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zet-sway · 7 months ago

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Fanfic: Sonnenblume

Or, I finally wrote a desert vacation fic.

[Read on AO3] - Rated E for SPICYEEEEEEEE

Pairing: Thane/FShep | Rating: 18+ | Words: ~4600

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“I think I found a place,” she says one morning. “An old friend of my mom's, they have a vacation home back on Earth, out in the American Southwest.”

Thane raises a brow at her. They're cleaning out the cargo hold, offloading collector tech at the citadel tower dock for distribution to the council races, each of them making their requests for research and study.

“I've never been to Earth,” he muses. There are any number of arid planets to visit, it seems almost foolish he is just now considering that Earth has many climates, deserts included.

“I haven't been in a long time. Grew up in space, last time I was topside was before my Spectre appointment. But my mom's friend says it's the perfect time to visit. A month from now it'll be hotter than a Krogan’s quad.”

He huffs out a laugh. “Earth sounds lovely, Siha.”

Her smile could light up the deepest reaches of dark space.

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Day 1

They're docking in Vancouver, slipping out the cargo hold and on to a taxi to whisk them away right under the noses of the Alliance's top brass.

The joy in her eyes is supernatural, he thinks. Unshackled from the military for seven scant days, Shepard practically glows with the energy of her newfound freedom. They leave an absolutely amateur trail of evidence as they flee south, along the west coast of the United States, through mountains and redwoods and oceans. The only stop they need to make is to pick up new clothes, snacks, and sunscreen.

They're on vacation.

He has to think to remember how to say it in his mother tongue. Ten years ago, he hadn't the funds to take time away from work after his marriage. Like many within the Compact, his life had always been driven by work, using the few pockets of silence in the spaces between each job to secure the next contract, research the next target, or hone his skills. Little time had ever been spared for himself. This… outing, this vacation, is something he's long thought belonged to the upper echelons of society and caste.

But he supposes he is wealthy, in some sense.

He's in love.

Wealth is watching Shepard parade almost girlishly in front of the shopping center’s changing rooms, all blushing cheeks and nervous laughter as she twirls the golden yellow sundress that she insists she's “unsure” about. Wealth is the way her face lights up when she spots a large, wavy brimmed hat across the aisle and races to try it on. Wealth is how she winks at him over her oversized sunglasses, and the levity in her voice when she says, with a devil's grin, “They'll never recognize me now.”

She might be right. The man at the checkout counter doesn't spare them a second glance as he checks out with their things.

Vacation suits her. And as they hail another transit to take them to the arid southwest, he thinks it's beginning to suit him too. He's rather looking forward to the breezy garments he’d chosen for himself.

Shepard's ruby red hair is swallowed by her massive sun hat, casting a broad shadow down her lean and muscled frame and the golden fabric of her dress. “Civvies,” she calls them. “You know, civilian clothes.”

He's quite certain there's nothing civilian about her. Her shoulders are too square, her calves and arms too hardened. She turns the eyes of the other passengers, oblivious to or simply ignoring their blatant stares. He feels like a shadow by comparison, clothed for now in the dark colors so typical of his profession. Still, her head falls against his shoulder and she slips her hand into his, laying claim to him all the same. Her silent affection makes his heart and body ache for her.

With practiced breaths, he slips beneath the waves of memory, willing himself through the minutes until the moment when they’re finally alone.

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Soon enough, they find themselves stepping off yet another transport not far from their rental.

Nearly one with the rocky desert, the low-roofed home is a dissertation in minimalist design, with flat, concrete lines gliding across deep-set windows, leading his eye to a modest entryway and through the glass beyond. Dimly, he wonders if he might have the funds to purchase the property; the volus bankers who minded his accounts probably thought him dead, having let his assets sit untouched for years. A minimalist by nature, this is precisely the place he had long dreamed of living.

Shepard tugs his hand, her skirt fluttering in the transport's downdraft, and his thoughts melt beneath her eyes, lit from within by a soft, cybernetic glow in the shadow of her sun hat.

She drops their things the moment both feet are over the threshold. Before he’s even figured out how to lock the door, her mouth is on his. She pulls him - grasps him by the shoulders and tugs him deeper into the house, kicking off her sandals as she goes, leading him towards whatever furniture lies beyond. True to her nature, his Siha is impatient. She is the fiery crown of Arashu, and he the rolling tide of Kalahira. He tempers her flames, grasping her wrists and flattening her hands against his chest as he kisses her, slow and deep.

The idyllic home they'll share for the week isn’t much more than background noise as she yields against him.

Her shoulders are already kissed by the sun, dusted with a delicate pink hue that warms beneath his touch. He slips a finger beneath one narrow strap of her dress, sliding it down her arm, trailing kisses in his wake. One luscious breast comes free, then the other, and her dress falls to the ground without ceremony.

Not long after, she's straddling him on the couch, grinding down on him with those soft little moans he's replayed over and over again in his mind.

Their first time was like this. He basks in the ethereal headspace between past and present, crisscrossing them in his mind as her hips roll against his, hot breath on his neck. And then she lets out the smallest whimper, a sound so vulnerable and soft that he cannot help but breathe her name in return, clutching her close. His dominant hand settles on her backside, aiding her motion; the other rests between her shoulder blades as he drives himself up into her heat, his mouth wandering in clumsy gasps along her chest. The way she lets her weight fall against him is an unspoken surrender, a precious gift she has chosen only him to receive.

He will never know why she chose him. But if it's him she wants, then she shall have him. Every night, again and again, until she screams his name in ecstasy and they lay in satiated exhaustion.

Tu-fira.

He belongs to her.

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It’s difficult to articulate how natural this feels.

Night falls, a chill settling over the rocky desert. He’s been alone with her many times, but never quite like this. In the short time they’ve known one another, she’s never been more than a commlink away from her crew, her mission, her ship and her duty. Here, nestled under a sea of stars, they’re more alone than either of them have been in decades. He watches the light of the backyard firepit cast flickering shadows on her bare skin, their hands intertwined.

Long after driving one another to sweat-kissed exhaustion, they remain entangled, engrossed in conversation. It’s like meeting her for the first time all over again. The armored force of nature who had carved a willful path into his life now lay naked in a nest of blankets with him, firelight dancing in her eyes, deep into a long and meandering train of thought. She weaves tales of her life before the Alliance, of joyrides and hijinks that would have made even his younger, rambunctious self hesitate. Her excitement touches his soul with a kind of contentment that he’s not touched in what feels like a lifetime.

Inevitably, the chill of night becomes too much to bear, and their talks meander back to the physical; stories of life before one another and the various trysts that preceded.

He can hear the desire in the deep, red edge of her voice; the way her tone dips from casual to sensual as she stands, clothed only in the dancing hues of firelight, and leads him to the crisp, untouched sheets of their shared bed. He pulls her close, scaled hands sliding across bare human skin, pointedly savoring her, willing his want and his love to find their way into every corner of her soul.

He wants. Oh, how deeply he wants.

He whispers prayers into her palms, one by one, as she rides him into the break of dawn.

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Day 2

Morning comes and goes in silence.

They lay heedless to the sun's motion, tangled soft sheets lit by the dreamy glow of day through the deep-set awnings and windows of their rental. Thane dozes in and out of sleep with her in his arms, heart swelling each time he wakes, awash in the scent of her hair and skin. They lie together for some time, and when she rises, he curls into the space where she had slept, unwilling to part with her residual heat.

Heat stirs in his limbs as he hears the shower kick on, his body calling for her as though he's woken up back in time, a younger, more virile man. Half in dreams, he can see her naked and robed in morning dew like a siren, and he cannot resist.

He finds her in the frameless shower, sunlight streaming through the window beside her. Water pours over her in rivulets of gleaming light, the sun illuminating the strong dunes of her back, gleaming off her shoulder blades and the curve of her spine.

Shepard, of all the people he had known, was made of sunshine. She was made of the fiery warmth and light of day, bathing him in her glory and simultaneously blinding him with effortless radiance.

And it's here, pressed up against the polished concrete wall beneath a lukewarm deluge of water, that he shows her all the ways he loves her. Shows her how, if he angles his hips just so, the last of her burdens melt away and he knows her as only he can; through the gentle, mewling gasps of an angel on the verge of tasting her own glory, manifesting the soft heat inside her as he drives himself against her deepest reaches.

He has to be mindful of his eyes. This has always been true, will always be true of all drell, but never more so than when she nears the peak of her pleasure. Shepard is possessive, perpetually communicating her need with unending motion, gripping him close as though the mere inches between them are a chasm too great to bear. He watches the way crystalline drops of water bead on her neck and shoulders, they way they catch the morning sun like diamonds, casting pinpricks of dappled light against his own scales and streak down the shape of her as she moves against him, contorted and desperate to take him deeper, to break herself upon the sanguine friction of their joining.

Her head knocks softly against the wall, her back arching, chest thrust toward him. And then she breaks. Sweet gods, how she breaks.

It's almost more than he can take. Words can never hope to say all the beautiful things she is when she comes.

He gathers each gasp, each heartbeat, every droplet of water on her parted lips and every clench of her heat around him. He drinks them all in, safely locked in the depths of his blessed memory for all his days. There is no greater gift in this life or the next.

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Day 3

Much as he would like to spend the entirety of their ‘vacation’ finding a reason to make love to her on every unoccupied surface in their rental, Shepard has made sure to include other activities in their itinerary.

He wakes to find her half dressed, smiling at him as she pulls a swimsuit top over her head. It’s a deep, forest green, with wide, high straps that criss-cross over her collarbones in an attractive triangular shape. He blinks, anchoring himself to reality as though he can't be sure she's real. And if his drowsy eyes find purchase in the alluring curve of her breasts peeking through the small cutout at the top’s center, he's certain the gods will forgive him.

The mattress dips as she sits beside him. “Come for a ride with me,” she whispers by his ear.

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Thane has often heard that human skin is easily burned by their planet’s star. He’s never quite believed it until Shepard.

He finds himself on a beach, massaging the soft cream she calls ‘sunblock’ into her back and shoulders, wondering how he could have ever gotten so lucky. His Siha, his warrior angel, so vulnerable without her armor that she wants - needs - his hands to protect her soft human skin, heals his soul with this one simple act; the intimate joy of being her protector and lover as he takes care to make sure she is thoroughly covered. The ocean breeze blows strands of her carmine hair across her forehead as she turns her head to him, smile lines deepening with delight as their eyes meet.

They pass the time in golden luxuriation, prostrating themselves beneath the radiant heat of Sol for hours, never more than an arm’s length apart, until the sun dips below the horizon and paints the sky in a myriad of hues somewhere between floral and fire.

And as the sun bows out for the evening, he bows her into the sand, lips locked and knees knocking against her own as they collapse together on soft, weatherworn sand that clings to the warmth of the sun as it bids them goodnight.

He never wants to leave this place.

Goddess above, Earth is the very image of serenity. Freer than free, his breath unburdened, his elation pours from him into her waiting mouth as they taste the salt air together. Her beach towel is a poor shield from the sand, but it hardly matters as he uncovers her skin, inch by precious inch, until she quivers beneath his touch, the sound of his name carried away by the rolling swell of the ocean.

He can taste the sea between her legs, the irresistible twang of life and salt and need that rises from her like water from a stone.

“Don't stop,” she breathes.

He couldn't - not if he wanted to. He wants this memory exponentially more than his own pleasure. A moment finer than all the collected treasures of the galaxy, etched into his mind for the rest of his days: his Siha writhing beneath his hot mouth, gripping his scalp, crying out as she tumbles again and again through ecstasy of his making.

He could die here, he thinks. Perhaps he's already dead. He nuzzles her thighs, warm and soft, as she floats down from on high. Yes, if the gods wish this to be his grave, he would gladly bow his head in thanks.

It's an hour’s trek back to their rental, but they will stay here until the ocean wind becomes too cold to endure, dunes yielding beneath them just as flesh yields to flesh and they become one.

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Day 4

It’s the honeymoon phase, he thinks to himself, running his fingers through her hair as she lies sleeping on his chest.

Thane has been here before, in another life, waxing and waning in the warmth of his wife’s bed. Deep in a distant rational corner of his mind tries to tell him: it won’t be this way forever. But does that matter? Does it really, actually matter? Months ago he would have said that he was but a tooth on a cogwheel, destined to spin around in repeating cycles of loss, memory, and despair. But this fierce woman pursues him with all the endurance that humans are known for. Bit by bit, she chips away at the rigid crust the last ten years have borne upon him, and he is alive. Alive in ways he hasn’t known in what feels like a lifetime.

They will spend this day treating themselves to all the beauty that earth’s arid lands have to offer. From the bleached, rolling dunes of sand, to the baked and rocky landscapes dotted with life in its most hardy forms, to the golden time-carved radiance of the painted desert - Goddess preserve him. His past has never felt further away. With her by his side, his world is filled with sunlight in much the same way as Earth’s gleaming sky, now so familiar and perfect to him that he would just as easily call it home.

And when the sun’s heat is too much for her human skin to bear, he trades the scenic vistas of the American southwest for a landscape of another kind.

Her skin glows, its color deepening with each passing day in dappled patterns that betray her state of undress throughout their travels. He finds it endearing, the way her cheeks and shoulders are dusted with more freckles than he'd seen when they arrived, the way her chest and thighs remain lighter in color than the rest of her, drawing his eyes, his hands, his mouth to worship at the temple at is her body. She kneels between his knees and blesses him with the sweet heat of her mouth, stealing his breath as she tastes him, crimson hair the perfect anchor for his hands as she takes him higher and higher.

He had underestimated her appetite for him. Perhaps he'd underestimated his own appetite in turn. They haven't even made it back to their rental and he can already smell the need on her, the cramped taxi insulating and perfuming the air so thickly he can almost taste her, slick and soaking with arousal, maddeningly just out of reach but with nothing but her panties between her need and the rest of him. Powerless to the heat of her mouth, he spirals through his lust as she pleasures him, soft hands and pink lips around his shaft. Her artificial eyes gleam up at him through her mussed hair, and goddess preserve him, he’ll hack the engine himself if it’ll make this taxi go any faster.

She's fumbling at the lock as he pushes her against the wall beside their front door, covering her mouth with his. Lips locked, they stumble inside. His hand drops down to her thigh, palming at the warm skin just beneath her skirt. Shepard, in turn, tugs him in the direction of the bedroom.

He considers this, allowing himself to be led as he considers all they’ve had the pleasure of seeing today - of her radiant smile beneath her oversized sunglasses, unable to conceal the joy of her eyes from his perfect recollection. Of her freckle-dusted shoulders beneath the shadow of her sun hat. And he decides in that moment that no - as much as he adores their soft bed and its sex-scented sheets, he loves her in the daylight more.

The back patio opens with a wave of his omni-tool, and he presses her into the opulent cushions around the fire pit. She chuckles against his mouth - perhaps he's become too predictable, but it no longer matters.

There’s a kind of transcendental brilliance to this place. Some kind of inebriating mix of oxytocin and fresh air and sunshine that ignites his synapses and levitates his heart until he feels he can touch the radiant sky. He ruches up her dress, fabric sheeting off her body until she's all warm, decadent skin against a backdrop of their shed clothing. He groans inwardly at the sight of her, the shadow of her clavicles arching nearly above her soft breasts, tipped with that same aphrodisiac shade of desire that awaits between her lush thighs.

She smiles so sweetly at him, but her eyes are shaded with mischief as she opens her legs for him, teasing her folds beneath his heated gaze. He falls to his knees before her, palming her silken thighs, kissing the wet, sanguine warmth between her legs as though it were her mouth.

Her hips rise to meet him, rolling against his tongue as she brings one ankle gently against his back to guide them together, and Thane breathes out a low, pleasured groan. He loves this - the way her body talks for her, knowing full well he needs no encouragement but asking all the same, driven by biological instinct to share the most intimate parts of her humanity with him - a man from another world. Her body calls for him, beckons him, and he is both her servant and sire.

“Please, please Thane,” she whispers, hands reaching blindly for whatever parts of him she can reach.

He lifts from his place of worship with a breathy inhale, curling his arms around her thighs and hauling her bodily until she rests on the very edge of the cushion and the tip of his cock falls against her wet heat. And then he pushes forward, savoring the way her soft flesh yields to him, how her silken walls conform to every inch of his thick, ridged length, swallowing him to the hilt.

She breathes his name as he bottoms out. Takes a moment to catch her breath and then pushes up on her elbows and then her palms until she’s close enough to wrap one arm around his neck and pull him close. Thane folds an arm around her in turn, pumping in and out of her blessed heat. Thank the gods for her brilliant human flexibility.

The sun beats down on his back, his body shielding her vulnerable human skin from the worst of its rays, as he makes love to her with long, deep thrusts. He could never hope to articulate this specific kind of ecstasy - the ruddy heat of Sol crowning him with the same deep heat he seeks deep inside her.

It’s not what he would call fucking, but it’s not what he would call tender, either. It’s somewhere in between. It’s the heavy, sweet push and pull of two lovers, their minds blank of all thoughts beyond the tension, friction, heat, and pleasure that flows between them; tongues sliding together, hands clutching at skin and scales, at once desperate for release but determined not to reach it, to stay in this moment forever, unwilling to part with the sybaritic heaven they share. She locks one thigh around his hips, bracing herself with one hand so she can touch his face with the other, fingertips trailing almost too roughly against his sensitive ruby cheek as she grinds her cunt onto his heavy girth.

He needs her closer, needs her harder, consumed by the need to become one with her in that sanguine way only two lovers can. Parting from her for just a moment, he slides both knees on the cushions with her, hauling her up onto his thighs, watching for a moment as she grinds her flushed, creamy slit against his length before sinking himself back into her depths. They rock together until he’s sure beyond doubt that she’s out of her mind, blissed out and debauched before the combined heat of her sun and his desire. Until the satin sheen of sweat pooling in the hollow of her throat is too laden to cling to her skin, and she moans his name into the wide open sky. Only then does he drop his hand between them, drawing wide, steady circles around that incandescent neural bullet between her thighs.

Her voice is lost as she comes, words and sounds dying in her throat as, at last, the pleasure is too much for her body to bear. He watches beneath heavy-lidded eyes as she tenses, cries out, and breaks, as her body sings like a plucked harpstring; knowing that for those precious few seconds, she is well and truly his, and his alone.

When her mind is wiped of all thoughts but him, his embrace, his kiss, and the pleasure at his hands, he can finally let go.

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Day 5

He wakes to the sound of music playing softly from another corner of the house. Decades old, by the sound of it, plucked notes singing on a guitar string beneath the melodic voice of a human weaving a tale of a dark desert highway. He’s heard this one before, playing over a crackling stationary radio in the cargo bay where she’d often done routine maintenance on Normandy’s ground vehicle.

Rising with a contented breath, he pads over to the common area to greet the day.

She’s wearing one of his robes, and nothing else. A breezy, cream-colored cotton garment that’s too wide in the shoulders for her more feminine frame. She lets it drop down one arm, the fabric collecting in the crook of her elbow just beneath where her hand rests on the door frame. The rest of it hangs open, gauzy fabric illuminated by the glowing sun streaming in from behind her, framing her in ethereal light. Though her face is in shadow, her artificial eyes are just bright enough to search his soul as she peers back at him.

In that moment, his Siha is more angel than warrior. She's posing for him, framing herself in a mental postcard to commemorate the effortless beauty of this place, this life, this love.

She pauses in the doorway for a good long while, as though she knows precisely what she's doing. Cocking her hip, idly running her long, calloused fingers through her hair, waiting for him to sear this image into his blessed eidetic mind for the rest of his days.

It’s so easy, wrapping her in his arms, kissing her again and again, bitter coffee on his tongue and warm sun on his face.

“I got a message from Hackett this morning,” she says softly.

The tone of her voice makes his stomach clench with unease, and he takes a moment to suppress the tremor in his throat.

“How long do we have?”

“Until tomorrow morning.”

He pulls her tight against his chest, as though by some miracle he could keep her from ever leaving the safety of his arms again. Shepard tucks her head into his shoulder.

“I’m so sorry, Thane.”

“Do not apologize, Siha.” Her hair is soft on his cheek, and he breathes deep as his eyes settle without focus on the rocky landscape outside her lovely picture-frame window. “This sojourn has already brought me more joy than you could ever know.”

When she kisses him, there’s a desperation in her that he’s not felt before, as though she shares his worry. That she’s been called away is unsurprising, in and of itself. But the tension in her shoulders makes his heart quake with an obdurate fear that will linger throughout what remains of their holiday.

He resolves to suppress it. If Shepard has taught him anything, it’s how work and purpose can stave off one’s demons, if only for a little while.

“What would you like for breakfast, Siha?”

She lifts her head then, and her smile is worth whatever heartache lies beyond the indefectible threshold of their abode.

He will take what he can from this moment. Reality can wait just a little longer.

#thane krios #shrios #zet writes things #my brain is broken #sorry about the typos i had to uninstall grammarly because ai is the devil #literally my head is full of lint right now #please enjoy #is this fluff?#aaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAA #mass effect fanfiction

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sendpseuds · 4 months ago

Text

Me: I should work on Perfect Spiral

Brain: Drabbles

Me: No, I really have to—

Brain: Divorced Dad / Mall Goth drabbles

Me: ...fine

“Yeah, Dad! Leave him alone.”

It’s far from the first time Anakin has decided to take out his devastating boredom on some poor unsuspecting middle age, middle-class, middle-management looking mother fucker in a stiff button-up and a corporate vest.

Hell, it’s not the first time today.

They come in several flavors.

The financial advisor desperate to relive the glory days, flipping through posters of naked women and pretending not to peruse the enhancement products.

The pharmaceutical salesman with the maturity of a fucking middle schooler, waving around dildos Anakin is sure would make the meathead cry for his mother.

The delusional IT technician who seems to genuinely believe that the girl he's been talking to on Tinder isn't going to freak the fuck out when he pulls out a pair of fuzzy handcuffs on their first date.

Then there's "Dad."

Almost always divorced.

Almost always depressed.

Almost always being dragged around by a horribly hormonal teenage boy with a scowl on his face and a chip on his shoulder.

But in all the time Anakin has been working at this stupid mall, he has never seen a Dad quite like this.

He's never seen a Dad this fucking hot.

"Well, that's definitely unexpected."

Given the age of the kid calling him "Dad," Anakin had assumed the man would be at least in his forties if not pushing fifty but now he's thinking this guy might have knocked up his high school sweetheart.

The man's expression is frustratingly unreadable, though his bright blue eyes are sharp and curious, watching intensely as Anakin shamelessly looks him up and down. Much to his delight and dismay, the man only becomes more and more interesting the longer he looks — the shocks of early silver in his hair and his beard, the tattoos poking out beneath rolled-up shirt sleeves, the well-loved pair of Converse on his feet — and Anakin finds he wants to see a lot more.

Placing his hands flat on the counter in front of him, Anakin hinges forward at the waist, arching his back in a way he knows makes him look like a slut, flashing a slanted smile when the man tilts his head in interest.

"I think I'd rather call you Daddy."

The man's brows shoot up, his mouth falling open with a small surprised gasp and Anakin wants to suck his perfect teeth.

"I— I beg your pardon?"

Oh and if that isn't just the cherry on top.

A voice so silky smooth Anakin wants nothing more than to hear it unraveled.

"My pardon?" he repeats innocently, bending forward even further to rest his forearms on the counter and looking up through long heavy lashes, "I'd beg you for a lot more than that, Daddy."

That seems to get his attention.

"Young man," he startles, eyes wide and cheeks flushed a fluorescent pink, "That is— that is extremely inappropriate."

"Damn," Anakin scoffs, still smiling as he straightens back up and steps out from behind the counter, taking another step forward when the flustered man doesn't move, "I was aiming for downright offensive."

The man looks a bit like a deer in headlights as Anakin comes closer still, but just as he's close enough to reach out and touch, the man seems to snap out of it, taking a small step back and startling when he collides with a display of novelty shot glasses.

"What are you doing?" The man hisses, looking around in a pretty panic, "My son is right—"

"He's not paying any attention to us," Anakin says confidently, taking another step closer and reaching out to play with the zipper on his vest, embroidered with the letters of what Anakin thinks is probably a law firm, drawing the toggle down an inch to reveal more of the tartan shirt beneath, "Got his nose buried in a graphically illustrated sex position guide." He pulls the zipper down another inch, watching as the man's eyes narrow sharply, "Do you think he's looking at the girls or the boys?"

"You're trying to get a rise out of me," he says, his smooth voice low and dangerous and Anakin wants to hear him say so many filthy things, "It won't work."

Whoever this man is, he's clearly never met Anakin Skywalker.

"Oh, I think it might," he purrs, pulling the zipper down the rest of the way, confident even as the man's expression hardens and all Anakin wants to do is break him, "Come back during my lunch break and I guarantee I'll get a rise out of you."

The man quirks a curious brow at that and it feels a whole lot like victory.

"Your lunch break?" The man repeats, his voice frustratingly even yet tantalizingly firm.

"I only get thirty minutes," Anakin explains, hooking two fingers in one of the man's belt loops and trying not to tell him how lame it is to tuck in his shirt, "but that's more than enough time isn't it?"

The man gives no ground as he sucks his own tongue, studying Anakin's face like he can read every lie he's ever told, asking simply, "Enough time for what?"

Well, if you're going to make me say it…

"Enough time for Daddy to fuck me—"

"Hey, Dad?"

The man tries to get away from Anakin so fast he backs into the rack of shot glasses and proceeds to practically jump out of his skin, spinning around with a yelp to steady the rattling display.

"Yes, Korkie!?"

Stupid name, Anakin thinks but does not say, stepping back to give the flustered father some space because, while he absolutely wants to continue making the handsome stranger blush, he has no interest in traumatizing the teen who comes wandering out just a moment later looking hopeful and holding a small box in his hands.

"Can I get a black light for my room?"

The man turns around very slowly, his expression a mixture of panicked horror and exhausted parental exasperation.

The kid looks obliviously innocent.

Anakin can't help but laugh.

"Korkie," the man sighs like he really doesn't want to have this conversation, especially not in front of a stranger, his eyes briefly shifting to glare at a still chuckling Anakin before focusing back on his son, "I don't think that's a very good idea."

"Why not!?" Korkie exclaims, holding up the box in his hand, waving it in his father's face as if he has no idea what a black light is, "It's only, like, five bucks!"

The man groans softly, pinching the bridge of his nose like he's trying to fight off a migraine or concentrate hard enough to spontaneously combust and avoid this situation all together and Anakin decides he can't simply stand there and let this stupid hot stranger suffer.

"Because spunk glows under black light, champ," Anakin intervenes, watching as two sets of blue eyes snap to his face, father and son going red in unison and Anakin can't help but laugh, "So unless you want Daddy here to know exactly how often you polish your lightsaber—"

The kid disappears so fast Anakin thinks he should be impressed.

The man is still there, still blushing, still staring wordlessly at Anakin who only smiles in return.

Still hot as fuck.

"My break is at two-thirty," he hums, glancing quickly at the back of the store to make sure the kid is still hiding his adolescent embarrassment by the lava lamps before stepping forward to press a kiss to the stunned stranger's cheek, "You can thank me then."

[PART ONE]

#divorced dad/mall goth AU #drabbles #my brain is broken #and Anakin is a fucking menace #obikin #pseuds aus

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