.

“Here,” You beg, pulling his face against your drooling cunt until you’re certain he’s unable to breathe. You feel his nose breach your slit, nudged into your cunt by your insistent tugging on his hair.

“I need you here, inside, please.” You beg, pussy aching with abandon. His slow, careful ministrations had driven you mad, and now you are teetering on the edge of insanity as you nearly howl, “Please!”

His response is white-hot and wet. His tongue prods gently from between his lips as his jaw widens, and he watches your reaction as he fills your cunt with his slick tongue. A gush of your own wetness greets him, and as insistent as he is at meeting your eyes, his own flutter shut at the taste.

“Force,” He breathes, and the exclamation is uncommon from him. The muffled, garbled word sends vibrations straight into your cunt, and after the initial shock of his tongue inside of you, you feel his beard.

It scrapes abrasively against the sensitive, licked-over skin of your inner thighs, and prickles deliciously at the base of your leaking cunt. You feel sharp hairs prod at the curve of your ass, and his mouth moves fluidly, tongue wriggling with surprising prowess through the mess of slick you’ve accumulated in your cunt. It slides wetly along your inner walls that have made way for his tongue, and that will stretch eagerly to accommodate his cock. 

His cock, oh, you’d forgotten the thick weight on your tongue, and your jaw aches with the ghost of it. Your cunt aches, too, and when his nose softly bumps your clit you gasp as your hips jolt upwards. He catches your thighs with Jedi agility, his muscles not straining at all to hold you to the mattress. The casual, easy display of strength makes your thighs quiver, and something inside of you tighten like a knot.

He licks you out like he’s drinking ambrosia, the glistening substance smeared over his face and starting up the bridge of his nose. The noises that he makes are hungry and wild as he licks more, sucks more, takes more. He’d moderated himself at first, lapped the sticky spillings of your wet cunt like he was rationing a meal. Now he feasts, tongue losing focus from inside your pussy and rapidly licking over your clit. His lips suction on and his beard burns tantalizingly at your sloppy cunt. You feel stimulation everywhere, the knot below your belly tightening ever-stronger until you feel the beginnings of a fray. It’s a step you take, an incline that you scramble up, and each pedestal you achieve gives way to a higher one. You let yourself climb, climb, climb, against every pulse of his suctioned lips around your sensitive bundle of nerves, and you breach the clouds as Obi-Wan broadens his sucking mouth to half-latch to your clit, his tongue delving back into your drooling cunt. You leap for the final pedestal and a surge of pleasure hits you, soaking wet like a wave that you ride back down to the surface. 

You tremble, you whimper, you love. Your thighs shake, the muscles in your stomach stuttering as your hips jolt and jerk. Your mouth produces such feeble sounds, whines and moans and ‘Oh, please, yes’s, and ‘Obi-Wan- kriff!’s. Your fingers in his hair latch tight but cling gentle, holding him to you as you lose control of yourself in the Force. All of the love, all of the passion, all of the attachment, all of the terrible-horrible-no-good-very-bad-un-Jedi-like things that you’re not supposed to feel surge through the Force and hit Obi-Wan like Coruscant’s train, knocking the wind out of him, though he never stops sucking at you.

Obi-Wan licks you through your orgasm, tongue pressing tight and hot and wet to the quiver of your cunt, letting it spasm against his mouth. He sucks up every last drop of slick that you’ll give him, greedily mouthing at your cunt long after it’s begun stinging from oversensitivity. You want his mouth off, and his cock in, although that first part sounds like a heinous thing to wish for. His tongue is perfection, slippery and knowing you well enough to hit just the right spots even though it’s never had you before. You only push his mouth away to beg for his cock, but you’re tempted to let him white out your vision and lick at you until he passes out.

“Obi-!” You gasp, pushing instead of pulling at his golden hair, “Obi-Wan, no- no more! Here, up- here, please, and I want you inside of me.”

He lets you unlatch him from your pulsing cunt, rife with the sting of stimulation. You need only a matter of seconds to come down from your high, but they’re seconds you can’t afford to spend on Obi-Wan’s tongue, or the clock won’t ever start. He licks at a smear of slick over your thigh that he’d missed earlier, and his brain seems to register your begging.

“Alright, darling,” He pants, out of breath from the way he’d spent it all in your cunt. His voice is ragged, drowned in slick and thick with want.

He clamors back onto the mattress, all humbly-forged muscles and greed. He hovers over you, and dips down to claim your mouth the way he had your cunt: with broad, sweeping swipes of his tongue. He licks your slick across your tongue, letting you taste yourself on him.

“I’m here,” He soothes, his voice a notch deeper than usual and his words malformed due to the open ring of his mouth. He licks against your tongue once more, sloppy and hot, as his hips grind down against your thigh. He knows you need time but he doesn’t have long, and he grinds against your hip until you’re ready. You feel his stiff cock digging into your flesh, and it sends pulses of energy to your recovering cunt that make it beg to be filled. He’s not composed the way that he normally is, but he’s managing to hold himself together through grunts and groans into your mouth. If you don’t act fast, he’s going to splatter your stomach with cum, which wouldn’t be distasteful by any means, but you’d rather him paint your insides with it.

“You are intoxicating,” Obi-Wan proclaims, speaking directly into your mouth, an addict that can’t wean off of his drug, “I don’t know how I am supposed to pretend like this never happened.”

“Don’t,” You beg breathlessly, “Don’t forget me. Keep quiet around others, and- and when you are alone,” You reach down to take his cock into your hands, heavy and thick and waiting, “When you lay in bed at night, when you touch yourself-” He lets out something teetering on the edge of a whimper as you stroke your hand along his flushed length, an angry red coloring the tip that exposes how much self-control he’s composing, “-touch yourself, and- and think of me. Think of my hands, of my mouth, of my cunt. Think of me, Obi-Wan.”

“I will,” He vows, his voice holding like a frayed rope with one thread remaining, strained and pulling and clinging together, “Please let me have you. Please,” He braces his forehead against yours, his cock throbbing in your palm, “Please darling, let me in. I want to be inside of you, I want to have you, please.”

You’ve never seen him babble before. Not when he’d been seven years old, bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked, caught with a stray tooka cat in his robes halfway back to the creche. Not when he’d been fifteen and a warrior, his side split open in a gory mess of blood and flesh and lymph and bone. Not at his old master’s funeral, the light from the pyre’s flames dancing upon his stoic features. Obi-Wan Kenobi is a master at composure, but he is breathless now, sacrificing it to the dewy-warm crease where your neck meets your shoulder, and sucking up your sweat-salty scent in return.

You place your free hand on his back, sticky and flushed beneath your touch, and use it to help guide him into you. Your other hand, still wrapped around his cock, lines it up with your entrance and he needs little coaxing from there. He pushes himself into you slowly, courteously, but loses himself to some deep, primal urge that he’s buried beneath layers of meditation and balance. 

He comes undone.

His muscles surge and his hips buck in what begins as a steady pace, but transforms into a wild rhythm that pins you against the mattress. He lets out a groan into the sweaty juncture of your neck, something that sounds like it could be from a beast and not a man. You feel the scrape of his beard against the seldom-touched skin there and you’re sure it’s growing raw, but you couldn’t care less. He’s not holding your hips up - his hands are plastered to your side and holding you there with a force carefully and pointedly short of bruising - but you angle your pelvis up anyway, allowing him to hit that much deeper inside of you. The tip of his cock never hurts where it connects briefly each thrust with your cervix, but you feel it intimately, every vein and ridge and curve that his body has to offer. 

You’re grateful for the sound-proof walls of the military compound because you realize after a moment that you’re making noise just the same as he is. It’s softer, quieter, but it’s there, the underlying harmony to his leading grunts and groans. 

All the while he is soft and gentle, because what he wants is not sex, it is you. Perhaps if he were a lesser man, he’d squeeze you, or bend you, or break you, all to take you the way he wants. But it is the soul inside of you that he’s after, and he takes great care with the vessel it’s enclosed in. He holds you, but he does not squeeze you. He kisses you, but he does not bite you. He moves with you, not against you. Your hips surge upwards to meet the thrusts of his cock and he latches his mouth to yours desperately, pleadingly. Your breathing is short and staccato through your nose, fanning against his top lip as he mashes it messily to your own, and you’re much easier to bring to a climax the second time around, sensitivity still roiling in your blood from your previous orgasm.

“Obi-Wan,” You beg, the words spilling languidly into his mouth, as you move in tandem, in, out, in, out, forwards, backwards, everything, nothing.

“Obi- I’m gonna- ooh, I’m gonna cum,” You cry, overwhelmed by the consistent drag of his cock against the walls of your soaked cunt. You’re slick again, gushing enough to replenish however much Obi-Wan had licked out of you. It squelches as he drives his dick into your pussy, foamy from the repetitive motions that are only creating it at faster intervals.

“Please- please do,” He moans, his dick twitching inside of you, “Force, I- ah, there’s nothing I want more than to feel that, darling. Please- please cum, please-”

“Kiss me,” You plead, even though he’s never stopped, if the way that his mouth moves against yours can still be considered a kiss. It’s far from any conventional peck on the lips, mostly tongue and drool that seeps down the side of your mouth and into your neck, mixing with the sweat already lingering there from your workout.

He tries kissing you more neatly, his lips tightening and suctioning around your own, but the closer you both get to your impending orgasms, the sloppier his thrusts are, and the more slack his mouth goes, smothering your own instead of truly kissing it while his tongue continues its dogged pursuit of your own. It’s no matter; his spit leaks uncontrollably into your mouth and you relish the taste. You don’t need perfection, you need him.

You can’t help your wandering hand from snaking down to his waist, curving just below his cock to cradle his balls against your palm. They’re heavy and warm as you take them into your hand, and doing so elicits a gasp from the man chasing his release inside of you, his hips stuttering in their pursuit of the wet warmth of your cunt. You squeeze them, not harshly, just a gentle compression, and Obi-Wan melts. A whimper escapes his lips, still slack and pressed to your own, and though his thrusts momentarily slow, they resume at double the pace. He’s rapidly bucking his hips now, barely containing himself enough to lift one hand off of your side and bring it to your chest. He fits his palm over one of your breasts, your stiff, sensitive nipple caving against his palm. You gasp at the prickling sensation and your fingernails momentarily dig into his back, but when his dick twitches once more inside of you, desperate, fit-to-burst, you drag them down his back in searing red lines.

If you hadn’t been able to feel Obi-Wan cum inside of you, you’d have known it was happening from the cry he releases alone. It’s abrupt, like his orgasm catches him off-guard even though he’s been pursuing it. But you can feel it, you can feel his warm cum ooze out of the head of his cock, momentarily stationary as it’s snug against your cervix. You feel it gush from his dick, filling any and all available space in your pulsating cunt before flooding outwards, dripping down your ass and thighs in an obscene display that soaks right into your bedsheets. Obi-Wan rides out his climax at a pace rapid enough to coax your second one out of you, and you welcome the now-familiar sensation of cumming around Obi-Wan. It’s mind-numbing, your ears ring for a faint moment, and your cunt rapidly clenches and unclenches around his cock that’s all too happy to continue occupying the space.

He grunts, moans, and groans as his sloppy thrusts finally slow, and your cunt appreciates the reduced pace. You’re well and truly spent, difficult to achieve for someone who’d gone through endurance training since childhood, and you’re not surprised that Obi-Wan, too, needs a break. He lowers himself to your chest with a slow, shaky exhale, eyes closed and face glistening with sweat just as your own does. 

His beard grates roughly against your skin, shifted with every ragged breath that he draws in. His hair spills over the breast that his mouth isn’t nestled beside, and you stare down at his face, marveling how beautiful his barely-fluttering lashes and heaving chest are.

Before he opens his eyes he angles it towards you, so that the first thing he sees is your flushed, sweaty, open-mouthed expression. He’s in the perfect position to kiss the side of your breast, and it tingles with the phantom sensation of his palm flat against your perked nipple barely minutes before. His beard scrapes your skin like it has since you first kissed him, and you wonder if you’ll ever be able to live happily without the scratch of it against your cheeks, or thighs, for that matter. The skin between your legs is still raw, stinging with the friction of Obi-Wan’s coarse hair against your flesh..

“You look beautiful, darling,” He hums, his voice grated raw from fatigue. His breath fans hot over your chest, but he pushes himself up on his tired biceps to hover over you. His weight against you had been comforting, but his gaze is even more so, and you let him loom over you.

His chest, peppered with auburn curls so fine they glisten in the poor lighting of your quarters, rises and falls deeply in front of you. You have half a mind to bury your face in it; you might if his face wasn’t impossibly more captivating.

His eyes search yours, for what you’re not sure, but you realize that his breathing gets more shallow until his chest stills completely. He only releases his breath when you reach up to thumb gently at his sternum, loosening his lungs again.

“Do you regret it?”

You suppose you didn’t have to ruin the moment so harshly, but you want to know the truth. You want to know if this was worth it, or if you’re going on the list of regrets that Obi-Wan pours over obsessively.

He takes a moment to answer, but you suspect it’s because he’s been caught off guard by your question. He shakes his head, dipping his face down to kiss the swell of your cheek.

“No, I don’t.” He mumbles against the dewy skin of your face, hiding his words there in self-preservation. You kiss the fleeting scruff of his beard as he pulls away, and your eyes find the blue of his instantly.

“You needed convincing at first,” You recall warily, something sinking in your chest now that you’re not puppettered by lust, “Are you certain it was the right thing to do?”

“Not at all,” He admits, “In fact, I think it was wrong of me. But I’ve done it anyways, and I am happy for that.”

“Why wrong?” You ghost your knuckles against his cheek, and he leans into it like he used to do when you’d clean scrapes and cuts he’d acquire while sparring. 

“I am more attached to you now than ever,” He offers simply, but it doesn’t seem like it pains him to confess. He seems lighter now, less embroiled in his own anxiety.  “And I’m not certain I can keep my personal feelings- well, personal. I don’t know that I could think rationally about you. That’s not desirable to the Order, or to the war effort.”

You bite your tongue, teeth digging softly into its muscle.

“All the same,” He continues, “Jedi are not without attachments. Younglings form friendships in the creche, and their minders love them. Padawans love their Masters, and vice versa. Masters engage in relations,” He acknowledges, then his brows tick up and he considers, “Ki Adi Mundi has four wives. Perhaps I’m not the most blasphemous Jedi they’ve ever seen.”

A laugh comes tumbling from your lips before you can stop it, and Obi-Wan’s face softens into a grin of his own.

“Five,” You correct him, “He has five wives.”

“Force, he’s a heretic,” Obi-Wan exclaims, but it’s all for show; he holds no ill opinions of the council member.

“I’m happy for his wives,” You hum, the sound just short of a giggle, “But I prefer your beard over his.”

“Oh, but he’s got a better mustache than me,” Obi-Wan settles on his side facing you, a smile etched permanently into his features as he plays along with the banter you’ve started. He relishes its lighthearted nature compared to the hesitance of moments prior, “Maybe I should grow it out and curl it like his.”

Before you can offer him another round in exchange for a promise to never shape his facial hair around Master Mundi’s, the walls of your compound give a creaky grinding sound, then a rumble, and air whooshes through the vents you’ve come to loathe for their uselessness in the recent past.

“He did it!” You gawk, sitting up excitedly, nearly forgetting that you’re topless, “Oh Force, Anakin’s a wizard! He really is, he’s a mechanical wizard, and I’m going to buy him a speeder for this.”

“Do not,” Obi-Wan groans, sitting up beside you and tugging you easily to fit your back against his chest, “The last thing that boy needs is the ability to go faster.”

“He did it,” You sigh happily, leaning back and pressing your lips to Obi-Wan’s. He reciprocates easily now, unlike before when he’d run himself ragged with doubts.

“That means we’ll be off soon,” Obi-Wan reminds you gently, and you deflate slightly in his hold, “But I don’t think comming each other should be any issue.”

“Every night?” You suggest, kissing at the prickly cleft of his chin.

“That’s- ambitious.” He chuckles, but it’s not meant to tease, “Every night, darling.”

“You can send me dirty videos,” You gush, scrambling to free yourself from Obi-Wan’s hold when he tries locking his fingers onto your sides, nipping sharply at your shoulder.

“I will not!” He insists, voice firm but chest trembling with barely-withheld laughter, “Force, if I pressed the wrong button…”

“Perhaps Master Mundi could share it with one of his wives,” You laugh, scrambling back into your underclothes and heading for the fresher to clean yourself up, “Hurry up and get dressed, Obi-Wan, one of my troopers is probably on their way to tell us the good news!”

Your suspicions are confirmed only moments later, thankfully, after you’ve both had time to right your appearances. You look flushed and sweaty, if anything, but the cool air hasn’t managed to flood the entire compound yet, and you’ve been exercising, so it’s excusable. No one but you two needs to know that exercising didn’t mean sparring for longer than ten minutes.

“Anakin, you’re fantastic,” You call, rushing through the empty hangar where he’s standing near the ramp of the ship, “You’ve saved us all. I’m fairly certain my troops would have resorted to fratricide if we’d had to melt here for any longer.”

The padawan gives you a valiant effort at a polite chuckle, and you press on, “For the record, I told your master I’d get you a speeder for helping us today, but he said no.”

“Y/N,” Obi-Wan starts, exasperated, but catches himself on the use of your first name. Perhaps it feels different now, coming out of his mouth much more measured than it had only twenty minutes prior. He doesn’t speak further.

Anakin’s eyes briefly glint at the fantasy of his own speeder, but he controls himself quickly. He’s a credit to his master, who manages to look convincingly like he hadn’t just broken a very long streak of celibacy. Still, you appreciate that war hasn’t managed to suck the most basic of excitements out of the child, and you reach up to pat his cheek in a gesture distinctly un-Jedi like. 

“Take care of yourself, and don’t let Obi-Wan bore you with a million lectures on economics, or politics, or the two combined.”

Anakin nods, but bites his lower lip to refrain from smirking, saving himself a lecture on sass later on. You hear Obi-Wan exhale huffily behind you, and you turn your attention to him when Anakin retreats onto the ship.

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t add to my apprentice’s willfulness,” He grouses, but the corner of his mouth twitches upwards in fondness for you both, “He’s got enough of that on his own.”

“Take care of yourself,” You ignore his teasing, your voice tender and sweet, slightly more than it had been for Anakin, “I know they don’t send you out much, because he’s only fourteen, but- but please take care of yourself, Obi-Wan.”

Perhaps if Anakin hadn’t been lingering on the ramp of the ship, perhaps if there weren’t five clone troopers stationed in the hangar, perhaps if you were the only two people in the world, like it had felt less than an hour ago, Obi-Wan would have kissed you. But he doesn’t, all he does is nod, 

“We will,” He vows, and you nod, satisfied.

“I mean it,” You continue, more threatening than your earlier sentiment, “Comm me.” And you think back to the request you’d made earlier, breathlessly, the words fanning out against his sweaty skin, “And… think of me.”

You know he’s recalling the same moment in time when his cheeks tinge pink.

“I will,” He promises, singular this time, confirming your suspicions that his mind is flashing with visions of your flushed skin beneath his hands, “And please take care of yourself, too, General.”

Something hard and aching tugs at the back of your throat at the honorific, such a far cry from the intimacy you’d shared. But now you are General Y/L/N, and he is Master Kenobi, and that is the way things must be in the presence of others.

“Master Kenobi,” You bow, bending at the waist and noting the soft tug of soreness there.

“General Y/L/N,” Obi-Wan mimics your gesture, hands folded neatly into the sleeves of his robes.

He turns. He pivots on his feet and strides up the ramp of the ship they’d taken, Anakin waiting until he’s passed through the doorway to follow behind him. The door hisses shut, concealing them both, and the mechanical whiz-kid has the engines powered up in no time. You watch their ship take flight and navigate the narrow entrance to your hangar with ease, waiting until they’ve passed each temperature-isolating layer of defense that enshroud your compound and disappear into the planet’s heat-hazy atmosphere to turn away.

“General,” One of your troopers lingers behind you, “Is everything alright?”

“Yes,” You put on a convincing show, smiling serenely, “I’d just forgotten how much of a challenge sparring with Master Kenobi is. I’m fatigued; I think I’ll retire to my quarters for some rest.”

“General,” He nods, stating your title like a vow of loyalty, standing at attention as the hangar doors finally shut you in. 

You walk the familiar path to your sparse quarters absentmindedly, feeling that same twinge of achiness each time you take a step. Only once your door hisses shut do you release the prim tension in your shoulders, slumping and slouching like you’d just escaped the throes of battle. 

There is a shirt on your bed.

It’s white, though it’s been worn thoroughly, so the color is muddied ever so slightly with the tan tinge of sweat. It’s rumpled, from a hasty removal. It’s laid over your poor excuse for a blanket, cream-colored against the starkly contrasting black fabric. It’s impossible to miss, which means it had to have been placed there deliberately; it wasn’t forgotten.

It’s Obi-Wan’s.

You overcome your momentary stun and pad towards the bed, reaching for the shirt with a hesitant hand. You take it, feel it ever-so-slightly damp with lingering perspiration, and your stomach flips.

It’s Obi-Wan’s; it’s yours.

The shirt winds up snug around your pillow, tucked beneath the Republic-issue linen. It’s invisible to the outside eye, but when your nose is pressed gauchely into the pillowcase you can smell Obi-Wan through it, a mix of natural and artificial scents.

The musk of cologne and the acrid smell of sweat. Composure and lust. What is right and what is wrong.

You and Obi-Wan.

feedback is greatly appreciated! comment, reblog, talk in the tags, send me a message, tell me what you think!

[autisticlancemcclain]

Keith is good at compartmentalizing. Always has been. Sure, he’s not always great at emotional regulation, but when the serious shit pops up? Under lock and key it goes, to be brought out only late at night when he’s feeling sorry for himself and wants to make things worse.

(Okay. His coping mechanisms could be better.)

(He’s doing his best, alright? Life is hard.)

But sometimes, his compartments get too damn full. His brain just gets so cluttered with shit that he has no boxes left to shove the hard shit into, and he just has to handle it. It always sucks. It’s always a million times worse than his late night freak-outs.

This one in particular, though?

This one takes the cake.

If one were to steal a probably-dusty manila file from the desk one of the social workers for the State of Arizona, labelled ‘Keith Akira Kogane’, they would see, clearly labelled, a section called ‘ORPHAN’. Under that section would be a subheading — ‘Death of Father’. If this person were to read further, they would discover that officially, according to the Arizona State Reporting District, Texas Kogane died tragically trying to put out a house fire in the line of duty. His son waited three days for him to return home before walking to the fire station and demanding to see his father, and was then swiftly picked up and brought to the Grass Hills Region Arizona State Social Services Office, and assigned a group home after speaking to a child psychologist and social worker.

That story is, almost entirely, false.

Keith’s father did die tragically and heroically in the line of duty. It was a particularly brutal house fire, and Texas did manage to save the family that was trapped, at the cost of his own life.

What the story fails to mention is that the house was, specifically, home to Keith’s closest friend at the time. The file also fails to mention that Keith’s father often worked long hours, and so Keith frequently spent time at that friend’s house.

The article fails, perhaps most ardently, to mention that the day of the fateful fire, Keith was present at the house. The day of the fateful fire, Keith watched the house go up in flames faster than he could comprehend. The day of the fateful fire, Keith cried for his father, curled up in the corner of a room with a wet t-shit over his face, soot covering his hair and smoke lining his lungs. The day of the fateful fire, Texas Kogane kicked open the door behind which Keith was trapped in a blaze of glory, scooping up his small-for-his-age son in his arms and rushing him safely out of the house, hugging him tightly and pressing the briefest of kisses to his dirty hair before rushing back into the house to save the rest of the family that was trapped inside.

The file fails to mention that on the day of the fateful fire, Keith watched his infallible father sprint into the house, and never make it back out.

Keith doesn’t much like fire. The file doesn’t mention that, either. (Keith knows. He stole it, one day, and read it. It had to be locked away in a little box in his head, too.)

.

.

.

Space happens so goddamn quickly.

One day he’s chilling in his stupid shack with a couple cool lizards, dicking around on his hover bike and tracking some weird energy, and the next he’s flying through a real-life wormhole on a sentient lion piloted by a boy with startlingly striking brown eyes that he kind of vaguely remembers if he squints. And then that wormhole leads him to a real-life alien castle, and real-life aliens (he knew it, Keith knew it, he was right all along, his Pa was right all along, they both were —) and he’s informed by a real-life alien princess that he’s the Paladin of the Red Lion, the Universe’s Guardian of Fire.

And oh, does the bitter taste of irony flood his tongue.

He swallows quickly, desperately shoving the box closed, adding as many mental strips of duct tape that he can. He forces his face into a mask of stoicism (practiced to perfection from years of home after home after home) and prays that no one was looking closely enough to see the lick of terror flash through his eyes.

He’s lucky, that way. No one ever is.

He keeps that dangerous box closed as he frees a petulant mecha lion from a Galra ship that he navigates too easily (yet another box), keeps it closed as he argues and fights with the boy with pretty brown eyes (rival, his rival — his shadow?), keeps it closed as he fights a dictator and the dictator’s general and holds the hand of the same boy who smiles and says they make a great team. Keith holds that box shut with both hands as he nearly fights an alien who tries to take his knife at a space mall and trains with the man who’s like a brother to him, along with a brand-new team he’s supposed to trust with his deepest secrets.

Keith squeezes that box shut with every ounce of mental strain that he has, and then some. He grits his teeth and tells himself that fire is good and warm and powerful and life-ending and frightening and —

His bayard unlocks a blazing canon, flames sweeping out and brightly illuminating the stifling emptiness of space, burning everything in its path, and the box bursts open.

“Holy shit, Keith!”

“Yo! Is that a flamethrower?”

“Excellent work, kiddo.”

“‘About time you caught up, Mullet.”

The words are distorted, far away. His team’s transparent excitement fans the flames wreaking havoc on every carefully sealed box in his head, turning strict lines to ash and reducing his head to embers. His skin burns as bright as a sun, sweat dripping down his forehead, and smoke fills his lungs until he’s coughing, wheezing, choking to death —

He has no idea how the rest of the training goes. He has no idea how he manages to keep upright, with his vision swimming in and out and his hands slipping off the controls. He has no idea even how he manages to stay alive with flames licking him from the inside, burning him to a crisp from his bones out to his skin. He has no idea how he manages to land Red in her hangar, how he keeps from turning to ash in the pilot’s seat. How he manages to rip off his seatbelt with hands that have turned to burnt coal and rush down the ramp on legs that are simmering flames.

“Ay, Greñudo! What’s keeping you? You’ve been locked in here for half an hour, Shiro’s got a firecracker up his ass worrying — Jesus Christ, Keith, what’s wrong?”

What’s wrong? What’s wrong? Can’t he see? Can’t he feel the flames that lick up Keith’s skin and burn him up? Can’t he feel the heat of Keith’s destruction? Do his eyes not burn from the brightness of the fire?

How is Keith alive? How is he standing when his lungs have stopped working, cooked in his chest? Keith tries to inflate them, to force them open with clean air, but it doesn’t work, they don’t work, the smoke is choking him and killing him and there’s no Pa to save him —

A shock of freezing cold gently touches his neck, his cheek. A breath is startled into his lungs.

They work again.

“Smoke’s cleared,” Keith croaks, because it must be, now that he can feel the cool air trickling down his throat again. He takes large, gulping breaths, taking in as much air as he can before the smoke returns and he suffocates again.

“That’s it,” Lance soothes. “In and out, starboy. Your lungs are clear, yeah? There’s no fire, no smoke. Feel that air. In and out.” The coolness on Keith’s cheek spreads, following the shape of his cheekbone, back and forth, again and again.

Lance’s thumb.

His hands, on Keith’s cheek and on his neck.

“Y’r hands’re cold.”

Lance cracks a smile. “Iron deficiency.”

“Oh. You should —” Keith’s breath shudders as it regulates. He realises his hands are clenched on Lance’s wrist. “—you should eat more red meat.”

What is he even talking about?

Lance smile gets a little wider. It softens his eyes again, deep and brown and dark, like they looked after Sendak. Keith likes it when he smiles at him.

“I’m a vegetarian. That’s cute of you, by the way.”

“Oh. I didn’t know that.” It takes Keith a moment to process Lance’s other sentence.

This time, his face gets hot for a whole different reason.

“I didn’t — I didn’t mean —”

“Hey. Cool it,” Lance orders, tapping Keith between the eyes. His lips are still curved into a smirk. “You’re coming down from a gnarly-ass panic attack. The last thing you need is to freak out again. Keep matching my breathing, okay? You’re doing great.”

“Never thought I’d hear you say that,” Keith manages between his still-heavy breaths. The redness has yet to recede from his face, but he’s pleased to hear Lance’s quiet laughter.

“Yeah, yeah, Greñudo. Treasure it, ‘cause I’m not saying it again.”

Keith swallows, tightening his grip on Lance’s wrist. Greñudo. That nickname again, but it’s not malicious. Teasing. It’s the softest he’s ever heard Lance say it.

“What’s that mean? Grendo?”

“‘Grendo’ means nothing,” Lance replies, amused. “But Greñudo means disheveled. Messy. Slang for —” he tugs gently on the hair at the back of Keith’s neck — “mullet, like this travesty.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, ‘oh’.”

Keith slowly moves his hand up Lance’s arm, from his wrist to his elbow. He stops when Lance’s breath hitches, simply resting on the smooth skin, but continues on when Lance doesn’t stop him, slowly tracing the lean muscles and bony joints down Lance’s bicep, his shoulder, his side, settling at his waist. Lance’s hands have stilled, but remain on his cheek and neck, cradling his face.

“You channeling your Gomez, huh, Mullet?” Lance asks, but his voice isn’t it’s usual barbed wire, but soft; quiet and stuttering.

“I liked Starboy better,” Keith says quietly. All the burning pain has quietly slipped away from his body, leaving only a soft, tender glow behind, like the amber embers from the campfires he and Pa used to have on late nights.

It’s not scary. It’s — warm, even. Comforting.

“I bet you do.”

Keith says nothing. He stays right where he is, pressed to Lance in three different places, the coolness of Lance’s skin pulling the burning heat from Keith’s bones.

“Are you always this cold?” Keith asks. It’s not what he wants to say — what does he want to say? — but it’s what he can manage, standing so closely to Lance, the quiet scent of his floral shampoo pushing out the smell of smoke caught in Keith’s nose.

Lance hums. “You always feel like you’re running a fever?”

“Yes. Worse since I started piloting Red.”

“Guess I’ll have to help you cool down, then.”

“Guess so.” Unbidden, a smirk fights its way on Keith’s face. “That would make us a pretty good team, huh?”

It takes Lance a moment to react, but then he does, pulling away with a groan and a smack to the back of Keith’s head.

“There you go,” he admonishes, “bringing up fake bonding moments are ruining the real one we were having. Can’t let things go, huh?”

Keith shrugs, but the smile stays out on his face. “Can’t let your lying ass keep getting away with it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Lance says, rolling his eyes. He hesitates a moment, then darts forward and grabs Keith’s hand, yanking him towards the door as he power walks out of Red’s hangar. Keith stumbles after him.

“Let’s go,” Lance says, once Keith’s got his balance. He glances back at Keith, small smile showing the barest hint of teeth. “Starboy.”

[delawaredetroit]

It says something about their society's dehumanizing view of heroes that they would prefer heroes end in a blaze of glory rather than continue to live past their "usefulness".

Here is where Kota's parallels with Kotaro become clear. Heroes are nasty people he can't understand sounds a whole lot like Kotaro's heroes are monsters who abandon their families to save strangers. And both had hero parent(s) who died in the line of duty and left their young son behind. Though Kota differs on a few key points: (1) he is still with relatives so he wasn't cut off from his entire community like Kotaro and (2) Kota knows the circumstances of what happened to his parents which gives him more opportunity for closure compared to Kotaro who had no idea what happened to his mother and why she left.

[ligercat]

20 Questions for Fic Writers

Thanks for the tag @icegirl2772!

How many works do you have on A03?

What's your total word count? 362,045, can you tell I write a lot of one-shots?

What fandoms do you write for? I... do not feel like typing all of that so take a long copy/pasted list from Ao3... Phineas and Ferb (233) Army Of Darkness (Comics) (19) Ash vs Evil Dead (TV) (10) Milo Murphy's Law (5) Evil Dead (Movies 1981-2023) (5) Doctor Who (5) Supernatural (TV 2005) (5) Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse) (4) Evil Dead: The Game (Video Game 2022) (4) Jack of All Trades (TV) (4) Hogan's Heroes (TV 1965) (3) The Adventures of Brisco County Jr. (2) Artemis Fowl - Eoin Colfer (2) The Monkees (TV) (2) Burn Notice (2) The Walking Dead (TV) (1) Addams Family - All Media Types (1) Captain America (Movies) (1) A Case of Spring Fever (Short Film) (1) Toy Story (Movies) (1) Waxwork (1988) (1) In The Line of Duty: Blaze of Glory (1997) (1) Psych (TV 2006) (1) Evil Dead: The Musical (1)

Top 5 fics by kudos: Lonely Night (504), Painting it Better (452), Eternity's Dime (217), Accidents Happen (214), The Call (209)

Do you respond to comments? I try to but I genuinely do not have the time or mental/social energy to reply to all of them.

What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending? Uh, probably any of the ones where the plot twist is someone's dead.

What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending? I do not know.

Do you get hate on fics? Used to, I haven't gotten any in years.

Do you write smut? No.

Craziest crossover? My Phineas and Ferb/A Case of Spring Fever one because it's just crazy no matter how you look at it.

Have you ever had a fic stolen? Not that I'm aware.

Have you ever had a fic translated? Someone's supposed to be translating one of them but after accepting the offer, I never heard any follow up, so who knows.

Have you ever co-written a fic before? Tried a long time ago, it did not go well.

All-time favorite ship? That changes bi-weekly. But, uh, currently? I'm on a Sam/Fi/Mike kick.

What's a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will? Eternity's Dime. It's popular, I got whole the outline and backstory and all the world building down I just... lack any and all motivation to finish writing it.

What are your writing strengths? I don't know. Interesting premises? I've been complimented on character voice more than a few times.

What are your writing weaknesses? Other than feeling like all my writing is shit at least once a week? 🙃

Thoughts on dialogue in another language? I got no problem with it as long as the scene stays understandable.

First fandom you ever wrote in? Artemis Fowl

Favorite fic you've written? Don't make me choose from among my babies.

No pressure tags: @the-orion-scribe, @tiggymalvern, @unchartedperils, @stealing-your-kittens, plus open tag

[eclairfair98]

“I lost my father to a war, Tom,” he whispers, heat pressing down on his shoulders, burning the inside of his ribs, slamming into the pit of his roiling stomach. “I know flying’s dangerous. Better than most people, I’d think.”

And he sees it then. The purple sun rising across the horizon. Its faint light glancing across the slope of Dad’s brow, catching in his close-cropped hair, bouncing off his wide grin. Sees Dad’s face every time he got a perfect score on a test. Won a prize at the science fair. Outran every single one of his classmates.

Sees the warmth of pride, of happiness that lit up his eyes. Made them shine. Made Pete think that he could shine, too.

“Why do you want to be a naval aviator?”

Despite himself, he reaches out a tentative hand and touches Tom’s cool cheek. Brushes his fingertips down the slope of his strong jaw, wishing he could banish the stress from his expression.

Tom’s hands still, then crumple into tight fists as his eyes harden into pools of ice.

“I want to serve my country. Be a part of something bigger than myself. Honor my family—” Tom says, and that’s it, isn’t it? It’s that simple.

“Then why is it that I can’t do the same for my country? For my family?” he interrupts, knowing that Tom has to see reason now. That it’s all so very simple when you put your mind to it. “Don’t you see, Tom? If my father was here today. If he was alive… he would’ve been so proud of me.”

Pete hastily wipes the wetness rolling down his cheeks. Tastes the saltwater on his lips.

If he was here today. If Dad was alive. I wouldn’t even be here.

There’s stars dancing in front of his eyes, and he can make out each individual pin-prick of light. A dazzling, blistering white. Like Magnesium burning in the air with a brilliant, luminous flame.

Tom’s silent for several seconds, his eyes dark, almost black in the dim light of their bedroom. “I think if your father was here today, he wouldn’t want his only child to fly in active combat. To risk getting shot down, or captured, or killed.”

The rings on his left hand feel a lot heavier than they did an hour ago, like they weigh a thousand tons each. Like they’re rusted metal chains shackling him to the cold, lifeless ground.

“You keep talking as though we’re actually at war,” Pete says. You’ve no idea what Dad would’ve wanted for me, Pete thinks. You didn’t know him. You don’t even know me. Not really. “The Cold War’s practically over.”

“I guess we should write Brezhnev, then. Wonder how long it’ll take them to tear down the Iron Curtain now that you’ve declared the War’s over.” Tom deadpans, his voice flatter than Pete’s ever heard it. Unwavering gaze flickering down to his belly before settling on his tear-stained face. “You know this isn’t just about the Cold War, Pete. As long as we’ve had history, there has been combat. We aren’t going to enter an era of world peace just because our military has started commissioning omegas.”

“You’re being a hypocrite. You do realize that, don’t you?” Nausea burns the pit of his stomach. Punishing and hot. His chest aches like someone’s taken a sledgehammer to it, ragged breaths rapidly burning his insides. “You stand there and talk about the dangers and unpredictability of war when you’re fully prepared to serve in one, if and when duty calls. I’m supposed to live with the knowledge of not knowing when you might be sent off to combat. Deal with it as a part and parcel of my life. But God forbid, I ask you to do the same for me—”

“I shouldn't have to be the one to tell you that alphas and omegas would be taking on a very different set of risks going into active combat duty,” Tom bites out. His expression’s a mask but Pete can see the carefully-restrained fear in his eyes. An emotion so out of place on Tom’s face, it almost stuns him speechless. “Say you get shot down over enemy lines one day. Say you don’t go out in a blaze of glory as you might imagine… What then, Pete? Do you know what the prisoners of war lived through at Hanoi? Do you have any idea how bad it got for them? Imagine how much worse it could get for an omega…”

“What are you saying?”

Pain sparks through the base of his skull, making him drop his head down and press his clammy fingers to his brow. It feels as though he’s slowly being ground into dust. These days, it always feels that way.

How much worse could it get?

“Please, don’t make me spell it out for you,” Tom whispers, somehow instinctively knowing that Pete doesn’t understand. That he hasn’t thought about getting shot down. About getting captured. Getting killed.

“Everyone’s gotta die someday, right?” His throat hurts from the effort it takes not to cry. He closes his eyes. Thinks about his life. The seemingly endless hours spent at home alone. Doing laundry. Washing dishes. Dusting shelves. Throwing up until he’s sobbing from the relentless pain in his head. Thinks about the second line on his test. Bright pink and impossible to ignore.

About how maybe, there are worse things than death. Than being eighteen and feeling like your life’s over already. Than not being where you want to be.

Even if it doesn’t feel that way.

“I could die five months from now. Or in five years. Or fifty. That’s not upto me, Tom. Some things are just… out of our control. But what I can do is make my life matter. Make it worth something. I want to learn. I want to grow…”

I want all of the same things you do.

“And I want all of those things for you. I want you to study. I don’t care about how much it costs us, as long as you get to learn. I want to do things your way. When we got married, I promised myself we’d do everything your way—” Tom pauses for a moment. Weighs what he’s about to say next. Seems like he doesn’t want to say it but soldiers on anyway, jaw set in a tense line. “But you need to stop chasing ghosts, Pete.”

Something cold and heavy swoops up from Pete’s belly. Settles on his chest. Presses hard against his ribs.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The heavy feeling worsens. Squeezes his lungs. Sharp and unkind. Almost like he’s cracked a rib.

“I think you do.” Tom’s mouth twitches, and he looks away. Runs a hand across his tired face, looking much older than his twenty-one years. His Annapolis ring glints a caustic blue in the dim light. A potent reminder of all the things in the world that just aren’t meant for Pete. “You don’t need to join the Navy to make your life matter. You don’t need to seek validation in what you think your father would’ve wanted for you—”

“Fuck you.” His stomach wrenches and he presses his hands over his abdomen, struggling not to vomit. It takes him a moment to realize that he’s angry. To recognize the raw, painful thing lurking under his sternum. To give it a name. Tom takes a step towards him, concern flickering across his face, bleeding into his ice-cold eyes. And Pete leans away. Lets the tepid air rush in between them. “Fuck you, Tom.”

Because that’s his father. That’s his life. His dreams Tom’s talking about so callously. Dismissing like Pete’s just a lost little child who doesn’t know right from wrong. Doesn’t know what he wants. Who doesn’t know himself.

“Yeah, fuck me.” Tom sucks in a breath. His next exhale a little bit sharper. A lot less steady. He stares down at Pete’s bloodless fingers still clutching the flat of his belly, before looking up and meeting his eyes. Wistful and angry and resigned. “But that’s how we got ourselves into this situation. Didn’t we, Pete?”

[raineandsky]

#20

The prince decided pretty fast that he despises his father’s taste. The man had been insistent that his son take a protector with him on his journey to the next kingdom over, and assigned the most over the top knight in his guard to do it.

The prince’s first meeting with that knight was four years ago. Now they’re both stuck in a wasteland, wandering aimlessly between ruined cities in the hopes of scavenging some scraps to live off. It’s not the future he’d dreamed of when he imagined his place as a king, but it’s the future he’s stuck with for the foreseeable.

“Night will be falling soon, my liege,” the knight pipes up brightly, and the prince tips his head to give the other man an incredulous grimace. The knight doesn’t even react, well used to the prince’s cold attitude, and presses on regardless. “It would do us good to find shelter soon.”

“Where was that barn we were in the other night? The one with the little hole in the door?”

The knight momentarily glances out over the world they’re walking through. The environment is flattened, with only beige ghosts of the greenery remaining. The place is admittedly a little depressing. “We’re walking away from it, my liege.”

Directions have never been the prince’s strong suit. “We’ll find something this way, then.”

The knight nods shortly, and the prince knows he’s having to hold his tongue to not tease him for his lack of knowledge. Back in the day he’d have asked his father to have the man executed for his insolence, but times have changed. This knight has avidly defended his life on more than one occasion, especially when the world originally ended, and the prince isn’t stupid enough to truly want him gone just yet. It’s just annoying that he has to put up with him for guaranteed survival.

“Why’ve you stuck around?” the prince asks suddenly, and the knight’s brow creases into a confused frown. “You’ve not really been on duty for the past four years.”

“It’s what your father requested of me,” he says almost immediately, the words falling out in a perfectly rehearsed line. It makes sense; it’s what he always says when the prince probes him for a truthful answer.

“I’m pretty sure my father has been dead for four years,” he retorts, and he doesn’t miss the flash of apprehension across the other’s face at his bluntness. “You don’t serve him anymore.”

“And who was the next in line?” The knight gives him a smile, slightly subdued with uncertainty. “I am still serving a king.”

An involuntary laugh bubbles out of the prince. “I don’t think a monarchy has existed since my father fell. I’m about average as you nowadays.”

“I wouldn’t call myself average, my liege. I was the top of my class in training.”

“I know. It’s why you got lumbered with me instead of entering the End War and dying in a blaze of glory.”

The knight grins more freely. “Thank the goddesses for that, huh?”

It’s the prince’s turn to wear a confused frown. “Wouldn’t you rather be–”

“A town!” The knight’s cry cuts straight across him, and he adds it to the tally of things he’d have gotten him seized for back in the good old days. “Down there!”

Sure enough, there’s a small cluster of houses over the brow of the hill they’re standing on. Most of the buildings look intact, with hopefully fewer holes in the roof than last night’s find. 

“Good timing,” the prince comments, glancing into the sky and immediately regretting it as his eyes lock with the setting sun. “Please go and check for murderers, dearest knight.”

“Anything for you, my liege,” the knight replies with a playful smile, before turning to continue down the hill alone. The prince watches him go, double checking his surroundings that no bandits want to take advantage of his loneliness.

He knows he’ll never be king like he always dreamed of. He’d be a king of a broken kingdom anyway, only there to rule over ruins and the dead. Four years has been plenty of time to figure out living as a commoner, though he can’t say he doesn’t miss the ease of being a prince. He supposes he was lucky, travelling through the quietest parts of the countryside when his father’s kingdom enacted war with everyone else.

The knight calls back up the hill, his voice drifting incoherently up to the prince, and he starts on his way down to join his protector at the bottom. He even has a knight unwaveringly loyal to a shattered kingdom to look out for him. He still hasn’t figured out why. The knight has always stayed on his side, well into the end of the world, and he tells himself that he will find out the man’s motive for sticking around one way or another. It’s not like there’s anyone else to ask.

[offsidekineticist]

I'm still taking a break from aeon Theo, but I was going through my random untitled documents and found what I wrote about his first night ever in Drezen and I need to tell someone about this.

Cw: sort of suicidal ideation (of the "determined to go out in a blaze of glory" variety)

So Theo is tiny, even for a gnome - like, based on the 1e height tables, it shouldn't be possible for a male gnome to be as small as he is. He's closer to average halfling height than average gnome height because childhood malnutrition is a bitch. But what this means is that he gets to Mendev, and literally none of the crusader orders will take him, Steve Rogers style.

But Theo doesn't really have anywhere else to go. His library burned down and his home is in the middle of a civil war and he ran away. He can't bear to go back and face the people he tried to abandon - especially not the kids. So when none of the orders in Kenabres will take him, he decides to go to Drezen on his own and convince someone there to let him fight.

In the end, he arrives in Drezen a couple of years before the Second Crusade and impresses Staunton Vhane (by punching him really hard after Staunton laughs at the idea of him being a crusader). Staunton tries to get Theo a position in the garrison, but Commander Verstol is like "aw, I love the enthusiasm, little guy, but this is no place for a little fella like you!" Staunton immediately goes Qui-Gon Jinn mode and is like "Theo is now my squire!" Which is the only reason Theo is allowed to join the crusade (and is also funny because Staunton is a paladin and Theo is godless so it's really not a good match).

Here's the part that made me go like "I need to post about this": before Staunton pulls the squire uno reverse big brain plan, Theo is already planning what he's going to do now that this hasn't worked out. And his plan was to try to join the Hellknights. Because, yes, he hates them, and he'd be a terrible hellknight, but the idea of going home after running away when home needed him most is so awful to him that he'd rather be a massive hypocrite and try to make himself into something he hates (or at least pretend he's trying long enough to die heroically).

And now I'm imagining an AU where Theo does join the hellknights and his mentor is one of the original five of the Godclaw. He's "killed" pretty early on, but this version of Theo gets it together enough to "die" in a manner worthy of a hellknight, so when the Godclaw gets their citadel and, like, a plaque with the names of their fallen, Theoven's is at the top as the first member of the Godclaw to fall in the line of duty. And Regill spends his entire time in the Godclaw in the shadow of his brother's sacrifice, not sure what made Theo change his mind about the hellknights, but determined to live up to the standard Theo would have surely held himself to.

And then Theo isn't dead, and he's also a complete fucking mess and just terrible at everything Hellknight related except having such low self-esteem that he's willing to throw his life away for the Mission. And Regill is pretty sure this is some kind of demonic trick to undermine morale by sullying the memory of the Godclaw's first fallen, but also this version of Theo is much more familiar than the legend of Hellknight (posthumous) Theoven Derenge and at some point he realizes Theo is only remembered as he is because he's a vicious fighter with a death wish who "died" before he washed out, and his mentor leveraged the "heroism" of his death to recruit hellknights to the Godclaw, and, uh, Regill has no idea what to do with that knowledge.

[lostcauses-noregrets]

it's always "Lost, what if Erwin survived" or "what if Levi chose Erwin" but never "Lost, would you prefer Erwin to survive or are you satisfied with his ending" :P I understand both can be true at the same time I personally would like to see Erwin survive but I'm still ok with his ending. What about Levi, are you satisfied with his ending? Lots of fans want him to die anime fans value a heroic death over everything and romanticize it but I am glad our man survived, in a way Levi's ending completed Erwin's and every other scouts before them because he was fighting to give a meaning to their deaths. Plus, every character suffered but most of them knew happiness even for a short while: Erwin with his dad, same with Mikasa and Eren with their families and all. Levi from birth to the last chapter all he knew was fighting and suffering. Glad man was able to chill and relax a little bit

Hi Anon, that's quite a lot of questions there!

Lost, would you prefer Erwin to survive or are you satisfied with his ending?

In the immediate aftermath of Midnight Sun I was devastated by Erwin's death, heartbroken, angry and confused. I know I'm not the only person who genuinely grieved for Erwin. His death seemed so inexplicable. It took us time, and Isayama's Answers Book, to really understand Levi's decision. I know that some fans never really forgave either Levi or Isayama, and drifted away from the fandom not long after Erwin died. In retrospect, knowing how the story developed, I've made my peace with Erwin's death. He is one of the few characters who died with his dream intact, and we know that fulfilled dreams in the world of SnK more often than not turned into nightmares. He died knowing that he had fulfilled his duty, and he had his most loved and trusted comrades at his side as he breathed his last. I don't think you can call it a peaceful death, it was cruel, violent and bloody, but when the end came, the person he loved and trusted the most, granted him the grace to rest in peace with his humanity intact.

Much as I would have loved to see what Erwin would have been capable of with all that knowledge, and possibly also Titan power, at his disposal, I am content that he died when he did, with Levi and Hange by his side. And of course Erwin's death did nothing to diminish his bond with Levi. Quite the opposite, Erwin's sacrifice, and Levi's vow ensured that their bond transcended death.

What about Levi, are you satisfied with his ending?

I have to confess, for a long time I was one of the fans who desperately wanted Levi to go out in a blaze of glory, fulfilling his vow to take down the Beast Titan and then being reunited with Erwin and his fallen comrades in the after life. I never in a million years expected that to actually happen, we all know how Isayama loves to torture his characters, so when Hange got exactly the ending that I dreamed of for Levi I was stunned. I was also more than a little apprehensive about what would happen to Levi in the aftermath of Hange's death, because I knew there was no way Isayama would use the same plot line twice. I was really ambivalent about Levi surviving right up until the very final chapter. But when he lived I was genuinely surprised by how happy I felt for him. When his last salute on the battlefield was returned by Erwin and his comrades my heart swelled fit to burst. The final panel of Levi living his best life with Gabi, Flaco and Onyankopon, and pointedly not joining the delegation to Paradis, was just the cherry on the cake. So yes, I am satisfied with Levi's ending, though of course I also choose to believe that he was eventually reunited with Erwin and all those who he had loved and lost. (I wrote a fic that attempted to tie up some of the loose ends and bring Levi's story to its conclusion, called The Permanence of the Young Men.)

Levi from birth to the last chapter all he knew was fighting and suffering.

I'm going to have to respectfully disagree with you here Anon. There's no question that Levi suffered throughout his life from the moment he was born, but I don't believe he never knew love or happiness. Kuchel obviously loved him dearly, that was her "drug" in Kenny's words. It's impossible to say how much Levi remembered of his mother and how the trauma of her death affected him, but I think that early love really shaped his character and resulted in him becoming such a kind and compassionate individual, despite everything he suffered.

I also think Levi found a degree of happiness, or at least belonging and camaraderie, in the Survey Corps. He was clearly devoted to his comrades, and they returned that devotion in spades.

And then of course there's Erwin. Erwin gave Levi a purpose to fight for, a cause to turn his strength to, but more than that he gave him companionship, trust, love and understanding. To find someone you can trust completely, and who trusts you in return is a gift beyond measure. So yes, Levi fought and suffered, but he also experienced the kind of love and companionship that many can only dream of.

[carionto]

Activate the MacGuffin

"Sir, they've activated their MacGuffin!"

"Damnit! Quick, activate our Anti-MacGuffin MacGuffin!"

"Sir, we can't, they have a Anti-Anti-MacGuffin MacGuffin, it has no effect!"

"Damnit! *deep sigh* Contact the MacMacGuffin Squad, they're our only chance now..."

"Sir, but they're a disgrace! They used the other MacGuffin back in the day without authorization and put millions of li-

"DAMNIT AND THEY WON THE DAY! I know I can't trust them. Blast it all, one of them is my Ex even, but the enemy won't have an Anti-MacMacGuffin Squad MacGuffin, they know we disowned the MacMacGuffin Squad."

"Sir? Um, I have your Ex on the line, she's in charge of the MacMacGuffin Squad nowadays."

"Damnit, of course she is. *deeper sigh* Fine, patch her through."

"Hey there, that MacGuffin not working out in Your hands, just like everything else, hmm? :D"

"Damnit, this is no time for games! Can you and your MacMacGuffin Squad take out the enemy Anti-Anti-MacGuffin MacGuffin so we can end it with our MacGuffin?"

"Sure we can, but you have to give us full access to the Secret MacGuffin I happen to know about."

"Damnit! Fine... Give them access - to the Secret MacGuffin!"

"Sir, but what about Protocol! We can't hand over the Secret MacGuffin to some ragtag bunch of scoundrels with a heart of gold! We'd get reprimanded, maybe even have our salaries reduced!"

"DAMNIT, I DON'T CARE! I'm authorizing the Secret MacGuffin. And on top of that, because I know it'll come up later anyway, the Second Secret MacGuffin as well. Don't make me regret this."

"Oh you know I never have, glad you're finally putting something up without me asking. We'll make good use of the Secret MacGuffin and the Second Secret MacGuffin. Pop that bottle you never had the courage to give me once we're back. Ciao!"

"Damnit, I hate my Ex, but I secretly still love her more than anything. We just gotta hold out until they use the Secret MacGuffin and the Second Secret MacGuffin to destroy the enemy's MacGuffin, their Anti-Anti-MacGuffin MacGuffin, and have a fateful showdown against the Super Secret MacGuffin we don't know about yet."

"Sir, the MacMacGuffin Squad used the Secert MacGuffin, but the enemy deployed their Super Secert MacGuffin and the MacMacGuffin Squad is losing members fast. It's down to your Ex now with the Second Secret MacGuffin. She's on collision course with all the enemy MacGuffin MacGuffins. She's calling you now for the final call (but not really because Deus Ex Machina will save her and you'll be reunited in the end)!"

"Damnit, patch her through!"

"Hey *dramatic cough* looks like this is it. We had some fun times, shame it never worked out, but hey, that's life. I'm about to go out in a blaze of glory, just watch me light the fireworks, for old times sake..."

"Damnit, don't say that. I'm about to stammer out a half-baked I still love you, but the signal is suddenly only way one and all I can do is hear your final words as you selflessly sacrifice yourself to destroy the Super Secret MacGuffin and win us the War. *dramatic tear rolls down cheek*"

"Sir? She did it. We won the War! No more MacGuffins! Finally, it's over!"

"...damnit, I have to get to her as fast as possible. I'll run to the hangar and hitch a ride on the quirkiest random cool guy pilot still on board, he'll give me some unintentionally perfect life advice and make me rethink how I should be towards everyone from now on. Maybe even to the point where I drop my catchphrase."

"Sir, wait... he's gone now. All we can do is observe the hopeless scene then be shocked by how wholesome it ends up being and have our own little change of perspective on life and duty. That's neat."

"Hey."

"Hey. Guess I'm still alive. How 'bout that."

"I love you."

"Oh, what the heck, I'll stop being snarky just this once and respond with a kiss."

The End

[aletterinthenameofsanity]

let me wrap my teeth around the world (Rhaella gets a dragon)

Title is from "Eat Your Young" by Hozier. A dragon is born at Harrenhal, but it's not Rhaegar or Aerys.

Aka Rhaella Targaryen GETS A DRAGON!

---

At first, those that survive the blaze believe that the dragon hatched for the babe.

Of course, they say. Two royal lineages, began again. In fire and in blood.

Of course, Rhaella's half-mad husband says, our son is the Prince Who Was Promised. The product of our line. Our family might have perished, but he will bring us glory.

But Rhaella knows different.

The tiny creature is not born quite right. The tiny, silvered she-beast looks, for the most part, like the dragons of old. It has a mane of small spikes to its nape. It has two fully functional wings, guaranteed to grow wild and fierce. It has sharp claws and teeth and a snarl that even at its birth, no more than three feet in length, strikes fear in hearts.

But it is half-blind, one beady, black eye intelligent, one ice blue and clouded over. It is tarnished. It is defected.

It is not a mount for the prince that is promised. It is a dragon, a monster, made for a queen forced into her duty and broken by her brother husband.

And it is a gift like no other.

Nearly every member of the family has died at Summerhall, but she has secured the Targaryen family's might for generations, by birthing a babe and a beast in the same hour.

Balerion, her husband names the dragon, the Silver Dread. 

It evokes Targaryen might. It summons images of burnt fields and extinct houses and Valyrian apocalypse.

Bitterwing, Rhaella names it, something strange and ferocious rising in her chest. It is not a royal name, but she does not give a damn.

The little whelp is the first thing she can call her own, and Rhaella will cling tight to her scales.

She hands Rhaegar over to a wet nurse, but she visits Bitterwing as often as she can, whenever her husband is busy with his mistresses. He might fuck every flowered girl in King's Landing, but she doesn't care. She doesn't need his loyalty. In fact, she would love to see him never spend a night in her bed again.

Because these moments, these nights, with her dragon are hers.

Her officially sanctioned visits to the Dragonpit always include her son. She knows that Rhaegar visits the Dragonpit without her, accompanied by his monstrous father. Aerys sees the prophecies fulfilled in his son.

Bitterwing tolerates Rhaegar, because Rhaella holds some fondness for her son, but she holds none for her husband, and therefore does not constrain her dragon to politeness.

Her dragon can rage as she cannot, and it is considered natural. Dragon-like.

Dragons are monsters, she hears the servants whisper, and they're not entirely wrong.

Bitterwing is a monster, yes but she is such a beautiful one.

No matter how many times her husband summoned her to his bed, no matter how many times she emerges bruised and bloody and broken-boned, she is not bowed. She is not bent.

Because for the first time in her life, Rhaella cradles power. Not within her and her womb, but within her first friend. 

Rhaella lets out her first laugh since her wedding the first night that Bitterwing lets out a jet of flame. It stutters after seconds, and Bitterwing hiccups, and Rhaella can't help the giggle that emerges from her lips. Bitterwing's eyes glitter, something curving her snout. Rhaella reaches out and snuggles into Bitterwing's neck, Bitterwing's scales warm and smooth and comforting against her bruised cheek.

Bitterwing grows long and and sinuous, more serpentine than dragon-like, but she is graceful and loves Rhaella's hand against her snout and snaps at Aerys when he gets too close, and that is all Rhaella could wish for.

***

Years pass. Rhaella is raped into birthing her second son, and Aerys announces before the court that he will give up his mistresses for his Queen, and Rhaella cannot stand to be the only outlet of his bites and his bruises and his burns.

She is no warrior. She is no knight. Her arms are too thin and weak to wield a sword. She has been told she is too delicate to study tactics or ponder war.

But she is a survivor.

And she will be a dragonrider.

Rhaella steals down to the Dragon Pit and climbs Bitterwing's back for the first time. She is sore- she is always sore- but her legs clench around her dragon's back and the warmth soothes some of the ache away.

And Rhaella rides her best friend in this wretched world through the roof of the throne room.

Rhaella is not wearing armor, but Bitterwing dives in such a way that her armored belly takes the brunt of the damage. Rhaella ends up with some scrapes and a cut across her lower leg, but it is worth it for Bitterwing to land in front of the Iron Throne, Aerys ' head in her maw and his corpse beneath her legs.

They will call Rhaella the Kingslayer, the Kinslayer. Many will want to take her power from her. They will want to execute her for her crimes. They will want to rebel.

But everyone fears another Field of Fire, and so they will not.

She is a Targaryen. She is the only person in the world with a dragon. She will never have to lay beneath a man again if she does not want to.

She steps to the throne and sits herself upon it and for the first time in her entire life, she does not fear it.

Rhaegar is her heir, but he has no dragon. Not yet. And without a dragon or her abdication or her death, he cannot hope to be King.

Queen Rhaella, First of Her Name, Kingslayer, Kinslayer, Abomination, yes- but also Queen Rhaella the Just, Queen Rhaella the Breaker, and the only Rider of a dragon in the known world takes the throne and the crown of the Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm.

She declares crafty, clever Olenna Tyrell her hand of the queen, reaffirming the Riverlands' loyalty to the crown, and attends Council meetings with Bitterwing by her side until Bitterwing grows too large to fit into the castle. Then Rhaella moves the Council out into the courtyard, erecting a series of stone seats for the Council to meet under the watchful gaze of her beloved Bitterwing, her hand on Bitterwing's scales a constant reminder to the Council of her power.

She is the only one with a dragon. Thus, she is the only one with power, and it tastes oh so sweet.

She passes laws regarding the welfare of wives and the punishments upon men that dare to lay hands on their Brides. The realm thinks her delicate, unwilling to enforce her laws, but Bitterwing snaps her teeth and the Lord's head goes flying and none dare question Rhaella's iron grip on justice. She destroys male primogeniture in favor of the eldest child inheriting, as in Dorne.

And years later, she will take a queen consort. She has an heir and a spare; she has no need to marry a man that she has no desire for. She has no need to give some man the power of Targaryen kings. She will marry a widowed Meria Martell, who came on a visit in the name of her mother's Dayne house and her husband's Martell house. She is woman with a harsh face, all long lines against dark skin, but has a sparkle in her eye, a clever wit, and a quick laugh. She shrieks with joy the first time Rhaella takes her up on Bitterwing in a saddle crafted for two souls, a wedding gift from the leather workers of the North.

(Rhaella does not give a shit what the Faith says about homosexuality. The Stranger was the only one of them to ever treat her kindly, and she has no desire to embrace any of the others. There is already one Targaryen exception; let there be another until she can persuade the Council to expand the freedom to all.)

Meria leaves her sons in Dorne—heir Doran and the vivacious Oberon- but she brings young Elia with her to court, where she becomes one of Rhaella's ladies.

But in the meantime, Rhaella raises her unruly boys not to be violent, to insist on control, to understand gentleness. To be tender with their women while being stern enough to be fair and just leaders of the Seven Kingdoms. She slaps Viserys the first time he lays a hand on a woman in a way he shouldn't. She does it right in front of the court, and raises the baseborn girl, a bastard of her husband's, to one of her ladies. Ceryse and Elia get along like a house on fire, and it is to no one's surprise that Elia and Ceryse elope. It ends up a scandal that will be remembered for decades, the two of them disappearing off to Essos without a second glance, but Rhaella and Meria receive letters at least thrice a year updating them on the adventures of their daughters-turned-explorers, and they don't mind the mark on their legacy. Neither Ceryse nor Elia will ever die on the birthing bed nor under the hand of a man, only as a consequence of their own ventures, and that is the greatest fate they can ask for.

Rhaegar doesn't turn prophecy into madness. His mother has a dragon. He has no reason to go seeking for a way to save his house and his world. Rhaegar marries Robarra Baratheon, the closest cousin he has, while Viserys crowns Lyanna Stark the Queen of Love and Beauty at his brother's engagement tourney.

Meria suggests matching Cersei Lannister with Stannis Baratheon, an entreaty to Tywin Lannister to darken the gleam in his eye when he learned his daughter would be passed over for Princess of the Realm.

Neither Rhaegar nor Viserys hatch a dragon, but when Rhaegar and Robarra place one of Bitterwing's eggs in the cradle of their eldest daughter and heir, silver-curled Argella Targaryen, who has eyes as dark as ink, it hatches, a squat dark blue she-beast with a nasty snarl, guaranteed to be a mighty war beast. Robarra chooses Elenei, the storm goddess, as the name of her daughter's dragon.

Argella grows stubborn and quick with a sword and even quicker to learn. She is no delicate flower like her Targaryen grandmother; if she falls down, she bounces right back up. If she wasn't a Princess and the heir to the throne, Rhaella suspects she would spit on the ground.

And Argella and Elenei bond like none in modern history. While Bitterwing was as melancholy as her Queen at first, Elenei is a rambunctious dragon who loves to spin in the air, seemingly taking great joy from the shrieks of laughter and urging towards speed that her Princess desires.

Robarra births a son next, but he is not an heir; Argella will be the Iron Queen after Rhaegar. Rather, dark-haired and blue-eyed Jaehaerys is betrothed to Margaery Tyrell. He hatches no dragon, but does make a name for himself in tourneys. Some day, he will be the Prince of Dragonstone and sire heirs for House Tyrell; for now, he squires for his father, as his sister did before him.

Robarra's third child, golden-haired and sallow-faced Steffon, inherits his father's love for books, and becomes a maester. He is curious but lacks all Targaryen or Baratheon temper, and will do well integrating Rhaella's new laws into the beliefs of Oldtown.

A year after Jaehaerys's birth, Viserys and Lyanna's raven-haired, long-faced babe Lyarra hatches her own crimson-scaled beast. Night Breaker, they decide to name him.

Lyarra does not have her cousin's temper. But she does have a mind for tactics, for history, for politics and diplomacy that Argella's storm blood sometimes lacks. She and Steffon get along well, debating war tactics and history and politics in the solar. Someday, she will be her cousin's Hand. For now, she gets the best training in the world and embraces Night Breaker as her trusted mount for traveling the Realm, learning everything she can about the people.

Rhaella presides over all of her grandchildren, satisfaction burning in her chest at the knowledge that none of their mothers were pressed into the marriage bed unwillingly. She checks in with Robarra and Lyanna regularly, treats them as Princesses and ladies in her family. Family banquets are joyous affairs, full of boisterous laughter and japes and healthy debates and good-natured needling. Fear does not make itself any of her family’s bedfellow.

Meria holds Rhaella’s hand and kisses her cheek in front of the children and grandchildren and Rhaegar teases them for being too scandalously affectionate. Viserys rolls his eyes at his brother and japes that nothing a Targaryen does can be scandalous- they are the exception, not the rule. Viserys’ she-wolf wife flicks him on the upper arm, and Viserys offers her a chagrined smile.

And above it all, Rhaella smiles, unburdened by abuse and fear.

Rhaella is not Visenya or Aegon or Maegor. She does not know how to wield a sword, how to command an army. She is no warrior. She never becomes one. She never wanted power for its own sake; she wanted it to guarantee safety and happiness for herself and those she loves.

But she commands a dragon, and her family, and that will win her the Realm.

***

When the Others begin to rise in the north, the women of House Targaryen will be ready. Lyarra, Argella, and Rhaella will soar through the sky, the three violet-eyed heads of the dragon. Baratheon and Stark and Targaryen, Elenei and Night Breaker and Bitterwing. One silver, one blue, one red.

They will write songs about this battle. About the swinging of uncovered Valyrian steel, about the roar of dragonfire, about the Storm Queen, the Princess of Ice, and the Queen of Fire and Blood.

A song of ice and fire indeed.

[questionable-intimacies]

Cardin x Velvet: Tyrant's Grasp

The proclamation promised the destruction of the realm's enemies. The decree raised a thousand men from the houses loyal to the Winchester family. Bronzewing legionnaires, Thrush's legendary Rangers, and Lark heavy cavalry and artillery marched on Menagerie after the Winchester banner with its Cardinal wings spread across a field of black and red.

Cardin Winchester held the point atop the spear the Winchesters and their allies' respective war machines formed. Clad in his ancestral armor burning with sorcerous power and the ominous hum of the Winchester family's cutting-edge combat technology, Cardin led the way with a hell-fired blazed path of charred corpses and bleeding bunkers into the hide of Menagerie, the guardian beast-god of the Faunus empire and its subjects.

Cardin sacked Menagerie, razed the royal homes, and scattered the members of the Belladonna ruling family with the simplest spells. For the Faunus Empire, the rape of Menagerie was a day of infamy.

For Cardin, it was Thursday.

Cardin triumphantly returned home, and the welcome from his rapturous subjects was appropriately ceremonial. After Cardin was victoriously paraded atop an armored troop carrier and had accepted the tumultuous acclaim of his subjects, he had stopped at the columns of glory to inspect the campaign's prisoners in the shadow of his family's past victories carved in bas-relief up and down massive ivory columns. These vast structures were themselves trophies from older battles. Cardin's inspection was supposed to be cursory at best; the mines, the pits, or the markets were decisions he left to his servants who were competent enough in their duties. For the last prisoner in the line, however, an enticing female form wearing shackles for bracelets amongst the wretched made Cardin call for a stop.

The woman, the girl more accurately, was forced to her feet and stood before her enemy. Even with the pair of rabbit ears that emerged through her dusty-brown hair, the girl barely tickled Cardin's chin, and her slight frame fit in Cardin's shadow with space to spare.

With the train of his royal cloak wrapped with solemn dignity in his left gauntlet, Cardin's right gauntlet reached out and gently tipped the girl's chin so he could look better at her face. The girl replied with an expression of determined defiance. She was nervous and even scared, but she would not give Cardin the satisfaction of knowing that his height, his armor, his whole presence frightened her.

Behind the iron mask, Cardin smirked as the girl's false bravado amused him. It then pleased him to take his hand from the girl's chin and rip apart the front of the girl's top. To Cardin's delight, the girl's chest was slender, while her breasts were full and proudly presented for her master's pleasure. Did that same pride that filled the girl's chest keep her from screaming or covering herself at her humiliation? It was now Cardin's desire to find out.

With a tyrant's embrace, Cardin pressed the girl to his chest. The chill of his armor against her skin made the girl gasp, which allowed Cardin's mask to fall from his face and press his thin, hard lips against the girl's unguarded mouth.

"What is your name, little one?" Cardin had, at length, asked.

Velvet. A despairing gasp of surrender. Yet, as Cardin threw his cloak around Velvet, it was only in his grasp that she finally felt safe enough to cry.

***

Revenge and reprisals are the warlord's lot, which is why an attempt on Castel Winchester, while unexpected, was not unprepared for.

Velvet tracked the intruders' progress past Cardin's castle defenses and personal guards in her sound-proofed room with her baby boy in her arms, her ears more than a match for the engineer's best efforts at insulating her chambers from the outside world, and it was easy enough for her to zero in on the sole pair of footsteps running through the castle corridors towards her room.

All the death and violence for this sole person and their near-impossible quest. It was only for the sake of her son that Velvet did not cry for this one person's futile efforts.

The door to her room soon burst open, and a fortunate specter of Velvet's past was framed in the threshold, just as Velvet had remembered her during more innocent times. That dark, velvet beret, that old pair of sunglasses, the stray lock of gold-brown hair that tickled Velvet's cheek when they shared kisses beneath autumn trees.

"Coco."

"Velvet!" Coco replied, "I'm here to take you home!"

"You are trespassing in my home, and for both our sakes', I beg you to leave."

Coco stared blankly at Velvet, and then the expression of confusion behind her sunglasses turned into understanding when she saw the baby in Velvet's arms.

"His?"

"And mine," Velvet said.

"How?"

Velvet shrugged and said,

"What his body did not conquer, his love for me claimed."

Coco's response was overcome by a hideous roar as the wall of Velvet's room came apart, brick by earth-shattering brick. Cardin then emerged through the dust and rubble and floated down onto the carpet covering the floor. His ancestral armor burned with sorcerous might and technological glory—an avenging Angel from the pit who would burn the veil of heaven for his love and queen.

Coco brought her weapon to bear, a massive rotary cannon that smoked with furious intent, warmed up from the bodies it had dropped when Coco fought her way to Velvet's room.

Cardin's mask slid across his face, replacing the coldly cruel, blue-eyed fury at the intruder with an emotionless contemplation. It was as if Cardin had already decided to kill Coco, and the question of how painfully Coco would die only required a mechanical, automatic answer.

Standing behind Cardin, her captor, tormentor, husband, and lover, Velvet never felt safer.

"Sic Semper Tyrannis, motherfucker!" Coco said as her cannon rolled to life.

"Where my wife sleeps," Cardin replied before he raised a hand that blazed a murderously wintery red.

[wordsmith30]

Warrior Nun Rewatch 1×09-1×10

Our rebel Sister Warriors infiltrate the Vatican to steal the bones from Adriel’s tomb. This is Ava’s first big mission and everything has come down to this. She is already fumbling along while Beatrice tries to keep her in line.

“Trust your team.”

While casting their votes for the new Pope, Duretti’s Divinium ring lights up. He alerts the other nuns that Ava is here.

Mother Superion joins their fight and Ava learns that she was previously a Warrior Nun. Ava’s shocked as, to her knowledge, no Warrior Nun lives to see their successor. But the Halo rejected Mother Superion.

There’s so much pain in Superion’s face at the memory. So much shame.

I couldn’t help but think of how honour was/is valued in ancient civilizations and other institutions. In Ancient Greece specifically, a soldier’s worth was determined by their accolades: how many kills they had on the battlefield, how many war prizes they took, how many cities they plundered. Honour was represented by material things that could be taken away at any time. Their ultimate goal was to die on the battlefield in a blaze of glory so that bards would sing their names and stories forever. That was immortality.

To return home empty-handed or to fail in the line of duty was a fate worse than death. You lived the rest of your days in shame. No title. No riches. No recognition.

Unless you got the chance to prove yourself again. In defecting from Duretti and the institution for Ava and her team, Mother Superion takes the first step towards redemption. Her failure propels her towards a different choice: putting the welfare of her girls before a man’s consolidation of power.

She tells Ava that she should’ve listened to Vincent. Ava is worthy. And the tenderness Ava shows her by readjusting her habit is a beautiful moment of respect, one that says the same thing Mary says to Lilith: “I see you.”

Ava is not happy to learn that Beatrice brought backup explosives just in case Ava can’t do the job.

“You don’t think I can do this.”

Given that Beatrice has been the one training her, it feels like a very singular “You” here. The two of them have already developed quite a bond in their short time together, so Ava cares about Beatrice’s opinion. To find this out on the “homestretch” of their journey is quite a slap in the face.

“I know you can do this. We all do,” Beatrice says. “We’re just not certain you will do this. Being a team player isn’t exactly your forte. You do what’s best for Ava: flight, not fight. That’s where your instincts lie.”

It’s accurate, if not difficult to hear. And it’s eerily similar to the argument they have in 2×02 where Beatrice says that Ava just does whatever she wants.

But Ava is determined to prove her wrong this time. 

“But things change when you realize not everything’s about you.”

This brings a smile to Beatrice’s face. Ava is putting the mission first.

And we even get the same cross imagery on the wall behind Ava when Beatrice uses the projector to measure the tomb.

Lilith, meanwhile, is back at the lab with Jillian and keeping close to herself. Jillian realizes that Lilith can teleport and has regenerative healing abilities, but before she can confront her, she sees her heading to Michael’s room.

Michael is drawing pictures of Adriel. He tells Lilith that she’s too late. Ava’s already at the door.

Lilith races to the Vatican to stop them. She’s the only one who knows the truth: that they’re about to release the devil.

After taking out Crimson once and for all, she engages Ava and Beatrice in the crypt. Mary shows up and restrains her, talking her down.

If only they had known. They were sending Ava into a death trap.

They learn as well while she’s moving through the wall that the Tarasks are the original source of Divinium, not Adriel’s armour. Beatrice surmises that they were coming for the bones, too, but it’s actually a step further. They were after Adriel himself for his crimes against Reya.

Ava is terrified when she gets there. Her comms have cut out and her flashlight goes dark. She’s trapped and alone, and there are no bones waiting for her. Instead, it’s the real villain of our story: Adriel.

Feels a lot like the ambush in season two, doesn’t it? 😭

The thing that makes Adriel such a compelling villain in 1×10 is that he tells us things that sound very believable. Especially in an institution like the Catholic church, we’re very familiar with corruption. We know all too well how men vie for power. It’s not hard to imagine the church imprisoning Adriel for their own gain or making Areala their pawn. And Adriel tells Ava that he doesn’t even blame Areala.

But the part that got me the most was him explaining that he was never blind to the human world. All the pieces of his armour are connected to him; through them, he can see and hear what’s going on in the outside world. And because all the Divinium in the OCS’ possession came from his armour, all their information goes back to the same person.

It’s not Divinium in general that allows people to connect to Adriel. It’s the pieces of his armour. That finally explains why Adriel was always a step ahead of them in season two! He didn’t need to possess Camila to infiltrate their base of operations. Ava had his Divinium sword strapped to her back! He would’ve heard everything.

Michael’s body is seeded with Divinium. He was the perfect conduit, the perfect pawn.

While looking for Jillian, Kristian walks into her office with Michael’s pictures all over the walls. He sees the full picture now, the full vision – that the Ark is proof of the beyond, that Adriel is real and is coming, and that this moment is just at hand. I think he finally gets the miracle he was seeking for so long. That’s why he joins Adriel.

Standing before Adriel, Ava is faced with that impossible choice: to help the church or help her family. She wants to end the cycle of pain, end the deaths of Warrior Nuns. She thinks in this moment that Adriel can help her, that they can take down the church together. But that means giving up the Halo. After all, she’s told that it was stolen from him.

And because Ava is the self-sacrificing person that she is, she agrees. As long as it means the safety of her friends, she doesn’t care what happens to her.

But then Adriel touches her back and she sees it: Areala screaming in pain while Adriel raises the Halo above her. Ava draws back.

Danger.

Outside the tomb, the others are prepping to blow the wall. Ava’s been in there too long and they’re worried.

Mother Superion says she has to find Camila.

Adriel shows Ava the vision of how Areala first met Adriel. She was in the midst of a war, cutting through men left, right, and center. Then, finally, she went down. All of her men rallied around her.

And then Adriel appeared out of a void, the Halo in hand. He used it to close the door behind him, but a minute later, a Tarask followed. It chased him through the fortress and he used the Halo to fight it off. Only when it was dead did he go to Areala.

The men, awed by what they had just seen – this supernatural (but humanoid) being fighting off a demon – could never have known who or what Adriel truly was. They wouldn’t have known he was being chased for a reason.

But this works in Adriel’s favour. Now he has people to follow him. They see another Tarask about to emerge and Adriel drives the Halo into Areala’s/Ava’s back. The orange light flickers and vanishes. They don’t come through.

The Halo was never a gift. He was just trying to get the Tarasks off his back. For the next thousand years, they would chase down the Warrior Nun while he got off scot-free.

Areala confronts him the next morning and we’re reminded that she’s an atheist. She sees through Adriel at once. She’s like, “You lie like a man. You’re no angel. That’s just what you want us to think.”

And he admits the truth. He says that men see what they want to see and promises her that if she exposes him, he will take back the Halo and leave her for dead.

Now armed with the truth, Ava tells Adriel to suck it.

He asks why she thinks she was sent here, revealing that she was just a pawn all along. Then he shoves his hand into her chest.

As the power of the Halo flares, the Ark fires up. Michael says that he’s coming and races towards it. “Come with me, Mummy!” he cries, and then he’s gone.

Ava screams, blasting Adriel away from her, and the ceiling comes down on their heads.

Jillian stands at the empty Ark and sobs.

As the rumbling starts in the crypt, Lilith looks at Beatrice. “I tried to warn you.”

Beatrice arms the charges and blows the crypt just as Duretti is about to give his speech.

One thing Ava has been excellent at doing from day one: screaming. Beatrice is the first one to her side.

Vincent carries her out of the tomb and through his torn sleeve, we can see his Divinium tattoos light up. Then they’re all racing back upstairs.

Mother Superion confronts Duretti and says she knows he killed Shannon.

The rest of them meet up with Camila and Ava says to let her down. She’s regaining feeling in her legs again. She tells them that Adriel’s alive and not an angel.

And then the devil himself appears.

Mother Superion quickly realizes that Duretti doesn’t know what she’s talking about: not Shannon, not the bones, any of it. As the realization hits her, she staggers. Vincent walks up to Adriel and attempts to talk him down, saying that he will get the Halo in time. For now, he’s won.

The girls realize with horror that Vincent has been playing them all for fools. He killed Shannon. Mary is ready to rip his head off, but Lilith intercedes. “I’ll handle this.”

I love that she’s the one who steps up here because it puts all her previous baggage behind her. Long past the girl who went to war with her sisters, now she’s the avenger coming to right all the wrongs: to stand up for Shannon, unjustly taken; to stand up for Ava, used and deceived; to stand up for Mary, who trusted this man when he murdered her love in cold blood.

Lilith walks right up to Adriel and tells him he’s a thief.

The fight that ensues is one of the best choreographed sequences I’ve ever seen. Our girls converge on Adriel like a pack of wolves. It is the crown jewel of season one. 

Camila’s double headshot still takes the cake and the look they give Vincent as they pass says one thing: You’re next.

They all turn when Adriel gets up, but it’s no matter to them. As Beatrice says, “We only needed seven minutes.”

And there’s our girl Ava, Divinium sword in hand. 

(I still wish we got to see this fight! 😤😫)

Before she can rain down hellfire, however, Adriel summons his army of wraith demons. All the assembled people in the courtyard are possessed and move in towards them.

Mary breaks rank and throws herself into the fire. “In this life!”

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again now: no body, no death!

[queenotdamned]

𝐀 𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐘𝐇𝐄𝐌 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐀 𝐖𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐅𝐔𝐍 ⎨qetsiyah ⎬

She stood draped in clothes of a time long passed. For too long she’d been an observer, time crept by slowly when you were dead . Her fingers would tingle with power— phantom rememberings of a might she wielded now bestowed  to her again and more. Electric as she tested her powers old and new.

Muscles and sinew stretched and pulled as she extended her arms gracefully over head . Joint popped and set in such a delicious reminder of what she was … who she was . It felt good to be in the land of the living , would feel even better once she finally went after what she coveted.

All the players were here, ripe for the devouring . Her blood and magic sang in exquisite delight of the prospect to turn their world upside down. Dancing  lithesome  for the moment she could squash them all beneath her foot.

Heavy strides sounded from behind but there was no need to see whom it was. There was no coming back without a faithful servant to help facilitate her return. 

“Mistress.”

Her eyes closed  taking in the sweet sound of her dutiful guard. Wordless she turned to face him . Markos, so strong ever the vigilant follower on her journey of blood and vindication. Her loyal watch dog. He’d live a long life and for his loyalty she bargained for him to have another. Long legs moved towards him, unwavering as she took the clothes held out to her . A brow quirked up in question at the garb.  Still she took it , slender finger tracing the stubble cheek of her champion in thanks.

“ How many?”

“ At last count their are four. Two of both lines.”

Red lips split revealing the whites of her teeth, snickering at the thought . Two each what a wonder.

“ And my followers?”

Markos bowed lowly , “ I have sent word through our channels. If there are any others they will come. And will witness you and your glory, mistress.”

She turned from him, eyes on the blaze raging in her hearth as the fire grew from the force she expelled. Oh how she missed her magic.  “ Then I will leave you to get our plans underway. And I,  will enjoy my bath”   She floated past him a hand grazing his arm in thanks . She didn’t say such things aloud there was no need. Not with him.  Soon enough she would have her fun and rain down chaos on all who might stand in her way. “Markos,”  she called once more,her eyes  turn to stone, regarding him with a calculated and menacing expression.

 “ Don’t disappoint me.”

[thx-ghxst]

@sevenxtenxthriteen

Before

The weather was supposed to be shit, Price had begged her to stay, to hand the mission over. She was due to retire; why did she need to go out in a blaze of glory? Well, he knew why, but he  asked her all the same. Her rejection of his request was clear, she was going to do one last run then she’d be the happily retired Mrs.Price. No arguments; a quick peck and she was off.

Unable to simply to wait in the bunks, Price was in the comms room. Thankfully, his rank still had some pull, he stayed int he back silent as they moved in. His arms crossed over his chest, holding his breath as they started to descend onto the target. 

Things went to shit pretty quickly. First it was alarms, then it was the radios- 

“What’s happening?” Price barked over the radio as the crash rang out. The silence was deafening, “Get it back online- send bravo team now-” it would all be for nothing. The other helicopter was scrambled, the team was there in no time- cameras showed the worst.

The helicopter landed across enemy lines, it would be war to go after bodies. 

After

“There were no survivors on the site, we found her tags Price-” Things went dark from there, Tony had to practically pull the man off the reporting officer. The court marshal that followed was not lenient to the man, he was a danger to himself and the team. Forced time at home was the only thing between him and a dishonorable discharge from service, so he went home.

They could only keep him away for a year, by the time he returned, Price was a shell of the commander he once was. Kept on light duty state side, they couldn’t force him to retire yet, so this kept him as safe as they could. A year turned into three. 141 was disbanded, the team slowly turned in their uniforms for civilian clothes. Price finally stepped back when the MIA was turned to a KIA, no body- no reason to stay. 

Three turned into five. Price was back at the ranch and running things as had been planned. His father passed not long after he retired, leaving the man to run it on his own. Things stayed as normal as they could until a familiar Austrian called the house, he found her. 

The ranch hands had found him unconscious in the kitchen, heart medication dumped on the floor beside him. With luck the ambulance managed to get him breathing before he was admitted into the hospital. Tony arranged the pick up with Konig, unwilling to let the old man take himself out based on a ghost.